“Well, what do you want?” snapped Merry.
“We’re goin’ to run you out o’ town, see?” retorted Squint Fletcher, his cross eyes glaring savagely. “You’re here tryin’ to stir up trouble against us, eh? Well, you don’t get no chance.”
“I think you’re misinformed,” returned Chip quietly. “No one’s stirring up a fuss except you.”
“Oh, is that so?” Bully Carson pushed forward aggressively, clutching his bat. “I suppose you didn’t try to kill dad yesterday, hey? I suppose you didn’t set Billy Mac on me, hey?”
“You’re doing a lot of supposing,” said Merry dryly. “Your thinking apparatus needs oiling, Bully. Try a cigarette. It may straighten out things.”
Merriwell’s calm demeanor, and the resolute air of the group around him, rather cooled the ardor of the Clippers. It only angered Carson and Fletcher the more, however.
“So you’re the famous Chip Merriwell, hey?” spluttered Squint, shoving his undershot chin forward. “I guess we’ve heard enough slush out o’ you and the rest o’ this gang. Let’s beat ’em up proper, fellers!”
“Yah!” chirruped Chub, dancing on the outskirts of the crowd. “Try it! Ask Bul-l-ly where he got that bump on his chin. Ask him!”
This sally scored, for Billy Mac’s fist had left unmistakable marks on the heavy countenance of the captain of the Clippers.
“You’ll get yours, you little runt!” foamed the angry Carson, brandishing his bat at Chub. “We’ll make you pretty sick of lettin’ off your jaw around here!”