“No,” answered the other. The coach waited for further words, but Renneker seemed to have finished with the subject. The coach frowned. He put the letter back into a pocket.
“Know this fellow Carnochan?” he asked.
“No. I never heard of him before.”
“H’m, funny he has it in for you, then.”
Renneker shrugged. “He may know me, Coach,” he suggested. “I think I’ll look the beggar up and ask him what’s on his mind. What’s the address? Mind if I have the letter?”
“I’ll give you the address and you can set it down. Got a pencil? ‘164 Orchard street, 2nd Bell.’ You know, of course, that if you had played on that team, and received money for doing it, you couldn’t play here, Renneker.”
“Naturally.”
“All right. When you see this chap you’d better convince him that he’s mistaken. We don’t want him writing that sort of a letter to Kenly Hall or shooting off his mouth to the newspapers.”
“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” exclaimed Renneker with evident dismay. “Talk to the newspapers, I mean.”
“I don’t know, son. Look here, Renneker, there’s something in this. You’d better come clean, my boy, and save trouble later.”