Ira was still too amazed to answer.
“You’re a coward! That’s your trouble! You’re afraid! You don’t dare fight back! You’re a plain squealer! I’ve got your measure, son!”
[Ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet] and faced the coach with clenched hands.
“You take that back!” he said in a low voice that trembled in spite of him.
“Take it back!” sneered the coach. “Yes, I’ll take it back when you show I’m wrong. You can’t bluff me, Rowland. I see right through you.”
“You take it back now, or—” Ira stopped and his arms fell at his sides. “You’re coach now,” he said hardly above a whisper, “but afterwards—if you aren’t what you say I am—you’ll—you’ll answer for what—what——”
But the tears, hot, angry tears, were no longer to be denied, and he ended in a sob and turned away blindly and stumbled his way to the door. Outside, in the cold sunlight, he blinked the tears back and tried to get control of himself. Coward, was he? Then what was the coach? He had taken advantage of his authority! He knew well enough he wouldn’t be called to account now. But afterwards! Just wait until the game was over, until they had quit training! Ira’s hands clenched until they hurt. They’d see who was the coward. Driscoll wouldn’t be coach then, he’d be just—just a thing to strike! He—
And then the door banged open and the players came trooping out, Fred Lyons in the lead, and Ira fell in with them as they passed and went back to the field, his thoughts in a strange confusion and a red-hot anger at his heart.