“Then I’ll do it!” vowed Chet, again striking the table. “You bet your life! I know how. I’ll fake up a letter from my sister. I’ll make appointment for him, and we’ll jump on him. Then we’ll sack him onto the yacht and give him a little cruise. That’s the stuff! He’ll smoke cigarettes! He’ll drink booze before I am through with him!” In his present condition any sort of a wild scheme seemed feasible to Arlington. “You ought to have it in for him, Tom,” he said, nodding at Moran. “You bear marks of his knuckles on your mug now.” “That’s right!” growled the young bruiser; “but you told me he was easy!” “Ought to have been easy for you. You ought to do him up without half trying. Wait till we get him on the yacht. Then you can thump him if you want to. Then you can get square with him. What do you say?” “Go ahead,” said Moran. “Give me the chance.” “I’ll fix it,” averred Chet. “I’ll soak him if it is the last thing I ever do around here! Might as well get out of this old town, anyway! Got to leave this rotten old school! When I do leave I want to have Merriwell fixed so he can’t hold up his head again and say he don’t drink and don’t smoke. If it wasn’t for Tony we’d be all right. I can depend on the rest of the crew. Where’s Lazaro? He is my right-hand man. He ought to be here now. Where is he?” No one seemed to know. “Told him to be here,” Chet mumbled, dropping his cigarette and looking around in vain for it. While he was searching for the cigarette a slim, dark-faced man entered and approached the table. “Here comes Tony,” said one of the sailors. Arlington braced up and stared at the newcomer. “Who invited you?” he demanded. “I beg da pard, Mist’ Arlington,” said the Italian, respectfully touching his cap. “I t’ink I better tella you. Nobod’ on da yacht. I t’ink you better know. Mebbe your mother no lika it.” “What’s that to you, you dago dog!” snarled Chet. “You pay attention to your own business!” Instantly the dark face of the Italian grew darker and his black eyes glittered. “Tony no dago doga!” he hissed. “He no gita drunk! He minda his bis’!” “What’s that?” growled Chet, pushing back from the table. “Your sist’ very fina girl,” asserted the Italian. “You maka her feel very bada. You ought to be ashameda.” Somehow Arlington managed to throw off, for a moment, the effects of the liquor, and he rose quickly to his feet, taking a single step. Evidently Tony was unprepared for what happened, for he fancied Chester was too intoxicated to do anything of the sort. At any rate, he could not avoid Arlington’s blow, which made him stagger. “You cur!” snarled the enraged youth. “Don’t dare speak of my sister! Don’t dare refer to her!” With a savage Italian oath, Tony plunged his hand into his pocket, and the lights flashed on a glittering blade of steel, which his shaking fingers brought forth. Fortunately for Arlington, the two sailors and Tom Moran seized the enraged Italian. “Leta go! Leta go! He strika me!”