Paul did not say a word as the big plebe entered.
"Well," said Bascomb, as he sat down on a stool, "what do you think of Merriwell ?" "I think he is a mighty hard fellow to beat at anything," growled Paul.
"But he can be beaten--eh ?" "How ?" "There are ways." "What do you mean?
Speak plainly." "You ought to know what I mean," said Bascomb, doggedly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"It isn't always the best trotter that wins a race." "It will not be easy to beat Merriwell fairly." "That's right; but you are a fellow of nerve and brains, and you ought to be able to devise some scheme to get the best of him unfairly." Rains stopped and stared at Bascomb, his face showing that he was angrier than ever.
"Now your meaning is pretty plain," he said, slowly.

"I will confess that I dislike Merriwell--that I would give almost anything to get the best of him; but I want you to understand, Hugh Bascomb, that I am no sneak!" Bascomb still kept his eyes on the floor.
"Oh, what's the use to get on your high horse, Rains!" he said, in his sullen way.

"If you dislike Merriwell, as you pretend, and if you hope to down him at anything, you cannot be too much of a stickler for little things.

Once get him to going down hill, and we can keep him going.