Instead of that, something quite
unexpected by him had happened.
The astounded servant showed signs of terror, but in vain he struggled.
He was helpless in the clutch of the giant collegian.
The master seemed about to interfere, but Frank Merriwell confronted him
in a manner that spoke as plainly as words.
"Out of ze way!" snarled the man.
"Speaking to me?" inquired Merry, lifting his eyebrows.
"Oui! oui!"
"I am sorry, but I can't accommodate you till my friend gets through
with your servant, who was extremely fresh, like most Frenchmen."
"Zis to me!"
"Yes."
"Sare, I am M. Rouen Montfort, an' I--"
"It makes no difference to me if you are the high mogul of France. You
are on the deck of an English vessel, and you are dealing with
Americans."
The Frenchman flung his cigar aside and seemed to feel for a weapon.
Frank stood there quietly, his eyes watching every movement.
"If you have what you are seeking about your person," he said, with
perfect calmness, "I advise you not to draw it. If you do, as sure as
you are sailing down New York harbor, I'll fling you over the rail,
weapon and all!"
That was business, and it was not boasting. Frank actually meant to
throw the man into the water if he drew a weapon.
M. Rouen Montfort paused and stared at Frank Merriwell, beginning to
understand that he was not dealing with an ordinary youth.
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