Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm; Or, Saving an Enemy
Date: 2020-03-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Baseball -- Juvenile fiction; Dime novels; Yale University -- Juvenile fiction; Merriwell; Frank (Fictitious character) -- Juvenile fiction; College seniors -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm; Or, Saving an Enemy

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: March 4, 2020 [eBook #61558]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by David Edwards, John Campbell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net). The original book cover image was generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (https://books.google.com)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S STRONG ARM; OR, SAVING AN ENEMY ***

E-text prepared by David Edwards, John Campbell,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net).
The original book cover image
was generously made available by
the Google Books Library Project
(https://books.google.com).

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

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

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

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

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

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

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

To Be Published in July, 1923.
66—Frank Merriwell’s Set Back | By Burt L. Standish
67—Frank Merriwell’s Search | By Burt L. Standish

Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm
OR,
SAVING AN ENEMY

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79–89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1901
By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm

(Printed in the United States of America)

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

FRANK MERRIWELL’S STRONG ARM.

CHAPTER I.
WHEN THE SPRING COMES AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind his collar Tilton Hull gave a gurgling groan.

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

“Not in any sense,” said Julian Ives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thir!” cried Lew; “not a bit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.
A STRONG ARM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s down!”

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

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

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

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

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

It is Skelding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is he?” some ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“Elsie!” he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was engaged to Inza!

CHAPTER III.
MAKING A FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t!” said Bart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came Elsie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.
THE STRONGEST MAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With his curiosity strangely aroused, Bart advanced.

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

“Do you see that stone?”

The man pointed at the large rock at his feet.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how much it weighs?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can lift it?”

“I doubt it.”

“I’d like to see you try it.”

Hodge wondered at the peculiar manner of the man.

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead.”

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

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

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

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

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

“As much as that,” nodded the man.

“You knew I could not lift it.”

“I can.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe you can budge it.”

“You shall see.”

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

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

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

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

“I believe so.”

“Then I will tell you something.”

“Go on.”

“I am the strongest man in the world!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you live near here?”

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

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

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

Bart had no thought of laughing.

“This is a pretty place,” he observed.

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

A voice sounded through the grove, calling:

“Doctor Lincoln! Doctor Lincoln!”

Bart started, and listened in amazement.

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

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

CHAPTER V.
THE MEETING WITH ELSIE.

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

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

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

“I promise,” said Bart.

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

Then he lifted his voice, and answered:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good—very good! Who did it?”

“A policeman tried to stop them first.”

“It was his duty!”

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

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

“Yes, but he could not hold them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie started forward, her hands outstretched.

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

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

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

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

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

“But Frank knew you were here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He melted before her appeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are visiting him?”

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

“Is he a practising physician?”

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

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

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

“Some of the neighbors?”

“Yes.”

Bart nodded.

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

She looked at him searchingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bart wondered if she felt no jealousy of Inza.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wished to tell you something.”

“About——”

“Elsie—she is here.”

“I know it.”

“You have seen her?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no!”

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

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

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

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

Bart turned and caught hold of Merry.

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

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

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

Frank nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Elsie does not know?”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.
THE PARTY.

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

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

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

“I believe I have,” faltered Bert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How beautiful she is!” he inwardly cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack gasped.

“Air!” he moaned faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

“He is,” said Bart.

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

“Isn’t he?”

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

“He might.”

The doctor frowned.

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

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

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

“I don’t think they do.”

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

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

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

The man seemed to draw a breath of relief.

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

Bart said nothing.

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

“It happened quite by chance.”

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

“Of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he saw her coming toward them.

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

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

CHAPTER VII.
FOR ELSIE.

“Elsie.”

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

It was Gene Skelding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not decide to dance?”

It was the voice of the doctor.

“No,” answered Hodge shortly.

“It is a beautiful evening.”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“I am quite satisfied with my strength.”

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

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

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

“Why should you do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got the first waltz with her.”

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

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

“Done!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With pleasure,” said Bart grimly.

“Now!”

“The sooner the better!”

“Follow me.”

“Lead on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you ready?”

“I am waiting.”

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

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

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

It was Skelding. Bart stood over him, panting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I say it’s enough!”

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

“Do you want to kill the man?”

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

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

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

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

“I will not!”

Crack—down Gene went.

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

“Take back those words!”

“I refuse!”

Crack—it was repeated.

Again, after a pause, Skelding dragged himself up.

“Take back those words!”

“No, I will——”

Crack—a third time he went down.

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

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

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

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

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

“Confess that you lied!”

“I—I lied; I confess it!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not dance.”

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

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

“Why was she so anxious?”

“He is her nephew.”

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

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

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

“But were you angry with me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Bart!”

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

She uttered a little cry.

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

“Are you really glad, Elsie?”

“Really and truly, Bart.”

“Have you been dancing again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

“Who was it?”

“Frank.”

“Frank Merriwell?”

“Yes.”

Hodge almost choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elsie, you do love me—you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.
A FIGHT WITH A MANIAC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What has happened to Bart?”

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

Now Frank was stirred.

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

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

“Follow me; I’ll show you!”

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

“And he carried Bart off toward the grove?”

“Yes, yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know of that?”

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

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

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

“How?”

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

“I think you are right,” said Bart.

“I know I am!”

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

“The time has not come.”

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

The doctor shook his head.

“I am not quite ready.”

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

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

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

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

“If I promise——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The maniac bent over Bart and lifted the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where was Elsie?

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

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

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

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

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

Merry was on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strange look came to the face of the doctor.

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

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

Bart was supporting Elsie.

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

Hodge supported her from the lodge, saying:

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

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

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

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

“Bart, I love you—I love you!”

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

CHAPTER IX.
THE FIFTEENTH MAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he passed Rice.

“Who can it be?”

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

“Go to your room!”

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

The first “Bones” man had been chosen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think that?”

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

“What is it?”

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not tapped yet.”

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

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

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

“‘Bones,’” said the watchers.

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

“Only two more,” muttered Mason.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hooray! Codwell! Hoopee! Hooray!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harrison is the man.”

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

“All wrong. It’s Defarge, of course.”

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

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

“Oh, that’s Mason.”

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

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

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

It was Merriwell!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank came nearer.

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

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

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

Smack! Frank’s hand had fallen.

“Go to your room!”

The fifteenth man had been chosen.

It was not Defarge!

CHAPTER X.
THE MAN WHO WAS NOT CHOSEN.

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

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

Merriwell had slapped Mason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m gug-gosh darn gug-glad for ye!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Berlin Carson was the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could kill him!” he muttered hoarsely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am coming,” he murmured.

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

CHAPTER XI.
HOW SKELDING QUIT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s so, chummie,” agreed Ollie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just so, chummie,” nodded Ollie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Gene is joking!” said Ives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gene gave Rupert a look of contempt.

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

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

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

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

Rupert shuddered a little at this fierceness.

“I—I believe you have,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“He must!” croaked Hull.

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

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

Rupert nodded. Skelding flushed.

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

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

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

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

“That’s tho!” cried Veazie.

