Just as Perry had imagined would be the case when he brought about this peculiar understanding concerning the one who threw the stone, Tom Clipperton was on the other side of the canal, waiting for his team-mates to come up with him. Clipperton's scanty running-garb was wet through, but that was a mere trifle and didn't bother him. He had bound a handkerchief about his injured forehead, and was thinking moodily of the easy way in which he had been handled by Matt. Perry went up to him and dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"How're you coming, Clip?" he asked.
Clipperton grunted petulantly, shook off the hand and started along the road. Perry, used to his moods, fell in at his side and caught step with him.
"It was a low-down trick, Clip," said Perry, with feigned sympathy, "but just about what any one could expect from a fellow like King."
"He threw the rock," snarled Clipperton, hate throbbing in his voice. "I didn't see the rock in his hand. When it hit me his hand was in the air. Did any of the rest of you see him?"
"We all saw him make that pass at you!" averred Ratty Spangler. "Didn't we, fellers?"
"We did!" all the rest answered as one.
The breath came sharp through Clipperton's lips. "He'll pay for it," he hissed. "You watch my smoke and see."
"That's the talk!" encouraged Perry craftily. "That tenderfoot ought to be kicked out of the school—he ain't fit for decent fellows to associate with. If that old one-legged freak hadn't pulled a gun on us, Clip, we'd have settled with King for what he did to you right there. How are you going to get even with him?"
"I know how," growled Clipperton. "I'll meet him again. I'll meet him as many times as I have to until I do him up."