"I've got the shoe in my closet," growled Nat. "It dropped out when I was packing the box. I'll get it now."
"No, you don't!" cried Shadow. "You can get the shoe any time. We will settle the rest of this affair before you leave."
"I—er—I don't understand?" stammered the money-lender's son. "You've got your shoes back. What more do you want? Can't you stand for a joke?"
"Not that kind of a joke, Nat. You put me in a false light—made everybody think I had walked off with the shoes in my sleep—and you made the whole crowd buy new shoes. We ought to make you pay that bill."
"I won't pay a cent! You—you've got the new shoes."
"Well, you've got to settle with me anyway," went on Shadow, firmly. "You can take your choice of two things. If you won't explain to the whole crowd how the thing happened, and won't apologize to me, why I'm going to give you a sound thrashing, that's all."
"Humph!"
"No 'humph' about it. You can take your choice."
"I won't apologize to you, or to anybody."
"Then you'll get a sound thrashing, Nat Poole."