"I don't care if you do," he roared. "And I know something about you, too, that ought to make you chuck off that uniform and beat it back to Kingswood."
"Get out!" snapped Tom. "You don't know anything, and never could know anything. That wooden head-piece of yours wouldn't hold it."
"You haven't got anything on me, 'Vanitas!'" Benny Wilkins stalked forward, planting himself directly before the tall first baseman. "I don't, eh?" he cried. "Just listen to this: one day in the gym you called Mr. Barry an eccentric old creature—you know you did."
Tom's face flushed a deeper crimson.
"Well—well?" he demanded.
"And Mr. Barry heard about that, too! I got it from a fellow who knows. And maybe he wasn't riled!—said he wished he'd never made the confounded offer."
"I—I don't believe it," gasped Tom.
"Ask Victor Collins, then. You will try to sit on me, 'Vanitas'—you will, eh?"
"If Mr. Barry heard about it, I'll bet you told him yourself!" howled Tom, thoroughly angry. "You're small in every way, Benny Wilkins. Bob Somers and Steele caught you spying."
"You mean that I caught 'em trying to sneak into Mr. Barry's without being seen," retorted Benny. "I never said a word to Mr. Barry. But if you get too fresh with me, 'Vanitas,' he's going to learn the name of the particular chap who made such an interesting remark; that's the only thing he doesn't know. Now—will that hold you for a minute?"