Produced by KD Weeks, David Edwards and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net






------------------------------------------------------------------------

                          Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

                          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—rank 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

                         Dick Merriwell’s Glory

                                  OR,

                            Friends and Foes




                                   BY
                            BURT L. STANDISH

                Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.

[Illustration]

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

                            Copyright, 1901
                           By STREET & SMITH

                                -------

                         Dick Merriwell’s Glory

               (Printed in the United States of America)

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                        DICK MERRIWELL’S GLORY.

                                  ---

                               CHAPTER I.
                           FRIENDS AND FOES.


In more ways than one Dick Merriwell had become the wonder of the
Fardale Military School. His astonishing work in the football-game
against White Academy was the talk of Fardale. By running with the ball
the length of the field, he had made both of Fardale’s touch-downs in
the game, and, to crown these thrilling plays, he had kicked two clean
goals.

Naturally, at the conclusion of the game, the delighted cadets had
rushed onto the field, raised the hero of the day aloft, and carried him
about on their shoulders, cheering until they were hoarse.

But there were some who took no part in these demonstrations, and they
were the jealous enemies of the remarkable young plebe who had created
such a sensation. Singularly enough, not a few of these enemies were in
Dick’s own class, being such envious chaps as Uric Scudder, Zeb
Fletcher, and Jim Watson.

However, Dick’s most dangerous enemy was Jabez Lynch, a first-class man,
whose ambition had been to play half-back on the eleven—a position that
had been given to Merriwell.

On account of a treacherous attempt to injure Dick, Jabez had been
nearly forced to leave school. In Dick’s heart there had been no thought
of mercy toward Jabez, but his brother Frank had been more forbearing,
especially as Jabez might bring a serious complaint against Old Joe
Crowfoot, the Indian, who had threatened him with torture and death
because of his action toward Dick.

When Dick fully understood that Jabez might retaliate by having Old Joe
arrested, in case he was forced out of Fardale, he agreed to keep still
concerning the treachery of his enemy. But he told Frank that he could
never feel anything but contempt for Lynch, and he did not believe it
possible that such a fellow could reform and become decent.

In his heart Frank Merriwell doubted if Jabez could change his natural
inclinations; but, at the same time, he was confident that the course
chosen was the proper one, for he did not wish Old Joe to come to harm
through his affection for Dick and his desire to punish the boy’s enemy.

There was something about the old redskin that Frank admired. Joe knew
little of white men’s laws, and cared less. "An eye for an eye and a
tooth for a tooth" was the law that appealed to him, and in which he
firmly believed. To Joe there seemed nothing particularly wonderful in
the feat of Dick. For years the old Indian had trained the lad to be
fleet of foot, keen of eye, and quick of hand, and it had been his
expectation and belief that Dick would excel in feats and games calling
for these qualities.

Frank had quickly understood the immense good the training of Old Joe
had done the boy, who might have been weak and sickly but for his free,
open-air life, with the redskin as his chief tutor.

But Merry saw that there were points Old Joe had neglected, and Dick was
far from perfect physically when Frank took him in hand. In a short time
Frank had wrought an improvement, but he was keeping the work up at
Fardale, seeking to develop his brother into a youth who should be an
absolute physical model.

Frank believed he could accomplish the work, though he realized that it
could not be brought to a successful conclusion at once. It would take
time and patience to make Dick Merriwell as near perfect as possible;
but time and patience Frank was ready to give.

At first Old Joe regarded Merry’s work with silent disdain. There was
something of a look of scorn in his beady black eyes when he saw the
magnificent Yale athlete instructing the boy in the use of dumb-bells
and Indian clubs to strengthen and round out certain muscles; but the
beady eyes were keen to detect the slightest improvement, and it finally
happened that the old fellow nodded and pronounced it "heap good."

It must not be supposed that Frank’s only thought was to make his
brother perfect physically. On the contrary, he had entered Dick at
Fardale because he was satisfied that the course of mental instruction
there would be the very best the lad could obtain.

Fortunately for Dick, he was much like his famous brother in one
respect. He had a wonderfully active and retentive mind, so that he
could learn almost anything quickly and well when he applied himself
fixedly to the task of doing so. Thus it happened that in this respect,
as well as others, he was a wonder to his classmates, many of whom,
discovering somehow that he had never attended a regular school, had
felt positive he would have a difficult time at Fardale, even if he was
able to get along at all after being admitted.

Until her death, Dick’s mother had been his tutor, and her instructions
were of the very best.

It was with untold satisfaction that Frank Merriwell had taken up the
task of developing his brother into perfect manhood; and it was now his
great aim in life to make a complete success in this work, into which he
had entered with all his heart and soul.

At first the boy had not understood how fortunate he was in having such
a brother and friend, but, little by little, his eyes had been opened,
and at last he was coming to know just what it meant. Dick had been
frivolous to a certain extent, and he had seemed wild and untamable; but
his journey from the Rockies to the Atlantic coast had opened his eyes
and filled him with respect for Frank. He had found that Frank was known
everywhere, and that by the youth of the United States he was regarded
as a model young American.

This knowledge had brought about something of a change in Dick, in whose
heart was born a desire to emulate his brother and become like him, in
some degree, at least. And the lad’s modesty—which at first he had not
seemed to possess in any degree—had led him to doubt his ability to ever
rise to the heights attained by Frank.

At one time Old Joe had sought to turn Dick against Frank, being
consumed by the belief that Merriwell meant to carry the boy away where
they would never meet again; but Merry had found a way to conquer the
jealous Indian, and Crowfoot became one of his greatest admirers. Then
it was that the Indian had said to Dick:

"Do what um broder, Steady Hand, say for um to do. Him know best. Him
got heap big head, all right. Ugh! Him heap mighty young white chief."

And these words of the old Indian had been, to a great extent,
instrumental in the change that came over the lad. Not that Dick was
able to at once fling off all his wild ways; not that he became
immediately sober and serious. Far from it. He was still a boy, with a
boy’s love of sport and play and pranks. The advent at Fardale had cast
him into a life far different from anything to which he had been
accustomed, and for a time he had seemed reserved and distant, which led
many to think him haughty and overbearing.

In time they were to learn that he was anything but haughty. In time,
when he came to know them better and they to understand him, they were
to find in Dick Merriwell a frank, honest, companionable, whole-souled,
fun-loving boy, who would make friends and keep them.

Already Dick had made a few stanch friends. Hugh Douglass, one of his
roommates, an uncouth, farmerish plebe, was one of these. Douglass had
seen beneath the surface, and he was convinced that Dick was all right.

Brad Buckhart, "the Texan Maverick," as he delighted to call himself,
was another friend Dick had found. At first Buckhart did not take to
young Merriwell, but a change quickly came over him when he found Dick
beset by envious and jealous enemies, and the breezy chap from the Lone
Star State soon evinced a hot desire to fight for Dick on the slightest
provocation.

And now, since Dick had astonished everybody by his amazing work in the
game against White Academy, scores of fellows were praising him, and
many who had held aloof were willing to know him and become friendly.
But Dick did not like to be patronized, and he found that the men of the
classes above him were inclined to praise him in a manner that was not
wholly unoffensive. Some of them had a way of speaking compliments as if
they were patting a precocious boy on the head and offering him a penny.

This caused Dick to shun them still more, and thus it came about that he
was thought "stuck up." His enemies knew how to make capital of this,
and they did not lose the opportunity to do so.

Dick kept about the even tenor of his way, however, studying, drilling,
training, and practising on the football-field. He had tremendous
energy, and the number of things accomplished by him continued to
astound and anger his jealous foes, who soon found a new method of
striking at him.




                              CHAPTER II.
                            A SCHEMING TRIO.


"It’s a mean shame!" declared Zeb Fletcher, trying to look at Uric
Scudder with his crooked eye, but seeming to glare at a fatigue-cap
hanging on the wrong hook.

"That’s right," nodded Scudder, rubbing his weak chin with an air of
indignation. "It’s favoritism, that’s what it is."

"Of the rankest sort," piped Jim Watson, in his weak, effeminate voice.
"And all because the fellow is Frank Merriwell’s brother."

"What can we do about it?" questioned Uric. "We ought to do something."

"We will do something!" declared Fletcher.

"What will we do?" questioned Scudder and Watson together.

"Kick!" exclaimed Zeb.

"I’m afraid that won’t do much good," said Watson. "He has a pull, and
he can do just about as he likes. The rest of us fellows have to attend
drill regularly, while Merriwell is excused from taking anything but
enough to make a showing. Now, I hate drilling as much as any fellow
can, yet I have to take my dose right along, and it’s mighty
disgusting."

"It is disgusting," agreed Fletcher. "And inspection makes a fellow
sick! Why, think of those stuck-up corporals calling a fellow down for
having a little dust on his old gun, or for not being just as prim and
starchy as they are! It’s too much! They want a chap to be all the time
brushing and cleaning and doing such foolishness."

"If I’ve got to do it, I’m going to raise a howl at the let-up on
Merriwell," said Scudder.

"Of course," piped Jim, "they’ll say it was because he’s on the eleven,
and he doesn’t have time enough to practise and drill, too. But we know
how he got onto the eleven, and——"

"We won’t stand for it!" cried Fletcher, jumping up and striding about
the room.

"Still," said Scudder, "no one has suggested what we can do."

This trio were three of young Merriwell’s most persistent and most
obnoxious plebe enemies. Two days after the football-game with White
Academy they had learned that Dick was excused from drill, being
required to appear only at inspection, and it made them very wroth. Then
they gathered in Fletcher’s room to talk it over.

Both Scudder and Watson were roommates of Merriwell, who, after the rule
of the academy, had been placed in a "cock-loft" room with three
companions. Of these companions, Hugh Douglass was the only one who had
shown an inclination of friendliness toward Dick.

Watson was a sly fellow, and he had very little to say in the presence
of Merriwell. At times he even pretended to be Dick’s friend; but Dick
was able to read him like an open book, with the result that Watson’s
hypocritical blandishments were taken for exactly what they were worth.

Scudder was also sneaky, and, on first entering Fardale, he had sought
to gain favor with the yearlings by playing spy for them. As a result,
he had been forced into an encounter with Dick, and had been soundly
thrashed. This made him the persistent and scheming foe of the
successful young plebe.

It made no difference to Uric that Merriwell had also thrashed Big Bob
Singleton, the champion boxer of the school, and that Singleton had
seemed to think all the more of Dick because of this feat. Uric desired
to "get even." And now he suddenly exclaimed:

"Wait! I have an idea."

"What is it?" questioned the others.

"You all know what an old duffer Professor Gooch is."

"Sure thing."

"I hear that he is raising a rumpus because too much athletics have been
introduced in the school."

"Yes; we’ve heard about that."

"He is down on football."

"Yes."

"Says it’s a brutal game, and should be abolished by the school."

"Yes."

"He’s the one for us to get at."

"How can we do it?" questioned Fletcher eagerly.

"Get up a petition, a round robin, or something of the sort, protesting
against Merriwell being excused from drill in order to take part in
football practise. What do you think of that?"

"All right!" piped Watson. "It’s a great idea!"

"Oh, I have a great head!" said Uric loftily.

"But can we get enough signers?" questioned Fletcher. "That is to be
considered."

"We can try hard. I know some fellows who will sign. If we can work old
Gooch up, he may make a big kick against this business."

"And if Merriwell is compelled to attend drill regularly, it’s certain
he can’t keep up in his classes, for, with drill and football, he won’t
have time for study. By Jove! Scudder, I believe it is possible that you
have struck on a scheme to force Merriwell to drop out of the eleven!
That will be a corker on him."

"And on his brother, too; for Frank Merriwell wants Dick to make a good
showing at football this fall."

"Who’ll draw up the document?"

"Let’s all have a hand in it. Bring out ink and paper and the things
needed, Fletch. Let’s get right down to work."

So, in a very few moments, these three youthful schemers were hard at
work framing a protest against Dick Merriwell being excused from drill
that he might practise on the football-field. They stated, as well as
they could, that it was not fair to others of the class to favor a
certain one in such a way, taking care, as they thought, to make their
language impressive without being offensive.

"There!" cried Scudder, when it was finished; "that ought to be a
regular bombshell!"

"If it doesn’t raise a rumpus, I’m no prophet," chuckled Fletcher.

"Merriwell will be angry," said Watson faintly.

"What the dickens do we care!" said Uric.

"His brother will be sore when he hears of it."

"His brother is nothing to us. Besides, it will be a good thing to show
Mr. Frank Merriwell that he does not run things here at Fardale."

"Who signs first?" questioned Jim timidly.

"Scudder," said Fletcher positively.

"No," said Uric, "you are the one to sign first, as you do not room with
Merriwell."

There was some argument over this matter, but Zeb seized the pen at last
and wrote his name with a flourish. Scudder followed, his handwriting
being rather hazy. Then Watson tried to get out of signing until more
names were added to the paper, but Fletcher and Scudder would not
listen, and he was compelled to be third on the list.

Then came an argument as to who should take the paper and seek more
signers. At last, in exasperation, Fletcher snatched it up, exclaiming:

"I’ll do it! I know a few fellows who will back us up, anyhow. We ought
to have the whole class; but some fellows will be afraid to put their
names to anything like this. All the same, there are several on the
football-team that played the regular eleven that first game who are
sore because they were not given a trial on the eleven, and we’ll get
them. Oh, there are more ways than one of making things warm for Mr.
Dick Merriwell!"

The trio broke up in great satisfaction.




                              CHAPTER III.
                          THE TWO PROFESSORS.


Professor Barnaby Gooch, thin, wrinkled, crabbed, and bald, rapped
sharply on the door of Professor Zenas Gunn’s private study. As the
knock was not answered at once, Professor Gooch rapped again, sharply,
nervously, and in a manner that denoted irritation. Then he pushed the
door open and walked in.

Professor Gunn, dignified, old-fashioned, yet kindly in appearance,
stepped from behind a screen and came forward. Before he could speak,
however, Professor Gooch rasped forth:

"I’ve nearly beaten the skin from my knuckles rapping on your door. Are
you deaf, professor—are you deaf, sir?"

"I hope not, professor," was the answer.

"But you didn’t answer me—you didn’t answer. You let me pound away—you
let me hammer."

"I was engaged when you first rapped, sir," said Professor Gunn somewhat
stiffly. "I was about to answer your knock."

"Ah-a!" rasped Professor Gooch. "You were about to answer! But you were
in no hurry."

"You seem to be in a bad humor this morning, Professor Gooch. Is there
anything wrong? Will you have a chair?"

"No; I won’t have a chair. Yes, there is something wrong. I have come to
speak to you about it, sir."

"Very well."

"It’s not very well; it’s very bad," declared Professor Gooch, rapping
on the floor with his cane and glaring at the head professor. "It’s a
disgrace, I say! It’s all wrong! It’s a matter to which we must give our
immediate attention."

"If there is anything so very bad that requires our attention it shall
have it."

"Ah-a! I hope so—I hope so! I have seen it coming on for some time. I
have on several occasions expressed myself as opposed to it. Now—now,
sir, something must be done!"

"As yet I am not aware of what you are speaking. Will you kindly
enlighten me?"

"I’m speaking of this matter of permitting football and athletics and
such frivolous things to interfere with the regular course of studies
and drill at this academy—that’s what I’m speaking of. And it is high
time somebody spoke up. The tendency of our day to permit such things at
schools and colleges is deplorable—deplorable, sir. I mean it!"

Professor Gooch shook his cane at his companion, as if threatening him.
When Professor Gunn started to speak, he went on:

"Wait sir—wait! Hear me! I say it’s deplorable. Do young men go to
school and to college to be trained to break one another’s bones in a
murderous game called football? Is that why parents send their sons to
school? Is that what fathers desire their sons should be taught? You
know it is not; you cannot say it is. In former times such games were
not given prominence here. True, they were played some, but those who
took part in them were not encouraged and shown special favors by the
faculty and officers of this school. Such is not the case now. Baseball,
football, and kindred dangerous sports and games are encouraged here.
You know it is true, Professor Gunn. You will not say it isn’t true!"

"Still," said the head professor calmly, "I am at a loss to understand
why you are making all this fuss."

"Fuss!" gasped Professor Gooch, throwing up both hands and waving his
cane dangerously near the other’s head. "Fuss, sir! Is that what you
call it? Well, it’s high time to make a fuss! It’s time to see if
something cannot be done to check this tendency to go football crazy. I
mean to see if something cannot be done. There is altogether too much of
this business at Fardale. Next I shall hear that inducements have been
offered students to come here because they can play baseball or football
unusually well. That is what we’re coming to, sir."

"Do you think so?" said Professor Gunn, still with perfect calmness.

"Hey?" exclaimed Professor Gooch. "I know it! I see it approaching! Now,
what do you think of that? What do you think of this craziness for
athletics? Answer me, sir!"

"Excuse me," said the head professor, "if I sit down. Of course, you may
stand if you prefer. You ask me what I think of athletics. I will answer
you briefly. I think that athletics as practised in our schools and
colleges is doing a great work for the young men of our country."

"Hey?" again squawked Professor Gooch. "Great work! What kind of work,
may I ask?"

"Making stronger, healthier, manlier men, and truly that is a good
work."

"Fudge!" snorted Professor Gooch.

"Truth," asserted Professor Gunn.

"Fudge!" again burst from Professor Gooch. "I say fudge, and I mean
fudge! Does it make a stronger and manlier chap of a fellow to put him
into a game of football and break his leg or his collar-bone? Bah! Don’t
talk to me, Professor Gunn! It makes that boy just so much weaker. Yes,
sir!"

"The youth who is properly trained and prepared for the game of football
rarely meets with a serious accident."

"Fudge, sir—fudge! What is the good of all this training and preparing
for a game so brutal?"

"The training and preparing helps build up the physical powers of the
lad, gives him health and strength to fight the battles of life. It
prepares him for success in the world."

"Tut! tut! tut! What nonsense! It’s education, sir, that prepares the
boy for the battle of life."

"But what is education without health, Professor Gooch? Give a man a
fine education and a weak body, and he has not the energy or courage to
make the most of his education. I’m an old man, sir, and I can remember
the time when I entertained ideas similar to your own. But I have
studied and sought to advance with the advance of time. I have
endeavored not to become antiquated and a back number. I have seen that
it is the young man with the strong and healthy body who wins in the
battle of life. Of course, he must have education to go with his health
and strength, and, therefore, the two things go hand in hand. I believe,
sir, the time is coming when physical training will be compulsory in
nearly all the schools of our land. I hope the time is not far distant
when it will be compulsory here at Fardale. A boy cannot be a successful
football-player unless he is something of an athlete. Thus football
encourages a certain class of aspirants to train their bodies and to
become athletic, as the only way they can get on the teams. In that way
alone, regardless of any other, it is a good thing."

Several times Professor Gooch had sought to interrupt the head
professor, but Professor Gunn checked him and persisted in speaking till
he had finished.

"He! he! he!" laughed Professor Gooch sneeringly. "That’s fine talk, but
it’s nothing but talk. I’d like to know what good it would have done me
to train and become an athlete when I was a boy?"

"It would have filled out your flat chest, professor, and it would have
given you better arms and shoulders and legs. It would have made you a
handsomer man, and it might have prevented your becoming sour and
crabbed in your old age."

"Yah!" snarled Professor Gooch. "Are you trying to make sport of me,
sir? If you are, I won’t stand it! I’m opposed to all this athletic
nonsense, and I shall remain so. But, more than anything else, I am
unalterably against favoritism, which is creeping into this school."

"I do not understand your meaning."

"I’ll make you understand. I have reliable information that a member of
this school has been excused from drill in order that he might have time
to practise with the football-team. What do you think of that, sir? Now,
I think you’re surprised."

"He must be a very good football-player, else such a thing could not
happen."

"What has that to do with it? Drill is a regular part of the course
here, and football is something entirely foreign. I hold that no one
should be excused from drill, much less a scholar who has just entered
here. Such a course is bound to produce dissatisfaction and arouse
protest. In fact, it has done so already—already, sir. I have in my
pocket such a protest. It was that which brought me to you, and I hope
you will do something about it. It is a protest against the excusing of
Richard Merriwell from drill in order that he may practise with the
football-team. There is much feeling over it. You can see what football
has done here, sir—you can see."

Professor Gooch brought out the protest.

"Permit me to examine it," said Professor Gunn, adjusting his spectacles
and taking the paper from the hand of the other. "Ah! I see there are
only five names attached out of a very large class."

"That’s enough—that’s enough! It shows the feeling!"

"Um-mum!" came from Professor Gunn, as he read the protest. "I fancy I
see something of a personal feeling in this."

"Well, there seems to be reason for such a feeling. The statement is
made that Richard Merriwell is insolent and overbearing toward his
classmates, that he makes sport of his superiors, that he mocks and
derides the faculty, and that he has sought to bring disgrace upon at
least one cadet by circulating false and malicious reports concerning
him."

There was a sudden stir behind the screen, a quick step, and a boy, with
flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, appeared.

"I demand to know," cried Dick Merriwell, "the names of my accusers!"




                              CHAPTER IV.
                       DICK MAKES ANOTHER ENEMY.


Professor Gunn had invited Dick to call at his room. The head professor
was very friendly toward Frank, whom he greatly admired, and he had
taken the first opportunity to have a talk with Frank’s brother.

It happened that Professor Gooch had called while Dick was in the room,
but the screen had prevented him from becoming aware of the presence of
the boy until Dick stepped out.

Professor Gooch was somewhat staggered by the appearance of the lad, but
he quickly recovered, his wrinkled old face twisting into hard knots.

"Yah!" he exclaimed. "So you were listening behind there! Yah!
Listening!"

"I was here when you came," returned Dick. "I did not come here to
listen to anybody, sir."

"Insolence!" grated the professor. "It’s plain there are good grounds
for the charges."

"I beg your pardon," said Dick, restraining himself with not a little
difficulty. "I have no intention of being insolent. I simply demand my
right. False charges have been made against me, and I ask to know the
names of those who have made them."

"What would you do if you knew?"

"I’d make the chaps who said such things retract, or I’d——"

"You’d what?"

"Thrash every one of them!" exclaimed the boy hotly.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Professor Gooch, with satisfaction. "That’s the kind
of spirit football breeds! It makes fighters, Professor Gunn—brutal
fighters!"

"Unless a man is ready to fight for his rights, he stands little show of
amounting to much in this world," said the head professor. "I don’t
blame the boy for wishing to fight."

"I’m astonished at you—astonished, sir!" cried Professor Gooch, with a
pretension of being aghast.

"At the same time," said Professor Gunn, "I do not believe in giving
him, at present, the names on this paper."

"At least, you show judgment in that," said Professor Gooch, with
sarcasm.

"Why am I not to know the names of those who have made these lying
charges against me?" demanded Dick. "I have never been overbearing or
insolent toward any one, I have never made sport of my superiors, I have
not mocked or derided the faculty, and I have circulated no false
reports against anybody."

"In short," said Professor Gunn, "you deny the entire list of charges?"

"I do."

"And I believe your denial," said the head professor.

"It’s simply one against five," said Professor Gooch. "I choose to
believe the five."

"Have they offered you any proof of the truth of their charges?" asked
Dick.

"It makes no difference. You have not proven the charges are not true."

"Until there is some evidence against the boy he is supposed to be
innocent."

"By you, sir, perhaps; but me——"

"You have no right to believe me guilty!" flashed Dick, his indignation
breaking all bonds.

"Don’t talk to me that way!" flared the professor—"don’t dare! I will
not have it! You must keep your place, sir!"

"You are not my master!" he cried. "You cannot tell me what I shall do!"

Gooch flourished his cane, with the intention of shaking it at the lad,
but, quick as a flash, Dick snatched it from his hand.

"Don’t you dare!" he blazed. "Why, if you do——"

He took a step toward Professor Gooch, who fell back, uttering a little
squawk of alarm. His appearance was so comical that a sudden and
surprising change came over the lad. The look of anger was chased from
his face by one of merriment, and he cried:

"Oh, dear! Don’t be frightened! Ha! ha! ha! Oh, ha! ha! ha! I won’t hurt
you, sir!"

"Professor Gunn!" gasped Professor Gooch, "will you stand here and see
me insulted and threatened like this? Isn’t this just cause to have this
boy expelled? I demand that he be brought to book for this conduct! I
demand it, sir! He shall be turned out of this school! I will see that
it is done!"

Dick tossed the cane at the feet of the excited professor.

"Turn me out!" he said. "What do I care for your old school? I didn’t
wish to come here, in the first place. I’ll go back to my home—back to
Felicia! Old Joe will go with me, and I’ll be free again. Then I can do
as I like, and I’ll have plenty of friends in the birds and the wild
creatures that know me. There I’ll have no mean and lying enemies who
are trying to hurt me! You may believe the lies about me! I don’t care!"

He turned as if to leave the room, but suddenly whirled toward Professor
Gunn, whose hand he quickly grasped.

"You have been kind to me," he said, his voice soft and musical. "I’ll
never forget it, sir—never!"

Then, before Zenas Gunn could stop him, he had dashed from the room.

"Why, he’s a perfect young wildcat!" gasped Professor Gooch. "He is not
safe to have round! It will be a good thing for the school if he should
go!"

Zenas Gunn gave Professor Gooch a look that contained a meaning that was
far from complimentary.

"What you need, professor," he said, "is something for your liver. I
don’t blame the boy."

"You—you don’t? Why, he snatched the cane from my hand!"

"When you shook it at him."

"But I didn’t mean to strike him."

"How did he know? I have talked with his brother, and he has asked me to
bear with any peculiarities of the lad, who was raised alone and without
playmates, save one little girl. He is not like other boys. You do not
understand him at all."

"I don’t want to; the young wildcat! I think it a shame to have such a
boy in the school!"

"And I think it a shame there are not more like him. He is honest and
open, and he——"

"But these charges against him, professor?"

"I take no stock in them. I understand that the boy has made enemies
because he has been successful in doing remarkable things since entering
Fardale. His success has made others envious and jealous. They are
trying to down him. Are you going to help them, professor? Are you going
to become the instrument of these enemies?"

"Oh, you have a slick way of putting things, Professor Gunn; but you
know the boy insulted me in this very room and before your eyes. You
know it, sir!"

"He dared stand up manfully and defend himself, for which I confess my
admiration."

"Your admiration?"

"Exactly."

"Yah! His actions were admirable! Oh, yes! The young spitfire! I’d like
to have the handling of him! He’d play no more football for one while!
I’d put him in the guard-house, and he’d live on bread and water for a
week, a month, a year, if necessary! I’d break his spirit! I’d show him
I was his master!"

"Professor Gooch, you are so angry that you talk childish. When you have
cooled down, you may regard this matter in a different light."

"No, sir—no! I have placed in your hands the charges against that boy! I
demand that they be investigated!"

"Very well," said the head professor. "They shall be, and if I find they
are not true, the ones whose names are signed here must suffer for it.
That is all, professor."

"All right, all right! I’m willing to have it stand that way. But that
boy must apologize to me, whatever the result of the investigation. I
demand it!"

"Very well."

"I demand it!" repeated Professor Gooch. "He must apologize! He must say
he is sorry!"

"Very well. I have other matters that require my attention now,
professor. You will excuse me."

Zenas Gunn accompanied the visitor to the door, which he held open for
the angry professor to pass out.

The result of this affair was that Dick Merriwell had made an enemy in
Barnaby Gooch, and one who might cause him serious trouble at Fardale.




                               CHAPTER V.
                      THE PLOT AGAINST MERRIWELL.


Again there was a meeting in the room of Zeb Fletcher, but this time
five nervous, frightened boys had gathered there. Of course, Zeb was on
hand, and both Uric Scudder and Jim Watson were present. The others were
Mart Reid and Gus Wade, two fellows who, through the blandishments of
Zeb, had been induced to sign the protest against permitting Dick
Merriwell to be excused from daily drill. Fletcher was trying to
reassure Reid and Wade, but was not succeeding very well.

"I tell you," said Reid, "old Gunn has announced his intention of
probing the matter to the bottom."

"I didn’t want to sign the paper, anyway," said Wade. "I thought it
might get us into trouble."

"Now, how can it get us into trouble?" exclaimed Zeb.

"Why, old Gunn says we’ve got to prove the charges against Merriwell."

"And that we’ll be made examples of if we do not," put in Reid.

"Which means that we’ll be expelled," faltered Wade.

Jim Watson looked frightened, but said nothing.

"Oh, nothing of the kind!" declared Zeb, with attempted bravado. "They
can’t expel you for a little thing like that."

"But they say it’s a mighty serious offense to deliberately try to
damage a fellow’s character here at Fardale."

"You’re in just as bad a hole as we are," said Reid, "and you are to
blame for the whole thing. You made me believe it was a joke more than
anything else."

"Me, too," asserted Wade. "It’s a pretty serious joke—for us. My mother
sent me here, and it will be hard on her if I’m expelled."

Uric Scudder rubbed his weak chin and looked at Watson, who returned the
glance with interest. Then Fletcher turned to them, and his expression
was an appeal for backing.

"Don’t you worry," he urged. "Old Gunn won’t do anything."

"It’s no use to say that," said Wade. "He’s doing something now. He’s
begun an investigation on his own hook, and I’ll bet anything we’ll all
be hauled up before him within a week."

"In which case," said Scudder, attempting to help Fletcher out, "we must
be prepared with a slick little story, to which we can all stick."

"Not for me!" cried Reid.

"Nor me!" said Wade.

"Why, you don’t mean you will welch, do you?" snapped Zeb, in apparent
amazement.

"I mean that I shall tell the truth," said Mart Reid. "I shall confess
that I was sore because Merriwell made the eleven and I was not given a
trial."

"You fool!" snarled Zeb, his crooked eye blazing and looking very
wicked.

"That will be cutting your own throat," averred Scudder. "You can’t do
it!"

"I shall, all the same," persisted Reid.

"And I shall do the same thing," said Gus Wade. "I’d give a hundred
dollars this minute, if I had it, if I had never put my name to your old
paper!"

"I’d give two hundred!" cried Mart.

Zeb saw that Watson was frightened, as well as Reid and Wade, and, for
the first time, he began to fear that the charges against Merriwell
might result in injury to the ones who had made them. He tried to think
of the proper course to pursue, but he was bewildered and uncertain
until Reid said:

"Wish I could get my hands on that old paper. I’d soon fix it so it
would not serve as evidence against me."

A light that was new came to Fletcher’s crooked eye.

"Look here, fellows!" he said, "don’t you worry about this matter any
more."

"How are we going to help it?" questioned Wade.

"Just don’t. It will be all right, I promise you that. I’ve got a scheme
of fixing it."

"What is the scheme?"

"That’s all right. Leave it to me. Your Uncle Fletch knows a thing or
two. That paper never will be used as evidence against any of us."

"Why, it’s in old Gunn’s hands. How can——"

"Never mind that. Forget it. No matter what you hear, keep your faces
closed, and you’ll be all right. Now, we had better break this meeting
up, and you fellows trust in me, that’s all."

Neither Reid nor Wade seemed satisfied, but Zeb made them promise to
keep still and wait, after which he hustled them out of his room.

When they were gone, he turned to Scudder and Watson.

"Those chaps are squealers," he said, in a disgusted way.

"But they’ll get us in a bad scrape if we don’t look out," said Uric,
still fumbling at his chin with his fingers.

"It’s a desperate case," nodded Watson. "I’m sorry myself that we did
it. We can’t back up our charges with proof."

"We might if those chaps who were here just now had backbone," said Zeb.
"We could fake up a nice little story and stick to it till the cows came
home."

"But they’ll never do that," from Scudder.

"I know it, and there is where the difficulty rises."

"What’s your scheme?"

"A desperate one."

"Tell us."

"Can I trust you? I’ve got to trust you. I wouldn’t think of doing it if
it wasn’t that those chaps will squeal, but I’m going to try
to—sh-h-h!—to get hold of that paper."

Zeb whispered the final words.

"How?" whispered both Uric and Jim.

"I know a way. I have a key to the door of old Gunn’s den. How did I get
it? Made it. He leaves the key in the outside of his door sometimes, you
know. I noticed that. Thought I might want to get into his department
some time, and so one day I slipped it out when I was passing the door,
and took a wax impression of it. I’ve done the thing with other keys
just for sport, and I’ve got the trick down fine. I slipped the key back
into the lock and got away. Then I made a key from the impression. Here
it is."

The crooked-eyed young rascal held up the key he had made. Scudder
looked at him in admiration.

"You’re a dandy, Fletch!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I have a little way of preparing for emergencies," said Zeb, with a
swagger. "This key is all right, and I’ll bet my life on it. I can open
the door of that room first pop."

"But what good will that do you?"

"I know just when old Gunn goes out late in the afternoon for a walk."

"You’ll go there then?"

"If I get the chance. I’ll get into his den, and I’ll bet you anything
you like I’ll find that paper. He keeps his important papers on his
desk, and the one I want will be there. I’ll get my hands on it, and
then it will disappear."

"Pretty desperate!" commented Watson. "If you’re caught——"

"I won’t be. But I’ve got another idea."

"What’s that?"

"We don’t want anybody to think any of us swiped the paper."

"Of course not."

"But it would be clever of us to make it seem that a certain fellow did
the job."

"What fellow? You mean——"

"Dick Merriwell. We might make it seem as if he got in there somehow and
carried off the complaint against him."

"How can that be done?"

"You fellows room with him?"

"Yes."

"Get into his clothes and bring me one of his handkerchiefs. All linen
is marked here, so it can be readily identified. Bring that handkerchief
to me."

"What will you do with it?"

"Drop it."

"Where?"

"Old Gunn’s room. Catch on? Oh, it’s a clever idea! Suspicion will be
thrown on him. I’ve got a long head."

"I’m afraid——" began Watson.

"Don’t be afraid of anything," said Zeb.

"I’ll get the handkerchief," promised Scudder. "Jim needn’t do anything.
I’ll bring you a handkerchief at the first opportunity, Fletch."

"And I’ll do the rest. Leave it to me. Now, get out and look for that
hankie. Why, I see where we turn this whole business in our favor and
make Merriwell look like thirty cents. There will be something doing
around here before long. Trust to little Zeb."

           *      *      *      *      *      *      *

That evening, having buttoned his rather shabby old overcoat about him,
and taken his crooked walking-stick, Professor Gunn started out for his
usual walk.

He strolled along in his accustomed absorbed manner, his head down,
buried deep in thought. But it happened that the professor did not walk
as far as usual. He had that day been pondering over a most puzzling
mathematical problem, and, as he strolled along, carrying his cane
behind his back, the solution suddenly dawned on him.

"Hum!" he said, stopping short. "Wonder why I didn’t think of that
before?"

Then he felt in his pocket for paper and a pencil. He found the paper,
but no pencil. Through every pocket he searched, but not a bit of a
pencil could he find.

"Dash it!" he said.

Then he went through his pockets again.

"Dash it!" he said once more, with greater vehemence. "I must put that
down at once, for fear it may slip me."

So he turned and retraced his steps to the academy. Up to his room went
the professor.

It had grown dark, and there was no light in his room. Somewhat to his
surprise, his key did not seem to work right in the lock, and then,
turning the knob, he found the door was not locked at all.

"Carelessness!" he muttered, as he entered the room.

He started to approach the shelf on which the matches were kept. Then,
of a sudden, a dark form sprang at him and hurled him against the wall
with such violence that he fell to the floor, stunned. The dark figure
rushed from the room and vanished.

The professor did not rise for several minutes, When he collected his
scattered senses he began to wonder what had happened. His head was
ringing, and he felt very weak. With great difficulty he dragged himself
to his feet.

His first thought was to raise an alarm. Then he reached for the
matches, found them, and struck one. Glancing about, he saw that his
desk was in disorder, papers being scattered about and the drawers
pulled out.

Then beside the desk he saw something white. He picked it up. It was a
handkerchief, with the letters "R. M." on one corner.

"‘R. M.,’" muttered the professor. "Now, whose handkerchief is this? It
was dropped by the intruder here. It is a clue to the fellow. ‘R. M.’
Can it be——"

He stopped short, appalled by a thought that came to him.

"The boy was here yesterday," he murmured. "Did he see something here
that aroused his cupidity? Is it possible he has entered my room in my
absence and——"

Again he failed to complete the sentence. Putting the handkerchief out
of sight, he closed the door of his room, having lighted a student’s
lamp. Then he began an investigation.

In time he discovered that the protest and charges against Dick
Merriwell were missing, but nothing else seemed to have been touched.
When he made this discovery Professor Gunn sat down by his desk, and the
look on his face was one of mingled pain and anger.

"Is it possible," he said, "that I have been mistaken in that boy? Is it
possible he is not what I thought him to be? Has he thought to stop the
investigation of the charges against him by stealing the paper?

"I am not willing to believe it! There is honesty in his face and in the
way he looks one square in the eyes. His brother is the finest young man
I ever knew. Yet it looks bad for Dick. I’ll say nothing about this now,
but if I find that boy is not what I thought——"




                              CHAPTER VI.
                        DICK’S REMARKABLE PLAY.


All unaware of the suspicion that had been aroused against him in the
heart of Professor Gunn, Dick Merriwell went about his daily tasks and
practised regularly on the football-field. At first he had thought of
leaving the academy. He had even started to do so. But his blood cooled,
and he resolved to wait and fight it out with his enemies.

His surprise was great when the days slipped by and he heard nothing
further of the affair. Several times he was tempted to go to Professor
Gunn and demand to know what was being done, but each time he decided to
wait.

So the time passed and the day of the football-game with Rivermouth came
round. This time Fardale was to play away from home, Rivermouth being
more than twenty miles away.

The day was gloomy and threatening when the team boarded the train, and
few of them were in high spirits.

As it was Saturday and a half-holiday, quite a large number of cadets
accompanied the team. However, Captain Nunn had expected the crowd of
"rooters" would be larger, and he was somewhat displeased because it was
not.

Frank Merriwell, the coach, was with the team, and he did more than
anybody else to give it spirit and courage.

Teddy Smart had scraped together enough change to purchase a round-trip
ticket to Rivermouth, and he boarded the smoker of the train, with two
packages of cigarettes and a determination to enjoy "a genuine debauch."

"What a lovely day!" he chirped, looking out at the cloudy sky. "How
bright the sun is!"

Then he sang comic songs and smoked cigarettes at the same time, and did
all he could to make things lively, until somebody told him that
Professor Gunn was on the train.

"Oh, lud!" he exclaimed, flinging his cigarette aside. "I don’t want to
smoke! I haven’t smoked to-day! I never smoke!"

Rivermouth was a small place, but it was said to have a strong
football-team. On their arrival the Fardale crowd proceeded directly to
the field, which was an open lot about half a mile from the village.

The Rivermouth team was there. Rogers, the captain, came forward and met
Steve Nunn.

"Where do we dress?" asked Steve, looking round.

"Why, we thought you’d come in your suits," said Rogers. "No
dressing-room here. You’ll have to go over to that old barn."

So over to the barn they had to go, and there they got out of their
regular clothes and into their football togs. While they were changing
their clothes Zeb Fletcher came sauntering through the barn in a
swaggering manner.

"Hello, Merriwell!" he said. "Give us a cigarette."

"I do not smoke cigarettes," said Dick quietly, "which you know very
well."

"Oh, well, you may not," said Zeb. "That is, there are times when you
may not."

Dick felt like striking the fellow, for he knew Zeb had purposely
insinuated that he sometimes smoked and broke the training-rules.

"Whatever is that galoot in here for?" growled Brad Buckhart.

When the boys were ready they left the barn and went forth to the field,
near which a crowd of at least five hundred persons had gathered. In
this crowd Dick was surprised to catch a glimpse of Professor Gunn. Not
till then had he known that the professor had accompanied the eleven on
the train.

Zenas Gunn was looking at Dick, and somehow it seemed that he was trying
to bore straight through him with his eyes.

"We’ve got a hard job on our hands to-day, fellows," said Captain Nunn.
"These Rivermouth chaps are much heavier than we are. They are fighters,
too."

"That’s the kind I like," declared Brad Buckhart. "Wouldn’t give a lame
mule or a locoed steer to butt up against a lot of quitters. The harder
the varmints fight, the more they tickle me."

