“Plenty, Uncle Dan,” answered George, calmly and in a respectful manner. “But I would prefer to talk somewhere else, sir.”
“Ma foi, what sang froid,” murmured Pierre.
“Norman Redfern,” exclaimed the Colonel, paying no heed to the attention his appearance and words attracted, “you and I must have an accounting. You deliberately defied me. Through you, my nephew’s name has appeared in the papers as a scapegrace. Your misguided influence has made him recklessly disregard my wishes and actually defy the authorities; and yet you still seek to——”
“Stop, Colonel Ellison!” interrupted Redfern. His look of embarrassment was succeeded by a flush of anger; his voice trembled, but not from nervousness. “Stop—you are going too far.”
“Sir?” thundered Colonel Ellison.
“Ma foi, ma foi! I hope it is not the fight that has come,” muttered Pierre.
“You must hear me,” went on Redfern, resolutely. “I shall stand no further accusations. George Clayton,” he added, turning toward the rich boy, “did I ever influence you——”
“Look out—look out!”
So absorbed had the participants in this conversation become that they failed to notice how events were going on the battle-field.
Up to this time, neither side had gained any especial advantage; but Thornton, by clever strategy, suddenly sent the ball off at an angle. The crowd melted away, but the Colonel and Redfern heard the warning cry too late.