“Frank, answer him!” implored Tom pleadingly.
For a moment Frank had been so plainly stunned and surprised by the accusation that he did not know what to do. Then he slowly got up.
“I wish to say, most emphatically,” he began in a calm voice, “that Mr. Wallace is mistaken. He has either confused me with someone else, or his information is at fault. I am not a professional, I never have been one, I never intend to become one. I never took part in any professional games, and I never received any money for playing ball, or in any other contest. I can’t make that too strong!”
“Hurray!”
“That’s the way to talk!”
“Now we’re coming back at ’em!”
Amid a babble of cries these were heard. There were angry looks cast at the Exter committee, and one or two lads started from their seats, and worked their way forward, as though to be in the fore when hostilities commenced.
Wallace stood there, calm and collected. He looked at Frank, who returned the gaze undismayed and unflinchingly.
“Do you insist, after Mr. Simpson’s denial, that you are right?” asked Holly, when there was silence.
“I am sorry—but—I do,” was the quiet answer.