Arrangements were soon made for the game to begin, Rivermouth getting
the ball for the kick-off.

The teams lined up on the field as follows:

          FARDALE.             POSITIONS.      RIVERMOUTH.
          Burrows              Right end       Rogers
          Stanton             Right tackle     Stover
          Douglass            Right guard      Twain
          Buckhart              Snapback       Price
          Gordan               Left guard      Golding
          Blair               Left tackle      Dana
          Kent                  Left end       Ryan
          Shannock            Quarter-back     Mercer
          Nunn              Right half-back    Newton
          Merriwell          Left half-back    Dolby
          Singleton            Full-back       Hurting

In this arrangement of the Fardale team Buckhart, the plebe, had been
placed at center, while Blair, the former snap-back, was given Brad’s
position in the line. Douglass was put on the field at the very start,
in the place of Eddy. This had been done through the advice of Frank
Merriwell, who saw that the center of Fardale’s line had been too weak
in previous games.

Of course, both men had been given practise in these positions, and
Buckhart had shown that he was capable of snapping the ball handsomely,
and then blocking any chargers who might try to come through him.

Blair had been a trifle too light for the center of the line, although
he was a gritty fellow and quick in his work. Frank felt that he would
show up better at tackle than at center.

The suits of the Rivermouth team were strong and expensive, but they
showed that their owners had played more than one earnest game in them.
They were not spotless and unsoiled, by any means. For once Fardale
looked startlingly clean and prim in contrast to the enemy.

But this was not all. The Rivermouth team was made up mainly of players
much older than the players on the Fardale eleven, and they were rather
savage in their appearance. It is pretty certain that not a few of the
Fardale players were overawed by the formidable appearance of their
antagonists.

When the moment for play arrived, Hurting, the heavy full-back of the
Rivermouth team, balanced himself, and looked hard at the ball, lying
like a huge yellow egg on the center of the field. Fardale crouched for
the start as Hurting began advancing on the ball.

The big fellow gaged his kick handsomely, and he smashed the oval a
terrible thump.

Far over the heads of the outspread Fardale men sailed the ball, with
the Rivermouth ends coming down like the wind to be on hand when it
dropped. But this early exertion was lost, for Hurting’s heavy kick had
sent the ball fairly over Fardale’s goal-line which made it necessary to
kick off again.

While this result seemed simply to delay the beginning of the game, it
accomplished something Hurting had desired to bring about, for it
impressed Fardale at the very start with a conviction that her own
full-back, Singleton, was outclassed by the full-back of the enemy.

When the ball was on the spot once more and all were ready, Hurting
again kicked off. Again the ball sailed through the air till it seemed
that a third trial would be required.

But Singleton captured it on Fardale’s ten-yard line and punted at once,
as the Rivermouth ends had come through with amazing swiftness, and were
sure to tackle him before he could make a run of any consequence.

In his haste, Big Bob showed up weaker than usual, for he did not drive
the ball anywhere near to the center of the field. Golding, the
Rivermouth left guard, caught the oval handsomely and started to run
with it. He was downed by Burrows on Fardale’s thirty-yard line.

Then the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage. Fardale was ready
now to go into the work in earnest, realizing it had a fearful task on
hand that day.

Rivermouth got into line for the attack in a quick way, that showed
experience, while Fardale was not quite as quick as usual, and there was
a slight mistake in lining up that necessitated a quick change at the
last moment.

There was a lull, the sound of a voice giving the signals, then an
upheaval, a whirling, sweeping rush, a tackle, and the sound of the
whistle.

Rivermouth made five yards on the very first try, and the onlookers were
delighted or dejected, according to their sympathies.

"It’s a snap!" declared a Rivermouth man. "Fardale never could play real
football. This is the first time in four years she has dared play us,
and we’ll show her to-day what football really is."

It was true that Fardale had declined for four years previously to play
with Rivermouth, but that was because Rivermouth had no real standing as
a school team, being made up of both high-school players and outsiders.
This year, however, Rivermouth had seemed to comply with the
requirements. Eaton had stood by Fardale in barring Rivermouth, but
Eaton agreed to play the barred team this year, and so Fardale was
brought to consent, not wishing to seem afraid.

But all the time it was known that several of the players on the
Rivermouth team simply attended the high school there in a perfunctory
way in order to get onto the team. They took no regular course of
studies, and made little effort to progress in any superficial course
they pretended to follow. At least one of them, Dolby, the left
half-back, had played on a semi-professional baseball-team and received
money for his playing. His home was in Rivermouth and the baseball
season was over, so he went in for football.

The first gain of the home team was of a nature to make it seem that
Rivermouth could walk right through the visitors.

Newton had made the first advance. In the second trial the ball was
given to Dolby, and he went smashing into Buckhart.

Buckhart was right there this time, and he stood "with his hoofs
planted," as he expressed it. Rivermouth was held without gaining an
inch.

Thinking this might be the fault of Dolby, the ball was given to Newton
again, and the red-headed half-back of the home team went at Buckhart
with his head down.

"Whoa, dang ye!" snorted the Texan, as he crouched, got Newton round the
legs, and slammed him to the ground, unmindful of the interferers who
had tried to butt him aside.

"There!" puffed the "Maverick," with keen satisfaction. "I reckon mebbe
that’ll hold you for a while!"

Now the Fardale crowd broke into cheers, for this stand of their team
showed that there was no reason to lose courage so soon.

Rivermouth had learned that Fardale’s center was not as weak as had been
expected. The reports of previous games had led Rivermouth to believe it
would find no difficulty in walking straight through the center of the
visitors.

As the teams lined up, the Fardale crowd cheered in unison:

"Ha! ha! ha! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Rigger-boom! Zigger-boom! All
hail—Fardale! Fardale! Fardale!"

And the Rivermouth rooters retorted with:

"Riv—mouth! Riv—mouth! Riv—mouth! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!
’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Riv—mouth!"

There was another sudden swaying and clashing; a running figure, aided
by interferers trying to get round the end, players in red and black
trying to tear their way to the runner, one breaking through and
clutching him, and then——

The ball was down, Blair having stopped an effort to go round the left
end. No gain had been made, and the oval went to Fardale on downs.

How the visitors cheered then! What was the matter with their team? It
was all right! Those Rivermouth fellows hadn’t made such a big thing
after all in trying to walk over Fardale!

"Good gracious!" gurgled Teddy Smart. "How sorry I am that they didn’t
keep right on rushing through our line! Isn’t it a shame!"

Now it was Fardale’s turn to try the mettle of the enemy, and the ball
was given to Nunn at the very start. With a mass formation revolving
round him, the captain of the Fardale team went into the left wing of
the home team, gaining only one yard. It was not much, but it was a
gain, and Steve fancied he could do better next time.

Following the policy of Frank Merriwell, persistently drilled into him,
Nunn again hammered at the left wing of the enemy, seeking a weak spot.
Again a yard was made, but it was the second down, and three yards were
needed.

Steve gave a signal for a repetition of the play, and Dana was the
objective point in the line when the mass went hurtling at it. This time
Dana was so well backed that not an inch was made.

There were still three yards to gain, and it must be made on the very
next attempt.

For a moment Steve hesitated. Then, satisfied that a kick would be
expected, he signaled for a false play.

Singleton seemed to prepare to kick, and Rivermouth made ready for that
kind of a play. But Nunn’s signal called for Merriwell to run with the
ball, not to pass it to Singleton.

Then Shannock became nervous, or something happened to him, for he made
a wretched pass to Dick, who was bothered in catching the ball, nearly
losing it.

By the time Dick had recovered, the Rivermouth players came tearing
through and slammed him to the ground.

Fardale had lost on downs.

Both teams had showed themselves strong in defense.

It was fully expected that Rivermouth would resume bucking Fardale’s
line, and the visitors were quite unprepared for what happened.

Hurting was proud of his ability to kick a goal from the field, and he
had sought and obtained permission to make a try for such a goal at an
early stage in the game, knowing the natural inference would be that
such a trial would not be made until every artifice to secure a
touch-down had been tried.

Therefore the greater portion of the Fardale team seemed totally
unprepared when, after the line-up, the ball was sent back to Hurting,
who smashed it hard and fair in a drop-kick for a goal.

Fardale had charged the moment the ball was snapped. Blair went through
and hurled Captain Rogers of the home team down in the effort to fling
him aside, falling with him. Gordan was stopped by Twain, but he managed
to make a gap in the line.

Through that gap shot Dick Merriwell, leaping like a panther toward
Hurting.

Plunk!—the foot of the Rivermouth full-back struck the ball.

Then something happened that took away the breath of every beholder, for
up into the air in a most magnificent leap shot the lithe figure of Dick
Merriwell, seeming to stand out clear and distinct far above all the
others. The ball struck him fairly on the breast, lodging under his
out-held and bent right arm, and remaining there as he dropped back to
the ground.

Dick had spoiled what seemed like a probably successful attempt to kick
a goal from the field.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                            FARDALE’S TURN.


The witnesses of Dick Merriwell’s play gasped for breath. It seemed that
he had leaped fully as high as a man’s head.

What mattered it if he was downed the moment he touched earth again?
What mattered anything? He had stopped Rivermouth’s attempt to make a
goal from the field. But for him the effort might have succeeded, for it
had been wholly unexpected. He was deserving of all credit.

This fact caused Zeb Fletcher to chew his tongue, and swear inwardly.
Zeb was not the only one.

Dick’s bitterest enemy in the school had come along to witness this
game, again hoping something might happen to show Merriwell up as weak
and incapable.

Jabez Lynch actually groaned aloud, but his groan was drowned by the
burst of cheering from the Fardale crowd.

Probably Hurting, the Rivermouth full-back, was the angriest fellow on
that field.

"Did you ever see anything like that?" he snarled to Dolby, as the two
teams lined up, with the ball in Fardale’s possession.

"Hardly ever," admitted Dolby. "Who is the fellow?"

"Ask me!"

"Don’t you know?"

"No."

Dolby was not the only person asking the question. Scores were seeking
to know the name of Dick Merriwell. When they learned it there was a
stir.

So this was Frank Merriwell’s brother? Well, it was pretty plain that he
had some of Frank Merriwell’s ginger.

"Dick Merriwell! Dick Merriwell!" was the name quickly passing from
mouth to mouth.

Both Lynch and Fletcher heard these comments, and they turned green with
jealous anger.

"The fellow’s luck!" said Lynch to himself.

"This will drive me to drink!" muttered Fletcher.

Professor Zenas Gunn was watching this game for a purpose. While he
believed in athletics, he had given very little attention to football,
and had never watched an entire game. The outcry against football raised
by Professor Gooch had caused Professor Gunn to decide to witness a
complete game that he might decide to his own satisfaction in regard to
the brutality of the playing.

Zenas Gunn found himself shouting with the others when Dick Merriwell
made that grand leap into the air, but he quickly checked the outburst.

"Be still!" he muttered, putting his hand quickly over his mouth.
"You’re acting like a boy, sir! Besides, that is Merriwell, the fellow
who is under suspicion. But I can’t bring myself to believe that boy is
guilty!"

The Fardale team lined up quickly for the attack, Captain Nunn finding
time to give Dick a pat on the back and say:

"Great, old man—great! You’re a wonder!"

From the side-lines Frank Merriwell looked on. He stood like a statue
when his brother made the play that prevented Hurting from kicking a
field goal, his face not seeming to change expression in the least; but
had any one looked deep into his eyes he must have seen there was a glow
of satisfaction and pride.

Now Fardale began a series of mass-plays that resulted in gains that
took the ball fairly to the center of the field. By that time Rivermouth
was prepared for this style of playing, and the gains stopped. Fardale
was held for three downs and kicked.

Hurting made a fair catch and bored his heel into the ground on the
spot, which gave him a free kick in return.

Then the great kicker of the Rivermouth team booted the leather almost
to Fardale’s goal-line, where Singleton got it.

Big Bob resolved to try at a kick in return, but he must have been
nervous, for he sent the ball out of bounds at Fardale’s forty-five-yard
line. Rogers fell on it and brought it out for a scrimmage. There the
teams lined up again, Fardale having lost the ball and some ground
through this exchange of kicks.

Now Rivermouth suddenly began a new style of playing, forming tandem
fashion and spearing into Fardale’s line, picking out Stanton for
repeated attacks. The first effort resulted in a gain of full ten yards
before Fardale could break up the play and check the advance.

"That’s the style!" said Captain Rogers, of the home team. "Now we have
them going, boys! They are easy!"

Again and again the tandem play was tried, and Stanton was battered and
bruised and bleeding when the ball was held for three downs within
twelve yards of Fardale’s goal.

The Fardale crowd was cheering, but it seemed that the home team was too
heavy to be resisted. Still, if full four yards were not made on the
next play the ball would go to the visitors.

"They’re going to make another try to kick a goal!" exclaimed a Fardale
spectator.

It seemed that he was right.

Rivermouth apparently prepared to resist Fardale’s rush, while Hurting
fell back as if to kick. There was a hush. Rogers was heard repeating
the numbers.

A sudden move, and the ball was snapped back. Mercer turned like a flash
and passed it to Newton, instead of to Hurting.

Newton went leaping across toward Fardale’s right end, and around him
massed the interferers. This mass struck Stanton again, just when the
attack was not expected.

Around the man with the ball the attacking wedge revolved, and Fardale
seemed unable to tear it to pieces in time to stop the steady advance.

Just when, at the last moment, it seemed that Fardale had held the
enemy, Newton was shot out of the formation and rammed over Fardale’s
line for a touch-down.

Then the Rivermouth crowd roared and roared, and went wild with
satisfaction. The ball had been carried over at the corner of the field,
and Rivermouth decided to punt out, as it would be difficult to make a
goal if it were brought out. Fardale lined up at the distance, and
Rogers kicked the ball out.

Dick Merriwell had been stationed where it was thought he might be able
to spoil this effort; but Hurting caught the ball fairly, which gave
Rivermouth a chance to kick for a goal.

"He didn’t do it that time, did he?" muttered Fletcher, grinning in
spite of himself.

Rivermouth prepared carefully for the effort to kick a goal. Captain
Rogers decided to hold the ball, and he stretched himself on the ground
with his left side toward the goal-posts.

The cheering and excitement had stopped. Everybody seemed watching and
waiting with breathless interest for the result. Hurting was resolved
not to fail.

With deliberateness he booted the oval, sending it rotating through the
air.

A great shout rose from the crowd, for the ball was taken by a flaw of
wind and carried to one side of the posts.

But Rivermouth had scored.

"It’s no use," said Jabez Lynch, in pretended regret. "They are too
strong for us."

"Back up! back up!" chirped Teddy Smart, who happened to hear the
observation. "You please me very much with your remark. I like the way
you talk! It’s too bad you were not retained on the team! You would give
the boys lots of courage with that kind of talk!"

"Don’t get sassy, plebe!" grated Lynch, scowling. "You’re too free with
your tongue!"

"Really and truly?" smiled Teddy. "Then I’ll bite it right off this very
minute."

The applauding crowd continued to cheer as the ball was brought to the
center of the field. The first half was drawing to a close, and it
scarcely seemed possible that Fardale had time to do any work of
consequence, even if she were strong enough, which now seemed doubtful.

Some sportily inclined chaps began to offer even money that Fardale
would not score during the game.

"Here’s a chance for somebody to make a small fortune," said Smart. "If
I had money, I wouldn’t take that kind of an offer—oh, no!"

But the betting part of the crowd found no takers.

Singleton kicked off to Rivermouth’s twenty-yard line. Hurting again
demonstrated his superior ability at this kind of work by driving the
ball back to Fardale’s forty-yard line.

Then something happened that gave Rivermouth a shock.

Merriwell caught the ball, heeled the ground, and smashed it into the
territory of the home team. It was a grand punt of fifty yards, and
Hurting was compelled to take the ball on the run, which resulted in a
fumble.

Kent and Burrows had followed down under the ball with great speed, and
the latter blocked Hurting, while Kent dropped on the oval.

By this piece of work Fardale got the ball on Rivermouth’s fifteen-yard
line, and the visiting crowd went wild with joy.

"I’m afraid it won’t do us any good," said Jabez Lynch.

"I see you are afraid!" exclaimed Teddy Smart. "You are shaking with
terror!"

Jabez scowled and remained silent.

The teams lined up. Off at one side, just as Captain Nunn began to give
the signal, Dick Merriwell carelessly knelt upon one knee and started to
tie the lacing of his shoe. It seemed a foolish piece of business, for,
to all appearances, he was utterly unprepared to take part in the
scrimmage to follow.

"Now, look at that fellow Merriwell!" said Jabez Lynch, loudly enough to
call attention of those about him. "That shows just how much he knows
about this game! He’s had luck, but he’s green as unripe cucumbers. He
isn’t ready to——"

Jabez stopped short, with a gasp of astonishment. He had not been the
only one who regarded Dick Merriwell as unprepared. The Rivermouth crowd
had fancied Dick would not be in the coming clash.

What was the astonishment of everybody but the Fardale players to see
Shannock deftly whirl and send the ball flying through the air toward
Merriwell!

It was a long pass to the side, and looked like a very bad break. But up
from his crouching position shot Dick in time to receive the pass
handsomely, and like a wild colt he dashed forward, having the oval
hugged to his heart.

Rivermouth was taken off her guard. She had fancied the attack would
come from the other side. Before she could recover, aided by very
successful interference, Dick Merriwell went round the right end and
planted the ball back of the goal-line.

Then Fardale woke up. It was a touch-down! How they did cheer!

And Teddy Smart yelled in the ear of Jabez Lynch:

"Isn’t it too bad that fellow Merriwell is so green! I’m ashamed of him,
aren’t you? I think he ought to be fired right off the team for doing
anything like that, don’t you?"

Jabez walked away without speaking.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                      MERRIWELL’S RUNNING TACKLE.


The ball was brought out, and, laughing his satisfaction, Captain Nunn
gave the honor of a try for goal to the dashing, dark-eyed chap who had
made the touch-down.

The cheering of the visitors was stilled as young Merriwell paused
before making the kick. For an instant Dick turned, and it was seen that
he looked toward the spot where his brother was standing. Frank smiled,
and the approval in that smile filled Dick’s heart with a glow.

"He’s proud of me!" thought the boy. "At last he’s proud of me!"

That was all the happiness he asked.

He went at the ball, and sent it over the cross-bar with a most graceful
kick, and Fardale was a point ahead of her powerful antagonist.

Two minutes of play remained in that half, and Rivermouth kicked off
without delay.

It was the object of Steve Nunn to kill time during those two minutes.
Fancying he saw a good opening for a run with the ball, which came
directly to him, he caught it and started. But Captain Rogers had
avoided every interferer, and Nunn did not make eight yards before
Rogers pounced upon him and slammed him to the ground.

Steve went down with such violence that he was somewhat stunned, and the
ball escaped from his grasp.

Ryan was there. He made a jump for it, together with Douglass, but the
Rivermouth man was the swifter, and he fell on the ball.

Not a second was lost in lining up. The whistle would blow in a very
short time, ending the half.

Apparently Rivermouth was prepared for a furious onslaught.

"Hold ’em—hold ’em, boys!" urged Captain Nunn. "It won’t be a minute!
They can’t score again this half!"

The moment the ball was snapped Fardale tried to break through and reach
it; but Rivermouth blocked these efforts most successfully for a few
moments.

During those few moments, instead of charging, Hurting again made a
drop-kick for goal. This time Dick Merriwell was unable to get through
and block the ball, nor did any one else interfere until Hurting had
made a clean kick.

Then the Rivermouth half-back was slammed to the ground, but it was too
late.

Over the cross-bar sailed the ball, the whistle sounded, and the home
team was in the lead by a score of 10 to 6.

Steve Nunn was a very sore fellow.

"I’m to blame for that fluke!" he muttered, in deep disgust, as the team
retired to the bar to rest a few moments and be rubbed down. “Somebody
ought to kick me!”

Zeb Fletcher came round while the players were being rubbed down, water
having been brought to the barn in buckets.

"Great work!" he said, pretending to be pleased. "I didn’t think we had
a chance once."

"Sheer off!" roared Brad Buckhart, his hand going to his hip, as if to
pull a shooting-iron. "That kind of praise makes me want to do some
target-practise."

Fletcher got away from Buckhart in a hurry, confiding to a friend that
the fellow from Texas was a great bluffer.

Frank Merriwell personally superintended the work of rubbing down the
men, giving directions and talking with the players. It was noticed that
he said no word to Dick Merriwell; he simply grasped the hand of his
brother.

Frank’s words to the team were sufficient to give them new courage. He
spoke in whispers to Captain Nunn, who listened gravely, nodding his
head.

"Fellows, we’re going to win this game," said Steve, when Frank had
passed on to some one else.

He was full of confidence, and this spirit was felt by the others. It
was plain enough that Merry did much good by his manner of speaking to
the players and encouraging them. He criticized, to be sure, but his
criticisms were not harsh and sneering, after the manner of some
coaches, for he knew there was no surer way of getting a young team
rattled and discouraged than by snarling at them and using harsh
language in making criticisms. He had seen such things done, and now he
would have guarded against it had his inclination been to make such
criticisms.

Thus it came about that Fardale returned to the field in good spirits,
every man ready to do his level best in the last half.

Fardale kicked off, Singleton again being the man. Big Bob made a very
handsome drive to within twelve yards of Rivermouth’s goal; but Hurting
promptly punted ten yards into the territory of the visitors.

Merriwell was under the ball, caught it, and jumped away like a flash,
avoiding the rush of Rogers. Nearly twenty yards Dick ran with the ball
before being tackled and brought to earth by Dana.

This was brilliant work for the Fardale half-back, and his admirers
cheered loudly.

With great courage Fardale lined up for the attack.

Up to this point Rivermouth had played an unusually clean game for them,
but now there came a change. In the very first charge, Stanton, who had
received severe usage in the first half, was slugged in the mêlée and
knocked out. When the ball was down Fardale’s right tackle was
discovered stretched on the ground, though the referee had not seen the
foul that laid him low.

Frank Merriwell’s sharp eyes had seen it, and he was indignant. He made
a demand that Twain be put out of the game, but this was ignored.

Stanton did not recover quickly, and so Hovey was substituted and the
game went on. Fardale seemed angry at what had happened and slammed into
the home team hard enough to advance the ball to the forty-yard line.

But there they stuck. Try as hard as they might, not another yard could
be made, and the oval went to Rivermouth on downs.

At once Rivermouth began a series of mass-plays that seemed to stagger
and daze the visitors. The first gain was four yards. Then six yards
were made. Then four more yards.

And then, with a revolving wedge, the home team literally hurled aside
and trampled on the Fardale line, carrying the ball across into the
territory of the visitors and within one foot of the fifty-yard line.

In this scrimmage Gordan went down with a twisted knee, and he could not
bear his weight on that leg when he was helped to his feet.

Another Fardale man had been knocked out, and he was almost carried from
the field, fighting to break away and get back into line. He was plainly
heard begging his assistants to let him go, asserting that he would be
all right in a minute.

"Wonder if they’ll substitute another plebe?" said Jabez Lynch, with a
sneer.

Sure enough, that was just what happened. Toby Kane, who had played
right end with the original plebe team organized by Dick Merriwell, was
put into the line as left guard, and Fardale was ready to resume the
defense.

"Now, wouldn’t that kill you to death?" exclaimed Lynch, in deep
disgust. "There are twenty other men who are better."

But somehow it seemed that this change had stiffened Fardale’s defense,
for two efforts to advance the ball resulted in no gain.

"They’re going to kick!" exclaimed many.

It did seem that this was the intention of the home team; but, at the
last moment, Captain Rogers fell back out of the line. The ball was
snapped and passed to Rogers. At the same time a compact mass of
interference struck Kane like a thunderbolt.

Out of this mass Rogers was flung, and away he went like the wind, two
men running with him. Buckhart tried to reach the runner, but he was
skilfully blocked. Blair made an effort to get in to Rogers and bring
him down, but again clever interference prevented success of the
attempt.

Rogers was past Merriwell before Dick could stop him, and then, with a
clear field, he went flying toward Fardale’s line.

"A touch-down! a touch-down!" roared the Rivermouth crowd.

"They’ll never catch that fellow!" cried a man. "There isn’t a man in
the county who can run with him!"

Indeed, Rogers was a wonderfully swift runner, and now he was covering
ground at a great rate. He laughed inwardly at the thought of the ease
with which he would secure a touch-down. Then behind him he heard the
thud-thud of flying feet, and he gathered himself for a supreme effort.

The witnesses had been astounded to see a slender youth start after
Rogers with great speed, and swiftly gain on the runner.

"It’s Merriwell!" was the cry, for by this time nearly every person on
the field had learned the name of the youth who had done such splendid
work for Fardale in the first half.

"He can’t run down Rogers!" roared a man.

"He’s doing it!" ejaculated another, in amazement. "Run, Rogers—run!"

Rogers did run, but he could not get away from those thudding footfalls,
which came nearer and nearer.

With set teeth and flashing eyes, Dick Merriwell ran down the flying lad
with the ball. Drawing close, Dick prepared for the most difficult sort
of a tackle. Of a sudden he seemed to shoot his body headlong through
the air. His hands fell on Rogers’ hips, slipped to the knees, clung
like hooks of iron, and down came the astonished runner on Fardale’s
twenty-yard line.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                           IN THE LAST DITCH.


The visiting witnesses shrieked till they were hoarse as crows and their
faces were almost black.

"Merriwell!" they howled. "What’s the matter with Merriwell?"

"He’s all right!" came the answer.

"’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Merriwell! Merriwell! Merriwell!"

Rivermouth watchers seemed too amazed to say anything for a time.
Finally they began to tell one another that Rogers had not done his
level best.

"He felt too sure," they said. "He might have made a touch-down if he’d
let himself out."

The ball was still in the possession of the home team, and the assault
on Fardale’s line was resumed.

Rivermouth was fierce now, and they resorted to play that was decidedly
yellow. Their first gain was full five yards, but they slugged two of
the Fardale players in their plunge. Again the referee declared he had
not seen the foul, but the home team was warned on the appeal of Captain
Nunn.

The next onslaught was upon Blair, who was not strong enough to
withstand it. Again there was rough work, and by this time the fighting
blood of the Fardale team seemed aroused.

Being on Fardale’s ten-yard line the home team was confident, and it was
discovered with astonishment that two more attempts had not netted a
gain worth considering. Then the ball was given to Ryan, who tried to
circle the end. Douglass brought him down after he had been blocked by
others, and the ball went to Fardale.

The visitors breathed easier, for their goal had been threatened. The
danger was still great, and it was thought best to punt.

Singleton was not given sufficient time, the line being unable to resist
Rivermouth’s charge, and his kick was therefore somewhat weak. However,
Kent was on hand when Newton captured the ball, and Newton was promptly
grassed thirty-eight yards from Fardale’s goal.

Again Rivermouth resumed her battering-ram style of playing, walking
into the visitors with a fierceness that seemed irresistible, and
steadily the ball advanced toward Fardale’s goal. In vain Fardale tried
to stand up before these attacks. Her line seemed to melt and crumble,
and gain after gain was made.

It must be confessed that Frank Merriwell was far from easy when he saw
this. Captain Nunn appealed to his men when the ball was down less than
eleven yards from the goal.

"We must stop it right here!" he said.

But they didn’t. Rivermouth’s next assault gave her full five yards.

"It’s all up with Fardale!" said Zeb Fletcher. "Those chaps are playing
horse with us now."

And no one had the heart to contradict him.

With their hearts in their mouths, the Fardale witnesses watched,
expecting the next attack of the enemy would mean a touch-down. But
Fardale stiffened up enough to stop the foe within two yards of the
line.

Then a lucky thing happened—lucky for Fardale. Rivermouth fumbled the
next pass, and Brad Buckhart dropped like a load of pig iron upon it,
having come through the line in one irresistible surge.

"Whoa-up!" grated the Texan Maverick. "I reckon this here business is
getting somewhat monotonous! It’s our turn to do a little hustling, and
we’re going to hustle!"

Fardale had kicked before when her goal was threatened, and it was
thought she would at once kick again. She aided in this belief by a show
of preparing to kick. But the ball went back to Nunn, who sought to
redeem his record by slipping through the center and making full seven
yards. This was encouraging, and it angered Rivermouth. Merriwell was
given his opportunity right away, and he beat Nunn’s gain by at least
half a yard.

By this time Dick was spotted by the Rivermouth players as dangerous,
and word had been passed round to make it hot for him whenever possible.
In the next effort Dick found himself held firm for some seconds, and
then those behind lifted him and he hurdled Rivermouth’s line for three
yards.

These efforts had carried the ball twenty yards from Fardale’s line. But
another attempt to hurdle resulted in utter failure.

Then Kent fell back, as if to take the ball and try for an end play.
This was an effort to deceive the home team, which resulted in nothing
at all, as, when the ball was passed to Nunn, Steve was held and dragged
down without a gain.

In this emergency it was decided best to kick, and Big Bob drove the
oval to the center of the field. The man who caught it was able to run
it back almost ten yards before being downed.

But Fardale had carried and driven the ball away from the danger-line,
and the watchers from the military academy were breathing easier. Still
the fighting seemed to be almost entirely in Fardale’s territory, and
this, with the fact that Rivermouth held the lead, made it seem dark for
the visitors.

Rivermouth went into Fardale in the same savage way, but this time, not
having been called to account for previous offenses, they were careless
in their playing, using their hands to fling the visitors aside, and one
fellow struck Dick Merriwell a stinging blow.

Instantly the whistle sounded, and the referee, awakened at last, gave
the ball to Fardale on a foul.

Once more Fardale had one of her lively spasms, and she made full ten
yards on her very first charge. With the ball close to the center of the
field, the cadets succeeded in once more pushing it over into the
territory of the enemy.

Now Fardale’s colors fluttered in the wind, and cheer followed cheer.
But, as on previous occasions when placed on the defensive, Rivermouth
refused to let Fardale gain more than four yards in the required number
of efforts, and the visitors lost the ball on downs.

Rogers dropped back from the line, the ball was snapped, a hole was torn
right through Fardale’s center, and the captain of the home team once
more sprinted for the cadets’ goal.

As on the previous occasion, Dick Merriwell was passed, and Rogers
seemed to have a clear field when one of the interferers blocked the
attempt of Bob Singleton to make a tackle.

"He’ll never catch me this time!" breathed Rogers, as he gathered
himself and ran as fast as it was possible for him to cover ground.

Never in all his life had he tried harder than at that moment; but, to
his untold amazement, he again heard those thudding feet behind him.

Was it possible Merriwell was in close pursuit? Perhaps it might be one
of his own team.

Rogers was unable to resist the desire to turn his head and see. He did
so, and his heart leaped into his throat, for bearing down upon him was
the same Fardale lad who had tackled him and spoiled the success of his
previous run.

Then it seemed to dawn on Rogers that behind him was a lad who could
outrun him in any kind of a race. However, he kept on, expecting to feel
at any moment those gripping hands.

He was not disappointed. Something touched him, clutched his legs, and
down he went with a shock that drove the breath from his body—a shock
that must have injured him seriously had he not been a trained athlete
in excellent condition.

For a second time in that half Dick Merriwell had made a masterly and
wonderful running-tackle. For a second time the witnesses roared forth
his name.

Of course, Dick’s enemies were disgusted, and none was more disgusted
than Zeb Fletcher.

"I can’t stand this!" muttered Zeb to himself. "Even if Fardale loses,
that duffer has covered himself all over with glory this day. I’ve got
to have a smoke to steady my nerves. Guess I’ll sneak off to the old
barn and smoke there."

So this envious fellow, with his heart full of jealous hatred, actually
left the field and slipped away toward the old barn, into which he
disappeared.

But, although Merriwell had stopped Rogers’ run, Rivermouth could not be
held there. Resuming her battering-ram style of playing, she hammered
into Fardale’s line for repeated gains, carrying the ball nearer and
nearer to the goal of the visitors.

Not till the ball was down within one yard of Fardale’s line did the
cadets check the advance.

In these savage onslaughts Rivermouth had stretched Fardale players on
the field repeatedly. Twice Douglass had seemed knocked out, but both
times he revived and insisted on staying in the fight. Buckhart was
bleeding and dirty, but still as stubborn as a mule. One of Kent’s eyes
was nearly closed, and that bothered him not a little. Burrows limped,
telling that he had been hurt, and, taken altogether, Fardale seemed
nearly used up.

Still, into these fellows Frank Merriwell had somehow instilled the
dogged spirit of Yale—a spirit that fights hardest in the last ditch,
when the battle seems most hopeless.

This was exactly what happened now. With the ball only one yard from
Fardale’s line, the cadets braced up and refused to let Rivermouth make
another inch.

Frank Merriwell’s heart swelled with pride as he saw those dirty,
battered, bloody boys stand there like the eternal hills and hurl
Rivermouth back repeatedly. He was proud of them then, and he would
remain proud of them, even though they lost the game. They had made a
most heroic fight and were deserving of all credit, whatever the result.




                               CHAPTER X.
                        VICTORY AND RETRIBUTION.


And there Fardale held the enemy until it secured the ball on downs,
which was something quite unexpected by Rivermouth.

But what could Fardale do? The question was soon answered. Captain Nunn
realized it would be a very bad thing to permit Rivermouth to secure the
ball again in that immediate neighborhood, and he resolved to see what
Dick Merriwell could do in the line of punting. So the ball was snapped
back and passed to Dick.

In that most exciting moment the boy seemed cool as a cake of ice. With
those Rivermouth fellows tearing their way through to tackle and slam
him to the ground, Dick turned the ball till it was just right, dropped
it correctly, and kicked it at precisely the proper second. He did not
see the result of the kick, for three wolves of the Rivermouth pack came
through and slammed him down. He saw stars, though.

The spectators uttered a cry of admiration, for never before had such a
beautiful punt been made on that field. Through the air the ball sailed
until it was caught by a Rivermouth player one yard from the center of
the field.

Kent had made a fast run down beneath the ball, and he was on hand to
bring to earth the right half-back of the home team before the latter
had advanced more than six yards.

Exasperated by the success of Fardale, Rivermouth attempted to resume
their heavy mass-plays; but now there was a change. The first effort
secured no ground. The second made a gain of five yards; but right there
Rivermouth stuck.

A double pass was tried, but Fardale discovered the trick and spoiled
its effectiveness. Still the home team was confident and refused to
kick, whereupon the ball went to Fardale on downs twelve yards from the
center of the field.

By this time Captain Nunn realized that something out of the ordinary
must happen to save the day. Rivermouth had a lead of four points, and
she had kept Fardale fighting on the wrong side of the field fully
nine-tenths of the time during this half.

In his heart, Jabez Lynch had one satisfaction, for he felt that Fardale
had no show of winning. Like Zeb Fletcher, however, he was angry because
Merriwell had found so many opportunities to make brilliant plays.
Unlike Fletcher, he did not leave the field.

Having secured the ball, Fardale smashed into Rivermouth with such
sudden energy that a clean gain of seven yards was made. Still the ball
remained in Fardale territory.

But now came a clever piece of passing and a fake assault on the center
of Rivermouth’s line. Apparently Nunn had the ball, but he passed it
behind him to Merriwell, who slipped like a flash round the home team’s
right end and was off. The trick was discovered quickly, and after Dick
started the whole pack.

Newton had been playing back of the line, and he bothered Dick, who
dodged first one way and then the other in the attempt to get past. Then
Dick made a daring dash, saw Nelson leap outstretched, felt his touch,
but sped on.

Only one man remained between Dick and the Rivermouth goal. That was
Hurting, who had been playing back in case Fardale attempted a surprise
kick.

Hurting cut in on Dick, forcing him toward the center of the field. But
it was seen that Merriwell stood a fair show of getting past the
full-back. This Dick accomplished and Fardale rose to roar, when
something happened.

Dick never knew what his foot struck, but he slipped and went down like
a flash. Up he sprang, but, before he could get under way again, Hurting
had reached him and he was flung full length, eighteen yards from the
desired goal. Those who knew how near the end of the game was drawing
said Fardale had lost her last chance.

When Dick arose he found he had turned his ankle, which pained him
sharply; but he set his teeth and said not a word.

The home team was desperate when it lined up so near its own goal, and
the attacks of the cadets were utterly lacking in strength to make a
gain. Captain Nunn believed the only chance was to get through for a
touch-down, and his persistence resulted in the loss of the ball after
the limit in efforts had been reached.

Rivermouth started right in to bear Fardale back. The first rush gained
more than five yards. Then the ball went round the end for five more.

And then happened another lucky thing for Fardale. On her thirty-yard
line Rivermouth fumbled, and Kane came through and got the ball.

"It’s all right, fellows," said Captain Rogers. "There is only about one
minute more of play, and they can’t score."

Rogers had been tipped to the time. His words were heard by the keen
ears of Dick Merriwell, who instantly appealed to Nunn for the privilege
of trying to kick a goal.

"It can’t be done from this angle," said Steve.

"It’s our only chance," declared Dick. "If you won’t let me try it, for
Heaven’s sake let somebody else!"

Steve gave in.

"Get ready," he said.

Rivermouth divined at once what Fardale meant to do, and she laughed
aloud.

"Not once in a hundred times!" she said.

Two lines of tired, dirty, dogged fellows crouched with their noses
together. Then the ball was snapped and passed to Dick.

Just long enough the line held the rushers. The boy again was cool as
possible, and again he kicked barely in time to get the ball off before
he was slammed down.

"It’s a miss!" yelled many.

But Dick had taken the wind into account, and the breeze caught the huge
yellow egg, veered it surely and swiftly, so that the ball passed over
the bar.

The goal was made, and less than thirty seconds later the whistle blew.
Fardale had won in the last minute of the game by this goal from the
field, the score being 11 to 10.

The diagram on the opposite page shows how the plays of the second half
were made:

              x x x x x x x xKICK OFF.
              — — — — — PUNTS
              ————————— RUNS
              1. ROGERS’ GREAT RUN
              2. MERRIWELL’S RUNNING TACKLE
              3. ROGERS’ SECOND RUN THROUGH CENTER.
              4. MERRIWELL’S SECOND GREAT TACKLE
              5. FARDALE’S DESPERATE STAND.
              6. MERRIWELL’S SPLENDID PUNT
              7. MERRIWELL’S RUN ROUND RIVERMOUTH’S RIGHT END.
              8. MERRIWELL KICKS GOAL FROM FIELD.

In the midst of the cheering came a sudden cry:

"Fire! fire! Gideon’s barn is afire!"

Smoke was seen issuing from one of the broken, upper windows of the old
barn.

"Our clothes are in there, boys!" shouted Steve Nunn, as he started on a
run for the barn. Others followed him, and one ran faster, soon
overtaking and passing Steve. It was Dick Merriwell.

As Dick approached the barn, a screaming, smoking figure came rushing
from the door, waving its arms in the air and shrieking for help. It was
Zeb Fletcher, who had retired to the haymow of the old barn to have a
smoke and fallen asleep while puffing at a cigarette. He awoke to find
himself and the haymow in flames.

Dick Merriwell ran to the fellow, caught him, flung him down, and rolled
him over and over, beating the fire with his bare hands, at the same
time shouting to Nunn:

"Bring a blanket from the barn! Quick! The poor fellow is burning to
death!"

Steve rushed into the burning barn and came out with a blanket, and
together they smothered the fire that was eating Fletcher’s clothes. But
Zeb had been burned severely, and he groaned and moaned and prayed in a
pitiful manner.

"I’m dying!" he screamed, in agony. "Oh, dear! It’s punishment! it’s
punishment!"

He looked at Dick in horror, and in the eyes of the boy he hated he saw
nothing but sympathy and pity.

"Don’t!" he moaned; "don’t look at me that way! Hate me! You would if
you knew! I tried to hurt you every way! I tried to——"

"Never mind that now," said Dick, kneeling beside the unfortunate
wretch. "You haven’t hurt me. They’re bringing a doctor. You’ll be all
right when he has cared for you."

