DICK THRASHES A BULLY.
“There he is!”
“Who?”
“Frank Merriwell.”
“Where?”
“Standing on the steps.”
“Which one?”
“The handsome fellow in the dark-blue suit.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll tackle him.”
Nick Robinson, manager of the Philadelphia Athletic baseball-team,
stepped quickly toward the Continental Hotel, in front of which Frank
Merriwell was chatting with Jack Ready.
Merriwell and his friends had reached the Quaker City, and the entire
party was stopping at the Continental.
As Robinson approached, he heard Jack Ready observing:
“It’s ever Sunday in this village, but whisper it not to the natives,
unless you desire their everlasting and undying aversion. This is a
perfectly lovely town to rest in, as nothing ever happens here to
disturb the Sabbath calm of the place.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind kicking up a little excitement, to vary the
monotony,” said Frank. “Now, if we could get into a game of baseball,
we might be able to raise the dust.”
“That’s your cue, Nick,” muttered Jack Wilder, who had followed
Robinson closely.
“I beg your pardon, young men,” spoke the baseball magnate; “are you
Frank Merriwell?”
“That’s my name,” admitted Merry.
“And you are looking for a chance to play baseball?”
“Not exactly looking for a chance, though I’d like to indulge in a
little sport of the sort if I could find a team that desired to play
mine.”
“You have your team here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve seen newspaper accounts of your success in defeating everything
you have encountered this season, and I have a team that I fancy is
able to take some of the conceit out of you.”
“What, ho!” cried Ready. “I scent trouble! Methinks the fur will fill
the breeze directly.”
Frank smiled.
“You, sir,” he said quietly, “are like others I have encountered
during our trip, for you fancy I must be conceited because I have
been very successful in defeating fast ball-teams this season. We are
out for sport, sir, and are not afraid to tackle anything that we
come across. At the same time, I hardly think we are conceited.”
“You’re not afraid of anything?”
“Afraid? Why should I be?”
“Then I challenge you to play my team to-morrow. Do you accept?”
“With pleasure. What team do you represent?”
“He’ll want to back out when you tell him,” laughed Wilder, with a
sneering expression.
“Tut! tut!” came from Ready. “He won’t care a sour clam what old team
the gentleman represents. The warmer the team the better it will suit
Mr. Merriwell. Are we going against National Leaguers?”
“I am the manager of the Philadelphia Athletic team,” said Robinson
proudly. “It happens that we have an open date to-morrow. Of course,
we’ll find no trouble in defeating your team, Merriwell; but there
seems to be a foolish impression here that your picked nine of
college chaps must be much faster than it possibly can be, and
several sporting men in town have hinted that you could give us a
hard rub. One man offered to bet me even money that you could hold
the Athletics down to five scores, or less. Now, that is perfectly
ridiculous. Seeing by the papers that you had struck town and were
stopping here, I decided to look you up and find out if you had sand
enough to give us a game to-morrow. Mr. Wilder knows you by sight,
and that is why I brought him along. He pointed you out to me.”
“Well, I am glad you took the trouble,” said Frank. “I was beginning
to fear that this city would not provide us with amusement. What
terms are you willing to play on?”
“Winning team takes all the gate-money.”
“That is agreeable; but you are to do all the advertising and provide
balls and grounds.”
“We’ll play on the Athletic grounds, and I will look out for
everything. All you have to do is to be on hand to begin playing at
half-past three to-morrow. Can I depend on you?”
“You may.”
“You’ll not lose your nerve and back out?”
“Say!” broke in Ready indignantly, “did you ever know Merry to
lose his nerve and back out of anything? Go hence with thy base
insinuations! He’ll be on hand, with the crowd, to give you a hot run
for the gate-money. And I’ll bet you a peck of sweet potatoes that we
beat you! Dost dare take me?”
“There is conceit for you, Mr. Merriwell!” laughed Robinson. “If you
are not troubled with it, your friend is.”
“Nay, nay, gentle stranger,” denied Jack, with a queer flirt of
his hand; “I deny thy allegation. It is not conceit, but it is
confidence. The two words are hardly synonymous.”
“Call it what you like, we’ll take it out of you to-morrow,” nodded
Robinson.
“Wait,” from Frank. “How am I to know that this deal is on the level?
I am not anxious to run into any April-fool business.”
“If you’ll step inside with me,” said Robinson, “I think we’ll find
somebody to identify me and convince you that my word is good. We can
also draw up agreements in regard to the gate-money.”
Merry at once agreed, and they entered the office of the hotel. The
proprietor happened to be in the office, and he readily assured Frank
that Robinson was the manager of the Athletic team and that his word
was good. Then an agreement was drawn up, which both Robinson and
Frank signed, with the proprietor and Ready as witnesses.
Ready was holding in repression his feeling of satisfaction and
delight, for this was just the sort of game Jack longed to get into.
When everything had been arranged satisfactorily, Robinson suggested
that all adjourn to the bar and “take something.” He was surprised
and offended, at first, when Frank declined with politeness.
