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                          BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

                           MERRIWELL SERIES

                  Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell


                   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
   66—Frank Merriwell’s Set Back                By Burt L. Standish
   67—Frank Merriwell’s Search                  By Burt L. Standish
   68—Frank Merriwell’s Club                    By Burt L. Standish
   69—Frank Merriwell’s Trust                   By Burt L. Standish
   70—Frank Merriwell’s False Friend            By Burt L. Standish
   71—Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm              By Burt L. Standish
   72—Frank Merriwell as Coach                  By Burt L. Standish
   73—Frank Merriwell’s Brother                 By Burt L. Standish
   74—Frank Merriwell’s Marvel                  By Burt L. Standish
   75—Frank Merriwell’s Support                 By Burt L. Standish
   76—Dick Merriwell At Fardale                 By Burt L. Standish
   77—Dick Merriwell’s Glory                    By Burt L. Standish
   78—Dick Merriwell’s Promise                  By Burt L. Standish
   79—Dick Merriwell’s Rescue                   By Burt L. Standish
   80—Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape            By Burt L. Standish
   81—Dick Merriwell’s Racket                   By Burt L. Standish
   82—Dick Merriwell’s Revenge                  By Burt L. Standish
   83—Dick Merriwell’s Ruse                     By Burt L. Standish
   84—Dick Merriwell’s Delivery                 By Burt L. Standish
   85—Dick Merriwell’s Wonders                  By Burt L. Standish
   86—Frank Merriwell’s Honor                   By Burt L. Standish
   87—Dick Merriwell’s Diamond                  By Burt L. Standish
   88—Frank Merriwell’s Winners                 By Burt L. Standish
   89—Dick Merriwell’s Dash                     By Burt L. Standish
   90—Dick Merriwell’s Ability                  By Burt L. Standish
   91—Dick Merriwell’s Trap                     By Burt L. Standish
   92—Dick Merriwell’s Defense                  By Burt L. Standish
   93—Dick Merriwell’s Model                    By Burt L. Standish
   94—Dick Merriwell’s Mystery                  By Burt L. Standish
   95—Frank Merriwell’s Backers                 By Burt L. Standish
   96—Dick Merriwell’s Backstop                 By Burt L. Standish
   97—Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission          By Burt L. Standish
   98—Frank Merriwell’s Rescue                  By Burt L. Standish
   99—Frank Merriwell’s Encounter               By Burt L. Standish
  100—Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money             By Burt L. Standish
  101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads                  By Burt L. Standish
  102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron            By Burt L. Standish
  103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise                 By Burt L. Standish
  104—Dick Merriwell’s Test                     By Burt L. Standish
  105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card              By Burt L. Standish




                      Frank Merriwell’s Marriage

                                  OR,

                          INZA’S HAPPIEST DAY


                                  BY
                           BURT L. STANDISH
                Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.


                            [Illustration]


                      STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                              PUBLISHERS
                    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York




                            Copyright, 1905
                           By STREET & SMITH

                      Frank Merriwell’s Marriage


               (Printed in the United States of America)

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




                      FRANK MERRIWELL’S MARRIAGE.




                              CHAPTER I.

                           AT EAGLE HEIGHTS.


“I would give ten thousand dollars to know Frank Merriwell’s secret,”
declared Wallace Grafter, sitting in a comfortable “Old Hickory” chair
on the veranda of the Eagle Heights clubhouse and watching the Albany
boat, which was passing on its way up the Hudson.

“It would be worth it, my dear boy,” yawned Philip Phipps, a youth from
Poughkeepsie, as he snapped a half-smoked cigarette over the rail and
drew out his handsome watch, at which he casually glanced. “But do you
think he has a secret?”

“Of course he has!” exclaimed the first speaker decidedly. “His record
proves it. What time is it?”

“Ten-twenty,” answered Phipps.

“He’ll be here in forty minutes,” said Grafter. “I’m curious to see
him.”

Farley Fisher, straight, square-shouldered, military in his bearing,
not over twenty-four years of age, standing at a corner of the veranda,
smiled a bit scornfully.

“It is amusing to me, gentlemen,” he observed, “to think that any
fellow can keep up a fake as long as Merriwell has.”

“Fake?” cried Phipps, excitement bringing a touch of falsetto into his
voice.

“Fake?” questioned Grafter, moving his chair to face Fisher more
squarely. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said—no more, no less. I am satisfied that Merriwell is a
faker.”

Inside an open window of the reading room, which was close at hand,
Hobart Manton had been glancing over the pages of a magazine. The words
of those outside reached his ears. He dropped the magazine and leaned
on the window ledge.

“I agree with you, Fisher,” he said. “Merriwell is the biggest faker
in this country, and in many ways the cleverest. You know I’m a Yale
man. At college I heard so much of Merriwell and what he had done while
there that I grew sick and disgusted. He was successful in fooling
almost everybody, it seems.”

Grafter rose to his feet. He was a well-built fellow, nearly six feet
tall, with splendid shoulders and carriage. He was the son of Mike
Grafter, the well known Tammany politician, familiarly called “Reliable
Mike” by his associates in New York. Although young Grafter had never
been guilty of doing a day’s work in his life, he had inherited a
splendid physique from his parents and had made athletics his hobby,
beginning with the days of his baseball playing on the open lots in
Harlem. Like his father, he was generally well liked, although it was
claimed that, with his sturdy frame he had also inherited some of old
Grafter’s ideas of winning in any contest by whatever method possible,
either fair or otherwise. Like his father, he was also able to cover
his tracks so completely that nothing crooked had ever been proved
against him, and he was prompt to vigorously resent any insinuation or
hint of unfairness.

“I presume,” he said, “that you gentlemen have heard the saying of the
late Abraham Lincoln that ‘you can fool some of the people all of the
time and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all the
people all of the time?’”

“What has that to do with Merriwell?” asked Fisher.

“If he is a faker,” retorted Grafter, “I swear it seems to me that he
has succeeded in fooling all of the people all of the time since he
started in to fool them at all.”

“I’d like to know what any one means by calling him a faker,” said
Phipps.

Manton rose quickly from his chair and came sauntering out onto the
veranda, followed by his particular friend, Denton Fisher, of the
Harlem Heights A.A.

“Gentlemen,” he said, a knowing smile on his smooth-shaven, bulldog
face, “I think I can explain what I mean by calling Merriwell a faker.
A faker is a deceiver—he pretends to accomplish things he does not
actually accomplish. At college Merriwell won a great deal of glory as
a football captain and a baseball player. Investigation will show that
the football and baseball teams of those years were the strongest ever
turned out at Yale. He obtained the reputation, while the men behind
him did the work. It has been so ever since.”

“Apparently,” said Phipps, “you do not give Merriwell any credit for
developing such strong teams.”

“I place the credit where it belongs, with the coaches. Merriwell
developed nothing. He happened to be fortunate in having such good
teams to back him up, and he has lived on the reputation made at Yale.”

“His career since leaving Yale——” began Grafter.

“What has he done? Personally, I mean. He has traveled round more or
less, with an athletic team made up from the best Yale men of his day
and a few clever outsiders. He still works the old game of living on
the glory that should belong to others. But he is careful when he plays
baseball teams to choose such teams as he can defeat in most instances.
For instance——”

“The Chicago Nationals,” laughed Grafter. “Didn’t he win two games off
them in California?”

“Fake!” laughed Manton, in return. “He has plenty of money, and he can
afford to buy the rubber game, especially when it costs a big team
nothing to lose it. That’s another of his tricks. He goes round the
country spending money freely. Who couldn’t win at almost anything if
he had plenty of money!”

Grafter shook his head.

“I have found out,” he said, “that legitimate amateur sports are
generally on the level. Amateurs, as a rule, cannot be bought.”

“Well,” said the Yale man, with a slight curling of his lips, “I
presume you speak from experience.”

Instantly Grafter flushed and his hands closed quickly.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, a threat in his voice. “You
may have a reputation as a gentleman boxer; but you had better be
careful with your tongue, for I don’t fancy being insulted, even by
you.”

Manton looked like a pugilist toned down, or toned up, like a
gentleman. He had a thick neck and the cast of countenance that one
instinctively associates with pugnacity. He had taken part in many an
amateur boxing match, and some of the contests had been “to a finish.”
It was his boast that he had never been “put out.” It was generally
known that his college career had terminated suddenly and unexpectedly
because he had attempted to beat up one of the professors.

“You’re touchy, Grafter,” said Manton, with a slight shrug of his
muscular shoulders. “What’s the use? Can’t you take a joke?”

“The right kind of a joke. I presume you’re joking about Merriwell?”

“On the contrary, I’m in sober earnest. I meant just what I said.”

“It sounded like a joke to me,” said Phipps. “Why, I didn’t suppose any
one questioned Merriwell’s standing as an athlete. Surely it is not
questioned here, else he would not have been invited to take part in
our meet.”

“It is possible we may be able to show him up as the faker he is,”
laughed Manton. “Why, the fellow actually has the nerve to claim that
he is the all-round champion athlete of this country.”

“I don’t think he made such a claim himself,” said Grafter promptly.
“The newspapers called him that after he made the best record at
Ashport last week. That was a contest for the all-round championship
of the country.”

“At Ashport!” sneered Manton. “And where is Ashport, pray? A little
country town somewhere on the Ohio River. Who did Merriwell meet there?”

“Amateurs from all over the country,” answered Phipps. “According to
all reports, it was one of the most successful contests ever held in
this country.”

“But it was not the regular meet of the Amateur Athletic Association of
the United States. It was nothing but a country club affair, at most.
Championships won at such tournaments do not count. It’s a case of pure
gall for Merriwell to set himself up as the leading all-round amateur
of the country.”

“Besides,” reminded Denton Frost, “he was defeated there by a local man
in a cross-country run a short time before.”

“Who defeated him?” questioned Phipps.

“Oh, some unknown. I agree with Manton that he’ll be shown up here if
he ventures to take part. We’ll have the leading amateurs in the East.”

“Gentlemen,” said Grafter, who appeared to have recovered his good
nature, “if Mr. Merriwell enters for any of our contests, I’ll give you
an opportunity to win some of my money, for I shall bet on him.”

“Better use stage money,” advised Frost. “You won’t miss it so much.”

“Don’t worry about me,” flung back Grafter. “If I lose some real money,
I can stand it.”

“That’s a good thing for you,” grinned Frost, in a chilly manner.

“I think I heard you remark that you would give ten thousand to know
Merriwell’s secret,” said Manton. “I’ll tell you what it is, and it
won’t cost you a dollar. Pick out easy marks as opponents. In that
manner you’ll always be a winner.”

“I don’t fancy you think we have many easy marks belonging to this club
or entered for the tournament?”

“No, not many.”

“Will you name some of the events in which men are entered who cannot
be defeated by Merriwell?”

“Ye-e-es; the standing long jump, the high jump, and the pole vault.
The champions of the country are entered for these events, and
Merriwell would be outclassed in any one of them.”

“Perhaps he may be induced to take part in them.”

“I doubt it. When he finds out the men who are entered, he’ll keep
out. Why, Jack Necker, the Hartford man, is going out for the world’s
championship, and he can jump some. My friend Frost is entered for the
pole vault. He came within an ace of defeating Burleigh, the world’s
champion, last year, and he can vault eight inches higher this year
than he could then. He’d make Merriwell look like a high-school kid at
it.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to find out very soon what Merriwell
intends to do,” said Phipps, rising and looking down the winding drive.
“Here comes a carriage, containing Bert Fuller and two strangers. I
fancy one of the strangers is Frank Merriwell.”

The Eagle Heights A.A. was peculiar in many ways. It was a “country
club” for amateur athletes, most picturesquely located on the Hudson,
some miles above Peekskill. One of the qualifications for membership
was that each and every member must belong to some other amateur club
and must be the champion of his own club in some particular line. For
instance, Bert Fuller, president of the Eagle Heights A.A., was the
champion gymnast of the Madison Square A.A.; Wallace Grafter was the
best shot putter of the Catskill Club; Horace Manton was the star
boxer of the Albany University Club; George Branch was the leading
long-distance bicyclist of the Century Club, of Boston; Philip Phipps
was the champion billiard player of the Poughkeepsie Pastime Club, and
Denton Frost, of the Harlem Heights A.A., was a candidate for the
championship of the world at pole vaulting.

It will be readily understood that the Eagle Heights A.A. was an
organization made up and maintained by rich young men, or the sons of
wealthy men—gentlemen they were supposed to be, one and all. But wealth
is not always the brand of birth or breeding, and, like other clubs,
the Eagle Heights contained members who lacked the natural instincts of
the gentleman, although they had a certain veneering, or outward polish.

The Eagle Heights A.A. was the outcome of the modern development of
interest in athletics and sports. Ten years ago the organization and
maintenance of such a club would have been impossible; and, indeed, the
scheme seemed wild and visionary when first outlined at the Manhattan
A.A. by Frederick Fuller, the father of Bert Fuller. Although plainly
told that he could never carry the project through, Fuller, Sr., went
about it in earnest, secured a site for the clubhouse, with fine
grounds on every hand, started a fund, interested other men of wealth,
and finally pushed the thing through. The Eagle Heights A.A. was
nearly two years old and flourishing like a green bay tree. It was
generally regarded as the acme of glory to be admitted as a member,
and the time had already arrived when it was found necessary to make a
finer discrimination in regard to admissible candidates.

As was natural, rivalry for honors among the club members of this
remarkable organization was very keen. But not all the contests were
held for the benefit of members only. Already there had been three
open meets of various sorts, and now there was to be another, in which
all athletes regularly registered in the A.A.A. of the U.S. could
participate. Frank Merriwell, having reached the East after a tour of
the country, had received a special invitation to be present and to
compete if he desired.

Having learned that Merry would visit the club at a certain time, there
was an unusually large number of members present on the forenoon of
this midweek day.

Phil Phipps was correct in thinking that one of the two strangers in
the carriage with the president of the club was Frank. The other was
Merry’s boon companion, Bart Hodge.

The carriage stopped at the broad front steps and Fuller sprang out,
followed by his guests.

“Here we are, Merriwell!” cried the youthful president, with a wave of
his hand. “What do you think of our location?”

Frank permitted his eyes to sweep over the beautiful prospect of
fields, woodland, and hills, through the midst of which flowed the
blue, majestic Hudson. It was a vision to delight the soul of any true
lover of nature.

“It is grand, Fuller!” he answered, with enthusiasm. “With such a view
outspread before you, you should be constantly spurred to do your level
best at any undertaking. Surely it is an inspiration.”

The face of Hodge betrayed his admiration, but he said nothing.

“My father chose the spot,” said Fuller proudly. “He saw what could
be done here. Although we are up among the hills, we have one of the
finest athletic fields in the country. Let’s go in. I know many of the
boys are anxious to meet you.”

“And I am one of them,” declared Wallace Grafter, advancing to the
steps.

He was introduced to Frank and Bart, shaking them heartily by the hand.

Phil Phipps and Farley Fisher followed.

“We have a Yale man here, Merriwell,” said Fuller. “I know you’ll be
welcomed by a son of Old Eli. Mr. Manton——”

He stopped short, for Hobart Manton, with Denton Frost at his side, had
already turned away and was entering the clubhouse.

The president flushed. For a moment he seemed surprised and confused,
but he quickly recovered, smiling a little, as he said:

“Evidently Manton’s modesty prevented him from pressing forward at
once. He intends to wait to meet you inside.”

Frank nodded. He knew something was wrong, but he did not show it. He
did not even return Bart’s queer look of questioning.

They entered the building. In the parlor they met other members, all of
whom were very cordial. In the reading room were still others.

Manton and Frost were there when they entered. The pair surveyed Frank
and Bart with an air of indifference, and together, just before Fuller
would have presented them, they sauntered away into another part of the
house.

Fuller was furious, although he tried to conceal it.

There was no mistaking this repetition of the act.

It was a deliberate slight.

The president made a resolution to give Manton and Frost a prompt
calling down, but, not wishing to leave Merry just then, he waited for
another opportunity.

The visitors were conducted through the building until they finally
came to the gymnasium, which they found lavishly fitted with the finest
modern apparatus.

In the gym a number of fellows were at work. The only spectators were
Manton and Frost. But now neither Fuller nor the visitors gave the two
chaps the slightest notice, although walking past them within a few
feet.

At one side of the room, and running the full length, was a string of
flying rings.

Coming to the end of these, Hodge was seized by a sudden desire to test
some of the energy he felt seething within. Giving a short turn, he
sprang into the air, caught the first ring, swung to the second, from
that to the third, and so on until he had traversed the complete line.

Manton and Frost left the room, laughing softly and saying something to
each other about showing off.

Bart had not thought of “showing off,” but he realized that his action
might be regarded as the outcome of a desire to exhibit himself, and
his face grew dark.

“When the time comes right, one or both of you chaps are going to get
something from me,” he thought.

They next inspected the billiard room, coming at last to the bowling
alleys.

There they again found Manton and Frost, who seemed on the point of
starting a string.

Now an odd thing happened. Manton stepped forward and spoke to Frank.

“You’ve been kept busy shaking hands with the rest of the boys,” he
said. “I’m not inclined to rush forward and overwhelm a visitor. I
leave that to Grafter.”

Fuller was relieved, and he immediately introduced both Manton and
Frost.

“We’re glad to know you, Mr. Merriwell,” declared the gentleman
pugilist. “I heard a great deal about you at college. You surely had
all Yale hypnotized. Of course some of the things they tell of you are
preposterous. I regard you as very clever in being able to secure such
a reputation.”

“I don’t think I understand you,” said Merry, disagreeably impressed by
the fellow’s words.

“Why, you know they seem to think in New Haven that you were a champion
at any old thing to which you turned your hand. No man could excel at
everything. That’s out of reason. I presume you were fairly clever as
a baseball pitcher, or something of that sort; but they seemed to fancy
you were possessed of the powers of a god. For instance, although I
was the champion bowler and sparrer, I was continually being told what
Merriwell did when he was there. I grew sick of it. I longed for an
opportunity to demonstrate to them that you were not the only person on
earth. Of course I had no such opportunity. Had you drifted along at
the proper moment, I’d taken special delight in showing you up on the
alleys.”

He laughed as he made this statement.

“Evidently,” said Frank, “it was a good thing for my reputation that I
kept away from New Haven while you were in college.”

“As far as bowling or boxing was concerned.”

“You’re a fine bowler?”

“I am the champion of this club, although one of our members is the
champion bowler of the White Elephant, of Paterson.”

“I’m hardly in my best form as a bowler just now,” confessed Merry.

Frost started to laugh, but checked himself.

“I presume not,” smiled Manton.

“I have bowled very little during the last two months, having been
interested mainly in outdoor sports.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Manton; “I’m not going to challenge you.”

“But I was thinking of challenging you,” said Merry sweetly, his words
causing the heart of Bart Hodge to leap with satisfaction.




                              CHAPTER II.

                          IN THE CLUB ALLEY.


“Oh, were you?” exclaimed the gentleman pugilist, with a touch of
surprise. “Well, that suits me! If you’re not in your best form,
however, you had better wait, for I’ll bury you.”

“Even if you do that, it will give me pleasure to witness your skill,”
nodded Frank. “And I believe I am able to accept defeat gracefully.
I’ve been compelled to do so more than once in my day.”

“What’s that?” cut in Frost, in his cold voice. “Why, from all reports
I should fancy you had never been defeated at anything.”

“You know reports are generally exaggerated.”

“Well,” said Manton eagerly, “if you’re anxious to be trimmed, we’ll
get at it.”

Merry calmly removed his coat and vest.

A colored boy had followed them into the room, and he had the pins all
set up.

At this point Grafter, Phipps, and Fisher appeared, apparently looking
round for the visitors. They were surprised and interested when they
found out what was taking place.

“Just in time, Grafter!” cried Manton. “Have you plenty of the needful
on your person? You know the sort of talk you were making on the
veranda a while ago. Here’s the opportunity to part with some of your
filthy.”

Grafter was not one to back down. They stepped aside and spoke in low
tones.

“Bet you a hundred I beat him this string,” proposed Manton.

Frank knew what was taking place, and he seized the opportunity to say:

“Mr. Grafter, I’m not in my best bowling form, and bowling is not a
specialty with me.”

“I’ll go you, Manton,” said Grafter, without paying the least heed to
Frank.

The gentleman pugilist smiled with satisfaction.

“No need to put the money up,” he said. “Then we won’t break any rules.
Here’s where I begin to get into you. I hope Merriwell stays around
until after the meet. I’ll have you going to your old man for change.”

“For conceit,” returned Grafter, “you certainly take the cake. If you
win my money, you’re welcome to it.”

Frost was smiling as they returned and Manton made ready for business.

Merry had been looking the balls over. They were a fine lot, but he
weighed one after another in his hands, examined the finger holds and
finally selected two of them as his favorites.

A coin was tossed to see who would lead off, and it fell on Manton.

He picked out a large ball, took his position on the right-hand side
of the runway, bent forward, swung the ball at the end of his arm once
like the pendulum of a clock, then ran forward and rolled.

He started the ball from the right-hand side of the alley, rolling it
toward the head pin, which it struck quarteringly.

With a crash, every pin fell.

“Pretty, old man!” cried Fisher approvingly. “That’s the way to start
her off!”

“It’s keeping it up that counts,” said Grafter.

“Don’t worry about me,” advised Manton smilingly.

Now the strange thing of the affair was that Grafter, although he had
bet on Frank, was inclined to believe Merry would be beaten. He knew
Manton to be a wonderfully good bowler, while he was not at all certain
that Merriwell had ever accomplished much at it. Having made betting
talk on the veranda, however, he was not the fellow to let Manton back
him down, and, therefore, he had ventured a hundred dollars on the
result.

It is likely that Bart Hodge was the only person present who had
perfect confidence in Merry as a bowler. Bart’s face was grave and
unreadable as that of a stone image.

Frank picked up one of the two balls he had selected. He was watched
closely to note his “form” by all present. He poised the ball in front
of his face, made a short run and a single swing.

Seven pins fell.

Denton Frost smiled chillingly.

Farley Fisher shrugged his military shoulders.

Manton managed to repress any exhibition of satisfaction.

Not a word of complaint did Merriwell utter. By his manner no one could
have dreamed he was in the least disappointed.

He took the other ball and rolled for a spare.

Two pins went down and the one remaining tottered, swayed, and righted
itself.

“Nine pins,” said the scorer, as he made the record on the sheet.

“Hard luck, Merriwell,” said Hobart. “You’ll have to do better than
that.”

“I think I shall,” admitted Merry. “Still I did my level best for that
spare.”

“Spares don’t count when the other fellow is making strikes,” observed
Fisher.

“The other fellow may not make strikes all the time.”

“It’s plain you don’t know Manton. I’m afraid he’s roped you in as a
mark, which was not very nice of him.”

Fuller, who was scoring, looked disappointed, for he had hoped that his
guest would do better.

The pins were spotted and Manton went at them again.

Boom! The ball went rolling down the polished alley.

Crash! Every pin fell.

“Another strike,” said Frost. “It’s the natural thing with him.”

Frank had discarded the first ball used by him. He put it aside where
it would not get mixed with the others.

At this point he assumed all the self-command possible, fixing his mind
on the point where he wished the ball to strike. He was steady as a
mill.

The ball was delivered perfectly, leaving his hand without the
slightest jar as it touched the polished alley. With a soft boom it
rolled straight to the point on which Merry had set his mind.

Crash!

“Strike!” cried Fuller. “That’s the stuff, Merriwell! Now you are
showing your style!”

“But he began a trifle late, I fear,” said Frost.

“Don’t let your fears trouble you,” advised Bart Hodge. “The string is
just started.”

Grafter could not repress a smile of satisfaction. He did not like
Manton, and it was his earnest wish that Merriwell would push the
fellow hard, if he could not win.

“You’re getting the range of the alley,” he said. “Of course you were
taken at a disadvantage, not being familiar with it. You should have
rolled a few before beginning.”

Frank nodded. He realized that Grafter was right, but it was too late
to rectify the mistake.

“For one thing,” he said, “I think I made a mistake in the first ball
I used. The finger grip was not just right for me. The holes were a
trifle too close together.”

“That’s odd,” said Frost. “That’s the pet ball of Spaulding, the
champion of the Knickerbocker Bowling Club and the second best man in
this club.”

“Without doubt his hand is built differently from mine,” said
Merriwell. “It’s a fine ball, but not suited to the breadth of my grip.”

“When I fizzle I’ll tell you why it happened,” laughed Manton, in a
most irritating manner.

Hodge felt like punching the fellow; but Frank remained in nowise
disturbed.

The Eagle Heights man took his time when the pins were spotted. He
chalked the soles of his feet, moistened his fingers the least bit
with the sponge, chose his favorite ball, made his habitual swing and
smashed down every pin for the third time.

“Thirty in the first box,” said Fuller.

“Which leads Merriwell twenty-one,” observed Fisher. “That’s quite a
handicap.”

“It is when a man seems determined to make strikes right along,”
admitted Frank good-naturedly.

“I think I have my hand in your pocket, Grafter,” chuckled Manton.

“Perhaps so,” admitted the great shot putter of the Catskill Club. “But
‘there’s many a slip,’ you know. Don’t be too sure of anything in this
world. It doesn’t pay. I’ve found that out by experience.”

“He’s setting a hard pace, Mr. Merriwell,” said Fisher, with affected
politeness, yet plainly with the idea of rubbing Frank against the
grain.

“He is,” confessed Frank; “but that makes it all the more interesting.”

“Your sand seems good.”

Fuller shook his head at Fisher, but the latter pretended he did not
see it.

Frank did not hurry. When he did deliver the ball he sent it once more
to the exact spot he wished.

Nine pins fell.

Hodge uttered an exclamation of bitter disappointment, followed by
another of exultation; for the tenth pin, which had been tottering,
finally fell.

“That’s great luck for you, Merriwell,” declared Manton. “You got that
strike by the skin of your teeth.”

“It would have been a shame had he missed,” said Hodge. “He struck the
pins perfectly.”

“Still you know such things happen and leave pins standing at times. I
thought he struck a trifle too far to the right.”

Fisher and Frost exchanged glances and moved closer together.

“This Merriwell is no slouch at it,” said Fisher, in a low tone. “He’s
keeping right after Manton.”

“That’s right; but I don’t believe he can crowd him very hard. He’ll
slip up pretty soon.”

“It’s not impossible for Manton to slip up.”

“But Manton is not the kind to slip up in a case like this. He’s a
sticker.”

By this time Manton was ready again. Again he did the trick, although,
as in the case of Merry, one pin threatened not to fall.

“That would have been tough!” declared the Eagle Heights man, with
relief.

“Of course you struck the pins just right,” muttered Hodge.

“Yes, I did!” exclaimed Manton. “Any one could see that.”

“It seems to make a difference who rolls the ball,” said Hodge.

“Thirty in the second box for Manton, total of sixty,” said Fuller, as
he marked the score down.

When the pins were spotted Frank discovered two that were not set
right. He instructed the boy to place them squarely on the spots, which
was done.

“Better be careful,” sneered Frost; but pretended to laugh.

Manton had made four strikes in succession. His friends fancied this
would begin to shake Merriwell’s nerve; but that was because they did
not know Frank, whose nerves invariably became steadier when engaged in
a trying contest of any sort.

Merry sent the balls into the midst of the pins.

Crash!

“All down!” exclaimed Fuller. “Thirty for Merriwell in the second box,
with a total of thirty-nine.”

“Which is a long distance to the bad,” observed Frost.

Manton frowned the least bit. Merriwell was altogether too successful
in following up with strikes.

“Why don’t you quit it?” he cried, pretending to joke.

“I’m waiting for you to quit,” retorted Frank.

“You may have to wait a long time.”

“I don’t think you’ll go all the way through the string with strikes.”

“I may.”

“Of course. Still it is not probable.”

Manton followed with another strike.

As he took his position to bowl, Frank discovered that the pins were
spread slightly. He asked the boy about it, but the boy insisted that
they were on the spots.

Merry started to go down the alley to investigate, whereupon the boy
hastened to alter the positions of the pins slightly.

Immediately Fuller gave the boy a sharp calldown.

“You know what you’re down there for,” he said. “Put every pin up
perfectly.”

Frank struck the pins in his favorite manner, and they went down
promptly.

“I don’t believe he means to quit,” laughed Fuller. “That gives him a
total of sixty-nine in his third box.”

“But Manton has ninety in the same box,” reminded Frost.

“The string is half rolled, that’s all,” muttered Hodge.

Still it looked serious for Frank, as Manton was not the sort of
fellow to let slip an advantage that he had fairly within his grasp—at
least, that was what his friends thought. No one could have guessed
by the face of the gentleman pugilist that he was worried in the
slightest degree. He pretended to enjoy it. In his heart, however, he
was growling over the persistence of his opponent, which was quite
unexpected.

“Why don’t you give up, Merriwell?” he laughed.

“I’m not quite ready to give up,” was the quiet answer.

“I’ve heard that he never gives up, Manton,” said Fuller.

“Some people never know when they are beaten,” chipped in Fisher.

“That’s a good qualification,” said the president of the club.

“But it makes them appear ridiculous at times, don’t you know.”

This time the pin boy had every pin up correctly. Manton hesitated as
he was starting, pretended that his shoes were slippery, and resorted
to the chalk box.

“He’s beginning to feel the strain,” thought Hodge, in keen
satisfaction. “He’s getting shaky.”

Fortifying his nerve, Manton rolled in his usual style.

Crash!

“All down again!” said Frost. “I think he’s going through the string
with strikes.”

“Total of one hundred and twenty in his fourth box,” announced the
scorer. “That’s a three-hundred clip.”

“Now we’ll watch Mr. Merriwell,” observed Manton, sitting down with a
satisfied air.

“Everybody watch,” urged Frost.

“Lots of talking for a match,” reminded Fuller.

“Oh, but this is not a regular match,” said Fisher.

“But it’s regular enough so that a stranger should have fair play,”
came in something like a growl from Grafter. “You know what is
generally thought of men who try to rattle opponents.”

“Merriwell has the reputation of never getting rattled,” said Frost,
with another icy smile.

Frank seemed giving their chatter no heed. With the same air of
deliberation he smashed into the pins and cleaned the alley.

Frank had a total of ninety-nine in his fourth box, which left him
still twenty-one pins to the bad.

“Well, here goes another strike,” said Manton, as he selected his ball.




                             CHAPTER III.

                            SHIFTING WINDS.


Manton seemed just as confident as ever, but apprehension was beginning
to grip him. In his heart he was troubled by a slight fear that he
might fail.

It is this feeling of doubt that defeats many a man in the game of
life, as well as in other games. No person should ever attempt a task
while troubled by the smallest shadow of a doubt. He should have such
command of himself that his confidence in his ability to succeed cannot
waver. Through years of training Frank Merriwell had brought himself to
the point where he refused to doubt when in anything like his normal
condition.

At the very moment of delivering the ball Manton was assailed violently
by the doubt he had been unable to crush out of his heart. That doubt
sent an electric shock along his arm to his hand, which quivered as he
released the ball.

Instantly he realized he was not going to strike the pins properly.
Still he prayed for a fortunate result, knowing by experience that pins
often fell well when hit poorly.

In vain.

The ball cut through them, taking down only seven, leaving two on one
corner and one on the other.

“At last!” thought Hodge exultingly; but not a sound came from his
lips, and only the gleam in his dark eyes could have betrayed what was
passing in his heart.

“Well, now that was rotten, hard luck!” cried Manton, in disgust. “The
ball slipped.”

“You’ve kept your promise, Manton,” said Grafter.

“What promise?”

“You said that when you missed you would tell us how it happened.”

Manton shot him a look of anger.

The pin boy had sent Manton’s ball back. He took it from the return and
stood inspecting the pins.

“There’s a possible spare in it,” said Frost.

Manton turned to inspect the score sheet.

“A spare will save me,” mentally decided the Eagle Heights man. “If I
can get those three pins with this ball, I’ll never let him catch me.”

He rolled with precision and determination. The ball went down the
alley in beautiful style. It was his hope to send one of the two pins
flying across to sweep down the single pin on the opposite corner, and
he believed he was going to do it.

Fate was against him, however.

The ball took the two pins, and the head one shot across the alley, but
it missed the single pin.

Manton clenched his fist and made a gesture of dismay, breathing an
angry exclamation.

Fuller quickly jotted down the score.

“This is Merriwell’s grand opportunity!” cried Grafter. “I have a
finger and thumb into your pocket, Manton.”

The Eagle Heights bowler turned away and sat down, mopping his
perspiring face. Fisher stepped over and sat down beside him.

“Merriwell will slump, also,” he said, in a low voice. “It almost
always happens that way. If the leading man falls down, the one
following takes a tumble.”

“That’s something no one can count on,” muttered Manton.

“Great Scott!” gasped Fisher. “You’re not giving up?”

“Hardly; but that was infernal luck.”

It was almost certain that Denton Frost felt quite as bad about it as
Manton, but he said nothing. His face was like a cake of ice.

“It’s the golden moment, Merry!” muttered Hodge, in the ear of Manton.

Frank knew it. There was nothing mechanical about him, yet he was
steady as a piece of machinery. Through life he had tried to grasp his
opportunities. This was an opportunity he must not miss.

The pins were up when he stepped onto the runway. He picked up his ball
and took his position.

There was a hush.

In the midst of it Frost turned to Grafter and whispered:

“He’s shaking; he’ll blow up now.”

The whisper was loud enough for every one to hear, and Frost was
rewarded by several hisses from the spectators.

Boom!—the ball sped down the alley.

“It’s another strike!” exclaimed an excited watcher.

Crash!

A dozen persons shouted, for it was a strike.

“Still he’s only one hundred and twenty-nine in his fifth, against your
one forty-seven,” murmured Fisher, in the ear of Manton.

“But his strike gives him the advantage on the next two boxes,”
muttered the gentleman pugilist huskily.

“He can’t beat you if you get right down to it.”

“I’ll do all I can.”

Fisher was disappointed in the manner of his companion.

Manton did try hard the next time, but two pins were left standing.

“I’m getting my whole hand into that pocket,” said Grafter.

Manton clipped off the two pins with his second ball, and secured a
spare.

“That may hold Merriwell,” said Frost. “His turn is coming.”

Apparently Frank struck the pins perfectly, but there was another shout
when it was seen that he had left two standing.

“I told you!” said Frost.

A gleam of hope came to Manton’s face.

Frank waited for the ball to be returned. Then he tried a difficult
shot in the hope of getting a spare, but missed the first pin by the
merest fraction of an inch. Fuller swiftly marked down the score, and a
perfect roar filled the alley when the result was seen.

Merry had one hundred and fifty-seven in the sixth box and one hundred
and seventy-five in the seventh, which tied Manton at that point.

In the eighth box he had one hundred and eighty-three, with the result
of Manton’s spare to be recorded in that box, which, without doubt,
would again put the Eagle Heights man in the lead.

“You have him!” hissed Fisher, in Manton’s ear. “Keep your nerve now
and you’ll beat him out easily!”

Frost smiled in his usual manner.

“Take your hand out of my pocket, Grafter!” cried Manton. “The wind has
changed.”

“Perhaps so,” admitted the shot putter. “But it isn’t over yet.”

It was Manton’s turn to roll his ninth.

“Put a strike on top of that spare, old boy!” urged Fisher.

The gentleman pugilist tried hard enough, but the ball swept straight
through the centre of the pins, leaving one on either corner.

Manton stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the two pins.

Grafter laughed.

“The wind seems to be full of flaws,” he remarked.

Boiling with anger, Manton seized a ball and sent it booming along to
take off one of the two pins.

“One hundred and ninety-three in the eighth box, and two hundred and
two in the ninth,” said Fuller.

“Ten ahead of Merriwell in the eighth,” muttered Frost, clinging to
hope. “Let’s see what Merriwell will do.”

Frank’s turn came directly, and he went after the pins in a resolute
manner.

He got them.

“Strike!” was the shout, as he swept them all down.

Manton seemed to turn green.

Grafter opened his lips to rejoice, but changed his mind and said
nothing.

“Luck—nothing but luck!” said Frost freezingly.

Still Manton did not give up, for he knew there was a possibility that
his antagonist might take a terrible slump in the last box.

“Keep after him, old man,” urged Fisher. “You may pull out.”

“Not much chance for it,” confessed Manton; but still he tried hard,
and swept down all the pins.

“Roll it off; it’s your last box,” said Fuller.

Manton repeated the trick twice more.

“A good string,” observed Fisher.

“Not for me,” muttered the gentleman pugilist, as he went for his
collar and necktie.

“Eat ’em up, Frank!” urged Hodge. “Go after them all. The first ball
counts.”

Merriwell knew it. He betrayed no uneasiness, but he took the utmost
pains.

There was a hush as he sent the huge ball rolling down the polished
alley.

Crash! It was a strike.

Manton turned away. He could not speak, and his hands shook a bit as he
buttoned on his collar and adjusted his tie.

Merry waited for the pins to be reset and his ball to be returned.

Then he rolled again.

“Another strike!” exclaimed Hodge.

But it was not. Nine pins fell.

Fuller quickly added up the score which showed that Frank had defeated
Manton by nine points.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                              SOREHEADS.


Hobart Manton was sore all the way through. Having put on his coat,
he came over to Merriwell, who was betraying no exultation over the
outcome.

“I presume it’s up to me to say something pleasant,” he observed. “You
defeated me on the level, all right; but you couldn’t do it again in a
week.”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Frank, unruffled. “Still you know there is an
old saying that the future may be judged only by the past. I’m not a
champion bowler.”

“You’re not?”

“No, sir.”

“Why, I thought you pretended to be a champion at everything you
attempted to do.”

“On the contrary, I make no pretensions whatever.”

“He doesn’t have to,” chipped in Grafter. “His record speaks for him.”

“Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to purchase his secret for ten
thousand dollars,” sneered Manton. “You are so flush with money.”

“It wouldn’t cost me quite ten thousand now,” retorted the shot-putter.
“Only nine thousand nine hundred. I have a hundred coming.”

“That’s right,” admitted Manton; “but winning that hundred may cost you
dearly before long. I generally get even.”

“Welcome to try.”

“If you linger until our open meet comes off,” said Manton, again
addressing Merriwell, “we’ll try to find some one to defeat you at
something.”

“Jumping or pole vaulting, for instance,” said Farley Fisher.

“In a club made up of specialists you should be able to defeat an
ordinary all-round man,” said Frank. “You know it is the rule that an
all-round man seldom excels at any particular thing.”

“He fancies he is the exception to the rule,” said Frost, in his cold,
chilling way.

“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Bert Fuller reprovingly; “don’t forget that Mr.
Merriwell is a guest!”

“Oh, never mind them,” smiled Frank. “They’re amusing themselves by
seeking to get me on the string. It doesn’t disturb me, and it may give
them pleasure.”

“He’s too blamed cool and undisturbed!” growled Farley Fisher, turning
away. “Makes me want to punch him! I know Manton is just boiling to get
at him with his fists.”

“Manton could show him up that way,” said Frost. “Too bad he didn’t
challenge the fellow to put on the gloves. Then there would have been
no question about the result.”

The defeated bowler left the alley, accompanied by a few of his bosom
friends.

Frank was congratulated by a number of the members, who told him
plainly that they had not fancied it possible he could defeat their man
at bowling.

“Well,” nodded Merry, “you know there was nothing sure about it until
it was over. Mr. Manton is a splendid bowler, but he takes defeat
hard. He’s a poor loser.”

Grafter kept close to Merry. Before Frank left the club, he found an
opportunity to say:

“I’d like to have a little private talk with you, Mr. Merriwell. Will
it be too much bother?”

“Not at all, Mr. Grafter. I’m at liberty any time you may select.”

“Where are you stopping?”

“At Elm Tree Inn, down below. Just going down for lunch now. Will you
take lunch with me?”

“I should be pleased to!” exclaimed Grafter. “But why don’t you stop
here to lunch?”

“I invited him,” the club president hastened to explain; “but he said
he had some business that he must look after, and so he could not stay
to-day.”

“Oh, then I’ll interfere with your business?” said the shot putter.

“Not at all. The fact is, I’m half expecting some of my boys to arrive
at the inn, and I wish to be there when they show up.”

A few minutes later Grafter was in the carriage with Merriwell, Hodge,
and Fuller. Manton and his particular chums watched the four depart.

“Grafter makes me ill!” growled Manton. “He’s ready to bow down and
worship Merriwell. Seems to think the fellow has some wonderful secret
method of becoming a champion. Oh, hang the luck! Why did I fail to
defeat him to-day! I’ll guarantee I can do it next time!”

“You should have challenged him for another string,” said Fisher.

“I couldn’t very well. I think I mentioned that one string would be
enough. I said something of the sort before we began bowling. Besides,
I was too hot over losing that string. I knew he would defeat me if we
rolled another right away.”

Dent Frost had his derby pulled over his eyes. He was humped on a
chair, his feet on the window ledge.

“It didn’t seem to bother you as much as it did me,” he observed.
“Wonder if Merriwell is coming back here this afternoon?”

“I understand he is. Why?”

“I’d like to run him up against somebody who could knock a corner off
him. Who’s the man?”

“There he is now!” exclaimed Fisher, as a young chap in flannels
approached the house, followed by a caddie with a golfing outfit.

“Cleaves?” said Manton.

“The very fellow,” asserted Fisher. “He’s the golf champion of this
club, and he could be the champion of the country, if he would give up
business and turn his attention to golf.”

Manton shook his head.

“It wouldn’t satisfy me much to see Merriwell defeated at such a mild
game as golf,” he declared.

“I’d like to see him beaten at something that would hurt him—and hurt
him bad.”

“You’re looking for revenge.”

“That’s what I am,” was the confession. “I’m looking for it, and I’m
going to have it!”

“Now you’re talking,” nodded Frost. “Rib him into the pole vault at our
meet, and I’ll give you a taste of it.”

“Don’t be too sure. I thought I could put it over him on the alley
to-day. I’d like to smash his face!”

“Why don’t you?” murmured Frost.

“I may—when I get a chance. Couldn’t pick a quarrel with him here, you
know. Hello! here’s Necker.”

A slender, blue-eyed chap approached.

“What’s this I hear?” he exclaimed. “They tell me you’ve let a stranger
down you at tenpins, Mant.”

“So they’re blowing it round?” snapped Manton, frowning. “I thought
they would. Seem to take delight in it. I suppose there are fools
around here who fancy it’s an honor for a member of this club to be
defeated by the great Frank Merriwell.”

Necker whistled.

“Was that the fellow who did it?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone. He’s stopping down at the Elm Tree. Grafter’s mittened onto him.”

“I’ve been wanting to get a look at Merriwell. What’s up? Is he here to
take part in the meet?”

“I reckon so. He’ll expect to put it all over our bunch. You want to
look out, Jack. You know he’s a champion at everything.”

Necker laughed.

“I’m not afraid of that kind of a champion,” he declared.
“Jack-of-all-trades and master of none, you know. I hope he does jump
against me. It will add interest to that event.”

“Don’t you be too sure of defeating him,” said Fisher.

“I’ll defeat him all right if he jumps,” assured Necker. “But he’ll be
too clever to let me show him up. He had better stick to his baseball.
That’s what he was cut out for. I’m sorry you fell down when you
tackled him, Manton.”

“I tell you he is a bad man at anything,” said Fisher. “I didn’t
think it a while ago, but I believe it now. He’s a chap with supreme
confidence in himself.”

“Sort of a swell head, eh? Goes round with his chest out and a chip on
his shoulder?”

“That’s what makes me all the sorer on him. He doesn’t go round that
way. He’s too quiet and modest. Never’d know he considered himself
anything in particular. Of course, that’s all a bluff. I’ll guarantee
he’s all swelled up inside, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“I’m growing more and more interested,” smiled Necker. “If he can be
induced to enter the jumping contest I’ll make him look like a yellow
dog with a tin can tied to its tail, I promise you.”

“And I’m ready to do the same thing to him at the pole vault,” said
Frost.

“And I’m going to push up against him in another way if I find an
opportunity,” growled Manton, clenching his fist and looking at it
earnestly.

“It seems to me,” said Fisher, “that Mr. Merriwell will have his hands
full of business if he lingers around here.”




                              CHAPTER V.

                              THE SECRET.


Frank was a bit disappointed by the failure of his friends to reach the
Elm Tree Inn that noon.

Grafter lunched with Merry and Hodge. They chatted pleasantly
throughout the meal. The shot putter noted everything that Frank ate.

“Do you conform to a rigid diet?” he asked.

“Not exactly, although I do not eat the things I know are not good for
me.”

“Can you outline a diet that is proper for all athletes in training?”

“I might outline one that would be proper for most athletes, yet not
for all. I have found by experience that human stomachs vary, and it is
an old saw that ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ Still there
are some rules that apply to every one. Certain things must not be
touched by the fellow who proposes to become an athlete.”

“For instance?”

“Tobacco, liquor, coffee.”

“Don’t you think a man may take a small drink with beneficial effect at
times?”

“Never when in health.”

“When not in health——”

“He’s not fit to take part in athletic contests. Liquor may be used as
a medicine when prescribed by a doctor who knows his business.”

“How about the theory that liquor in moderate quantity is a food? You
know that’s the assertion of the most advanced doctors of the present
day.”

Frank nodded and smiled.

“It may be a food,” he admitted; “but it is a most dangerous one. The
person who uses it as a food must acquire an appetite for it. Half a
pint of liquor a day might not seem to harm a strong and rugged man
until he acquired the appetite and desire for it. In the end it might
ruin him. It is something that cannot be tampered with. It should be
let alone by all healthy persons.”