"I’m going to die!" persisted Zeb. "I know it! Oh. the pain! I can’t
bear it! I tried to make you out a thief, and—your handkerchief——"

"Do you mean this one?" asked Professor Gunn, who had arrived on the
scene, taking from his pocket the handkerchief he had found in his room,
having on one corner the letters, "R. M."

"Yes!" gasped Zeb. "That’s it. I——"

"Here’s the doctor," said Dick Merriwell gently. "For Heaven’s sake,
doctor, do something for the poor fellow. It’s awful to have him in such
pain!"

The doctor made a hasty examination of Fletcher’s burns, soon applying
something to soothe the pain.

"We must remove him to the village at once," he said. "Wrap him in that
blanket so the air will not strike his wounds. I’ll attend to him as
soon as we can get him to my house."

"Are his burns dangerous, doctor?" asked Dick Merriwell, speaking so
that Zeb could not hear.

"Not necessarily so," was the answer, "though he’ll carry the marks for
life if he recovers."

"Poor fellow!" said Dick, once more. "I’m sorry for him!"

Then it was that Professor Gunn put an arm across Dick’s shoulders and
gave the boy a genuine embrace of affection.

"I want you to forgive me!" he said earnestly.

"You?" gasped Dick. "What for?"

"For being an old fool!" said the professor. "I’ll explain later."




                              CHAPTER XI.
                            A BOY’S REVENGE.


"Can you see them?"

"Sure thing."

"Are they practising?"

"Yes."

"Frank Merriwell there?"

"Yes; he is coaching."

Jabez Lynch was standing beneath the tree which Uric Scudder had
climbed, and he was the one who asked the questions. Uric had managed to
draw himself up to a somewhat perilous position near the end of a
bending branch, where he clung as he gazed away beyond the narrow fringe
of woods.

In a clearing beyond that fringe of woods the Fardale team was hard at
work in secret practise. Having no fenced field, from which unwelcome
spectators could be excluded, it became necessary for the eleven to
retire to this spot when it was decided to get in practise, for Frank
Merriwell did not care to have witnesses outside the regular players and
a few chosen and trusted substitutes.

Although Fardale had defeated Rivermouth, the most loyal and
enthusiastic cadet was obliged to confess that the result was brought
about principally through the splendid and amazing work of Dick
Merriwell. Rivermouth had seemed far too strong for Fardale, and honest
ones acknowledged that the cadets would not have scored once had
Merriwell been out of the game.

This filled Dick’s enemies with bitterness and envy, but they dared say
very little openly against the remarkable boy from the West. But both
friends and foes united in saying it was unfortunate when a team showed
up so weak that it could be seriously, perhaps fatally, crippled by the
loss of a single man.

While he was proud of his brother, Frank Merriwell quickly decided that
there must be less individual playing and more team-work. Fardale must
be put in such condition that the loss of a star player would not surely
defeat her.

Up to this time Frank had been content to drill Fardale in the simple
lines of the game; but the team had made such progress in learning these
things that he now determined to resort to more difficult plays.

Aware that Dick’s success had aroused a spirit of jealousy at home, and
knowing there might be traitors in camp, Frank decided on some secret
practise. Never before had Fardale started off so brilliantly in
football, and Merry was determined that the school should make a great
record that season, if possible.

So the eleven and the choice substitutes were taken out for practise in
this field, a long distance from the academy, where it was believed
there existed little danger from spies or traitors.

The players had gone off quietly, in order to avoid attention; but Uric
Scudder was on the watch, and his suspicious soul awakened. Before long
he had communicated his suspicions to Jabez Lynch, who found an
opportunity to slip away with Scudder and strike across lots in the
direction it was supposed the football team had gone.

Just what he hoped to accomplish, the chief rascal did not himself know,
but he wished to be fully informed concerning the plans and progress of
the eleven.

"Can you tell me what they are doing?" asked Lynch, with some eagerness.
"Can you make out their plays from there?"

"Yes, I can see them plainly," answered the fellow in the tree. "I take
it that Merriwell is drilling them in some new formation."

"I must see that!" exclaimed Jabez, starting to pull off his coat. "I’m
coming up."

"This limb won’t hold us both," said Uric.

"Then you had better come down. If Merriwell is putting the team up to
some new stunts, I’m going to find out what’s doing."

At this moment, however, came a sound that caused Jabez to pause. Not
far away somebody whistled sharply in the woods.

"What’s that?" exclaimed Scudder, startled. "Somebody’s coming."

"Keep still!" advised Lynch, in a guarded tone, although he looked
somewhat alarmed and quickly drew on his coat.

The whistle sounded nearer, and then a dog barked. Jabez Lynch stopped
for nothing, but scudded softly away, disappearing into the bushes.

"Hold on!" cried Uric, in alarm at thus being deserted. "Wait for me!
Don’t run off like that! Hold on!"

His cries seemed to bring some one hurrying toward the spot, and he
began descending the tree in great haste, making not a little noise in
doing so.

Then a huge dog came bounding into view, setting up a savage barking. At
that moment Scudder lost his hold, clutched wildly at a branch, turned,
and fell crashing through the limbs toward the ground, a yell of terror
escaping his lips.

It seemed that Scudder was in danger of landing on the ground with
sufficient violence to break his bones, and the fear that clutched his
heart when he felt himself falling was something he did not soon forget.

Fortunately for him, the sharp prong of a strong limb pierced his
trousers, and his downward flight was arrested with such suddenness that
he nearly lost his breath. There he hung, not more than twelve feet from
the ground, perfectly helpless.

His first feeling was one of intense relief and thankfulness. His hands
and face smarted from the stinging blows of the smaller branches,
received as he crashed through the tree, but he minded that not at all,
for had he not been saved from more serious injury by the abrupt
checking of his flight?

Then, directly beneath him, the dog began to leap and bark, showing a
shining lot of very savage-looking teeth.

Of a sudden Uric began to fear his trousers would not prove strong
enough to sustain him, and that he would fall into the waiting jaws of
the animal below. He tried to squirm about and get hold of the limb, but
found this was a difficult or impossible thing to do. He heard a boyish
voice crying:

"Tige—here, Tige!"

The dog barked still more fiercely, if possible.

"Hey, you Tige!" called the voice. "What are you doing there?"

"Help!" cried Uric. "Come quick and call your old dog off! Help! Help!"

"Hello!" shouted the boy, as he crashed nearer. "Tige’s got something
treed."

Then into view came a ragged, freckled, snub-nosed chap of fourteen,
carrying an old-fashioned muzzle-loading shotgun. The youngster stopped
and stared at Uric in amazement, holding the gun as if ready to shoot.

"Jiminy!" he ejaculated.

"What ails you?" snapped Uric angrily. "Take your dog away, will you?"

"Oh, golly!" cried the boy. "What you doin’ up there—hung yourself out
to dry?"

"You saucy monkey!" shouted Scudder. "Don’t you dare talk to me that
way! Oh, my trousers are tearing—oh! oh!"

"Oh! oh!" whooped the boy, in delight and derision. "You’ll be off in a
minute!"

"Please take that dog away!" begged Scudder. "He’ll pounce on me the
minute I drop! He’ll bite me!"

"If he does," said the youngster with the gun. "It’ll p’isen him, and
then you’ll have to pay damages."

"You young wretch! Don’t you see I’m in danger? Why don’t you do
something to help me? Do you want to see me killed? Do you want to see
me chewed up by that beast?"

"Perhaps I do," carelessly answered the boy, without a sign of sympathy.

"Why, you heartless young brute! You ought to be——"

"Now, don’t you go to callin’ too many names!" exclaimed the lad. "If
you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t. I’ve seen you before, an’ I ain’t forgot
about it, either. I made up my mind I’d remember you, and I have. I
guess you know what happened the last time we saw each other?"

"I don’t remember anything about it. Can’t you climb up here and help me
somehow? I’ll pay you for it. I’ll——"

"Oh, yes!" cried the boy, in great sarcasm. "I know you—I know how
you’ll pay me! The same way you paid me for the apples I brought you out
of our orchard two weeks ago. I ain’t forgot that; have you? You said
you’d give me five cents to bring you a hatful of apples, and I brought
them. Then you kicked me, and when I follered you and asked for my five
cents you throwed my hat in the brook and pushed me in after it. Oh, I’m
the same feller you done them things to, and I kinder think it’s my turn
to do a few things to you, mister."

Uric remembered all these things with some alarm, and he quickly said:

"Oh, I was just fooling with you, kid. Can’t you stand a joke?"

"Sure thing," chuckled the boy. "I’m the greatest feller to stand a joke
you ever saw. And this is the kind of a joke I like to stand."

Scudder was furious.

"If I can get my hands on you again," he thought, "I’ll break your
back!"

Aloud he said:

"Can’t you get a ladder somewhere and help me down? I’ll give you ten
cents if you do."

"Will ye, honest?" exclaimed the boy, with pretended eagerness.

"Honest."

"All of ten cents?"

"Yes."

"To keep you from droppin’ and breakin’ your neck?"

"Yes, to keep me from——"

"It ain’t worth it," grinned the boy; "but I guess I’ll do it. Just you
hang on there till I come back. Old Eb Jones lives over here on the road
a piece, and there’s a ladder right by his barn. I’ll be back in a
hurry, an’ I’ll leave Tige right here to watch you. Hey, Tige, keep your
eye on him, boy."

"Bow-wow!" barked Tige, glaring at Uric in a vicious way, as if longing
to rend him with his keen teeth.

"Oh, take your dog away!" cried the unfortunate boy in the tree. "Don’t
leave him here!"

"Oh, he’s all right!" declared the boy. "He can’t reach you."

"But what if my trousers give? Take him away, I say! Please don’t leave
him here!"

But the boy ran off, laughing, having left his old gun leaning against a
crotched sapling.

"The young brat!" snarled Uric. "Wait till I get down! I won’t do a
thing to him—not a thing! Oh, I’ll make him sick! If I can get my hands
on his old gun I’ll shoot his dog, too!"

Then the dog growled fiercely, as if understanding Uric’s words.

"You mongrel!" grated Scudder. "If I can——"

He twisted about in another attempt to get hold of the limb, but again
his efforts caused his trousers to give a little, with an ominous sound,
and he quickly desisted from the trial.

"The boy’ll bring a ladder pretty quick," he said. "I can’t stand it
hanging here much longer! My head is beginning to feel dreadfully bad."

The dog sat down beneath the tree, licking its jaws and turning its eyes
upward toward the dangling figure.

It was a long and tedious wait for the return of the boy, but at last
Uric heard him coming through the bushes.

"Hurry up!" cried Scudder.

"Be there in a minute," was the answer.

"Did you bring the ladder?"

"No; but I brought something else."

The lad came into view, carrying his old hat in both hands, and the hat
was full of eggs.

Scudder’s head seemed to swim. Through a haze he saw that hatful of
eggs, and he was dazed and bewildered.

"What have you got?" he gasped.

"Fruit!" chuckled the boy. "Found ’em over at Jones’ barn. I gave you a
hatful of fruit once before and didn’t get anything for it, and now I’m
going to give you another hatful. Oh, golly! Tige, ain’t we goin’ to
have some fun!"

A feeling of despair seized upon Uric Scudder.

"Don’t you dare!" he gasped.

The boy carefully placed the hat on the ground.

"The most of this fruit is dead ripe," he grinned. "It’s been layin’ in
an old nest under the barn till it ripened off fust-rate. Now this, for
instance"—selecting one of the eggs—"is the real thing. Jest open your
mouth and let me see how nigh I can come to it."

"If you throw that at me——" began Uric.

Whiz!—Spat!

The aim of the kid was excellent, and the egg struck the dangling boy on
his breast, spattering in a slimy, yellow mass over the cadet’s shirt.

Oh, the smell that assailed Uric’s nostrils! It made him sick and faint!

"Stop it!" he hoarsely yelled.

The boy selected another egg.

"This one," he said, "is a better specimen than t’other. Bet I can hit
you right in the left eye with it."

Whiz!—Spat!

Uric managed to move his head, so that the egg struck him where he wore
his hat on ordinary occasions, filling his hair.

"He, he!" laughed the boy.

"Bow-wow!" barked Tige, prancing about beneath the tree.

"Ain’t it fun!" whooped the urchin. "Oh, dear me! I don’t believe I ever
had so much fun!"

"I’ll kill you!" screamed Uric, kicking wildly, regardless of the danger
of falling.

"Oh, I’m just foolin’ with you," said the freckled youngster. "Can’t you
stand a joke?"

"If you throw another——"

Whiz!—Spat!

The third egg struck Uric on the forehead and spattered into his eyes.
The dangling target yelled again, but his cries were choked, for the
fourth egg hit him fairly in the mouth.

"He! he! he!" shrieked the boy. "This is more’n five cents’ worth of
fun! Kicked me for a joke, didn’t ye? Pushed me into the brook for a
joke, hey? Well, take that! and that! and that!"

The eggs flew thick and fast now, and hardly one missed the unfortunate
wretch in the tree. The dog barked and the boy laughed, while Uric could
scarcely groan.

Of a sudden, the dog pricked up its ears, faced off toward the north,
and barked.

"Somebody comin’, Tige?" said the boy quickly. "Well, we’re pretty near
done with this job. Here go the last two eggs. Can’t miss with them."

Spat! spat!—both eggs landed.

"Good-by," said the boy, catching up his gun. "Next time you kick a
feller take somebody of your size. Hope you’ve had lots of fun. I have."

With these words he hurried away into the woods, the dog following,
leaving the wretched boy in the tree to get down as best he could.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                      THE HUMILIATION OF SCUDDER.


The Fardale football-team, returning to the academy after a period of
sharp practise, were surprised to hear feeble cries for help. Upon
investigation they found Uric Scudder still hanging from the limb of the
tree, as he had been left by the revengeful youngster.

"What it is?" grunted Big Bob Singleton, placing his hands on his hips
and staring in astonishment at the egg-bespattered chap.

"Whoop!" cried Brad Buckhart. "From the smell I should say it’s
something that has died."

Although not on the team, Teddy Smart had been permitted to witness the
practise.

"My! my! what a delightful odor!" he chirped. "Talk about your attar of
roses! This has any old attar skinned to death!"

"For Heaven’s sake help me!" whined Uric. "I’m almost dead!"

"Blowed if I didn’t think you’d been dead a long time!" said Buckhart.
"Whatever has happened to you, anyhow?"

"I’ll tell you after you take me down," promised Scudder. "Oh, somebody
shall pay for this!"

Like a shadow a strange figure came out of the woods near at hand. It
was an Indian, whose footfalls seemed to make absolutely no sound.

"Joe!" exclaimed Dick Merriwell, instantly recognizing Old Joe Crowfoot.

"Ugh!" grunted the redskin, a strange twinkle in his small black eyes.

"Perhaps he knows something about this," said Steve Nunn, captain of the
eleven, with a motion toward Scudder.

"Joe know," nodded the old fellow. "Joe him been near in woods. Him
know."

"Then how did it happen?" asked Frank Merriwell himself.

"Him come with odder one to watch football," explained Joe. "When um git
here, him climb tree to see. Odder one him stay on ground. They hear
somebody. Odder one he run. This one try to git down heap quick. Him
fall; git ketched. See?"

"So he was playing the spy on us?" exclaimed Dick Merriwell, his eyes
beginning to flash.

"Heap so," said the Indian. "Joe him watch um play spy. When odder one
run boy come with gun an’ dog. This one him fall, git ketched so. He ask
boy to help. Boy him say, ‘Ha! ha!’"

"The boy felt bad," chuckled Teddy Smart. "He shed tears."

"Some time this one him kick boy, knock him in water. Boy him say ’bout
that. This one him say it joke. This one him tell boy give ten cent to
help um down."

"Ah! such boundless generosity!" burst from Teddy. "Such open-hearted
munificence."

"Boy he say him go git ladder," Joe went on. "Him go off, leave dog here
to watch. He come back with hat full of egg. Ugh! Then him git square
for kick."

"Cruel boy!" sobbed Teddy. "Oh, how I hate that boy!"

"Boy he throw heap straight," said the old Indian. "Spy he kick an’
yell! Boy him laugh. Say it joke."

"Oh, what a bad, bad boy!" sighed Smart, with such a comical look of
grief that nearly every one burst into laughter. "After this generous
chap had kicked him, once on a time, he was heartless enough to return
the kindness by pelting him with rotten eggs. That boy should be
severely punished."

"Oh, for the love of goodness, help me down!" begged Scudder weakly.
"I’m nearly dead."

"I don’t wonder," guffawed Brad Buckhart. "And you offered to give that
boy ten cents to help you down?"

"And he gave you more than ten scents, and let you stay," said Ted
Smart. "What a horrid boy!"

Of a sudden, Dick Merriwell burst into a peal of laughter, struck by the
comical side of the affair.

"Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha!" he shouted. "I can’t help laughing! Ha! ha! ha!
ha! What a sight he is!"

"I am surprised at you!" said Ted Smart severely. "Such levity is most
reprehensible! Stop it this minute! Go ’way back and sit down!"

But Dick’s laughter was so infectious that all the others present,
excepting Old Joe, Smart, and Scudder were compelled to join him. In
that moment not a few of them who had regarded him as silent and lacking
in humor suddenly understood that bottled in this peculiar lad was a
streak of merriment that might, burst forth on provocation and prove
decidedly catching.

"Stop it! stop it!" cried Smart, holding in with difficulty. "I’m
ashamed of you! You make me want to shed tears. Oh, dear! I know I’m
going to cry in a minute!"

Then, unable to restrain himself longer, he joined in the outburst.

"Laugh at me!" screamed Scudder, beginning to kick. "Oh, you’ll all be
sorry some time! Oh, you’ll——"

There came a tearing sound, and then the unlucky youth suddenly dropped,
his trousers having given way beneath the continued strain. Fortunately,
he fell sprawling and was not much hurt. He sat up, wiping the sticky,
yellow mass from his eyes, and shaking his clenched fist at the ring of
hilarious lads.

"Laugh!" he snarled furiously. "I hate you all—I hate you! I hate you!"

His aspect was so ludicrous that the merriment of the party was
augmented.

"Somebody ought to shoot it and put it out of its misery," said
Buckhart.

"That’s what you get, Scudder, for playing the spy, and it serves you
right," said Steve Nunn. "Perhaps this will teach you a lesson. You were
trying to watch our private practise for no good reason. I haven’t a
doubt that you would give away our plays if you could. You’re so mean
that you’d like to see Fardale beaten, just because you happen to
dislike somebody on the team, and that prevents anybody from having
sympathy with you now."

"Oh, how can you talk to him so!" exclaimed Teddy Smart.

"Hereafter," grunted Bob Singleton, "we’ll have to call him the Scented
Plebe."

"Eggscellent!" said Smart. "But I think it too harsh. Hen Fruit would be
an eggstry fine name for him. I think no one can take eggsceptions to
that."

"I suggest Eggs as terse and applicable," put in Dick Merriwell, "and I
hereby christen him Eggs."

"That’s perfectly rotten!" from Smart.

"Let me take him," urged Old Joe.

"Take him," said Buckhart. "I don’t think anybody else wants him."

"Ugh!" grunted the Indian. "Joe take care of him. He play no more spy."

Scudder shook with fear.

"Don’t let that old devil touch me!" he whined, crawling toward Dick
Merriwell. "He’ll mind you. Don’t let him touch me!"

Dick drew aside in disgust.

"Back up!" rumbled Singleton.

"Keep away from me!" commanded Dick. "You brought it on yourself."

"Don’t let that Indian touch me!" entreated Scudder.

"He won’t touch you. He won’t dirty his hands on you."

"But we all ought to take a kick at the onery galoot," said the Texan
Maverick. "If I had a gun I’d enjoy shooting it full of holes."

"You’re all a set of brutes!" burst from Uric, in sudden anger. "I won’t
forget this!"

"I hope not," said Nunn. "It will be a good thing for you to remember.
Come on, fellows; let’s leave him."

"But the Indian!" gasped Scudder. "He will——"

"He oughter take your scalp," declared Brad, as he started away.

Then the others turned to leave Uric, who uttered a cry of fear, sprang
up, and ran wildly into the woods. Old Joe made a move to follow, but
Dick touched his arm, saying:

"Let him go."




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                           TREACHEROUS URIC.


Of course, all Fardale Academy soon knew what had happened to Uric
Scudder, the story being repeated and told in various forms, and it
seemed that the entire academy fell to laughing over it. It appeared to
be the universal opinion that the fellow had met his just deserts, and
no one seemed to express sympathy.

Thus it came about that the nickname of "Eggs" was applied to Uric from
all sides. Dick Merriwell’s appellation stuck.

Scudder was filled with mortification and fury. Whenever he appeared on
the grounds where the boys were gathered to chat during intermission he
was gravely addressed as "Eggs." If he objected to that, perhaps he was
called "Chickens," or "Cluck-cluck," or something equally as irritating.
As he hurried past one group a boy commenced to cackle like a hen, while
another crowed in imitation of a rooster.

"Merriwell is to blame for it!" he panted, after repeated experiences of
the sort. "And I have to room with him!"

With his heart filled with fury and his face flushed with shame, Uric
hurried to his room. A sentry in the corridor, pacing slowly up and
down, clucked like a setting hen.

Scudder fairly tore into his room. There sat Dick Merriwell, studying,
by the window. Without a word, Uric caught up a chair and swung it over
his head in a fury of passion uncontrolled, intending to strike Dick
unawares.

The chair was caught and twisted from his grasp. At the same time he
received a blow under the ear that sent him against the wall with a
bang.

"Don’t try that kind of a game here!" exclaimed the harsh voice of Hugh
Douglass, whom Uric had not observed, but who had been dusting the room,
it being his week as room orderly.

Douglass was not a handsome chap, and he looked uglier than ever just
now, as he glared at Scudder.

Dick Merriwell had turned like a flash and was looking on.

"What’s the matter, Douglass?" he asked.

"This fellow was going to hit you with a chair," answered Hugh. "He just
came in and caught up a chair quick as a flash, but I don’t think he saw
me."

"Why should he hit me?" said Dick.

"You know why!" panted Scudder. "You are to blame for it all! You’ve
done everything you could to humiliate me since coming here! Now, you
have all the fellows calling me Eggs! You are the one, Merriwell!"

A flash of scorn came to Dick’s dark eyes.

"That is the way you reason, Scudder. You do not pause to consider that
you brought it on yourself. I know a few things about you that I have
never told. I know that within a week after entering this academy you
were playing the sneak and the traitor to your class. You were carrying
tales to the yearlings."

"It’s a lie!"

"If you were worth it, I’d make you swallow that! You know it is true. I
know it! I know you met Singleton and several others of the yearlings in
the Wolf’s Den within a week after entering school, and there plotted to
do me up. The result of that plot was a little fight in Chadwick’s
pasture one night, and you had to meet me first. If, at the time, I had
known as much as I do now, I’d have used you rougher than I did."

Scudder could not deny the accusation, and he inwardly confessed that
Merriwell seemed to have a way of finding out every move made and every
word spoken against him.

"That old sneak of an Indian told you!" he snapped. "Somebody ought to
shoot him!"

Dick smiled grimly.

"He’s a bad chap to fool with, Scudder, as you and your sort have
already discovered. Better let him alone. In fact, in the future, you
had better mind your own business and let me alone. You will be better
off, for I shall get mad pretty soon, and when I get mad I may hurt you.
Let him alone, Douglass. He won’t do anything. I doubt if he would have
had courage enough to strike me with the chair when I wasn’t looking."

And Dick Merriwell coolly sat down and resumed study.

"Better take heed," said Douglass. "Because if he doesn’t soak you by
and by, I shall. You ought to be fired out of Fardale."

"That’s what you’re all working for!" flung back Uric. "But you won’t
succeed in getting me out."

"You’ll succeed in getting yourself out if you keep on," declared Hugh,
resuming his work of putting the room in order.

All this simply served to make Scudder more malicious than ever. While
he feared Dick Merriwell, he continued to seek to devise some means of
hurting the popular young plebe, for Dick was becoming popular.

It was Dick’s work on the football-field that was fast making him
popular, something Scudder well understood. If Merriwell could keep at
it as he had begun, he would make such a record at football as few of
his years ever accomplish.

So Uric desired to injure Dick somehow in the way of football. Fardale
was to play Hudsonville at Fardale the following Saturday, and on Friday
morning Jack Glennon, of the Hudsonville team, received the following
letter:

  "MR. JACK GLENNON.

  "DEAR SIR: If you will meet me in Fardale at half-past nine o’clock
  Saturday morning, I will tell you how to defeat the Fardale Academy
  team. I have particular reasons for wishing Fardale to lose, and I
  believe you are the one who can fix it so that Hudsonville will surely
  win if you follow my tip. By Saturday I expect to know all about the
  new plays Fardale is learning in secret practise. You can reach
  Fardale on the nine A. M. train, and I will be at the post-office at
  half-past nine. I know you by sight, and will speak to you. I will not
  sign my name to this, as it might fall into hands for which it is not
  intended. Be sure to meet me in Fardale as directed."

Now, Glennon was the big center-rush of the Hudsonville team, and his
record was none too clean. His playing the previous season had caused
vigorous protests from many of the teams encountered by Hudsonville, and
Scudder had picked him out as a fellow who would do pretty nearly
anything to win a game, hence the letter.

Glennon quickly decided to meet the writer in Fardale and find out what
it all meant. Therefore, he reached the academy town ahead of the
Hudsonville team on Saturday, and hung about the post-office. But
nine-thirty came and passed, and Glennon began to think the whole
business was a hoax.

"I’ve been fooled!" he muttered, in disgust. "Bet a dollar some of the
Fardale gang are around laughing at me this minute."

A boy in uniform passed him and walked to the delivery-window, at the
same time looking sharply around. Glennon was going out when the
uniformed lad touched his arm, saying in a low tone:

"I wrote that letter. Follow me."

It was Uric Scudder.

When they were outside Glennon started to walk along beside Uric, but in
a low tone the latter quickly said:

"Better not let people see us together. Lots of these townies take in
the matches. Somebody might have something to say. Just chase me up till
it’s safe for us to chin. I’ll give you the tip."

Scudder walked away in a careless manner, and Glennon followed at a
little distance. In this manner they left the main street of the village
and proceeded toward The Harbor, which was the poorer part of the town.
Scudder knew there was little danger that any one from the academy would
see them there. Coming to an old lumber-yard, he stopped and waited for
the follower to come up.

Glennon sauntered up, a grin on his face.

"What is this deal, anyhow?" he demanded. "What kind of a game are you
putting up on me?"

"No game at all," said Uric quickly. "Come round here behind this pile
of lumber."

"Now, if you’re up to tricks——" began the chap from Hudsonville.

"Forget it. Come on. Somebody might happen along the road."

Prepared for anything, Glennon followed. When they were behind the
lumber-pile Uric said:

"We can sit down here and talk it over. Haven’t much time, for I must
get back to the academy in short order."

They sat down, and the traitor produced cigarettes, which he offered to
the other, who refused them, with a curl of his thick lips.

"I’m in training," said Glennon.

"Oh, what’s the odds!" from Uric. "All this business about training is
mostly rot. Lots of fellows in training smoke on the sly."

"The more fools they!" declared the Hudsonville chap.

"It isn’t your conscience that keeps you from smoking?"

"No; it’s my sense. A man who smokes cigarettes right along has no
business trying to play football. Now, what did you mean by the letter
you sent me, if you sent it?"

"I sent it, all right, and I meant just what I said."

"You promised to tell me how we could defeat Fardale in the game this
afternoon."

"Yes."

"Well, I confess that you aroused my curiosity, and I got a notion to
hear what you had to tell. But I can’t see why you should wish to give
anything away, for you’re a Fardale man."

"And a chap I hate worse than poison is on that team," said Uric,
rubbing his narrow chin with his fingers. "I am ready to do anything to
down him."

"Oh, that’s it. Well, Fardale has been pretty lucky this year. She never
started off so strong before. In fact, we’ve reckoned Fardale as easy
meat in the past; but I’m willing to acknowledge that she worried us a
little by downing Rivermouth. If it hadn’t been for that, no attention
would have been paid to your letter. We beat Rivermouth to open the
season, but it was by a fluke. If it hadn’t been for that fluke, they
would have held us for a tie game. They’ve got a fierce old team this
season, and everybody our way expected they would wipe up the earth with
you chaps. When you beat them we had fits. Now, if you can give us a tip
that will make it easy for us to walk over Fardale, I shall be much
obliged. Does that pay the bill, or are you looking for dough?"

"I want no dough. All I want is for you to rub it into Fardale hard. The
fellow I hate was the fellow who beat Rivermouth, and he’ll beat you
to-day if you don’t take my tip. His brother is coaching the team,
and——"

"So that’s it!" exclaimed Glennon. "You’re talking about Dick
Merriwell?"

"You’ve heard of him?"

"I guess yes! We knew there was something doing when we heard Frank
Merriwell was coaching Fardale. Then came the stories of the doings of
this Dick Merriwell. He must be a holy terror."

Scudder turned almost green.

"Now, wouldn’t it kill you to death to have a fellow like him get a
reputation!" he snarled. "He’d never made the team this year if Frank
Merriwell hadn’t been coach."

"But he can play the game, can’t he?"

"He has devilish luck—or something," said Scudder. "I never saw anything
like it. He gets all the chances."

"You said something about new plays Fardale has been learning in secret
practise. Now, if you can tell me what those plays are, it will make us
wise, and we’ll be ready for them."

"I’m sorry," confessed Uric; "but I haven’t been able to find out much
about them. I thought I’d get onto them, all right, but I’ve had hard
luck."

"Then you don’t know what they are?" asked Glennon, in disappointment.

"No."

"Well, what are you going to tell me?" growled the displeased
Hudsonville chap. "What’s all the guff you gave me in the letter?"

"I’m going to tell you how to win the game," said Uric positively, "even
though I can’t tell you the plays, as I hoped to do."

"Go ahead."

"There’s just one way to do it."

"That is?"

"Play Merriwell to a finish early in the game. They say you’re pretty
good at putting men out of the game when they prove too troublesome."

"Well, I have done such a thing," admitted Glennon, with a grin that was
far from pleasant.

"Do it again! Put your whole team onto the trick. Aim right at Merriwell
from the start. Break his legs, collar-bone, neck, any old thing; but be
sure to put him out of the game for good. I’d be happy if you could fix
him so that he’d never play football again."

"You must hate him some!"

"Why shouldn’t I? But you don’t know my reasons. You may think me a
pretty mean fellow to turn against my own team this way," said Uric
sadly, "but that is because you know nothing of my reasons. I never
harmed this chap Merriwell, but he has done everything in his power to
disgrace me and drive me out of the school. He has abused me, lied about
me, and everything else from the very start. Oh, he’s the meanest chap
on two legs! They say that Frank Merriwell is a pretty decent fellow,
but it’s certain his brother is not much like him. Of course, Frank
Merriwell stands up for his brother, because he is his brother. But Dick
Merriwell will do anything mean or low to hurt a chap he hates. I’m not
going to tell you all he has done to me, because——"

"No need of it," cut in the other. "I didn’t come here to hear about
your personal troubles. But is this tip the only pointer you can give
me?"

"It’s enough—if you follow it. Do up Dick Merriwell, and you’ll surely
win the game. Fail to do him up, and he’ll find a way to beat you, even
if you have a lead up to pretty near the last of it. Mark what I say;
he’ll find a way to beat you, and he will be the one to do the trick.
Just promise me that you’ll put him out in short order, and I’ll have
some courage to see the game. If you won’t promise that, I’ll hardly
care to watch it, for I know what he’ll do."

"Well, don’t you worry," said Glennon, in a significant way. "We’ll be
pretty sure to put anybody who is dangerous out of business. If you
really want to see Fardale beaten as bad as you pretend, just be sure to
watch the game this afternoon. That’s all I have to say."

"All right," nodded Scudder, with satisfaction, rising to his feet.
"I’ll be on hand. And I’ll look for you to knock Merriwell out inside of
ten minutes after the game begins. Of course, you know how to do the
trick without being disqualified."

"Leave that to me," said Glennon, also rising.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                              A HOT CHASE.


"Oh, wait a minute!" exclaimed Scudder, struck by a sudden, thought as
he was turning away. "That letter."

"What letter?"

"The one I wrote you."

"What about it?"

"Better let me have it."

"What for?"

"Well, you know it might happen to fall into the hands of somebody who
would make trouble."

"No danger of that."

"All the same, I’ll feel better if you pass it over. You can’t have any
use for it now."

"Why, of course not; but I hope you don’t think I’d throw you down by
giving it up?"

"Certainly not," said Uric, as he rubbed his chin and assumed a smiling
air; "but it’s best to be safe."

"I don’t believe I have it here," said Glennon, feeling in his pockets
and bringing out some letters and papers. "If I have, you are welcome to
it. I’ve got a lot of trash here that don’t amount to anything."

He commenced running the letters and papers over, tossing some of them
aside in a careless manner.

"Of course," said Scudder, "I didn’t sign my name to the letter, and I
did disguise my handwriting; still, I’d rather see the thing burned, and
then I’ll feel safe, for my word is as good as anybody’s."

"Well, here it is," said Glennon, handing the letter over.

Uric drew a breath of relief as he seized it.

"We’ll soon fix that," he said, producing a match. "I’ll burn the thing
right here."

As he struck the match and prepared to apply the flame to the letter the
head of a ragged, freckled-faced lad of fourteen rose and peered down
over the edge of the lumber-pile. The boy was lying flat on his stomach
on top of the timber, where he had listened to all that passed between
Scudder and the fellow from Hudsonville.

The eyes of the boy glistened and seemed to be measuring the distance
from the pile of lumber to the spot where the worthy pair were standing.
With a look of longing he gazed at that letter, while his fingers worked
nervously.

"Confound it!" exclaimed Scudder, as a gust of wind blew out the match.

He struck another, and just then a rough-looking man appeared in the
yard, saw the two young boys, and instantly cried:

"Here, there! what are you fellows doing? You have no business smoking
or lighting matches in this yard. Get out of here, or I’ll have you both
arrested!"

While the attention of Scudder and Glennon was turned toward the man,
the boy rose softly, slipped over the edge of the pile of lumber,
dropped like a cat to the ground, and darted forward.

In a twinkling he had snatched the letter from Scudder’s hand and was
off as fast as he could run. Uric uttered an exclamation of astonishment
and dismay.

"Here! here!" he shouted. "Stop, you young rascal!"

"Stop me!" invited the boy.

"I’ll stop you!" snarled Uric, as he started after the lad. "Come on,
Glennon! I’ll give you five dollars to help me catch that brat!"

It may be this offer tempted Glennon, or perhaps the fellow thought it
best to get out of the yard before the man could get hold of him;
anyhow, he started with Scudder in hot pursuit of the running boy, who
was making off as fast as his legs could carry him.

"I know that young whelp!" grated Uric, remembering his experience with
the boy and the dog in the woods. "I owe him a score, and I’ll willingly
give five dollars to settle it."

The boy looked back at them and whooped gaily, kicking up his heels. He
waved the letter over his head, tauntingly yelling:

"Don’t you wish you had it?"

"I’ll get it!" panted Scudder. "Run, Glennon—run! I’ll surely give you
five dollars if you catch him!"

"Then he’s my meat!" said the Hudsonville chap, as he sprinted after the
boy, who had reached the road and was making off toward The Harbor.

Glennon was a swift runner, and he soon led Scudder, whose wind had been
impaired by cigarette-smoking.

The boy quickly realized that it would not be an easy thing to get away
from one of his pursuers, and he set his teeth and ran as if his life
depended on the effort. Over the crest of the rise they went, and
started down the road toward The Harbor, a huddled collection of old
buildings and decaying wharves.

At one time this had been the main part of Fardale village, but with the
advent of the steam railroad there had come a change, and the
respectable portion of the town had "moved over the hill."

Straight for the old wharves ran the lad with the letter, Glennon
seeming to gain on him each moment. A few rough people about the old
huts looked on in languid interest. An old woman, with her apron thrown
back over her shoulder and her hands on her hips, stood by a rickety
gate and laughed.

Straight to the nearest wharf Glennon and Scudder pursued the boy. An
old vessel lay at the pier, and the lad leaped onto her deck. Glennon
followed, and Scudder was not far behind.

"Now we’ve got you!" cried Glennon triumphantly.

"In your mind!" flung back the boy, as he dodged round the cabin of the
vessel.

The Hudsonville chap pursued him round, the boy laughing tauntingly.

"Head him off the other way!" cried Glennon to Scudder.

"All right," said Uric. "Let me get my hands on him! Won’t I make him
sick!"

But the lively lad darted away from the cabin, avoiding both of his
followers.

"You fellers are too slow!" he grinned, as he thumbed his nose at them
from the forward deck.

"I’ll show you how slow I am if we ever catch you!" grated Uric.

As they charged for him, the boy suddenly ran up the shrouds like a
monkey. The shrouds were rotten, however, and threatened to break
beneath his weight.

"Come on!" invited the freckled youngster. "Come on up!"

"Come down!" snarled Scudder.

"Come up and bring me down!"

"I’ll bring you down without coming up!" declared Uric savagely, as his
hand went round to his hip pocket. He drew a revolver.

"If you don’t come down," he said, pointing the weapon at the boy, "I’ll
shoot you!"

The boy was frightened now, but he went yet higher on the shrouds.

"Stop!" cried Scudder. "I’m not fooling! By the blazes! if you don’t
come down, I’ll begin shooting!"

"Better come down, kid." said Glennon. "He can’t fail to hit you there
if he fires."

But the boy had mounted to the cross-trees, where he suddenly caught a
dangling rope. Before the two fellows below were aware of his
intentions, the lad had wound a leg round that rope, and down he came
like a streak alongside the mast.

Glennon jumped for him, but the boy struck the deck and dodged the
outstretched hand of the Hudsonville youth. Then he again ran the length
of the vessel, dodged round the cabin, and escaped over the side to the
old wharf.

But Scudder was hot after the fugitive now, and it seemed that the
youngster must be captured in a few seconds.

"Ain’t got me yet!" panted the boy, as he darted round a corner of the
old wharf-building.

Scudder uttered an exclamation of anger at this, but followed the lad
closely.

Between two of the buildings the lad disappeared. Uric plunged in there,
and a cry of satisfaction broke from his lips, for he had the lad
penned, there being a huge opening in the rotten flooring between the
buildings.

"Now, I’ve got you!" grated Scudder, in triumph. "And I’ll give you just
what you deserve!"

He jumped for the boy, who was standing on the edge of the opening. The
desperate lad had not given up, however, and he suddenly crouched and
leaped to spring across the opening.

Uric saw the boy’s feet slip on the wet and rotten planking, saw the
little fellow fail to land on the farther side of the opening, saw him
strike heavily against the timbers, and then go whirling downward.

The whirling body of the boy struck in the water beneath the old wharf.

"Where is he?" asked Glennon, behind Scudder.

"Down there!" answered Uric, pointing through the opening.

"Then he——"

"Tried to jump across."

"Failed?"

"Yes; slipped."

"Fell in the drink, eh?"

"Struck on the edge over there. Dropped back limp as a rag. Never made a
sound."

"Stunned?"

"I think so."

"Great Scott! Perhaps he’ll drown!"

Glennon was on his knees peering down through the opening.

"See him?" questioned Scudder.

"No."

Uric knelt and looked down; Beneath the old wharf it was dark and slimy,
with the running tide swashing against the green spiles. The sound of
the water sent a chill over Scudder.

"Hey, boy!" called Glennon. "Where are you?"

His voice echoed hollow and ghostly beneath the wharf. There was no
answer.

"This is bad!" said the Hudsonville chap, showing alarm. "I’m afraid
he’s gone!"

"I’m afraid so myself," confessed Uric, a sensation of horror coming
upon him. "But we’re not to blame."

"We may be blamed, just the same."

"Why?"

"Because we were chasing him. Hey, boy! boy! Answer, and we’ll help you
out."

They listened. Swish-swash sounded the water, creeping about the slimy
timbers.

"He should have come to the surface," said Glennon. "If he hadn’t been
stunned, he would have risen at once. It’s likely he was able to swim.
Most boys of his age are."

