Mullin, the contractor, very red of face and angry of eye, was berating the jeering crowd with the rough side of his tongue. Five laborers, two of them clutching the bridles of the horses, looked ready and eager for a fight. At sight of Mr. Brent a cheer went up from the crowd inside the gates, and Dick, anxious-eyed, fell back from where he had been vainly trying to avert trouble. Mr. Brent walked up to the contractor.
“Get out, Mullin,” he said. “Leave it until Monday.”
Mullin scowled hard. “An’ who’ll pay me for the time I’ll be losin’, Mr. Brent?” he demanded angrily.
“I will,” was the reply. “You ought to have seen, anyway, that the field was being used. Get your team out now. I’ll settle for your loss.”
“That’s all right, then,” replied the contractor. “All I wants is me rights. Back ’em out, Jerry.” And amidst the jeers of the spectators Mullin and his men retired, the gates were closed again and barred and, laughing and jostling, the defenders hurried back to secure their seats before others appropriated them, leaving Dick and the ball players and a few still curious ones at the gate. Among the latter was Morris, and it was Morris who, grinning broadly, came forward on his crutches.
“Good stuff, dad,” he said approvingly.
Mr. Brent viewed him without enthusiasm. “You here?” he asked. “Where is your sister?”
“In the stand, sir. I——”
“You’d better go back and look after her, it seems to me,” said Mr. Brent grimly. Morris’s grin faded and, with a wink at Gordon, he hobbled back toward the seats.
“We’re awfully much obliged, sir,” said Dick. “If it hadn’t been for all these people, who had paid to see the game——”