“Just so, chummie!” agreed Lord.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he went out.

“Go to the devil!” hissed Julian Ives.

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

CHAPTER XII.
THE MAD STUDENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Defarge!”

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

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

Defarge lowered the revolver.

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

“Whom do you mean?”

“Merriwell.”

“Did you think he had come?”

“Yes.”

“Why should he do that?”

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

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

“Shoot him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

Defarge trembled.

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

“Oh, no!”

“Then——”

“Of shooting him!”

“Merriwell?”

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

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

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

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

“And you bought a revolver for that purpose?”

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

“The others are not blanks.”

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

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

“Sure thing. It’s all ready now.”

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

Skelding had taken a seat by the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was—once.”

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

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

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

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

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

He caught the revolver from the table.

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

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

“Stop!” shouted Skelding, leaping after him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.
FRANK OFFERS HIS HAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to keep his eyes turned away.

“Look at me!” commanded Merriwell again.

“No!”

“Look at me!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down there!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skelding nodded.

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

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

Skelding nodded.

“That is true.”

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

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

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

“They were changed?”

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

“Tell me how it happened, Skelding.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

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

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

He held out his hand to Skelding. Gene looked at it a moment, and then he shook his head.

“No, Merriwell,” he said, making no show of feeling, although he experienced some, “I’ll not shake hands with you.”

Frank looked disappointed. He had not expected this, and a slight flush came to his handsome face. Skelding saw he had touched Merriwell’s pride, and he hastened to add:

“It’s because I am not worthy to shake your hand, Merriwell, that I decline; not because there is any of the old hatred in my heart. I think that is gone. I’ve been a pretty mean fellow, and I know it. For a long time I kept my eyes closed to the fact, but they have been opened at last.”

Frank wondered if the man was sincere. If so, there was even more to Skelding than he had fancied.

“But you saved my life,” said Merriwell.

“How do you know it was for that I did it?”

“Why——”

“Perhaps it was to save my friend from being hanged. Now you can see it in a different light, Merriwell. Never mind whether it was for your sake or for Defarge’s that I changed those cartridges. I did save your life, and I am going to ask a favor of you.”

“What is it?”

“Will you grant it?”

“It is the foolish man who makes a promise before he knows what he is promising.”

“It’s not for my sake, but for Defarge’s. He is the only friend I have left.”

“The only one?”

“Yes.”

“Why, there are Chickering and his friends.”

“They are no longer friends of mine.”

“How is that?”

“I quit them to-night, Merriwell. I have sickened of them. I do not wish to pose as better than I am, but I don’t think I ever really belonged to that gang. I fell in with them and got to going round with them. To confess the truth, the reason why I stuck to them was because they hated you. I hated you, also, but not for the same cause that inspired their hate. I hated you because I was jealous of you; I confess it. They hated you because you would have nothing to do with men of their class. To-night, in Chickering’s room, I gave the whole bunch a little game of talk that set them gasping. I told them just what I thought of them all and that I wanted to never have anything more to do with them. You may doubt it, Merriwell, but I am done with all of them for all time.”

“More than ever I feel like offering you my hand,” exclaimed Frank sincerely. “I tell you now, Skelding, that I have absolutely no use for the Chickering crowd. My friends have accused me of being altogether too lenient with my enemies; but I think I could not be lenient with those fellows. My contempt for them is too great.”

“I don’t wonder,” nodded Gene. “They have no friends among the real men here. They are outcasts. Unfortunately for me, I was fool enough to get their brand on me, and I know I’ll never be able to pull away from it while I am in Yale.”

“You can try,” said Frank encouragingly; “although a man does find it mighty hard to live down a bad reputation, and for that very reason may get discouraged. It is true heroism to keep trying, however. The fellow who has had a bad name must feel that he is to blame for it himself, and he should not be disheartened if every one seems to doubt him when he is doing his best to be straight. Persistence wins at everything.”

Gene’s face began to take on an expression of eagerness.

“Do you really suppose there is a chance for me?” he asked. “How can I make friends that are worth being called friends? The Chickering odium will stick to me.”

“Show that you have quit them for all time, but make no talk about it. If you go round telling people you are done with them, you’ll find you’ll not get much credit. If you show that you are too eager to make the right sort of friends, you may only succeed in arousing suspicion and defeating yourself.”

Skelding felt that this was good advice.

“But we’re forgetting Defarge,” he said. “It’s for him I want you to promise to do something. I know there is no reason why you should lift your hand for a man like him, but you may be able to save him from going to the madhouse.”

“How?”

“Your influence—your power. You understand what I mean?”

“I think I do. I am willing to try.”

“He must be kept at any cost from drinking absinth. That is the only thing that can save him. You can prevent him from taking the stuff and you are the only one.”

“I understand what you mean. I must command him to let it alone.”

“That’s it, that’s it!”

“And that is all the favor you ask of me?”

“Yes.”

“You are modest, Skelding. For your sake, I’ll try to save him. I do not believe there is much good in him, but madness is a terrible thing, and I do not wish to think of my worst enemy as a lunatic behind iron bars.”

Skelding was satisfied.

Merriwell rose and moved his chair till it was directly in front of the high-backed chair on which Defarge was sitting. Then he sat down there, cautioning Gene to be silent and not interrupt. He next reached out his hand and touched the slumberer on the forehead, saying gently:

“Wake up, Defarge!”

Bertrand opened his eyes.

“I wish you to attend closely to what I tell you,” said Frank. “Do you understand?”

In a mechanical manner Defarge said: “Yes.”

“In the future, Defarge, you cannot drink absinth in any form. The smell of absinth shall make you faint or sick. If you lift to your lips a glass containing the stuff, your fingers shall be unable to hold the glass, and it shall fall from your hand before you can drink. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Defarge, in the same mechanical manner.

“Further, for the space of one week, you shall be unable to do anything to injure me, Frank Merriwell.”

“Why only for a week?” whispered Skelding. “Why not make it forever?”

But it was Frank’s desire to know if in a week’s time this fellow would be rid of his evil and murderous passions, or if they would still possess him in full force.

“That is all,” said Merriwell. “When I clap my hands you will be at liberty again, but you must go straight to your room, undress, and go to bed. You will have a good night’s sleep, which will calm your nerves.”

Then Frank suddenly clapped his hands, and Bertrand jumped as if he had been shot. He started to his feet, staring round wildly, his aspect being one of bewilderment and fear.

“What has happened?” he huskily asked. “Did I shoot Merriwell?”

“Not much,” said Frank, who was standing now. “As you see, I am all right. You can’t harm me, Defarge.”

The fellow stared at Merry a moment, then shrank back, lifting his hand.

“Those eyes!” he cried. “It’s no use. I cannot get away from them! Oh, curse those eyes!”

Then, with a shudder, he turned and walked toward the door. Frank was there in advance, opening it for him and letting him out.

Skelding made a move as if to accompany Bertrand, but Merry said, in a quiet tone:

“There is no need of it. He will go to his room and go to bed. Let him alone to-night.”

So Bertrand was permitted to depart.

