"I'll get the fellows to-night—for that—and we'll carry Old Dut's front gate off and throw it in the river!" ran vengefully through Dave Darrin's mind.
"Old Dut needn't look for his late posies to bloom until the frost comes this year," reflected Greg Holmes, while he pored, apparently, over the many-colored map of Asia. "I'll get some of the fellows out to-night, and we'll make a wreck scene in Old Dut's flower beds."
Dick said nothing, even to himself, as he picked up his much-thumbed book on physiology and turned the pages. He was smarting not only from the indignity to which he had been treated, but quite as much from the masterful way in which Old Dut had punctuated that "funny story" with his broad right hand.
Once in a while Old Dut cast a sly glance in Dick's direction.
"That young man will bear watching," mused the principal, as he caught a sudden flash in Prescott's eye, as the latter glanced up.
The recitation in arithmetic soon came along. This was one of Dick's favorite studies, and, wholly forgetting his late experience, so it seemed, he covered himself with glory in his blackboard demonstration of an intricate problem in interest and discount.
Then the class settled down to twenty minutes' more study.
"Master Prescott," broke in Old Dut's voice, at last, "did you think my story a funny one?"
"Pretty fair, sir," answered Dick, looking up and straight into the eyes of the principal.
"Only 'pretty fair,' eh? Could you tell me a funnier story?"