Harry scoffed openly. “Oh, no, you didn’t mind it! Your old principal didn’t write over and demand an apology, did he? And he didn’t send the gardener or somebody over to pick out the fellows who knocked him into the bushes, did he? A sneaky thing to do, I call it!”
“The gardener gave your fellows a good scare, though,” chuckled Cotton. “He says they ran like rabbits when he pounced out on them.”
“Did, eh? Then how does it happen he got flat on his back, I wonder. Looks more as though our fellows ran into him instead of away from him! Thompson says—” There Harry pulled up.
“Who’s Thompson?” asked Cotton.
“My roommate, Arthur Thompson.”
“Oh, was he one of them?”
“Of course he wasn’t,” answered Harry, with a fine show of indignation. “But,” he added, prompted by vanity, “I know every one of them.”
“Yes, you do!” replied Cotton, skeptically.
“I do! I could give you the name of every fellow who went to Broadwood that night.”
“Go ahead and I’ll believe you,” laughed Cotton.