Hamlin, too, had started towards Lee, but stopped as he caught sight of Crawford’s white, set face.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” demanded Lee coolly of Crawford.
“I am going to knock you down if you accuse Stanley Clark of doing anything mean or underhanded since he’s been in this school,” said Crawford, while Clark looked from one to the other in blank amazement, and the rest of the boys gathered about the two.
“So?” said Lee, tauntingly. “Perhaps, then, you know more than the rest of us about some of these underhanded performances.”
The perspiration gathered on Crawford’s forehead in big drops, and the hand that still clutched Lee’s shoulder, trembled perceptibly, but he faced the wondering group, and said slowly, and distinctly:—
“I do know something about at least one underhanded performance that concerns Clark. I’ve been longing to make a clean breast of it for weeks, and now I’m going to do it. I put that pony in Clark’s desk last year. The letters S. C. were the initials of—someone else, and Clark told the truth when he said that he had never seen the book until Mr. Horton held it up before him. I hated Clark last year, and I wanted to do anything I could to injure him. Clark,” he left Lee and turned towards the other, “Clark, it isn’t much to say I’m sorry—but that’s all I can say.”
Clark instantly held out his hand, and said cordially:—
“It is all forgotten from this moment, Crawford,” and then, catching sight of Mr. Horton, who had entered the room while Crawford was speaking, Clark added quickly, “It can end right here, can’t it, sir?”
But Crawford spoke before the teacher could reply.
“No,” he said, “I want all the class to know the truth. Then perhaps I can respect myself a little more.”