Some of the boys seemed to have an idea that Husker would play with Frank for the first round, give him a cutting up in the second, and then, if Merry stood up for any more, proceed to put him out in the third.
One, who seemed well loaded with beer, staggered forward and clasped Merriwell round the neck, earnestly entreating him not to box.
“I’m ’shamed, old fel,” said the maudlin chap. “’Tain’t right! It’s shame! You dunno w’atcher up against. You’re a good fellow, but Husker is a slugger. He’s offended; he’s dangerous. I’m gentleman. Don’t like to see him do you this way. Put on y’r coat an’ come have a drink with me.”
“Get out of the way, Ludley!” cried another. “You’ve got a peach! Go lie down somewhere!”
Ludley waved the other off with a hand that was limp at the wrist.
“Lemme ’lone,” he said stiffly. “I’m friend to Merriwell. He’s good chap. Whatcher want? Want to see him hurt? He’s fine-lookin’ chap. I hate to see fine-lookin’ chap like him hurt, I do.”
“You are very—hic!—kind, sir,” said Frank. “I appreciate your extreme kindness, but I think I can—hic!—I can take care of myself. Don’t worry ’bout me.”
“Course he kin take care of hisself,” said Galway. “Go jump off the earth, little boy.”
Ludley shed tears.