“It didn’t seem to bother you as much as it did me,” he observed. “Wonder if Merriwell is coming back here this afternoon?”
“I understand he is. Why?”
“I’d like to run him up against somebody who could knock a corner off him. Who’s the man?”
“There he is now!” exclaimed Fisher, as a young chap in flannels approached the house, followed by a caddie with a golfing outfit.
“Cleaves?” said Manton.
“The very fellow,” asserted Fisher. “He’s the golf champion of this club, and he could be the champion of the country, if he would give up business and turn his attention to golf.”
Manton shook his head.
“It wouldn’t satisfy me much to see Merriwell defeated at such a mild game as golf,” he declared.
“I’d like to see him beaten at something that would hurt him—and hurt him bad.”
“You’re looking for revenge.”