"If he didn’t come up——"

"That settles it!"

"What can we do?"

"Nothing."

On their knees beside that opening they looked at each other. Scudder’s
weak face was very pale, and his trembling fingers fumbled at his chin.

"It’s a bad piece of business," he said huskily.

"Decidedly so," admitted Glennon.

"We’re likely to be blamed for it."

"Likely."

"But we’re not to blame. That boy was a thief! He had stolen a letter
from me."

"You made a bad break when you pulled that revolver on him," said
Glennon. "If anybody saw that——"

Scudder gasped.

"They might think we murdered him," he whispered, his fears increasing.

"They might," admitted Glennon.

"Of course we can swear that we didn’t."

"But I don’t fancy this kind of a scrape!" growled the chap from
Hudsonville. "You got me into it!"

He scowled at Uric.

"Don’t make that sort of an excuse!" exclaimed Scudder. "If you hadn’t
wanted to, you didn’t have to meet me. I hope you’re no squealer."

"I was a fool to meet you, anyhow!" said the other. "What has it
amounted to? All you told me was of no consequence. We’d found out for
ourselves that Merriwell was dangerous, and then we could have put him
out of the game without your advice. You’re a pretty cheap kind of a
chap, to go back on your own team to ‘do’ a fellow you hate."

"Now, don’t begin calling names! That kind of business won’t go down
with me!"

"It’ll have to go down!" sneered Glennon, rising to his feet. "What are
you going to do about it? You must know you’re a cheap fellow. Of
course, if you had anything to tell me about the secret practise of your
team, I was ready to hear it; but that didn’t make me think anything of
you. All the while I regarded you as a poor tool, and that’s just what
you are. If that boy doesn’t turn up all right, I’ll tell everything
concerning the affair."

"You’ll blow on me?"

"I’ll tell the truth, as the best way out of a bad scrape, that’s all."

Uric caught hold of his companion’s arm.

"But don’t blow till you have to!" he entreated. "Perhaps the boy is all
right. Perhaps he jumped in there to dodge us. I believe he did. I am
pretty sure of it now. That is just what he did, and he’s hiding down
there, or he swam off. Ha! ha! We’re foolish to get all worked up over
it. The young rascal! He played a slick trick on us."

Glennon looked at Uric suspiciously, but the latter continued the bluff.

"If I had time," he said, "I’d stay right here and watch for him; but
I’ve got to get back to the academy, or I’ll have trouble. Come on; we
might as well give it up. The boy has fooled us."

He urged Glennon away, and so they departed.

Beneath the dark old wharf the water whispered and gurgled around the
rotting, barnacle-covered spiles. The sound of retreating footsteps died
out overhead.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                        DICK’S STRANGE ILLNESS.


Dick Merriwell was ill. He had awakened with a throbbing headache and
burning flesh. During the remainder of the night there had been little
sleep for him, though he tried not to disturb Douglass.

In the morning Dick had risen, uttering no word of complaint, although
he was weak and it required a mighty effort for him to get up at all.

The keen eyes of Douglass had discovered that something was wrong, and
he asked Dick if he felt sick. Dick had answered that he was feeling
somewhat "off," but reckoned he would be all right after a bit.

And so he took his morning shower, believing that would set him right.
He was unable to eat any breakfast, but still he would not give up and
admit himself ill.

Prank Merriwell had appointed a time that forenoon to go through certain
signal-practise with the team, wishing to make sure the players
thoroughly understood the signals calling for the new formations he had
planned.

It was precisely ten o’clock when the eleven went onto the field,
finding their coach waiting for them Frank’s keen eyes scanned the men,
to see if they appeared in condition. He smiled a bit as he noted their
clear eyes and healthy complexions—smiled till his eyes rested on Dick.
Then that smile disappeared, and a moment later he was speaking to his
brother.

"You’re sick, Dick," he said positively.

"Oh, I’m feeling a little rocky, that’s all," was the assertion of the
boy. "That will be all right."

Frank grasped his hand, finding it hot and throbbing.

"You’re sick," he repeated. "You are feverish. Your face is flushed and
your eyes are red. I’m afraid you need a doctor, boy."

"Pooh!" scoffed Dick. "I won’t have any old doctor! I won’t be dosed
with powders and pills! Don’t you worry about me, Frank, for I’ll come
round all right."

"I’m sure you’re in no condition to play this afternoon," declared
Merry, in a low tone.

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy almost fiercely. "I will play! Don’t tell me I
can’t play, Frank—please don’t. I’m going to play in that game. I
wouldn’t miss taking part in it for a thousand dollars!"

Frank was compelled to smile, even though the smile was a grave one.

"You must be reasonable," he said. "If you are not in condition to play,
it will hurt the game and hurt you to put you in. Your boundless energy
has enabled you to do surprising things in past games, but that will
fail you if you’re ill."

"Oh, my energy’s all right," insisted the lad doggedly, adding, in true
boyish fashion: "I’ll prove it. See!"

Brad Buckhart was standing thirty feet away, with his hands on his hips,
his back toward them, surveying the field. Straight at the Texan Dick
Merriwell dashed, to the surprise of Frank, who was not quick enough to
restrain him. Frank’s first thought was that Dick meant to tackle the
unsuspecting Western youth and fling him down. Instead of doing so,
however, Dick leaped like a panther into the air, and sailed fairly over
Buckhart’s head.

A shout of surprise went up from all who witnessed this feat, while
Buckhart stared, and exclaimed:

"Well, durn my hoofs! Talk about your wild horses! Whatever sort of
springs have you got concealed in those legs of yours, Merriwell?"

Dick laughed, his face flushed more than ever, and turned back to Frank,
demanding:

"Now, what do you think? Are you going to keep me out of the game
because I lack energy?"

Frank shook his head, but his eyes could not entirely conceal his
admiration for his brother’s feat.

"That’s no real proof," he said. "You’re all right to do that now, but
you know it takes endurance to hold out through a game of football."

"If you keep me out of the game," came almost passionately from the lips
of the boy, "I’ll never forgive you as long as I live! If I couldn’t
play football, I wouldn’t stay in this old school another day!"

In his anxiety and excitement, Dick was saying things he did not really
mean, which Merry well understood.

"We’ll talk it over later," said Merry. "Now, we’ll go through the drill
I want the team to take this forenoon."

That drill consisted of making quick formations for mass-plays and
interference, and in trying certain new plays which demanded prompt and
concerted action in order to be effective.

No effort was made to teach any one anything further in the way of
tackling, punting, kicking, or running with the ball. This was no time
for that sort of practise. Indeed, Merriwell would not have called the
team out at all on this forenoon had he felt confident that all were
thoroughly familiar with the new plays he had planned.

A ball was used, and the passes and formations made on the signals. When
anything went wrong, Frank kept them repeating the attempt till they got
it right.

Dick filled his regular position as half-back, and seemed trying to
prove to his brother that he was all right. But before the practise was
over something happened. Several times Dick had fumbled the ball, adding
to Merry’s anxiety, for, as a rule, the boy was rather clever in
handling any kind of a pass. The ball was sent back to Dick, and, with
it clasped under his arm, he started to spring forward to go through the
center. He did not take two steps when he suddenly staggered, dropped
the ball, and fell to the ground.

In a moment Brad Buckhart was kneeling beside him and had lifted his
head. Dick’s eyes were closed, and now his face was white and almost
ghastly.

"Bust my broncos!" blurted Brad. "Something wrong with him! He went down
like a cow with a rope round her horns. Bring water quick, somebody!"

Water was brought, and Dick’s temples were wet, while a little was
forced between his lips. Frank was at work over him when the boy drew a
deep breath and muttered:

"I’m not sick! Going to play! Will play! Tell you I will play!"

Frank was pale, for he was troubled by a suspicion that filled him with
untold anger.

Was it possible Dick had been drugged in some manner by some dastardly
enemy at the academy?

There was a department in the academy known as "The Hospital," and
thither Dick Merriwell was carried. He revived while they were taking
him there, finding the arm of his brother about him.

"What’s the matter?" he asked bewilderedly. "Something black came before
my eyes, and then the ground seemed to come up and strike me."

"We’ll find out what the matter is, if possible," said Frank grimly.
"Perhaps a doctor can tell us what ails you."

Then once more Dick was seized by the fear that he would not be
permitted to take part in the football-game that day, and he struggled
weakly to be put down.

"I can walk," he said. "I’m all right, Frank! Anybody’d think me a baby,
to see you fellows carrying me this way."

"Whoa-up!" came from Buckhart, who was one of the party bearing Dick.
"Don’t you go to bucking, my boy. Your brother is running this here
drive, and he’s the boss of the whole outfit. I allow you’ll have to do
as he says."

In the hospital Frank whispered a few words in the ear of the doctor.

"There is something queer about this business, doctor," he said. "I wish
you would see if my brother has been poisoned, or drugged. I have
reasons to fear that he has. If he has been drugged, don’t say a word of
it to anybody but me—at present."

The doctor nodded.

So it came about that, on his return to the academy, Uric Scudder found
the cadets gathered in groups, earnestly talking of what had happened.
Scudder heard them expressing opinions concerning the result of the game
if Merriwell did not participate, and he stared. Then he heard a fellow
say that it was pretty certain Dick would not be able to play, and that
gave him a shock. Straightway he began to ask questions, and soon
learned what had happened.

"I suppose you’re glad of it, Eggs?" said Ned Stanton.

Uric’s face flushed as he heard this opprobrious name, and he snarled:

"I sha’n’t cry!"

Then he whirled and hurried away, hearing behind him the imitated
clucking of a hen, the crowing of a rooster, and a general cackling from
a dozen different ones in the group.

"Pards," said Brad Buckhart, who was one of the gathering, "I’ve got a
notion in this old noodle of mine that there has been some kind of
crooked business. I stayed with Merriwell as long as they would let me,
and I heard the doctor whisper something to his brother after he had
made an examination. I don’t reckon I’d better state just what I heard,
for I didn’t hear it very clear, and I might be mistaken; but it
wouldn’t surprise this old Maverick if some sneaking rattler had soaked
his fangs into Merriwell on the sly. And if it turns out that way,
hanging will be too good for the varmint! We all know Merriwell’s got a
bunch of coyotelike enemies hereabouts, though some of them have been
singing mighty soft lately."

His words aroused some excitement, and not a little indignation, it
being the generally expressed sentiment that somebody deserved the
severest sort of punishment in case Merriwell had met with foul play.

And now it quickly became evident that Merriwell had been generally
regarded as of prime importance on the eleven, for on all sides were
heard expressions of fear concerning the outcome of the game with
Hudsonville if Dick did not play.

Not a few positively declared that Fardale didn’t have one chance in ten
of winning with Merriwell off the team. Some asserted that too much
importance was given to the feats of Merriwell in the past, asserting
that another capable fellow in his position, having the same
opportunities, might have accomplished fully as much. But this was not
the general feeling, and when the report came from the hospital that
Dick could not play that afternoon, a cloud of gloom seemed to settle
over the academy.

Ted Smart went round telling how happy he was, and begging somebody to
kick him just to make him feel still happier.

"Oh, we’ll wipe up the earth with Hudsonville!" he said. "We’ll have a
regular walkover now that we’ve been strengthened by the loss of
Merriwell! He was a poor man on the team! He never could play the game!
Oh, luddy-dah! what a gay old day this is going to be for Fardale!"

There was one fellow who kept out of sight as much as possible, yet who
was anxious to know what effect the sudden illness of Merriwell had on
the cadets. Meeting Jim Watson in an upper corridor of the barracks,
Lynch stopped and questioned him. Watson was pleased to have a
first-class man like Lynch speak to him, and he readily told everything
he knew. But when it was all over, and Lynch had gone on his way, Watson
fell to wondering over some of the questions the fellow had asked. It
was plain to him that Lynch was keenly interested in Merriwell’s
condition, yet did not wish to have it generally known that he was so
greatly concerned.

"I wonder why?" speculated "Foxy" Watson. "They say there’s something
queer about Merriwell’s illness. I told Lynch of that, and he seemed
rather nervous. I wonder why?"

And he continued to wonder if it were possible that Lynch was in any way
connected with the sudden manner in which Dick Merriwell had fallen ill.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                         DICK’S AMAZING HURDLE.


          FARDALE.             POSITIONS.      HUDSONVILLE.

          Burrows              Right end       Fisher
          Stanton             Right tackle     Tilton
          Douglass            Right guard      Clove
          Buckhart               Center        Glennon
          Gordan               Left guard      Dinsmore
          Blair               Left tackle      McBride
          Kane                  Left end       Swett
          Shannock            Quarter-back     Haggerty
          Nunn              Right half-back    Church
          Kent               Left half-back    Aiken
          Singleton            Full-back       King

Above is the line-up of the two teams that faced each other on Fardale
field that Saturday afternoon.

Although it was said that, under the treatment of the doctor, Dick
Merriwell had improved rapidly, yet his friends claimed that he was
unable to play, and might not leave the hospital for a day or two.

The absence of Dick from the team made some changes necessary, and, on
the advice of Frank Merriwell, Substitute Kane was placed at right end,
while Don Kent was put in Dick’s position as left half-back.

Uric Scudder noted with regret the absence of Merriwell, for it had been
his desire that the fellow he hated should be knocked out by the
slugger, Glennon.

"All my trouble for nothing," he thought bitterly. "Wish I had never
written that letter. Oh, that wretched letter! It may get me in no end
of trouble."

He was troubled and worried, for he could not keep his thoughts from the
rotten wharf, beneath which the unlucky boy had disappeared, and before
his mental vision seemed to rise the slimy spilings, with the rushing
tide gurgling about them. In fancy he saw a gruesome form floating
beneath the old wharf, knocking against the spiles and whirled with the
eddies of the restless water. He shivered and grew cold whenever he
thought of this.

Hudsonville was swaggering and confident, and the captain of the team
expressed regret that Merriwell was not on hand to take his drubbing
with the rest of the Fardale aggregation.

The game began by Fardale kicking off, but the strong westerly wind
carried the ball out of bounds, and it was brought back, for Big Bob to
have another try. On the second trial Singleton booted the leather
savagely, sending it to the ten-yard line of the enemy, where it was
captured by Aiken, who rushed it back fifteen yards before being downed.

Beginning operations in earnest on their twenty-five-yard line,
Hudsonville walked into Fardale in a manner that seemed to appal the
cadets at first, and not till they were within eight yards of the center
of the field were they held and forced to kick.

King drove the ball to Fardale’s thirty-five-yard line, but Kent ran it
back ten yards, and there Fardale lined up to see what she could do
against the enemy. Then Shannock was heard giving the signal:

"5—Y—21—17—100—11."

The ball was snapped, and Shannock passed it swiftly to Kent. Don leaped
forward like a flash, the others closing round him, and he went bang
into Hudsonville’s center.

Only two yards were made, although the other backs had given Kent as
much impetus as possible, and had tried to ram him through for a good
gain.

Two yards were something, however, and the home team lined up
courageously for the next assault.

"2—32—6—31—X—43—100," came the signal from the quarter.

And then the ball went to Captain Nunn, who repeated Kent’s plunge into
center, only to be held rigidly without making a foot.

Glennon laughed in Nunn’s face.

"It won’t work twice," he said.

Fardale had found the enemy’s center hard to break. The home team did
not hesitate, however, and next came the signal for Kent to try a run
round the end.

It happened that Hudsonville was looking for just this kind of a play,
and, although Don did his best, he was simply forced out of bounds
without a gain.

Then Fardale was compelled to bring the ball in for a kick, in order to
avoid the loss of the oval on downs as the probable result of another
rush.

Singleton did not cover himself with glory this time, for he drove the
ball only to Hudsonville’s forty-yard line, and Tilton got back to
within five yards of the center of the field before being turfed.

Then the onlooking Fardale enthusiasts saw Hudsonville again batter
through the home team and quickly carry the ball over the center,
putting the cadets on the defensive in their own territory.

"What’s the good of all Merriwell’s secret practise?" said Jabez Lynch,
who was watching from the lower tier of seats. "Our fellows are playing
the same old simple game. I haven’t seen anything new thus far."

"Perhaps we’ll see something later," said Tod Hubbard, who was at
Jabez’s side.

"Let us hope so," sneered Lynch. "I want Fardale to win to-day, for Dick
Merriwell will think he’s the whole team if we lose when he’s off."

Hudsonville kept Fardale going till the ball was lost on a fumble twenty
yards from the home team’s goal. Once more Fardale attempted to advance
by a mass-formation attack on the enemy’s center, but secured no ground.

Then came the first new play of the day. At the signal the whole right
end of the Fardale team seemed to melt and vanish, but the line went
across like a flash, and reenforced the left wing, Douglass backing
Blair, Stanton behind Gordan, and Burrows supporting Buckhart. Close
behind this mass was Kent, with the ball, guarded by Nunn and Shannock
on one side and Kane and Singleton on the other.

Before Hudsonville could mass to resist this attack, Fardale had swung
her right end backward and round for a gain of full twelve yards.

How the watchers cheered! This was what they desired, and they were
delighted.

A repetition of this play, with the left end backing the right, netted
seven yards more, and Fardale’s colors were waving joyously.

"There is some of the work Merriwell has been drilling them on," said
Tod Hubbard. "It’s proving good, too."

"But it’s dead simple," said Lynch, with curling lip. "Anybody could
have devised that kind of a play, and it will prove bad for Fardale
before we are through with this game. Wait till Hudsonville gets onto it
for fair, and then see what those chaps do to the line-over trick."

It was some time, however, before Hudsonville seemed prepared to meet
the new line-over formation, but the visitors finally found a method of
breaking up the interference and getting to the man with the ball, so
that the effectiveness of the play was ended. By this time, however, the
first half was nearly finished, and neither team had scored.

Fardale was doing better than had been anticipated, although she seemed
unable to threaten the enemy’s goal.

Realizing that the first half was drawing to a close, Hudsonville
hammered into Fardale in a deadly manner. Douglass had been doing great
work in defense, and he was spotted by Glennon. At the end of a furious
scrimmage Hugh was found stretched senseless on the ground. Glennon had
been able to get in his work at putting a dangerous man out of the game.

Somehow, it seemed that Fardale became alarmed, for Hudsonville carried
the ball to within twenty yards of the home team’s goal. There, however,
the spirit of the cadets revived again, and the advance was checked.

After it was seen that another down that did not net three yards would
give the ball to the home team, the visitors decided to try to kick a
goal from the field. Fardale saw what was to be attempted, and every
effort was made to break through the line and spoil the kick. King,
however, was given plenty of time, and he drove the ball over the bar in
handsome shape.

Hudsonville had scored, and the wisdom of this kick for goal from the
field was shown when the whistle blew shortly after, ending the half,
with the tally standing 5 to 0, in favor of the visitors.

"Too bad!" said Jabez Lynch. "Unless we can do better in the last half
the cry will go up that we have lost the game because Merriwell was not
playing."

"It’s strange," said Tod Hubbard, "that they didn’t give you a show when
Merriwell was taken sick."

"Strange!" sneered Jabez. "Nothing strange about it! It simply shows the
nasty feeling against me."

"Didn’t you expect they would give you a show?"

"Well, if I hadn’t expected it, I’d never——" Right there Jabez checked
himself suddenly, and the expression on his face seemed to indicate that
he feared he had said too much.

"You’d never what?" asked Hubbard.

"Never mind," growled Lynch, getting up. "I’m going to move round and
stretch my legs during the intermission."

"Now, I wonder what he started to say," thought Hubbard, as Lynch walked
away. "He’d never done what? What did he do that made him fancy he might
get a chance in this game?"

The question remained unanswered, but Tod continued to ponder over it.

The work of the Fardale team in the first half had been anything but
satisfactory to Frank Merriwell, and he was fearful that the second half
might prove even more disastrous. However, he did his best to encourage
and liven the men while they were being rubbed down during intermission.

"That’s all right, pard," said Brad Buckhart, in his breezy way; "but
there’s no use denying that this here team is weakened mightily by the
loss of that boy Dick. Why, he’s a holy terror on ten wheels, he is! If
he could get into the round-up now, we’d have those galoots milling
before the next half was quarter played. You hear me shout!"

Captain Nunn came to Frank.

"We need Dick," he said. "I can see a big difference in the team without
him."

"He wanted to play, badly enough." said Merry. "He was begging the
doctor to let him come out not an hour before the game began."

"Is he going to be sick long?"

"I think not."

"It’s queer he was taken so suddenly. What did the doctor say was the
matter with him?"

A grim look came to the face of Frank Merriwell.

"Poison!" he said.

"What?" gasped Steve. "You don’t mean—— Why, how was he poisoned?"

"That is the mystery, but there are plenty of ways to drop something
into a glass of water in the mess-hall."

"Great Scott!" exploded Nunn. "You don’t suppose anybody did that?"

"I don’t know; but the doctor has plainly said that he must have taken
some sort of a drug, and I know he never took it of his own accord."

"Well, somebody ought to be lynched!" Steve declared. "That’s the worst
I ever heard about!"

"Say nothing," warned Frank; "we may find out some time who did it."

The time for the second half to begin came round, and once more the two
teams spread out on the field for the kick-off. This time it was
Hudsonville’s turn to open the game, and King led off with a handsome
long drive into the home team’s territory.

Singleton returned the kick, doing almost as well, the difference being
not more than three yards. Back came the ball from King, and Kent
believed he saw a splendid chance to make a good run and cover himself
with glory. The ball struck in his hands, but he was too eager to get a
start, and he muffed it.

Fisher came down like a swooping hawk, caught up the ball, and was
brought to earth with it nine yards from Fardale’s goal.

Kent’s face was white and his heart was full of shame over his bad piece
of work. He fancied he could hear the spectators saying that Merriwell
would never have done anything like that, had he been playing the
position.

Hudsonville was bristling with confidence, feeling sure Fardale would be
easy in this half, but this very confidence made the visitors altogether
too sure of carrying things their way. And they little realized what a
desperate stand the cadets could make in the last ditch.

Fardale gave the enemy only a single yard in the first onset. The second
resulted in no gain, but the third made another yard. However, that left
three yards to gain on the next attempt in order to retain the ball.

Still overflowing with confidence, the visitors tried a double pass for
a round-the-end play, and right there they lost the ball to the home
team on downs.

Again the dogged spirit of resistance instilled into the Fardale team by
Frank Merriwell had enabled the cadets to prevent the enemy from making
a touch-down when the goal seemed within reach. But Hudsonville was
determined to keep the fighting close to Fardale’s goal, and the
line-across play now proved utterly worthless in enabling the cadets to
advance.

"You’re pretty good," said Haggerty; "but we’re better."

"Maybe so, partner," retorted Brad Buckhart; "but we haven’t reached the
end of this here drive. Can’t always count on your steers till you have
them in the corral."

"Well, we’ve got this lot pretty nearly into the corral," laughed
Haggerty.

Shannock gave the signal, and, with the line holding hard, Don Kent shot
across and round Hudsonville’s right end. He had made ten yards when
Tilton brought him down.

The ball escaped Kent as he fell, and that accident, which seemed
unfortunate for the moment, proved lucky, for Nunn had come through with
Don, and he scooped up the ball on the jump, getting off with it.

Steve ran nearly to the center of the field before he was brought down,
and the Fardale witnesses were given another chance to cheer, while
Hudsonville snarled at its own luck.

"Well, darn my hoofs!" laughed Brad Buckhart, as the two lines formed
again. "This bunch seems to be headed in the other direction all of a
sudden."

"Luck!" declared Haggerty. "You may thank your stars."

Fardale’s courage was good, but she could not shove the ball over the
center line, try as she might. The battle raged fiercely, but
Hudsonville managed to keep it in Fardale’s territory, and it was
apparent all along that something might happen almost any time to give
the visitors another tally.

The minutes passed, and to the watchers it became more and more apparent
that the cadets were "up against the real thing."

"Oh, for Dick Merriwell!" sighed more than one of the watchers.

Fardale was doing her best, but the game was lost unless she could do
better.

With the ball in her possession, the home team attempted a center-back
play, in which they had been coached by Merriwell; but they did not
carry it through skilfully, and the result was a loss of two yards.

This caused Merriwell’s enemies to sneer again at his secret practise
and original plays. But Frank, who was watching everything closely, knew
the lack of success came through the failure of the team to perform the
play rapidly and without hesitation. It would require still further
practise to make Fardale efficient in the new formation.

Now and then Frank looked at his watch. At last he called Teddy Smart to
his side and whispered something in his ear.

"Will I?" exclaimed Smart, his face brightening. "Not for the world! Oh,
no!"

"Wait," said Merry, catching hold of him, and again he whispered in
Ted’s ear.

Then Smart was seen to turn and run from the field as if his life
depended on reaching a certain point in a very few seconds.

The game went on, Fardale doing her best when driven to extremities, but
failing to come out strong in aggressive play. The Fardale crowd
continued to cheer, but it was generally admitted that the cadets could
win only on a fluke. The fluke, however, did not come, and Fardale began
to fag and show signs of exhaustion before the continued sledge-hammer
onslaughts of the enemy.

Finally the home team showed signs of giving out entirely. Substitutes
were sent out to fill the places of both Kane and Blair; but that did
not brace the team up sufficiently to enable it to hold Hudsonville.
With things going their way, the visitors smashed a path down the field
till they were within five yards of Fardale’s line, and they must have
made a touch-down but for a bungling pass by Glennon.

Buckhart came through like a frightened mustang and slammed himself down
on the ball.

Less than five minutes would end the game. Although Fardale had gained
possession of the ball, her case seemed utterly hopeless. The only good
of kicking was to get the ball away from the danger-point, but that
would simply give it back to Hudsonville, something that meant absolute
and certain defeat.

So Fardale lined up for a final despairing effort, and Kent was sent to
try to circle the left end of the enemy. Don did his level best, but was
brought down without making a foot.

The line-across was tried on the right wing of the visitors, and
Hudsonville showed she was onto that style of playing by ripping wide
the formation and downing Nunn without an advance being secured.

A revolving formation struck Hudsonville’s center, only to find that
part of the line like a wall of granite.

The spectators groaned, for the only thing left, as it seemed, was to
kick, and that meant defeat.

Just when the friends of Fardale were looking for the worst to happen,
across the field there came a yell that was so strange and wild and
shrill that it brought nearly everybody standing.

The cry came from the lips of Old Joe Crowfoot, who, wrapped in his red
blanket, had appeared. At the old redskin’s side walked a youth wearing
a bathrobe. His face was pale and firm, and there was a light of
eagerness in his dark eyes.

A great shout went up from the crowd.

"Dick Merriwell!" roared two hundred voices. "Dick Merriwell!"

Jabez Lynch was with Tod Hubbard once more, and he exclaimed:

"Well, now, I wonder what they are going to do? Is it possible they’re
going to run a sick man in there at the last moment? Ha! ha! ha! Well,
of all the fool tricks I ever heard about! What do they imagine he can
do? Now they will show him up!"

"He’s not going in," said Hubbard. "He’s shown himself just to have
people yell for him."

Then they saw Dick Merriwell suddenly fling aside his bathrobe and run
onto the field. And the sight of him caused, exclamations of wonder to
break from the lips of nearly every one, for, instead of wearing the
accustomed football uniform, Dick was dressed in a light running-suit,
his legs and arms bare, and on his feet were running shoes, having,
however, rubber cleats on the bottoms.

Everybody was standing now, and the excitement was intense. Scores were
asking questions which no one seemed able to answer.

As Merriwell came out, Bob Singleton walked off the field, which made it
plain that Dick would take big Bob’s place as full-back. Getting into
position, Dick began to swing his right leg in a very suggestive manner.

"He’s going to kick, that’s all," was the general opinion.

This caused the excitement to subside somewhat, for a kick meant that
Fardale had given up the last hope of winning, and was simply trying to
keep Hudsonville from securing further points.

Everything was ready, and the two lines faced each other, Captain Nunn
having a last word with one or two of his men.

No signal was given, but, of a sudden, the ball was snapped, and
Shannock passed it cleanly and handsomely to Merriwell.

The Hudsonville tigers charged and tried to break through, but now
Fardale stood firm, not yielding an inch, and the two lines crushed
together, rigid and motionless for a moment.

In that moment the most amazing thing ever seen on Fardale field
happened.

With a whirlwindlike dash, Dick Merriwell ran straight toward the line,
the ball hugged under his arm. Then up into the air he shot like a bird,
and, with the grace of a fawn, he passed directly over the heads of his
friends and antagonists in the line!




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                         GLORY FOR THE VICTOR.


Those who saw the feat could scarcely believe they were not dreaming.

Dick landed on his feet, recovered quickly, and was off like a flash.
The spectators yelled like maniacs. There was no such thing as concert
cheering now; it was simply the wild whooping of hundreds of witnesses
gone mad with amazement, admiration, and joy.

Students climbed on one another’s shoulders and waved hats, hands,
handkerchiefs, and flags, shrieking till their eyes nearly popped from
their heads.

Never before in the history of football at Fardale had such a scene been
witnessed. Lifted in one thrilling moment from the depths of despair to
the heights of hope, with possible, nay, probable, victory in sight, the
Fardale spectators were shrieking lunatics then.

With the speed of the wind, Dick Merriwell flew along the field, headed
for the Hudsonville line. Hudsonville players broke away and started
after him. Then came the whole pack trailing out in his wake.

But as well might a lot of mongrels have sought to overtake a greyhound.
The crowd saw he could not be stopped, and it shrieked and shrieked.

The hearts of Dick’s enemies were filled with such dismay that, had the
triumphant lad known their sufferings, he must have felt himself fully
avenged for all injuries he had suffered at their hands.

Jabez Lynch turned sick and faint, while his white lips moved, but made
no sound. Uric Scudder cursed, his words being drowned in the uproar.

So Dick Merriwell ran the length of the field with the ball, and planted
it squarely behind the Hudsonville goal-posts.

It seemed that the crowd would never stop its yelling, but, at last, the
cadets on the seats gained sufficient self-possession to start a regular
cheer.

"Ha! ha! ha! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Rigger-boom! Zigger-boom! All
hail—Merriwell! Merriwell! Merriwell!"

The dismay and disgust of Hudsonville knew no bounds, for, in the last
few minutes of play, she had been tied by a touch-down. If a goal were
made from that, she was beaten.

The ball was brought out when Steve Nunn had hugged Dick Merriwell
before everybody, and Steve held it for the kick.

Dick was the one to kick, and he was careful, taking into consideration
the wind. His kick was perfect, and the ball sailed over the bar in
handsome style.

Then, although Hudsonville was given the ball to kick off, all knew
Fardale had won by such a thrilling and sensational finish that the
story would be handed down as something to wonder over in the traditions
of football at the academy.

When the whistle blew, with the ball on Fardale’s forty-yard line, the
cadets poured onto the field and surrounded the players, who had lifted
Dick Merriwell aloft.

But Old Joe Crowfoot was with the first, and he flung the bathrobe over
Dick’s shoulders. Then, again, waving one hand in the air, the old
redskin gave a yell that was the battle-cry of victory of his tribe. His
black eyes were gleaming with pride and joy.

"Injun Heart!" he cried, pointing at Dick. "Him heap mighty young chief!
Him great white boy warrior!"

"That’s what he is, Joseph!" roared Brad Buckhart. "He’s a holy terror,
and no mistake! He can have my ranch and my last hoof and horn!"

"Say, I don’t want to play on the team any more!" cried Bob Singleton.
"He can have my place right along!"

Then they cheered, marching about the field with Dick on their
shoulders.

The boy’s face had been pale, but now it was flushed, and he begged to
be put down. They did not seem to hear him.

"Dick Merriwell!" they roared. "Dick Merriwell! Dick Merriwell! ’Rah!
’rah! ’rah! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Dick Merriwell!"

Frank Merriwell stood looking on, smiling a little, a flush in his
checks and pride in his heart. Surely this was a brother worth having,
and he had a right to be proud. Frank felt somebody catch hold of him,
and saw Teddy Smart at his side.

"Oh, dear! dear! dear!" moaned Smart. "How sorry I am! Oh, my goodness!
how bad I feel! Wasn’t it just perfectly too bad to do it! I know I
shall cry my eyes out—I know I shall! Aren’t you ashamed of having a
brother like that? You ought to be ashamed, and I don’t blame you. He’s
a disgrace to you and to Fardale!"

"Smart," said Merry, "you did well to get him here in time. I was afraid
you wouldn’t succeed."

"Shouldn’t if it hadn’t been for that old Indian." confessed Ted.
"Doctor refused to let him come. I found Old Joe outside the door, and
told him. You should have seen Old Joe rip things up! It was perfectly
tame the way he walked into that hospital! No guard could stop him. No
doctor had any business trying it. He told Dick you wanted him, and Dick
was ready in short order. I’m afraid they’ll want to give Old Joe a
reward of merit for his doings. You’ll have to make it easy for Joe."

"I’ll see to that," laughed Frank.

Uric Scudder found Jack Glennon ready to leave the field.

"Didn’t I tell you!" said Scudder. "I knew what he could do!"

"Get out!" growled Glennon savagely. "What did all your telling amount
to? He didn’t come into the game in time to give anybody a show at him.
If you’d really tipped me to anything worth anything, it might have been
different. Go ’way back and sit down!"

Glennon turned from the traitor in disgust.

At this moment Scudder uttered a cry, caught Glennon by the arm, and
pointed toward a ragged boy who was trying to force his way into the
shouting crowd that surrounded Dick Merriwell.

"Look!" he hissed.

"What is it?" demanded the other.

"The boy!"

"What boy?"

"The one we chased! There he is!"

"Good!" said Glennon, in relief. "I was afraid he had been drowned."

"He’s trying to get to Merriwell."

"Let him try."

"I know what he wants to do! He means to tell Merriwell about our
meeting!"

"Let him tell. It won’t hurt me."

"It will me!"

"You’ll have to look out for yourself."

"Bet he has that letter! He’s going to give it to Merriwell."

"I don’t care."

"It will be used against me! Let’s stop him! Let’s try to fix it with
him!"

"Go on!" sneered Glennon. "Fix it yourself—if you can. Get away from me,
and stay away."

Then he again turned his back on Scudder.

Uric ran toward the boy, who did not see him coming. He grasped the
youngster by the shoulder, pulling him aside, and saying:

"Look here a minute, sonny; I want to say something to you."

The boy saw him, made a face at him, and retorted:

"I don’t want to talk with you! Keep your dirty hands off me! You’re
going to git it in the neck for fair, all right, all right."

"Come here, boy!" grated Uric. "If you know when you’re well off, you’ll
do as I say."

But the boy was not at all impressed, and he tried to break from
Scudder’s grasp. In the excitement this struggle was not observed at
once, although the boy shrilly shouted:

"Leggo! leggo! Get away from me!"

Scudder tried to put a hand over the boy’s mouth, while he said in his
ear:

"I’ll give you five dollars for that letter."

"Leggo!" squawked the boy.

"Ten dollars!" offered Uric.

"Break away!"

Then, with sharp nails, the lad scratched Uric’s hand till the blood
ran. Uttering a snarl of rage, Scudder lifted his fist to strike the
belligerent youngster.

From his position on the shoulders of his admiring friends, Dick
Merriwell had witnessed some of the struggle, and now he came right over
the shoulders of the closely packed mass of yelling cadets who had been
gathered about him. In a moment he had seized Uric by the collar,
tearing the boy from his grasp.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes flashing. "Were you going to
hit this boy, you coward?"

Scudder shrank back before those flashing, indignant eyes.

"That’s just what he was going to do," cried the boy, "and all because I
was trying to get to you to tell ye how he wrote to a feller on the
other team and offered to put the feller wise how to beat Fardale."

"What’s that?" exclaimed Dick.

"It’s a lie!" said Uric hoarsely, his face pale and a frightened look in
his eyes. "Don’t believe the little whelp!"

The crowd had gathered about them now, and Scudder saw he was hemmed in
on all sides. There seemed no way of escape in case he wished to take to
his heels.

"It’s the truth!" insisted the boy earnestly. "I had the letter, too.
Snatched it right out of his hand this forenoon, when he met the other
feller. He was going to burn it. I ran with it, and they chased me all
the way to The Harbor. Then I fell through a piece in one of the wharfs
and lost the letter in the drink. This feller had pulled a pistol on me,
and I guess he would ’a’ tried a shot at me if he’d seen me under the
wharf, so I just kept still till they went away."

An angry murmur rose on all sides. Uric heard it and turned paler than
ever. He looked round, and saw that he was watched by hundreds of
scornful, indignant eyes.

But the letter—the boy said it was lost! Where was the proof against
him? All at once Scudder braced up.

"This kid has a grudge against me," he said, "and he’s trying to soak
me. The whole story is a lie from start to finish."

"It’s the truth!" again asserted the boy. "He wrote and told the other
fellow how Fardale was practising secretly, and that he thought he’d be
able to find out all about the plays in a short time."

"That was what he was doing the day he climbed the tree and got pelted
with eggs," said somebody.

The boy grinned.

"Yes," he said, "he was spying then, and I done the pelting when he got
caught and hung by the seat of his trousers. I had a grudge to settle,
for he kicked me one day and chucked me into the drink."

"You see what kind of a fellow he is," said Uric. "He says he has a
grudge against me."

"Oh, I guess I came pretty near getting even that day!" grinned the
youngster. "I did soak you good and hard."

"He certainly was good to him!" said Teddy Smart, who had forced his way
toward the center of the crowd. "How now, Hen Fruit? You seem to be
enjoying yourself. You look very happy."

"He’s a bad egg," said somebody.

"This is a serious charge against you, Scudder," said Dick Merriwell.
"If the boy tells the truth, you ought to be tarred and feathered."

"Oh, that would be horrid!" exclaimed Smart. "I wouldn’t think of taking
part in the obsequies. I’d hide my face with shame till it was all
over."

"You have no right to do anything of the sort!" choked Scudder, in great
fear. "Will you take the word of this kid against mine? He can’t prove a
thing he says."

"Do you know the fellow he met on the other team, boy?" asked Dick.

"Sure thing."

"Then we’ll take this chap to him and see what he has to say."

Scudder’s heart sank, for, remembering Glennon’s contempt and words, he
feared the Hudsonville center might expose him. But it would not do for
him to show hesitation, and Uric knew that, so he cried:

"That’s right; take me to him! Let’s see who speaks the truth. I’m ready
to go."

The Hudsonville team had gathered in the dressing-room to get out of the
dirty suits, take baths, and put on their street clothes. To these rooms
Scudder was marched, with the boy in advance and the angry cadets
following behind in a dense body.

"The jig is up!" thought Uric. "Glennon will croak on me!"

In that case, he knew what to expect, and he was shaking in his boots.

Glennon had made great haste, and was nearly dressed when Scudder was
marched in. It had been his intention to get away from the vicinity of
the academy as soon as possible.

"That’s the feller!" cried the boy, pointing at Glennon.

"This boy," said Dick Merriwell, "has made a charge of treachery against
this fellow here. The boy says this chap wrote to you and offered to
tell you how to beat Fardale to-day, and that you met him in the village
this forenoon. If the charge is true, it is right for us to know it
here, and I ask you fairly to answer if it is so."

Glennon’s eyes met those of Scudder, and he saw there the light of fear
that caused his lip to curl a bit. Then, with a scornful gesture, he
said:

"Nothing in it—nothing at all. Never saw the fellow before in my life."

Scudder was saved.

One mystery, however, remained unsolved. The doctor had said that Dick
Merriwell had been drugged. How the trick was done, and why it was done,
remained a puzzle to some who knew of it.

But Frank Merriwell believed in his heart that he knew the full
explanation. In some manner the drug had been given to Dick at the
table, in water, or in his food.

Frank suspected Lynch, but Jabez kept his mouth closed, and deported
himself in a manner outwardly beyond censure.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                             THE LISTENER.


"It’s dangerous," said Scudder.

"Nonsense!" derided Lynch.

"It is," persisted Uric, fumbling with his weak chin. "I know."

Jabez shrugged his shoulders, drawing his heavy coat about him, for the
day was cold, though the sun was shining. The keen wind set the fallen
leaves rustling. The fields were brown, and the woods looked bleak and
uninviting.

