Rob Jones was full of the play of the night before, and just at this moment he considered the costumes, if not the most valuable, at least the most attractive things for a thief to make away with.
“Costumes! Not much! It's cash. Hard-earned cash; at least cash subscribed by other people. The delectable and very pious Henning has managed to lose seventy-two dollars which the boys had already subscribed for the cage.”
“Managed to lose! I don't understand. Speak plainer.”
“I mean, then, that Roy has lost that money and the report is that he was robbed of it.”
“You miserable cur,” said Rob Jones.
In a flash he saw Smithers' motive. There had evidently been a robbery. No matter how, or when, or where, without knowledge of any of the details whatever, Rob Jones was as sure as he was sure of his own existence that Roy, big, generous, noble-hearted Roy, was guiltless of the least shadow of complicity. As soon as he realized that Smithers, in the mere telling of the event, was so coloring the facts by innuendo and sneer that Roy's name would probably suffer, Jones became furiously angry.
“You miserable cur,” he repeated, and made a spring for the other's throat. Luckily the high collar he wore saved Smithers to some extent, or he might carry to this day some ugly marks. Jones fairly shook him, as a mastiff would shake a whelp.
“You cur! Is this the way you would blacken one's reputation! I tell you Roy is innocent, and you shall apologize to him for your dastardly insinuations. Come with me, come with me, I say,” and he began to drag the now frightened boy across the yard to where he thought Henning was. Smithers, trembling, began to say something, but it was un
intelligible, which is very likely to be the case when another has a strong hold on the speaker's throat.
“Hold on there, Jones. You can't find Henning. He's gone out. I saw him and several others leave about half an hour ago,” said John Stockley. A crowd had now gathered about the two.