“It’s wonderful!” muttered Skelding, in awe. “I understand now, Merriwell, how it is that you have such power over everybody.”

“No, you do not,” declared Frank; “for the power you have witnessed in demonstration to-night is something I seldom use. Only in desperate emergencies do I call it to my command. I hope I may never have to use it again.”

“If you save Defarge it will be a wonderful thing. I am going, Merriwell. Good night.”

“Good night, Skelding. Here is the revolver belonging to Defarge. Take it away. I don’t want the thing.”

Skelding took it. He hesitated a moment, tempted to offer in turn his hand to Merriwell, but did not do so. Again saying good night, he went out.

The experiences of that night would never be forgotten by Skelding. At last he understood the full extent of his past folly in trying to down a man of such amazing magnetic and mesmeric influence, and he thanked his lucky stars that Merriwell had not been a revengeful foe.

CHAPTER XIV.
A WILD NIGHT.

It was a strange spectacle. The campus seemed almost as light as day. Two long lines of men in hoods and gowns entered from opposite sides and began their march, loudly singing their society songs.

It was the night of the initiations to the three junior societies, Delta Kappa Epsilon, Psi Upsilon, and Alpha Delta Phi. It was a strangely interesting sight, and crowds had gathered to witness it.

Slowly and with dignity the hooded and gowned members of the societies marched about the campus. This part of their doings was intended for the eyes of the public, but later things would happen within the solid walls of their society houses that the public had no hope of witnessing.

What were those things? Who can say? No candidate who has ever passed through the ordeal ever opens his lips to tell what happened to him. But certain it is that within those walls there was a merry old time that night, for it is there the local burlesque is given, and this has proved of spicy interest to the general public, being filtered to the outside world.

This year among the happy candidates were two of Merriwell’s friends. Jack Ready was one of them.

“La! la!” he said modestly, as he was congratulated. “Proclaim not the honor to the world. It will be a great privilege for the Four Hundred to catch me when I break away from Yale. Oh, I’m strictly the thing, and they can’t get along without me.”

“What you really need,” said Greg Carker, “is a crown. You are a king.”

“A fool’s cap would be better,” grunted Browning, who had been offering congratulations. “I don’t know how they ever made the mistake of taking him in, but I’m glad he’s made it.”

“Thanks, my fragile friend,” chirped Ready, with the old-time flirt of his hand. “When I am in need of a fool’s cap I’ll know where to come for it. Cluck! cluck! Git ap! My, my, how the wind blows!”

“I’d like to have the privilege of hauling you over the coals to-night!” said Bruce, with a baleful glare in his eye. “Oh, I wouldn’t do a thing to you! You’ll get it, anyhow, for they’ll be sure to give you a double dose to cure your freshness.”

“Alas!” sighed Jack, “it can’t be cured.”

“Try carbolic acid,” suggested Bruce.

Later Ready and Bingham had disappeared, and their friends knew they were going through the “fiery ordeal.”

What a wild night it was! Those who have passed through it know something about the events of that night. To-day the initiations are far milder than before the tragedy of Wilkins Rustin in ’92. Rustin was a fine, athletic fellow. During his initiation he was blindfolded and told to run at best speed along an unfrequented street. Being a swift runner, he drew away from the two men in whose charge he was. They shouted a cry of warning to him, but this he misunderstood, and, swerving from a direct course, he ran into the sharp pole of a wagon. They picked him up, bleeding and unconscious, and he died from his injuries.

A storm of indignation arose all over the country, and the faculty came near deciding to wipe out the societies altogether. It was fortunate for Yale life that this radical step was not taken. The men in charge of Rustin were overcome with grief, and their sorrow led to their acquittal of anything but a charge of grave folly.

This night of which I write nothing of the kind took place; but the old members of the society and the newly elected ones had a jolly time of it. They made a night of it.

Along toward morning, as it was growing light, the members of the societies engaged in a wild and weird game of baseball on the campus. That is, many of the members of the societies engaged in the game; but there were many others who curled up in the shelter of some near-by sheds and serenely fell asleep.

Ready was not one of the sleepers. Bingham would have slept, but Jack mauled the big fellow till he got him out behind the bat, with a bird-cage over his head for a mask. Jack himself was pitching.

“Look out for my curves,” he advised. “Talk about Frank Merriwell’s double shoot! Why, I’ve got the corkscrew ball.”

“I’ve discovered to-night that you have the corkscrew habit,” rumbled Bingham, trying to make his queer cage balance on his shoulders.

“Put ’em over,” called the batter. “If you hit me, I’ll bring suit against you for breach of promise.”

It was rather dark, and Ready actually threw a curve. Fortunately, the ball was about as hard as a ripe cucumber, for it grazed Bingham’s fingers and struck the bird-cage a glancing blow, setting it to spinning about on his shoulders. The batter swiped at it furiously, and threw himself off his feet onto his back.

The watching crowd was boisterous in its applause. This was the kind of baseball that filled their hearts with exceeding great joy at about this hour in the morning.

“One ball,” decided the umpire, who had closed his eyes and turned his back.

“One ball!” shouted Ready. “Why, he struck at it, Mr. Umpire.”

“But it wasn’t over the plate,” said the umpire, with dignity.

“That doesn’t make any difference. He struck at it.”

“Be silent,” commanded the umpire. “He had no business to strike at such a bad one. It is one ball.”

And that decision stood. The next pitched ball struck the batter in the small of the back.

“Dead ball,” said somebody.

“No; dead man,” said the umpire. “Take him off the field. Remove the corpse.”

“Hold on!” cried the batter. “I want to get one crack at that ball. Give me a show.”

“I have declared you dead,” said the umpire; “so you’ll have to make room for the next man. Drop that bat and take to your hole, you lobster!”

The next man came up and hit the first ball straight at Jack, who did not stop it with his hands, but with the pit of his stomach.

“Judgment!” he gasped. “I have it!”

“That’s right,” said the umpire. “Corbett got it there at Carson City. You’re out.”

“Out?” squealed Jack. “It’s the other man who is out!”

“I tell you that you are out,” insisted the umpire. “Get off the grass.”

And Jack was compelled to make room for another fellow who was ambitious to do some pitching.

“Alas and alack!” he sobbed, as he stood aside. “It is thus we poor mortals get it in the neck!”

“I thought you got it in the stomach,” said Bingham.

“Only a bird in a gilded cage,” Jack exclaimed, pointing to the big sophomore.

But the pitching of the new man was of a most terrific order, and Bingham loudly called for him to “ease ’em over.” The second ball the new man pitched was a foul tip, which the catcher misjudged, getting it just where Ready had received the batted ball.

Over on his back rolled Bingham, while the crowd whooped with joy and danced grotesquely in the gray morning twilight.

“Drag off the dead,” solemnly ordered the umpire.

Jack Ready rushed in, caught Bingham by the heels and started with him, dragging the big fellow along on his back. He succeeded in pulling Bingham for at least a rod before the fellow recovered enough to kick him off.

“Hey!” roared Ralph, as he sent Ready reeling. “What in thunder do you take me for, you jackass? Think I’m a dump-cart? Is that why you promptly harnessed yourself into the thills?”

