“Who’s your tramp friend, Tom?” asked Alf. “Isn’t he a sight? Where’s the dog? Why, if it isn’t our old friend, Mr. Vinton! Ouch!”
The final remark was emphatic and spontaneous, for Dan’s wet hat sailed across the room with beautiful precision, and landed fairly against Alf’s face with a damp and dismal splash.
The others grinned enjoyably as Alf wiped the rain from his eyes and looked about for a weapon. Finding nothing save the hat, and doubting his ability to use that effectually, he had recourse to verbal weapons.
“Canaille!” he hissed. “Dog of a Christian! Varlet!”
“Go it!” laughed Dan, shedding his raincoat. “It was a bully shot, though, wasn’t it? What have you fellows been doing?”
“Leading a quiet, studious, respectable existence until you broke in with your low, rough-house manners,” responded Alf, severely. “Dan, you’re a mucker.”
“Alf, you’re a gentleman.”
“That’s a lie,” answered Alf, with dignity, subsiding on the window-seat again and hugging his knees. “Where have you been, you old brute?”
“You’d never guess,” replied Dan, with a laugh, as he backed to the fireplace and held his hands to the warmth.
“Taking tea with Old Toby,” hazarded Alf. (Old Toby was school vernacular for Dr. Tobias Hewitt, Principal.)