Don tried to look indignant and failed, tried to look hurt and failed again. Then he gave it up and dropped his gaze before the searching eyes of the other. "I'm feeling some better now," he muttered.
Coach Robey laughed shortly. "Gilbert, you can't lie worth a cent! Now, look here. I'm your friend. Why not come across and tell me what's up? I know you weren't sick. Danny gave you a clean bill of health that morning. And I know you haven't got any nerves to speak of. There's something else, Gilbert. Now what is it?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Then why did you act that way?"
"I—I just didn't want to play."
"Didn't want to play! Why not?"
"I wasn't doing very well, and it was pretty hard work, and there was Walton after the place, too. He could play better than I could."
"Who told you so? Walton?" asked the coach drily.
"I could see it," murmured Don.
"So you were suddenly afraid of hard work, eh? It had never bothered you before, had it? Last year or this year either?"