“Frank,” said Louis, “I cannot think how you can suppose me guilty of such meanness.”
“The least said, the soonest mended,” remarked Salisbury. “We must have large powers of credence where you are concerned. Clear off your old scores, and then we will begin a new one with you.”
Reginald started to his feet. “You shall rue this, Salisbury.”
“Two can play at your game,” rejoined Salisbury, rising.
Reginald was springing forward, but was checked by Louis, who threw himself on him. “Do not fight, dear Reginald—do not, pray.”
“I will—unhand me, Louis! I tell you I will—let me go.”
“Dear Reginald, not for me—wait a minute.”
At this moment the form behind them fell with a heavy bang, and in struggling to release himself, Reginald fell over it, dragging Louis with him. Louis was a little hurt, but he did not let go his hold. “Reginald,” he said, “ask Mrs. Wilkinson to say so herself; they will believe her, I suppose.”
The fall had a little checked his rage, and Reginald sat brooding in sullen anger on the ground. At last he started up and left the room, saying to Louis, “It's all your fault, then—you've no spirit, and you don't want me to have any.”
Louis mechanically assisted in raising the form, and stood silently by the table. He looked quickly round, and pushing the little share of his untasted fruit from him, went into the school-room. He did not recover his spirits again that evening, even when Reginald apologized to him for his roughness, pleading in excuse the extreme trouble it gave him to prevent himself from fighting with Salisbury.