“Do you dare to talk to me like that, you miserable freshman!” he grated. “Why, I’ll—I’ll——”
“What will you do?” asked the voice of Hodge, trembling with eagerness. “I wish you would do something! I’d like to have you lift your hand to me, Noon! I’d take delight in soaking you just once, and I do not feel like it as long as you keep your hands down. Oh, do put ’em up! I don’t know but I’ll let you hit me once, if you will!”
Frank laughed out loud, but the excited lads within the doorway did not notice it.
“That’s Hodge—the same old Hodge!” thought Merry. “The blood in his body is boiling now. He would eat Noon.”
“Oh, so you’re a fighter!” sneered Noon. “Well, I am not going to fight with you. I would not disgrace myself by fighting with such a fellow as you are. But I want your answer.”
“You shall have it. Here it is!”
A second later, Noon came tumbling down the steps, assisted by Bart Hodge’s boot, which struck with violence beneath Ned’s coattail, fairly lifting the fellow off his feet.
“That’s my answer!” called Hodge, from the doorway. “Now, go ahead and do your worst, you dirty sneak!”
Noon picked himself up, cursing bitterly. One of his hands was cut and bleeding, and the left knee of his pants was torn.
“That settles your hash!” he snarled, shaking his fist at Bart, and failing to observe Merriwell in his rage. “I’ll cook you for that!”