"It's all your imagination, Forge."
So meek and mild was the tone of this reply that the prefect of Holbeck's House might merely have been denying that he had been guilty of making a pun. Already he was edging furtively away, wishing, no doubt, that there were acres of green fields between him and this hard-eyed Captain of Foxenby.
"In other words," said Dick, "you call me a liar!"
"No, no, Forge!"
"Yes, yes, Harwood! Betting on a school match is bad enough—wagering against your own side is infinitely worse."
"You seem very certain of your facts!"
"I could prove them up to the hilt if necessary. But your shifty eyes are sufficient testimony for me. You can't look me straight in the face! You played your low-down game of bluff cunningly, Harwood, hunting magazine subscriptions for me, 'soft-soaping' my Rag, fooling me with your tongue in your cheek! And all the time (how clearly I see it now) you were scheming in secret to pull me down—to jockey me out of the Captaincy and set yourself up in my place."
"You're a liar!" cried Harwood, stung at last into open defiance by this keen home-thrust.
"Thanks," said Dick. "That's more sporting of you. Look out for your eye now!"
Out shot the Captain's fist, and down to the grass went Harwood, with the marks of Dick's knuckles on his cheek.