Cunningham repeated the name, his manner changing.
“Are you Frank Merriwell?”
“Yes.”[“Yes.”]
“An’ he can wallop the stuffing out of two of you, if you are big and do chew tobacco!” instantly declared the boy. “If you don’t think he can, just give him a chance. Hit me a good cuff side of the head, and I’ll bet a hundred dollars he’ll throw you clean over the train!”
Frank could not resist his laughter at this declaration of the freckle-faced fellow. Cunningham laughed, also.
“Haw! haw!” he roared. “’Pears to me the youngster is mightily stuck on yo’, mister.”
“Stuck on him!” burst from Jimmy. “You can bet your life I am! He’s made himself what he is, the boss athlete of the United States, and I’m going to be just as much like him as I can. I know some other fellows that feel the same way about it, too.”
“Why, yo’ don’t s’pose he could wallop me, do yo’, boy?”
“Don’t I! Say, he can do it with one hand tied behind him, for he’s Frank Merriwell.”
“But he ain’t got any whiskers.”