Penny nodded and retired, herding Melville before him, followed by the scowling regard of Dreer.

Clint tossed the towel aside.  “I’ll beat it, too, I guess,” he said.  “You’ll be all right if you lie still awhile.  So long.”

“Much obliged,” muttered Dreer, not very graciously.  “I’ll get square with that ugly pup, though, Thayer.  You hear what I tell you!”

“Oh, call it off,” replied Clint cheerfully.  “You each had a whack.  What more do you want?  So long, Dreer.”

“Long,” murmured the other, closing his eyes.  “Tell him to—­look out—­Thayer.”

Clint’s first impulse was to seek Penny, but before he reached the door of Number 13 the strains of the fiddle began to be heard and Clint, with a shrug and a smile, sought his own room.

He spread his books on the table, resolved to do a half-hour’s stuffing before supper.  But his thoughts wandered far from lessons.  The scrap in the corridor, Penny’s unexpected ferocity, the afternoon’s practice, the folks at home, all these subjects and many others engaged his mind.  Beyond the wall on one side Penny was scraping busily on his violin.  In the pauses between exercises Clint could hear Harmon Dreer moving about behind the locked door that separated Numbers 14 and 15.  Then the door from the well swung open, footsteps crossed the hall and Amy appeared, racket in hand.  After that there was no more chance of study, for Clint had to tell of the fracas between Penny and Dreer while Amy, stretched in the Morris chair, listened interestedly.  When Clint ended Amy whistled softly and expressively.

“Think of old Penny Durkin scrapping like that!” he said.  Then, with a smile, he added regretfully:  “Wish I’d seen it!  Handed him a regular knock-out, eh?  What do you know about that?  Guess I’ll go in and shake hands with him!”

“Dreer?” asked Clint innocently.

“Dreer!  Yah!  Penny.  Someone ought to thank him on behalf of the school.  Who was the kid?  Charlie Melville?”

“I didn’t hear his first name,” replied Clint, nodding.

“He’s a young rotter.  Dare say he deserved what Dreer was giving him, although I don’t believe in arm-twisting.  Dreer ought to have spanked him.”

“Then you don’t think Penny had any right to interfere?”

“Don’t I?  You bet I do!  Anyone has a right to interfere with Harmon Dreer.  Anyone who hands him a jolt is a public benefactor.”

“I fear you’re a trifle biased,” laughed Clint.

“Whatever that is, I am,” responded Amy cheerfully.  “What was Melville doing to arouse the gentleman’s wrath?”

“I didn’t hear the details.  Dreer assured me twice that he was going to get even with Penny, though.”

“Piffle!  He hasn’t enough grit!  Penny should worry!  Say, what are you making faces about?”

“I—­it’s my knee.  I got a whack on it and it sort of hurts when I bend it.”

“Why didn’t you get it rubbed, you silly chump.  Let’s see it.”