“It was a foolish thing to do, attempting to crawl around that cliff,” observed Hockley, as he sat by watching proceedings, without offering any aid. “You’ve got us all into a muss. Goodness only knows when we’ll get to Caracas now.”
“You needn’t wait for us if you don’t wish to,” retorted Frank, stung by the lank youth’s harshness. “You can go ahead—I’m sure we shan’t miss you.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, Frank Newton. I won’t stand it!” blurted out Hockley, his face reddening.
“I just will talk to you like that, Jake Hockley. Mark didn’t get his ankle sprained for fun, and you know it.”
“Oh, let him alone, Frank,” put in Mark. “It isn’t worth quarreling about.”
“I suppose you fellows will be getting into trouble right straight along,” continued Hockley, who seemed to have one of his streaks of ill temper. “I shan’t put up with it, I’ll tell you that.”
“You’ll get into trouble in another minute, if you don’t quit,” cried Frank. “The best thing you can do is to go on to Caracas and leave us alone.”
“That’s all you fellows want—to get clear of me,” growled the lank youth. “But you can’t do it. My father’s paying my way, and I’m going to do as I please, and I’m not going to allow Professor Strong to consult you and not me in everything either,” he went on, bitterly.
As he finished speaking he started to move from one side of the little crowd to the other. He passed close to Mark and as he did so his foot hit the swollen ankle and made the youth on the ground cry out with pain.
“Oh, Hockley, what did you do that for?”