"Might be better to change the subject now," said Fulmer Robson, with a forced laugh, "and begin—"
"I'll say good-night, fellows," continued Nat, as he took a step toward the door. "Coming along, Hackett?"
"Well, if you are in such a humor as that," snapped Piper, "I've nothing further to say. No doubt that fellow Yardsley thinks we stole his furs—I could read it in your face."
"We're not responsible for another person's opinion," observed Hackett, a little disappointed that the row had not assumed larger proportions.
"Still I notice that no one has the sand to let me know what he said." Piper spoke in a most sarcastic tone, and glanced from Hackett to Wingate.
Nat's brown eyes flashed. "You'll admit yourself, Piper," he blurted out, "that it looks mighty singular. Just at the time we are sent for, the furs happen to disappear. Anybody would be a fool not to—"
"That will do," interrupted Piper, harshly. "The whole crowd of you might as well get out. This isn't the end of the affair by a long shot!"
Hackett opened the door. "And you'll find out that we have as much sand as anybody," he growled. "Don't you forget it."
"It needs to be proven," retorted Piper, angrily. "If you are going, kindly shut the door. We don't care to be frozen out."
"If you want proofs," snapped Hackett, "you'll get them fast enough. This crowd doesn't take a back seat for anybody."