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FRANK MERRIWELL’S STRONG ARM


      *      *      *      *      *      *

  BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

  MERRIWELL SERIES

  Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

  PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS

  _Fascinating Stories of Athletics_


  A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers
  will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these
  adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with
  themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

  These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of
  sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and
  cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

  They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to
  become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a
  strong, vigorous right-thinking man.

  _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   1--Frank Merriwell’s School Days             By Burt L. Standish
   2--Frank Merriwell’s Chums                   By Burt L. Standish
   3--Frank Merriwell’s Foes                    By Burt L. Standish
   4--Frank Merriwell’s Trip West               By Burt L. Standish
   5--Frank Merriwell Down South                By Burt L. Standish
   6--Frank Merriwell’s Bravery                 By Burt L. Standish
   7--Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour            By Burt L. Standish
   8--Frank Merriwell in Europe                 By Burt L. Standish
   9--Frank Merriwell at Yale                   By Burt L. Standish
  10--Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield           By Burt L. Standish
  11--Frank Merriwell’s Races                   By Burt L. Standish
  12--Frank Merriwell’s Party                   By Burt L. Standish
  13--Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour            By Burt L. Standish
  14--Frank Merriwell’s Courage                 By Burt L. Standish
  15--Frank Merriwell’s Daring                  By Burt L. Standish
  16--Frank Merriwell’s Alarm                   By Burt L. Standish
  17--Frank Merriwell’s Athletes                By Burt L. Standish
  18--Frank Merriwell’s Skill                   By Burt L. Standish
  19--Frank Merriwell’s Champions               By Burt L. Standish
  20--Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale          By Burt L. Standish
  21--Frank Merriwell’s Secret                  By Burt L. Standish
  22--Frank Merriwell’s Danger                  By Burt L. Standish
  23--Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty                 By Burt L. Standish
  24--Frank Merriwell in Camp                   By Burt L. Standish
  25--Frank Merriwell’s Vacation                By Burt L. Standish
  26--Frank Merriwell’s Cruise                  By Burt L. Standish
  27--Frank Merriwell’s Chase                   By Burt L. Standish
  28--Frank Merriwell in Maine                  By Burt L. Standish
  29--Frank Merriwell’s Struggle                By Burt L. Standish
  30--Frank Merriwell’s First Job               By Burt L. Standish
  31--Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity             By Burt L. Standish
  32--Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck               By Burt L. Standish
  33--Frank Merriwell’s Protégé                 By Burt L. Standish
  34--Frank Merriwell on the Road               By Burt L. Standish
  35--Frank Merriwell’s Own Company             By Burt L. Standish
  36--Frank Merriwell’s Fame                    By Burt L. Standish
  37--Frank Merriwell’s College Chums           By Burt L. Standish
  38--Frank Merriwell’s Problem                 By Burt L. Standish
  39--Frank Merriwell’s Fortune                 By Burt L. Standish
  40--Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian            By Burt L. Standish
  41--Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity              By Burt L. Standish
  42--Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit               By Burt L. Standish
  43--Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme            By Burt L. Standish
  44--Frank Merriwell in England                By Burt L. Standish
  45--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards         By Burt L. Standish
  46--Frank Merriwell’s Duel                    By Burt L. Standish
  47--Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot             By Burt L. Standish
  48--Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories      By Burt L. Standish
  49--Frank Merriwell’s Confidence              By Burt L. Standish
  50--Frank Merriwell’s Auto                    By Burt L. Standish
  51--Frank Merriwell’s Fun                     By Burt L. Standish
  52--Frank Merriwell’s Generosity              By Burt L. Standish
  53--Frank Merriwell’s Tricks                  By Burt L. Standish
  54--Frank Merriwell’s Temptation              By Burt L. Standish
  55--Frank Merriwell on Top                    By Burt L. Standish
  56--Frank Merriwell’s Luck                    By Burt L. Standish
  57--Frank Merriwell’s Mascot                  By Burt L. Standish
  58--Frank Merriwell’s Reward                  By Burt L Standish
  59--Frank Merriwell’s Phantom                 By Burt L. Standish
  60--Frank Merriwell’s Faith                   By Burt L. Standish
  61--Frank Merriwell’s Victories               By Burt L. Standish
  62--Frank Merriwell’s Iron Nerve              By Burt L. Standish
  63--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky               By Burt L. Standish
  64--Frank Merriwell’s Power                   By Burt L. Standish
  65--Frank Merriwell’s Shrewdness              By Burt L. Standish

  In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
  books listed below will be issued during the respective months in
  New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a
  distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


  To Be Published in July, 1923.

  66--Frank Merriwell’s Set Back                By Burt L. Standish
  67--Frank Merriwell’s Search                  By Burt L. Standish

      *      *      *      *      *      *


FRANK MERRIWELL’S STRONG ARM

Or,
Saving an Enemy

by

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.


[Illustration: (Publisher colophon)]






Street & Smith Corporation
Publishers
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1901
by Street & Smith

Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.




FRANK MERRIWELL’S STRONG ARM.




CHAPTER I.

WHEN THE SPRING COMES AGAIN.


In the sweet and balmy springtime the sedate senior’s fancy lightly
turns to thoughts of frivolity. All through the weary winter
months he may have carried himself with the grave dignity that so
well becomes a senior; but when the spring comes something stirs
within him, and as the world turns green and the birds begin to
twitter that something takes hold of him with a grip that makes
him its servant. A strange sensation of restlessness pervades his
entire being, running over his nerves like little electric thrills,
setting his muscles itching, his heart throbbing, his whole body
aching--aching to do something, anything, everything.

This is a very dangerous condition for a senior to fall into, and
yet nearly all of them suffer from an attack of it. It drags them
to the border-line of recklessness, and while it possesses them in
all its awesome force, there is no desperate thing it might not
lead them into. It even has the power to make them forget for a
while that the whole world has its eyes fastened upon them.

There must be some vent for this spring-coltish feeling which
assails the senior. Until he became a senior he could occasionally
disport himself as a boy, but now for some months the burden of his
exalted station in the world has roosted on his shoulders until it
has become almost too heavy to bear. He longs to fling it off and
be a boy again.

That’s it--that’s what ails the grave-faced senior when he feels
that queer sensation running over the electric-wires of his body,
which are known as the nerves. For the first time in life he
realizes that his boyhood is slipping from him, and he makes a
clutch at it to drag it back for one last look into its happy face
before he is parted from it forever.

How sad a thing it is to part with boyhood forever; and yet how
many do so without a sigh or a regret! It is only in after years
that they wake up to understand how great was their loss. Some,
well aware that the hour has come for boyhood to bid them farewell,
turn to look after it fondly, even when their feet are set on the
new road that manhood has led them into. Good-by, happy boyhood!
this is the final parting; we shall never meet again. Of course,
it’s a grand thing to be a man, but it’s only after we have become
men that we realize how grand it was to be a boy.

The senior has been playing at being a man. He has carried a sober
face, his manner has been sedate, and he has been very much
impressed with his own importance. All this has begun to wear
upon him, and with the awakening of spring he wakes up also to a
knowledge of what is happening. By Jove! it’s a serious thing,
after all, to permit boyhood to drift away without so much as a
word of farewell. This hits him hard, and he suddenly stretches out
his hands to that part of himself that he has so carelessly thrust
aside.

Behold a lot of dignified Yale seniors wooing back their boyhood
on a sunny spring day. You’d scarcely know them now. There in one
group are Aldrich, who carried off the honors as a drum-major in
the political rally last fall; Tomlinson, widely celebrated as a
“greasy grind;” Browning, the laziest man on earth; Hodge, famous
on the gridiron or the diamond, and Merriwell, famous the country
over. And what are they doing?

Spinning tops! So help me, they are spinning tops!

But look around and you will see scores of well-known seniors
engaged in the same surprising occupation. They enter into the
spirit of if with the combined hilarity of boys and dignity of
men. If you look beneath the surface, it may seem rather pathetic
to witness this great crowd of intellectual young men seriously
engaged in a last romp with their departing boyhood.

There is Porter, the famous poet of the Lit., frolicking down the
walk, trundling a hoop before him with the apparent satisfaction
of a lad of seven. See! his hoop collides with that of Gammel, the
great Dwight Hall orator, and there is a general mixup. But they’re
not real boys. They’re only men playing that they are boys. If they
had been boys that collision might have resulted in an exchange of
blows, instead of an exchange of bows.

Over yonder are more seniors spinning tops or rolling hoops. And
a great throng of men from other classes stand off and watch “the
sport,” commenting upon it sagely.

This top-spinning and hoop-rolling serves as a vent for the pent-up
steam that has been threatening an explosion. The safety-valve is
open, and the rollicking seniors proceed to let ’er sizz. There are
other ways of letting off steam, but surely this is far better than
the sign-stealing and gate-shifting recklessness of the freshmen.

This is a part of the life of Yale, a scene peculiar to the balmy
days of early spring. It is one of the memories that old grads.
smile over in after years. It is peculiar and characteristic of Old
Eli; to eliminate it would be to take away something that seems to
aid in making Yale what it is.

By themselves the Chickering set had gathered to look on and make
comment. Their observations were most edifying. These remarks tell
how the gray matter in their little heads is working. It has to
work hard for them to think, for they have dulled the gray matter
with cigarettes and hot suppers and lack of proper exertion. Yet
somehow these “men” manage to keep along in their classes, and
somehow they pass examinations, and somehow they will graduate, as
hundreds and thousands like them graduate from colleges all over
our land.

“Look at that big elephant, Bruce Browning!” lisped Lew Veazie,
in derision. “Thee him thpinning a top, fellowth! Ithn’th that a
thight faw thore eyeth!”

“And that cheap fellow Hodge,” said Ollie Lord, pointing with his
cane. “Just look at him, gentlemen! Isn’t it just perfectly comical
to see him spinning a top! Oh, dear, dear, dear!”

“And Merriwell,” said Rupert Chickering, whose trousers looked as
if they had been freshly pressed that day. “It is a sad spectacle
to see a man like that lose his dignity.”

“Oh, come off!” croaked Tilton Hull, his collar holding his chin so
high that he seemed to be addressing his remarks to a twittering
sparrow on a limb over his head. “That’s about the only kind of
sport Merriwell is suited for.”

“It’s no use,” said Gene Skelding gloomily, exhibiting deep
depression, for all that he was wearing a dazzling new pink shirt;
“we can say whatever we like about Merriwell, but it’s plain he’s
on top of the bunch to stay.”

They all regarded him in amazement, for always he had been the
fiercest against Frank.

“This from you!” cried Julian Ives, smiting his bang a terrible
smack with his open hand and almost staggering. “What does it mean?”

“It means that we may as well own up to the truth. He has pulled
himself up to the top, and everything we or others have done or
said has been fruitless in pulling him down.”

No wonder they were amazed! Skelding had been one who had often
taken a hand in some daring move against Merriwell. The others to a
man had lacked nerve, but Gene was reckless, and they knew it. He
had never seemed to give up hope; but now, all at once, he flung up
the sponge. Why shouldn’t they show consternation?

Behind his collar Tilton Hull gave a gurgling groan.

“It’s not Merriwell’s strength that has placed him on top,” he said
despairingly. “He is not a strong man.”

“Not in any sense,” said Julian Ives.

“He’s strong enough in his way. No other Yale man has ever done the
things he has done and kept on top. Think of him, a senior, going
into the freshman boat as coxswain in place of the coxswain the
sophs had stolen! The nerve of the thing is colossal. But what
would have befallen any other senior who dared do such a thing? He
would have got it in the neck. How about Merriwell? Why, everybody
seems to think he did a clever thing in palming himself off as Earl
Knight, the freshman. A man who can do a thing like that and come
off all right is too strong to be thrown down. It’s no use, he is
on top for good.”

“I don’t think he ith verwy thwong,” simpered Veazie. “He ith a
gweat bwute! But there are otherth jutht ath thwong ath he ith. I
weally believe he thinkth himthelf a Thandow.”

“I was not thinking of his physical strength,” said Skelding;
“though it seems that he’s pretty nearly as strong that way as any
other. You know they say he defeated that strange athlete of the
scarred face.”

“That’s a story his friends tell, don’t you know, dear boy,” said
Ollie Lord. “How can anybody be sure it’s true?”

“I don’t suppose there is much doubt of it,” said Gene, still with
great gloom. “He is as strong one way as another, and that makes
his position impregnable. He’s king of Yale.”

“It thirtenly ith a thwange thight to thee a king thpinning a top,”
giggled Veazie.

“Come away!” croaked Hull, still with his eyes on the limb where
the sparrow had perched. “Gene is in need of something to brace
him up. Let’s get out of here for a stroll.”

So the Chickering set dragged themselves away, all feeling greatly
depressed by the words of Skelding, for when he gave up, hope
seemed crumbling ashes.

They had continued to hope that something would bring about the
downfall of Merriwell. In Chickering’s perfumed rooms they had
talked of the possibility. Even though every adverse circumstance
seemed to turn in Merry’s favor, still they hugged the gasping
form of hope and fanned breath into its pinched nostrils. Now they
beheld it dead in their arms, for Skelding had grown tired and
refused to fan any more.

In a gloomy group they left the campus and crossed the green. Few
words passed between them, but all seemed to know where they were
going. Into the Tontine Hotel they made their way and disappeared,
for there they knew a room where they could be served with whatever
they ordered, and no one would be permitted to trouble them.

It was fully an hour later when they issued from the hotel. There
was a wild light in Skelding’s eyes, and his teeth were set. Hull
had a flush in his cheeks, but his weak chin would have dropped had
his collar permitted. Ives’ bang was rumpled, and he did not care.
He was humming a tune. Lew and Ollie were clinging to each other,
and making a pretense of being very sober, in order to attract
attention to the fact that they had been drinking. Rupert had his
hat canted at a rakish angle over one ear.

This is the Chickering set full of fuddle. Look out for them now,
for they are real reckless. How strong they are now! You can see
it in their faces and in the steadiness of their walk. And they
demonstrate it by their language.

“It ith no uthe!” Veazie declared; “I don’t take a bit of thstock
in thstorieth they tell about Fwank Merriwell being tho thwong. I
think he ith weal weak.”

“That’s right, chummie!” chirped Ollie Lord, flourishing his cane
in a fierce gesture. “We’d not be afraid of him, would we?”

“No, thir!” cried Lew; “not a bit!”

“Of course not!” said Ollie. “If we were to meet him we’d give him
a shove.”

“I’d like to give him a thove!” said Veazie, shaking his terrible
fist in the empty air. But somehow his other hand stole round
behind him and hovered over a place that had once been spanked by
Merriwell’s open palm.

“Don’t talk about the creature!” croaked Hull loftily. “He should
be beneath our notice. We’ve settled the fact that he is not strong
in any way. We did that back in the hotel after we took the second
drink. Now, drop it.”

“Yes, drop it!” grated Skelding. “He’s been given every kind of a
chance to demonstrate his strength, but I know it’s been nothing
but luck. I could have done the same thing, had I been given the
same chance. But I never have a chance.”

“Let’s not revile Merriwell,” murmured Chickering. “Let’s try to be
charitable.”

“But I wouldn’t turn out for him if I were to meet him face to face
right----”

Tilton Hull stopped speaking with a gulp, for he had come face to
face with Merriwell.




CHAPTER II.

A STRONG ARM.


Hull did not pause to make any kind of a bluff, but he turned out
with remarkable alacrity, for Merriwell’s eyes were fastened upon
him and seemed to go through him like knives. Those eyes seemed
quite enough to turn any one aside.

Seeing Tilton make that abrupt swerve, Veazie and Lord looked for
the cause, and beheld Merry within two strides of them. They nearly
fell over each other in their haste to get away, and they went
clean off the sidewalk into the gutter.

Chickering pretended not to see Merry, although he could not help
swerving aside the least bit. Ives suddenly became busy with his
bang, and Skelding was the only man of the whole lot who ventured
to give Frank one savage glance. But Merry paid no heed to
Skelding, who was not in his path at all, and walked on. Gene was
mad.

“Well, I swear, you are like a lot of frightened sheep!” he
snarled, regarding the rest with scorn. “You make me sick, the
whole of you!”

“What is the matter?” asked Rupert, with pretended surprise. “What
made everybody dodge aside so?” Then he looked back and saw Frank.
“Can it be?” he said, in great disgust. “Really, it’s too bad!”

In disgust Skelding left the sidewalk and started to cross the
street. The others flocked after him stragglingly.

Then there was a great rumpus and uproar down the street. Men
shouted and ran for the sidewalks, teams got out of the way in a
hurry, and the electric car at the crossing slid over barely in
time.

And right down on the Chickering set bore two runaway horses
attached to a bounding, rocking, reeling carriage. The driver
was gone from his seat, the reins were flying loose, and the two
ladies in the carriage were quite helpless. At any moment they
might be thrown out and killed. At any moment the mad horses might
crash into another carriage, a car, a stone post, the curbing, or
something that would cap the catastrophe.

Men looked on helplessly, or ran after the reeling carriage,
shouting and waving their arms. Women shuddered, screamed, and
turned pale.

Was there no one to stop the runaway? Yes, there was the famous
strong policeman of that beat! Everybody knew him. He would stop
the horses. He ran out before them.

Then the crowd watched the officer perform the wonderful feat. He
was a giant in stature, and he had Hercules-like arms and legs. He
hurled himself fearlessly at the heads of the frightened beasts,
caught with one hand, clung, and was dragged.

“He’s down!”

Women covered their eyes to shut out the spectacle. He had failed
to obtain a good hold on the bridles of the horses, his hands
slipped, he hung desperately, and then----

It seemed that those terrible hoofs beat him down and went over
him, leaving him lying there.

At first the Chickering set had seemed dazed by the commotion.
Their brains were fuddled, and they hesitated fairly in the track
of peril.

“Run, you fools!” shouted somebody. “Get out of the way, or you’ll
be killed!”

As the others take to their heels and scamper for a place of
safety, it is seen that one remains behind.

It is Skelding.

On came the terrified horses, and Gene braced himself for the
effort that was to land him in the halls of fame--or in a cemetery.

The latter thought came upon him with appalling force as he saw
those mad horses almost within reach. Their eyes were glaring,
their teeth were set on the bits, their lips flung great flecks
of foam, and the muscular play of their thrashing legs, bounding
bodies, and shod hoofs, beating fire from the flinty stones, was
enough to shake the nerve of a would-be hero. The power of their
mad rush was something against which it seemed that no frail human
arm could avail.

The thought of fame had led Gene to halt there; but now the thought
of something quite different got hold of him. He saw himself hurled
to the stones with broken bones, maimed for life, perhaps. If he
lived, he would hobble through life a miserable cripple. But he
might be killed! It would be a glorious thing to die the death of
a hero, but even that was not quite enough inducement.

Thus it happened that, at the last minute, Skelding made a backward
spring and a scramble to get out of the way, not even lifting his
hand to try to stop the horses.

At another time his haste might have seemed comical and caused the
spectators to roar with laughter; but just now the peril of the
helpless women in the carriage prevented any one from laughing.

But another Yale man has rushed out into the street and prepared to
make an attempt to check those horses. As they approach, he runs in
the same direction they are going. They come up beside him, and he
swerves in toward them at exactly the right moment, having watched
their approach over his shoulder. Then he leaps at their heads,
gets them firmly by the bridles, and holds fast with a grip that
nothing can break.

The crowd looks on in breathless anxiety and admiration. All had
expected to see this beardless youth flung down and trampled as the
policeman had been trampled, but nothing of the kind occurs.

What wonderful strength he must have, for he has checked the mad
rush of the horses at once! Though they plunge and rear, he holds
them fast and sets them back with a surge of his arm, which seems
to have muscles of steel. They do not carry him half a block before
he had brought them to a stand and holds them there, his jaw
squared, his cheeks flushed a bit, but his broad chest scarcely
seeming to rise and fall with more than usual rapidity. It is the
deed of a man of wonderful nerve, skill, and strength.

“Who is he?” some ask.

“Why, it’s Merriwell!” others reply, as if all should know him.

Yes, it was Merriwell who had stopped the horses. He gave them his
entire attention till he had them quite under subjection. Then
other men came to his assistance, and he could leave them for a
moment.

Frank stepped back to the carriage, politely lifting his hat, and
saying:

“I trust neither of you is harmed, ladies? Your driver----”

He stopped, staring, astonished, wondering. The golden-haired girl
was gazing at him in unspeakable admiration.

“Elsie!” he gasped.

For it was Elsie Bellwood! Then he glanced at the lady at Elsie’s
side.

“Mrs. Parker! Well, this is a surprise!”

Mrs. Parker had been ready to faint, but now she recovered enough
to say:

“How can we ever thank you, Mr. Merriwell? You saved our lives!
There is no doubt of it!”

“When they ran away,” said Elsie, “when the driver fell off, I felt
that somehow, somewhere, Frank would turn up and stop them. He did
it!”

Her face was full of triumph. Although she still shook with the
excitement of the adventure through which she had passed, there was
happiness in that look she gave him.

Somehow that look stabbed him to the heart. Was it a look of love?
Why had she not fancied that Hodge might be the one to stop the
horses? In that moment, when he might have been well satisfied with
himself for what he had done, Frank Merriwell felt miserable.

“Elsie,” he said, “I did not know you were in the city.”

“We came to-day,” said Mrs. Parker. “I have a brother who lives in
Hamden.”

They had not let him know they were coming. He did not believe
Hodge had known it.

Mrs. Parker refused to ride farther in the carriage. She declared
the horses could not be managed. And so, as the dirt-covered
driver came panting up, angry, ashamed, and humble, Frank was
helping them from the carriage. He had offered to take the driver’s
place himself, but Mrs. Parker would not even trust one who had
shown his power to check the mad runaways.

“I shall return in a car,” she added. “Brother George shall not
induce me to come out behind those terrible creatures again.”

Elsie had given Frank’s hand a gentle pressure as he helped her to
alight.

“I was awfully frightened,” she whispered; “but I knew you would
stop the horses the moment I saw you.”

She trusted him--she trusted him still! And she did not know the
truth.

He was engaged to Inza!




CHAPTER III.

MAKING A FRIEND.


Bart Hodge had missed Merry from the throng of rollicking seniors.
A little while before Frank had been in the midst of the sport;
now he was gone. For a while Hodge continued to take part in the
top-spinning, but his heart was not in it. He looked around and
saw that he was not the only one who found it impossible to drag
back his boyhood in such a manner. He saw that there were others
who were taking part in the top-spinning simply because it was a
privilege of seniors at this time. Some there were who laughed and
joked and were merry, but, strangely enough, it seemed to Bart that
these did not realize how sad a thing it was to lose their boyhood.
So Hodge drifted away by himself, giving himself up to thoughts
that were both pleasant and otherwise.

Bart’s boyhood had not been the pleasantest imaginable. His father
was a careless, self-indulgent man, and he had given little thought
to the manner in which Bart was coming up. Bart had been given
almost everything he desired, and, thus pampered, it was not
strange that he came to be regarded as a “spoiled child.” If he
fretted for anything, he was given that which he desired in order
to pacify him. Finding that he could win his own way with a pout
and a whine, he pouted and whined more and more.

His mother saw with some alarm what was happening, but it was
useless for her to try to reason with his father. “Oh, give the
boy what he wants, and keep him still!” was the way Bart’s father
settled it. His mother, knowing the real disposition of his father,
feared for the future, and her fears were justified.

As Bart grew older, his demands became harder to satisfy, but he
had a way of making life miserable for everybody around if he did
not get his way. More and more he annoyed his father. “The boy must
go away to school,” Mr. Hodge had decided at last. His mother would
have kept him home a little longer, but his father had decreed.

Bart, however, had no fancy for going away to school. He swore he
would not stay, and he did not. In less than two weeks he was sent
home, expelled.

Then Mr. Hodge was furious. “We’ll see about this, sir!” he said.
“An ordinary boarding-school is not strict enough. You shall attend
a military school.”

“I won’t!” said Bart.

But he did--for a month. Then he came home again. The principal
said he was incorrigible.

“We’ll see!” said Mr. Hodge, and his face was black as a
storm-cloud. “I’ll give you one more chance, young man. This is the
last one! If you are expelled again--well, you need not come back
here! You may shift for yourself!”

Bart knew he meant just that, but even then he did not care. He had
such a bad disposition that he longed to be expelled in order to
“spite” his father. “I’d like to show him that he can’t force me
into anything!” muttered Bart.

And so, when he was packed off to Fardale, he went with bitterness
in his heart. During the journey he regarded with satisfaction
the possibility that he would soon be expelled from this school.
He pictured himself as turned from his own home, set adrift an
outcast. He pictured himself as a reckless youngster, going to
sea, perhaps. He would see many strange lands, lead a wild life,
be shipwrecked, make a fortune in some far country, come home and
treat his bent and aged father with kindness and magnanimity,
caring for him in his declining years. He would be able to say:
“Well, father, you see I bear no grudge, even if you did treat me
in a shabby manner when I was a boy. I’ve made myself what I am, no
thanks to you. It’s all right; but I can’t quite forget.”

But this fancy did not give him so much satisfaction as another
that came to him. In this he saw himself wandering homeless over
the world, living a wretched life, drinking, associating with bad
men, sinking lower and lower. At last, having fallen to the depths,
he might drag himself back home. He would be met by a stern
father, who still rebuffed him. On his knees he would beg for one
chance. When he was refused, he’d go out and break into a bank or
something. Then, as he stood in the dock to receive sentence for
his crime, he would turn to his father, point an accusing finger
at the cowering man, and cry out, in a terrible voice: “You are
responsible for it all! My sins are on your head!”

Having such thoughts as these, Bart was in a rebellious mood that
day when he stepped off the train at Fardale station. His first act
had been to kick a poodle dog that came within reach of his foot.
That kick had led him into trouble with a bright-faced stripling
who had also arrived on that train. Later on he had fought this
stripling in an open field on a moonlight night. The fight had
been interrupted, but in his heart Bart knew the stripling would
have whipped him if it had continued to a finish, and he hated the
stripling with a hatred he fancied undying.

The stripling was Frank Merriwell, and so they were enemies when
they first met at Fardale.

Certain it is that Hodge in those days was ready to stoop to almost
anything in order to get the best of an enemy, and many were the
questionable and unfair things he did.

But, no matter how unfair Hodge was, Merriwell always fought fair
and aboveboard. Bart had not fancied that anybody lived who would
never accept an opportunity to take an unfair advantage of an
enemy, and, at first, he could not understand Merriwell. Like many
others in after years, he first mistook Merry’s squareness and
generosity for timidity. The time came, however, when he realized
that Frank Merriwell was as courageous as a lion.

The test that won Hodge to Frank came when Merry might have caused
Bart’s expulsion from the academy by a word which would have
made Bart seem guilty of a reprehensible thing that he had not
committed. Hodge knew that Frank held him in his power; he knew
that the proof of his guilt must seem convincing to Merry. For once
in his life Bart was frightened, for he suddenly realized what it
meant to him if he were expelled from Fardale. His mother’s letters
had convinced him that there was no hope of his father relenting
in such an event. “I’m done for!” said Bart, to himself. And he
wondered why Merriwell did not strike. Had he possessed such a hold
on Frank, he would have struck, even though he had known Merry was
innocent.

Then came an accident at the academy that showed another cadet with
the same initials as Bart was guilty, and Hodge was saved. Still
he wondered why Merriwell had held his hand. “Why did you do it,
Merriwell?” he asked, pointblank. “Because I was not absolutely
certain that you were guilty,” Frank answered. “It looked that
way, didn’t it?” “Yes, it looked that way.” “I should have been
expelled if you had accused me.” “I think you would, Hodge.” “You
had no reason to like me, Merriwell.” “I did not like you,” Frank
admitted. “Then why didn’t you accuse me and get me out of the
way?” “Because to save my life I would not charge my worst enemy
with a crime of which he might be innocent.”

Bart remembered this conversation. He had pondered over it, and it
had opened his eyes to the difference between himself and Frank
Merriwell. All at once he saw that this fellow whom he hated was
his superior in every way. He had suspected it before, and it had
made him hate Merry more intensely; but now the full knowledge of
the fact brought him a different feeling.

Not all at once did Bart surrender to Frank. He tried to keep away
from Merriwell, but the rules of the military school threw them
together singularly, making them roommates. Never were two fellows
less alike. But Bart found that, for all of his sense of justice
and honor, Merriwell was no milksop. Frank could defend his rights,
and he did so often enough.

The end of it all was that Hodge became passionately attached to
Frank, even though he tried to conceal the fact. He would have
fought to the death for Merriwell at a time when he had not ceased
to sneer and say bitter things about him. Others did not know how
much he cared for Frank; he tried to hide it even from himself.

That friendship for Frank Merriwell was the making of Hodge. Frank
was a splendid model. Unconsciously Bart began to imitate him, and
the work of changing his selfish, revengeful nature went on slowly
but surely. In time Hodge realized that he owed the great change to
Frank, but he was not aware of it so much while it was taking place.

Inza had lived there in Fardale, and Bart admired her. But she was
dark-haired and dark-eyed like Bart himself, and she took no great
fancy to him. Merriwell’s success with Inza annoyed him at first.

Then came Elsie.

But it was Merriwell who had done most in saving her from her
father’s shipwrecked vessel, which went to pieces on Tiger Tooth
Ledge, off the coast at Fardale, one wild night, and it was
Merriwell on whom the golden-haired girl smiled. The first sight of
her had aroused a strange sensation deep down in Bart’s heart; but
she would not even give him a glance.

That did not make him bitter toward Frank. Instead, he became
bitter toward girls in general. He told himself that he hated
them all, and that he would never have anything to do with any of
them. So, for a long, long time, Bart Hodge believed himself a
“woman-hater.”

He had kept himself from Elsie. When he thought of her he turned
his mind on other things. She troubled him a great deal for a time,
but at last, after being put out of his mind so many times, she
bothered him less and less. He had not fancied himself in love with
her. He would have ridiculed such a thing as preposterous.

But the time came when, on the burning steamer, he knew the truth
in a sudden burst of light. He had loved her all the time, and,
rather than be false to Frank; he had remained silent. In the face
of what seemed certain death, his lips had been unsealed, and he
had told her of his love.

Then--strange fate!--Merriwell himself had battered down the
partition and dragged them out to life.

Perhaps it was the happiest moment of Bart’s life when he learned
that Frank had found he loved Inza and she loved him. With Frank
and Inza engaged, it seemed that there was no barrier left between
him and Elsie.

He had known that he was going to meet Elsie in Charlottesville
during the Easter trip of the ball-team, and he had made Frank
promise to let him tell her everything, for she remained unaware of
the engagement between Merry and Inza.

When the time came, however, Bart longed to learn from Elsie that
she loved him most before telling her what had happened. He felt
that not for anything would he wish to think she had accepted him
because she knew Frank was lost to her. It was the great longing
of his heart to be first in her heart.

And so, fearing what her answer might be unless she knew all, he
had begged her to wait a little before making it. And he had left
Charlottesville and Virginia without telling her of the engagement
of Frank and Inza. Not, however, till they were back in New Haven
did he confess this to Frank.

“I couldn’t do it!” he cried, alone with Merry in his room. “I long
to hear her tell me she loves me most without having her know that
you can never be anything to her. That would settle every doubt for
the present and for all time.”

“I can’t blame you, Bart,” said Merry. “I believe I understand how
you feel. But I fear you lost your courage when the right moment
came.”

“Gods, Merriwell! who wouldn’t lose courage? Her answer was to make
or mar my whole future. I longed to cry out: ‘Frank and Inza are
engaged.’ But the fear that it would be that alone which would give
her to me made me keep silent. I want her to love me because not
even Frank Merriwell is as much to her.”

“I hope she will, Hodge,” said Merry sincerely; “and something
tells me that she will. It will all come right, old man.”




CHAPTER IV.

THE STRONGEST MAN.


Bart wandered from the campus and left the vicinity of the college.
He walked by himself through the streets, thinking of these
things. With his mind thus occupied, he gave little thought to the
direction he was taking. In time he came round into Church Street,
and he was barely in time to see Merriwell assisting a young lady
onto a car.

Hodge stopped. His heart had leaped into his throat, for he
recognized the girl. Even then he brushed his hand over his eyes,
as if in doubt. It did not seem possible that Elsie Bellwood could
be there in New Haven without his knowledge.

He had not seen the elderly lady Frank aided onto the car in
advance of Elsie. He saw nothing but Elsie.

Then he made a single step, as if to dash forward. Elsie turned and
spoke something to Frank in a low tone, giving him a sweet smile,
and Bart stopped as if shot. That smile seemed to strike straight
through the heart of Bart Hodge. He would have given the world to
have her smile on him like that.

The horrible conviction that she still loved Frank seized upon
him. The whole affair was very remarkable, to say the least.

How had Frank known she was there in New Haven? Bart told himself
that Merry must have known it, else why had he left the campus to
meet her? It did not occur to Hodge that the meeting had been by
accident. He knew nothing of the runaway. He believed Elsie had
sent Merriwell word that she was coming to New Haven, and he had
met her by appointment.

A terrible feeling of jealous rage took possession of him as he
hurried away. That feeling, which was like a terrible, crushing
pain in his bosom, drove reason and sober thought from him. For the
time he was a furious fool in the grasp of the fiercest passion
that can sway a human being--a passion that has overthrown empires.
Oh, the terrible things he told himself! He strode on and on, his
face black as midnight, his heart in a wild tumult.

How he hated Merriwell now! At last he felt that he knew Frank
Merriwell’s one weak point. Merriwell was deceiving both Elsie and
Inza! Even now that he had proposed to Inza and been accepted, he
was not satisfied to give Elsie up.

But Merry had deceived him; Bart told himself that over and over.
He had slipped away from the rollicking seniors that he might
keep the appointment with Elsie unknown to Hodge. Was not that a
wretched trick?

All the old hatred he had once entertained for Frank, renewed and
redoubled by his jealousy, swayed him now. He felt that he could
kill Merriwell without a feeling of remorse. Why not? Was not Frank
deceiving Elsie? And a wretch who would deceive her deserved death!

Bart knew that Elsie trusted Frank implicitly. She believed him the
soul of honor, and the thought that he could deceive her in any
way had never for a moment entered her mind. But he was deceiving
her! Why was he doing it? Was it possible that he had grown sorry
because of his proposal to Inza? Was it possible that he thought of
giving Inza up and turning to Elsie?

Hodge asked himself these questions as he swung along, coming into
Whitney Avenue. Away he went to the north, covering the ground
with great speed, seeking to walk off the terrible feeling that
possessed him.

At last he came to the outskirts of the city. To the right lay East
Rock Park; ahead was Lake Whitney. Bart felt like losing himself
somewhere in the country and not returning to college. He did not
wish to look on Merriwell’s face again. Always he had seen honesty
and frankness there; but now he felt that he would be able to
detect deceit and treachery lurking somewhere about it.

Deceit and treachery in Frank Merriwell! That meant that the
Merriwell he had known in the past was dead!

Bart tired of the highway. He longed to plunge into the woods, and
he struck across some fields toward a distant grove, into which
he made his way. There he felt that he would be quite alone, but
he was mistaken. In the midst of the grove he found a lodgelike
house, the doors of which were standing open. Near this house, in
the grove, a large, broad-shouldered, muscular-looking man stood
contemplating a large stone on the ground at his feet. His hat,
coat, and vest were off, and his sleeves were thrust back, showing
a massive forearm.

Bart paused to look at the man, admiring his Herculean build. Then
the man looked up, as if he had known all the time that Bart was
there, and called to him.

“Come here,” commanded the stranger, in a heavy voice. “I have
something to show you.”

With his curiosity strangely aroused, Bart advanced.

“What is it?” he asked, as he paused near the man.

“Do you see that stone?”

The man pointed at the large rock at his feet.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how much it weighs?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can lift it?”

“I doubt it.”

“I’d like to see you try it.”

Hodge wondered at the peculiar manner of the man.

“Why should I try to lift it?” he asked wonderingly.

“Oh, just to show how strong you are.”

“I don’t want to show how strong I am.”

“Well, I want to show you how strong I am.”

“Go ahead.”

“I cannot, unless you take hold of that rock and convince yourself
that it is heavy. When you have done that, I will show you how
light it is.”

Possessed by a sudden impulse, Bart stooped and took hold of the
stone. But try as he might, he could not lift it from the ground.

With a strange smile on his face, the muscular giant of the grove
watched Bart’s unavailing efforts.

“Ha, ha!” he laughed. “It is heavy, isn’t it?”

“Rather,” admitted Bart, as he straightened up. “It must weigh half
a ton.”

“As much as that,” nodded the man.

“You knew I could not lift it.”

“I can.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe you can budge it.”

“You shall see.”

Then the man bent his broad back, obtained a hold on the stone with
his hands, and, to the astonishment of Hodge, lifted it fully two
feet from the ground with no great apparent effort.

“What do you think now?” he cried triumphantly, as he let it drop.

“I think it is remarkable!” exclaimed Hodge, looking at the man in
wondering admiration.

“I knew you would,” said the stranger, with a show of satisfaction.
“Can you keep a secret?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I will tell you something.”

“Go on.”

“I am the strongest man in the world!”

These words were spoken with perfect seriousness, as if the one who
uttered them believed them fully.

“Are you?” asked Bart, beginning to feel that there was something
very peculiar about this man.

“Yes. You are the only one besides myself who knows it. I decided
to tell you as soon as I saw you.”

“Do you live here?” asked Bart, looking toward the lodge and
seeking to turn the subject.

“Oh, no; I only come here to get strong. I had this hut built here
for that purpose.”

“Do you live near here?”

“Yes; this is my property all around here. I have discovered the
secret of becoming strong. Although I am now the strongest man in
the world, I shall keep right on getting stronger. The time will
come when I’ll be stronger than a hundred men combined.”

Now, Bart understood that there must be something the matter with
the man’s mind, although he had little the appearance of a lunatic.

“I have let no one know why I come here to this place at a certain
hour every day,” the stranger went on. “I knew they would laugh at
me, and it makes me angry when any one laughs at me. Don’t laugh,
young man! I am very disagreeable when I am angry.”

Bart had no thought of laughing.

“This is a pretty place,” he observed.

“It’s quiet and secluded,” nodded the man; “yet it is so near the
house that I can easily hear them when they ring the bell for me.
They think I come here to study medicine. Why, I completed the
study of medicine long ago. I let them think that, however, for
they would not understand if they knew what I was really studying.
Any man who knows the secret may become strong if he is willing
to shorten his life. You look surprised. I will explain. In order
to acquire my present amount of strength, I have been compelled
to boil down and concentrate the strength of several years into
one year, and my life has been shortened just that much. But it
is a glorious thing to know that I am the strongest man in the
world. I am bound to become famous, and almost any man is willing
to sacrifice a few years of life in order to win enduring fame.
Perhaps you think my fame will not endure, but you are wrong. The
fame of Samson has endured, and I shall become even stronger than
Samson. I know the secret that Samson knew. It did not lay in his
hair. What fools they were to think so! But I know the secret.
It will take a little time for me to condense all the strength
of years to come in one year, but I shall succeed, and then I’ll
astound the world. With ease I’ll be able to pick up a horse and
fling it over my head, as if it were light as a cat. I’ll have
the power to topple over houses as if they were built of cards. I
will----”

A voice sounded through the grove, calling:

“Doctor Lincoln! Doctor Lincoln!”

Bart started, and listened in amazement.

“Doctor Lincoln! Doctor Lincoln!” called the voice.

It was that of Elsie Bellwood, and he saw her coming toward him
along a path through the grove.




CHAPTER V.

THE MEETING WITH ELSIE.


In his wild desire to get away somewhere, Hodge had fancied he must
be putting distance between himself and Elsie. Instead of that, he
had hastened to her. There she was coming along the path. He stood
still and stared at her in amazement.

The man grasped his arm with a grip that seemed to crush flesh and
bone.

“You must not tell her that I am the strongest man in the world!”
he breathed hoarsely. “Promise me you will not tell her!”

“I promise,” said Bart.

“That is all I ask,” said the man, in a low tone, releasing his
hold on Hodge. “I see by your face that you are a young man who
values his word.”

Then he lifted his voice, and answered:

“Here I am, Miss Bellwood. What do you want?”

“Oh, doctor!” called Elsie, “we met with such an adventure in town.
The horses ran away and James fell off.”

Bart had drawn back. He would have slipped away, had it been
possible to do so without being observed by the approaching girl,
for he felt that he was in no mood to meet Elsie then.

How pretty she was as she came tripping through the woods. It
seemed to Bart that she had never looked more beautiful.

