The tone of anxiety with which this was asked was but barely concealed.
“Oh, all sorts of tough things, together with that little imp, Dick Percy!” responded Grant, bluntly. “But I gave them as good as I got, and don’t you mistake. Pretty soon that big chump Teddy Taft came up and put in his say, and, as I couldn’t stand up against three, I took my leave.”
“From what you say, this Heathcote boy is a determined fellow, is he not?” inquired Mr. Mackerly, toying with a paper-cutter.
“Bull-headed, I call him,” was his son’s vindictive reply. “He’s no gentleman, and I’ve told him so. What makes me so mad is that Cole and Mr. Nicholson have put me off the eleven, and put him in my place. Him! He can’t play football, the country jay!”
“It’s favoritism, that’s what it is,” remarked Mr. Mackerly, shortly.
He had heard rumors of the matter in the village, but held his counsel.
“They can do as they please,” asserted his son; “but if I don’t make that fellow sick, my name’s not what it is, that’s all. The idea of him saying he had proof that you were a rascal. It’s a mean, bold lie, and he ought to be drummed out of school.”
“You have my authority for branding it as a malicious falsehood,” said his father, “and if it is repeated, I shall take measures to have young Heathcote punished. But don’t say anything of it, Grant, until some one informs you. You needn’t take the trouble to deny it if he hasn’t told anybody. Perhaps he has been afraid to spread the tale among the boys at Whipford.”
“I guess he was afraid of the licking he knew he’d get from me,” said Grant, vauntingly; “so I don’t think he’s told anything like that.”
It was for another reason unknown to him that Alan had kept silent—because Beniah Evans had cautioned him to that effect—and not that he feared the vain-glorious Grant.