“What’s the secret of your remarkable success in becoming the champion
amateur athlete of America, Mr. Merriwell?”

Again Frank smiled.

“Am I the champion of America?”

“So called by almost every one.”

“Well, there is no great secret about my success. In the first place
I began young. I have been working for years to make myself perfect
physically without overdoing and breaking down. It’s a delicate thing
to know just how much hard work will be beneficial for one, for
overdoing invariably weakens. I have been temperate, and I’ve tried
to live properly. I have no vices that can weaken me. Petty vices are
the ruin of hundreds of would-be athletes. I enjoy life thoroughly
without seeking enjoyment in forbidden paths. All the while I have been
training my body I’ve trained my mind also.

“Mind and body must work together. The chap who wishes to become a
champion must be earnest, sincere, and determined. He must never slight
his work. He must always keep himself keyed up to the finest possible
point. The moment he grows careless or negligent he begins to slump and
go backward. He must have unwavering confidence in himself. It’s hard
for a youngster to be confident in himself without showing conceit, and
then every one wants to kick him. But there is such a thing as absolute
and perfect self-confidence without conceit.”

Grafter seemed a trifle disappointed.

“Have you told me your secret?” he asked.

“I informed you that there was no secret about it. The secret of
success is generally hard work. Veterans will tell you so.”

“But some fellows seem to succeed without working.”

“No man has made great success in this world without working; but you
know for many men work is play. The boy who enjoys work is certain to
be a winner.”

Grafter shook his head.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed, “that I’ll never be much of a winner at
anything, for I do not enjoy work.”

“Learn to enjoy it.”

“How can I?”

“Put your heart into it. Get interested. That’s the trick. Never do
a thing with the simple desire to get it done quickly, but with the
determination to get it done well.”

“That’s good advice, I reckon,” admitted Grafter; “but can you tell
me how it is that you happen to be an all-round champion, yet able
to defeat fellows who have made a special effort to excel in one
particular line?”

“I have told you the whole secret. Other fellows may have been content
to perfect themselves in one or two lines; I have tried to become
perfect in many lines. Some things I like better than others. If I
attempt a thing that I do not like very well, I work at it all the
harder. If I find some other fellow who can do it better than I, then I
set out to do it better than he can, and I never stop until I succeed.
Even then, I generally find still another chap who is my superior and
keep on trying to beat him.”

“But you were specially adapted to become a great athlete. You were
athletic when a boy?”

“I made myself so. I was something of a weakling when born. My mother
expected me to die. I remember hearing her say it was a shame I could
not grow up to be strong and rugged. She even fancied I might have lung
trouble.”

“It doesn’t seem possible!” cried Grafter, surveying Merry’s sturdy
figure.

“When I became old enough to think, I resolved that I would be strong.
I sought to learn how to make myself strong. I discovered the way. Do
you know it is a fact that almost all great athletes and strong men
have been weak children?”

“I did not know.”

“It’s true.”

“But it almost seems that you must hypnotize your opponents in matches.
How is it that you defeat them time after time when they appear to have
the advantage, the same as you did Manton to-day?”

“I grasp the opportunity.”

“The opportunity? Why——”

“In almost everything there comes an opening, or opportunity, that may
be seized with advantage. It came to-day when Manton failed to make his
seventh straight strike. I always watch the other fellow to see when he
weakens. At that point I try to put forth my best efforts. If he slumps
and I succeed, he may lose his nerve. All through life a man must be
ready to grasp the opportunity.”

“And that,” cried Grafter, as if his eyes had suddenly been opened, “is
the secret of his success!”




                              CHAPTER VI.

                            A “GO” AT GOLF.


It was mid-afternoon when Frank and Bart again appeared at the
clubhouse. They came walking briskly up the road, and were greeted by
Fuller, who, with others, was waiting for them on the veranda.

“I suppose you’re too tired after that climb to think of inspecting our
field right away?” said the president of the club.

“On the contrary,” smiled Merry, “that has simply whetted our appetite
for more.”

“Then come on.”

A number of club members accompanied them. Fuller led the way along
a broad walk and out through a small grove. They came upon a broad,
level field, like a plateau. Round the field ran a fine track,
inclosing a baseball diamond and football ground. At one side were long
rows of open seats, rising in tiers. At one end of the oval was the
trackmaster’s house, which also served as a bathhouse and contained
dressing rooms for the competitors.

Merry was surprised.

“Certainly I didn’t look for this here,” he confessed. “I was wondering
where you could have a field up among these hills. This is splendid.”

“Oh, my father knew what he was about when he selected this location!”
laughed Fuller.

They walked along the track, noting its splendid condition.

“It must have cost a pretty penny to lay this out and build this
track,” said Hodge.

“It did,” nodded Fuller; “but it’s paid for, and we don’t owe a dollar.”

At the far end of the track they came to the golf links, where a number
of enthusiasts were enjoying the sport.

At this moment, seemingly in an accidental manner, Ross Cleaves, the
champion of the club, accompanied by Manton, Frost, Fisher, and two or
three others, came up to the teeing ground.

“Why, hello!” cried Manton, with attempted pleasantness. “Here’s
Merriwell. We were just speaking of you, Merriwell.”

“Were you, indeed?”

“Yes; I was telling Cleaves he ought to challenge you for a round of
the links. You have a knack of winning at everything, but we think
Cleaves could take a fall out of you at this business.”

“I concede the probability,” said Frank.

This did not satisfy Manton at all.

“Do you dare try him a round?” he demanded. “He’s looking for some one
who can make it interesting for him.

“Then I’ll recommend Hodge,” said Merry, placing a hand on Bart’s
shoulder. “He’s fairly good at it.”

“It takes some one who is more than fairly good.”

“Does it? Well, perhaps Hodge will prove good enough to keep Mr.
Cleaves busy. If Mr. Cleaves isn’t satisfied after it’s over, let him
come to me, and I’ll try to give him satisfaction.”

“He seems inclined to duck,” said Frost.

Bert Fuller was annoyed beyond measure. He walked over to Manton and
Frost, to whom he spoke in a low tone, his words being heard by no
others.

Manton shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.

“Well, I’m looking for some one,” said Cleaves. “Mr. Hodge will do, if
Mr. Merriwell doesn’t feel like it this afternoon.”

Without a word, Bart began to peel off, another golfer having offered
his clubs for use.

Although he was not in golfing rig, Hodge was quite willing to do his
best.

Cleaves teed carefully, addressed the ball in graceful form and led off
with a long, beautiful drive. The ball did not rise high into the air,
but went sailing away, away until it almost seemed that it would be
lost to view.

In the meantime, Fuller had obtained a caddie for Hodge.

“There’s a starter for your man, Merriwell,” said Manton.

Frank spoke to Bart in a low tone:

“Beat this man if you can,” he urged. “I am confident that you can make
him hustle if you play half as well as you did in Ohio last week.”

Hodge had won a golf trophy in Ohio.

Having teed, Bart selected a club, got the hang of it, and then
addressed the ball. His form was faultless, and he made a drive that
seemed fully as handsome as that of Cleaves.

“Well!” was the exclamation of Fuller; “he did that in style. I believe
he drove quite as far as Cleaves.”

The two opponents sauntered leisurely down to look for their balls, and
it was found that Hodge had driven some yards farther than Cleaves.

It happened that both balls had lodged favorably. Cleaves sent his
sailing toward the little flag that marked the first hole. Bart did the
same. Then Cleaves made a handsome approach, lodging close to the hole.
Hodge fell off somewhat.

“Cleaves makes it in four,” said Frost. “Hodge will be one behind on
the first hole.”

Cleaves did make it in four.

Then Bart took his time, pulled some grass away from the vicinity of
his ball, selected another club and astonished every one by dropping
the ball into the hole.

“A piece of luck, nothing more!” exclaimed Fisher.

“All right, Bart,” nodded Merry. “You have your eye with you to-day,
and I’m satisfied that you’ll make it interesting. I’m not going to
follow you round the links. You’ll find me at the clubhouse when you’re
through.”

Bart nodded.

“Well, what do you think of that, Manton?” hissed Frost, as Frank
turned away and, accompanied by Fuller, retraced his steps toward the
athletic field. “He seems to consider the thing is settled. The crust
of that fellow!”

“It is settled,” said Manton. “Hodge had luck to start with, but
Cleaves will put it all over him. What are you going to do? Shall we
follow them round?”

“Let’s.”

“All right.”

Something more than an hour later, as Frank sat on the veranda of the
clubhouse, chatting with Fuller and others, George Branch came hurrying
up.

“Well, what do you think?” he cried. “That was a hot one! They kept
neck and neck all the way around. Neither one was more than a hole
behind at any time. And then, at the finish, the last hole was made in
two. It was amazing.”

“Who won?” cried several.

“Hodge,” answered Branch. “He——”

But he was checked by a shout of incredulity from several of the young
men on the veranda.

“What are you giving us?” demanded one. “Hodge won? Hodge defeated
Cleaves? Go on!”

“It’s straight,” declared Branch. “I don’t blame you for being
incredulous. Cleaves is sore.”

Even then some of the club members fancied he was “stringing” them.
They had fancied Cleaves invincible. The good start made by Hodge had
seemed an accident; but they knew it could be no accident that the
visitor had pushed Cleaves all the way round the course.

Others who had followed the contestants now appeared, and they
confirmed the statement of Branch. Hodge had won.

Fuller turned to Merriwell.

“You must have had confidence in your friend all the time,” he said.

“I did,” nodded Merry. “I knew what he could do, for I saw him take the
trophy at the St. Andrew’s Club, of Oberlin, Ohio, last week. We were
made honorary members of the club and urged to compete for the cup.
Hodge competed and won it.”

“Let’s walk over to the trackmaster’s house, Merriwell,” invited
Fuller. “We’ll find them there.”

They sauntered over together, followed by some of the others. Manton
and Frost were talking with Cleaves in front of the trackmaster’s
house. Manton frowned at Merriwell as he approached.

“You did that very cleverly,” he said. “I suppose you’ll take the glory
of your friend’s clever accomplishment?”

Frank was more than annoyed.

“I fail to understand why you should suppose anything of the sort,” he
retorted.

“Why, you didn’t dare go against Cleaves, so you pushed Hodge into it.
You have the reputation of being a great all-round champion, but I’ve
noticed that much of your glory comes from the accomplishment of your
friends. If any one wishes to know your secret method, that is it.”

“Evidently you’re something of a sorehead,” said Merriwell. “It’s a
remarkable thing that a club of this sort always has at least one
sorehead among its members. I wish to remind you that neither Hodge nor
I came here with the idea of butting into your club and showing what we
could do. We were invited as guests. You have attempted to show us up.
Blame yourselves if things have not gone to suit you.”

“That’s plain talk,” said Bert Fuller. “I regret to see you exhibit
such a spirit, Manton. At the suggestion of the social committee, I
invited Mr. Merriwell and Mr. Hodge to visit us. They should be treated
with proper courtesy while here.”

It was a proper calldown for Manton. At first the fellow seemed ready
to fly into a burst of uncontrollable passion. His face grew crimson
and then turned ashen. He dared not make an insulting retort to the
president.

“You’re taking me in a literal sense,” he finally managed to say.
“Can’t you let me chaff Merriwell a bit? It seems to be the only
satisfaction we can get out of him.”

“Unless he enters for some of the special events at the meet,” put in
Frost. “The broad jump and the high jump, for instance.”

“And the pole vault,” said Manton. “But I presume he’ll put some of his
friends in for these things.”

“That will save him,” nodded Frost.

Frank laughed.

“I’m not here to kick up trouble. Do you think your best men will
engage in the events named?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I had not thought of participating; but, just to please you,
I’ll agree to enter for the jumping and the pole vaulting.”

“Good enough!” cried Manton. “I see your finish!”

Hodge had been washing up inside. He came out now, looking fresh as a
daisy.

“Cleaves is a better man than they had in the St. Andrew’s Club,
Merry,” he said. “I won by a lucky drive.”

“I told you it was luck!” exclaimed Manton triumphantly. “I knew it!”

But now Cleaves spoke up like a man and declared there was not much
luck in the persistent manner in which Hodge had kept him at his best
all round the course. He confessed that he had done his level best to
get a lead on his opponent, but had found it impossible to draw away
from him.

“I expect he’ll give me another opportunity,” he concluded. “I shall
then try to square the score.”

“You shall have the opportunity,” promised Bart.

Suddenly Manton assumed a different air. Laughingly he walked over to
Frank, observing:

“Perhaps I’ve been a trifle hasty, Merriwell; but you can’t blame
us for feeling it when you and your friend come here and down us so
easily. This is supposed to be a club of champions. If you were to
defeat us at everything, the papers would make sport of us. As it is,
some of the papers have been inclined to poke fun at us and call us a
lot of bluffers. We think we’re the real thing; but you’ve taken us off
our guard. Were you ever taken off your guard?”

“Oh, yes, I fancy so.”

“I’ve heard not. Why, I’ve even been told that no man could catch you
napping and get the advantage of you. I don’t believe that, you know.”

“I presume not.”

“No, it’s ridiculous,” said Manton, pretending to turn away and
stepping behind Merry.

Quick as a flash he clasped Merriwell round the body, pinning his arms
at his sides.

“There,” he said, “you see how easy it is to prove the falsehood of the
statement. I have you foul now.”

“Do you think so?” asked Frank.

“I know it. You can’t do a thing.”

Merry was angry, but he kept a check on his temper. He resolved to
teach the fellow a lesson.

Instantly he dropped to the ground, coming down on his right knee. At
the same instant, Manton’s arms having slipped up round his neck, he
seized the man’s right wrist, pressing on a certain muscle in such
a manner that it caused a sharp twinge of pain. He pulled forward
sharply, turning Manton’s wrist to the right. Thus, in a twinkling the
fellow found himself jerked over Frank’s back and losing his balance.
As Manton was falling, Merriwell rose sharply to his feet, and the
fellow was hurled flying through the air, to fall flat on his back ten
or twelve feet away.

It was done so swiftly that few saw just how it happened; but all
realized that the gentleman pugilist had been tricked and grassed at
a moment when he had fancied he was demonstrating the ease with which
Merriwell could be taken off his guard.

Manton was dazed. He sat up, his face expressing bewilderment, chagrin,
and rage.

“What—what——” he muttered hoarsely.

Then he turned his head and glared at Frank. He saw Merry standing
quietly, with his hands on his hips, smiling the least bit.

“I trust you are not harmed, sir,” said Frank politely. “As you had
secured a grasp on me from the rear, it was necessary to be a trifle
violent.”

“Good land!” gasped Bert Fuller.

Manton rose to his feet.

“You tried to break my neck!” he grated, his face livid.

“Oh, no,” denied Frank. “Had I tried, you would have a broken neck now,
I assure you of that.”

The gentleman pugilist felt of his arm and shoulder, which had been
severely wrenched. He saw some of the witnesses smiling, while others
were regarding him with pity. That was enough to infuriate him beyond
restraint.

“I’m disgraced if I do not thrash that man!” he thought. “I’ll do it
here and now!”

Having arrived at this determination, he tore off his coat.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                              THE FIGHT.


“What are you going to do, Manton?” sternly demanded Fuller, stepping
forward.

“I’m going to put a few dents in the face of that chap!” was the
savage answer. “He may be able to bowl and throw people round with his
Japanese tricks; but we’ll soon see if he can fight!”

“There’ll be no fight!” exclaimed Fuller. “You got what was coming, for
you tried to impose on him. You have only yourself to blame.”

“Mr. Fuller,” said Merry, in the quietest manner imaginable, “in case
Mr. Manton insists, I trust you will not interfere. It seems to me that
he is determined to force a personal encounter upon me, and we may as
well get at it without delay.”

His fighting blood was up at last, and still he smiled. Bart Hodge was
the only one who realized how dangerous Merriwell really was when he
smiled in that manner.

“It will disgrace the club!” exclaimed Fuller.

“No need for it to be generally known if Mr. Manton will step down here
a short distance behind the trees.”

“I’ll step anywhere you say,” panted the pugilist; “but don’t you try
to run away!”

“You don’t know him!” muttered Hodge, whose eyes were gleaming. “You’ll
be better acquainted with him in a short time.”

Fuller was regretful, but he finally agreed to let Merry and Manton
settle the trouble if they would retire to the spot designated by Frank.

They did so, the witnesses accompanying them. Frost urged Manton on.

“Smash his face!” hissed he. “Spoil his beauty! You’ve got to do it!”

“Leave it to me!” growled the pugilist. “If I don’t beat him up I’ll
commit suicide!”

On their way to the spot Frank stripped off his coat and vest and
removed his collar and necktie, giving these articles to Bart.

Fuller tried to apologize to Merry, but Frank checked him.

“You’re not in the least to blame,” he said. “You can’t be responsible
for the behavior of every member of the club.”

“Manton will be expelled.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that! Don’t do it on my account. I can look out for
myself.”

“He’s a great fighter. He was the champion boxer at Yale in his day.”

“Don’t worry, Fuller. I’ll try to take care of myself.”

The moment they reached the spot chosen Manton advanced on Merry.
There were no preliminaries and no delay. They were at it in a hurry,
crouching, sparring, circling, seeking an opening. No rules had been
mentioned. It was a fight to the finish in such a manner as they chose.

Manton feinted with his right and tried for Frank’s jaw with his left.

The blow was parried, and Merry came back with a cross counter that
landed and staggered his enemy.

Frost ground his white teeth together and swore.

“Get at him, you fool!” he snapped.

Manton responded by coming back at Merry and landing a body blow; but
for this he received one on the mouth that split his lip and loosened a
tooth or two.

The fight grew faster and more furious. They came together and Manton
clinched, but Merry uppercut him and forced him to break. As he leaped
away he was touched lightly by Frank, who followed him closely.

Hodge was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching every move.

“Give him a little more jujutsu, Frank,” he advised.

But Merriwell shook his head. He had seen opportunities to practice
the Japanese tricks on Manton, but was resolved to give the fellow his
medicine in his own way. Manton considered himself a fine boxer, as, in
truth, he was. To defeat him at his own game, and do it twice in one
day, ought to settle his hash.

Manton side-stepped skillfully as he got away from Frank, then came
under Merry’s guard and delivered another body blow, seeking for the
solar plexus.

“That’s his game!” muttered Hodge. “Look out for it, Merry. It’s
dangerous.”

Frank was quick to discover that his enemy was working to get a heavy
one into his wind, and after that he guarded the spot with greater care.

Time after time the pugilist tried to get another one in on Frank’s
body. In fact, Frank led him into making these attempts, and each time
he punished the fellow by cutting up his face.

In a few moments Manton was bruised and bleeding, but he seemed just as
fierce and determined as when he began.

“He’s a hog for punishment,” decided Hodge.

Dent Frost was quivering with excitement.

“Manton will be a sight, no matter how it ends,” he thought. “Merriwell
is marking him all up! I don’t believe he’s touched Merriwell’s face.”

Then he uttered an exclamation of delight, for his friend had blocked a
lead and landed on Frank’s forehead, sending his head back.

“That’s the way!” he hissed. “A little lower and Merriwell would have a
fine black eye to care for.”

Fuller looked on with his blood stirred, although he was very sorry
that the affair had occurred. It was a savage fight, and soon both
men began to show the strain, although Manton was breathing much more
heavily.

Frank’s lips were pressed together, but his face wore that same smile.
It enraged the gentleman pugilist, who was determined to “knock the
smile off.”

Manton came in with a rush, and Frank went under his arm, rising and
turning in time to get in a blow.

This very thing was repeated a few moments later.

Then they grappled again, and Manton succeeded in blocking as Frank
sought to uppercut him as before.

“No you don’t!” he panted. “You can’t do that all the time!”

Merry smashed him on the kidneys, making him wince a little.

Then Manton sought to get in a blow in the break away, but it was
blocked.

Manton’s eyes were beginning to puff up, his nose was bleeding and his
lips cut. Blood stained his white shirt.

“He’ll be a spectacle to-morrow,” thought Hodge.

Dent Frost was looking for his friend to get in the “wallop” that would
settle the fight. Three times Manton had tried for it and missed.

Again he tried, and missed.

Merriwell came back with a blow that sent him to the ground.

He rose at once.

Frank permitted him to get onto his feet. In fact, Merry waited until
Manton resumed the attack.

“It can’t last much longer,” said Bert Fuller.

Frank seemed seeking another opening. In a few seconds he found it and
his fist shot out.

Smack! The blow landed squarely. Manton went to the turf. He rose
more slowly, but he forced himself to get up, although the ground was
unsteady beneath his feet.

“He’s done for!” groaned Frost, as he saw his friend stagger.

He leaped in and caught Manton by the arm.

“Quit it!” he said. “You’re out!”

“You lie!” snarled the gentleman pugilist, flinging Dent off and
seeming as steady as ever. “I’ve just begun to fight!”

Once more Frank waited until his enemy closed in. Then he took his time
and knocked the fellow down for the finish.

Manton lay still a moment, tried to rise, struggled to his elbow and
fell back.

“He’s out!” cried Frost huskily, as he lifted Manton’s head.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                           A PAIR OF KNAVES.


About four miles from the Eagle Heights club lived Joel Bemis, a
farmer. On the afternoon of the day following the events just recorded
in the best “spare room” at the Bemis farm sat a young man whose
eyes were covered by a bandage and whose face was cut, bruised, and
discolored in places.

A step sounded outside the door, and the man on the chair started and
lifted the bandage from his eyes.

“Frost!” he exclaimed, as Dent Frost entered. “Well, you’ve been a
devilish long time coming!”

“Came at the first opportunity, Manton,” declared the visitor, eying
the other. “Say, but you’re a sight! You did let that fellow cut you
all to pieces!”

“You don’t have to tell me!” snarled Hobart Manton. “I’ve looked in the
glass.”

“That must have been to-day. You couldn’t see out of your eyes last
night.”

“What are you trying to do—rub it in?”

“Oh, no; but I’m sore because you let him hammer you up that way.”

“Not half as sore as I am. I’d like to kill him!”

“Why, I thought you could fight!”

“I can.”

“It looked that way!” sneered Frost coldly.

“I can,” repeated Manton; “but he can fight better. I hate to
acknowledge it, but I have to.”

“He certainly made a holy spectacle of you.”

“I’ll get even! You wait!”

“I don’t know how you’re going to do it.”

“I’ll find a way! I’ve thought of a hundred ways. I haven’t had
anything else to do. Tell me, what do they say at the club? I suppose
they know all about it? Of course Merriwell and Hodge had to blow about
it.”

“I don’t believe they have said a thing. I told everybody who asked
questions that you were called to the city on business. I think Fuller
succeeded in inducing Merriwell and Hodge to keep still for the
present. Cleaves hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t like those chaps.”

“But he’s wishy-washy; he doesn’t hate them. I didn’t hate them to
begin with. I counted Merriwell a big case of bluff, and I wanted to
show him up. This is the result!”

Manton was bitter enough. He realized his mistake, but felt deeply the
disgrace he had brought upon himself. It made no difference that he was
wholly to blame for the whole unpleasant affair.

“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Frost, taking a chair.

Once he had regarded Manton with considerable respect; but now his
respect was gone and he found it difficult to hold in check a feeling
of contempt for the fellow.

“What is Merriwell doing?”

“He’s getting ready to participate in the meet.”

“Getting ready—how?”

“Practicing jumping and pole vaulting. Some of his friends have
arrived at the Elm Tree. There’s a field near the inn. I watched them
through a field-glass this forenoon. Merriwell is a pole vaulter, sure
enough; but I don’t believe he’ll press me close.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Let me tell you something, Frost.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve changed my mind about that fellow. He’s a winner if given
anything like a square show. If you defeat him, you’ll have to do it
through a trick of some sort.”

“Rot! Just because he happened to get the best of you, you fancy he can
beat the world. Get over it!”

“All right; but you wait and see. Unless you find some method of
preventing him by a trick, he’ll show you up, just as he did me.”

“You make me sick!” snarled Frost angrily.

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes, you do!”

“You’ll be sicker after you go against him.”

“You’re completely whipped. All the spirit has been taken out of you.”

“I’ve learned something. You’ve got your lesson to learn.”

“How can he be defeated by a trick?”

“I don’t know now. If I find a way, will you try it?”

Frost hesitated.

“It’s tom-foolishness,” he declared. “I’d rather beat him on the
square.”

“Go ahead! Go ahead! Have your own way and be sorry about it afterward.”

They were silent some moments. At last Frost slowly said:

“If you could tell me of any method that would work I might consider
it—that is, if it wouldn’t be detected.”

“I’ll devise a method before to-morrow. I’ve got nothing else to think
about. Come round to-morrow and I’ll have a plan. I hope I can get my
face into shape so I’ll be able to attend the meet without causing
comment. I’ll have to stay shut up here a day or two longer, though.”

“Well, I’m going back,” said Frost, rising. “I’ll come round to-morrow.
So long.”




                              CHAPTER IX.

                            THE GREAT DAY.


It was the day of the Eagle Heights meet. The morning was misty, but by
eight o’clock the sun drove the mists flying down the river toward the
sea and shone forth from a cloudless sky of blue.

Never at any country club for amateur athletes had there been such a
gathering of “swell” followers of sport for sport’s sake. Contestants
came from various parts of the East, and people of wealth, who were
interested in open-air sports and who could attend, appeared to witness
the events.

Frank Merriwell and a number of his friends reached the clubhouse at
nine o’clock in the forenoon.

They were welcomed cordially. Frank met a number of young athletes whom
he knew and was given the “glad hand” by all of them.

“I presume you’re going to give the rest of us a show here to-day,”
laughed one. “You’re not going in for all the honors?”

“Hardly,” he answered. “I’m entered for three events, and no more—the
broad jump, the high jump, and the pole vault.”

“That’s a relief! Let’s see, who are the principal men you’re up
against in those things?”

“Jack Necker seems to be the jumper they count on.”

“Necker? Oh, yes; he’s from Hartford. Well, by George! He’s a corker!
And in the pole vault?”

“Denton Frost is the representative of this club. They say he is a
wonder.”

“Yes, I know about him. He’s a good man, too. Here’s hoping you have
luck.”

Bart Hodge had been wandering around. He came back to Merry after a
while.

“Manton is here,” he said, in a low tone.

“Is he?”

“Yes. He’s looking pretty well, too. Shows scarcely a mark.”

“Well, I’m looking for no further trouble from him.”

“I don’t think he’ll tackle you personally, although I have no doubt
that he would enjoy cutting your throat.”

A little later Wallace Grafter, accompanied by a thickset,
florid-faced, baldheaded man, came upon Merry.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I want you to meet my father.”

“Is this the boy ye told me about, son?” cried Reliable Mike, as he
grasped Frank’s hand. “Well, it’s a fine-looking lad he is, to be sure.
And ye say he has good fighting blood in his veins? He looks clever,
but not at all dangerous. I’m proud to know ye, Mr. Merriwell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grafter; I’m very glad to meet you, too.”

“Whist now! Do ye think ye can win at the pole vaulting?”

“It’s impossible to say. I shall do my best.”

“Do. Me boy has a dollar on ye. That chap ye had some trouble with
when ye first came here kept after Wallace. He wanted to bet ye
wouldn’t win the pole vault. He even offered odds. Betting is bad
business for a young man, but Wallace couldn’t stand it, and he took
the chap for the limit.”

“I’m sorry he bet on me,” said Frank; “but under any circumstances I
shall do my level best. I agree with you that betting is bad business
for a young man—or an old man, either.”

“Aw, it’s not so much harm for us old bucks who have learned the ways
of the world. It runs away with the young fellows. If they win, they
blow the money. If they lose, they can’t afford it. We’ll watch ye, my
lad.”

With another hearty shake of Frank’s hand, Reliable Mike drifted along
in company with his son.

Dick Starbright and Dade Morgan were there, and they enjoyed more or
less popularity as the friends of Frank Merriwell.

When Merry reached the track he was astonished at the size of the
gathering. He had not expected half as many people would be present.

The various committees and officials were at work, athletes were moving
about over the field, and there was a general air of eagerness.

Great numbers of people were present in carriages. They were the
relatives of competitors, and the handsome turnouts told that their
stations in the world were not humble ones.

At one side was a double stand, part of which faced the track and part
the field. The seats were uncovered.

The early events of the day were to take place on the track, and,
therefore, the portion of the stand fronting the field was unoccupied,
while the other section had begun to fill up.

A remarkable number of girls and young ladies were there. They were
dressed in summer garments and added color and beauty to the scene.

Frank and Bart entered the stand just as the starter’s pistol barked
and sent off fourteen clean-limbed young chaps for the mile run.

The day’s events were begun.

The run proved to be an interesting affair, three of the runners
fighting for victory right up to the last foot of the finish. One
represented Eagle Heights, and he strove as if his life depended on it
to start the day with a victory for the club.

But Martin Sayers, of the Knickerbocker A.A., won by not more than a
yard, although he fell over a moment after he breasted the tape.

The mile run was followed by a bicycle race, which was won by George
Branch, greatly to the satisfaction of all Eagle Heights.

Then came the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yards run, and this was won by a
man from the Bison A.A., of Buffalo.

Dade Morgan found Frank in the stand.

“See here, Merry,” he said, “I’ve just learned something that may
interest you. Young Grafter has bet a thousand dollars that you will
win the pole vault this afternoon. Hobart Manton is the man he’s
betting with.”

Frank frowned.

“It might teach Grafter a lesson if he lost,” he said.

Morgan gasped.

“What?” he cried. “You don’t mean that you’ll let Denton Frost defeat
you?”

“Frost is not the only other man in the pole vaulting.”

“But he’s reckoned as a sure winner, cutting you out. That tough,
Manton, seems to believe he is, anyhow. I don’t understand why he
should be so positive. Watch out for treachery, Merry.”

“I don’t see what can be done to spoil my chances in the pole vaulting.”

“Fellows like Manton will resort to anything. I want to see him lose
his money. It will hurt him. He has taken advantage of your generosity
in keeping still about the fight, and now he’s blowing that you are a
faker.”

“That was his first claim when I appeared here. I fancied I had taught
him something different.”

“He’s your bitter enemy. I feel that he will try to injure you before
the day is done. Watch out.”




                              CHAPTER X.

                            THE HIGH JUMP.


The events of the forenoon left Eagle Heights five points in the lead
of any other club, and there was rejoicing at the clubhouse during the
interval of intermission at midday.

The first contest of the afternoon was jumping.

Merriwell came out in a suit with a large, white M on his breast. The
letter stood for his club, but Frost and Manton, who were with the
judges, commented on it and declared it marked Frank’s egotism.

There were nine contestants entered for jumping honors. Each club was
permitted to enter two men, if it wished; but only two clubs had taken
advantage of this.

One was the Merries. Dade Morgan had entered.

This proved something of a surprise to Frost and Manton, who had not
known about it.

They seemed to regard it as a joke, however, for they laughed and said
that Merriwell might enter his whole club without having a show.

The running broad jump was started by Tom Willis, of Jersey City, who
cleared nineteen feet and one inch.

The next man fell an inch short of nineteen.

Then came a long-limbed chap who sailed through the air and planted his
heels five inches ahead of Willis’ mark.

He was wildly cheered by a little group of friends.

Morgan and Merriwell were standing close together and watching.

“That’s pretty fair, Dade,” said Frank. “Do you think you can beat it?”

“I believe I can,” nodded Morgan.

The fourth jumper could not reach the mark made by the long-limbed chap.

Then it was Merriwell’s turn.

A cheer went up as Frank stripped off his sweater and made ready. Every
one seemed to expect something great of him.

Hodge and Starbright were watching from the stand.

“Merry will show them a trick now,” said Bart. “I can jump some myself;
but I’m not in it with him. I don’t see why Morgan went into this.”

“Frank wanted him to.”

“Oh, he did?”

“Yes. You know Morgan was a wonderful jumper at college. Merry was the
only man who ever defeated him, and that was by not more than an inch
or so. I think he’s in perfect form. Our trip has done him good. He was
run down when Frank took hold of him in New York last fall; but he has
built up wonderfully. He says Merry saved his life.”

There was a hush now, as Merry walked out to the starting point.

“’Rah for Merriwell!” cried an enthusiast.

“That’s Grafter!” laughed Manton, turning to look at the stand. “He
expects to win a thousand off me to-day. I knew better than to bet on
the jumping, and I have him caught on the pole vaulting, for he loses
no matter what happens, if Merriwell does not win. Merriwell may have
a broken neck before the day is over.”

“I hope he gets it,” said Frost, in his cold-blooded manner.

“You can’t hope so any more than I do.”

“He’s going to make his first trial. Watch.”

Frank toed the starting line. He crouched and seemed to gather himself.
Then he sped along the run, every muscle tense, a look of resolution
on his handsome face. He came up to the mark in perfect stride and
launched himself into the air.

The manner in which he sailed over the ground caused more than one
witness to gasp with surprise and admiration. His feet were drawn well
under him, and at precisely the proper moment he launched them forward.
He struck perfectly and came up without a “bobble.”

The crowd shouted.

They knew he had made the best jump thus far.

Dent Frost whistled in dismay.

“Manton, he’s a wonder!” he muttered. “I think he wins!”

“Don’t you believe it. Necker is the man.”

“If Necker beats that, he’ll beat his own record by several inches.”

The measurers were running the tape under the eyes of the judges.

In a moment this was done, and a judge announced in a loud voice:

“Frank Merriwell’s distance, twenty feet, eleven inches and a half!”

There were some Yale men in the stand, and the Yale cheer went up
instantly.

“Merriwell wins!” was the cry that was repeated over and over. “That
can’t be beaten to-day.”

The next contestant seemed disheartened by the stunt, for he fell far
short of nineteen feet.

It happened that Necker was the eighth man on the list, while Morgan
was ninth.

When Necker’s turn came Merriwell held the record by eight inches.

Necker had plenty of friends to cheer him. He looked pantherish in his
jumping rig. He was thin, but his muscles were like bands of steel
covered by pink velvet.

Necker caught Manton’s eye as he walked out to the starting point. He
nodded and smiled the least bit.

“He’s confident,” said Manton; “and he knows what he can do. I believe
he’ll beat Merriwell.”

“Never!” retorted Frost. “It won’t be done in this event.”

Necker balanced himself, made a start, went flying to the mark, and
leaped.

“He’s ’way behind!” growled Frost.

“He has three tries, if he wishes to take them.”

“I know he has. Merriwell didn’t try but once.”

“He didn’t have to.”

Necker’s first jump was not measured, for he had not made more than
eighteen feet.

He took his time about returning and starting again.

The Eagle Heights men seemed to think he had little chance to defeat
Merriwell, although they knew he could do much better than he had at
first.

The second time he tried it was seen that he meant to do his level
best. He flew over the ground in strides which gathered impetus
steadily, and he came to the mark in a perfect manner.

Through the air he shot, his feet gathered beneath him. When it seemed
that he must drop to the ground he kept on, flinging his feet far out,
landing on his heels and coming up with an outswinging of his arms.

Hobart Manton gave a yell.

“He’s done it!” he cried. “I believe he’s beaten Merriwell!”

“Keep still!” warned Frost; “they may put us off the field if you make
too much of a fuss.”

“How does it look to you?”

“He’s tied Merriwell, at least, and he has still another trial. If he
can tie him, he can beat him.”

The stand was buzzing with excitement. Two persons in the stand were
very anxious. They were Hodge and Starbright.

“What do you think, Dick?” asked Bart.

“If I’m not mistaken, he’s beaten Merry a bit.”

“It can’t be possible!”

“I’m afraid it is.”

The measurers ran the tape. They took care. Then they consulted with
the judges.

One of the judges turned toward the stand.

“Mr. Necker will not jump again,” he said. “His record is twenty-one
feet and one inch.”

The Eagle Heights men howled with satisfaction.

Their man had defeated Merriwell by an inch and a half.

Bart Hodge looked ill.

“Why didn’t Merry try more than once?” he muttered huskily. “He could
have done better! Now he’s lost his chance!”

“Wait,” said Starbright. “Let’s see what Morgan will do.”

“Oh, Morgan isn’t in that class! It’s a shame!”

Still Dick clung to hope, thinking it possible Morgan might do
something that would surprise every one.

Necker was satisfied. He knew he had done his handsomest and that he
would fall back if he made another attempt. He had added some inches to
his own best record, besides defeating Merriwell.

Dade Morgan, slender, graceful, and electric, walked toward the
starting point.

“Who is he?” was the question asked by many in the stand.

“Oh, he’s one of Merriwell’s team,” was the answer. “He won’t cut much
ice.”

In all his body Morgan felt the current of life running strong. He
believed himself physically at the top notch. He was full of confidence.

In his college days he had never covered twenty-one feet, but something
told him he was a better man than he had been in those days. He was
matured; his powers were at their flood.

Crouching, he set his teeth and gripped his hands. He started slowly
and surely, gathering speed and power. When he reached the take-off
mark he was flying. Into the air he went, shooting forward like a bird
on the wing. On and on he sailed. It was all over in a moment, but the
spectators rose.

They knew Morgan had landed almost in the tracks of Necker.

Denton Frost actually staggered.

“What do you think of that?” he gasped. “I fear he has tied Necker!”

“I fear he has beaten him!” grated Manton.

“Impossible! Who is this Morgan? Whoever heard of him?”

“Oh, he was a rattler at college until he began to dissipate. Then they
said he broke down and lost ambition. I’ve been told he was the most
dangerous rival Merriwell ever had at Yale.”

“If he has beaten Necker——”

“It will be a bitter pill to swallow.”

“They are going to measure. He isn’t going to jump again! By the great
Harry! he’s beaten Necker, or he would try again. He’s the last man
and——”

He checked himself and waited.

The tape was stretched. Again the measurers took the utmost care,
watched by the judges.

The crowd waited.

Then one of the judges turned and held up his hand.

“Dade Morgan’s record is——”

He paused. The hush of great expectancy seemed to keep every one from
breathing. He finished:

“Twenty-one feet and three inches! Morgan wins the broad jump.”

Two more disgusted men than Frost and Manton it would have been hard to
find.

They had not dreamed the broad jump would be won in such a manner.

Of course, Necker was also disgusted, but he tried to conceal it and
appear a good loser.

The high jump followed.

Ten men were entered for this, both Morgan and Merriwell being of the
number.

Necker resolved to retrieve himself.

Manton found an opportunity to speak to him and urge him to try, as if
his life depended on it.

“You were too confident,” said Manton.

“That’s right,” admitted Necker. “I thought I had it easy. I might have
tried again.”

Frank congratulated Morgan.

“You came in like a dark horse, Dade,” he smiled.

“I was rooting for you inside when you came up to the mark. Necker’s
chest has collapsed a great deal. He’s a great jumper, but it doesn’t
do for such fellows to get too chesty. It ruins them every time.”

Morgan was delighted with himself.

“I owe it all to you, Merry,” he said. “Remember when you found me in
that bum hotel on the Bowery?”

“Yes.”

“I was pretty near all in then. Never expected to be much of an athlete
after that. You took hold of me and straightened me out. I won’t forget
it.”

“Do. It’s what any friend would do for another.”

“Oh, some day I’ll get even with you!” threatened Dade, with a smile.

In a short time everything was ready for the high jump.

The first man made five feet and ten inches on three trials.

The second man could not clear the bar at five feet eight.

Morgan was third on the list this time. He was cheered as he squared
away for the start.

He had the bar placed at five feet ten. Over it he went, drawing his
feet well under him and flinging them round sideways.

“This man wins the high jump, too!” hissed Frost.

“That is better than it would be to have Merriwell win,” said Manton.

“Not much better.”

“But some.”

Dade had the bar moved up to six feet.

Then he went at it, but barely touched it with his heel as he went
over, which displaced it.

“Ha!” cried Manton. “That’s too high for him!”

Morgan walked back to the starting point. He signaled for the bar to be
placed the same as before.

When it was up he seemed to hesitate. He paused a few seconds, then
settled himself and started.

Up, up he went. As he reached the highest points he gave a twisting
movement of his body and flung his feet sideways over the bar, coming
down without grazing it.

“Six feet for Morgan,” announced a judge.

“’Rah for Morgan!” whooped an enthusiast. “He’s the real hot stuff!”

“I believe Necker can beat that,” said Manton. “It’s great jumping; but
Necker is keyed up now, and he’ll stretch himself for all he is worth.”

Necker was seventh on the list.

When his turn came no one had reached Morgan’s mark. Could he do it?

He had the bar set at five feet ten for the first trial. Over it he
went.

“Why, that was easy!” exclaimed Manton. “He can go higher than that,
all right!”

“I believe he can,” nodded Frost hopefully. “Morgan is a better jumper
than Merriwell. There is no danger from Merriwell if Necker can defeat
Morgan.”

The bar was next placed at six feet.

“Go it, Necker!” cried some one in the stand. “You can do it, old man!”

He did do it, although the least fraction of an inch was to spare as he
passed over the bar.

Morgan was tied.

“Put it up an inch and a half,” said Necker quietly.

Hodge heard him in the stand.

“He can’t make another inch,” he said. “He barely cleared the bar at
six feet. He’ll dislodge it this time.”

“It’s more than even chances that he will,” nodded Starbright.

But Necker made that jump as if his life depended on it. He rose
handsomely and cleared the bar without brushing it.

Then the Eagle Heights crowd cheered, for their man led in the high
jump by an inch and a half.

Necker turned away smiling, giving Manton a look. Manton motioned for
him to come nearer.

“You might have won the broad jump just as easy,” said Manton.

“I know that,” agreed Necker. “It was my fault. I thought I had it won.”

The men who followed made a sorry showing beside Necker.

Then came Merriwell.

Manton grinned sneeringly, and Dent Frost laughed coldly.

“This day the great champion is not doing so much,” said the gentleman
pugilist. “Grafter won’t be offering so much money for his secret
method. Secret method! Bah!”

“Has he a method?”

“Oh, that’s rot. He’s a mark. He’s just a little better than ordinary
athletes, and he poses as the greatest wonder in the whole world.”

At the very start Frank had the bar placed at six feet.

“Never!” exclaimed Frost. “He can’t do it!”

“Let him knock it down,” whispered Manton.

Frank did knock it down. He did not get away just right, and his heel
touched the bar as he was going over.

Manton laughed outright, but checked himself.

Frank spoke in a low tone to the judges.

Then many persons uttered exclamations of astonishment, for he had
ordered the bar raised an inch and a half!

That placed it at the height of Necker’s best jump.

“Never!” repeated Frost.

In the stand several persons uttered cries of joshing.

But they were destined to receive a shock, for Merry shot at the bar,
leaped into the air, and went over it in beautiful style.

Then the Yale men broke forth into that fine cheer.

Necker seemed dazed.

“He must have springs in his shoes,” he finally growled.

Frost was speechless with rage. Manton managed to recover enough to say:

“That only ties you.”

But Merriwell had ordered the crossbar up an inch and a half more,
making six feet three in all.

“Not in a thousand years!” cried a voice in the crowd. “It’s
impossible!”

“He’ll show you!” exclaimed Bart Hodge.

Frank settled himself, measured with his eye the distance he had to run
and the height to the pole, and then started.

Up and over he sailed.

He had beaten Necker by an inch and a half, and the following
contestants declined to make an effort.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                         FAILURE AND DISGRACE.


The pole-vaulting contest came late in the afternoon, and Denton Frost
set a stint at the very outset that appalled the greater part of the
contestants.

Man after man failed to come anywhere near the mark he had made.

Frank Merriwell’s turn came at last.

He had his own pole, which no one else was allowed to use.

Farley Fisher had joined Hobart Manton, Frost remaining with the other
contestants.

“Look here, Fisher,” said Manton, in a low tone; “you want to keep your
eyes open now. You’re going to see something.”

“What do you think I’m going to see?” inquired Fisher. “Do you fancy
Merriwell is going to win? Why, I’ve heard you bet a dollar or two
to-day that he would not defeat Frost.”

“So I did, and he won’t. You haven’t any use for Merriwell, have you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Well, you know I haven’t. Watch him—watch him close!”

Frank was about to make his first attempt. The crossbar was placed and,
gripping his pole, he started.

Up, up into the air he swung. It was a beautiful sight. The crowd was
breathless.

At the proper moment Frank lifted himself higher on the pole to fling
his body over the bar.

As he did this the pole suddenly broke beneath him.

Cries of terror came from the spectators as they saw him falling from
that height, for it seemed that he was destined to strike on his head
and shoulders and sustain serious, if not fatal, injuries.

One thing Frank had learned while practicing the Japanese art of
self-defense was to fall in such a manner as to sustain the least
injury. Usually a person who finds himself falling becomes rigid and
stiff, so that when he strikes he is jarred in every part of his body.
The Japanese fall limply, with their muscles relaxed. In this manner
Frank fell.

Although he struck on the back of his neck and his shoulder blades, he
came up in a moment, rising to his feet, as if wholly unharmed.

Seeing this, Manton uttered a curse of anger and dismay.

“The devil protects the fellow!” he hissed. “His neck should have been
broken.”

The judges and others gathered around Frank, all seeming to feel sure
he must be injured. He finally convinced them that he was not. Then one
of them told the people in the stand, and there was a cheer. This cheer
became a roar when, selecting another pole, Frank prepared to vault.

At his first attempt he cleared the bar, tieing Frost. Next time he
disturbed it; but he tried again and flung himself over it a full foot
higher than Frost had done.

It was the best vault made.

Frank won, and Manton lost a snug little sum of money.

