Poke reddened. “’Twa’n’t cake—it was a piece of pie, if you’ve got to know. But I don’t see——”
The Shark gave a queer, barking laugh. “Ho, ho! Pie, eh? Mince pie, I’ll bet you!”
Poke tried to assume an air of offended dignity. “Well, it was mince, if that’s any comfort to you.”
“Ate a whole pie, didn’t you?”
“No, sir!” shouted Poke indignantly. “It had been cut.”
The Shark turned to the other boys. “Oh, come along!” said he. “Guess we’ve treed the ghost that sat on the foot-rail of Poke’s bed and made faces at him. We’ll be late at school if we don’t wake up.”
Sam and Step moved on with the Shark, Poke following dejectedly.
“All right—have it your own way!” he called after them. “You don’t have to believe anything’s going to happen, but you just wait and see! I tell you, this day is going to be a bad one for somebody!”
It cannot be said that either Sam or Step attached much more importance than did the Shark to Poke’s forebodings; and the morning’s work proceeded in a manner to remove all traces of uneasiness. Things went well for all the members of the club. None of them was tardy. Lessons appeared to be well learned, and teachers were in good humor. Even Poke himself shone in recitation, though he droned through his translations in mournful fashion, and declined to be consoled by approving words from the instructors.
At the opening of the Junior class’s English period the principal of the school entered the room, and after a whispered word or two with the teacher took the platform.