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CHAPTER II

A BRUSH ON THE STREET

By the time that the noon dismissal bell rang the rain had ceased, and the sun was struggling out.

Out in the coatroom Dick snatched his hat from the nail as though he were in haste to get away.

"I'll race you home, as far as we go together," proposed Dave Darrin.

"Go you!" hovered on the tip of Prescott's tongue, but just then another thought popped into Dick's mind. It was a manly idea, and he had learned to act promptly on such impulses.

"Wait a moment," he answered Darrin. "I've got something to do."

With that Dick marched back into the schoolroom. Old Dut, looking up from the books that he was placing in a tidy pile on the platform desk, smiled.

"I came back to ask, sir, if your nose pains?"

Old Dut shot a keen glance at young Prescott, for long experience had taught the school-teacher that malice sometimes lurks behind the most innocent question from a boy. Then he answered:

"I'm glad to be able to report, Master Prescott, that my nose is causing me no trouble whatever."

"I'm very glad of that, sir. I've been a bit uncomfortable, since recess, thinking that perhaps my—that my act had broken your nose, and that you were just too game to let any one know. I'm glad no real harm was done, sir."

Then Dick turned, anxious to get out into the open as quickly as possible.

"One moment, Master Prescott!"

Dick wheeled about again.

"Are you sure that the book-throwing was an accident?"

"I—I am afraid it wasn't, sir," Dick confessed, reddening.

"Then, if you threw the book into my face on purpose, why did you do it!"

"I was a good deal provoked, Mr. Jones."

"Oh! Provoked over the funny story that I told you this forenoon?"

"Not over the story, sir; but your manner of telling it."

Old Dut had hard work to keep back the smile that struggled for an appearance on his face.

"Revenge, was it, Master Prescott?"

"Well, I felt that it was due me, Mr. Jones, to get even for the show that you made of me before the class."

"Master Prescott, we won't go into the details of whether I was justified in illustrating my story this morning in the manner that I did, or whether you were right in coming back at me after the fashion that you did. But I am going to offer one thought for your consideration. It is this—that the man who devotes too much thought to 'getting even' with other folks is likely to let slip a lot of good, solid chances for getting ahead in the world. I don't blame any fellow for protecting his own rights and dignity, but just think over what I said, won't you, about the chap who spends too much of his time thinking up ways to get even with others?"

"There's a good idea in that, sir," Dick assented.

"Of course you've heard, Master Prescott, that 'revenge is sweet?'"

"Yes; I have."

"And I believe, Master Prescott, that the saying is often true. But did it ever strike you, in this connection, that sweet things often make one sick at his stomach? I believe this is just as true of revenge as it is of other sweets. And now run along, or you won't have time to do justice to the pudding that your mother has undoubtedly been baking for you this morning."

As Dick hastened from the room he found Dave Darrin waiting for him. Out in the corridor beyond these two encountered Holmes, Dalzell, Hazelton and Reade, for these six boys of the "top grade" generally stuck together in all things concerning school life.

"Was Old Dut blowing you up for showing him how to pitch a book?" inquired Greg.

"No; Old Dut doesn't seem to hold that in for me very hard," smiled Prescott. "But he was giving me something to think over."

"Huh!" muttered Greg, as the boys walked down the outer steps. "I'd like to give him something to think about. Why did you get so crusty when I sprang the idea of doing the wreck scene in his flower beds to-night?"

"Because the idea was too kiddish," returned Dick. "Besides, Old Dut was talking to me a good deal along such lines."

"Did you go and tell him what I wanted to do?" flared Greg.

"I didn't. But Old Dut pinned me down and asked me whether that book throwing were really an accident, and I had to admit that it wasn't. Now, listen!"

Dick thereupon repeated his conversation with Principal Jones.

"He's a wise man, all right," nodded Harry Hazelton.

"I guess so," nodded Dave Darrin. "After all, it would look rather kiddish in us to go slipping up to his front yard in the dark night, lifting off his front gate and carrying it down to the river."

"It would be stealing, or wasting, property, also," agreed Tom Reade.

"So, fellows," resumed Dick, "I guess——"

"Hullo! What's going on down there?" broke in Darrin hastily, as all six of the Grammar School boys looked ahead.

A woman's scream had caught their ear.

"It's Mrs. Dexter," muttered Hazelton.

"And that rascally husband of hers," added Greg Holmes.

"Some new row, of course," broke in Dan Dalzell.

"It's a shame!" burst from Dick.

"That Dexter fellow ought to be hung," growled Tom Reade. "He's always bothering that woman, and she's one of the nicest ever. But now he won't let her alone, just because her grandfather had to die and leave Mrs. Dexter a lot of money."

The little city of Gridley was quite familiar with the domestic troubles of the Dexters. The woman was young and pretty, and good-hearted. Abner Dexter, on the other hand, was good-looking and shiftless. He had married Jennie Bolton because he believed her family to be wealthy, and Dexter considered himself too choice for work. But the Bolton money had all belonged to the grandfather, who, a keen judge of human nature, had guessed rightly the nature of Abner Dexter and had refused to let him have any money.

Dexter had left his wife and little daughter some two years before the opening of this story. Three months before old man Bolton had died, leaving several hundred thousand dollars to Mrs. Dexter. Then Dexter had promptly reappeared. But Mrs. Dexter no longer wanted this shiftless, extravagant man about, and had told him so plainly. Dexter had threatened to make trouble, and the wife had thereupon gone to court and had herself appointed sole guardian of her little daughter. At the same time she had turned some money over to her husband—common report said ten thousand dollars—on his promise to go away and not bother her again.

Plainly he had not kept his word. As Dick and his chums glanced down the quiet side street they saw husband and wife standing facing each other. The man was scowling, the woman half-tearful, half-defiant. Behind her, in her left hand, Mrs. Dexter held a small handbag.

"I'd like to be big enough to be able to enjoy the pleasure of thrashing a fellow like that Dexter!" growled Dave Darrin, his eyes flashing.

"There's a man standing a little way below the pair," announced Dick. "I wonder what he's doing, for he seems to be watching the couple intently. I hope he's on Mrs. Dexter's side."

Unconsciously Dick and his friends had halted to watch the proceedings ahead of them.

"No, I won't," replied Mrs. Dexter sharply, to something that her husband had said.

Abner Dexter talked rapidly, a black scowl on his face meanwhile.

"No, you won't! You don't dare!" replied the woman, her voice sounding as though she had summoned all her courage by an effort.

Dexter suddenly sprang closer to the woman. The next instant both were struggling for possession of the little black bag that she