“But he will get free all right,” declared Frank. “He will turn up again sometime.”
“If they don’t kill him any,” said Buckhart.
“They won’t do that,” asserted Merriwell. “They can make nothing out of him in that fashion; but they might make a good thing by forcing him to pay a large sum for his liberty.”
“Well, now that everything seems all right here, Frank,” said Dick, “I suppose Brad and I will have to light out for the East and old Fardale.”
“Waugh! That certain is right!” exclaimed the Texan. “We must be on hand, pard, when Fardale gets into gear for baseball this spring.”
“Baseball!” cried Wiley, giving a great start. “Why, that word thrills my palpitating bosom. Baseball! Why, I will be in great shape for the game this season! My arm is like iron. Never had such a fine arm on me before. Speed! Why, I will put ’um over the plate like peas! Curves! Why, my curves will paralyze ’um this year!”
“Ugh!” grunted old Joe. “Wind-in-the-head blow a heap. Him talk a lot with him jaw. Mebbe him jaw git tired sometime.”
“Look here, Joseph,” expostulated Wiley, “I don’t like sarcasm. If I didn’t love you as a brother, I might resent it.”
“Great horn spoon!” cried Buckhart, scratching vigorously. “These fleas are the biggest and worst I ever saw. You hear me murmur!”
“What, these?” squealed Wiley, in derision. “Why, these little creatures are nothing at all—nothing at all. They just tickle a fellow up a bit. Fleas! Say, mates, you should have seen the fleas I have beheld in my tempestuous career. You should have seen the fleas I met up with in the heart of darkest Africa. Those were the real thing. Don’t ’spose I ever told you about those fleas?”