The two cadets were seated in a little hollow, sheltered from
observation by evergreen bushes on the side toward the highway.

"How do you know so much?" questioned Lynch. "You don’t mean——"

"I’ve tried it."

"Then the boy’s accusation was true, and you did have a meeting with
Glennon, of the Hudsonville team? You offered to give him points in
regard to the style of playing Fardale would adopt?"

"I told him all I had discovered."

"Which wasn’t much, thanks to the kid who caught you in the tree
watching Fardale’s secret practise, and——"

"Don’t speak of that!" harshly exclaimed Uric, his face flushing at the
remembrance. "Some day I’ll kill that kid!"

Lynch laughed at Uric’s words, which made Scudder still more angry.

"Don’t laugh!" he snarled. "You ran off and left me when you heard the
boy coming. But for that——"

"I did not know it was a boy."

"You might have waited to see."

"And been caught, perhaps, by some one from the academy. I did not care
to take the chances."

"Not you! Yet now you wish me to communicate with a Viewland chap and
offer to give away important information concerning Fardale. Thank you,
Mr. Lynch; I may be a fool, but I’m not such a thundering big fool as
you take me to be!"

"You’ve let a little thing like that knock the sand out of you. I
thought you had more backbone."

"Don’t talk to me about sand! What’s the matter with you, Mr. Lynch? Why
don’t you do your own work? You know I am under suspicion. If Glennon
hadn’t denied ever seeing me before, I’d been kicked out of Fardale."

"Likely," nodded Lynch coolly.

"Then what do you wish—to get me kicked out?"

"I want to reach this Dick Merriwell somehow—and his brother. I hate
Frank Merriwell as much as I do Dick. Why shouldn’t I? I believe he had
me dropped off the team that Dick might take my place."

"You don’t hate either of them more than I do, but I’m just where I
can’t do anything without being in danger of losing my head any moment.
I’m watched—I’m spied on, and the worst spy of the lot is that infernal
old wretch of an Indian, Joe Crowfoot."

It was Jabez’s turn to shiver a little then, for he remembered a
thrilling experience with Old Joe in the woods when the Indian had
threatened to burn off his right hand because he had flung red pepper
into Dick Merriwell’s eyes.

"That old devil!" he snapped. "He ought to be shot! One thing is
certain—he can’t get near enough to us here without being seen to hear
our talk."

"That’s right," nodded Uric, poking at the mass of dead leaves in the
hollow, having picked up a dead branch from the ground. "But he’s the
very Old Nick for concealing himself. One can never be dead sure the old
wretch is not watching or listening. I wish somebody would shoot him!"

"Still," said Lynch, "if it hadn’t been for him I’d not be in Fardale
now."

"Eh?" said Uric. "What do you——"

"Never mind what I did," said Jabez, remembering that Scudder had never
learned the particulars of the affair in question, the truth being that
Lynch had played in disguise with an opposing team against Fardale, and
had, during the game, thrown red pepper into Dick Merriwell’s eyes.
"Anyhow, it was that old red dog that found me out and exposed me to
Merriwell. If Merriwell blowed, it cooked my goose. He said get out of
Fardale, and I decided to get. Then the old redskin caught me in the
woods and was going to torture me."

"Jiminy!" gasped Uric.

"Fact!" nodded Lynch. "I think perhaps he’d half-killed me if Frank
Merriwell hadn’t turned up."

"And then—what?"

"Of course, Merriwell made him let me go. But you see, he knew I had Old
Joe in a bad hole."

"I don’t see——"

"Why, the old dog had tied me up and started to burn my hand off in a
fire he built. What if I had gone and sworn out a warrant against him?"

"You didn’t?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because Merriwell agreed to keep everything dead quiet if I let the
matter drop. It was my chance to stay at Fardale, and I kept still. To
save Old Joe, Dick Merriwell had to be silent."

"You were lucky to get off that way."

"Sure thing; but I was told that I’d get it the first time I made
another move against Dick Merriwell. So, you see, I have to lay low and
pretend to be good. I must get somebody else to do the jobs. That’s why
I wanted you to do this piece of business."

"Well, I’m just as bad off as you are since that kid accused me. I’m
suspected."

"Do you propose to lie down and give up?"

"No, not much!"

"What can you do?"

"As much as you."

"That’s not much just now, and now’s the time. Fardale is making a
record under Frank Merriwell’s coaching. Not a game lost yet, and the
team’s growing stronger. If somebody does not take a fall out of Fardale
pretty soon, Frank Merriwell will own the academy and run it."

"Well, what’s your plan?"

"Somebody must find out the signals."

"And then——"

"Post the other team."

"I see."

"Merriwell is teaching Fardale another formation."

"I’ve heard about it."

"It leaked out somehow. Every man on the team seems to think it a
winner."

"That’s right."

"They say it’s new."

"Yes."

"And will make other teams look sick. Now, I’d give something to learn
what sort of a play it is. His line-across trick worked pretty well
against Hudsonville for a time, but it’s hinted that this new play is a
peach and will paralyze Viewland next Saturday."

Scudder’s curiosity was whetted, and he scratched his chin excitedly.

"It would be great to have Viewland onto the trick and ready to blank it
with another play," he said.

"That’s just what I want," nodded Lynch. "That’s why I proposed that you
open negotiations with Cranch, whom I know to be a fellow who will do
anything to beat Fardale."

"You’ll have to get somebody else," said Uric, shaking his head. "I
won’t take the chances."

"Then that settles it!" exclaimed Lynch, in disappointment, rising to
his feet. "It’s no use to chin over it longer, and we’d better separate,
for somebody might see us together and make talk about it. Keep your
mouth closed. Understand?"

"Sure thing. There’s no danger that I’ll blab. Don’t let that worry
you."

"I’ll go down the road. Better wait a little before you come along."

"All right."

Lynch started off without another word, leaving Scudder there. Uric
watched him till he disappeared.

"Do your own work, Mr. Lynch," he muttered, "and I’ll do mine. There was
a time when I’d been glad to stand in with you on almost anything; but
I’ve found you don’t care a continental about me, and you wouldn’t turn
your hand over to help me if I got in a scrape. I don’t love Merriwell,
but, at the same time, I don’t trust you."

After a few minutes, Uric followed his late companion, and the little
hollow was deserted. The wind came down and rustled the heap of dead
leaves that had gathered thickly at the bottom of the depression. And
then, when the sound of retreating footsteps had died out and all was
still, the leaves seemed to move of their own accord.

There was a gentle upheaval, and from the midst of the leaves rose a
human head, in which were set a pair of small, keen, coal-black eyes.

"Ugh!" grunted a guttural voice.

And from this spot of concealment, where he had listened within three
feet of the rascally pair, rose Old Joe Crowfoot.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                                THE SPY.


It happened that Jabez Lynch found some excuse that enabled him to be
absent from school a day, and he left Fardale by rail, saying nothing of
his destination to any one. The following day, by an early train, there
came into Fardale a dark-faced youth, who went directly to a hotel,
obtained a room, and retired to it.

An examination of the register would have shown that he had written
there "H. T. Lincoln, Philadelphia, Pa." Mr. Lincoln did not show
himself much about the hotel, for Fardale was a small place, and
strangers always attracted more or less attention there.

That forenoon he received a letter that had been dropped in the
post-office at Fardale. When he tore open the letter, he found written
within: "This afternoon, half-past four. Come."

Shortly before four o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Lincoln buttoned his
overcoat to his chin, pulled on a pair of gloves, set his soft hat well
down on his head, and started out briskly in the direction of Fardale
Academy.

He did not hesitate to approach the academy boldly, and there was
nothing unusual about him to attract particular attention or arouse
suspicion. Happening to meet two cadets, he paused to ask:

"How may I find Elmer Tyke?"

Both professed that they were unacquainted with Elmer Tyke, but they
readily gave him directions and passed on, paying no further attention
to him, as he seemed to be some chap who was seeking to meet an
acquaintance there after the afternoon session.

The stranger, however, followed the walk around to the door of the
barracks, but kept on along the walk, passing round the corner of the
building, and walking swiftly toward another building beyond, the door
of which stood open.

As Lincoln ascended the steps of this building somebody came out,
carrying a book, and passed him without stopping. It was Jabez Lynch,
and, although Jabez did not seem to give the stranger so much as a
glance, any one watching closely might have seen his lips move slightly
when he was at the very shoulder of the other.

The stranger heard these words:

"Lower south room. Be lively. You can get out after dark."

That was all. Jabez passed on and the other walked straight into the
building, disappearing within the dark doorway.

Not much more than twenty minutes later the members of the Fardale
football-team, together with the trusted substitutes, assembled in one
of the rooms of that same building. In that room there were seats,
desks, blackboards, charts, and so forth, indicating it was one of the
recitation-rooms. Barely had the members of the eleven assembled when
Elmer Dow, the manager of the team, came in, accompanied by Frank
Merriwell.

"Is every one here?" asked Dow.

"All here," answered several.

Thereupon Dow closed the door and locked it.

"That will save interruptions," he said. "Now, go ahead, Mr. Merriwell."

Frank Merriwell advanced to the platform, calling the members of the
team down to the front seats near him. The afternoon light that sifted
through the windows was beginning to fail, and shadows were gathering in
the corners of the room.

"It is my intention," said Frank, plunging into his subject at once, "to
introduce and attempt several new and untried plays this season. If you
will remember, it was the introduction of a new and surprising play, the
tandem, that gave the University of Pennsylvania such an advantage over
unprepared opponents a few seasons ago. The tackles-back formation has
been very effective at Yale. The flying wedge, until it was barred by
the rules, was a terrible ground-gainer. Any one that understands
football may devise new formations, but not everybody can work out plays
that will prove successful. I am willing to admit that not all the new
plays I have devised have been winners; but I believe I have struck a
play that will prove a good one with any team until that team gets onto
the trick. If I am not mistaken in studying out the results of this
play, it will cause a portion of the opposing team to play against
itself."

This statement created a sensation, the listening lads looking at each
other in surprise.

"I reckon that must be a corker," said Brad Buckhart.

"Of course," Merriwell went on, "this will be prevented very quickly by
any first-class team when it sees through the trick and realizes what is
being done, but before another team can find out an effective way of
smashing the formation the game may be won. I call the new play ‘ends
around,’ and will now proceed to illustrate it to you here on this
board."

Then, with a piece of chalk, Frank drew the line-up of a team on the
blackboard.

"Now," he said, "pay close attention to my description of the play, for
I want every one of you to get onto it so well that there will be no
confusion when we put it into practise to-morrow."

All were listening.

"At the signal the ball goes to the left half-back. I have chosen him to
take the ball, because it is better to move three men on the right end
of the line and only two on the left end, and the left guard will remain
with the center to hold the middle of the opposing line as the formation
is being made. The attack is to be focused on the center and right guard
of the enemy. The quarter will plunge in between left guard and center,
with the left half, carrying the ball, right at his heels. The right
half must jump behind the left half, grasp him by the waist, and drive
him forward, and the full-back follows. The right guard swings back and
gets the right half by the waist, adding his weight to the assault. The
left tackle swings back in the same manner and adds his force to the
plunge. The right tackle does the same, and the two ends swing round and
back for the same purpose."

As he talked, Merriwell drew lines illustrating the manner in which
every man swung back and formed to advance the ball, making the play so
plain that even a novice must have understood his meaning.

"Supposing the center and left guard have been able to hold the assault
of the enemy," Merry continued, "seeking at the same time to split them
for an opening. Then comes the quarter right through between them,
backed and propelled by the force of nearly the whole line and the other
backs. But here I will explain how it is that I count on assistance from
the enemy, who will also aid—a part of them—in helping forward the ball.
As players of our line swing back, it will be natural for the opposing
players to follow them up. By swinging skilfully and not letting the
enemy through or past, he may be forced to pursue right round and add
the impetus of his rush to help hurl the formation forward. Of course, I
do not say that a crack team will do this repeatedly and continually,
but I believe that, by skilful management, any team may be led to do it
several times in a game, and I think the play is one to use in critical
moments as a desperate resort. For ordinary occasions the old and tried
simple plays will be better.

"This play may be varied as a tandem or a mass. In the latter case, the
retreating ends must form round the man with the ball and thrust him
forward in a body, at the same time protecting him from assault on
either side. The tandem may work well at the start, but two or three
trials may give a quick-witted enemy opportunities enough to get on and
smash through the tandem formation. Then it will be well to try the
mass.

"Now, is there any one present who does not understand the play as I
have described it? If so, let him speak up, and I will seek to make it
plain in any particular detail."

There was a brief silence, and then Brad Buckhart said:

"A galoot that didn’t understand that would be denser than a Rocky
Mountain burro."

Frank smiled a bit.

"I am glad I have succeeded in making it so plain," he said; "but, you
know, Fardale has had a difficulty in being quick to take the signals
and carry them into effect, some of the men finding it difficult to
carry the signals, though our code is one of the simplest. That made it
seem possible that somebody might not understand the full details of
this play. Fardale must liven up before next Saturday in forming to any
kind of a signal. We’re going to meet one of the strongest teams of the
season in Viewland, and we must not let them break our string of
victories."

"Oh, we’ll walk off with another scalp, you bet your boots," said the
irrepressible Buckhart.

"You mustn’t forget my lesson on overconfidence, given you before the
last game. It’s just about as bad as lack of confidence. Hudsonville was
overconfident, and Fardale defeated her."

"Well," said Steve Nunn, captain of the eleven, "the report is that
Viewland is worried. She thought Hudsonville would have an easy time,
but the result of the game has set her thinking in a different way."

"It’ll kill her to death to be beaten by Fardale," said Don Kent. "She
beat us sixteen to nothing last year."

"It’s going to be different this year," declared big Bob Singleton.

"But Viewland will do anything to win," asserted Kent. "Those people
haven’t any scruples."

Then Dick Merriwell spoke up for the first time.

"There are certain chaps here at Fardale who want to see us lose," he
said. "I know them, but, for reasons, I’m not going to call their names.
We have traitors and spies at this school."

"Oh, I don’t like to think that any Fardale fellow really wants to see
us beaten!" exclaimed Steve Nunn.

"I don’t like to think so," said Dick; "but I know it."

"But they wouldn’t do anything to help down us?"

"Wouldn’t they?"

"An onery Piute who would do anything of the sort ought to be lynched
like a horse-thief!" exploded the Texan Maverick, in his forceful way.

"I have reasons to believe," said Dick quietly, "that there is at least
one fellow at Fardale who has opened communication with a member of the
Viewland team, with the intention of putting Viewland onto our style of
playing and our signals."

"Say, Dick," called Buckhart, "just name the varmint, and we’ll give him
a coat of tar and feathers! That’s the sort of medicine that will do him
good."

"As I have no absolute proof against him, I’ll not name him now," said
Dick, remembering how his charge against Uric Scudder had fallen flat
through Jack Glennon’s denial that he knew Scudder.

"I think it will not be easy for Viewland to get hold of our signals,"
said Frank Merriwell, "as the series signals, which will be adopted in
the next game, will make it hard for them to tell what we’re going to
do. But every man here must be sure he has those signals by heart, so he
will make no blunders in the plays. I want to see if everybody here is
up on signals, so I’ll just give a few and call on different ones to
tell what they mean. I’ll take simple signals first, and then follow
with series signals. Ready now. The one I call will answer."

They sat quiet and gave him attention. The darkness was gathering more
rapidly in the corners now, the red and gold of the sunset dying out of
the autumn sky.

"21—37—70—Z—43," called Frank. "Gordan."

"Drop-kick by full-back," answered Gordan promptly.

"Right," nodded Merry. "7—70—Y—16—200—10. Shannock."

"Left half round right end," answered Shannock, with equal promptness.

"Right again," said Frank. "2—7—22—18—Y—40. Blair."

"Left half through center," spoke Blair, without hesitation.

"Correct. 26—28—B—100—4. Merriwell."

"Tackles back; right tackle through center," answered Dick Merriwell.

"27—29—F—100—7. Burrows."

"Tackles back; left tackle round right end," said Burrows.

"21—Z—83—2—1—62. Douglass."

"Drop-kick by full-back," said Douglass slowly.

"Have to think quick in a game, you know," said Frank.

"I never could think any too quick," confessed Hugh Douglass, his face
flushing somewhat.

Many who knew this was true had wondered that Douglass had been used in
the line, or on the team at all, yet all were compelled to confess that
he had done good work for a new man, and seemed to be a steady,
promising player.

"We all seem to understand," said Frank, "that in our code of signals
the players is indicated by a letter and the play by the first number
spoken, except in the tackles-back formation, which is called for by two
leading numbers over twenty-five and under thirty, the signal for the
play then being the number following one hundred. Although this code is
simple and easy to understand, it is hard enough for an outsider, unless
the outsider receives some pointer to begin work upon. But what will
make it more difficult for another team to get onto our signals is the
using of a single signal for a series of three plays. I’ll see if you
have remembered these signals. Ready, now. ‘Brace up.’ Kent."

Quick as a flash, Don Kent answered:

"First play, right half round left end. Second play, guards-back tandem.
Third play, fake double pass."

"Excellent," said Frank. "That’s all right. ‘Hold, everybody.’ Nunn."

"First play," answered the captain, "mass on center. Second play, left
half round right end. Third play, again mass on center."

"And that is all right, too," smiled Merry. "It’s plain you have been
studying your little lesson. Of course, everybody understands that these
series of plays may be changed at any time by the giving of a new
signal. If it is found that the series may not work well, or if it is
thought a better play has been discovered, then a new signal cuts off
the remaining portion of the series and starts the boys at something
else. These word signals will be likely to take by surprise the team
that is waiting for a number to be called before the ball is snapped.
And then will come another surprise when the second and third plays are
made without any signal for them seeming to have been spoken at all."

"Oh, we’ll have Viewland daffy," laughed Big Bob with satisfaction.

"We’ll stampede the whole bunch," said Brad Buckhart.

"We must have a signal for the new ‘ends-around’ formation," said Frank.
"I suggest ‘On the jump,’ and think it best to keep using that formation
repeatedly after the signal until the signal is changed. Do you
understand that?”

"Please make it a trifle plainer," suggested Douglass.

"‘On the jump’ is the signal for the new ‘ends-around’ formation which I
have illustrated here on the board, and the play is to be kept up after
that signal is given till another signal is spoken. Surely that is
plain."

"I understand it now," said Hugh.

Dick Merriwell had risen, without saying anything, and now sauntered
back toward one of the dark corners. Several times he had heard a slight
noise in that corner, and now he took a fancy to investigate.

The others looked at Dick curiously, but, without paying any attention
to them, the dark-eyed lad penetrated to the corner. Then, of a sudden,
he plunged under a bench and pounced on a figure he saw crouching there.

"A spy!" he cried.

Then there was a commotion in that room.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                              THE CAPTURE.


"Spy! spy!" cried the boys, jumping up and rushing back.

Dick yanked the fellow out in a hurry.

"Come out here, you sneak!" he exclaimed hotly. "Let us have a look at
you!"

"Be careful," warned the spy angrily. "You’ll tear my clothes."

"They ought to be torn!" retorted Dick. "You should have them torn off
your back!"

Then the fellow struck at Dick, who dodged the blow. The spy tried to
break away and seek some means of escape, for he realized that the
Fardale players were certain to be furiously angry.

"Let me get at him!" roared Brad Buckhart. "He’ll think he’s been run
over by a stampeded bunch of longhorns!"

"Give me a chance!" came from Bob Singleton. "I want to thump him once!"

But Frank Merriwell leaped in and checked their furious assault on the
fellow.

"Stop!" he said sharply. "Let’s have a look at him. Let’s see who he
is."

But the fellow did not fancy being looked at, and he made another lunge
to break from Dick, although he would have found it difficult to escape
from the room had he succeeded in that plunge.

"No, you don’t!" exclaimed young Merriwell. "Be still, sneak!"

"Don’t you call me ‘sneak’!" panted the spy, as he succeeded in hitting
Dick a glancing blow on the cheek.

That was where he made a mistake. It was like a flint striking steel in
a powder-mill. Quick as a flash, Dick hit the spy a blow under the ear,
lifting him and dropping him prostrate at the upper end of an aisle.

Frank Merriwell caught the chap by the collar and stood him up, at the
same time thrusting back with a sweep of the arm Brad Buckhart, who was
trying to get in a blow.

"Steady down!" commanded Merry. "Let’s inspect him and hear what he has
to say for himself."

Then he pinned the fellow against the wall, and they crowded around.

"He’s not a Fardale man," said Steve Nunn.

"Who knows him?" demanded Frank.

"He’s a stranger," said Burrows. "Doesn’t belong here."

"I’m glad of that," came from Merry.

"You fellows are too fresh!" exclaimed the spy, with pretended
indignation. "Can’t a person look round your old academy without being
mobbed like this?"

"You were looking round?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing in here?"

"Just happened to drop in."

Dick Merriwell laughed.

"A silly excuse," he said.

"I’d like a chance to settle with you!" declared the stranger hotly.
"I’d make you laugh out of the other side of your mouth!"

"Bet you can’t do it!" came quickly from Dick. "Let him go, Frank! Let
him take his coat off! I’d like to have it out with him! I’d like to
give him what he deserves!"

"Yes, let me!" urged the spy just as eagerly. "I’ll agree to lick that
fellow in one minute!"

"Why, you poor, onery scrub!" exclaimed Buckhart, "he’d knock the hay
out of you in about ten seconds! You don’t know what you’re talking
about! That’s Dick Merriwell, and I allow he can whip four times his
weight in mountain lions!"

"I don’t care who he is! He hit me, and I’ll settle with him for that!"

"Stop that fighting-talk now," ordered Frank Merriwell, "and explain how
you happened to be in this room."

"Why, I just walked in. Saw the door open and sauntered in."

"What for?"

"To look at the place."

"Mighty interesting place to look at!" sneered the Texan Maverick
incredulously.

"What were you doing under that bench?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Listening?"

"Well, I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying, though that didn’t
amount to much."

"Of course, he’s a spy," said Elmer Dow. "That’s how he happened to be
here. He was here to find out about that new play and to get onto the
signals."

"Do you deny that?" asked Frank of the captive.

"Of course, I deny everything," answered the fellow defiantly. "What are
you going to do about it?"

He showed his teeth in a sneering smile.

At this moment Dick Merriwell brought out something he had discovered
beneath the desk where the fellow had been.

"Look here!" he exclaimed. "A pad and pencil. He’s got the signals
scrawled here on the pad! He was taking them down!"

Then there was a moment of silence, followed by an angry murmur from the
Fardale men, which grew louder and louder.

"Spy!"

"Sneak! sneak!"

"Dirty dog!"

"Onery coyote!"

"Give it to him!"

But for Frank Merriwell he must have received rough treatment then and
there.

"It’s proof enough against him," said Steve Nunn. "It’s useless for him
to try to lie out of it now."

The fellow decided to be defiant.

"What are you going to do about it?" he brazenly asked.

"Somebody helped him get in here," Dick declared. "He was told when we
were to meet here! He was helped by a traitor in our own camp!"

"I’m afraid that’s right," said Dow regretfully.

"Of course, it’s right! He won’t deny it."

"I won’t deny anything," said the captive. "What’s the use?"

"Well, I’d like to get my paws onto that traitor!" broke forth Buckhart.
"I’d kick him into shoestrings! You hear me shout!"

"Make him tell who it is," suggested Burrows.

"Yes, go ahead and make me!" laughed the spy defiantly.

"Bring him out here where I can get a good look at him," urged Don Kent.
"I believe I know him."

So the captive was pulled out to a spot where the light from the windows
fell on his face.

"Sure thing!" cried Kent. "I know him! Some of you others ought to know
him, too."

"Who is he?"

"Phil Cranch, Viewland’s left end last year."

"Cranch?" cried several. "It is!"

"Well, if you’re not a peach!" came scornfully from Big Bob, as he
glared at the captive. "You should be ashamed of yourself! I’d want to
go die if I’d been caught this way."

"Viewland must consider the case pretty desperate when it resorts to
this kind of business," said Frank Merriwell.

"Don’t blame the team," said Cranch quickly. "I did it on my own accord,
and none of the rest knows anything about it."

"You ought to be proud of the trick," grumbled Big Bob. "I suppose you
regard this as square sport?"

"Square or not," said the spy, "we don’t propose to let Fardale beat us
this year."

"I’ll bet you anything you like we do beat you!" flashed Dick Merriwell.
"All you’ve found out here won’t do you any good."

"Oh, I don’t know. You can change your code of signals, but you won’t be
able to use your fancy ‘ends-around’ play against us. We’ll have
something to offset that, all right."

"Do you think we’re going to let you go back and carry your information
to your old team?"

"I don’t see how you can help it."

"Don’t you?"

"No."

"Well, you’re going to find out."

Cranch laughed.

"You worry me," he sneered.

"What do you say, fellows," came from Dick Merriwell, as he appealed to
the others, "are we going to let this fellow off, to carry all he has
discovered back to his team for Viewland to use the information against
us?"

And it seemed that every man appealed to answered in a breath:

"No!"

Cranch laughed again, in the same derisive, defiant way.

"I’d like to know what you think you can do?" he said.

"We’ll show you!"

"You can only turn me over to the authorities. They may fancy there is a
case against me for some trivial charge, but what does that amount to? I
did not break and enter. This is a recitation-room, not a residence. If
I am held, I fancy I can readily obtain bail. Now, will you be good?"

The spy seemed to think he had the best of it.

"Oh, we won’t turn him over to the authorities!" exclaimed Dick
Merriwell, at once.

"Hardly that!" came from several of the others.

About this time Frank Merriwell decided that it was best for him to
withdraw and let the others settle what they would do with the captive.

"Do not offer him any bodily injury," advised Frank. "I find I have
urgent business that must be given attention."

He laughed, and they understood him. He was giving them the opportunity
to dispose of Cranch as they saw fit. Cranch understood this, too, and
he appealed to Frank.

"Hold on, Mr. Merriwell!" he cried. "You have no right to leave me this
way. You saw them attempt to mob me, and——"

"I really think you deserve to be mobbed," returned Frank, with perfect
coolness. "At the same time, I counsel against anything of the sort. A
chap of your stripe, Mr. Cranch, does not deserve protection when he
gets into a scrape. You’ve got nerve, it seems; well, let your nerve
stand by you now, for I decline to bother with you longer. It is true
that I have business elsewhere."

Some one unlocked the door for him, and he departed, leaving the spy in
the hands of his angry captors.

The moment Frank was gone, Brad Buckhart again proposed doing physical
violence to Cranch. But now Dick Merriwell seemed to take the lead, and
he intervened.

"No," he said, "we’ll not lower ourselves by jumping on him; but we must
find a way to prevent him from carrying tales to his team. Now, how is
that to be done?"

That was a serious question.

"We might drown him," suggested Big Bob. "They say that is a very easy
death, and so we could not be accused of violence."

"It really will not do to let him loose," said Elmer Dow.

"Then," spoke Dick, "the only thing to be done is to keep him a
captive."

"That’s right."

"Till after the game Saturday."

"Good scheme!"

"Who agrees?" asked Dick.

"I! I! I!" came from all sides.

The spy saw they were in earnest, and he began to grow anxious.

"Oh, you can’t mean that!" he said. "Why, that would be an unlawful
piece of business."

"Don’t talk to us about the law, you duffer!" rumbled Singleton.

"Thank your luck you’re not in the Rio Pecos Valley," said Buckhart.
"They’d hang you in the first chaparral out there."

"And serve him right, too!" exclaimed Captain Nunn.

"I promise you I shall give you the full extent of the law if you
forcibly detain me," threatened Cranch.

"Go ’way back and sit down!" said Burrows. "We’ll take our chances with
the law."

"And you’ll show yourself up as a pretty poor pup before the case is
over if you resort to the law," said Buckhart.

"It’s getting dark," said Dick. "We can run him out of here, but where
shall we take him?"

"The Meadow Barn," suggested some one.

"Good place! First rate! But some of the fellows who do not understand
about the affair might find him there and make trouble."

"I’ll be missed," said Cranch, "and they will search for me everywhere.
You can’t keep me anywhere without getting into a scrape. Better drop
this foolish piece of business."

"Save your breath," said Dick Merriwell. "You’re in for a period of
imprisonment, and it’s no use to squirm. Can’t somebody think of a
better place than the old barn?"

"The Dead Road Mill," said Don Kent. "That’s the place."

"That’s the place," agreed the others. "But it’s farther away than the
barn."

"All the better."

"And the story that the old mill is haunted will keep people away from
it," said Nunn. "He’s not likely to be found there. We’ll have to set a
guard over him."

"To the Dead Road Mill he goes," decided Dick Merriwell, who had assumed
leadership without being disputed.

"I think I have something to say about that!" exclaimed Cranch. "I won’t
go! You can’t make me!"

"Oh, I think we can!" said Big Bob. "That doesn’t worry us a bit."

"I’ll raise a disturbance! Do you think I’ll go without a fight? Well,
you’ve made a mistake! I’ll yell for help now if you do not set me free
at once! I’ll bring the faculty of the academy down upon you!"

They looked at one another, and then, of a sudden, as if by a single
impulse, three of them leaped upon him. He was tripped and flung to the
floor, being held there.

"Kneel on his arms!" commanded Dick Merriwell. "Hold his hands while I
fix this!"

He had taken out a handkerchief.

"Help!" shouted Cranch, his voice echoing hollowly in the room.

Over his mouth the handkerchief was placed. He struggled to keep them
from fastening it there, but two more knelt and held his head. Dick was
skilful and rapid in his work. Soon the captive’s roars for help were
muffled and smothered, but Dick called for another handkerchief, which
he bound over the first.

Cranch began to realize that he was in a decidedly serious scrape, and
he grew frightened at last.

"Bring cords of some kind," commanded Dick. "We’ve got to tie his hands
behind him, to keep him from snatching the gag away from his mouth."

It was not long before the captive’s hands were securely fastened behind
his back. Then they lifted him and stood him on his feet. By this time
it had grown quite dark in the room.

"Now," said Merriwell, "two of you fellows saunter out and see when the
coast is clear. Give us the signal, and we’ll run him out round the
building, get him back of the gym, and carry him off across the field."

It was strange that none of them thought of rebelling against accepting
this plebe as their leader, and the team was made up of men in every
class; but during the past few weeks Dick had made a record that seemed
to indicate his right to be a leader, and, in the excitement of the
moment, the fact that he was a plebe did not count against him.

As directed, two of them went out and looked around. Pretty soon one of
them slipped back and hissed at the door.

"Come on, quick!" he said. "Now is our time."

Cranch made one more feeble attempt to resist, but they packed about
him, grasping his arms, and he was carried forward. Out through the
hall, down the steps, and round the corner hastily went that mass of
lads, bearing the captive spy in their midst. They did not pause,
rushing round the gymnasium, and soon they were quite a distance away
from the buildings.

No sentry paced the path across the field at this season of the year,
and they escaped without being challenged or stopped. Not till they were
far away, however, did they pause for a breathing-spell.

"Talk about rustling cattle!" exclaimed Buckhart, in a low tone. "Well,
this must be something like it, though I allow I never took part in that
kind of a game."

"Will you agree to keep quiet if we take the handkerchiefs off?" asked
Dick of Cranch.

The captive nodded.

"All right," said Merriwell. "Off they come."

But barely were they removed than the spy raised a wild shout for help.

They flung themselves on Cranch again, soon gagging him more securely
than before.

"Might have known I could not trust him!" muttered Dick. "Come on,
fellows; let’s get him away from here."

And soon they had vanished into a fringe of dark woods, where a lonesome
owl was hooting now and then.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                              A HOT START.


"Mr. Lincoln" failed to return to the hotel that night. The following
day Jabez Lynch called at the hotel to inquire for the young man, and
was told of his rather singular disappearance.

Jabez left the hotel in a somewhat puzzled state of mind, but soon
decided that "Lincoln" had obtained the information he desired and taken
a hurried departure from Fardale.

Then it was that Jabez fancied he saw an opportunity to increase his
pocket-money, for Fardale’s past victories had made the cadets rather
confident in regard to the future, and some of them were willing to risk
a little in backing the academy team.

In an unostentatious way Jabez proceeded to seek bets, which he found.
He protested that he hoped to see Fardale win again, but said he was
satisfied that Viewland would prove superior. Whenever he succeeded in
raising an argument on this point he offered to back his conviction with
coin of the country, and, therefore, it was not long before he had
wagered his last dollar.

Secretly, Jabez chuckled to himself when he thought of the surprise
Viewland would give Fardale and Frank Merriwell. For he felt certain
that, knowing Fardale’s code of signals, the opposing team would be
prepared for any play, and, therefore, must readily defeat it.

Whenever any one accused him of disloyalty for betting on Viewland,
Jabez insisted that he did so not because he wished the enemy to
conquer, but because he believed that must be the inevitable result. But
he found that not a few of the cadets seemed indignant because he was
willing to bet against the academy team under any circumstances.

"They’ll be madder," he told himself, "when I gather in their dough.
Perhaps they’ll begin to think Mr. Frank Merriwell is not such a great
coach, after all."

The Fardale team worked steadily in practise that week, although
Merriwell did not permit it to engage in a contest with the scrub the
day before the game was to come off.

Saturday arrived, and found Fardale more confident than ever.

Fardale’s good record brought out an unusually large gathering of
spectators, filling the seats provided for them.

Of course, Zona Desmond and Doris Templeton were on hand, for they
seldom missed a game played in Fardale. Zona seemed more dashingly
handsome than ever, but it was Doris who received the undivided
attention of Hal Darrell, who accompanied the girls, looking spick and
span in his uniform.

A few minutes past two a band of shaggy-haired youngsters, garbed in
football-armor, trotted onto the field, and then about thirty
loud-lunged Viewland rooters broke loose.

"’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!
V-i-e-w-l-a-n-d—Viewland! Viewland! Viewland!"

Divesting themselves of their heavy sweaters, the visitors lost no time
in beginning practise. Two footballs were brought out, and then a ring
was made, and part of the players began to pass the ball round the
circle.

Off at one side, the center, full-back, and a half-back took positions.
The center placed the ball on the ground, as far in front of him as he
could reach in a stooping position, with his legs wide apart, then
snapped it back to the full-back, who caught it and punted it to the
half-back at a distance. This was kept up for some time, the half-back
punting the ball back, or throwing it by taking hold of the end in a
peculiar manner and giving it a sweeping swing.

In the midst of these operations there was another stir, and then a
second band of youthful gladiators were seen coming on the run.

"Fardale!" shouted a voice, and then:

"Ha! ha! ha! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Rigger-boom! Zigger-boom! All
hail—Fardale! Fardale! Fardale!"

It seemed that the Fardale team shed their sweaters on the run, for they
were ready for practise when they reached the gridiron, across which
they trotted to the side opposite that on which Viewland was practising.

Even as they came to a pause, the quarter-back was heard calling a
signal. Down went a ball, and the players lined up quickly; then there
was a snap, a pass, and a forward rush.

Frank Merriwell came onto the field with the team, and he was close to
the players as they formed, talking to them all the while. He kept them
at work right along, and it was plain to see that the home team moved
with more snap and regularity than ever before, each man seeming to know
what was expected of him and to do the thing expected. This was
calculated to arouse enthusiasm on the part of the Fardale spectators,
and it did not fail.

Jabez Lynch was watching, and there was an expression of anxiety on his
face. He saw the captain of the visiting team come across and meet Steve
Nunn, and from his position Jabez was able to hear some of their talk.

"What are you going to do to us?" asked the Viewland captain.

"We expect to beat you," was the prompt answer.

"Well, you can’t do that, even though we have lost one of our best men."

"Lost a man! Hurt?"

"No—vanished. It’s the queerest thing. Cranch left home the first of the
week, saying he’d be back the next day. Didn’t tell anybody where he was
going, and we have not seen him since. But we can beat your chaps
without him."

Jabez felt faint and ill. His face turned pale, and he longed to rush
out and ask questions, an inclination he was compelled to resist.

Cranch gone! What did it mean? And the fellow had not returned since
coming to Fardale!

"I’m soaked!" thought Lynch despairingly. "What the dickens has
happened! Good Lord! If Viewland loses, I’m cleaned out of my last
dollar and about twenty I have borrowed! I’ll be in a bad hole!"

From that moment he was desperately anxious.

Things moved swiftly. Viewland got the choice, and gave the ball to
Fardale. The wind was blowing almost directly across the field from the
west, so there was little choice in goals.

The positions of the players are here given:

          FARDALE.             POSITIONS.      VIEWLAND.
          Burrows              Right end       Warwick
          Stanton             Right tackle     Purcell
          Douglass            Right guard      Sargent
          Buckhart               Center        Kernan
          Gordan               Left guard      Low
          Blair               Left tackle      Pitman
          Kent                  Left end       Gould
          Shannock            Quarter-back     Moulton
          Nunn              Right half-back    Warne
          Merriwell          Left half-back    Jordan
          Singleton            Full-back       Young

Viewland’s line was heavier than Fardale’s, and the appearance of the
visiting team was such as to give the impression that it would be able
to batter the cadets down by sheer weight and brawn. But Fardale’s men
were in fine condition, their training not being too fine, and they were
due to put up a better fight than the casual and uninformed observer
might think possible.

The officials were on hand, the referee wearing a red sweater. On one
side of the field were two men with stakes, and a line that permitted
them to be set five yards apart.

The two teams scattered out over the field, the Viewland backs retiring
to their goal-line, with the exception of the quarter.

Then there was a pause, as a discussion rose over something, and a boy,
with a pail of water, trotted onto the field. He was called by several
players, and plunged a huge sponge into the water-pail, letting the
water run from the sponge into the mouths of the players. One fellow
grabbed the dripping sponge and rubbed it over his face. Then the boy
trotted off.

A player tore off some kind of head-gear and flung it aside. The ball
had been placed on the spot in the center of the field.

At this moment the Fardale crowd gave the regular cheer, ending with
Viewland three times shouted. Not to be outdone, the thirty Viewland
rooters promptly retorted with their cheer, ending with "Fardale!
Fardale! Fardale!"

This was a little bit of courtesy that was intended to show that the
game was for square sport and there was no ill-will.

There was a hush, and then the whistle sounded.

"They’re off!" cried a voice.

The Fardale full-back advanced toward the ball, swung his muscular leg,
and booted the oval far into Viewland’s territory.

Warne took the ball on the run at the ten-yard line, and he carried it
ten yards before Kent brought him down. So the teams lined up on
Viewland’s twenty-yard line for the opening scrimmage.

Viewland was encouraged by cheers from her thirty lusty-lunged rooters.

A pause, a move, a rush, a swirl—then a mass of human beings piled up.
But Viewland had made full six yards by a plunge into Fardale’s center.

Again the visiting spectators cheered, for it seemed by this that
Fardale’s line was not strong enough to hold such rushes.

The signal was given as the teams lined up facing each other, crouching,
alert, ready. The players of the two lines bent forward so that it
seemed as if their noses must touch, and thus they glared into one
another’s eyes.

Again Viewland went hard for Fardale’s center, but this time Brad
Buckhart stood there like a tree rooted to the ground, and the guards on
either side of him refused to be swept back. There was a shock, a
straining, a break, and Buckhart had the man with the ball down, without
a gain.

Now Fardale opened up with a great cheer of satisfaction.

"Didn’t do it that time!" whooped a loud-voiced cadet joyously. "Oh, I
don’t know that it’s so easy!"

But Viewland was in for swift work, and the line-up was made in
breathless haste, so that the two teams were at each other again in the
shortest possible time.

Once more, with the best interference that could be made, the visitors
hurled themselves against Buckhart. The Texan set his teeth and met the
assault in the same spirit that it was made. He held it until Shannock
could break through and throw the man with the ball.

There was another roar of joy from the Fardale seats, and the red and
black was wildly waved in the breeze.

"Do it again!" whooped the same loud voice. "It’s just as easy!"

But Viewland had discovered that the center of Fardale’s line was not as
easy as had been anticipated.

"Will they kick?" asked many.

