“Why—why——” Sam began; but he was to be spared the need of making his argument.
Around the corner, from the direction of the school, came Poke, walking fast and dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. At sight of the others he pulled up; gave a gasp; betrayed symptoms of a desire to turn and retreat; hesitated; reached decision; strode forward, grinning most unconvincingly. Beneath one of his eyes the flesh was bruised and reddened.
“What’s the matter?” Sam demanded sharply.
The grin on Poke’s usually placid countenance was maintained by patent effort.
“Oh, nothing! Just a—no; nothing’s the matter.”
“Who blacked your eye?”
“’Tisn’t blacked.”
“It’ll be black enough in an hour or two. Who smashed you?”
Poke’s glance went from Sam to the Trojan, but returned swiftly, and a bit appealingly, to the chief of the Safety First Club.
“It’s nothing, I tell you. Can’t a fellow do anything without your holding him up?”