Malatesta got out, but not in the spirit of obedience demanded of him. He tossed the bed clothes aside and, to the astonishment of all three beholders, proved to be fully dressed, excepting his coat and shoes. With his feet on the floor, he quickly reached behind him and drew forth a long-bladed clasp-knife, flinging it open with the dexterity of long practice. But Gus was quicker. In two seconds the fellow was staring into the muzzle of a revolver.
“Put it up if you don’t want to look like a sieve. Now, then, shoes. Coat. And put down that knife. That’s right. Now move!”
Malatesta was not equal to any further braggadocio. Intuition goes far at such times, and there seemed to be something about this holder of the more powerful weapon that demanded respect. The fellow hardly gave a second glance at the gun, but stepped into his shoes. Without stopping to lace them, he grabbed his coat and got into it as he headed for the door. The march to the school office, single file, Luigi, Gus and Lambert in the order named, was as silent as it was hasty, Gus thrusting the pistol, a real one this time and loaded, into his pocket as they went. Nor did he need to draw it again.
“Luigi Malatesta, I am sorry to have been compelled to bring you here at this hour,” said the president, “but you are suspected of——”
“Oh, I know! But me it was not! Yet I know who, though to tell I shall never do.”
“How do you know? Were you present, then, when the injury was done?”
“No, not present, but I know.”
“You must tell us——”
“Never!”
“Why not?”