“Let me git in there!” rasped the tall, lank fellow. “If ye don’t make way fer me, I’ll bet a darn good squash somebody gits bumped!”
Then he succeeded in getting hold of Merry’s free hand.
“Oh, say!” he cried; “I’m jest reddy to lay right daown and die frum satisfaction.”
“Ephraim Gallup!” burst from Merry.
“Right off the farm, b’gosh!” chuckled Ephraim.
“Vy don’t you both gone und died alretty!” squawked the one who had been kicked, as he came charging in and drove against Mulloy and Gallup. “Id vould peen a goot thing der coundry vor. Yaw! I vandt to shook Vrank Merrivell by my handt! Got avay!”
“And Hans Dunnerwurst!” exclaimed Merriwell, as he grasped the outstretched, pudgy hand of the fat young Dutchman.
“Dot vos me,” nodded Hans, in delight. “How you peen, Vrankie, ain’t id? You vos glatness to seen me. Yaw!”
“You fellows give me that fired teeling—I mean that tired feeling!” declared a handsome, curly-haired youth, as he thrust Mulloy, Gallup, and Dunnerwurst aside. “Why don’t you let somebody else have a show? I want to fake his shin—I mean shake his fin!”
“It’s Harry Rattleton!” Frank ejaculated, as he returned the hearty hand-grip of the curly-haired youth. “Dear old Harry!”