“Well,” said the Yale man, with a slight curling of his lips, “I presume you speak from experience.”
Instantly Grafter flushed and his hands closed quickly.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, a threat in his voice. “You may have a reputation as a gentleman boxer; but you had better be careful with your tongue, for I don’t fancy being insulted, even by you.”
Manton looked like a pugilist toned down, or toned up, like a gentleman. He had a thick neck and the cast of countenance that one instinctively associates with pugnacity. He had taken part in many an amateur boxing match, and some of the contests had been “to a finish.” It was his boast that he had never been “put out.” It was generally known that his college career had terminated suddenly and unexpectedly because he had attempted to beat up one of the professors.
“You’re touchy, Grafter,” said Manton, with a slight shrug of his muscular shoulders. “What’s the use? Can’t you take a joke?”
“The right kind of a joke. I presume you’re joking about Merriwell?”
“On the contrary, I’m in sober earnest. I meant just what I said.”
“It sounded like a joke to me,” said Phipps. “Why, I didn’t suppose any one questioned Merriwell’s standing as an athlete. Surely it is not questioned here, else he would not have been invited to take part in our meet.”
“It is possible we may be able to show him up as the faker he is,” laughed Manton. “Why, the fellow actually has the nerve to claim that he is the all-round champion athlete of this country.”
“I don’t think he made such a claim himself,” said Grafter promptly. “The newspapers called him that after he made the best record at Ashport last week. That was a contest for the all-round championship of the country.”