Defarge crouched behind some rocks and bushes which grew near the top of a high ridge of ground. Some distance below him, running parallel with the ridge, was the road along which he knew the baseball men must come on their way back to town. It was rather dark down there, but the crouching youth could see the road when he lifted his head and peered down.
In his hands Defarge had a large, jagged rock; in his heart was a design so dark that he dared not meditate upon it.
Although it was cold, he felt perspiration starting out upon his face, which he mopped with his handkerchief. He told himself that he was justified in doing anything in his power to down Frank Merriwell, for had not Merry once brought about his disgrace and nearly caused his expulsion from college?
He did not pause to consider that it was through Frank’s generosity alone that he still remained at Yale. Had he reasoned calmly he must have known that any other man might have exposed him fully and compelled him to leave.
Hark! They were coming! He heard the beat of running feet far along the frozen road. It was likely that Merriwell would be among the very first, for of old Frank had often led the squad on the return trip to the gym.
The crouching lad quivered in every limb.
“He disgraced me before them all!” he panted. “He made me the laughing-stock of the college! No man can do that to a Defarge and escape! I’ve waited a long time, but I’m going to fix him now!”
He gripped the jagged rock with feverish intensity and peered along the darkening road. The sound of running feet came nearer.
“Hello, Merriwell!”
Some one of the runners was hailing Frank.