"Humph! You're nothing but a poorhouse boy."
At these words Dave's face reddened. Only once, years before, had he been insulted like this, but he had never forgotten it. It had made him run away, wild with a grief and a rage that he could not master.
"You—you——" he began, but did not finish. He might have hit the rich boy, but Nat Poole retreated quickly.
"Don't you dare to talk to me like that again!" Dave went on, hotly. "Don't you dare! If you do, you'll be sorry as long as you live!" He came after Nat again, but the other youth retreated still further.
"Guess you don't like the truth," muttered the rich boy, and then left the post office and disappeared.
One man had heard the quarrel, the postmaster's assistant. He gazed at Dave admiringly.
"You served him properly," said he. "He ought to have been knocked down."
"I suppose because he is rich he thinks he can say anything," returned Dave, rather bitterly.
"Oh, you mustn't mind such cads, Dave. I understand Nat is worrying his old man a good deal. He's wanting spending money all the time, and he blows it in on cigarettes, pool playing, and theaters."
