“That’s all right, Tommy,” Meadowcroft assured him warmly. “I realized afterwards it was nothing but bluster. We are too good friends to let anything come between us now.” And he rested on one crutch so that they could shake hands.
“I wish you’d flung a book at my head,” Tommy exclaimed as they went on up into the avenue.
“Your slamming the door made sufficient commotion,” Meadowcroft remarked with a smile. “And then, too, don’t forget you’ve got something more coming to you Monday.”
Tommy grinned. Meadowcroft waited a little, hoping the boy would have something to say of the real matter at issue. Tommy’s reticence confirmed his recent conclusion that he wasn’t the culprit he had believed him. His participation in the mischief had been, like the falsehood he had told, solely for the sake of shielding Betty Pogany, who had apparently suddenly been seized with an impulse to be as naughty as she could be to see what it was like. So instead of blaming Tommy, Meadowcroft felt like showing his appreciation of his loyalty. And as the surest way to Tommy’s heart was through magic, he asked the boy if he had succeeded in getting the red, white, and blue layers in a jar of water.
“Not yet,” said Tommy, “nor soon either, for that matter.”
“What do you mean?” Meadowcroft demanded.
“No magic for yours truly till school’s out in June,” Tommy returned, grinning.
“Tommy Finnemore, what do you mean?” cried Meadowcroft. Had he sent the boy home to set the house afire or do something equally destructive with his magic?
“Dad was fierce when he heard I’d been sassing you, so he handed me out that sentence,” returned the boy coolly.
“How did he hear? Who told him?”