But that was not all. Despite himself, Don could not help feeling that there was something censurable, almost reprehensible, in his compact with Leon Bentley, formed for the purpose of working injury to a lad whom they hated. For this reason, his face flushed and he was seized by a sudden dread of his father’s kindly yet searching eyes.
“Don!” again called that voice.
“Yes, father,” he answered.
“Come here a minute. I wish to speak with you.”
The boy felt like running away, but he summoned his courage and entered the room which served Dr. Scott as an office.
The gentleman was sitting at his desk close by the window, which was screened and curtained.
“Sit down,” said the doctor, motioning toward a chair.
“I’ll stand, if you please, father,” said Don. “I am in my football suit, which I wish to change as soon as possible, for I’m rather sweaty.”
“Then you changed your mind about not playing on the eleven? I’m glad you did so, for I like to see my son interested in the honest and manly sports which interest other boys of the village.”
Don was silent.