Tom was silent for a minute after the visitors had departed. Then, hesitatingly, "Steve," he said, "what's the good of acting like that with fellows?"
"Like what?" asked Steve.
"You know well enough. Freezing up and talking as if you had a mouthful of icicles. You might be—be decently polite when fellows come in. Freer is a dandy chap, and Saunders is all right, too. But you treated them as if they were—were a couple of cut-throats."
"I wasn't impolite," denied Steve. "As long as those fellows choose to think what they do about me, you can't expect me to slop over with them."
"You haven't any way of knowing what they think about you," said Tom vigorously. "You take it for granted that every fellow in school believes that yarn of Sawyer's. I don't suppose a dozen fellows ever gave it a second thought."
"I know better. Don't you suppose I can tell? Almost every chap I know treats me differently now. Even—even Roy—and Harry—act as if they'd rather not be seen with me!"
"Oh, piffle!" exclaimed Tom indignantly. "That's a rotten thing to say, Steve! Why, you might as well say that I believe the yarn!"
"You?" Steve laughed meaningly. "You wouldn't be likely to."
"Then neither would Roy or Harry. They haven't known you as long as I have, but they know you wouldn't do a thing like that."
"I don't see why not," replied Steve stubbornly. "The book was found on this table. And Sawyer says he saw me with it. I guess it would be natural for them to believe what Sawyer says."