"And he lies when he says he didn't do this."
Ripley swung, so as to display the tail of a short topcoat that
was one of his treasures. The garment was fashionably made and
of the best material, for Ripley's father was a wealthy lawyer
in Gridley, and the young Ripley hopeful had all the most costly
things a boy can prize.
Along the tail of the coat some miscreant had daubed a streak
of fresh white paint. Ripley had found it there when donning
the coat to leave school at one o'clock that day. Fred knew that
Dick had been in the coat room after recess, and, as he disliked
the freshman, Ripley had accused Dick of the deed.
Having fired his parting shot, Fred turned on his heel, sauntering
over to where the fluttering group of girls waited. One of them,
Clara Deane, stepped forward to meet him.
"Fred, why do you have anything to do with such a low-down fellow
as Prescott?" asked Clara, contemptuously.
"He's the sneak of the school," uttered Fred, harshly; "but I
can't let even a sneak streak my coat with paint."
"And he never did such a thing, either!" broke in Laura Bentley,
disdainfully. "Fred Ripley, you accused Dick Prescott of playing
off a lame hand. I know how his hand became crippled. Dick wanted
me to promise not to tell how it happened, but now I'm going to.
Wait and you can hear, both of you."
"I don't want to, I'm sure," rejoined Clara, with a toss of her
head. "Come along, Fred."
This pair of students walked away together.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25