Raybold flushed a bit and chewed at the end of his cigar, while he surveyed Wolfers from head to foot.
“I presume you’re competent to judge?” he said.
“I presume I am.”
“It’s a fine thing for a man to have a high estimation of his ability as a judge. Who are you?”
“My name is Wolfers.”
“Oh-ho! I see! Professional jealousy. A case of sour grapes.”
Wolfers laughed derisively.
“Why should it be a case of sour grapes? Merriwell got his medicine all right to-day.”
“Did you ever get bumped?”
“What has that got to do with it? All pitchers get hit occasionally.”