Tom Hicksley had caught sight of the three boys at the same moment, and from the spiteful look that came into his small eyes it was clear that he recognized Bobby and Fred.
The boys looked at him coldly but did not speak, and Hicksley, on his part, seemed at first as though he were going to pass them without saying anything. But the events of the evening before still rankled in him, and he suddenly stopped.
“So you’re the butt-ins that mixed up in my affairs last night, are you?” he asked, in a tone that he tried to make sarcastic.
Fred flared up at once.
“Yes, we did,” he shot out; “and we’d do it again if we saw you up to your mean tricks. You can’t do anything of that kind while we’re around and expect to get away with it.”
“Hello! what’s the fuss about?” asked Skeets, with sudden interest.
“You shut up!” commanded Hicksley. “This isn’t any of your funeral. I’m talking to these two boobs here.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up!” cried Skeets, who had a hair trigger temper very much like Fred’s own.
“I’ll tell you anything I like,” retorted Hicksley, who seemed to be a master in the “gentle art of making enemies.”
“I’ll tell you what it was, Skeets,” said Bobby. “I don’t wonder that he’s so ashamed of it that he doesn’t want it talked about. We saw him teasing an old soldier—a real old man, mind you—who was trying to get a little sleep. Then when the old man went up the aisle to get some water, this fellow stuck out his foot and tried to trip him up. The man had all he could do to keep from falling. That was too much for us fellows and we made him stop.”