THE BREACH WIDENS.
Dick Merriwell appeared on the athletic field the next afternoon in a
somewhat anxious state of mind. After the straight talk he had given
Tempest the day before, and his subsequent interview with Kenny, he
hoped that things would go smoothly, but he knew that nothing was ever
certain.
He was too good a judge of character to imagine that a mere quarter of
an hour’s talk, no matter how emphatic it was, could be the means of
changing utterly the methods and point of view of a fellow like Tempest.
He felt sure that the captain of the varsity would do his best to follow
the advice which had been given him, but whether he would succeed was
quite another matter.
He had less anxiety in regard to Kenny. He felt that the quarter back
was sincere in his desire to have peace and harmony in the team, and
after their talk last night he was sure that the hot-tempered,
good-hearted chap would even put up with a little of Tempest’s nagging
without breaking out again.
But, strangely enough, the practice had barely begun, before he found
prevailing a condition which was quite the opposite from what he had
confidently supposed would be the case.
Almost at once he perceived that Tempest had a firm grip on himself and
was doing his best to preserve harmony, whereas Kenny acted as if he had
a chip on his shoulder which he was almost anxious for the captain to
knock off.
He was as nearly sullen as such a naturally good-tempered fellow could
be, taking his part in the game in a perfunctory manner without his
usual snap and vim; and, instead of going ahead on his own hook with the
various plays which had to be practiced, he was constantly pausing and
asking Tempest’s advice in a pointed, sarcastic manner which would have
driven anybody wild.
Naturally the latter got hot under the collar. Here he was straining
every effort to keep the peace, and Kenny, instead of meeting him
halfway, was doing his best to aggravate him and provoke a verbal
battle.
The result was that, before an hour had passed, the two were at daggers’
points, and a feeling of unrest and uneasiness had come over the whole
team, which seriously interfered with its efficiency, and prevented it
from doing anything like the good work it should have done.
Merriwell was puzzled as well as decidedly angry. What in the world
possessed Kenny? What had come over him since their talk of the previous
evening, when the quarter back had shown such a very evident and sincere
desire to see things go well, and, more than that, had promised that he
would do his best to that end.
Instead of keeping his word, he had gone to quite the opposite extreme
and was very evidently bent on rousing Tempest to a fury. Merriwell
could not understand it, and he was so angry with the little quarter
back that it would have given him the greatest pleasure to take the
sulky fellow by the shoulders and shake him, as one would a spoiled
child.
Luckily Tempest refused to be dragged into a verbal encounter. It was
evident to him that Kenny was deliberately working to that end, and, his
blood aroused, the captain strained every effort to keep a grip on
himself. It was one of the hardest things he ever did. His words grew
sharp and snappy, his face flushed and angry; but he tried to ignore the
quarter back, and managed to get through the afternoon without an open
clash.
Dick saw all this with regret, and, also, with an infinite admiration
for Tempest’s surprising self-control; and, as soon as the practice was
over, he stepped to the captain’s side.
“That was bully, Don,” he said, in a low tone. “You held in splendidly.
But that little rat ought to be turned up and spanked. I never saw
anything so aggravating in my life.”
“Aggravating!” foamed Tempest, who, now that he was alone with
Merriwell, gave full vent to his fury. “Aggravating isn’t the word for
it! By thunder, Dick, it was all I could do to keep my hands off the
little devil! I wouldn’t go through another afternoon like this for a
thousand dollars!”
Merriwell’s face wore a puzzled look.
“I can’t think what’s got into him,” he said thoughtfully. “I had a long
talk with him last night, and he promised to stop his foolishness and
behave himself.”
“And you see how he’s kept that promise!” Tempest said bitterly. “He’s
worse than I ever knew him to be. Honestly, old fellow, I can’t go on
this way. I’d go off my nut. Look here, Dick, let me hand in my
resignation and you take my place. You can pull things together and do
something with them. They’ll do anything you want them to, but if I try
to stick it out Heaven knows what will happen. Another day like this and
they’ll all be up in open rebellion.”
