“I don’t believe it,” said Winslow doggedly. “You went in to talk up this color-guard affair.”
“What an idea!” said Leon, with a disdainful laugh. “Nobody but you would think of such a thing.”
“You did, then,” insisted Winslow, although without once meeting the clear, steady gaze of his antagonist; “you went in there to try to get him to give you Osborn’s place.”
“Oh, come, Winslow,” remonstrated Harold; “don’t be a fool. That isn’t Arnold’s way.”
“You shut up, King!” returned Winslow brutally, “I’m not talking to you.”
“No; but I am to you,” retorted Leon, who felt his temper fast giving way. “I’ll thank you to clear out and let me alone; you’ve been in my way long enough.”
“I’ve been there long enough to see that you’ve toadied to Lieutenant Wilde ever since you came; and if you think you’re going to sneak, and get promotions away from better fellows than you are, you’re much mistaken.”
“What!” And Leon faced his foe with blazing eyes, and his lips quivering with excitement. “I’ve never taken unfair advantage of any fellow in this school, George Winslow, and you know it.”
“That’s a lie.”
The insult was more than Leon could bear; and the words were no sooner spoken than there came one quick, decisive blow, and Winslow went sprawling backward on the ground. Too thoroughly cowed to rise, he lay staring up into the flushed, angry face of his slender conqueror. Half frightened at what he had done, Leon bent on one knee to see that he had not materially injured his fallen foe; then, when freed from any anxiety on that score, he rose to his feet, saying haughtily,—