“What are you trying to compute?”
The Shark juggled the stone, which he still held. “Humph! This weighs more than twelve pounds, I’ll bet—may run up to fifteen,” said he. “But what am I figuring on? Why, the amount of force required to send it through the arc this stone described.”
“Twelve to fifteen pounds!” jeered Step. “Seems to me you’re furnishing some of the unknown quantities yourself.”
“I am,” said the Shark. “I admit it. I also admit that I can’t reach satisfactory results from such data. But the results I do get—subject to revision, of course—make me doubt that Tom Orkney could have done the job. When I have the stone weighed, and when I measure the distance across the room, and add a good estimate of the distance the thrower stood from the window, I believe I can plot a curve——”
A chorus of shouts interrupted him. The non-mathematical members of the club would have none of such follies. Evidence? Wasn’t the cap evidence enough to convict Orkney?
Stoutly the Shark maintained that one should not put too great faith in circumstantial evidence.
“What! You’d put more in your old curves and calculations?” cried Step.
“Every time!” vowed the Shark.
Sam cut short the discussion. “Look here, fellows!” he said sharply. “I’m going to thrash Orkney, and there’s no more to be said about it.”
“Well, thrash ahead!” growled the Shark. “I don’t object to the general proposition; but I am pointing out that you may be wrong as to your reason for thrashing him.”