"There's an argument outside," he began abruptly. "A—yes, you might call it a protest. They claim you fellows didn't win the race fairly."
"Who says so?" It was Spec's indignant voice. "Buck Claxton?"
Horace Hibbs' solemn face relaxed into the hint of a smile. "No, not Buck. Somebody else; somebody not on the All-School team; somebody who doesn't matter."
"Oh!" said Rodman. It was just as if he had said, "I'm glad it wasn't Buck."
"But what—why—What do they mean, we didn't win fairly?" stuttered Specs.
"The claim has been made," Horace Hibbs told them, speaking very slowly, "that your third runner did not pass the block of wood to Bunny, who ran the last relay. If it was not properly passed, and Bunny ran without it, he may be disqualified."
The resultant silence was vaguely disquieting. Outside, a wondering breeze whipped through the oak tree at the back of the clubhouse, and a dozen dried leaves pattered on the roof like raindrops.
"Well?" Horace Hibbs straightened his shoulders, as if he had a disagreeable task to perform. "Suppose we thresh out the claim. What are the facts, Bunny?"
But before the Scout leader could answer, Rodman Cree pushed his way into the little circle. "I can tell you," he said unsmilingly. "Just before I reached Bunny, you remember, I tripped and fell. I dropped the block on the track instead of passing it to him."
A bomb could not have produced greater sensation. Specs uttered an exclamation of disgust. S. S., hero of the first relay, gasped audibly. Bunny nodded grudgingly. Only Horace Hibbs seemed to take it in other than in a spirit of disaster.