"Well, Sharp isn't so very handsome," answered Larkspur. "His nose is as sharp as his name."
"I suppose Rover will wonder how somebody got hold of that case of pencils and crayons," remarked Flockley. "If he—"
"Hello, Max!" cried a voice from behind the bushes, and the next moment a stout youth landed on Max Spangler's back, carrying him down with a crash in the brushwood. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
At the interruption the whole Flockley crowd started to their feet, and turning, beheld not only Max and the boy who had come up so suddenly, but also Songbird. The latter was nearest to them, and Koswell eyed him with sudden suspicion.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, while Max and his friend were wrestling in a good-natured way in the bushes.
"Oh, I've been listening to some interesting information," answered
Songbird.
"Playing the eavesdropper, eh?" came from Flockley with a sneer.
"If so, it was for a good purpose," answered the would-be poet warmly.
"Say, Jerry, you want to look out for him!" cried Larkspur warningly.
"He rooms with Dick Rover, remember. They are old chums."
"I know that," said Koswell. He faced Songbird again. "How long have you been here?" he cried angrily.