His belligerent attitude and the look which came into his mild blue eyes quite astounded Tom Clifton. Here was a chap whom he sometimes thought belonged in the overgrown baby class actually threatening a member of the Rambler Club. To retreat would never do.
“Are you going to start a scrap?”
For a few seconds the two tall boys, but a few paces apart, eyed each other so angrily that the “historian” felt compelled to literally step into the breach.
“That will do, fellows,” he said, quietly.
“He needn’t think I’m afraid of him!” cried Tom.
Dave gently urged him away.
Thereupon Clifton, with a snort of disgust, seized a water pail and went off toward the creek. Larry then resumed his former position.
“A conceited dub!” he remarked, kicking lazily at the turf.
“No,” answered Dave; “Tom really isn’t conceited. He’s simply terribly in earnest.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” growled Larry.