“Here!” cried Wade, quickly stepping forward, and taking a bottle from a pocket inside his red flannel shirt; “here’s a bit.”
It was a pint bottle, nearly a third full. Fenton grasped it with a shaking hand as he sat up, lifted it to his lips, and did not take it down till he had swallowed the last drop.
With a growl, he got upon his feet, flinging the empty bottle aside. He gave Frank a fierce look, then addressed Wade:
“What’s the matter with you, Bill? Did you want to kill me?”
“I didn’t throw it at ye, Steve—I mean Mr. Fenton. I didn’t mean ter hit ye.”
Fenton rubbed his chest and coughed.
“Lucky you didn’t kill me,” he said, huskily.
Kenneth St. Ives appeared.
“What’s the matter here?” he asked.
The hostler hastened to explain that he was simply moving the bicycles out of the way when Frank Merriwell assaulted him.