With a furious oath, Morrison lunged forward and attempted to hit Merriwell; but his blow was parried, and he received a return punch that sent him reeling.
Uttering a frightened cry, the girl turned and fled down the street.
Morrison was back at Dick in an instant, fairly foaming with rage. He had quite a reputation in Forest Hills as a fist-fighter, and when he kept his head he could put up a good, scientific scrap. The Yale man found no difficulty, however, in parrying his furious, savage lunges, and presently he got in a straight uppercut on the fellow’s chin which sent him to the ground with a crash.
Dick stood over the man, waiting for him to rise.
“Anything more you’d like to teach me?” he asked quietly, as Morrison staggered to his feet and stood swaying, one hand lifted to his chin.
For a moment the other did not speak. Though his ardor for fighting seemed to have cooled considerably, his rage was apparently unabated, and mingled with it there was a look of unutterable hate in the fierce dark eyes, which were fixed on the contemptuous face of the Yale man.
“Not here—not now,” he muttered. “But I’ll teach you a lesson some day that you won’t forget in a hurry, curse you! I’ll get even with you yet.”
With a shrug of his shoulder, Dick walked over to the car.
“You’ll have to be quick about it,” he said, as he took his seat at the wheel. “I don’t propose spending much more time in this town of yours.”
He started to let in the clutch, and then suddenly half turned in his seat, looking Morrison straight in the eyes.