"Why didn't you bring the whole gang, Perry?" inquired Chub, with one of his most tantalizing grins. "Billy Dill seems to be missing."
Clipperton, easily swayed by any one who took the right course, hated subterfuge, and was peculiarly outspoken.
"Dill sprained his ankle," said he, in his usual short, jerky sentences. "That's why he's not here. He wanted to come, but couldn't. I reckon there are enough of us, anyway."
"I reckon there are," remarked Chub, his grin broadening dangerously. "All you fellows need is a few feathers to be a whole tribe."
A sharp breath rushed through Clipperton's lips, his muscles tightened, his fists clenched, and the war-look of his savage ancestors swept across his face. Chub's fling had caught him in the old wound.
"Cut it out, Chub," muttered Matt; "Clip's not responsible for this."
Perry also said something in a low tone to Clipperton. The latter's face was still black and relentless, but he held himself in check. Matt advanced a little toward Perry and turned slightly so as to face the boys with him.
"If it's a fight you fellows want," said he, "I guess you'll find the latch-string out. I want to give you the other side of this, though, before you proceed to mix things."
"That's right," snapped Perry, "crawfish! It's about what I'd expect of you."
There was a glint in Matt's eyes as he whirled on Perry.