“Gee! but it was a cowardly job!”
So spoke the Trojan, Step and Boyd. Poke warmed to his theme, after the manner of orators, encouraged by applause.
“We’ve got him where we want him, and we’ll put him through the works. I tell you, he’ll be mighty sorry before this thing is ended. Why, he ought to be arrested and sent to jail!”
“H-m-m-m!” It was a murmur tinged with disapproval, which Poke did not fail to perceive.
“Wait a minute, fellows!” he said hastily. “I know what you’re thinking, and I guess you’re right. We can take care of this case ourselves. We will, too! If the club can’t defend itself, it ought to go out of business.”
There was another murmur, all approval.
“It may have been Step’s scrap in the beginning, but it’s our scrap now,” Poke went on. “It’s a club affair. That stone was thrown at the bunch—at Sam, for instance, as much as at Step.”
The Shark grunted. “Huh! Be accurate, Poke, be accurate! It wasn’t thrown at Step at all. He was out of range—across the room from the rest of us. He wasn’t in sight from the window.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“It was the fact—come to think of it,” Step himself admitted. “I remember I’d left the crowd.”