"Who struck you, sah?"
"This young coxcomb of a Northern cur!"
The man glared at Frank, who, with his hands on his hips, was quietly awaiting developments, apparently not at all alarmed. He did not quail in the least before the fierce, fire-eating look given him by the man with the bristling mustache and imperial.
"If this—ah!—young gentleman struck you, Mistah Raymon', sah, there can be but one termination of the affaiah. He will have to meet you, sah, on the field, or humbly apologize at once."
"That's right!" blustered the young man, fiercely. "I'll have his life, or an instant apology!"
Frank smiled as if he were quite amused.
"As I happen to feel that I am the one to whom an apology is due, you will have to be satisfied with taking my life," he said.
The youth with the dark face drew out a handsome card case, from which he extracted an engraved card, which he haughtily handed to Frank, who accepted it, and read aloud:
"'Mr. Rolf Raymond.' A very pretty name. Allow me; my card, Mr. Raymond. I am stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. You will be able to find me without difficulty."
"Rest assured that a friend of mine will call on you without delay, Mr. Merriwell," stiffly said Raymond, thrusting Frank's card into his pocket.