“One of us did it, and it wasn’t me,” assented Don.
“Well, never mind that now. I want you back on the team, and you are coming back. We can’t get along without you, Scott, old man! You can save us from defeat. We can’t shift all over again, but we can put the men back in their original positions, and we’ll beat the stuffing out of Highland. I’m going to see you again about this, so think it over. Remember, that I am asking this of you.”
Then he got hold of Don’s hand, shook it warmly, said something pleasant, and they parted.
“I hated to refuse him,” muttered Don, who still felt the effect of Dick’s influence and magnetism, “but I had to do it.”
He remained obstinate when Sterndale approached him again on the following day, and there seemed little prospect that he would give in and resume his old position on the eleven.
The boys practiced faithfully every day, regardless of weather; but Scott kept away from the field and Bentley was well satisfied.
It was Thursday morning at breakfast that Dr. Scott, who was looking over the little country newspaper published at Highland, suddenly lowered the paper and, glancing keenly at Don, observed:
“How is this, my son? Didn’t you do anything worthy of note in the game at Highland last Saturday?”
The boy nearly dropped the glass of milk he had been lifting to his lips, for he instantly realized that his father had been reading an account of the game.
“Why, no—I—that is—not much of anything,” he stammered.