“I didn’t neither,” he protested. Then his voice broke. “An’ if I did,” he qualified, tears of mortification springing to his eyes, “how was I goin’ to know he was goin’ to find the pocket book?”
“Cowardy-calf,” “runaway” and “tattletale” were the verbal returns for this sudden candor and then, following Connie’s action, Sammy’s chums left the little ex-warrior blubbering alone. But boy grief does not penetrate far.
“Say, fellows,” exclaimed Sammy, wiping away his tears and trying to smile, “Ole Peg Leg Warner’s fishin’ over on the bridge and he got a bass ’at weighed four pounds or more.”
Ordinarily this would have been the signal for a stampede. But the alluring bait was ignored.
“Go away,” was Art’s command. “We’re through with you.”
But while the other boys made their way slowly toward the pile of torn and broken aeroplanes, Sammy stood his ground.
“I don’t have to go away,” he retorted. “I can stay here if I want to. You don’t own this paster.”
“Then stay here,” shouted Art. “We’re goin’. An’ don’t you come in my yard again or in our garage, Tattletale.”
“I can come and get my knife and aeroplane an’ things,” retorted Sammy in half appeal. “An’ me and my folks is goin’ away up to Lake Maxinkuchee and stay all summer an’ I’m goin’ to have a sailboat, too.”
This last appeal to his friends was Spartanly ignored as was the statement in relation to Sammy’s personal property. But the incensed club members had one last rejoinder. After a quick conference Connie delivered it.