As the hostler scrambled up, his fingers encountered the handle of the wrench and closed around it. His face was purple with anger, and there was a furious glare in his bloodshot eyes. The thick lips, purple and swollen, curled back from his tobacco-stained teeth, and with a snarl that might have issued from the throat of some wild beast, he flung the wrench at Frank’s head. “Look out dar!” Toots uttered the cry, but Merriwell was watching the man closely, and he dodged the missile, which went whizzing past with an unpleasant sound. A man was just stepping in at the door, and the wrench struck him on the breast, knocking him down as if he had been shot. Then Rattleton and Hodge came running up, and bent over the fallen man, who lay groaning on the ground. It was Stephen Fenton! The hostler seemed suddenly sobered by his act. “Gosh!” he muttered. “It were Steve I hit! Hope I didn’t kill him!” Frank was keeping watch of Wade, but saw the man was appalled by the result of his angry act, and so ventured to turn about and hasten to Fenton’s side. “Bring some water!” he ordered. “He may be seriously injured!” Fenton’s face was purple, and he was gasping for breath, but, as Merriwell stooped to lift his head, he feebly but savagely motioned him back. “Hands off!” gasped the man. “Keep away from me!” Toots came running up with some water. “Heah, boss!” he cried; “heah’s yo’ watah!” “What do I want of water! Anybody—got some—whiskey?” “Here!” cried Wade, quickly stepping forward, and taking a bottle from a pocket inside his red flannel shirt; “here’s a bit.” It was a pint bottle, nearly a third full. Fenton grasped it with a shaking hand as he sat up, lifted it to his lips, and did not take it down till he had swallowed the last drop. With a growl, he got upon his feet, flinging the empty bottle aside. He gave Frank a fierce look, then addressed Wade: “What’s the matter with you, Bill? Did you want to kill me?” “I didn’t throw it at ye, Steve—I mean Mr. Fenton. I didn’t mean ter hit ye.” Fenton rubbed his chest and coughed. “Lucky you didn’t kill me,” he said, huskily. Kenneth St. Ives appeared. “What’s the matter here?” he asked. The hostler hastened to explain that he was simply moving the bicycles out of the way when Frank Merriwell assaulted him. “It was my wheel,” said Frank, making a hasty examination, “and he has loosened things up generally around it. If I were to attempt to ride it now without putting it in shape, the chances are that I would break my neck the first hill I came to. It is plain enough that this wheel has been doctored to give me a fall.” Kenneth examined it, and saw at a glance that Frank was right. Still, the hostler protested that he had done nothing to the wheel save move it over slightly, so it would not be in the way.