SOREHEADS.
Hobart Manton was sore all the way through. Having put on his coat,
he came over to Merriwell, who was betraying no exultation over the
outcome.
“I presume it’s up to me to say something pleasant,” he observed. “You
defeated me on the level, all right; but you couldn’t do it again in a
week.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Frank, unruffled. “Still you know there is an
old saying that the future may be judged only by the past. I’m not a
champion bowler.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir.”
“Why, I thought you pretended to be a champion at everything you
attempted to do.”
“On the contrary, I make no pretensions whatever.”
“He doesn’t have to,” chipped in Grafter. “His record speaks for him.”
“Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to purchase his secret for ten
thousand dollars,” sneered Manton. “You are so flush with money.”
“It wouldn’t cost me quite ten thousand now,” retorted the shot-putter.
“Only nine thousand nine hundred. I have a hundred coming.”
“That’s right,” admitted Manton; “but winning that hundred may cost you
dearly before long. I generally get even.”
“Welcome to try.”
“If you linger until our open meet comes off,” said Manton, again
addressing Merriwell, “we’ll try to find some one to defeat you at
something.”
“Jumping or pole vaulting, for instance,” said Farley Fisher.
“In a club made up of specialists you should be able to defeat an
ordinary all-round man,” said Frank. “You know it is the rule that an
all-round man seldom excels at any particular thing.”
“He fancies he is the exception to the rule,” said Frost, in his cold,
chilling way.
“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Bert Fuller reprovingly; “don’t forget that Mr.
Merriwell is a guest!”
“Oh, never mind them,” smiled Frank. “They’re amusing themselves by
seeking to get me on the string. It doesn’t disturb me, and it may give
them pleasure.”
“He’s too blamed cool and undisturbed!” growled Farley Fisher, turning
away. “Makes me want to punch him! I know Manton is just boiling to get
at him with his fists.”
“Manton could show him up that way,” said Frost. “Too bad he didn’t
challenge the fellow to put on the gloves. Then there would have been
no question about the result.”
The defeated bowler left the alley, accompanied by a few of his bosom
friends.
Frank was congratulated by a number of the members, who told him
plainly that they had not fancied it possible he could defeat their man
at bowling.
“Well,” nodded Merry, “you know there was nothing sure about it until
it was over. Mr. Manton is a splendid bowler, but he takes defeat
hard. He’s a poor loser.”
Grafter kept close to Merry. Before Frank left the club, he found an
opportunity to say:
“I’d like to have a little private talk with you, Mr. Merriwell. Will
it be too much bother?”
“Not at all, Mr. Grafter. I’m at liberty any time you may select.”
“Where are you stopping?”
“At Elm Tree Inn, down below. Just going down for lunch now. Will you
take lunch with me?”
“I should be pleased to!” exclaimed Grafter. “But why don’t you stop
here to lunch?”
“I invited him,” the club president hastened to explain; “but he said
he had some business that he must look after, and so he could not stay
to-day.”
“Oh, then I’ll interfere with your business?” said the shot putter.
“Not at all. The fact is, I’m half expecting some of my boys to arrive
at the inn, and I wish to be there when they show up.”
A few minutes later Grafter was in the carriage with Merriwell, Hodge,
and Fuller. Manton and his particular chums watched the four depart.
“Grafter makes me ill!” growled Manton. “He’s ready to bow down and
worship Merriwell. Seems to think the fellow has some wonderful secret
method of becoming a champion. Oh, hang the luck! Why did I fail to
defeat him to-day! I’ll guarantee I can do it next time!”
“You should have challenged him for another string,” said Fisher.
“I couldn’t very well. I think I mentioned that one string would be
enough. I said something of the sort before we began bowling. Besides,
I was too hot over losing that string. I knew he would defeat me if we
rolled another right away.”
Dent Frost had his derby pulled over his eyes. He was humped on a
chair, his feet on the window ledge.
“It didn’t seem to bother you as much as it did me,” he observed.
“Wonder if Merriwell is coming back here this afternoon?”
“I understand he is. Why?”
“I’d like to run him up against somebody who could knock a corner off
him. Who’s the man?”
“There he is now!” exclaimed Fisher, as a young chap in flannels
approached the house, followed by a caddie with a golfing outfit.
“Cleaves?” said Manton.
“The very fellow,” asserted Fisher. “He’s the golf champion of this
club, and he could be the champion of the country, if he would give up
business and turn his attention to golf.”
Manton shook his head.
“It wouldn’t satisfy me much to see Merriwell defeated at such a mild
game as golf,” he declared.
“I’d like to see him beaten at something that would hurt him—and hurt
him bad.”
“You’re looking for revenge.”
“That’s what I am,” was the confession. “I’m looking for it, and I’m
going to have it!”
“Now you’re talking,” nodded Frost. “Rib him into the pole vault at our
meet, and I’ll give you a taste of it.”
“Don’t be too sure. I thought I could put it over him on the alley
to-day. I’d like to smash his face!”
“Why don’t you?” murmured Frost.
“I may—when I get a chance. Couldn’t pick a quarrel with him here, you
know. Hello! here’s Necker.”
A slender, blue-eyed chap approached.
“What’s this I hear?” he exclaimed. “They tell me you’ve let a stranger
down you at tenpins, Mant.”
“So they’re blowing it round?” snapped Manton, frowning. “I thought
they would. Seem to take delight in it. I suppose there are fools
around here who fancy it’s an honor for a member of this club to be
defeated by the great Frank Merriwell.”
Necker whistled.
“Was that the fellow who did it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone. He’s stopping down at the Elm Tree. Grafter’s mittened onto him.”
“I’ve been wanting to get a look at Merriwell. What’s up? Is he here to
take part in the meet?”
“I reckon so. He’ll expect to put it all over our bunch. You want to
look out, Jack. You know he’s a champion at everything.”
Necker laughed.
“I’m not afraid of that kind of a champion,” he declared.
“Jack-of-all-trades and master of none, you know. I hope he does jump
against me. It will add interest to that event.”
“Don’t you be too sure of defeating him,” said Fisher.
“I’ll defeat him all right if he jumps,” assured Necker. “But he’ll be
too clever to let me show him up. He had better stick to his baseball.
That’s what he was cut out for. I’m sorry you fell down when you
tackled him, Manton.”
“I tell you he is a bad man at anything,” said Fisher. “I didn’t
think it a while ago, but I believe it now. He’s a chap with supreme
confidence in himself.”
“Sort of a swell head, eh? Goes round with his chest out and a chip on
his shoulder?”
“That’s what makes me all the sorer on him. He doesn’t go round that
way. He’s too quiet and modest. Never’d know he considered himself
anything in particular. Of course, that’s all a bluff. I’ll guarantee
he’s all swelled up inside, even if he doesn’t show it.”
“I’m growing more and more interested,” smiled Necker. “If he can be
induced to enter the jumping contest I’ll make him look like a yellow
dog with a tin can tied to its tail, I promise you.”
“And I’m ready to do the same thing to him at the pole vault,” said
Frost.
“And I’m going to push up against him in another way if I find an
opportunity,” growled Manton, clenching his fist and looking at it
earnestly.
“It seems to me,” said Fisher, “that Mr. Merriwell will have his hands
full of business if he lingers around here.”