“Excuse me!” chirped Jack, standing off and surveying the other with comical gravity. “I thought you were dead, and I was on the way to the dumping-grounds with you.”

“You’ll find I’m not dead!” snapped Bingham, as he got up and made a dive for Jack.

“I surrender!” Ready helplessly cried, throwing up his hands. “I might escape you by running, but the effort is too great.”

“You can’t run,” declared Ralph, as he grasped the joker.

“I know it. I have discovered something that can outrun me or any other man living. I’m going to enter it in all the races this season.”

“What is it?”

“A gas-meter.”

Bingham thumped Jack.

“You’ll have to pay for this coat,” he declared. “You tore it when you pulled me along.”

“Where did I tear it?”

“Why, on the back, of course.”

“And you were on the part that was torn. Oh, well, you are used to that. You often get on a tear.”

Then, with their arms about each other, they stood and gazed on that wild and grotesque game of ball. It was a hilarious spectacle, to say the least, and all the rules of baseball were ignored and violated by both players and umpire. In fact, the closer the players stuck to the regular game the greater penalties the umpire put upon them.

Arm-in-arm, Bingham and Ready entered the neighboring shed, where they saw dark forms stretched about.

“Behold!” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper. “This is a battle-field, and here are the slain who by the ruthless enemy have been shot.”

“I’m only half-shot,” declared one of the sleepers, sitting up in a dusky corner. “Gimme ’nother drink.”

Then another sat up and began to sing in a wild and weird manner:

“How dry I am! How dry I am!

Lord only knows how dry I am!

I want a drink, I want it now!

How dry I am!

Lord only knows, how dry I am!”

One by one the others roused up and joined in the singing, sitting there in the gloom, some swaying slightly, some holding themselves rigidly straight on account of the queer feelings in their heads.

It was a strange sight, and the hoarse, tuneless chanting sounded like a funeral dirge.

“Shut up!” grunted one fellow, who had refused to sit up. He put his hands over his ears and tried to go on sleeping.

The singing—if singing it could be called—continued in the same dirgelike strain.

“We’ll see if we can’t accommodate you,” murmured Ready, who had found in a corner of the shed a hose used for washing wagons. Investigation showed that the water could be turned on in that corner. Jack shut the nozzle and turned the water on. Then he was ready.

“How dry I am! How dry I am!

Lord only knows, how dry I am!”

“Perhaps this will wet you down a little,” observed Ready, as he calmly turned on the hose and let drive at the crowd.

Swish! spat! spatter!

The water flew, the singing stopped, the men shrieked, and there was a wild scramble to get away.

“It’s a cloudburst!” yelled somebody.

“Help! help! Fire!” cried another.

“Oh, goodness!” gasped another. “That stuff struck me in the mouth just as I was singing. I’ve swallowed more than a gallon of real water. It’ll be fatal!”

They made a wild scramble to get out of the shed. Some of them got up and ran; others crawled as fast as they could on their hands and knees. And all the while Ready continued to serenely play the hose upon them.

Not one stopped to investigate, for that water was “cold and wet.” It was too much for their nerves. In a very few minutes Ready had cleared the shed. As the last of them went out, he dropped the hose and ran after them, wringing his hands and pretending that he had been driven out with the others.

He left Bingham in the shed roaring with laughter.

“Oh, my, my!” gurgled Jack, as he came tearing out into the midst of the water-dripping crowd, “and I was having such a lovely dream! What happened, anyhow?”

“The waterworks exploded!” declared one drenched fellow, wringing water out of his coat and wiping it out of his eyes.

“Wasn’t it awful!” gasped Ready.

“Hush!” commanded one. “Listen!”

Bingham was heard laughing in the shed.

“’Sdeath!” panted Ready.

“’Sblood!” hissed another fellow.

“Somebody turned that water on us!”

“That’s right!” agreed Jack excitedly. “The wretch who did it is in there now!”

“He must die!” savagely howled one of the wet chaps. “I am ready to kill him with my faithful boot-jack!”

“He must suffer!” they all declared. “Who dares go in there and capture the wretch?”

“Wait,” advised Ready. “He’ll come out, and then we can pounce upon him.”

Even as he spoke, Bingham came strolling out of the shed, still shaking with laughter.

“At him!” hissed Jack, and they flung themselves upon him.

“To the stake!” snarled one.

“What stake?” asked another.

“Mistake,” chuckled Ready, to himself.

Then he plunged into the thickest of it, yelling for them to give the wretch some of his own medicine.

“Hold on!” cried Bingham. “What are you going to do? Hold on!”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Jack. “We won’t let go of you. There is no reason why you should worry about that.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Bingham again.

“Give you your just deserts, base-born wretch!” cried Ready. “Didst think to escape retribution?”

“But I haven’t done anything! It wasn’t me!”

“Don’t think to deceive us with thy false tales.”

“But you know I didn’t do a thing, Ready! Why, you——”

Jack, however, raised such a racket that Bingham’s words were drowned and the big fellow was dragged back into the shed, where the hose was found on the ground, still hissing and squirting.

Two men who had been drenched volunteered to hold Bingham. A dozen were eager to play the hose. They gave it to him at once. He ducked his head, and the water struck him under his collar at the back of his neck and poured down his back. It seemed to take the strength out of him and leave him gasping and helpless for the moment. Then that cold and chilling stream played all over him.

Jack Ready stood aside, his hands clasped, a look of sadness on his face and deep joy in his heart.

“It is ever thus,” he said to himself, “that the innocent man ever gets it in the neck, while the other chap gets off and becomes a hero. Let this be a lesson to you, Jack, my boy, to always take care not to be the innocent one.”

They did not let up on Bingham till the big soph was drenched to the skin and in a furious mood. He broke away from the fellows who were holding him and rushed from the shed, vowing he would murder Ready on sight.

“I’ve had a lovely time to-night,” whispered Jack still to himself; “but something tells me that I had better fade away. Here is where I fade.”

He managed to escape from the shed, round which he stole, making off into the gloom. At a distance, watching the men near the shed, stood a lonely figure. Jack drew near and saw it was Bertrand Defarge.

CHAPTER XV.
THE PROMISE.

A little farther on Ready came upon another man, who seemed to be watching Defarge. It was Hock Mason.

“Hello, Mason!” exclaimed Ready. “Why art thou not wrapped in the arms of old Morpheus? At this witching hour you should be snoring sweetly.”

“I’ve been watching him,” said Mason, motioning toward Defarge.

“All night?”

“A large part of it.”

“Why should you take all that trouble?”

“Because I feared he might commit suicide before morning.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was pretty wild last night. I saw him trying to drink absinth.”

“Trying?”

“I said that.”

“Well, didn’t he succeed?”

“No, sah.”

“Why not?”

“That’s the strange part of it. I can’t tell why. He was crazy for a drink of the stuff, but the odor of it seemed to make him weak and helpless. Then, when he tried to lift the glass quickly and drink it off without stopping, the glass fell from his fingers just before it reached his lips. Three times he tried it, and three times he dropped the glass, which was shattered on the floor.”

