“Hello, Chub!” cried Billy, pausing. “What’s the trouble? Were you playing?”
“Pl-l-laying nothing!” returned Chub shrilly, dancing about in his rage, and pointing at his tormentor. “That big stiff said I rooted too much for the visiting team l-l-l-last Saturday! He caught me and was l-l-lambasting me!”
Chip saw that his friend was fully competent to handle the situation, and stood back. There was something comical about the helpless rage of Chub, and about his manner of stumbling speech, that amused Merriwell.
“You’re a fine sort of sport, I don’t think!” exclaimed Billy Mac, addressing the bully. “Just because a fellow doesn’t root for you, you want to punish him—and a little chap like Chub, too!”
The bully glowered at Billy Mac in a threatening fashion. He was a hulking big fellow, wearing a sporty necktie of flaming red, and a loud-checked suit. His features were heavy and overbearing, with deep-set black eyes, that gleamed maliciously, and from one corner of his mouth drooped a burned-out cigarette.
“What’s it to you, Billy Mac?” he growled menacingly. “You’d better not try to show off around here, just because you been to a military academy fer a few months!”
“There’s no one showing off around here except that necktie of yours,” snapped Billy Mac. “It’s a wonder you couldn’t find a baby to lick, you coward!”
It became evident to Merry that the two knew each other, and that his friend cherished a thorough dislike for the bully.
“Give it to him, Bil-l-ly!” chirruped Chub, who was well out of danger by this time. It seemed impossible for the little chap to pronounce the letter “l” without spilling it out by degrees. “L-l-l-lam him for me!”
The big fellow sneered.