But that was not all Manton lost. Investigation revealed the fact that
Merriwell’s pole had been tampered with and weakened in such a manner
that it could not fail to break. This discovery stirred up the Eagle
Heights people, and a rigid inquiry followed. Fuller did some detective
work, with the result that he finally got hold of the chap who had
tampered with Merriwell’s pole. This rascal was badly frightened, and
he made a confession, in which he told how he had been given fifty
dollars by Hobart Manton to do the job.

Manton was expelled in disgrace from the Eagle Heights A.A., and his
membership in the A.A.U. of the U.S. was annulled. His days as an
amateur athlete in good standing were ended.




                             CHAPTER XII.

                      THE PLAN OF MELVIN M’GANN.


Two men sat talking in the room back of the Hotel Imperial bar, New
York City. The slim, dark-eyed man, with the tiny mustache, was Melvin
McGann, until recently a partial owner of the Philadelphia Athletics.
The stout, sandy man, with the red face and red necktie, was Robert
Gowan, at one time interested in the New York Giants.

“I’m afraid it’s a wild scheme, McGann,” said the latter, in a husky
voice, which seemed choked and somewhat smothered in the speaker’s
thick throat. “You’re looking for revenge, regardless of consequences,
that’s what’s the matter.”

“I’m looking for revenge,” admitted McGann; “I admit that. But I’m no
fool. The plan is practical. Hurley convinced me of that. We can’t lose
much, and we may open up a field that will revolutionize baseball.”

“I’m not a revolutionist,” wheezed Gowan. “If there’s money in it, I
may be interested, not otherwise.”

“Well, there’s a prospect of money in it. It might mean the forming of
a new league, with you and me at its head.”

“Huah!” grunted Gowan noncommittally.

“Why not?” exclaimed McGann. “You know, as well as I, that every year
the big leagues ‘try out’ a lot of good men who are not kept simply
because there is not room for them. These men are held until after the
season is fairly under way and then are dropped. They go to the minor
leagues and to independent teams. Many times they are fast enough for
the major-league teams, but they fail to land because old-stagers pan
out and hold their jobs for another season. I’ll guarantee that this
year the two big leagues will drop enough cracking good youngsters to
form another fast six-team league. It has been done already.”

“And most of the men have secured positions on minor leagues.”

“I’m not talking about forming a league—this year. I’m talking about
getting together one team, made up of outcasts, that can trim anything
playing baseball.”

“Can it be done?”

“Sure.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

“Wait till Hurley comes,” nodded McGann, looking at his watch. “He
should be here now. He’ll tell you what men he can get hold of.”

“He’s a sorehead.”

“Yes, he’s sore, and you can’t blame him. He had every reason to
suppose he’d make the Cleveland team. He’s one of the greatest stickers
in the country. Not even Lajoie can swat the ball harder or oftener.
And he’s a great first baseman. As an organizer and captain he ranks
with Collins.”

“Then why didn’t he get there?”

“Jealousy—that’s what he says.”

“That’s what he says,” wheezed Gowan. “They all have some such tale to
tell after they’re dropped.”

“I happen to know he tells the truth. He came on from the West and
spent all the spring getting into condition. He seemed to have a
cinch. There was talk of farming him, and holding him over for next
year, but a certain power prevented, and he suddenly found himself out
in the cold, cold world. Jersey City wants him; Los Angeles wants him;
Fort Worth wants him. But he wants revenge. He was the man who talked
me into the idea of getting together a team of outcasts and showing up
some of the big teams.”

“How do you propose to show them up?”

“Beat them at their own game.”

“That’s easy enough—to talk about.”

“It can be done.”

“They won’t play you. At this time of the year they are pretty busy
among themselves, with no open dates.”

“You forget Sundays. Sunday baseball is not played in Boston, New York,
and several other places. Every Sunday a number of big-league teams
rest, while others play. On week days we can get games with the best
independent teams.”

“And lose money right along.”

“No. Hurley says he knows a dozen men who have been dropped, and who
will go into the scheme heartily if they see a chance to get up against
one or two of the big teams, so they can demonstrate what they can do.
These men are enthusiastic, and they’ll play for expenses up to the
time that the team makes money. They will sign with the understanding
that they are to be paid certain salaries if the receipts justify it.
You see there is no probability of any great loss, and there is a
possibility of big profits.”

Gowan meditated.

“After showing me that a team of fast players can be made up,” he
finally wheezed, “you’ll have to show me that such a team can get at
least one game with some of the majors.”

“Will you take hold of it then?”

“I—I may,” answered the stout man cautiously.

“Well, here, I have a pull with two managers who will favor me. Look
at these letters. Here’s one from Collins, of Boston, and this from
McGraw. Both promise to give me a game if I get the team and they find
an open date.”

Gowan adjusted a pair of spectacles and examined the letters placed
before him, while McGann lighted a cigarette.

“All very friendly and fine,” admitted the stout man, as he refolded
the letters; “but neither man makes a definite promise.”

“As far as possible, both do. I know they’ll keep their word. I’ll
guarantee to get a game with one of those teams, if we can make up a
bunch that is fast enough. I can get the field in Hoboken for almost
any Sunday if I arrange for it in advance. We can draw a mob. I tell
you, Bob, we’ll make money, sure as fate. If we succeed with one team
made up from outcasts this year, we can keep our little scheme quiet,
and next season we can begin early to make arrangements, and we can
spring the Outcasts League, which will come pretty near rating with the
National or the American. Of course we’ll be outsiders for a season;
but we may be able to show the country some baseball that will make
the National Association recognize us. In two or three years, if we
plan properly and carry out our schemes, we may be pushing the two
top-notchers for leadership. That would give me all the revenge I want
for being crowded out in Philadelphia.”

“It’s a visionary scheme, Mel. I doubt if it can be done this year
with a bunch of outcasts. I’d like to hear what Hurley has to say. Why
doesn’t he show up?”

“Here he comes now,” said McGann.

Hurley was a well set-up young chap, with a businesslike air. His face
was pleasant yet grave. He had the chin and nose of a commander, while
his eye was quick and penetrating. He advanced and greeted Melvin
McGann, who shook hands with him and then introduced him to Gowan.

The stout man shook hands without rising. There was little polish about
him.

“Hope you’ve not been waiting for me a great while, gentlemen,” said
Hurley. “I’ve been talking with Mat O’Neill, who was just thinking
of starting for Hartford, where he has a chance to get into the
Connecticut State League. I induced him to stop over until to-night.
Told him there was something in the wind, and outlined enough of the
scheme to interest him, without letting him into all the details. I
had to do it, for O’Neill is just the man we want. You know him, Mr.
McGann. He pitched in the Northern New York League last season and made
a wonderful record. Collins picked him out, and gave him a trial in New
Orleans. He lost the game, and he hasn’t been given another chance. The
other pitchers panned out, and Collins dropped him. He had hard luck in
New Orleans. If they’d tried him again I’m sure he would have opened
their eyes. I’d like to run him against the champs.”

Hurley was a man of enthusiasm. He expressed it in his manner of
speech, yet there was that about him which indicated that he was not
headstrong and reckless.

“Sit down, Hurley,” invited McGann. “Tell us who you have on the
string.”

The ballplayer took a chair and the three drew close together around
one of the little tables.

“Is it a go?” asked Hurley. “Can you raise the backing, Mr. McGann?”

“If Mr. Gowan sees that the prospect is encouraging, I think he will
come into the deal with me.”

“Good! He won’t regret it. There’s money in it, as sure as you’re a
living man. If we don’t last more than three weeks, we can make money
while we do last, providing, of course, that you’re able to keep your
part of the agreement, and get a game in Hoboken with one of the three
big-league teams we’ve mentioned; either New York team or the Boston
champs. Why, we can pack ’em into the field over at Hoboken like
sardines in a box!”

“I know I can make good what I’ve promised.”

“Tell us what players you can gather up, Mr. Hurley,” urged Gowan. “I’m
rather skeptical in regard to the strength of the team.”

“Don’t you be skeptical for a moment. Listen. I have O’Neill for
the principal pitcher, with Boliver Bimm for change pitcher and the
outfield. The Athletics let Bimm go because their sore-armed men came
round all right and their list of pitchers was complete. Bimm can hit
at a three-hundred clip, and they were dopey over in Quakertown when
they let him slide. I can get Bill Brackett, who came so near making
the Brooklyn team. He’s a good utility man, as well as a fair pitcher.
We can keep him on the bench and use him in the box against ordinary
teams. He can pitch three games a week right along—four, if necessary.
How is that for a pitching staff?”

“Huah!” grunted Gowan, in his usual noncommittal manner. “Go on. Who’s
behind the plate?”

“Cy Swatt.”

“Why, I thought he had signed with Chicago.”

“He’s been cast adrift on the cold world.”

“I don’t understand why!” exclaimed McGann.

“Nobody else. I’ve got him on the string. We can land him, and he’ll
make ’em go some. He’s one of the handsomest throwers to bases I ever
saw. I played with him out on the Coast two years ago.”

“Go on,” wheezed Gowan, showing some signs of interest.

“I’ll be on first.”

“And that corner of the diamond will be well covered,” nodded McGann.

“Thank you,” said Hurley quietly. “We’ll have Jack Roden at second. The
Yankees gave him a show in one game. He accepted seven chances without
an error and made a three-bagger out of three times at bat. He drew a
pass once and was hit by a pitched ball once. He stole two bases. But
there wasn’t room for him on the team, and he never got another show.”

“Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it, Gowan?” asked McGann.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Gowan.

“For third,” continued Hurley, “I can land Hoke Marcey, who threw his
arm out in practice while the Giants were on their Southern trip. His
arm is back in shape again, but that accident lost him a chance to make
the team.”

“Marcey’s my own particular pet,” wheezed Gowan. “I recommended him to
McGraw. Mugsey didn’t treat him right.”

“He’ll be with us if we start right away,” declared Hurley. “In the
outfield, besides Bimm, we’ll have Cal Grimley, of Detroit, for left,
and Tip Creel, who’s been benching it with the Washington Americans,
for centre. Now, gentlemen, if that aggregation can’t play ball I don’t
know a thing about the game. I believe I can make a bunch of hustlers
out of them. Give me a week of playing with independent teams, and I’ll
be ready to tackle anything in the two big leagues. I’ll show you some
chaps who will work for every game as if their lives depended on the
result. I’ll get them working together in a week.”

“Do you know for sure that you can land every man you have named?”
wheezingly inquired Gowan.

“Well, I have the promise of almost every one of them. If we get the
backing now, I’ll have them together and practicing so soon it will
make you gasp.”

“You haven’t named your shortstop,” reminded McGann.

“Haven’t settled on the man for the position. Can get any one of three.
Don’t worry about that.”

“What do you say, Gowan?” asked McGann. “Are you ready to go in with
me to back this team on the terms stated?”

“Yes,” answered the stout man, “I’m with you.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after this the baseball world was given a sensation. McGann
and Gowan’s Outcasts made their first appearance in Ridgewood, N.J.,
easily defeating the locals. The next day they played in Hoboken and
secured another easy victory. Their first Sunday game was with the
Jersey City team of the Eastern League, and the score was eight to five
in their favor. Then followed five games with the strongest independent
teams in the East, and five more “scalps” were garnered to their glory.
On the second Sunday they played the Giants of New York in Hoboken
before a mob of people that simply overran the grounds. The score was
three to one in favor of the Outcasts, and their reputation was made.
They sought games with the New York Yankees and the Boston champs, but
the managers of these two teams seemed attacked with a sudden severe
case of “cold feet.” Although they had given McGann reasons to believe
they would play his team, this happened before the Outcasts were
organized and had made such a bewildering record. After this happened
they couldn’t seem to find any open dates. Manager McGann challenged
any and all teams in both the big leagues, the winners to take the
entire gate receipts after expenses were deducted.

The Outcasts had arrived.




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                        THE FALL OF THE GIANTS.


On a fine Saturday afternoon late in June the wonderful Outcasts met
the redoubtable colored baseball team known as the Cuban Giants. The
game was played in Newark. The baseball cranks of Newark, Elizabeth,
Jersey City, and New York were interested in the game, and a great
crowd turned out to witness it.

The colored boys knew they were up against the “real thing,” and they
played like fiends from the start, hoping to be the first to break the
winning streak of the new stars. The Giants had a great team, every man
of them being a rattling good ballplayer, and they started off like
winners, getting two runs in the first inning, one in the third, and
shutting out their opponents for five straight innings from the start.

Bill Brackett had opened the game as twirler for the Outcasts, but in
the midst of the third inning, after the colored players had made their
third run, with the bases filled and only one man out, Bill was sent to
the stable and Mat O’Neill took his place on the slab.

O’Neill promptly stopped the run-getting of the Giants by striking out
the first batter to face him and causing the next one to put up an easy
infield fly.

“Should have put him in before, McGann,” wheezed Bob Gowan, who was
sitting on the bleachers back of first base, in company with Melvin
McGann and several acquaintances.

“Oh, it’s all right,” assured the manager of the Outcasts. “Hurley
knows his business. I let him run the team on the field. We’ll fall on
that coon pitcher pretty soon and hammer him all over the lot.”

“I don’t know about that. He’s a corker. These colored gents may change
your luck.”

“That’s right,” put in “Reliable Mike” Grafter, who was present. “Your
streak is busted, Gowan. The dinks done it.”

Bob Gowan’s confidence in his team was colossal. There was now no
wavering uncertainty about him.

“Bet you a hundred we win this game, Grafter,” he promptly wheezed,
producing his money.

“Go you,” said the Tammany man, diving into his pocket.

A stakeholder was agreed upon, and the money placed in his hands.

“Just because you happened to beat the New York Nationals you seem to
think you can’t be downed,” grunted Grafter.

“I know something about baseball, Mike,” retorted Gowan, with unusual
animation. “I know we have the team to beat anything in the country.”

“That’s right,” nodded McGann. “Every year the big leagues throw over
enough clever youngsters to make another league. Out of the discards
a champion team can be selected by any man who knows his business.
I give Hugh Hurley the credit of knowing his business. He knows a
baseball player by instinct. He picked up this team. If we were in
either of the big leagues we would be pennant winners. Look how our
boys work together. They are like the individual parts of a perfect
machine. Every man seems to have brains, and brains count in this
game. We didn’t get all the good men discarded. We tried for Josslyn,
the young wizard twirler that Collins of the Bostons was chump enough
to hand over to Providence. If we’d landed him, we’d had two of the
greatest youngsters in the business. You know what Josslyn has been
doing. He shut out Newark six to nothing in the first game he pitched
for Providence, and he’s been making batters blink and fan ever since.
Still Collins is called one of the shrewdest managers in the American
League. They all make mistakes of this sort. He hung onto a certain
old-stager on account of his reputation, when Josslyn could pitch right
round the old boy any day in the week. I’d like to get against the
great bean-eating champs. Oh, say! we wouldn’t do a thing to ’em!”

Grafter grinned.

“You have a bad case of it,” he said. “Better have your head clamped
before it gets any bigger.”

“Results count,” retorted McGann. “This will make our fifteenth
victory, without a defeat.”

“You seem to be one of those chaps who count chickens before they are
hatched. Everything is against you to-day. You’ve made one clean hit
off the coon pitcher.”

“We’ll find him before we’re through. Just keep watch.”

In the sixth inning the Outcasts resorted to a new trick. The first
batter bunted and beat the ball to first.

The next man bunted toward third, laying down a “dead one” just inside
the line. In the confusion that followed the batter reached first in
safety.

Bob Gowan laughed.

“Now you see how they do it!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t see that they’ve done anything yet,” said Grafter.

When the next batter tried to bunt and popped up a little fly that was
taken by the third baseman on the run and shot across to first for a
double play, Grafter held onto his sides and roared.

“No use,” he said. “The coons have you. You can’t get away from them
to-day.”

Gowan looked somewhat disappointed, yet pretended to be not a whit less
confident in regard to the result.

The next batter electrified every one by lacing the ball to deep centre
for three bags and bringing in a run.

“I knew it!” wheezed Gowan. “It was bound to come.”

“That’s one run,” grinned Grafter. “You’ll get no more this inning.”

“We have a man on third.”

“Can’t help it. Two out.”

Grafter was right. The clever colored twirler caused the next batter to
fan.

The Giants whooped joyously as they capered in to the bench.

In the seventh inning, however, the Outcasts fell on the pitcher and
hammered out five handsome singles, which gave them two runs and tied
the score.

In the first of the eighth the Giants made a desperate bid for a
run, succeeding in pushing a man round to third, but he died there,
O’Neill showing what he could do in a pinch and striking out two of the
heaviest and surest batters who faced him.

The last of the eighth delighted the admirers of the Outcasts, for they
got after the colored pitcher in earnest and “sent him on an aërial
voyage.” The result was three more runs.

“I told you, Grafter!” wheezed Gowan. “I knew what would happen! Why,
our boys have been fooling with the nigs! They can’t be beaten by
anything outside the big leagues, and we know they can more than hold
their own with the big fellows. There isn’t an independent team in the
country that can take a game off this bunch.”

A young, healthy-looking, smooth-faced fellow had approached just in
time to hear this remark.

“What do you think about that, boy?” asked Grafter. “Gentlemen, this is
my son, Wallace.”

“I think the gentleman is mistaken,” said Wallace Grafter quietly. “I
am confident that I know an independent baseball team that can wallop
the Outcasts to a whisper.”

“You have another think due you!” exclaimed McGann warmly.

“Two more,” said Gowan.

“Are you in earnest, son?” inquired old Grafter.

“You bet,” nodded Wallace.

“I’ve been betting,” admitted his father, with a grin. “Bet Gowan a
hundred his team would lose. It’s plain I’m a hundred short.”

“You can make it up and some more with it, if Mr. Gowan has the nerve
to back his team against an independent team I’ll name,” said the
politician’s son.

“I’ll back the Outcasts against any independent team in the country for
a hundred—or a thousand,” rasped Gowan.

Grafter and his son exchanged glances; the young man nodded.

“I kinder think I’ll have to take you on that,” said Mike Grafter
deliberately.

The roaring of the spectators drowned his voice. O’Neill had just
struck out the third Giant in the ninth, ending the game, the Outcasts
winning by the score of six to three.

“What’d you say?” asked Gowan, as the shouting subsided and the great
crowd, having risen, was beginning to move to leave the grounds.

“I said I’d take you—for a thousand,” answered Grafter.

“Got it with you?”

“Always have that much loose change.”

“Same stakeholder do?”

“Sure.”

“Put up.”

“All right. Cover.”

Right there, before leaving the bleachers, the bet was made, Gowan
backing the Outcasts against any independent team Wallace Grafter
should name.

Not until the wager had been made did Bob Gowan ask:

“What team is this you’re betting on, Grafter?”

“I don’t know,” answered the politician. “What team is it, son?”

“It’s Frank Merriwell’s team,” said Wallace. “I think there will be no
trouble about arranging the game on any kind of reasonable terms.”




                             CHAPTER XIV.

                        ARRANGING FOR THE GAME.


On an open lot within sight of the Harlem River Frank Merriwell and
Bart Hodge were practicing. Merry was working to see what he could do
with the “spit ball,” which he had found to be extremely difficult to
control.

“You have it all right, Merry,” declared Hodge. “Great Scott! doesn’t
she take a sharp shoot!”

“Always feel like I’m going to lose control of the ball when I deliver
it,” confessed Frank.

“You seem to have more speed when you spit on her.”

“The ball leaves the fingers with greater speed. I suppose the sharp
shoot is caused by the banking of air against the wet surface. You know
air will bank heavier against the wet surface of a moving object than
against a dry surface. About all the spit-ball pitchers have one way
that they deliver the ball. I’ve been trying various ways. Watch this.”

Merry swung his arm in a peculiar manner and the ball was delivered
with his hand high in the air. It sped downward toward the outside
corner of the stone which served as a plate. Suddenly it took a queer
upward swerve.

Hodge grabbed at it and was nearly upset.

“What the dickens——” he cried, and stopped.

Merry was laughing.

“Do that again,” urged Bart, returning the ball.

Frank complied.

“That beats!” gasped Bart. “Why, the ball seems to come down from your
hand on a straight line toward the outside of the plate. Four or five
feet before it reaches the plate it swerves upward with a combined rise
and incurve, passing over the inside corner. It’s marvelous!”

“It’s something like an outdrop reversed—turned bottom up,” said Frank.

“That’s just what it is; but I can’t see how you make it rise so much.
Merry, can you control that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve found out how to throw it. I presume control will
come with practice.”

“If you can control it, I’ll guarantee you can strike the best of ’em
out with it. It will be even more effective than the double shoot. It’s
marvelous! If you could start it toward the inside corner and give it
the other sweep it would be magic.”

“Let me see,” said Merry, taking the ball in his hand and studying over
it. “How could that be done?”

He tried several times, being rather wild, but finally Bart gave a
shout.

“That’s it! You did it then!”

“It seemed to be it,” nodded Frank. “Wonder if I can repeat that?”

He kept at it until he did repeat it, not only once, but a number of
times.

“Talk about sorcery!” cried Bart. “Certainly you are a sorcerer with a
baseball!”

“I think I shall keep after that until I can handle it,” said Merry.
“I’d like to see what batters could do with it. I’ll try it in the next
game we play.”

“Who are these men coming this way?” said Hodge, scrutinizing two
persons who were approaching across the lot.

“I believe I know one of them.”

“One looks natural to me.”

“We met him at the Eagle Heights club the other day. It’s Wallace
Grafter.”

“Sure enough!”

Grafter it was, and he was accompanied by Melvin McGann.

“How do you do, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Grafter cheerfully. “How are you,
Mr. Hodge. We’ve had some trouble finding you.”

He shook hands heartily with them, and then said:

“Let me introduce Mr. McGann, manager of the Outcasts, a baseball team
you may have heard about.”

“I should say we had heard about it!” exclaimed Frank. “Every one who
takes the least interest in baseball must have heard of it by this
time. So you are the manager of the Outcasts, Mr. McGann? Well, I
congratulate you, for you certainly have a great team. I know good
judges who declare your team is faster than anything in either of the
two big leagues.”

“You are correct in pronouncing men of that opinion to be good judges,”
said McGann. “We think we have the real thing. But, by the way, I have
heard a little something about you and your team.”

“Which has interested him somewhat,” laughed Grafter. “He’s after you,
Merriwell. He’s out for all the scalps he can gather.”

“After us, is he? I suppose he is looking for a game with our team?”

“That’s just it,” nodded McGann. “We have an idea that you will be
fruit for us, although we hope you’ll be strong enough to make the game
fairly interesting, in case you are not afraid to play us.”

Hodge muttered something under his breath. It always irritated Bart to
have any one insinuate that the Merries were afraid of anything on the
diamond.

“It’s a fine thing to have a good opinion of yourself,” smiled Frank.
“Evidently you are not troubled by modesty, Mr. McGann. Considering
what your team has done, I don’t know that I blame you.”

“Will you give us a game?”

“We’ll be delighted.”

“You bet!” put in Hodge.

“Of course,” said McGann shrewdly, “we’ll give you a fair deal. We’ll
furnish the grounds, pay all expenses of advertising and pay you a
hundred dollars for a game next Saturday afternoon. We can play in
Hoboken if I engage the ground to-night.”

“Such generosity is altogether surprising!” said Frank, with bland
sarcasm. “Aren’t you afraid you can’t afford it?”

“I thought that would be satisfactory,” said McGann. “I understand you
chaps are playing for sport. Have you any salaried men on your team?”

“No.”

“Well, you see——”

“We might play you for nothing!” interrupted Frank. “In Hoboken, too.
There will be eight or ten thousand people out to the game, if the
weather is good. Eight thousand paid admissions will mean two thousand
dollars in gate money, if only twenty-five cents is charged. Mr.
McGann, I am overwhelmed by your generous offer of one hundred dollars!”

“Oh, but you know expenses will be heavy. We must pay a round sum for
the grounds, to say nothing of advertising and other expenses. Besides
that, our players are high-priced men—all under salary. It costs like
fire to run the sort of team we have.”

“I’ve heard that you started out with every player under an agreement
that your men should not be paid unless you made money. You took small
chances at the outset. You have made money hand over hand. It’s been a
great thing for you. I don’t wonder, if you pay the teams with which
you play as liberally as you have offered to pay us!”

Frank’s sarcasm was biting now, and McGann squirmed under it somewhat.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked sharply. “We have the reputation.
The people will turn out to see us play.”

“Oh, I think our team has some drawing power,” retorted Merry. “We
haven’t failed to get out fairly good crowds wherever we have appeared.
No, Mr. McGann, we’ll not play you in Hoboken on the terms you have
offered.”

“You can say what you want, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“We want all we can get. Although we enjoy the game, we’re not easy
marks.”

“I didn’t take you for easy marks, Merriwell,” said McGann. “You
misunderstood me.”

“I hope I did.”

Bart was smiling in a grimly satisfied manner.

“What is your idea of what is right in the way of terms?” asked the
manager of the Outcasts. “Will two hundred dollars satisfy you?”

“Hardly!”

“Then what?”

“Not less than fifty per cent of the net receipts.”

“Oh, that’s no square deal! Why, we furnish the grounds and do the
advertising.”

“I said the net receipts. Expenses to be taken out before the money is
divided.”

“We couldn’t think of it,” said McGann decisively. “We have the
reputation to draw the people. I’ll make all the arrangements. We’ll
pay you fifteen per cent.”

“I don’t think we’ll play,” said Frank. “You’ll have to look after
other marks.”

He seemed to consider the matter settled.

“We’re anxious to play with you,” protested McGann.

“You seem to be!” laughed Frank.

“We really are. You’re the fellows we want to beat next Saturday. Some
people actually seem to think you can make us work hard for the game.”

“If you play us, you won’t do any loafing,” cut in Hodge. “That is, if
you keep in the game for a minute.”

“Fifty per cent is unreasonable,” said the manager of the Outcasts.
“I’ll tell you what we will do. We’ll give you twenty of the net.”

“No go,” said Frank. “Two-thirds to the winners, one-third to the
losers. How does that strike you?”

McGann objected. He admitted that he felt as if the Merries would be
getting too much if they received one-third of the net receipts.

“Oh, but we’d get two-thirds under that arrangement,” declared Hodge.

“Would you?” sneered McGann. “Then what do you say if the winners take
all the money?”

“That suits me very well,” said Frank promptly.

The manager of the Outcasts gasped. Of a sudden, he fancied he saw how
he could get out of it without paying Merriwell a dollar.

“Are you in earnest?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“You’ll sign an agreement to play on those terms?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a go!” cried McGann. “Let’s make out the agreement and sign it
right here. I’m afraid you’ll change your mind.”

“Don’t worry in the least,” said Frank. “Go ahead and write the
agreement.”

The manager of the Outcasts brought forth a large notebook. On one of
the pages he wrote in the briefest manner possible the agreement, to
which he signed his name. Frank read it over and promptly added his
signature. Then Grafter and Hodge signed as witnesses, and the affair
was settled.

Grafter was relieved, and he betrayed it.

“I was afraid you two would blow up over it,” he confessed. “I want to
see the game pulled off. I believe it’s going to be the hottest kind of
a tussle.”

“Then there is another reason,” said McGann. “But I fancy your old man
would be far better off if no game took place.”

Then it came out that, at the advice of Wallace, old man Grafter had
bet that the Merriwells could defeat the Outcasts. He had done this
without knowing what team he was backing, which demonstrated his
implicit confidence in the judgment of his son.

“That’s how I happened to bring Mr. McGann to you,” laughed Grafter the
younger. “Now I hope you can show the old man that my confidence in you
was not misplaced.”

Frank knew it would be useless to express his view in regard to
gambling. Wallace Grafter had been brought up in the full knowledge
of his father’s ways, and to him gambling was something forbidden by
cranks who knew nothing of the real pleasure in venturing the winning
on a contest of skill or a game of chance.

It is remarkable how some men close their eyes to the bad results of
gambling. They have tasted the pleasurable excitement of it, and they
regard it, if not as a means of revenue, as a pastime in which the
strong-minded may indulge without harm to any one.

But gambling has ruined more men than drink. It is a vice that may be
practiced secretly, and, unfortunately, it seldom leaves its branding
marks on the boy or young man who becomes its victim. When a man begins
to drink hard his features tell on him, even though he is clever enough
to refrain from getting drunk. His changed face warns his employer,
who may take precautions in regard to the victim of drink. But there
are no telltale signals hung out on the face of the young gambler who
follows the races, the pool rooms, or occasionally plunges heavily
in stocks. His employer is unwarned until the crash comes and the
young man flees, a defaulter, or blows out his brains, disgraced and
dishonored.

Are there not men who gamble mildly, without harm to any one?

No!

The man who does a wrong thing sets an example before others. Even if
he has such perfect control of himself that he may never indulge to
excess, his example may lead some weaker soul into the crooked path
that leads through fields of pleasure and pain to the gate of Purgatory.

Frank Merriwell was one who believed that a man should be judged not
alone by the company he kept, but by the example he set. He believed
that some of the world’s best and greatest men had associated with the
meek and lowly, but had exalted and uplifted others by their exemplary
behavior.

He who keeps constantly in mind the desire to set a good example before
others, cannot very well go wrong himself.

“It’s pleasant to know some one has such confidence in our team,”
nodded Merry; “but, of course, you are aware that we’ll be doing
something remarkable if we break the winning streak of the great
Outcasts.”

“I know; still I think you’ll break it. Some one will. It can’t keep
up.”

McGann laughed.

“We wouldn’t think of letting Merriwell’s team defeat us,” he said.
“We shall take extra precautions. Every man will be in the best
condition possible, Mat O’Neill will pitch, and we’ll try to shut the
mighty Merriwell bunch out.”

“You’ll succeed!” exclaimed Bart Hodge; “I don’t think!”

“You may think,” chuckled McGann. “Wait until after the game. Why, you
don’t know what you are going up against.”

“By the way, Merriwell,” said Grafter, placing a hand on Frank’s arm,
“have you seen anything of Hobe Manton lately?”

“I haven’t seen him since the day of the meet at Eagle Heights.”

“I have. Ran across him yesterday by accident. He stopped to speak with
me, although I fancy he dislikes me now almost as much as he does you.
He’s a dangerous chap, and you want to keep your eyes open for him.”

“Why, I fancied he was pretty well cooled down.”

“Not at all; he’s pretty well warmed up. He hasn’t forgotten that he,
the great ‘gentleman pugilist,’ was soundly thrashed by you out behind
the cedars at Eagle Heights. And that is why he is determined to get
even with you some time. He stopped me yesterday to tell me that he was
going to square up the score. He said he had been keeping track of your
movements, and he meant to catch you alone and off your guard. You want
to be careful, Merriwell. There is no telling what he may try to do.”

“Oh, I think he’s not nearly as dangerous as he would have people
believe.”

“I don’t know about it. He felt most keenly the disgrace of being
kicked out of Eagle Heights.”

“He brought it on himself.”

“He thinks you were the cause of it all. He doesn’t blame himself. At
least, he doesn’t seem to.”

“Well, I’m much obliged for your warning, Grafter. I’ll keep my eyes
peeled.”

Grafter and McGann now took their departure, bidding Frank and Bart
good day. The manager had secured Merriwell’s address, so that he might
communicate with him if he should desire to do so before Saturday.

“Well, Bart,” said Merry, as the manager of the Outcasts and the
shot-putter of the Eagle Heights A.A. were disappearing from the lot,
“how do you like the prospect?”

“It’s great!” answered Bart. “Merry, if it is in us, we must defeat
those chaps. I’d rather beat them than any team we have met this
season.”

“It would give us more glory.”

“Glory is not all. I can tell by the way McGann talked that they
believe themselves the only ones on earth. He fancies he has a snap in
the arrangement that the winning team shall take all the gate money.
He’s chuckling in his sleeves over the fact that you refused his offer
and then stepped into a trap by which we’ll get nothing at all. His
manner made me sore. I’d rather take that game than any ten common
games.”

“We’ll go after it hard, Bart. If I can get the new curve down pat
before that game, I may be able to bother some of the batters with it.”

“Some of them! I’ll bet you’ll bother every one of them.”

“Let’s try it some more.”

They resumed practice, and both saw that Merry made progress in
handling and controlling the new curve. Bart also advanced in the way
of receiving it, for he grew accustomed to the sharp upward shoot of
what seemed to be a falling ball.

Finally they stopped and picked up their clothing, which lay on a pile
of lumber near by.

Frank had begun to adjust his collar when Bart said:

“Look here, Merry—look quick! Who are these fellows?”

Behind the cover of the lumber pile nine young men had approached. As
soon as they realized that they were seen by Bart, they started on
the run for the two youths. In their hands some of them carried heavy
clubs. They had the manner of thugs.

Merry took a look at them.

“Great Cæsar!” he exclaimed, not wholly without dismay. “It’s Hobart
Manton and a bunch of toughs! They’re after us, Bart, and we’re in for
trouble!”

Both Frank and Bart thought of taking flight. It seemed folly to stop
there and face nine ruffians who were armed with clubs. Bart caught up
his coat and vest and started. As he ran something fell from his vest.

“Dropped my watch,” he exclaimed, stopping and turning back for it.

It was a valuable watch in a certain way, being a present from his
mother. He thought a great deal of it. Instantly Frank stopped and
turned back.

They did not find the watch at once. Just as Bart picked it up the
thugs came rushing round both sides of the lumber pile and were upon
them.

“Yah!” snarled the leader, who was very well dressed, yet who had a
face that seemed flushed with drink. “We have ye! Don’t try to run!”

It was Hobart Manton himself.

“Manton,” muttered Merry.

“Yes, Manton!” cried the fellow.

“And Frost!” came from Bart, as he pointed at another of the gang.
“There’s Frost!”

“And Necker, also,” said Merry, nodding toward a third chap.

“Yes, we’re right here!” grated Manton, who was plainly the leader.
“We’ve caught you just where I’ve been wanting to get you, too!”

Merry surveyed the remaining six members of the gang, and he decided
that they were genuine young loafers and desperadoes.

Manton saw Frank surveying the gang, and he laughed harshly.

“Oh, they’re scrappers, every one of them!” he cried. “They know you
can fight, and they’re here to beat you up. You’ll get all that’s
coming this day!”

“What a fine, brave fellow Manton is!” grated Hodge.

“You’ll get yours, too!” declared the leader of the thugs. “Next to
Merriwell, it will give me pleasure to knock the wind out of you!”

“So this is really the sort of ruffian you are!” spoke Merry
cuttingly. “You were called the ‘gentleman pugilist.’ Gentleman,
indeed! Why, you’re just a common ruffian!”

“Go ahead!” cried Manton. “The more you talk like that the more delight
I shall take in beating you up.”

“You proved yourself a sneak at Eagle Heights. You brought disgrace on
your own head.”

“Yah! I was a member in good standing until you came.”

“And then, out of a desire to show off, you led yourself into the most
disreputable business. But I’m surprised to see Dent Frost and Jack
Necker with you. I hardly looked for them to be in such company. Is it
possible that they are chaps of the same caliber?”

Frost frowned, while Necker looked a trifle ill at ease.

“Oh, I have something to settle with you, too!” asserted the pole
vaulter.

“I ought to have!” exclaimed the jumper.

“Well, you are fine sports, to be sure!” scornfully flung back Frank.
“You were fairly and honorably defeated, and now you come here to beat
me up for it! I understood that the Eagle Heights A.A. was made up of
gentlemen! I don’t understand how you ever got into it.”

“Manton is our friend,” said Frost.

“That’s it!” Necker hastily cried. “He has been treated in a shabby
manner, and you are the cause of it. He is our friend.”

“You should be proud to own him as such!” sneered Bart.

“Another one for you!” growled Manton. “Come on, fellows.”

“Wait a moment!” exclaimed Frank, flinging up his hand. “What do you
think will be the end of this? If you don’t kill us here and now, I
promise to land you three in prison for assault with intent to kill.
I mean you, Manton, you, Frost, and you, Necker. I know you. You were
fools to come here with your thugs. The evidence against you will be
overwhelming. You’ll go to prison, every one of you!”

“Bah! He’s trying to frighten you, boys,” said Manton. “He thinks he
can bluff us.”

“I promise the remainder of the gang that I shall make it pretty warm
for them. I seldom forget a face I have once seen, and I’ve been
looking them all over. I’ll spend a year, if necessary, in running this
gang down and giving each one the full strength of the law.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him!” howled Manton. “He always makes a
bluff. Fly at him!”

The thugs muttered among themselves and advanced, gripping their clubs.
They spread out to intercept Merry and Bart if the intended victims
sought to run away.

“Got to fight ’em, Merry!” hissed Hodge.

“Got to, Bart!” was the answer.

They placed themselves back to back, in order to defend themselves as
best they could.

Jack Necker was hesitating. Manton appealed to him.

“Come on, Jack!” he cried. “Get into it!”

Necker threw down his club.

“Not I!” he exclaimed. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?” snarled Manton. “What ails you?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“You’re afraid! You’re a quitter!”

“I’d rather quit than go to the jug, and Merriwell can send the whole
bunch up if he tries.”

Frost seemed to hesitate. Plainly he was inclined to follow the example
of the jumper.

“Don’t you quit, Dent!” rasped Manton. “You’ve been telling what you
wanted to do to Merriwell. Don’t be a coward!”

Thus urged, Frost reluctantly joined the others, and Manton gave the
word for them all to prepare for a grand rush.

“Make ready!” he cried. “We’ll jump on ’em all together when I give the
word. Now! One, two, three—go!”

A shout of warning came from Necker.

“Skip,” he yelled. “Here comes a bunch of cops! You’ll all be pinched!”

Then he took to his heels, running as if his very life depended on it.

Some of the ruffians had leaped in to get at Merry and Bart. Others,
including Manton and Frost, heard the warning words of Necker and did
not charge. They cast frightened glances around, saw three policemen,
with drawn clubs, followed by two other men, coming at a run, then
promptly took flight after the manner of Necker.

Manton was one of the very first to run, and he ran as if his life
depended on it, while Frost followed him closely.

Merry managed to leap on one of the ruffians, tripping him and flinging
him to the ground.

Hodge seized another and had a sharp fight with him; but the fellow
staggered Bart with a blow of his club and broke away.

When the officers came up it was seen that Wallace Grafter and Melvin
McGann were with them.

The ruffian Frank had held was promptly seized and subdued.

“I know him,” said one of the policemen. “It’s Hug Murphy, and he’s
wanted for some flat work. He’ll get a vacation.”

“We saw those chaps as we were leaving the lot,” explained Grafter.
“They were holding a consultation behind the board fence over yonder. I
recognized Manton and knew there was mischief brewing. Then we hustled
to find some officers; but we arrived just a moment too late.”

“Or a trifle too soon,” said Frank. “If they had tackled us in a bunch
it’s likely your approach might not have been noticed. In that case you
might have nabbed more than one. I am very grateful to you, Grafter.
It’s certain enough that the thugs, armed as they were, would have
hammered us up only for you.”

“Don’t mention it, Merriwell, old boy!” cried Grafter.

“Did you recognize any one in the gang besides Manton?” asked Frank.

“No.”

“Two other chaps who are well known to you were there.”

“Who?”

“Dent Frost for one.”

“Impossible!”

“It’s true.”

“Why, Denton Frost is a gentleman!”

“How about Jack Necker?”

“He’s regarded as one. You don’t mean to say——”

“He was the other one.”

“Well, this affair shall be reported at Eagle Heights!” exclaimed
Grafter warmly. “I don’t care to associate with ruffians of that cast.
If they are not asked to resign from the club, I shall hand in my
resignation.”

He was in earnest and highly indignant.

Frank and Bart left the lot in company with the officers and the
others. They saw nothing of the members of the gang who had taken
flight.

“You see my warning was one to be heeded, Merriwell,” said Grafter,
as he was about to leave Frank. “Hobe Manton is vicious, and he’ll do
everything in his power to injure you. He’ll stop at nothing. Better
swear out a warrant for his arrest and put the police after him.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Merry. “It would give me some satisfaction to
settle the matter with him personally. I have a strong desire to show
him that he received nothing but a mere taste when we had our little
fight at Eagle Heights.”

“I don’t blame you, Merry!” cried Hodge earnestly. “I always like to
settle such matters myself! I’d like to have a turn at him. He thinks
he’s a fighter; but I wouldn’t mind meeting him on even footing.”

“It seems to me that your friends are fighters, Grafter,” said McGann.

“You’ll think so after the game next Saturday,” retorted Wallace.




                              CHAPTER XV.

                         GRAFTER GROWS UNEASY.


The game that was to be between Frank Merriwell’s team and the great
Outcasts was thoroughly advertised. Much was said about it in the
sporting columns of the New York papers. The sporting writers were
one and all inclined to doubt the ability of the Merries to check the
triumphant career of the Outcasts.

One well-known sporting writer demonstrated in his paper, to his own
satisfaction, at least, that it was utterly impossible for Merriwell’s
team to defeat the fast nine formed from the very best of the “timber”
left over from the big leagues.

It must not be fancied that Frank himself felt certain of winning.
He knew the sort of a “proposition” he and his comrades were going
up against. It aroused all his sporting blood and determination. It
likewise aroused the others. Hodge was the only man on the team who
seemed confident of victory, but all were resolved to play for their
very lives.

At least, it would be no disgrace if they met defeat. They practiced
faithfully, and each day Merry worked at his new curve.

“Bart,” he said, “I hope I can fool those chaps with that ball. I hear
they are wonderful batters. I have been told that they have found a
man who throws something like the double-shoot, and they have been
practicing batting with him as pitcher. They expect to fall on me when
I hand them up the double-shoot and hammer me to the four winds.”

“You’ll fool them, Merry,” nodded Hodge positively. “If they get a
single hit off that curve I shall be surprised.”

“You’ve seen what the papers are saying about our prospects. We’re
called fast enough to make it interesting for college teams, but
several degrees too weak to hold down the Outcasts. Henshaw, of the
_Universe_, says the chances are more than even that we’ll not score
if O’Neill is used against us. Anderson, of the _Standard_, says it
would be a shame to use O’Neill and give us no chance; he urges Manager
McGann to put in Brackett. Pulsifer, of the _Evening Dispatch_, thinks
we are going to lose the reputation we have made on our trip this
season.”

“And they all make me tired!” cried Bart. “We’ll give them a chance to
sing another song in their Sunday columns.”

The boys took care of themselves, lived properly and sought to come up
to the game in the pink of condition.

Frank kept his eyes open for Hobart Manton, but once more Manton seemed
to have disappeared completely.

From Wallace Grafter he learned that charges had been preferred at the
Eagle Heights A.A. against Frost and Necker, as having attempted to
assault an honorary member of the club. Merriwell had been taken into
the Eagle Heights A.A. after his success at the meet in defeating two
of its champions.

Saturday proved to be a fine day. The boys were in a glow of
enthusiasm. When they thought of the coming struggle in Hoboken they
tingled all over.

The game was to be called at 3 o’clock. At 2.30 Frank and his team
reached the grounds and found a river of people crowding in at the
gate. Evidently the game would be witnessed by an immense crowd.

They hurried to the dressing rooms and quickly got into their suits.

When they came out onto the field they found the Outcasts practicing.

The appearance of Merriwell’s team produced a stir and caused many of
the spectators to applaud loudly.

Melvin McGann hastened to shake hands with Frank. He was beaming in a
most satisfied manner.

“Look at this mob!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have hard work
keeping them off the field. We’ve stretched ropes, but ropes won’t
hold a crowd back if it gets too large. Here is Captain Hurley. Mr.
Hurley—Mr. Merriwell.”

Hugh Hurley shook hands with Frank.

“Glad to meet you Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “You may have the field for
practice.”

Frank sent his players out at once.

Bob Gowan and Mike Grafter were sitting together. Wallace Grafter
joined them as the Merries trotted onto the field.

The Tammany man surveyed the youngsters in blue in a doubtful manner.

“Is this the team you told me to bet on, son?” he asked.

“Sure, dad,” nodded Wallace.

“Rather immature, some of ’em. Look like boys.”

“They are all men in years, although they do look rather boyish,” said
Wallace.

“Hum!” grunted Mr. Grafter doubtfully.

Gowan grinned.

“I’ve got ye!” he wheezed. “Your money is mine! The kids won’t be in
the game for a minute.”

The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and
they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of
the offenders. He made a high throw to second.

“Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank.

Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low.

Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to
make the throw good.

It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done.

Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect
after that, and it was.

To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of
that, he was impressing Bart by force of example.

As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy.

“I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better
have done it. I’ll never see it again.”

Again Gowan grinned.

“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble
with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold
feet.”

“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on
Frank Merriwell, and you think the whole of his bunch just as good as
he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”

“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”

“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”

“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will
show him up.”

“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that
I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than
off Merriwell.”

“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”

The bet was made.

There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed
Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.

Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making
an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of
white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts
and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy
chap in a baseball suit.

At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered
exclamations of surprise.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as
life! I must be dreaming!”

The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed
in smiles.

“Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and
original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The
spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgid
for utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.”

“Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the
person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why,
cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.”

“Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your
sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.”

“You are playing with the Outcasts?”

“Am I? Ask me! I am their mainstay and support. My fielding is about
nine hundred and ninety-nine per cent. and my batting a trifle better
than five hundred per cent. I was too fast for the Concord team of the
New England League, and so they had to let me go. You see the other
players didn’t have any chance to shine with me in the game. I played
all round them. Not only did I fill my own field at shortstop, but I
often gamboled out into the extreme gardens and picked flies and line
drives right out of the fingers of the fielders. I covered all the
sacks from the initial corner round to the home plate, and often I
backed up the catcher. The populace stood aghast at my strenuosity, and
the players became jealous and pea-green with envy.

