The man uttered an exclamation of rage, and struck at Frank, who dodged the blow.
"Is this the fellow, Grody?" cried Frank.
"The same mug!" declared the hostler, excitedly.
"Well, that's all I want to know!" burst from Frank, as he flung the hat and beard to the floor. "So you were monkeying around my horse to-day, you fakir! Well, what you need is a pair of good black eyes, and I propose to give them to you!"
Snap!—off came the boy's jacket in a twinkling, and he still stood between the unmasked man and the door.
The man, who was a coarse-looking young ruffian, ground his teeth and uttered some violent language.
"Git out the way!" he snarled. "I'm a fighter, and I'll kill yer! I can put yer ter sleep with one punch!"
Merriwell's blood was thoroughly stirred, and he felt
just like teaching the fellow a lesson. Although a youth in years, Frank was, as my old readers know, a trained athlete, and he could handle his fists in the most scientific manner.
"I am going to give you a chance to put me to sleep," he shot back. "I see your dirty game from start to finish! You are a fakir of the worst sort, and you tried to work me. You did something to my horse to make him lame, and you thought you would get a fat pull out of me for doctoring him. Instead of that, you have run your head into a bad scrape, and it will be damaged when you get it out."