“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.