Game, now fully aware of his rebuff, was glad of an opportunity of covering his defeat by a diversion.
“Look here,” said he, walking up to Telson, “I didn’t come here to be cheeked by you, I can tell you.”
“Who’s cheeking you?” said Telson. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” said Game. “I’m not going to be humbugged about by you.”
“I don’t want to humbug you about,” replied the junior, defiantly.
“I think there’s a mistake, you know,” said Riddell, thinking it right to interpose. “I’ve given him lines for fighting in the ‘Big,’ and there’s really no reason for his going to Bloomfield.”
“I told him to come to Bloomfield, and he ought to have come.”
“I don’t think you had any right to tell him to go to Bloomfield,” replied Riddell, with a boldness which astonished himself. “I’m responsible for stopping fights.”
“I don’t want you to tell me my business,” retorted Game, hotly; “who are you?”
Game could have thrashed the captain as easily as he could Telson, and the thought flashed through Riddell’s mind as he paused to reply. He would much have preferred saying nothing, but somehow the present seemed to be a sort of crisis in his life. If he gave in now, the chance of asserting himself in Willoughby might never return.