"That's right," nodded Danny Griswold. "Look at my eye. I hadn't an idea that he thought of hitting me till he let me have it. Knocked me flat. Felt as if I'd been kicked by a mule."
"What did you do to cause him to strike you?" asked Frank.
"Nothing. Just looked at him."
"If he keeps this up," grunted Bruce Browning, who was stretched on the couch, puffing away at a cigarette, "his career at Yale will be short."
"That's right!" cried Jack Diamond, showing his teeth. "Some one will kill him. If he struck me, I'd shoot him in a minute—in a minute!"
Diamond meant it. There was hot blood in his veins. Frank's example had taught him to control his fiery temper to a certain extent, but there were times when it would blaze forth and get the best of him for all of anything he could do.
"It's a pity some fellow can't get at him and lick the stuffing out of him," said Bandy Robinson. "That's what he needs."
"Well, who is there that can do it?" cried Griswold. "He's a perfect giant, over six feet tall, and must weigh nearly two hundred pounds, though there's not an ounce of fat on him. He's all bone and muscle. He strikes a regular prize-fighter blow, and he can't be hurt. I tell you, he is a good man to let alone."
"That's right," agreed Halliday. "I saw him do up those coppers the other night, four of them, and they all had their clubs out."
"Did they hit him?" asked Merriwell.