boots for him."

Neil closed his book and leaned back in his chair, a little disk of red
in each cheek.

"Now, look here, Tom Cowan, let's have this out," he said quietly.
"You're hitting at me, of course--"

"Oh, keep out, chum," protested Paul. "Cowan hasn't mentioned you once."

"He doesn't need to," answered Neil. "I understand without it. But let
me tell you, Cowan, that I do not toady to either Mills or Devoe. I do
treat them, however, as I would any one who was in authority over me. I
don't think merely because I've played the game before that I know all
the football there is to know."

"Meaning that I do?" growled Cowan.

"I mean that you've got a swelled head, Cowan, and that when Mills said
you hadn't been doing your best he only told the truth, and what every
fellow knows."

"Shut up, Neil!" cried Paul angrily. "It isn't necessary for you to
pitch into Cowan just because he's down on his luck."

"I don't mind him," said Cowan, eying Neil with hatred. "He's sore about
what I said. I dare say I shouldn't have said it. If he's Mills's
darling--"

Neil pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet with blazing eyes.