“These envious individuals formed a combine against me. They put their
caputs together—caput is French for head—they put their caputs together
and formed a combine. They decided to quit in a body unless I was
released. The manager had no alternative. He pleaded with them with
tears in his eyes and his fists doubled up, but they would not hearken
unto reason, and so he was compelled to release me with honors. I
immediately received offers from Boston, New York, Washington, Chicago,
and Oshkosh. But I decided to throw my fortunes in with the noble
Outcasts, and here I am.

“I’m sorry for you, Merry, old boy, but you haven’t a show with me
in the game against you. Your double-shoot will not save you on this
salubrious afternoon. You will remember that I acquired a spasm of the
double-shoot myself, and I have had the boys batting against it for the
past four days. Every man on the team can hit the double-shoot with his
eyes shut. Just hand it up to them and regret it to the end of your
tempestuous career.”

“So you are the chap who has been training them to bat against me? I
heard some one was doing it.”

“I confess with all due humility and abnegation—abnegation is a good
word, but I don’t know what it means—I confess that I am the guilty
party. I had to do it. You see we haven’t been beaten thus far in our
seething career, and we don’t propose to have our immaculate record
sullied by defeat. The boys knew I could hand out the double-shoot.
When they learned that the game with your team had been arranged, they
led me forth like a lambkin to the slaughter and bade me promulgate the
sphere through the atmosphere after the manner in which you are wont
to do. Then they took their little bats and learned to hit it. I warn
you in advance that they can connect with the ball even though you make
it travel like a writhing snake through the ozone. It will grieve my
tender heart to see you batted all over the lawn, Merry; but I fear
exceedingly that such will be your fate.”

“What do you think of that?” exclaimed Hodge, who had never entertained
any great liking for Wiley. “He has been teaching them to bat your pet
curve, Frank.”

“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even
though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than
a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the
double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it
tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.”

“The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If
you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.”

The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to
join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him.

As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position
of shortstop.

“Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones
over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.”

Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced
round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed
the slab.

Ready was in position to bat.

O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck.

“Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to
have a passing glimpse of it.”

The umpire pronounced it a strike.

“That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the
mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see
the ball.”

Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped
his bat and waited for the next one.

It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the
plate.

“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.

Wiley did a hornpipe.

“It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own
perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking
like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.”

“He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his
tongue.”

O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high,
but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders.

Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out.

The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three
pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them.




                             CHAPTER XVI.

                           CLEVER PITCHING.


“Oh, me! oh, my!” cried Wiley. “How could you be so careless, Jack? I
fear your reputation will sink into ignominy. At least, you could have
shut your eyes and fanned once. You did not even agitate the atmosphere
with your wand.”

“You seem to be agitating it altogether too much with your tongue,”
flung back Ready, as he retired disconsolately to the bench.

Morgan stepped out to take his place.

“Who is this sedate youth?” inquired the sailor. “To me his classic
countenance is strangely unfamiliar. I wonder if he will pass away in a
trance, like his predecessor.”

Mike Grafter had turned on his son as Ready was declared out.

“What do you think of that, boy?” he demanded. “That fellow didn’t seem
to know what he was standing up there for.”

“He did appear doped,” admitted Wallace; “but I think this one will
wake up.”

He was right, for Morgan smashed the first ball delivered. It hummed
along the ground in the direction of Wiley. The sailor leaped for it
and it struck his hands, bouncing out. Like a cat springing on a mouse,
Wiley pounced on the ball, caught it up and whistled it across the
diamond in time to put Dade out at first.

“Too easy to get it the first time,” he said. “In order to show my
superb style, I had to drop it and pick it up again. Bat them all to
me. It’s the easiest way you can get out.”

Buck Badger, grim and sturdy, strode forth to the plate.

“A gent from the wild-and-woolly, unless I have been incorrectly
informed,” said Wiley. “Whoop! Yi, yi, ye-ee! Yow! Notice the
coyotelike melody of my voice. Give him a slow one.”

“About like this, eh?” said O’Neill, as he delivered a “dope” ball.

Badger had noted the speed of the pitcher, and he struck too soon.

“One strike!” called the umpire.

“Behave! behave!” exclaimed Wiley. “Why, he really tried to hit it
before it left your hand, O’Neill.”

“Confound that fellow!” grated Hodge. “He’s getting on my nerves.”

“Don’t let him do that,” advised Frank. “It’s a part of his game. He
always tries to worry the opposite side.”

Buck had better luck with the second ball, for he sent a little Texas
Leaguer over the infield and easily reached first.

“What do you think of that?” cried the sailor. “O’Neill, you’re getting
careless. You make me blush for you. Note the rosy color that suffuses
my dimpled cheeks.”

As Merry picked out his bat and walked to the plate he was given a
round of applause.

“Ahoy there, my old college chump!” hailed the sailor. “Waft an
energetic one in this direction and permit me to demonstrate my
dexterity by placing my diligent digits upon it.”

Frank seemed to obey, for he smote the ball full and fair on the
trade-mark and sent it sizzing through the air straight at the speaker.
Wiley seemed to have no more than time to put up his hands. The ball
struck them and bounded off toward second base. Roden went for it as
Badger came down the line. He could not get it in time to tag the
Kansan, but he made a sharp throw to first and Frank was declared out.

“Score an assist for me!” cried Wiley. “I think I’ve lost a mitt, but I
want to be credited with an assist. I’ll never ag’in invite him to bat
the ball in my direction.”

“Why didn’t you dodge it?” cried a spectator.

“I didn’t have time,” confessed the Marine Marvel, as he designated
himself.

Mike Grafter had his face screwed up in a dozen hard knots.

“They got one hit, but it didn’t amount to anything,” he said. “I’ll
wager something the Outcasts do better than Merriwell, son?”

“If I had any money left, I’d go you, dad,” said Wallace. “I thought
you had good sporting blood. You seem to have a bad case of frosty
feet.”

“Can you blame him?” wheezed Gowan.

“Oh, they didn’t do so bad after the first man,” declared Wallace. “The
others hit the ball.”

“Only one of them hit it anywhere, and that was an accident.”

“It was more of an accident than anything else that Merriwell didn’t
get a safe one. He nearly took the hands off that rattle-tongued chap
at short.”

Merriwell entered the box, and Creel, the centre fielder, smiling and
confident, walked out to bat.

At the very outset, Hodge called for Frank’s new curve.

“Oh, he’s going to deliver the salivered sphere!” cried Wiley, as he
saw Frank moisten the ball. “Hit one of those and it will travel at the
rate of a mile a second.”

“Cease thy idle prattle, cap’n,” implored Ready, who was in position
near third. “You are giving the tympanum of my ear a sensation of
ennui.”

“Hey?” gasped the sailor. “What’s that? Ong wee? Is that proper
pronunciation? I thought it was enn-you-eye. Ong wee! That sounds good
to me. I’ll use it at the first opportunity.”

Frank delivered the ball. It swept downward from his hand toward the
inside of the plate, but curved and swept upward and outward, crossing
the outside corner.

Creel had looked for the usual drop of the spit ball, and he struck
under.

“Strike one!”

The batter looked surprised. He knew the ball had taken some kind of a
queer shoot, but he did not know just what had happened.

“Hit it where you missed it, Creel, old boy!” urged Wiley. “Look out
for the double-shoot. He’ll hand one up in a minute, and you will have
an opportunity to demonstrate the ease with which we can project it to
yonder fence.”

Frank pitched again and tried the other sweep.

The ball seemed to start toward the outside of the plate. Suddenly it
swept upward and inward, and again Creel missed.

“Strike two!”

Creel gasped.

“What’s that he’s throwing?” he muttered.

“Oh, hit the ball!” chuckled Hodge. “It’s easy enough!”

“I’ll hit the next one!” growled Creel.

“Bet you don’t.”

“I will if I swing at it.”

“Bet you don’t.”

“Don’t talk to that catcher, Tip,” commanded Hurley sharply.

Creel was silenced. He set his teeth, gripped his bat and waited. At
the same time, although ready to strike, he more than half expected
Frank would “waste” one or two balls.

Merry saw the fellow was ready to swing if the ball came over. Again he
delivered it a trifle wide, but it swept in and upward, being caught by
Hodge almost directly behind the batter’s shoulder. In fact, it seemed
to pass under Creel’s arm as the latter swung at it.

“You’re out!” announced the umpire.

“I’d like to know what sort of a curve he used on me!” muttered Tip
Creel, as he reseated himself on the bench. “It had a mighty queer
twist.”

Hurley was watching closely.

“It wasn’t the double-shoot Wiley has been teaching us to hit,” he
said.

“If it was,” said Creel, “Merriwell throws it entirely different from
Wiley.”

“Look here, cap’n,” demanded Swatt, “have you been deceiving us?”

“Not on your autograph;” answered the sailor. “He has not yet
promulgated the double-shoot through the sunny atmosphere. Perchance
I made a mistake in admitting to him that we intended to bat it with
extreme vigor the moment he passed it out to us. But linger yet a while
and I prophesy that he will hand it forth.”

Marcey, the third baseman, now came up. He did not attempt to hit
the first ball pitched, for it seemed too wide. It swept in over the
outside corner, however, and the umpire, who had a good eye and knew
his business, declared it a strike.

Marcey flung down his bat, sprang onto the plate and glared at the
umpire.

“What’s that?” he snarled.

“Rotten! rotten!” howled a man on the bleachers, who sat in such a
position that he could not tell to save his life whether the ball came
over the plate. “Put him out! Get a new umpire! Put him out! He’s
roasting you! I’ve got some money on this game, and I want to see a
square deal.”

“Shut up!”

“Sit down!”

“Choke off!”

“Keep still!”

“Go die!”

These and various other cries came from the crowd, the most of whom
knew the umpire.

The umpire ordered Marcey back into position. The batter grouchily
picked up his bat and prepared to strike, muttering sullenly all the
while.

Frank proceeded to whistle over a high one that was declared a ball.
Then he used a “dope,” at which Marcey struck too soon.

“He’s no fool of a pitcher,” muttered the captain of the Outcasts. “I’m
afraid he’s going to be a hard man to hit safely.”

This opinion he did not express to the others.

Marcey was finally fooled with Merry’s new curve, striking out.

“Come on, Bimm!” urged Hurley. “Put us into the game. Don’t try to
knock the cover off the ball. That pitcher is easy enough if you don’t
swing your head off trying to hit.”

Bimm was one of the best batters on the team, even though he was a
change pitcher. He stepped out fully determined to show the crowd that
it was not such a difficult thing to hit Merriwell safely.

“I’d give something to get a two-bagger or better,” he thought.

Still he did not try for a long hit. Instead of that, he shortened his
hold on his bat and swung to meet the ball squarely, if he could.

He fouled the first one.

“Feeling of him, Bimm, my boy!” cried Wiley. “You’ll find him soft and
easy. Swat her to the so’west corner of the inclosure and steer your
course around the diamond.”

Bimm did his best, but, like the two before him, he fell a victim of
Merriwell’s skill and struck out.

Hurley looked round for McGann as he started for the field. He was
beginning to think that Merriwell would prove a hard nut to crack.

On the bleachers Wallace Grafter was smiling with satisfaction and his
father was feeling decidedly better.

“What do you think about it now, dad?” asked the young man.

“Can he keep that up, son?” asked the politician.

“Of course he can’t!” wheezed Gowan. “Those men of ours are great
batters, and they’ll fall on him hard before long. When they do, you’ll
see him go up in the air.”

“How about that, son?” inquired Grafter.

“Don’t you worry, dad,” advised Wallace. “I didn’t urge you to bet on
the Merries without knowing what I was doing. I’ve found out all about
Frank Merriwell. Mat O’Neill is a rattling good pitcher, but he’s met
his match in Merriwell.”

Bob Gowan laughed, holding onto his fat sides.

“All boys are alike,” he said, “and your son is no more than a boy,
Grafter. He has lots to learn.”

“All boys are not fools,” retorted Wallace. “I fancy that before the
game is over to-day you’ll confess that you have learned something.”

Wallace was just a trifle disrespectful in his language. He was the
young city man of the day, up-to-date, breezy, and assertive.

Mat O’Neill realized that Merriwell had made the best record in the
first inning, yet he was confident that the youth could not keep it up.
O’Neill had picked up his baseball in the rough-and-ready school of the
independent and minor league teams, and he thought little of college
pitchers, as a rule. Merriwell he considered in the class of the best
college pitchers. Of course he was forced to admit that some college
twirlers panned out well, for he knew what Clarkson, Matthewson, and
others had done; but he thought them exceptions, and he believed
Merriwell would be playing in one of the big leagues if he was fast
enough.

Still O’Neill’s pride had been touched, and he felt a desire to
demonstrate that he, too, could strike out three men in succession, if
he desired. This desire led him to begin the second inning with the
determination to do his handsomest.

Bart Hodge was the first man to face him. Hodge had a grim face and
businesslike air.

O’Neill handed him a high inshoot. Bart struck and missed.

“That’s the woods!” cried Wiley. “Whisker cutters for him. He never
finds ’em.”

Following this two balls were called. Then O’Neill caught Bart on a
drop.

Hodge seemed anxious, so the pitcher tried to pull him on a wide
outcurve.

Bart let it pass.

“Three balls!” declared the umpire.

“Oh, you vill haf to got der plate ofer der pall, Misder Bitcher!”
cried Hans Dunnerwurst from the bench.

O’Neill decided on a fast rise past the batter’s shoulders, and his
control was perfect.

Nevertheless Bart met the ball fairly, giving it a fearful crack.

O’Neill muttered an exclamation of chagrin.

Out on a line went the ball. Wiley made a wild leap into the air, but
he could not reach it by two feet, at least.

“That’s the high sign!” cried the sailor. “My arm was too short. I’ll
have to use my patent arm-stretching attachment to get those.”

“The fielders will have to use their leg-stretching attachment to get
them,” laughed Dade Morgan, as he ran down to the coaching line. “Take
second, Bart!”

Hodge obeyed, easily reaching second base before the ball could be
fielded into the diamond.

“Now, Gamp—now!” urged Morgan. “It’s just as easy. O’Neill will have
his troubles to-day.”

“I pelief you vos correctness, Dady!” cried Dunnerwurst, as he joined
Morgan. “His troubles vill haf him to-day. Mofe dot pag avay from,
Partley! Got a good sdart und make a roppery. You vos der pest ropper
in der punch. Id peen easiness vor a pase to steal you.”

“These boys seem to bat some, Mr. Gowan,” observed Wallace Grafter.
“If they ever get to bunching ’em on O’Neill they will put him to the
stable.”

“One hit in an inning doesn’t count,” gurgled Gowan. “I’ve noticed that
O’Neill knows how to scatter the hits.”

“Son,” said old man Grafter, “when it comes to baseball, you know a
thing or two. I’m satisfied now that I have a chance for my money, and
so I won’t kick if I lose it.”

“All right, dad,” smiled Wallace. “I’m thinking we’ll both win our
bets.”

Joe Gamp, long, gangling and awkward, stood up to the plate.

“Get back a little!” sharply commanded O’Neill.

“What fuf-fuf-for?” innocently inquired Joe.

“I’ll show you what for!” grated O’Neill, as he sent a ball over with
burning speed, keeping it so close that it barely missed the tall chap.

“Let him hit you,” cried Wiley. “You’ll never know it, and your funeral
will occur to-morrow.”

Gamp seemed alarmed, for he stood off from the plate; but as O’Neill
delivered the next ball, he stepped up to it.

Just as Joe had expected, the ball was over the outside corner.

Gamp hit it, having stepped near enough to reach it with ease.

O’Neill had tried to fool him, but, instead of that, he had fooled
O’Neill.

The hit was a safe one to right field.

Hodge went flying over third, being sent home by both Morgan and
Dunnerwurst.

“Agitate your Trilbies, Boliver!” yelled Wiley. “Get your dainty
fingers on the horsehide and hurry it hitherward! There is something
doing!”

Bimm did his level best to cut off the score. Getting the ball, he made
a splendid throw to the plate, but Hodge slid home safely.

Swatt, who was sometimes called “Crackson,” on account of his batting,
realized that he could not get Hodge, so he lined the ball down to
Roden, hoping to catch Gamp, who had pranced toward second on the
throw.

“Slide, Choe!” screeched Dunnerwurst.

Joe slid.

Roden put the ball onto him, but Gamp lay with his hand on the bag, and
he was declared safe.

Old man Grafter laughed heartily.

“Gowan,” he said, “the boys are playing all round your great Outcasts.”

Gowan had nothing to say.

“This is criminal!” cried Wiley. “They should be ashamed! I don’t
believe they have any shame in them! I’ll die of heart disease if this
merry-go-round isn’t checked right away.”

“What’s the matter, Mat?” asked Hurley.

“Nothing,” answered the pitcher savagely.

“They’re hitting you.”

“I’ll stop it.”

“You’d better. We can’t stand this.”

Although he was angry, O’Neill was not rattled. He pitched with greater
skill when Browning faced him. The big fellow made a number of fouls,
but O’Neill finally struck him out.

Starbright followed.

“Another Goliath,” said Wiley. “But the giants are easy. This one will
fall like the other.”

Starbright tried hard for a hit. Like Browning he made several fouls.
Finally he put one into the air, and Crackson Swatt got under it and
smothered it.

“Their last chance to do further damage has evaporated,” announced
Wiley, as Harry Rattleton stepped out. “This fellow will fall like
golden grain before the shining sickle of the reaper. He never made a
real hit in all his life.”

Harry had little chance against the clever work of O’Neill. At the same
time, he let none of the good ones pass without swinging. It did no
good, for in the end he struck out.

The Merries had secured one run in the second inning.




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                      CASSIDY DEMANDS HIS MONEY.


In the midst of the great crowd on the bleachers back of third sat
three persons who wore the clothes of laborers, but whose hands were
not those of workingmen. They were Hobart Manton, Denton Frost, and
Jim Necker. These chaps had ventured to witness the game together, but
Manton refused to attend in the company of the others unless they wore
a semi-disguise, like himself.

The “gentleman pugilist” was keenly interested in the game, for he
confessed that he had bet money on the Outcasts, regarding the chance
as a “snap.”

“I’ve seen the most of Merriwell’s bunch,” he told his companions, “and
they won’t be in it for a minute. If you can find any marks who are
willing to back Merriwell, bet every dollar you have. It will be just
the same as finding money.”

Frost and Necker had taken this advice. As they watched the beginning
of the game they commented on the amateurish practice of Frank’s team.

“I told you what to expect,” chuckled Manton. “The only thing I’m sorry
about is that I didn’t have more ready money to wager. I’ve bet every
dollar I could get together.”

“Then,” said Necker, “if you should happen to lose, you would go broke.”

“I wouldn’t have a whole dollar left,” acknowledged Merriwell’s enemy.
“But there is not one chance in a thousand that I will lose. I can’t
lose. It will give me some satisfaction to see the great Merriwell
properly beaten, but I’m sorry that I’ll have no hand in the beating.”

“You didn’t give him much of a beating the last time you met him,” said
Necker, with a grin.

“All on account of that confounded slob, Grafter!” growled Manton. “If
he hadn’t seen us and brought the coppers we’d fixed Merriwell so he
would be in the hospital to-day, instead of playing baseball.”

“And only for me,” reminded Necker, “we might be in the jug, instead of
here to witness the game. I saw the cops coming and gave you the alarm.”

“We have something to settle with Grafter,” hissed Frost, in his
chilling way. “He’s doing his level best to get us kicked out of Eagle
Heights.”

“And he’ll succeed if you don’t appear and answer to the charges
preferred against you,” said Manton. “I was kicked out, even when I did
try to defend myself.”

“Say,” broke forth Necker, “did you pay that bunch of sluggers?”

“What bunch?”

“The ones you engaged to help us hammer Merriwell and Hodge.”

“Pay them? Why should I? They didn’t do anything, did they?”

“No; but you agreed to give them something, anyhow.”

“Well, they’ve got all they will get.”

“One of them got something,” said Frost. “Hug Murphy was given a year
for flat robbery.”

“Next to Pink Cassidy,” said Manton, “he was the ugliest man in the
bunch. Pink was the leader.”

“Speak of the devil,” hissed Frost, “and you’ll see the print of his
hoof! There’s Cassidy now.”

“Where?” anxiously asked the other two.

Frost pointed out a chap with bright red hair.

“Yes, that’s him,” nodded Manton; “and he’s spotted us. I’m sorry, for
he’ll come around.”

He was right. “Pink” Cassidy, a sullen, stocky young thug, had seen
them, and it was not long before he came forcing his way up over the
bleachers and reached them.

“Set over, you!” he growled at a man who was beside Manton. “I wanter
set wid me frien’s.”

“Go on!” retorted the man. “There’s no room here, Mr. Buttinsky.”

“Den I’ll make some room,” said Pink, as he grasped the man by the
collar and gave him a jerk that flung him over the line of spectators
below and onto the heads of the next row. “Allus move when a gent asks
ye to.”

Saying which, he calmly took the seat thus made vacant.

This action caused considerable commotion and enraged both the fellow
who had been thus handled and those upon which he had landed; but
Cassidy minded it not in the least, laughing and retorting to their
angry words.

“If any of youse is lookin’ for trouble,” he said, “you can have all
yer want. Better set still an’ enjoy der game. Der gent wid the smashed
dicer can git him a new one for der price. He needs it. Dat lid is all
outer date.”

“What do you mean by coming here and making all this row?” growled
Manton. “You have half the bunch on this side rubbering at us.”

“Oh, be calm, be calm,” advised Cassidy serenely. “Let ’em rubber. Dey
won’t bite er northin’. I seen youse here, an’ I took a fancy to set
wid youse. You owe me money.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dere, dere, don’t gimme any o’ dat! It don’t go wid me. You know wot I
mean. Dere’s somet’n’ comin’ ter me, an’ dis is me day fer collectin’.”

“You can’t get anything out of me. I’m broke.”

“Nay, nay; I’m too wise ter swaller dat. A gent like youse never goes
busted. Come down wid der long green.”

“Shut up that talk!” grated the gentleman pugilist. “There’s nothing
due you.”

“Den dere’s somet’n’ due youse, me boy! If youse don’t settle I’m goin’
ter tie you in a double hard knot.”

Manton was enraged. He was not afraid of Cassidy as a fighter, but
he feared the fellow would succeed in attracting the attention of
Merriwell and thus get them all into trouble.

“See here,” he whispered, “do you want to follow Hug Murphy?”

“I ain’t t’inkin’ of doin’ dat.”

“Well, you will if you kick up a disturbance here. Merriwell will spot
you, and he’ll push you, too.”

“Speakin’ one ter yerself, I t’ink,” sneered Pink. “Wot would he do ter
youse if he ketched ye?”

Manton and his companions were genuinely alarmed.

“Pay him, Manton!” hissed Frost. “Get rid of him somehow.”

But Manton had wagered all his ready money on the game and had nothing
left with which to pay the thug. He resolved, however, to get rid of
Cassidy, if possible.

“Wait until after the game,” he said. “I’ll have some money then.”

“How’s dat?”

“I’ve bet all my ready money on the game.”

“Tell it ter somebody else!”

“It’s straight.”

“How did you bet?”

“On the Outcasts.”

“Den yer will have money, fer dey’ll win in a walk. Yer won’t be able
ter make no squeal arter der game.”

“No danger of that. I’ll pay you then.”

“All right; I’ll stay wid yer till I git me coin.”

That did not suit Manton, who had no liking for the company of Pink
Cassidy.

“You move!” he exclaimed. “I’m taking no chances. Merriwell may spot
you.”

“If youse t’ink yer goin’ ter git rid o’ me dat way, ye’re makin’ a
mistake,” said Pink. “I’ll move, but I’m goin’ ter watch ye close, an’
I’ll nab yer der moment der game is over. You won’t dodge me in der
crowd.”

“I shan’t try. I may want you some other time, and I’m willing to do
the right thing.”

“Dat soun’s good, but I t’ink ye’re willin’ ’cause ye can’t help it.
I’m onter your curves.”

“Think anything you like, but slide out of this.”

Repeating his promise to see Manton after the game, Cassidy moved.

Manton, Frost, and Necker breathed easier.

“He’s a dangerous ruffian,” hissed Frost. “You can’t tamper with him,
Hobe.”

“I’ll tamper with him!” growled Manton. “If I wasn’t worrying about
being spotted by Merriwell, I’d give him all that was coming, and don’t
you forget it!”

“Are you going to pay him any money after the game?

“Not on your life! Not a dollar to that thug! When the game is over and
the crowd begins to move I’ll take chances. If he bothers me, I’ll give
him a sleeping slug on the jaw.”




                            CHAPTER XVIII.

                             ON AN ERROR.


Frost and Necker were disturbed when the Merries secured their run in
the second inning.

“What do you think of that, Hobe?” asked Frost. “It begins to look bad
to me.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” returned Manton, although he was a trifle disturbed
himself. “This is just the beginning of the game. Merriwell can’t
keep up the pace he has set. Those fellows will get onto his style
of pitching after a while, and then you’ll see something happen to
him. Those chaps behind him would go to pieces if the Outcasts began
hitting.”

“I hope they’ll begin,” said Necker, a trifle dolefully; “but I’m
afraid they won’t.”

“Merriwell’s men must be good batters,” said Frost. “They’ve made three
handsome hits off O’Neill. Nobody seemed to think they could do much
with him.”

“O’Neill hasn’t settled down,” declared Manton. “After he does he’ll
keep them from hitting.”

“Here goes Merriwell into the box for the second time,” said Necker.
“Now watch. I hope they find him.”

Captain Hurley was the first batter to face Frank in the second inning.
He was resolved to set an example for his men to follow. Being a new
hitter, he felt confident that Merry would find trouble in fooling him.

Frank knew Hurley’s reputation, and he took no chances. The first ball
pitched was the new curve, and it swept over the inside corner of the
plate.

Hurley fouled it lightly, but the ball landed in Hodge’s mitt and
remained there.

Then Frank pitched two that seemed very wild. Hurley wondered if he
had lost control. He was wondering when another of those queer corner
cutters came over the outside edge and he struck at it.

“Two strikes!” cried the umpire, as the ball spanked into Bart’s big
mitt.

“Ye gods and little fishhooks!” moaned Cap’n Wiley, resting his head on
his hands. “Is our noble leader going the way of dew before the morning
sunshine? Will he likewise evaporate and fade away? Such a calamity
would be too excruciating to endure.”

Hurley was puzzled. He could not understand why he had missed the ball,
but he realized that he had not fathomed the curve Frank was using.

“I’ll get the next one!” he vowed.

Frank tried the inside corner, and for the third time Hurley missed.

“You’re out!” declared the umpire.

The captain of the Outcasts looked very much chagrined as he retired to
the bench.

“What’s the matter?” asked Crackson Swatt. “Is the whole bunch
hypnotized?”

“Something is the matter for a fact,” admitted Hurley. “Try to bunt it,
Swatt. We’ve got to find a way to get our bats against the ball.”

The entire team had great confidence in Swatt. At the beginning of
their career the Outcasts had batted with Swatt in the eighth position,
like most professional teams; but his stick work had been so good that
it was found advisable to move him up directly behind Hurley.

“Do project the ball somewhere, Swattsie!” implored Cap’n Wiley. “This
continued agitation of the atmosphere without visible results is a
weariness to the flesh. It will retire me to the bughouse before long.”

Although four of his companions, all good batters, had failed to get a
hit off Frank, Swatt was confident.

“He can’t fool me,” he told himself. “I’ll hit it somewhere.”

The first ball pitched by Merry passed behind Crackson’s back, which
caused him to laugh.

“Keep spitting on it,” he said, “and you’ll throw it over the grand
stand before the game is ended. You can’t control it. Better stop
wetting it and pitch your usual way.”

“Thank you for the advice,” smiled Merry. “If I throw it over the grand
stand I may decide to follow your kind suggestion.”

But he kept on wetting the ball.

Crackson went after the second one pitched, but he was deceived like
the others, missing it cleanly.

“Come! come!” cried a man on the bleachers. “I thought you fellows
could hit a little. You don’t seem to amount to shucks when you get up
against a real pitcher.”

Hurley was frowning and watching Merriwell’s movements. He also tried
to follow the course of the ball after it left Frank’s hand.

Merry made another wild pitch, and the ball got past Hodge. This did
no damage, however, as there was no one on the bases.

Among the spectators Hobe Manton brightened up a little.

“It will come in time,” he said. “Merriwell can’t keep it up. He’s
losing control now. What if the Outcasts had happened to have a man on
third then? Why, he would have cantered home easily.”

“But if they don’t do better they’ll never get a man on first,” said
Frost, with an icy sneer.

“They’ll get one there pretty soon,” nodded Manton.

“They can’t hit Merriwell.”

“They won’t have to if he keeps on growing wild. They’ll all walk.”

But the next ball pitched looked good to Swatt, and again he swung at
it.

He missed.

“Well, wouldn’t that bump you violently!” cried Wiley, an expression
of pain on his swarthy face. “Wait till I trip out there and put the
marble over the fence. Then the gaping multitude will rise up and call
me blessed.”

Swatt had a puzzled look on his heavy face. Like those who had batted
before him, he could not understand why he had failed so completely,
although he realized that the ball had taken some kind of a freakish
shoot.

“Make connections there!” yelled Wiley. “What ails you? Have you been
smoking dope? Hit it anywhere and pray as you run. Don’t be trying any
fancy stunts at placing the ball. I know that old tar in the box, and
he can throw everything from a high ball to a fish ball. You won’t make
a record trying to place your hits.”

Swatt gave Wiley a look. Then he gripped his bat and waited.

Again the ball delivered by Frank looked good to him, and again he
struck at it.

Again he missed.

“Boys,” said Hurley, rising to his feet, “that man Merriwell has
invented a new curve, and we’ll have to wake up and hustle if we get
any safe hits off him to-day.”

“And all my labor in teaching this bunch to hit the double-shoot was
wasted!” moaned the sailor. “When I think of that it makes my arm
wearied and weak. I am fain to confess that Merriwell is too astute for
a mortal of common clay.”

Crackson Swatt sat down gloomily.

“I’ve batted against spit-ball pitchers before; but I’ve never seen one
with that kink in his delivery,” he admitted.

“You didn’t bunt,” said Hurley.

“I tried it once and missed. When I can’t get my bat against a ball
that curves fair over the plate the pitcher is a wizard or I have lost
my batting eye.”

Roden was next, and he attempted a bunt. He was the first to make
anything like a success at hitting the ball, but his bunt went into the
hands of Ready, who came rushing in for it.

Jack had plenty of time to throw Roden out, but he made a bad throw to
Browning. The ball went over Bruce’s head and into the crowd.

Wiley yelled like a maniac.

“Twinkle your Trilbies!” he howled, his eyes bulging. “Dust along the
chalk mark! Scurry through the atmosphere! Take second.”

Bruce got the ball and snapped it to Merry.

Roden had reached second in safety, and the crowd awoke, for at last it
seemed that the Outcasts had done something.

Yet these two bags had been made on Ready’s error, no hit having been
secured off Frank.

On the bleachers Bob Gowan woke up and wheezed forth a cheer.

“Here is where we start!” he gurgled. “I knew it was sure to happen!”

“Oh, rot!” said Mike Grafter. “It was a great accident, and you know
it, Gowan. They haven’t touched Merriwell for a hit, and they may not.”

“They’ll touch him up now,” asserted Gowan. “He’ll go to pieces as soon
as there is a runner on a base. These youngsters go to pieces easily.”

“Bet you even money the next man don’t reach first,” proposed Grafter.

“Go you for a hundred!” promptly said Gowan.

Wiley was on the coaching line.

“Divorce yourself from that sack, Roden!” he whooped. “Dig your toes
into the turf and be ready to burglarize that third cushion. Get off!
Don’t anchor there! Watch the swing of his propeller and move up on it
every time. He won’t throw down there. He thinks he’ll strike Grimley
out. Ha! ha! and ho! ho! I’d drop dead if he ever struck Cal Grimley
out! Send the ball on a voyage, Grim, old salt! Let her clear for a
foreign port!”

Grimley hit viciously at the first ball, but, like all the others, save
Roden, he missed.

“Open your eyes when you strike!” shrieked the sailor. “How could you
miss it? That’s criminal! Do your sleeping nights! It’s too easy to hit
that sort of a ball. Put it over the fence! Drop it out of the lot! Get
away, Roden! You’re hugging that sack as if you thought it a pretty
girl. Forget your affection for it and break away!”

Grimley checked his desire to hit the ball hard. Steadying his nerves,
he tried to meet it squarely and secure a safe hit.

He fouled it the next time he struck.

“Too bad!” howled Wiley. “Came near doing it then, Grim. Just a trifle
more to the starboard. Steady now. You’ll do it. You can’t help it. Be
ready to put on full steam ahead, Roden. You’ll tie the score right
here!”

But Grimley proved just as easy as the others for Frank, and Wiley
groaned as the batter struck the third time and missed.

“It’s a shame!” he muttered, as he cantered out to his position. “We
can’t keep on throwing away these chances. My reputation will be ruined
if we lose this game.”

Mat O’Neill used his head in the third inning. He mixed ’em up, using
a change of pace that was very bothersome. Although two of the Merries
hit the ball, not one of the first three reached the initial sack.

It was now Wiley’s turn to strike.

“Do you think you’ll hit it?” shouted a man on the bleachers.

“Think?” cried Wiley, in his peculiar manner. “How can I miss it? Watch
the fence and see me drop it over with the utmost ease.”

“Oh, yah!” cried Dunnerwurst derisively. “You vill drop der fence ofer
der pall with Vrankie bitching—I don’d think!”

“Stop talking so carelessly,” advised Wiley. “You get your tongue all
tangled up so it falls over itself.”

Twirling his bat as if it was a light cane, the sailor advanced to the
plate.

“I am sorry for you, Merry,” he said jauntily. “I have to do it. I
believe in setting a good example, and I’ll have to show these dopey
dubs how to hit the ball. Once on a time I made a seven-base hit.
I galloped round the diamond and came home while the fielders were
chasing the merry sphere as it went dancing elusively away. As I
reached the plate I heard one of the opposing players inform the umpire
that I had failed to touch second sack with my dainty tootsie. I knew
it was true. I likewise knew the umpire loved me now and would gladly
claim he had seen me cut the cushion. Therefore I started round the
diamond again and reached third before the ball was thrown in, thus
making seven bases on the hit. I’ll be satisfied with four off you,
Frank. It will be a great sufficiency.”

No one save Wiley would have ventured to spend the time to relate such
an incident before striking; but the sailor did most things after his
own particular fashion, and no one seemed inclined to object.

“I’m glad you think you’ll feel satisfied with a four-base hit, cap’n,”
said Frank. “Go ahead and get it.”

Surely the Marine Marvel tried hard enough when he swung at the first
ball delivered to him. The bat flew from his hands and went whizzing
through the air.

“Duck!” he yelled.

Ready “ducked” just in time to let the bat go over him.

“I pray thee be cautious,” said Jack, as he straightened up. “What hast
thou against me?”

“You’re too handsome,” answered Wiley. “I hate to behold a man who is
handsomer than I.”

The bat was returned to him, and he again took his place in the
batter’s box.

“Is that the way you hit it?” derisively called a spectator. “I don’t
think you’ll drive it very far.”

“Think again, Willie,” advised the sailor. “You have one more coming,
but you don’t look to me as if you could stand it. Your thinking
apparatus must be strained to its full capacity to grind out one whole
thought a day.”

Then he turned to Frank.

“We’re old college chumps, aren’t we, Merry?” he inquired.

“Sure,” nodded Frank.

“Then give me a straight one right over the plate. I don’t like that
new kink you’re pitching. It’s like a foreign language to me. I’ll make
it all right with you if you give me one I can hit.”

He smiled in his bland manner and seemed to think Merry would comply.

“Here it is,” laughed Frank.

It seemed like a straight one, and the sailor swung hard a second time.

He struck under it several inches, for the ball swerved upward and
outward in the same remarkable manner that had bothered every batter to
face Merry.

“Two strikes!” declared the umpire.

“That’s criminal, Merry—criminal!” exclaimed Wiley reproachfully. “How
could you deceive your bosom friend like that? I thought guile and
deception was not to be found in your heart, but now, alas! I realize
that you are like other mortals of common clay.”

Wiley now became the butt of ridicule for the crowd, but he did not
mind it in the least. In fact, the more they tried to josh and guy him
the more he seemed to like it.

He declined to swing at two coaxers.

“Nay, nay, Merry!” cried the sailor. “I am onto your tricks now. You
would betray your bosom comrade. You’ll have to put it over before I
wiggle my wand again.”

“I see you are onto me,” said Merry. “It is useless for me to try to
fool you, so I’ll give you one straight over. Here it is.”

Merry threw his peculiar “dope ball.” Even though Wiley himself was a
pitcher, and he often used a slow ball, he was fooled this time. It
seemed to come up as large as a balloon, and he struck at it.

He hit it, too.

But he simply popped a tiny little fly into the air, and Merry sprang
forward and caught it.

The spectators roared and shouted, asking the sailor if that was his
wonderful four-base hit.

Wiley shook his head sadly.

“Never again as long as I tread this terrestrial sphere shall I trust
human nature,” he declared, ambling toward the bench. “I have been
basely betrayed. But wait—my revenge is yet to come, and it shall be
deep and terrible.”

O’Neill longed to make a safe hit, but he was another of the batters
that Merry fanned easily.

Then came Creel, and he bunted.

Again Ready got the ball in time to throw the man out, but once more he
made a poor throw.

Browning was dragged off the base, and Creel reached it in safety.

Instantly Wiley appeared on the coaching line and opened up merrily.

He gave Creel the signal to try to steal second.

“May as well take chances,” he muttered. “We’ll never get a score any
other way.”

So the runner attempted a steal on the first ball Frank pitched to
Marcey.

The ball came whistling into the hands of Hodge. Bart seemed to pause
a moment and watch Creel on his way to second. Then he made a throw
that sent the ball down on a dead line and straight into the hands of
Rattleton, who was waiting.

Creel slid, but Harry nailed him, and the third inning was over.




                             CHAPTER XIX.

                         A GAME WORTH WINNING.


“Well, what do you think of it, Gowan?” laughed old man Grafter, as the
seventh inning closed with the score still one to nothing in favor of
the Merries.

McGann had joined Gowan. He showed that he was worried.

“Think?” wheezed the corpulent backer of the Outcasts. “I think it’s
something unreasonable. I believe Merriwell has bought the game!”

“No, no!” said McGann, shaking his head. “You’re wrong, Bob.”

“Then why don’t they bat that fellow?”

“He’s using a new curve, and they can’t hit it. Hurley says it’s
something absolutely novel.”

“Well, are they going to let this fellow hold them down and break their
streak?” wheezed Gowan angrily. “I have money bet on this game. Wake
them up and get them into it. They’ve got to win!”

Mike Grafter laughed.

“No use to squirm, Gowan, my boy,” he said. “We’ve got you.”

“If they lose this game, McGann,” said Gowan, “I lose a thousand
dollars.”

“That’s not all we lose,” said McGann. “I have a contract with
Merriwell by which the winners take all the gate money.”

“What?” gasped Gowan.

“That’s right. He sort of forced me into it. Refused every other offer
I made.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Wallace Grafter. “You forget that I was present,
Mr. McGann, when the arrangement was made.”

“Well, he refused every reasonable offer.”

“Not at all. He was willing to play with the understanding that the
winners should have two-thirds and the losers one-third. He even
offered to split the receipts even.”

“Well, was that reasonable?” snapped McGann. “Here we have the
reputation, and a youngster like him wants to split even with us.”

“It might have been better for you than the arrangement you made. If
you do not get a dollar, you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”

“They must win!” growled McGann.

He left the bleachers and hurried to the bench, where he waited to
speak with Captain Hurley.

In the first half of the seventh the Merries fell on the ball hard,
three men making long drives to the outfield, but the fielders were
able to catch each one, and so there was no danger of more scores for
Frank.

“We must do something, Hurley!” exclaimed McGann, as the captain of the
Outcasts reached the bench. “If we lose this game, all the gate money
goes to those chaps.”

“How is that?”

McGann explained.

“That’s bad,” admitted Hurley. “We’ve been doing everything in our
power. The boys can’t bear the thought of being beaten by those chaps,
but we can’t seem to hit Merriwell. That new curve of his is a
puzzler.”

McGann implored Hurley to do something, but again he was assured that
everything possible was being done.

However, there was some excitement in that inning. The Outcasts had
found they could hit Merry safely only by bunting. Marcey, however, was
an easy out at first. Bimm followed with a bunt that rolled foul, then
struck a pebble and rolled fair again.

Merry got it and snapped it to Browning, who muffed it.

Bimm crossed first in safety.

The Outcasts began to whoop things up. They had many sympathizers in
the crowd, and a great uproar arose.

Hurley followed with a bunt that landed Bimm on second.

The captain of the Outcasts was thrown out at first.

Swatt longed to “lace” the ball, but Hurley was positive in his signal
for a bunt and he obeyed.

The bunt was sent down the line toward third.

Bimm raced for third as he saw Ready come off for the ball. Morgan
covered the sack and Ready snapped the ball to him, instead of throwing
to first. In his haste, Jack made a bad throw, and Morgan barely
touched it with his fingers.

“Up!” yelled Wiley, who was on the coaching line. “Up and sail for
port! Hooray, the score is tied! Now we’ll win! I knew the disgrace of
defeat could not fall on us!”

Bimm scrambled up and scooted for the plate, while the spectators rose
and watched, some yelling for joy.

Bob Gowan yelled as loudly as his wheezy voice would permit, at the
same time slapping Grafter on the shoulder.

“It’s our game, after all!” he said. “Right here is where we win it!”

Among the spectators another man was highly elated. He was Hobe Manton,
who whooped lustily.

“That’s the trick!” he shouted. “I thought my money was gone, but now I
feel it in my pocket with some more to keep it company.”

Of course Melvin McGann was delighted.

But suddenly something happened to change the tune of the rejoicing
ones. Apparently no one had observed that Buck Badger had worked in
from the far outfield until he was not a great distance behind third.
He happened to be in the right place to get the ball with little delay.
Bimm was halfway from third to the plate when Badger threw.

Hodge was on the plate. He saw the ball coming, but did not put up his
hands until it was quite near. An instant after he did put them up the
ball spanked into them.

Bimm had not been warned, and he had made no effort to slide. Bart
stepped off instantly and met him, tagging him with the ball.

There was silence—then another roar. This time the Merriwell admirers
shouted.

“What’s this?” gasped Cap’n Wiley, looking round in amazement. “Who
threw in that ball?”

The umpire declared Bimm out.

Wiley saw that Badger had thrown the ball, and his head dropped.

“Alas!” he muttered; “thus my fondest hopes vanish one by one. It has
been thus ever since the days of my innocent boyhood on Nigger Island.”

Mike Grafter smote Bob Gowan on the shoulder and yelled with delight,
while Gowan seemed ready to collapse in a heap.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Grafter. “Ho! ho! ho! The wind changed suddenly,
Bob. It’s different now. They’re all out. It’s over, my boy. They won’t
have another chance like that. The game is just the same as finished.”

“I dunno but you’re right,” admitted Gowan weakly. “That was awful!
I’ll never recover from it.”

Frank congratulated Badger as the Kansan came in.

“The right man in the right place, Buck!” he said. “That was pretty
work.”

Wiley was silent now. An atmosphere of sadness had fallen on him, and
his mouth was closed.

Perhaps no one present felt worse than Hobe Manton.

“Rotten! rotten! rotten!” he kept repeating. “If they’d tied it then
they would have won. I’ve lost my money! I’m busted.”

“It looks that way,” said Dent Frost.

“And we’ve lost something on your advice,” muttered Necker sourly.

The ninth inning was a swift one. O’Neill held the Merries down, but in
turn Frank did not permit a single one of the three Outcasts to face
him to touch the ball. All through the game he had done his level
best, and the new curve had kept the great Outcasts from doing any
hitting.

The game ended with the score one to nothing in favor of the Merries,
who were wildly cheered by their admirers as the conquering heroes who
had broken the wonderful streak of the Outcasts.

As the crowd was leaving the ground a sudden uproar broke forth. Two
men were engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter not far from the home
plate.

Pink Cassidy had stopped Hobe Manton and demanded the money promised
him.

Manton promptly hit Cassidy, nearly knocking him down.

With a roar, Pink recovered and went at the gentleman pugilist, who
immediately found that he had a real fight on his hands.

The uproar alarmed Frost and Necker.

“This is no place for us!” exclaimed Frost.

“Right!” agreed Necker. “Skip!”

They lost not a moment in getting away.

Two officers reached the fighting men and hesitated not a moment about
using their clubs. Both chaps were stretched out and then arrested.

As the fighters were being dragged from the grounds Merry got a good
look at one of them.

“Hello!” he cried. “So it’s you, Manton! Well, you’re in trouble, as
you deserve. Lock him up, Mr. Officer; if you hold him long enough I’ll
have something in the way of a warrant to serve on him.”

“Ye’ll have plenty av chance, sor,” said the policeman.




                              CHAPTER XX.

                       THE BITTERNESS OF DEFEAT.


The Johns Hopkins lacrosse team claimed the championship of the United
States, yet in a fast game at Oriole Park, Baltimore, it had been
defeated by Harvard, the score being four to three. One thing that
made the pill doubly bitter was the fact that the Hopkins men had been
inclined to believe before the game began that they would whitewash the
chaps from Cambridge. As if to add to the bitterness, Hopkins made her
three goals before Harvard scored at all, which led her players and
their admirers to believe the game was safely won.

