“I—I—er—how—how did you——” he was stammering.
“I see you don’t dare deny it,” went on Langridge with a sneer. “Your manner is answer enough. Come on, Perkins. I don’t care to prolong this discussion.”
“But I do!” cried poor Sid, now beside himself. “I’ll get even with you for this dirty, sneaking piece of work! You dare send that clipping to her—to her! I’ll——” he sprang forward, with clenched fists, and before Tom or Phil could stop him, he had struck Langridge. The latter, with a snarl of rage, jumped toward Sid, but his friend clasped his arm.
“Not here! Not here!” implored Perkins. “You can’t fight here, Langridge.”
“No, that’s right,” admitted the other with a shrug of his shoulders, as he calmed himself with an effort. “And I don’t know that I care, after all, for the notoriety of fighting him.” He turned aside. Sid was about to spring forward again, his face distorted with rage, but Tom and Phil held him back.
“Come on,” whispered the pitcher in his ear. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Sid. You’re only making matters worse.”
With something like a sob in his throat, Sid allowed his chums to lead him away.