Bascomb hated Frank, but he feared him at the same time.
"Nobody seems able to get the best of that fellow," he had thought a hundred times. "It seems to be bad luck to go against him, and so I am going to keep away from him in the future. Poor Gage! Merriwell was bad medicine for him."
Bascomb was a coward, but he could hate intensely in his two-faced, treacherous way.
The moment Merriwell joined the group, Bascomb noted it.
"He's watching Rains," mentally decided the big plebe. "He wants to see what the fellow is made of."
Rains seemed aware that Merriwell was a spectator, for he braced up and gave Bascomb a merry go for a few minutes, forcing the big fellow back, and seeming to tap him with ease and skill whenever and wherever he chose.
When this little flurry was over, Rains threw off his gloves, and declared he had had enough.
"So have I," said Bascomb, with a grin. "You're the best man I've put the mittens on with yet. I believe there is a fellow not more than a hundred miles from here that thinks he is some one with gloves, but you can do him dead easy. More than that, I think he knows it, and I don't believe he has the nerve to stand up and face you for a whirl."
"Oh, I don't want to box with any one," said Rains. "Keep still, Bascomb."
"You may not want to box, but you can down Frank Merriwell just the same," declared the big plebe.