Porter flushed up. “I took her to the theatre,” he retorted, “and a silly, stupid sort of a play I saw, too. I didn’t enjoy it a bit.”
Basil frowned. “You’re not helping matters much,” he remarked. “Now look here, you’ve got that little girl into a nice peck of trouble, and you’ve got to do one of two things. You’ve either got to go to Mrs. Holmes and tell her the whole truth and return the money to Mellicent or write to mother about it. If you don’t I’ll tell the professor the whole business.”
“I haven’t got the money,” said Porter, sullenly.
“You shall have it to-morrow. I’ll see to that. You’re not such a cad as to stand by and see that little girl punished while you go scot-free. You were seen at the theatre, anyhow, so you’d better accept my terms.”
“I’ll do it,” consented Porter. He had never seen Basil so angry, and was half afraid of him in this mood.
“He is going to tell your mother,” Basil informed Persis. “I wish you’d put in a word for him. I’d hate to have your father know. I haven’t the money for Mellicent now, but she shall have it to-morrow.”
“Oh, never mind! I can loan it to you,” offered Persis.
Basil turned a reproachful glance upon her. “Do you think I’m going to follow Porter’s example and be such a sponge as to take your money?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” Persis hastened to explain.
“I know you didn’t,” returned Basil, in a different tone. “It was just a generous impulse. Thank you for the offer; but I can manage.” And he did, although the twang of a guitar was not heard in his room for many a day, while one of his class-mates wondered why Basil Phillips was so ready to part with his pet instrument at such a moderate price. “He used to be so fond of it, too,” said Rob Van Dyke.