But Viewland was not yet satisfied that the required gain could not be
made, and the ball went to Jordan for an end-run. Moulton and Warne ran
across with Jordan, as interferers, while the Viewland line held
Fardale. Round the left end of the cadets the swiftest half-back of the
visiting team tried to circle.

Down on him came a flying tackler, and the excited witnesses yelled:

"Merriwell!"

Moulton tried to stop Dick, but Don Kent had escaped Warwick, and he
went into Moulton like a battering-ram, spoiling the interference of the
visiting quarter-back. Warne was running too fast to turn in time when
he made the discovery that Merriwell was on hand, and Dick shot past him
and had Jordan by the leg in a moment.

Down came the runner, who had dodged back in a poor attempt to avoid
Dick, and Viewland was stopped with a loss of at least four yards.

Then there was another cheer from Fardale—a cheer of exceeding great
joy. The game was opening well for the home team, and Fardale showed she
was not in the least awed by the apparent heaviness of the enemy.

The cadets had secured the ball, and, as the flags flew, the bleachers
began to sing, a wildly gesticulating fellow leading the chorus.

Zona Desmond had leaped up with a cry when Dick tackled Jordan, waving
above her head the flag she had brought. Turning, she caught hold of
Doris, and cried:

"Wasn’t that just beautiful? Why don’t you cheer?"

But Doris had been too breathless to utter a sound, though her blue eyes
were filled with a light of admiration.

The students were singing:

                  What’s the matter with old Fardale?
                        She’s all right!
                        She can fight!
                    She’s always in the game.
                    And her work is never tame;
                  She’ll get there just the same;
                                So——
                  What’s the matter with old Fardale?

"They’re singing too soon!" muttered Jabez Lynch. "Better wait a little
while!"

"That’s what I think," said a voice beside him.

Lynch started, for he had not fancied that he spoke the words aloud.
Scudder was there.

"What do you want?" asked Jabez, not quite pleased at having Uric there.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" was the answer, as Scudder grinned and rubbed
his chin. "Just happened along and heard what you said."

"I didn’t say anything."

"Didn’t you? Then I must have been dreaming."

"And I don’t wish to talk to you here."

"Why not?"

"Because it may arouse suspicion. I——"

"Now, don’t get on your high horse with me!" said Uric, in a low tone,
suddenly assuming a defiant air. "I know all about you, and you’re not a
bit better than I am—if as good. Just because I declined to be your
tool, don’t think you can play the lofty with me. You acknowledged that
you had been caught, and——"

"Stop that kind of talk here! I don’t want to play the lofty; but we’re
both known as Merriwell’s enemies, and some of these suspicious ones may
see us talking together. We’re not in the same class. You’re a plebe. If
I have too much to say to you, it will excite comment. That’s all."

"I’m glad that’s all," said Uric, with sarcasm. "All right; I’ll not
call suspicion down upon you. But if you’re banking on Viewland winning
to-day, I fancy you’ll lose. Your game didn’t work, did it?"

Somehow, this pricked the curiosity of Lynch. Was it possible Scudder
knew something about the disappearance of Cranch?

"My game?" said Jabez. "You mean——"

"Oh, you know."

"What makes you think it didn’t work?"

"Did it?"

Uric did not seem inclined to commit himself.

"Are you quizzing me?" said Jabez angrily.

"Oh, not at all! But it looks to me as if something had gone wrong in
your plans. You wear a worried expression."

"Well, don’t you worry about me!"

"Little danger; but if Viewland wins, I’ll call round and see you
to-night."

"You call——"

"Sure thing."

"Why? You——"

"I’m broke, and I shall need a little loan," said Uric significantly.

Jabez glared at him.

"Well, you won’t get it!" he snapped.

"Won’t I?" grinned Scudder. "Oh, I don’t know! Perhaps you’ll conclude
to cough after you think about it. Of course, I don’t want to make it
unpleasant for you, you know, but [illegible]"

Lynch felt like hitting the fellow.

"Go on!" he grated. "You may be sorry if you try any blackmailing-game
on me!"

"Oh, law!" said Scudder, in pretended horror. "Don’t use such harsh
language! You shock me!"

Then, with a sneering laugh, he moved off. Lynch glared after him.

"That fellow is going to make trouble for me," thought Jabez. "I’ve told
him too much. He can’t be trusted."

But now he gave his entire attention to the playing.

Having secured the ball on downs, Fardale lined up for the assault, and
Merriwell was hurled into Viewland’s center. Kernan was a good man
there, but the impetus of Merriwell’s rush, backed as it was by
Singleton, Nunn, and Shannock, forced Viewland to give for a distance of
four yards.

This was good, and the watchers expected that the attempt would be
repeated. The signal followed, as the two lines formed once more:

"11—17—92—X—13—40."

Merriwell was not given another opportunity. The ball was snapped and
passed to Nunn, who started to the left on the run, Shannock and
Merriwell falling in between him and the line, with Singleton just ahead
of him.

But the left end of Fardale’s line broke, letting Purcell through. The
right tackle of the enemy plunged between Shannock and Merriwell and
nailed Nunn, throwing him fairly onto his head. The ball escaped Steve
and went rolling away. Singleton tried to drop on it, but missed, and
Warwick came down on the oval, having followed Purcell through the
break.

Viewland had recovered the ball on this fumble.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                              SIX TO TWO.


A groan of dismay went up from the watching Fardale crowd.

"Oh, what a shame!" came from Zona Desmond.

"What’s happened?" panted Doris, who did not seem to understand the
play.

"Viewland’s got the ball again."

"How—how did they get it? I thought Dick had it a moment ago. He was
running with it."

"Dick? I presume you mean Mr. Merriwell?" said Hal Darrell, his face
flushing. "I didn’t suppose you were well enough acquainted with him to
speak of him in such a familiar manner."

"Everybody calls him Dick," she said. "I suppose it’s because he has a
brother who is so well known."

"Oh, is that how it happened?" said Darrell, with just the slightest
touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Well, I do not call him Dick. He did not
have the ball at all. It was Nunn who had the ball. Merriwell was
running ahead as an interferer, but a poor fellow he proved for the work
that time."

"I don’t see why."

"Because he didn’t keep that Viewland chap from getting to Nunn on the
jump."

"Could he have done it?" asked Zona.

"Of course, he could! That’s what he was there for. He should have
blocked the tackler. But you will notice that Merriwell does not put
himself in much danger unless he is given the ball to advance. He never
does much in helping any one else to advance the ball. It’s plain he
hankers for all the glory, and I will say that he has a way of getting
the biggest part of it. He’s continually thrust forward by his brother
and by Nunn till all Fardale is coming to believe him far superior to
what he really is."

"Why should you be jealous of him?" asked Doris, suddenly turning on
Hal, her eyes flashing.

"I—jealous?" said he, as if astonished.

"Yes, you—jealous. You are not in the game, and——"

"I assure you that you are unjust to me, Doris!" he exclaimed. "I am not
jealous of that fellow. I simply spoke the truth. He’s a much overrated
chap. I am expecting that this game will show it, too. I am not the only
one who thinks this, and——"

"I understand!" panted the girl, her cheeks flushed. "You can’t deceive
me that way. But I believe he is all right. I’m sure he’s a perfect
gentleman. He never talks about anybody, friend or foe, behind his
back."

"I have said nothing here that I should fear to repeat to his face,"
asserted Hal, who also was very red in the face. "If you mean that I am
not a gentleman, Doris——"

"Oh, stop talking that way and watch!" said Zona. "Viewland is going to
do something! What are they going to try?"

So Hal and Doris became silent, though the hearts of both were hot
within them.

Viewland had learned that Fardale’s center was strong, and so the attack
was concentrated on the right wing of the home team. Warne was sent into
Stanton, and he made three yards in a desperate charge. Then the ball
went back to Young, who followed up Warne’s attack and secured full five
yards.

The wind had been knocked out of Stanton, and out came the boy with the
bucket and the sponge. A dash of water over Stanton’s face, some
squeezed from the sponge into his mouth, and he revived, jumped up, and
exclaimed:

"I’m all right! Let her go!"

The whistle gave Viewland privilege to continue its assaults.

Next time Warne was given the ball for a run round Fardale’s right end,
and, with a goodly number of interferers to assist him, he cleared the
end of the line at top speed, passing Nunn, who was blocked off, and
seemed to have a good chance to make a run straight to the cadet’s goal.

The thirty Viewland rooters rose up and howled for joy. But down on
Warne with terrible speed came a flying form. The runner tried to dodge,
but Dick Merriwell shot through the air, got Warne by the leg, and
stretched him on the turf.

Not more than ten yards had been made, when it seemed that the enemy was
due for a touch-down.

"Of course, that was a case of bad playing!" cried Doris Templeton
revengefully. "Don’t you think so, Hal?"

Darrell bit his lip, but he had the manhood to say:

"That was a good tackle; I confess it."

But Doris was not to be appeased so easily.

"I presume you might have done better," she said. "Why don’t you go in
for football, Hal? You play baseball; you might play football. Are you
afraid?"

"Afraid—of what?"

"That Mr. Merriwell will do better at the game than you can. That you
may be hurt. That—lots of things."

He was stung by her words and manner.

"I might have played the game if I’d wished!" he said hotly.

"Why don’t you? I don’t believe you could make the team if you tried."

"Perhaps not now; but——"

"I thought so!" she said, in a manner that added to his discomfiture.
"That’s why you’re against some other fellow who has made it on the
first trial."

Her manner was quite unusual for her, and he felt it keenly. It stirred
him to exclaim:

"I see you think I could not get onto the eleven if I tried! I’ll show
you! I’ll go out for practise Monday. If I do not get onto the team, it
will be the fault of somebody besides myself. I have played football.
But perhaps Mr. Dick Merriwell will object to having me on the team. If
he does, I won’t get on, no matter how good I may prove to be."

"He’ll never be mean enough to try to keep you off."

While this conversation was taking place Viewland had tried Fardale’s
center again, but had been hurled back, with a loss of two feet. That
seemed to indicate that, beyond a doubt, the center of the line was
really one of the cadets’ strongest points. But Viewland was determined,
and it found other spots which seemed weak, so that a succession of
gains brought the ball to Fardale’s ten-yard line.

"Touch-down! touch-down!" the visiting rooters were shouting. "Put it
over, Warne—put it over!"

Viewland was determined, but, unfortunately for her, Warwick became too
excited in an effort to send Jordan round the end. Warwick saw Kent was
going to get past and tackle the runner, and he proceeded to grasp Don
and hold him.

Instantly the whistle sounded, and the ball was given to Fardale right
there.

"A godsend!" breathed Hal Darrell, with a sigh of genuine relief. "But
for that I think those chaps must have made a touch-down. If we can get
the ball away from the danger-point now, there is a chance that we may
brace up a little. It must be a kick."

But it was not. Fardale simply settled down to an effort to get back at
Viewland by a series of rushes and mass-plays. The first rush was a
failure, but a mass-play followed that carried the ball forward four
yards. Then a surprise was sprung in Frank Merriwell’s line-over play,
which had been used with good results in the Hudsonville game, and full
five yards were secured.

Viewland was surprised by these gains, for it had seemed that Fardale
was weakening, and now the cadets proved strong enough to advance
smashingly into the enemy’s line. The line-over formation was a new one
on Viewland, but the next attempt to work it was spoiled by the quick
charge of the visitors, who seemed to go through Fardale’s line like
sand through a sieve.

Fardale was quick to see that the line-over formation could not be
worked on Viewland except at unexpected moments.

A revolving wedge was tried, and the swinging mass plowed through the
visitors for full seven yards. Once more the Fardale spectators were
happy. Again the singing struck up. What if all the playing had been in
Fardale’s territory? What if the eagerness of the enemy had prevented
them from making a touch-down? No score had been secured, and the cadets
showed they were not discouraged, or weakening.

Again came the revolving wedge, but this, like the repeated line-over
play, was broken up and the object defeated. A tandem-play was
attempted, hitting the right wing of the enemy, but this failed.

"They must kick now!"

The speaker was right, and the full-back of the opposing team was seen
running back as fast as he could, to be ready for the expected punt. It
came. Singleton booted the ball fair and hard, sending it well over into
Viewland’s territory.

Kent and Burrows went down the field like wild colts, both finding no
trouble in getting away speedily. Kent was waiting for Young to catch
the ball, and he had the Viewland full-back by the leg when the oval
struck in Young’s hands. Down came Young.

The play was thus transferred into the territory of the visitors, where,
thirteen yards from center, the next line-up was made.

Jabez Lynch was sadly disappointed, for his heart had been jumping
joyously when the enemy forced Fardale to the ten-yard line. It was his
conviction that a touch-down must be made right there. And now Fardale
had succeeded in getting the ball over the center line.

By this time it was plain to Lynch that Viewland was not familiar with
Fardale’s signals, and this satisfied him that the captain had made no
bluff in saying Cranch was missing. Jabez was not happy. He had hoped to
see the visitors pile up score upon score in a disheartening manner for
Fardale; but once more it was looking like a close and hard-fought game.

Viewland earnestly sought to get the ball back over the center line by
rushes, a feat she found herself unable to accomplish, not a little to
her dismay. Five yards from center she was compelled to kick.

Merriwell caught the ball and sent it back. Dick’s kick caused the
witnessing crowd to shout and rise, for it was a grand effort, the ball
going fully to Viewland’s thirty-yard line. Warne got it, but Don Kent
was on hand, and Warne was downed promptly, although he managed to roll
over and over for almost five yards before being stopped entirely.

On her thirty-five-yard line Viewland again prepared for the onslaught.
Things were not going to suit the visitors, and they started in to
hustle things. The tackles were placed back of the line, and Purcell was
given the ball, while the interference hit Gordan.

Gordan was backed by Shannock and Merriwell, and he managed to stand up
to the task of holding the push until Blair got through and brought
Purcell to earth.

Fardale was fighting well now, and it began to look as if the visiting
team would find its hands full with the lighter cadets.

This effort failing to get a gain, Warne was given the ball. He went
flying across, having several interferers to protect him, and it seemed
like an effort to circle Fardale’s right end. Certain it was that the
greater part of the Fardale team regarded it as a straight attempt to
get round the right end, and there the resistance rushed.

But Warne made a skilful pass to Jordan, who was going in the opposite
direction. Dick Merriwell had seen the pass, and he made a leap to get
at Jordan when he came round. But Dick was fooled then, for Young was in
a position to take the ball from Jordan, who kept right on toward the
left end of Fardale’s line, as if still retaining possession of the
leather.

These movements had caused Fardale to leave an opening right through her
center, and Young went through like a streak.

Dick was on the point of tackling Jordan as the left half-back came
round, when he discovered the fellow didn’t have the ball. Then Dick
turned and saw Young going for Fardale’s goal-line like the wind.

Without a word, setting his teeth, Merriwell started after Viewland’s
full-back. Young was doing his best, but the spectators saw the pursuer
gain on him swiftly. Nevertheless, it seemed that Young must make a
touch-down before he could be stopped.

"Merriwell!" roared the Fardale crowd. "Merriwell! Merriwell!"

With the leaps of a frightened greyhound, Dick Merriwell bore down on
Young. Drawing near, he launched himself at the full-back, clutched him,
and dragged him to earth. Then others came piling upon them, and the
ball was down three yards from Fardale’s line.

It was a play to set both sides wild, and cheer followed cheer.

But again Fardale’s goal was in great danger, and Viewland was happy.

"Hold ’em!" begged Captain Nunn, as the defenders lined up. "Stick your
toes in, everybody! Don’t let them have an inch."

And they obeyed him as far as Viewland’s first effort was concerned, and
the visitors had made no gain on that down. But the heavy line told in
the next attack, and the ball was jammed to within a foot of Fardale’s
line.

Panting, desperate, sweaty, and dirt-stained, the defenders made ready
for a last stand.

"Don’t let them do it!" implored Nunn. "Steady, all!"

Then came the pass and the shock. For a few seconds it seemed that
Fardale was going to swing the heavy visitors back for a loss; then
through that mass of straining humanity somehow wiggled Warne. How he
did it no one seemed able to tell, but he squirmed through and shoved
the ball over Fardale’s line.

It was a touch-down!

When this result became known, Jabez Lynch could scarcely restrain a
shout of joy.

Viewland took time in bringing out the ball. The strong wind had to be
judged well in kicking for goal, but Young was equal to the occasion,
and he sent the oval over the bar in very handsome style.

It was fancied that Fardale would weaken now; but the visitors were
surprised to find the cadets stiffer and livelier than ever when play
was resumed.

As Viewland had made the first score, it again became Fardale’s duty to
kick off, and this time Merriwell was sent in to do the turn. He made a
handsome kick, that was almost a duplicate of that with which Singleton
opened the game.

Warne got the ball, but he did not advance four yards before Kent had
him nailed and stretched on the ground. Then came some swift playing
that was almost bewildering to the witnesses. Viewland seemed to think
she could make gains by her great weight in charging; but two attempts,
with no material gain, set her to thinking something different.

Then came a sudden kick, but Merriwell had anticipated it and dropped
back. Getting the ball, Dick dodged tackler after tackler, running with
it clean to the ten-yard line before being downed.

Realizing that the half must be drawing toward a close, Fardale went in
to rush the ball over in a hurry. The first effort advanced it three
yards. Then came two yards. Then four.

The ball was down one yard from Viewland’s goal.

Fardale might have scored, but at this critical juncture Shannock made a
bad pass to Nunn, who dropped the ball. Pitman leaped through and
dropped on the oval.

Viewland had regained possession of the leather.

Jabez Lynch drew a deep breath of relief, his heart seeming to drop back
from his throat, where it had throbbed in a choking way.

Still confident of her ability to make gains by bucking Fardale’s line,
Viewland declined to kick in order to get the ball away from this
dangerous point.

In this she made a mistake. The ball was passed to Warne, and the star
half-back of the visitors let it get away from him and roll along the
ground back of the goal-line.

Brad Buckhart came through with a roar, but Jordan saw the danger and
fell on the ball.

This was a safety, but it counted two points for Fardale, as Buckhart
had pinned Jordan on that spot.

The whistle cut the air.

"Time!" cried a voice.

The first half was over, and the score was: Viewland, 6; Fardale, 2.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                             "ENDS AROUND."


Not once during the first half had Frank Merriwell’s new "ends-around"
formation been tried. The line-over had not proved a good thing, and it
seemed that Fardale was afraid to try anything but the simplest kind of
tactics.

During the intermission, however, Frank had a talk with Captain Nunn and
other members of the eleven. Somehow, it always seemed that the team
came out stronger and more determined after being talked to by Frank
between the halves.

Fardale was anxious to win this game, but every man of the team knew it
must be won by hard, persistent, determined playing. No half-hearted
work would count this day. Some of the players had been used pretty
roughly, but every man was ready and eager to go back for the second
half.

The Fardale benches were singing "Glory to the Red and Black" when the
squad came trotting out to the field once more. Then, just before the
second half began, a cadet arose and proposed a cheer for Frank
Merriwell. It was given with a will.

Another popped up and proposed one for Dick Merriwell. Then the
popularity of the strange boy who had made many enemies at the academy
was shown. The crowd had cheered heartily for Frank, but it broke into a
perfect roar of applause for Dick.

Hal Darrell did not cheer, but he saw Doris Templeton rise when the
cheer was called for and add her voice to the burst of sound, waving her
flag. Hal bit his lip and said nothing, while she gave him a laughing
look as she sat down, asking:

"Why didn’t you cheer, Hal?"

"I didn’t feel like cheering for either of those fellows," he said. "I’m
not a hypocrite, Doris, whatever else you may believe me."

And, somehow, she liked him better for the answer.

But little time was lost in making ready after the two teams came out.
The men scattered over the field for Viewland to kick off. There was a
slight pause, and then the whistle shrilled.

Young was the man who booted the oval, which was caught by a strong gust
of wind and carried far to the right. Apparently, the ball was going out
of bounds, but Blair took it eighteen yards from Fardale’s line, and ran
it forward fourteen yards before being grassed by Warwick.

There the teams lined up, but a single change having been made on either
side. For the visitors Hagan had replaced Low as left guard.

"26—28—15—F—100—4," came the signal, and the tackles-back formation was
made, the ball going to Stanton on the pass. Stanton found an opening
through the center, was tackled, but dragged his tackler along to one
side for a gain of fully six yards.

This was the kind of work that always proved surprising to the team that
faced Fardale at the opening of the second half. It made Viewland angry,
and the captain talked sharply to his men who had permitted Stanton to
get through.

Then Viewland stiffened up wonderfully, and held the assaults for downs
till Fardale was compelled to kick. Singleton took into account the
wind, and was careful not to have it carry the ball out of bounds, as
they were still near the side-lines. Up into the wind he drove the ball,
till it fell into the hands of Jordan, who made a forward dash of eleven
yards, and was brought down with a terrible shock by Burrows, five yards
from the center of the field.

Jordan was hurt. Out came the bucket of water, and he was soused till he
gasped for breath. But when he tried to get up he toppled over, and was
ordered off the field. He went with reluctance, a red-headed chap
trotting out to fill his position. The name of the newcomer was Quimby,
and the Viewland crowd gave him a cheer.

"He’s better than Jordan," declared more than one. "He ought to be on
the team, anyhow."

The ball was given to Quimby the very first thing, and, aided by good
interference, with the whole backfield behind him, he was rammed through
for fully seven yards, carrying the ball into Fardale’s territory once
more.

But Viewland did not stop there. With merciless persistency she hammered
at Fardale’s line, making gains that took her within twenty-eight yards
of the home team’s goal. Even then it is possible that the gains might
have continued, but the visitors made an open and plainly seen forward
pass.

Instantly the whistle sounded clear, the umpire declared the ball as
belonging to Fardale, and there was a sudden change in affairs.

Shannock gave the signal:

"3—33—Y—32—201—76—16."

It was a call for Dick Merriwell to take the ball through center.

Dick felt that something must be done to arouse Fardale and put the team
on its mettle, so, the instant he got the ball he went in after
Shannock, who had plunged between Buckhart and Gordan. Shannock managed
to butt an opening, and through this Dick shot, making fully ten yards
before being tackled. Then Moulton and Warne nailed him, but when they
had dragged him down he crawled forward, with them clinging to him, and
the ball was close to the forty-five-yard line, when it seemed that
several tons came down on Merriwell and held him fast.

The breath was driven from Dick’s body, and he fancied he heard his
bones cracking. The pressure was something frightful to endure, but no
sound escaped his lips. When they rose from him he lay there, stretched
limply on the ground.

Into the heart of Jabez Lynch leaped a wild thrill of joy.

"Merriwell’s done for!" he muttered.

"It looks that way," said a well-known voice, and again Lynch found
Scudder at his elbow.

"You—again?" he growled.

"Oh, yes!" said Uric. "I’m not drifting far away from you, dear boy. I’m
waiting to see you collect your bets after the game."

"What for?"

"I have a little bill to settle Monday."

"You’ll settle it with none of my money!" grated Lynch.

"Oh, dear boy!" exclaimed Uric, grinning and passing his fingers over
his chin. "We’re such good friends, I know you’ll not refuse me. If you
did, I might feel bad and talk too much about it."

"Hang you!" panted Lynch, in a whisper. "I was a fool to ever have
anything to do with you!"

"Don’t call yourself such harsh names, Lynch. A fellow like you can’t
help being a fool—sometimes."

Jabez longed to smash the insulting fellow, but he dared not do it
there.

A shout rose from the spectators. Dick Merriwell had risen, and he was
thrusting off those who offered him assistance. They heard him declaring
that he was fit to remain in the game.

Then somebody began to sing, and the crowd took it up:

                 What’s the matter with Dick Merriwell?
                       He’s all right!
                       He can fight!
                   He’s always in the game,
                   And his work is never tame,
                   He’ll get there just the same;
                               So——
                 What’s the matter with Dick Merriwell?

Scudder actually laughed when Lynch swore in a smothered tone of voice.

"It’s a shame," he said, "but you can’t knock that fellow out with an
iron bar."

Dick was rather weak when the team lined up again, and, of course, he
was not selected to advance the ball, which was given, instead, to Nunn,
for an end-run. Steve was tackled and held without a gain.

But the next effort was successful, Singleton going through center for
seven yards. The ball was close to the center of the field. Again
Fardale was doing well, and her supporters cheered lustily.

But Shannock soon became an offender, for he failed to take Buckhart’s
pass properly, and let the ball get away from him. Kernan came through
and fell on the oval, which brought the thirty Viewland rooters up
standing and shouting.

Seeing this, Jabez Lynch laughed.

"Now Viewland will do something," he thought.

His conviction seemed justified, for the visiting team quickly lined up
and hit Fardale’s right wing for a gain of more than five yards. As a
rusher, the new man Quimby gave Douglass all he wanted to do.

Warne was given the ball next, and he seemed to start for a run round
the end, but he turned suddenly, and hit the line in the same place as
before, going through between Douglass and Stanton for fully nine yards
before being brought down by Nunn.

Viewland did not stop. She was out for blood this time, and something
like seven yards were made with a revolving formation that again struck
Fardale’s right wing.

Lynch, seeing all this, put his hand over his mouth to keep from
laughing aloud.

"Keep it up!" he whispered. "Don’t make a foolish fumble now! Stick to
it!"

This was exactly what the visitors did, for the next plunge took the
ball almost to Fardale’s twenty-yard line.

Captain Nunn urged his men to brace up and stop these steady gains, but
all his urging could not prevent another gain through the right wing
that lay the ball fairly on the line fifteen yards from the goal.

Douglass had fought grimly, and now he reeled when he was lifted to his
feet, after the mix-up on the down. Immediately Toby Kane was called out
to take Douglass’ place, while Stanton gave way to Hovey.

"Bet five dollars Viewland scores!" cried one of the visiting
spectators, and no one made a move to take him, for, as a last resort,
the visitors might kick a goal from the field, the position in front of
the posts being favorable.

The mass-plays on Fardale’s right wing were abandoned for the moment,
while Warne was again given the ball for an end-run, and he took it to
within eight yards of Fardale’s line.

"They can’t be stopped!" roared the man who had offered to bet.

Doris Templeton was in distress.

"Oh, why don’t they stop them?" she exclaimed, trembling with excitement
and fear.

"I’m afraid they can’t," said Hal Darrell, who was very pale. "It’s
beginning to look bad for us."

Quimby tried Fardale’s left end, but Merriwell was ready to meet him,
and he went down without a gain. But then Young slammed into Sargent and
crowded the ball to within two yards of the line before being held.

"Touch-down! touch-down!" roared the thirty loyal Viewland rooters.

The Fardale crowd suddenly drowned these cries with a great cheer, meant
to encourage the home team. Perhaps that cheer did give the battered
young heroes courage, for Viewland’s following two efforts were failures
as ground-gainers, and the ball remained two yards from the goal.

Still, Viewland did not believe the cadets could hold her there, and a
revolving-mass play was hurled against the right wing. Kane and Hovey
showed their mettle by standing up well before this assault, backed by
Shannock, Nunn, and Singleton, and the ball went down without a gain.

To the joy of the greater portion of the crowd, Fardale had secured the
leather on downs at this point, where it seemed Viewland must score.
Without delay, the ball was given to Merriwell to kick. Dick took the
wind into account, and made a magnificent drive clean to the fifty-yard
line.

The ball was run back about seven yards, when Burrows stopped it, and
there the line-up was again made.

Surely, Fardale was fighting for her life, but all her efforts could not
prevent a clean gain of six yards.

Then the cadets made a strong stand, and Viewland’s following efforts
failed to give but four yards and a half in the required number of
trials, which gave the home team the ball on downs.

Nunn made nearly five yards on the first effort.

"13—93—Y—168—13—33," was the signal.

Merriwell knew what was required of him, but he seemed utterly
unprepared. Apparently, something was the matter with his leg, for he
limped about off at one side, and not one of the visiting players
fancied he would attempt to do anything.

But the ball went to Dick on the pass, and he seemed to take it on the
run, tuck it under his arm, and go shooting round the end. It was done
swiftly, and Dick was past Gould and Quimby before they could tackle
him. Then he flew over the field toward Viewland’s goal.

Only for one thing, Dick must have made a touch-down in that attempt.
Young had been holding far back, to take any sudden kick, and he was
between the runner and the goal.

Dick did his best to pass the Viewland full-back, but Young closed in on
him surely. Dick came very near escaping, but Young got him by one leg
and brought him down. With Young clinging like a leech, Dick managed to
roll over and over till he had secured still more distance.

The Fardale crowd rose and shrieked like fiends. At last the time had
come for the home team to get into the game in desperate earnest, or
defeat was certain.

There was scarcely any delay. Fardale lined up, and the signal was given
for a tackle-back formation. Hovey went into the center and made a
handsome gain. The same formation drove Blair forward with the ball for
more than six yards.

And now, with the ball twenty-five yards from Viewland’s line, there
began to seem a possible chance of a field-goal.

Fardale’s next effort secured no gain, but then Nunn took the ball
through for six yards. The team seemed full of fire, and the witnesses
were wildly excited.

But Viewland stiffened and held fast for two downs. Would Fardale try a
drop-kick?

"On the jump!" cried Nunn.

"On the jump!" echoed Shannock.

A thrill went through every player. It was the signal for Frank
Merriwell’s new "ends-around" play. There was a crouching, a pause, a
stir—the ball had gone to Dick Merriwell.

Then it seemed that both ends of Fardale’s line crumbled and were thrust
back before the charge of the other team. Merriwell leaped in behind
Buckhart and Gordan, feeling himself grasped about the waist. He was
astonished at the force with which he was thrust forward, and a gain was
made that left the ball within twelve yards of the enemy’s goal.

But that play had not been made exactly right, some of the players
failing to do their part. Captain Nunn was afraid of a bungle, and so he
fell back on old tactics, giving Shannock the word.

Five yards more were secured by fierce work, and then Kane became too
enthusiastic and got off-side at this critical juncture, making a play
that gave the ball to Viewland.

The Fardale crowd groaned in dismay, as the half was getting near the
end.

Viewland had learned a lesson, and now she lost no time in kicking the
ball away from this dangerous point. Young drove it over the
forty-five-yard line, where Singleton caught it and ran back a trifle
over five yards before being downed.

Captain Nunn saw the situation was desperate, for it seemed that the
game would end before anything more could be done. In this extremity he
resolved on extreme measures.

"On the jump!" he cried.

"On the jump!" came again from Shannock.

The line formed, the ball was passed, the ends swung round, followed by
the opposing ends, and the full force of this movement was used to shoot
Dick Merriwell forward seven yards.

"’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!" yelled the crowd. "Give ’em some more of that!"

Not a word was spoken, and the Fardale team knew it was to continue the
play. Again it was tried, and again more than five yards were made.

Viewland was amazed, for Fardale seemed to weaken in the rush, yet
somehow the ball was thrust forward for a good gain each time. It was
rather bewildering, to say the least. Again the same trick was played,
and the ball went to within a yard of Viewland’s twenty-yard line.

The visitors could not realize that they were playing against
themselves.

Time was precious, and Fardale played swiftly, making no change. Another
play had the ball over the fifteen-yard line. Another carried it within
seven yards of the goal.

It seemed a new team Viewland was facing, and the wondering visitors
could not understand it.

"Over this time—over!" cried Nunn.

And, with that same trick, the ball was jammed through Viewland’s center
and over the line for a touch-down.

Then, as the Fardale crowd cheered and sang, the oval was punted out and
cleverly caught. With a good position in front of the posts, Captain
Nunn stretched himself on the ground, and Dick Merriwell prepared to try
for a goal.

"You must kick that goal, Dick!" cried the Fardale boys.

There was a hush in the cheering as Dick went at the ball and kicked.

The diagram on the opposite page shows all the plays of the second half:

    x x x x x x x x KICK OFF.
    — — — — — PUNTS.
    ————————— RUNS.
    1. VIEWLAND LOSES BALL ON FORWARD PASS.
    2. DICK’S RUN ROUND VIEWLAND’S LEFT END.
    3. FARDALE LOSES BALL FOR OFFSIDE PLAY.
    4. FARDALE’S REPEATED GAINS AND TOUCHDOWN ON THE ‘ENDS AROUND’ PLAY.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                               TOO LATE.


In a room of the Dead Road Mill Phil Cranch was held a captive, despite
his threats, protests, and offered bribes. He had not fancied the
Fardale men would dare do such a thing, and he was furious when he found
they actually meant to carry it out.

"You shall suffer for this!" he threatened.

"We’re frightened!" said Ted Smart, who had accompanied the captors.
"Please don’t make us suffer."

"I’ll have you all arrested!"

"Won’t that be jolly?" chirped Ted. "I just love to be arrested. I enjoy
it. It’s such fun being taken to jail, and all that."

"Don’t be a fool!" snarled Cranch. "I am in earnest."

"Oh, well, we’re in fun," said Smart. "We don’t mean to keep you here
till after the football-game Saturday—oh, no! We’re going to set you
free, and let you run right back and carry all you know to your
friends."

"You’d better set me free! I know you all."

"That’s fine! We’re proud to know you, you’re such a splendid fellow.
Now, I’m going to watch you, while my friends here get some lovely,
refined gentlemen to take charge of you for the rest of the present
week. I won’t hurt you if you try to break away and raise a rumpus. I
won’t hit you real hard with this soft club. I’ll just let you break
away and do as you please."

This was Ted’s way of telling what he would do, and Cranch understood.

The captive had been tied to a beam in the wall of the old room, his
hands still fastened behind him. An old lamp sat on a shelf. In that
room, which had once been used by the miller as a dining-room, there was
a table and some broken chairs.

With some words of caution to Smart, the others left him there to guard
the captive. When they were gone Cranch tried to bribe Ted, but found
all his efforts vain.

Near morning two rough-looking fellows appeared and told Ted they would
take charge of the prisoner.

"Be kind to him, gentlemen," urged Smart. "It’s quite likely he has only
one mother. I love him tenderly."

"Don’t worry," said one of the men gruffly. "If he cuts up any funny
business, we’ll break his neck and chuck him down under the mill."

"That’s the easiest way to fix him, anyhow," said the other.

"I think he would like that," smiled Smart. "It would be such fun for
him. Don’t kill him if he tries to get away; just half-kill him. Your
feed will be brought you some time to-morrow, and you can make
yourselves uncomfortable here just as much as you like. I don’t have to
hurry back to the academy to get in before the cock crows. Oh, no! I’ve
got plenty of time. Good morning."

Cranch saw that the rough-looking guards were in disguise, for it was
plain their beards were false. After a time he began appealing to them,
but they paid very little attention to him. With the aid of a pack of
cards, they whiled the hours away.

Cranch was able to lie down on the floor, where some old sacks had been
placed, but, when he pretended to be asleep, he kept watch for some sort
of an opportunity to get away. However, when they were tired of playing
cards, one of the men slept, while the other smoked and kept guard.

In the morning they provided food for Cranch, setting his hands free for
him to eat, after having first tied his feet, and warned him to let the
rope alone.

The food was good enough, such as it was, but Cranch choked over it. He
fell to reviling the two men and calling them all sorts of hard names,
until, becoming tired of it at last, they compelled him to be still.

Somebody brought food to the old mill where Cranch was kept a captive,
as the long days slipped away. He tried in various ways to gain his
freedom, but every effort failed, and, at last, came the night before
Saturday.

The fellow was desperate. He longed to get away and turn the tables on
Fardale. He thought of the satisfaction he would enjoy could he
accomplish this. In the night he worked at his bonds until he felt that
it was a hopeless case, and gave up in despair.

His captors welcomed the coming of Saturday, for they were becoming
tired of their task. They offered him breakfast, but he had no appetite,
and refused it. Again he tried all his blandishments on them, but they
laughed at him and advised him to keep quiet a little longer.

That morning one of the men went away. The other remained deaf to the
prisoner’s appeals. But when the man returned he brought a bottle of
liquor with him, and the two proceeded to celebrate. They drank and sang
and had a high old time.

Cranch watched them, and finally what he hoped for happened. One of the
men became stupefied and fell asleep. The other staggered over and made
a pretense of examining the captive’s bonds.

"You’re all ri’," he said thickly. "Orders to let you go three closh
this afternoon. Don’ worry. Goin’ to do it. ’Sall ri’."

Then he went back to the table, sat down, sprawled on his crossed arms,
and soon fell asleep, also.

Thirty minutes later Cranch had freed one hand. Then he worked
feverishly to accomplish what he desired. He succeeded finally, and
proceeded to steal out of the room, leaving the drunken guards
unmolested. He knew it was past noon, but he was not many miles from
Fardale. He would be on hand at the game, and his heart leaped for joy.
In a short time he was outside the dismal old mill and hurrying away.

Finding the grass-grown road, he ran pantingly along it.

"Oh, I’ll be on hand!" he exulted. "I’ll give them the surprise of their
lives!"

At last he came to an old house, with a shed nearby. Wishing to get a
view of the country, in order to see which course to pursue, he decided
to climb to the top of the shed and look around. He found a broken
ladder, and leaned it against the shed, after which he mounted to the
roof and crept to the ridgepole. His survey from this point was
unsatisfactory, and he was about to descend, when he saw the ladder
jerked away.

A moment later Cranch uttered a cry of astonishment, for out from
beneath the eaves of the old shed stepped an Indian. It was Old Joe
Crowfoot, who took from beneath his red blanket a long knife, the edge
of which he carefully felt with his thumb, his manner being most
ominous.

"Ugh!" grunted the redskin, eying the fellow on the roof. "Heap sharp.
Take white boy scalp much quick!"

"Lord!" gasped Cranch. "It’s a real Indian, sure as preaching! And he
looks murderous!"

Cranch was scared, and he remained on the roof of the shed.

"Come down," invited Old Joe. "Come down, white boy, and let chief take
um scalp."

"Not if I know it!" chattered Cranch.

Then the old Indian proceeded to squat upon the ground and bring out his
pipe, which he lighted.

"He’s going to wait for me to come down!" muttered the boy. "Well, he’ll
wait a long time."

So he remained on the shed, while Old Joe smoked below. And the time
slipped away. Cranch saw the sun getting down in the west, and knew the
football game was on.

At last, becoming desperate, Cranch resolved to make an effort to get
away. He believed he could run fast enough to escape this old savage,
provided he could reach the ground. Of a sudden he slid down the roof
and jumped to the ground. Regaining his feet, he was off like a
frightened deer.

He never knew if Old Joe pursued. Thinking the Indian might be at his
heels, he ran until he fell exhausted. He was alone, but the experience
he had passed through made him a shuddering, shaking, fearful chap, and
it seemed that every tree-trunk and every old stump hid an Indian with a
knife.

Cranch was never able to tell just what happened after that, but he
wandered about for a long time. At last he came out of the woods and
followed a road. Meeting a man in a wagon, he asked the direction to
Fardale Academy, and was told the way to go.

As he approached he heard cheers in the distance, and his blood leaped.
The game was not over. He started and ran until he reached a spot where
he could see the field. From that distance he saw Fardale breaking
through Viewland’s line for repeated gains.

"If I can get there in time!" he thought, and ran again.

But as he came panting up to the field he was just in time to see Dick
Merriwell kick the goal that finished that game, with the score 8 to 6,
in favor of the cadets.

Cranch stood there, his heart filled with bitterness, as the victorious
Fardale team trotted off the field. They passed him, and one of them
noticed him.

"Hello!" said Dick Merriwell, with a laugh. "You’re a little late to get
in your work, Mr. Cranch, for the trick is done and the game is won."




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                            A NEW CANDIDATE.


When the Fardale eleven and the scrub came out for practise the Monday
following the great game with Viewland, not a few were surprised to see
Hal Darrell show up on the field in football-togs.

"What’s this?" cried Teddy Smart, as he stared at Hal in his comical
way. "Art about to attend a wedding, or an afternoon tea? I see you are
elaborately attired for a society event of some sort."

Teddy couldn’t help being familiar if he tried, and his manner permitted
him to say things that must have caused resentment from any other plebe
at the academy.

Don Kent, like Darrell, was a yearling, and so might address him on
terms of equality.

"What are you going to do, Hal?" asked dark-eyed Don, coming up. "You
don’t mean to say that you’ve got the fever, and think of getting into
the game?"