She trusted Merriwell, and Merriwell was deceiving her! Again his
heart seethed with indignation, and just then he felt that he
longed to stand face to face with Frank and say a few things.

In the eyes of Bart Hodge, Elsie was the most beautiful girl in
the world. In her he saw all that was sweet and good and true. He
wondered how it was possible for Frank to care more for dark-eyed
Inza than for golden-haired Elsie.

“The horses ran away?” exclaimed the “strong man,” with evident
alarm and annoyance. “And James fell off? Well, James shall be
discharged at once.”

“Oh, he was not to blame! He was not strong enough to hold them
when they became frightened.”

“Not strong enough? Then he is not fit for the place. No man has
a right to be weak. Strength should be sought by all. But I hope,
Miss Bellwood, that the runaway did not result in a disaster?”

“Fortunately not, doctor. The horses were stopped.”

“Good--very good! Who did it?”

“A policeman tried to stop them first.”

“It was his duty!”

“But he did not succeed. Oh, I was so frightened! He was thrown
down, and I thought he must be killed. We found out afterward that
he was not very badly hurt.”

“He got hold of the horses?” asked the man frowning.

“Yes, but he could not hold them.”

“Weakling!” muttered the man, contemptuously. “Why, had I been in
his place, I’d stopped them in their tracks!”

“They were mad with terror, and it seemed that no one could check
them. But there was a young man who ran out, got them by the
bridles, and brought them to a stand.”

“Ah!” cried the man, with a show of interest. “He must be the
possessor of some strength.”

“He’s the greatest athlete in Yale. His name is Frank Merriwell.”

Elsie had stopped a short distance away. As he leaned against
a tree which shielded him from her view, Hodge had not been
discovered by her. Standing thus, Bart heard her tell how Frank had
stopped the runaway horses. It gave him a strange sensation, and
all at once he began to wonder if the meeting between Frank and
Elsie had been unintentional, or accidental.

“Oh, yes; I know about him,” said the man called “doctor.” “I have
seen him many times in athletic sports and games. I presume some
men would regard him as rather strong.”

“You should have seen him drag those horses to a stop, doctor! Mrs.
Parker wished me to come and tell you about it. She thought I might
find you here, and----”

Elsie stopped. For the first time, she perceived that the man was
not alone. Finding he was discovered, Bart stepped out into view,
lifting his hat.

“Bart Hodge?” she cried, astonished. “Here?”

“Yes, Miss Bellwood,” he said, in a tone of voice that sounded
strained and unnatural. “It is a surprise to us both, I fancy.”

“So you are acquainted?” exclaimed the man, looking from one to the
other. “Well, well!”

Elsie started forward, her hands outstretched.

“I am so glad to see you, Bart!” she cried, her cheeks turning
crimson.

“Are you?” he exclaimed, feeling his heart give a great throb of
joy.

“Why, of course I am!” she asserted, as he met her and clasped her
hands.

“But you did not let me know you were in New Haven.”

“You’ll find a letter when you get back to town. I dropped one in
the office for you.”

“But Frank knew you were here.”

“He did not know I was coming. Oh, Bart, you should have seen him
fling himself at the heads of those snorting, terrified horses and
bring them to a stop! It was grand, and it was just like him!”

Admiration for Frank thrilled her; Hodge saw it in her face and
heard it in her voice.

“She loves him still!” he told himself, his heart sinking.

“Then there was no harm done?” asked the “strong man,” seeming
awakened at last to the possibility that the runaway might have
resulted in damage.

“None, save to the policeman who tried to stop the horses, doctor.
Of course, Mrs. Parker was frightened. James drove the team home,
and we came by trolley as far as we could, and walked across.”

“I’ll discharge him at once!” declared the man.

“Please don’t!” entreated Elsie, leaving Bart and turning to the
man. She fluttered to him, placing her gloved hands on his muscular
arms and looking up into his face entreatingly. “I am sure James
does not deserve to be discharged, doctor. Promise me that you will
not do that.”

He melted before her appeal.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I’ll have to reprimand him, but, as long as
you ask it, I’ll not discharge him.”

“Oh, that’s a good doctor!” she laughed. He patted her cheek, and
she turned to Bart in triumph.

“Now,” she said, “you must explain how you happen to be here, sir.”

“I left town for a walk, and just wandered along here; that’s all.”

“Well, wasn’t that odd! And I’m so glad to see you! You had to
leave Charlottesville in such a hurry.”

“That’s right,” he agreed. “I left much before I was ready to do
so.”

“We are going to stay here for several weeks, perhaps. Now, if Inza
and Winnie were here, how jolly it would be!”

The man had turned from them to the lodge, the doors of which he
was closing and locking.

“Who is he?” asked Bart, nodding toward him.

“Doctor Lincoln,” she answered. “He is Mrs. Parker’s brother.”

“You are visiting him?”

“Yes. He lives here at Whitney Hill all by himself.”

“Is he a practising physician?”

“No. He has never practised. He is wealthy, and it has been his fad
to experiment. He’s rather peculiar.”

“Rather,” agreed Bart. “I found that out very quickly.”

“But he is so kind and good. Some people around here seem afraid of
him.”

“Some of the neighbors?”

“Yes.”

Bart nodded.

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

She looked at him searchingly.

“Why should they fear him?” she asked. “Hasn’t a man a right to
his own peculiar ways? He built this lodge here in the grove in
order to have a private laboratory where he could continue his
experiments and investigations undisturbed. He says the neighbors
were very curious about it, and used to come prying round till he
was forced to find ways of frightening them off. Then they took a
dislike to him and said he was queer.”

“Elsie,” said Bart seriously, “I am afraid Doctor Lincoln is not
just right in his upper story.”

“Oh, you misjudge him!” she whispered. “I am sure you do! He is
very kind in the house. He’s simply original.”

“There are hundreds of men in the country with his original ways
who are spending their days in lunatic asylums,” murmured Bart,
whose feelings had changed greatly. He escorted Elsie to the house,
Doctor Lincoln following them at a distance, and giving them a
chance to talk quite freely. Bart found that he had suspected
Frank without the least cause, and he saw that his jealousy was
groundless and foolish as far as he had thought Frank meant to turn
to Elsie again.

But still within him was the feeling that Elsie still cared for
Merry, and that was gall and wormwood to him. He longed to tell
her everything, but resolved to see Frank and talk with him again
before doing so. Just then Hodge fancied that he was in need of
advice, and who was better able to advise him than Frank?

Elsie told Bart that Mrs. Parker had asked the doctor to have a
house-party of college men and young ladies at Whitney Hill, and he
had agreed.

“The invitations are to go out to-morrow,” she said. “We’ll have a
delightful time. Oh, if Inza were here!”

Bart wondered if she felt no jealousy of Inza.

Having bade Elsie adieu, and waved his hand to the doctor, who
returned the salute, Bart turned his face toward the city.

The fever had left his veins, and his heart was beating in its
usual manner as he swung along. But he was ashamed of himself on
account of the bitter things that had filled his mind in regard to
Frank, and he resolved to make a confession and ask pardon.

His love for Elsie was more intense than ever. While he thought
of her, visions of the strange, uncanny doctor kept obtruding
upon him. He saw the man standing there in the woods, big, thick,
muscular, staring at the huge stone at his feet. He seemed harmless
enough, but Bart was firm in his conviction that such queer
characters were dangerous, and should be watched. This being the
case, he could not help feeling uneasy about Elsie as long as she
remained at Whitney Hill.

It was growing dusk when Bart came swinging down Whitney Avenue. He
did not look like the same person who had rushed madly and blackly
out of town a while before. His face wore such a pleasant look that
he was positively handsome.

Some children had been playing a game of tag. One of them fell and
was hurt. Bart stopped, picked up the child, wiped away its tears,
soothed it to laughter, and left it with a quarter clasped in its
soiled fingers.

Straight to Frank, Bart went. He found Merry in his room, writing
steadily, manuscript scattered about. Often, of late, Bart had
found him thus employed, and he wondered somewhat what the nature
of Frank’s work could be.

“Where have you been, Hodge?” Frank asked. “I’ve tried in vain to
find you.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wished to tell you something.”

“About----”

“Elsie--she is here.”

“I know it.”

“You have seen her?”

“Yes.”

Then, without shielding himself in the least, Bart told Frank how
he had seen him helping Elsie onto the car, and how he had fancied
all sorts of bad things about him. Hodge’s face was flushed with
shame as he proceeded. Several times Merriwell tried to check him,
seeing that this confession was causing him great humiliation and
distress, but the penitent fellow would not desist until he had
finished.

When it was finished they stood there, Frank looking straight at
the dark-faced lad, whose eyes were on the floor. The silence
caused Hodge to look up.

“I don’t blame you, Merriwell!” he exclaimed. “I don’t blame you
for despising me! I’m a bad fellow to think such things of you,
after all you have done for me!”

“It’s not that I am thinking, Hodge,” said Frank gently. “I am
thinking of the great change in you since the days when we first
met. Then you would not have confessed you were wrong if you had
committed a crime; now you are eager to confess, when you have no
more than thought wrong of me.”

“That was a crime! How could I think wrong of you after all you
have done?”

“What have I done? We have been friends, and I’m sure you’ve done
as much for me as I ever did for you.”

“No, no!”

“You saved my life. You dragged me from the burning hotel.”

“You have done a thousand times more than that for me. You have
saved me from dishonor and disgrace. You have saved me from going
wrong and becoming a dissolute reprobate. All that I am and all
that I hope to be I owe to you! Yet I could hold hatred for you in
my heart this day! Oh, Merriwell, the shame of it is too much to
bear!”

He shook with the intensity of his emotion, covering his drawn face
with his hands. Quickly Frank advanced to his side, and his arm
went across Bart’s shoulders.

“You think too badly of yourself, old man,” declared Frank. “You
were jealous, and jealousy has parted the truest friends.”

Bart turned and caught hold of Merry.

“But it shall not part us!” he cried fiercely. “Say it shall not
part us, Frank!”

“I hope not, Bart. We will not permit it.”

“No, no! Such friendship as ours comes but once in a lifetime! Once
lost, nothing can ever take its place.”

Frank nodded.

“That is true,” he said. “I think there is no danger, Bart.”

“But can you feel just the same toward me after--after this?”

“Just the same, old man? If anything, I must think more of you. You
might have hidden it from me, and I’d never been the wiser.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! Had I thought such things wrongly of any one else,
I’d never confessed it; but of you----”

“I understand, Bart. You had no reason to be jealous, for you know
I am engaged to Inza.”

“Elsie does not know?”

“Because you have not told her, after asking the privilege to do
so. I should have let her know it long ago but for that. Bart, you
must tell her. It is not treating her right to keep it from her.”

Then Hodge confessed why he had not told her before--confessed that
he feared she still cared for Merry.

“I hope you are not right, Bart. Something tells me that you are
not. But you know it is possible that she believed she would be
doing me an injustice if she learned to care more for another, and
Elsie would not, to save her life, do anything she thought wrong.
The safest way, Bart, is to tell her everything. If you will not,
you must let me do it.”

“I will!” said Hodge resolutely. “There is to be a party out there,
given for Elsie, and we’ll receive invitations to-morrow. At that
party, I’ll find a way to tell her, Frank.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE PARTY.


“There are lots of joy forever here this evening,” observed Jack
Ready, as he surveyed the assembly of pretty girls and manly
youths. “In fact, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure
of looking on such a fine collection of joy forever.”

“What are you trying to get off?” asked Bert Dashleigh, who for
once was unaccompanied by his mandolin, which made him feel very
lonesome, although every one else was well satisfied. “What are
joys forever?”

“Things of beauty, of course,” explained Jack, with an expression
of contempt. “My callow young friend, it is barely possible that
you have heard it said that a ‘thing of beauty is a joy forever.’”

“I believe I have,” faltered Bert.

“Well, just take a look at those stunning girls. Aren’t they things
of beauty? Then, of course, they are joys forever. Where do you get
off?”

“Anywhere,” muttered Bert meekly. “You have such flowery ways of
saying things that----”

“That will do!” said Jack loftily. “It is plain you belong to the
common herd that does not understand the poetic feelings of those
who soar to heavenly heights. By Jove! there is Jennie Dwight! I
wonder if she will lend me her chewing-gum.” And away he went in
pursuit of a vivacious-looking girl.

It was the evening of the party at Whitney Hill, and Doctor
Lincoln’s handsome residence was thronged with beautiful girls and
bright-looking young men. From basement to attic the mansion was
glittering with lights, and the sound of music and laughter and
chattering voices seemed to come from every part of it.

Elsie was happy. Of course, she had been compelled to meet scores
of strangers when she would have preferred to be enjoying herself
with a group of her own particular friends, but all were kind and
pleasant, and a spirit of good-fellowship seemed to pervade the
gathering.

Never in her life had Elsie looked more attractive. Her dress
was of some gray-silk substance, made over pink, which gave it a
delicate tint that seemed to match her complexion perfectly. Her
eyes were blue as the summer sky, and shining like stars, while the
smile that flitted about her sweet mouth made it seem sweeter than
usual.

The heart of Bart Hodge had given one great throb when his eyes
rested upon her.

“How beautiful she is!” he inwardly cried.

She gave him her hand, with a pressure that thrilled his every
nerve. The hot blood was in his cheeks, and she saw the love-light
flame deep in his intense eyes. She knew how much he cared for
her, and his love was something that made her afraid at times, for
not yet did she understand her own heart.

Frank came. He was splendid, and he had a way of saying something
pleasant in a manner that did not seem prosaically conventional.
Pretty girls flocked round him, and he showed that he was one of
those rare men who, while in every way a “man’s man,” could be
quite at his ease in the presence of the other sex.

It was a perfect spring evening, so warm that the windows were
thrown open and many of the guests sought the breeze that could be
found on the broad veranda. Out there Chinese lanterns dangled and
glowed, and the throng strolled beneath them.

Somewhere behind a screen of palms and flowers an orchestra gave
forth sweet music. The heroes of Yale, the gridiron gladiator, the
baseball man, the hammer-thrower, the sprinter, and others who had
done things, were in great demand by the pretty girls.

But of all the heroes present Frank Merriwell was the most popular.
The girls crowded to get a look at him, to speak to him, to hear
his voice and receive a smile from him.

“He is it!” declared Jack Ready. “He has the call in this little
game. I don’t know another fellow who wouldn’t look a little
foolish or self-conscious. He doesn’t seem to know that he’s
just about the whole blooming show. That makes him all the more
popular. I am for boycotting him.”

“Boycott him!” growled Browning. “He’ll be girl-caught if he
doesn’t look out. There isn’t a pretty girl here who doesn’t stand
ready to fling herself at his head on the slightest provocation.”

“But what sort of a show do we stand?” sighed Ready sadly. “All the
girls seem to want to talk about Merriwell, Merriwell, Merriwell. I
just told a saucy young miss that I thought him perfectly horrid.
She gave me the icy eye at once. Bet a button she won’t know me the
next time we meet.”

“You should know better. You’re old enough.”

“But I’d like to be a little bit of a tin hero to somebody,” the
queer sophomore sobbed. “I’m going to do something. I have made up
my mind to do something to produce notice. What would you advise?”

“Shoot yourself,” said Bruce gravely. “You’ll get an obituary
notice.”

“Thanks!” retorted Jack. “I am not seeking posthumous glory, my
wise friend. I don’t know of anything I have less use for. I want
to do something that will make a lot of stunning girls cuddle round
me like flies around a molasses-barrel. Now, if I could only take
part in a duel!”

“You will ‘duel’ to avoid such a method of obtaining glory,” said
Bruce.

Jack gasped.

“Air!” he moaned faintly.

“That’s all anybody finds in your vicinity,” said Bruce, moving
away.

Next to Merriwell, Dick Starbright seemed the most popular with
the girls. The handsome freshman giant had won his spurs on the
football-field. Having the build of a Spartan gladiator, the rosy
face of a boy, and the pleasant manners of a Yale gentleman, it
was not strange that he should find himself almost constantly the
center of a bevy of handsome girls. And he knew what it meant when,
in a careless, apparently thoughtless, manner, some of them rested
their hands on his arm for a moment. They wanted to feel his muscle!

Hodge might have had a flock around him, but he was so dark and
stern that they seemed a little afraid of him. When they gathered
near, he did not seem to mind them. There was only one girl among
them all for Bart, and he was impatiently waiting the time when she
would be at liberty to give him some of her attention.

Doctor Lincoln seemed very happy. His heavy face wore a smile, but
Bart fancied the wild light lurked in his eyes. The doctor found
Hodge and drew him aside.

“I have been listening to the talk,” he said. “I have heard
these young people speaking of Merriwell as such a wonder. And
Starbright--they seem to think he is very strong.”

“He is,” said Bart.

“I presume so--in a way. He is big, and, of course, he must have
a certain amount of strength. But he is not what I rate as truly
strong.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Not at all. Do you think he could lift that stone out there in the
grove?”

“He might.”

The doctor frowned.

“Perhaps he might, but I doubt it. I am certain Merriwell could not
lift it.”

“Don’t be too certain. Frank Merriwell is far stronger than he
looks. I fancy, if put to the test, he’d be able to show himself
even stronger than Starbright.”

“Do you think that?” exclaimed the doctor, in apparent surprise.
“Well, you know them both, and you may be right. But how I could
astonish them. They do not know that I am the strongest man in the
world, do they?”

“I don’t think they do.”

Somehow, this answer seemed to arouse the man’s suspicions.

“Have you betrayed my secret?” he whispered rather fiercely. “You
promised that you would not. Have you told them that I am the
strongest man in the world?”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

The man seemed to draw a breath of relief.

“I was afraid you had done so,” he said. “You must keep my secret.
You must not breathe it to a soul. I don’t know why I trusted you.
It was foolish of me.”

Bart said nothing.

“You took me by surprise,” declared the strange doctor. “You were
watching me there in the grove. Why were you watching me? Answer
that question.”

“It happened quite by chance.”

“Did it? Then you were not spying upon me?”

“Of course not.”

“I thought perhaps you might have been. I have kept the great
secret until the time comes to divulge it, which I shall do in a
most sensational manner. I have not yet decided how it is to be,
but I shall do something to rival the act of Samson when he pulled
down the temple upon his enemies. I have enemies. You may not know
it, but it is true. I have secret enemies, and they would rob me of
my strength if they knew I possessed it. That is why I wish to keep
it a secret until the time comes. Then I shall call them all out in
a body and topple some massive building down upon them. That will
obliterate them, and they will give me no more trouble.”

He was speaking in a quiet tone of voice, and any one observing
him must have fancied he was simply chatting with Bart about
ordinary matters.

More than ever was Hodge satisfied that the man was a dangerous
lunatic. And he was all the more dangerous because he had craftily
concealed from those who knew him best the fact of his derangement.
They simply thought him “queer,” but it was not likely that any of
them dreamed that his mind was actually unbalanced.

“When the time comes,” the doctor continued, “I may ask you to
assist me in calling my enemies together. Oh, I’ll show you some
sport! You love sport, and you’ll laugh at this, I promise you. We
will get them to stand in one long row, and then I’ll bring the
bricks and mortar and stone and iron thundering down upon them. It
will be just like children playing with blocks.”

The doctor laughed silently to himself as he thought of this, and
Bart felt a cold shiver creeping over him.

“I must tell Elsie everything,” he thought. “She must not remain in
the house with this madman.”

Then he saw her coming toward them.

“Excuse me, doctor,” he said. “I wish to have a chat with Miss
Bellwood.”

“But not a word of the great secret to her!” warned the man, in a
whisper. “If you value your life, be silent!”




CHAPTER VII.

FOR ELSIE.


“Elsie.”

She stopped and turned as she heard her name spoken. Mrs. Parker
approached, accompanied by a young man, whom she introduced.

It was Gene Skelding.

“The dancing is about to begin,” said Mrs. Parker. “Gene is my
nephew, Elsie.”

Then, in a very clever manner, she practically asked Elsie to give
Gene Skelding the first waltz.

Now, Elsie did not care to dance with Skelding, but she could not
refuse under the circumstances, and Bart Hodge was filled with
dismay, chagrin, and anger when he saw the fellow bear Elsie away
toward the drawing-room on his arm. She glanced back over her
shoulder, but he had seen her turn, and he pretended to be deeply
interested in another direction.

This was a disappointment to Elsie, for she had intended to
indicate to him by a look that she was not pleased with the
arrangement, which she had been unable to avoid.

Skelding was triumphant. For a long time he had admired Elsie
Bellwood, but, being outside Merriwell’s set, he had not succeeded
in making her acquaintance.

When he chose, Skelding could converse pleasantly, and he exerted
himself just now to be agreeable. In fact, he exerted himself so
much that he came near overdoing it.

When they reached the drawing-room, the dancing had begun. It was
with great satisfaction that Shielding glided onto the floor with
Elsie, brushing past Frank Merriwell, who was still surrounded by
several pretty girls.

Gene knew Merriwell had paid Elsie great attentions in the past,
and it was his belief that Frank still cared for her. Therefore, he
regarded the securing of the first waltz with her as a very clever
thing on his part.

Frank saw Elsie with Skelding, and he was astonished, for he did
not know the fellow was Mrs. Parker’s nephew, and he wondered how
he had obtained her for that dance.

A sudden fear came to Frank. Was it possible that Elsie did not
care for Bart, and had taken particular pains to avoid him, giving
this dance to another for the purpose of causing him pain? No, he
could not think that of her. Elsie was not the girl to deliberately
give pain to any one she regarded as her true friend.

But perhaps she really did wish to avoid Bart. Perhaps she
considered this as the best way of showing him what her wishes
were. If she did not care for Bart--what then? Frank remembered
the past, and it gave him no little uneasiness.

“Why hasn’t Hodge told her of my engagement to Inza?” he inwardly
cried.

Then he realized that he was standing there with those girls
talking to him, yet without understanding a word they had been
saying for the past three minutes.

The college men ventured to come up and bear one after another of
the girls away. Frank selected one, and was soon in the midst of
the waltz.

In vain he looked for Bart. Hodge was not dancing. Indeed, Bart had
withdrawn from the house to the veranda, where he stood facing the
cool breeze that felt so pleasant on his flushed cheeks.

“Curse that fellow!” he inwardly cried. “Properly, this is my dance
with her. Why did she give it to him?”

He longed to throttle Skelding. The fact that Elsie was waltzing
with a member of the despicable Chickering set caused him to grind
his teeth in rage. He felt a touch on the arm.

“You did not decide to dance?”

It was the voice of the doctor.

“No,” answered Hodge shortly.

“It is a beautiful evening.”

“Yes.”

Bart did not feel inclined to talk just then, but the doctor
lingered.

“If you are not going to dance, what do you say to a stroll?”

Now, Hodge had no fancy for taking a stroll with this man just
then, and he politely declined.

“Perhaps I might be able to tell you some things of interest,”
suggested the doctor, in a low voice. “You know I have a secret.
Wouldn’t you like to be able to acquire marvelous strength?”

“I am quite satisfied with my strength.”

“Are you?” asked the man, as if he really pitied the poor fellow.
“That is because you do not know what you are missing. You do not
know what it is to feel that you are able to move a mountain if you
wish. That is living! It goes all through you.”

Bart turned away. The talk of this lunatic wearied him.

“If you will come to the lodge in the grove,” whispered the doctor,
“I’ll reveal to you my wonderful secret. Think of it! I have never
before made such an offer to any living human being. I will show
you how you may become strong like me.”

“Why should you do this?”

“Because I have taken a fancy to you. Come, come!”

He seized Bart’s arm as if he would force him from the house toward
the grove near at hand.

“Stop!” said Bart sternly. “Let go, sir! I will not go with you!”

The man’s eyes seemed to gleam at him balefully through the gloom,
and it was plain that he was hesitating. Hodge nerved himself for
the struggle, in case he was attacked. But the attack did not come.
The doctor’s hand fell from the arm of the student, and he laughed
softly.

“You are the first man I ever offered to give a part of my great
secret,” he said, “and you have refused to accept it! I did not
expect it of you! My confidence in you has been misplaced, but
again I warn you to be silent. If you betray me, it will cost you
your life!”

Then he turned and left the veranda, walking rapidly away into the
darkness. Hodge gave himself a shake.

“The man means me harm!” he decided. “I feel that he wished to get
me away from the house for no good purpose. He is dangerous, and
Elsie must not remain beneath this roof!”

Then he thought of Elsie waltzing with Skelding and ground his
teeth again.

“Why did she accept him for that waltz? She knew I was waiting for
her! Can it be that she wishes to stand me off?”

The thought filled him with intense anguish, so that beads of cold
perspiration started out upon his face. The music stopped. The
waltz was over.

“I’ll keep out of the way for a time,” he decided. “I am in no mood
to be seen now.”

Some of the dancers came out onto the veranda, where they could
chat, but Bart remained in a dark corner. Everybody seemed happy,
and he was most miserable.

After a time a little group of students gathered near him and
lighted their cigarettes. He saw their faces by the flash of the
match, and an exclamation nearly escaped his lips as he observed
that Skelding was one of them.

“Never enjoyed a waltz so much in my life, fellows,” declared Gene.
“Didn’t I have a queen?”

“She’s Merriwell’s best,” said somebody. “Look out, or you’ll get
tangled up with him.”

“Merriwell be hanged! I don’t care for him.”

“Perhaps not, but still, he’s bad medicine. She is a queen, though.”

“Fellows, she’s a peach of a waltzer,” declared Gene, while Hodge
began to tremble in every limb.

“You must be struck on her,” chuckled one of the others.

“I’m hard hit. I wouldn’t mind winning her for keeps.”

“You can’t win her away from Merriwell.”

“I got the first waltz with her.”

“Well, that was something; but he’ll waltz with her oftener than
you do to-night.”

“I’ll go the fizz for the crowd that he doesn’t.”

“Done!”

By this time Bart was furious. His hands were opening and closing
nervously, and it seemed that his hoarse breathing must be heard by
the group of students.

“Oh, this is going to be easy!” laughed Skelding.

“That’s all right. We’ll see how easy it is. I saw Merriwell
watching you.”

“I’m glad of that. Made him jealous. Ha, ha!”

“You seem to think you have a safe thing.”

“Why, fellows, I’ll tell you something: she squeezed my hand during
the waltz.”

“You’re a miserable liar and a cur!” said Bart Hodge, as he stepped
into the midst of the group and confronted Skelding.

Before Gene could get out of the way or lift his hand, Hodge seized
him by the nose, which he gave a pull that brought a cry of pain
from the fellow’s lips.

Then the two were thrust apart. Gene had clasped his nose with both
hands. Beneath his feet his cigarette spluttered sparks and went
out. Somebody laughed beyond an open window.

“Curse you!” hoarsely breathed Skelding. “You shall pay for this!”

“With pleasure,” said Bart grimly.

“Now!”

“The sooner the better!”

“Follow me.”

“Lead on.”

Some of the others tried to interfere and prevent the fight for the
time, but such a thing could not be averted. They left the piazza
and moved away from the house toward the lake. Bart did not seek
the companionship of friends. The men whom Gene had been speaking
to thus lightly about Elsie went along.

They found a quiet spot at a distance from the house, yet within
hearing of the music and laughter. The orchestra had started up
again, and the happy throng in the house was dancing.

Hodge was eager to get at Skelding. He boiled to teach the cheap
fellow a lesson. That any one had dared speak in such a manner of
Elsie was enough to make him furious.

They stripped off their coats and vests. They even removed collars,
neckties, and white shirts.

Skelding’s friends helped him prepare. Bart disdained help. Hodge
fastened his suspenders about his waist to support his trousers. He
was ready first.

“I’ll make you sorry for what you did!” vowed Skelding.

“I’ll make you swallow your lying words, or I’ll kill you!”
declared Bart, in a low, terrible voice.

“Are you ready?”

“I am waiting.”

They stepped quickly toward each other. In a moment they were at it.

It was not light enough for them to see to fight in a scientific
manner. Hodge pressed the fighting from the very start. Skelding
had tried to do this, but he found Bart a perfect whirlwind, flying
about him here, there, everywhere, hitting him on one side and then
on the other.

The spectators watched in great excitement. It was a fierce fight,
and they knew it could not last long. Suddenly one of the men went
down before a blow that sounded like a pistol-shot.

It was Skelding. Bart stood over him, panting.

“Get up! Get up and let me finish you! I’ve not begun to give you
what you deserve!”

Skelding was ready enough to get up. He did so as soon as he could,
meeting Bart’s rush in the best form he could command.

But the blows rained on Gene’s face. He felt the blood flowing, and
he panted and staggered. What made him feel the worst was that he
could not seem to reach Hodge with a single good blow.

Bart was fighting for the honor of Elsie, and it made him a
thousand times more terrible than usual. Indeed, it was a wonder
that Gene stood up before him as long as he did.

At last, however, Skelding went down again and again before those
terrible fists. He could not stand in front of them at all, and he
was very “groggy.”

“That’s enough, Hodge!” exclaimed one of the spectators. “You have
given him punishment enough!”

“Keep back!” commanded Bart, in an awesome voice.

“But I say it’s enough!”

“If you interfere, you’ll have to fight, also!”

“Do you want to kill the man?”

“If he does not swallow his lying words, I shall never stop till he
is dead or unconscious!”

He meant it, and Skelding knew it. He knew that he could not endure
such fearful punishment much longer, and yet he hated to give up.

“You--you devil!” he almost sobbed, his heart filled with shame and
anger.

“You lied about her, Skelding! You know it, and I know it. Take
back those words!”

“I will not!”

Crack--down Gene went.

Bart waited for him to rise, and he got up slowly.

“Take back those words!”

“I refuse!”

Crack--it was repeated.

Again, after a pause, Skelding dragged himself up.

“Take back those words!”

“No, I will----”

Crack--a third time he went down.

The men who were watching did not dare interfere. Skelding dragged
himself to his elbow, but did not try to rise.

“You can’t make me take them back!” he said thickly.

Bart dropped to one knee, grasped the fellow by the neck, and
lifted his terrible fist.

“Take them back,” he said, “or I’ll disfigure you for life! I’ll
never stop till you swallow those words!”

“I--I will take them back!” faltered the beaten fellow, his nerve
failing him at last.

“Confess that you lied!”

“I--I lied; I confess it!”

“That’s all!” said Bart, rising. “But if you ever speak her name
again, and I know of it, I’ll give you worse than anything you have
received to-night!”

Then he removed his suspenders from about his waist, found his
clothes, and began to dress, his manner seeming so cool that the
witnesses of the fight wondered. A short time after, Bart sauntered
slowly up to the house, as if he had simply been out for a little
stroll.

As he mounted the steps to the veranda, some one uttered a little
exclamation of pleasure, and came toward him through the shadows.
Then Elsie was before him, and her hands were on his arm.

“I’ve been searching for you everywhere, Bart,” she declared.
“Where in the world have you been?”

“Oh, just wandering round the grounds,” he answered.

“You did not dance.”

“Without you!” His voice was full of tender reproach.

“Oh, Bart! I couldn’t help it,” she told him. “Mrs. Parker asked me
to dance with him that time, and how could I refuse?”

“Why was she so anxious?”

“He is her nephew.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bart; but that was all he said, though
he was thinking that Mrs. Parker might not recognize her nephew if
she could see him just then.

“I was afraid you would not understand,” said Elsie. “You see what
an awkward position I was in. I didn’t have enough wit to tell a
fib and say I had promised you.”

“I am glad you did not tell a fib, Elsie. Even a white fib would
seem out of place on your lips.”

“But were you angry with me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Bart!”

“I was as angry as a--as a--as a fool!” he said. “I couldn’t help
it! I even thought of leaving without a word, and going back to
town.”

She uttered a little cry.

“I am so glad you did not!” she whispered.

“Are you really glad, Elsie?”

“Really and truly, Bart.”

“Have you been dancing again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was searching for you. Somebody asked me to dance, but I refused
him.”

“Who was it?”

“Frank.”

“Frank Merriwell?”

“Yes.”

Hodge almost choked.

“You refused to dance with Frank?” he said huskily. “All because
you had not danced with me?”

“Yes, Bart,” she whispered, and he felt her hands trembling.

He found those hands and imprisoned them both, all the great love
in his heart surging up to his lips and seeking to be outpoured at
once.

“Elsie, my sweetheart! You are--I feel it! I know it! And a little
while ago I thought you did not care--I thought you wished to show
me that you did not care, and that I was nothing to you!”

“How could you think such mean things of me, Bart?”

“I did not want to think them, God knows! but they would come into
my head.”

The music was some simple little love-song, and it came sweetly to
their ears. It seemed to be particularly adapted to the moment, and
ever after, through all their lives, that tune was the sweetest of
all tunes to them.

“Elsie, you do love me--you do?”

She did not answer in words, but her hands were clasped in his, and
he received a pressure that told him much. And only a short time
before he had fought another man for claiming to receive such a
pressure from those dear hands.

He would have kissed her then and there, but a strolling couple
approached along the veranda.

“Let’s take a little walk through the grounds,” he suggested. “It
is warm. Will you need a wrap?”

“Nothing more than this I have about my shoulders,” she answered.

They descended the steps and moved away along a walk. Up from a
spot near where they had been rose a dark shadow, like a thing of
evil, and stole silently after them.




CHAPTER VIII.

A FIGHT WITH A MANIAC.


Frank had been unable to find either Hodge or Elsie for some time.
He wondered what had become of them, and the fancy came to him
that perhaps Bart had met her and was improving the opportunity to
unbosom himself.

“I hope he has,” thought Merry; “and I hope she accepts him. He
is a truly splendid fellow! Not many chaps would have made the
confession he did to me yesterday.”

At last Frank left the house and started alone for a stroll about
the grounds. He was weary of being lionized, and he wished to
get away by himself. At the farther extremity of the grounds, he
paused, hearing some one running swiftly toward him, panting and
sobbing as she came, for the sound was like that of a woman.

This person ran almost into Frank’s arms. She saw him, caught her
foot, and nearly fell. His strong arm kept her from going down.

“Help!” she gasped, in the greatest terror, clasping his arm.
“Bring somebody to help him!”

“Elsie!” he exclaimed. “What has happened? Tell me everything! Tell
me quick!”

“Oh, Frank!” she gasped, being almost too exhausted to speak.
“Bart--he----”

“What has happened to Bart?”

“He told me--all about Doctor Lincoln. And then--while we were
talking--the doctor came right upon us. He seized Bart, and they
had a terrible struggle. I tried to help Bart, but he thrust me
off. Then I saw him strike Bart with something, and Bart fell. He
has--carried him off--into the grove!”

Now Frank was stirred.

“Where did this happen, Elsie? Tell me if you cannot show me! I
must do what I can to save him.”

She had confidence in Frank; she believed Frank could save him. Her
strength seemed to come back, and she started away, crying:

“Follow me; I’ll show you!”

She ran again, and he followed her. At a distant part of the
grounds, not far from the edge of the grove, she showed him the
spot where the encounter had taken place.

“And he carried Bart off toward the grove?”

“Yes, yes!”

The grove looked dark and gloomy, but Merriwell bounded toward
it at once. Hodge had told him of the lodge in the midst of that
grove, and he felt that the maniac had carried Bart to that.

Frank was right. Having struck Hodge down with an instrument that
rendered Bart helpless and unable to resist, the man caught him
up in his powerful arms and rushed straight toward the lodge in
the midst of the grove. Knowing every foot of the way, he bore the
unfortunate college man straight there.

The door opened before the touch of the doctor, and he carried his
intended victim into the hut. When they were inside, the doctor
touched a button, and electric lights flashed up.

Hodge was conscious now, and he tried to make another struggle. The
man caught him by the neck, and it seemed that those iron fingers
would crush flesh, sinew, and bone. There was a frightful glare in
the eyes of the mad doctor.

“I trusted you,” he said in a terrible voice, “and you betrayed my
secret! For that you shall die!”

The struggle did not last long, and Bart was hurled into a big
chair with arms. Then the doctor held him there, binding his limbs
with cords and tying him fast.

Hodge felt like shrieking for help, but he knew that would be
folly, and he made no cry. Instead, he tried to think of some
method of appeasing the maniac.

“Haven’t you made a mistake, doctor?” he said in a voice that
possessed all the calmness he could command.

“No!” roared the madman. “You know I have made no mistake! You are
the traitor!”

“Did you hear correctly, doctor? I did not----”

“It will do you no good to lie! You have betrayed me, and you must
die!”

“I was speaking to Miss Bellwood when you pounced upon me.”

“Yes; you had told her that I thought myself the strongest man in
the world. Thought! Ha, ha, ha! Why, I know! You were like a child
in my hands! Did you see how weak and helpless you were? Yet I’ll
wager that you think you are strong. You thought you were strong
when you fought with Skelding a while ago.”

“You know of that?”

“Oh, yes; I know of it. I have been watching you for a long time,
as something told me you would betray me. You thought you were
strong because you could conquer him. Bah! I could have stepped in
and handled you both without an effort. I could have toyed with
you. It would have given me pleasure to do so, but I did not care
to betray my great strength to those others who were present. That
was why I stood off and waited.”

So this maniac had been following him round all the evening? The
thought was hardly agreeable.

“Something told me you would give away my secret,” went on the mad
doctor, his eyes dancing. “That was why I clung so close to you.
When I hear that voice whispering something in my ear, I know it
speaks the truth. It whispered over and over: ‘He is a traitor! He
is a traitor!’ But you lied to her!”

“How?”

“You told her that I am mad. Poor fool! Why should you think
anything so ridiculous? You did it because you were jealous. I can
read you. You did not wish the world to ever know that I am the
strongest man alive. Why, you idiot! did you think they could take
me and confine me in an asylum? Why, you must have known that I can
bend and break the strongest iron bars! You must have known that I
could pull the walls down. There are no walls strong enough to hold
me.”

“I think you are right,” said Bart.

“I know I am!”

“Well, why don’t you proclaim your wonderful strength to the world?”

“The time has not come.”

“This is a good time to do it. Why wait so long? To-morrow you can
astonish the whole world.”

The doctor shook his head.

“I am not quite ready.”

“But your enemies--you wish to obliterate them, and I am to help
you. I will get them together to-morrow, and you may topple those
heavy buildings upon them.”

“You can’t fool me!” laughed the maniac, with a cunning leer. “I
know your game!”

“You proposed it yourself. You suggested that I was to help you.”

“But then I thought you all right. Now I know you are a traitor.
You would not help me.”

“If I promise----”

“I will accept no promise from you. A man who has been false once
will be false again. You must die!”

Bart began to realize that he could not deceive the maniac in such
a manner; but he was thinking that Elsie had rushed away for aid,
and this talk might give her time to bring help. So Bart went on
talking. After a time, however, the doctor seemed to suspect his
purpose.

“It’s no use,” he grinned, as he went to a closet in the wall, from
which he took a long black knife. “I know what you are trying to
do, but there is no hope for you. They will not come to your aid.
And even if they did, what could they all do against me? Why, I
could handle them like a giant among children.”

He was feeling of the edge of the knife with his thumb.

“It is sharp,” he nodded. “One slash of this will do the work, and
I shall be stronger when it is over, for all your strength will go
into my body.”

“Is that how you won your strength?” asked Bart, still hoping help
might appear.

“I’ll not tell you! You have betrayed me, and I’ll tell you no
more. Your time has come! I am going to make quick work of you.
I’ll not torture you. One strong, swift stroke, and the knife will
finish you. Brace up, now. You’re white. Show that you are not a
coward.”

Bart fancied the door behind the doctor’s back moved slightly. He
fancied it was swinging open.

The maniac bent over Bart and lifted the knife.

Then the door swung back noiselessly, and Frank Merriwell came into
the room, leaping on the back of the mad doctor, whose wrist he
grasped.

Then began one of the most terrible struggles Hodge had ever
witnessed. And Bart was helpless to render Frank the least
assistance. He could only look on and pray that Merry might conquer
this terrible maniac.

Frank knew that it was a life-and-death struggle, and he exerted
his wonderful powers as he had never before done. The doctor
uttered a roar of rage, and tried to fling the youth off.

“Look out for him, Merry!” panted Bart. “Look out for that knife!”

Frank was taking care that the man did not get his knife-hand free.
He had jerked the doctor’s hand back and given it an upward twist
behind his back, hoping to force him to release his hold on the
knife; but the man continued to clutch it for a time.

Higher and higher Frank twisted that arm, on which the muscles
stood out in great ridges. At last the fingers relaxed, and the
knife slipped to the floor with a clang.

Bart gave a sigh of relief and hope. But having released the knife,
the mad doctor wrenched about and fastened his hands on Frank.

