“Here’s the man coming back again,” said Reed. And sure enough, the man was returning, looking at something he held in his hand, as he came.
Facing Clark, he demanded:—
“Did you throw that snowball?”
“No, sir,” said Clark, “but if it hadn’t been for me, it would probably not have gone through your window.”
“Ah!” said the man, “I’m glad you didn’t throw it, and if it was aimed at any boy’s head, that boy owes you a debt of thanks, at least. See here; this was inside the ball. I was so mad before that I forgot to show it to you,” and he held out a rough, jagged piece of brick. “That would have knocked the breath out of a boy, if it had hit him full in the face”; and leaving the brick in Clark’s hand, the man again departed.
There was more than scorn and contempt now in the eyes that turned towards Griffin, who, for the life of him, could not help cowering under the fire of indignant glances and the words that followed.
“You’d better blame Clark for knocking up your arm,” said Hamlin, and the man crossing the street smiled grimly as the clear, ringing voice reached even his ears. “You might have slept behind prison bars to-night, if it had not been for Clark’s quick eye and hand.”
“I wouldn’t have believed there was a fellow in the Central mean enough to do a thing like that,” added Gordon.
“Well, see here now, fellows.” It was Graham who said this. “Are we going to let Clark pay that debt for Griffin? I can’t, for one,” and the look he gave Clark said what his tongue could not say before all those listening ears.
“No! No!” shouted a score of voices.