"I’m going to try to get a chance to practise," said Hal. "Perhaps I
won’t be permitted to do that."

"Permitted!" exclaimed Captain Steve Nunn. "Why, Darrell, you know I
begged you to come out at the very beginning of the practise this year,
and you would not do it. I told you that I believed you could make the
team then."

"I know you did," admitted Hal; "but I did not want to try it then."

"It’s different now."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, circumstances are different. I’m not sure you can make the team."

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Hal, with a touch of scorn. "You mean that you’ll
not be permitted to use your own judgment now about taking on another
good man if one shows up."

"That was not what I meant. I’ve never been permitted to use my own
judgment without consulting others in regard to players. You know that,
Darrell."

"Oh, I think there was a time that what you said went. You were really
captain of the team at first."

Steve flushed.

"Do you mean by your words that I am not really captain of the team
now?" he asked, touched.

"Well, I don’t want to say anything unpleasant, but you should hear some
of the talk here at the academy. You know football is being run
differently here this year than ever before."

"Differently and better!" exclaimed Steve stiffly. "Fardale has cut a
little ice in baseball before this, but we’ve never done much at
football, and all these other teams thought they were as good or better
than Fardale. This is the first year Fardale ever started off a winner
and kept it up. We owe this to the coaching we have received."

Darrell laughed.

"Why don’t you confess that you owe it to that remarkable left
half-back, who is robbing you of the honors?" he asked.

"You mean Merriwell—Dick Merriwell?"

"Of course. How could I mean any one else?"

"Who says he is robbing me of honors?"

"Oh—everybody, except a few particular friends of his."

"Well, it isn’t true, and no one has a right to say so. He plays the
game to win, as anybody should, and if it happens that he gets a few
more chances than other fellows——"

"Why, it’s all luck. That’s what I’ve said before now, but I find any
amount of fellows who rise up and howl at me and declare him a marvel. I
confess that he’s fairly good. I wouldn’t try to rob him of any credit
due him; but there are others, and it’s tiresome to hear the rabble
howling for him continually."

"Good gracious!" said Smart. "How utterly lacking in envy and jealousy
you are! It’s astonishing! Permit me to congratulate you! You deserve a
reward of merit in this great, envious, selfish world. I’d like to give
it to you—if I were big enough."

Jabez Lynch had been standing near, and now, with a sneer on his
unprepossessing face, he observed:

"You’re wasting your breath, Darrell. They’ll continue to howl for
Merriwell just the same."

Hal frowned at Jabez, turning his back on the fellow.

"I’m going to get into practise to-day, Captain Nunn," he said, "if I am
permitted to do so."

"It’s too late," declared Steve, who had been nettled by the words of
the other. "I wanted you out at first. Now the team is made up and you
can’t get a chance."

"Who ever heard of such a thing?" demanded Hal warmly. "No college team
is made up so a fellow can’t get a chance if he can play better than
some other man and he proves it. Why should this team be made up to the
exclusion of better outsiders? Why, when you say that, it’s the same as
telling the scrub that no man on it has any show of making the eleven.
That’s encouraging to the scrub! That will be likely to make the scrub
turn out and be battered up in practise—I hardly think! Wait a minute,
Captain Nunn. I’m pretty sure you don’t mean to say that there is no
show for me to make the eleven now in case I show that I am superior in
a certain position to some man now playing with the regular team, and in
case there is no other candidate who is superior to me? You don’t mean
that, do you?"

"Of course not," said Steve; "but——"

"That’s all. I thought you didn’t mean it. It’s all I want to know. I am
satisfied."

"I’m glad you’re satisfied," said Steve, walking away in anything but a
pleasant temper.

Immediately Jabez Lynch approached Hal.

"It’s silly of you to waste your time in the attempt," said the fellow,
with curling lip.

Hal surveyed him from his head to his feet, without speaking.

"Oh, you ought to know it’s silly!" said Jabez. "If you can play fast
football, so much the worse. Merriwell doesn’t like you. I happen to
know why, and——"

"You know too much!" said Hal meaningly. "It would be better if you did
not take such an interest in other persons’ affairs."

"Don’t throw it into me like that!" snapped Lynch. "I’m your friend."

"Not if I know it!"

"You may need me some time."

"I hope I’ll never come to that."

"Oh, you do? What’s the matter with you, anyhow? I thought something
must be the matter with you, else you’d never try to make the team with
Dick Merriwell playing on it. He hates you, and a word from him will
keep you off the team. His brother runs the eleven, and all Dick has to
do is to speak the word—he gets things just as he wants them. Do you
fancy he’s going to give you a chance to play with him? You must have
bats in your belfry!"

Darrell turned sharply on Lynch.

"I don’t like you or your style of talk!" he exclaimed. "Go away! I
don’t want any one to see you talking to me. They might think I’d come
to being friendly with you, and that’s enough to queer anybody at this
school."

Lynch literally turned purple with rage.

"Oh, you’re very high and lofty now!" he said. "There was a time when
you were willing to be friends."

"That was before you had advertised yourself to be a thoroughbred
rascal."

"You even had some ideas about going in with me to down Merriwell."

"But not in a sneaking way."

Jabez came close to Darrell.

"You’ll need my aid again some time!" he hissed. "You’re a tame sort of
chap at best, and Merriwell will make sport of you—he’ll kick you and
laugh in your face. It’ll be good enough for you, too! I shall enjoy
seeing him do it!"

Then Darrell knocked Jabez down.

Now, Jabez Lynch was something of a fighter, and he was ready to pitch
into Hal Darrell then and there when he quickly arose; but, knowing that
a fight in that place meant a stay in the guard-house for both of them,
several cadets sprang between them at once.

"Let me at him!" snarled Lynch, his ugly face contorted with rage.

"Let him come!" flared Darrell, ready enough for the encounter.

"Don’t be fools, both of you!" growled big Bob Singleton. "This is no
place for a scrap. Fight it out away from the academy grounds. If
Lieutenant Swift saw you he’d take satisfaction in going for you."

"That’s right," said others. "There’s plenty of time to fight, but don’t
do it here."

"Anywhere he likes," said Darrell.

"Chadwick’s pasture," suggested Lynch.

"Agreed," said Hal.

"To-night."

"Yes."

"If you’re not there——"

"Don’t worry."

"There’s no moon," said somebody.

"Somebody bring a few bicycle lamps," suggested Darrell. "We’ll manage
to get along."

Then he turned and walked away.

Uric Scudder had been a witness, and he improved the first opportunity
to whisper in the ear of the panting, anger-shaken Jabez:

"Well, you are getting it in the neck! Lost all your own money and all
you could borrow betting against Fardale last week, and now nobody wants
anything to do with you. You turned up your nose at me, did you? Well,
I’m thought just about as much of around here now as you are."

"Get away from me—get away!" grated Lynch. "I’m in an ugly temper now."

"He! he! he!" snickered Uric, rubbing his chin with satisfaction. "I
don’t wonder. I’d as lief be called Chickens and Hen Fruit as to be in
your shoes. You went back on me, and now you’re getting paid for it.
Why, even the fellows who do not like Dick Merriwell won’t have anything
to do with you."

"Will you get away from me!"

"Oh, yes! I don’t want to fight with you. Hal Darrell will attend to
your case. Bet you anything you like he does you up inside of fifteen
minutes."

It seemed that Lynch would hit the taunting plebe, but Scudder, laughing
in a most provoking manner, edged away.

Jabez was beginning to feel himself truly something of an outcast, and,
in an unreasoning way, he blamed it all on Dick Merriwell. A year
before, during the football season, he had been popular as one of the
Fardale team; but now Merriwell was playing in his old position, and he,
having refused to take any other, was off the team entirely. And all his
efforts to injure Dick had miscarried wofully, to his unspeakable
disgust. Besides that, not even when Dick was unable to fill his place
on the team had Jabez been asked to come back and play there for a
single game, which had made him unspeakably angry and revengeful.

Lynch had not fancied that Darrell, a yearling, would rebuff him, a
first-class man, for usually yearlings looked up in reverence and awe to
the first class. Besides that, Jabez had imagined that Hal’s openly
expressed dislike for young Merriwell would form a bond of sympathy
between them, and he had counted much on this in his advances toward the
other.

But Darrell was a peculiar fellow. Although he hated Dick, he was not
ready to join hands with any one like Lynch, for all the way through he
was loyal to Fardale, and he knew Lynch was not. Originally he had
sympathized with Jabez, thinking him misused; but the course the fellow
had taken had thoroughly disgusted Hal, and his satisfaction was great
when he learned that Jabez had lost heavily betting against Fardale.

Jabez was incapable of understanding a fellow like Darrell, just as he
was incapable of understanding Dick Merriwell. With him it was anything
in order to obtain revenge on an enemy, and, to accomplish his vengeful
ends, he would have willingly sacrificed the Fardale football-team and
rejoiced to see it go down in defeat before its antagonists.

Both Lynch and Darrell were selfish and egotistical, but there the
likeness between them ended, for the former was unscrupulous and without
honor, while the latter intended to be square, and honorable, and just,
although he sometimes failed.

But both Jabez and Hal fully believed that Dick Merriwell would not
hesitate to resort to anything to prevent them from getting on, and it
is probable that Darrell hated Dick as intensely as did Lynch. But Hal
had another reason for disliking Dick. He was truly smitten by the
charms of Doris Templeton, and, until the appearance of young Merriwell,
he had seemed to have a clear field. Knowing that it was the wish of
their parents, he had fancied that some day Doris would become his wife,
although, of course, that day was regarded as quite remote.

Then Dick Merriwell had appeared on the scene, and it did not take Hal
long to discover that Doris was smitten by more than a mere fancy for
the dark-eyed youth whom she had first seen standing silent as a statue
and looking straight at her in Farmer Snodd’s picnic grove. He could not
forget that, on that very day, Doris had suspected him of treacherously
striking Dick down in the grove, an act of which Lynch, not he, was
guilty.

That had hurt him, and he often thought how her blue eyes had flashed as
she pointed at him, crying: "You did it, Hal Darrell!" He could not
forget that dramatic scene, and it made him hate Dick all the more.

For a time he had fancied that Dick was getting the best of him in
relation to Doris; but of late something very strange had happened.
Young Merriwell had seemed to shun the blue-eyed girl in a singular
manner.

Doris had observed this, and she felt it keenly. She did not know the
cause, for Zona Desmond had not revealed to her that she had made Dick
acquainted with the fact that Hal had a claim on Doris, young though
they both were.

So the fair-haired girl was forced to believe that Dick Merriwell was
fickle and a flirt, for, truly, he had looked into her face in a manner
that seemed to betray untold admiration, and he had hinted at great and
sudden regard for her.

Hard as it was, she tried to seal her lips and not let even her best
friend know how Dick’s conduct troubled her. But what girl of her age
could keep such a secret? One day, in a confidential mood, she told Zona
everything.

"I like him awfully much, Zona," she said. "And I thought at first that
he liked me—a little. But now he takes pains to avoid me, and I never
see anything of him any more. Why is it? What have I done?"

Zona caught her in her arms, crying:

"Doris, you’re just the sweetest girl in the whole world, and Dick
Merriwell is a—a—a chump—there!—not to see it! I couldn’t help the
slang."

"If he had cared more for you," said Doris, "I might understand it. I
mean if he had tried to see you sometimes. For I know you are far
handsomer and more fascinating than I. But it doesn’t seem to be that."

Zona winced a little. She was in the habit of bringing fellows to her
feet in a queenly way, and she dismissed them in the same queenly
fashion after getting them there; but somehow all her arts had failed on
Dick Merriwell, and it had angered her, although she kept the fact
concealed.

She knew well enough why it was that Dick had suddenly cooled toward
Doris, for she had taken special pains to show him that he was breaking
in between Doris and Hal when he had no right to do so; but she did not
know and could not understand why she had failed to win his regard to
herself.

"Don’t talk like that, dear!" she exclaimed. "I’m not handsomer and more
fascinating than you. You only think so. You’re so modest, Doris!"

Then she kissed her friend, but neither of them was happy. Zona felt
that somehow she was guilty of doing something underhand, although she
tried to justify the act by saying it was better for Dick to understand
at the very start before he really came to care a great deal for Doris.

This day the girls had come out to witness the football practise. As Hal
Darrell walked away from the vicinity of Lynch he saw them standing at
the far side of the field, near the seats, and he started across to
them.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                           FALSE SUSPICIONS.


Zona greeted Hal with a smile, but he observed that Doris scarcely
observed his approach. Her eyes seemed to be fastened on a group of
football-players holding a consultation at a distance. Dick Merriwell
was in that group.

"Really and truly are you going to try it?" exclaimed Zona. "Oh, I
didn’t think you would!"

"Didn’t I say so?" he demanded, forcing a smile, but keeping his eyes on
Doris.

"Yes, but we thought you were just piqued then, Doris and I, and that
you’d forget it."

"It’s plain neither you nor Doris know me very well."

"And are you going to play on the team?"

"Doubtful."

"Why?"

"Oh, there are reasons. I’m going to try for a chance to show what I can
do on the scrub, though; but I may be prevented from having even that
opportunity."

"Prevented?"

"Sure."

"How?"

"Oh, by a certain party."

"You mean——"

"Well, Mr. Frank Merriwell is running things here, as I have told you
before. His brother is on the eleven, and his brother does not like me."

"Do you really think Dick Merriwell would resort to such a petty thing?"

"Haven’t a doubt of it."

"Well, I don’t believe anything of the sort!" said Doris, suddenly
turning toward them. "I am sure he can’t be that kind of a fellow?"

"What makes you so sure?" questioned Hal, with a smile that meant much.

"Why, a fellow who is so splendid—I mean such a splendid player——"

"Don’t change it."

She blushed.

"You’re actually becoming hateful of late, Hal!" she exclaimed. "Haven’t
I a right to say he is a splendid player?"

"Oh, of course? Go on."

"Well, I don’t believe he’d resort to anything small and petty, even
against a fellow he might not like. So there!"

"We’ll see," said Hal. "Nunn asked me to come out with the squad some
time ago. He said I stood a show of making the team. I didn’t come out
then, but I’m here now. Let’s see what kind of a chance I have. Keep
watch."

He did not confess that he believed he had aroused Nunn against him. Not
he! In case he did not get a show, he was willing they should think the
Merriwells were entirely to blame.

Captain Nunn was calling out the regular players. He gathered them about
Frank Merriwell, who proceeded to talk to them about the new
"ends-around" play that had been worked successfully against Viewland on
Saturday, and was no longer a secret.

"I want you to put the play into use against the scrub to-day," said
Frank. "You must be surer in your formation behind the center and left
guard. The ends must come round exactly as if compelled to do so before
the charge of the opposing line, while the center must hold fast. Both
Kane and Hovey were too much in a hurry to swing back when the play was
first tried Saturday. They jumped back so quick once that they cut
Burrows off and left him where it was not possible for him to swing
round at all, as several of the other team were between him and the
formation. Haste is all right, but hurry is not. There is method in
haste; confusion in hurry. In football every move should have method.
When you make this play let the ends begin to swing back first, so that
they may not be cut off when they come round to help shove the ball
along."

Frank also spoke to them of several other points, singling out some of
the men for special criticism and instruction.

"The team must play together always," he said, in conclusion.
"Individual playing, while it serves to attract attention to some
particular player, does not win as many games as team playing. I have
seen successful teams that did not have a star player. But they had
practised until they worked together like machines. I do not mean to
discourage brilliant individual playing, but always I want such plays to
come from opportunities that do not admit of team plays, or through the
aid of a team play behind it, and I want no man to be constantly
watching for opportunities to distinguish himself above his fellows."

Dick Merriwell could not keep back the color that surged to his face,
for somehow it seemed that Frank’s words were directed especially at
him. It touched him, too, for already Dick had learned that the one
thing a good football-player should keep in mind is the success of his
team in the game, regardless of what happens to himself. At the cost of
injury, in the face of danger, at all times, he must be ready to
sacrifice himself that somebody else may advance the ball.

Dick was not to blame because his remarkable strength, agility, and
skill had enabled him to make plays which plainly elevated him as a
star. Yet he could not help feeling that he was blamed, not only by his
enemies, but somehow by his own brother.

When Frank had talked to the team and to certain ones on the team, he
took Buckhart aside and showed him how to play low in hitting the
opposite line. Then he put several others on the eleven through a
"course of sprouts" before he permitted the regular contest with the
scrub.

Meantime the scrub was hard at work kicking, tackling, falling on the
ball, passing, and getting used to signals. And Hal Darrell, although
ready to take part, had not been called on. With one or two others he
secured a ball and began passing it and kicking it about. One of the
fellows took a position and snapped the ball back to Hal, who kicked it.
The second time he did this he made a wonderfully long drive, and,
within a few minutes, he had attracted some attention by his kicking,
Then he shifted back and caught the ball, permitting another fellow to
kick.

Now, Darrell had played football before coming to Fardale, although he
had not made an attempt to get onto the eleven at the academy, being
satisfied to be regarded as the star pitcher of the nine.

Hal soon showed that he was decidedly clever in capturing punts, and not
a few chaps who were watching from the side of the field began to
express wonder because he had not appeared on the field before.

And then, having taken the ball, Darrell ran with it dodging two or
three fellows who made a bluff at tackling him. When he stopped he found
himself within three feet of Frank Merriwell, who was looking at him.

"What’s your name?" asked Frank.

"Darrell, sir."

"I don’t remember seeing you before. Have you been out in practise?"

"This is the first time."

"I thought so."

That was all. Frank turned and walked away without another word. Looking
after him, Hal saw Dick Merriwell step out quickly and meet his brother,
with whom he began to talk earnestly.

"I thought so!" muttered Darrell grimly. "He saw Frank Merriwell speak
to me, and here is where he gets his little knife into my back. I doubt
if I’m given any kind of a show."

But Dick was speaking to Frank of quite another matter.

Leaving Dick, Frank walked over to Cogswell, the captain of the scrub.

"Cogswell," said Frank, "I see there is a new man by the name of Darrell
out to-day."

"Yes, sir."

"Give him a try."

"Where, sir?"

"Any position at all that happens to be weak. He seems to punt well,
catch the ball in form, and is a fast runner."

"All right," said Cogswell, "I think I can use him."

And, having watched every move, Hal Darrell believed that Frank had
notified the captain of the scrub to avoid using him. With his heart
full of bitterness, Darrell walked over to Doris and Zona.

"I told you how it would be," he said. "I’m thrown down."

"Thrown down?" said Doris. "What do you mean by that?"

"Wait and you will see. A certain young gentleman here has fixed it all
right, and I’m not to play to-day. Frank Merriwell has just notified
Cogswell not to use me on the scrub."

"Darrell, Darrell!" called a voice; "come over here. We’re going to play
two eight-minute halves, and I want you."

It was Cogswell.

Not a little surprised and taken aback, Hal went over to Cogswell, who
said:

"You have played the game before, haven’t you?"

"A little."

"Where?"

"On the high school team at home."

"What position?"

"End, half-back, and full-back."

"You’ll play right end to-day. Billings has a bad knee, and we need
somebody to fill his place. Dustan will put you onto the signals. Here,
Dustan."

Dustan was the quarter-back of the scrub. He came over to Darrell at
once and began to explain the code of signals.

Hal asked no questions on the point, but he was wondering how it
happened that Cogswell had called him out to play. He was not yet
willing to believe that Merriwell had suggested using him, although it
looked very much that way.

Soon the teams were called out for practise, and the brush began with
the regulars kicking off. There was some good timber in the scrub, and
it started off to-day with snap and vim, running the ball back fifteen
yards before being stopped.

Then came the first line-up, and Darrell found himself opposite Burrows,
who was an energetic player, and he fell on Darrell at the first
opportunity with a jump that sent the new player over in a twinkling,
and the effort to advance the ball round that end was stopped. Hal rose
chagrined by his failure to block Burrow’s, for the end-run might have
been successful had he accomplished this.

The next attempt was through the center, but this time Darrell got in
swiftly, and had the right end of the regulars out of the play in a
twinkling. This provoked Burrows, who growled at Hal, receiving a smile
in return.

The scrub was forced to kick, and Dick Merriwell got the ball. Through
the field he darted, dodging tackler after tackler. Darrell fancied he
saw his opportunity, and he cut through to down Dick. In another moment
he would have had the runner, but just then another member of the scrub
made a beautiful tackle, and Hal was robbed of the satisfaction.

Now the regulars began an assault on the scrub line, and the very first
play tried was the "ends-around." It worked beautifully, fully twelve
yards being made.

Hal realized at once that he had been led in a most skilful manner by
Burrows to help in advancing the ball by adding his weight to that of
the right-end as the ends swung round. Now, Burrows grinned back at him.

Again the same play was tried, but this time, instead of charging
against Burrows, Hal made a feint and then cut through the line past
Stanton, and hurled himself into the formation that was to send Dick
Merriwell forward with the ball. So fierce was his assault that the
formation was disturbed, and, before an advance could be made the scrub
had shattered the interference and stopped the trick.

When they lined up again Hal gave Burrows a smile of triumph.

As the play continued Darrell showed both strength and skill, soon
proving one of the most efficient men on the scrub. His one fault was in
playing too high, but his success seemed to anger Burrows, who resorted
to rough measures that caused Frank Merriwell to reprimand him
repeatedly.

Finally Frank took Burrows out, going in to correct Darrell’s style of
playing high by taking a position on the right end himself. He talked to
Darrell, giving him instructions on charging, and then he met the
assault of the new player in the first scrimmage.

Hal found Merriwell like a rock.

"Lower! lower!" said Frank. "You lose force by playing so high."

Thus Frank Merriwell gave Darrell considerable attention, although he
did not forget others or the general play of the regulars.

But Hal’s opportunity came near the middle of the second half, when, by
a clever tackle, he prevented Dick Merriwell from getting away and
running half the length of the field for a touch-down. Hal slammed Dick
down with particular viciousness, his heart full of joy, but when Dick
started to roll, which he did at once, the tackler forgot himself and
resorted to what looked like slugging methods. Instantly Dick said:

"If that’s what you want, you may have it any time after the game. I
shall be pleased to accommodate you."

"Don’t get mad because you were tackled," returned Hal. "You’re not the
whole shooting-match, even if you think so."

But on the next attempt young Merriwell was successful, and he scored
the only touch-down of the game.

However, with only a brief time to play, Darrell got through for a run
and carried the ball to the twenty-yard line, where he was tackled from
behind by Merriwell and stopped.

Then Hal asked to try a field-kick for goal, inducing Cogswell to permit
it.

This kick might have been successful, although the regulars knew what
was going to happen when Darrell was sent back of the line; but
Merriwell broke through, leaped into the air, and blocked the kick in a
hair-raising manner.

Darrell felt aggrieved. To him it seemed that he had been singled out by
Dick Merriwell, who had taken special pains to spoil his efforts. He did
not reason that it was all in the game, and that he had first tackled
Dick and handled him in a manner that was not to be expected.

So, when the practise was over, he was not feeling in a most agreeable
mood as he walked off the field. To add to his displeasure, he saw Zona
Desmond intercept Dick Merriwell and call him over to where she was
standing with Doris.

Dick smiled on Zona, but bowed with what seemed slight coldness to
Doris.

Hal, who had been approaching, stopped. He was seen, however, by Zona,
who laughingly called to him.

"Well, sir," she said, as he drew near, "you see you were mistaken,
don’t you? You were given a chance."

For a moment the eyes of Dick and Hal met, and in that glance flared the
dislike each felt for the other.

"I was given a chance," said Hal, with a slight sneer. "I presume you
saw just what it amounted to. Every effort was made to show me up as a
dumb one. That’s why I was given a chance. But I’m not so thick as I’m
taken for. I can see through some things."

To his further anger, Merriwell seemed to pay no attention at all to
these words.

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Zona, surprised. "Frank Merriwell gave
you lots of attention, and he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t
thought——"

"That it was a good way to show how much I didn’t know about the game,"
cut in Hal. "He was not the only one who did everything possible to make
me look like a stiff."

He had intended for Dick to resent this, and he was not disappointed in
the result.

"My brother was foolish to give you any attention whatever, Mr.
Darrell!" flashed young Merriwell hotly. "He might have known you would
not appreciate it!"

"I appreciated it for just what it was worth," said Hal, holding his hot
temper in check. "Mr. Frank Merriwell was tipped to show me up, and he
did as directed. You do not like me, Merriwell, and for that reason you
do not wish me on the eleven. Well, as your brother is the boss, I
presume I’ll have to keep off and be satisfied."

"I confess that I do not like you, Mr. Darrell," said Dick, with icy
politeness; "but I think so little of you that, had you not made such a
ridiculous charge against me, I’d never thought of using my influence in
any manner concerning you. Now, however, I am satisfied that you would
be a very poor man for the team, and, if I’m asked, I shall not hesitate
to say so."

"I understand the whole game! You don’t have to make any bluff with me.
You’ll tell your brother to keep me off the team in case there is any
hope of my making it, and I’ll be kept off. I call that crooked and
low!"

"Call it what you like. You regard yourself of too much importance."

"And I agree with Hal!" flashed Doris, to the surprise and delight of
Darrell. "I’m sure he is as good as anybody, and should have a fair
show. If he is kept off the eleven, he’ll know just who is to blame.
Come, Hal, will you walk over to the drive with me?"

"With pleasure," he said, as he hastened to place himself at her side.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                            FRANK’S ADVICE.


The satisfaction of Hal Darrell was great as he walked away with Doris.
He felt that he had shown Dick Merriwell up in style and convinced the
girl that the fellow was unfair and selfish. How could he know that
Doris had welcomed the opportunity to hurt Dick because she had been
piqued by his cold greeting? Little did he understand the workings of
her mind, but he was to learn that the ways of a girl are strange. As
they walked away, he said:

"Now you are getting your eyes open, Doris. Now you begin to understand
just how it is. You see I have no real show, because this selfish fellow
Merriwell is bound that I shall not have one. I’m glad you spoke up and
told him what you thought."

She was silent. When he looked at her she turned her face away.

"You saw how he took pains to spoil my plays," he went on. "He singled
me out, and he did everything he could to show me up, just as his
brother did. I was getting along too well with Burrows, and so Frank
Merriwell himself went in against me. Then Dick Merriwell got hot when I
tackled him and kept him from making a touch-down. He wanted to fight."

She looked at him suddenly, and there was a peculiar expression in her
eyes. He went on:

“He’s a mean, selfish chap, and he wants to be the whole thing in a
game. You saw how he acted, Doris, and——”

"How you acted, Hal!" she interrupted. "Don’t talk to me! I’ve seen
enough football to know something about it, and he was not to blame for
being angry when you tackled him."

"Doris!"

"When he rolled over you threw yourself on him again and hit him. I saw
you."

"Why, Doris——"

"I saw you!" she repeated. "You were to blame Hal! You talk about his
selfishness; you are selfish yourself. You seem to think he should have
let you alone—should have permitted you to make a touch-down. Why do you
think anything so ridiculous?"

"Doris, I——"

"And you were angry because he spoiled your kick. He had a right to do
that if he could. You accused him of telling his brother to show you up.
I don’t believe it! You said he was crooked and low. It is not true!"

"But—but you told him you agreed with me!" panted the amazed fellow.
"Why—why did you do that?"

"Because I was silly—that’s why! I’m ashamed of it. Oh, where is Zona! I
wish I was away from here!"

She felt like bursting into tears, and her fear that she would do so
made her anxious to get away. She turned to look back for Zona, but
there was a mist before her eyes and she could not see.

As for Hal, he was bewildered and dazed. All the satisfaction and
pleasure he had felt was gone now. But he was angry.

"I don’t understand you at all, Doris!" he exclaimed.

"I know you don’t," she choked. "I don’t understand myself. You may go
now. I’m going to walk alone."

"But I will not leave you like this. I——"

"I tell you I wish to walk alone!" she said. "Let me do so!"

"No, Doris. I must——"

"If you’re a gentleman, you’ll do as I ask! Do you pretend to be a
gentleman?"

"I hope I do."

"Then go!"

She would not be denied, and he was compelled to obey. When he had left
her, she hurried away till she heard Zona calling behind her. She had
not been able to keep back the tears entirely, and the sound of Zona’s
voice led her to hurry still more. But Zona overtook her, filled with
amazement by her remarkable manner. However, girls quickly understand
each other, and it did not take Zona long to fathom the feelings of
Doris.

In the meantime, Dick Merriwell, after leaving Zona, had sought his
brother.

"See here, Frank," he said, as he drew him aside, "I want you to know
just what that cheap dog has been saying about you."

"Eh?" said Merry. "What cheap dog?"

"Darrell."

"You mean the new man who played with the scrub?"

"Yes."

"Why, that fellow’s promising. He ought to make the eleven within a
week. I was surprised to see such a good man come out at this late day."

"He’s cheap!" said Dick warmly. "I’ve known it a long time, but he
proved it to-day. If you let him get onto the team you are foolish,
Frank! You mustn’t let him do it."

"Why, Dick," said Merry gravely, "would you think of objecting to any
man, no matter who, in case you knew he’d be a valuable addition to the
team? You must not let personal feelings influence you in the least when
it comes to football. If you have an enemy on the team, it is your duty
to interfere for him if he carries the ball, to help him make gains, to
do everything in your power to win. Personal likes and dislikes cannot
enter into the game of football. The moment they do a team begins to get
disorganized. You may play with a man you would not accept as a friend
or associate, but you do that for the good of the team."

"Oh, you’ve told me all this before, Frank; but it’s different in this
case."

"Different—how?"

"Why, this chap has been lying about me and about you to some girls I
know."

"What did he tell them?"

"Oh, he said I told you not to give him a show, and then he said you
called him out and played against him just to show him up. You saw him
slug me the first time he tackled me, didn’t you? That’s the sort of
fellow he is, Frank, and you know a chap like that is not fit for any
team."

"Evidently he lost his temper then, but he did not repeat the trick."

"Because he didn’t get another chance at me. He did try to kick me when
I tackled him, but he was shaken up so that he didn’t seem to kick in
the right direction."

"What have you ever done to him, Dick?"

"Nothing."

"Why does he dislike you?"

"Oh, why do lots of fellows here dislike me, Frank? They just do, that’s
all."

"And this one has no particular reason for it?"

"No; no real reason."

Still Dick thought of his first meeting with Doris Templeton in Farmer
Snodd’s beech-grove, and of the evident jealousy he had awakened in the
breast of Darrell by his attentions to the blue-eyed girl, and he knew
why Hal disliked him.

"Look here, Dick," said Merry, "when I first came to Fardale I made many
enemies here. One of my most bitter enemies was Bart Hodge. He fought me
tooth and nail every time he could, and I confess that he was a fighter.
But he was not satisfied in those days to fight on the square. In order
to get the best of me he resorted to every expedient, some of them
decidedly shady. But I fought him openly, and I never sought to take an
underhand advantage of him. I might have exposed him and made it pretty
hot for him here, but I didn’t do that.

"I didn’t like him then, but there came a time when he got into a bad
scrape, being accused of something of which he was entirely innocent. It
looked dark for him, but I discovered the truth and saved him. Was he
grateful? Perhaps so, but his pride did not let him show it. Chance made
him my roommate. I can’t say just how it came round, but in time that
fellow changed and became my friend. You know him, Dick, and you know
how much I think of him now. He is a true friend—one to be proud of. He
has told me a hundred times that he owes it to me that he is not a bad
fellow to-day. He says I made him ashamed of himself at last, and then
he quit trying to hurt me.

"But that was not all. He had made himself unpopular, but he started to
do what was right, and be just to those who disliked him. It was a hard
thing for him to do, and often he failed in his efforts, but he kept on
fighting until to-day there is not a finer fellow anywhere than Bart
Hodge. He is square, manly, straightforward. I believe he will make a
successful man. Dick, you must know that I feel satisfaction when I hear
him tell me that I—my example and influence—have made him what he is.
You must understand that I am glad I did not push him down when I had a
chance, and when I might have done so with apparent justice. Think this
over, Dick. If you have an enemy play fair with him, no matter what he
does. He may become ashamed in time. I do not advise you not to stand up
for your rights, but I do advise not to mind petty things, and, when
possible, to give a fellow another show. I do not believe Darrell is so
very bad, and some time he may become your friend."

"Never!" exclaimed Dick. "Never! I’m not like you, Frank. I can’t forget
so easy. Under no circumstances will I ever accept Darrell as my
friend."




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                        A RASCAL AND HIS TOOLS.


Jabez Lynch had been boiling with passion when he challenged Hal Darrell
to fight him in Chadwick’s pasture. In that condition Jabez would have
put up a hot fight, but afterward his blood cooled and he regretted that
he had made the challenge.

"I was a fool!" he told himself. "The fellow can scrap some, and he may
mark me in the dark. I should have found some other way to get even for
his blow."

The more he thought about it the greater became his regret. He did not
wish to meet Darrell, but he knew he would be regarded as a coward if he
failed to appear. Then he set about trying to devise some method of
escaping the encounter without seeming to back down. After a while, he
fancied he had hit upon the proper idea.

That evening Jabez found an excuse which gained him permission to go to
the village. Dick Merriwell had likewise obtained leave, and in town
Dick saw Jabez talking with two fellows who looked like sailors, and
were plainly tough characters. Lynch was speaking to them in a
confidential manner when he happened to observe Merriwell, and at once
he gave the men the tip and moved away.

"Something’s up," decided Dick, his curiosity aroused by the suspicious
actions of the fellow. He thought of following Lynch, but decided to
keep his eyes on the sailors.

This did not prove a hard task for the boy, who had been trained by Old
Joe Crowfoot in the art. He saw the sailors strike out toward The
Harbor, and, although it seemed like time wasted, he followed.

At The Harbor was an old house that had been turned into a saloon. The
sailors entered the place. Of course Dick had no thought of going in
there, but five minutes later he was crouching beneath a broken window,
from which shone a light.

A look through the window had shown him the sailors within, and they
were talking to a third man, quite as rough as themselves. The trio were
seated around a table. An old woman came in and brought drinks for the
three.

Dick felt a desire to hear what they were saying, but, for a time, they
spoke in low tones, so he caught only an occasional word. What he heard,
however, was enough to convince him that some sort of deviltry was
afoot. Several times the old woman was summoned to bring drinks, and, at
last, under the influence of the liquor, the men began to speak louder.

"It’s easy," declared one, who had a black beard.

"The fellow will give us ten each, and we can knock out the lubber
without any trouble at all. He’s only a boy."

"Why didn’t you an’ Jim do it alone?" asked the third man.

"Because the kid insisted that we was to get another. We said we’d do
it, but he said the feller might have one chap with him, and he was
afraid the right one’d get away."

"Come on, Bill," urged the black-bearded man’s companion. "It’s an easy
way of earnin’ a tenner."

"Oh, I don’t mind," said Bill. "But why does the kid want this here job
done?"

"Got some kind of a hunch agin’ the chap he wants knocked out,"
explained Jim.

"We may git inter a scrape an’ run foul o’ the law."

"No danger."

"If the chap should recognize us——"

"How can he? It’ll be pitch-dark, and we’ll lay him out stiff afore he
knows what’s hit him."

"A fine piece of business!" thought the boy under the window. "I wonder
if I’m the one they are to lay out."

"How are we to know just where to strike him?"

"Kid says he’ll show us. We’re to meet him in an hour. Let’s have
another drink and come on."

So the old woman was called in to bring more drinks, after which the
ruffians prepared to depart.

Little did the slightly intoxicated sailors know that they were being
followed by a shadow that made no sound, yet kept close enough not to
let them get away. Back to the main part of the town went the ruffians.
After entering another saloon and having drinks, they sallied forth and
met Jabez Lynch, who seemed to be waiting for them.

Toward the academy they went. At a point on the road they stopped, and
Dick heard Jabez talking to them. It took the shadow but a few moments
to slip forward to a point where he could hear what was being said.

"He’ll come along this way," said Jabez. "It’s probable there will be
one chap with him, but it’s certain not more than one, for they always
go to Chadwick’s pasture by twos or singly, so that they will not
attract attention."

"Well, how are we to know when ther right chap comes along?" questioned
one of the sailors.

"I’ll be down the road a short distance, and I’ll whistle after he has
passed me—so."

Lynch gave a peculiar whistle.

"That will be the signal to jump the fellow, or the two fellows, who
come along. See?"

"That’s plain enough, kid. An’ we’re to knock both of ’em stiff?"

"Sure. Don’t fail. Put both of them out, and fix them so they’ll be
likely to go to the hospital for a few days."

"Done! When do we get our sawbucks? Better cough in advance, for——"

"Oh, you can trust me."

"Mebbe; but we don’t propose to. Cough up now, kid, or we quit right
here."

"That’s the stuff," said another of the men. "Pay in advance for a job
like this."

"’Cause we may have ter jump outer this town right spry, you know. We’re
liable to sail any day."

"All right," said Jabez, somewhat reluctantly; "but don’t you fail me."

"No danger, kid. You has our word of honor."

"Well, I’ve got just thirty dollars with me. It’s three tenners, and
here they are."

Lynch handed the bills over in the dark, but one of the men struck a
match to examine the money and make sure it was all right. The light of
the match flared on the faces of the quartet, and the watching lad could
not help observing that Jabez looked as much the rascal as any of his
chosen tools.

"Are you satisfied?" demanded Lynch, with a smile. "I use you square,
and now you must me. I had to touch up a fellow for that money, and
leave my watch for security. Lost all my money betting on a
football-game last week."

"Reckon they’re all right, kid. Now, we’re to squat right here, are we?"

"Get into those cedars and lay low till you hear me whistle."

"It’s rather chilly to-night, kid. I hope ther feller shows up pretty
soon."

"It may be an hour, or even a little more. Keep still till then, but be
ready when you hear me whistle. I’m going down the road. If others come
ahead of the one I want you to do up, don’t mind them, but keep out of
sight."

Having given these instructions to his tools, Lynch slipped away.

It did not take Dick Merriwell long to decide to remain right there and
see the finish of the affair. After a while the dark forms of the
sailors disappeared in the bushes, where they proceeded to seek to keep
out the cold by frequently imbibing from a bottle one of them had
brought.

Dick slipped down into a little hollow where a boulder shut off the
sharp night wind, and there, with his hands in his pockets and his
collar turned up, he waited.

The time passed slowly, but the boy had learned patience from his Indian
tutor, and he did not fret. Finally he heard voices drawing nearer, and
two persons left the highway, jumped over the fence, and started away
across the rough clearing.

Dick recognized them by their voices. They were Big Bob Singleton and
Tod Hubbard.

"Singleton is on hand at all fights," thought Dick. "He gets round to
see fair play."

Singleton and Hubbard passed on and their voices died out in the
direction of the "Bloody Hollow" in Chadwick’s pasture.

There was another brief period of waiting, and then down the road
sounded the signal—that peculiar whistle!

Instantly Dick Merriwell was on the alert, his blood leaping and his
nerves tingling. The victim was coming!

Dick knew that there were to be brisk "doings" around that locality in a
short time, and he had decided to take a hand in the affair. He did not
propose to remain idle and see anybody waylaid and assaulted by some
hired ruffians.

In a moment he had unbuttoned his coat. As a dark form vaulted the
fence, Dick flung that coat aside. Then he crouched, ready to leap
forward.

The unsuspecting fellow started to pass close to the bushes where the
ruffians were hidden. Of a sudden, out sprang the three ruffians,
confronting the startled chap.

"Give it to them!" cried Dick Merriwell. "They’re going to do you up!
Soak ’em!"

At the same time he made a dash forward. The ruffians had rushed at
their intended victim. One of them was armed with a sand-bag, and he
tried to lay out the fellow they had been hired to slug.

Warned by Dick’s cry, the chap dodged the blow; but, even then, he was
not certain it was not some kind of cadet joke.

"You fellows quit!" he cried. "If you don’t you’ll get hurt! I didn’t
come along for this, and I’m no plebe."

"Give it to them!" cried Dick again. "They’re paid to do you! Look out!"