Then the tide turned. Hopkins made two goals in the first half and one
early in the second half. This in spite of the fact that Harvard had
kept the ball in the home team’s territory the greater part of the time
and had repeatedly seemed on the point of scoring. The fine work of the
Hopkins’ cover-point and the brilliant stops made by her goal keeper
had checked Harvard time after time. At last the crimson scored and the
back flow began.

Fred Fillmore, cover-point for Hopkins and captain of the team, had
already recognized the fact that Harvard was a dangerous proposition.
On the Harvard team were several old Hopkins players who added greatly
to the strength of the boys from Cambridge. Their poor success in the
early part of the game did not discourage them in the least, and they
kept up the fast offense play of the team.

Harvard’s greatest player was Herbert Onslaw, captain and first attack.
Onslaw was swift, untiring, cool, and heady. He gave Fillmore no end of
trouble, and the Hopkins captain gradually grew annoyed, for more than
once he was tricked by Onslaw’s rapid and clever playing. He realized
that the crimson leader was showing him up in a bad light, and he was
anxious to get even by turning the tables.

The Hopkins spectators were dismayed by Harvard’s success in scoring,
but they did not foresee the impending danger that was plainly
discerned by Fillmore. The Hopkins captain decided to give more of his
attention to Onslaw.

Shortly after Harvard secured her first goal she again obtained the
ball, which, by good running and clever passing, was delivered to
Onslaw, who rushed it into position to try for goal. The Hopkins goal
tender spoiled the try and cuffed the ball away. A mix-up followed, and
out of the scrambling players the ball was shot.

Onslaw seemed waiting in the proper spot for it, but Fillmore had
chosen to hug him close. Instantly the Harvard captain started, but
Fillmore started at the same time. Onslaw dashed toward the Hopkins
goal. Fillmore was at his side and tried a body check. Onslaw crouched
and came under Fillmore’s hip. As a result, the Hopkins man was sent
flying through the air and struck the ground heavily. He tried to get
up, but fell over on his side and lay twisting on the ground.

The whistle sounded, and it was found that Fillmore’s hip had been
badly hurt, so that he could not then bear his weight on that leg.
Although he insisted that he would be all right in a few minutes, he
did not recover and was obliged to drop out of the game.

Lying on a blanket at one side of the field, Fillmore watched his team
fighting desperately against the swift and determined Harvard men.
His heart was filled with rage and bitterness, for, although his own
attempt at body-checking an opponent had brought about his injury, he
blamed Onslaw. When, a few minutes later, he saw Onslaw shoot the ball
into the net he fairly writhed in mental pain, his injured hip being
forgotten.

Hopkins still had a lead of one goal, and the spectators believed
this lead would be held, for the second half was well along. A bunch
of rooters cheered and cheered to urge the local men at their best
efforts; but a much smaller bunch of Harvard admirers made much more
noise.

Fillmore’s eyes glittered as he watched Onslaw’s swift and graceful
movements.

“I’ll settle with you some day!” muttered the injured captain of the
local team.

He was inclined to be revengeful. Being a fine athlete, a handsome
fellow, and the admired idol of his team, Fillmore was conceited
and spoiled. He was a splendid player, but regarded himself as even
better than he actually was. It had always filled his heart with fiery
bitterness when Hopkins had gone down in defeat before the swift
Canadians, who never failed to show their superiority when Hopkins met
the champions from the North. It had been his ambition to develop at
Hopkins a team that could hold its own with the Canadians, as well as
defeat all opponents in the United States; but now he realized that
unless the Baltimore lads could do better against the Cambridgeites,
they would have very little show with the boys from beyond the northern
border.

It must not be supposed from this that Hopkins was weak in any respect;
instead of that, the team was faster than ever before in all the years
lacrosse had been played in Baltimore. But the former Hopkins men on
the Harvard team had coached their fellows to meet and offset the plays
of the Marylanders, and Harvard had progressed fully as fast as Hopkins.

Therefore Fillmore was doomed to see the crimson players keep at it
with such earnestness and skill that, three minutes before the time of
the second half elapsed, another goal was made and the Southerners were
tied.

But no one seemed prepared for what followed. Hopkins took the ball on
the face-off, carried it down to Harvard’s end, tried three times to
score, lost the ball, saw it sail up the field, saw Onslaw take it in,
and try to score, saw it driven back, secured, passed to Onslaw again,
and then Onslaw sent it whizzing into the net!

Almost immediately the whistle sounded, and the game was over.

Fillmore fell back and covered his eyes with his hands, biting his lip
to keep from cursing the fates. He was white as death, and a comrade
who was near fancied he must be suffering fearful pain from his injured
hip. It was, however, mental anguish which drove the blood from his
face, bodily pain being entirely forgotten for the time.

“Onslaw did it!” he whispered, with blue lips. “He knocked me out on
purpose! I’ll get even with him if I live long enough! I’ll find a way!”

It seemed that Fillmore’s longing for revenge was destined to go
ungratified for an indefinite period. Harvard played no second game
with Hopkins that season, and Onslaw was a senior who would leave
college before the two teams could meet again.

One warm spring evening Fillmore sauntered up McCulloh Street and
paused at the steps of a students’ boarding house, on which a number of
young fellows were sitting. He was hailed by several of them and paused
to chat with his particular chum, Tom Hackett, who played centre on the
lacrosse team.

“Haven’t seen you for several days to more than chirp at you,” said
Hackett. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Home.”

“Must be plugging hard. You missed lots of fun last night. Party of us
went down to the Monumental. Hot show there this week. Say, there are
actually some pretty girls in the bunch. One is a peach.”

“Oh, they give me lassitude!” retorted Fillmore. “They’re too cheap.
Picked out of the slums. When you get to talking with ’em, and see just
how coarse they are they make you sick. I’ve been seeing something more
interesting. Speaking of dark-eyed girls, I’d like to show you one
stopping over at my sister’s, where I board.”

“What’s that?” cried Hackett. “Ah! so that’s why you’ve been under
cover lately! Ah-ha! The cat is out!”

“I suppose that has had something to do with it,” admitted the captain
of the lacrosse team honestly. “This one is something entirely
different from the kind you were talking about. Better drop over and
see her. There’s another one there, a blonde; but she’s been ill, and
she’s far from well now. The brunette and the blonde are great friends.
The blonde is some distant relative of John Loder, my sister’s husband.
I should say she ought to be a daisy when she’s well, for she’s pretty
now, although she hasn’t any color. Got a bad cold last winter and
had to go South. The brunette went with her. They’re staying here in
Baltimore until the weather gets settled so that the blonde can go
farther North without danger.”

“Oh, you sly dog!” laughed Hackett. “Supposed you were plugging, and
you’ve been lingering near two pretty girls. Thought it strange you
broke away so suddenly after practice the last few days. I suppose
you’ll find time to play Saturday?”

“You know I will. I’m not as far gone as that, although the black eyes
of Inza have rather upset me.”

“Inza—that’s her name?”

“Yes. Hack, she’s the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She’s a
real queen, and no mistake. She’s cultured, and she’s traveled a great
deal in this country and foreign lands. She’s so sympathetic, too. You
should see how she cares for Elsie.”

“Elsie—she’s the invalid?”

“Yes. She’s a sort of invalid, although she won’t acknowledge it, and
she’s the bravest little creature in the world. Inza told me that
Elsie was very ill this winter, but she wouldn’t acknowledge it to any
one. Just drop round to-morrow evening and I’ll present you to both
girls, though I warn you not to get smashed on Inza. It won’t do any
good, and it may make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I see; you’re going to make a set for her yourself. Come, come,
Fillmore! I didn’t think you’d go daft over any girl.”

“Rot! I haven’t. It’s no use. I know better than that, old man. She’s
good company, and I like her; but she is the kind to hold a fellow off
and wither him with her eyes if he gets a bit fresh. I wouldn’t dare
attempt to make love to her. I’d get a call quicker than lightning.”

“And that makes her all the more interesting and attractive. Oh, yes
it does! All the girls have been mashed on you, and you’ve turned up
your aristocratic nose at them. Now you happen to find one who doesn’t
think you are the luminary of the world, and the result is that you’re
a goner. Well, well, well!”

“Not very well, thank you,” returned Fillmore. “Don’t get a notion that
you’re a Solomon. I’m playing my own game with the young lady of the
dark eyes. She can’t fool me a great deal, Tom. It’s rather interesting
sport. I’m taking care not to let myself get too far gone, for I know
it’s hopeless. She’s engaged and soon to be married.”

Hackett whistled.

“Engaged, eh? But then you know more than one engagement has been
smashed. You might cut the fellow out. Who is he?”

“None other than Frank Merriwell, the former great Yale athlete.”

Hackett whistled again.

“That fellow, eh? I’ve met some chaps who seemed to think him the
wizard of the world. Let me see, hasn’t he been touring lately with an
athletic team and simply eating everything up that he came across?”

“Yes, he’s been covering himself with glory in every department of
sport. What do you think he’s doing now?”

“Give it up.”

“Organizing a lacrosse team, with the idea of going after the amateur
championship of the United States. He wants a game with us. Of course
we don’t have to play him, but I understand he expects to have Onslaw
and several other Harvard players on his team.”

A third time Hackett whistled.

“What do you say to that? Do you want to play him, Fred?”

“I don’t mind. His team will be easy for us, and it might give us a
chance to rub it into those Harvard chaps some. Besides that, I’ve been
thinking, if he really gets Onslaw, it might make an opening for me to
even up with that duffer.”

“Sure thing, old man! You’ve been pining for such a chance. But the
success of Merriwell in other things seems to proclaim it possible that
he will succeed at lacrosse.”

“Don’t be silly, Hack! Do you fancy a picked-up team can beat us? I
guess not! It takes teamwork to play the game, and a team, in order to
be great, must work together a long time. We’re at our best now. If we
were to go against Harvard again we’d whitewash ’em.”

“I believe that.”

“I know it. Oh, I don’t fear Merriwell’s team in the least. He’ll have
some dubs on it. One fellow is Bart Hodge, who is engaged to Elsie
Bellwood, the invalid. She hasn’t wanted him to know anything about
her illness, and so it has been kept from him. She thought he would
leave Frank, and she says Merriwell can’t get along without Hodge as a
catcher in all baseball games, so she kept her illness quiet.”

“It’s plain you’re decidedly in favor of playing Merriwell’s team.”

“Rather.”

“Well, I think what you say about it will go. Have you any positive
reason to believe he wants a game with Hopkins?”

“Why, yes; Inza—or, Miss Burrage—told me he wrote expressing such a
desire. She is anxious for us to give him a game.”

“And that has a great deal to do with your feelings,” laughed Hackett.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind beating Mr. Merriwell, just to take some of the
confidence out of Miss Inza. It would please me to show him up before
her.”

“Go ahead. I think you can fix it.”

“If I knew he’d have Onslaw I wouldn’t hesitate. Just as soon as I
find out Onslaw will play with Merriwell’s team I’ll inform Miss
Burrage that we’re simply waiting for a challenge or a proposition from
Merriwell.”

“That will be all right!” exclaimed Hackett. “I wouldn’t mind getting
against Mr. Merriwell at something and rubbing it into him. I’m tired
of hearing him proclaimed the greatest all-round wonder the United
States has produced.”

“So am I. And Miss Burrage has an idea that he cannot be downed. She
smiles scornfully when I hint that Merriwell has had luck and might
meet with just as many defeats if his luck turned. Then Miss Bellwood
is equally confident.”

“Say, old man, I’m going to accept your invitation and come round to
get a look at these girls.”

“All right, but remember my warning about the black-eyed one. She’ll
take your fancy, but that won’t do you any good.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Hackett teasingly. “I think I see through
your little game. You’re planning to get on the inside track and push
Merriwell out. Better keep me away. I might steal a march on you, old
man.”

Fillmore flushed.

“I’m not worrying about that,” he declared, as he rose to leave.

“You’re hit hard,” chuckled Hackett, also rising. “I’ll walk down the
street with you. This Inza must be a peach to upset level-headed Fred
Fillmore after such a fashion.”




                             CHAPTER XXI.

                        THE PANGS OF JEALOUSY.


Fillmore, who did not live in Baltimore, boarded with his sister,
Mrs. Loder, on Calvert Street. He returned to his sister’s home, his
mind occupied with thoughts of lacrosse and Inza Burrage. It must be
confessed that he thought more of Inza than of the game at which he had
won fame among his college mates.

Reaching home, he found his sister and casually asked about the girls.

“They’re in their room, Fred,” smiled Mrs. Loder. “I don’t think you’ll
see anything more of them this evening. Be careful, you bad boy! you’re
becoming altogether too interested in Miss Burrage. I’m afraid those
eyes of hers have wrought havoc with your heart.”

“Nonsense!” he laughed. “How foolish you are to get such a notion, sis.
I like her because she’s so bright and interesting. I’m not the sort of
fellow to get broken up over any girl. They’re all alike to me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard youngsters like you talk before! You can’t fool an old
married woman. I’ve seen what was going on.”

In vain he protested that there was nothing “going on.”

“You can’t fool me,” she repeated. “Inza Burrage is handsome and
fascinating, and you’ve been sticking to the house in a most amazing
way since she arrived. Haven’t you learned that she’s engaged to a Mr.
Merriwell?”

“Of course.”

“She’s in love with him, too, so it won’t do you any good to waste
your time. Don’t get to mooning round her. She’s aware that you are
interested, and I think it’s beginning to annoy her. I have a fancy
that’s one reason why both girls are sticking so close to their room
to-night. They’re keeping away from you.”

“They don’t have to!” he muttered, his pride touched and his cheeks hot.

Then he wandered off by himself, turned on the electric light in
the little reading room back of the parlor, flung himself on a
leather-covered Morris chair and studied for an hour. Finally his
thoughts wandered from his studies and he dropped the book. His eyes
had begun to smart and burn, and he turned off the light.

The doorbell rang. It was answered by a colored maid, and two young men
entered. They gave the colored girl their cards, and she told them to
step into the parlor and wait.

The sliding door between the parlor and the little room occupied by
Fillmore was partly open. He caught a glimpse of the two visitors and
saw that both were fine-looking fellows. One had dark hair and eyes.
The other sat down where Fred could see him. The light fell full on his
face, and the youth on the Morris chair noted its unusual strength and
manly beauty. The longer he gazed at that face the more deeply he was
impressed by a conviction that the young man was a person of great
ability and force who was destined to make a mark in the world.

“This will be a great surprise for the girls,” said the one of the dark
hair.

He of the fine face smiled, and his smile was fully as wonderful as the
face which it lighted.

“They will be more than surprised,” he said.

A few moments there came a rustling on the carpeted stairs. With a rush
that was little short of a run, Inza Burrage came down, followed a
little later by Elsie Bellwood.

Inza, her eyes shining like twin stars, her cheeks aglow, entered the
room. The youth of the fine face sprang toward her and she was clasped
in his arms.

“Inza!” he cried, his voice hoarse with deep feeling.

“Frank!” she answered. “Oh, Frank! Frank!”

He kissed her again and again.

Fred Fillmore started up, feeling in his bosom a terrible sensation
that he had never before experienced. He could not bear to see her
held thus in those strong arms and kissed in that manner. In his heart
something seemed ready to burst. For a moment he stood with his hands
clenched, longing to rush in there and tear her from the man.

Then he turned away and fled with noiseless steps.

“That’s the man!” hissed Fillmore, as he found his way to the rear of
the house and ascended the back stairs. “That’s Merriwell!”

He was astounded by his own emotions. He felt himself quivering from
head to feet. Reaching his own room by way of the back stairs, he paced
excitedly up and down.

“I’d like to punch him!” he huskily muttered. “Jingoes! what is the
matter with me? It made me furious to see him kiss her. I didn’t
suppose anything could give me a feeling like that. What is the matter
with me?”

He was somewhat dismayed over it. After a time he slowly murmured:

“By Jove! I am stuck on that girl! I didn’t know it before. That’s
what ails me. If any one had told me I was hit so hard I’d felt like
punching him. What am I going to do about it?”

There didn’t seem to be much of anything to do, but his brain was
awhirl, scores of wild fancies and ideas flashing through it. For a
long time he paced up and down, gradually growing calmer. Finally he
left his room and descended by the front stairs, whistling.

In a careless manner he strolled into the parlor, stopping short and
ceasing to whistle in apparent surprise as he beheld the four persons
there.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, starting to retreat.

Inza rose.

“Mr. Fillmore,” she called.

“Miss Burrage,” he bowed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t know——”

“No intrusion,” she assured. “Let me introduce you to Mr. Merriwell.
Frank, this is Mr. Fillmore, Mrs. Loder’s brother.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. Fillmore,” said Merriwell genially, as he
grasped Fred’s hand. “Miss Burrage wrote me about you. You’re captain
of the Hopkins lacrosse team, I think?”

“I have that honor.”

“An honor it is,” nodded Merry. “You are captain of the lacrosse
champions of the United States at the present time.”

Fillmore was then introduced to Bart Hodge.

He noted that an unusual tide of color had suffused the cheeks of Elsie
Bellwood, and now, of a sudden, he realized that she, like Inza, was
a wonderfully pretty girl. The two girls were of strongly contrasting
types.

“Mr. Fillmore has been very good to us, Bart,” said Elsie.

“Which places Frank and me under untold obligations to him,” said
Hodge. “I have only one fault to find with him. He should have written
me that you were ill. It was a crime for you girls to keep it from me.”

“I wanted to write,” said Inza; “but she wouldn’t let me tell you that.”

“Why, it was nothing,” declared Elsie. “I wasn’t going to break up your
trip just because I happened to be a bit out of sorts. I suppose the
climate was too severe after spending the early part of the winter in
the West.”

“We wanted you to keep on with us,” reminded Frank. “It was your own
fault that you returned East when you did.”

Fillmore was urged to sit down, and he accepted the invitation.

“Let’s see,” he said, “I believe Miss Burrage told me you were
organizing a lacrosse team, Mr. Merriwell.”

“It’s practically organized,” nodded Merry. “We’re going to play a few
games at the close of the college season. We’ve arranged for two games
already.”

Fillmore lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, you’re a hustler!” he smiled. “Are you going to have some
Harvard players on your team?”

“Five of them. Three were former Hopkins men.”

“Will Herb Onslaw be one of the five?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see how you induced him to play on a team where some one else
is to be captain.”

“Oh, that wasn’t difficult. I think Onslaw’s a very decent and modest
chap.”

“You don’t know him!”

“It seems that you don’t like Onslaw.”

“Not much, for I know he’s full of wind. He was dreadfully puffed up
because Harvard happened to win from us. You know I was hurt in the
game and did not play during most of the second half.”

Hodge shrugged his shoulders and his lip curled the least bit. He
detected the conceit in Fillmore.

“I know about that. It was very unfortunate,” said Merry.

“Of course I’m not saying we’d won if I hadn’t been hurt, but we had
the lead when that happened. I think Onslaw was glad to see me go out
of the game.”

“He didn’t appear to me like a malicious chap.”

“Oh, I presume he’s smooth enough. Sorry he’ll not be with Harvard next
year. I’d like to get against him again.”

“Possibly you will. We’ll give you a game right after the close of
college, as soon as you like. I’d like to make arrangements for the
game while in Baltimore. Of course, it’s possible your team will not
play us, but we’re very anxious, and you shall have our first game
together, if you’ll take it.”

“Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it might be fixed that way. Are you
going to challenge us?”

“Hadn’t thought of making it a challenge. Just fancied we might arrange
a meeting, that’s all. Still, if you think we’d better make it a
challenge——”

“I don’t suppose it will make any difference. How long will you remain
in the city?”

“Until the day after to-morrow.”

“Well, I’ll introduce you to our manager to-morrow, and you can see
what you can do. I’ll urge him to make the game with you.”

“Do! Who’s your coach, Abercrombie?”

“He’s one of them.”

“Good man. No one in this country knows more about the game.”

“Who’ll coach your team?”

“We’re going to have a Canadian.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Fillmore. “You’re going in for the real thing! Some day
we’ll put it all over those Canucks!”

“Perhaps so,” admitted Frank; “but, to tell you the truth, I fear the
players of this country will have to improve faster than they have to
get away with the Canadians. We can trounce them at baseball; but at
lacrosse and ice hockey they are going to keep the lead for some time.”

“Don’t you believe it!” cried the Hopkins captain. “Their day is coming
right soon. I’ll admit that they still outrank us, but the sport is
comparatively new with us. We have not given it enough attention,
and it hasn’t become popular with the public. It deserves to become
popular.”

“It will,” asserted Frank. “When people begin to realize what a pretty
game it is they’ll take to it. The public has to be educated up to a
thing like that. Lacrosse has hardly any of the dangerous elements of
football, yet it is exciting, and the open playing permits spectators
to see almost constantly everything that is taking place. There is no
more graceful game played.”

“Why, you’re a real enthusiast!” said Fillmore.

“Just as I am an enthusiast in all clean, healthy sports. I believe in
such things, and I take hold of them with delight. I’ve seen lacrosse
played in Canada, and the work of two well-matched teams up there puts
us in the shade. However, let the public show the interest for lacrosse
that it has in college baseball and we’ll witness great advancement in
the next few years.”

“Have you played lacrosse yourself, Mr. Merriwell?”

“A little.”

“It’s a game at which practice counts for a great deal.”

“Like baseball. Mere strength is of small matter in lacrosse. Speed,
skill, nerve, and brains all come in. In this respect it has some
advantages over football.”

“Well, you can discuss all that to-morrow!” laughed Inza. “Just now I’m
in favor of talking about other things. If you play the game here,
Elsie and I will attend and root. Won’t we, Elsie?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” answered Elsie.

“You’ll see something that will give you small satisfaction,” thought
Fillmore; but he kept his thought to himself.




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                       OUT ON THE PIMLICO ROAD.


The following afternoon Frank and Bart took the girls out for a
carriage ride. Although Elsie enjoyed it greatly, she soon became
tired, and it was necessary to return with her.

On returning to the house they were greeted by Fillmore, who came out
at once as he saw the girls being assisted from the carriage.

“Well, I’m glad we struck you this way,” he said. “Been having a drive,
eh? Hope you enjoyed it.”

“It was delightful,” said Elsie; “but I spoiled it by getting tired so
soon.”

“We’re going to see ‘The School Girl’ to-night,” explained Inza; “so we
decided it was better not to weary Elsie too much.”

“Oh, you’ve made arrangements for to-night, have you, Merriwell?” cried
Fillmore. “I thought I might take you out to see some of the fellows
this evening.”

Immediately both girls expressed a willingness to give up the theatre,
but neither Frank nor Bart would listen to that.

“Then,” said Fillmore, “we can find Jack Branch this afternoon and fix
it up about that game. Branch is our manager, you know. What he says
will go, all right, all right. I know where to find him. He’s out at
Hastings’, on the Pimlico Road. Hastings runs a road house. What say if
we hike out there right away, Merriwell?”

“I’m willing,” nodded Frank. “How’ll we go?”

“Oh, any way. We can take a car, but, of course, it would be better to
drive.”

“Here’s the team,” smiled Merry. “We engaged it for the afternoon, and
the afternoon is not more than half over.”

“Good!” cried Fillmore. “Wait till I call Hackett. He’s here with me.”

Tom Hackett came out of the house when he was called. He was introduced
to Elsie and Inza and surveyed the girls keenly, but not offensively.
He shook hands with seeming warmth with Frank and Bart.

“Powerful glad to know you, gentlemen,” he said. “Fillmore told me
about your arrival last night. Of course I’ve heard more or less
concerning you at other times.”

He was told of the plan to drive out on the Pimlico Road and
immediately declared it would give him pleasure to go along.

“Wait a moment,” said Fillmore, “and I’ll be ready.”

He then ran into the house and did some telephoning.

Soon the quartette was ready to start. As they drove away they lifted
their hats to the girls, who had lingered on the steps outside the
door. Fillmore noticed that Hackett turned to look back and fancied he
did so to obtain another view of Inza.

It was a beautiful drive out along Mount Royal Avenue and through Druid
Hill Park to the Pimlico Road. They chatted freely, their talk being
mainly of such sports as must interest college men.

“What sort of a place is this road house we’re going to?” inquired
Frank.

“It’s all right,” answered Fillmore. “The fellows go out there often.
Hastings knows how to use us. Occasionally we pull off a little scrap
out there. He has a room fitted up for it, and I’ve seen some right
good fights in his place. Not regular prize fights, you know, but bouts
between amateurs. If you want the real thing, you’ll have to go to the
old Armory.”

“I’m not at all particular about the real thing,” confessed Merry.
“Prize fighting is a bit out of my line.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard that you were something of a boxer.”

“Oh, I know a little about it; but what I know I learned for the
purpose of being able to defend myself when necessary. I have a belief
that every fellow should be able to do that.”

“That’s right, too,” said Hackett. “Lots of fellows take lessons of
Galway, at Hastings’.”

“Who’s Galway?”

“He’s a boxing master, and a great fighter himself. He knocked out
Johnny Neil at the Armory two weeks ago, and Neil had ambitions to meet
Jeffries. When he gets mad he sometimes hammers a pupil. He hangs round
Hastings’ place the most of the time.”

“If he didn’t lush he’d be a wonder,” put in Fillmore. “He has an awful
wallop. Puts ’em all to sleep.”

“I don’t think Mr. Galway interests me,” laughed Merry. “I shall take
pains to keep clear of him.”

In due time they arrived at Hastings’ place. As soon as they appeared
they were hailed with shouts of welcome from several young fellows,
who were sitting on the broad veranda.

“There’s Branch, Whisper, and the others,” said Fillmore. “I telephoned
before we started, and they’re looking for us.”

A colored man appeared and took charge of the horses as soon as they
drove up. A few moments later Frank and Bart were shaking hands with
the Hopkins men on the veranda, Fillmore introducing them.

Jack Branch, the manager of the lacrosse team, was a shrewd-faced,
freckled chap, sharp-voiced and gimlet-eyed. He was a Connecticut
Yankee, and had been appointed manager of the team on account of his
natural shrewdness.

While Frank and Bart were chatting with their new acquaintances
Fillmore and Hackett entered the house.

“It’s worked well thus far,” said Fillmore. “Now, if we can send Mr.
Merriwell and Mr. Hodge back to their ladies with a jag on, I’ll be
satisfied. I’d like to show Merriwell up to Inza. He’s going to take
her out to the theatre to-night. We’ll keep him and Hodge here for
dinner and fill them up. Then we can take them directly to my sister’s
house and show them off in all their glory.”

“You certainly have it in for Merriwell, all right,” grinned Hackett.

“I have. Didn’t I see him meet Inza Burrage and kiss her! She thinks
he’s perfection. She even told me he didn’t drink; but I know better.”

“Of course he takes something, but it’s plain he’s been telling her
different. Is she straight-laced?”

“She thinks drinking debasing.”

“A bit old-fashioned for a girl of to-day, eh?”

“It seems to be behind the times, but somehow I can’t help respecting
her for it.”

“Why, I’ve heard you laugh about blue stockings more than once. You’ve
told me you had no use for a girl who would not take a glass of wine
and be jolly.”

“I thought so; but Inza Burrage can be jolly without taking a glass of
wine. The girl who drinks a little is all right to fool with, but I’ve
concluded she isn’t the sort to get smashed on.”

“Then you are smashed on Inza Burrage? You admit it!”

“Between you and me, old man, something is the matter with me. When
I saw Merriwell kiss her last night I wanted to rush in and take him
by the throat. I got up to my room and decided to make him look like
thirty cents to her. That’s why I’m taking all this trouble. That’s why
I fixed it with Branch and the others to meet him out here. That’s why
I paid for the automobile that brought them out ahead of us. I had the
auto waiting to start when I gave the word. Didn’t you notice I wasn’t
in any hurry about driving here?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t propose to arrive ahead of Branch.”

“Well, while we’re loading Mr. Merriwell let’s not neglect Mr. Hodge.”

“Hodge? Oh, of course not; but it doesn’t make so much difference about
him.”

“Yes, it does.”

“How’s that?”

“I want to show him up to Miss Bellwood.”

“Eh? Why——”

“You may have your dark-eyed peach—if you can get her; give me the
other girl. She’s the first blonde I ever saw who upset me, and she
gave me the solar-plexus blow the instant I saw her.”

Fillmore was astounded.

“What’s that?” he gasped. “You don’t mean to tell me that you consider
her prettier than Inza?”

“That’s just what I mean to tell you. She has the sweetest face of any
girl I ever saw. In perfect health, I know she would be a hundred times
prettier than Inza.”

“Well, I admire your taste!” But the tone in which he uttered the words
indicated that he did not admire it.

“That’s all right. We can’t all think the same. I’m sincere, old man.
Give me Elsie, and you may have Inza.”

The captain of the lacrosse team grasped his friend’s hand.

“My boy,” he breathed, “take her, with my blessing. Now we can work in
unison and harmony. I’m delighted! Let’s get those chaps filled to the
brim to-day. That will be a beginning. Then if we can just put it all
over them when we meet them at lacrosse—well, we’ll be progressing. In
the meantime, we may find still other ways of making them appear cheap
in the eyes of their admiring ladies. Good luck to us! Disgrace to
them!”




                            CHAPTER XXIII.

                          AT THE ROAD HOUSE.


Frank and Bart found their new acquaintances inclined to be a
roistering set. This seemed quite unaccountable as far as Branch was
concerned. To Merriwell the fellow from Connecticut seemed like almost
anything other than a roisterer.

Frank talked with Branch about the game, and the Hopkins manager agreed
that, unless something unexpected prevented, he would try to arrange
it. He displayed a great amount of cordiality, but he chucklingly
assured Merriwell that Hopkins would have a snap.

“We’ll take chances on that,” said Frank.

Terms were agreed upon. This was not difficult, as both managers knew
the sport might not turn out a large crowd, and Frank was not inclined
to be exacting. He was willing to play for pleasure, even if it cost
him something.

“You see,” he said, “I’m pretty near the end of my sporting trip. I
shall leave for Old Mexico in the latter part of July.”

“You’re choosing a hot season for such a trip, aren’t you?”

“Well, it’s necessary. But you know they have all sorts of climates in
Mexico. In some localities they have delightful weather the whole year
round. Indeed, there are places where they never have such hot weather
as you experience here. Baltimore is a fine place to bake in summer.”

“Oh, Connecticut is good enough for me, then,” grinned Branch. “We’ve
had some mighty hot weather already.”

Fillmore and some others joined them.

“Well, have you two fixed it all up?” asked Fred.

“As far as possible, I think,” nodded Frank.

“I guess it’s just the same as fixed,” said Branch.

“And the game——”

“We’ll pull it off if the committee don’t kick up on us.”

“Good enough! I’ve called a waiter, and he’s bringing us a round of
drinks. Shall we have them here?”

“That suits me,” nodded Branch.

Frank and Bart exchanged glances.

A moment later a colored waiter appeared with a huge tray that was
loaded with brimming glasses of beer.

“I didn’t ask you what you would have, Merriwell,” explained Fillmore.
“I knew you were a good fellow, and, of course, you’ll drink the same
as the rest of us.”

“I’m very sorry——” began Merry.

“Oh, come, come!” cried several. “You’re with us, Merriwell! Of course
you are!”

“But I don’t drink beer,” said Frank quietly.

“Why not?”

“It isn’t good for me.”

“Oh, rats! It’s good for any man!”

“Do you mean to say you won’t drink anything, Merriwell, old man?”
asked Fillmore, as if greatly disappointed.

“You may bring me some gin,” he finally said.

“Ah-ha!” they cried. “That’s the talk! We knew he was a good fellow.”

Merry turned to the waiter.

“Bring me some Old Tom in a bottle,” he said. “I’ll take plain water
for a chaser; no ginger ale or anything of that sort.”

Instantly Hodge took the cue.

“I think I’ll drink gin, too,” he said. “Make my chaser the same.”

One of the students whispered to a companion.

“Hodge has to do everything just the same as Merriwell does it.”

“If they stick to gin, we’ll soak them both for keeps,” the other
whispered back.

The waiter disappeared, but soon returned with the bottle of Old Tom
and the glasses.

As Frank poured a goodly drink Fillmore started up the song “For He’s a
Jolly Good Fellow,” in which several of the others followed.

Hackett rose, holding his glass of beer aloft.

“Here’s to Frank Merriwell!” he cried. “Frank Merriwell, a star of the
first magnitude. May that star never grow dim.”

“Thank you,” bowed Merry smilingly. “You are exceedingly kind. Here is
to you all, gentlemen. May you never be disappointed—unless you deserve
to be.”

They drank. Merry tossed off his drink at a gulp, barely wetted his
lips with the “chaser,” then tossed the remaining contents of the glass
over his shoulder and the rail of the veranda.

Hodge made a wry face and did not touch his “chaser,” which was carried
away by the waiter.

Bart excused himself and followed the waiter inside.

“Here, Tom,” he softly called.

“Yes, sar,” said the waiter, pausing.

Bart whispered something in his ear, at the same time slipping a dollar
into his hand.

The black fellow looked surprised and then grinned in a knowing manner.

“Yes, sir! Thank yo’, sar!” he exclaimed. “I’ll look out fo’ it,
sar—’deed I will. Don’t yo’ worry ’bout that.”

Saying which, he took the glass left by Hodge from the tray and drained
its contents.

“I’ll drink all yo’ chasers, sar,” chuckled the colored man.

Bart returned to the veranda.

Some one else ordered a round of drinks.

Frank and Bart took the same as before, while the others drank beer.

Black Tom carried away two “chasers” on his tray, but the moment he
was inside and out of sight, he drank both, tossing one down after the
other and smacking his lips.

“Dem chaps is slick,” he said. “Plain wattah makes a fine chaser fo’
gin. Yah! yah! Dis is a snap fo’ Tom!”

Cigarettes were passed round by two of the college lads.

Frank and Bart politely declined. Fillmore took one.

“Don’t you smoke, Merriwell?” he asked.

“Never.”

“Why is that—on account of your wind?”

“That is one reason.”

“Well, I don’t smoke much myself. We’re not supposed to smoke at all,
but a cigarette now and then never hurts me.”

“Possibly not.”

“Do you think it does?”

“I can’t say. You may not have a taste for them, but you can cultivate
the habit.”

“Oh, that’s right; but when I find the habit growing on me I’ll stop
altogether.”

“It’s easy to say so.”

“But not easy to do, I presume you mean. I never smoke unless I drink
something. Two beers make me feel like it. You might join us for once.”

“Wouldn’t think of torturing myself. I dislike cigarettes. It’s a
cultivated taste, you know. I confess that one of those things would be
certain to make my head feel bad, and it might upset my stomach.”

“Well, you’re queer!” cried Dick Whisper. “A chap who’s knocked around
as much as you have generally smokes.”

“Most of them do,” acknowledged Frank.

Bart also declined, and again one of the students reminded a companion
that Hodge was bound to imitate Merriwell.

“Have a drink on me,” invited Frank. “It’s my turn.”

They protested, declaring he was their guest and could not buy. But he
insisted. He even threatened to stop and take no more drinks unless
permitted to order. This brought them round and they gave in.

Black Tom was grinning in a manner that exposed every tooth in his head
when he appeared with the drinks.

“Heah yo’ is, gemmans,” he said, with unusual freedom. “I hope yo’ ’s
habin’ a good time. Make yo’se’fs right at home. Anything else I can
bring yo’, gemmans?”

Fillmore glared at him.

“What’s the matter with you, you black rascal?” he cried. “You act like
you’ve been drinking yourself.”

“Oh, no, sar! Nebber, sar! Boss don’ ’low me to drink when I’m on duty,
sar. I’s just pleased to see yo’ enjoyin’ yo’se’fs. Yah! yah! yah!”

“Get out, you grinning monkey!”

“Yes, sar! yes, sar!”

But Tom waited in the background until the round had been disposed of,
when he gathered up the glasses, carefully taking the “chasers” left by
Frank and Bart.

“When yo’ wants me again I’ll be at yoah disposal, gemmans,” he said,
as he departed, giggling queerly.

The next time Black Tom appeared with an order he caught his toe on the
doorsill just as he was coming out onto the veranda.

“Oh, Lordy!” he gasped.

Sprawling he went, with a great crash, beer and splintered glasses
flying in all directions and bespattering some of the students.

“Oh, Lordy!” repeated the colored man, as he sat up and gazed around,
his eyes rolling queerly and a look on his face that made the
spectators roar.

“I’s a-gwine ter git the old Sachet fer this!” he declared.

“What’s the matter with you, you blundering, black scoundrel?” demanded
Fillmore. “Never saw you act so oddly.”

“Somefin’ sholy moved just as I was a-gwine teh step frough the do’,”
declared Tom, as he gathered himself up unsteadily. “Whoa, dar! It
moved ag’in! Is de groun’ shakin’ ur nuffin’?”

“He’s drunk!” declared Dick Whisper. “Hastings will give it to you,
Tom.”

“Dat’s right, he will. He’ll be hoppin’ mad about de smash. But de flo’
gave de funniest wiggle. Yah! yah! yah! It done tickle mah foot.”

Then the negro went off into a spasm of laughter.

“You’ll lose your place if you don’t brace up, Tom,” said Fillmore.
“Here comes Mr. Hastings now.”

“Oh, Lordy!” gasped the colored man, his manner changing with
astonishing suddenness. “I’s do’ fo’!”

He made a scramble to gather up the waiter and some of the partly
smashed glasses.

Suddenly he stopped.

“Yo’ ’s foolin’ me,” he said, with a grin. “De boss is done gone fo’ de
day. Said he wouldn’t be back till to-morrer mawnin’.”

“That explains your condition,” said Hackett. “Go bring those drinks
and clean up here, you tippling dog.”

“Don’t yo’ be so pussunal, sar!” objected Tom, swaying a bit and
looking offended. “I nebber done yo’ no injury ner nuffin’. I’s sho’
sorry I spilled de drinks. I’ll have them teh pay fo’, ’sides payin’
fo’ the glasses I smashed. But I don’ like teh be called nuffin’
disgraceful. I allus tries teh treat averybody right, an’ it ain’t——”

“Oh, cut it out!” interrupted one of the collegians. “You’re all right,
Tom, when you are all right. Better bring that beer in steins after
this. They won’t break so easy.”

Tom departed, stepping gingerly and lifting his feet very high. In a
short time he returned with the drinks. Then he hastened to wipe up and
sweep up the pieces of broken glass.

The boys began to sing, “When Good Fellows Get Together.” They seemed
to be feeling very well indeed. Merriwell and Hodge joined in,
apparently feeling quite as well as any of them.

In the midst of the singing Fillmore found a chance to whisper in
Hackett’s ear:

“Merriwell is pretty well loaded now. Look at him. I don’t believe he
can stand much, and he’s drinking gin as if it were water.”

“Oh, we’ll have him finished pretty soon,” answered Hackett. “I want to
soak Hodge just as much, but I think he can stand more than Merriwell.”

A man appeared and informed them that they could not sit on the veranda
and sing in that manner.

“What are you tryin’ to do?” he growled. “Want to queer the place?
There’s people goin’ by on the road. Come inside, all of yer.”

“We resent that language, Morrisy!” exclaimed Fillmore haughtily, as he
rose. “Speak to us in the proper manner to address gentlemen.”

“That’s right!” said Frank, also rising, and seeming a bit unsteady.
“That’s no way to talk.”

“Oh, don’t all you chaps go to gettin’ on your high horses!” cried
Morrisy. “You know me, an’ I know you. If I’ve said anything you don’t
like, I apolergize; but you’ll have to caper inside if you want any
more drinks.”

“Do you positively refuse to serve anything more out here?” asked
Fillmore.

“Sure thing.”

“Then, as you have apologized, we’ll come in. Come on, fellows.”

They all filed in and found seats round some tables in a cool and airy
room. As another round of drinks was being served a man with huge
shoulders and a thick neck came sauntering into the room, his derby
hat cocked over one eye and a cigar canted upward in one corner of his
mouth.

“Here’s Husker!” was the cry. “Hello, Galway, old slugger! Come have a
drink with us!”

The newcomer paused and surveyed the party critically.

“Well, now, you’re a hot bunch, ain’t yer!” he said. “You’re certainly
goin’ it some. Tryin’ ter drownd yerselves wid beer, hey?”

Fillmore hastened to Husker Galway and shook hands with him. Others
rose and greeted him in a similar manner. In the pugilist’s ear
Fillmore whispered:

“I’m going to give you a knockdown to the chap I phoned you about. Get
him into a bout and mark him up as much as you can. Give him a black
eye or two, if possible.”

“Does he t’ink he can scrap?”

“He thinks he can do anything and everything.”

“I’ll take some of der wind outer him in a hurry,” promised Galway.

“This is our boxing instructor, Husker Galway, Mr. Merriwell,” said
Fillmore, introducing them.

“’Waryer!” said Husker, seizing Frank’s hand.

For some reason Merry had prepared for just what followed. Something
warned him that the pugilist would try to give him a grip that would
make him wince, and therefore Frank proceeded to get the hold that
he desired. When Galway tried to crush his fingers, Merry proceeded
smilingly to close on the fighter’s hand with a grip of iron.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Galway,” he said, with that pleasant smile.
“It really gives me great pleasure.”

He gave the pugilist a grip that might have crushed the bones in
another man’s hand. At first Galway pretended not to notice it, but in
a moment he tried to tear his hand away, the look on his face showing
that he was in pain.

“Wot in howlin’ thunder you tryin’ ter do?” he snarled. “Leggo! Leggo
of that fist!”

“I beg your pardon!” said Merry, in apparent surprise, as Husker seemed
on the point of hitting him. “Evidently you—hic!—you don’t belong to my
lodge.”

All the blood seemed squeezed from Galway’s hand.

“Dat’s the fin I broke on Pug Curran,” said the pugilist, by way of
explanation. “Was yer tryin’ ter finish it fer me?”

Fillmore and the others were surprised, for they had seen the man cause
dozens of people to wilt and beg while pretending to shake hands with
them in an ordinary manner. The fact that Frank had checkmated the move
and caused Galway to squeal was most astonishing to them.

Galway grew angry.

“You’re too fresh, dat’s wot’s der matter wid youse!” he said, glaring
at Merry. “You oughter have some of it taken outer yer!”

“Why, didn’t I—hic!—didn’t I beg your pardon?” said the young man, in
surprise.

“Better beg it ag’in,” growled the bruiser.

“Oh, very well!” exclaimed Merry hastily. “I’ll do it!”

Husker fancied Frank was frightened.

Fillmore fancied Frank was drunk. He gave the pugilist a signal, and
the latter grew more arrogant.

“Wot you need is a little t’umpin’,” he said. “I’d like ter put on der
gloves wid youse an’ take some of der freshness outer yer.”

“Would you?”

“You bet!”

“I’d rather not. I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, I didn’t suppose you’d have der nerve. It wouldn’t really hurt yer
none, but it would do yer good. Der gloves are like cushions. A jab in
der jaw is like a caress.”

“Put them on with him, Merriwell!” cried Fillmore.

Taking the cue from their leader, the other students urged him to do so.

“Don’t be frightened,” said one.

“We’ve all been through the mill,” declared another.

“You ought to stand what we can.”

“I’ve heard you know how to box.”

“Oh, go ahead! go ahead!”

Frank saw through the game now. For some moments he pretended to be
anxious to keep out of it; but finally, of a sudden, with seeming
drunken courage, he announced that he would put on the gloves with
Galway.

The students shouted joyously.

“Now we’ll see some fun!” they cried.

They did!

But it was not just the kind of fun they expected.

One of the rooms in the huge shed back of the road house was fitted up
in a manner that plainly betokened the use to which it had been put
more than once.

In the centre of the room was a spare platform. On four sides were
seats. At the four corners of the open platform were stakes. The
platform was inclosed by ropes.

Here more than one stiff fight had been pulled off as a boxing bout.

Hastings, the proprietor of the place, had no license to run affairs
of the sort, but he had a pull with the police, and he had never been
molested.

Men from Johns Hopkins, the Baltimore Medical College and sometimes
youngsters from the City College frequented the place and witnessed the
“mills” which took place there.

Of course Hastings had not escaped criticism. There had been complaints
against him, but through it all he kept at his business and raked in
the money the youngsters spent.

The boys followed Husker Galway and Merriwell out into the shed.
Fillmore was in high spirits. He locked arms with Tom Hackett and
chuckled softly over the affair.

“Merriwell has a beautiful bun on,” he muttered. “He’ll be a cinch for
Husker. And Husker has taken the tip from me to cut him up and give him
a black eye or two. Ha! ha! Won’t he be a pretty bird to take back to
Inza! She’ll admire him, I don’t think!”

“Wish Hodge was going to get his medicine at the same time,” growled
Hackett.

“Why don’t you pick a fuss with him and do him up?”

“What are you thinking of? Didn’t we bring him out here? We’ll have to
play the sympathetic. We must make them both believe we’re very sorry
over it.”

“You’re right, Tom. We’ve got to keep clear of the blame.”

Husker Galway stripped down in a hurry, flinging off his clothes with
the exception of such garments as were absolutely necessary to cover
his nakedness.

Merriwell was more deliberate. He moved with a certain slowness and
strained precision, as if he was doing everything with a great effort
to appear cool and sober.

Hodge looked on indifferently, as if he took very little interest in
the affair.

The students joyously selected a referee and timekeeper. They decided
that the bout should be pulled off in rounds of three minutes each,
although many were inclined to believe that the first round would be
more than enough to end it.

