“Pass me up the next sheet, Mr. Hobbs,” he said, speaking to the janitor.
“Don’t you do it!” ordered Riddle. “You are getting yourself into trouble.”
The janitor seemed doubtful.
“You’ve already gotten yourself into trouble, Mr. Hobbs,” declared Merry, “if Barnaby Haley sees fit to make trouble about it. You know you had no right to cover such of our paper as was up, and you also know that we own these boards till ten o’clock on the night of the eighteenth. Pass up that sheet.”
Frank had won.
“He’s right, Mr. Riddle,” said the janitor. “The boards belong to Haley, and we’ll have to put his paper up.”
Riddle saw his game of bluff was called, and, furious at his defeat, he lifted his foot and kicked over the bucket of paste.
Quick as a flash, Merry turned and gave the brush a slash across the fellow’s face, filling his mouth, nose and eyes with the sticky stuff.
Riddle swore, spitting, blowing, rubbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Put down that brush, and I’ll fight you!” he snarled.