The strength of the maniac was appalling, but against it was pitted
the strength and skill of the cleverest athlete Yale had ever known.

Frank succeeded in tripping the man, but the wall kept the doctor
from going down. The lodge shook and rocked beneath their fearful
struggles. The fact that he could not handle Merry at once made the
maniac madly furious.

“You fool!” he roared. “Do you think to pit your puny strength
against mine? Why, I am the strongest man in the world, and I can
crush you!”

“Strong!” retorted Frank, with an expression of contempt. “Why, you
are weak as a child! You could not handle a healthy boy of ten!”

“What?” snarled the doctor, in amazement. “You know better than
that!”

“I am fooling with you now to show you how weak you really are,”
Frank declared. “I can handle you any time.”

“It’s a lie!” shrieked the doctor, redoubling his efforts. “I’ll
break every bone in your body!”

Then he did his utmost, and a gasp of horror came from the lips of
Bart, for he saw Merry gradually forced to his knees, despite his
efforts to prevent.

Hodge knew Frank had sought to shake the maniac’s confidence in
his own strength by his words, and now Bart broke into taunting
laughter.

“That’s it, Merriwell!” he cried, as if delighted. “You can fool
him with that trick! He thinks he is getting the best of you,
but----”

Frank had given a sudden, great twist, and the doctor was flung
heavily to the floor. Frank was on top.

The shock was a great surprise to the madman, but he did not give
up. He had fancied he was getting the best of his antagonist, only
to find himself thrown with a wrestler’s trick.

Here and there over the floor they writhed and squirmed. With his
powerful body, the doctor would lift Merry more than a foot, but
Frank always drove him back to the floor with a shock that made the
lodge quiver.

How Bart longed to break free and take a hand! Together they could
have conquered the man. But though he writhed and twisted and
strained, the cords held him fast.

Where was Elsie?

Frank had run on before her, and she was lost somewhere in the
grove, wandering about in search of the lodge. Had she been there,
she might have rendered assistance just then.

There was a sudden flop, a turn. It seemed that the man had Frank
foul at last. He laughed harshly, and Hodge held his breath.

But Merry rose to one knee, got his feet beneath him, struggled up
despite all attempts to hold him down, and again they both were on
their feet.

“Great work!” exclaimed Bart, in delight. “Now give him the
cross-buttock, Merry!”

Frank did it at the very instant that Bart spoke, but he got his
body far under that of the doctor, whom he flung fairly over his
head. Down came the man with a terrible crash, his head striking
the floor hard.

Merry was on him.

“The strongest man in the world!” laughed Bart. “Why, he is a kid
in your hands, Merriwell!”

“I told him so,” said Frank. “He must be an invalid, or he could do
better than this.”

A groan of disappointment escaped the lips of the doctor, for at
last he realized that this youth had conquered him; and then, as
Frank had hoped, with this realization all the remarkable strength
seemed to go out of the man, leaving him helpless in Merriwell’s
grasp.

At that moment Elsie appeared at the door and looked in, having
found the lodge at last.

“Just in time!” cried Bart. “Quick, Elsie! take that knife and cut
these cords!”

She staggered a little, but she caught up the knife and obeyed,
setting Hodge free.

“Let me help you, Merry!” panted Bart, as with some of the cords
he bent over the conquered maniac. “We’ll soon have him tied up in
fancy style. Old man, you put up a dandy fight!”

So they swiftly bound Doctor Lincoln, taking pains to tie him fast.
Frank drew a deep breath when the job was done.

“Well,” he said, “of all the men I ever tackled, he is the most
remarkable. At times he seemed to have the strength of two men, and
I did fear that he would get the best of me.”

A strange look came to the face of the doctor.

“Then you lied when you called me weak!” he cried, frothing at the
mouth. “It was a trick! You did it to deceive me!”

“That is true,” nodded Frank. “It was necessary to do something.”

Bart was supporting Elsie.

“Come!” she whispered; “let’s go away. I can’t stay here! The sight
of him terrifies me!”

Hodge supported her from the lodge, saying:

“Come on, Merriwell. He’s secure, and we can leave him till we can
send somebody to take care of him.”

Frank lingered a little, to make sure the mad doctor’s bond’s were
secure.

“Oh, Bart!” Elsie breathed, when they were alone outside; “I have
suffered such terror, for I thought he would kill you! Had he done
so, it would have killed me also!”

“Elsie--Elsie, my sweetheart! Then you do love me? Tell me that you
love me!”

“Bart, I love you--I love you!”

And so Bart found his happiness as he had wished, without
disclosing to Elsie the fact that Frank Merriwell and Inza were
engaged.




CHAPTER IX.

THE FIFTEENTH MAN.


The early spring days passed rapidly at the college, and the
interest of the students had been for days centered in the date
fixed for the elections to the senior societies.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon of the third Thursday in May.
In front of the fence the juniors had congregated in a body, and
there they waited in solemn and expectant silence. Without doubt,
every man in that throng by the fence hoped deep in his heart that
it would be his fate to make “Bones.”

Some there were who felt confident, and their confidence showed
in their faces; but others were doubtful and nervous, while still
others, knowing that their chances were not worth reckoning upon,
seemed resigned, as if nothing more than curiosity to watch the
rest had brought them there.

Still all hoped. Often in the past some unexpected man had been
chosen to accept the high honor of entering one of the three senior
societies, and what had happened might happen again. Of course,
there were men whose election seemed certain. Their society career
had begun in Kappa Omicron Alpha, when they were at Andover, and
had continued triumphantly through Hé Boulé or Eta Phi, the Yale
sophomore societies, into Delta Kappa Epsilon, Psi Upsilon, or
Alpha Delta Phi, the great junior societies of the college. It
would be against all precedent to leave such men out of all three
of the senior societies, and of course they felt certain that the
hand of some searching senior society man would fall smartly on
their backs that day.

But out of that throng of students only forty-five men could be the
favored ones, fifteen to each society. The confident ones were all
looking to make “Bones,” though, to tell the truth, there was some
inward trepidation among them.

For Skull and Bones is the great senior society at Yale, being
the oldest and richest of them all. He is not a Yale man who
would prefer scholarship, honors, or prizes to membership in this
society, and it is supposed that the honor falls each year to the
fifteen men who stand highest as scholars, athletes, or have made
brilliant records in a literary and social way.

Next to “Bones” comes Scroll and Key, generally known as “Keys,”
and, after “Bones,” it gets the cream of the picking. If a man does
not make “Bones,” he may feel solaced and satisfied that his great
ambitions have not been entirely fruitless in case he is taken
into “Keys.” Indeed, the men who make the latter society seem to
convince themselves that it is the one they always preferred, and
they bear themselves with the air and dignity of conquerors.

And so on this third Thursday in May all the probable and possible
candidates were gathered at the fence. Freshmen and sophomores
stood off and looked on, for in this ceremony they had no part.

In less than one minute after the clock struck five, a solemn
senior was seen threading his way through the crowd, and all knew
a “Bones” man was in search of the candidate he had been sent to
notify. All eyes followed him, and an anxious hush fell on the
great throng.

“It’s Gunnison!” whispered somebody, as the searcher was seen
looking sharply at a man.

“No, Rice!” fluttered another. “See, he’s turned away from
Gunnison.”

But he passed Rice.

“Who can it be?”

In a moment they would know. Of a sudden, the searcher dealt a
student a sharp slap on the back, sternly saying:

“Go to your room!”

“It’s Gildea!” said a voice that was drowned in a great shout that
goes up from the spectators.

The first “Bones” man had been chosen.

Then came another grave senior weaving in and out through the
throng, and soon another shout went up as another man was tapped
sharply on the back and ordered to go to his room.

The watchers were keeping count with untold excitement and anxiety,
for thus they could tell where each man went and how their own
chances were growing less, in case they were juniors.

Bertrand Defarge was smiling and serene, for he had made a
sophomore and a junior society, and he was confident of being taken
into the field of “Bones.”

At one time he had feared, but since that time he had made his
peace with Merriwell. It had been a terrible humiliation for him to
go to Frank and humble himself, but the French youth, feeling that
his ambition was hopeless unless he did, had forced himself to do
so. It was the manner in which Merriwell had met him that restored
hope and confidence to the heart of Defarge, for Frank had seemed
glad that he came, and had appeared to accept in good faith his
repentance.

Defarge left Merriwell that night with the firm conviction that
Frank’s one great ambition in life was to make friends of his
enemies. And he told himself that he had deceived Merry finely
with his tearful protestations of sorrow, repentance, admiration,
and pledges of future friendship. He had seen Merriwell do much
in the past for enemies who had become his friends, and Bertrand
worked to deceive Frank into giving him a lift toward the goal of
his ambitions, “Bones.” In this he was crafty, knowing that open
speech would not do, but yet he fancied he had managed to convey
his meaning and desires in a most delicate manner.

The fellow had even been so confident that he boasted of his
cleverness to one or two intimate and confidential friends.

“Merriwell is the easiest fellow in the world to fool if you know
how to go about it,” he had said.

“Do you think that?”

“I know it. I’ve been playing my cards wrong with him. I’ve just
found out the trick.”

“What is it?”

“Make him think you love him. Make him believe you’re awfully sorry
for any harm you may have tried to do him. Be a repentant sinner,
and seek forgiveness. He loves to forgive. He has a magnanimous way
of saying: ‘Oh, that’s all right, old man; don’t mention it.’ Then
he’ll turn to and do more for the enemy he believes has become his
friend than for any one else.”

“What makes you think that?”

“His record. Diamond was his enemy; see what he did for Diamond.
Browning was his enemy, and he has stood ready to do anything
for him. Hodge was one of the bitterest enemies he ever had, yet
they are bosom friends now. Badger, who hated him, finally turned
friend, and Merriwell helped Badger win and carry off Winnie Lee
for his wife. That is proof enough. I’ve given him the hint, and
I know he’ll throw his influence for me. Not a word, old man, but
I’m sure of making ‘Bones’ now.”

So Defarge stood by the fence and smiled as he saw man after man
tapped and ordered away. He had little interest in a chap he knew
was looking for a “Keys” candidate, and none whatever in the Wolf’s
Head searcher.

Hock Mason happened to be standing close to Defarge. Bertrand had
sought to be friendly toward all of Merriwell’s friends after his
professed “change of heart,” and now he was conversing with the
youth from South Carolina.

“Twelve men gone to ‘Bones,’” he said in a low tone. “That leaves
only three more.”

“And I know twenty good fellows who ought to go there,” said Hock.

“Oh, yes; that’s all right; but you see it can’t be, as only
fifteen men can make it.”

“You’re not tapped yet.”

“Oh, there’s time enough,” declared Bertrand, but the confident
smile was fading from his face and giving place to a look of
anxiety.

What if he should not be chosen, after all? What if he should be
thrown down after making every other Society in order? He felt that
the disgrace would kill him. But that could not be. Merriwell had
not yet appeared in search of a candidate. He would come soon, and
something told Defarge that it would be the hand of Frank Merriwell
that would tap him on the back. Ha! what a satisfaction it would
be to use Merriwell at last as a tool in this manner! Defarge felt
that there was something in making use of a hated foe in such a
way that was even more satisfactory than in maiming or killing
him. Of course, they would be bound together as brothers in the
society, and Defarge knew he would never again lift a hand against
Merriwell; but the fact that Frank must leave college in a few
short weeks, to return no more, was a great comfort to Bertrand.

Another cheer went up from the great throng, telling that yet
another candidate had been chosen. The happy man was seen walking
swiftly toward his room, followed by the grave-faced senior who had
slapped him on the back.

“‘Bones,’” said the watchers.

“Thirteen!” counted Defarge, in a husky whisper.

“Only two more,” muttered Mason.

“Just enough to take us both in,” said Bertrand, with pretended
lightness, though his heart was sinking.

“Not enough to take me in,” declared the youth from South Carolina
rather sadly. “There was never a ghost of a show for me. I only
came here to see the other fellows made happy. You know my record
when I first came here hurt me, and when a man gets started wrong
at Yale, he has hard work to change his course and get on the
right track. I’ve been side-tracked right along.”

“It’s too bad!” nodded Defarge. “Hello! there goes another ‘Keys’
man. You might make Wolf’s Head, Mason, you know.”

“My chance of making heaven is better. But surely a society man
like you----”

“‘Bones,’ or nothing!” muttered Defarge grimly. “There are two more
to go, and I’m waiting.”

“Hooray! Codwell! Hoopee! Hooray!”

“‘Bones!’” said Defarge hoarsely, his face growing white.

“Fourteen!” counted Mason. “That leaves but one more.”

“I’m the man!” the French youth inwardly declared. “I must be the
man! What if they did not take me in! What if I failed after making
the other societies!”

It could not be! Such a thing was unprecedented. Fortune had simply
held him back for the fifteenth man. His mouth and lips were dry
and he trembled a little. Was it possible, after all, that he had
failed to deceive Merriwell? But it had been claimed by all of
Merriwell’s friends that he would not use personal feelings to
retard any man from advancement.

“He will not,” Defarge told himself. “It would be more like him
to go against any feeling of dislike he may have for me, and seek
to uplift me for that very reason. I’m all right! I am to be the
fifteenth man.”

He heard nothing of the roar from the crowd as a “Keys” man was
slapped, or the fainter shout as a candidate went to Wolf’s Head.
He was waiting for Frank Merriwell to appear; he was looking in all
directions for him.

Those in the crowd who were disappointed were doing their best
to hide it away under a mask of happiness over the good fortune
of others. Many were there who felt a great pain in their hearts
and longed to crawl away and hide themselves, but they laughed in
a strained fashion and talked of the luck of others. Those who
had been to their rooms, followed by tappers, were back receiving
congratulations from friends, their hands being shaken till their
arms were tired.

This was the acme of college glory. Truly, it did seem that some of
those happy-faced chaps were not nearly as deserving as some others
who were congratulating them. But it is the case all through life.
Not always the men we regard as the most deserving win the high
prizes. We may, however, be wrong in our estimates of men.

Only one more man to go to “Bones.” Who would it be? The crowd were
speculating.

“Harrison is the man.”

“Don’t believe yourself. He can’t get there. It’s Fairbush.”

“All wrong. It’s Defarge, of course.”

“That’s right; Defarge must be the man. Look how cool he is. He
knows he will be chosen, even though there is only one more choice.
He’ll get it.”

“Sure thing. Who’s the man he’s talking to?”

“Oh, that’s Mason.”

“So it is! What a chump I am not to know him! He can play ball.”

“Merriwell brought him out. Nobody ever suspected there was much in
him till Merriwell took hold of him. He never did cut any ice.”

All at once Defarge stiffened up. Moving through the crowd, looking
right and left, he had seen a well-known senior.

It was Merriwell!

Frank was the last of the “Bones” men to come forth in search of
a candidate. His was the fifteenth man. All eyes were turned on
Merriwell, and a great hush fell on the watching throng.

In and out, here and there, Frank moved. As he came near, the
heart of many a man rose into his throat; as he turned away, those
swelling, fluttering hearts seemed to drop back like lead.

The mouth of Defarge was dry as a chip now, and he felt cold
shivers running up and down his spine. He almost feared to watch
Merriwell’s movements.

What if he should be left out? It seemed that he could never bear
the disgrace of it. Mason was speaking to him. At first he did not
seem to hear, but soon he understood these words:

“Everywhere for you. He’s passed Fairbush and Harrison. They are
both looking ill. Too bad! I’m sorry for them. It must be tough on
a man who has counted on being chosen. He sees you, Defarge! He is
coming this way!”

Yes, it seemed that Frank had seen Bertrand at last. He turned in
that direction, and came forward slowly, as became the dignity of
a senior on such a grave mission.

Bertrand’s heart leaped for joy. Now there could no longer be a
doubt; he was the man, and to Merriwell had fallen the lot of
notifying him.

Defarge came near laughing aloud. He did smile. He saw how
everybody was watching Merriwell. Many present knew Frank had
found in the French youth a persistent foe, but of late it seemed
that Merry had discovered a way to hold Bertrand in subjection and
submission. But the great mass of students did not dream of the
many villainous attempts Defarge had made to injure Frank.

In that moment Bertrand Defarge saw visions of being made a member
of Merriwell’s flock. He even vowed that he would do his level
best to gain such distinction, as it would give him standing after
Merriwell had left college.

Not that he loved Merriwell at all. Not that his treacherous nature
had been changed in the least. But “Bones” would bring about the
eternal burial of the hatchet, and never could anything cause them
to betray a symptom of enmity.

Frank came nearer.

“It’s a sure thing, Defarge!” said Mason, in a whisper.
“Congratulations.”

“Yes, it’s a sure thing,” thought Bertrand. “I knew it. How could
I ever doubt it for a minute? They could not skip me. I was a fool
to think such a thing!”

Frank came nearer. Bertrand even turned his body so that Merry
might have less trouble in reaching his back and giving it a slap.
Then he waited again.

Smack! Frank’s hand had fallen.

“Go to your room!”

The fifteenth man had been chosen.

It was not Defarge!




CHAPTER X.

THE MAN WHO WAS NOT CHOSEN.


Defarge heard the smack of Frank’s hand, but he was astounded
beyond measure when he failed to feel it upon his back. Scarcely
could he believe Merriwell had given the slap. One moment before
he had felt perfectly confident that he was the one who had
been chosen for the honors. Like a flash he turned. What he saw
astonished him beyond measure.

Hock Mason, the youth from South Carolina, was looking at Frank
Merriwell in a most bewildered way, as if he doubted the evidence
of his own senses.

Merriwell had slapped Mason.

In all that gathering of students, no man had less expected such an
honor. To Mason it seemed that the heavens had opened with a golden
shower.

To Defarge it was like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.

Plainly Mason could not yet believe he had been selected for
“Bones.” He was on the verge of telling Frank that he must have
made a mistake.

Defarge, also, felt like crying out to Merry: “You’re wrong, you
chump! Here I am!”

Plainly, the selection of the fifteenth man had been a surprise to
many, for there was a protracted hush. Then it broke, and there was
a great cheer for Mason.

The blood rushed back to the face of the Southerner. It came so
fast that he grew dizzy and everything seemed to swim round him. He
put out his hands, as if to grasp something. Was he dreaming? Had
this greatest honor that a Yale man can receive really come to him?

There was no mistake. The crowd had greeted the selection with a
cheer, and he had heard his name at the end of it. He, who had
expected nothing, had received the great reward.

With faltering steps, he started to go to his room, but he was so
bewildered that he started in the wrong direction. Somebody put an
arm round him and turned him the right way, whispering in his ear:

“I’m gug-gosh darn gug-glad for ye!”

It was Joe Gamp--poor, dear old Joe, who had never “cut any ice”
in society life at Yale. Joe Gamp, the lad from New Hampshire,
who would have given up any hope of inheriting his father’s farm
for the glory of entering “Bones,” had seen in the face of the
Southerner the unspeakable joy of the moment, and he whispered that
he was glad.

Mason remembered it afterward, for he was not a fellow to forget.
Mason, who had come to Yale with a feeling of prejudice for
“Yanks,” would have fought to the death for one “Yank” after that.
For more than one, as Merriwell was a Northerner, and he had long
felt that he would do anything in his power for Frank.

The burden of disappointment had fallen heavily on many men that
day, but to none had come greater joy than to Hock Mason. His heart
was threatening to tear a hole in his bosom as he walked through
that crowd, which parted for him to pass, knowing that Frank
Merriwell was gravely following in his footsteps.

Frank’s face was unreadable as that of a stone image as he brushed
past Defarge and followed Mason. And so they proceeded across the
campus and disappeared into one of the arches.

Behind them they left a youth who felt that he must die of
disappointment and shame. Defarge knew that it had been supposed
he was sure to make “Bones” or “Keys,” and he had told himself
that nothing less than the greater society would satisfy him. Now,
however, he was weak and crumbling with the bitterness of it all
upon him.

It must be that he had been chosen by “Keys.” That was the last
hope, and the last “Keys” man was passing through the throng in
search of the final candidate.

“He must be after me!” Defarge inwardly cried.

But the searcher had found his man. His hand rose and fell.

“It’s Carson! Hooray! Carson! Carson!”

Berlin Carson was the man.

Defarge started to go somewhere. He did not know where he wanted to
go, but he had a desire to get away. This was the day he had lived
for during the past year; and this was what it had brought him!

“Merriwell is to blame for it all!” he cried mentally. “Oh, curse
him! But for him this shame would not have fallen on me!”

He was wrong. He alone was to blame. His own treacherous nature,
which he had so skilfully concealed at first, had led him on to his
downfall. He had been very shrewd in his early days at Yale. It was
only when he became ambitious to overthrow Frank Merriwell that
his downfall began. With each failure he had dropped lower, but he
did not realize how fast he was falling. Merriwell had shielded
him by silence, but nothing could keep his rascality secret. He
had plotted, and his plots, all of them failures, had reacted upon
himself.

As he was moving away, he bethought himself of one last
possibility, and paused. Perhaps he had been chosen for Wolf’s Head.

A few minutes ago he would have scorned the thought; he would have
asserted with disdain that nothing could induce him to enter that
order. Now he stopped and looked round, in hope that the lowest of
the three societies might prove a shelter for him in this hour of
distress. How gladly he would accept it now!

But even as he paused with this faint hope, the final man was
chosen for Wolf’s Head, and he knew at last that he had no chance.

This, in truth, was the worst punishment Defarge had ever received
for his wrong-doing. Physical punishment had been as nothing in
comparison to it. He did not mind a few bruises; he did not care if
he happened to be confined to his room for a day or two. But this
struck straight to his heart.

In this moment came the thought that he had brought it all on
himself when he sought to harm Merriwell. He felt that somehow
Merriwell was responsible, and the hatred he had known for Frank in
the past became a thousand times more intense.

“I could kill him!” he muttered hoarsely.

He saw the chosen candidates receiving congratulations on all
sides, and the spectacle maddened him. He was muttering to himself
as he found his way out onto the Green, where he wandered round and
round for half an hour before realizing that he was acting like a
daffy person.

There was a little place where Bertrand had often dropped in to
have a quiet drink, and toward it he now turned his steps, for he
felt that nothing but drink could give him relief.

He found his favorite seat by the corner screen, dropping down
heavily and sitting there staring blankly at the table when the
waiter came up. Not until the waiter had asked him twice for his
order did he arouse himself. Then he ordered absinth.

After a little it was placed before him, the devil’s drink that
lifts men to the seventh heaven of bliss, only to hurl them at last
to the lowest depths of hell. He knew when he took the stuff that
it robs men of manhood and makes them its slaves, yet he drank it.
He knew the awful effect of that decoction on the human being, for
absinth-drinkers soon find their way to madhouses, yet he drank it.
He knew he was taking into his system a poison that must work on
every part of him, yet he drank it.

It soothed him after a little, and that was what he sought. He
leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette, which he puffed
leisurely. In the blue smoke he saw strange pictures of himself
overthrowing and destroying one whom he hated with all his heart,
and that one was Merriwell. How strong he felt! Why, it seemed
that he could crush Merriwell to the earth without an effort. What
did he care, after all, if he had failed to be chosen to enter the
ivy-wreathed door of “Bones”! That was a passing joy, but absinth
he could have always--till death! “Waiter, bring another of the
same.”

With the second glass, everything passed from him save his
determination to get even with Merriwell. Of late he had feared
Merriwell, but now he did not fear him. Merriwell had seemed to
possess a strange power over him, but now he felt that the power
was broken. He knew he was in every way superior to Merriwell, and
it seemed strange that all others did not know it as well. In his
heart something was making soft music, like chiming bells, and he
listened to it with quiet delight. How easy it was to start that
music to going! “Waiter, another absinth.”

But the waiter was not near, and it was too much effort to call
him. He smiled to think he had cared if he failed to get into
“Bones.” Foolish! He knew the fellows who had been chosen, and he
was better than the best of them. He would prove it, too, some
day. He knew he could prove it easily, for he had the power to do
anything he desired.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!--he seemed to hear the fall of water in
a fountain, which sparkled and glowed before his eyes, as his
imagination conjured it there. He saw it in the moonlight of a soft
Italian night, and the odor of a thousand flowers was brought to
him with a passing breeze. He looked into the fountain, and a face
smiled up at him. He saw it was the face of the man he hated, and
he put out his strong hands to grasp it by the throat. There was no
struggle. He was so strong that his enemy could not struggle. So
he forced him down and held him beneath the surface of the water,
watching him drown. It was a great delight to watch him drown.

The end came, and he relinquished his hold on that throat. Down,
down to the bottom of the fountain sank the head, and there it
lay looking up at him with wide-open, staring eyes. He nodded and
smiled at it, saying: “I have conquered at last!” But it simply
stared straight into his soul.

Those eyes made him shiver a little, they were so cold and glassy.
Those eyes had cast upon him a fearful spell when their owner
lived, but they were powerless now. Were they powerless? Dead
though he knew they were, they seemed to take hold of him and
possess him. He could not tear his gaze from them.

Slowly round the fountain he moved, trying to escape from those
eyes. He did not see the head move, but it must have moved, for
always those eyes were fixed upon him.

A great horror crept over him. What did it mean? Was he not the
victor? He was seized by a fear that even in death Frank Merriwell
remained his master.

Then he longed to shriek aloud, to run away, to do something. He
could feel those dead eyes getting a stronger hold upon him. He
knew he was becoming their victim. He had not conquered; Merriwell
was still his master.

“Yes,” he said aloud, “I am coming; I am coming.”

Then, with a singular look on his drawn face, he rose, hat in hand,
and started from the place. He walked like one in a trance, staring
straight ahead, minding nothing around him.

“I am coming,” he murmured.

“That’s the last drink of that stuff he gets in this place!”
muttered the waiter, shaking his head and staring after Defarge.
“He’s been up against it hard. Never saw a fellow take to that dope
so suddenly as he has, and he’s gone down like a rock in less than
a week. Next time I’ll refuse to serve him.”




CHAPTER XI.

HOW SKELDING QUIT.


“It’th a thame!” declared Lew Veazie, standing before Chickering’s
fireplace, his feet as far apart as his short legs would
comfortably permit, while he inhaled the smoke of a cigarette with
the air of one long accustomed to the things.

“That’s so, chummie,” agreed Ollie Lord, regarding Lew with a look
of admiration. “It’s a howling shame!”

“They say his mind is affected,” said Rupert, who had gently seated
himself in a position that would bring the least possible strain on
the knees of his handsomely creased trousers.

“Oh, no doubt of it!” nodded Julian Ives from the opposite side of
the table, pressing a hand against his beautiful bang, as if he
feared the air might disturb its symmetry, or it might fall off.

“It must have been an awful disappointment to him,” solemnly
croaked Tilton Hull.

“Poor fellow!” sighed Chickering. “The whole college is talking
about it. He was a ‘Deke’ man, and yet he failed even to get into
Wolf’s Head.”

“It’s perfectly dreadful, fellows!” said Ollie Lord.

“Thimply awful!” said Lew. “And evwybody knowth who ith to blame
faw it.”

“That’s so, chummie,” agreed Ollie.

“The man whose word is law at Yale brought it about, of course,”
croaked Hull, like a parson droning a sermon with uplifted eyes.

“Let’s not be too harsh on any one,” put in Rupert hastily, with a
warning gesture of his hand.

“Oh, come off!” exclaimed Ives. “The man had little feeling for
poor Defarge, and, without doubt, it was his influence that kept
Defarge down.”

Gene Skelding was sitting square in a chair, his hands clasped, his
eyes roving from one speaker to another, a strange, grim expression
on his face. Thus far he had taken little part in the conversation,
but now he broke in.

“I think Defarge has only himself to blame,” he said.

“What?” exclaimed the others, staring at him in startled surprise.

“Let’s be honest with ourselves for once,” said Gene. “I was the
one who found Defarge, hatless, coatless, his shirt torn open at
the neck, wandering about in the old cemetery on the evening of tap
day. I took him to his room and watched him all night long.”

“And you’ve told us how he raved about Merriwell’s dead eyes,” came
hoarsely from Hull.

“The fellow had been drinking dope of some sort,” asserted Gene.
“I’ve told you that.”

“Dwiven to dwink by the injuthice he had endured,” put in Lew, with
an effort to be dramatic.

“Just so, chummie,” nodded Ollie.

“He had taken to drink, all right, all right,” nodded Gene. “But he
acted exactly as if he had been hypnotized by those dead eyes he
raved about.”

“What do you suppose made him talk about Merriwell having dead
eyes?” asked Chickering.

“I was with him long enough to know that he seemed to see some
sort of vision. He talked about a fountain in the blackness of a
dark night, and a face down in the fountain--a face that seemed
luminous, so he could see it for all of the darkness. It seemed to
me that he thought he had drowned Merriwell in that fountain, but
he fancied it was far off in Italy, or some foreign country.”

“And all those wild fancies were brought about by his terrible
disappointment,” said Julian Ives.

“They were brought about by the stuff he had been drinking,”
asserted Skelding. “I took some pains to investigate a little, and
I have found that he’s been drinking absinth. That explains it.
He’s in a bad way.”

“Driven there by a certain man,” said Chickering solemnly.

“Driven there by his own blank foolishness,” said Gene positively.
“No man can be in the condition Defarge was in and drink absinth
without quickly paying the penalty.”

“Tempwance lecture by Mithter Thkelding!” cried Veazie, and Ollie
snickered.

Gene gave the two little fellows a look that seemed full of
positive disgust and contempt, but he held his temper, going on:

“Defarge, like some of the rest of us, has been bucking up against
the wrong man, and he did not know enough to throw up the sponge
when he was beaten. That is the whole of it in a nutshell.”

“I don’t understand you, Gene,” said Julian Ives, staring at
Skelding. “Do you mean that we have bucked against the wrong man
when we bucked against Merriwell?”

“That’s what I mean. Doesn’t it look that way? Now, be honest in
answering.”

There was consternation in that room at once. Always Skelding had
been the fiercest and bitterest against Merriwell.

“Good Lord!” croaked Hull, standing on his tiptoes in order to
glare down over his collar at Gene. “What’s this I hear? One of our
number talking like a Merriwell saphead? I must be dreaming! I know
I am!”

“Oh, Gene is joking!” said Ives.

“Gwathuth! What a queer joke!” murmured Lew.

“I want to tell you fellows what I did with Defarge before I left
him the next morning,” said Gene, who had risen to his feet.
“All night I listened to his ravings. Now, you all know I’m not
squeamish, but I confess that some of the things I heard gave me
cold chills. He had some of the most horrible fancies, and through
them all he was hunted by Merriwell’s eyes. Those eyes seemed to
follow him everywhere. He fought them, he threw the furniture at
them, he covered his own eyes to shut out the sight of them, but he
could not get away from them.

“I pitied the poor fellow. His face was ghastly and drawn, and
great beads of perspiration started out on it at times. His lips
would be drawn back from his teeth, and he looked like a grinning
death-head. Of course, I knew that the most of the things he raved
about were fancies, but with those he mixed lots of facts. I found
that more than once he had thought of murdering Merriwell. He had
even tried it. Now, I’m no saint, and I have fancied that I could
kill Merriwell; but never have I been ready to carry it to that
extent when the time came to lift my hand. In listening to the
mutterings of Defarge I found that Merriwell had caught and baffled
him. Still, for some reason, Merriwell had not crushed him. He had
seen at last that he must make his peace with Merriwell if he was
to get into ‘Bones,’ and so he went and played a part.

“He tried to fool Merriwell into thinking him repentant, and he
thought he had succeeded; but I do not think it so easy to fool
that man, even though he may let one fancy he is being fooled.
Merriwell saw through Defarge all the time. In fact, I think
Merriwell must have hypnotic power over Defarge, and so he could
read Bertrand’s secret. That is why those eyes seemed to hunt
Defarge so. The eyes were before his fancy, just as he had seen
them boring into his soul more than once. Now, it’s likely that
somehow there was an understanding that Defarge was to go to
‘Bones.’ Whether Merriwell found a way to stop him or not I cannot
say, but it was just punishment for the injuries Defarge has tried
to do Merriwell, and so I told the fellow before I left him that
morning.

“He was pretty sober when I talked to him, and I told him we were
both thundering scoundrels and pitiful fools. Had we been decent
fellows we might have belonged to Merriwell’s crowd, and that would
have helped carry us anywhere. But our greed and our hatred had
made us outcasts. We were getting our dues. He had to listen to me,
for I held him while I talked. That night with him was just what I
needed to open my eyes at last, and now I’m aware that I have made
a howling idiot of myself.”

They stared at him in wonder. Was this Skelding? He had been the
worst of the lot.

“I believe staying with Defarge that night affected his head some,
fellows,” whispered Chickering.

Gene gave Rupert a look of contempt.

“It did affect my head,” he acknowledged. “It gave me, I believe, a
little more sense than I have had for a long, long time. I came to
see myself and a few of my particular friends, as well as the men
I have reckoned as my enemies, in the true light. Chickering, I’ve
never held you in much respect, for you are a hypocrite, and I have
known it right along.”

“Would you insult your friend in his own rooms?” cried Ives, also
starting up.

“Hush!” said Rupert, with a gentle gesture of restraint and sorrow.
“Do not revile him, Julian. Even though he may unjustly turn upon
me, I have no revengeful feeling in my heart, and I cannot forget
that he has often taken tea from my hand.”

“Go on!” exclaimed Gene. “I’ve borrowed money of you, too. I know
it. If it hadn’t been for that I’d not be here now. You knew how to
make me one of your set. You lent me money, but I’ve paid it back,
every dirty cent! Haven’t I? Answer me! Haven’t I?”

Rupert shuddered a little at this fierceness.

“I--I believe you have,” he said.

“You believe! You know! Say you know it!”

“Oh, very well; I know it,” agreed the alarmed fellow.

“That has been one of your holds on all your friends. Your friends!
Well, here they are! Look at them! Compare them with Frank
Merriwell’s friends! Ha, ha, ha! That night I spent with Defarge
I came to look the whole matter over, and I saw just how it was
that I belonged to our gang. Do you know what we are? Well, we’re
outcasts, every one of us. We are compelled to flock by ourselves
for company, as other men want nothing to do with us. Merriwell
to-day, the man we hate with all our hearts, is better known and
more popular than any other man who ever entered Yale. He is the
idol of the youth of our country. They regard him as the typical
young American. But what are we? We are looked on as snobs, and
cads, and sappies. It’s just what is coming to us, and we can’t
kick!”

“He must have turned crazy with Defarge!” exclaimed Ives.

“He must!” croaked Hull.

“I turned crazy enough to get some sense into my head. It’s too
late for me to ever make anything of myself here in college, but I
have resolved to turn over a new leaf, just the same. Even Defarge
was given a show on the eleven last fall. Though he had been
Merriwell’s open foe, Merriwell did not keep him off the eleven.
That man is square as a brick, and that’s the way he gets his
friends and holds them. He does hold them, too. You know it, every
one of you. Did you ever know one of his friends to go back on him?
Never. It’s a wonder how he grapples them to him with hooks of
steel.”

“The trouble with him,” said Ives, in an aside to Chickering, “is
that he found more than he could handle in Hodge that night. You
know when I mean.”

Rupert nodded. Skelding flushed.

“I fought Hodge squarely,” he said, “and he whipped me, just as he
can any man here--or any two of you!”

“He’s done for!” said Chickering, with a gesture of sorrowful
regret. “He’ll be bowing down and licking the dust off Merriwell’s
feet now.”

“That’s a lie!” said Gene. “Merriwell won’t have me, even if I want
to. But I am done with this crowd.”

“You won’t have many friends,” croaked Hull, with an expression of
satisfaction.

“That’s tho!” cried Veazie.

“Just so, chummie!” agreed Lord.

“I know you are right about that. I’ll have to go it alone, unless
I can convert Defarge, and I’m afraid he’s too far gone, poor
devil! I think his selfishness and his hatred for Merriwell have
brought about his ruin.”

“Merriwell has ruined him!” cried Ives savagely. “You would have
said so a week ago! I don’t know what you’re going to try to do,
but I don’t believe you’ll get taken into Merriwell’s flock.”

“I don’t expect to be; but I’ll take myself out of this flock, and
that will give me a chance to regard myself as something more of a
man. What are you, one and all? Chickering is a pitiful creature,
with just enough brains to be a hypocrite. Hull never had a real
thought in his wooden head in all his life. You, Ives, are a poor
imitation of a real man, and, though you sometimes bluster and
brag, you are always the first to dodge behind shelter when there
is danger. Veazie is a poor, simple little thing, who never can
become a man, and Lord is his counterpart.”

“Be careful, thir!” screamed Veazie, shaking his fist at Gene. “I
won’t thand it, thir!”

“Poor Gene!” said Rupert, with increasing sadness. “After all I
have done for him!”

“He’s an insulting scamp!” croaked Huff, his face very red.

“He’s a----” began Ives, but Skelding cut him short, advising:

“Don’t you say much, unless you want to fight. I’d be ashamed to
put my hands on any of the others, but I may be tempted to thrash
you before leaving, so you’d better keep your mouth closed.”

Ives gasped and gurgled, but Skelding really seemed to find it
difficult to keep off, so Julian closed up.

Skelding took up his hat and light overcoat, tossing the latter
over his arm.

“I’m going,” he said, “and I’ll never come back to this place any
more, I’m happy to say. I feel as if there may be a chance for me
to become a man. And I want to warn you to let Defarge alone. He’s
pretty low now, and you’ll only send him lower.”

Skelding walked to the door, where he paused, turned, and surveyed
them all with a look of contempt.

“When you meet me hereafter,” he said, “kindly refrain from
speaking to me. It will be best for you to do so, for I promise you
that I shall take it as a deadly insult if you speak. I may not be
able to whip Bart Hodge, but I’ll bet my shirt that I can whip any
one of you, or the whole bunch together. Good night.”

Then he went out.

“Go to the devil!” hissed Julian Ives.

“Poor, misguided fellow!” sighed Chickering. “I must have some tea
to steady my nerves.”




CHAPTER XII.

THE MAD STUDENT.


It was with a feeling of unadulterated satisfaction that Gene
Skelding left the perfumed rooms of Rupert Chickering, after
having expressed his opinion of the Chickering set, separately and
collectively.

It had always seemed a little strange to any one who knew Gene
that he had been one of the members of that crew of worthless
cigarette-smokers. For Skelding was a fighter, and he was the only
genuine fighter in the collection. The others were cowards of the
most abject sort.

Skelding had a way of closing his mouth firmly, and keeping it
closed, which was a most difficult thing for any other member of
the set to do.

Indeed, Tilton Hull found it possible to keep his mouth closed only
when it was held thus by his collar propping his lower jaw up. Take
away his collar, and his jaw drooped at once.

Lew Veazie always carried his mouth open, breathing through it from
habit. It would have caused him great discomfort, not to say agony,
had he been compelled to close his mouth and keep it thus for three
minutes without a break.

Of course, Ollie Lord imitated Veazie in everything, and he fancied
that the insipid, brainless expression of a cigarette-smoker with
open mouth in repose was proper.

Julian Ives breathed through his mouth from habit, but Chickering
had a way of pressing his lips together, turning up his eyes,
clasping his pale hands, and looking like a saint. This was the
expression he wore as Skelding retired from the room, and he hoped
it would be so impressed on Gene’s mind that the “rude fellow”
would come to believe in time that he had done Rupert a great
wrong. Skelding afterward spoke of that look as reminding him of a
dying calf.

Gene descended the stairs, stepped on the steps, and drew several
deep breaths, as if he would clear his lungs of the atmosphere that
had defiled them while he was in that room. He was satisfied with
himself and what he had done.

For some time he had been growing more and more disgusted with the
Chickering crowd. Of late he had appeared in public with them as
seldom as possible. Skelding was not a fool, and he saw at last
that his folly in taking up with such fellows had given him his
standing at Yale, and that standing was not pleasant to contemplate.

At last he had been taught the old, old lesson that a man is judged
by the company he keeps. Most boys are told this early in life, but
somehow it seems to have little impression on them until their eyes
are opened by experience. Shun bad company; better have no friends
than to be friendly with the wrong sort of fellows.

Skelding had never smoked cigarettes until he fell in with the
Chickering crowd. Then it was nothing more than natural that he
should take to them, for they were forever near him, being smoked
by his companions and offered to him.

He had not found them agreeable at first, but surely he, big and
strong, could endure as much as that little whipper-snapper Veazie,
and so he had persisted in using them until the habit was set upon
him.

