“Perhaps if she were to swear to marry me——”
“Which she’ll never do, you dog!” panted Buckhart.
“Oh, is it you who think you will secure her, you uncouth creature from a land of savages!” cried Bunol. “Bah! It’s a pity you cannot see yourself as you are, hulking, awkward, dull-faced, slow-witted, unpolished, swaggering, conceited—a worthy product of that raw portion of your miserable country called the West. You Americans of the East are more than enough bad; but those who come from the West are sickening to one of culture and refinement.”
Buckhart took a step toward the insulting speaker, but Bunol whipped out a pistol.
“Stay!” he hissed. “One more step will be the last you will ever make!”
At Dick’s elbow was a writing desk, on which lay a heavy metal paper weight.
While Bunol’s attention was given almost wholly to Brad, Merriwell’s fingers closed quickly on the paper weight. Suddenly, with a motion that was amazingly rapid, he lifted his hand and launched the paper weight at the Spaniard.
Bunol attempted to dodge, having seen the sudden jerking movement of Merriwell’s arm.
He was a second too slow.
The paper weight struck him squarely between the eyes, and he dropped unconscious to the floor.