There was no answer, nor did Jack turn his head. The professor frowned and stopped.
“Weatherby!” he called sharply. Jack paused and faced him.
“Well, sir?” he asked, quietly.
“What does this mean? Are you trying to add boorishness to—to your other failings?”
“No, sir, I was only trying to spare you the unpleasantness of speaking to a coward.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said the other, sarcastically. “But allow me to tell you, sir, that if you want to remove the—ah—the sorry impression you have made you will have to adopt a less high-and-mighty manner.”
“It’s a matter of indifference to me what impression you hold, sir,” replied Jack simply. “Good night.”
The professor stood motionless and looked after the boy until he had crossed the street, the anger in his face slowly fading before a grudging admiration of the other’s clever, if extremely impolite, retort. Presently he swung his green bag of books under his arm again and trudged on.
“I wonder if I wasn’t too hasty the other day,” he muttered. “For a coward he’s got a surprising amount of grit, apparently. He’ll bear watching.”
Jack sped homeward, feeling rather pleased with himself. His score with the professor wasn’t by any means even, but the encounter had put something to his credit, and as he remembered the professor’s look of amazement and anger he chuckled.