A dozen times he had vowed that he would smoke no more, but always
he had found the things at hand in Chickering’s room, and the cloud
of smoke hanging there almost constantly led him to break his
pledge. The man who does not smoke is annoyed to extremes by the
smoke of others; but he soon ceases to notice it if he fires up and
joins them.

Now, however, Skelding paused on the step and shook his light
overcoat with the idea of getting the smoke smell out of it. Never
before had the fresh air seemed so good to him. He drew it into his
lungs with satisfaction and relief. Then he reached into a pocket
of that overcoat and took out part of a package of cigarettes.

“There!” he exclaimed; “by the eternal hills, I am done with you
forever! You are the badge of degeneracy.”

He threw the package away. It seemed to him that at that moment he
had severed the last strand that had bound him to the Chickering
set.

There was untold satisfaction in the feeling of relief and freedom
which came to him. He looked back on what he had been, and
wondered at his folly. He contemplated his association with Rupert
Chickering and his pals, wondering that he could have found any
satisfaction in such company. No matter what happened, he was done
with them.

It is hard to understand how great a thing this was for him to do.
Skelding was a man who liked companionship. He was not given to
the habit of solitude, and he desired friends. But he knew that,
without doubt, he was cutting himself off from the only men who
would be friendly toward him while he remained in college.

He had been stamped with the odious brand of Chickering, and other
men would not care to associate with him. Nevertheless, he felt
better.

“I’ll go it alone,” he said grimly. “It’s the best thing I can do
now.”

Then he thought of Defarge, and he felt a sudden sympathy for him.
They were both outcasts. Perhaps they might strike up a friendship.
A few seconds later he was on the way to the room of Bertrand.

Skelding did not pause to knock. Turning the knob quietly, he
entered the room. Defarge, thin, haggard, wild-looking, was
standing by a table, loading a revolver. He muttered to himself:

“It’s my only way to escape! I feel that he has released me from
the spell, so that I am my own master now; but he may put it in me
the next time we meet, and I shall be the slave of his devilish
eyes! He must die!”

“Defarge!”

Skelding spoke, and, with a little cry, Bertrand whirled round,
pointing the revolver at the newcomer. The hand that held the
weapon shook violently.

“My dear fellow,” said Gene, stepping forward, “you could not hit
a house that was ten feet away. Your nerves are in terrible shape,
my boy.”

Defarge lowered the revolver.

“I--I thought it was he!” he said hoarsely.

“Whom do you mean?”

“Merriwell.”

“Did you think he had come?”

“Yes.”

“Why should he do that?”

“He has done it before now. He came here once and looked at me with
those eyes of his. I don’t remember much after that, but I know I
talked and told him things I did not mean to tell. I thought he had
come again.”

“What did you mean to do in case he had?”

“Shoot him!”

“You could not have hit him at a distance of ten feet. You were
shaking like a leaf.”

“I know--I know! You see what I’ve come to. He is to blame for it
all.” The eyes of Defarge were glaring and bloodshot.

“You may be somewhat to blame yourself. Do you remember what I told
you the other morning, after fighting with you here all night to
keep you still and prevent you from doing something that would ruin
you forever?”

“Oh, I don’t remember much about it. I know you were here, but
that’s all. I was rather nutty that night, wasn’t I?”

“Rather,” said Skelding dryly. “You thought you had choked and
drowned Merriwell in Italy or somewhere. You were haunted by his
eyes.”

“Curse those eyes! They haunt me all the time! Skelding, you don’t
suppose the fellow has the power of second sight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, it seems to me as if he is watching me all the while, and
that is why I can’t get away from those eyes. I have tried to get
away from them in the dark, but in the dark I see them and they
seem to see me all the plainer.”

“Absinth is what ails you, Defarge. You’ve got to quit it--or go up
the spout.”

“I--I don’t believe I can quit it,” confessed Bertrand, with a
pitiful expression of helplessness. “It’s the only thing that
soothes my nerves.”

“It may seem to quiet them for the time, but it tears you all to
pieces afterward, and you know it. And every time you take the
stuff you are becoming more and more its victim. It has a fearful
hold on you already.”

Defarge trembled.

“Oh, if I could do one thing I would be all right!” he cried.

“What’s that?”

“Get away from those eyes! I’ll do it, too! I’m going to get away
from them! I know a way!”

Skelding thought of the revolver, which Bertrand had been loading.
It was lying on the table now, beside two boxes of cartridges.

“How do you mean?” he asked. “You’re not thinking of shooting
yourself?”

“Oh, no!”

“Then----”

“Of shooting him!”

“Merriwell?”

“That’s it! that’s it! It’s the only way, I tell you! Don’t talk to
me! I’ve figured it all out. When his eyes are closed they will
trouble me no more. I’m going to close them forever!”

“He’s been drinking again to-night!” thought Gene. “He is full of
the stuff, and it’s impossible to reason with him now. How can I
handle him? I must find a way to do so without letting him know it.

“That is a desperate remedy, don’t you think?” he said aloud.

“Perhaps so, but it’s a desperate case. I can’t sleep nights,
Skelding. The minute I put out my light and lie down I see those
eyes watching me. Even though I close my own eyes tightly I see
them just the same. Skelding, the only thing that can save me from
the madhouse is the death of Merriwell! I’ve thought it all out,
and I have arrived at that conviction.”

“And you bought a revolver for that purpose?”

“Oh, no! I bought that to use at the political celebration last
fall. Bought a box of blanks to go with it, but I did not fire them
all. There are some of them in that box there. I bought the other
box to-day.”

“The others are not blanks.”

“I guess not. Told the man I bought them of that I wanted to use
them to shoot a dog. That was right, too! I am going to shoot a dog
with them!”

“You have loaded the revolver with the new cartridges?”

“Sure thing. It’s all ready now.”

“Well, let’s talk this over a little. Sit down, Defarge.”

Skelding had taken a seat by the table.

“Wait,” said Bertrand. He took a bottle from a little closet and
looked at it. It was empty. “I must have a drink,” he declared, his
hand shaking. “Wait a minute till I come back. I know a fellow who
has something in his room.”

He slipped out of his room, leaving Skelding there. In less than
five minutes he was back, his face flushed and a changed expression
in his eyes.

“I found something,” he said. “Now I’m all right for a while! Now I
have nerve! It’s when I feel this way that I’m ready for anything!
It’s when I feel this way that I shall do the job! I’ll put out
those eyes so they’ll never bother me any more! Look at my hand.
See how steady it is.”

He held it out, and Gene saw that it did not shake.

“Good,” nodded Skelding. “Now you should be able to sit down and
talk without getting daffy.”

“What’s the use? I know what you want to say to me. You fool! Why,
Skelding, I thought you were one of Merriwell’s bitterest enemies!”

“I was--once.”

“But you’ve lost your nerve, just like all the others.”

“It’s not that. I have had my eyes opened.”

“Bah! Don’t tell me! You do not love him any more than you did
before, but you have lost your nerve. I am the only man left with
any nerve, and I get that from the right kind of stuff. They think
Merriwell is the only thing that ever happened here! He has put
them all under a spell--all, all! I believe he has put you under a
spell! You’d never have changed like this if he hadn’t--never! But
his time is limited! I swear it! Why did I load that revolver? Ha,
ha! Why, for a dog, of course. When is the best time to shoot dogs?
Tell me that, Skelding. Tell me!”

Gene saw that Defarge was in a condition of excitement bordering on
frenzy, and he wondered how he was going to control the fellow. It
would not do to leave him then, for he might do any desperate deed.

“The night is the best time to shoot dogs!” declared Bertrand.
“It’s night now. Now is the time, and I’ll do it!”

He caught the revolver from the table.

“What are you going to do?” gasped Gene, starting up.

“I am going to shoot that dog!” cried Defarge, as he bolted like a
madman from the room.

“Stop!” shouted Skelding, leaping after him.

Down the stairs went Defarge, taking four and five at a time.
Skelding sprang after him with reckless haste, determined to
overtake and stop him somehow. It was a wild chase. The deranged
fellow reached the foot of the last flight and bounded out of
doors. Gene was not far behind. Away they went toward Vanderbilt
Hall.

“He’s going to try to shoot Merriwell now!” panted Skelding. “That
last drink turned him into a madman.”

It happened that they met no one. Up to Merriwell’s room rushed
Defarge, with Skelding gaining on him. But Gene was not able to
overtake the maniac.

As Gene came up he saw the door to Merriwell’s room standing open.
A light was shining from within. Defarge had just leaped into the
room, and Merriwell, who had been writing, had risen quickly from
his desk.

Then Skelding saw Defarge thrust the muzzle of the revolver right
against Frank Merriwell’s breast and fire. There was a flash, a
puff of smoke, and the muffled report of the weapon.

Merriwell had made absolutely no move to save himself, and the
madman had fired pointblank at Frank’s heart, the muzzle of the
weapon being not more than six inches from the breast of the
intended victim.




CHAPTER XIII.

FRANK OFFERS HIS HAND.


It seemed that the crazy student had shot Frank Merriwell straight
through the heart. But Merry did not fall. Instead, he grappled
with Defarge, seized the revolver in his hand, and flung him back
against the wall.

Then Skelding rushed in, and Frank must have thought Gene there
to attack him also. However, Skelding also grappled with Defarge,
holding him helpless while Merry wrested away the revolver.

The murderous student fought like a fiend. No cries came from his
lips, but the insane light glared from his eyes, and he frothed at
the mouth.

“Hold him steady,” he said to Skelding. “Just give me a moment with
him.”

For in that furious struggle Defarge seemed to have superhuman
strength, and he caused them both to exert themselves to their
utmost to subdue him.

“Look at me, Defarge!” commanded Frank. “Look me straight in the
eyes!”

“No!” muttered the furious fellow. “I will not!”

He tried to keep his eyes turned away.

“Look at me!” commanded Merriwell again.

“No!”

“Look at me!”

He could not resist. Slowly he turned his eyes on those of Frank.

Skelding looked on in breathless, wondering silence. He saw that a
great struggle was taking place between these two, and he knew well
enough who would be the victor.

The fierceness died out of the face and eyes of the French youth.
His power of resistance faded and diminished. His contorted
features relaxed, and a sleepy expression came over his eyes that
had been so wild and fierce. Then he stood there quietly, making no
move.

“Let him go, Skelding,” said Merriwell, in a calm tone.

Gene stepped back, but held himself ready in case Bertrand broke
out again. Merry had taken his hands from the fellow. Now he
pointed to a chair, saying:

“Sit down there!”

Seeming unable to offer any resistance, the fellow obeyed as meekly
as a mastered dog. Then Frank seemed to turn some attention to
himself. His face showed wonderment, as if he were not a little
bewildered.

“The fellow fired at me with the muzzle of that revolver less
than a foot from my heart,” he said, “yet I felt no touch of the
bullet. I do not quite understand it.”

He looked at Skelding inquiringly. It was plain that Frank
suspected Gene, and he was on the alert. He must have wondered that
Skelding followed Defarge closely in the rush into that room, and
not even Gene’s readiness in aiding Merriwell to master the crazy
student explained his action.

It is probable that Frank half-suspected a plot between Defarge
and Skelding that had somehow miscarried. In case Defarge failed
in his attempt, Skelding was to be on hand for some purpose. Still
this did not explain why Gene had been so willing to grapple with
Defarge and hold him while Merry subdued the fellow with the power
of his eyes.

Skelding looked at the revolver and then at Merriwell, who was
watching him closely.

“It is loaded with blank cartridges,” Gene said.

Frank picked it up and examined it. He saw that Skelding told the
truth.

Some students who had been startled by the shot now came to Frank’s
door in search of the place from whence the sound had issued.
Merriwell blocked the door so that they could not see into the
room, laughing as he said:

“Accidents will happen, you know; but it’s nothing serious. The
revolver was loaded with a blank, and so no one would have been
hurt, even if it had been pointed at somebody.”

In this manner, without telling them a falsehood, he gave them the
impression that the weapon had been discharged while it was being
carelessly handled, and they departed satisfied, although some of
them wondered not a little that Frank Merriwell should handle a
revolver in a careless manner.

Frank closed the door and turned back, the revolver in his hand.
Defarge was sitting quietly on the chair, while Skelding was
standing near.

“You did that very nicely, Merriwell; but I don’t see why you
sheltered us.”

“Sheltered you?” cried Frank. “Why, what did you have to do with
it? You helped me hold him.”

“Because I knew he was mad. I am his friend.”

“I have never fancied you were my friend, Skelding.”

“Yet you did not tell the truth to those fellows. Even though
Defarge tried to kill you, you did not tell the truth.”

“Defarge did not know what he was doing. I feel sure of that, for
I saw madness in his face and eyes.”

Skelding nodded.

“You are right. He was mad, driven so by disappointment and by the
devil’s drink he has been taking of late. It was a fearful blow to
him, Merriwell, when he failed to make ‘Bones.’ I do not believe
you unjustly used your influence against him; perhaps you were
justified in your heart in using your influence thus. But he felt
that you were the cause of his failure. He brooded over it. He has
been drinking absinth, and it has made him a maniac.”

“I am sorry for him,” declared Frank sincerely. “He has always been
ready to do me any and every possible injury, and yet I am sorry to
see any man in such shape. Even though he might have wished to kill
me, he would not have tried to do it this way had he been in his
right mind. He would have known it meant hanging for him, and that
would have restrained him.”

Skelding nodded.

“That is true.”

“But he may not have meant to do me harm. The pistol was loaded
with blanks. It may have been his intention to frighten me.”

Frank was watching Gene closely. It was Skelding’s first impulse to
state that this was the fact, but it seemed to him that Merriwell’s
eyes could look straight into his heart and detect if he spoke the
truth; so his impulse to try to shelter Defarge in such a manner
quickly left him, and he said:

“The revolver was loaded with ball cartridges originally. Defarge
did not know they had been changed for blanks.”

“They were changed?”

“If they had not been you would be a dead man now, Frank Merriwell.”

“Tell me how it happened, Skelding.”

Gene glanced toward Defarge, as if he did not like to talk of it
there.

“Look at him,” said Merry. “He is asleep. See--his eyes are closing
now.”

He stretched out his hand toward Defarge as he spoke, and the eyes
of the mad student drooped and closed, while he appeared to be fast
asleep. Skelding was awed beyond measure.

“You may speak now,” said Frank. “He will not hear what you say.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Skelding had seen Defarge become quiet and docile beneath the
steady gaze of Merriwell’s eyes, and he now understood that Frank
had some wonderful power over the fellow.

“Sit down, Skelding,” Merriwell invited, motioning toward a chair.
“I shall lock the door to keep intruders away.”

He did so, and found Skelding seated. Merry came and sat down near,
saying:

“Perhaps you will be willing to tell me the whole story. You say
Defarge blames me because he failed in his society ambitions? Is
that right?”

Merry had not spoken of “Bones.” A member of that society never
discusses his society outside the secret rooms of the order.

“That is right. Up to the last minute he believed he was sure of
going to ‘Bones.’ It drove him daffy when the fifteenth man was
chosen and he found himself ignored. He had been drinking for some
time, and absinth has obtained its hold on him. Since that he has
taken quantities of the stuff, and you see what the result is.”

“I see,” nodded Frank. “Poor chap! I have a hypnotic influence over
him, Skelding, and that was how I was able to conquer him as you
see. I never knew I possessed such power till one night a long time
ago when, then crazed by drink, he tried to strike me in the back
with a knife. I held him helpless and looked deep into his eyes,
willing that he should obey me. He did so, and I found I had power
to make him do as I chose. But I do not believe that any man has
a right under normal circumstances to exercise such a power over
another, and I removed the influence from him.

“For a long time I fancied I would never have further trouble with
him, and I even hoped that, without another clash, I might make him
friendly toward me. It would have given me satisfaction at one time
had this resulted. But when I came back to Yale this year I found
all the old bitterness in his heart had awakened, and he tried to
injure me once more. Then I willed that he should be unable to harm
me as long as I kept my power over him. Once more, however, I
released him. It must have been since then that he took to drinking
absinth.”

“Something must be done to save him, Merriwell, or he will be
lodged in a madhouse within a week. But I did not think; perhaps
you mean to have him punished for making an attack on your life?
Your patience with him must be exhausted.”

“I try to hold my patience with a man just as long as I believe
there is any hope for him. But I must confess that Defarge’s case
looks hopeless. You have not told me, Skelding, how it happened
that the cartridges in his revolver were changed. Who changed them?”

“I did.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In his room a short time ago. I called there and found him loading
the weapon. From what he said I knew he meant to try to shoot you.
He went out to the room of another fellow to get a drink. The
revolver lay on the table. Beside the box of ball cartridges was a
box of blanks. While he was gone I exchanged the ball cartridges
for the blanks.”

“And saved my life by doing it. Skelding, you have been my enemy,
but by this one act you have wiped out all the past. I have
thought pretty hard things of you, but now I am willing to forget
everything. Skelding, we may not become friends, but we can shake
hands.”

He held out his hand to Skelding. Gene looked at it a moment, and
then he shook his head.

“No, Merriwell,” he said, making no show of feeling, although he
experienced some, “I’ll not shake hands with you.”

Frank looked disappointed. He had not expected this, and a slight
flush came to his handsome face. Skelding saw he had touched
Merriwell’s pride, and he hastened to add:

“It’s because I am not worthy to shake your hand, Merriwell, that I
decline; not because there is any of the old hatred in my heart. I
think that is gone. I’ve been a pretty mean fellow, and I know it.
For a long time I kept my eyes closed to the fact, but they have
been opened at last.”

Frank wondered if the man was sincere. If so, there was even more
to Skelding than he had fancied.

“But you saved my life,” said Merriwell.

“How do you know it was for that I did it?”

“Why----”

“Perhaps it was to save my friend from being hanged. Now you can
see it in a different light, Merriwell. Never mind whether it was
for your sake or for Defarge’s that I changed those cartridges. I
did save your life, and I am going to ask a favor of you.”

“What is it?”

“Will you grant it?”

“It is the foolish man who makes a promise before he knows what he
is promising.”

“It’s not for my sake, but for Defarge’s. He is the only friend I
have left.”

“The only one?”

“Yes.”

“Why, there are Chickering and his friends.”

“They are no longer friends of mine.”

“How is that?”

“I quit them to-night, Merriwell. I have sickened of them. I do
not wish to pose as better than I am, but I don’t think I ever
really belonged to that gang. I fell in with them and got to going
round with them. To confess the truth, the reason why I stuck to
them was because they hated you. I hated you, also, but not for
the same cause that inspired their hate. I hated you because I was
jealous of you; I confess it. They hated you because you would have
nothing to do with men of their class. To-night, in Chickering’s
room, I gave the whole bunch a little game of talk that set them
gasping. I told them just what I thought of them all and that I
wanted to never have anything more to do with them. You may doubt
it, Merriwell, but I am done with all of them for all time.”

“More than ever I feel like offering you my hand,” exclaimed Frank
sincerely. “I tell you now, Skelding, that I have absolutely no
use for the Chickering crowd. My friends have accused me of being
altogether too lenient with my enemies; but I think I could not be
lenient with those fellows. My contempt for them is too great.”

“I don’t wonder,” nodded Gene. “They have no friends among the
real men here. They are outcasts. Unfortunately for me, I was fool
enough to get their brand on me, and I know I’ll never be able to
pull away from it while I am in Yale.”

“You can try,” said Frank encouragingly; “although a man does find
it mighty hard to live down a bad reputation, and for that very
reason may get discouraged. It is true heroism to keep trying,
however. The fellow who has had a bad name must feel that he is to
blame for it himself, and he should not be disheartened if every
one seems to doubt him when he is doing his best to be straight.
Persistence wins at everything.”

Gene’s face began to take on an expression of eagerness.

“Do you really suppose there is a chance for me?” he asked. “How
can I make friends that are worth being called friends? The
Chickering odium will stick to me.”

“Show that you have quit them for all time, but make no talk about
it. If you go round telling people you are done with them, you’ll
find you’ll not get much credit. If you show that you are too
eager to make the right sort of friends, you may only succeed in
arousing suspicion and defeating yourself.”

Skelding felt that this was good advice.

“But we’re forgetting Defarge,” he said. “It’s for him I want you
to promise to do something. I know there is no reason why you
should lift your hand for a man like him, but you may be able to
save him from going to the madhouse.”

“How?”

“Your influence--your power. You understand what I mean?”

“I think I do. I am willing to try.”

“He must be kept at any cost from drinking absinth. That is the
only thing that can save him. You can prevent him from taking the
stuff and you are the only one.”

“I understand what you mean. I must command him to let it alone.”

“That’s it, that’s it!”

“And that is all the favor you ask of me?”

“Yes.”

“You are modest, Skelding. For your sake, I’ll try to save him. I
do not believe there is much good in him, but madness is a terrible
thing, and I do not wish to think of my worst enemy as a lunatic
behind iron bars.”

Skelding was satisfied.

Merriwell rose and moved his chair till it was directly in front
of the high-backed chair on which Defarge was sitting. Then he sat
down there, cautioning Gene to be silent and not interrupt. He next
reached out his hand and touched the slumberer on the forehead,
saying gently:

“Wake up, Defarge!”

Bertrand opened his eyes.

“I wish you to attend closely to what I tell you,” said Frank. “Do
you understand?”

In a mechanical manner Defarge said: “Yes.”

“In the future, Defarge, you cannot drink absinth in any form. The
smell of absinth shall make you faint or sick. If you lift to your
lips a glass containing the stuff, your fingers shall be unable to
hold the glass, and it shall fall from your hand before you can
drink. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Defarge, in the same mechanical manner.

“Further, for the space of one week, you shall be unable to do
anything to injure me, Frank Merriwell.”

“Why only for a week?” whispered Skelding. “Why not make it
forever?”

But it was Frank’s desire to know if in a week’s time this fellow
would be rid of his evil and murderous passions, or if they would
still possess him in full force.

“That is all,” said Merriwell. “When I clap my hands you will be
at liberty again, but you must go straight to your room, undress,
and go to bed. You will have a good night’s sleep, which will calm
your nerves.”

Then Frank suddenly clapped his hands, and Bertrand jumped as if he
had been shot. He started to his feet, staring round wildly, his
aspect being one of bewilderment and fear.

“What has happened?” he huskily asked. “Did I shoot Merriwell?”

“Not much,” said Frank, who was standing now. “As you see, I am all
right. You can’t harm me, Defarge.”

The fellow stared at Merry a moment, then shrank back, lifting his
hand.

“Those eyes!” he cried. “It’s no use. I cannot get away from them!
Oh, curse those eyes!”

Then, with a shudder, he turned and walked toward the door. Frank
was there in advance, opening it for him and letting him out.

Skelding made a move as if to accompany Bertrand, but Merry said,
in a quiet tone:

“There is no need of it. He will go to his room and go to bed. Let
him alone to-night.”

So Bertrand was permitted to depart.

“It’s wonderful!” muttered Skelding, in awe. “I understand now,
Merriwell, how it is that you have such power over everybody.”

“No, you do not,” declared Frank; “for the power you have witnessed
in demonstration to-night is something I seldom use. Only in
desperate emergencies do I call it to my command. I hope I may
never have to use it again.”

“If you save Defarge it will be a wonderful thing. I am going,
Merriwell. Good night.”

“Good night, Skelding. Here is the revolver belonging to Defarge.
Take it away. I don’t want the thing.”

Skelding took it. He hesitated a moment, tempted to offer in turn
his hand to Merriwell, but did not do so. Again saying good night,
he went out.

The experiences of that night would never be forgotten by Skelding.
At last he understood the full extent of his past folly in trying
to down a man of such amazing magnetic and mesmeric influence, and
he thanked his lucky stars that Merriwell had not been a revengeful
foe.




CHAPTER XIV.

A WILD NIGHT.


It was a strange spectacle. The campus seemed almost as light as
day. Two long lines of men in hoods and gowns entered from opposite
sides and began their march, loudly singing their society songs.

It was the night of the initiations to the three junior societies,
Delta Kappa Epsilon, Psi Upsilon, and Alpha Delta Phi. It was a
strangely interesting sight, and crowds had gathered to witness it.

Slowly and with dignity the hooded and gowned members of the
societies marched about the campus. This part of their doings was
intended for the eyes of the public, but later things would happen
within the solid walls of their society houses that the public had
no hope of witnessing.

What were those things? Who can say? No candidate who has ever
passed through the ordeal ever opens his lips to tell what happened
to him. But certain it is that within those walls there was a merry
old time that night, for it is there the local burlesque is given,
and this has proved of spicy interest to the general public, being
filtered to the outside world.

This year among the happy candidates were two of Merriwell’s
friends. Jack Ready was one of them.

“La! la!” he said modestly, as he was congratulated. “Proclaim not
the honor to the world. It will be a great privilege for the Four
Hundred to catch me when I break away from Yale. Oh, I’m strictly
the thing, and they can’t get along without me.”

“What you really need,” said Greg Carker, “is a crown. You are a
king.”

“A fool’s cap would be better,” grunted Browning, who had been
offering congratulations. “I don’t know how they ever made the
mistake of taking him in, but I’m glad he’s made it.”

“Thanks, my fragile friend,” chirped Ready, with the old-time flirt
of his hand. “When I am in need of a fool’s cap I’ll know where to
come for it. Cluck! cluck! Git ap! My, my, how the wind blows!”

“I’d like to have the privilege of hauling you over the coals
to-night!” said Bruce, with a baleful glare in his eye. “Oh, I
wouldn’t do a thing to you! You’ll get it, anyhow, for they’ll be
sure to give you a double dose to cure your freshness.”

“Alas!” sighed Jack, “it can’t be cured.”

“Try carbolic acid,” suggested Bruce.

Later Ready and Bingham had disappeared, and their friends knew
they were going through the “fiery ordeal.”

What a wild night it was! Those who have passed through it know
something about the events of that night. To-day the initiations
are far milder than before the tragedy of Wilkins Rustin in ’92.
Rustin was a fine, athletic fellow. During his initiation he was
blindfolded and told to run at best speed along an unfrequented
street. Being a swift runner, he drew away from the two men in
whose charge he was. They shouted a cry of warning to him, but
this he misunderstood, and, swerving from a direct course, he ran
into the sharp pole of a wagon. They picked him up, bleeding and
unconscious, and he died from his injuries.

A storm of indignation arose all over the country, and the faculty
came near deciding to wipe out the societies altogether. It was
fortunate for Yale life that this radical step was not taken. The
men in charge of Rustin were overcome with grief, and their sorrow
led to their acquittal of anything but a charge of grave folly.

This night of which I write nothing of the kind took place; but the
old members of the society and the newly elected ones had a jolly
time of it. They made a night of it.

Along toward morning, as it was growing light, the members of the
societies engaged in a wild and weird game of baseball on the
campus. That is, many of the members of the societies engaged in
the game; but there were many others who curled up in the shelter
of some near-by sheds and serenely fell asleep.

Ready was not one of the sleepers. Bingham would have slept, but
Jack mauled the big fellow till he got him out behind the bat, with
a bird-cage over his head for a mask. Jack himself was pitching.

“Look out for my curves,” he advised. “Talk about Frank Merriwell’s
double shoot! Why, I’ve got the corkscrew ball.”

“I’ve discovered to-night that you have the corkscrew habit,”
rumbled Bingham, trying to make his queer cage balance on his
shoulders.

“Put ’em over,” called the batter. “If you hit me, I’ll bring suit
against you for breach of promise.”

It was rather dark, and Ready actually threw a curve. Fortunately,
the ball was about as hard as a ripe cucumber, for it grazed
Bingham’s fingers and struck the bird-cage a glancing blow, setting
it to spinning about on his shoulders. The batter swiped at it
furiously, and threw himself off his feet onto his back.

The watching crowd was boisterous in its applause. This was the
kind of baseball that filled their hearts with exceeding great joy
at about this hour in the morning.

“One ball,” decided the umpire, who had closed his eyes and turned
his back.

“One ball!” shouted Ready. “Why, he struck at it, Mr. Umpire.”

“But it wasn’t over the plate,” said the umpire, with dignity.

“That doesn’t make any difference. He struck at it.”

“Be silent,” commanded the umpire. “He had no business to strike at
such a bad one. It is one ball.”

And that decision stood. The next pitched ball struck the batter in
the small of the back.

“Dead ball,” said somebody.

“No; dead man,” said the umpire. “Take him off the field. Remove
the corpse.”

“Hold on!” cried the batter. “I want to get one crack at that ball.
Give me a show.”

“I have declared you dead,” said the umpire; “so you’ll have to
make room for the next man. Drop that bat and take to your hole,
you lobster!”

The next man came up and hit the first ball straight at Jack, who
did not stop it with his hands, but with the pit of his stomach.

“Judgment!” he gasped. “I have it!”

“That’s right,” said the umpire. “Corbett got it there at Carson
City. You’re out.”

“Out?” squealed Jack. “It’s the other man who is out!”

“I tell you that you are out,” insisted the umpire. “Get off the
grass.”

And Jack was compelled to make room for another fellow who was
ambitious to do some pitching.

“Alas and alack!” he sobbed, as he stood aside. “It is thus we poor
mortals get it in the neck!”

“I thought you got it in the stomach,” said Bingham.

“Only a bird in a gilded cage,” Jack exclaimed, pointing to the big
sophomore.

But the pitching of the new man was of a most terrific order, and
Bingham loudly called for him to “ease ’em over.” The second ball
the new man pitched was a foul tip, which the catcher misjudged,
getting it just where Ready had received the batted ball.

Over on his back rolled Bingham, while the crowd whooped with joy
and danced grotesquely in the gray morning twilight.

“Drag off the dead,” solemnly ordered the umpire.

Jack Ready rushed in, caught Bingham by the heels and started with
him, dragging the big fellow along on his back. He succeeded in
pulling Bingham for at least a rod before the fellow recovered
enough to kick him off.

“Hey!” roared Ralph, as he sent Ready reeling. “What in thunder do
you take me for, you jackass? Think I’m a dump-cart? Is that why
you promptly harnessed yourself into the thills?”

“Excuse me!” chirped Jack, standing off and surveying the other
with comical gravity. “I thought you were dead, and I was on the
way to the dumping-grounds with you.”

“You’ll find I’m not dead!” snapped Bingham, as he got up and made
a dive for Jack.

“I surrender!” Ready helplessly cried, throwing up his hands. “I
might escape you by running, but the effort is too great.”

“You can’t run,” declared Ralph, as he grasped the joker.

“I know it. I have discovered something that can outrun me or any
other man living. I’m going to enter it in all the races this
season.”

“What is it?”

“A gas-meter.”

Bingham thumped Jack.

“You’ll have to pay for this coat,” he declared. “You tore it when
you pulled me along.”

“Where did I tear it?”

“Why, on the back, of course.”

“And you were on the part that was torn. Oh, well, you are used to
that. You often get on a tear.”

Then, with their arms about each other, they stood and gazed on
that wild and grotesque game of ball. It was a hilarious spectacle,
to say the least, and all the rules of baseball were ignored and
violated by both players and umpire. In fact, the closer the
players stuck to the regular game the greater penalties the umpire
put upon them.

Arm-in-arm, Bingham and Ready entered the neighboring shed, where
they saw dark forms stretched about.

“Behold!” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper. “This is a battle-field,
and here are the slain who by the ruthless enemy have been shot.”

“I’m only half-shot,” declared one of the sleepers, sitting up in
a dusky corner. “Gimme ’nother drink.”

Then another sat up and began to sing in a wild and weird manner:

      “How dry I am! How dry I am!
      Lord only knows how dry I am!
      I want a drink, I want it now!
            How dry I am!
      Lord only knows, how dry I am!”

One by one the others roused up and joined in the singing, sitting
there in the gloom, some swaying slightly, some holding themselves
rigidly straight on account of the queer feelings in their heads.

It was a strange sight, and the hoarse, tuneless chanting sounded
like a funeral dirge.

“Shut up!” grunted one fellow, who had refused to sit up. He put
his hands over his ears and tried to go on sleeping.

The singing--if singing it could be called--continued in the same
dirgelike strain.

“We’ll see if we can’t accommodate you,” murmured Ready, who had
found in a corner of the shed a hose used for washing wagons.
Investigation showed that the water could be turned on in that
corner. Jack shut the nozzle and turned the water on. Then he was
ready.

      “How dry I am! How dry I am!
      Lord only knows, how dry I am!”

“Perhaps this will wet you down a little,” observed Ready, as he
calmly turned on the hose and let drive at the crowd.

Swish! spat! spatter!

The water flew, the singing stopped, the men shrieked, and there
was a wild scramble to get away.

“It’s a cloudburst!” yelled somebody.

“Help! help! Fire!” cried another.

“Oh, goodness!” gasped another. “That stuff struck me in the mouth
just as I was singing. I’ve swallowed more than a gallon of real
water. It’ll be fatal!”

They made a wild scramble to get out of the shed. Some of them got
up and ran; others crawled as fast as they could on their hands and
knees. And all the while Ready continued to serenely play the hose
upon them.

Not one stopped to investigate, for that water was “cold and wet.”
It was too much for their nerves. In a very few minutes Ready had
cleared the shed. As the last of them went out, he dropped the hose
and ran after them, wringing his hands and pretending that he had
been driven out with the others.

He left Bingham in the shed roaring with laughter.

“Oh, my, my!” gurgled Jack, as he came tearing out into the midst
of the water-dripping crowd, “and I was having such a lovely dream!
What happened, anyhow?”

“The waterworks exploded!” declared one drenched fellow, wringing
water out of his coat and wiping it out of his eyes.

“Wasn’t it awful!” gasped Ready.

“Hush!” commanded one. “Listen!”

Bingham was heard laughing in the shed.

“’Sdeath!” panted Ready.

“’Sblood!” hissed another fellow.

“Somebody turned that water on us!”

“That’s right!” agreed Jack excitedly. “The wretch who did it is in
there now!”

“He must die!” savagely howled one of the wet chaps. “I am ready to
kill him with my faithful boot-jack!”

“He must suffer!” they all declared. “Who dares go in there and
capture the wretch?”

“Wait,” advised Ready. “He’ll come out, and then we can pounce upon
him.”

Even as he spoke, Bingham came strolling out of the shed, still
shaking with laughter.

“At him!” hissed Jack, and they flung themselves upon him.

“To the stake!” snarled one.

“What stake?” asked another.

“Mistake,” chuckled Ready, to himself.

Then he plunged into the thickest of it, yelling for them to give
the wretch some of his own medicine.

“Hold on!” cried Bingham. “What are you going to do? Hold on!”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Jack. “We won’t let go of you. There is no
reason why you should worry about that.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Bingham again.

“Give you your just deserts, base-born wretch!” cried Ready. “Didst
think to escape retribution?”

“But I haven’t done anything! It wasn’t me!”

“Don’t think to deceive us with thy false tales.”

“But you know I didn’t do a thing, Ready! Why, you----”

Jack, however, raised such a racket that Bingham’s words were
drowned and the big fellow was dragged back into the shed, where
the hose was found on the ground, still hissing and squirting.

Two men who had been drenched volunteered to hold Bingham. A dozen
were eager to play the hose. They gave it to him at once. He ducked
his head, and the water struck him under his collar at the back of
his neck and poured down his back. It seemed to take the strength
out of him and leave him gasping and helpless for the moment. Then
that cold and chilling stream played all over him.

Jack Ready stood aside, his hands clasped, a look of sadness on his
face and deep joy in his heart.

“It is ever thus,” he said to himself, “that the innocent man ever
gets it in the neck, while the other chap gets off and becomes a
hero. Let this be a lesson to you, Jack, my boy, to always take
care not to be the innocent one.”

They did not let up on Bingham till the big soph was drenched to
the skin and in a furious mood. He broke away from the fellows who
were holding him and rushed from the shed, vowing he would murder
Ready on sight.

“I’ve had a lovely time to-night,” whispered Jack still to himself;
“but something tells me that I had better fade away. Here is where
I fade.”

He managed to escape from the shed, round which he stole, making
off into the gloom. At a distance, watching the men near the shed,
stood a lonely figure. Jack drew near and saw it was Bertrand
Defarge.




CHAPTER XV.

THE PROMISE.


A little farther on Ready came upon another man, who seemed to be
watching Defarge. It was Hock Mason.

“Hello, Mason!” exclaimed Ready. “Why art thou not wrapped in the
arms of old Morpheus? At this witching hour you should be snoring
sweetly.”

“I’ve been watching him,” said Mason, motioning toward Defarge.

“All night?”

“A large part of it.”

“Why should you take all that trouble?”

“Because I feared he might commit suicide before morning.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was pretty wild last night. I saw him trying to drink absinth.”

“Trying?”

“I said that.”

“Well, didn’t he succeed?”

“No, sah.”

“Why not?”

“That’s the strange part of it. I can’t tell why. He was crazy for
a drink of the stuff, but the odor of it seemed to make him weak
and helpless. Then, when he tried to lift the glass quickly and
drink it off without stopping, the glass fell from his fingers just
before it reached his lips. Three times he tried it, and three
times he dropped the glass, which was shattered on the floor.”

“He must have found that drink expensive when he did get it.”

“But he did not get it.”

“No? Did he call the game off?”

“He gave up in despair. He paid for all the stuff, declaring that
Merriwell’s eyes had kept him from drinking. Then, in a sort of
frenzy, he rushed out of the place. I thought he might do himself
harm, and I followed him up. From place to place he went, trying
everywhere to get the stuff. When he did get it and tried to drink
it, the same thing happened to him again and again. I tell you he
became desperate. Then he got out into the night and tore away. I
followed him up, meaning to try to prevent in case he attempted to
drown himself. I think he did have some such thoughts.”

“Mason,” said Ready, putting a hand on the shoulder of the man
from the South, “I have always regarded you as a fellow with horse
sense.”

“Thank you, sah,” said Hock.

“But I find,” Jack gravely added, “that I have made a mistake. You
are a chump.”

“What--what, sah?” gasped Mason.

“Any man who will contemplate getting wet to prevent Bertrand
Defarge from committing suicide is a chump,” Ready gravely declared.

Mason was angry, but he saw something in the face of the queer
sophomore that prevented him from losing control of his temper.

“But, sah,” said the youth from South Carolina, “you do not know
how much he counted on an election which did not come to him. I
know all about it, for I was with him tap day. The hand that fell
on my back was the hand he thought must tap him.”

“Which shows that he got just what was due him, my dear Mason. It’s
not your place to worry over him in the least, and I think you have
been wasting your valuable time chasing him about. Time, you know,
is a precious jewel, and the man who wastes it when he can sleep
or loaf makes an awful mistake. Come, Hocksie, let’s perambulate
toward our boudoirs and prepare for chapel. Forget it, my boy. Let
Defarge take care of himself.”

So Jack dragged Mason away, and they left Defarge standing there
alone in the gray light of morning.

It had, in truth, been a wild night for Bertrand, but now the
intense longing for absinth had passed from him, a grateful
quietness had come upon him, and something seemed to tell him
that never again would he be tempted to drink the stuff that was
dragging him to destruction.

He went back to his room, but not to sleep, for Skelding soon
followed him. Several times that night Gene had visited the room
of Defarge, only to find the fellow out, and it was his fear that
the influence of Merriwell had failed, in which case Bertrand might
return a raving maniac. He was relieved when he found Defarge
sitting there by the window in the morning light, quiet and calm,
and unexcited.

Of course, Defarge was astonished when Gene appeared at that hour.
Skelding told him how it happened that he was there.

“Well, I have had a bad night of it,” confessed Bertrand. “I was
seized by a mad desire for that stuff last night, but the strange
thing was that I could not drink it, no matter how hard I tried.”

Gene nodded, smiling.

“At first,” Bertrand went on, “the smell of it made me so sick and
faint that I could not get the glass to my lips.”

Again Gene nodded.

“But I felt that I must have it. So, holding it off at arm’s
length at first, I lifted it quickly, meaning to dash it down at a
swallow.”

“Then what happened?” asked Skelding eagerly.

“The glass fell from my fingers every time before I could touch it
to my lips. I can’t understand why it happened, but it fell and was
broken on the floor.”

“Then you were saved?”

“Yes, though I was forced at last to roam about through the city
for hours. Toward morning a strange calmness came over me, and I
knew all desire for that stuff had passed away. I believe it has
left me forever.”

“In which case, you have Frank Merriwell to thank that you are not
now a murderer and a maniac.”

Defarge stared and lifted his hand.

“Not Merriwell, but you,” he said. “You told me that you exchanged
those cartridges.”

“That time, yes; but had you continued to drink that stuff you
would have made the attempt again at another time, and I might not
have been around.”

“Well, why didn’t I continue to drink?”

