“Oh, bosh!”
Victor brought out the words with angry emphasis. There was nothing in Dave’s expression to give him encouragement, and his eye caught a twitch of amusement on Tom Clifton’s lips.
It acted upon his impetuous nature somewhat after the fashion of the spark that explodes the gasoline vapor.
On the impulse of the moment, he seized Dave Brandon’s cap and hurled it spitefully upon the road.
“That’s what you get for sassing me, you big, fat Indian,” he howled. “Go and pick it up.”
The stout lad stilled a roar of protest which began to pour from Tom’s lips.
“Never mind, fellows.” His smiling face showed no sign of ruffled feelings. “I wanted a chance to stretch my legs. Thanks, Vic.”
As the motor car came to a halt, he laid his hand on the door.
Victor Collins looked at him curiously. Almost on the instant he felt a twinge of regret at his childish action. He heartily wished that Dave had flown into a rage. Then, after a snappy exchange of compliments—at which pastime he considered himself well able to hold his own—things might have quieted down without so much loss to his dignity.
Dave’s unexpected calmness, however, made him feel uncomfortably small, so he did what he usually did when things failed to go in a way that suited him—began to sulk.