“He don’t need ’em; he’s got muscle, and he knows just how to use it.”
“Haw! haw!” roared Cunningham again. “It sure makes me laff at the idea, an’ feelin’ tickled so I can’t hit yo’, so I’ll let yo’ go.”
The boy seemed disappointed.
“I’d just like to see what Frank Merriwell would done to you if you had basted me again,” he sighed. “Won’t you please hit me a good one?”
At this Cunningham roared once more, slapping his thigh.
“Why, yo’re a queer little staver!” he said, with a great show of good nature. “Yo’ want to get me inter trouble, but I refuse to be caught.”
“Well, it’s a mighty good thing for you that you had sense enough to refuse,” nodded Jimmy.
The crowd all about was laughing, and somebody cried:
“Those are the kind of admirers you have, Merriwell.”
Then Frank reached down, grasped the boy, and swung him lightly up to his shoulder.