“Some one—kicked me,” he whispered. “I’ll be—all right in a—minute.”
“It was Frick,” exclaimed Lovett indignantly. “I saw it. He ought to get chucked!”
“Frick!” gasped Tubb wonderingly. “What—for?”
By that time Andy Ryan was there with pail and sponge and Toby and Lovett went back to the bench, the latter still sputtering.
“He’s a poisonous pup, anyway, Tucker, and I hope Tubb goes after him and gets him for that!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say much about it,” counseled Toby. “It’ll only make trouble. It’s between the two of them now. Let them settle it.”
“Sure, it isn’t my funeral,” Lovett agreed, “though I don’t see why you’re so anxious about Frick. If Mr. Burtis had seen it Frick would be off for keeps, and you’d have quarter-back cinched, Tucker.”
“Well, I don’t want to cinch it that way, I guess. Besides, it may have been an accident. I know it didn’t look it, but——”
“Accident your great-aunt!” jeered the other. “Why, Frick went out of his way to do it! And he sure took a chance. I’ll give him that much credit. If any one but you and I had seen it—Good-night, Mr. Frick!”