CHAPTER XIX.
THE DOUBLE SHOOT.
“You have speed to burn, Merry,” cried Bart Hodge, as he rounded up on catching a ball that had come flying like a bullet from Frank’s hand. “There must be powder behind those whistlers.”
Frank laughed. His hat, coat and vest were off, and he was perspiring freely. Together with Bart, he was putting in a little practice. Frank was in the pink of condition. His eyes were clear and bright, his complexion almost girlish in its pink-and-white, while his legs, arms, muscles, all were firm and hard. The flesh of his arm, from which the sleeve was rolled back, was white as marble.
“Some of the fellows who have been croaking about your ‘dead wing’ will drop dead when they see you shoot ’em over,” said Hodge, his face glowing with enthusiasm and earnestness.
“There are always croakers, Bart,” said Frank, indifferently. “A fellow is a fool if he permits them to bother him.”
“They make me thundering mad.”
“Mustn’t notice them.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Can if you try.”