“I’ll get off the field,” he muttered huskily. “I’m going, and I hope Mr. Barker will let me alone in future. He’d sure better.”
They watched him depart in the direction of the gate.
“That proves what he is,” said Berlin.
“By jinks, I guess yeou’re right,” acknowledged Sile Crane. “He is a coward.”
“Fellows,” said Ben Stone, “I may be wrong, but I don’t believe he refused to fight because he was afraid.”
“Perhaps not,” said Winton, shrugging his shoulders; “but I’d like to know why he refused to practice. Come on, boys, we’ll put some one in Rollins’ place and go ahead.”
It was quite dark when Stone, having shed his football togs, left the gymnasium and strode down the street toward the cottage of the Widow Jones, where he roomed. As he was passing through the front yard gate some one called to him, and he saw a figure hurrying toward him. It was Grant, who came up and stopped with his hand on the fence.
“Stone,” said the Texan, “I heard what you said as I was leaving the field to-night, and I want to thank you. It’s mighty agreeable to know that one fellow, at least, was inclined to stand up for me.”
“Look here, Grant,” said Ben, “I wish you’d tell me why you swallowed Barker’s insults. There must have been a reason.”
“There was; but I can’t tell you—not now, anyhow.”