“He must have found that drink expensive when he did get it.”

“But he did not get it.”

“No? Did he call the game off?”

“He gave up in despair. He paid for all the stuff, declaring that Merriwell’s eyes had kept him from drinking. Then, in a sort of frenzy, he rushed out of the place. I thought he might do himself harm, and I followed him up. From place to place he went, trying everywhere to get the stuff. When he did get it and tried to drink it, the same thing happened to him again and again. I tell you he became desperate. Then he got out into the night and tore away. I followed him up, meaning to try to prevent in case he attempted to drown himself. I think he did have some such thoughts.”

“Mason,” said Ready, putting a hand on the shoulder of the man from the South, “I have always regarded you as a fellow with horse sense.”

“Thank you, sah,” said Hock.

“But I find,” Jack gravely added, “that I have made a mistake. You are a chump.”

“What—what, sah?” gasped Mason.

“Any man who will contemplate getting wet to prevent Bertrand Defarge from committing suicide is a chump,” Ready gravely declared.

Mason was angry, but he saw something in the face of the queer sophomore that prevented him from losing control of his temper.

“But, sah,” said the youth from South Carolina, “you do not know how much he counted on an election which did not come to him. I know all about it, for I was with him tap day. The hand that fell on my back was the hand he thought must tap him.”

“Which shows that he got just what was due him, my dear Mason. It’s not your place to worry over him in the least, and I think you have been wasting your valuable time chasing him about. Time, you know, is a precious jewel, and the man who wastes it when he can sleep or loaf makes an awful mistake. Come, Hocksie, let’s perambulate toward our boudoirs and prepare for chapel. Forget it, my boy. Let Defarge take care of himself.”

So Jack dragged Mason away, and they left Defarge standing there alone in the gray light of morning.

It had, in truth, been a wild night for Bertrand, but now the intense longing for absinth had passed from him, a grateful quietness had come upon him, and something seemed to tell him that never again would he be tempted to drink the stuff that was dragging him to destruction.

He went back to his room, but not to sleep, for Skelding soon followed him. Several times that night Gene had visited the room of Defarge, only to find the fellow out, and it was his fear that the influence of Merriwell had failed, in which case Bertrand might return a raving maniac. He was relieved when he found Defarge sitting there by the window in the morning light, quiet and calm, and unexcited.

Of course, Defarge was astonished when Gene appeared at that hour. Skelding told him how it happened that he was there.

“Well, I have had a bad night of it,” confessed Bertrand. “I was seized by a mad desire for that stuff last night, but the strange thing was that I could not drink it, no matter how hard I tried.”

Gene nodded, smiling.

“At first,” Bertrand went on, “the smell of it made me so sick and faint that I could not get the glass to my lips.”

Again Gene nodded.

“But I felt that I must have it. So, holding it off at arm’s length at first, I lifted it quickly, meaning to dash it down at a swallow.”

“Then what happened?” asked Skelding eagerly.

“The glass fell from my fingers every time before I could touch it to my lips. I can’t understand why it happened, but it fell and was broken on the floor.”

“Then you were saved?”

“Yes, though I was forced at last to roam about through the city for hours. Toward morning a strange calmness came over me, and I knew all desire for that stuff had passed away. I believe it has left me forever.”

“In which case, you have Frank Merriwell to thank that you are not now a murderer and a maniac.”

Defarge stared and lifted his hand.

“Not Merriwell, but you,” he said. “You told me that you exchanged those cartridges.”

“That time, yes; but had you continued to drink that stuff you would have made the attempt again at another time, and I might not have been around.”

“Well, why didn’t I continue to drink?”

“Because Merriwell would not let you.”

Then Skelding told Defarge how Frank had willed that his enemy should not be able to drink absinth in any form, and how just what Merriwell had ordered had come true.

“You can see what you owe to him,” said Skelding. “You hate him; you regard him as your enemy; yet he has saved you from a madhouse.”

Bertrand sat there, gazing out of the window in silence. It was hard for him to think that he owed so much to the fellow whom he had hated so intensely and tried to injure so repeatedly.

“I have been Merriwell’s enemy myself,” Skelding went on. “It was a long time before I saw the folly of my ways, but the truth came to me at last. I am not his friend now, for I would not ask him to be a friend to me; but I have buried the past, and I shall never lift a hand against him again. Why don’t you do the same, Defarge? You can see how hopeless it is for you to try to injure him. He has the power to control you when you are away from him. It is your duty to go to him and confess that you have done wrong, and thank him for saving you by the spell he cast on you.”

Defarge shook his head.

“I can’t do that!” he exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“I can never humble myself to him.”

“It is not humbling yourself when you thank a man, be he friend or foe, for such a favor. Look here, Defarge, you have not many friends in college, have you?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well?”

“We might become friends. We both desire some one whom we can regard as such. But, as I have forever renounced all intention of harming or trying to harm Merriwell, I cannot be the friend of any one who is plotting him injury. You have your choice now. Be a man and do the right thing with Merriwell and I will stick by you. If you do not—well, we can’t have much of anything to do with each other. That’s all.”

“I’ll have to think it over,” said Bertrand. “I’m tired now.”

“All right,” said Gene, preparing to go. “I hope you’ll come to your senses.”

He went out, leaving Defarge staring through the window at the pink of the morning sky.

It was a beautiful morning, and somehow the passionate French youth felt that a brighter and better morning was breaking within his soul.

Frank was surprised when Defarge came to him and said:

“Merriwell, I have no hope that you will believe me, but I have come to say that in the future I hope God will punish me if I lift my hand against you, or plot with others to do you harm!”

Frank turned those wonderful eyes on Defarge, and saw that the young Frenchman was never more in earnest.

“I should not have come here to say this,” Bertrand confessed, “if it had not been for Skelding. He tells me you have kept me from drinking absinth. I believe the craving for the stuff has gone from me forever.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” said Merry.

“I know it, and for that reason I wish now to ask you to hold me fast yet a while longer under the spell. Keep me from drinking the stuff. Can you?”

“I can.”

“Will you do that? You know I was crazed by it when I tried to shoot you! You know I am pretty humble now, else I’d not be here asking a favor! I am sorry for the past—I swear I am! Do you believe me, Merriwell?”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“And you will still help me? You will keep me from drinking absinth if I am tempted?”

“I will,” promised Frank.

CHAPTER XVI.
PASSING OF AN EARTHQUAKE.

“Hello, Bing!” cried Jack Ready, as Ralph Bingham, the big sophomore, drifted into Merriwell’s room, a few days after his victory over Defarge.

“Nice old gal you had out to sup last night after the opera. Theatrical dame, wasn’t she? Belonged to the chorus, I should judge.”

“What the dickens makes you think so?” demanded Ralph, hardly pleased. “Did she look like a chorus girl?”

“Well, she looked something like a chorus lady,” chirped Jack. “Somebody told me she lowered the curtain the night Lincoln was shot.”

Bingham glared, while the others chuckled, with the exception of Ready himself, who looked very grave and innocent.

