"Nice job facing that staring mob!" grumbled Charlie Blake. "Wish to thunder it was all over."
"I almost feel like losing my temper and being rude to some one," sighed Dave Brandon.
In spite of their feelings the players swung toward the gymnasium door with a firm tread, passing between lines of deeply interested, jostling boys whose sallies and jests all allowed to pass unnoticed.
Inside the big room conditions were pretty much the same. But the ball players did not pause until the office of the athletic association was reached.
The indignation meeting had had the effect of bringing every officer and some of the directors to the scene of action. As they entered Harry Spearman was found pacing the floor excitedly.
"Hello, Bob!" he called, catching sight of the captain. "This has been a fierce afternoon, eh? Brown carried things with a high hand. By George! Let any of you fellows waver, and I don't believe I'd ever speak to you again."
"No use to get excited, Spearman," admonished Sam Randall. "If there is a sign of backdown anywhere I haven't been able to see it."
"Only because you're short-sighted, Sammy," screeched Benny Wilkins, who at that instant pushed open the door and peered in. "Get specs like Brown."
"Sneak away from there!" cried Harry Spearman, wrathfully. "Go on, now; get!"
"What's the matter? Can't a fellow even spy in the open any longer? Dave Brandon said——"