“Great Scott, man!” Dick cried aghast. “Why, you’re crazy! The idea of
changing captains at such a time as this! It couldn’t be done, even if
I’d consider it—which I won’t for a minute. You’ve got to keep on, Don,
and pull things through. And we’ve got to win that game Saturday. It
would be better for Kenny to go than you, but we can’t afford to lose
either of you. You must stick it out, old fellow. I’ll see Jack again
and give him fits. He’s got something on his mind which wasn’t there
last night, and I mean to find out what it is.”
Without delay he proceeded to the track house and hustled into his other
clothes. He couldn’t tackle the quarter back in the midst of the crowd
who thronged the place, but he meant to catch him as he was leaving.
Quick as he was, however, he barely managed to get into his things
before he saw his man hurrying out of the door.
“Jack!” he called, snatching up his overcoat and hat. “Wait a minute.”
Kenny turned rather reluctantly. It almost seemed as if he wanted to
avoid Merriwell, but the latter did not propose to let him get away.
“What’s your hurry?” he inquired, as he joined the other outside the
door.
“Oh, nothing,” returned Kenny, his eyes averted. “I just wanted to get
back to the dorm, that’s all.”
They were out in the street by this time, and, as they turned and walked
along the high board fence, Dick looked his companion squarely in the
face.
“What in the mischief has got into you, Jack?” he asked quickly. “You
told me you’d behave, and yet you’ve acted like a perfect kid all
afternoon.”
Kenny hesitated.
“I can’t stand that Tempest!” he burst out the next moment. “He makes me
daft.”
“Makes you daft,” repeated Dick. “Why, you’re the one who makes him, and
all the rest of us, hot, going around with a sour face and a chip on
your shoulder. If I’d been Don I’d have felt like giving you a good
thrashing. You never gave him a chance to be decent.”
The quarter back looked a little sheepish.
“I knew he couldn’t be,” he returned quickly, “so I just got in my licks
first. I thought I’d give him a dose of his own medicine and see how he
liked it.”
“You little idiot!” Merriwell retorted. “Do you know what you’re going
to do if you keep on this way? You’re going to lose the game for us
Saturday. If you can’t take a brace, we’ll be licked as sure as fate,
and there won’t be a person to blame for it but yourself.”
Kenny’s face flushed and he made a quick, dissenting motion with one
hand.
“Look here, Dick,” he protested. “That’s putting it pretty strong, isn’t
it?”
“It’s a fact,” Merriwell returned emphatically.
His words seemed to sober Kenny and bring him to a partial realization
of the gravity of the situation. All the way back to the campus Dick
kept up his argument, and by the time they got off the car at Church and
High Streets he had brought the quarter back into a contrite and fairly
repentant frame of mind.
At the same time, it seemed to him that Kenny was not so pliable as he
had been the night before. It had been harder to bring him to a
realization of the error of his ways. Somehow, Dick felt almost as if
there was a counter influence which was pulling against his
own—something which was encouraging Kenny in his rebellion and egging
him on in the disagreement with Tempest.
What it could be he could not imagine. Who among the quarter back’s
friends or acquaintances could encourage him in his fatal folly? For any
sane person must realize that if the fellow persisted in his course a
victory on Saturday would be seriously imperiled.
He was turning this over in his mind all through supper, and afterward,
walking along Church Street with Brad, Keran, and several others, it was
still puzzling him.
All at once his eyes fell on Kenny himself, walking down the street on
the other side, in earnest conversation with a slim, brisk man of about
thirty.
“Who’s that fellow with Kenny?” he asked quickly.
They all glanced over the way, and Phil Keran answered the question.
“Clarence Carr,” he said readily. “He’s Archie Carr’s brother. He came
in to see me the other night, and Kenny met him there. Nice chap, too.
Crazy about football. He played at Brown. He and Jack seem to hit it off
pretty well.”
Dick took in the man with a swift, appraising glance. He remembered
Archie Carr perfectly as a good football player and red-hot Yale man.
There was absolutely no reason why he should question his brother’s
loyalty and integrity, but still a tiny germ of doubt was generated in
his mind at that moment—something which sprang into being quite without
rhyme or reason, and which persisted in remaining despite its seeming
absurdity and incongruity.
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