“Let go!” cried West. “I don’t want to be mixed up with any quarrels; but you might have got them over outside. There, I’m off.”
“Stop where you are!” cried Ingleborough. “You have a perfect right to hear what I have said, and you’re welcome.”
“Yes, stop where you are, West,” cried Anson, clinging to the young fellow’s arm. “I believe that the war scare has sent Ingle off his head. You never heard such a bit of scandal as he is trying to hatch up. I believe it’s all out of jealousy.”
“No, you do not,” said Ingleborough coldly.
“But I do,” cried Anson. “It’s scandalous. He’s trying to ruin me.”
“How?”
“By hatching up a story which, if it got to the principals’ ears, would mean me being turned off neck and crop, no matter how innocent I am.”
“How what?” replied Ingleborough ironically. “Innocent? Why, I’ve suspected you for some months past.”
“Oh, my gracious!” cried Anson. “Hark at him! He does mean it—he must mean it, unless we can bring him to his senses, West. You will help me, won’t you?”
“How can I tell till I know what it’s all about? What’s the quarrel, Ingle?”