“Your campaign against Merriwell does not seem to thrive?” said Hull, addressing Gene Skelding, who was leaning against the fence and scowling blackly at the passing students.
“I’m waiting,” muttered Gene. “I’ll get him yet.”
“There are others who are waiting,” said Ives impatiently. “That fellow Badger must have given up his ambition to down Merriwell.”
“Don’t mention him!” cried Ollie Lord, standing on his tiptoes in an attempt to look tall and imposing, although he was barely five feet in height. “He insulted me! I felt like killing him on the spot!”
“You mutht westwain your angwy pathions, deah boy,” simpered Lew. “You thould not allow yourthelf to become dangerous.”
The idea of Ollie becoming very dangerous was extremely ludicrous, but nobody in the group cracked a smile. The Chickering crowd took themselves seriously.
“Badger,” said Ives, “is a bluff. But I did think that Bertrand Defarge might take some of the wind out of Merriwell’s sails.”
“Defarge got it in the neck,” muttered Skelding, “and he’s as quiet as a sick kitten now.”
“They say Merriwell played with him after the fashion of a cat playing with a mouse,” spoke Ives, gently caressing his bang, which fell in a roll over his forehead quite to his eyebrows.
The trouble with the Frenchman was that he thought Merriwell knew nothing at all about fencing,” declared Skelding.