“A fight! a fight,” was the word that ran around the yard.
Rob Jones relaxed his hold, but did not release the boy. Holding his fist close to his captive's face he said:
“Now take it back, or I'll thrash you till you can't see.”
“Wha—what did I say?”asked Smithers.
“You know very well what you said. You said that the delectable and pious Henning had managed to lose seventy-two dollars of the boys' money. That's a lie. Take it back, or I'll——”
“It isn't a lie,” whimpered the choking Smithers. "Didn't he have charge of the money? And hasn't it been stolen?”
“But did he, as you say, manage to have it stolen? That is, is he implicated in the theft, as you imply, or is he not? Speak out, man, if you have a spark of honor in you. Speak out, or I'll thrash you if I have to leave here to-morrow.”
Generous Rob! There were few boys at the college at this time who knew that this same Rob Jones once played the rôle which Smithers was so unsuccessfully attempting. He had repented of that long ago, but never had there come a time, for which he had often wished, when he could safeguard another's reputation, as a species of reparation for the damaging of Howard Hunter's in the long ago.
Irrespective of the idea that actuated him, Jones was quite convinced, even without knowing the
simplest details, that Roy Henning must be free from all moral blame. Roy Henning was a boy whom Jones honored and loved. All these circumstances must be considered when we pass judgment on the vehement burst of passion which put young Smithers in danger of strangulation. He muttered some kind of apology to the absent Roy, and Jones with a positive grunt of disgust flung the frightened boy as far as he could send him. He stumbled along for several paces before regaining a steady footing. Mumbling something inaudibly, he slunk away, but more than one of the students saw an ugly, ominous look on his face as he went.