Dick completely ignored the insult, despite the fact that it was difficult to suppress the surge of anger that rose within him. He was fighting mad and his fists clenched involuntarily, yet he turned to Sandy and contrived, though the effort was difficult, to speak calmly:
“Let’s walk down along the river.”
Sandy’s face fell as he swung into step beside his friend, his right arm linked into Toma’s. As they struck off to the left, they were followed by the baleful, mocking glare of Dick’s newly discovered enemy.
Out of ear-shot, Sandy broke forth:
“Dick, I’m almost ashamed of you. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Walk away like that. It looks cowardly. I never saw you do a thing like that before.”
“I don’t know why I did it,” Dick confessed, “except that I had a hunch that if I let him pick a fight with me, I’d—I’d—well, I can’t explain it. Something seemed to warn me to keep away from him.”
“You mean, you were afraid of him.”
“No, not that!” Dick retorted hotly. “I’d like to go back even now and ‘mix-it’ with him.”