Sandy was trying to slip into a room the door of which stood ajar. But Garry was too quick for him and caught him by the shoulder. As Sandy wriggled out of the clutch a look of feigned innocence came into his face. "Oh, hello!" he remarked, with an air of specious friendliness. "When did you get here?" "You know as well as I do," replied Garry angrily. "What did you mean by trying to throw that cup of dirty water over me?" "I?" replied Sandy, while in his furtive eyes lurked a grin of enjoyment. "You must be crazy. I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, don't you?" With a swift motion Garry bent forward, seized Podder's wrist and gave it a sharp twist. With a cry of surprise and pain Sandy's fingers unclosed and something tinkled on the floor of the corridor. Garry pounced upon it and picked it up. The object was a collapsible tin cup that can be folded in a small compass and put in the pocket for convenience' sake. Garry held out the cup, contempt on his face. "Didn't know anything about it?" he said. "With this cup hidden in your hand and still wet from the water you tried to throw on me!" "I tell you I didn't try to throw water on you," reiterated Sandy, a little of his assurance gone. A crowd of boys had gathered, sensing a quarrel, hoping probably, boylike, for a real fight. Nick Danter nudged Garry's arm. "Don't start anything, Garry," he urged in an undertone. "This isn't the place or time." Garry appeared not to have heard him. He unfolded the collapsible cup until it had assumed its full shape and size. There were a few drops of water still clinging to it. "Give me that cup," demanded Sandy, beginning to bluster. "You're altogether too fresh. Give me back my property." Garry looked at the few drops of water in the bottom of the cup. These he tossed coolly into the flaming face of Sandy Podder, while some of the boys in the fast-increasing throng laughed gleefully. "Say you--you four-flusher," cried Sandy, fairly stuttering with wrath. "You give me back my cup or I'll--I'll--" "Yes," replied Garry, stepping forward to meet him, hands clenched. "Just what will you do?" Bill Sherwood came up to Garry and whispered in his ear: "Don't spoil your entrance, Garry. There's nothing Sandy Podder would like better than to see you get in Dutch with the faculty." Garry nodded. Crushing the cup in his hand he flung it at the feet of its owner. "There's your cup," he said curtly. Leaving the red-faced Podder to pick up the cup sheepishly, to the amusement of the spectators, Garry and his friends hurried down the corridor toward what they had been told would be their classroom. Luckily, the numbers were clearly marked on the doors. They found their number, seventeen, without difficulty and slipped inside. They were none too soon, for as Garry cast a glance behind he saw one of the teachers approach the group around Sandy Podder, inquiry in his eye.