"You did that on purpose, Tom Swift!" shouted Andy, wiping some of the blacking from his left eye. "I'll have you arrested for that! You've ruined my car, and look at my suit!" "Mine's worse!" murmured Sam, glancing down at his light trousers, which were of the polka-dot pattern now. "No, mine is," insisted Pete, whose white shirt was of the hue of a stove pipe. Andy wiped some of the black stuff from his nose, whence it was dropping on the steering wheel. "You just wait!" the bully called to Tom. "I'll get even with you for this!" "It was an accident! I didn't mean to do that," explained Tom, trying not to laugh, as he dismounted from his motor-cycle, ready to render what assistance he could. CHAPTER IV TALK OF A NEW BANK The three cronies were in a sorrowful plight. The black fluid dripped from them, and formed little puddles in the car. Andy had used his handkerchief to wipe some of the stuff from his face, but the linen was soon useless, for it quickly absorbed the blacking. "There's a little brook over here," volunteered Tom. "You might wash in that. The stuff comes off easily. It isn't like ink," and he had to laugh, as he thought of the happening. "Here! You quit that!" ordered Andy. "You've gone too far, Tom Swift!" "Didn't I tell you it was an accident?" inquired the young inventor. "It wasn't!" cried Sam. "You threw the bottle at us! I saw you!" "It slipped from my pocket," declared the youth, and he described how the accident occurred. "I'll help you clean your car, Andy," he added. "I don't want your help! If you come near me I'll--I'll punch your nose!" cried Andy, now almost beside himself with rage. "All right, if you don't want my help I don't care," answered Tom, glad enough not to have to soil his hands and clothes. He felt that it was partly his fault, and he would have done all he could to remedy matters, but his good offers being declined, he felt that it was useless to insist further. He remounted his motor-cycle, and rode off, the last view he had of the trio being one where they were at the edge of the brook, trying to remove the worst traces of the black fluid. As Tom turned around for a final glimpse, Andy shook his fist at him, and called out something. "I guess Andy'll have it in for me," mused Tom. "Well, I can't help it. I owed him something on account, but I didn't figure on paying it in just this way," and he thought of the time the bully had locked him in the ballast tanks of the submarine, thereby nearly smothering him to death. That night Andy Foger told his father what had happened, for Mr. Foger inquired the reason for the black stains on his son's face and hands. But Andy did not give the true version. He said Tom had purposely thrown the bottle of blacking at him. "So that's the kind of a lad Tom Swift is, eh?" remarked Andy's father. "Well, Andy, I think you will soon have a chance to get even with him." "How, pop?"