“I do not drink,” explained Merry. “Of course, if you insist, I’ll
take a plain seltzer, or something of that sort, with you.”
“You can take a cigar,” said Robinson.
“I’d have to give it away if I did.”
“You don’t mean to say that you do not smoke?”
“I never have.”
“Well, well! It would be better for most ball-players if they
followed your example. Drinking has ruined lots of promising young
fellows. I’ve seen fast young players go steadily down-hill from
no apparent cause, but investigation has revealed that they were
drinking right along. They fancied they could do it because they knew
some old stagers who did, and they were careful not to take enough
to become intoxicated. Often they would have a drink before a game.
Then it seemed, when they got warmed up, that the stuff went to their
heads and muddled them somehow so they could not do their best. I’ve
warned many of them in vain. They would insist that they did not take
enough to hurt them, and so they kept on till they were released.”
“But some men who drink are fast players,” broke in Wilder. “I know
more than one.”
“Yes, that may be,” nodded Robinson; “but they would be still faster
if they took nothing at all.”
“Exactly my belief,” asserted Frank. “And no man can have good wind
if he smokes persistently.”
So, without drinking or smoking, they sauntered out of the office to
the steps of the hotel, where Merry had first been observed by the
men.
As they reached the steps their attention was drawn to a shouting,
whooping band of urchins who were following at the heels of Old Joe
Crowfoot.
“Hello!” exclaimed Frank. “Here seems to be some excitement.”
With a dirty red blanket wrapped about his shoulders, the old Indian
came stalking along Chestnut Street, followed by a crowd of whooping
boys of every size and age. He paid not the slightest attention to
the urchins, but walked with all the dignity he could command, his
thin lips pressed together and his black eyes gleaming like the eyes
of an aroused animal.
The boys were led by one big, hulking fellow, who was at least
eighteen years old, and who looked very tough and fierce. This chap
was smoking a cigarette, and had his soiled cap pulled down over one
eye. He walked with the gait of a prize-fighter, his neck thrust
forward and his chin protruding, while his shoulders were hunched.
Now and then he would turn and incite the yelling boys to louder
outbreaks of ridicule and derision.
“What do me eyes behold?” exclaimed Jack Ready. “The noble red man
hath encountered a few samples of the real uncivilized civilization.
I see he is enjoying it greatly.”
“Nothing in the world could make Joe so furious as to be mocked by
boys.”
As Merry spoke, the aged Indian suddenly stopped and turned on his
pursuers.
“Dogs!” he said, in great scorn, yet without lifting his voice.
“Hey?” cried the leader of the young thugs, clenching his fists,
striking a pose, and thrusting his face toward that of the redskin.
“Wot’s dat yer calls us?”
“Dogs!” repeated Old Joe Crowfoot.
“W’y, yer dirty old tan-colored mucker! How dare yer call us dat? Yer
rotten old scalp-lifter! we’ll knock seventeen kinds of stuffin’s out
of yer!”
The expression on the wrinkled face of the old savage was one of
unspeakable scorn.
“Dogs! Buzzards! Squaws!” he flung back.
“Give it ter him, Jim!” cried the boys. “T’ump him, Jim!”
The young thug lifted his clenched fist and shook it under the nose
of the old redskin.
“Take it back!” he snarled. “Swaller yer words, ur I’ll smash yer!”
“Smash him! smash him!” howled the urchins.
“Look out fer his tommyhawk!” shrieked one.
“An’ his scalpin’-knife!” put in another.
Old Joe folded his arms across his breast, making a picturesque
figure.
“Yelping curs!” he said. “Heap no good! Dirt under my feet! I spit on
you!”
“Now I will soak yer!” roared the fellow called Jim, as he swung his
fist back.
Before the blow could fall a lithe figure sprang down the steps of
the hotel, darting past Frank Merriwell, rushed forward, and jumped
between the Indian and the young thug, hurling the latter backward.
“You onery whelp!” exclaimed a clear, fearless voice. “If you try to
touch Old Joe, I’ll make you sorry!”
“Behold!” said Jack Ready; “another Merriwell hath chipped into the
game, and verily I predict that the fur will fly.”
Frank had started forward to interfere between the Indian and his
tormentors, but he paused now, something like a grim smile coming to
his handsome face as he watched his brother thrust the city ruffian
backward.
Dick was developing rapidly under the training of Frank, who
worked systematically with the lad, strengthening his weak points
and improving the strong ones. Nor had Merry failed to give Dick
instructions in the manly art of self-defense. Each day, when
possible, he had spent at least thirty minutes sparring with the lad,
and the progress made by his pupil had amazed Merry.
“Let’s gently sift into this scrap,” urged Ready. “The wrinkled
aborigine must be defended.”
Merry grasped his arm.
“Wait,” he advised. “Let’s see how Dick can handle himself.”
Of course, the hooting urchins had gathered a crowd, but somehow
it happened that no officer appeared to be in sight, therefore the
hoodlums were not dispersed.
