"What's that got to do with it?" asked Ambrose.
"Why, nothing; only——"
"Only what?"
"Well, they all said you wouldn't want to go up against such a strong player."
"Who said that?"
"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frank enough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is hard game."
"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong foot entirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraid of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this morning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just that I don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me."
"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at Number One—the biggest compliment we can pay you!"
"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "if you look at it in that light——"
"I most certainly do.... But if you'd rather not meet MacNeath——"