“Yes,” came back an eager, approving chorus.

“Then so be it,” proclaimed Frank.  “And now, remember, Ripley, this fight is not to be pulled off until the school agrees to it.  If you pick any trouble with Prescott until you get the word, or if you try to find any excuse for hitting him while his hand’s out of shape, then you’ll answer to the school for your conduct.  You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Humph!” snorted Fred Ripley.  “All this fuss about the High School sneak!”

Again Dick started forward, but Thompson caught him firmly.

“Hold on, freshie!” advised the older boy.  “Save it up.  Bottle it.  You can have all the more fun out of Ripley when your hand is in shape.”

“His hand is in as good shape as it ever was,” retorted Ripley, scornfully.  “And he lies when he says he didn’t do this.”

Ripley swung, so as to display the tail of a short topcoat that was one of his treasures.  The garment was fashionably made and of the best material, for Ripley’s father was a wealthy lawyer in Gridley, and the young Ripley hopeful had all the most costly things a boy can prize.

Along the tail of the coat some miscreant had daubed a streak of fresh white paint.  Ripley had found it there when donning the coat to leave school at one o’clock that day.  Fred knew that Dick had been in the coat room after recess, and, as he disliked the freshman, Ripley had accused Dick of the deed.

Having fired his parting shot, Fred turned on his heel, sauntering over to where the fluttering group of girls waited.  One of them, Clara Deane, stepped forward to meet him.

“Fred, why do you have anything to do with such a low-down fellow as Prescott?” asked Clara, contemptuously.

“He’s the sneak of the school,” uttered Fred, harshly; “but I can’t let even a sneak streak my coat with paint.”

“And he never did such a thing, either!” broke in Laura Bentley, disdainfully.  “Fred Ripley, you accused Dick Prescott of playing off a lame hand.  I know how his hand became crippled.  Dick wanted me to promise not to tell how it happened, but now I’m going to.  Wait and you can hear, both of you.”

“I don’t want to, I’m sure,” rejoined Clara, with a toss of her head.  “Come along, Fred.”

This pair of students walked away together.  They always did, after school was out.  The Ripleys and the Deanes were neighbors.

The other girls, however, followed Laura, as, with quick, resolute step, she marched over to where the High School boys still lingered.

“Boys,” began Laura, “Mr. Prescott has been accused of pretending
about a hurt hand.   I know how he injured it; and, as he did it-----”

“Please don’t say any more, Miss Bentley,” begged Dick, flushing.

“Yes, I shall,” insisted Laura, quietly.  “It happened night before last.  Dick Prescott didn’t want anything said about it, and neither did the police, so-----”