“I’m not going to have him calling me names,” said Dunn, defiantly. “He thinks because he’s small he can be as fresh as he wants to, without getting hurt.”
“I didn’t call him names,” sobbed Mike. “I wasn’t doing a thing.”
“It wasn’t him,” offered Dickie Sumner, who had been tempted back by all-compelling curiosity. “He wasn’t with us at all.”
Talbot turned and seized the rash youngster by the arm. “So it was you, was it? Now, look here! We aren’t going to have any calling names or any other freshness from you young kids round this place. If we catch you at it, we’ll duck you under the cold-water faucet and forbid you the grounds. Understand?”
Dickie understood. “All right,” he answered faintly, and tried to pull away; but Talbot still held him in a tight grip.
“What do you say, Jack?” he added, turning to Dick’s older brother, who shared with him the responsibility for order on the grounds.
“That’s right!” replied Jack Sumner, sacrificing his fraternal obligation in the cause of justice with surprising equanimity. “He’s a good one to begin on.”
Talbot released the youngster, who speedily escaped from the circle of danger to join his confederates over by the tennis courts, where they discussed for a time in subdued voices the probability that Pete meant business. They were soon diverted by tag.
“All the same, Dunn is a fool to notice them,” murmured Talbot in Hardie’s ear as they returned to the locker room to finish their dressing.
“I don’t believe he can shake off the nickname, now,” said Roger.