“Say it—say it if you dare!” cried Barker, springing past Winton. “I wish you would.”
The young Texan faltered on the lowest seat. “Never mind,” he said slowly. “I judge maybe I’d better keep my tongue between my teeth.”
“You’re right, you had,” Barker flung back, his aggressiveness and insolence increasing, if possible, with the hesitation of the other. “What are you here for, anyhow? If you haven’t got sand enough even to practice, why do you come out here and sit around watching the rest of us? You’d better get off the field before some one runs you off.”
Grant stepped down to the ground. “I sure hope nobody will try it,” he muttered.
By this time Winton had Barker by the shoulder.
“Why are you butting in here?” he exclaimed warmly. “If you would let him alone, perhaps I’d get him to——”
“Don’t you believe yourself, Mr. Winton. You couldn’t get him to do anything but talk and blow. I’ve been up against this same chap once before to-day, and he knows what I think of him. He’s a white-livered coward, that’s what’s the matter with him.”
Again it seemed that the boy from Texas would be taunted beyond endurance, and for a moment he crouched slightly, as if on the verge of springing at his insulter.
“Come on,” invited Barker. “You know how many bones there are in the human hand, even if you are afraid to examine a skeleton at short range. Come on, and I’ll let you feel the bones in my fists.”
These loud words had brought the boys flocking to the spot. Not a few of them believed for a moment or two, at least, that the impending fight between Barker and Grant must take place then and there, and, boylike, they welcomed it as a test of the stranger’s courage. Imagine their disappointment when Rod Grant dropped his half lifted hands by his sides and turned away.