Danny Griswold was astride the shoulders of Dismal Jones, who was the only solemn-looking man in the car. Occasionally Jones would "break out" in his peculiar camp-meeting revivalist's style and would deliver fragments of a sermon on the frivolous things of the world. Each time he was quickly suppressed, however.
Into the midst of this jolly crowd came a lad whose face was flushed and whose eyes were gleaming strangely. His lips curled back over his set teeth, and he seemed to quiver with a strange eagerness.
"Let me through!" he growled, forcing his way along. "There is a fellow here I want to see."
There was something in his voice that caused them to give him room to advance till he was standing directly in front of Frank Merriwell. Then his hands clinched, and, as he tried to speak, he choked with passion, so that words failed him.
A sudden hush came over the throng, for they saw that there was trouble impending.
"It's Yates!"
Somebody muttered the words, and they seemed to break the spell that had fallen on the enraged lad who was glaring at Frank.
"Yes, it is Yates!" he snarled. "I suppose all you fellows are Frank Merriwell's chums, but that makes no difference to me."
He stopped a moment, but he did not take his eyes from Frank's face. He seemed to be gathering himself for the supreme effort.