“Because Merriwell would not let you.”

Then Skelding told Defarge how Frank had willed that his enemy
should not be able to drink absinth in any form, and how just what
Merriwell had ordered had come true.

“You can see what you owe to him,” said Skelding. “You hate him;
you regard him as your enemy; yet he has saved you from a madhouse.”

Bertrand sat there, gazing out of the window in silence. It was
hard for him to think that he owed so much to the fellow whom he
had hated so intensely and tried to injure so repeatedly.

“I have been Merriwell’s enemy myself,” Skelding went on. “It was a
long time before I saw the folly of my ways, but the truth came to
me at last. I am not his friend now, for I would not ask him to be
a friend to me; but I have buried the past, and I shall never lift
a hand against him again. Why don’t you do the same, Defarge? You
can see how hopeless it is for you to try to injure him. He has the
power to control you when you are away from him. It is your duty to
go to him and confess that you have done wrong, and thank him for
saving you by the spell he cast on you.”

Defarge shook his head.

“I can’t do that!” he exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“I can never humble myself to him.”

“It is not humbling yourself when you thank a man, be he friend
or foe, for such a favor. Look here, Defarge, you have not many
friends in college, have you?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well?”

“We might become friends. We both desire some one whom we can
regard as such. But, as I have forever renounced all intention of
harming or trying to harm Merriwell, I cannot be the friend of any
one who is plotting him injury. You have your choice now. Be a man
and do the right thing with Merriwell and I will stick by you. If
you do not--well, we can’t have much of anything to do with each
other. That’s all.”

“I’ll have to think it over,” said Bertrand. “I’m tired now.”

“All right,” said Gene, preparing to go. “I hope you’ll come to
your senses.”

He went out, leaving Defarge staring through the window at the pink
of the morning sky.

It was a beautiful morning, and somehow the passionate French youth
felt that a brighter and better morning was breaking within his
soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Frank was surprised when Defarge came to him and said:

“Merriwell, I have no hope that you will believe me, but I have
come to say that in the future I hope God will punish me if I lift
my hand against you, or plot with others to do you harm!”

Frank turned those wonderful eyes on Defarge, and saw that the
young Frenchman was never more in earnest.

“I should not have come here to say this,” Bertrand confessed, “if
it had not been for Skelding. He tells me you have kept me from
drinking absinth. I believe the craving for the stuff has gone from
me forever.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” said Merry.

“I know it, and for that reason I wish now to ask you to hold me
fast yet a while longer under the spell. Keep me from drinking the
stuff. Can you?”

“I can.”

“Will you do that? You know I was crazed by it when I tried to
shoot you! You know I am pretty humble now, else I’d not be here
asking a favor! I am sorry for the past--I swear I am! Do you
believe me, Merriwell?”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“And you will still help me? You will keep me from drinking absinth
if I am tempted?”

“I will,” promised Frank.




CHAPTER XVI.

PASSING OF AN EARTHQUAKE.


“Hello, Bing!” cried Jack Ready, as Ralph Bingham, the big
sophomore, drifted into Merriwell’s room, a few days after his
victory over Defarge.

“Nice old gal you had out to sup last night after the opera.
Theatrical dame, wasn’t she? Belonged to the chorus, I should
judge.”

“What the dickens makes you think so?” demanded Ralph, hardly
pleased. “Did she look like a chorus girl?”

“Well, she looked something like a chorus lady,” chirped Jack.
“Somebody told me she lowered the curtain the night Lincoln was
shot.”

Bingham glared, while the others chuckled, with the exception of
Ready himself, who looked very grave and innocent.

“You’ll get salted some time!” growled the big sophomore. “You need
it, too, for you’re awfully fresh.”

“Sorry I can’t say the same about the ancient maid you were blowing
to birds and fizz last eve, Bing, old mark,” purred Ready.

“She was simply an old flame of mine,” asserted Ralph, finding a
seat.

“I thought so when I saw her hair,” nodded Jack. “I cried: ‘Fire,
fire!’ Gamp was with me, and he says: ‘Wh-wh-wh-where is the
fuf-fuf-fuf-fire?’ Then I pointed out your old flame.”

“That reminds me that she said something when she looked up and saw
you and Gamp approaching,” observed Bingham carelessly.

“What did she say?” eagerly asked Jack, hastening to put his foot
into the trap.

“She said: ‘Hello! things are coming my way,’” answered the
satisfied sophomore, crossing his legs.

Then the entire party shouted with laughter, for it was not often
that Ready, the practical joker, was caught in such an easy manner.

“Language fails me!” declared Ready, as the laughter lulled. “I’m
like the old tramp I saw to-day. Fellows, he was a finely educated
man, and he could speak five different languages, yet he confessed
to me that his downfall was brought upon him because he did not
know how to say one common little English word of two letters.”

“What rot!” grunted Browning, from the couch.

“It’s true,” asserted Jack, with great earnestness. “Drunkenness
made him a vagabond, and he became a drunkard just because he could
not say that one little word of two letters.”

“And he could speak five different languages?” incredulously asked
Carson, from his corner.

“He could.”

“And the word of two letters was a simple English word?” broke in
Greg Carker.

“So I stated.”

“Dud-dud-dud-did he have an impup-pup-pup-pediment in his
sus-sus-sus-speech?” inquired Joe Gamp seriously.

“Not the least.”

“Well, what word was it that caused his downfall because he didn’t
know how to say it?” asked Bingham impatiently.

“It was the word ‘No,’” explained Ready.

“There are lots of men right here at Yale who do not know how to
say that word,” asserted Frank, who had been listening to the
chatter of the others.

“Alas! too true,” sighed Ready. “Now, there’s Carker, who bunks
with me in Durfee. I’ve seen the time when he found great
difficulty in correctly pronouncing numerous words in the English
language.”

“You’re another!” exclaimed Greg warmly.

“The earthquake rumbles,” grunted Browning.

“It’s true,” asserted Ready, with assumed earnestness. “Why, I
remember the night he came in at two o’clock, walking cross-legged
and stumbling over his own feet. He knew my virtuous abhorrence of
such conduct, and he was naturally a trifle timid. I sat up and
sternly said: ‘Carker, what is the meaning of this? You have been
drinking’. Then he steadied himself with considerable trouble,
and answered: ‘’Tain’t sho! I’m all ri’, thash whas I am. Nozzen
massher wish me.’ ‘If you haven’t been drinking,’ said I, ‘why do
you talk as if you had your mouth full of mush?’ ‘Caush,’ said
he, ‘a shoft anshwer turnsh away wrath, ol’ boy.’ Then he lost
his balance, fell down, and drove his head under the bookcase so
hard that I had to take all the books off the shelves and lift the
bookcase before I could get him out.”

“Gentlemen,” said Greg stiffly, in the face of their grins, “the
man who will believe him on oath is an idiot, and so his lies do
not worry me in the least.”

But Carker could not take a joke pleasantly, and the laughter of
the others caused him to flush and look disturbed.

“Frivolous--all frivolous!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way
with Americans to-day. They laugh and joke, regardless of
the fact that the country is making gigantic strides toward
imperialism--regardless of the fact that every sign points to the
setting up of an empire----”

“Which shall be overthrown by your own pet earthquake, Carker,”
said Frank.

“Even you, Merriwell,” cried Greg--“you do not seem willing to take
life earnestly.”

“I am not willing to take life at all, my dear boy. I wouldn’t even
kill a cat--unless she disturbed my slumbers.”

“That’s it!” Carker ejaculated, with a despairing gesture. “You
pervert my meaning! You are not willing to look a thing squarely
in the face. That same frivolous disposition possesses all the
young men of our land who find themselves in fairly comfortable
circumstances. They take no thought of the burdens of the poor
and oppressed. They give no heed to the groans of the great mass
of downtrodden slaves who are laboring for day pay at starvation
wages.”

“He’s off!” cried Ready. “Cluk! cluk! git ap!”

Carker had risen to his feet. Having found an opportunity to launch
forth on his pet hobby, he gave no heed to any interruption.
Without noticing Ready in the least, he went on, his pale face
flushing and his eyes glowing as his earnestness increased:

“But it is not altogether the young who are thus heedless of the
storm-clouds gathering over our fair land. It is not altogether the
rich. The great middle class seem just as careless. The moaning and
the groaning of the shackled slaves of toil and oppression disturb
them not. The muttering thunder behind the rising storm-cloud falls
on deaf ears.”

“Get your umbrellas, fellows!” whispered Ready hoarsely. “We’re
going to have a shower this time. The earthquake has a day off.”

“False prophets tell of growing prosperity and better times coming.
They are liars, and sons of liars!” cried Carker, becoming more and
more impassioned as he proceeded. “Already the common people are
writhing in the grasp of the gigantic monopolies, which threaten to
crush the life out of our nation. Already the tide of discontent
is beating with threatening throbs against the sea-wall of money
power.”

“Great Scott! it’s a tidal wave!” gasped Jack. “And I do not own a
pair of rubber boots!”

“There’s rubber enough in your neck to make several pairs,” said
Bingham.

“Look at the great trusts that are forming to squeeze the people!”
the oratorical youth pursued, pointing tragically with one
quivering finger. “Behold them in all their brutal insolence and
contempt for the poor wretches they are bleeding! Tell me of one
man connected with a trust who ever did a truly great, unselfish,
and generous thing.”

“Carnegie,” said Frank.

“Bah!” exploded Greg. “Who knows the hidden meaning behind his
seeming acts of munificence? Perhaps it is a blind to deceive the
restless common people and lull their suspicions so that the great
trust may continue to squeeze them still more. Besides, it is bread
the masses are crying for, and he gives them a stone in the shape
of a book.”

“Men do not live by bread alone,” reminded Frank.

“But it is bread the great masses must have,” asserted Carker.
“What time has the slave of day toil for reading? When he is not
working, he must be sleeping.”

“Or drinking beer,” murmured Ready. “If he had sense enough to keep
away from the saloons and save his money, he might not be such a
downtrodden wretch.”

At this Frank nodded. He knew there was more or less truth in what
Carker was saying in such a theatrical manner; and, at the same
time, he was aware that Ready had struck the key of the cause for
more than half the poverty and wretchedness of the poor.

“What we need----” Carker tried to go on.

“----is more saloons,” chuckled Ready. “Give the poor, downtrodden
laborer a chance to blow in every dollar he earns.”

“The saloon is the poor man’s club,” asserted Greg.

“It’s the club with which he is beating out his own brains,” said
Merriwell seriously.

Carker gasped a little, but he quickly recovered and swung off
again:

“Because the poor man seeks to find a vent for his feelings by
drinking occasionally in a saloon, the man of the upper class
points the finger of scorn at him, crying out that the poor wretch
has brought about his own misfortune. What would the poor man do if
he didn’t have a chance to drink in saloons?”

“Save his money and make his family comfortable,” answered Frank
promptly.

“Comfortable! comfortable!” sneered Greg. “And he would see the
rich man who employed him rolling in luxury, living like a prince
by the money the poor man had toiled to earn. It’s true! You all
know it’s true. The laborer might be able to hold soul and body
together, but none of the real pleasures of life could be his. No
wonder the great masses are murmuring and groaning! Their hearts
are eaten by a consuming fire that shall burst forth with all the
fury of Vesuvius----”

“My goodness! it’s a volcano!” whispered Ready. “That’s hot stuff!”

“I’m not a drinker,” Carker asserted, “but I claim the right to
take a drink when I like. In hot weather I do like beer, and I take
it sometimes. Shall I say to the poor man: ‘This is not for you; I
alone may have beer?’ The folly of it! I have sympathy with a poor
man. My father was poor when he started out in life, and I am proud
of it. He was a cooper.”

“Well, he put a mighty poor head into one beer-barrel,” said Ready,
jerking his thumb significantly toward Greg.

This caused a burst of laughter, but Carker pretended that he had
not heard it.

“The poor man of America is ambitious when he starts out in life,”
the young socialist continued. “It is only after he has labored
for years, and seen how fruitless is the result of his toil, that
ambition is crushed from his soul. But the place of ambition is
taken by a terrible thing--a feeling of hatred toward the rich.
This feeling is growing day by day all over our land, and it causes
the murmur that we hear growing louder and louder. If we pause to
listen, we may hear it distinctly; we may even feel the ground
shake a little beneath our feet.”

“By heavens! the earthquake is coming, after all!” sobbed Ready,
dropping limply on a chair.

“The rich man in his carriage does not feel the slight tremor,”
Greg spouted; “or, if he does, he smiles and says it means nothing.
He may have noticed something of the kind before. If so, it lulled,
and the threatened shock did not come, which leads him to think it
will never come. Poor fool! Often in earthquake countries, before
the coming of the mighty shock, there are slight warning tremors of
the earth. These little quivers may do no harm, or they may simply
crack a few buildings, just to show what they can do when they get
into action. At last comes the great shock, and the earth opens to
swallow up whole cities, the sea rolls in upon the land, buildings
topple and fall, flames burst forth, and the scene is the most
awful mortal man can behold.”

All were silent now, their eyes closed, their positions seeming to
indicate resignation.

“Thus it will be in the terrible hour when the earthquake shall
shake our mighty land. The downtrodden masses shall upheave
like the rising waves of the tidal sea! The temples of the rich
shall come toppling down with crashing thunder! Havoc and ruin
shall spread from ocean to ocean! The sky shall be darkened by an
ascending cloud of black smoke rising from the palacelike homes of
millionaires! That day shall be even more terrible than those of
the Commune. The cries of the victims shall be drowned by----”

At this point Browning snored loudly from the couch, Ready
followed suit from his chair, and the sound seemed to echo all
round the room. Carker paused and looked about, seeing that every
one but himself seemed to be sound asleep. His face became still
more flushed than before, and he sat down suddenly on his chair,
muttering to himself.

Jack Ready stirred a little, opened his eyes, yawned, sat up, and
called:

“Wake up, fellows! The earthquake is over.”




CHAPTER XVII.

FRANK HAS A SCHEME.


“Fellows,” said Frank, “now that the earthquake has passed, let’s
talk about something more interesting. You know to-night is the
night we celebrate Omega Lambda Chi.”

“Ah-ha!” cried Ready, with a flirt of his hand; “I’ll be there. Oh,
the poor freshmen!”

“Bub-by gum!” chuckled Gamp. “We’re gug-gug-gug-goin’ to have
a circus this year. I hear the fuf-fuf-fuf-freshmen are onto
all our tut-tut-tricks, and they sus-sus-say the sophs are
gug-gug-gug-goin’ to get it in the neck.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” chirped Ready. “I think the sophs are able to
look out for the freshies.”

“But you’ll never trap them unless somebody leads them into the
snare,” said Frank.

“Wait and see. They are a particularly innocent lot this year.”

“That’s the way it looks to you, but I think, as a class, they are
even more up to snuff than usual.”

“Come off! Why, last year----”

“You were a freshman, Ready, and you bit a number of well-baited
hooks.”

“Oh, did I? He, he! Well, I fancy some other people were bitten
on a few occasions. I remember a certain delightful evening when
a party took me out to give me a little haze. I believe I was put
in with a skeleton, and I went mad while confined there. Oh, say!
Merriwell, you were a mark that night!”

Frank colored a little as he laughingly confessed:

“You did fool me, all right, Ready; but you would have fooled
anybody, for you played mad to perfection. We all thought we had
driven you crazy.”

“I played mad, but there was no play about your madness when you
found you were fooled. Oh, ha, ha, ha! It makes me laugh to think
what a great time I had!”

“Forget it!” cried Frank, also laughing.

“How can I?”

“Just do. I never tried to get square, have I?”

“Oh, never! That seemed to teach you the folly of trying to monkey
with little Jack.”

“Conceit!” muttered Bingham. “You need some of it taken out of you.”

“Perchance thou art right, but I’m a bettor that finds no takers,
and, therefore, I’m much better than my associates. Git ap!”

Frank Merriwell’s eyes twinkled, and a sudden resolve took
possession of him.

“We’re all going to have a hand in the festivities to-night,” he
said. “But I hear there is one man among them who has somehow got
onto the usual order of things, and means to make a diversion.”

“Is it Morgan?” asked Ready.

“No.”

“Then it must be Starbright,” said Mason.

“No.”

“But they are the two leaders of the freshmen,” asserted Bingham.
“First one seems to be the leader, and then the other bobs up. It’s
impossible to tell just who is the cock of the walk in that class.”

“This time a new man has come to the front,” said Merry.

“Not Dashleigh?” grunted Browning. “That fellow never was cut out
for a leader.”

“No, he is not the one.”

“Can’t guess who it is, then.”

“It’s Boltwood.”

“What? That fellow with the long hair?”

“Same.”

“Get out!”

“Fact.”

“Why, he’s fruit!” chuckled Ready. “He thinks he’s a poet. Oh, he,
he, he! Why, he’s a guy!”

“Nice built fellow,” observed Carson. “Looks like he might become
an athlete.”

“But he’s soft as mush,” said Ready. “He never takes any training,
and a kid can handle him.”

“Now,” said Frank, in a peculiar manner, “I have a fancy that he
is not so easy as you think, and I’ve been told that he’s onto the
usual event in the Pass of Thermopylæ, and has a counter trick in
store for the sophs.”

“Oh, has he?” exclaimed Ready warmly. “Well, we’ll have to look out
for Mr. Rolf Boltwood.”

“I have a plan,” said Frank, still with a queer twinkle in his eyes.

“Unfold it, oh, mighty one!” urged Jack.

“Why not fool the freshmen completely by causing Boltwood to fail
to put in an appearance? We’re all looking for the thing to come
off right to-night, and we don’t want any one to spoil the plans.”

Ready placed his forefinger gently on his forehead and seemed
buried in profound thought.

“Is it worth the trouble?” he asked.

“Of course. You don’t know what sort of a game he may have planned.
Thus far, I think, he has not revealed it to any one, fearing it
might get out in some way. If you delay, it may be too late. I
think it is understood that he is to be the leader of the freshmen
on this occasion. If he vanishes, somebody else will take his
place, and all will go merrily as a marriage-bell.”

“I believe you are right,” nodded Ready. “Somehow, I rather fancy
the adventure. Who is with me?”

“Why, I suppose you can count me in,” said Bingham. “But how is it
to be done?”

“Boltwood is mashed on one of those chorus girls,” said Frank.

“Know her name?”

“Lotta.”

“Lotta what?”

“Lotta trouble, perhaps. Never mind her last name; Lotta, Lottie,
or Tottie will go.”

“Well, what’s the play?”

“With the aid of Lotta’s magic name, he may be lured away.”

“How?”

“Lotta can write him a little note, you know, asking him to meet
her.”

“It’s too late for that now.”

“Not at all. The note can be written at once. Wait; I’ll do it.
He has never seen her handwriting. I can imitate the writing of a
girl, I fancy. Where is the company stopping?”

“Lots of the chorus hang out at the Tontine,” said Bingham. “My
charming friend hangs up her hat there.”

“Then it’s likely Lotta stops there. That’s good luck, for there is
no trouble in getting some Tontine stationery. Get into this thing,
Carker, and stop listening for the rumbling of that earthquake.
Hustle over to the Tontine and get me some paper and envelopes.
While you are about it, call a cab and have it stand at the corner
of Temple and Elm. Get a closed cab, with curtains.”

“Ye gods!” cried Ready; “I scent a frolic! Let Carker get the paper
and envelopes; I’ll attend to the cab.”

“All right. Hustle along in a lively fashion, for there is no
time to spare. Have you a nice, safe place to lodge Boltwood this
evening till the festivities are over?”

“Have we? Ask me! Didn’t we keep Earl Knight safe and snug when we
had him? Oh, we can enclose Boltie in a dungeon cell, and he can
enjoy himself reciting poems to the bare walls. La, la! There is
something doing, and little Jack is himself again!”

Ready grabbed Carker by the collar and yanked him out of the room
in a hurry.

“Bingham,” said Frank, “locate Boltwood, and report here as soon as
possible.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” sang out the big sophomore, and away he went.

When the door had closed behind Bingham, Frank looked around. There
were no more sophomores in the room, and he laughed heartily.

“Fellows,” he said, “somebody is going to be surprised to-night.
This is going to be a regular circus.”

“What’s the game?” asked Mason, tumbling that Merry was up to some
kind of a trick. “Let us in.”

“Never mind,” answered Frank, shaking his head. “But watch out for
a surprise this evening. Don’t say a word. Jack Ready will be the
leader of the sophomores, and he expects to have everything his own
way. Oh, it will be a great celebration of Omega Lambda Chi, if
nothing goes crooked.”

And that was all he would say.

Carker came back with the paper and envelopes, and Merry at once
sat down to write the decoy letter. By the time it was finished,
Ready showed up, announcing that the cab was waiting at the corner.
Then Bingham came in and said that Boltwood was in his room,
writing a sonnet to Lotta’s ear.

Frank read the decoy letter, which ran like this:

  “DEAR MR. BOLTWOOD: Since we parted last night something very
  surprising has happened. I have received a letter from my dear
  mama, telling me that my Aunt Kitty has died and left me a
  fortune if I will leave the stage. Isn’t that just perfectly
  lovely? And still, I shall so hate to give up my career and
  relinquish my art. But we’re all out for the dust, and sometimes
  the ghost fails to walk, which makes us warm under the lapels of
  our sealskins. With the money dear old Aunt Kit has left to me,
  I can raise quite a breeze.

  “I am going home to-morrow, but before I go I wish to see once
  more the friend who recited such beautiful poetry last evening. I
  could not go away without seeing you, Mr. Boltwood. It can only
  be for a few minutes, as I have to play to-night. The messenger
  who brings this will take you to where I am waiting in a cab. Do
  come at once, dear boy! If I only had some of Aunt Kit’s dough
  now, I’d square myself with you for the feed you gave me last
  night. Don’t fail me, dear Mr. Boltwood. Yours, etc.,

      “LOTTA.”

“Will that do?” asked Frank. “I’m afraid it is not quite consistent
in this, but I don’t think Boltwood will have time to analyze it,
or even to scrutinize it closely, so I hope he’ll not notice any
little breaks.”

“It’s artistic,” declared Ready enthusiastically.

“Hardly that.”

“Oh, but it is! That stuff about the ghost walking, and about
giving up her career and her art, is simply great!”

“And being out for the dust isn’t bad!” chuckled Bingham. “I notice
the most of them are looking for geldt.”

“Did your aged lady friend try to hit you up for a sawbuck last
evening?” inquired Ready, with an innocent look in his eyes.

“Certainly not!” cried the big sophomore indignantly. “She was an
exception. She follows the stage for her health.”

“Well, she must have been at it long enough to have glorious good
health.”

“She’s only eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” said Jack. “That’s a one and an eight. The figures
will hit her all right if you put the eight first.”

“She’s just a foolish little society girl, who thought it would be
a grand thing to give up her life as a gay butterfly and follow a
career.”

“Society girl!” chirped Ready. “La, la! She must have been one of
the Hogan’s Alley four hundred. Following a career, is she? Oh,
lud! oh, lud! I don’t wonder the career is trying to run away.
Anything would run from that face of hers.”

“She’s highly educated. You should have heard her quote from the
classics.”

“I’ll bet she did! Took the choice passages right out of George
Ade’s ‘Fables in Slang.’ My, my! but she’s the real thing, Bing!
But never, never venture to take her to a dog-fight. She’ll scare
the dogs into fits and break up the whole shooting-match.”

“Come, come!” laughed Frank. “We are losing time. Here is the
precious missive.”

“Precious missive is great!” chuckled Ready.

“Take it, hustle out, get a messenger-boy, give him instructions,
and wait for Boltwood inside the cab. Be sure to get the fellow in.”

“Leave that to us,” chuckled Ready. “We’ll take him in!”

They grasped the letter and hustled from the room.

As soon as they were gone, Merry sat down and laughed.

“I’d lul-lul-lul-like to know just wh-wh-where the jug-jug-jug-joke
is!” said Gamp.

“So would I,” confessed Hock Mason.

“Me, too,” grunted Browning.

“Let us in,” urged Carson.

“Oh, you’ll find out all about it this evening,” declared Frank.
“See if it isn’t a jolly racket. Makes me feel same as I used to at
Fardale when I put up a job like this.”

“By thunder!” cried Carson. “If I ever have a boy I’m going to send
him to Fardale! It must be a great place, to turn out chaps like
Merriwell.”

“And Hodge,” grunted Bruce, with some sarcasm.

“And Merry sometimes speaks of the rackets he had there. It must be
a great school.”

“One of the finest in the country,” nodded Frank. “If I have boys
of my own, to Fardale they will go. If I had a younger brother,
which, unfortunately, I have not, I’d see that he was sent to
Fardale.”

“No wonder he’s stuck on Fardale,” said Browning. “It was there he
met Elsie Bellwood.”

Frank looked serious.

“And Inza Burrage,” said Carson.

Frank smiled.

Browning was regarding Merry searchingly, and an expression of
dissatisfaction settled on his strong face.

“But I didn’t think you’d let anybody, not even Hodge, cut you out
with Elsie, Merriwell,” he ventured to say.

Frank turned on the big fellow at once.

“There are lots of things you do not know, Bruce,” he spoke in a
very quiet manner. “If you were joking, why that’s all right; but
I fancied you spoke earnestly, and, if so, I don’t want you to get
any false notions that you know it all.”

“Well, I know how things look from the road. You think a lot of
Hodge, but no man has a right to give up a nice girl like Elsie
Bellwood just because his particular friend gets struck on her.”

Frank was not a little surprised to hear Browning speak in this
manner, for Bruce was the last man in the world to meddle with the
business of another, especially in such a delicate matter as this.
Such being the case, Merry knew that Browning must feel strongly on
that particular point, else he’d never ventured to say a word.

Browning was sitting up now, looking grim and solid.

“He’s stuck on Elsie himself!” thought Frank, in surprise. “That
is what’s the matter! He’s a big, strong fellow, and such men have
a way of getting all broke up over girls like Elsie. It has made
him sore to see Hodge walk off with her, same as he has since that
Doctor Lincoln affair.”

Aloud Merry observed:

“You are not in a position to correctly understand the matter, old
man. Some time you may.”

But Browning shook his head gloomily.

Frank remembered that Bruce had not been in the best of spirits of
late, and now he fancied he was beginning to understand the meaning
of the change that had come over the big fellow. At last, Browning
had realized that some great event had taken place, bringing
about a condition of affairs that astonished and displeased him.
Merriwell had withdrawn from Elsie, and Hodge had stepped in.

Perhaps, in his heart, Bruce had long admired Elsie, refraining
from letting her or any one else know it because he was Frank’s
friend, and Frank seemed to care for her. Such being the case,
it must gall him greatly to see Merry apparently give up the
blue-eyed, golden-haired girl without a struggle, letting Hodge
step in and carry her off in triumph.

“All right,” grunted Bruce somewhat sourly. “But you’ve just the
same as given any of us fellows an invitation to jump in and lug
off any girl you may be bracing to.”

“That’s right,” laughed Frank. “If you can do it, go ahead and do
it. If I can’t hold the girl, I’m sure I don’t want her. When she
willingly turns to another, he is welcome to her.”

It struck Bruce that Elsie must have willingly turned from Frank
to Bart, and, for the first time in his life, he felt resentment
and anger toward Elsie. Still, he continued to be angry with Frank
for giving her up.

“Don’t believe you’d done it for anybody but Hodge,” he muttered
sulkily. “I suppose you have Inza Burrage left. Well, by thunder!
you want to look out and keep her. I’m just mad enough to lug her
off myself, if I get the chance! She seemed to like that fresh
lubber Starbright one spell, and if she can get smashed on him
there ought to be a show for me.”

Frank smiled. He had not told Browning of his engagement to Inza.
It had been Inza’s fancy that while her father was so very ill it
was not best to announce the engagement.

While the situation had cleared up for the four persons most
acutely interested and concerned, to those like Browning, who knew
only a part of the truth, it looked more complicated and cloudy
than ever.

Bruce had not intended to speak out to Frank, especially before
others, and his first remark was made in a manner that was half
a joke; but, having branched forth, he soon became serious and
earnest.

“By gug-gug-gorry!” exclaimed Gamp. “I gotter go git ready for
to-night. S’pose you’ll be on hand to lead the class, won’t we,
Fuf-Frank?”

“I may not,” said Merry.

“Why? How is that?” cried Carson. “We want you.”

“Got to have you!” declared Mason.

“Can’t get along without you,” growled Browning.

“Well,” said Frank, “I think I’ll be there; but if you should not
see me, you are to lead the class, Browning.”

“Me?” gasped Bruce, without regard to grammar.

“Yes.”

“No!”

“That’s all right; you are to do it. You can, if you will.”

“But the idea! I’ve never done anything like that----”

“Since you were ‘King of the Sophomores.’ My dear fellow, you were
a leader in those days, and you can be now, if you will be. I know
you have become lazy as a dog, but you have to wake up when you
play ball, and it will do you good if you have to lead the class
to-night.”

“Oh, but say!” protested Bruce, “what kind of an Omega Lambda Chi
celebration will this be without Merriwell to take the lead?”

“Rotten!” exploded Carson.

“Bub-bub-bum!” stuttered Gamp.

“Sloppy!” exclaimed Mason.

“The whole class will be sore if you don’t show up,” asserted
Bruce. “I know you have some kind of a wild scheme in your head,
but you must be on hand to lead the class.”

“I may be,” repeated Frank again. “But you must go right ahead if
I am not.” He put his hand on Browning’s shoulder. “I ask this of
you as a favor. I know the men will fall in and follow your lead.”

“All right,” muttered Bruce. “But I may be taken sick between now
and then. You’d better be on hand.”

“I have told you I expect to be there. That must be satisfactory.
Just do the right thing if you do not find me on hand. That’s all.”

They went out and left Merry, who closed and locked the door
behind them. And thus hidden safely in his room, Frank went to his
trunk, from which he took a certain square box. With the aid of
the contents of that box, he proceeded to work a most remarkable
transformation.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.


The messenger-boy was found and instructed. He set off to find
Boltwood, accompanied and directed by Carker. Within the closed
hack, behind the drawn curtains, Ready and Bingham waited.

“Oh, luddy me!” chuckled Jack. “How surprised our poetical friend
will be!”

“What if he does not take the bait?” muttered Bingham.

“He will, my gentle fairy, he will.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“He is a writer of alleged poetry, and so he’s an easy mark. See if
I’m not right. And he thinks all the girls are liable to lose their
senses over him. This, however, my sylphlike friend, is going to
seem a great conquest to him. He will rush to the arms of Lotta.
Oh, yum, yum!”

“If Carker does his part----”

“Cark will find a way, Bing, old baby. He’ll be ready to give
Boltwood a gentle push at the right moment, mark my word. Cark is
an odd fish, but he’s great at carrying out instructions. Get him
to going, and nothing but the Grim Reaper can stop him.”

“Queer you should take up with such a fellow, Ready.”

“Is it? I dunno. Contrast, you know. My dazzling wit has the
greater glitter in contrast to his prosaic and peachy ways. I am a
good thing, Bing, and I like to set myself off as well as possible.
He’s an excellent foil, you know.”

“You’re a conceited ass!”

“Thanks, awfully, Bing, old boy. You have a dainty and delicate way
of expressing yourself that I much admire--I don’t think!”

“Oh, well, you’re always shooting off your chin at other people,
and it does you good to tell you the sober truth once in a while.
You are an ass, Ready, and everybody knows it; and you have got a
larger stock of conceit than any other man living.”

“Perchance if you continue this style of comment, I may become
angry in time.”

“That’s all right. Get mad if you want to. What’ll you do?”

“I may give you an awfully cutting look.”

“That would be a terrible thing!”

“Hush!” warned Ready, applying his eye to a tiny hole in the
curtain. “Methinks it is about time for Boltwood to be rushing to
the arms of his Tottie.”

“See anything of him?” asked Bingham.

“Not a thing.”

“He may not come.”

“I think he will.”

“But I believe Merriwell was up to something.”

“He’s a dandy!” commented Jack; “but I caught him once when he was
not up to snuff.”

“He may have planned to get even with you.”

“How?”

“Perhaps he has warned Boltwood.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Well, we’ll have the messenger to pay and the cabman, besides
sitting cooped up here like a couple of chumps. To-night the whole
college may be ready to give us the ha-ha.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

“The game is too simple for Merriwell to play,” he declared.

“Why too simple?”

“He would not go into anything of the sort. If he were trying to
even up the old score, he’d be at something on a scale that would
make it more even. You have not hit it, Bingham. Besides, I think
Merry is willing to let the past remain buried. I confess that he
has had fun with me more than once, but I settled his case the
night he joined the gang that was hazing me.”

“That’s where your conceit comes in,” said Bingham. “You have an
idea that you’re as clever as Frank Merriwell. That’s enough to
make anybody sick! Why, he can tell you the trick he’s going to
work, and then fool you.”

“Then, indeed, I must be a chump in your eyes!” sighed Ready.
“Bing, you are knocking at me because of what I said about that old
gal you had out to sup last night. All right! I’ll pay you back;
see if I don’t!”

“If you continue to be too fresh, I may take a notion to thump you
a little.”

“If you do, old guy, I shall feel it my duty to give you the finest
thrashing you ever had, even though you weigh a pound and a quarter
more than I do. I shall----’Sh! I see something!”

Jack was peering through the tiny hole in the curtain.

“What?” asked Bingham.

“He comes!” palpitated Ready.

“Boltwood?”

“Sure thing!”

“No mistake?”

“Nary! Get ready to grab, Bing, you darling old knocker! We’ll
be having a lively time with him in a minute. The messenger is
pointing out the cab. Ha! Boltwood gives the boy a quarter! Well,
that youngster has made a good thing out of the job. He approaches!
He has thrust out his chest, and is walking hastily in this
direction. Here is where we get into gear and have fun with the
gentle poet!”

It was true that Rolf Boltwood was approaching the cab. He was a
rather good-looking fellow, although he had a peculiar, melancholy
cast of countenance and long hair that flowed upon the collar of
his coat. Although not an athlete, he had a very attractive figure,
and it was possible he could have been athletic had he tried.

In the freshman class Boltwood had attracted very little attention
until he wrote a parody on something or other, in which he
satirized with considerable ability a number of the prominent
sophomores, including, of course, Ready and Carker. This had
brought him into notice, but it had made any amount of enemies
for him among the sophomores. He was, indeed, a callow youth, who
regarded himself as a genuine “lady-killer,” and it had not been
difficult, for that reason, to lure him into a trap of this sort.

Straight up to the cab Boltwood rushed, flinging open the door and
lifting his hat at the same time.

Two hands came out and clutched him by the collar before he could
start back in astonishment. Behind him Greg Carker bobbed up from
somewhere and gave him a boosting push. The two hands in his collar
gave a surge at the same time, and into the cab went Boltwood with
a rush.

Slam! went the door, and up to the seat beside the driver vaulted
Carker, saying:

“Let ’er go! We’re off!”

Strange sounds came from within the cab.

“Don’t mind any slight agitation,” said Carker to the driver. “If
it happens that any damage is done, I’ll guarantee that we’ll pay
double what repairs will cost.”

“All right, sir. Which way, sir?”

“Straight over the Barnesville Bridge.”

Away went the cab with a rattle, a rush, and cracking of the whip.

Boltwood had been flung fairly across the knees of Jack Ready, who
cheerily cried:

“Come to the arms of your own Tottie Coughdrop, you dear, sweet
thing!”

Then the door slammed.

“What the----” gasped the freshman.

“Tush, tush!” said Jack. “Why, how dare you, sir! Such unbecoming
language in the presence of your own Tottie!”

Boltwood began to kick.

“Leggo!” he yelled. “What kind of a job is this?”

“Gently, gently!” warned Ready. “You may smash the window, and,
perchance, it will cost you a doubloon, whatever that is.”

“Leggo!” yelled Boltwood again, still kicking.

“Bing,” said Jack, “if he continues to slosh round like this,
you’ll have to spank him soundly.”

“I’ll enjoy doing so,” assured Bingham.

Then he gave the freshman a crack with his open hand that brought
a yell of pain from the surprised fellow.

“Now will you be good?” asked Jack kindly.

Boltwood stopped kicking.

“Are you crazy?” he asked. “What are you trying to do, anyhow?”

“Is it thus that you speak of your own dear Lotta?” sighed Jack.

“Lotta be hanged!” snarled the disgusted chap.

“Oh, goodness sakes!” gasped Ready. “How pained she is to hear you
say that! Does oo ’ike oor ’Otta, pitty boy? Ain’t oo dlad oo tum
to see oor dirl, pessus pet?”

“Shut up!” howled Boltwood. “Let me sit up like a man.”

“Can you do it? It’s wonderful what some animals can learn by
example.”

Boltwood kicked again.

“Bing, apply the palm-oil,” directed Jack, and the big sophomore
again spanked the floundering freshman.

“Ow!” whooped the victim. “Hit me with a ham, but don’t hit me with
that thing, please!”

“This is simply the tootsie-wootsie of my friend,” said Jack. “He
is caressing you, my pretty boy.”

“I don’t fancy that kind of a caress!” growled Boltwood.

“But you must enjoy resting in the arms of your own Lotta,” urged
Jack. “I shall be mortally offended if you say you do not think it
just perfectly heavenly.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” snapped the captive.

“Well,” said Ready, “you write poetry, and we have to judge a man
by his conduct.”

“Then I’d take you for a monkey!” flung back Boltwood.

“Bing,” said Jack, “give him another application of palm-oil.”

Bingham faithfully followed instructions. The freshman tried to
kick out the door.

“My, my!” said Ready, holding onto him with some difficulty. “What
a naughty little boy he is!”

“If I keep this up, I’ll have blisters on my hand,” said Bingham.

“He is resting easier now,” said Jack. “I fancy your application
has done him good, Doctor Bing.”

“Oh, I’ll get even with you fellows!” vowed the freshman. “See if
I don’t!”

“That’s all right,” growled the big sophomore. “Your word will be
no good against ours, and we do not remember having seen you this
day.”

“What are you going to do with me?” asked the freshman, with
greater meekness.

“Why, you are enjoying a date with your own Lotta, who has fallen
into lots of mazuma through the death of her Aunt Kit,” said
Ready. “How gladly you rushed with fluttering heart to meet her!
Your poetic soul swelled with rapture, didn’t it, Rolfie? But
you jumped into this cab in such a rude, rude manner! It was
perfectly shocking. I don’t think you are a real gent. You should
have stood outside, and smiled sweetly on your Lotta, instead of
diving headlong at her, and trying to butt her in the solar-plexus
with your wooden _caput_. In the high society where she was a gay
butterfly before seeking a career on the stoige, the young gents
did not behave thusly. Oh, nit, nit! They were perfect gents--they
were!”

“You make me sick!” gurgled Boltwood.

“How rude!” sobbed Jack. “Bing, do you fancy another application of
the palm will teach him better manners?”

“Perhaps,” grunted Bingham, who was ready enough to make the
application.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Boltwood, almost in tears. “I’ll never
get over this!”

Truly it was humiliating for him, a poet, to be treated in such a
rude and unfeeling manner.

“Then you are ready to take back what you just said?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And you really do love your Lotta?”

“Oh, Lord!” sobbed Boltwood.

“But you really do?” insisted Jack.

“What business is that to----”

“Bing, apply the palm!”

“Oh, no, no!” screamed Boltwood. “What do you want me to say?”

“Do you really love your Lotta?”

“I adore her!”

“How nice! Will you be a good boy if you are permitted to sit up
like a man?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t kick and make a muss?”

“Well, I----”

“Bing, perhaps another application----”

“Oh, I won’t kick!” gasped the freshman, in a hurry.

“You will go along with us quietly?”

“I suppose so.”

“Promise.”

“Yes.”

“That is very good. Do you love your Lotta?”

“Yes.”

“With all your heart?”

“Yes.”

“How nice! Of course, you won’t ever tell a soul about this ride
with her, will you, precious boy?”

“Oh, I ain’t likely to!”

“But you must promise, precious one.”

“What the dickens do you take me for?”

“Bing, I fear you will be forced to----”

“Oh, Lord! I’ll promise that!”

“You will never tell a soul about it?”

“No.”

“Not even the faculty?”

“No.”

“That’s lovely of you. And do you love your Lotta?”

“Oh, yes--I love her!”

“Away down to the bottom of your throbbing heart?”

“Yes.”

“How nice! And you’ll never make any fuss about it if she keeps you
out real late this evening?”

“Oh, come, now----”

“Promise.”

“If I must----”

“You must.”

“All right. I promise.”

“That’s real sweet of you. Now you may sit up like a man.”

