“You’re plainly a big bluffer and a blowhard,” said Frank.
Then, as Spotted Dan made a suspicious movement, quick as a flash of light a pistol appeared in Merriwell’s hand.
“Don’t try to pull a gun on me, you big duffer!” exclaimed the youth. “If you do, I will run a couple of tunnels in you.”
“Correct in the most minute particular,” chipped in Cap’n Wiley. “He will do it scientifically and skillfully. When it comes to shooting, he is a shooter from Shooterville. Say, you oughter see him shoot out a pigeon’s eye at four thousand yards! Why, he can shoot with his feet better than any man in this bunch! At the same time I happen to be provided with a couple of large-bore fowling pieces, and I shall feel it my duty to shed real gore in case any of you other gents take a notion to chip in to this little circus.”
While speaking the sailor had produced a pair of Colt’s revolvers, which he now flourished with reckless abandon.
“Oh, that is the way yer does it, is it?” sneered Spotted Dan. “Mebbe yer thinks this settles it. Well, wait and see. You has the drop now; but our turn comes. It’s a good thing fer you, young feller,” he declared, still glaring at Frank, “that I don’t git my paws on yer. Ef I’d ever hit yer a crack with my maul you would sprout wings instanter. Sometimes I gits at yer, tenderfoot, and I hammers yer all up.”
“You think you will,” retorted Merry. “You might find yourself up against a snag.”
“Waal, ef I can’t knock you stiff in less than one minute, I’ll take to my hole and stay thar for a year.”
“I presume you would consider this engagement ended in case you fail to put me down and out in short order?” said Merry. “If you were the one whipped, you would call all dealings off?”
“Sartin sure. I’d be so ashamed of myself I’d never look a dog in the face again.”