“I say, Crawford, you certainly were cheeky! You’ve used my key more than I have myself, and you had the bluff to deny it,” said Barber.
Crawford yawned with pretended indifference, then answered coolly:—
“’Twas none of Bobby’s business what I had done. He said himself that he’d never forbidden it.”
“Humph!” said Barber, and turning, walked off to the other side of the playground.
Crawford had the grace to color a little at this, but he turned to Henderson and shrugged his shoulders as he said, “Huffy—’cause I’ve borrowed his key. He’ll get over it. But now see here—the thing I want to know is, who put Bobby up to this dodge?”
“Of course ’twasn’t any of the fellows that use the keys,” said Henderson.
“Right you are!” exclaimed Crawford, emphatically. “It was some sneakin’ saint who never stains his holy fingers with such polluted literature as algebra keys, and I don’t know anybody so likely to have done it as Clark.”
“Oh no,” cried one, “I don’t believe it was Clark.”
“You don’t, hey! Well I do, then. It takes a coward to do a thing like that.”
“You always blame everything on Clark,” cried Freeman, “and I think it’s mean of you, Crawford.”