Then Boltwood, glaring and enraged, was permitted to sit on the
seat opposite Jack, who smiled on him sweetly.




CHAPTER XIX.

OMEGA LAMBDA CHI.


Behold a transformation scene.

At half-past six P. M. the campus was quiet and deserted, as it
usually is at that hour. Streaks of yellow sunlight streamed in
from over the low buildings of the quadrangle, making lighted
blotches on the ground beneath the canopy of the great elms, and
not even the twang of a banjo was to be heard.

The students were all at their eating-clubs and boarding-houses.

Ten minutes later the fence running from Alumni Hall to the space
in front of Battell Chapel and curving away to the south was the
meeting-place of streams of students coming from all directions.
The first to arrive perched on the fence, and the later comers
leaned against the knees of those on the fence. It did not take
much more than ten minutes for them to assemble.

Then the singing began.

      “Chi-Rho! Omega Lambda Chi!
      We meet to-night
          To celebrate
      The Omega Lambda Chi!”

The tune was supposed to be that of “Sailing, Sailing, Over the
Deep Blue Sea,” but some of the men sang it to any old tune. They
were not particular as long as they could whoop ’er up to the full
capacity of their voices.

Somehow it had been noised around among the freshmen that the sophs
had already made a move and got the start on them by spiriting away
their leader; but when they looked around to confirm the truth
of this, or detect its falsity, there was Dade Morgan, with his
particular friends about him, and big Starbright, surrounded by his
set, both ready for anything that might happen.

“It’s a bluff!” declared the freshmen. “But it’s a mighty poor one.”

And Boltwood was not missed at all, which must have given Ready a
feeling of chagrin and perplexity, had he known it.

Usually the beginning of the singing was the signal for the seniors
to fall into line and start the ball to rolling, but to-night there
seemed to be delay, while the singing continued, growing louder and
louder. There was hurrying and skurrying among the seniors. Their
leader was not on hand.

“Where is Merriwell?” was the question.

They sent to Frank’s room, but the messenger came back with the
information that he was not there. Then it was found that he had
not been at his eating-club, and no one remembered having seen him
for an hour or more.

“He’s done it!” growled Browning, who was as mystified as anybody.
“But I’d give a peanut to know what it is that he’s done.”

Bruce hesitated about taking the lead, for he was not sure the
seniors would follow him, and the singing continued.

“Where the deuce is Frank?” asked Bart Hodge, getting hold of Bruce.

“I’ll never tell,” grunted the big fellow.

“He ought to be on hand.”

“Said he might not.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t make known.”

“What shall we do?”

“Got to call the men out. Come on.”

Then Hodge and Browning cried for the seniors to “fall in,” and the
singing lulled a little. There was a moment of hesitation, for the
class that had followed Frank Merriwell never cared to accept any
other leader.

“Fall in!” thundered Browning, in his most commanding manner.

“Fall in!” cried Hodge, in a clear, distinct tone.

The hesitation was over, and a scramble from the senior fence
took place at once, the men running to get into line behind the
two leaders. They formed in rows of eight, with arms across each
other’s shoulders, and were ready in a remarkably short space of
time.

“Forward!” roared Browning.

Then, still singing, they started down the campus, dancing with a
running step, three steps to the right and three to the left, in
time with the song. Every third step ended with a skirt-dancer’s
kick into space.

The lines had fallen in so swiftly that more than two hundred men
were in motion behind Browning and Hodge, shouting the words of
the song. It was a queer sight to see that great mass of men dance
forward with three running steps to the right and end with a kick
of the right foot, followed by the same action to the left, all the
while singing as loudly as they could.

The seniors were not fairly in motion when Hock Mason, with two
others, were marshaling the juniors. When the time came, the
juniors fell in behind the seniors and followed them with the same
skipping, dancing step, singing the same song in the same shrieking
manner.

Bingham and Ready brought out the sophomores, three hundred and
fifty strong, and they promptly followed the juniors.

None there were that night so eager to get into the sport as the
gay young freshmen. They responded to the calls of Starbright and
Morgan with alacrity.

But what’s this? Can it be possible? Is that fellow with the long
hair Rolf Boltwood? Had Ready observed the man, he would have had a
fit. Boltwood, where in the world did you come from? Didn’t Ready,
Bingham, and Carker thrust you into a strong room in the basement
of an old storage-warehouse, and leave you there locked fast in a
room that had held many a prisoner securely before? Did they not
inform you that you might pound on the doors and yell as loudly as
you liked, for there would be a man outside to keep everybody away
from the place, and you would not be heard? When they were gone,
didn’t you try the door, and find it solid as granite? Didn’t you
examine the walls, and quickly decide that your prison might hold
you till you died of starvation, unless you were released by those
who placed you in it, or by their orders? And didn’t you sit down
on an old box and despairingly bury your face in your hands?

Such being the case, Boltwood, how does it happen that you are
here, whispering to Starbright, who nods and laughs, saying
something to Morgan, who seems delighted, making yourself generally
useful by aiding in mustering the men into line? Boltwood, your
escape from that old warehouse is a mystery! How did you do the
trick? Are you too busy to tell us now? Then we’ll have to wait a
while before we find out.

Both Starbright and Morgan gave out a word that was passed along
from man to man. Boltwood was to be obeyed implicitly in every
order. He was to be followed in any move he might make.

And thus, in some mysterious manner, Boltwood became a leader at
short notice.

But he did not form in line with Starbright and Morgan at the head
of the line. Instead of that, he plunged into the very middle of
the freshmen, and got into line there, where, for a long time, he
was hidden from view.

The freshmen began to move, singing as loudly as the others, but
showing they were not familiar with the dancing-step. However, they
made a brave showing, and they were happy, for every man had been
tipped off that this night they would “Lambda Chi” the sophomores,
who were entirely unprepared for what was to happen.

But what was to happen? No one seemed to know, unless, perhaps, it
might be Starbright and Morgan and this queer man Boltwood, who had
suddenly developed into a leader, not a little to the wonderment of
the men he was leading.

For Boltwood, hidden in the middle of the mass, was in command of
the rear half of the freshmen, and every man back there knew it.
Some of them objected, but others silenced them by saying that
Starbright and Morgan knew what they were about, “so shut up your
heads and keep on singing.” An order it would have been rather
difficult to obey.

Having carried the roaring line the length of the campus, Browning
piloted it back to the fence, from which it started out again.

In front of Alumni the seniors halted, the first line of dancing
juniors bumping into them before stopping.

“Ready!” roared Browning, who had found a baseball-bat somewhere,
which he now flourished in the air as if it had been a mere
feather. Having taken command, he was a leader in every sense of
the word, full of action, energy, and power, utterly unconscious of
himself. “Three times three for Alumni!”

Then came the barking cheer that echoed back from the walls of the
quadrangle, Browning timing it with the jerky motions of his bat:

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Alumni!”

“Forward!” roared Bruce, with a sweeping wave of the bat.

All the seniors were off again with the same step, singing the same
song.

Mason gave the word for the juniors, and they cheered Alumni in the
same manner as had the seniors.

The sophomores came up and followed suit, and the happy freshmen
barked like a pack of young hyenas.

Well, say, freshmen! this is sport, isn’t it? This is something
you’ll not soon forget. Here is where you have a chance to vent
your kittenish feelings to the full extent. Whoop her up,
freshmen, but look out for the finish. The sophs are laying for
you, and Jack Ready regards himself as remarkably clever in the
way of fooling freshmen. If you get ahead of him to-night, you may
congratulate yourselves.

The seniors had saluted Dwight Hall and danced on. The juniors
took their turn at cheering there, and so they continued on their
way from the Treasury to the Old Library, singing and cheering and
growing hoarser and hoarser as they progressed. In front of the
statue of President Wolsey they nearly roared their heads off. They
howled at the Chittenden Library in joyous abandon, and finally
they packed into the court of Vanderbilt, where, between the close
space of the walls, the cheering sounded like the thunder of
thousands.

Then, having cheered for Vanderbilt, they bethought themselves of
one who roomed there, but was mysteriously absent from their ranks.

“Three times three for Merriwell!” roared Browning.

Then, to the jerking of his bat, they simply roared:

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Merriwell!
Merriwell! Merriwell!”

By the time the head of the line came back to Durfee again, the
song had turned to a hoarse shriek. Then Browning and Hodge led
down the three-flag-wide stone walk that runs the length of the
campus.

And the freshmen followed on, singing joyously.

When Lyceum and South Middle was reached the seniors turned and led
the way through the narrow passage between the two buildings, which
is known at Yale as the Pass of Thermopylæ. The juniors followed
the seniors, and the sophomores came close after.

As is the custom, the sophomores broke ranks at the farther end of
the pass, and prepared to fall on the freshmen as they came through.

The head of the freshmen line came on gaily, but the sophomores
could not see what the latter half of the line was doing.

“At ’em!” yelled Ready, as he saw the freshmen halt, as if in
alarm at the sight of the massed lines waiting for them to run the
gantlet.

The freshmen seemed to waver and crowd back, which filled Ready’s
heart with fear that they would somehow turn about and escape.
Crying for the others to come on, he plunged into the pass. The
sophs were eager to have part in the fun, and they followed,
choking the exit to the pass and trying to jam in.

Then round Lyceum on the dead run charged in a compact body the
second rear half of the freshmen, led by Rolf Boltwood, whose long
hair seemed to wave wildly in the breeze. Without a sound, like the
rush of a mighty wave, they came upon the sophomores packed and
struggling at the exit of the pass, sweeping them back into it.

And thus the sophomores were caught between two fires. Neither
seniors nor juniors had been given a hint of what was going to
happen, and so they were quite unprepared for this astonishing move
on the part of the freshmen.

There were shrieks of alarm from the sophomores, but too late they
realized that they had been caught in a trap. They were driven into
the pass, hurled down, piled up, stood on end, and battered in the
most heartless manner.

But what was worse than anything else was the fact that
preparations had been made to drench the freshmen who should be
caught in this manner, and now the sophomores’ own allies threw
open windows above and hurled down bucketful after bucketful of
wet, wet water onto the heads of the poor wretches beneath.

What shrieks went up! What frantic struggles were made! What fury
filled the hearts of the tricked and outwitted sophomores!

And the seniors and juniors, themselves delighted by the cleverness
of the freshmen, helped rush the sophomores into the pass by
crowding upon them as if eager to see the fun, giving no chance to
break through and escape.

The slaughter was something terrible to behold. The freshmen were
merciless. Starbright, the blond giant, led them on, with Morgan,
equally fierce, taking active part.

But the new leader among the freshmen was the marvel of that night.
Rolf Boltwood, the poet, his long hair flying about his head, was a
perfect cyclone. No one could stand before him. He hurled men right
and left as if they were mere children. He piled them up in heaps
of four or five, laughing as he did so. He swept them aside as if
possessing the arms of a Samson.

They were astounded, for till now no man had ever fancied Boltwood
possessed such strength. Some had imagined that he was too timid to
do anything but run away on an occasion like this. His own class
had not trusted him, and now the sight of him mowing the enemy down
in such an irresistible manner set them wild with joy, and made
them a hundred times more fierce.

For once in his life, Jack Ready was bewildered. He could not tell
just what had happened.

“For the love of goodness!” he gasped. “My, my, my! Where are we
at?”

“We’re trapped, you thundering fool!” roared Bingham. “The freshies
have played it on us!”

“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” murmured Ready. Then he shouted: “Charge,
fellows! Rip a hole through ’em! Come on!”

Slosh!--down came a bucket of water on his head, making him gasp.

“This will be the death of me!” he groaned.

“It ought to be!” roared Bingham. “You did a nice thing carrying
Boltwood off, didn’t you?”

“You helped.”

“Well, what good did it do?”

“Merriwell fooled us! Boltwood never could lead in anything like
this.”

Then again Jack tried to rally the sophomores and fight his way
through. He had turned back now, fancying it might be easier to
escape into the mass of juniors and seniors than to get out the
other way. In some manner he struggled along, trying to dodge the
descending cloudbursts of water. In the midst of his struggles he
came face to face with--Boltwood!

Ready nearly fainted.

“Good lud!” he palpitated.

“Good eve,” said Boltwood.

Then he hit Ready with a stuffed club he had captured from a
sophomore.

“Wow!” howled Jack.

“Yoop!” laughed Boltwood.

“You long-haired varlet!” snarled Ready.

Biff--the club sent Jack up against the wall.

“You should be more choice in your language, sir,” said the poet
pleasantly. “How are you enjoying the fun?”

Then, having made this inquiry, he biffed Ready again. Jack tried
to catch hold of the club, but failed.

“Oh, I’m having a perfectly elegant time!” he panted. “But how the
dickens did you get here?”

“Me?” inquired Boltwood, in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“Why, you know you ought to be locked fast in that old basement.”

“What old basement?” asked the poet innocently.

“You know; but I don’t know how you escaped. Gimme that club.”

“Thanks! Take it!” Then Boltwood soaked Jack again.

But this time Ready caught hold of the club and tried to wrench
it away. Boltwood held on, and they tussled for possession of the
weapon, while all round them raged the battle most furiously.

“I’d give a quarter to know how you got out,” said Jack.

“I’ve never been in,” said Boltwood; “so save your quarter. You’ll
need it for arnica and court-plaster.”

“Leggo!”

“Nit!”

Then Jack made a spring and tried to grapple with Boltwood.

“I’ll just toss you round a little,” he said, with confidence in
his ability to do so.

“That’s right,” said the freshman, getting Ready by the neck
somehow and kicking his feet into the air. “I shall enjoy it so
much!”

Down came Ready on the back of his neck. Boltwood placed a foot on
his breast, struck a pose, and began to recite poetry.

The shock and the surprise had deprived Jack of his breath for a
moment, but he quickly recovered and grabbed Boltwood by the leg,
exclaiming:

“Come down here a moment! I want to see you!”

Boltwood came down, but he fell so that both his knees gouged into
Ready and knocked the breath out of him again.

“Take a good look at me,” said the poet, “for I am the last person
you’ll see on earth. You die right here.”

“I’m willing!” came faintly from Jack. “After this death will be a
keen delight!”

He had been forced to let go his hold on Boltwood, but he scrambled
up as the freshman rose. Then they grappled again, but somehow
Boltwood tossed Jack into the air and let him fall upon a pile of
struggling sophomores, who were squirming and twisting and trying
to get up. A burst of mocking laughter came from the lips of the
freshman, and then a descending cloud of water struck Jack in the
face and eyes, blotting out the triumphant poet from his view.

When Ready untangled himself from that squirming mass, Boltwood had
vanished.

The slaughter went on joyously until the panting freshmen were well
satisfied. Then the juniors and seniors tore open the blocking mass
of men and opened long lines, down which the sophomores staggered
and ran in their wild efforts to escape.

And the men of the two upper classes held onto their sides and
roared with laughter. In all the history of Yale there had never
been such a Lambda Chi night as this. The tables had been turned
completely on the sophomores, and the freshmen were hilariously
triumphant.

Jack Ready was sick at heart.

“Confound Merriwell!” he grumbled. “He must have let that fellow
Boltwood free in some way, and this is the result! Oh, say! where
can I find some rat-poison? I want to take a lunch!”




CHAPTER XX.

THE FIGHT FOR THE FENCE.


The freshmen were overjoyed and triumphant; the sophomores were
downcast, battered, and gloomy. But of all the battered and gloomy
sophs, Jack Ready was the “batterdest” and the gloomiest.

“It’s awful!” he groaned. “The fall of Jericho was nothing beside
this! Talk about the sun and moon standing still! Great cats!
This will turn the whole universe backward and set the planets to
capering along in the wrong direction. My, my! but I’m very, very
tired!”

He held both hands to his head and looked sick.

Having escaped from the terrible pass, the sophomores fled to the
fence, where they gathered and excitedly talked over what had
happened. They were united in their denunciation of the freshmen.
They felt that the freshmen had committed something worse than a
crime in thus breaking all precedents.

“It’s the work of Morgan!” declared one.

“No; Starbright was at the head of it,” said another.

“All wrong!” put in a third. “It was that infernal, long-haired
freak of a poet, Boltwood. He led the half of the freshies that
came round the Lyceum and caught us in the trap.”

“What did he ever do, anyhow?”

“Write doggerel.”

“Well, that doesn’t make a man a leader at anything. How did they
happen to follow him?”

That was a mystery. It had been one of the surprises of the
evening, and others were to follow.

Bingham found Ready. The big sophomore’s coat was ripped up the
back, and one sleeve had been torn out at the shoulder. His nose
was bleeding, and there was fire in his eye.

“Say!” he growled.

“What?” asked Jack.

“We’re a couple of diddling-danged fools!”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” urged Ready.

“You’re a chump!”

“That makes two of us.”

“Did we kidnap somebody?”

“I thought so.”

“Well, there is another think coming to you.”

“Then we must have dreamed it.”

Bingham wiped his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief.

“Where is Carker?” he asked.

“Here,” answered a doleful voice, and Greg appeared. His necktie
and collar had been ripped off, his shirt was torn open at the
neck, his face was scratched, his hat was gone, and he was dripping
wet.

“Carker,” said Ready, with a rueful smile, “I believe that
earthquake must have bunted into us.”

“Look here,” said Greg fiercely; “what did you let that
blinkety-blanked, long-haired doggerel-writer escape for?”

“Who did it?”

“You must. He was here. You locked him in, and you said he couldn’t
get away.”

“Well, I thought so,” confessed Jack meekly. “That dungeon cell has
held many a freshmen before this, and held them fast and safe.”

“This one got away, and he got me by the collar right here--see!
That’s about all I remember. He spun me round in the air as if I
was a two-pound Indian club. It makes me dizzy to think of it.”

“He gave me this nose,” confessed Bingham. “I grabbed him round the
body from behind, but the chump butted backward with his head and
smashed my nose out flat on my face. I dropped him. Then he turned
round and had fun ripping up my clothes.”

“I believe I ran across him, too,” sighed Jack. “Why, the fellow
must have been everywhere!”

“Or else there is four or five of them,” said Carker. “He threw me
down and stepped on me.”

“Then you know how the downtrodden poor feel. It will be a good
thing for you to work into your next lecture.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Ready!” said Carker. “Sometimes I can
stand it; but just now I think I shall have to kill you if you try
to be funny!”

“Kill him,” urged Bingham cold-bloodedly. “I’m too tired to do it,
but I shall enjoy the murder very much.”

“What’s the matter with you both that you want to spit your spite
out on me?” asked Jack. “You act as if you think me all to blame
for the trouble.”

“After I pushed him into the cab!” growled Carker.

“And after I blistered my hand spanking him into submission!”
growled Bingham.

“Then to have him handle me in such a manner!”

“I’ll never get over the disgrace!”

“Where is Merriwell?” asked Jack. “I believe he let the fellow
free.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Just to have fun with me. He’s trying to get square for that time
I fooled him by pretending madness.”

“By the looks of you, I should say he’s pretty near even.”

“But now I’ve got a score to settle with Boltwood. I was not
prepared for him, else he’d never been able to cuff me round the
way he did.”

“Hear those freshmen singing!” muttered Bingham. “Isn’t that enough
to make a man’s blood hot?”

“It is, indeed!” confessed Ready. “I’ll never get over this night
if I live to be a hundred!”

The freshmen could be seen massing in the distance.

“By the gods!” grunted Bingham; “I believe they are going to try
it!”

“Try what?” asked Carker.

“To take the fence!” said Bingham.

“That’s just what’s up!” palpitated Ready. “Boys, we must get ready
for them. They are drunken with success, and they’re going to bear
down on us.”

“Here is where we get even!” Carker almost snarled. “My
fighting-blood is up! Naturally, I am a peaceful man, but the limit
of endurance has been passed!”

“Amen!” said Ready. “I’m another! I shall strew the ground with
corpses! I shall wade knee-deep in gore! I pray that I may again
encounter that long-haired freak!”

“Get the men ready!” ordered Bingham. “Let’s give them a hot
reception when they do come!”

Then the three set about getting the sophomores ready for the
expected attack.

“We must defend the fence to the last!” was the cry. “Don’t give
way an inch!”

“We won’t!” declared the rallying sophs. “Let ’em come!”

“It’s to a finish!” said Ready, through his teeth. “If they get the
best of it this time, I’ll go jump off the earth!”

“Here they come!” was the thrilling cry.

The freshmen came with a rush. They were full of confidence and
enthusiasm, and they felt able to do almost any old thing to the
sophomores.

“Stand firm!” roared Bingham.

The compact mass of onrushing freshmen looked formidable enough,
and, to tell the truth, the sophomores were not quite prepared for
them.

“Down with the sophs!” was the war-cry of the freshmen. “Soak ’em!
soak ’em!”

And in the lead came the long-haired poet, Boltwood, running like
a deer, calling for the others to follow him.

Morgan and Starbright were also at the head of the freshmen, but
somehow since the affair in the pass Boltwood had suddenly been
recognized as a bold, strategic, and skilful leader.

“He’s the chap I’m looking for!” cried Ready, and he sprang out to
grapple with the new leader of the freshmen. Ready cast himself
forward to make a head-on tackle about the freshman’s hips,
intending to bring Boltwood to the ground with a jolt that would
settle him for a while.

Then, to the astonishment of everybody, Boltwood leaped into the
air and went clean over the head of the crouching sophomore.

Then came the clashing shock of the two classes meeting, and in the
furious struggle that followed not a few fellows were hurt more or
less. The freshmen tried to sweep the sophomores away with the
vigor of their onset, and they did hurl them back somewhat.

Then, rallied by the cries of their leaders, the sophs braced
and held their ground. Those in the front ranks of both classes
received a squeezing that drove the breath from their bodies and
seemed to flatten them out like pancakes.

“Ow-wow!” gasped a fat soph. “I’m being squoze to death!”

“Squoze!” panted the freshman against whom he was jammed, “is
no--name--for--it! I’m being squashed!”

Both sides cheered and pushed and jammed. From a distance the
juniors and seniors looked on and laughed and urged each class to
keep at it.

This was sport, indeed, for the two upper classes.

The voice of Boltwood sounded clear and loud, urging those behind
him to shove the harder.

“Somebody hit that long-haired jake with a brick!” cried an angry
soph. “He’s made the whole thing a fizzle to-night!”

“’Rah for Boltwood!” roared Dick Starbright, without the least show
of jealousy.

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!” yelled Dade Morgan.

That was the most singular part of it all. Those men, so long
rival leaders of the freshman class, seemed ready and willing to
surrender the leadership to this new man, who had never before
done anything to distinguish himself.

But there was no time to wonder over that now. There was little
time to give it a passing thought. Harder and harder pressed the
freshmen, and the sophs began to sway and waver. A moment later the
soph line broke, and then those on the outside began to jump in and
try to yank the freshmen out, to tear up in this manner the compact
mass of rushers.

But, with a twisting movement, the freshmen swept on and bore the
sophomores back from a part of the fence. This partial victory
seemed to give the attacking-party greater vim, while it literally
maddened the sophomores.

“Yank ’em! yank ’em!” cried those who were working on the edges,
and they would catch the freshmen by the arms or collars, and drag
them out from the rushing body, fling them down, sometimes hit
them. In fact, both sides were beginning to use their fists, and
the rush was degenerating into a free fight.

And the seniors and juniors roared with laughter, still urging the
mad combatants on. Not for years had there been such hot times on
Omega Lambda Chi anniversary as there was to-night. If the faculty
did not interfere, the riot might result in a large collection of
beautiful black eyes on the morrow.

Through the thickest of the fray stalked Boltwood. Man after man
tackled him, and man after man went down before him. He seemed to
have the power of a Hercules, and he soon became a perfect terror
for the sophs.

Jack Ready had been dazed when he failed to bring the fellow down
by a tackle. It was wonderful that Ready was not trampled under
foot by the oncoming freshmen, but he managed to straighten up,
finding himself caught in the rush and whirled along like a feather.

In vain he had tried to break away; he was hurled against his own
class, and seemed to help in the work of beating back his friends,
to his unspeakable disgust. But through all the wild times that
followed, Ready’s one thought was to find Boltwood and meet him
again.

“I’m done for if I don’t!” he thought. “I’ll be the guy of both
classes! Oh, mama! why was I ever born into this world of strife
and worry?”

And when the fighting became general, Ready finally found Boltwood.
They were face to face. At the same moment Bingham came up behind
the poet.

Both sprang at him. Boltwood seemed to have eyes in the back of
his head, for he kicked out cleverly and struck Bingham in the
pit of the stomach, doubling the big sophomore up instantly. Then
he somehow caught hold of Ready, twisted Jack round, grasped him
by the neck and the slack of his trousers, and lifted him with a
swinging movement clean off his feet.

Up into the air went Ready, struggling and kicking, gasping with
astonishment, bewildered and angry. Having swung Jack up thus,
Boltwood seized him firmly by the belt, and held him aloft with one
hand, high above his head.

“See that!”

Freshmen and sophomores uttered the shout, and it seemed that the
fighting lulled for a moment, in order for the astounded men to
witness this remarkable feat of strength.

Boltwood laughed!

“Why,” he cried, “I always knew the fellow was a lightweight as far
as his brains went; but now I find him a lightweight in every way.”

Down came Ready, being lowered and tossed aside. Bingham had just
recovered enough to attempt to come to the rescue of his classmate,
but he was too late. Boltwood dropped Jack, caught Bingham by the
wrist, gave him a twisting wrench and a trip, and sent him spinning
end over end.

As long as he lived Bingham never forgot how he felt just then.
It seemed that his arm had been wrenched out of the socket and
something had caused the earth to whirl like a top. He came down
flat on his back and lay there, while the uproar continued, looking
at a calm, white star that he could see through an opening in the
trees.

“I didn’t come out here,” muttered Bingham thickly, “to study
astronomy.”

Boltwood soon became the terror of the sophomores, who were afraid
to stand up before him. As a consequence, the freshmen had things
their own way in a very short time, and the sophs were driven from
the fence.

Then the freshmen piled onto the fence and sang and whooped and
had a glorious time. This was their night, and Boltwood was their
pride. They wondered how it happened they had never known the
fellow was such a perfect whirlwind.

“Why, he’s a match for Merriwell!” some of them declared.

Others, however, and there were more of them, declared that
Merriwell would handle Boltwood just as easily as Boltwood had
handled Jack Ready.

They patted Boltwood on the back and told him he was “it.” They
shook his hand, and wanted to hug him, but he told them not to
slobber. He seemed a really modest fellow, who was not at all
anxious to be praised and applauded. They decided that it must be
his natural modesty that had kept him in the background so long.
And yet, had they paused to think it over, they must have known
that the poet was not nearly as modest about some things.

But the freshmen were in no condition to think. All they could do
was cheer and sing and laugh and taunt the chagrined and mortified
sophomores.




CHAPTER XXI.

SOLVING THE MYSTERY.


“Fellows,” growled Jack Ready, “we’ve got to retake that fence if
we do it with the aid of Gatling guns! I am willing to shed my
heart’s blood, but I am not willing to listen to the insulting
howling of those freshies.”

But the sophomores were sore and discouraged. The heart and life
had been taken out of them. They had lost confidence in Ready and
Bingham. They had lost confidence in themselves. They remembered
with terror the stalking wonder of the freshmen, the new leader,
Rolf Boltwood.

“That’s all right to say,” muttered one; “but we’re no match for
them as long as they have that fellow.”

“And that fellow should be safe under lock and key now!” growled
Bingham, rubbing his lame shoulder.

Jack Ready begged them to follow him. Do it then, he urged, and
they might take the freshmen by surprise. The freshmen thought they
had driven them off for good and all. But it is not at all certain
he could have induced them to follow him had not Frank Merriwell
suddenly appeared and put in a word.

“You fellows will never hear the last of it if you let the freshmen
keep your fence,” he said. “You can’t do that, and you know it.
Try a rush, locked together, and see if you can’t sweep them back.
Go at them in earnest while they are singing and whooping over
their triumph.”

“If we had you for a leader,” said some one. “If you would meet
that holy terror Boltwood.”

“Oh, he’s a mark!” said Frank. “Anybody can handle that chap.”

“My, my!” murmured Ready. “How wise you are! Bet a cabbage you
can’t handle him so easy!”

Frank laughed.

“I’m ashamed of you, Ready,” he said. “He’s no athlete.”

“Maybe not,” growled Bingham; “but he’s the devil let loose!”

But Frank led the sophomores into forming quietly and quickly for
a rush. When they were ready, Frank saw that they started and got
under way without any yelling to give the freshmen warning that
they were coming.

Thus it happened that the first the freshmen knew the sophomores
were sweeping down on them in a compact mass, ready to make another
fierce struggle. Starbright and Morgan cried for the freshmen to
fall in and get ready to meet the rush, but there was not enough
time to prepare properly before the rushers were on them.

Somehow, Boltwood had disappeared. This had been noticed a short
time before, and now they called to him in vain. He was not there
to give them courage to withstand that furious rush of the sophs.

The sophomores plowed into the freshmen in an irresistible surge,
and they could not be checked. As they found the freshmen melting
before them, their spirits rose and they grew fiercer and more
determined. The result was that the freshmen were swept away like
chaff, and the sophomores retook the fence with so little trouble
that they were almost bewildered.

“Where is Boltwood?” was the question asked on all sides as the
freshmen were put to rout.

“He’s sneaked!” declared somebody resentfully. “He’s a coward,
anyhow. It was only when excited that he had any courage. The
moment the excitement was over, his courage left him and he got out
of the way.”

But neither Starbright nor Morgan made any such remark. Both of
them knew what had become of Boltwood, and they held their peace.

Some of the freshmen were for making another attempt to recapture
the fence, but the most of them had had enough and were well
satisfied. They had defeated the sophs in the pass and captured
and held the fence for a while, which was glory indeed, and that
seemed sufficient. So they began to disperse at once, and to the
sophomores was left the satisfaction of holding what was their own.

As soon as it was seen that the rioting was over for the night, the
students betook themselves to other parts. The sophomores lingered
the longest at their fence, growling over what had happened. Jack
Ready found himself regarded with considerable disfavor, many
seeming to think he should have foreseen the trick at the pass and
been prepared for it.

“Alas!” he sighed. “I did foresee it to the extent of capturing
that devil Boltwood, but somehow he broke forth, or fifth, from his
dungeon cell, and was right in the midst of the prayer-meeting.”

“But where did he go to?” growled Bingham. “He disappeared mighty
suddenly.”

“That was strange,” put in Carker.

“Strange!” exploded Ready. “Will you tell me something that
happened to-night that was not strange? This poet works in wondrous
ways his marvels to perform. I’ll never get over it. Think of being
held up for ridicule by a wall-eyed he-goat like that! Yow!”

“And he slammed me round as if I never cost a cent in my life,”
said Bingham.

“He had the strength of--of----” began Carker.

“An earthquake,” finished Ready.

“Let’s shake the earthquake for a while,” begged Greg.

“We look as if it had shaken us,” muttered Bingham.

“There’s a mystery about that man Boltwood,” declared the sophomore
socialist.

“I believe you!” grunted the big man.

“Where did he get those muscles?” demanded Greg.

“That’s what I’d like to have you explain,” said Ready.

“I’m another,” nodded Bing, rubbing his lame shoulder.

“No man ever gets strength like that unless he trains for it,”
persisted Carker.

“You’re right,” agreed Bingham.

“Well, when has this doggerel writer trained, may I ask?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Then how comes it that he is so thundering strong?”

“There is the mystery.”

“And it’s deep and dark,” said Ready. “If he’d been any stronger
he might have wiped us all off the face of the earth. I’ve been up
against Merriwell before now, and it seems to me that this man was
fully the match for Merriwell. Somehow, he had the same careless
way of slamming a fellow round.”

“If we’d just had Merriwell in disguise to run against him,” said
Carker. “Oh, but the fur would have filled the air!”

“Merriwell in disguise!” exclaimed Ready, suddenly starting and
giving his own head a punch. “Why didn’t I think of that before!
Oh, lud!”

“It would have been a great trick,” said Carker; “but it’s too late
to think about it now.”

“Merriwell in disguise!” repeated Ready, as if in a trance.

“Come out of it!” growled Bingham.

“Oh, lud! Oh, lud!” murmured Jack, again smiting himself back of
the ear with his clenched fist. “What chumps we have been! If we’d
just ripped off his wig, he would have stood exposed! And I lost
the chance to do the trick! I must find a good soft place to lie
down and expire!”

“What the dickens are you talking about?” snapped Carker.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Bingham.

“Fellows,” said Ready, “we have played right into the hands of
Merriwell. We gave him the chance to be the principal figure in the
affair to-night.”

“Are you daffy?” asked Carker. “What do you mean?”

“He lured us into catching Boltwood and confining the fellow so
that he could get into this game,” said Jack.

Still both Carker and Bingham were in the dark.

“Why, hang it all!” exploded Jack; “can’t you see through a ladder?
Boltwood wasn’t here at all!”

“What?” gasped Carker.

“What?” roared Bingham.

“Then who in blazes----” began Greg.

“Merriwell,” said Jack quietly.

“Merriwell--Boltwood?” gurgled Bingham. “You can’t mean----”

“That Merriwell got us to kidnap Boltwood so that he might disguise
himself as that freak and take part in the fun. He did it, while
Boltwood languished in the dark hole where we have stowed him. You
both know Merriwell’s ability to make up. He is a great actor. He
fooled everybody into thinking he was Knight at the regatta. This
Boltwood is about Merriwell’s height, and----”

“Merciful heavens!” gasped Carker. “I believe you are right!”

“I believe so, too!” admitted Bingham reluctantly. “Now that I
think of it, it seems to me that Boltwood to-night was too well
built for the poet. And it also seems that I observed in his
movements some of Merriwell’s ways.”

“He did it to get even with me,” said Ready.

“And you must confess that he has about made the score even,” said
Carker.

Ready actually seemed relieved.

“Well, I’m glad I wasn’t tossed round like that by that freak of a
freshman poet!” he exclaimed.

“Tell you what,” said Bingham, “let’s go see if Boltwood is still
in the basement of the old storage-house. If that was Merriwell, he
must be there.”

“I’m with you!” cried Jack. “Come on, Carker!”

Away they went. They found a cab and piled into it in a hurry,
having given the driver directions.

“He’ll be there,” said Bingham confidently. “I haven’t a doubt of
it now.”

“Nor I,” said Carker.

“I hope he is,” said Ready. “I feel like slamming him round a few,
just to relieve my feelings.”

They stopped at last near the old warehouse. Leaving the cab to
wait, they jumped out and approached the dark and gloomy building.
A watchman stopped them.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“It’s all right, Bill,” assured Jack. “Here’s your pay for
watching. We’ve come for the captive. Is he safe?”

“Sure thing,” said the man, taking the money from Jack. “You’ll
find him right there.”

“Had to drive anybody away from the building?”

“Not a soul.”

“That settles it!” growled Bingham. “Now we know who did the trick!
Ready, Merriwell is more than even with you!”

“Don’t say a word!” muttered Jack. “I believe I shall have to slam
Boltwood round a little, just to ease the strain on my nervous
system.”

They entered the old building and descended into the basement. It
was dark down there, but they found a candle and lighted it. Then
they proceeded to a heavy door, on which there was a padlock, and
against which was a heavy bar.

Jack took out a key and unlocked the padlock, while Bingham removed
the bar, Carker holding the candle.

Then the door was yanked open, and the light of the candle shone
into the room beyond. It showed them, sitting on a box and calmly
waiting, the well-known figure of the long-haired freshman poet!

“Yah!” snarled Jack Ready, jumping in and pouncing on Boltwood. “So
you are here, are you?”

“Well, where in thunder did you think I’d be?” growled the freshman
sulkily. “I hope you are satisfied with your scurvy trick!”

“Scurvy trick, hey?” cried Jack, growing warm. “Be careful! Your
language is offensive, sir!”

“Well, you haven’t done anything to me that was offensive, have
you? You think you can do just as you hanged please without anybody
saying a word. But I’ll fix you! I’ll write a poem about you!”

“I don’t believe you will,” said Jack.

“Yes, I will. I’ve made up my mind to that, and I’ve been composing
some of the stanzas while you’ve kept me locked up here.”

“Oh, you have? Well, you want to get them right out of your head.”

They led the freshman forth and made their way from the old
building. As they departed, the man they had paid for watching
stood at a distance and chuckled.

“Well, this has been a great night’s work,” he muttered. “Both
chaps paid me a fiver. Ten dollars for doing nothing! I’d like to
make a strike like that every night.”

The sophomores led Boltwood to the cab, into which they thrust him.
Then they piled in, the door slammed, and the cab rolled away.

“Now,” said Ready, when they were all in the cab, “I want you to
repeat some of the poetry you have composed about me.”

“You won’t like it,” said Boltwood, with a chuckle.

“I don’t expect I will. But begin.”

“All right. It begins like this:

      “There was a little Jack,
        And it came to pass
      That this poor little Jack
        Became a jackass.”

Bingham snorted, and Carker made some sort of a gurgling sound.

“I don’t think I’ll repeat any more of it,” said Boltwood, in a
tone of voice that seemed to tremble with apprehension.

“Perhaps you hadn’t better!” said Ready coldly. “That is quite
enough.”

“I should say so!” muttered Carker.

“It’s not poetry,” asserted Ready.

“I admit,” said Boltwood, “that it contains more truth than poetry.”

Then Bingham snorted again.

“You’re altogether too gay, my fresh young friend!” cried Jack,
getting hold of Boltwood and giving him a shake.

“Oh, I think you are mistaken!” exclaimed Boltwood, getting hold of
Jack and giving him a fiercer shake.

“What the deuce are you doing?” cried Ready.

“What the deuce are you doing?” asked Boltwood.

Then Jack got mad and smacked the freshman with his open hand. But
quick as a flash Boltwood came back with his open hand, nearly
knocking Jack’s head off.

“Give it to him, fellows!” cried Ready angrily. “Let’s teach the
chump a lesson!”

“Do!” urged Boltwood, as he suddenly biffed Bingham. “I shall enjoy
it so much!”

That made the big fellow mad.

“You are a chump!” he growled.

But somehow Boltwood managed to yank Carker round so that Greg
received the blow Bingham intended for Boltwood.

The freshman laughed.

“Isn’t this fun!” he said. “It’s far better than being shut up in
that dark hole.”

“Oh, wow!” howled Carker. “That nearly knocked my head off!”

“It wouldn’t have been any great loss,” said Boltwood.

By this time the three sophomores were angry in earnest, and they
proceeded to pitch into the freshman.

“We’ll have to spank him again, Bing,” said Ready.

But when they tried to yank the freshman down and get him into
position for spanking, they found it could not be done very easily,
and he managed to rap their heads together till they saw stars and
heard bells ringing.

“Aren’t you having lots of fun with me?” inquired Boltwood.

“Oh, lud!” groaned Ready. “My head, my head!”

“Never mind,” said the freshman. “It’s hard to crack solid wood.”

“Now, that’s too much!” exploded Jack.

“Is it?” asked Boltwood. “Then it may not be solid; perhaps it’s
hollow.”

“Jump on him!” urged Carker, whose “dander” was up. “Let’s kill
him!”

“That’s right!” urged the fellow; “go ahead and kill me. I’ll see
how you do it.”

Ready thought he had the range of Boltwood, and he struck out. His
knuckles, however, encountered something hard, knocking the skin
off them.

“Too bad!” said the voice of the freshman. “Try it again, please.”

“Slam him down in the bottom of the cab!” roared Bingham.

“Won’t that be nice!” laughed the freshman. “You can use me for a
foot-mat. He, he!”

But he got hold of Bingham by the back of the neck, and gave the
big fellow a twisting flop that threw him to the bottom of the cab.

“Steady,” said the poet, as he held the big soph down with his
knees. “Lie still and take things easy.”

Both Carker and Ready tried to grapple with the fellow, but they
got hold of each other by mistake, and he proceeded to slam them
down on top of Bingham, filling the space between the two seats
with their bodies. Then he sat on them and held them down.

The cab rumbled on, and the freshman began to sing, “Throw Him
Down, McClusky.”

Bingham howled, Carker squawked, and Ready squealed.

In this manner the cab rattled up to the corner of College and
Chapel Streets, where it stopped. The freshman wrenched open the
door, jumped out, bade the discomfited and disgusted sophomores
good night, and ran into Osborn Hall.

       *       *       *       *       *

The events of that night completely mystified Ready, Bingham,
and Carker. They were certain that one of the “Boltwoods” was
Merriwell, but which one was the question that troubled them. After
a while Jack Ready figured it out.

“They were both Merriwells!” he declared.

