THE PATTER OF THEIR FLEEING FOOTSTEPS DIED AWAY.
“If you studied human nature more you wouldn’t have any trouble seeing through a millstone that had a hole in it,” chuckled Dick. “It’s a queer thing, but I’ve seen it crop up in little chaps not more than three years old.”
“As how?” continued the other.
“Ever notice some urchin trip, and fall so as to hurt himself, and how after he scrambles to his feet he kicks viciously at the nearest person? He knows it was all his own fault, and yet seeks to lay the blame on some one else. Well, Nat is built in just that same way, according to my idea.”
“H’m, let’s see if I get you there, Dick,” remarked Leslie, slowly. “You mean that he knows he was kicked out of the meeting by Harry Bartlett and Mr. Holwell, but being afraid to strike back at them, he made up his mind to get his revenge by tackling you—for I believe they thought you’d be coming along here alone and they could jump on you in a bunch. Is that the idea, Dick?”
“You’ve got it right, Leslie,” admitted the other, promptly. “Nat just hates me because up to now he’s never been able to down me, though it hasn’t been from lack of trying on his part, you understand.”
“Well, he can write down another failure,” laughed Leslie, tenderly caressing his left cheek where a stray blow had glanced aside, though leaving a slight abrasion of the skin.
“Thanks to you, mostly,” added Dick, slapping his chum on the back heartily.
“My club, you mean,” corrected the other hastily. “As a general thing I like to fight fair, but when you’re outnumbered, and things look pretty dark, then’s the time ‘clubs are trumps,’ according to my notion.”