Yes, it was just as well. Rosalind had shown that she had a jealous, narrow, spiteful disposition, which was certain to bring trouble to any young man who really cared for her. But Starbright knew that she was, in spite of all this, a lovable girl in many other respects; and, though the dream he had cherished concerning himself and her was shattered and gone, and he felt that it was better so, he could not quite cure that ache in his heart—yet.
Starbright and Higgins separated on reaching Chapel Street. They met again in the gymnasium late in the afternoon, where Merriwell and some others were skimming round on roller-skates engaged in roller polo practise.
“Oh, he won’t accept the challenge!” Bertrand Defarge was sneering. “He never jumps at anything that isn’t dead sure.”
“Who ye talkin’ ’bout?” Higgins asked, for he saw that Defarge was looking toward Merriwell.
“Merriwell!” the French youth answered, not abashed by the presence of the cowboy, who was known to be a “Merriwell maniac.” Higgins’ hand went into his pocket and drew out a bulky wallet, from which he produced a roll of bills.
“Bet ye any amount you’re minded to name that he will!”
“Will what?” asked Starbright, stepping forward; whereat the Chickering set, who had been grouped round Defarge, drew back as if they feared his bulk or the weight of his fist.
“Durn if I know!” Higgins admitted. “But he seems to think that Merriwell’s afraid, and I’m backin’ the general proposition that Merriwell ain’t afeared of anything! So there’s yer money. Put up er shut up!”
“I don’t care to bet with a man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” sneered Defarge.
“I know Merriwell! That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout and what my money’s talkin’ ’bout! Put up er shut up!”