“Yes, stealing business from my father,” sneered Connors. “It’s a wonder you couldn’t find a decent way to make money, Benton.”
“Anyhow, I guess you don’t want me on the team and I guess I don’t want to be on it, so——”
“You bet I don’t want you! I want fellows who will work and take an interest. Shirkers——”
“You know very well, Connors, that even if I haven’t done much practicing I could go in to-morrow and play as well as any fellow here, including you,” said Tom hotly. “You’ve got it in for me because I’ve taken some of your father’s business away from him. You don’t care whether I can play football or not. You want to get rid of me. That’s all right. You’ll do it. I’m out of it.”
“You bet you’re out of it! We don’t need you, Benton——”
“And you wouldn’t get me if you did!” And Tom stalked angrily away and footed it back to town again feeling very badly used until his common sense returned to him and showed him that, while Connors might have been needlessly insulting, he had got not much more than he deserved.
He didn’t return to the garage, for Willard, who, with Jimmy, was washing The Ark with the new overhead washer that had just been installed, had agreed to meet the 6:05 train. Instead he went right home, and, to his surprise, found his father, who usually did not return until just before supper time, sitting on the porch with a newspaper lying across his knees and a very troubled look on his face.
“Hello,” said Tom, “you’re home early, aren’t you? Anything wrong at the office, sir?”
“N-no,” responded Mr. Benton, “nothing wrong there. I-I got tired and came home. I’ve been looking through the paper,” he added rather needlessly. Tom sat down on the top step, after a fleeting and puzzled glance at his father’s worried countenance. “I see,” went on Mr. Benton, “that you’re advertising in the News-Courier.”