Somehow this quiet admission, which was wholly unexpected, seemed to enrage Phil still more.
"I suppose you think everybub-body around here is afraid of you now that they've found out your father was a genuine bad man," Springer sneered. "Well, you'll discover there's one person who isn't afraid. I'll fight you."
To the amazement of all present, the boy from Texas shook his head, something like a conciliatory smile appearing on his face.
"You won't fight me, Phil," he retorted, "for I won't fight."
Phil himself could not understand why this refusal simply added fuel to the flame of his wrath. He felt himself a-quiver with the intensity of his emotions, and, seeing Grant so calm and self-possessed, he was obsessed by a yearning to strike him in the face.
"Oh, so you won't fight, eh? Why not?"
"We have been friends."
"We have been, but aren't any more, and we never will be again; for I've found out just what sort of a fellow you are. You think yourself a better pitcher than I am or ever can be, do you? Oh, I've heard what you've been blowing around here about me, and you needn't deny it. You've had some luck in one or two games, but you're due to get your bumps. If you've got any fuf-further talk to make about me, come and make it before my face. It's a sneak who goes round shooting off his mouth behind another fellow's back—and that's what you are, Rod Grant!"
"Now there'll be something doing, sure!" breathed Chipper Cooper, agitated by great expectations.
Still, to the increasing wonderment of the boys, Grant held himself in hand.