"You ought to be!" yelled Gill, as a twinge of pain made him howl anew. "It was you who got me sick smoking cigarettes and thought it was funny. Yes, and it was you, too," blabbed the mean-spirited traitor, "who put those brads in Bob Upton's shoes, so he would lose the race."
"What?" shouted Dean Ritchie.
He made a vigorous break through the ranks of the crowd with the word. "The cat was out of the bag" at last, the secret told. Banbury saw the doughty Ritchie coming for him. He turned in a flash.
It was a race to the nearest school building. Banbury reached it first. The
other boys, running after pursued and pursuer, arrived at the spot to find
Banbury safe within the precincts of the classic temple of learning, and
Ritchie fuming at the open doorway.
"I say, let up, Ritchie," suggested Frank. "We've had enough squabbling."
"Not a bit of it," demurred Ritchie. "No, sir. I said that if ever I found out who played that mean, low-down trick on Upton, the culprit or I would leave this school."
"Well, it was Banbury, and he's going to leave, isn't he?" argued Frank.
"Yes; but I said that one of us would go the worst licked boy in Bellwood.
I mean to keep my word."
Remonstrances were in vain. With a grim, resolute face, Dean Ritchie took up his post at the entrance to the academy, pacing up and down and waiting for his chance to have another interview with Banbury.
It never came. Some of Banbury's crowd informed their leader of what was waiting for him, and Banbury managed to sneak out of the school by the rear, and reached the depot at Bellwood and was on his way home before Ritchie found out that he had escaped.