SNODGRASS SEEKS SATISFACTION.
Of course the unexpected withdrawal of Arnold and Snodgrass from their
respective crews created comment. Both men manufactured excuses, but
these excuses proved to be rather flimsy when investigated. They seemed
to have suddenly lost their sand in the face of the rigid training, and
decided to get out. This caused many to regard them with contempt, and
Snodgrass ate his heart out with rage toward the one he regarded as the
author of all his trouble. Never for a moment did he regard himself as
in any way to blame.
Arnold was afraid of Merriwell; but, if possible, just then he was more
afraid of Snodgrass, who was desperate enough for any move. The
sophomore swore by various things he was supposed to regard as sacred
that he would get even with Merriwell. He vowed that the freshmen should
meet with defeat, but when he came to meditate on the matter some time
it did not seem to him that the simple defeat of the freshmen would be
revenge enough on Merriwell.
No; he longed for blood! He pictured himself as jumping on Frank and
giving him a terrible drubbing. In this fanciful encounter he knocked
Merriwell down again and again. Oh, how he quivered with satisfaction as
he felt his fists beating Merriwell’s handsome face into a mass of cuts
and bruises! How he laughed and gloated. And at last, when he had
knocked down and out the fellow he hated, he stood and sneered at him,
with arms folded and a heart full of triumph.
This was a glorious battle and a glorious victory; but, unfortunately
for the feelings of the revengeful Snodgrass, he knew it could happen
only in his mind. He knew that he was no match for Merriwell, and it
made him grind his teeth with fury. He even thought of sand-bags, brass
knuckles, clubs, and such things.
He didn’t wish to kill Merriwell; not at all. The desire to do so may
have possessed him, but fear of the consequences was enough to make him
cast such a thought aside at once. He wanted simply to have the
satisfaction of maiming and hurting Frank. Oh, it would be great to do
him up so he could not get out to the ball-ground! In that case, of
course, he would be unable to coach the freshmen.
Arnold was frightened when Snodgrass imparted his desires. He feared
that Ben might be foolish enough to set out to do the trick, taking him
along as a witness. He expostulated with Snodgrass.
“Forget it!” he said. “Other fellows have tried to do Merriwell like
that, and they’ve always got it in the neck themselves. You can’t get
even with him that way.”
“I can and will!” grated the vindictive sophomore.
“You’ll get the worst thrashing you ever had.”
“Don’t you think it. I’ll not do the job myself. I can find a way.”
Then Snodgrass proceeded to the loafing-place of a certain gang of young
thugs. Buster Bill, the leader of the gang, had “done time,” and, taken
all together, the thugs were a disgrace to the college city.
Snodgrass put on his old clothes, and away he went to the vicinity of
the wharves. Down there, near where he knew Buster Bill hung out, he
collared a street urchin and questioned him.
At first the boy didn’t know anything that Snodgrass wanted to know. He
would not answer questions. He bawled: “Leggo, you big slob! Watcher
think ye’re doin’, anyhow?” But Snodgrass persevered.
“I want to see my friend Bill Riley,” he said. “I know he hangs out
here. I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll find Bill for me.”
“G’wan! yer can’t fool me!” said the boy. “I dunno no Bill Riley, an’ I
don’t believe you’d fork over a quarter, annyhow.”
Snodgrass took out the money, and held it up before the eyes of the
dirty, squirming lad. The squirming ceased, and the boy eyed the piece
of silver greedily.
“There it is,” said the college youth. “Now, show me Bill Riley, and
it’s yours.”
The boy seemed to be contemplating making a grab for the money.
“I dunno Bill Riley,” he persisted. “What’s he do?”
“He’s a gent,” declared Snodgrass, with assumed loftiness. “He don’t do
a thing. He lives on the interest of his money. I met him last summer in
jail.”
“Hey?” said the boy. “Where was dat?”
“Blackwell’s Island. Ever heard of it?”
“Sure, Mike! I know a feller that’s been there, and the gang calls him
Bill.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I dunno. Alwus heard him called der Buster.”
“That’s the man I want to find!” exclaimed Snodgrass. “He told me to
hunt him up if I ever came this way.”
The boy looked incredulous.
“Why, youse ain’t like anny of his gang,” he declared. “Anny of ’em
could eat youse.”
“Perhaps so; perhaps not. But I want to find Bill, and this quarter is
yours if you take me to him.”
The urchin reflected. He was in mortal fear of Buster Bill and “der
gang,” but he wanted that quarter. It was possible that this stranger
told the truth. It might be he knew Bill, and Bill would be glad to see
him. Did he dare to chance it for the quarter?
Snodgrass kept still, knowing it might be a mistake to seem too anxious.
“Annyhow,” said the boy, “Bill an’ his gang will knock the stuffin’s out
of you if you’re a stranger. Dey don’t like to be bothered when dey’re
havin’ a little settin’.”
So the boy knew where Buster Bill was to be found, and Snodgrass
tightened his hold.
“I’ll make it fifty cents,” he declared. “Two good, new quarters. What
do you say?”
“I tell ye you’ll git your face broke sure if Bill don’t know yer.”
“I’ll chance it.”
“Den I’ll take yer to ’em. Come on. Leggo my collar. Gimme der money
first.”
“Not on your life! I’ll pay the minute I put my eyes on Bill—not
before.”
The urchin led him amid the wharf buildings, where the smell of the
water was strong. Through an old lumber-yard they went, coming out at
last to a sagging building.
“Sh!” cautioned the boy, as he stole forward on his toes.
Snodgrass stepped lightly, but did not hesitate to follow.
The boy opened an old door, and they entered the lower part of the
building. There they paused, and the mumbling sound of voices reached
them from some place up above.
Still motioning for Snodgrass to be still, the boy led the way to a
ladder that led up through a square scuttle-hole above. Up the ladder
the lad softly skipped, and Snodgrass followed at his heels. The heart
of the college man was thumping heavily in his bosom, for this was more
of an adventure than he had counted on when he started out.
“Dey’re at it!” whispered the boy, pausing on the top of the ladder.
He looked to see if his companion showed signs of alarm, but Snodgrass
appeared as eager as ever, and the boy slipped off the ladder to the
floor of the loft.
Barely had Snodgrass followed when there arose a sudden commotion beyond
a dark door that could scarcely be seen in that gloomy, cobwebby place.
There was a volley of oaths, a blow, and a fall.
“That’s him!” hissed the boy. “He’s knocked somebody down! Oh, but he’s
a holy terror, an’ he’ll be red-hot now! Don’t yer t’ink ye’d better
turn round?”
“Not much!”
“Den gimme der fifty. I’ve kept my part of der bargain. He’s in dere, so
jest walk in.”
Snodgrass gave the boy half a dollar, and, one second later, the
youngster went down the ladder like a frightened cat, leaving Ben there
alone.
The desperate sophomore shuddered a bit and shrugged his shoulders.
“He’s just the kind of a man I must have!” he thought. “I’d be a fool to
back out now! Brace up, Ben, and walk right in. Your reception may not
be cordial, but you must set yourself right. It’s to down Merriwell, and
I’m ready to face the devil to do that!”
Then he advanced to the door and thrust it open.