A few of the reckless ones ventured to bet that Merriwell would last a
whole round, getting even money on it. Two to one was offered that he
would not last two rounds, and ten to one that he would throw up the
sponge before three rounds were over.

Some of the boys seemed to have an idea that Husker would play with
Frank for the first round, give him a cutting up in the second, and
then, if Merry stood up for any more, proceed to put him out in the
third.

One, who seemed well loaded with beer, staggered forward and clasped
Merriwell round the neck, earnestly entreating him not to box.

“I’m ’shamed, old fel,” said the maudlin chap. “’Tain’t right! It’s
shame! You dunno w’atcher up against. You’re a good fellow, but Husker
is a slugger. He’s offended; he’s dangerous. I’m gentleman. Don’t like
to see him do you this way. Put on y’r coat an’ come have a drink with
me.”

“Get out of the way, Ludley!” cried another. “You’ve got a peach! Go
lie down somewhere!”

Ludley waved the other off with a hand that was limp at the wrist.

“Lemme ’lone,” he said stiffly. “I’m friend to Merriwell. He’s good
chap. Whatcher want? Want to see him hurt? He’s fine-lookin’ chap. I
hate to see fine-lookin’ chap like him hurt, I do.”

“You are very—hic!—kind, sir,” said Frank. “I appreciate your extreme
kindness, but I think I can—hic!—I can take care of myself. Don’t worry
’bout me.”

“Course he kin take care of hisself,” said Galway. “Go jump off the
earth, little boy.”

Ludley shed tears.

“He’s our ghest,” he murmured thickly. “’Tain’t right, boys—’tain’t
right! You may think it’s joke, but I shay it’s shame.”

“Why doesn’t some one smother that fool?” growled Tom Hackett. “He
always was an ass!”

Frank put Ludley aside and finished making ready. Some one found him a
pair of rubber-soled shoes, and these he put on.

Then they brought the gloves.

Instead of boxing gloves, such as are generally used for sparring, they
were six-ouncers, the kind used in many prize fights.

“Hum!” said Merry, as he gravely surveyed the pair handed him. “Aren’t
these a trifle light for a friendly go?”

“Oh, they’re all right!” exclaimed several of the students. “We box
with them here.”

“If that is so,” said Merry, “I’ll raise—hic!—no further objection.”

Black Tom came unsteadily feeling his way out into the shed. He
scratched his woolly head and gazed in a dazed way at Galway and then
at Frank.

Suddenly he began to laugh.

“When yo’ gwine teh ordah another round, gemmans?” he asked. “I’ll
drink de chasers. Yah! yah! yah!”

Some one threw a wooden dumb-bell at Tom, and it struck him on the
head, bounding off.

“G’way dar!” cried the colored man indignantly. “Stop frowin’ dem
peanut shells dis way!”

Hodge aroused himself and tied on Frank’s gloves. As he did so, he
found an opportunity to whisper:

“They all think we’re both loaded, Merry. This big bruiser thinks so,
too. When you undeceive him you want to do it by wading into him and
finishing the scrap.”

“Come on!” cried Galway. “It takes you a long time ter git inter gear.”

“Don’t be impatient, my friend,” said Merry, floppily waving one of the
gloves at the bruiser. “We’ve got all the—hic!—all the afternoon.”

“Dat’ll give yer a long time ter sleep,” said Husker.

“Gentlemen,” called the student who had appointed himself as referee,
“in the main bout to-day we have the great Husker Galway, heavyweight
champion of the Pimlico Road.”

He waved his hand toward Galway.

“His opponent is Frank Merriwell, all-round champion at anything and
everything.”

A wave toward Merry.

“The fight will be in three-minute rounds, with half-minute
intermissions, both men to defend themselves in the breakaway. They
will fight to a finish.”

“Hoop-la! Yow! Yow!” yelled the students. “’Rah for Darby, the referee!”

The timekeeper had his watch in his hand. Suddenly he struck the gong
that hung suspended at one side of the raised platform.

Galway strode forward to the centre of the ring.

Merry advanced with a shuffling, unsteady step.

“It’s a shame to take the money!” muttered Fillmore. “Why, the fellow
is all in now! Husker can put him out with one punch.”

“Sure he can,” agreed Hackett.

“But he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He knows I want him to cut the fellow up, and he’ll try to let
Merriwell keep on his feet while he chops his face to pieces. I wonder
if Inza will kiss him when she sees him to-night! Bet he’ll feel so
sore he’ll drink like a fish after this is over. We must be careful not
to let him get so drunk he can’t show up before Inza.”

Galway and Merry reached forth their hands and their gloves touched.
Then they assumed the position of “on guard.”

Merry put up his hands rather awkwardly.

Galway grinned.

“It’s too bad, boy,” he sneered; “but you’d be a plum pudding for any
sixteen-year-old kid in Baltimore.”

Saying which he reached over and tapped Merry lightly on the nose.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                              THE FINISH.


“Ouch!” said Merry.

“Dat didn’t hurt, did it?” asked the slugger, with an air of surprise.

“Not much.”

“How ’bout dat?”

Husker tapped him again.

Merry didn’t seem able to protect himself in the least.

“It’s going to be a slaughter!” muttered Hackett. “I did hope he’d try
to put up a scrap just to give us some fun.”

The students cried:

“Brace up, Merriwell!”

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t let him hit you that way!”

“Open your eyes!”

“Hit back at him!”

“You fools!” thought Bart Hodge. “It’s plain you’ve planned to have
lots of fun with us, but the laugh is coming the other way when this
affair is over. You’ll be the most surprised bunch of lobsters in
Baltimore.”

Galway danced round Merry. He came in and feinted, causing Merry to
make a wild motion to parry. Then he laughed loudly, for it seemed that
Frank had exposed himself.

The prize fighter resolved to show the youth up. To do so he kept
working in and out and drawing Frank, as he supposed, into defenseless
positions.

“Husker is fooling with him, Fred,” muttered Hackett.

“Hope he doesn’t fool too long. I think Merriwell is beginning to
realize he hasn’t any show. He’ll be quitting.”

Merry had divined Galway’s purpose, and he was the one who was doing
the playing. He was watching the fighter’s every movement and sizing
up his style. He saw how the man side-stepped, how he feinted, how he
led and how he guarded. While this was going on Frank was planning his
style of attack when the time should come.

Several times Merry rushed awkwardly just to see how the man defended
himself. He led at Galway’s head and his body. The man defended himself
by parrying, blocking, and retreating.

Frank was not foolish enough to fancy Husker Galway an easy mark, but
he counted on gaining some advantage by taking the man by surprise when
he went into the fight in earnest.

Finally, as if by the rarest blundering accident, Merry landed on
Galway’s chin.

“Well! well! well!” cried Ludley, the chap who had displayed such a
friendly feeling for Frank. “He hit him, then!”

“Could you see that?” sneered a student.

“Course I could! What’s matter with you?”

Black Tom was scratching his head as he watched Merry.

“Nebber befo’ has I seen nobody git loaded on de kind ob stuff he’s
been drinkin’,” murmured the negro.

Galway was angered because he had permitted himself to be hit in such a
manner.

“You couldn’t do dat ag’in in a week!” he growled.

Frank seemed to try it, whereupon the slugger swung to land hard on
Merry’s body.

The blow was blocked, but it was done as if by chance more than skill.

The slugger’s anger increased and he followed Merriwell up.

“Now he’s going to get into him!” hissed Fillmore.

Merry managed to clinch, and he hung on when the referee tried to
“break” them.

“Oh, leggo!” snapped Galway.

He tried to uppercut Frank.

“Break! break!” commanded the referee.

When they did break Merry unexpectedly shot his left to the slugger’s
chin, driving his head back.

Galway uttered a roar. His face flushed and he went after Frank like an
enraged beast.

Merry ducked and went under the man’s swing.

“Oh, the artful dodger!” exclaimed Jack Branch.

“He’ll have to do something more than dodge in a minute,” prophesied
Dick Whisper.

Clang sounded the gong. The first round was over.

Fillmore was disappointed because Merriwell had not been damaged in the
least in the opening round. He hastened to Galway’s corner, speaking to
the pugilist in a low tone.

“You haven’t marked him.”

“Plenty of time, young feller,” said Husker. “I’ll give him a black
eye an’ break his nose in der next round.”

“Well, do something,” urged Fillmore.

He fancied Merriwell would not observe that he took this occasion to
speak to the pugilist.

Apparently Frank did not see it, but the truth was that nothing escaped
his eyes. He knew now beyond question that the captain of the lacrosse
team, who had pretended such friendship, was the one who had planned
to have him beaten up by the slugger. Although his heart was hot with
anger over Fillmore’s treachery, he did not betray his feelings by any
outward sign.

Hodge was attending to Frank in his corner, giving him a drink and
mopping his perspiring face with a sponge.

“Don’t fool around too long, Merry,” he said guardedly. “I’m afraid
you’ll betray the fact that you’re not half the mark they’ve taken you
for.”

“I’m not going to fool any longer,” answered Merry. “I shall go after
him now. I’ve fathomed his style of fighting, and I think I know his
weak points.”

Thirty seconds were quickly over.

Clang!

Galway rose instantly and advanced, while again Frank was slow about
coming to the scratch.

The slugger engaged in earnest, going after Merry with the idea of
quickly keeping his promise to Fillmore. He led at Merriwell’s head.

The blow was skillfully parried, and out shot Frank’s right.

Smack!

The blow sounded clear and solid, and it sent Husker Galway reeling.

“Oh!” cried half the spectators.

Merriwell followed the bruiser up with such swiftness that Galway was
given no time to recover. Again Merry hit him—again and again, knocking
him onto the ropes.

Fred Fillmore gasped with unspeakable amazement, while Tom Hackett’s
eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets.

No one could have been more astonished than Galway. He was surprised
because the youth had been able to hit him at all, and he was still
more surprised by the “steam” behind those blows.

“Yah! yah! yah!” laughed Black Tom. “I done thought it was bery strange
dat gemman got so full on what he was drinkin’.”

Galway recovered and rose from the ropes. His eyes glared and his face
had the ugly look of a man infuriated to the point of some black deed.

“So you can hit?” he snarled, as he danced away. “Come again! Try it
some more!”

Merry accepted the invitation, but the pugilist was on guard now, and
it was not so easy to hit him. Besides that, Galway did some leading
himself, and Frank had to look out for himself. The slugger reached
Frank’s chin, but Merry had leaped back, and the blow was light.

“Nearly got him then, Husker!” cried one of the students.

“Look out for that wallop! Look out for that wallop, Merriwell!”
shouted Ludley. “He puts the best of ’em out with it!”

Frank was looking out for it. He knew the fighter had a dangerous left,
and it was his hope to keep him from landing full and fair with one of
those heavy swings.

Galway followed up. There was a bit of sharp sparring and then a clinch.

“Break!” yelled the referee.

They broke promptly enough this time, but again Frank shot out a
lightning left and reached his antagonist’s jaw.

“Look out for that in the breakaway, Gal!” warned one of the spectators.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” came from another. “This is the real thing! It’s
no slaughter, after all!”

Bart Hodge laughed.

“You’ll see the kind of a slaughter you did not expect,” he declared.

The battle was a fast one now, for both men were at it in earnest.
Frank received a number of blows, but not one landed in a way to do him
any damage. He was on guard for the “wallop.” Twice Husker tried to
land with it, but both times his fist swept through the air, for the
smiling youth was not there. Tom Hackett grasped Fred Fillmore’s arm.

“What is the meaning of this?” he palpitated. “Merriwell is fighting
like a wizard! He doesn’t act as if he had ever taken a drink in his
life. I thought he was loaded.”

“So did I,” admitted Fillmore. “He certainly is dazing me; but he’ll
get his medicine before long. Galway can stand all the punishment he’s
getting, and he’ll land for fair in the end.”

“Look at that! look at that! Merriwell has split his lip! He’s
bleeding!”

It was true. Frank had opened the slugger’s lip, and Galway’s teeth
were covered with blood.

All this served to cause the pugilist to lose his head. Had he expected
anything of the sort, he would have fought on coolly; but he had
anticipated an easy victory, and the disappointment was too much for
him. Thinking he would have plenty of sport by hammering Frank round
the ring, he had readily consented to Fillmore’s proposition. He
realized at last that he was being used as a punching bag by the youth
he had despised, and that was more than he could endure and keep his
level. He was being “shown up” before the students who had admired him
and regarded him as a wonder.

“Dern ye! I’ll knock your head off!” he snarled.

Bart Hodge stood with his hands in his pockets, the remotest ghost of a
smile on his dark face.

“This bunch will know more than they did when they started in on this
little game,” he thought. “Get into that big brute, Merry! End it in
this round!”

Frank tried his best to end it, and he gave Husker Galway the severest
sort of punishment; but the bruiser was tough, and, although he was
very groggy, he managed to keep on his pins until the gong sounded.

The second round was ended.

Frank Merriwell was suddenly very popular with the students. They
congratulated him on his success.

He paid little heed to them during the thirty seconds of rest.

Fillmore did not venture to speak to Galway now, for he knew that
Merriwell was very wide-awake. Disgusted and disappointed, he lingered
in the background.

“I believe Merriwell is going to whip Husker!” said Hackett.

“He can’t do it,” muttered Fillmore.

“He had him going in that round. The gong saved him.”

“Galway was fooled. We’ve all been fooled! Perhaps the gong did save
him. You’ll see something different this next round.”

Fillmore was disinclined to give up hope.

When the gong sounded next time Merriwell was up and met Galway in a
twinkling. He lost no time in getting after the pugilist. Galway was
wary at first, but Frank’s success in hitting him twice stung him to a
pitch that led him to rush and lunge.

Merry met him and they clinched.

Again in the breakaway Frank soaked the bruiser on the jaw, and this
time it made the man reel.

Following up, Frank put his left to Galway’s wind and his right to the
fellow’s head.

Galway went down.

“Ah!” cried the spectators.

But it was not a knockout. The referee began to count, but Husker
snarled for him to “dry up” and leaped to his feet.

“You fool!” he grated. “No man ever counted me out, an’ no man ever
will!”

This bruiser had gladly taken upon his shoulders the task to “cut up”
the supposed-to-be unsuspecting stranger. To him it was a pleasure
in anticipation, and he had fully expected to make it a pleasure in
execution. The fact that he was making a wretched mess of his wretched
task bewildered while it enraged him. He saw before him the smiling,
unmarked youth, wholly undisturbed and at his ease. Had that youth been
a fighter with a reputation, Galway would have been prepared and would
not have exposed himself with such disdain. Even now, after he had felt
the force of Merriwell’s skill as a boxer, he could not comprehend that
this youngster was his master.

“You think you’re some, don’t ye?” he growled, as he cautiously
advanced, Merry waiting for him. “Well, you’re goin’ ter git yours
right now!”

Fillmore’s fading courage revived. He saw that Galway was determined to
retaliate, and he returned to the hope that the slugger might settle
the matter with his dreaded “wallop.”

“Wait a minute,” invited Frank. “I want to tell you something. You
tried to trick me and make an exhibition of me before these fellows. I
don’t know the cause behind your action, but you have failed. I have no
particular feeling of hatred for you. I think I have satisfied you and
the spectators that I am not the easy mark I’ve been picked up to be.
I don’t care to resort to the last extremity to end this business. I’m
not a prize fighter. I am willing to call the matter off right here—I
am satisfied.”

“Satisfied, are ye?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I ain’t—not on yer life! I’ll be satisfied w’en I puts you ter
sleep, an’ I’m goin’ ter do it. Look out fer me! Either you squeal or
I’ll knock your block off!”

Frank said no more. As he had stated, knowing the low grade of the
bruiser, he had no personal feeling toward the man; but now he found
that there could be but one end to the encounter. Either he must whip
Galway or Galway would whip him.

From that point the fight was fast and savage. Merriwell astounded
every witness save Hodge by his cleverness in blocking, guarding and
getting away. He remained on the defense some time, leading the slugger
to think him frightened at last. Then he landed fair and full with the
force of his body behind the blow, and there was a crash as Galway fell.

A hush followed.

Then the now sober referee stepped forward, leaned over the prostrate
bruiser, and, marking each numeral with a stroke of his index finger,
began to count:

“One—two—three——”

Galway stirred and partly lifted himself.

“Four—five—six——”

The pugilist rose to his hands and knees.

“Seven——”

Husker lifted his hands from the floor.

“Eight——”

He brought up his left foot and planted it.

“Nine——”

He staggered to his feet before the final word could be uttered.

It was a display of sand, and, although the fellow was an ordinary
prize fighter, Frank could not help admiring him for it.

But Merry realized that it would not do to let his admiration of the
fellow’s grit hold him in check. It was all the more apparent that
there could be only one termination of the encounter.

Merriwell closed in.

Galway side-stepped and rushed. His ponderous left swung through the
air with an upward movement.

It was an effort to land the “wallop” on Frank’s jaw.

The youth was not there.

The swing seemed to throw Husker Galway off his guard. Before he could
recover Frank came in. With a straight, clean blow, the champion
all-round athlete of America sent his opponent down with a shock that
jarred the platform to its very foundations.

It was all over. The referee counted ten in his most deliberate manner,
but the prostrate slugger did not even move a muscle. Then, when his
gloves were removed, the victor joined in the efforts to restore
Galway, paying little heed to the profuse expressions of admiration and
the flow of congratulations from the students.

At last he sat up, supported by one of the students, and his eyes
sought the face of the youth who had caused his downfall.

“Young feller,” he said, “you delivered the goods. I didn’t believe it
was in yer; but I’ll back you against anyt’ing on two legs dat stan’s!
You’re der real stuff!”




                             CHAPTER XXV.

                       CAUGHT IN THEIR OWN TRAP.


Although Fred Fillmore was among the first to congratulate Merriwell,
he found an opportunity to slip out of the shed while efforts were
being made to restore Husker Galway.

Hackett followed him.

“I’ve got to have a drink!” exclaimed the latter. “I want something to
brace me up after that.”

“Just what I’m after,” said Fillmore. “That was enough to drive any one
to drink.”

They found their way to the bar and both ordered whisky, regardless of
the fact that they had been drinking beer and an abundance of that.

“What do you think of it, Fred?” asked Hackett, his hand unsteady as he
poured his drink.

“I can’t think!” confessed the captain of the lacrosse team. “Husker
Galway knocked out—by him!”

“And he was jagged when the scrap began.”

“Was he?”

“Wasn’t he?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“But—but he appeared to be.”

“I know he did.”

“Then you think——”

“He fooled us.”

They looked at each other. After a moment or two, Hackett nodded slowly.

“I reckon that’s right,” he said. “He fooled us. But he must be a
tank, for he drank as many as seven big slugs of Old Tom gin.”

“So did Hodge.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, Merriwell may have braced up after getting into the scrap.
Perhaps that was what sobered him.”

“What sobered Hodge?”

Again they looked at each other blankly.

“It’s too much for me,” admitted Hackett. “I give it up. But I never
dreamed Merriwell could fight like that, even if he didn’t take a
drink. Why, why, Fred, he knocked out the champion of the Pimlico Road
and a man who might easily be the champion of Baltimore!”

“Don’t I know it? You don’t have to tell me! I’d bet my life Husker
could hammer the head off him—before I saw this. I can’t believe
Merriwell did it!”

“Well, let’s drink up. Here’s to drown our disappointment.”

They tossed off the drinks.

“I haven’t taken a drink before this term,” said Fillmore dolefully,
“and I did so to-day to pull those dubs into the trap. If any one
peaches on me, I’ll get a raking over.”

“You can’t get much of a raking, for wasn’t Branch in the bunch? He’s
the one who will get the raking. He’ll lose his job.”

“He doesn’t care, for the season is pretty nearly over, and he
graduates, so he doesn’t want the position again. That’s how I
induced him to get onto the band wagon to-day. We’re not going to take
Merriwell and Hodge back to their ladies in the shape we expected.”

“Unless we get them into a mess with the whole bunch and all jump on
them.”

“Can’t do that. The boys won’t stand for it. Some of them are gone on
Merriwell now. They thought it would be a joke to get the great athlete
out here and put him up against Galway; but they’ll see no joke in
mobbing him. It won’t work. We’re baffled to-day, old man, and we may
as well throw up the sponge.”

“But there’s another time coming,” muttered Hackett.

“We’ll have to give Merriwell that game. I hate him! I thought I hated
Herb Onslaw, but I hate Merriwell worse. I’d like to get a rap at him.”

“You might be able to in the game.”

“That’s right,” nodded Fillmore. “More than one fellow has been knocked
out with a lacrosse stick while playing. No one could prove I did it
intentionally. It would give me lots of satisfaction. It’s the very
chance I’ve been praying for with Onslaw.”

“Onslaw will be in the game, too.”

“So Merriwell says, but we’re not sure of it. I hope he is! It would
delight me to get even with both chaps in one day. Yes, we’ll have to
give Merriwell the game.”

“Let’s drink another and get back before we’re missed.”

Their faces were flushed and their tongues thick. Already they had
taken as much as they could stand, but the time had passed when they
could gauge their capacity. Once more they drank whisky, and both
staggered a little as they left the bar.

They met the students, accompanied by Merriwell, Hodge, and Galway,
coming from the shed. To their surprise, Galway showed no resentment
toward his conqueror.

But he gave Fillmore a vicious look, although he said nothing.

The slugger was determined to “blow” the crowd. He insisted that it was
on him.

Frank and Bart could not refuse without appearing caddish, so they
accepted the man’s invitation, although they now ordered ginger ale.

“What?” cried several of the students, in astonishment.

“Ginger w’ot?” gasped Galway. “Oh, say! dat’s a joke. Ye’re foolin’!”

“No,” said Merry. “We have had quite enough to drink. I make a
practice of stopping when I have enough. I always order ginger ale or
sarsaparilla at that stage.”

“I would meself,” grinned Galway, looking very hideous with his bruised
face and split lip; “but w’en I have enough I can’t say sarsaparilla.”

In vain Frank and Bart were urged to drink something stronger; they
persisted in their determination to take nothing but ginger ale, and
ginger ale they drank.

On the other hand, although they already had too much, Fillmore and
Hackett again drank whisky.

A short time after that both these fellows were in a wretched
condition. They insisted on returning home, and Merry, thinking the
open air would do them good, besides wishing to get them away from the
road house, ordered the team hitched up.

It was necessary to lift Fillmore and Hackett into the carriage. Hodge
looked after one, while Frank took care of the other.

It happened that neither chap betrayed himself directly, although both
mumbled things which were suggestive of their feelings over the outcome
of the encounter.

“Shay!” Fillmore finally exclaimed, seizing Frank’s arm and looking
into his face wonderingly; “shay, Merriwell, how’d ju do it?”

“Do what—defeat Galway?”

“No; how’d ju drink all that gin an’ keep shober? Tha’s what puzzlesh
me. Musht be reg’ler tank, Mer’well.”

“I didn’t drink any gin,” laughed Frank. “That’s the secret of it, my
boy. I never drink intoxicants.”

“Oh, shay, come off! I shaw you take five, shix, sheven drinks—more’n
that.”

“Sho did I,” put in Hackett, bracing up. “You’re ri’, Fred, ol’ man—I
shaw him do it. Reg’lar tank, tha’sh ri.”

“You did not see me take a single drink of gin,” declared Merry. “When
you insisted that we should drink something, gin was brought for us,
with water on the side. We drank the water and left the gin. Black Tom
drank the gin, and I hope it does not cost him his position.”

“Wha’—wha’—wha’——” gurgled Fillmore, in a dazed way. “I don’t think I
jusht undershtand ju. How wash that?”

“We drank the water, which looked the same as gin, and left the gin,
which was brought with it.”

Hackett was sitting on the back seat with Hodge. He reached forward and
jabbed Fillmore in the back.

“Ol’ man,” he mumbled, “we’re a pair of eashy marks, that’sh what we
are! We’ve been fooled. We started to get thesh fellersh full an’ have
fun wish them, an’ they played it on ush. I want to go die shomewhere!”

Fillmore was even more disgusted than Hackett.

“Next time you pick out two chaps as easy be sure you do not make a
mistake,” advised Hodge.

Frank laughed over it.

“I fancied you were planning something for us,” said Merry, “and so we
turned it on you. It’s all right, fellows. No hard feelings. We’re able
to stand the joke.”

“Joke’s on ush,” said Hackett.

For some time Fillmore rode in silence. They had reached Druid Hill
Park.

Suddenly the captain of the lacrosse team flew into a drunken rage.

“Anybody can keep shober ’f he drinksh water!” he snarled. “That
washn’t smart! I ’fuse to ride with a man who drinksh water! It’sh
dishgrace! Lemme out! I’ll take car home! Lemme out!”

“Don’t be silly,” said Frank. “You’re not going home now, either
of you. You’re not in condition to go home. We’ll take you to the
Belvidere with us and get you straightened out. You don’t want to show
yourselves in this condition. What will your sister think, Fillmore?
What’ll she say? Keep still!”

“I’m all ri’! Guess I know when I’m all ri’! Needn’t think you’re only
shober person on earth! I’m shober—perfec’ly shober. But I’ve been
inshulted! I’ve been basely desheived! I won’t ride ’nozer inch wish
you! Lemme out!”

“That’s ri’, Freddie, ol’ man!” joined in Hackett. “I’m wish you! Le’sh
git out an’ walk.”

“Shtop thosh horsesh!” commanded Fillmore, starting to rise.

Frank pulled him back on the seat.

“I tell you to keep still!”

“I tell you go to thunder!” snarled Fred, as he tore from Merry and
flung himself from the carriage.

He fell sprawlingly, but gathered himself up directly and was on his
feet when Merry stopped the horses.

“G’wan!” cried the unreasonable chap. “Want noshing to do wish you!”

Hackett tumbled out.

“G’wan!” he echoed. “Noshing to do wish you at all!”

He joined Fillmore and feebly tried to brush the dust from his friend’s
clothing.

“What are we going to do about it, Hodge?” asked Frank.

“Let the blamed fools go,” answered Bart, at once. “Why should we
bother with them? They’ve fixed themselves the way they planned to fix
us.”

“I suppose that is true, but they’re intoxicated, and I can’t leave
them this way.”

In vain he tried to reason with Fillmore and Hackett. They took to the
nearest walk, arm in arm, and reeled away. Merry drove along as near
them as possible, hoping they would change their minds and decide to
get back into the carriage.

“Show that you can take a joke as well as anybody, fellows,” he urged.
“Come, get in here again.”

He was invited to go to a most disagreeable place, and the Hopkins men
kept on until they came out of the park and boarded a street car.

Then, of course, Merry had to give up.

Befogged by drink, Fillmore went straight to his sister’s home, taking
Hackett with him. On entering they encountered Inza and Elsie, and
thus, through their own folly, exposed themselves to the girls in much
the same condition in which they had intended to expose Frank and Bart.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.

                           BEFORE THE GAME.


The game of lacrosse between Hopkins and Merriwell’s team was arranged,
no objection being raised to it by the committee of athletics at the
college.

This was the way the two teams lined up on the field at Oriole Park:

     THE MERRIES.                 JOHNS HOPKINS.

  Wilkins, In home.             Brisbane, Goal Guard.
  Morgan, Out                   Delano, Point.
  Onslaw, 1st attack.           Fillmore, Cover point.
  Thatcher, 2d attack.          Lowe, 1st defense.
  Merriwell, 3d attack.         Kellogg, 2d defense.
  Vernell, Centre.              Mowry, 3d defense.
  Gamp, 3d defense.             Hackett, Centre.
  Hunter, 2d defense.           Woodin, 3d attack.
  Wilson, 1st defense.          Grimes, 2d attack.
  Starbright, Cover point.      Whisper, 1st attack.
  Ready, Point.                 Pierce, Out home.
  Hodge, Goal Guard.            Zanger, In home.

Merry got his team altogether and put in some earnest practice before
appearing in Baltimore. As he had expected, he was able to get five
Harvard men to play with him. Vernell, his centre, was from Yale.

The day of the game in Baltimore was cloudy in the morning, but toward
noon it cleared up and the sun shone forth from a blue sky. There was a
light breeze blowing, and this promised to be most refreshing, as hot
weather had prevailed for more than two weeks.

The Baltimore baseball team was playing away from home, so it was an
easy matter to secure the park.

The great surprise of the day was the crowd that turned out to witness
the contest. Never before in the history of lacrosse at Baltimore had
there been such a gathering at a game. The stand was well filled, and
the bleachers to the right, which happened to be near one of the goals,
were packed.

Not all the spectators were from Baltimore, however. On the bleachers
there was a gathering of Yale and Harvard men, who for once mingled
like fellows of the same college. Such a game was destined to do more
to promote good-fellowship between the two universities than many
anonymous ten-thousand-dollar contributions for that purpose.

The leader of the team opposed to Hopkins was a Yale grad. With him
were Morgan, Gamp, Starbright, Ready, and Hodge, all former Yale men.
Vernell, who played centre for him, was still in Yale and on the Yale
lacrosse team. The other players were Harvard men.

So Yale and Harvard met on the bleachers. They sat side by side and
locked arms. They laughed and joked and cheered together. They united
in singing the songs of the two colleges. First it was “Boola,” then
“Up the Street.” “Bingo” was followed by “Fair Harvard.”

The people in the stand clapped their hands and showed their delight
over the singing. A little bunch of Hopkins men cheered repeatedly,
but their cheering was weak and almost ludicrous in comparison to the
cheering for a Yale or Harvard team on their home fields.

In the stand sat Elsie Bellwood and Inza Burrage, both thrilled by the
joy of it.

“Oh, Inza!” breathed Elsie; “isn’t it grand! Isn’t it just splendid to
be at a game like this and see Frank and Bart on the field once more!”

Inza was no less moved.

“It’s like old times,” she answered. “Oh, the sweet, old days!”

Then she softly hummed:

    “Oh, the days that have vanished forever—
      The sweet, sunny days of the past!
    They’ll come again back to us never,
      They were happy—too happy to last!”

“But there are happier days in store for us all, Inza,” said Elsie. “I
feel it—I know it!”

“I believe that, also,” nodded Inza. “Still, I often think of the days
when we first met. I think of Fardale, and it seems so far—so very far
away! I think of our visits to Yale, and somehow that seems long, long
ago.”

“What a splendid-looking lot of fellows!” exclaimed Elsie. “Aren’t
they, Inza?”

“Yes; but I see one who looks finer in my eyes than a thousand like the
others on the field.”

“Oh, fie! I don’t believe you’re looking at the one I see.”

“I don’t believe so, either.”

“I hope not.”

“So do I. There, Elsie, we’re both satisfied. Hear the Harvard cheer.
Isn’t it a splendid sound?”

“I like the Yale cheer better.”

“I love them both. Look, there go the two captains—there goes Frank!”

The captains and some of the officials were holding a consultation near
the centre of the field. It was soon over, and the referee placed the
ball in the centre of the circle.

The two teams spread out and lined up in regular order. The game was
about to begin.

Vernell was a clever man at centre. He waited until Hackett placed his
stick, after which he quickly placed his in such a position as to balk
the effort he fancied the Hopkins man intended to make.

The whistle sounded.

Hackett attempted to draw the ball, but with a snap Vernell defeated
him and obtained it, quickly passing it to Merry, who was in position
to take it.

Merry scooped it as Mowry came in on him.

Mowry tried a “check up,” but was a second too late, and Frank got away
with the ball, although the Hopkins player was right on him.

Merry was forced to pass, and he sent the ball to Onslaw with a quick
“tip.”

Lowe attempted a check with his stick, but Onslaw turned in such a way
that the move to balk him failed.

Wilkins was in position to try for a goal, but Delano was clinging to
him like a leech.

Onslaw found himself pocketed between two of the Hopkins men, and he
ventured a pass to Wilkins.

Delano darted in and knocked the ball out of Wilkins’ stick.

It went to Fillmore.

The Hopkins captain was on the alert. Like a cat he scooted the ball
from the ground, avoiding Morgan, and darted out to one side, where he
made a long pass to Woodin.

Woodin went flying toward the Merries’ goal, running like a deer and
managing to keep clear of Gamp.

Starbright left his man and darted across to intercept Woodin before
the Hopkins third attack should reach a dangerous position.

Woodin passed to Pierce, but Pierce failed to take the ball in the air.
It bounded away with him after it and Ready pressing him.

Pierce managed to scoop it up, but Ready pressed him so hard that he
could not turn toward the goal. In this predicament Pierce made a throw
over his head. Either by rare judgment or accident, he sent the ball
into Zanger’s stick, and Zanger made a quick snap for goal.

Hodge blocked the ball, but Zanger followed up and drove it in again.

“Goal!” was the cry.

In truth, Hopkins had made a goal in astonishingly quick time, and
there was cause for the Baltimore students on the bleachers to cheer
with delight.

“Oh, wasn’t that terrible!” breathed Elsie Bellwood. “Why did they let
them do it?”

“Because they couldn’t help it, I think,” answered Inza, as she watched
the players of the two teams changing sides.

“I’m afraid these Hopkins men are going to win with ease,” said the
girl with golden hair.

“I’m not afraid of it,” retorted Inza. “One goal will not win this
game.”

“But, you know, Fred Fillmore has told us right along that no picked-up
team in the country could defeat Hopkins.”

“Which he believes,” nodded Inza. “But you mustn’t think Frank is
foolish enough to bring a weak team here to meet the champions of the
United States. Don’t worry, Elsie. You’ll see something different
before the game is finished.”

In spite of Inza’s confidence, it was not long before the situation
began to assume a graver aspect, for, although Vernell again got the
ball, which was carried down to Hopkins’ goal, Brisbane barely stopping
a score, the Baltimore players got in and carried the sphere up the
field, kept it in the vicinity of the Merries’ net for fully three
minutes and finally drove it in.

The Hopkins cheer sounded louder and more exultant than ever.

“It’s just as I feared!” exclaimed Elsie.

“Wait, wait,” repeated Inza.

As the players were shifting sides Hackett spoke to Fillmore:

“A regular snap,” he laughed.

“I’m afraid it’s too easy,” retorted the Hopkins captain.

Fillmore was watching for his chance to get at Onslaw or Merriwell. He
felt that such a chance would come in a scrimmage before the game was
over, and he hoped Merriwell would be the man he could land on. He was
satisfied that the game would give him opportunities to show Frank up
as a very ordinary lacrosse player.

On the next face off Hackett baffled Vernell and secured the ball for
his own side.

Then it seemed as if the locals were going to add another tally right
away. Woodin himself carried the ball through, avoiding man after man,
and sent it whizzing waist-high at the net.

It was one of the most difficult throws for a goal guard to stop, but
Hodge managed to check it and send the ball off to one side, where he
hoped Ready or Starbright would secure it.

Ready tried, but Pierce’s body checked him, while Whisper came in and
scooped the ball.

Right up to the net dashed Whisper. He fancied he would make a goal
without trouble; but Hodge was there again. The ball fell in front of
the net not ten feet away.

An instant later there was a general mix-up of the players of both
sides, all scrambling for the ball. Hodge himself secured it, detecting
the opportunity and leaving the net to do so. He could not carry it
far, but he sent it up the field to Merry.

Merriwell caught the ball handsomely and was off like a deer.

Mowry tried to close in on him, but Frank actually ran right round the
Hopkins man, holding his stick so the ball could not be knocked out of
it.

He found Kellogg ready for him. Apparently, Kellogg would force him to
make a pass.

In some manner, Frank turned aside and went round Kellogg.

Lowe missed him by yards.

Fillmore saw his opening. He was swift on his feet, and he did not
believe any one could carry a ball round him as Frank had carried it
round Mowry and Kellogg. He came in to stop the captain of the opposing
team.

Apparently, Frank was intending to dodge to the left, although he made
a bluff of bearing to the right. Fillmore smiled a bit to think the man
should fancy he could be deceived in such a manner. Then Merry turned
quickly to the left; he leaped to check him.

But, to his dismay, the turn was only a feint on Merry’s part, for he
shifted and went leaping to the right, passing round the captain of the
local team with the same ease that he had passed the others.

He was now in position to try for goal, and he sent the ball whizzing
into the upper left-hand corner of the net.

“Goal!” was the cry that went up.

The Yale and Harvard men on the bleachers united in a cheer for
Merriwell.

Fred Fillmore was astonished and enraged. He realized that Frank had
made a sorry spectacle of him at a time when he had hoped it would be
the other way. He knew two girls in the stand were rejoicing, and he
ground his fine, white teeth together in impotent rage.

“Next time I’ll break his head with my stick rather than let him dodge
me that way!” he muttered.

Almost instantly he decided that it would not do to attempt such a
thing in the open. It might be done in a scrimmage or general mix-up,
but to do it in the open would be to invite criticism and to run the
risk of being put out of the game by the referee.

“Well, this is not wholly one-sided!” shouted a Yale man on the
bleachers.

“Not while Frank Merriwell is in the game,” cried another.

The eyes of Inza Burrage were glowing and she could scarcely keep from
cheering herself.

“Didn’t I tell you, Elsie!” she cried. “I knew what would happen! Both
Frank and Bart are playing splendidly. Bart kept Hopkins from scoring
that time, and then Frank made a goal for his own side.”

Elsie had brightened up, but she was quivering, while the color came
and went in her cheeks.

“It’s awfully exciting!” she murmured. “I didn’t think it would be so
exciting!”

“It’s a beautiful game,” said Inza; “and not enough is made of it in
this country. The United States should not permit Canada to hold such a
long lead in such a fine game.”

“Fred Fillmore didn’t stop Frank that time.”

“Hardly!”

“I wonder why he dislikes Frank so? I know he does dislike him.”

“Of course he does. He tried to lay it onto Frank when he and Tom
Hackett came home intoxicated after that trip to the road house out on
the Pimlico Road. I didn’t believe him; I knew he was lying. He and the
other fellows tried to get Frank and Bart full, but they were fooled,
and Fred has been holding a grudge ever since.”

“I think he would hurt Frank, if he could.”

“I have an idea that Frank can take care of himself.”

Hopkins had hoped to keep the visitors from scoring, and the whole team
was rather sore over the success of the Merries.

Following this there was quite a period during which neither goal was
in imminent danger. Hopkins took the offensive and kept it up, but each
time the ball drew close to the Merries’ net some of the defenders sent
it away.

The home team grew more and more persistent. Woodin rushed the ball
down the field repeatedly, or made beautiful passes to the vicinity of
the visitors’ goal.

Finally the locals closed in for a united attack, and both Hodge and
Ready were kept busy.

During the five minutes of play that followed in the first half Hopkins
made another try to score; but Frank’s players succeeded in baffling
the attack.

Finally the whistle sounded.

The first half ended with the score three to one in favor of the
locals.




                            CHAPTER XXVII.

                          A HOT SECOND HALF.


“I haven’t found the opening, Tom,” said Fillmore, in a low tone, as he
and Hackett rested during intermission. “It will come, though.”

“Shame they got that goal!”

“That’s right, it was a shame. Know how it happened?”

“Why, Merriwell just run right round the whole of you fellows.”

“I turned my ankle just as I was jumping to check him,” lied Fillmore.
“If it hadn’t been for that he’d never got past me.”

“I thought it was remarkable you should let him dodge you that way.”

The Harvard and Yale students were singing in chorus when the players
returned to the field. They sang:

    “For Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
    Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
    Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
    Which nobody can deny.”

“Wouldn’t that make you sick!” growled Fillmore. “Merriwell gave
Harvard more trouble than any other ten Yale men when he was in
college, yet here are those Harvard chaps joining the Yale gang in
singing his praises.”

The teams lined up, and once more Vernell proved his skill at centre
by drawing the ball from Hackett, much to the disgust of the latter.

The first half had been lively; the second half was hot. Both teams
went into it fiercely, straining every nerve. Up and down the field
flew the ball. Woodin made some splendid runs. Fillmore distinguished
himself by taking the ball out of Morgan’s stick just as Dade was on
the point of trying for goal. At times it was difficult to follow all
the rapid plays.

Still it was some time before either side forced the goal guards to
sweat. Hodge was the first one compelled to work hard, and he made five
difficult stops in rapid succession, causing the spectators to cheer
him loudly.

Frank laughed softly.

“Good old Bart!” he muttered. “I knew I had picked the right man to
guard the net. Reckon Onslaw knows it now.”

Onslaw had advised Frank to use Wilson.

It was Ready who passed the ball to Thatcher.

Thatcher tried to advance it, but was pocketed by two of the Hopkins
defenders. Neither Morgan nor Wilkins was in position to take the ball,
so Thatcher was compelled to pass it back to Merriwell.

It was a poor throw, for Mowry was nearer the ball and seemed sure to
get it.

How Frank covered ground so fast no one seemed able to tell, but,
running like the wind, he thrust out his stick and took the ball just
as Mowry was on the point of catching it.

A yell of delight went up from his many admirers.

“Wake up, there, you fellow!” shouted a man. “You didn’t catch it, did
you! Ha! ha! ha!”

Kellogg came at Frank, but Merry easily avoided him, holding his club
high and swaying it as he ran.

Lowe, however, managed to force Merry off to one side.

Frank passed to Onslaw.

A moment later there was a grand scrimmage in front of the Hopkins
goal, in which a number of men of both teams were engaged. Fillmore was
in it, and he found his opportunity. He smashed Onslaw across his bare
shins with the stick, and the Harvard man went down.

The whistle blew.

Fillmore protested regret. Onslaw said nothing. His shins were rubbed
and patched up and he re-entered the game.

Not three minutes later there was another scrimmage, for once more
Frank secured the ball and ran with it to a position where he could
try for goal. Brisbane stopped the ball and drove it away. Players of
both teams went after it and there was a mix-up, Merriwell being in the
midst of it.

Fred Fillmore got into it. They saw a stick sweep through the air. The
blow, as it landed on a player’s head, was heard in the stand.

Again the whistle blew.

Frank Merriwell was prone on the ground with his scalp cut open.

Fillmore had a broken stick, and he was bending over Merriwell,
proclaiming his regret.

Inza Burrage started up, but she saw Frank rise to a sitting posture,
and she sat down again, although her face was deathly white.

“Fred Fillmore did that intentionally,” she exclaimed. “They should put
him out of the game!”

Frank’s injury was quickly dressed. A bandage was tied about his head,
and he continued to play.

“What’s the matter with Merriwell?” yelled a delighted Yale man.

“He’s all right!” answered a hundred voices.

“They’d better put that Hopkins stiff out of the game!” shouted still
another man.

Fillmore was warned by the referee, and the game was resumed.

It was Herb Onslaw who finally shot the ball into the net.

Hopkins was now only one goal in the lead. The local players fought
hard to hold that lead.

The ball was sent into the territory of the Merries, but it did not
remain there long. Starbright shot it back, and Frank took it.

They could not stop him. He carried it down and shot for goal.

Brisbane stopped it, but it fell at his feet.

Wilkins was at hand, and he scooped it into the net.

The score was tied.

Never had Fillmore and his fellows been more desperate. They had
fancied the game safely in their hands; but now they saw it slipping
through their fingers.

It was no use. Again the Hopkins players saw the ball go into
Merriwell’s possession, and again they did their level best to keep
him from reaching a position where he could try for goal.

But, swiftly dodging man after man, Merry wove his way through them
toward the net and the anxious goal keeper.

Brisbane was nervous. He feared he could not stop the ball. That fear
aided in his undoing.

He did not stop it.

Merry cast it deftly into one of the upper corners of the net, and his
team had taken the lead.

After that Hopkins seemed to slump. Had the game lasted a few minutes
more the Merries would have added another score. As it was, it finally
ended four to three, just as the game with Harvard had finished.

The moment the game was over Frank Merriwell walked up to Fred Fillmore.

“You failed in your trick to-day, just as you failed at Hastings’
road house,” he said. “I don’t know how you happened to be chosen the
captain of the Hopkins team. You can play lacrosse, but you are a dirty
fellow.”

“Be careful!” muttered Fillmore. “Be careful what you say!”

“I am very careful. I am going to remain over a few days in Baltimore,
and I shall try to see you again while I am here. If I meet you in a
convenient locality I promise to give you something in return for the
crack on the head that you gave me to-day. That is all.”

That very night Fred Fillmore caught a train at Union Station, bound
for New York. He was not anxious to meet Merriwell again.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.

                       ELSIE BELLWOOD’S RESOLVE.


“How are you feeling to-night, Elsie?”

“No better.”

“That’s too bad, dear! I’m so sorry!”

Inza Burrage placed her arm lovingly about Elsie Bellwood and drew
Elsie’s head down upon her shoulder. They were in their room in the
home of John Loder, in Baltimore. It was evening.

“I’m so sorry!” repeated Inza sympathetically, as she softly patted
Elsie’s pale cheek. “What seems to be the matter?”

“I’m tired, tired. I seem to be tired all the time now, Inza. I can’t
get rested.”

“You’ll be better to-morrow, dear,” declared the dark-eyed girl
cheerfully; “I’m sure you’ll be better to-morrow.”

“I don’t know,” sighed Elsie. “I fear not. Each day I’ve thought
I would be better the next, but I improve so slowly it is very
discouraging. It doesn’t seem that I’ll ever be well and strong again,
as I used to be.”

“Oh, but you will—of course you will! You’re much better than you were
in Virginia.”

“I’d be dead now if I hadn’t improved at all,” returned Elsie, with a
faint smile. “I used to feel so well. Inza, you’re wasting your time
staying by me this way. I appreciate it, oh, so much! But, I know how
you must feel. You are well and strong and full of life. You make me
feel guilty over keeping you in like this. I feel that I am——”

“There, there!” exclaimed Inza laughingly, placing a soft hand over
Elsie’s lips. “I won’t listen to such nonsense! Are you not my dearest
friend! It’s a great satisfaction to me if I can do anything for you,
as I know how much you have done for me in the past and how much you
would do now if you had the opportunity.”

