It was barely eight o’clock the following morning when Don passed the fountain in the village square, being on his way to a grocery store to take an order for his aunt before starting for school. As he came out of the store, Dick Sterndale called to him from the opposite side of the street:
“Come over here, Scott, I want to see you.”
“And you’re the very fellow I’m looking for,” said Don, promptly crossing over.
“I want you to come to the club-room for a short time, Scott,” the captain of the eleven grimly declared, regarding Don in anything but a pleasant manner.
They climbed the stairs, Dick falling in behind.
“He means to give me a call-down for my talk to Renwood,” thought the boy in advance, feeling in his pocket for the captured knife. “I’ll make him change his tune in a hurry.”
Reaching the club-rooms, they found Mayfair and Chatterton there, both of whom regarded Don coldly, not even nodding to him.
“Well, what do you want of me, Sterndale?” demanded the dark-haired lad, ignoring the others.
“I have a few questions to ask you,” said Dick, ominously, closing the door behind them; “and it’s best for you to tell the truth, too.”
“I am not in the habit of lying!” flared the doctor’s son, his face turning crimson; “and I won’t take an insinuation of the sort from you or anybody else, Dick Sterndale! You want to be careful!”