“No, sar; but dat hostler in dar am crazy ma-ad, sar.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“He done suffin’ to dat hawse Fiahfoot, an’ de hawse don kick him up again’ de side ob de stall. Wondah it didn’t kill him, sar! Po-erful wondah it didn’t bre’k some ob his bones! Made him so mad he got a fork an’ was gwan teh stick it right inteh dat hawse. I couldn’t stan’ teh see dat, an’ I hollered. Den he see I was a-watchin’ ob him, an’ he was ma-ad enough teh kill meh, sar. I don’ dar’ stay an’ clean dem bisuckles, Marser Frank.”
“Those wheels must be cleaned to-night,” said Merriwell, decisively. “Come with me, Toots, and I will settle this thing so the hostler will not interfere with you.”
He strode away toward the stable, and the colored boy followed at his heels. Hodge and Rattleton followed more leisurely.
As Frank entered suddenly he detected the hostler, wrench in hand, doing something to one of the bicycles. It looked as if the man was making an attempt to ruin the wheel.
And it happened that the wheel belonged to Frank!
Three bounds took Merriwell to the side of the man, whom he grasped by the collar, crying:
“What are you doing there?”
The man straightened up, and turned his bloodshot eyes on the youth. His face was flushed, and the odor of his breath told he had been drinking heavily.