"Don't know. Raymond, I suppose. The same messenger brought them both."
Frank picked up the letter and tore it open. It proved to be from Rolf Raymond, and was worded much like the note to Professor Scotch.
The warm blood of anger mounted to the boy's cheeks.
"This settles it!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Rolf Raymond shall have all the fight he wants. I am a good pistol shot and more than a fair swordsman. At Fardale I was the champion with the foils. If he thinks I am a coward and a greenhorn because I come from the North, he may find he has made a serious mistake."
The professor literally writhed in the bed.
"But you may be killed, and I'd never forgive myself," he moaned.
"Killed or not, I can't show the white feather!" cried Frank, warmly.
"I do not believe in duelling."
"Nor do I, but I have found it necessary to do some things I do not believe in. I am not going to run, and I am not going to apologize, for I believe an apology is due me, if any one. This being the case, I'll have to fight."
"Oh, what a scrape—what a dreadful scrape!" groaned Scotch, wringing his hands. "Why did we ever come here?"