“Curing the grouch of this bunch,” retorted Drayne sulkily.

“Man alive, there’s no time to fool with your shoes now!” warned the team captain.

“I’m not going to need this pair,” Drayne rejoined.  “Street shoes will do for me today.”

“Not on the gridiron!”

“I’m not going on the field.  I’ve heard enough knocking,” grumbled Drayne.

A dozen of the fellows crowded about, consternation written in their faces.

Prescott was known not to be fit to play.  Only the day before Dr. Bentley had refused to pass him for the game.  Hence Drayne, even if a trifle out of condition, was still the best available man for left end.

“Quit your fooling, Drayne!” cried two or three at once.

“Quit your talking,” retorted Drayne, kicking off his other field shoe.  “I’ve done all my talking.”

Truth to tell, Drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson.  He intended to make them beg, from Wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging.  Drayne knew when he had the advantage of them.

“Don’t be a fool, Drayne,” broke in Hudson hotly.

“Or a traitor to your school,” added another.

“Be a man!”

In Drayne’s present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury.

“Shut up, all of you!” he snapped.  “I’ve listened to all the roasting I intend to stand.  I’m out of the game!”

Several looked blankly at “Hen” Wadleigh.

“Whom have you to put in his place?” Grayson demanded hoarsely.

Drayne heard and it was balm to his soul.  He started to pull off his football trousers.

Outside, the band started upon a lively gallop.  The crowd began to cheer.  It started in as a Gridley cheer.  Then, above everything else, rang the Filmore yell of defiance.

Just at this moment Coach Morton strode into the room.  Almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen.

“Captain Wadleigh, who is to play in Drayne’s stead” demanded the coach rather briskly.

“Under certain conditions,” broke in Wayne, “I’ll agree to play.”

“We wouldn’t have you under all the conditions in the world!” retorted Mr. Morton.  “A football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!”

Drayne reddened, then went deathly white.  He hadn’t intended to let the matter go this far.

“Who is your best man for left end, captain?” insisted Mr. Morton.  “You’ve got to decide like a flash.  Your men ought to be out in the air now.”

There was a blank pause, while “Hen” Wadleigh looked around over his subs.

“Will you let me play?”

There was a start.  Every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker.

It was Dick Prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness.