“Mother Muggs loves us—not!” laughed Parker.
The old woman was well known to the students. She had taken a strong aversion to them, and she did not hesitate to express herself on any convenient occasion. Her flow of language was sharp and stinging, and she had brought the college men to the point of guying her unmercifully whenever occasion offered. Frank Merriwell said nothing. He did not believe in taking part in the guying of the old woman, even though he knew of her hatred for the students and the manner in which she sometimes seemed to go out of her way in order to snarl at them.
“Are you promenading for your health, Mother Muggs?” asked one laughing fellow.
“Or are you displaying the latest style in Parisian clothes?” said another.
“Dogs! vipers! whelps!” cried the old woman, shaking her fist at them.
Then her feet flew from beneath her on the slippery walk, and she fell with a thud that must have sorely shaken her old bones. The thoughtless fellows laughed at the unfortunate woman, with the exception of Merriwell. He did not laugh. Instead of that, he hurried from the crowd to the side of Mother Muggs, who seemed to be in pain.
“I am sorry, madam,” he said, with the utmost politeness, as he aided her to rise, fairly lifting her to her feet, doing it as tenderly as if she had been his own mother. “I hope you are not hurt?”
The poor woman groaned and seemed unable to stand. She would have fallen, but Frank Merriwell placed his arm about her and supported her.
“Oh, my hip!” she gasped.
“I’m afraid you are hurt!” he cried, genuine concern in his voice.