“Where is her father?” asked Dick. “Is he dead?”
“Not dead,” explained the girl quickly. “In India. He leaf me with Tyrus.”
“So the old boy’s name is Tyrus?” muttered Brad.
“Tyrus Helorus,” said the man haughtily. “If wise, you not int’fere in Greece with one who have name Helorus.”
“The Helorus you say!” grinned Brad.
“That what I say!”
“Thanks! You’re so kind! I reckon we’d better introduce ourselves. Gents, this here is Dick Merriwell, a fighter from his toes to his scalp lock. He lives on scrimmages. To him a good fight is the breath of life. If he goes a whole day without a fight he loses flesh and becomes a whole lot downcast. I’ve seen him whip seven men in concussion. He looks young, but he’s fought enough to be older than these ruins. I’ll wager the contents of my warbags that the professor and I can sit down and look on comfortable while he wallops the both of you in one round.”
“That will about do,” muttered Dick.
“Wait,” urged Brad. “Don’t cut me out of presenting myself. I, gents, am Bradley Buckhart, from the Rio Pecos country, Texas, U. S. I’ve been brought up where they have man for breakfast every morning. It gets to be a regular morning treat for us in Texas. I am some off my feed just at present, not having had any man this morning. You’ve happened along just in time to relieve my famished condition. So sail in, both of you, and we’ll proceed to chaw you up. You hear me sweetly carol!”
The Greeks looked at him in bewilderment, and well they might. It is likely that they took this talk for a bluff; but, if so, they were soon to learn that Brad Buckhart was one of those rare bluffers who invariably “made good.”