“That’s right,” said Snodgrass, calmly sitting down on a box.
The other men were on their feet. The one who had been knocked down stood over the college man, demanding:
“Wot shall we do with him. Bill? Give der word an’ we’ll kick der packin’ out of him!”
“Wait a little,” said the leader. “We’ll find out wot ther bloke wants here.”
The fellow standing over Snodgrass looked disappointed. He had been struck, and he longed to retaliate on somebody. He had been eager to strike, beat, and kick the intruder.
Buster Bill stepped toward the college man. Despite his size and weight, his step was light. Snodgrass sized him up and nodded to himself with satisfaction. Surely here was a fellow who could give Frank Merriwell a go “all by his lonesome.” With his gang at his back he could wipe Merriwell off the map. All that was needed now was to strike a bargain.
Bill pulled a chair out in front of Snodgrass and sat down, making a motion that the others understood. They pulled their seats out and sat all about the intruder. He was in the midst of them, and they had him foul. Let him whistle now, and they could pounce on him and kick him into jelly before the police could reach them.
When they had seated themselves, Buster Bill seemed to think of something, and he said:
“Skip, just take a sneak out and look round. Come back and tell us if you see anything.”
The smallest man of the gang, a wiry young thug, arose and slipped out of the room.