“How could that be?” asked Bingham.

“Merriwell somehow found out where we had taken Boltwood. He left
the fellow there, while he made up and led the freshmen. When the
fight for the fence was over, he hastened to set Boltwood free
and take his place, again in disguise. So it was Merriwell we
encountered both times.”

It seemed marvelous, but it was the real explanation, Jack felt
confident. However, when they accused Frank, Merry lifted his
eyebrows, seemed greatly astonished, and told them they must be
going daffy. Nor could they get him to admit that he had taken any
part in the rush or had been in the cab with them.

“But to my dying day I shall believe it was Merriwell!” said Jack.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE MAN WHO LOST THE GAME.


The baseball season had fairly opened up.

Yale men were full of enthusiasm for their nine, which easily
wrested victory from the Princeton Tigers in the first game of the
series. But the confidence of the rooters met with a severe shock,
and it was a pretty sore lot of lads that came back from Princeton
after the second game with the Tigers. The first game had been won
so easily that Yale counted on taking two straight without much
trouble, and a great crowd of fans had accompanied the nine to
“whoop ’er up” and rejoice and have a high old time.

During the game the rooters from New Haven had done their best to
make as much noise as the great throng of Princeton admirers, and
some of the Yale crowd quite lost their voices; but, alas! all this
whooping and cheering could not save the game when the final pinch
came, and Princeton lowered the blue to the dust.

During the first four innings Yale led, and it looked like a
repetition of the first game, when Yale had never been headed from
the start throughout the game. But in the fifth inning came a
change.

The score was five to two. The “hot end” of Princeton’s batting
order came up, and the first man sent a skipper past Morgan, who
was playing short. It was not an error, for Dade did not touch the
ball. Some thought he might have touched it if he had tried hard.

The next batter dropped one just over the infield and out of reach
of the outfield. Then an error by Carson at third filled the bags.

Then came the first great catastrophe. Starbright was pitching. The
next batter connected with one of his curves, driving a long fly
into center field. Mason made a run for it, and it struck fairly in
his hands.

But he did not hold it! It dropped down somewhere, and, while he
was wildly searching for it about his feet, four men romped in over
the home plate, putting Princeton one in the lead.

This was simply awful. Merriwell saw what was liable to happen, and
he started in warming up at once. Frank had made no mistake in his
anticipations. Starbright went up in a balloon. The next two men
hit him safely, and then he gave a base on balls. The bases were
filled when Merriwell went into the box.

The cheering of the Tigers was meant to encourage the home team
and rattle the visitors still more. Somebody asked what was the
difference between Buffalo Bill and Yale. Somebody else answered
that Buffalo Bill had a show and Yale hadn’t. And the crowd
laughed at this chestnut.

But the next batter found it impossible to connect with Merry’s
shoots. He made two fouls, and two strikes were called on him as
a penalty. Then he fanned and missed. The ball plunked into Bart
Hodge’s mitt, and the striker ambled sadly back to the bench. That
made the second man retired.

The next batter put a long fly into left field, but Gamp pulled it
down and retired the side. Princeton, however, had the lead.

In the next inning Yale tied the score; but in the seventh
Princeton again took the lead, making two. The crowd roared with
joy, for it seemed that Merriwell was going to pieces. Frank,
however, steadied down after his own fashion and struck out two
men, which retired the Tigers.

But Princeton held the lead, and there was great rejoicing. The
Yale rooters kept up their ’rah-’rah-ing. Neither side scored in
the eighth, and the ninth came on with the orange and black waving
triumphantly.

Merriwell was the first batter up, and he led off with a
three-bagger. That seemed to wake the Yale men up, and some lively
hitting followed, so that the blue tied the score, setting the
rooters crazy with joy.

Princeton was savage, and the first man got a pretty single off
Merry. A dropped fly in the outfield let the runner round to third
and put the second batter on second.

Hodge was nervous and Frank became afraid of him, for he did not
seem to hold the ball after his usual fashion. Merry tried the
double-shoot and Bart came near having a passed ball, which must
have let in a score.

Then, forced to be careful, Merriwell became too careful, which
let Princeton fill the bags by getting the batter down to first on
balls.

Not a man was out. Yale was in a hole, and the cheering of the
Tigers rolled across the field, while the orange and black
fluttered and flaunted joyously.

This was the kind of a game to thrill the nerves of the spectators
and set their hearts pounding. The great concourse of people leaned
forward on the benches and watched breathlessly for what was to
follow.

There came a hush.

Whizz--crack! The ball had been hit.

“Strike--one!” cried the umpire, as the ball went foul.

“All right, Leverage,” said the captain of the Tigers
encouragingly. “You’ve got his alley. You’ll line it out next time.”

Leverage was a hitter. Frank feared the fellow might smash out a
long one, and so he resorted to the double-shoot without delay. Two
balls were called; then another strike. But Bart was having great
difficulty with the double-shoot.

Merry gave Leverage a rise, but could not pull him with it.

“Three balls,” decided the umpire.

The next ball delivered would decide the matter.

Frank used a drop. Leverage got under it, and hit it a savage
crack, lifting it into the air.

“Hold your bags!” roared a coacher, as he saw Hock Mason getting
under the ball. “Run the moment he catches it!”

The coacher on third was giving the runner there some advice,
getting the man braced, ready to start for home. Leverage had
skipped down to first. The men on first and second were ready for
whatever might happen.

Mason got under the ball and waited for it. It seemed certain
that he must catch it, but could he stop the runner on third from
scoring?

There was a hush. The ball struck fairly in the hands of the
Southerner, and----

Bounced out! He had muffed it!

“Run!” shrieked the coachers, while the great crowd of Princeton
men rose up and roared.

The runner who had been on third came scudding home. The man who
had been on second raced like a wild-eyed runaway colt to third,
where the coacher made furious gestures for him to keep on hard
for home. The man on first got to second safely, and Leverage, the
batter, was comfortably on first.

Mason found the ball, his heart full of rage and dismay, picked it
up and threw wildly into the diamond.

Fortunately, Frank got in front of it, and was able to hold the
runners on their bases, not letting them move farther; but he
could not stop the second man, who had been sent tearing home, and
Princeton was two scores in the lead.

How the Tigers roared! How their colors fluttered and waved! No
wonder they were delighted. Yale had her very best team on the
field.

The Yale fans looked weary.

“That’s ten runs for Princeton,” said Chan Webb, who, with Cowles,
Mullen, and Nash, had come down to see Lib Benson play in right
field. Benson was one of their particular set. He had once been an
enemy of Merriwell, but he soon found that he was making himself
very unpopular, and he changed his tune. However, his friends had
prophesied that he could not make the ball-team as long as Merry
was captain. In this he had shown them they were mistaken, for
Frank had put him into right field, though his ambition was to
cover a bag.

“That’s right,” nodded Gil Cowles gloomily. “And it looks as if
they might make more. Nobody’s out.”

“Ye gods!” sobbed Irving Nash. “It’s an awful thing to lose this
game, and that man Mason is to blame for it all.”

“Right!” exclaimed Cowles. “Princeton has made ten scores, and
Mason is responsible for exactly six of them. His first muff let in
four, and this one let in two more. He’s a bird!”

“He’s not to blame at all,” asserted Mullen, to the astonishment of
his companions.

“Why isn’t he?” they fiercely demanded, turning on him. “Who is to
blame?”

“Merriwell,” said Mullen grimly.

“How do you make that out?”

“Merriwell put Mason on the team, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He has been told that the man was not fast enough, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t drop him, would he?”

“No.”

“Well, that fixes the responsibility. Merriwell has shown mighty
poor judgment, and that’s all there is to it. I have nothing
against Merriwell, but I have against the association that lets
him run the team just as he likes, in defiance of anybody else.
Merriwell is a wonder as a pitcher, and he’s all right as captain
of the team; but he should not have supreme authority, and I’ve
said so right along. Why, some of his best friends are against
Mason.”

“Who?”

“They say Hodge has kicked like a steer. Notice Hodge has not been
in his usual form to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I understand he tried to get Merriwell to drop Mason off
last night, but Merry wouldn’t hear of it. That’s what ails Hodge
to-day.”

“Well, it looks bad for us now.”

Then they fell to watching the playing, for Frank was in the box,
ready to resume, and Princeton was booming her cry over the field.

Frank settled down to business now. He had talked with Bart. Hodge
was mad. His face was flushed and his teeth set. The shoots came
over the plate in bewildering variety, but Bart froze to them all
and held them.

One, two, three strikes were called on the next batter, and down he
went.

The next man lifted a little fly, which Merry took himself.

“Merriwell is pitching now!” said the Yale spectators. “Just watch
him!”

The ball did not look larger than a marble when it left Frank’s
hand and went whistling over the corners of the plate. Princeton
was still cheering, but something told every witness that the
orange and black would score no more that day.

One strike!

Two strikes!

Three strikes!

“Batter is out,” announced the umpire.

Then Yale cheered, and the men came trotting in from the field.

Mason was a sorry-looking fellow. He hung his head, for it seemed
that every eye in that great crowd was turned on him.

Of course, Frank did his best to cheer his men, but Yale was doomed
to defeat that day.

And thus it happened that a very gloomy and very sore set of
fellows returned to New Haven after the game.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A PROUD-SPIRITED YOUTH.


In all Yale no man felt as bad as Hock Mason. He was proud, and he
knew he was almost universally blamed for the loss of the game.
Thinking the matter over, he could see that he was responsible. If
he had caught both flies but one man could have scored off each of
them, at most, and that would have left the score eight to six in
Yale’s favor.

“I was a fool to try to play baseball!” he bitterly thought. “I’d
never have tried it if it hadn’t been for Merriwell. He wanted me
to do it.”

Then it occurred to him that such a thought was selfish in the
extreme, and he was ashamed of himself.

“You’re a mighty mean chap, Mason,” he grimly declared, to himself,
“to think such a thing about a man who has done as much for you as
Merriwell! Don’t try to lay the blame on him!”

No shouting crowd met the returning players at the station and
escorted them in triumph up Meadow, Church, and Chapel Streets.
No band turned out to thrill them with its music. No shouting,
cheering students surrounded them and strove for the glory of
a hand-shake. On the campus no bonfire blazed and flared and
reddened the foliage of the elms, its light being reflected back
from the windows of the quad.

“There seems to have been a funeral somewhere,” said Jack Ready.
“How sad it is! La! la! Makes me feel like weeping large, fat,
briny tears. Oh, me! oh, my! How different this time is from some
other times!”

“Keep your face closed!” grunted Browning. “Every time you open it,
there’s such a rush of wind that I have to hold my cap on.”

“Some things are awfully sad to contemplate,” persisted Ready, who
could not be easily suppressed. “It is said that in ’steen billion
years the sun will burn out, and we’ll all freeze to death for want
of heat. Isn’t that awful? And what would you say if I were to tell
you that all our rivers would soon dry up?”

“I’d sus--say,” stuttered Gamp solemnly, “gug--go thou and dud--do
likewise.”

Whereupon Browning shook with suppressed laughter, for all of the
feeling of disgust that had possessed him ever since the ending of
the game in Princeton.

Mason went straight to his room, where he spent a most bitter
night, scarcely closing his eyes in sleep. All night long he
dreamed that he was pursuing flies that got away from him, or
that ten thousand eyes were turned on him in withering scorn and
contempt, seeming to glare at him as one great eye of fire.

His Southern pride had been touched to the quick. He felt that
he could not endure the sidelong contemptuous glances of those
who must look on him with scorn for what had happened. If it had
not seemed cowardly, he would have contemplated getting away from
college somehow for a while.

“But I can’t play ball any more!” he told himself. “I can’t! I
can’t do it! Gamp would have caught that fly--both of them! He
always catches anything he can get his hands on. He’s a Yankee, and
everything sticks to a Yankee’s fingers! They can hold onto money
harder than any class of people I ever saw.”

Mason was homesick. He did not confess it to himself, but he longed
for a sight of his South Carolina home, with the red road winding
past and running away into the pine woods. He longed for a sight
of the negro cabins, with the old mammies smoking by the doors
and the pickaninnies romping and playing and rolling their white
eyes up to the passing stranger. He longed for the peaceful quiet
that pervaded the air and the genial warmth of the bright Southern
sunshine. He felt that the North was cold and heartless, and he
wished himself away.

And so he tossed and turned till the gray light of morning sifted
in at his window and reached his bed. In the morning light he slept
dreamlessly for the first time, and there was a smile on his face,
for at last he was at home and his misery was forgotten. Through
his dreaming he seemed to hear the joyous singing of colored
laborers in the fields, and the sound was sweet as the chime of
heavenly bells.

It was six minutes of eight when Mason awoke. He came out of bed
with one great leap. It was his habit to take a sponge bath in
the morning, but there was no time for anything of the sort this
morning. He flung on his underclothing, tore open his wardrobe
door, yanked out a mackintosh and a pair of rubber boots, jumped
into the boots, pulled on the mackintosh, seized an old hat, and
tore out of his room.

In this rig, Mason appeared at chapel in due time, and he was
not the only student present who was dressed in a wild and weird
fashion.

To Hock it seemed as if the eyes of all present were on him. He did
not dare look up, but felt his face burning. His sensitive nature
suffered extreme torture until he could escape, when the service
was over, and hurry to his room.

Merriwell had observed Mason, and Frank fancied he understood how
the proud fellow felt.

It was somewhat remarkable that Hock Mason, a man who had once been
a bully, should have such a sensitive nature; but of late Frank had
been studying the chap, and he found the Southerner a very queer
character.

When he came to Yale, Mason had regarded himself as far superior
to the majority of the students there, just as he fancied a man
born in South Carolina must naturally be superior, everything
considered, to a man born anywhere else. It had irritated him
when he found that in the democratic atmosphere of Old Eli there
was none to bow down and acknowledge him a superior. Then he
had started out knocking into the heads of his associates the
conviction that he was “the real thing,” but this policy had not
worked very well. He became more and more disliked until he ran
against Merriwell, who gave him a sound thrashing and took some of
the growing conceit out of him.

But it was Merriwell’s interest in Mason while the latter lay ill
in a hospital that completely won Hock. Not another soul came to
inquire how Mason was getting along. Those who pretended to be his
friends remained away, but daily Frank Merriwell called, and Frank
it was who came first to the side of Hock’s cot when a visitor was
permitted to see him.

When Mason left the hospital he was completely cured of his
bullying inclinations. More than that, he had become a stanch
friend of Merriwell.

Mason never anticipated that he would be accepted as a member of
Merriwell’s “flock.” That was too much for him to dare to hope.
All the same, he was stanch and true. He did not obtrude himself
on Merry or Merry’s friends, and he conducted himself modestly and
quietly.

By some it was thought that the spirit of the Southerner had been
broken, which, however, was not the case. He had simply learned his
lesson, and learned it well. When the time came he showed that he
had quite as much spirit as of old. And he could fight better when
forced to do so, for he knew he was fighting in a just cause.

But for all that Mason had once seemed to be a bully, there was not
much of the bulldog about him. He was not a quitter, but he felt
always that it was best to get out of a thing before he was kicked
out.

Not till he was pulled into Merriwell’s set did he become one of
the circle. Even then he was rather quiet, although his quietness
was that of pride, instead of modesty. Sometimes this sort of
retiring pride is mistaken for modesty.

After chapel Hock had plenty of time to think. He kept away from
his eating-club, finding breakfast at a lunch-cart. He knew it
would do him little good to study that day, but he tried to apply
himself. As he was leaving his room some time after breakfast, he
paused at the head of the flight of stairs. At the foot of the
flight, three men were talking.

“It was just a case of bad judgment on Merriwell’s part,” said one.
“Mason can’t play ball.”

“Everybody is kicking about it,” declared another. “Mason must be
dropped from the team.”

“He’d never made the nine in the first place, if he had not been
one of Merriwell’s friends,” declared the third.

Then they moved away together, still talking baseball.

Hock Mason stood quite still, his face rather pale.

“So that is what they’re saying!” he muttered. “They are blaming
Merriwell for taking me onto the nine. Well, I’ll get off it at
once.”

And he started to find Frank.




CHAPTER XXIV.

FRANK SETTLES A POINT.


“Hello, Hodge!” cheerfully called Frank, as Hodge came into his
room.

“Hello!” said Bart shortly.

“Sit down. I’ll be ready to chat a bit as soon as I finish this
sentence.”

“Always writing,” muttered Bart, looking curiously at Frank’s work.
“Don’t you ever give yourself a minute’s rest?”

“Oh, yes!” Merry laughed. “You know the fellows come round and make
me hold up sometimes. But I’m rushing this work through, and I plug
away at it when I find time.”

“What is it--a book?”

“You’ve guessed it.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Bart, surprised.

Frank nodded. Then, while Bart watched in wondering silence, he
finished the sentence.

“There,” he exclaimed, throwing down the pen. “That chapter is
nearly completed. One more and I’ll have the book done.”

“You’re not going to turn author, are you?” asked Bart.

“To some extent--perhaps,” nodded Frank. “I am thinking of giving
some of my time to the work, which I find very pleasant, even
though I have been forced to do it here in snatches and under great
difficulty. When the idea came to me, I thought of putting it
off till after leaving college, but it preyed upon me till I was
forced to sit down and begin the work. Once begun, it has forced
me to push it through to completion. I have written many a night
when other fellows were sleeping, and I was supposed to be in bed
myself.”

“What is it, anyway--a novel?”

“No.”

“Then what----”

“You’ll see when it is published. I think it will contain a lot of
good advice.”

Bart nodded.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “If I had not had you for an example,
Merriwell, there’s no telling what I’d be now. I’m certain I must
have developed into a cigarette fiend.”

“And cigarette fiends never can be strong until they give up
the things forever,” asserted Frank. “Every day a fellow smokes
cigarettes on this end of life he wipes off a day on the other end.
He is cutting his life shorter day by day, though he may not know
it. It’s true, Hodge, and it makes me feel bad for some of the
foolish chaps who think they are sporty and up to date because
they smoke the little paper-covered life-destroyers.”

“That’s all right,” agreed Bart; “but there are some fellows who do
not smoke cigarettes, and who cannot play ball.”

Merry looked at his companion sharply, quickly divining what Bart
was driving at.

“You’re feeling bad over the loss of that game,” he said. “Well,
don’t you think I felt rather sore? If I’d pitched the whole of it
there might have been----”

“The pitching did not lose that game, Frank, and you know it.”

“Perhaps not; but----”

“You know, I know, and everybody knows, just where the
responsibility falls. Mason lost that game. He let in six runs by
dropping those two flies.”

“Two men must have scored, anyhow, even if he had caught them. It
would have been great work if he had stopped either runner at the
plate.”

“But what if they had? We’d carried off the game, with a score of
eight to six. It was the other four scores that beat us. Three of
them came in off Starbright’s pitching. Now, you know I have never
taken much stock in Mason. Some fools have said it’s because Mason
is like me; but that’s not it at all. He hasn’t sand, Merriwell,
and it takes sand to play ball.”

“I think you are wrong, Hodge. I believe Mason has plenty of sand.”

But Hodge shook his head grimly.

“I don’t believe it. Even if he has, he can’t fill that field, and
you must know it by this time. There are plenty of better men than
he who are eager to get onto the nine.”

“Name a few of them.”

“Hershal, for one.”

“And would you advise me to drop Mason and take on Hershal?” asked
Frank quietly.

“It would be worth trying.”

“Do you believe in experimenting at this stage of the season?”

“Not exactly in experimenting,” said Bart, uneasily. “But you have
tried Mason and found him a fizzle.”

“Hodge, you know the condition in which I found things when I
came back to college this spring. The prospects for a first-class
ball-team did not look very bright. The coaches were worried and
disgusted. The newspapers were saying Yale could not put a winning
team onto the field. Everybody lacked confidence. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I had to do something. I went to my friends who had some
ability to play and asked them to come out and take hold. I asked
them to get out everybody who had any chance of making a player.
You know how the cage was filled with new men. Some of them were
no good and did not stay long, but the coaches were encouraged,
and things began to look up. Confidence was restored, and people
began to say Yale had a chance. The tone of the newspaper reports
changed. Things began to go better. On the Easter trip I took along
every man who was promising. From those men I made the nine as it
now stands, and I am still confident that the team is all right.
I have every reason to be confident. Yale, for all of prophecies
to the contrary, has had a strong team on the field and has won a
great majority of her games. I know the hard games are to come, but
the team is pulling together better every day. As long as the men
have confidence in each other and all work hard to win everything
will go right. The moment they begin to pull apart things will
begin to go wrong. Jealousy, petty hatred, small spite, and such
feelings ruin many ball-teams.”

Bart flushed.

“I hope you’re not firing shots at me!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure
I’m not envious of Mason; but I will confess that I have lost my
confidence in the fellow. You know as well as I do that he is a
conceited, self-satisfied prig. He thinks himself much better than
common folks.”

“And do you reckon yourself as common?” asked Frank.

“Not common--but--er--well, you know what I mean. He always was
that way. He can’t get over the idea that the son of a South
Carolina landowner, a chap whose father has never done work, is
better than the son of a Northern farmer, who has bent his back
to the plow. That kind of a feeling makes him hold his nose high,
and it makes me sick! I’ve never had to work; my father had money,
and he never performed manual labor; but I know fellows here who
are working their way through college who are just as good as I
am--some of them may be a blamed sight better. Mason, if his father
were to fail to-morrow, would have to quit his college course.
He couldn’t get through just because he couldn’t bring himself
to honest work. Think he’d go up in the White Mountains and be a
waiter at a summer hotel? Not much! He tries to hide it, but I know
he feels contempt for fellows who are compelled to do such work.
And the real truth is that such fellows are a hanged sight better
men than Mason or any of his ilk! There--now you know what I think
of Hock Mason.”

Frank smiled.

“Bart,” he said, “I knew you were prejudiced against Mason,
although you have never spoken thus plainly before. It is because
you do not understand the fellow. His rearing has been different
from that of Northern men. He cannot at once accept a new point of
view. He has been raised where day labor was looked on as suited
to the black man and to poor white trash. The colored men and the
low whites have degraded labor in that way. In the North colored
laborers and illiterate whites do not carry the great burden of
work. Some of our millionaires have been poor boys who have had to
work hard at any old thing, and thus we look at work from another
view-point. But we must not be too hard on Mason and fellows like
him from the South. Above all things, Hodge, you must not let
personal likes and dislikes influence you in baseball. No matter
how much you dislike a man, if he can play ball, you must go in
with him and work for the good of the nine.”

Bart was fidgeting.

“That’s all right,” he said; “but Mason can’t play. He proved it
yesterday.”

“Have you ever seen him put up such a game before?”

“No; but he’s green.”

“And he has come forward faster than any green man I have ever
tried. He has worked like a dog to make himself valuable. Not
another man on the nine has worked so hard. He could catch a ball
when he began, and that was about all he could do. He could not
throw, but in one week’s time he became a good thrower. In three
weeks he was good enough for the field. He could not bat, but he
practised faithfully, and every day he made progress. He is now
one of the safest hitters on the team.”

“But you can’t depend on him in an emergency, and you know it,
Frank.”

“There were plenty of men who used to say the same thing about you.
They don’t say so now.”

Bart shrugged his shoulders.

“They are saying everything you can imagine about Mason.”

Frank looked grim.

“Because Mason had a bad day and put up a poor game. Every player
has such days, no matter how good he may be.”

“And you mean to keep him for all of what everybody says?”

“I mean to give him another trial.”

Just then there was a knock, and Mason stood outside the door. He
came in at Merry’s invitation, looking blue as a whetstone. Without
glancing at Hodge, he began:

“Mr. Merriwell, sah, I judge you’ve made a mighty big mistake in
me. You thought I could play ball, but by this time, sah, you
must be pretty well satisfied that I’m a first-class flub. I have
come, sah, to give notice that I do not propose to make a jackass
of myself any more. I am done, sah. As long as I live and have my
right mind I’ll play no more baseball.”

A feeling of satisfaction seized upon Hodge, who thought:

“The fellow has more sense than I imagined.”

Frank looked at Mason calmly and steadily, something like deep
indignation showing in his face.

“And is this the way you propose to treat me?” he sternly demanded.
“I did think, Mason, that you were my friend.”

Hock gasped.

“I am, sah!” he cried quickly. “That’s why I’m taking myself off
the nine. You don’t know what they’re saying, Mr. Merriwell. They
say you took me on because you regarded me as a friend, and that
it was a mighty bad piece of judgment on your part, sah. They say
I must get off or ruin the team.”

“And you propose to leave me in the lurch just because some fellows
have been making that kind of talk! I didn’t think it of you,
Mason--I swear I didn’t!”

Hock looked distressed.

“I’m only doing what I think is the right thing, sah,” he
protested. “If you knew what a miserable night I spent last night,
Merriwell! I’d a heap rather been shot than to have lost that game.
And I know I was the one who lost it! I should have held both of
those flies. They were right in my hands.”

“Have I ever said anything to you because you failed to hold them?”

“No, sah.”

“Well, it was because I knew you felt bad enough about it. Had you
been some one else on the team, I might have said something. Until
that time you remain on the nine. You will report for practise
to-morrow. There is no practise to-day.”

Mason’s breath was taken away by Frank’s masterful manner. He had
come there firmly resolved to take himself off the team, no matter
what Merriwell might say.

“But you--you don’t want me out there in center field,” he weakly
said. “There are others----”

“You’ll report for practise to-morrow, Mason,” Frank again said,
escorting Hock to the door. “And you’ll play in that field until I
put you elsewhere. That matter is settled.”

When Mason was gone Frank turned and found Hodge looking black as
a thunder-cloud.




CHAPTER XXV.

MERRIWELL’S POWER.


So it happened that Hock Mason appeared on the field for practise
the following day. His appearance was generally unexpected. It was
thought that, having discovered the universal sentiment, Merriwell
could not help dropping the South Carolinian from the team.

Hock walked into the field with his head up and his lips pressed
together. He knew he was being eyed in a curious, scornful manner,
and the fact gave him an air of defiance.

“Look at the nerve of him!” muttered Dick Starbright, who could
not get over the fact that Hock had dropped that first fly in the
Princeton game.

Dick had hoped to pitch that game through to a successful finish,
but the dropping of that fly had rattled him so that Merriwell was
compelled to take his place. Starbright did not pause to consider
that before the long fly came the bases were filled. Nor did it
occur to him that, under ordinary circumstances, it would have
been a most fortunate thing for him had the long fly been driven
straight into the hands of the center-fielder instead of going far
to one side and out of reach.

He only knew that the center-fielder had dropped the ball, lost it
in the short grass near his feet, and four scores had come chasing
in for Princeton.

Mason could not help feeling the air of cool scorn, but he had
nerved himself to meet this sort of thing, and he made a pretense
that he did not mind it at all.

“It takes nerve to get along in this world,” declared Ready fliply.
“Now I’ve begun to learn playing the cornet. How is that for nerve?”

“Everybody knows you have plenty of it,” said Browning. “Learning
to play the cornet, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Who is your teacher?”

“Oh, I haven’t one. I’m my own tooter.”

Then Jack got out of the way, for he knew the big senior might
smash him.

Merriwell met Mason.

“Just in time, Hock,” he said pleasantly. “We’re going out for
field practise. You know your position.”

Several students had come out to the field to witness the practise.
They heard what Frank said to Hock, and it created a buzzing among
them.

The men trotted onto the field, and Mason went down to the middle
garden.

Now, of course, there was a manager for the team, although he was a
mere figurehead. It was known throughout the college that Merriwell
was the real manager, as well as the captain, and he could run
things to suit himself. But the ostensible manager had been given
a hint from the board of directors, and he braced up to approach
Frank. His name was Filkins, and he could put on a great front.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he observed pompously. “I wish to speak with you.”

Frank nodded, and followed Filkins aside.

“It’s a serious matter,” Filkins began. “Of course we rely on
your judgment, Merriwell, but even the best of us sometimes
make--er--ah--breaks, you understand. Of course, I’m not casting
any--er--reflection on--on--anything you may have seen fit to do;
but it is the universal opinion that--ah--something must be done.
I don’t like to--to--ah----”

“Come to the point, Mr. Filkins,” urged Frank. “Time is precious.
What do you wish to say?”

He knew well enough what the fellow was driving at, but Merry had
no intention of helping him out. Somehow Filkins’ air of pomposity
vanished.

“I’m not doing this on my own accord,” he declared. “But I’ve been
compelled to do it. You understand? As I said, we’re well pleased
with your judgment generally; but there is one matter that is not
satisfactory. We do not think center field is properly filled.”

“Is that it?” said Frank grimly. “Well what about it?”

“I would suggest a change.”

“Very well.”

“You will make it?” exclaimed Filkins, in great relief.

“I did not say so.”

“But you said ‘very well.’”

“Which simply meant that I would hear your suggestion.”

Filkins’ relief changed to uneasiness again. He had been instructed
to be firm and impress on Merriwell that a change must be made, and
he had promised to do so. Now, however, he found all his firmness
oozing before the steady gaze of that grim-faced athlete.

“But you--you must act on it,” he said huskily.

“Must?” said Frank, still more grimly. “Who says so?”

“Why, I--er--we--the board says so. There is general
dissatisfaction.”

“Filkins, I believe it is generally understood that I am to use my
own judgment in handling this team?”

“Why, yes; but----”

“When I took hold of the nine it was in a very bad way. Yale
was desperate. I had an understanding with you and the board of
directors. You know what followed. I was given full power. I turned
out a host of new men to practise, and out of them I found some
good timber for the nine, filling the very gaps that were open. I
confess that many of the players are my personal friends, but they
have been trained to play ball under me, not only here but last
summer and the summer before during vacation. I knew the kind of
stuff to be found in Browning, Gamp, and Ready.

“Parker, who tried to make the team, and who played with us last
summer, did not succeed because I found a better man. That man is
Mason. He has in him the making of a remarkable outfielder. He has
played well so far, with the exception of that last game. He is not
popular, and just because he lost that game for us there has risen
a general outcry, and an attempt is being made to push him off the
team. Some of my own friends are helping, or trying to help, get
rid of him. But let me tell you this, Filkins: Until I have further
evidence of Mason’s incapacity, he remains on the team. When I am
satisfied that I have made a mistake, I’ll drop him, but not a
minute before. That’s business, and you may report it to the board.”

Then Frank left Filkins, and the fellow felt that he hadn’t a leg
to stand on.

“Great gash!” he gurgled, glaring after Merry. “Think of it! Think
of the captain of a ball-team daring to talk to the manager like
that! Oh, jiminy! Never was another man at Yale could do it and
hold his job a minute. Merriwell knows he has us in a hole. Just
as he says, the team is made up mainly of his friends, and they’d
quit quicker than a wink if anything were done to him. That would
leave us in the soup.”

It was true that never before had any man at Yale possessed such
complete authority and power. No man but Merriwell could have
obtained such a hold; but he had it, and he felt that he was doing
right in standing by the position he had assumed.

So those who had gathered at the field expecting Mason would be
shelved if he appeared to practise were greatly disappointed. Hock
filled the middle field, and the practise he put up that day was
gilt-edged.




CHAPTER XXVI.

MASON’S CHALLENGE.


“Mason!” cried Merriwell, who was batting to the outfield.

Then he sent out a long, difficult fly, forcing Mason to run for it
as hard as he could.

Hock held it, though forced to take it on the dead run.

“Gamp!”

Merry gave Joe one very much like that driven out to Hock, and
the New Hampshire youth made his long legs fly as he pranced over
the ground. He gathered the fly in, whirled round, and sent it
almost on a line to the plate. Gamp was a wonderful thrower, and he
sometimes fancied showing off a little.

“Benson!”

Frank cracked out a liner to Lib Benson in right field. It was not
straight at Benson, and he was compelled to jump to get in front
of it; but he took it handsomely, giving Nash, Mullen, and Cowles
a chance to applaud.

In the meantime, another man was batting all kinds of balls to the
infield, keeping every one on the jump. Pretty soon Frank changed
places with the other batter. He had given the outfielders the
kind of work that he felt was best for them, and now he wished to
see the infield practise.

Ready, covering second, was sent leaping after a ground-skimmer.

“First!” rang out Merry’s voice.

Jack picked it up, and, without straightening, still running, he
snapped it to Browning.

“Second!”

The command came from Merry while the ball was on its way to Bruce.
Browning took it and threw, to second without a moment’s delay.

Morgan had leaped to cover the bag, but he was a trifle too slow,
and he touched the ball with one hand only.

“Ginger up!” commanded Frank promptly. “You must cover that bag,
Morgan, when Ready is after the ball like that.”

Dade started to shrug his shoulders, but changed his mind
instantly, smiled a bit sweetly, and called in a musical,
good-natured voice:

“All right, sir.”

And this was the same Dade Morgan who had once seemed to be Frank
Merriwell’s bitter and unrelenting enemy. A great change had come
over Dade since the death of Santenel. Released from the power of
the hypnotist, Morgan was fast becoming quite a different fellow.

Next Frank drove a liner to Carson, who was on third, and the
Westerner took it with out-thrust hand.

“First!”

Berlin lined it across the diamond in a very pretty manner.

“Home!”

Hodge was waiting, and the ball plunked into his mitt.

“Second!”

Bart’s throwing to second was a feature of any game. His short-arm
throw was perfect, and he could line a ball down to the second bag
without getting out of his tracks.

“Oh, Laura!” murmured Ready, as he took the throw. “What a peach!”

“Home!”

Jack sent it back, and his throw was almost as beautiful as Bart’s,
but he made harder work of it.

Base-running, batting, and signal practise followed. The team this
year had a complete signal system, so that every man could tell
just what was to be done or tried without a word being spoken by
anybody. From the bench, the box, or the coaching-lines Merry could
give directions, and he was sure an attempt would be made to follow
them. If two runners were on the bases, one on first and one on
second, Frank could make a signal that would cause the batter to
“take one,” while both runners knew they were to try a “double
steal” on the first delivery, and they started together with no
misunderstanding. Even if one of them were cut off, the other was
pretty sure to advance a bag. A sacrifice could be called for by a
signal, a man could be directed to bunt or to try to place the ball
in any particular field. When Frank was pitching he simply assumed
certain positions that caused the fielders to move to the right or
left, to play short or long, brought the infield in or sent it out,
and every player knew just what the kind of a ball he was going to
deliver.

But now the disagreement over Mason threatened trouble. Frank knew
the feeling of distrust, and lost confidence was the very worst
thing that could assail a ball-team, and he was doing his best to
give the Southerner a chance to restore confidence to some extent.

Mason never worked harder in a game. Not even once did he drop a
ball he could touch with his hands. He ran in for them and ran out
for them. He dug them out of the dirt, pulled them down out of the
sky, and took them over his shoulder. When it came to batting he
seemed able to hit anything that might be called a strike. He ran
and slid bases handsomely.

Hodge watched with sour looks the practise of the Southerner.
Several of the players who had failed to make the regular nine were
on the field now, giving the players a chance to come in to the
bench and do batting and base-running.

“What thinkest thou?” murmured Jack Ready, as he saw Hodge gloomily
watching Mason. “Perchance he may redeem himself--not?”

“I don’t think there is any hope that he will,” said Bart harshly.
“He’s one of these fellows that can do almost anything in practise,
but is no earthly good in real work.”

“Thinkest thou so?” chirped Jack. “Then it’s plain that you do not
agree with our great and mighty chieftain. He must think otherwise,
else he’d not retain him.”

“Oh, Merry’s got a fool notion that the fellow can play. Usually,
I’m ready to stand by anything Merry says, but in this case I’m
not, for I know he’s wrong.”

“Perchance you do not love this Mason, whose front name is Hock?”

“I never did, but I’ve had to tolerate him.”

“He has ways which much resemble some of yours,” ventured Jack.

Bart scowled.

“That may be true, and I think likely it’s why I dislike him; but
I swear I never entertained some of his fool notions about dignity
and the degrading influence of honest work. I respect a man who has
enough snap in himself to get out and hustle. Mason looks with
pity and disdain on a man who has to get out and hustle. That’s
where his cursed Southern training makes him a cad!”

“I myself love work,” asserted Ready. “I love it so much that I can
peacefully lie down beside it and sleep almost any time. Besides,
there are so many others working that I don’t see as if it would be
important whether I helped them or not.”

“It would be a good thing if Mason had to get out and make his way
in the world. Perhaps it would teach him not to curl his nose up at
honest people who labor.”

“It may be thou art right; but I think he’d go into politics and
become a congressman before he would stoop to work. Some men, you
know, will suffer any degradation rather than toil.”

“He needs to be taken down a peg or two,” said Bart. “I hate a cad,
and Mason is a cad of the first water.”

“I don’t care to get into a fight here,” said the voice of Mason
himself, who had, unperceived, come in from the field after making
the round of the bases; “but, sah, if you want to back up your
talk, sah, I’ll meet you anywhere you like, sah.”

“La! la!” murmured Ready. “Methinks I smell smoke!”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” said Hodge. “I wouldn’t waste my
time thrashing a fellow like you.”

Mason’s face was white, and his eyes glittered.

“You must agree to fight me, sah,” he said passionately, though
trying to hold himself in check.

“Why should I?”

“Because, sah, if you do not, by the gods! I’ll brand you as a
miserable coward, and I’ll slap your face in the presence of these
fellows.”

Bart saw that Mason really meant fight. Now, to tell the truth,
Hodge was not adverse to a fight with Hock, and it gave him real
satisfaction when he saw that he could truthfully declare he had
been forced into it. He had not wished Merriwell to think he would
seek such a quarrel.

“Oh, well,” he said, “if you will have it, all right; but I call on
Ready to witness that I did not force this affair.”

“That’s all right,” nodded Jack. “I am ready to witness that, but I
had much rather witness the scrap. Say, I’m to be one of the guests
of honor, am I nit?”

“I leave that to Mr. Mason,” said Bart coolly.

Hock made no reply. Instead, he said:

“I’ll see you, Mr. Hodge, sah, immediately after practise.”

“The sooner the better,” said Bart.




CHAPTER XXVII.

WHO WON THE FIGHT?


How and when Mason and Hodge disappeared from the field Ready never
knew; but disappear they did, and Jack went about wildly seeking to
learn in which direction they had departed.

“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” he moaned. “I wouldn’t miss the circus for two
dollars in real money!”

“What circus?” asked Frank Merriwell.

“Why, the mill,” said Jack.

“What do you mean by the mill?”

“The scrap.”

“Hey? A scrap? Who----”

“Hodge and Mason.”

Merriwell grasped Ready by the arm, demanded to know all about it,
and Jack told him what had happened.

“It must be stopped!” exclaimed Frank, who fancied he saw no end of
trouble on the nine arising from such an encounter. “We must find
out which way they have gone.”

But though they tried to do so, they did not learn until it was
almost dark that the two young men had been seen walking swiftly
toward Edgewood Park.

Neither of the enemies was found. When they returned to college
Hodge was not in his room. Some time later he had arrived, but his
door was locked and no one gained admittance.

All the following day Hodge and Mason kept to their rooms. Of
course, Frank gained admission, although both fellows were reported
“ill.”

Mason was wearing a beefsteak poultice over both eyes, while Hodge
was making liberal applications of witch-hazel and arnica and soap
liniment.

Mason would not say a word about the fight. Nor would Hodge.

When Merry tried to draw Mason out he closed up like a clam. Hodge
did the same. Neither man would speak of the other.

Of course, it was known by this time that there had been some kind
of an encounter between these two, and the students generally were
interested to learn how it had resulted.

Finding Merriwell had obtained admission to Bart’s room, Jack Ready
sought it. His second knock on Hodge’s door caused Bart to turn the
key in the lock.

“Important, dear boy,” declared Jack, as he rushed right in.
“Refuse me! Awfully dark here. Why don’t you run up your curtain?”

Ready was about to lift the curtain when Hodge harshly growled for
him to let it alone.

“Refuse me!” exclaimed Jack again. “Are you ill?”

“Bad headache,” said Bart. “What in thunder do you want? You’re
enough to make a well man sick!”

“Thanks, awfully,” chirped Ready. “I don’t mind if I do sit down.”
He took a chair. “Now, what I wanted to see you about is this: You
and I agree on one point--Mason is N. G. on the nine. He lacks
sand.”

“Who said so?” demanded Hodge.

“Why, I though somebody told me you said so.”

“Think again.”

“Well, he is not the man we want for center field.”

“Are you managing the nine?”

“No, but----”

“Then you’d better dry up and let other people run it.”

“Ye gods!” gasped Ready. “I fail to understand you. Anyhow, you
cheated me out of my just dues. I was to see that scrap. I suppose
you licked him?”

