“Why, hello, Biff!” exclaimed Bobby. “Which way?”
“Just waiting for a South Side trolley,” explained Biff. “Going over to see Kid Mills about that lightweight go we’re planning.”
“Jump in,” said Bobby, glad of any change in his altogether indefinite program. “I’ll take you over.”
On the way he detailed to his athletic friend what had been done to him in the way of business.
“I know’d it,” said Biff excitedly. “I know’d it from the start. That’s why I got old Trimmer to join my class. Made him a special price of next to nothing, and got Doc Willets to go around and tell him he was in Dutch for want of training. Just wait.”
“For what?” asked Bobby, smiling.
“Till the next time he comes up,” declared Biff vengefully. “Say, do you know I put that shrimp’s hour a-purpose just when there wouldn’t be a soul up there; and the next time I get him in front of me I’m going to let a few slip that’ll jar him from the cellar to the attic; and the next time anybody sees him he’ll be nothing but splints and court-plaster.”
“Biff,” said Bobby severely, “you’ll do nothing of the kind. You’ll leave one Silas Trimmer to me. Merely bruising his body won’t get back my father’s business. Let him alone.”
“But look here, Bobby——”
“No; I say let him alone,” insisted Bobby.