“But you would be with Frank a great deal more if you did not feel it
your duty to stay here with me. I am robbing you of that pleasure. It
is not right. You had a letter from him in the last delivery to-day.”

“Yes.”

“And I had one from Bart. Dear Bart! They have been very successful
with their lacrosse team, and now they are coming back from their trip.”

“And Frank must leave for Mexico in a very few days. He wants me to go
with him.”

Elsie started a little, and her face seemed to take on an added shade
of pallor.

“To go with him?” she murmured.

“As—as Mrs. Merriwell.”

Slowly Elsie lifted one not quite steady hand to her cheek.

“I am glad,” she finally said, in a voice that was very low. “You will
go with him, Inza?”

“Are you ready for the marriage?”

“Am I ready?”

“Yes, Elsie. I know Bart has urged you. You know it has been our plan
to be married together—to have a double marriage. Frank wants it; Bart
wants it; I want it. When will you be ready?”

Elsie did not reply immediately. It seemed that she was thinking. In
truth, she was summoning her strength.

“It will be a long time before I am ready, I fear,” she finally
answered. “You must not wait for me, Inza.”

“Oh, Elsie, that would spoil everything! Oh, we must wait! I shall
insist upon it.”

Elsie turned and looked into the dark eyes of her companion.

“Inza,” she said, “I may not be married for a year—I doubt very much
if I shall. I may not be married then. It is not right for you to wait
longer. Frank has asked you; he is impatient. Too many times something
has arisen to delay your union with him. Through it all your love has
been constant and his has never changed.”

“Oh, no matter what happened, my love for Frank would remain the same.”

“You have been tried as with fire. There is no reason why you should
permit anything to longer delay the consummation of your happiness and
his. It would not be right to Frank if you did permit anything. You
must marry him and go with him to Mexico for your wedding trip.”

“But why won’t you make it a double wedding? I do not understand——”

“When the boys were here in Baltimore I talked the matter over with
Bart. He almost insisted that I should set a date. He wanted us to get
together and agree on a date. I said no.”

“But why—why? I can’t understand why!”

“Don’t fancy for a moment, Inza, that you love Frank more than I love
Bart. It is not that my feelings have changed, but I have been ill
and——”

“You are much better now. At times you are quite strong for a little
while. Why, you attended the lacrosse game with me.”

“And was ill for two days after. I tried not to let you know how ill I
was. I did not wish you to think me spleeny, Inza.”

Inza laughed musically.

“I know you too well to think anything like that,” she said. “I have
known you to endure too much. Oh, no, no, no! you are not spleeny!
Anything but that!”

“I never knew my mother to remember her well,” said Elsie. “My father
told me lots about her. My mother was for many years a semi-invalid.
If she seemed pretty well for a day or two, she was ill for weeks
after. Father adored her. He told me that never was there a sweeter or
more patient woman. He told me I was like her as he knew her when they
first met. Even as a little girl I bore a remarkable resemblance to my
mother. One old-fashioned picture of her was precisely like a picture
I had taken, with the exception that there was a difference in our
dresses and the way our hair was arranged. Father often said it was his
prayer that I always remained well and strong.

“In every other way save in health he hoped I would exactly resemble
my mother. I’ve meditated often on his words. I used to fear that some
time I would become an invalid, the same as mother. That fear has grown
upon me. It has taken a firm hold of me, and I cannot shake it off.
Something seems to tell me that I shall never be wholly well and strong
after this. A young man burdened with an invalid for a wife has a
millstone about his neck, continually dragging him down. If he is a man
of ambition and ability his life may be ruined. He can never rise as he
would if he had a wife to cheer, encourage, and stimulate him to his
best efforts. I believe Bart was meant by fate to become a great man.
As his wife, if I were an invalid, I should hold him down. Therefore,
Inza, I have resolved not to marry him—now.”

Elsie had spoken earnestly, sincerely, from the bottom of her heart.
She meant the words she uttered. There was no shamming about it; she
was not posing. She really feared she would become an incumbrance upon
Bart Hodge, and, for that reason and that alone, she was not ready to
marry him. On her part it indicated a most remarkable attitude and
most astonishing self-sacrifice. Few girls, loving a man as she loved
Hodge, would have paused to consider—would have firmly held the cup of
happiness back—out of consideration for his future.

In these days it is seldom a girl thinks that she may make or mar the
man whose bride she is to be. As a rule, the one thought of the girl is
to gratify herself and her selfish desires for comfort, ease, position,
and happiness. Not one girl in a thousand hesitates to marry a man
through fear that she may become a burden to him.

For years Inza had known Elsie to be generous, unselfish, and
self-sacrificing to a wonderful degree; but now it seemed to Inza that
her dearest friend was carrying her self-denying inclination to a
mistaken extreme, and of this she attempted to convince her.

Elsie listened to Inza’s argument, but it did not alter her
determination.

“My dearest friend,” she said softly yet firmly, “I am not strong
enough now to pass through the excitement and strain of preparing for
such a wedding. It would overtax me, even were I willing to place such
a burden on Bart’s shoulders. But you must not permit me to delay your
own happiness and that of Frank. You must marry him now.”

This Inza was extremely loath to do.

“It ruins our plan, which we have talked over so many times,” she
murmured regretfully. “Does nothing ever transpire in this world as we
plan it?”

“I’m afraid few things come out just as we wish them,” answered Elsie;
“yet we should be happy. I am sure all will be well in the end. Promise
me that you will not put Frank off longer.”

It was no simple task to induce Inza to agree to this, but finally,
by her gentle persuasion, Elsie succeeded. Immediately a sweet smile
illumined her face.

“I am so glad!” she breathed. “Both you and Frank will be very happy
together.”

“But you, Elsie—how about you?”

“Don’t think of me. I am all right here, where I have a good home and
kind friends.”

“Bart——”

“It will be better for him than it would be if he found himself tied
to an invalid wife. It is my love for him that has led me to this
resolution. I have written him, explaining as well as possible the
situation, although I have not told him that I am putting off our union
for his sake. Promise me, Inza, that you will not tell him this. Let
him think, if he will, that it is on my own account that I ask the
delay.”

Again Inza flung her arms round Elsie.

“You are the dearest, sweetest girl in all the world!” she exclaimed;
“but I cannot believe that your fears for your own health have any
foundation. You have been so strong and well! It will all come out
right in time, and we will be together again, you as Bart’s wife and I
as Frank’s. We’ll have jolly times, as we have had in the past. Oh, but
we have had such splendid times, haven’t we, Elsie?”

“Surely we have. No matter what may happen to me now, I shall always
remember the past with unspeakable pleasure and be glad I have lived.”

They fell to talking over old times and the many scenes and adventures
through which they had passed since the wild night when Captain
Bellwood’s vessel was wrecked on Tiger Tooth Ledge, near Fardale. They
laughed lightly as they spoke of misunderstandings and jealousies, now
happily forever at an end.

Then, as was natural, they began to talk of Inza’s trousseau and plan
it, and both were very deeply engaged in this and very happy over it.
Finally they paused from sheer exhaustion.

“One thing has made me a bit unhappy,” Elsie finally observed.

Inza looked at her quickly.

“You mean——”

“Frank’s unfortunate trouble with Fred Fillmore. Fred is Mrs. Loder’s
brother. At first she didn’t know why he left Baltimore so suddenly
after the lacrosse game; but I think he has written her, placing the
blame on Frank.”

“Frank was not in the least to blame!” exclaimed Inza quickly. “They
were just foolish boys, both of them. Fred thought himself in love with
me, and I had to hold him at a distance. He must have been crazy, else
he would not have tried to knock Frank out in the game by hitting him
over the head. No one could blame Frank for being angry and threatening
to settle with Fred the next time they met. That was why Fred left
Baltimore. There was no need for him to do so, for I would not have
permitted Frank to quarrel with him.”

A little later Elsie said:

“I think I’ll go to bed now, Inza. I need rest. If I could only rest so
I would not feel tired in the morning!”

Inza remained to assist Elsie. The girl with the blue eyes and the
sweet, pale face sank back amid the pillows with a sigh.

“I’m so glad, Inza,” she breathed—“so glad all your dreams are going to
be realized. You will be very, very happy, and I shall be happy because
you are.”

Inza kissed her.

“Always thinking of others, you unselfish child!” she exclaimed. “What
a world this would be if there were more like you in it! I am going
down to the library for a book I am reading, dear. I will return soon.”

Lightly she descended the stairs. The library was dark as she stepped
in, but she pushed a button and turned on the electric lights. At the
same moment she detected an odor of tobacco smoke. The flood of light
showed her a person standing near the centre of the room, his feet
quite wide apart, smoking a cigarette.

“Fred!” she exclaimed, startled; “Fred Fillmore!”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.

                       FRED FILLMORE’S ADVANCES.


The young man regarded Inza with a peculiar look. His face was flushed
and his manner unnatural.

“Good evening, Miss Burrage,” he bowed, with cool self-assurance. “This
is a great pleasure, I declare.”

She detected something odd in his speech, and, being quick of wit,
decided at once that he had been drinking. He wore a blue coat, light
trousers, tan shoes, outing shirt and no waistcoat. His necktie was
carelessly knotted. The evening was almost oppressively warm.

Inza caught her breath.

“You startled me,” she confessed.

“Did I? I beg your pardon. I couldn’t seem to find the button myself,
although I should know where it is. Had I been able to find it I’d
turned on the lights for you.”

“Oh, but you didn’t know——”

“I knew you were coming.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Perhaps I heard your footsteps,” he answered evasively. “Perhaps I
know the rustle of your garments. I assure you the sound to me was like
the rustle of an angel’s wings.”

A shadow came to Inza’s face.

“When did you return to the city?” she asked.

“I arrived an hour ago.”

“You have seen your sister?”

“Not yet. There was some one here I longed to see far more than her. My
desire has been gratified.”

“How did you get into the house?”

“With my own key, which I carried with me when I left.”

He held the key up.

“Mrs. Loder knew you were coming, I suppose?”

“Not through me.”

“Then you had better see her at once. She was much distressed because
you left so suddenly without even bidding her good-by.”

“You know why I left. I did it for your sake.”

“For my sake?” cried Inza, in great surprise.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You know I had trouble with that fellow Merriwell.”

The dark eyes of the girl flashed.

“‘That fellow Merriwell!’” she exclaimed. “I do not like the manner in
which you refer to him.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You had better!”

“I couldn’t help saying it. You know I had trouble with him.”

“Which was your own fault.”

“Perhaps you think so, but I assure you that you are mistaken. If he
had acted like a gentleman that day he accompanied us to Hastings’ on
the Pimlico Road all would have been well.”

“‘If he had acted like a gentleman!’” Once more she quoted his words.
“Frank Merriwell always acts like a gentleman. It is natural for him.”

“I presume you think so, but the fellows in that party universally
agreed that he behaved like a cad. Why, he pretended to drink with us,
but he took water instead of gin.”

“He told you at the start that he did not drink, but you insisted. You
tried to force it upon him. Why? Because you had arranged a miserable
scheme to make him ridiculous. You hoped to get him full and then to
pit him against a prize fighter and a slugger. You thought you were
fooling him, but he fooled you. That is why you say he did not act like
a gentleman. Shame on you, Fred Fillmore! It was you who behaved like
anything other than a gentleman.”

She was aroused and he was beginning to feel the sting of her scorn.

But, strange as it seems, he liked it!

Why?

Because, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing indignation, she
was far handsomer than ever before in his eyes, and he had thought her
the handsomest girl in all the world. He felt his blood taking fire as
she stood before him glowing with indignation in her defense of Frank.

“I don’t blame you for thinking that,” he said. “Of course he told you
anything he pleased, and you believed him.”

“He never told a lie in all his life!”

“Is that so? A second George Washington, it seems! I’ll not attempt to
undeceive you.”

“It would be quite useless.”

“If I had remained in Baltimore I’d felt it necessary to give Mr.
Merriwell all that was due him. A quarrel with him would have made your
position here in my sister’s home far from pleasant, and so I saw fit,
on your account, to leave the city. I longed to smash his face.”

“You tried to smash his head on the field in the game, and you did give
him a scalp wound.”

“That was an accident.”

“It was not!” denied the girl positively. “I was watching closely, and
I saw you strike him over the head with your stick.”

“Had I done it intentionally the referee would have put me out of the
game.”

“He warned you. You did not tell the truth when you protested that it
was unintentional. Frank was angry. You know you skipped from Baltimore
after the game because you did not dare remain here and face him.”

He laughed, snapping his fingers.

“Of course he impressed you with that idea. He is a great boaster. I
left the city for the reason I have stated. I remained away as long
as I could. Your eyes have haunted me, Inza. I have thought of you by
day and dreamed of you by night. I could not forget you, even though I
tried. I became desperate. At last I felt that I must see you again,
and here I am. The real truth is that I’m in love with you, Inza—madly
in love with you!”

In vain she tried to check this declaration. He spoke swiftly,
intensely, passionately, his own eyes fairly burning with the intensity
of his emotion. His voice shook and he felt himself all aquiver. He
advanced toward her, but she flung up a repulsing hand.

“Keep away!” she exclaimed, falling back. “Are you out of your senses?”

“Perhaps I am,” he hoarsely admitted. “I believe I am. Only one person
in the world can restore me to my normal condition, and you are that
one, Inza.”

She would have retreated to the door by which she had entered the room,
but, stepping quickly in her way, he prevented the movement.

“Don’t go!” he entreated. “At first I felt it was folly to even think
of you; but I could not help it, and I had to think. The more I thought
the more desperate I became. I’ve known plenty of girls in my day, but
never one who has thrown a spell on me as you have. I began to consider
coming here and telling you everything. That seemed folly, also. I said
I would not. Then I began to fancy myself a coward unless I spoke. I
grew more desperate. I fought against the influence that was drawing me
to you, but I could not overcome it. Finally I rushed for the train,
without preparation, without further hesitation, and here I am. Don’t
be afraid of me. I want to marry you, Inza! My mother has promised
to set me up in business as soon as I graduate. When my father died
he left a fortune in trust for me. I am not a poor student with no
prospects ahead of me. I can support you. I——”

She stopped him at last.

“Mr. Fillmore,” she said, “it is useless for you to go on. Stop! I am
to be the wife of Frank Merriwell. I am engaged to him, and we are to
be married very soon.”

“I hope not!” he cried. “I hope I’ll never live to see that! You can
break the engagement with him.”

“You must be deranged to think I would do such a thing. My poor boy,
don’t deceive yourself. I love Frank Merriwell, and I do not care for
you.”

“Don’t call me ‘poor boy!’” he panted. “That hurts! I’ve been pitying
myself until I realized I was a fool and that the only thing for me to
do was win you from him. That I will do, somehow! I must, for I am one
who has his way. You don’t know the blood of the Fillmores. My father
before me was a man who always had his own way. He started out a poor
boy, but he resolved to be rich, and he became rich. All his life when
he wanted a thing he found a way to obtain it. All my life I have been
the same. I want you, and I’m going to have you! Heaven and earth shall
not prevent me!”

Inza knew he was in a dangerous mood, but she was not one to hurt a
person’s feelings needlessly. The fact that she had aroused in his
breast such a passion was enough to cause her to treat him as kindly as
possible. A short time before she had been full of scorn, but now she
repressed this and held it in check.

“Let me reason with you,” she said. “You must understand the absolute
hopelessness of your love, as you call it. Perhaps it is not love at
all. It must be infatuation. In a little while you will forget me, or,
if you remember, you will be thankful that you did not succeed.”

“Never!”

“Oh, yes, you will! You are too young to marry. You have not yet made a
start in the business world. I am older than you. You should not marry
for some years to come, and then you should choose a wife some years
younger than yourself.”

“That’s all rot! There’s not much difference in our ages—not enough to
raise the slightest barrier between us. Even if you were old enough to
be my mother, I’d love you just the same!”

She could not refrain from smiling a bit at this, for it struck her as
ridiculous.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he exclaimed. “I’m no boy! I’m twenty-one!”

“Gracious! You’ll soon be growing decrepit and senile.”

“Don’t laugh at me!” he repeated. “It hurts!”

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I want to make you understand. What you
wish can never be.”

“If Merriwell were out of the way——”

“Even then it could never be, for I do not love you.”

“You might—you might in time! I’d make you love me! I’d find a way!”

“You could not. You can’t make a girl love you by commanding it. You’ll
simply succeed in causing her to fly from you.”

“If you fly from me, even as Apollo pursued Daphne will I pursue you.”

“Have you forgotten what happened when at last Apollo overtook Daphne?
He did not succeed in his desires, for she was changed into a laurel
tree, and his reward was bitter disappointment.”

“How much more bitter would have been his feelings had he seen her
captured by another! As Apollo was wounded by Cupid’s dart thus have
I been wounded. Inza, listen to me, I beg! Put off your marriage
with Merriwell for a time. Your feelings toward him may change.
Perhaps—perhaps——”

“It is folly for you to dream of such a thing.”

“Then let me enjoy the sweet hope of folly for a time. Frank Merriwell
is going to Mexico soon. Wait until he returns, and then, if you
still——”

“You do not understand. Fate has caused us to put off the event more
than once.”

“But your plans are not coming out as you had intended. There will be
no double marriage, for Elsie cannot——”

“How do you know about this?”

“How do I know? I’ll tell you. After entering this house I was making
my way to my room. I had to pass the door of the room occupied by you
and Elsie. The door was a bit ajar. I heard you talking, and I could
not help pausing——”

In a moment her anger rose again.

“So you listened! You played the eavesdropper!”

“I couldn’t help it, for I heard you speaking of Merriwell. That name
stopped me in my tracks. I beg a thousand pardons. I heard you say you
were coming here for a book, and I scudded down the stairs to be here
when you came, in order that I might see you and speak with you.”

Inza had hoped to convince him of his folly without being harsh,
but now she was again aroused. To her his action seemed mean and
despicable.

“Fine business eavesdropping at the door of a room and listening to
the confidences of two girls!” she cried, her face flaming. “I did
not wish to hurt you, but this confession of yours has filled me with
unspeakable contempt. If there is anything I detest it is a person who
plays the sneak!”

He started as if struck in the face. It is possible he had not realized
how contemptible his action would appear in her eyes, else he would not
have told her he had listened.

“Don’t!” he cried.

But she had decided that to be merciless with him would be the greatest
kindness.

“I want you to understand how hopeless your case is,” she said. “If I
had never seen Frank Merriwell I could not care for you! If you were
the last fellow in the world I could not care for you! You repel me!”

He lifted his hand, his fist clenched.

“Don’t!” he exclaimed hoarsely.

“I want you to know the exact truth, so you will not deceive yourself
longer.”

He stood still, his eyes fastened on her. Silence fell between them.

She was the one who broke this silence.

“Now you know; now you understand,” she said. “This will end it.”

“No!” he declared. “This is not the end! It is the beginning!”

“If you annoy me——”

“I’ll never give up! I’ll win you from him—or I’ll kill him!”

Fillmore fairly hissed the final words, and his face took on a look
that frightened the girl.

“How would that help you?” she demanded. “You would make me loathe you,
and you would send yourself to the chair.”

“But I’d have the satisfaction of knowing he had not secured you. He
never shall! I’ll kill him first!”




                             CHAPTER XXX.

                        TRUE LOVE’S TELEGRAPHY.


Two days later Frank Merriwell and Bart Hodge stepped off the
Congressional Express at Union Station, Baltimore. They took a cab and
drove directly to the home of John Loder. They had planned a surprise
for the girls, and a happy one it was.

Happening to look from the window, Inza saw them get out of the cab in
front of the door.

“Elsie,” she cried, “Elsie, Frank and Bart are here! Come—come quick!”

She ran down the stairs and Elsie followed as swiftly as possible.
There was no waiting for any one else to answer the ring at the
doorbell.

Frank stepped in and caught Inza in his arms, kissing her.

“Oh, Frank!” she murmured, as she clung to him; “oh, Frank, I’m so
glad!”

Bart’s face was aglow as he saw Elsie.

“Here we are!” he said, attempting to be commonplace in his manner. But
a moment later he was imitating Merriwell’s action.

“Bart!” whispered Elsie; “dear Bart!”

Five minutes later they were seated in the parlor, but they were still
greatly excited over the meeting.

“You’re a pair of bad, bad boys!” said Inza. “Why didn’t you let us
know you were coming?”

“Oh, we thought it would be jollier to give you a surprise,” answered
Merry. “We didn’t know we’d be able to get here so soon. Canceled our
last lacrosse game and the team disbanded. Met with only one defeat,
and that was in Canada. For a fact, those Canadians can give us points
at some things.”

“Lacrosse, polo, ice hockey, and such sports,” nodded Hodge. “But
we lost our game with them by only one point, and we did defeat one
Canadian team. Beyond question, we had a team that could walk away with
anything in the United States.”

“And is that the end of your tour?” questioned Inza.

“Yes, it’s all over,” answered Bart regretfully. “We’ve had a royal
good time.”

“We’ve had a royal good time,” echoed Frank; “but now we’re going to
work.”

“Our day of play is over,” sighed Hodge.

“It’s Mexico for me, with very little delay,” said Merry. “The Central
Sonora Railroad is under construction, and it’s my duty to be on the
ground.”

“But we’re going to take you with us, girls,” declared Bart.

“Then you are going, too?” asked Elsie quickly.

“We’ve talked about it. Frank wants me to go. You know how we’re going
to take you.”

Elsie shook her head, sadly yet firmly.

“I couldn’t take the trip,” she said. “It would be too much for me—now.”

A shadow came to Bart’s face.

“Why, Elsie——”

“Please, please don’t urge me, Bart!” she entreated. “You know I’d be
glad to go, but you cannot know how disappointed I am because I cannot.”

“I’ll have to talk to you alone,” said Hodge grimly. “I’ll have to get
some foolish notions out of your head, little girl.”

“I hope you can!” cried Inza.

“Leave it to me,” he said.

Inza was doubtful if he would succeed, but she did not tell him so. She
hoped he might, but she knew Elsie had quite made up her mind on that
point.

“We have but a day or two to spend in Baltimore,” said Frank. “You
must go out to dinner with us, girls. What do you say to dinner at
the Belvidere? At nine this evening I am to meet some friends at the
University Club. Before that I am yours to command.”

“I’m another,” smiled Bart. “The Belvidere looks good to me. Eh, Elsie?”

To his surprise he saw that her face was colorless and her figure
drooping.

Inza noted this and flew to her friend.

“The excitement, the shock has upset her!” she exclaimed. “You should
have let us know you were coming.”

She knew what to do to restore Elsie, but the delicate girl with the
golden hair was quite weak and exhausted as she lay amid the pillows
with Bart Hodge, repentant and anxious, hovering over her. Hodge was
conscience-stricken.

“It was my fault!” he declared. “I suggested to Frank that we should
give you this surprise. Oh, I’m sorry, Elsie—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean——”

Forcing a faint smile, Elsie lifted her hand and gently pressed her
fingers over his lips.

“No one is to blame,” she said. “It was fine of you to wish to give me
pleasure by such a surprise. But you see how weak I am. I can’t go out
to dinner to-night. Oh, what am I good for in the world anyhow?”

Bart was deeply touched by this cry which came from her heart. His
fine, dark eyes glowed with tenderness and love.

“Don’t—don’t speak that way, sweetheart!” he murmured entreatingly. “I
never dreamed you were like this, or I should not have left you.”

But Elsie, with the unselfishness which had always marked her as the
rarest and noblest of girls, retorted:

“I didn’t wish you to know, for I felt that it was right that you
should be with Frank, and I would not rob you of one moment of
pleasure.”

“She’ll be all right in a few minutes,” said Merry encouragingly. “We
must have that dinner at the Belvidere.”

“I’m afraid you do not understand, Frank,” said Elsie. “I overdid when
you were here last. I made a mistake in attending that lacrosse game,
and it set me back. Oh, I’d love to go to dinner with you and Inza and
Bart at the Belvidere, but I dare not attempt it.”

Hodge was now more troubled and distressed over Elsie’s condition than
he seemed. Had she not understood him so well, she might have fancied
him unsympathetic; but between them there was that mental telegraphy
which seems to unite the hearts of all true sweethearts, and she knew
that, manlike, while he did not betray the softness of a woman, his
emotions were even deeper than her own.

Elsie turned to Inza.

“You must go out to dinner with Frank,” she said. “Yes, I insist upon
it.”

“And I will remain here with Elsie,” said Hodge. “That is best.”

In this manner it was arranged.

“Whom do you meet at the University Club to-night, Frank?” asked Inza.

“Some Yale men. I’ll cut it out if you wish. Have you anything you’d
like to do——”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t have you fail to meet your friends for anything.”

“Then I’ll bring you back here after we’ve had dinner. There’ll be
plenty of time.”

“And you’ll find me here,” said Bart.

Suddenly Merry stepped to the portières which separated the parlor from
the reading room. With a sweep, he flung them back and stepped between
them.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “I thought there was some one behind these
curtains.”

He had found Fred Fillmore standing there in a threatening attitude.

Angered at being thus discovered, Fillmore aimed a swift blow at
Merriwell’s face. Like a flash of light Merry caught the fellow’s hand,
gave it a twist and locked his other arm round Fred’s. With his free
hand Fillmore attempted to strike again, making a sweeping blow at
Frank’s head.

Merriwell pressed downward sharply and firmly on the hand of the
imprisoned arm, and Fillmore’s blow stopped before he had reached
Frank, while a cry of pain broke from his lips.

“I wouldn’t repeat the trick, Fillmore, if I were in your place,” said
Merry quietly. “You’ll simply hurt yourself by it. If you attempt to
kick me on the shins I shall use still more pressure on your arm.”

The baffled fellow glared sidelong at his master.

“Curse you!” he hissed.

“Save your curses. You know they have a way, like chickens, of coming
home to roost.”

“Let go!”

“In a moment. I didn’t know you were in the house, but I fancied some
one was listening behind these curtains.”

“I have a right to do what I please in this house. You are an intruder
here! You’d better get out!”

“You have a right to do what you please anywhere if you behave
yourself. I did not intend to touch you, but you struck at me, and I
was compelled to defend myself. The last time you struck at me I was
unprepared and could not defend myself. I have a little scar on my head
now.”

“I wish I had brained you!”

“I can’t understand your folly. It doesn’t seem possible that you can
hold a silly grudge because you and Hackett failed in your little trick
to get me full at Hastings’ road house and have me hammered by a paid
ruffian. That can’t be the reason why you hate me so intensely.”

“It isn’t.”

“I thought not. I’ve never done you harm, and I have no desire to harm
you. Miss Burrage and Miss Bellwood have been stopping beneath your
sister’s roof——”

“Which you seem to forget.”

“If they had not been stopping here I might be inclined to handle
you without gloves. Let’s not make more of a scene before them. Miss
Bellwood is not well. I shall be in Baltimore a day or two. If you wish
to see me, call at the——”

“No, Frank—no!” cried Inza. “For my sake—and Elsie’s! Fred is
unreasonable; he’s out of his senses. Please consider us!”

“Of course I will,” said Merry quickly.

“Of course you’ll be glad to hide behind petticoats!” panted Fillmore.
“But petticoats cannot protect you. You are my enemy, and I hate you!
When a Fillmore hates he’s never satisfied until he crushes!”

“Don’t bring disaster on yourself through your unreasonable and
unwarranted hatred.”

“Don’t give me advice, but look out for yourself!”

“I think I can look out for myself.”

“You’re very self-confident, but you’re not the smartest chap in the
world, and you’ll find it out.”

“I’m afraid you have been annoying these girls.”

“No!” declared Inza quickly. “Anything he might do could not annoy us.”

This seemed to enrage Fillmore. He ground his white teeth together and
attempted to break from Frank with a jerk. A slight pressure on his arm
caused him to desist.

“Go ahead!” he groaned; “go ahead and break my arm!”

He had been caught with a jujutsu hold.

“You think you’re smart, I suppose!” he went on pantingly. “Just
because you happened to get this hold on me I presume you fancy you are
a great master of the art of jujutsu. Bah! You’d be a baby in the hands
of one who actually knew something about it.”

“We’re not discussing that,” said Frank. “I was forced to this to
defend myself without getting into a disgraceful fight with you here in
the presence of the girls.”

“You may have a chance to defend yourself before you leave Baltimore,”
declared Fillmore significantly.

“I presume you mean that you are going to force me into a fight. Well,
forewarned is forearmed. I’ll try to be ready for you.”

“See that you are!”

In vain Inza tried to interpose and pacify Fillmore.

“You can’t blame me,” he said. “You know why I hate him. I have a right
to hate him!”

“You are not gaining favor in my eyes by such disgraceful behavior.”

These words from Inza’s lips were enough to open Merry’s eyes to the
true situation. His faith in Inza was absolute, but he knew Fillmore
had been trying to pay her attentions. This and the fact that Mrs.
Loder was Fillmore’s sister made the matter most embarrassing.

Merry saw at once that it would be necessary to take Inza from that
house as soon as possible.

“Please, Fred,” entreated Elsie; “please, for my sake, don’t make any
more trouble here!”

“All right,” he said. “Let Merriwell release me. I’ll make no more
trouble—here.”

Instantly Frank set him free.

“Take my advice,” he said, “and make no more trouble anywhere. It can
do you no good.”

“I want no advice from you!” snarled the infuriated fellow, moving his
wrenched arm to make sure it was not seriously hurt. “All I have to say
to you is: Look out for yourself!”

With which he turned and hurried away.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                           THE UNSEEN LOVER.


Shortly after Frank and Inza departed Fred Fillmore left the house.
Elsie watched him run down the white steps and hurry away along the
street.

“He means to make trouble for Frank, Bart,” she said, turning to Hodge.
“He’s a desperate fellow.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Bart. “Is he crazy?”

“He’s quite lost his head over Inza.”

“I thought that was about the size of it.”

“That was the cause of all the trouble in the first place. He fell to
hovering round Inza, and paying her attention. She never encouraged him
in the least, for she is no flirt. Of course she treated him well, for
we are in his sister’s home. When Frank appeared he was jealous. That’s
what led on to that affair at the road house.”

“Well, he’d better not fool with Frank Merriwell, for he’ll regret it
if he does. Frank will not harm him unless forced into it. What has he
been doing lately?”

“Just watching constantly to get a look at Inza. He’s quite lost his
senses over her. And he drinks, too, Bart. He seems to be full almost
all the time. He actually proposed to Inza the night he returned here,
forcing her to listen to him.”

“Oh, he did, eh?”

“Yes.”

“She wrote Frank nothing of it.”

“No, for she knew it would do no good, and she did not wish to make
trouble. She has been thinking he might get over his unreasoning
infatuation, but I think he grows worse and worse every day.”

“Inza will soon be Mrs. Merriwell, and that will settle Mr. Fillmore.”

He led Elsie back to her seat amid the pillows, taking care to see that
she was perfectly comfortable.

“There, little girl!” he laughed, his eyes shining as he looked at her;
“there you are. I’ve been a scoundrel! What you need is the right kind
of a doctor, and I’m the doctor! You never let me know you were more
than a trifle indisposed. Why should you be ill? It’s all nonsense!
Sweetheart, we’ll have the color back to your cheeks in short order.
Oh, yes we will!”

She smiled on him.

“You’re so encouraging, Bart, dear!” she breathed. “Truly you make me
feel better.”

“I hope to make you feel so well that you’ll agree to carry out the
plan we have spoken of so many times. Are you willing to see Frank and
Inza reach the consummation of their happiness and leave us behind?”

“I have to be willing,” she said. “We must wait, Bart, dear.”

“I’ve waited so long, Elsie—so long!” he exclaimed, in a low tone that
was deep with feeling. “And now the time has come. Elsie, my own, why
do you put it off?”

“Because I feel that it is right.”

He had her hand imprisoned in his. She was leaning against one of his
strong arms and looking up into his dark eyes, where she saw a world
of tenderness and devotion.

“Don’t you love me the same as you did?” he asked anxiously.

“What a foolish question, you big, silly boy! I love you more than ever
before. You don’t understand—you don’t know how much I love you!”

He thrilled as he heard her speak these words with lips that knew not
insincerity or deceit. He had trusted her fully, completely, and he was
certain she trusted him in the same degree. Between them there was no
shadow of doubt, for “love cannot dwell with suspicion.”

“Elsie,” he urged, all palpitant with the intensity of his yearning
for her, “be mine—my own little wife—and I’ll guard you and tenderly
care for you until you are well and strong again. My strength shall
be yours. I’ll bear you over all the rough places in life’s pathway.
I’ll shield you from every chill breath of the world. You shall be,
as you have been, the star of my ambition. With you near me, I’ll
be encouraged and spurred on to do great things in the world. The
knowledge that you trust me fully will forever guard me from my weaker
self and keep me strong and true.”

Young though he was, he instinctively knew that the greatest evil that
can befall a man is to be doubted or distrusted by one he deeply loves.
The knowledge that a beloved one is absolute in her faith and trust in
him has kept many a man true and faithful and exalted, even above his
natural self; while doubt, suspicion, and distrust has ruined thousands
who were naturally upright and honorable. A man with a conscience
that makes him worthy to be called a man is repelled at the thought of
betraying one who has proved that she loves and trusts him fully.

Bart Hodge had once been wayward and willful—even weak at times; but
the friendship and trust of Frank and Elsie had fortified him against
temptation and made him strong and manly in every way. He was worthy of
Elsie’s love, even though she was a girl among ten thousand.

“Bart, dear,” said Elsie gently, “I have thought it all over, and I
know it would be a mistake for me to attempt to pass through the strain
and excitement at this time. I beg you not to urge me. As you love me,
do not insist. I hope the time will come very soon when I shall feel
ready to take your name. When that time comes I’ll be the happiest and
proudest girl the sun ever shone on.”

A sigh of disappointment and resignation came from his fluttering heart.

“Man proposes and woman disposes, to alter an old saying,” he smiled
regretfully. “I’ve waited, and I can wait longer. It seems that I’ll
have to.”

He kissed her as he spoke these words.

“You dear, good boy!”

“You’ll find me ready when you are, sweetheart,” he declared. “I shall
not go to Mexico with Frank.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t prevent that for anything!” she cried. “If you have
planned——”

“My plans must be altered, that is all. I’m going to be near you until
you are yourself again, little girl.”

“And then——”

“And then I’ll positively decline to be put off any longer, Miss
Perversity.”

“I hope you do not think I am perverse.”

“I think you are the most bewitchingly perverse little body in all
creation; but your very perverseness charms and fascinates me. Girl,
you were bewitching in health and strength; but by my life, you’re a
hundred times more so now! Why, I just long to do something to shield
and protect you. It makes me feel a hundred times stronger than usual
to see you pale and weak. You had the face of a flower, but now you
have the face of an angel!”

“Oh, Bart, you’re too extravagant in your flattery!”

“It’s no flattery, Elsie, dear.”

But of a sudden she saw a cloud stealing over his face as he gazed upon
her.

“What is it?” she asked, quick to feel every changing mood of his.

“Oh, nothing—nothing,” he answered; but after a moment he embraced her
and held her as if fearful that she would slip away from him.

It was in truth this fear which had found lodgment in his heart. For
the first time he had been seized by a feeling of apprehension lest
he might lose her ere she could become wholly his. What was this
strange weakness that had come upon her and clung to her in spite of
everything? Always she had seemed a bit ethereal, as if not wholly of
this world; and now a singular, terrifying fancy took hold of Bart.
It seemed to him that some envious lover of the spirit world had laid
claim to her and was seeking to win her from him. His active fancy
pictured this unseen lover slowly but surely drawing her to him.

As this fancy ran through his mind Bart was silent, but of a sudden he
hoarsely cried:

“He shall not have you!”

Elsie was startled.

“Bart!” she exclaimed.

“He shall not have you!” repeated Bart. “You are mine! I’ll not let him
take you from me!”

“Are you losing your reason?” she asked.

“No, no, Elsie! You are mine! Look, sweetheart, I seem to see a demon,
a spirit, or something that is striving to wrest you from me. That is
why you are weak and you do not grow stronger. Elsie, you love me!
Fight against this unseen power that is seeking to part us—fight it
with all your remaining strength! Will that you shall grow strong. If
you do not, dearest girl, I’m afraid the monster may conquer! Fight,
Elsie—fight for your life and for my love!”

Never had she seen Bart in such a mood. He clung to her as if fearing
he would lose her at once if he relaxed his hold.

“Bart—dear Bart, it is a silly fear. Shake it off.”

“Promise me you will fight against him!” urged Hodge huskily.

“I promise.”

“Then make up your mind to get well and strong as soon as you can. It’s
the only way. Throw off this weakness. You must, dear Elsie—you must!”

She repeated her promise, but still he could not get over the feeling
of apprehension and dread that had assailed him.




                            CHAPTER XXXII.

                          THE PRICE OF A LEG.


Fred Fillmore boarded a car and sprang off at the Auditorium. He went
directly to the box office, where he made certain inquiries that led
him to take another car, which he left and walked briskly to the
Rennart Hotel.

“Please send my card up to Mr. Hashi,” he said to the clerk.

Ten minutes later he was received in one of the rooms of the hotel by
a suave, smiling little Jap, who did not look particularly formidable,
yet who had the movements of a panther coupled with that animal’s grace.

“What can I do for you, most honorable sir?” inquired the Jap.

“You are Mr. Hashi, the great Japanese master of jujutsu, I believe?”

“I have that humble honor, most respected sir.”

“You can break a man’s bones as if they were pipe-stems?”

“It is true, that which you speak. If such should be my wish, noble
sir, I could swiftly obtain its accomplishment.”

“You are giving exhibitions here in Baltimore, and thus far you have by
your art defeated all who have ventured to face you on the stage.”

“It is with accuracy that you have made this statement. Such has been
my exceeding good fortune.”

“Do you want to make some money?”

“It is for that purpose, highly intelligent sir, that I am traveling in
your most interesting country.”

“I’ll give you five hundred dollars to break a man’s arm!” cried
Fillmore.

Hashi smiled blandly.

“Such an accomplishment may not be obtained unless the opportunity
occurs. Even then it may not be secured without much trouble making of
extreme seriousness, wise and respected sir.”

“But it might be done in a contest? You might do it if you were matched
against another man.”

“It might then by accident be made to appear.”

“That’s it—that’s the idea!”

“But five hundred dollars—the amount is small in its exceedingness,
discreet sir.”

“Five hundred dollars—it’s a good price. I will undertake to arrange
it for you to meet this man I wish injured. If you break his arm, I’ll
give you five hundred.”

“Is this to be accomplished on the platform in the view of the
audience?”

“Oh, no; I won’t want you to do it in the theatre. I intend to arrange
a private meeting.”

“In what place is this to be, distinguished sir?”

“In a club.”

“When do you bring it about?”

“To-night.”

“It is extremely soon.”

“No time is to be lost. Will you do it?”

“Five hundred dollars—the amount does not to me appear a sufficient
sum. Your generosity should increase it when you apprehend the trouble
which may after it occur. If I should be placed in the arrest and
prevented from my engagement at the theatre fulfilling it would to me
be a misfortune.”

“There is no danger of anything of the sort. Can you break a man’s leg?”

This seemed to be an afterthought on the part of Fillmore.

“It is in no degree a difficult accomplishment to obtain, distinguished
sir.”

“Then that’s what I want—that’s what I want!” cried Fillmore. “A man
can’t walk into church to be married with a broken leg.”

“The remuneration should be exceedingly larger, accomplished sir. For
an arm five hundred is extremely insufficient. For a leg one thousand
would be the smallest amount I could humbly accept.”

Fillmore thought a moment. He did not have a thousand dollars. In his
pocket there was something more than six hundred, and five hundred of
this he had obtained by skillfully raising a check given him by his
mother.

“I’ll go you!” he suddenly cried. “A thousand dollars if you break the
man’s leg.”

“I should humbly expect the money in advance, generous sir.”

“And then give me the throwdown! What if you failed to make good? What
if you could not do the trick?”

“Hashi has the modest honor of never making of his promises a failure.
If I give you my word and you give me the required opportunity, you
may rest in dependence on it that I shall accomplish the matter.”

“That sounds first-rate, but you don’t know the man I am going to pit
you against. He has a reputation.”

Hashi smiled confidently.

“It makes not a difference who he may be.”

“You’ll find him a hard nut to crack.”

“Do you mind mentioning his honorable name?”

“His name is Frank Merriwell.”

The Jap continued to smile.

“Somewhere in your interesting country I have heard of him. Is it not
that he is a what you call athlete?”

“That’s the fellow. He claims to be the champion amateur athlete of
this country. He is conceited and overbearing. He knows a little
something of everything. He thinks he knows all there is to know about
jujutsu.”

Hashi’s smile had a pitying flavor:

“It is a thing of remarkability that those who the least know about the
art are ones that think nothing more there is left for them to attain.”

“That’s him!”

“Against him you must have a great enmity, honorable sir.”

“I hate him! It would give me joy if you were to break his neck!”

“A thing that might be done with great ease of accomplishment.”

“Will you? What’s your price?”

Still smiling, Hashi shook his head.

“Respected sir, it is not money enough you can make advancement to
bring me to that.”

“I’ll give you anything you ask! I’ll raise the money somehow!”

Still the Jap shook his head.

“A broken limb will make amendment, but a broken neck remains fatally
so.”

“That’s what would suit me! Then he would be out of my way forever.”

“And should it become known of our talk here, the money could unto me
no good bring, for a severe punishment of death would come unto us
both. No, respected sir, no, no. A broken limb—yes; a broken neck—no!”

“Then it is settled, you are to break his leg to-night. What time are
you through with your exhibition at the theatre?”

“I come at the advancement of the program, and it is before nine that I
am quite ended.”

“That’s all right. Leave the theatre as soon as possible. I’ll be
waiting for you with a carriage, and we’ll drive directly to the
University Club, where we shall find Merriwell.”

“How, respected sir, will it then be arranged?”

“I’ll find a way. Leave it to me. I know a number of college fellows
who will be there. I’ll tip them off to be on hand. It should be easy
to bring about a meeting between you and Merriwell. He tried jujutsu on
me. If necessary, I’ll insult him and say you can show him up.”

“It will be better, I would humbly suggest, to draw him into the
contest without his suspicions arousing by the process of the insult.
Let it seem that it shall be a friendly affair from the commencement.
That is what it should not be difficult.”

“That’s right if you’ll do your part.”

“You may depend on it that I am reliable if you pay me the advancement.”

“I’ll give you a hundred down and the rest as soon as you do the job.”

Hashi smiled as he shook his head.

“It will not be a matter for considering unless I am in reception of
five times that before starting.”

The Jap had gauged Fillmore, and he was determined to get every dollar
possible out of the fellow.

In vain the young rascal argued; Hashi continued to smile and remained
firm. Finally Fillmore was compelled to yield or give over his
dastardly plan.

“All right,” he said; “but there will be trouble if you fail me.”

“Let me humbly urge, respected sir, that you have no need to use the
threat. Be waiting at the stage door. If the opportunity is found for
me, I shall earn from you the money that has been justly agreed upon.”

Fillmore left the Rennart in high spirits.

“A broken leg will block this marriage for a time,” he muttered. “It
will give me an opportunity to make further plans and carry them out.
Ah! Mr. Merriwell, you don’t know the kind of an enemy you have in
me! I’m fighting for haughty, black-eyed Inza, and I’ll fight to the
finish!”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                        AT THE UNIVERSITY CLUB.


There was an unusual gathering of young college men at the University
Club that evening. Word had been passed round that Merriwell would be
there. He appeared shortly before nine o’clock, accompanied by Hodge.
Maurice Spaulding, a Yale man, hastened to greet him.

Frank and Bart surrendered their hats to the darky checker and followed
Spaulding into the reading room. Immediately several Yale grads
hastened to greet them. After this, they were introduced to other club
members and visitors.

The Yale men gathered in a group, with Merry and Bart in their midst,
and chatted of such things as interested them all. They were very proud
of Merriwell and the athletic record he had made.

“It will be a long day before Yale sees another leader like him!” cried
Spaulding enthusiastically. “You made plenty of enemies in your day,
Merriwell, old man. I believe my cousin Wallace was one of them.”

“Wallace Spaulding—is he your cousin?” asked Frank, in some surprise.

“I regretfully confess that he is,” grinned Maurice. “Wallace regarded
himself as the real thing in his college days, and, as far as things
go, he was.”

“I don’t see how you’ve kept up in athletics as you have since leaving
college, Merriwell,” observed Henry Harriman. “Most chaps take a slump
unless they go into professionalism. Of course there are exceptions.”

“And Merriwell is a shining star among the exceptions,” nodded Cutler
Priest.

“Hail to the all-round amateur champion of the United States!” cried
Vincent Carroll. “What’s the secret, Merriwell, old chap?”

“Never let up,” answered Frank quickly. “That’s the secret of success
in most things.”

“Is that your motto?” questioned Harriman.

“One of them,” answered Merry.

“But you’ve had some things besides athletics to occupy your time and
attention since toddling out into the world,” observed Raymond Harrow.
“I understand you’re in the mining game.”

“Somewhat,” admitted Frank. “Still I find a chance now and then to drop
everything and go in for baseball and kindred sports.”

“Well, let’s all go take something,” suggested Carroll. “Merriwell used
to be a cold-water crank, I understand; but, of course, he’s broken the
pledge since he began to ramble from Old Eli’s fireside.”

