The men in the office laughed outright. Some of them started to follow the angry dude, but they met him at the door, returning with great haste.
“I did it!” he cried, but his voice trembled and he seemed to be shaking all over.
“Did you weally?” gasped Cholly. “And what did he do?”
“He spit on my other boot, by Jawve!” exploded Archie; and, sure enough, both boots were now well bespattered with tobacco juice.
The crowd roared with laughter, for this was the kind of humor that struck them as being very funny. Archie took out a delicate handkerchief and gently dried off the drops of cold perspiration that were standing on his brow.
“What dweadful cwechers these men are!” gurgled Cholly, gazing haughtily at the laughing crowd.
“They are, indeed,” agreed Merriwell, repressing his amusement with great difficulty; “and I fear you will find them even worse when you get into the woods.”
“Is it possible? Weally, Awchie, I don’t believe we had better go any further, don’t yer ’now. These cwechers awe too much faw a sensitive man to endooah.”
“I’m afwaid you awe wight,” agreed Archie, sitting down weakly. “I weally wish I were at home now, deah boy.”
“If you do not go into the woods, you will not need that rifle,” said Frank. “I will buy it of you.”