“You’ll get salted some time!” growled the big sophomore. “You need it, too, for you’re awfully fresh.”

“Sorry I can’t say the same about the ancient maid you were blowing to birds and fizz last eve, Bing, old mark,” purred Ready.

“She was simply an old flame of mine,” asserted Ralph, finding a seat.

“I thought so when I saw her hair,” nodded Jack. “I cried: ‘Fire, fire!’ Gamp was with me, and he says: ‘Wh-wh-wh-where is the fuf-fuf-fuf-fire?’ Then I pointed out your old flame.”

“That reminds me that she said something when she looked up and saw you and Gamp approaching,” observed Bingham carelessly.

“What did she say?” eagerly asked Jack, hastening to put his foot into the trap.

“She said: ‘Hello! things are coming my way,’” answered the satisfied sophomore, crossing his legs.

Then the entire party shouted with laughter, for it was not often that Ready, the practical joker, was caught in such an easy manner.

“Language fails me!” declared Ready, as the laughter lulled. “I’m like the old tramp I saw to-day. Fellows, he was a finely educated man, and he could speak five different languages, yet he confessed to me that his downfall was brought upon him because he did not know how to say one common little English word of two letters.”

“What rot!” grunted Browning, from the couch.

“It’s true,” asserted Jack, with great earnestness. “Drunkenness made him a vagabond, and he became a drunkard just because he could not say that one little word of two letters.”

“And he could speak five different languages?” incredulously asked Carson, from his corner.

“He could.”

“And the word of two letters was a simple English word?” broke in Greg Carker.

“So I stated.”

“Dud-dud-dud-did he have an impup-pup-pup-pediment in his sus-sus-sus-speech?” inquired Joe Gamp seriously.

“Not the least.”

“Well, what word was it that caused his downfall because he didn’t know how to say it?” asked Bingham impatiently.

“It was the word ‘No,’” explained Ready.

“There are lots of men right here at Yale who do not know how to say that word,” asserted Frank, who had been listening to the chatter of the others.

“Alas! too true,” sighed Ready. “Now, there’s Carker, who bunks with me in Durfee. I’ve seen the time when he found great difficulty in correctly pronouncing numerous words in the English language.”

“You’re another!” exclaimed Greg warmly.

“The earthquake rumbles,” grunted Browning.

“It’s true,” asserted Ready, with assumed earnestness. “Why, I remember the night he came in at two o’clock, walking cross-legged and stumbling over his own feet. He knew my virtuous abhorrence of such conduct, and he was naturally a trifle timid. I sat up and sternly said: ‘Carker, what is the meaning of this? You have been drinking’. Then he steadied himself with considerable trouble, and answered: ‘’Tain’t sho! I’m all ri’, thash whas I am. Nozzen massher wish me.’ ‘If you haven’t been drinking,’ said I, ‘why do you talk as if you had your mouth full of mush?’ ‘Caush,’ said he, ‘a shoft anshwer turnsh away wrath, ol’ boy.’ Then he lost his balance, fell down, and drove his head under the bookcase so hard that I had to take all the books off the shelves and lift the bookcase before I could get him out.”

“Gentlemen,” said Greg stiffly, in the face of their grins, “the man who will believe him on oath is an idiot, and so his lies do not worry me in the least.”

But Carker could not take a joke pleasantly, and the laughter of the others caused him to flush and look disturbed.

“Frivolous—all frivolous!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way with Americans to-day. They laugh and joke, regardless of the fact that the country is making gigantic strides toward imperialism—regardless of the fact that every sign points to the setting up of an empire——”

“Which shall be overthrown by your own pet earthquake, Carker,” said Frank.

“Even you, Merriwell,” cried Greg—“you do not seem willing to take life earnestly.”

“I am not willing to take life at all, my dear boy. I wouldn’t even kill a cat—unless she disturbed my slumbers.”

“That’s it!” Carker ejaculated, with a despairing gesture. “You pervert my meaning! You are not willing to look a thing squarely in the face. That same frivolous disposition possesses all the young men of our land who find themselves in fairly comfortable circumstances. They take no thought of the burdens of the poor and oppressed. They give no heed to the groans of the great mass of downtrodden slaves who are laboring for day pay at starvation wages.”

“He’s off!” cried Ready. “Cluk! cluk! git ap!”

Carker had risen to his feet. Having found an opportunity to launch forth on his pet hobby, he gave no heed to any interruption. Without noticing Ready in the least, he went on, his pale face flushing and his eyes glowing as his earnestness increased:

“But it is not altogether the young who are thus heedless of the storm-clouds gathering over our fair land. It is not altogether the rich. The great middle class seem just as careless. The moaning and the groaning of the shackled slaves of toil and oppression disturb them not. The muttering thunder behind the rising storm-cloud falls on deaf ears.”

“Get your umbrellas, fellows!” whispered Ready hoarsely. “We’re going to have a shower this time. The earthquake has a day off.”

“False prophets tell of growing prosperity and better times coming. They are liars, and sons of liars!” cried Carker, becoming more and more impassioned as he proceeded. “Already the common people are writhing in the grasp of the gigantic monopolies, which threaten to crush the life out of our nation. Already the tide of discontent is beating with threatening throbs against the sea-wall of money power.”

“Great Scott! it’s a tidal wave!” gasped Jack. “And I do not own a pair of rubber boots!”

“There’s rubber enough in your neck to make several pairs,” said Bingham.

“Look at the great trusts that are forming to squeeze the people!” the oratorical youth pursued, pointing tragically with one quivering finger. “Behold them in all their brutal insolence and contempt for the poor wretches they are bleeding! Tell me of one man connected with a trust who ever did a truly great, unselfish, and generous thing.”

“Carnegie,” said Frank.

“Bah!” exploded Greg. “Who knows the hidden meaning behind his seeming acts of munificence? Perhaps it is a blind to deceive the restless common people and lull their suspicions so that the great trust may continue to squeeze them still more. Besides, it is bread the masses are crying for, and he gives them a stone in the shape of a book.”

“Men do not live by bread alone,” reminded Frank.

“But it is bread the great masses must have,” asserted Carker. “What time has the slave of day toil for reading? When he is not working, he must be sleeping.”

“Or drinking beer,” murmured Ready. “If he had sense enough to keep away from the saloons and save his money, he might not be such a downtrodden wretch.”

At this Frank nodded. He knew there was more or less truth in what Carker was saying in such a theatrical manner; and, at the same time, he was aware that Ready had struck the key of the cause for more than half the poverty and wretchedness of the poor.

“What we need——” Carker tried to go on.

“——is more saloons,” chuckled Ready. “Give the poor, downtrodden laborer a chance to blow in every dollar he earns.”

“The saloon is the poor man’s club,” asserted Greg.

“It’s the club with which he is beating out his own brains,” said Merriwell seriously.

Carker gasped a little, but he quickly recovered and swung off again:

“Because the poor man seeks to find a vent for his feelings by drinking occasionally in a saloon, the man of the upper class points the finger of scorn at him, crying out that the poor wretch has brought about his own misfortune. What would the poor man do if he didn’t have a chance to drink in saloons?”

