“Hello!” cried the other. “If it isn’t Pennimore! What do you think of that? Why, you and I started this scrap!”
It was Thompson. Gerald viewed him doubtfully.
“You mean you did,” he answered rather stiffly. Thompson laughed and clapped him on the back.
“That’s so, I guess I did. Well, say, Pennimore, I’m sorry I snowballed you. But we’re quits now, aren’t we?”
And with another laugh and a nod Thompson turned away, leaving Gerald at a loss and a little indignant. What’s the good, he asked himself, of having a grudge against a fellow who makes apologies to you and claps you on the back? It was perfectly absurd! He looked aggrievedly in the direction taken by Thompson, and frowned. Then, thrusting his wet, aching hands into his trousers pockets, he turned and walked moodily toward Clarke. At the corner of the dormitory he looked back. Plainly, the combat was over. A few desultory snowballs arched across the Yard, and an occasional taunting cry or shout of defiance followed. But the two armies were dwindling away fast. It was quite dark now, and the battleground was illumined only by the streams of warm, yellow light which came from the dormitory windows. Gerald climbed to his room, feeling as though the zest had been suddenly taken out of life. Dan found him there a few minutes later, when, wet and glowing, he threw open the door.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Gerald?” he asked in surprise. “You look as though you were waiting to watch your funeral go by!” He walked over and laid his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “Look here,” he said anxiously, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No,” answered Gerald dully.
“Then what’s—”
“It’s Thompson,” burst out Gerald.