“You knocked me over on purpose then, you cad, I could see it!” snarled he.
“Get out!” said Rollitt, shouldering the speaker aside.
This was too much for Dangle. Full of rage, he went to Yorke.
“I don’t mean to stand this, Yorke. Rollitt—”
“Shut up!” said the captain. “Spread out, you fellows, and be ready. Go to your place, Dangle.”
Dangle sullenly obeyed.
“I’ll let you see if I’m to be insulted and made a fool of before all the school,” growled he. “Catch me bothering myself any more.”
As if to give him an opportunity of enforcing his protest, the kick-off of the losing side fell close at his feet. He picked it up, and for a moment the sporting instinct prompted him to make a rush. But he caught sight of Yorke and Rollitt both looking his way, and the bad blood in him prevailed. He deliberately sent the ball with a little side-kick into Blackstone’s hands, who, running forward a step, sent it, with a mighty drop, right over the School line. It almost grazed the goal post as it passed, and it was all Fullerton could do to save the touch-down before the whole advance guard of the enemy were upon him.
The whole thing had been so wilfully done that there was no mistaking its meaning.
“Hold the ball!” cried Yorke, as the side ranged out for the kick-off. “Dangle, get off the field.”