“Why, I saw Merriwell shooting off his mouth at you, and I presume he was telling you just what sort of a slouch you are, which is a habit of his, the egotistical cad!”
“No, sah, he was not calling me down. He was giving me a few pointers, and I appreciate his kindness in doing so.”
“Well, you’re just like all the others,” growled Defarge. “He can rub it all over you and you’ll think it’s nice, but you’d kick like a mule if anybody else tried it.”
“I may kick like a mule, sah, if you are not careful about your language in addressing me, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll be within reach when I kick.”
Defarge showed his teeth.
“If you ever kicked me I’d make a hole in your skin and let some of your confounded upstart blood out!” he hissed.
“And if you ever tried that trick,” retorted Mason, not in the least frightened, “I’d forget that I’ve sworn never to strike a man who did not weigh as much as myself, and I’d give you the blamedest thrashing, sah, that you ever had in all your life!”
“Pouf!” said Bertrand, as he wheeled away.
“It really would do me good to thump him,” muttered Mason, watching the fellow’s retreating figure. “I think he’s about the only enemy of any account that Merriwell has left in college.”
Roland Packard did not occur to him just then. Besides, Roland had been keeping pretty quiet about Merry since the beginning of the term, realizing that popular sentiment was entirely against him.