“Who are you talking to?” demanded the man, in astonishment and anger. “Who are you calling an old fool?”
“You! you! you! You ran into me—me, son of D. Roscoe Arlington! Do you hear?”
“You’re a crazy ass!” said the man, and walked on.
Somehow those words seemed to bring Chester to his senses in a measure.
“Brace up, old man!” he muttered huskily. “Why, I wouldn’t have Merriwell see you like this for a fortune!”
He passed out through the gate with others and started away. Then he bethought himself and turned back to where a carriage, containing a driver, waited. He got into the carriage.
“Go on,” he growled.
“But the young lady, sir,” said the driver; “your sister.”
“Oh, yes!” mumbled Chester. “I had forgotten her. We’ll wait for her. Darrell is a thundering fool!”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said the driver.