“Save his money and make his family comfortable,” answered Frank promptly.

“Comfortable! comfortable!” sneered Greg. “And he would see the rich man who employed him rolling in luxury, living like a prince by the money the poor man had toiled to earn. It’s true! You all know it’s true. The laborer might be able to hold soul and body together, but none of the real pleasures of life could be his. No wonder the great masses are murmuring and groaning! Their hearts are eaten by a consuming fire that shall burst forth with all the fury of Vesuvius——”

“My goodness! it’s a volcano!” whispered Ready. “That’s hot stuff!”

“I’m not a drinker,” Carker asserted, “but I claim the right to take a drink when I like. In hot weather I do like beer, and I take it sometimes. Shall I say to the poor man: ‘This is not for you; I alone may have beer?’ The folly of it! I have sympathy with a poor man. My father was poor when he started out in life, and I am proud of it. He was a cooper.”

“Well, he put a mighty poor head into one beer-barrel,” said Ready, jerking his thumb significantly toward Greg.

This caused a burst of laughter, but Carker pretended that he had not heard it.

“The poor man of America is ambitious when he starts out in life,” the young socialist continued. “It is only after he has labored for years, and seen how fruitless is the result of his toil, that ambition is crushed from his soul. But the place of ambition is taken by a terrible thing—a feeling of hatred toward the rich. This feeling is growing day by day all over our land, and it causes the murmur that we hear growing louder and louder. If we pause to listen, we may hear it distinctly; we may even feel the ground shake a little beneath our feet.”

“By heavens! the earthquake is coming, after all!” sobbed Ready, dropping limply on a chair.

“The rich man in his carriage does not feel the slight tremor,” Greg spouted; “or, if he does, he smiles and says it means nothing. He may have noticed something of the kind before. If so, it lulled, and the threatened shock did not come, which leads him to think it will never come. Poor fool! Often in earthquake countries, before the coming of the mighty shock, there are slight warning tremors of the earth. These little quivers may do no harm, or they may simply crack a few buildings, just to show what they can do when they get into action. At last comes the great shock, and the earth opens to swallow up whole cities, the sea rolls in upon the land, buildings topple and fall, flames burst forth, and the scene is the most awful mortal man can behold.”

All were silent now, their eyes closed, their positions seeming to indicate resignation.

“Thus it will be in the terrible hour when the earthquake shall shake our mighty land. The downtrodden masses shall upheave like the rising waves of the tidal sea! The temples of the rich shall come toppling down with crashing thunder! Havoc and ruin shall spread from ocean to ocean! The sky shall be darkened by an ascending cloud of black smoke rising from the palacelike homes of millionaires! That day shall be even more terrible than those of the Commune. The cries of the victims shall be drowned by——”

At this point Browning snored loudly from the couch, Ready followed suit from his chair, and the sound seemed to echo all round the room. Carker paused and looked about, seeing that every one but himself seemed to be sound asleep. His face became still more flushed than before, and he sat down suddenly on his chair, muttering to himself.

Jack Ready stirred a little, opened his eyes, yawned, sat up, and called:

“Wake up, fellows! The earthquake is over.”

CHAPTER XVII.
FRANK HAS A SCHEME.

“Fellows,” said Frank, “now that the earthquake has passed, let’s talk about something more interesting. You know to-night is the night we celebrate Omega Lambda Chi.”

“Ah-ha!” cried Ready, with a flirt of his hand; “I’ll be there. Oh, the poor freshmen!”

“Bub-by gum!” chuckled Gamp. “We’re gug-gug-gug-goin’ to have a circus this year. I hear the fuf-fuf-fuf-freshmen are onto all our tut-tut-tricks, and they sus-sus-say the sophs are gug-gug-gug-goin’ to get it in the neck.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” chirped Ready. “I think the sophs are able to look out for the freshies.”

“But you’ll never trap them unless somebody leads them into the snare,” said Frank.

“Wait and see. They are a particularly innocent lot this year.”

“That’s the way it looks to you, but I think, as a class, they are even more up to snuff than usual.”

“Come off! Why, last year——”

“You were a freshman, Ready, and you bit a number of well-baited hooks.”

“Oh, did I? He, he! Well, I fancy some other people were bitten on a few occasions. I remember a certain delightful evening when a party took me out to give me a little haze. I believe I was put in with a skeleton, and I went mad while confined there. Oh, say! Merriwell, you were a mark that night!”

Frank colored a little as he laughingly confessed:

“You did fool me, all right, Ready; but you would have fooled anybody, for you played mad to perfection. We all thought we had driven you crazy.”

“I played mad, but there was no play about your madness when you found you were fooled. Oh, ha, ha, ha! It makes me laugh to think what a great time I had!”

“Forget it!” cried Frank, also laughing.

“How can I?”

“Just do. I never tried to get square, have I?”

“Oh, never! That seemed to teach you the folly of trying to monkey with little Jack.”

“Conceit!” muttered Bingham. “You need some of it taken out of you.”

“Perchance thou art right, but I’m a bettor that finds no takers, and, therefore, I’m much better than my associates. Git ap!”

Frank Merriwell’s eyes twinkled, and a sudden resolve took possession of him.

“We’re all going to have a hand in the festivities to-night,” he said. “But I hear there is one man among them who has somehow got onto the usual order of things, and means to make a diversion.”

“Is it Morgan?” asked Ready.

“No.”

“Then it must be Starbright,” said Mason.

“No.”

“But they are the two leaders of the freshmen,” asserted Bingham. “First one seems to be the leader, and then the other bobs up. It’s impossible to tell just who is the cock of the walk in that class.”

“This time a new man has come to the front,” said Merry.

“Not Dashleigh?” grunted Browning. “That fellow never was cut out for a leader.”

“No, he is not the one.”

“Can’t guess who it is, then.”

“It’s Boltwood.”

“What? That fellow with the long hair?”

“Same.”

“Get out!”

“Fact.”

“Why, he’s fruit!” chuckled Ready. “He thinks he’s a poet. Oh, he, he, he! Why, he’s a guy!”

“Nice built fellow,” observed Carson. “Looks like he might become an athlete.”

“But he’s soft as mush,” said Ready. “He never takes any training, and a kid can handle him.”

“Now,” said Frank, in a peculiar manner, “I have a fancy that he is not so easy as you think, and I’ve been told that he’s onto the usual event in the Pass of Thermopylæ, and has a counter trick in store for the sophs.”

“Oh, has he?” exclaimed Ready warmly. “Well, we’ll have to look out for Mr. Rolf Boltwood.”

“I have a plan,” said Frank, still with a queer twinkle in his eyes.

“Unfold it, oh, mighty one!” urged Jack.

“Why not fool the freshmen completely by causing Boltwood to fail to put in an appearance? We’re all looking for the thing to come off right to-night, and we don’t want any one to spoil the plans.”

Ready placed his forefinger gently on his forehead and seemed buried in profound thought.

“Is it worth the trouble?” he asked.

