The local stage manager had appeared in time to witness the manner in which Frank handled Hooker, and now he shouted:
“Here, Joe, what’s up?”
“That dratted property man’s meddlin’ with me!” snarled Hooker. “I’ll eat him if he’ll stop dodging!”
“Property man!” cried the stage manager. “Why, you’re daffy! That’s Frank Merriwell, the owner of the show!”
Hooker was astounded. He had reached the stage again, and he stopped in a half-stooping posture, staring at Merry, his under jaw drooping.
“Him the owner of the show?” he ejaculated, in evident doubt. “Ye’re kidding, Sawyer.”
“No, I am not,” assured the local stage manager. “What’s all this about, anyhow? What’s he been doing, Mr. Merriwell?”
“He started to tear apart some of the scenery here, and I told him to let it alone, but he was not inclined to do so. When I stopped him he attacked me.”
“An’ he faound himself up ag’inst a feller that kin eat Hookers ez fast ez they kin walk up,” laughed Ephraim Gallup. “There ain’t enough Hookers in Mizzury to bother Frank Merriwell.”
“Is that so?” sneered the stage hand. “My brother Sam can clean out this whole show. He’s just home from New Mexico, and there ain’t anybody in this town wants to tackle him.”