The time was mid afternoon following the evening when the finals were “pulled off” at the great Omaha athletic club. Frank had met the fencing master, according to agreement, and for some time they had been engaged with the foils, Hugh Morton being the only witness. They were resting now.
“Look you, sare,” said the enthusiastic Frenchman, “in six month I could make you ze greatest fencer in ze country—in one year ze champion of ze world! Yes, sare—of ze world!”
“I fear you are putting it a little too strong, professor,” laughed Frank.
“O-oo, no, no! I did think Meestare Darleton very clever, but you are a perfect wondaire. You catch ze idea like ze flash of lightning. You try ze execution once, twice, three time—perhaps—and you have eet. Zen eet is only to make eet perfect and to combine eet with othaire work and othaire ideas. Three time this day you touch me by ze strategy. You work ze surprise. Twice I touch you in one way; but after that I touch you not in that way at all. I tried to do it, but you had learned ze lesson. I did not have to tell you how to protect yourself.”
“He seemed to hold you pretty well, professor,” put in Morton.
“Oui! oui!” cried L’Estrange, without hesitation. “He put me on ze mettle. Meestare Merriwell, let me make you ze greatest fencer in ze world. I can do eet.”
Merry smilingly shook his head.
“I am afraid I haven’t the time,” he said.
“One year is all eet will take, at ze most—only one little year.”
“Too long.”