“That's—that's—oh, dear!” Tom's face rivalled the firelight by this time, for color.
“Phronsie, I wouldn't ask any more questions now,” said Polly gently. “Boys say so many things; and it isn't necessary to know now. Let's listen to the story.”
“I will,” said Phronsie, feeling quite relieved that it wasn't really incumbent on her to ask for explanations. So she sat back quietly in her big chair, while Tom shot Polly a grateful look.
“Well, there are lots of chaps at our school,” went on Tom—“I suppose there are at all schools, but at any rate we have them in a big quantity,—who are mad when they see the other boys get on.”
“Oh, Tom!” exclaimed Polly.
“Yes, they are—mad clear through,” declared Tom positively. “And it's principally in athletics.” Phronsie made a little movement at this word, but, remembering that she was not to ask questions, for Polly had said so, she became quiet again.
“They simply can't bear that a boy gets ahead of 'em; it just knocks 'em all up.” Tom was rushing on, with head thrown back and gazing into the fire.
“Tom,” said Joel, bounding up suddenly to take his head out of Polly's lap, and to sit quite straight, “I wouldn't run on like this if I were you.”
“You hush up, Pepper,” said Tom coolly. “I haven't said a word about you. I shall say what I like. I tell you, it does just knock 'em all up. I know, for I've been that way myself.”
This was getting on such dangerous ground, that Joel opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Polly put her hand over it. “I'd let Tom tell his story just as he wants to,” which had the effect of smothering Joel's speech for the time being.