“That certainly tastes good! Well, I hope you’ll get pounded out of the box, Merriwell. Green will shut you fellers out without a hit.”
With this pleasant wish Bully came to his feet and moved toward the door, inspecting a few pictures and pennants as he went.
“Don’t hurry,” pleaded Chip, with mock anxiety. “You’re not going to tear yourself away so soon, I trust?”
“Tell Bob I’ll be back later,” said Bully, with a grunt.
“With pleasure. Maybe you’d like to have me throw the game for you to-day?”
Carson merely scowled and passed outside, slamming the door viciously after him. From the window Frank could see him start across the campus in the direction of the riding hall, stopping to light his cigarette.
“Big brute!” he thought, disgusted. “I wonder how Randall ever got a cousin like that? But—what on earth is he doing here? If he and Bob are getting thick, I feel sorry for Bob.”
This thought was disquieting to Merry. Could it be possible that Carson was back of Randall’s queer actions?
It seemed improbable, for Randall had been keeping to himself, and Carson had not been seen at Fardale previous to this. Yet Frank knew that Bully possessed a crafty and cunning mind. He felt disturbed over Carson’s impudence in daring to show himself about the place.
“Oh, well, I guess Randall can take care of himself,” he mused, and dismissed the subject lightly, and settled himself among the pillows again.