“Besides,” went on Cotton aggrievedly, disdaining the hint, “they wanted to put ink in the water.”
“You should have reminded them that you were not blotting-paper; merely absorbent cotton,” replied Gerald with a smile.
There was a knock on the door and Gerald looked inquiringly at Kendall. Cotton slipped to the floor, prepared to again seek the refuge of the bed.
“Who is there?” asked Kendall.
“Wellington. May I come in a moment?”
“It’s all right, I guess,” said Gerald. “It’s The Duke.” He arose and unlocked the door and the newcomer slipped in. He had a round, merry face above which a tousled head of red-brown hair glinted in the light like copper. He was about Gerald’s age, but heavier, rounder, softer. He grinned at Gerald as he closed the door softly behind him, and then observed the other two boys.
“Trouble’s over, Cotton,” he announced. “The enemy is dispersed. Keep quiet and you can make it all right. Lock the door if you want to. Better start along, though, before they get together again.”
Cotton moved doubtfully toward the door. “They’d better not touch me,” he threatened, “or——”
“Son,” said The Duke sternly, “you take my advice and don’t make any foolish remarks. I don’t care much whether they drown you in a basin. Rather wish they would. Beat it, Cotton!”
And Cotton “beat it,” only pausing long enough to cast a scowl at The Duke.