Archer and Shriver, with whom he desired to speak, were somewhat tardy, and he got no chance to address them until the end of the first recitation.
“Hello, Grant!” called the former. “Where’ve you been all the time? Haven’t seen you for an age.”
“Been up at the house,” replied Grant, briefly. “Any practice to-day, George?”
“Yes,” answered Shriver; “at half-past twelve. You’re with Wilcox on the second eleven. Sorry that Heathcote dished you out of half-back, but it can’t be helped. I took Runyon’s place, and he was angry at first, but he came up to-day and shook hands with me like a little man, and said he hoped I would get along first rate, and that he’d try and oust me next year. He’s one of the substitutes this year, and you are to play substitute half-back with Wilcox.”
“I am, am I?” growled Grant, sneeringly. “Who says so?”
“Cole gave it out last night,” put in Lewis Archer, “so it’s settled.”
“It’s not settled as far as I am concerned,” declared the turned-down player, firmly. “I play on the regular team or not at all. That’s my proper place, and no miserable upstart like Alan Heathcote is going to crow over me.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Archer, with a careless drawl.
Grant Mackerly was steadily dropping from the high place, he once held in his estimation, and every action now exhibited his selfishness to Archer, who, with all his laziness, was a boy of fine feelings.
“Why, let’s boycott him altogether,” said Grant, eagerly. “Let’s put all the fellows against him and show him up for just what he is. If he sees nobody speaks to him he’ll soon come down from his high horse. What do you say to it, fellows?”