Still, Merriwell was not in the least excited. He even smiled serenely into the face of the water-soaked, angry man. As he did so, he unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and began to roll them back. Two round, white arms, shining with dampness, were exposed. Bunker gave a snarl of anger. “Why, you fool!” he cried. “Do you think you can scare me by rolling up your sleeves? I’ll take you over my knee and spank you!” This caused Merriwell’s smile to broaden and break into a ringing laugh. “Just toss aside that club,” he said, “and I’ll soon show you who will be spanked.” “Don’t do it, Bill!” came from Welch, who had recovered in a remarkable manner. “He is the greatest athlete in Yale College, if what the papers say about him is true.” “I ain’t going to fool with him,” declared Bunker, advancing a step and half lifting the club. “Pay for those guns, Mr. Frank Merriwell, or I’ll thump the life out of you!” Frank stood his ground, looking the man straight in the eyes; but Hodge retreated to the canoe, the prow of which had been drawn up on the sand. “Keep back!” commanded Merriwell. “We are not going to fool with you any longer.” “And I am not going to fool with you, either!” “You have tried to fill us with shot and break our heads this morning. That you have received the worst of it so far is simple retribution. Welch would have drowned if I hadn’t saved him, for you made no move to help him. You owe me something for that.” “Bah! You saved him because you were afraid.” “Of what?” “That, if he died, you would be held responsible. It was cowardice, not bravery, that led you to get him out of the water.” “You are at liberty to think that, if you like; it makes no difference to me.” “I know it.” “All right. I pulled him out, just the same, and we pumped the water out of him after getting him ashore. You were not on hand to help, and he would be dead past resuscitation at this moment had he depended on you.” Bunker advanced another step. “It makes no difference,” he grated; “you’ll pay for the guns, just the same—and for the oars, too. I want twenty dollars for my gun, and Jim’s was worth fifteen. The oars bring it up to—well, you can cough up fifty dollars, and we’ll call it square.” “How kind!” laughed Merriwell. “My dear sir, we could not think of accommodating you.” “You’ll have to, or I’ll crack your skull sure this time!” Now the club was flourished threateningly, and the face of the man showed he really meant it. Frank grew grave, but did not take his eyes from the ruffian. “Look here, Mr. Bunker,” he said, swiftly, “you are getting yourself into a bad scrape. If you don’t drop it, I’ll take the trouble to swear out a warrant for you at the earliest opportunity and place an officer on your track. It will not be difficult to put you behind iron bars.” “Bah!” again cried the man. “You can’t save yourself that way. Cough up.” “Not a cent!” “Then you get it!” “Come on!”