"The Models have a right to do anything."
"The Models?" I queried, in perplexity. "Who are they?"
"The Models are a band of young gentlemen organized for the purpose of
social enjoyment and to teach cads lessons that they are not likely to
forget," replied Moran.
"I suppose you are the members," I said, surveying the half-dozen.
"We have that honor," rejoined a boy named Barton, who had not yet
spoken.
"And we intend to teach you a lesson," added Pultzer, a short, stout
chap, whose father had once been a butcher.
"What for?"
"For your unwarranted attack upon our illustrious president."
"Your president? You mean Duncan?"
"Mr. Woodward, if you please," interrupted Duncan, loftily. "I won't
have such a low-bred fellow as you calling me by my first name."
"I'm no lower bred than you are," I retorted.
"Come, none of that!"cried Moran. "We all know you well. We shall at
once proceed to teach you a lesson."
I could not help smile-- the whole affair seemed so ridiculous that
had it not been for the rough handling I had received when pulled from
the carriage, I would have considered it a joke.
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