“That’s not a bad idea, Merriwell. If you can do so, it’ll surely be a great good thing for Fardale. We can’t afford to have a man of his caliber brooding over his imagined wrongs. Good luck to you, and let me know how he shows up.”
“I will,” said Chip, and he turned away toward the barracks.
As regarded his leaving Fardale, Chip himself knew very little. He had heard from his father that they were going West, together with Dick Merriwell, and that he must hold himself in readiness to leave when his father sent for him at a moment’s notice. Therefore, it was possible that this was his last diamond work for Fardale.
The cause of this summons was a mystery to him, but he knew that he would find out in due course. In fact, he was looking forward to the trip with no little anticipation. Frank Merriwell, junior, was a chip of the old block in nickname and in fact, and he knew that with his father and his Uncle Dick he was apt to experience a lively time.
He quickly made his way to the room in barracks occupied by Bob Randall. At his knock, the Southerner’s voice called “Come in!” and Frank entered.
“You!”
Randall came to his feet, fists clenched and eyes flashing. He had been sitting beside a table, on which lay a pitcher of water and some books. Evidently he had been trying to get through some study.
“I’d like a talk with you, Bob,” said Merry quietly. He took no heed of the other’s constrained attitude.
“Sit down,” said Randall, his innate hospitality showing through his anger. “I’m rather surprised to find you coming here, Merriwell.”
“I thought you would be,” and Frank coolly plunged into the discussion, without any false premises. “I’ve observed that you’re worked up over something, Randall. More than one fellow has told me that you’re sore at me over my getting elected captain, and I wanted to straighten things out with you if I could.”