“When I left, you agreed that you would get Merriwell laid out,” he said. “Did you succeed?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t be packin’ up,” returned Bully. He moved around until the light struck his face. “See that peeper? Well, I’m goin’ to take that car o’ mine and beat it. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Hold on, son, hold on,” but Colonel Carson could not help smiling, angry though he was. “Do you mean to say that kid licked you?”
“Don’t look that way, does it? He had about a dozen fellers hid in a doorway, and they jumped us with clubs. We couldn’t do nothin’.”
Bully reeled off this astonishing lie with assurance. His father examined the black eye with commiseration and rage.
“My poor boy! We’ll make that fellow rue the day he ever came to Carsonville, son! So you were going away, eh?”
“Yes. I reckon I’ll lay over in Orton fer a few days.”
Orton was a small town fifteen miles from Carsonville, a mere country village, where it would be easy to remain and pass over the injury with any excuse. Colonel Carson nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s not so bad, son. I dunno’s it won’t fit in pretty well, too.”
Bully looked up suddenly.