One of the sailors had clutched the victim from behind and was seeking
to hold him while the chap with the sand-bag got in his work.
Fortunately the liquor had affected the trio enough, so they were not
very certain in their movements.

Then Dick Merriwell took a hand, and his hard fist caught under the ear
of the thug who was holding the intended victim. The blow was hard and
sure, and the fellow would have been knocked flying had he not clung to
the chap he had grasped. Both were sent staggering, and then the unknown
broke away.

"Jump them!" again urged Dick. "They’re paid to do you! I heard the
bargain!"

Then the other woke up, and the two sailed into the ruffians in earnest.
This was quite unexpected by the sailors, but they had taken enough
liquor to make them ready for any kind of a fight, and they did not quit
on finding they had tackled more than they anticipated.

"Soak ’em, Bill!" roared one. "They’re a couple o’ kids. Give ’em
thunder!"

"Don’t get caught from behind again!" cried Dick to the fellow he was
aiding. "Back to back! I’ll stand by you! We can do these drunken
thugs!"

"All right!" came the reply, as the one attacked sailed into the fight
and managed to thump one of the ruffians in the stomach, doubling him
up.

Then followed a furious encounter, for the sailors were determined to
earn their money, and they had no thought of being routed by two boys.
Being engaged in front by the biggest fellow of the trio, who seemed to
know something about the science of boxing, Dick received a heavy blow
on the temple, which dropped him to one knee.

"He’s down!" snarled the fellow who had struck him. "Now we’ve got him!"

But at this point the chap Dick had hastened to aid broke away from the
third ruffian, saw Dick’s peril, and leaped to his assistance, skilfully
tripping one of them and kicking the other in the side.

"Thank you," said Dick, springing up, although the blow had made things
seem to swim around him for a moment. "Now, back to back. We can take
care of these dogs."

So, for the moment the lads stood back to back, meeting the renewed
assault of the thugs, two of whom engaged Dick, while the one with the
sand-bag went at the other fellow.

Dick was having his hands full, when he heard a cry that was half a
groan, and felt a body strike against him. Instantly he understood what
had happened. The other fellow had been downed.

Nine boys out of ten would have taken to their heels in such a fix and
tried to get away, but Dick did not. He made a sidelong leap, and was
just in time to avoid being dropped by a blow from the sand-bag.

A glance showed him that he was left for the time to fight the three
ruffians. If he did not meet the emergency, if he fled, the sailors
would accomplish their dastardly work of knocking out a Fardale cadet.

Then Dick Merriwell became a perfect whirlwind. It seemed impossible for
one of the three sailors, or the three combined, to follow him up and
get a telling blow at him. He leaped here, there, to the right, to the
left, forward, backward, and his arms shot out now and then, his hard
fists counting on the heads of the ruffians.

He was pantherish in his movements. When a thug sought to clutch him
from behind he was away in a twinkling. When they struck at him, he
dodged like a flash. When it was least expected, he sprang in and
delivered sharp blows. He could handle his feet, too, as the rascals
found out to their sorrow. He kicked first one and then another of them.

The ruffians began to curse, but still they continued to follow the
leaping lad about. Dazed and partly stunned by a glancing blow he had
received, the other fellow rose to his elbow and stared weakly at the
struggle. He was amazed by the manner in which the pantherish lad fought
the three ruffians, keeping them all engaged. A feeling of awe and
admiration seized him. Three times he tried to rise and take part in the
battle, and three times he fell back with a strange weakness that made
him helpless.

Still Dick Merriwell fought on like a fury. Thrice he knocked down the
smaller of the three thugs. As many times he sent the big man staggering
before heavy blows. And he gave the other jabs and kicks that made him
snarl and curse.

It was a grand fight against odds, and the chap who had been knocked
down felt that young Merriwell was a wonder.

"I must help him!" he panted. "I must!"

Then he set his teeth and made a fourth attempt to get up. The ground
seemed unsteady beneath him, but just then he saw one of the men get
hold of Dick from behind.

In an instant the chap whom Dick had warned grew steady and rose. He saw
the trio close in on Merriwell, and then he plunged into the battle
again.

It was fortunate that he recovered just as he did, for the ruffians had
caught Merriwell at a disadvantage. They might have succeeded in downing
him, but the other came rushing into the fray once more, striking right
and left.

This diversion gave Dick a chance to break away, and, with a singular
laugh, he resumed the unequal struggle. That laugh—it was like the laugh
of Frank Merriwell when beset by peril and when fighting against odds.
It was full of recklessness, and there was something about it that made
a foe hesitate in amazement.

"Ha! ha! ha!" it sounded. "Why, this is real sport! Get at them,
pardner! I reckon we’re enough for a set of curs like these! How do you
like it, coyote? Ha! ha! ha? Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha!"

That laugh sounded strange and eery in the darkness, and it made the
ruffians pause a moment.

"He’s the devil!" declared one of them.

"He’s northin’ but a kid," grated the big fellow. "At ’em again!"

But Dick had not waited a moment, and he managed to get in another
knock-down blow during their hesitation.

“Put them out of business!” he urged, getting after another one. "Finish
the whelps!"

Inspired by his example, the other chap went into the fight once more
with a vim that counted, and the two boys would have been more than a
match for the rascals had not one of the latter been armed with the
sand-bag.

Again the fellow with the sand-bag succeeded in hitting the one Dick had
aided, knocking him down. At this moment dark forms were seen coming
over the fence, and a voice exclaimed:

"Why, they must be fighting here, instead of at the regular place."

"Help!" called Dick. "Give us a hand! Three thugs have tried to do us
up!"

Then the dark forms came hurrying forward.

"Sneak, mates!" growled one of the sailors. "The jig is up! We’d best
git out o’ this in a hurry!"

Then the thugs took to their heels.

"Run ’em down!" cried Dick. "They’re ruffians! Don’t let them get away!"

The cadets who had leaped the fence rushed away in pursuit of the
sailors, while Dick knelt beside his fallen comrade of the terrible
encounter.

"Hurt bad, partner?" he asked, lifting the head of the other.

The injured fellow drew a deep breath and answered thickly:

"Bumped pretty hard, but I think I’m all right. You’re a dandy, old man,
whoever you are. How did it happen, anyway?"

"I heard a sneaking cur hire those dogs to do you, and so I waited to
give you a lift."

"Who hired them—who was it?"

"A nice young chap by the name of Lynch."

"Jabez Lynch?"

"Yes."

"The sneak! He’s the dirtiest fellow at Fardale!"

"I think you are right. How do you feel now?"

"Weak. I was to fight him to-night in Chadwick’s pasture. That’s why he
did it. But I’ll be there—I’ll meet him if it——"

The injured lad tried to rise, but dropped back limply, for the effort
had caused his head to whirl.

"Oh, the sneak!" he groaned. "He has fixed me so I can’t be on hand! The
time will pass! He’ll claim I failed to appear! I can’t fight him!"

"Then," said Dick, "it will give me pleasure to take your place and meet
Mr. Lynch. I think I can polish him off."

"You?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Why should you?"

"Because you can’t do it now. Because I have a little score against
him."

"But who are you? I believe I know your voice! I believe I know you! Is
it possible——"

The injured lad began to choke in his bewilderment. Up to that point he
had been too excited to seek to recognize Dick.

And Dick—well, it must be confessed that he had not been cool, and he
had not recognized the other. Now, however, he started back a little,
leaving the fellow resting on his elbow and facing him.

In silence the two lads stared at each other through the darkness. They
heard the fellows who had pursued the ruffians returning, but still for
some moments they did not move.

At last Dick felt in his pockets and found a match. In a moment he had
struck it, holding it so the light fell on the face of the fellow
opposite.

It was Hal Darrell!

Then a gust of wind blew out the match, and they were again in darkness.

"You?" choked Darrell.

"You?" said Dick coldly.

"I didn’t know," spoke Hal.

"No more did I," confessed Dick.

"If you had, you might not have been so ready to aid me. You would not!"

"I ask no credit for it, Darrell. I did not once ask myself who the
fellow was that Lynch had hired the ruffians to soak. I simply decided
to take part in the scrap. That’s how it happened."

"I’m sorry it was you!" exclaimed Darrell bitterly.

"And I’m sorry you were the one. We can’t help it now. But I have a
favor to ask of you."

"A favor?"

"Yes. Will you grant it?"

"I don’t know. What is it?"

"Let me fight Lynch to-night in your place."

"No, no—hang him, no! I’m going to——"

Darrell tried to rise, but again he dropped back, gasping:

"My head swims, and I’m so weak!"

Dick did not offer to touch him, but he swiftly said:

"You must do it! Some of the fellows are coming right here. They will
help you reach the Hollow, but you’ll be in no condition to fight when
you get there. I’m all right. I’ll give Jabez Lynch what he deserves.
Don’t refuse, Darrell! Do me this favor, Darrell, and we’ll be square.
You’ll owe me nothing then!"

"All right," said Hal. "If I can’t fight him when we get
there—understand. If I can, no one else shall."

"If you can’t——"

"Then you may."

"It’s a bargain. Not a word about him to the others—not a word till
after the fight."

"All right."

Then Brad Buckhart, Ted Smart, and Toby Kane, who had pursued the
fleeing ruffians, came up.

"The varmints got away," said Buckhart regretfully. "They stampeded into
a piece of timber over yonder, and it was too dark to trail them. What
was the merry old rumpus, anyhow?"

Dick explained in a few words.

"What a lovely time!" exclaimed Smart. "It must have been like a church
raffle. How I should enjoy to be jumped on by three big, brawny seamen!
It would be such fun to have them thump me round! Oh, dear! I’m sorry
they didn’t do it to me!"

By this time, with assistance, Darrell was able to stand, but he was
pretty limp.

"Well, I don’t reckon you’re going to be in shape to put up much of a
fight," said Buckhart. "You’d better go back to the academy and do your
fighting some other night."

"No!" grated Hal. "I’ll meet Lynch if I can get to the spot."

"But," said Dick, at once, "if he’s not in condition to fight he has
agreed to let me take his place."

"Oh, my!" said Smart. "I know you’re frightened to death! How can you
think of scrapping with such a perfectly lovely gent as Jabez Lynch? You
are real mean, so there!"

In a short time they set off toward Bloody Hollow, which they reached in
due time. But, although they waited long, and about twenty cadets
gathered there to witness the fight, Jabez Lynch failed to appear.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                          HOW THE GAME BEGAN.


The game with Fairport was about to begin. Fardale had won the toss and
taken the southern goal to defend. A fluctuating wind was blowing from
the northeast, and the day was raw and cold.

The line-up of the teams was as follows:

          FARDALE.             POSITIONS.      FAIRPORT.
          Burrows              Right end       Wade
          Stanton             Right tackle     Vance
          Kane                Right guard      Stratton
          Buckhart               Center        Taylor
          Cogswell             Left guard      Powers
          Blair               Left tackle      Holden
          Kent                  Left end       Gilson
          Shannock            Quarter-back     Coleman
          Nunn              Right half-back    Marley
          Merriwell          Left half-back    Ringsdale
          Singleton            Full-back       Emerson

Cogswell, the captain of the scrub, was to be given a trial in the place
of Gordan, who had not been entirely satisfactory as left guard in the
last game, while Kane had replaced Douglass, being quicker than the
former right guard. Kane was not new in the line, having been
substituted for Douglass on a previous occasion; but these changes led
some of the knowing ones to shake their heads and prophesy trouble.

Fairport turned out a stocky-looking set of fellows, most of them having
light hair, which led their admiring friends to allude to them as "the
Vikings." It was generally admitted that Fairport might give the home
team the hottest game of the season, and Fairport was confident it could
make a break in the wonderfully victorious career of the cadets.

The Fardale band was out and made things lively before the game. The
band could play well for youngsters, and blue noses and stiff fingers
did not seem to make any difference to-day.

Wrapped in furs and overcoats, the crowd shivered and watched from the
stand, while another gathering lined up at one side of the field, beyond
the ropes, to witness the game.

"Where is Hal?" asked Zona Desmond, who, of course, was on hand with
Doris Templeton. "I thought they were going to give him a chance to play
to-day. They’ve taken another fellow instead. Now, I don’t think that’s
just fair, do you, Doris?"

"I don’t know," answered Doris. "Perhaps they think the other fellow
better than Hal."

"I believe it’s just as Hal said—I believe they don’t mean to give him a
chance."

"I don’t believe anything of the sort."

"Why, you said——"

"Never mind what I said, Zona; I am sure he’ll get a fair show.
There—there he is with the substitutes."

"Sure enough; but not half the substitutes ever get a chance to play.
It’s easy enough to keep a man a substitute and never let him get onto
the field in a game. You said yourself——"

"Something I did not mean, perhaps."

"But you’re so queer, Doris!"

"Am I?"

"You are changeable. I don’t wonder that Hal doesn’t know what to think
of you. Do you fancy you treat him just right?"

"I don’t know; I haven’t thought much about it."

"I have, and I’m sure you have not treated him right. You know he has a
reason to expect a great deal from you."

"I do not know. I have never given him such a reason. I think he expects
too much."

"Well, you are enough to worry any fellow and keep him guessing,"
laughed Zona.

"The game is about to begin," said Doris, eager to turn the subject.
"Fairport kicks off."

The ball had been placed in the center of the field, and the two teams
were spread out. Emerson was ready, and the whistle sounded. A moment
later the full-back of the Vikings advanced and kicked. As the ball rose
a strong wind took it and carried it far to one side, with the result
that it was out of bounds when it was caught by a Fardale man. This made
it necessary for another trial, and the oval was brought back to center.

Emerson did better next time, driving the ball to Fardale’s fifteen-yard
line, where Nunn caught it. Steve did not try a kick, but ran at once,
dodging a tackler, having another blocked off by Stanton, and reaching
the thirty-five-yard line before being downed.

Fardale rose with a roar as Steve made this run. Fairport answered with
another roar when the captain was downed.

The line-up was sharp and quick, and Fardale opened its assault by
bucking Fairport’s center. Taylor was a big fellow, and, assisted by the
backs, he stood like a house until the ball was downed without a gain.

"Fairport!" roared the visiting spectators. "Fairport! Fairport!"

"4—11—Y—93—44—4," called Shannock, as the lines formed, and every
Fardale player knew an end-run was to be tried.

The ball was snapped quickly, and passed to Merriwell, who took it
deftly, without the least sign of fumbling, and was off. Shannock and
Nunn fell in as interferers, while the line did its best to withstand
Fairport’s charge.

Shannock came out round the end a bit in advance of Merriwell, and
Ringsdale, who was on hand, promptly tripped him in Dick’s path. Dick
jumped as Shannock went down, but Holden had broken away from Stanton’s
attempt to block him and was on hand, so that Merriwell was dragged to
the ground with a gain of only two yards.

But now the umpire promptly came forward and gave Fardale ten yards on
Ringsdale’s tripping of Shannock, which advanced the ball to the
forty-five-yard line. Then Fardale roared again, thus expressing its
satisfaction over the punishment meted out by the umpire to the
offenders.

As may be imagined, Fairport was not at all pleased. Ringsdale had
played the tripping trick thus far during the season without being
punished for it before, and the visitors felt hurt and wronged because a
just penalty had been imposed in this case. They started in to wrangle
over it, but were choked off at once, and the game progressed.

Things were going Fardale’s way, and it looked brighter when five yards
were made through Fairport’s right wing. Then, with the ball five yards
from the center of the field, Fardale grew too eager, both Kane and
Blair getting off-side on the next play.

The ball went to Fairport, which gave the visiting witnesses of the game
another opportunity to cheer.

"That’s bad, fellows," said Steve Nunn, shaking his head. "We had them
going. You must look out for that. We can’t afford to lose this game
through breaks of that sort."

But it quickly began to seem as if there was danger of having this first
break count against them heavily, for Fairport made full ten yards on
the first plunge through the right wing of the home team. This was so
encouraging to the Vikings that they repeated the play, only to find
this time that the right wing stood firm, and the ball was stopped
without a gain.

Then Fairport tried a trick play. Apparently Marley was sent to circle
the left end, but he passed to Ringsdale, who darted in the opposite
direction. Dick Merriwell took it for a double-pass, and laid for
Ringsdale.

The left half-back of the enemy, however, made a clever pass to Emerson,
although keeping right on. When Ringsdale came round the end Dick
Merriwell discovered he did not have the ball.

As no runner followed Ringsdale, Dick whirled to look for the ball,
discovering that Emerson had taken it through a big opening in the
center and was dashing down a clear field, Singleton and Shannock having
rushed to stop Marley.

Dick was disgusted, for once before during the season had the same trick
been worked on Fardale, and the members of the team had talked it over
till they felt certain that they were fully prepared for a repetition of
it. Both Cogswell and Buckhart had been fooled by the clever passing of
the enemy, and that explained why they had made the opening at center.

Dick was off after Emerson like a flash, but the full-back of the
opposing team had obtained a big start. However, the watching crowd was
electrified by seeing Dick Merriwell fairly flying in pursuit of the
runner and swiftly closing the gap.

Two girls on the seats rose and screamed in excitement.

"He’ll catch him!" cried Zona. "I know he will!"

"He’ll catch him!" echoed Doris, waving her flag. "Oh, how he can run!"

Dick strained every nerve, for he saw the case was desperate. Emerson
was a swift runner, and he drew nearer and nearer to the Fardale line.

The spectators were shrieking as Dick Merriwell shot forward through the
air and tackled Emerson, dragging him to the ground. Then it seemed that
half the players on the field, who had been trailing out after the
runners, came and slammed themselves down on the two.

When the piled-up mass of humanity had untangled it was found that
Emerson, although thrown inside the line, had managed to reach out with
the ball and was holding it on the ground six inches beyond the line.

"A touch-down!" shouted the Fairport crowd in joy.

Dick Merriwell’s splendid run had not availed to stop this score.

Emerson was pretty well used up, but he revived when they told him he
had made a touch-down.

The ball was brought out, and Wade was called back from the line to try
for the goal. Wade waited till the wind lulled, and then, seizing a
favorable occasion, drove the yellow egg twisting over the bar, while
the Fairport crowd yelled with joy.

There was a brief breathing-spell, during which the water-bucket went
round and the players took a drink and sopped a little over their faces,
for they were perspiring, in spite of the cold wind.

Now it was Fardale’s turn to kick, and Big Bob booted the ball up
against the strong gust of wind, driving it barely thirty yards from the
center. Kent ran under the ball, and was on hand to down the fellow who
caught it; but a fair catch was made, and Fairport retorted with a
return kick that sent the ball almost twenty yards into Fardale’s
territory.

With the uncertain wind against her, Fardale decided against kicking,
and Captain Nunn, who had the ball, sprinted with it. Gilson did his
best to pull Nunn down, but was blocked off by Shannock. Holden,
however, was on hand, and he tackled Steve at the fifty-yard line.

Now, Steve had been awake to all that was going on, and he knew who was
behind him. He saw he could not avoid being tackled. As he felt Holden
touch him, just as he was being dragged down, the Fardale captain
twisted about and passed the ball over his shoulder to Dick Merriwell.

Dick took the ball cleverly, and was off like a flash. Taylor made a
grab for him, but he crouched and escaped by a sidelong movement. Ten
yards he ran, and found Powers coming down on him. It seemed then that
he gave up, and Powers flung himself forward for the tackle.

At that instant Dick made a sudden spring and shot out of the reach of
Fairport’s right guard. On he went, twisting and turning. It was a run
through a broken field, and no more exciting play may be witnessed on
any gridiron.

Dick seemed cool enough, and it was plain his eyes did not fail to note
every danger. His strategy was wonderful, and the Fardale witnesses
roared and roared as he avoided tackler after tackler.

Stratton tried to get at the runner, but Brad Buckhart had fallen in for
interference, and he balked Stratton’s attempt.

"Whoop!" he gasped. "Go it, Dick. Wild mustangs can’t catch you now,
pard!"

But Emerson was laying for the runner, as young Merriwell saw. Having no
interference, Dick knew he must depend on his own skill.

Could he deceive the triumphant full-back who had lately made a
touch-down? He had been unable to stop Emerson from scoring, and a
fierce desire not to be balked himself by the fellow seized upon him.

Emerson was crouching, ready to tackle him, no matter which way he
turned. Dick did not hear the roaring of the spectators. He heard
nothing then, for every particle of energy within him was concentrated
on the task he hoped to accomplish.

As he approached Emerson, Dick bore to right. Yet in his manner the
runner suggested that he meant to dodge the other way, and Emerson was
prepared for the movement.

True enough, of a sudden, Dick seemed to make a dart to go past on the
other hand. Emerson whirled to meet him.

Then, like a flash, and in a most amazing manner, the runner changed his
course again, darting swiftly to the right.

Emerson was not steady on his feet when he turned and sprang to tackle
Dick, but he knew no moment was to be lost if he would stop the runner.
His uncertainty caused him to make a false spring, and he saw Dick go
clear of his grasp.

Then, with the Fardale witnesses shrieking like a lot of wild Indians,
Dick Merriwell continued down the field, having no tackler before him,
and shot over the line for a touch-down.




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                        DARRELL CALLED TO PLAY.


Not more than twenty yards did Dick have to run after passing Emerson.
As he put the ball down behind Fairport’s line he became aware for the
first time that the great crowd was roaring. His eyes saw the red and
black fluttering everywhere. Then he heard the organized cheering-squad
burst forth with Fardale’s "Rigger-boom! zigger-boom!" ending with his
name.

"Merriwell!" they shrieked. "Merriwell! Merriwell!"

Captain Nunn came tearing up and flung his arms round Dick.

"Merriwell, you’re a dandy!" he shouted, in supreme delight. "That was
the greatest run I ever saw!"

"That’s what it was!" agreed Brad Buckhart. "Just threw his head back
like a wild mustang, shook out his mane, and tore up the turf with his
hoofs. Whoop!"

The ball was brought out. Dick was chosen to kick, while Steve held it.
Dick took the wind into consideration, and kicked with care. As the ball
rose, however, a sudden gust caught it and carried it to one side.

"A miss!" gasped the Fardale crowd.

"A miss!" shouted the Fairport spectators.

"It’s all over!" shouted a loud-voiced cadet.

The wind had not veered it quite enough to carry it past the part of the
post that rose above the bar at one side. It barely brushed that post,
but went over on the right side, and the score was tied.

Fairport was angry enough over the success of Merriwell in making such a
remarkable run through a broken field.

Hal Darrell had withdrawn a little by himself, where he was watching the
play. At this moment he heard a voice behind him saying:

"Don’t make a show of yourself, Darrell. Are you silly enough to think
Merriwell will give you a show as a sub? Then you ought to go ’way back
and sit down!"

Hal whirled as if struck. Somehow, Jabez Lynch had penetrated within the
ropes and joined the substitutes near the side-line. Hal was white with
anger.

"Don’t speak to me!" he panted. "You cowardly dog! You’re a disgrace to
the academy! You hired those thugs to do me up, like the whelp you are!"

"It’s a lie!" returned Lynch. "That’s one of Merriwell’s stories, and my
word is as good as his. Why didn’t he produce the thugs? Why didn’t he
bring them forward as evidence against me? He couldn’t do it, though he
made a bluff at it. If you were attacked at all, it was done by somebody
who wanted to rob you; but I’m not inclined to believe you were
attacked."

"Go on! Get away from here!" grated Hal. "You’re a coward, or you’d been
on hand to fight me, as you agreed."

"I’ve explained why I failed to get there, and——"

"Lied! You might have been there, but you did not come. You are branded
as a coward for failing. The best thing you can do, Lynch, is to leave
Fardale. You haven’t a friend here, and you’ll be kicked out before the
end of this term if you get your just dues."

Then Hal disdainfully turned his back on Jabez.

Lynch seemed tempted to leap on Darrell, but little Ted Smart had been
watching, and he quickly said:

"That’s right, respected sir—show your nobility of character by slugging
him in the back of the head! It will be a very genteel thing to do."

"Bah!" snapped Lynch, turning away.

By this time the ball was again on the spot, and Fairport was ready to
kick. Emerson was vicious, and he lifted the oval with a force that sent
it clean to Fardale’s ten-yard line. Nunn took the ball on the run, and
carried it back fifteen yards before he was tackled by Holden.

Then began the fiercest struggle of the game thus far, for Fairport went
in for blood. Dick made an attempt to go round the left end of the
enemy, but Burrows was bowled over by Gilson, and the end of the line
did not hold the charge of the enemy.

Burrows was in bad shape when they lifted him up, but he would not
retire. In the very next scrimmage, however, he went down and out, being
limp as a rag.

As Burrows was aided off the field, Frank Merriwell spoke to Hal
Darrell.

"You’re wanted, Darrell," he said. "Captain Nunn is calling for you."

Hal started and flushed. He had not believed he would be given an
opportunity in a real game, and he scarcely could believe it now. With
his heart beating wildly, he started out upon the field.

Then he saw Doris Templeton rise on the seats, saw her wave her flag,
and heard her cry:

"It’s Hal! It’s Hal! He’s going to play!"

How he thrilled! Doris was happy because he was going to play.

"I’ll do my best!" he thought.

"Darrell!" cried the cadet who was leading the cheering. "Ready for
Darrell, fellows! Now—one, two, three!"

Then, at the word three, the great crowd lifted up their voices as one
man and cheered for Hal Darrell.

"Look out for that man Gilson," said Steve Nunn, to Darrell. "He’s a bad
egg, and he’ll put you out of the game if he can."

Hal nodded and took his place in the line as it formed. Having been made
a regular substitute, he had learned the signals of the team.

It was plain that Fardale had resolved to get the ball farther away from
the dangerous point, if possible, by kicking, and Fairport prepared in
haste to receive the kick. When the ball was snapped Gilson flung
himself on Darrell like a tiger, but Hal blocked him nicely, and the
line held well for Singleton to kick.

Big Bob was fortunate in getting in a splendid punt, which Emerson
caught in Fairport’s territory. Kent had escaped Wade, and was coming
down like a hawk, so Emerson kicked in return.

This time the ball fell into the hands of Dick Merriwell. Dick decided
to try his luck, and he booted the leather still farther into Fairport’s
territory.

Emerson again captured the ball, and, fancying he had a good opening,
started to run with it. But he had not observed Darrell, who had given
Gilson the slip, and was close at hand. Not over five yards did Emerson
make before Darrell had him, and the tackle was made in very pretty
style, stretching the big half-back on the turf.

"Darrell!" shrieked the Fardale crowd. "Darrell! Darrell!"

"Good boy!" panted Steve Nunn, as he came rushing up. "That’s the kind
of work!"

On the stand were two delighted girls, and certainly Doris seemed the
most pleased. She clapped her hands and screamed in a perfect abandon of
joy when Hal tackled Emerson.

"There, Zona—see, see! He did it—Hal did it!"

"Well, you’re too much for me!" murmured Zona. "First you don’t and then
you do."

With the ball in their possession, the Fairport players began the
assault on Fardale’s line. Fardale fought every inch of the ground, and
Darrell showed his mettle by meeting the veteran Gilson in splendid
style. His friends were delighted, as well they might be, considering
the fact that he had practised so little with the team.

But Fairport hammered her way steadily along by small gains, making the
distance in the required number of downs each time, until she had again
passed center and was in Fardale’s territory.

Then, just as the struggle was becoming terrific, the whistle blew and
time was called. The first half had ended, with the teams tied.

Darrell was complimented as the sweating fellows trotted off to the
dressing-rooms for a rub-down; but what really gave him more
satisfaction than anything else was to feel the hand of Frank Merriwell
on his shoulder, and to hear Frank say:

"You played like a veteran, my boy! Keep it up!"

Darrell choked a little, for this was the fellow he had declared unfair
and prejudiced—the fellow he had believed would refuse to give him a
fair show.

"Thank you," he said huskily.

But Dick Merriwell did not give him as much as a look. In fact, since
the night Dick had saved him from the ruffianly sailors, Merriwell had
treated Darrell like an utter stranger. Hal had been compelled to
express gratitude, but Dick declared he did not deserve it, as he had
not known who it was he was helping. And the incident had appeared to
create a still wider breach between the two, instead of bringing them
nearer together.

Frank Merriwell talked to the players during the intermission. He told
them that Fairport would be sure to make a desperate attempt to rush
them from the very outset of the second half, and he gave a number of
the players definite instructions. To Captain Nunn and Quarter-back
Shannock he said:

"Don’t forget the ends-around play. It’s a good thing to change your
style of playing in the second half, as the enemy will talk over the way
you have played, and make preparations to meet your style. If you spring
a surprise by new plays, you will have them guessing. They are tricky,
and you’ll have to be on the guard all the time, as they are clever in
making running passes."

The crowd on the raised seats were singing "Fair Fardale" when the team
trotted out for the final half. The band struck up when the young
gladiators appeared.

Fairport was waiting, having come out a moment before. No time was spent
standing around in the cold. The time for the second half had arrived,
and the teams were called onto the field by the whistle.

Now the goals were changed, and Fardale had the advantage of the wind.
It was the home team’s kick-off, but now Merriwell was chosen to kick,
instead of Singleton. Dick advanced steadily on the ball and lifted it
handsomely, sending it full forty-five yards.

Darrell and Kent were off like greyhounds at the proper moment, and they
had Marley cornered when he attempted to run back with the ball. It was
Kent who brought him down, about twenty yards from the goal-line.

Fardale came down and lined-up to hold the enemy in check, if possible.
But, as Frank Merriwell had expected, Fairport was out for business in
this half, and her first assault was of the battering-ram sort, tearing
a hole through the home team’s center and making full seven yards.

Buckhart arose covered with dirt and having blood running from his nose.
The blood was washed off, and the Texan declared that he was all right.

"Just let’s see if that herd can stampede over me again," he growled. "I
reckon I’ll be ready the next time they buck up against me."

"Hold ’em, boys!" urged Steve Nunn.

Ringsdale was saying:

"You know what I want, fellows. I want you right through there,
now—right through. Get in lively! Rush it! rush it! Be ready! At ’em! at
’em!"

"Come on!" muttered Buckhart.

The ball was snapped and passed, and this time Cogswell was picked out,
being hit by a revolving formation. Fardale’s left guard would not have
been able to do much before that rush, but the backs of the team were
there to assist him at the right time, and Blair did good work in
ripping open the formation. Dick Merriwell went through an opening made
by Blair and downed the man with the ball.

This time Fairport had not gained. The Vikings lined up swiftly, the
ball went back to Ringsdale, and the captain of the visitors scooted
toward Fardale’s left end. It looked like an end-run, but before
reaching the end Ringsdale turned and plunged into the line with all the
force he could command, being hurled forward by Emerson.

Blair was carried back, and lost Ringsdale, but again Merriwell was on
hand, and downed the runner. Four yards had been made.

The next assault was on Buckhart, and, although the Texan was expecting
it, two yards were made. Fairport had made her distance.

"Got to stop this business!" said Captain Nunn. "Ready, everybody! Watch
out! watch out!"

"Right through! right through!" came from Ringsdale. "Keep them going!
They’re easy!"

Marley was given the ball, and he sprinted toward Fardale’s right end.
But Ringsdale’s trick was tried, and he turned and smashed into the
line, giving Stanton a shock. Stanton could not stand before it, but
Darrell escaped Gilson and brought Marley down with a gain of three
yards.

There was no let up in this style of work. The ball went to Emerson, who
came plunging into the center of the line, hurled forward by both Marley
and Ringsdale. Despite the fact that Buckhart had been watching for
this, full four yards were secured.

And thus Fairport continued the attack until the center of the field had
been reached and passed.

This kind of playing was hard on the line, and Fardale began to show
signs of wavering. Nunn talked to his men, and Frank Merriwell, on the
sidelines, seemed to betray some anxiety.

On Fardale’s forty-yard line a fortunate thing happened, for Coleman
fumbled a pass and lost the ball. Before he could drop on it, Kane was
sprawling over the oval. This fumble came at a time when it seemed the
Vikings were liable to break through any moment and carry everything
before them.

There was a brief pause for the water-bucket to go round, and then
Fardale prepared for the offensive.

"26—28—F—203—100—3," was the signal, and the tackles-back formation was
made.

Blair was given the ball, and, supported by the backs, hurled himself
into center. The assault was heavy, but Taylor was supported in splendid
style by Fairport’s entire back-field, and barely two yards were made.

"28—29—B—73—197—100—11."

It was the same formation, but this time Stanton was given the ball, and
away he went toward Fardale’s left end. The line held well, and Stanton
rounded the end for full six yards before being grassed by Vance.

Fardale was getting on, and the crowd cheered.

"5—Z—42—2—130—91."

This time it was the regular formation, and Singleton was sent for a
plunge into center. Big Bob charged like a thunderbolt, hitting the line
with staggering force and making five yards. But, on the very next play,
Cogswell plunged into Stanton too soon, and the ball went to Fairport
for off-side playing.

This was bad, but Fardale seemed determined to check the successful
career of the enemy, being able to hold the Vikings twice without a
gain. Emerson fell back.

"A kick!" was the cry.

It looked that way, but it was simply a trick. The ball went to
Ringsdale, who dashed for Fardale’s left end, Emerson coming forward on
the jump at the same time. Ringsdale passed to Emerson, and the latter
found an opening between Buckhart and Kane, getting through the middle
of the home team’s line.

Shannock and Singleton had been fooled, and Nunn was not quick enough to
stop the runner. Merriwell leaped for Emerson, but Stratton had got
through, and was able to block Dick for a bit. Dick thrust him off,
however, and started after the runner.

Again it was a thrilling race, and again it seemed that Merriwell would
not be able to prevent the full-back of the enemy from making a
touch-down. Emerson, in spite of his size, was a swift runner. However,
Dick was swifter, and he summoned every bit of energy at his command.
Over the chalk-marks sped pursued and pursuer. Dick gained, drew near,
hurled himself forward.

Down came Emerson full fifteen yards from Fardale’s line. This time Dick
had been successful in spoiling Emerson’s run for a touch-down.

But Fairport was full of confidence, and lined up in a hurry to rush the
ball along. Now Fardale took a brace and held like a granite wall. After
two trials without a gain, Emerson fell back.

"A try for a field-goal!" exclaimed the witnesses.

The next moment the ball was snapped and passed to Emerson, who dropped
it and kicked.

"It’s over!"

Over it was, and Fairport had added five points more to her score.

Then the visitors were given a chance to cheer lustily.

From the time of the next kick-off the witnesses saw such whirlwind
football as never before had they witnessed at Fardale. It was rough
work, for Fardale fought furiously, her plunging being sharp and heavy.

For Fairport three substitutes were put in, Vance retiring for Mullen,
Powers for Dyer, and Taylor, with a twisted knee, giving place to Cobb.

But, in spite of everything, a fumble enabled a Viking to get the ball
and carry it to Fardale’s twenty-yard line, where another field-kick was
tried. This time the wind spoiled the kick, a gust taking the ball just
outside the posts, and the score remained the same—11 to 6 in favor of
the visitors.

It was necessary now for Fardale to do some desperate work to win. When
the ball had been carried to Fairport’s thirty-five-yard line and held
there, Dick asked leave to try a kick from the field.

"It will tie," he said; "and that may save us from defeat."

Captain Nunn consented, and young Merriwell made a handsome kick before
the chargers broke through and downed him.

Over the bar went the ball, and the score was tied.

"That’s all to-day," said a witness. "Nothing more will happen. There is
not two minutes to play."

"Well," said another, "Fairport is the first team this season to hold
Fardale down to a tie."

The Vikings kicked off, and the ball came into the hands of Dick
Merriwell, who took it on a sharp run. Marley missed Dick by an inch,
and away flew Fardale’s left half-back, turning to the right. Singleton
was behind, Shannock did not get started soon enough, and it seemed that
Mullen would nab Dick.

Then, from somewhere, up bobbed Hal Darrell in a most surprising manner,
and he put his shoulder into Mullen, bowling the tackler over.

It did not seem that the shock stopped Darrell in the least. On he
dashed with Merriwell, turning when Dick turned, seeming to think Dick’s
thoughts, and ever he was in the way of the tacklers who sought to reach
the runner.

The work of Darrell caused the watchers to gasp, for never had a single
Fardale interferer helped a runner in such magnificent style. He was as
good as three men during that run.

Over the middle of the field sped Dick, still with Hal at hand. Dyer
tried for him, but again Darrell did the trick, and Dick was able to
keep on. Coleman came from another direction, but Hal got across and
spoiled Coleman’s chance.

"For the love of goodness!" cried a Fairport witness, "will somebody
pull that interferer down! It’s the only way to stop the runner!"

"See! see!" panted Doris Templeton, clinging convulsively to Zona. "Dick
Merriwell—Dick and Hal! See how Hal is helping him!"

"They’re playing together like a machine," said Zona. "It’s just
perfectly splendid! Nothing can stop them!"

All Fardale was standing—all Fardale was shrieking! To the dull November
sky rose a medley of sounds that seemed to indicate a thousand maniacs
turned loose.

Toward the Fairport goal sped the lad with the ball. Ringsdale came at
him. Ringsdale sprang for a tackle. Darrell was on hand to balk the
play, and Ringsdale rolled on the ground empty-handed.

Emerson was in the way, and now Emerson meant to do or die. This time
Darrell was too far on the opposite side of Merriwell. But Dick swung
toward Hal and Hal swung toward him. Then Emerson leaped and brought
down—Darrell!

Dick Merriwell ran on and crossed the line.

The time was up as the ball lay dead on the ground back of Fairport’s
goal, but the touch-down entitled Fardale to a try for goal, and the
ball was brought out.

Emerson kicked, and the goal was made, the final score being:

Fardale, 17; Fairport, 11.

The delighted cadets rolled onto the field in a great wave, and once
more lifted Dick Merriwell aloft, uttering cheer after cheer.

But he motioned them to silence, and the cheering died.

"Fellows!" cried Dick, in a clear voice, "I’d never been able to make
that touch-down in the world but for Darrell’s interference. He’s the
one who should be up here in my place. Put me down! Take him up!"

"Darrell!" roared the crowd. "Up with them both!"

And then Hal Darrell was lifted to their shoulders by the side of Dick
Merriwell.

                                THE END.




No. 78 of the MERRIWELL SERIES, entitled "Dick Merriwell’s Promise," by
Burt L. Standish, is a thriller from beginning to end, and has some
surprising incidents that will astonish and delight the reader. No boy
should miss reading this.

                               The Dealer

who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The
fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the
merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH
NOVELS are superior to all others.

He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered
book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one
of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing
except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.

Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise
tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he has
for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his
paper-covered books.

Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.




                       STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                  79 Seventh Avenue      New York City

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           Transcriber’s Note

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.

  47.17    When the moment for play arrived[,]            Added.
  50.21    got Newton roun[g/d] the legs                  Replaced.
  53.19    who smash[e]d it hard                          Inserted.
  62.28    would come from the other side[.]              Added.
  66.4     [“]Somebody ought to kick me!”                 Added.
  69.16    They’re g[o]ing to kick!                       Inserted.
  69.28    Rogers was past Mer[r]iwell                    Inserted.
  99.6     "Ain’t it fun[!]"                              Added.
  99.14    struck Uric[k] on the forehead                 Removed.
  136.28   some sneaking rattler had [soaked] his fangs   ? Obscured.
  150.17   he called Ted[d]y Smart to his side            Inserted.
  164.25   a charge of t[r]eachery                        Inserted.
  183.28   Do you understand that?[’/”]                   Replaced.
  209.28   unpleasant for you, you know, but [   ]        Illegible.
  220.3    This effort[,] failing to get a gain,          Removed.
  221.27   somehow wiggled Warn[e.]                       Restored.
  241.14   he tried all his b[l]andishments               Inserted.
  272.5    You saw how he acted, Doris, and——[”]          Added.
  281.18   when [ther] right chap                         _sic_
  283.5    I hope [ther] feller                           _sic_
  289.25   “Put them out of [’/”]                         Replaced.
  302.28   just as he was being dragged down[,]           Added.
  308.6    be[i]ng limp as a rag.                         Inserted.
  317.14   Powers for Dyer, and Tayl[e/o]r                Replaced.





End of Project Gutenberg's Dick Merriwell's Glory, by Burt L. Standish