“Hel-l-lup!”
At sight of Chip Merriwell and Billy Mac, the smaller of the two
figures uttered a shrill appeal. As the bully straightened up, the
little fellow writhed away and danced over to the side of the road.
“Hello, Chub!” cried Billy, pausing. “What’s the trouble? Were you
playing?”
“Pl-l-laying nothing!” returned Chub shrilly, dancing about in his
rage, and pointing at his tormentor. “That big stiff said I rooted too
much for the visiting team l-l-l-last Saturday! He caught me and was
l-l-lambasting me!”
Chip saw that his friend was fully competent to handle the situation,
and stood back. There was something comical about the helpless rage of
Chub, and about his manner of stumbling speech, that amused Merriwell.
“You’re a fine sort of sport, I don’t think!” exclaimed Billy Mac,
addressing the bully. “Just because a fellow doesn’t root for you, you
want to punish him--and a little chap like Chub, too!”
The bully glowered at Billy Mac in a threatening fashion. He was a
hulking big fellow, wearing a sporty necktie of flaming red, and a
loud-checked suit. His features were heavy and overbearing, with
deep-set black eyes, that gleamed maliciously, and from one corner of
his mouth drooped a burned-out cigarette.
“What’s it to you, Billy Mac?” he growled menacingly. “You’d better
not try to show off around here, just because you been to a military
academy fer a few months!”
“There’s no one showing off around here except that necktie of yours,”
snapped Billy Mac. “It’s a wonder you couldn’t find a baby to lick, you
coward!”
It became evident to Merry that the two knew each other, and that his
friend cherished a thorough dislike for the bully.
“Give it to him, Bil-l-ly!” chirruped Chub, who was well out of danger
by this time. It seemed impossible for the little chap to pronounce the
letter “l” without spilling it out by degrees. “L-l-l-lam him for me!”
The big fellow sneered.
“I suppose you think you can run the place, Billy Mac, now that you’ve
been away to school, hey? You think you are a real athlete, with them
underwear things on, don’t you?”
Seeing that his friend was speechless with rage, Merriwell interfered.
“It’s quite evident that you’re not fitted to pass on athletes, my
friend,” he broke in ironically. “I’ve always found that the fellow
who goes around with a coffin nail sticking in his face is the one
who sticks in the bleachers. He doesn’t get out and toss the ball very
much.”
For some reason, this speech seemed to infuriate the bully. He whirled
on Merry with a snarl of anger.
“Smart guy, ain’t you? I suppose you’re that Merriwell kid that Billy’s
been blowin’ about so much?”
“It seems that you have some brain left, in spite of cigarettes,”
returned Merry dryly. “You’re supposing a lot of things, my friend.
It might strike you to suppose that your absence is better than your
company.”
“Oh, is that so?” The big fellow clenched his fists, glaring. “Say, fer
about two cents I’d take you down a peg, Slim-shanks!”
Billy Mac turned quickly.
“Look here, Chip, you butt out of this!” he demanded. “Chub Newton’s a
friend of mine, and this isn’t your quarrel.”
“All right, old man,” said Merriwell, waving his hand. “I’ll gladly
turn over our genial friend to you. He looks as if a dose of McQuade
compound would improve his health a good deal.”
“Yah!” shrieked Chub Newton, in wild delight. “That’s the way to talk!
L-l-listen to that, Bul-l-ly! You’re goin’ to hear things, al-l-l
right!”
Bully favored Chub with a black look.
“I’ve give you one lesson about closin’ that jaw of yours, Chub,” he
grated. “You’d better lay mighty low, mind my words!”
There was something in the tone and aspect of the fellow that struck a
responsive chord in Merriwell’s memory. What the familiarity was, he
could not fathom. However, he was sure that there was a familiarity.
“L-l-light into him, Bil-l-ly!” pleaded Chub, his shrill voice
appearing to irritate Bully like the buzzing of a mosquito. The latter
shook his fist threateningly.
“You heard what I said!” he roared. “Shut that jaw, or I’ll show you
what a real lambastin’ is, you tow-headed little rat!”
“I don’t think you will, Bully,” said McQuade. Merriwell had thrown him
a warning look, and he had curbed his temper.
“Hey? Why not?” The big fellow turned on Billy, seeming to comprehend
for the first time that he was being actually interfered with. “I
suppose you’ll stop me, hey?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over quite a while,” admitted Billy, with
a grin. “Try a fresh cigarette, Bully. It might help you to get ideas
faster.”
Chub Newton waved his arms in delight. A few passers-by were pausing
to listen to the altercation, and the little fellow turned to them
eagerly.
