“Well, you haven’t any right to interfere in my affairs,” he whined.
“Do you take back what you said?” demanded Phil fiercely, and he laid a trembling hand on the shoulder of the bully.
“Take your hand from me!” exclaimed Langridge. “Yes—I suppose I’ve got to—I can’t fight a professional pugilist,” he added with an uneasy laugh.
“Thanks for the compliment,” spoke Phil grimly. “I guess this can end where it is. As for you, Gerhart, if I thought you had any other part in this than being a tool of this coward, I’d give you the soundest thrashing you ever had.”
The freshman did not answer, and when Langridge turned aside Gerhart followed him into the shadows. Poor Wallops waited until they were out of sight, then the messenger trailed after Phil and Tom. On the way he haltingly told the chums that Langridge had been in the habit of sending him to town to purchase stimulants for him. It had come to the point where that night where the bartender had refused to sell any more liquor, warning having been given that sales to minors were becoming too frequent. It was the failure of Wallops to return with the whisky that angered Langridge.
“Don’t say anything about this, Wallops,” advised Phil. “Langridge won’t bother you again. If he does, let me know.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you, Mr. Clinton. I’ll not tell.”
“I guess Langridge and Gerhart won’t, either,” commented Tom. “They’ll be glad to let it drop.”
“What cads those fellows are,” remarked Phil a little later, when he and Tom, having had a refreshing shower bath, were preparing for bed in their room.
“Well, you took some of it out of Langridge, at all events,” said the pitcher.