CHAPTER IV.
SOREHEADS.
Hobart Manton was sore all the way through. Having put on his coat, he came over to Merriwell, who was betraying no exultation over the outcome.
“I presume it’s up to me to say something pleasant,” he observed. “You defeated me on the level, all right; but you couldn’t do it again in a week.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Frank, unruffled. “Still you know there is an old saying that the future may be judged only by the past. I’m not a champion bowler.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir.”
“Why, I thought you pretended to be a champion at everything you attempted to do.”
“On the contrary, I make no pretensions whatever.”
“He doesn’t have to,” chipped in Grafter. “His record speaks for him.”
“Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to purchase his secret for ten thousand dollars,” sneered Manton. “You are so flush with money.”