The bully gave a gasp of surprise and anger as the clean-faced lad
with the flashing black eyes thrust him backward. He staggered and
nearly fell down, but recovered quickly and gave Dick a fierce look.
“W’ot?” he howled. “W’ot’s dat yer say, kid? W’y, I can break youse
in two widout half-tryin’! Git outer me way, ur I’ll biff yer, an’
ye’ll never know w’ot happened!”
He started forward, but Dick immediately assumed a position of
readiness, retorting:
“Come on, you dirty duffer! Just walk right up and biff me!”
The boys yelled:
“A fight! a fight! Smash him, Jim! Knock his eye out!”
Jim expectorated on his hands.
“Dat’s jest w’ot I’ll do!” he vowed. “I’ll fit der kid fer der
hospital!”
Old Joe looked on without moving, but his hand sought the haft of a
hidden knife, while his lips murmured:
“I kill him, Dick! Cut him heart out!”
“No!” breathed the lad. “Don’t do it, Joe! He’ll not hurt me much.
Don’t be afraid.”
The young thug advanced on Dick, who immediately moved aside to the
left, beginning circling round him.
“Look at der kid!” cried the boys, in derision. “He t’inks he’s a
fighter! Jim’ll knock der eye outer him in less’n t’ree seconds!
T’ump him, Jim!”
The bully fancied Dick was frightened, and he tried to close in
quickly. Then the boy ducked and gave his adversary a body-blow that
made the big rough gasp.
“Hit him! hit him!” howled the boys, as they saw their leader strike
wildly past the head of the nimble stranger.
“Methinks the gentle dub with the crooked eye got a severe jolt in
the bread-basket that time,” observed Jack Ready.
The bully’s left eye had a cast in it.
“Drat ye!” gulped the fellow, as he tried to follow Dick up. “Just
keep still an’ I will----”
He did not say what he’d do; for again they closed, and this time the
youthful thug received a smash on the jaw that made his head ring. He
was astounded, for he had not fancied the slender lad could strike
such a heavy blow. Not only was he surprised, but he was doubly
enraged and from his lips came a roar of rage.
Then the ruffian jumped at Dick in his fiercest manner, his fists
flying out and his arms thrashing the air. From his lips rolled a
torrent of profanity and foul language.
With perfect self-command, which amused and satisfied Frank, Dick
avoided the rushes of the thug and struck him heavily several times.
In a very few seconds these blows drew blood.
The boys who had followed the ruffian looked on in amazement. They
could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes, for all of them had
regarded “Squinty” Jim as a fighter of great ability, and he had
lorded it over them in a high-handed manner.
“Squinty’s gettin’ licked!” one of them finally cried, as if he could
hardly believe it himself.
“It’s a lie!” snarled the big thug. But just then Dick Merriwell’s
fist caught him on the chin and he was knocked down.
The fellow jumped up at once, but that blow had dazed him, and Dick
gave him no chance to recover. The moment the fellow was fairly on
his feet he received another blow on the ear, and went down again.
“Somebody else hit me den!” he howled. “Dey’re all jumpin’ on me,
fellers! Come on an’ give it ter ’em!”
Then, as he scrambled to his feet, he urged the boys to give him aid.
A few of them seemed inclined to do so, but one chap held them back.
“Let Squinty fight it out,” he said. “If he cannot lick dat chap, he
oughter git soaked.”
So the bully received no assistance, and Dick Merriwell proceeded to
polish him off in a most scientific manner, without being once struck
hard himself.
Still, with his arms folded, the old Indian looked on. His face
seemed expressionless as that of a graven image, but the light in his
beady eyes told of the admiration in his heart.
Dick made short work of the bully, who soon lost his spirit when he
found the boy was more than his match and that none of his friends
would aid him.
At last, after being knocked down again, the fellow looked up and
whimpered:
“It ain’t fair! Yer didn’t give me no show!”
The crowd uttered a shout of derision.
“You’re licked!” cried many voices.
“Dat’s right,” said the fellow who had restrained the boys from
aiding the bully. “An’ if dat kid can lick him, I can do it, too! You
ain’t der boss of dis gang no more, Squinty.”
“Get up!” panted Dick Merriwell, whose cheeks were flushed and whose
eyes gleamed. “Get up, and I’ll give you some more of the same sort!”
“He don’t want it!” laughed many.
“You’re a dandy, young fellow!” cried a man. “I’ve seen good men in
my day, but I never saw one handle himself better than you can.
You’ll make a world-beater if you’ll train for the ring.”
Squinty Jim sat up.
“My brother’ll make somebody sorry fer dis!” he declared. “He kin
lick any old t’ing in dis town!”
“His brother is Bud McCann, the prize-fighter,” said somebody. “He’s
playing baseball this year.”
“Here comes a cop!” cried an urchin, and immediately the boys began
to scatter.
Squinty Jim got up, giving Dick a baleful look.
“Youse ain’t seen der last of me!” he grated, wiping the blood from
his bruised face with his sleeve. “I’ll get even wid yer yit, see if
I don’t!”
With this threat he slouched away.