“Somebody said it was Everett St. John. Perhaps it’s on the strength of his aristocratic name that he puts on so many airs,” replied Gordon.
On the outer steps a group of boys stood talking and laughing—among them, Rosy. He stepped forward, and slipped his arm familiarly through Hamlin’s, as the latter came down the stairs with Gordon.
“I say, Hamlin,” he began, not in the least disconcerted at Hamlin’s straightening out his arm like a poker, “I wish you’d introduce me to Grace Harlan. She’s a cousin of yours, isn’t she?”
“Miss Harlan is my cousin,” answered Hamlin coldly, “but I never introduce boys to her except at her own request.”
“Ho, ho, Rosy—got squelched that time,” snickered Coyle, as Hamlin and Gordon passed on.
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ll get somebody else to introduce me. Miss Harlan is the prettiest girl I’ve seen in an age,” responded Rosy serenely, while Hamlin was growling in Gordon’s ear, “Introduce him to Grace, indeed! I think I see myself doing it.”
Being a little late next morning, Hamlin took a short cut to school, passing through a side street where he seldom went. He was going along at a rapid pace when he saw Dixon come out of a door half-way down the block. When Hamlin reached the place he glanced up at the still open door. It was a low saloon.
“Dear me,” he thought, “I wish that fellow had never come near the Central. It was bad enough before, but now that I know that he goes into such holes as that—what am I to do about it? He’ll probably get other fellows in there, too. Wonder if I ought to tell Bobby.”
But to “tell on a fellow,” even in a case like this, was very repugnant to Hamlin.
“I can’t do it yet a while,” he decided, “but I’ll keep a sharp eye on him, and if I ever see him in such a place again, I’ll warn him that I’ll report him unless he stops it.”