The boys were practicing in the academy yard when he arrived, nearly all of the eleven having eaten with great haste and returned. He joined them, but somehow his work lacked the dash and vim he had put into it the previous night, his heart being gnawed by hatred for the quarter-back of the eleven.
It was plain Sterndale had remained silent about the letter, for Renwood continued to coach, apparently greatly in earnest, although Don was satisfied that all his earnestness was false pretense.
Scott found an opportunity to say a word to Bentley before the afternoon session began.
“A nice scrape you’ve got me into!” he guardedly snapped.
“Hey?” said Leon, showing his teeth. “What are you talking about?”
“About the forgery.”
“Forgery!” gasped the young rascal, his face turning yellowish-white. “Why—what—what forgery? You don’t mean——”
“I mean that excuse to the professor. My father has found out about that.”
“Oh!” said Leon, with a long breath of relief. “I thought you meant—something else. I thought you meant—er—that letter.”
“No; but I wouldn’t be surprised if that came out, too. I wish I’d never had anything to do with you!”