Perhaps Lenning would have stood his ground had not his three companions deserted him in a panic. His courage was of a sort that needed backing, and when his supporters fled, he whirled and made after them. He had not gone far, however, before Merriwell overhauled him, grabbed him by the collar, and jerked him roughly backward.
Clancy, even more furious than his chum, and Bleeker and Hotchkiss, both scowling fiercely, made haste to get to Merriwell’s side. Lenning had been thrown from his feet, and was lying on the rocks half lifted on one elbow. There was a look of ugly defiance in his face that did not match the glimmer of fear in his eyes.
“You crazy fool!” cried Frank. “Are you trying to kill somebody?”
“It’s not the first time!” panted Bleeker.
“He ought to be kicked from here plumb to the bottom of the gulch,” clamored Hotchkiss.
“Let’s pound a little sense into him!” suggested Clancy.
“I don’t care a whoop what happens to you junipers,” answered Lenning. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me! The colonel will make it hot for you if you do.”
“That’s about what I’d expect of you,” came scornfully from Clancy. “As soon as you earn a good trouncing you begin whooping it up for your Uncle Alvah. Oh, you’re the limit, all right.”
“Suppose Bleeker hadn’t seen that lighted bomb coming toward us?” went on Frank. “What would have happened, eh?”
“I don’t care a tinker’s darn,” said Lenning. “You fellows keep your hands off or you’ll wish you had.”