“It’s too bad!” he said, in an aside to Billy Wynne. “There won’t be any show to-night, unless Mr. Merriwell has an understudy. Sam Hooker will stave him all up.”
“Perhaps so,” said Wynne. “But Frank Merriwell is quite a scrapper when he is forced to fight.”
“He’ll be a baby in Sam Hooker’s hands.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s no use hoping. He’s done for! Too bad!”
“Are ye reddy, tenderfoot dood?” shouted the cowboy.
“I warn you again to keep away and let me alone,” said Frank, grimly. “I do not wish to fight with you.”
“To be course ye don’t! Haw! haw! Ye’d be a fool ef ye did! But ye’ve made some loose talk, so that I’ve gotter chaw ye up. Be ye reddy?”
Frank stood with his hands at his sides, his eyes watching every motion of the ruffian. He seemed perfectly careless and unprepared, but, in fact, he was quite ready for anything.
Sam Hooker took a step forward, but paused in astonishment when Frank did not cower or attempt to run away.