“Well, I haven’t been having a good time,” muttered the doctor’s son, as he followed his companion up the steps.
He did not wait for Leon, but at once set off toward home. As he reached the corner of Academy street, he met Sterndale, who was coming down from the football field.
“One moment, Scott,” said Dick, stopping him. “I want to know if you mean to pony up for that football and those suits.”
“If I do,” flared Don, his face flaming red, “I hope I’ll be struck by lightning!”
“You’d better,” threatened the captain, grimly, “if you don’t want me to go to your father at once.”
“Go to him, and be hanged! You can’t make me pay for damage I didn’t do, Sterndale, and I didn’t do that piece of dirty work.”
Dick’s eyes seemed trying to read his thoughts, as if they would probe his very soul. With indignation, scorn and defiance in his look, Don met his gaze squarely.
“All right, Scott,” said the big fellow, after a few moments. “I did hope you would be reasonable, and you’ll have no one but yourself to blame if your father learns everything.”
Not a word in return for these did Don deign to speak, but again went onward toward home, leaving Sterndale staring after him in mingled anger and perplexity.
It was not necessary for Don to make excuses for arriving home late, as he was in time for supper. He found his father in a particularly agreeable humor, and he was forced to simulate good nature himself, although it was a difficult and repugnant task.