“I suppose you think you can run the place, Billy Mac, now that you’ve been away to school, hey? You think you are a real athlete, with them underwear things on, don’t you?”
Seeing that his friend was speechless with rage, Merriwell interfered.
“It’s quite evident that you’re not fitted to pass on athletes, my friend,” he broke in ironically. “I’ve always found that the fellow who goes around with a coffin nail sticking in his face is the one who sticks in the bleachers. He doesn’t get out and toss the ball very much.”
For some reason, this speech seemed to infuriate the bully. He whirled on Merry with a snarl of anger.
“Smart guy, ain’t you? I suppose you’re that Merriwell kid that Billy’s been blowin’ about so much?”
“It seems that you have some brain left, in spite of cigarettes,” returned Merry dryly. “You’re supposing a lot of things, my friend. It might strike you to suppose that your absence is better than your company.”
“Oh, is that so?” The big fellow clenched his fists, glaring. “Say, fer about two cents I’d take you down a peg, Slim-shanks!”
Billy Mac turned quickly.
“Look here, Chip, you butt out of this!” he demanded. “Chub Newton’s a friend of mine, and this isn’t your quarrel.”
“All right, old man,” said Merriwell, waving his hand. “I’ll gladly turn over our genial friend to you. He looks as if a dose of McQuade compound would improve his health a good deal.”