“It was real good of you, Stanley, to help me out,” Freeman said gratefully, as, Mr. Horton having dismissed them, the two went down to the playground; “but I’m afraid Crawford’ll serve you some mean trick to pay for it.”
“He served you a mean enough one, this morning,” answered Clark. “Sticking pins into you, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Freeman; “he had ’em fastened somehow to the toe of his shoe. They must have been big pins too, for they hurt like fury. Look here!” He pointed to some dark spots on his black stockings, below his short trousers.
“Blood?” said Clark, inquiringly, and as Freeman nodded, he added:—
“It’s a shame, Ray. I see him tormenting you in all sorts of ways whenever Horton isn’t looking. You ought to have your seat changed. Why don’t you?”
“Oh no!” said Freeman, quickly. “He’d say I was a coward then, and couldn’t stand a little fun. No, I’ll stick it out—but,” he added, half laughing, “I wish he wouldn’t stick so many things into me. I reckon I know how a pin-cushion feels.”
Crawford, with half a dozen of his particular cronies, stood on the playground near the door. They seized upon Clark and Freeman as they came out.
“Well, Sissies, did you tell the master all about it?” demanded Crawford, scornfully.
“We did not tell him anything,” answered Clark quietly, looking straight into the other’s angry eyes.
“It’s a lie. You did, too!” said Crawford, hotly.