By chance he had arrived at the club-room just in time to hear Renwood denounce him as hot-headed and declare they could not both get along on the eleven.
Don left the place in no enviable frame of mind, at once turning his face toward home.
“It’s no use for me to try!” he muttered, furiously. “I can’t have anything to do with that fellow, even for father’s sake. I did think I would, though it was a bitter pill to swallow, but I give it up now. To-morrow I’ll tell father everything, and I don’t see how he can blame me very much.”
When he reached home, he found his aunt had something on the table for him to eat, and she urged him to sit down. The doctor had been called out on a critical case, not a little to Don’s relief, for the boy feared his father might question him.
Don did not wish to eat anything even then, but his aunt was persistent, and he sat down to please her.
“What can be the matter with you, Don?” the good woman asked, watching him closely. “You’re awful pale, and your hand shakes. I’m afraid you’re going to be sick.”
He forced a laugh, difficult though it was to do so, and did his best to reassure her, though he could not fully allay her anxiety. It was with no small difficulty that he compelled himself to eat anything, for anger had robbed him entirely of his appetite.
As soon as he could get away, he hurried up to his room, where he paced the floor for a time, thinking unpleasant thoughts and muttering to himself.
“I said I was done with the whole of them,” he grated, “and now I’ll stick by it. Of course I know Sterndale will stand by Renwood. Oh, they’re a fine set!”
He opened the closet door and dragged out his football suit.