"Hen Dutcher," Dick interrupted firmly, "we are out here to enjoy ourselves, and we don't propose to be interfered with. We have a right to be here, and no one else has. We've wormed it out of you that Fred Ripley and some other fellows have come out here to torment us. Fred Ripley has no right to come here and play mean tricks on us."
"Who gave you the right to be here?" demanded Hen sullenly. "Wasn't it Fred Ripley's father?"
"Yes; but that gives Fred no right to be mean in the matter, and Lawyer Ripley would be the first to say so, if I went and told him."
"And then you'd be 'Sneak Prescott,'" taunted Hen.
"I didn't say I was going to tell Fred's father," Dick answered, his color rising, "and I haven't any thought of it, either. Any fellow of anywhere near my own size who calls me a sneak can have his answer—two of them," Dick went on, displaying his fists. "You know that well enough, Hen Dutcher. You're one of our own crowd—that is, you go to the Central Grammar with us, and yet you've joined in with some High School boys to bother us and spoil our fun. Who's the sneak, Hen? Who will the fellows at the Central Grammar call the sneak when they hear about this?"
Hen began to look decidedly uneasy. He was well aware what the Grammar School boys in Gridley did to one of their own number who was voted a sneak.
"I—I didn't mean any harm," muttered Hen, almost whimpering.
"See here," demanded Dick, another idea coming to him, "how much did Fred Ripley pay you to help work against us."
"He didn't pay me nothing," young Dutcher protested ungrammatically.
"How much did he agree to pay you, then? Come—out with it!" insisted Dick.