“Yes. Only with a fellow from out of town, a stranger——”
The Shark interrupted Sam. “Look here! I don’t pretend to fancy Varley overmuch, but there I was treating him just as I’d treat the best friend I have. I let him have the truth. It’ll save him a lot of embarrassment. Besides, he isn’t what you’d call a stranger any more. He’s staying in town right along, and he’s going to school—no use trying to put him off in a class by himself.”
Sam frowned, but Poke spoke sharply.
“Hang it, Shark, but you have messed things! And after that cracking good dinner he treated us to—geeminy, but I wish I knew how we could even up things for that!”
“All right—go ahead and even them all you please,” growled the Shark; then his tone changed. “See here, you fellows! You’ve got me started, and I’m going to free my mind. I don’t like the way you’re behaving. You’re quitting on the job, the bunch of you!”
“Bully boy, Shark! Go it!” jeered the Trojan.
“I will! Listen! There isn’t one of you that’s stirred a finger to win that history essay prize. You mope around, and wail about the weather and the snow and nothing to do, and don’t even dream of trying to land that hundred dollars. Can you deny that, Trojan? Or you, Sam? Or you, Poke? Or Herman, or Step or Tom Orkney?” He was shaking an accusing hand at each of them in turn. “All of you heard what the principal said. Now hear what I say: It’s a shame and disgrace to the club that you’re letting this chance go by default.”
“How about yourself?” Step demanded.
“I’m out of it. My line’s different. I can do things with figures, but not with words. Two or three of you fellows write decently. Why don’t you pull together—it’s allowable, under the rules—and gather in that hundred?”
Nobody took upon himself the responsibility of making reply.