Having fired his parting shot, Fred turned on his heel, sauntering over to where the fluttering group of girls waited. One of them, Clara Deane, stepped forward to meet him.
"Fred, why do you have anything to do with such a low-down fellow as Prescott?" asked Clara, contemptuously.
"He's the sneak of the school," uttered Fred, harshly; "but I can't let even a sneak streak my coat with paint."
"And he never did such a thing, either!" broke in Laura Bentley, disdainfully. "Fred Ripley, you accused Dick Prescott of playing off a lame hand. I know how his hand became crippled. Dick wanted me to promise not to tell how it happened, but now I'm going to. Wait and you can hear, both of you."
"I don't want to, I'm sure," rejoined Clara, with a toss of her head. "Come along, Fred."
This pair of students walked away together. They always did, after school was out. The Ripleys and the Deanes were neighbors.
The other girls, however, followed Laura, as, with quick, resolute step, she marched over to where the High School boys still lingered.
"Boys," began Laura, "Mr. Prescott has been accused of pretending about a hurt hand. I know how he injured it; and, as he did it——-"
"Please don't say any more, Miss Bentley," begged Dick, flushing.
"Yes, I shall," insisted Laura, quietly. "It happened night before last. Dick Prescott didn't want anything said about it, and neither did the police, so——-"