“On the contrary,” said Frank, “I’ve kept it the same as ever. That’s
one secret of my success, only there is no secret about it. Be
temperate, fellows—be temperate.”

“Oh, I am!” protested Carroll; “I’m temperate, but I’m no total
abstainer. A total abstainer is not a temperance man. Temperance means
moderation, and unless you use a thing with moderation you have no
claim to temperance. Got you there!”

“Your argument cannot be overthrown,” admitted Frank. “Therefore I’m
willing to be classed among the cranks.”

“Oh, but come have something with us!” they urged.

“I’ll do that,” he laughed; “but it will be something nonintoxicating.”

Hodge was treated with the same cordiality, and the entire party
crowded in before the little bar.

Frank and Bart both drank ginger ale.

“Here’s to Merriwell, the pride of Yale in the old days and the pride
of Yale to-day!” cried Carroll, holding a glass of beer aloft. “May his
star never grow dim!”

“That’s the talk!” they cried. “Drink—drink it down!”

Some one ordered another round.

“Here’s to Hodge!” cried Spaulding. “Merriwell’s right-hand man at Yale
and his loyal backer ever since. If there’s any baseball on the Golden
Shore, I’ll expect to see Bart Hodge doing the backstopping when Frank
Merriwell fans the batter with the double-shoot.”

“You expect to see it!” laughed Harrow loudly. “You’ll be fanning
yourself in another country.”

“Blasphemer!” exclaimed Spaulding. “Go to! You seem to think every one
is traveling the same road you’ve taken.”

They left the bar and entered the billiard and pool room, where some of
the club members were amusing themselves.

Two young chaps had lately entered the billiard room. They were Bob
Ridgely and Martin Manners, known to some of those in Frank’s party.

Manners brought Ridgely up.

“How are you, Harrow,” he said familiarly. “Looking for a victim? I
understand you’re a shark at billiards.”

“Not looking for a game to-night,” answered Harrow.

“Perhaps some of your friends are?” said Manners, in the way of one
inclined to “butt in.” “I’ve been told Frank Merriwell would be here
to-night. They say he’s a shark at everything, even billiards. I’d like
to try him a go.”

He looked straight at Frank as he made this challenging remark.

“Mr. Merriwell—Mr. Manners,” said Harrow.

“Er—I beg your pardon, what name?” said Merry.

“Manners is his name.”

“Quite remarkable,” said Merry quietly. “Haven’t heard that name in
some time. How do you do, Mr. Manners.”

“What do you say, are you good for a hundred points?” asked Manners.
“I’d enjoy beating the great champion at something.”

“I beg to be excused this evening,” said Frank. “I didn’t come here for
billiards or anything of that sort, but to meet these friends of mine.”

Ridgely laughed and pulled at Manners’ arm.

“No go, Mart,” he said. “Better look for some one fast enough to make
it interesting.”

Hodge was angered at this insolence and felt like expressing himself,
but Maurice Spaulding picked it up.

“This club is supposed to be for gentlemen!” he exclaimed.

“It’s supposed to be,” drawled Ridgely; “but I see the rules are not
enforced.”

“Cad!” growled Carroll.

“Oh, take a little joshing!” cried Manners. “The great Merriwell, who
is champion at everything, ought to stand a little fun. What’s the
matter?”

“I hear he’s a gone-by,” grinned Ridgely. “He’s been playing baseball
with schoolboys of late and trying to keep up his reputation that way.”

It seemed that Spaulding would strike the insolent fellow, but Frank
caught Maurice’s arm.

“Never mind him,” he said. “I’m always stirring up soreheads. I don’t
know what he has against me, and I care less.”

The entire party seemed highly incensed by the words and behavior of
Manners and Ridgely, but the latter continued to insist that it was
nothing but a joke.

“I’d back Merriwell myself,” he averred. “That is, I’d back him in his
own field. I wouldn’t put him up against professionals. It would be
folly to back him against Jeffries in the ring.”

“Don’t mind him,” said Harriman. “Some one will settle him for
insulting guests of the club.”

“But I haven’t insulted any one,” persisted Ridgely. “Some silly
persons might put an amateur against a professional. What would
Merriwell or any other amateur do against a professional wrestler like
Americus?”

“They say Americus is going to show up Hashi, the jujutsu chap,
to-morrow night,” said Manners.

“What’s that?” exclaimed the voice of a newcomer. “Well, I’ll bet five
hundred dollars that Americus or any other man in Baltimore can’t get
the best of my friend Hashi. If there is any one here who thinks he can
handle Hashi—well, here’s Hashi to give him the chance.”

The speaker was Fred Fillmore, and he was accompanied by the Japanese
master of jujutsu.

“’Ware, Merry!” hissed Hodge, quick as a flash.

Instinctively he knew there was something in the air. He felt it like
an electric shock. Frank did not need the warning. He, too, felt a
sudden tightening of his nerves.

Fillmore swaggered into the room. His face was flushed and his manner
seemed to indicate that he had been drinking heavily.

The Jap who followed him was smiling serenely.

A number of those present had seen Hashi’s performance at the theatre,
and they recognized him instantly.

The billiard players paused and regarded him with interest. The others
were no less interested.

“Who says Americus can handle Hashi?” demanded Fillmore. “Americus
is all right in his class, but he’ll overstep himself if he accepts
Hashi’s challenge and goes after the hundred dollars offered to the
wrestler of less than two hundred pounds who can handle this little
master of jujutsu. Why, Hashi can break Americus in two, if he wishes;
but he’s a harmless little chap, and it’s likely he’ll be content with
flinging Americus over his head and across the stage.”

As he said this Fillmore placed a hand on the shoulder of the Jap, who
continued to smile and look innocent.

“Gentlemen,” said the Hopkins man, “it gives me great satisfaction to
introduce my friend Hashi.”

The jujutsu master bowed in his politest manner, murmuring:

“It inexpressible pleasure gives me the honorable gentlemen to humbly
greet.”

“You see Hashi is very modest,” laughed Fillmore.

“Keep your eyes open for tricks, Merry,” whispered Bart. “There is
something behind this, sure as fate.”

Frank nodded the least bit.

“Hashi has taken to the warpath,” explained Fillmore. “He has heard
a great deal of talk about jujutsu being a fake. The _Sun_ to-day
contained a letter from some duffer who claimed that there was nothing
to the Japanese art of self-defense and that any ordinary American
athlete could defeat a Japanese expert. It has angered him somewhat.”

“Indeed meek confession I must speak that it has incensed me to the
great extremeness,” put in Hashi.

“No one would ever dream it from his everlasting smile and his soft
speech,” muttered Raymond Harrow.

“The critic of the _Sun_ didn’t have the nerve to sign his full name,”
said Fillmore; “but I have a fancy that I know who the man is.”

“We are honored to meet Professor Hashi,” said Maurice Spaulding.

The Jap bowed very low, after his manner.

“The honorableness is fully upon me,” he asserted. “I am quite overcome
in your august presence.”

Vincent Carroll laughed softly.

“He has a fluent way of expressing himself,” he observed in an aside to
Cutler Priest. “Seems to take great satisfaction in articulating big
words.”

“It is the way of his countrymen,” nodded Priest. “In Japan they have
no personal pronouns, but apparently Hashi has picked them up in this
country, for he uses them.”

“The professor is a particular friend of mine,” Fillmore went on, “and
I am interested in seeing him maintain his reputation. He is looking
for some of these great American athletes who think they can defeat
him.”

“It’s coming, Merry!” muttered Bart softly.

Frank was calm and unconcerned. Apparently Fillmore had not observed
him since entering the club; but Frank knew the fellow had a keen
pair of eyes. This seeming oversight on Fillmore’s part was enough to
convince Merry beyond doubt that the visit was premeditated in full
expectation of encountering him there.

He knew Fillmore had listened behind the portières at John Loder’s and
heard of the engagement to meet certain Yale grads at the club.

“Did you read in the papers about the American wrestler who repeatedly
defeated a Japanese jujutsu expert in Omaha and other Western cities?”
inquired Henry Harriman.

Fillmore laughed.

“Of course we read it, all of us,” he answered. “I showed the reports
to Professor Hashi. He says the Jap was no expert.”

“Honorable attention give,” murmured Hashi, “and I will complete
explanation make. No one ever a full master of the art can become who
does not unto it give the long and faithful attention. Acquirement of
it may not be obtained with the exceeding great rapidity. Since in your
distinguished country the art has appeared, many there must be who it
seek to teach that have not ever at all learned it in its uttermost
completion. Therefore thus discredit upon it is contumely heaped, which
should not ever be the proper condition. The pretending one in the West
who has been much defeated by the honorable skillful American athlete
was not of the art completely the full master.”

“That’s about the size of it,” nodded Fillmore. “The Jap who was put to
the bad in Omaha was a faker. Hashi is ready and eager to demonstrate
that no American wrestler can defeat him, and no ordinary athlete has a
ghost of a show with him. He is most disgusted with the Americans who
learn a little jujutsu and think they know it all.”

“It is even thus true, augustly honorable sirs,” bowed the Jap.

“I presume,” said Spaulding, “that jujutsu is regarded in Japan as the
proper mode of self-development?”

“Leniently pardon my humble correction, beneficent sir,” said Hashi.
“Jujutsu is not what in your bounteous country you know as the
excellent art of self-development. That is where the unfortunately
grave error makes presentation. Jujutsu is not the physical culture;
it is the exceedingly efficient manner of self-defense. Boxing done in
your expansive country is for the self-defense much extremely more
than for the physical culture. In Japan jujutsu is of the same nature.
Continuation of practice may much increase the participator in physical
development; but it is not that end solely that it is in use brought.”

“This gives me a new idea of jujutsu,” confessed Spaulding. “Why,
most of the teachers of it in this country speak of it as a system of
physical culture.”

“That’s just where the mistake comes,” said Fillmore. “As Hashi says,
practice of it cannot help improving the one who practices; but it
is not regarded in Japan in the light of an exercise for physical
development solely. It is chiefly taught that the one who acquires it
may be able to defend himself against a less skillful, even though a
stronger, opponent.”

“We’re finding out all about jujutsu, Merry,” said Hodge softly.

“But not learning anything new,” said Frank.

Suddenly Fillmore seemed to discover Merriwell.

“Hello!” he muttered.

Frank regarded the fellow calmly.

“Here, Hashi,” said Fillmore, “you have the fortune of beholding one
who regards himself as the champion athlete of this country and has
somehow won considerable recognition of his claim.”

The Jap bowed very low.

“Augustly deign to let my bewildered eyes find resting upon the famous
one,” he urged.

Fred jerked his thumb toward Merry. It was a gesture calculated to
irritate Frank.

“Behold him, professor.”

Hashi smiled, but there was the least touch of incredulity and contempt
in that smile.

“I am greatly overcome in his honorable presence,” he murmured.

“Here’s a chance for you to prove your claim that you are more than
a master for any athlete or wrestler that weighs not more than two
hundred pounds.”

“How would you generously suggest that such may come about?”

“Challenge him! His name is Merriwell. Challenge him!”

Fillmore laughed, as if considering it a great joke.

The face of Bart Hodge was dark and frowning.

“Here it comes!” he muttered again.

Hashi advanced a little and surveyed Frank more fully.

“I humbly confess my exceeding admiration at beholding one so grandly
famous,” he purred. “Believe me greatly overcome in your august
presence.”

“What claptrap!” said Hodge. “Out with it and show your hand! Nobody is
fooled by this slick game.”

Hashi looked surprised, but said:

“Wonderful much pleasure it would give if the excellent honorable
American athlete would condescend to meet me in the contest of skill.”

“All right,” said Frank promptly. “Where shall it be?”

Fred Fillmore was somewhat surprised by Merry’s prompt acceptance of
the smoothly delivered challenge. He had fancied it would be necessary
to drive Frank into it through ridicule.

Frank was not pleased. He was dressed in evening clothes, and he had no
desire to meet Hashi; but he had understood from the first that it was
a scheme to force him into the meeting in some manner, and therefore he
decided to meet the schemers halfway.

“The sooner it is over the better,” he thought.

Martin Manners and Bob Ridgely were somewhat disappointed. They were
friends of Fillmore, and it had been arranged that they were to join in
the ridicule of Merry in case he declined or seemed reluctant to meet
the Jap.

Hashi had been told by Fillmore that it might be no easy matter to draw
Frank into the snare, and he, also, was somewhat surprised.

“It is the exceeding great honor you are beneficently willing to bestow
upon me?” he questioned.

“If that’s the way you look at it,” nodded Frank.

“You’ll get all that’s coming,” muttered Hodge.

“I know where we can pull it off,” laughed Fillmore quickly. “There’s
a private gymnasium near the Diamond on Howard Street. That will be a
fine chance.”

“Well, well!” cried Spaulding; “it seems that we’re going to have an
entertainment not down on the bills.”

“’Rah, ’rah!” cheered Harrow. “This is the kind of stuff to suit me!”

The Yale men were enthusiastic, and to a man they expressed their
confidence in Merry.

“Do your best with him, old man,” urged Spaulding.

“Without doubt I’ll have to,” nodded Frank.

Merry knew he was going against “the real thing.” He was not one of the
scoffers at jujutsu, although he held that the Japanese art alone was
not enough to make a man complete master of other men.

Now it happened that for many months Merry had been perfecting his
knowledge of jujutsu, which he had first picked up during his trip
round the world. In Japan he had learned much of the art, the secrets
of which were well guarded at that time. It was this knowledge that had
enabled him on many occasions to overcome assailants far heavier and
stronger than himself, greatly to their dismay and chagrin. At Yale he
had practiced it, although he had not called it jujutsu at that time.

Frank was not conceited enough to fancy himself the equal of Hashi in
the knowledge of all the Japanese methods; but there was another thing
that promised to make Merry the equal of the Jap. Frank was a wonderful
wrestler, and a scientific boxer. He had even learned the French method
of boxing with his feet. Every muscle in his body was splendidly
developed, but his mental development quite equaled his physical.
Therefore he would not be confined in his encounter with Hashi to one
style or system of offense and defense. He hoped to baffle the Jap by
his knowledge of the Japanese acquirements, and to this he added the
hope of defeating him by accomplishments of a sort in which Hashi was
not proficient.

In his heart Fred Fillmore was exulting.

“Worked him easy!” he mentally cried. “Hashi will do the job! He’ll
swear it was an accident. Instead of making preparations for your
wedding to-morrow, Mr. Merriwell, you’ll be resting in Johns Hopkins
Hospital with a broken leg.”

“How do we reach this gymnasium?” asked one of the party. “I presume
we’re all invited to witness this set-to.”

“Hashi wants you to come along,” nodded Fillmore.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re all invited,” said Merry.

“Call carriages!” cried Spaulding. “Leave it to me, gentlemen. Let me
see, how many want to go?”

He quickly found out the number and hastened to order carriages for
them.

A short time later people on the street were surprised to see many
carriages collect before the University Club. Those who watched
observed a number of chatting, laughing, well-dressed young men leave
the club and enter the carriages, which rumbled softly away over the
asphalt.

“Something doing somewhere,” commented one of the watchers.

Frank, Bart, Spaulding, and Harrow were in one of the carriages.

“This is a queer affair,” commented Spaulding. “I don’t know what to
think about it.”

“I do,” declared Hodge.

“Eh? You do?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s some sort of a put-up job.”

“You mean——”

“Fillmore and the Jap came to the club for the purpose of bringing this
affair about. Fillmore and Merry had a little trouble some time ago.
You know Fillmore struck Frank over the head in the lacrosse game at
Oriole Park.”

“That’s a fact!” exclaimed Harrow. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“They had a little trouble shortly after we arrived in the city this
afternoon. Mark what I say, that fellow has engaged Hashi to make a
holy show of Merry. He thinks it will be an easy thing to do.”

“Well, I didn’t see through the thing!” confessed Spaulding. “I thought
it was purely accidental. If I’d thought it was a put-up job I’d surely
had something to say to Mr. Fillmore. How did you happen to agree to it
under such circumstances, Merriwell?”

“What was the difference?” said Frank. “If I’d spoken up and declared
it a scheme more than one present would have fancied me a squealer.”

“I suppose that is so.”

“Besides, I must confess that I was not a little annoyed, and I felt
a desire to teach that Jap a lesson. I hope I may be able to succeed.
I’ll wager that Fillmore has promised him money if he makes an
exhibition of me.”

“Frank,” said Bart, “behind this there is something more than the mere
desire to show you up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take my advice and be on your guard every moment. You know what things
may be done with these bone-breaking Japanese tricks.”

“I know very well.”

“If that Jap wished and he could catch you just right, he might injure
you for life.”

“Would he venture to do that?” cried Harrow.

“Fred Fillmore would be delighted to have him do it.”

“This affair seems more serious than I suspected,” said Spaulding. “Are
you certain you can handle him, Merriwell?”

“No man can be certain of his ability to handle another who is a
stranger to him,” confessed Frank.

“But you had no hesitation about agreeing to meet him. I fancied you
felt fully confident.”

“I give you the assurance that I shall handle him if it is in my power.”

“Don’t worry; he’ll do the trick,” asserted Hodge, whose confidence in
Frank was solid as the everlasting hills.

It was not a long drive from the club to the gymnasium on Howard
Street. They left the carriage and ascended a flight of stairs.

In a dark corner on the stairs stood a fellow who seemed waiting for
something. As Frank passed, this person seized his arm.

“One moment, Merriwell!” he whispered.

It was Cutler Priest.

“All right, Hodge,” said Frank, for Bart, not recognizing Priest, had
turned quickly.

“Merriwell, you’re in danger!” whispered Priest. “I came over from the
club in the carriage with Manners and Ridgely. Both had been drinking.
They were shooting off their chin. Fillmore planned this whole affair.”

“As I thought,” said Merry.

“He’s paid the Jap to do you up.”

“This simply makes my suspicion an assurance.”

“But, from some things Manners let drop, I feel sure that it is not the
intention to simply defeat you. The Jap is going to break your bones.”

“Do you know this?” asked Frank, his heart burning with indignation.

“I’m dead sure of it. You are going to be maimed. Better not go into
it. Keep out of the dirty trap!”

“Keep out?” laughed Frank, and there was something terrible in the
sound of that laugh.

“Yes.”

“On the contrary, I’ll go into it, and Fillmore’s paid tool had better
look out for himself. He may get a portion of his own medicine!”




                            CHAPTER XXXIV.

                         AMERICAN AGAINST JAP.


Stripped to sleeveless sweaters, trousers and light rubber-soled shoes,
Frank and the Jap faced each other on the huge mat spread on the floor
of a seldom-used room above the gymnasium.

The spectators stood around, feeling a thrill of excitement. One and
all they seemed to anticipate something unusual.

Hashi still smiled. Frank was calm and grave.

Fred Fillmore found it difficult to control his features to hide an
expression of eager satisfaction and malignance.

“This is my time to triumph!” he thought. “Merriwell walked into the
trap like a lamb going to the slaughter. While he is recovering from a
broken leg I’ll be perfecting my plans to steal Inza Burrage from him.
I’m bound to have her! She shall be mine!”

Hodge was watching Fillmore, and the expression on the fellow’s face
made Bart long to hit him.

“Is the honorable gentleman quite prepared?” gently inquired Hashi.

“Quite,” nodded Merry.

They crouched and moved toward each other. Hashi held himself on the
alert, waiting and expecting his opponent to attack with a rush.

It is a feature of jujutsu to seem to yield before the first rush of
the enemy, but to turn the attack to the undoing of the assailant,
actually causing him to use his own force to aid in his defeat.
Therefore Hashi was a bit disappointed when Merry failed to come after
him in the style of most American wrestlers.

“I must provoke him to attack,” thought the Jap.

Aloud he observed:

“The honorable gentleman seems exceedingly overcome by vastly much
timidness.”

It was now Frank’s turn to smile.

“I haven’t observed you making any headlong plunge,” he retorted.

“I would humbly refrain from alarming you greatly more, discreet sir,”
said Hashi.

“That is indeed very considerate of you.”

“Well, well!” cried Fillmore, with a mocking intonation; “I do believe
Merriwell is frightened!”

“I don’t see the professor displaying amazing courage about coming to a
clinch,” laughed Spaulding.

“That’s his style.”

“Perhaps it’s Merriwell’s style.”

Frank and Hashi circled slowly. At last, tired of waiting, the Jap
reached out swiftly as if to get a sudden hold on Frank; but he drew
back instantly and waited again.

Merry knew it was an effort to lead him on.

Twice Hashi repeated the movement, and once he came near falling into
Frank’s clutch, for Merry made a lightning snap at his wrist and barely
missed.

Finally Hashi came still nearer. Suddenly he felt a hand close on the
back of his neck. Merriwell had caught him before he could prevent it.

He knew now that Frank could move with such swiftness that light itself
seemed barely faster.

Hashi shot his own hand up and tried to secure a hold on Frank’s wrist,
with the intention of seeking a certain nerve with his fingers and
robbing the American youth of strength in that arm.

Frank read his intention and prevented it by his manner of maintaining
his hold, at the same time closing on the professor’s arm at the
shoulder.

Hashi twisted and snapped away barely in time to prevent the American
from finding one of those paralyzing nerves.

He continued to smile, but he understood that Merriwell was inclined to
meet him at his own game.

A moment later Frank secured another hold on the Jap. Instead of coming
at Hashi, he drew the yellow athlete toward him.

Then there was a grapple.

“Ah!” cried the spectators.

Hashi sought to get one of Frank’s hands in a certain manner. Being
baffled, he changed instantly and tried to bring himself into a
position of advantage by twisting Merriwell’s arm behind his back.
Again he was defeated.

In the meantime Merry had continued to seek to secure a hold on the
little man, finally obtaining it. They went to their knees together.

Hashi broke Frank’s hold. As they came up, the Jap again sought to
twist Frank’s arm behind his back. He was prevented in this, and he
clasped Merry’s body behind, getting him round the waist. Frank slipped
down, reached up and closed his fingers in a lock about the back of
Hashi’s neck. Hashi’s waist lock held, but Merry went over, sending the
heels of the Jap in a half circle through the air. Hashi landed flat
on his back, with the American full upon him.

It was a clean case of a wrestler’s trick being baffled by another
trick, and the Jap was down.

A shout went up from the spectators.

Fillmore looked astounded and dismayed.

But the Jap did not let Frank rise. Instead of that, as Merry was
getting up, Hashi caught one of his legs.

Fillmore caught his breath. He knew what that meant, and he was
satisfied now that Hashi had permitted Frank to bring about the fall in
order to obtain this opportunity.

Frank seemed warned just in time, for he gave a squirming whirl that
brought him round facing in the opposite direction and prevented the
Jap from securing the leverage he desired.

“Let go of that leg!” he commanded.

But he did not wait to see if the Jap obeyed. He did not dare risk it.
Instead of waiting, he dropped in such a manner that his free knee was
driven into Hashi’s wind.

That broke the fellow’s hold.

Fillmore saw this and breathed a curse of dismay.

Hodge was stirred up.

“What did he try to do, Merry?” he palpitated.

“Oh, nothing,” smiled Frank. “These jujutsu men never recognize a fair
fall. To them it means nothing to be thrown flat on the back. He was
trying for another hold, and I had to check him.”

The Jap was breathing with difficulty. For some moments the smile
seemed a sickly one, but he maintained it, even as the Japanese soldier
smiles in the face of intense suffering and death.

Fillmore gave Hashi water and hovered over him.

“You failed!” he whispered.

“Sufficient is the time, honorable sir,” answered Hashi softly. “I
nearly made accomplishment.”

“Look out! I’m afraid you led him to suspect. He’ll be on his guard.”

“Nothing can save the agile gentleman when I obtain the sufficient
hold,” declared the Jap.

Merriwell was warmly congratulated by Spaulding and the others.

“That’s only the beginning,” he said. “The little man let himself go
over that he might get his hold on me. He is recovering, and he’ll be
very dangerous after this.”

Hashi rose and took his place on the mat.

“Will the honorable gentleman athlete again give me the exceeding
pleasure?” he invited.

Frank stepped out.

“The professor has peculiar ideas of pleasure,” laughed Harrow. “I
wouldn’t regard it as much sport to have the wind driven out of me in
such a manner.”

Again the American and the Jap crouched and advanced with the greatest
caution. Again Frank finally tried for the neck hold, but this time
Hashi avoided it.

“Get him! get him!” hissed Fillmore.

“I’ll get you some day!” muttered Hodge.

Hashi was disappointed because Frank would not attack after the
American fashion. Once both secured a hold at the same moment, but
instantly both broke, each realizing that the hold of the other was
dangerous.

They were like crouching panthers.

“Get his arm!” mentally cried Fillmore. “If you can’t break his leg,
break his arm!”

Suddenly there was a mix-up. The movements of the combatants were swift
and sudden. They grappled, broke, grappled again, twisted, turned,
writhed. Frank saw and baffled each effort on the part of Hashi to get
his fingers in contact with some paralyzing nerve. In return the little
man repeatedly defeated Merriwell’s strategic moves.

Suddenly Hashi went down, catching his arm with a twisting lock about
Frank’s right leg near the knee.

“He has him!” thought Fillmore. “Now he’ll break the fellow’s leg as if
it were a pipestem!”

Instantly Frank stooped and seized the shoulder of the Jap, his grip
being one of iron as he drove his thumb into a certain spot. Had he
not located the spot accurately Hashi would have broken his leg in a
twinkling. As it was, he found a nerve that completely paralyzed the
yellow man’s whole arm and rendered him helpless to exert the leverage
on the imprisoned limb which must have crippled Merry.

No cry of pain escaped the vicious little man, but his hold was broken
in a twinkling and Frank was free.

Merry knew now what had been attempted. The mere warning had not fully
proved to him the dastardly purpose of his enemy; but now there was no
doubt about it. He laughed aloud.

“Now the Japanese whelp gets his medicine!” grated Bart Hodge.

He had heard Merriwell laugh like that before, and he knew what usually
followed.

Frank seized his opponent and lifted him from the floor, giving him a
fling that sent him clear of the mat and slam against the nearest wall.

One thing practiced by the Japanese is the art of falling. Hashi was
jarred, of course, when he collided with the wall, but he fell to the
floor and sat up smiling in his usual bland manner.

That smile, however, was the mask which concealed the intense rage and
chagrin which he felt. He knew now that the American was well up in
the art of Japanese self-defense, besides being master of the American
style of wrestling.

Hashi felt that he would be disgraced if he permitted Frank to defeat
him. Besides, he would not earn the five hundred dollars.

But the disappointment of the Jap was not equal to that of Fred
Fillmore.

“Fiends, take him!” whispered the young rascal. “Is he going to let
Merriwell do him up?”

He had fancied Merriwell’s action in hurling his antagonist against
the wall would end the struggle; but vicious hope had new birth in his
heart when he beheld the smiling yellow man pick himself up from the
floor.

“The honorable gentleman is very skillful,” purred Hashi, toddling back
to the mat.

There was a steely glitter in Frank’s eyes as he regarded the tough,
little rascal.

“Wait a moment, Hashi,” he commanded.

“Respected sir, yours to command,” said the Jap.

“I am onto your trick now,” said Frank. “I know what you are trying to
do. Jujutsu teaches a man how to break limbs. The hold you had on my
leg would have crippled me if I had not moved quickly to prevent it.
But a leg or an arm is not the only thing that may be broken by such a
method.”

“Oh, respected sir——”

“You may as well cut out the respected sir! You tried to break my leg.
It is no more difficult to break a neck. I warn you to hold up. Don’t
try that trick again if you respect your neck!”

“That’s the talk, Merry!” cried Hodge.

“The honorable gentleman is so greatly suspicious!” murmured Hashi.

“Now come ahead,” invited Frank, stepping to the very centre of the
mat. “I shall defend myself at any cost to your limbs or life.”

“Curse him!” whispered Fillmore.

Some of the spectators clapped their hands.

“This was to be a friendly trial of skill,” said Maurice Spaulding.

“Of course it was!” cried Cutler Priest.

Hashi hesitated. For a moment his eyes left Frank. They met the eyes of
Fillmore, and there he saw a command for him to go on.

“The honorable gentleman is wonderfully skillful,” said the Jap. “I
congratulate him upon his excellent skill, and his hand I would shake.”

Was it possible that the Jap acknowledged himself beaten?

Frank was not duped, although he accepted the hand extended. He was
prepared when Hashi instantly tried to obtain the arm lock which would
have rendered him helpless.

Merry had a grip of steel, and he exerted it suddenly, crushing the
fingers of the Jap.

Hashi was baffled again. Even though it seemed that the American would
take his hand off, the little man did not wholly lose his persistent
smile.

When he had baffled his antagonist, Frank suddenly changed his method
and caught the fellow in a wrestling grip. Together they went to the
mat, where Merry obtained a half-Nelson hold.

As Hashi felt his head bent under him and realized he must quickly go
over upon his back, he flung his feet straight up into the air, and,
using his head for a pivot, attempted to spin out of the hold like a
top.

Merry anticipated that.

With his free arm he caught the Jap about the waist and checked the
spinning. Then he promptly turned Hashi over flat and fair upon his
back.

“Great—great work!” cried the spectators.

Merriwell was up, cool and unruffled.

Fillmore longed to leap out and deal Frank a blow.

“No use!” he thought despairingly. “No use! The miserable Jap can’t do
it!”

Hashi’s smile clung, but it had lost its confidence and self-assurance.

“The honorable gentleman has the way in which to mix wrestling and
jujutsu,” he said, as he rose. “In this excellent manner he is using
two arts against one. It is not an eminently fair test of one
competent style against another.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Spaulding. “He confesses himself beaten!”

“I beg the august gentleman’s respectful pardon,” said the yellow man.
“I was humbly seeking to elucidate why I have the unfortunate success
encountered.”

Then he again stepped toward Merry.

“Why, he’s the kind that never gets enough!” exclaimed Raymond Harrow.

“What do you think about your Japanese wizard, Fillmore?” asked one of
the witnesses.

Fred attempted to answer, but his voice was husky and his words choked
in his throat.

One more lightning trick did Hashi attempt. He did it without apparent
preparation or thought, hoping this change of method might take Frank
off his guard.

Frank baffled the attempt, seeming to read the Jap’s very thoughts. He
went in for another wrestling hold, but Hashi slipped away. The Jap
tried to work Frank’s movement by securing a hold that would turn it
against Merry; but this trial again brought about his undoing. Merry
secured a hold and hurled Hashi over his head.

The Jap fell sprawling on the mat, sat up, rose quickly, bowed low and
confessed:

“One art against two is not sufficient. The wrestler alone I will
humbly undertake to defeat; but the wrestler who has also the
accomplishment of jujutsu is indeed too much.”

Fillmore’s scheme had failed.

Now Frank turned on the rascal.

“Next time you hire a tool to break my leg he’ll not escape as easily
as this one has,” he said.

“What do you mean?” snarled Fred, his face pale.

“I mean what you heard me say. I was warned. You thought I had been led
blindly into the trap. Fellow, you had better have a care! If you annoy
me further I’ll not bother with your tools, but I’ll reach for the
fountain head of the trouble. That is all I have to say.”

“You’re crazy!” sneered Fillmore.

But suddenly he found himself looked on with aversion by Merriwell’s
companions, who began to mutter among themselves. Their black looks and
ominous behavior alarmed him.

“I believe the fools are going to jump on me!” he thought.

Fear overcame him, and he made haste to get out of the room and the
building, leaving Hashi to follow when he would.

Although he had not broken Frank Merriwell’s leg, Hashi had the five
hundred dollars.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                             THE OLD HOME.


The town of Bloomfield was agog. Strange things were transpiring there,
and gossip was busy.

Old Jacob Worthen, the richest man in town, known to be a miserly old
curmudgeon, came knocking along the wooden sidewalk with his crooked
cane.

Several of the villagers saw him. In a body they left the steps of Lem
Briggs’ grocery store, where they had been loafing and blocked the
sidewalk.

“How de do, Mr. Worthen?” said one. “Fine day ter-day.”

“Haw!” said old Jacob. “That reminds me, Cy Jones, I’ve got a little
note of yourn that runs out next Tewsday. I s’pose ye’ll be reddy to
pay. I need the money.”

“’Cordin’ to what I hear,” said another of the group, “you can’t be
needin’ money much jest now, Mr. Worthen. They do say you’ve sold the
old Merriwell place.”

“Sold it!” snapped the richest man in Bloomfield. “I had to give it
away. Best place in this town, too; but it’s hoodooed. Been a constant
outset to me ever sence it came inter my hands. Then stories about it
bein’ ha’nted ruined its valoo. Didn’t nobody want to buy it, an’ I
couldn’t keep a tenant on it. Yes, sir, I hed to give it away.”

“Who bought it?”

“One of them smart city lawyer chaps. He bought it for another party,
too. S’pose if I’d knowed who wanted it I might ’a’ got a thousan’ or
so more fer it.”

“Well, who was it that wanted it?”

“Old Asher Merriwell’s nevvy. Mebbe some of ye remembers him? Ruther
smart-lookin’ young chap last time I saw him.”

“Why,” said Cy Jones, “I heerd he lost all his money an’ was poor.”

“Guess that was right time you heerd abaout it. His guardeen
speckerlated and lost everything. Sence then, though, the boy run
acrost his father. You’ve heerd about him—gambled a good deal. He went
out West somewhere an’ found some rich mines. Well, he died, an’ them
mines went to the boy. They do say he’s got more money’n he knows what
to do with.”

“Well, what’s he goin’ to do with the old place?”

“Fix it up fer his home, I s’pose. He’s got a crew of city workmen
tinkerin’ away there now an’ a nigger—some one old Asher hed—kinder
lookin’ after the place.”

“Well, well, well!” mumbled one of the old gossips. “Will wonders never
cease! Beats all creation how fortenit some folks be. Now looker this
boy. Lost every dollar he hed in the world, hed to leave college an’ go
ter work, an’ nobody ever s’posed we’d ever hear from him ag’in. Now
here he turns up rich as mud an’ is comin’ back here to make a spread.
I’ve spent sixty-seven years right here in Bloomfield, an’ I ain’t
never hed no chance in the world. It’s all luck—all luck.”

“Go on, Bill Kimball!” exclaimed old Jonas. “You’ve allus bin too
lazy to draw your breath. You’ve spent your life a-loafin’, an’ you
complain you ain’t never hed no chance. Now the town’s helpin’ ye, when
you might be comfertable well off an’ able ter take keer of yerself.”

“Ain’t never had no chance,” persisted Kimball doggedly. “Don’t you
talk to me, Jonas Worthen! You was born to have luck.”

“I started out in the world jest as poor as you did.”

“Well, I’m glad one of the Merriwells is comin’ back to the old place,”
said Lem Briggs, the storekeeper. “Is he merrid? I s’pose he is, or
else he wouldn’t be havin’ the place fixed up.”

Later in the day Bill Kimball was walking past a fine, old house amid
some elms, about half a mile from the village. He stopped to stare at
the house, where men were at work, when an ebony-faced young negro came
from the stable and strolled out toward the road.

“How de do?” saluted Kimball. “I kinder guess I know you. Ain’t you
Toots?”

“Dat’s my name, sar,” said the negro smilingly. “Why, bress mah soul!
I believe yo’ is Mistah Kimball. I’s po’erful glad teh see yo’, Mistah
Kimball.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you back here, Toots. What’s goin’ on? Workmen
slickin’ all up round the old place, hey?”

“Kindah makin’ it presentable, sar.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’s de ovahseer, sar,” was the proud answer. “Yo’ know Mistah Frank
has done bought de ole place, an’ he’s gwine teh make it his home.”

“When is he coming?”

“Day after to-morrow, sar. To-morrow dey’s gwine teh decorate de
church.”

“Hey?” squawked Bill Kimball. “Goin’ to what?”

“Decorate de church.”

“What for?”

“Fo’ de weddin’.”

“Weddin’? weddin’?” gasped the old man. “Is there goin’ to be a
weddin’?”

“Yes, sar; Mistah Frank is gwine teh be married.”

“Good land!” said Kimball, fanning himself with his straw hat. “That’ll
be news for the folks! Who’s he goin’ ter marry?”

“Handsomest gal in de worl’, sar—Miss Inza Burrage. Brack eyes, rosy
cheeks, an’ de sweetes’ mouth you ebber see. Ki-yi! It’ll sho’ be a
swell affaih fo’ dis town.”

“Landy massy!” spluttered Kimball. “Won’t that stir the village up! Be
they goin’ to settle down here?”

“Not now, sar.”

“They’re not?”

“No, sar. Dey’re gwine teh be married heah an’ give a pahty in de old
home to a lot ob deyer frien’s. Den dey’re gwine off ter Mexico, where
Mistah Frank has one of de berry riches’ mines in de worl’.”

“But they’re comin’ back?”

“Sho’, sar. Dis is gwine teh be deyr home. Mistah Frank alwus did mean
teh hab dis fo’ his home when he was married. He’s engaged me reg’ler
fo’ teh obersee de ole place. Next year I ’spects he’ll mak lots ob
changes an’ alterations an’ repairs. He says teh me, says he: ’Toots,
when I come back from Mexico I’s gwine teh hab some fine horses an’
keep a prime stable, mah boy. Yo’ knows mo’ about horses dan anybody
I ebber seen. I’s got teh hab yo teh look after dat stable an’ de ole
place. Name yo’ price, Toots, an’ I’ll ’gage yo’ fo’ life.’ Ki-yi!
Dat’s de sort of job teh fall into.”

“Well, well, well!” said Bill Kimball.

“Yes, sar, I’s bery well satisfied, sar. Mistah Frank is de fines’
gentleman ebber drew a bref. I knows him well, sar. He’s a prince,
sho’. Some day yo’ll see one of de fines’ estates right heah dat can be
foun’ anywhere in de country.”

“Well, I must git along back inter the village,” said old Bill. “Won’t
the folks talk when they hear all about this!”

He hobbled away as fast as his old legs could carry him.




                            CHAPTER XXXVI.

                             THE WEDDING.


Excitement in Bloomfield was at fever heat. Scores of visitors were in
the town. The old hotel was filled to overflowing. Nearly all these
guests were young men and women, and a pleasant, jovial lot they were.

Of course, the members of Frank’s athletic team were present to the
last man. Besides these there were others who had been his chums and
comrades in college. Bink Stubbs and Danny Griswold were together
again, fussing in their old, friendly way. Dismal Jones had turned
up from somewhere, as long-faced as ever, quoting Scripture to fit
all occasions. Grog Carker appeared more rabid in his socialistic
views than in the old days, and equally easy to lead into prophesying
the coming of the “great earthquake that should overturn the social
conditions of the whole world.”

A surprise that delighted every one was the appearance of Jack Diamond
and his handsome wife, Julia, bringing with them a little Diamond
somewhat more than a year old. Jack had “crossed the pond” to make a
visit in Virginia and arrived just in time to hasten to Bloomfield for
the wedding.

Barney Mulloy came on from the West, and his brogue seemed not a whit
changed, while his wit and good nature remained quite as infectious.

It was the day before the wedding. A select party assembled at the
station for the purpose of meeting Inza, who was to arrive on the
afternoon train, accompanied by Winnie Badger, with Buck Badger and
Bart Hodge as escorts.

Frank had reached Bloomfield earlier in the day.

As train time drew near a closed carriage that was quite unfamiliar
in the village drew up beside the station platform. The curtains at
the carriage windows were drawn. The carriage was drawn by two fiery
horses. On the seat sat the driver, a wide-brimmed hat slouched over
his eyes, while his features were almost wholly hidden by a profuse
mass of whiskers.

Some of the people on the platform observed the driver closely. One man
walked past and surveyed him. This man hastened to join some of the
loungers.

“Say!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper, “I bet ten dollars that
feller’s wearin’ false whiskers!”

“Git out!” retorted several. “What makes you think so?”

“I seen Sile Levitt wear whiskers jest like them in the play over to
the Four Corners Schoolhouse last winter.”

“You’re luny! What would that man want to wear false whiskers for? He
ain’t in no play.”

Another carriage appeared. Mr. and Mrs. Diamond left it. They had come
to meet Inza.

The train whistled in the distance.

In a few moments it whistled for Bloomfield station. It came rushing up
to the platform and stopped. Inza and her companions were on board.

In the midst of the excitement the door of the strange closed carriage
opened and a pale-faced young man stepped out. He fixed his eyes on
Inza, who had descended from the train. She was dressed in a brown
traveling suit and was acknowledging the merry greetings of the friends
who had met her.

Bart Hodge had hastened away to look after the baggage.

The villagers were staring agape.

“Gosh!” exclaimed Bill Kimball, who had reached the station barely in
time to see the passengers descend. “That’s her—that stunnin’ gal in
brown! She’s got black eyes, an’ Toots told me she was black-eyed and
the handsomest gal in the world. That’s her!”

“Who’s that pale-faced feller that’s jest got out of that kerriage?”
asked a young chap, turning his quid of tobacco in his mouth. “He’s
actin’ almighty queer.”

The person referred to was approaching Inza from behind, stepping
softly. He was unobserved by the friends who surrounded her. Of a
sudden he stepped forward, flung his arms round her, caught her from
her feet and turned to dash with her toward the carriage. The door was
open. The driver had his whip poised.

Inza screamed.

The man who had seized her flung her into the carriage and leaped after
her, jerking the door closed with a slam.

The whip in the hands of the driver whistled through the air and cut
the horses.

Away they leaped.

The astounded people on the platform had seemed dazed, but now they
awoke and shouted.

Buck Badger, who had sauntered after Hodge, turned at Inza’s cry. He
saw her flung into the carriage and saw the desperate man leap after
her.

“The old boy’s to pay!” cried Buck, his hand going to his hip. “That’s
whatever!”

Two strides brought him to the edge of the platform. As the horses
turned toward the street beyond the station something bright glinted
in the hand of the Kansan. This thing was leveled and a spout of smoke
burst from it.

The sharp report of a revolver added to the excitement of the moment.

With that report one of the horses gave a convulsive leap and fell to
the ground, dragging the other horse down. The uninjured animal was so
entangled in the harness that he could do little damage kicking. The
carriage was overturned.

Men rushed to the spot. From the upset carriage they dragged Inza
Burrage, somewhat hysterical, yet practically unharmed. Likewise they
pulled out the young chap who had tried to carry her off in such a
crazy manner. He had been stunned, and made no resistance.

It was Fred Fillmore.

The village constable came bustling up while men and boys were at work
extricating the uninjured horse.

“What’s this mean?” he demanded. “Who’s guilty of breakin’ the law
here? Somebody’s goin’ to git arrested.”

“I opine there’s your man, officer,” said Buck Badger, pointing at
Fillmore. “He’s either a criminal or a lunatic, and either way he
should be taken into custody. That’s whatever.”

Hodge tried to reach Fillmore.

“The whelp!” he cried. “He——”

The constable seized the desperate young man.

“I arrest you in the name of the law!” he cried.

“Where’s the driver?” was the cry.

But the wearer of the false whiskers had found an opportunity to slip
away and improved it.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The little church was beautifully decorated and fragrant with flowers.
It was well filled. There was a hush. The organ began to throb and a
thrill ran over every person present.

Down one of the aisles slowly advanced the minister, carrying a little
book in his hands. At a distance behind him came Frank Merriwell,
looking handsomer than ever before in his life, accompanied by the best
man, his bosom friend, Bart Hodge.

Merry’s heart was beating high with the mighty exultation of the
grandest moment of his life. He turned with Bart and followed the
minister toward the altar.

Suddenly the sound of the organ changed. The music became the “Wedding
March.”

Down the centre aisle came a vision of loveliness, Inza Burrage in
snowy white, with her veil flowing round her. She was somewhat pale,
but never had she looked sweeter, and a more bridelike bride-to-be the
sun could not shine on.

She was followed by a pretty girl friend, who was acting as bridesmaid.
Elsie Bellwood was not there. That was the only thing that marred the
occasion.

As Inza approached the altar Frank stepped out and met her.

A splendid couple they made. Many an eye grew dim as they stood there
hand in hand and the minister began the ceremony.

No one dreamed what was to happen.

The ceremony had progressed until the minister was on the point of
pronouncing Frank and Inza man and wife, when there came a startling
interruption.

A wild-eyed youth dashed down the aisle.

“Hold!” he shouted. “I forbid this marriage!”

It was Fred Fillmore, who had somehow managed to escape from custody.
The poor fellow was insane in his desire to stop the wedding. Indeed,
drink and his passion for Inza had quite upset his mental poise.

Of course, his appearance created consternation, and Inza nearly
swooned.

It happened that the constable and two deputies were close after
Fillmore. They reached the church as Hodge, Badger, and Browning rushed
Fillmore down the aisle to the door.

“Let me have him!” cried the officer. “I bet, by gorry! he don’t git
away from me ag’in!”

“I should say you had better take care of him!” exclaimed Hodge, in
disgust.

Although the wedding had been thus interrupted, Inza bore up bravely
and the ceremony continued.

                   *       *       *       *       *

That night there was a merry reception and wedding feast in the old
home at Bloomfield. Frank and Inza were supremely happy, and their
friends were sharers of their happiness.

That day had seen the crowning triumphs of Frank Merriwell’s career.

In truth, Fred Fillmore was mentally unbalanced. It became necessary to
place him in a private sanitarium, although the examining physicians
announced that there was a fair prospect that he might recover in time.


                                THE END


The Merriwell boys again score in dramatic successes in life and win
additional friends in the next publication of the MERRIWELL SERIES,
called “Dick Merriwell, the Wizard,” No. 126, by Burt L. Standish.




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End of Project Gutenberg's Frank Merriwell's Marriage, by Burt L. Standish