Page:The fighting scrub, (IA fightingscrub00barb).pdf/17

 sticking your nose into other folks' business, I should think!"

The other boy's grin faded perceptibly, but his look, if it held less of amusement, was still dark with malice. "Oh, shut up!" he answered listlessly. "Go on in and have a good cry. You'll feel better."

"You get up from there and I'll teach you a lesson in manners," cried Clif. He plunged up the intervening steps and stood threateningly above his enemy. The latter looked up almost eagerly.

"Mean it?" he asked.

"Get up!" thundered Clif.

But the momentary gleam of animation faded in the face below and the boy shook his head. "Can't be done," he said regretfully. "I've got a date with one of the instructors at two-thirty, and it's twenty-eight after. How about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow!" jeered Clif. "You're scared!"

"You bet I am, but not of you," answered the other dispiritedly. "I'm scared of Mr. Wyatt. Met him yet?"

Clif shook his head, suspiciously. "No, but what's he got to do with—with you getting your nose punched?"

"Plenty," was the gloomy reply. "He's the English shark here, and he's going to give me the third degree and tell me whether I stick around or beat it home again. I'm a total loss at English. This Wyatt guy's the old man's nephew or something and he's a tartar, they say. Well, figure it out for yourself.