“Get away—nothing,” said Joel crossly, and bestowing as much of a kick as he dared on the other boy's shin.
“Ow! There is too.”
“You're awfully funny,” said the first boy, “you haven't spoken a word since you sat down.”
“Well, I ain't going to talk, if I don't want to,” declared Joel. “Do stop, Fletcher; everybody's looking.”
But Fletcher wouldn't stop, and Joel had the satisfaction of seeing the whole table, with the under-teacher, Mr. Harrow, at the head, making him, between their mouthfuls, the centre of observation. The only alleviation of this misery was that Percy was at another table, and with his back to him.
David looked across in a worried way. “Are you sick, Joe?” he asked.
“No.” Joel laughed, and began to eat busily. When he saw that, David gave a sigh of relief.
Mr. Harrow was telling something just then that seemed of more than common interest, and the boys, hearing Joel laugh once more, turned off to listen. “Yes,” said the under-teacher, “it was a dog that was—”
“Ugh!” cried Joel. “Oh, beg pardon,” and his face grew dreadfully red, as he tried to get as small as possible on his chair.
“It's a dog I used to own, Joel,” said Mr. Harrow, smiling at him. “And I taught him tricks, several quite remarkable ones.”