“I didn’t do anything. Davy butted in. I’m going to fight him, though.”
“Of course! Slapped your face, eh, the big bully? That—that’s a fighting matter, Dud. When are you going to do it?”
“He refused; said he wouldn’t bother with me; said he might break me in two! But he’s got to fight, Jimmy!”
“You bet he has!” agreed Jimmy enthusiastically. “But listen: let me get my shower. You wait for me, will you? We’ve got to talk this over, you know.”
“There isn’t anything to talk over,” said Dud flatly. “He’s got to fight me.”
“Yes, but if he says he won’t—— You wait for me, see? I won’t be a minute.” And Jimmy, beaming broadly, dashed off.
Dud found a corner by the door and waited, listening idly to the chatter of the fellows. Nearby Foster Tray, struggling with a stubborn shirt, remarked in smothered tones:
“Did you see Baker peg Star in the arm, Mil? It was a fierce old biff!”
“Yes,” replied Oscar Milford, “and Star was hopping mad.” He chuckled. “Said Baker did it on purpose. Well, maybe he did. I don’t know. But they say Baker’s got Star scared of him, for some reason.”
“Oh, piffle! A kid like that? Not likely! But it isn’t sense getting mad about being hit with a ball. Gee, if I got peeved every time I got whacked last year——”