“Watch Bul-l-ly catch it!” he sang out shrilly. “He’s going to get
a fal-l-len on harder than the Sprucetown batters fel-l-l on him
l-l-l-last Saturday!”
At this the big fellow’s face went positively black with rage. It was
clear that he could think of no taunts to fling back at his diminutive
foe, so he did the next best thing that occurred to him. He took a
swift step toward Chub, his fists clenched.
“No you don’t!”
Billy Mac leaped forward and caught his shoulder, twirling him around.
“Look out!” roared Bully furiously. “I’ll mash that smart-alec mouth o’
yours, you fool! Go home an’ dress yourself!”
“I’d make a better job of it than you’ve done,” retorted Billy, with
contempt.
Among the gathering array a quick smile passed, with significant looks
at the loud attire of the big fellow. This only served to infuriate him
the more. It was clear to Chip that Bully was by no means a favorite,
though for some reason no voice was lifted against him, save that of
Chub Newton.
“Go for him, ol-l-ld scout!” Chub shrieked. “You can l-l-lick him easy!
He’s got a yel-l-ler streak!”
“And you’ve got a yelling streak,” observed Merry, with a laugh.
Glaring from his deep-set eyes, Bully stepped toward McQuade.
“I guess you need a lesson,” he growled. “You’re gettin’ too all-fired
smart around this town, for a pauper.”
Billy went white.
“I’d sooner be a pauper than the son of a crook,” he snapped. “And I’d
sooner be the son of a crook, than a crook myself, Bully!”
A murmur of applause went up from the crowd. It was cut short by a roar
from the big fellow.
“Call me a crook, will you!”
With a quick lunge forward, he aimed a vicious blow at Billy Mac. The
backstop did not appreciate the compliment, however.
Catching the blow on his arm, he took a quick step in, and there was a
dull smack. Bully went staggering back.
“Yah!” chirruped Chub, in great glee. “I tol-l-ld you! L-l-lam him
again!”
The big fellow hesitated, with a surprised expression on his face.
Evidently concluding that an accident had happened, he rushed at Billy
with a shout.
“Here’s where you get yours, smart alec!”
Billy Mac did not seem at all disturbed over the prospect. He waited
the rush quietly, and, as the big fellow drove in another blow, Billy
caught the arm. He turned, jerked the other’s wrist over his shoulder,
and Bully flew over him into the dust. This brought a shout of applause
from the spectators.
It was a simple jujutsu trick. Billy Mac had not learned it very
adroitly, but he had learned it well enough to spill his adversary head
over heels. Bully was unhurt, and was up instantly, brushing at his gay
attire.
“Got some luck, ain’t you!” he sneered furiously.
“Better not try my luck again,” said Billy Mac, with a laugh.
Chub Newton let out a shrill yell.
“L-l-look at the l-l-loud guy now! Yah! Why don’t you cl-l-laim you
stubbed your toe, Bul-l-ly Carson?”
Merriwell started. Could it be possible that this fellow was the son of
Colonel Carson, of whom Billy Mac had spoken--the baseball player? Yes,
he placed the chap now. The features and voice were not unlike those of
Colonel Carson.
However, he had no time to conjecture further. Bully went at Billy
Mac with a second rush, this time exercising more caution. McQuade
had to depend entirely on his quickness, and proved that it was quite
dependable.
He slipped aside, raising a cloud of dust as he did so, and tried to
trip his opponent. Bully staggered and lost his balance, and, as his
arm flew out wide, Billy Mac stepped in and his fist went out.
Again there came a sharp crack as the blow landed. The big fellow,
struck fairly on the angle of the jaw below the ear, shivered, and then
went reeling across the street. He pulled up at the fence, clinging to
it desperately.
“Yah! He’s scared out!” cried Chub.
So, indeed, it seemed. The blow had not been hard enough to knock him
out, yet he made no offer to return to the fight. Instead, he raised
his fist and shook it menacingly.
“You’ll suffer for this!” he exclaimed. “You wait till I see dad!”
“Yah!” shrilled Chub Newton, dancing wildly. “Go put a muffl-l-ler on
your new cl-l-lothes, Bully Carson!”
Bully moved off, evidently sick of the encounter. Since it was plainly
over, the spectators drifted away, and Chub Newton thanked his rescuer.
Billy Mac introduced him to Frank Merriwell, junior, but seemed to have
little delight in his victory.
“Now I am in for it, and no mistake!” he exclaimed, looking after the
big fellow.
“Why?”
“Didn’t you notice the resemblance?”
“Well, yes. And I heard Chub call him Bully Carson----”
“Yes, that’s his usual nickname. He is Colonel Carson’s son, Chip. And
I guess you can see that I’ve done a pretty bad morning’s work for the
McQuade family.”