“I do,” said Jack, “and I would rather now that I had taken another such whipping than to find myself here.”
“Well, well,” said the doctor, “boys will be boys.”
“And fools will be fools, I suppose,” said Jack.
“Mr. Ball is very ill,” continued the doctor. “Find the others and tell them they mustn’t come here again to-night, or they’ll kill him. I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything. The old man’s just broken down by the strain he has been under. He has deserved it all, but I think you might let him have a little peace now.”
“So do I,” said Jack, more ashamed of himself than ever.
The doctor went back into the house, and Jack Dudley and his dinner-bell started off down the street in search of Harry Weathervane and his tin pan, and Bob Holliday and his skillet-lids, and Ben Berry and the bass-drum.
“Hello, Jack!” called out Bob from an alley. “You stood your ground the best of all, didn’t you?”
“I wish I’d stood my ground in the first place against you and Harry, and stayed at home.”
“Why, what’s the matter? Who was it?”
By this time the other boys were creeping out of their hiding-places and gathering about Jack.