Dave turned abruptly. Victor Collins’ dapper little figure was standing close beside him.
“Gracious; you here!” cried the writer, in astonishment.
“No; I’m back there, still kidding the by-law committee,” chuckled Victor. “Seriously, though, I finished him in about half a minute and skipped after you. What have you got there?”
“Almost a poem,” confessed Dave.
“Read it,” commanded Victor, imperiously.
“Never!” laughed Dave.
Victor argued and coaxed. He even prepared to land a “good one” in the neighborhood of the ribs; his little fists, tightly clenched, gyrated fiercely. But Dave’s clever footwork more than balanced Victor’s speed.
“All right, smarty,” grumbled the boy. “Bet it’s awful piffle, anyway.”
“Come along, Vic,” laughed Dave, as he started off.
Victor Collins’ wishes were not often so disregarded as they had been during that day. It touched his pride.