Harry thrust him aside and slammed the door.
"Those fellows think the thing is all settled," he exclaimed. "If it hadn't been for Brown and Lawrence talking a fierce streak to a lot of weak dubs who don't know their own minds——"
"Oh, what's the use of going all over that again?" broke in Dick Travers, impatiently. "Let's——"
Bang—bang!
Two sharp cracks on the door echoed noisily.
"Come in!" called Sam Randall.
"Crackers" Brown, wearing a solemn expression, promptly entered, his lieutenants, Lawrence and Roycroft, following close behind.
"Good-afternoon, fellows!" exclaimed the coach of the "Hopes," without a trace of excitement in his manner. "Gee! Awful big crowd in here for such a small room."
An awkward silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the scraping of a chair, as Sam changed his position, added to the pent-up feelings which Harry Spearman was finding it hard to control.
Brown improved the moment by polishing his glasses industriously. Then he sidled over to the window, where his stoop-shouldered form was silhouetted in lines of uncompromising hardness against the panes.