Hodge did not answer.

“I say I suppose you thrashed the cad?” repeated Jack.

Still Bart was silent.

“But,” Ready continued, “I didn’t think you’d shut yourself up and
go into mourning over it. Was it a hard job?”

“If you have anything you wish to see me about, come to the point.
If you haven’t, get out. You make my headache worse.”

“My! my! how touchy you are!” murmured Jack. “You need some spring
bitters.”

“You’re an ass!” snapped Bart.

“Thanks!” smiled Jack. “So am I. There are lots of us to keep you
company. Where did you fight?”

“Will you go?”

“By me soul!” cried Ready; “I have a suspicion that you did not
fight at all! You have shut yourself in your room to avoid meeting
him. You are afraid of him, Hodge.”

But even this did not lead Bart to assert that the fight had taken
place.

“It is insinuated around the campus,” lied Ready, “that Mason
thrashed you. Will you give me authority, as a particular friend,
to contradict the report?”

“I will give you authority to mind your own business.”

“Great gash!” whooped Jack. “You don’t mean to confess that he did
thrash you?”

Bart opened the door.

“You get out,” he said fiercely, “or I’ll throw you out!”

“La! la!” said Ready. “Isn’t it too bad? Just to think that a cad
like him should thrash a man like you! Oh, luddy me! how could it
be!”

Bart strode over to Jack, whom he seized by the collar.

“There’s the door!” he growled.

“Nothing remarkable about it that I can see,” said Ready. “Just a
plain, ordinary door.”

Bart yanked him over to it.

“But a first-rate door to go out of,” he said, as he ejected Jack.
“Come round again--when you’re invited.”

Slam!--the door closed in Ready’s face, and the key turned in the
lock.

“Isn’t it sad!” sobbed the queer fellow to himself. “Just to think
that a good man like Hodge should be thrashed by a fellow like
Mason! Oh, me! oh, my!”

Then he sought Mason’s room, but Hock would not admit him at all.

Late that evening Mason escaped from his room and visited the
little store of a man who “decorated black eyes.” There Hock had
his eyes painted in a most artistic manner, and the next morning he
did not wash his face when he rose from his bed, though he took a
cold sponge bath and brushed and combed his hair.

In some manner Hodge had managed to hide traces of the conflict,
and the two students put up a great bluff. This simply served to
make every one all the more anxious to learn the particulars of the
fight.

“It must have been a corker,” said Ready. “I feel that I have
missed one of the greatest events of the century.”

Ready knew something about Bart’s fighting-abilities, and, for all
of the talk he had made to Hodge, something convinced him that
Hodge had come out the victor. Never, however, could he induce
Hodge to confirm this belief.

After a time it became apparent to all that the two men must have
agreed to say nothing about the result of the encounter, no matter
what it was. Without doubt this agreement had been made before the
engagement began.

Who whipped? That question remained unanswered to the end of time,
for, true to any agreement they may have made, neither youth would
speak of it. They would not even acknowledge that there had been a
fight.

But Mason played center field in the next ball-game. Only one
chance was given him, and he accepted it prettily. His batting
was good, as he got two clean singles. He ran bases well, but did
nothing sensational.

All this proved neither one thing nor the other, for the game
was regarded as sure for Yale from the start, the team pitted
against the blue being from one of the minor colleges. In a game
of that sort the weak man may show up well, as he has plenty of
confidence. Against a strong team the weak man may lose his courage
and go all to pieces, believing defeat is almost certain.

Merriwell, however, was well satisfied with Mason’s work. He found
an opportunity to quietly tell the Southerner so, and Hock’s eyes
showed that he appreciated this.

“Thank you, sah,” he said. “I did as well as I could. But I ought
to have had another hit. I tried to drop the ball behind second,
but made a misjudgment, so the baseman got it.”

“I noticed,” said Merry, “that you were trying to place all your
hits. That’s the way to do. Men who simply try to hit the ball out
any old place never make as good batters as place-hitters.”

“But sometimes,” said Hock, with a bit of a smile, “I find I’m up
against a pitcher that I’m right glad to hit out to any old place.
Pitchers are not all alike.”

Frank laughed.

“That’s quite true; but a bunting-team can make the slickest
pitcher work hard. The trouble with most teams is that they never
practise bunting. I’ve seen a game won off a clever pitcher after
the seventh inning by a team turning to on finding they could not
hit the ball out and going to bunting man after man as they came
up. It rattled the pitcher and broke the luck of his side.”

Hodge made no further protests against Mason. He knew it was
quite useless to do so as long as Merry had decided to keep the
Southerner in defiance to popular clamor.

But still, deep in his heart, Bart continued to think Frank had
made a mistake in judgment.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MASON PROVES HIS NERVE.


The first circus of the season had come to town. Now, when a circus
strikes New Haven, Yale men take it in with a vengeance. Something
about a circus sets their coltish blood to dancing, and they are
bound to patronize it. They take in all the side-shows, too, and it
is apparent that the most of them enjoy the side-shows more than
the performance under the main tent.

Behold Jack Ready and a party of kindred spirits taking in the
“sights.” Of course, Ready has dragged Joe Gamp along, and whenever
he can start the New Hampshire youth to “haw-hawing” he delights
to do so. Starbright is with them, and he smiles and enjoys
everything. Big Bingham chaffs with Ready, who is sometimes witty,
sometimes “chestnutty,” but always eccentric.

“Come in and behold Melba, the most beautiful woman snake-charmer
in the world!” cries the barker outside the side-show.

“Your royal giblets,” says Ready, “didst ever see Weary Wiggins?
Nay? Then be careful of thy statements, for he is something of a
snake-charmer himself.”

“G’wan!” retorts the barker. “Wot yer givin’ us! You wouldn’t know
a snake-charmer if you saw one. Now, honest, did yer ever see one?”

“Well, you are very nearly the first I’ve ever seen,” Ready
answered breezily. “Your nose is your own advertisement, sir. You
can provide your own snakes with a pint of bug-juice.”

“T’ink ye’re smart, don’t yer!” retorted the fellow angrily. “Some
time yer’ll get yer face dented if you shoots off yer lip so free.
If I had time, I’d ’tend to der job meself.”

“I am very sorry you haven’t the time. I’d like to go out behind
the big tent and soothe you to sleep. I am a very soothing chap.”

To this the barker made another angry retort, and Jack and his
friends laughed, bought tickets, and entered the tent.

When they were inside Jack began to lecture on the “wonders” there
assembled. He gave them a little “game of talk” about the tattooed
man, the Chinese giant, the “armless acrobat,” the fat woman, and
other freaks on exhibition. When, however, he started in to call
attention to a long-whiskered farmer from the country he came near
getting into trouble.

“You sassy young cub!” roared the old farmer, clenching his fists
and glaring at Jack, “I’d good mind to smash ye!”

Jack looked very frightened.

“Honestly?” he gasped. “You wouldn’t do that to a poor orphing
bhoy, would you?”

“Think ye’re funny tellin’ folks about the wind blowin’ through
my whiskers, don’t ye?” snorted the farmer. “When you have more
whiskers, mebbe ye’ll hev some more brains to go with ’em!”

“That’s right, by gum!” agreed Gamp, sidling up to the farmer.
“Give it to him, mum-mister. He’s sassed mum-most everybuddy.”

This made the old farmer fiercer than ever, and he shook his fist
under Jack’s nose, roaring:

“Dang my boots! but I believe I will smash ye!”

His wife, a mild little woman with an umbrella, now grabbed him by
the arm, timidly crying:

“Don’t ye git into a row, Joel! The last time you was to town you
got into trouble with these here college chaps, an’ they made the
perlice believe ye was crazy. Came nigh puttin’ ye inter a ’sylum.”

“Ah-he!” cried Ready. “’Tis he!” And he pointed a darting finger at
the farmer. “The police have been looking for you ever since. Will
somebody call an officer? Wait; I’ll do it.”

“No, ye don’t!” shouted the farmer, clutching Jack’s arm. “I’ll
thrash ye if ye open your mouth to do it!”

“Oh, Joel! Joel!” quavered his wife. “You’re alwus gittin’ inter
trouble! Come erway before ye git arrested!”

She tried to drag him away, but he turned on her savagely, snarling:

“Don’t be such a dratted fool, old woman! Let me alone, can’t ye!”

Then she fired up.

“Joel Haskins,” she exclaimed, “don’t ye darst to call me a fool
right before all these people! If ye do, I’ll pull ev’ry hair outer
your old head!”

“Take your hands offen me!” he retorted. “All women is fools!”

“Oh, what a libel on the fair sex!” said Ready. “A man who will
speak thus to a beautiful and charming wife deserves to be drawn
and quartered! I don’t see how such an old brute ever succeeded in
marrying such a refined lady.”

“He is an old brute!” agreed the wife.

“Don’t call me an old brute, Marthy Jane!” roared the man savagely.

“You called me a fool first.”

“Well, ain’t ye showin’ it? Heaven sakes! but I’ve put up with
enough of your nonsense!”

“Oh, hev ye?” she shrilly screamed. “And you will talk like this
before folks, will ye?”

Then, in her excitement, she swung her umbrella aloft and brought
it down on his head with a whack.

The delighted college boys roared with laughter and urged her on.
She hit him again.

“Hey! Stop it!” he squawked, holding up his arms to protect his
head. “I never saw such a dratted woman!”

She smashed the umbrella to pieces before the showmen could stop
her. Then both the farmer and his wife were escorted from the tent,
the woman sputtering at him and he growling back at her.

Ready looked sad and regretful.

“Alas!” he sighed. “At least, she was once a lass. She has outgrown
it somewhat!”

“Ready,” said a voice, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You
caused the trouble and ruined the show for those old people.”

Frank Merriwell was the speaker, and, despite his attempt to
reprove Jack, he could not help smiling.

“It is ever thus,” sobbed Jack. “Whenever I am having my loveliest
time somebody comes along and calls me down.”

At this moment the announcement was made that Melba would give
her wonderful performance with the snakes. The lecturer explained
that one of the snakes was a mighty python “ya-a-ahmsteen feet in
length.”

Melba arose. She was really pretty for a professional
snake-charmer, and could not have been more than twenty-three or
four years old.

“Yum, yum!” said Ready. “Would you believe it! She’s the first one
I ever saw who didn’t look like a snake-charmer.”

“She’s new at the business,” declared Frank.

Melba opened the case in which the snakes were kept. She took them
out one by one and twined them about her arms, waist, and neck. She
was very pale while she did it, and the boys could see that she
trembled a little. No one guyed her. For once the irrepressible
Ready was silent.

Bart Hodge had entered the tent and was near the platform.

Having handled the smaller snakes, Melba put them back in the case
and prepared to take out the python. She was more agitated than
ever.

Frank decided that the girl really was afraid of the snakes, and
pitied her. The act was unpleasant to him, and he turned away.

Carefully the girl took out the python. The snake was a large one,
and those near the stand fancied he seemed rather more active than
the others. With care Melba handled the great snake, forcing a
smile to her painted lips. The reptile coiled and moved its head.

All at once, without warning, Melba dropped to the platform in a
dead faint. Women screamed and men shouted and pushed away.

Hodge was close to the platform, and he saw the girl had fallen
on the snake in such a manner that the weight of her body was
squeezing it. This was angering the snake.

Instantly Bart leaped onto the platform and lifted the unconscious
girl to take her weight off the serpent, at the same time calling
for an assistant to come and give him aid.

Then something happened that filled all beholders with horror. With
a swift movement, the snake threw a coil round Bart’s legs. Another
shout of horror went up from the men. The python twisted about
Hodge with great swiftness, its head rising higher and higher.

Such snakes have strength in their natural state to crush the ribs
of an ox. If the thing were to twine itself about Bart’s body and
exert pressure the young college man would be killed before the
eyes of the horrified spectators.

Out of the throng leaped a youth, who hastily snatched from his hip
pocket a shining revolver.

It was Hock Mason. The Southerner leaped to the edge of the
platform, with the weapon uplifted.

“Steady!” said Bart, in a calm voice. “Got to smash his head with
the first shot! If you don’t----”

Mason had raised his revolver, but he could not get a shot at the
head of the snake without great risk of fatally wounding Bart.

“Here!” he cried, dropping the weapon. “I’ll hold the creature!
Somebody take that pistol and shoot its head off!”

Then, without the least hesitation, he grasped the snake with both
hands just back of its head.

Fortunate, indeed, it was that Frank Merriwell was at hand. He had
the revolver almost as soon as it touched the ground. As Mason
held the snake’s head for a moment two shots rang out, and both
bullets hit the reptile’s head fairly. Its coils loosened from
Bart, and Mason flung the squirming thing aside, where it thrashed
and twisted on the ground.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hodge to Mason.

“Don’t mention it, sah,” said Mason politely.

Never again as long as he lived would Bart Hodge say that the man
from South Carolina lacked nerve. Whatever else could be said of
him, that accusation could not be made against him.

Both Hodge and Mason were the heroes of the day.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE FIRST SCORE.


Princeton was out to win the last game of the series with Yale. The
two clubs had met on neutral ground, and, remembering their slump
in football, the Tigers meant to down Yale in order to reestablish
Princeton’s standing in athletic sports as one of the “Big Three.”

Of late Columbia had loomed ominously on the horizon, and there
were those who prophesied that she would succeed in pushing
Princeton out and getting herself accepted as one of the three
first colleges in manly sports.

Starbright had asked to go into the box against Princeton again.
Hard work and considerable worry was telling on Merriwell, so that
he was not in his best form, while the big freshman felt fit to
pitch against National League champions.

Morgan longed, also, to try his hand against the Princeton nine,
but Merry could not spare Dade from the position he was filling in
such splendid style. For Morgan had turned out to be one of the
cleverest short-stops seen at Yale for several years. He could
cover a vast amount of ground, could pick up grounders cleanly,
could gather in liners and flies, and his throwing across to first
delighted the spectators.

To tell the truth, Dade’s pitching aspirations had never seemed to
please the fans at Yale, but he soon won a way into their hearts
after Merriwell placed him at short. This placing came about by
accident. One night during practise Morgan got out at short, the
regular man being gone, and the way he got around amazed everybody.
Frank tried him there in the very next game, and Dade remained
there after that.

This cut the regular pitching-stock down a head. Of course, Dade
could be used in the box if necessary, but Merriwell believed in
keeping the team unchanged and in position just as far as possible,
it having been his experience that shifting men about was extremely
bad policy.

As this was the deciding game between the colleges, Princeton
turned out as large a crowd of rooters as did Yale. The bleachers
on one side of the field were packed with the admirers of the
orange and black, while the other side fluttered blue with Yale
flags.

It was two-thirty when the Princeton players trotted onto the
field, being given a royal greeting by their admirers.

At once the men prepared for practise.

The Tigers began to sing a stirring battle song, and the men to
work on the field with snap and earnestness.

This practise work was watched closely by both sides. It was plain
that Princeton was in her very best form, and her players had come
out to win.

Confidence is of great importance in a game of ball, but
overconfidence is dangerous. Princeton had confidence, but
knowing from past experience what she was up against, she was not
overconfident.

The infield worked fast and sure, picking up everything clean,
making handsome throws, and never hesitating, nor fumbling.

Lib Benson’s friends were together in a group.

“This is going to be a tight old game,” said Irving Nash anxiously.
“There is no doubt about it.”

“Sure thing,” nodded Mat Mullen. “But Old Eli must win. It would be
something awful to lose the series to Princeton!”

“Wouldn’t it!” gasped Chan Webb. “But there are some fellows who
still claim that we’ll lose if the game depends on Mason in a tight
place.”

“I think so myself,” asserted Gil Cowles. “Merriwell dropped
Castlemon for work not so poor as that of Mason in the last
Princeton game; but Castlemon was not one of his particular
friends.”

“Oh, we all know Merriwell will not do any man an intentional
wrong,” said Nash; “but it does seem he has been influenced for
Mason by a strange liking.”

“Look at those chaps practise!” said Mullen. “I don’t think I’ve
seen such clever work this season.”

“But you know that it often happens that a team shows up well in
practise and plays a poor game,” said Webb.

“Something tells me it isn’t going to happen that way to-day.”

“Look--look at Jerome pull down that fly out in center field!”
urged Cowles. “Now, there is a fielder. If we had him in Mason’s
place!”

“Mason may be all right to-day,” said Nash. “Let’s hope he will
be. But this is a critical game, and he seems to lack something in
critical times.”

“He didn’t seem to lack anything when he grabbed that snake and
held the thing for Merriwell to shoot its head off,” said Webb.

“That was a piece of nerve,” nodded Nash. “Even Hodge is not now
making claims that Mason lacks nerve.”

“I’d give ten dollars,” asserted Mullen, “to know which of those
fellows got the best of that fight.”

“I don’t believe it was Hodge,” said Webb.

“I’ll bet my life it wasn’t Mason!” exclaimed Cowles.

“Then it must have been a draw,” grinned Mullen.

There was a stir, and then the men down in front gave a signal with
waving arms. Onto the field trotted the Yale team, and the Yale
bleachers rose and greeted the heroes with a great roar of welcome.

“There’s Benson!” cried Nash. “Who’d thought at one time that he’d
ever be playing ball under Merriwell? Why, he was a leader in
everything against Merriwell.”

Merry spoke to the Princeton captain, and then the Tigers were
called in from the field, Yale trotting out to get some practise.

“Of course, Merriwell will pitch this game straight through,” said
Mullen.

“If he doesn’t he’ll display poor judgment,” asserted Cowles. “He
can’t afford to fool round.”

But Frank Merriwell was not feeling like pitching. In the pocket of
his coat which he had left in the dressing-room was a letter from
Inza Burrage, and that letter contained the information that Inza’s
father was dead.

Inza was now quite alone in the world.

Merry’s heart was torn with sympathy for the beautiful girl whom he
knew was almost heart-broken with grief, and he longed to turn from
the baseball-field and seek some place where no one might disturb
him.

So Starbright was to have an opportunity to gratify his ambition to
again pitch against Princeton.

The practise of the Yale team was not nearly as snappy as that of
the nine from New Jersey. Somehow the gloom that had fallen on
Merriwell seemed to communicate itself to the whole team.

The spectators felt it. The Yale crowd started to singing to rouse
up some spirit and vim, but there was a mournful note about it that
added to the gloom.

The umpire came onto the field. Princeton went first to bat, and
Dick Starbright entered the pitcher’s box, while Merry sat on the
bench.

Following was the batting-order of the two teams as given to the
scorers:

     YALE.                    PRINCETON.

  Ready, 2d b.             Clackson, ss.
  Carson, 3d b.            Leverage, lf.
  Browning, 1st b.         Walpole, 1st b.
  Starbright, p.           Merritt, rf.
  Morgan, ss.              Grady, 3d b.
  Gamp, lf.                Lewsell, c.
  Mason, cf.               Jerome, cf.
  Hodge, c.                Willis, 2d b.
  Benson, rf.              Vinton, p.

Only one change had been made on the Princeton team since the last
game with them. Willis was a new man on second base. Harding, the
former player in that position, having sprained his ankle. But it
was said that Willis was regarded as a better man than Harding, who
had retained his position through virtue of having played it the
previous season.

Vinton was Princeton’s cleverest pitcher. Before him had fallen
all of the minor teams he had pitched against. He had a wild and
bewildering delivery, and he varied it in a most remarkable manner,
so that it was impossible to tell just what all his contortions
meant.

“Play ball!” rang out the voice of the umpire.

Clackson picked out a bat and stepped up to the plate. Starbright
prepared to deliver the ball.

Clackson was regarded as Princeton’s safest single hitter. He could
not drive out a long hit, but he could place his hits beautifully,
having a way of driving the ball through any opening left in the
infield.

Starbright had tried Clackson on all sorts of twists and benders,
and he had found the fellow able to hit almost anything. It was a
mystery to know just what sort of a ball to give the fellow.

Starbright tried him with an out curve, but Clackson calmly let it
pass.

“One ball,” was the decision.

Then Dick put one close to the fellow’s body, but the latter simply
stepped back and let that pass.

“Two balls!”

The big Yale freshman followed with a sharp drop.

Clackson swung at it and missed.

“One strike.”

“Fooled him that time,” thought Dick exultantly.

Then he used a rise, but it was above the latter’s shoulders, and
Clackson did not offer.

“Three balls.”

“Bad hole!” thought Starbright. “But I can put ’em over if I want
to.”

He felt that his control was good, and so he followed with another
drop.

Whiz--went the bat, but the ball was not touched.

“Two strikes.”

“That’s better!” thought Dick, with relief. “He doesn’t seem able
to connect with a drop to-day.”

Fancying Clackson would not be looking for another drop, Dick
ventured to give it to him.

The Princeton man had his teeth shut, and he hit the ball a nice
easy little tap that dropped it just over the second-baseman’s
head, but far enough back so Ready could not get it.

The Princeton crowd cheered. The first man up had obtained a hit,
which was starting the game right.

Leverage followed Clackson. He grinned at Starbright in a most
derisive manner as, with a flirt of his head, he tossed a waving
mane of yellow hair out of his eyes.

Dick smiled back, but he remembered that Leverage was a “bad un,”
for he had given Dick trouble in the last game, besides lifting the
long fly out to Mason while Merriwell was pitching.

But Starbright fancied the batter would wait to give Clackson an
opportunity to try to steal, and so, after letting the runner get
a little start the big freshman whistled a ball straight over.

Starbright did this because he had absolute confidence in Hodge,
knowing Bart could put a ball down to second like a bullet from a
rifle.

But it did seem that Starbright had delayed too long, for Clackson
was away toward second and running like a deer.

It scarcely appeared that the ball rested fairly in Bart’s big
mitt before his right hand went back and shot it toward second.
Starbright seemed forced to crouch a little to let that beautiful
liner go over.

“Slide!” roared the coachers.

The runner flung himself forward and slid along the ground toward
the bag.

With a languid motion, Ready took the handsome throw and put the
ball onto the sliding man just a moment before Clackson’s hand
reached the bag.

“Out!” declared the umpire, as Ready coolly tossed the ball to
Starbright.

Then a wild roar went up from the Yale side. The crowd appreciated
this kind of work, and a great cheer rose to the sky.

When the cheer subsided, some twenty or more fellows rose in a body
and loudly chanted in chorus:

      “That’s Hodge--he’s a dandy!
        That’s Hodge--he’s a beaut!
      He’s swift; he is handy;
        He can shoot the double-shoot.
      Look out! he’s a ripper;
        Run fast or you’re done!
      Ha! ha! See him zip her!
        Well, say--that’s Hodge! This is fun!”

The Yale crowd greeted this with further cheering and laughter, and
the young men sat down feeling very well satisfied.

“It’s all right,” declared Walpole, the captain of the Princeton
team. “He can’t do it every time.”

“Just keep your men going down to second and see,” smiled Merry.

A strike had been called on Leverage. Starbright was cool and
cautious, and he tried to coax the fellow into swinging at some
wide ones, but the batter could not be coaxed thus easily. Two
balls were called, and then Dick ventured to give Leverage a high
one.

The batter hit it, sent it up into the air, and, when it fell,
Browning had it back of the foul line.

“Man is out!” announced the umpire.

Another roar from the Yale crowd. Princeton was not so happy
now. The game that had started off so well was beginning to look
different.

Walpole himself came up to the plate. He cracked the very first one
Starbright delivered. It was a corker, too. The spectators rose up
and watched that ball sailing off toward center field.

Could the fielder get under it? At first it seemed there was no
show for Mason to do so, but he was running like the wind, covering
ground in a most surprising manner.

Walpole scudded down to first. Those watching Mason declared at
first that he could not touch the ball. Then they changed their
minds.

“He’ll reach it!” cried some of the Yale men.

“But he can’t handle it!” asserted others.

The suspense was great. At the last moment it seemed the ball would
go beyond Mason’s reach, but he made a great leap into the air for
it, and it stuck in his hands.

“He’s got it!”

“No--he’s lost it!”

The ball struck Hock’s hands, but did not strike them fairly, and
away it flew.

Down came Mason, but he made a dive in the direction the ball
had taken, while Walpole raced on to second base. The ball had
disappeared into a tiny hollow, and Hock could not see it at once.
He was almost blind from disappointment over his failure to catch
it, and that added to his trouble in seeing it.

Walpole raced to third.

“Home!” shrieked the coacher, making gestures for the runner to
keep right on.

Mason was straightening up with the ball in his hand.

Walpole kept straight on for home, and Mason threw to try to stop
him.

It was a very good throw, being sent in to bound once, but though
it came into Bart’s hands handsomely, the runner slid across the
base, and the first score had been made for Princeton.




CHAPTER XXX.

IN THE FACE OF DEFEAT.


The first score had been made off a muffed ball by Mason. True it
was thoroughly excusable, but the fact that Mason made it caused
many to look at it in a different light.

“There he goes!” growled Gil Cowles. “Now will Merriwell pull him
out?”

“He made a good bid for it,” said Nash.

“But he didn’t get it,” sneered Cowles. “He simply knocked his
ball aside so that it was lost, which gave Walpole a chance to
score. Mason is directly responsible for the first score made by
Princeton. In the last game he was responsible for more than half
the scores made!”

“Merriwell will have to take him out now,” said Mullen.

But Frank Merriwell had no thought of taking Mason out for that
piece of work. He knew there was not one fielder in twenty who
could have touched that ball. Mason had come very near getting it.
Had he caught it, it would have been one of the most remarkable and
sensational outfield plays of the season.

Hodge said not a word, but he did look toward Frank inquiringly.
Starbright’s face wore an expression of disgust.

“Hard luck, boys; that’s all,” said Frank quietly.

“Take him out!” shouted somebody on the Yale side.

Mason heard that cry, and it cut him like a keen knife.

“Gods!” he growled, through his teeth, “I’d never have been here if
Merriwell hadn’t insisted. Luck is against me, that’s all!”

Merritt, the next batter, was one of the heavy hitters of the
Princeton nine. He picked out a good one and lammed it hard. It
went sailing away toward left field.

Starbright was being hit rather freely.

It seemed that Gamp would have difficulty in getting under the
ball, but he tore over the earth and pulled it down with one hand
while at full speed.

That electrified the Yale side, and the crowd of witnesses on the
blue bleachers rose up and howled.

“There’s the man to put in center field!” shrieked somebody.

The Yale team came in from the field, Mason’s face looking hard and
grim.

“You made a good bid for that fly, Hock,” said Merriwell openly.
“If you’d held it, it would have been a marvel.”

This brought a bit of color to the fellow’s cheeks. Ready advanced
to the plate.

“Move your outfielders back,” he chirped. “Enlarge the enclosure. I
am going to disturb the atmosphere with a severe shock. Now, watch
out.”

Vinton’s lips curled, and he gave Jack a slow out curve.

Ready had a long bat, and he reached for that ball, caught it on
the tip of the “slugger,” and sent it whistling over the head of
the second-baseman.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Jack, as he pranced down to first. “Also ho!
ho! That’s the time you found yourself up against the real thing,
Vinton, old mark. Just give me one of the same every time I come to
bat, will you?”

Vinton shrugged his shoulders, but seemed to give Ready no further
attention. However, as Jack played off, the pitcher suddenly
snapped the ball over to first in an attempt to catch him.

Ready got back.

“Slow, Vint,” he said. “You seem to be in a trance. Can’t you move
quicker, old cinch?”

Vinton kept Jack dodging back to the base for some seconds, but
Ready attempted a steal very promptly on the first ball delivered.
He might not have reached second in safety, but the catcher was
bothered a little about throwing, which gave the runner barely
time to slide down.

“Slow again!” chuckled Ready, as he lay on the ground with his
hand on the bag. “Oh, I’m harder to catch than the elusive
will-o’-the-wisp. La! la! What an easy thing this game is going to
be!”

But Jack could not steal third, and he was not taking another
desperate chance just then. He had reached second to prevent a
double play, and it was lucky that he did so, for Carson batted a
grounder straight into Clackson’s hands and was thrown out at first
with ease. Had Ready been forced on that hit, both men must have
been put out.

Browning hit the second ball pitched and sent it flying past the
head of Walpole out into extreme right field. That let him down to
first, while Ready took third.

It was Starbright’s turn.

“Here is where we tie the score without an effort,” declared Ready.
“Oh, luddy me! What a good, soft thing this is!”

Browning was not a great base-runner, but he took chances and
stole second on the first ball pitched. The catcher threw to the
short-stop, who came in to take the throw and cut Ready off if he
tried to score. But Jack was onto that game, and he pranced off
third only to prance back again, with a merry ha-ha.

Starbright, however, although a good hitter, could not meet the
ball fairly, and he went out on a foul fly.

Morgan walked up to the plate, ready for anything. Morgan was a
good hitter, and Vinton knew it, so the Princeton pitcher became
too cautious, with the result that Morgan, who waited well, got his
base on balls.

Gamp was a long hitter, and the outfielders moved back a little for
him. He did his best to clean the bases and bring every man home by
slashing a terrible fly into deep center. The fielder, however, got
under it and pulled it down, which retired Yale without a score and
gave the Princeton rooters a chance to cheer and cheer again.

The second inning was in some respects a repetition of the first.
Princeton obtained one score, but this time it was Benson who
muffed the fly, instead of Mason, letting in the runner.

“Oh, Lord!” gasped Nash. “Wasn’t that a shame!”

“How in the world did Lib do it?” growled Cowles, in deep disgust.
“But that is the first one he has dropped for a long while.”

“It’s a shame!” said Webb. “Now, if it had been Mason again----”

“We’d all raised a howl,” said Mullen dryly.

The scoring stopped right there, for Starbright struck out the next
two men.

Benson was sore enough with himself, but he said nothing.

Yale did her level best to score, but Vinton was in first-class
form, and not a tally was made.

The third inning proved to be a whitewash for both sides.

Then came the fourth, and a combination of errors and hits gave
Princeton two more runs, besides filling the bases after that.

Then Merriwell was forced to pull Starbright out again and go into
the box himself. The Yale crowd rose up and greeted Frank with a
wild roar of satisfaction and relief.

For the time Merry put all thoughts of Inza away from him. He
was compelled to do so. Thus far Yale had not made a run, while
Princeton had four to her credit. This game must be won somehow.

One man was out when Merry entered the box. Hodge was in fighting
humor, as Frank saw by the black look on his face.

Merry called Bart down, and they met to have a few quiet words.

“Keep cool, old man,” said Merry. “We’ll win this game. The boys
have not struck their gait yet.”

“They never would if you had remained on the bench,” growled Bart.
“In some things, Merriwell, you do have bad judgment. You knew
just what this game meant to us, and yet, after keeping one man on
the team against protests, you let Starbright go in to pitch. Why
in thunder you did it no man knows!”

“I know,” said Frank quietly.

He had not told Hodge of the news from Inza. Merry went back to the
box and began to use the double-shoot without delay; but Hodge was
so irritated that he could not hold it. Twice he let the ball drop
to the ground, and once it twisted off to one side, nearly giving
the man on third an opening to come home.

Frank frowned, for he was getting worried. Plainly the whole team
was in a bad way, but Hodge was worse than any of the rest.

A rise caused the batter to lift a high fly foul, and the
third-baseman captured it.

Two men were out.

Frank tried speed, giving Hodge something to do to hold the
terrific pitching. This made Bart angrier than ever, and he closed
his teeth and froze onto them.

With the aid of good head-work, Merriwell was able to strike out
the last man, which kept Princeton from getting any more scores.

Merry tried to arouse his men, but still Vinton worked them
cleverly and kept them from scoring.

By the time the fifth inning began Hodge had cooled down, and he
could take Merriwell’s pitching in handsome style. Then, in his
usual form, Frank struck out three men straight, which set the Yale
bleachers wild with joy.

Still, though a runner reached third, Yale could not score. For
five straight innings she had been whitewashed.

The crowd on the Princeton bleachers were singing “The Orange and
the Black,” and everything looked gloomy for Yale. However, the
Yale side kept up the cheering.

In the sixth, Princeton came near squeezing in another run, but a
great throw from Gamp cut the runner off at the plate.

Frank congratulated Joe when the men came in from the field.

Still Merriwell himself was worried, although he tried not to show
it. His mind was inclined to wander, and he feared he might give
some batter the kind of ball he was looking for, which would result
in more scores for the enemy.

But Princeton had enough already if she could hold Yale down.

Frank led the batting in the sixth, and he obtained a clean
two-bagger.

“Here is where we start!” cried Ready.

But it proved to be where they stopped, for Morgan put up a fly
that was easily captured, Gamp followed suit, and Mason struck out.

“That man can’t play a-field and he can’t hit the ball!” growled
Gil Cowles. “He lost the last Princeton game, and I count him as
the loser of this game. He gave them the first run.”

“Oh, the game isn’t lost yet,” said Nash.

“It is,” asserted Cowles. “I’ve got that feeling in my bones. We
can’t win. It’s tough on Merriwell, but he brought it on himself by
sticking to Mason against the advice and protests of everybody. His
own bad judgment has brought him defeat.”

The spell was broken in the seventh, for Yale squeezed in a single
score.

In the eighth Princeton got another, making five in all, and
seeming to clinch the game.

Yale put up a desperate fight in her half, but one score was the
best she could do, leaving the Tigers still three in the lead.

“Alas!” said Jack Ready.

Merriwell never gave up hope, but he could see that his men were
feeling that defeat could not be averted, and he knew that was a
bad way for a nine to feel.

The first man got his base on balls. A double play should have
followed, but, instead of that, Ready fumbled and permitted the man
on first to reach second and the batter to get down to first.

“Oh, wow!” gasped Jack. “I’m it! Refuse me! I’ll have to look for
a small hole to crawl into after this game.”

Frank was cautious now, but the umpire would not give him the
corners, so that the next batter got a “life” on balls and the bags
were filled.

Merry used the double-shoot.

“One strike!” called the umpire.

The next one whistled.

“One ball.”

Frank tried a drop.

Out in deep center something started Hock Mason to running in just
as Frank delivered that ball. When the game was over Hock could not
explain how it happened that he started so soon, but he knew he was
running before the bat met the ball.

Crack!--the batter hit it.

Every man ran, for it seemed certain that the hit was safe, going
over second, but being bound to drop far inside the reach of the
outfield.

In truth, had not Mason obtained his start just when he did, and
had he not started in the right direction, he never could have
touched that ball.

Of course, he was seen running for it, but no one reckoned he had
obtained such headway, and so it was thought he would not be within
a rod of it when it touched the ground.

Never in all his life had Mason covered ground so fast. He fairly
flew along. He saw the ball dropping, and, with a great forward
diving leap, he scooped it up just before it touched the ground.

Being unable to stop, Mason held fast to the ball and ran over
second with it in his hands, thus putting out the batter and the
runner who had left second.

But the runner on third had been sent home, which he had reached
by this time. A howl went up for him to go back, but he could not
comprehend what it meant, for it had seemed to him that no man
could catch the ball.

Straight on toward third ran Mason, having taken a single glance
to see if the runner was trying to get back. With the ball in his
hands he touched third, thus making one of the most astonishing
plays ever witnessed on a ball-field, for, unassisted, he had put
out three men and retired the side!

When the spectators understood this there was a thunderous uproar.
A triple play unassisted was a marvel indeed. Yale cheered and
cheered, ending with the name of Mason.

Frank Merriwell looked pleased, while the bewildered Princeton
players could not realize that the side was out.

But now came the last half of the ninth, and Yale was three scores
behind. Carson was the first batter up. He shut his teeth and
picked out a good one, off which he made a single.

Then came Browning, but in this emergency Bruce fanned.

Merriwell longed to hit it out, but he played a waiting game on
Vinton, who was afraid to give Frank just what he wanted, and so
Merry got his base on balls.

Morgan was nervous. He was seen to tremble, but he made a desperate
bid for a hit, which Clackson succeeded in getting. Two men were
out.

“It’s all over!” shouted somebody on the Princeton side. “Too bad.
Poor old Yale!”

Gamp had a wild glare in his eyes when he came up to strike. He
looked toward Frank and received a signal to play a waiting game.

Vinton was cautious, and Joe, though longing to baste the ball,
obeyed instructions, with the result that he was given four balls.

The bases were filled.

“Oh, for a home run now!” exclaimed Irving Nash.

“The game is lost!” asserted Gil Cowles. “Mason is the hitter. He’s
as good as cooked.”

Mason was given a cheer as he came up, which seemed to rattle him,
for he slashed at a very wild one on the very start.

“All over!” asserted Cowles. “He has done all he can do to-day.
With a good man in his place there might be a show.”

Mason was pale as death. He knew all eyes were on him, and it was
the desire of his soul to get a safe hit. Still, he knew he had
made a fool of himself by striking at the other ball, and he let
the next one pass.

“Two strikes,” announced the voice of the umpire.

A cold sweat broke out on Mason. In that moment he suffered untold
tortures. He felt that he would give his very life for a good clean
hit.

The next ball was an out curve, and Hock started to swing at it.
Seeing it was going wide, he stopped, but he shuddered for fear the
umpire would call it the third strike.

“One ball,” said the umpire.

The heart of the Southerner gave a great choking throb.

The next one was too close, and he did not offer at that.

“Two balls.”

“Now Vinton will put one over,” said Cowles. “It’s all off. Let’s
get away, fellows.”

“Hold on,” urged Nash. “An accident may happen. Heaven knows I am
praying for one!”

Vinton, however, did not get the range of the plate, and still
Mason remained motionless.

“Three balls,” said the umpire.

Then at that moment a great calmness came on Hock Mason. He knew
Vinton must put the next one over, and he gripped the bat hard.

Vinton did it, and Hock hit the ball fairly. It did not seem to
him that he hit it very hard, but that ball shot off straight as a
bullet from a gun.

Then a frightful uproar arose, and every runner started. Mason ran
as if his life depended on it. And the Yale bleachers were in such
a mad tumult that it seemed as if a mob of maniacs were trying to
destroy each other.

The ball was not caught, and out into the field it bounded, with a
fielder chasing it.

Mason kept on to second. He could not hear the coachers, but he saw
somebody at third wildly beckoning for him to come on. With a haze
before his eyes he dashed for third. When he got there he seemed
to see those arms waving him toward home. He did not stop. Into
his head came a wild thought of the glory of this achievement, and
he felt that he would willingly drop dead on the home plate if he
could reach it in safety.

How the Yale men thundered and shrieked and screamed and went mad,
as Mason tore down to the home plate.

Hock did not hear anybody tell him to slide, but he felt the
danger, saw the catcher ready to take the ball, and threw himself
along the ground.

The ball reached the catcher, who swept his arm round with it in
his grasp.

Too late!

Mason’s breast was on the rubber plate, and Yale had won by a score
of six to five.

Then the crowd came down into the diamond and picked Mason up.
Tears ran down his face as they lifted him to their shoulders and
roared his name again and again. Frank Merriwell was lifted beside
him, and Frank smiled upon him.

Never again as long as he lived would Hock Mason experience the
untold joy of that thrilling moment.


THE END.

  No. 72, of the MERRIWELL SERIES, entitled “Frank Merriwell as
  Coach,” by Burt L. Standish, tells of a great game between rival
  college teams, with victory for the nine coached by our young
  hero.




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  Everybody is interested in some
  sport or other these days.

  The stories in the Merriwell
  Series and in the Sport Stories
  Library, both of which lines sell at
  15 cents, are devoted to sports of
  all kinds, so if you love the great
  outdoors and the healthful exercise
  which goes with outdoor sport,
  buy these stories and make the
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  athletes.

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  =79 Seventh Avenue :: New York City=




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Transcriber’s note:

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  The cover image was repaired by the transcriber and is placed in the
  public domain.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg 26: ‘Had he possesed’ replaced by ‘Had he possessed’.
  Pg 54: ‘to do someting’ replaced by ‘to do something’.
  Pg 133: ‘It that right?’ replaced by ‘Is that right?’.
  Pg 151: ‘shut the nozle’ replaced by ‘shut the nozzle’.
  Pg 170: ‘My goodnes!’ replaced by ‘My goodness!’.
  Pg 171: ‘These litle quivers’ replaced by ‘These little quivers’.
  Pg 192: ‘had a very atractive’ replaced by ‘had a very attractive’.
  Pg 207: ‘Boltwod, whose long’ replaced by ‘Boltwood, whose long’.
  Pg 210: ‘carrying Boltwod off’ replaced by ‘carrying Boltwood off’.
  Pg 295: ‘Meriwell believed in’ replaced by ‘Merriwell believed in’.
  Pg 299: ‘Grady, 3r b.’ replaced by ‘Grady, 3d b.’.