Purdick told what he knew, and McKnight gave a low whistle.
“Larry can’t deny it, eh?—or, at least, can’t deny anything but the intention? And his explanation, which you and I take at its face value, of course, won’t look very good to people who don’t know Larry; in fact, I shouldn’t wonder if a good many of the fellows wouldn’t call it a rather clumsy lie. What does Dickie Maxwell say about it?”
“Dick was up to the room last evening just before Larry came in. He hadn’t heard the story then. You couldn’t make him believe that Larry is telling anything but just the plain straight truth.”
“Of course he’s telling the truth. Trouble is, it’s going to sound too improbable to be believed. What Larry ought to do is to go right after this Underhill bunch and show it up—prove that it was a frame-up.”
“That’s what he said he was going to do, last night,” said Purdick.
“All right,” McKnight nodded. “You tell him when he’s ready to start in he can count upon me and all the fellows in our house. We’re for him, even if it takes a round robin to the faculty.”
Purdick nursed that little offer of help and held himself in readiness to spring it when Larry should again broach the subject of a just vengeance upon the Underhill plotters. But when another evening had all but passed, and Larry hadn’t once mentioned the “frame-up,” its perpetrators, or the humiliating blow that Coach Brock had dealt him, Purdick could no longer contain himself.
“Ollie McKnight says you’re put off the team,” he said, stooping to untie his shoes. “Is that so?”
Larry nodded.