“So that’s your diagram?”
“Well, as I say, that’s the way I see it.”
The Shark’s lip curled. “Huh! Easy to see what you hope’s true!”
“Well, what’s your mathematical calculation, old Dry-as-Dust?”
“Oh, go on!” snapped the Shark. “You’re the lecturer.”
Poke needed no urging. “Well, I tell you he’d made up his mind to beat it, and he did. And he got away, all right. You know his aunt telegraphed, and telephoned, and called in the police, and offered a hundred-dollar reward; but there was no clue anywhere. Hard luck for her that Tom’s father is out West! They say she’s almost crazy.”
“And Tom’s mother is away, too,” said the Trojan.
“Yes; she’s visiting down South. Those are things, though, we’ve nothing to do with.”
“That’s a queer way to put it,” grumbled the Shark.
“Not at all,” Poke insisted. “You don’t get my point, which is that we may not be responsible for those things, but we are responsible for others. One of them is that we’re the fellows who got on to Orkney’s meannesses, and that Sam here promised him a thrashing and a showing-up. Then, somehow, I can’t help feeling that Sam, in fishing Orkney and Little Perrine out of the pond, helped to bring things to a head. But from the very first—from the time Orkney came to Plainville—it has been our crowd that blocked him, that took the shine off him. The Shark downed him in ‘math,’ and Step made a monkey of him in Greek; but, most of all, we—this club—kept him from bossing the class. And for that, I believe, we ought to be proud to be responsible.”