“Stop! stop!” cried Fish, quickly. “I’ll go.”
“I won’t trust you,” shouted Fowle. “I won’t let up an ounce till you’re outside that door!”
Fish stood not on the order of his going. Outside Birdie gave him a final push and paused, panting and dishevelled, in the doorway. Fish had hardly stretched his cramped neck and shaken out his aching wrist, when he suddenly lifted his head in an attitude of attention, and darted up the next flight of stairs. While his ascending head was still visible over the banisters above, the angry visage of Mr. Alsop appeared from below.
“At it again, Fowle! Disturbing the whole well for your own amusement, regardless of the rights of others and my repeatedly expressed wishes! There’s a limit, I wish you to understand, even to my patience.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, “but this time it wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is, according to your statements,” declared the instructor.
“What would you do if a fellow came into your room, tried to brush your hair with a hearth brush, broke your things, and refused to leave? You wouldn’t stand round and let him rip the room to pieces, would you?”
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you, sir.”
“If you prefer to shield him, you can’t blame me for holding you responsible. Whoever the others may be, you are certainly one. If boys trespass on your room, you should keep your door locked.”