“Here we go,” answered Merriwell.
With a rush the two boys got out from behind the ridge. They were nearer the cowering dog than they were to Lenning, and, the first thing Lamson knew, Merriwell had tipped him over and knocked the blazing match from his fingers. Clancy, at the same time, had grabbed Parkman by the collar and pulled him back so quickly that the open jackknife fell out of his nerveless hand.
Jode Lenning, stunned into momentary inaction by the unexpected appearance of Merriwell and Clancy, suddenly recovered himself, gave an angry yell, and started toward the newcomers at a run.
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
BAD BLOOD.
As the only heir of a very rich and influential man, Jode Lenning had a number of followers of a certain sort. Parkham, Lamson, and “Klink” Hummer, who were bearing a part with Jode in his doubtful “sport” with the tramp dog, were three of these satellites; and they revolved around Jode and made his will their law, just for the favors which he could dole out to them. There was a community of interest among the four lads, but no real friendship.
As Lenning rushed toward Merriwell and Clancy, Hummer raced along at his heels. Finally the two halted close to the pair from the other camp. Lamson and Parkman, scowling over the rough treatment they had received, had regained their feet and stepped shoulder to shoulder with Lenning.
“What are you two butting in here for?” shouted Lenning, his shifty eyes a-gleam with anger.
“We think you’ve tortured that dog enough, Lenning,” replied Merriwell, smothering his own wrath and trying to use a persuasive tone. “You’d better cut away that dynamite cartridge and let the brute go.”
Here was a suggestion that thinly veiled a command. Although Merriwell’s voice was like velvet, yet it cut like steel, and Lenning’s temper boiled more briskly than ever.