“Of course. You don’t know what sort of a game he may have planned. Thus far, I think, he has not revealed it to any one, fearing it might get out in some way. If you delay, it may be too late. I think it is understood that he is to be the leader of the freshmen on this occasion. If he vanishes, somebody else will take his place, and all will go merrily as a marriage-bell.”

“I believe you are right,” nodded Ready. “Somehow, I rather fancy the adventure. Who is with me?”

“Why, I suppose you can count me in,” said Bingham. “But how is it to be done?”

“Boltwood is mashed on one of those chorus girls,” said Frank.

“Know her name?”

“Lotta.”

“Lotta what?”

“Lotta trouble, perhaps. Never mind her last name; Lotta, Lottie, or Tottie will go.”

“Well, what’s the play?”

“With the aid of Lotta’s magic name, he may be lured away.”

“How?”

“Lotta can write him a little note, you know, asking him to meet her.”

“It’s too late for that now.”

“Not at all. The note can be written at once. Wait; I’ll do it. He has never seen her handwriting. I can imitate the writing of a girl, I fancy. Where is the company stopping?”

“Lots of the chorus hang out at the Tontine,” said Bingham. “My charming friend hangs up her hat there.”

“Then it’s likely Lotta stops there. That’s good luck, for there is no trouble in getting some Tontine stationery. Get into this thing, Carker, and stop listening for the rumbling of that earthquake. Hustle over to the Tontine and get me some paper and envelopes. While you are about it, call a cab and have it stand at the corner of Temple and Elm. Get a closed cab, with curtains.”

“Ye gods!” cried Ready; “I scent a frolic! Let Carker get the paper and envelopes; I’ll attend to the cab.”

“All right. Hustle along in a lively fashion, for there is no time to spare. Have you a nice, safe place to lodge Boltwood this evening till the festivities are over?”

“Have we? Ask me! Didn’t we keep Earl Knight safe and snug when we had him? Oh, we can enclose Boltie in a dungeon cell, and he can enjoy himself reciting poems to the bare walls. La, la! There is something doing, and little Jack is himself again!”

Ready grabbed Carker by the collar and yanked him out of the room in a hurry.

“Bingham,” said Frank, “locate Boltwood, and report here as soon as possible.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” sang out the big sophomore, and away he went.

When the door had closed behind Bingham, Frank looked around. There were no more sophomores in the room, and he laughed heartily.

“Fellows,” he said, “somebody is going to be surprised to-night. This is going to be a regular circus.”

“What’s the game?” asked Mason, tumbling that Merry was up to some kind of a trick. “Let us in.”

“Never mind,” answered Frank, shaking his head. “But watch out for a surprise this evening. Don’t say a word. Jack Ready will be the leader of the sophomores, and he expects to have everything his own way. Oh, it will be a great celebration of Omega Lambda Chi, if nothing goes crooked.”

And that was all he would say.

Carker came back with the paper and envelopes, and Merry at once sat down to write the decoy letter. By the time it was finished, Ready showed up, announcing that the cab was waiting at the corner. Then Bingham came in and said that Boltwood was in his room, writing a sonnet to Lotta’s ear.

Frank read the decoy letter, which ran like this:

“Dear Mr. Boltwood: Since we parted last night something very surprising has happened. I have received a letter from my dear mama, telling me that my Aunt Kitty has died and left me a fortune if I will leave the stage. Isn’t that just perfectly lovely? And still, I shall so hate to give up my career and relinquish my art. But we’re all out for the dust, and sometimes the ghost fails to walk, which makes us warm under the lapels of our sealskins. With the money dear old Aunt Kit has left to me, I can raise quite a breeze.

“I am going home to-morrow, but before I go I wish to see once more the friend who recited such beautiful poetry last evening. I could not go away without seeing you, Mr. Boltwood. It can only be for a few minutes, as I have to play to-night. The messenger who brings this will take you to where I am waiting in a cab. Do come at once, dear boy! If I only had some of Aunt Kit’s dough now, I’d square myself with you for the feed you gave me last night. Don’t fail me, dear Mr. Boltwood. Yours, etc.,

“Lotta.”

“Will that do?” asked Frank. “I’m afraid it is not quite consistent in this, but I don’t think Boltwood will have time to analyze it, or even to scrutinize it closely, so I hope he’ll not notice any little breaks.”

“It’s artistic,” declared Ready enthusiastically.

“Hardly that.”

“Oh, but it is! That stuff about the ghost walking, and about giving up her career and her art, is simply great!”

“And being out for the dust isn’t bad!” chuckled Bingham. “I notice the most of them are looking for geldt.”

“Did your aged lady friend try to hit you up for a sawbuck last evening?” inquired Ready, with an innocent look in his eyes.

“Certainly not!” cried the big sophomore indignantly. “She was an exception. She follows the stage for her health.”

“Well, she must have been at it long enough to have glorious good health.”

“She’s only eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” said Jack. “That’s a one and an eight. The figures will hit her all right if you put the eight first.”

“She’s just a foolish little society girl, who thought it would be a grand thing to give up her life as a gay butterfly and follow a career.”

“Society girl!” chirped Ready. “La, la! She must have been one of the Hogan’s Alley four hundred. Following a career, is she? Oh, lud! oh, lud! I don’t wonder the career is trying to run away. Anything would run from that face of hers.”

“She’s highly educated. You should have heard her quote from the classics.”

“I’ll bet she did! Took the choice passages right out of George Ade’s ‘Fables in Slang.’ My, my! but she’s the real thing, Bing! But never, never venture to take her to a dog-fight. She’ll scare the dogs into fits and break up the whole shooting-match.”

“Come, come!” laughed Frank. “We are losing time. Here is the precious missive.”

“Precious missive is great!” chuckled Ready.

“Take it, hustle out, get a messenger-boy, give him instructions, and wait for Boltwood inside the cab. Be sure to get the fellow in.”

“Leave that to us,” chuckled Ready. “We’ll take him in!”

They grasped the letter and hustled from the room.

As soon as they were gone, Merry sat down and laughed.

“I’d lul-lul-lul-like to know just wh-wh-where the jug-jug-jug-joke is!” said Gamp.

“So would I,” confessed Hock Mason.

“Me, too,” grunted Browning.

“Let us in,” urged Carson.

“Oh, you’ll find out all about it this evening,” declared Frank. “See if it isn’t a jolly racket. Makes me feel same as I used to at Fardale when I put up a job like this.”

“By thunder!” cried Carson. “If I ever have a boy I’m going to send him to Fardale! It must be a great place, to turn out chaps like Merriwell.”

“And Hodge,” grunted Bruce, with some sarcasm.

“And Merry sometimes speaks of the rackets he had there. It must be a great school.”

“One of the finest in the country,” nodded Frank. “If I have boys of my own, to Fardale they will go. If I had a younger brother, which, unfortunately, I have not, I’d see that he was sent to Fardale.”

“No wonder he’s stuck on Fardale,” said Browning. “It was there he met Elsie Bellwood.”

Frank looked serious.

“And Inza Burrage,” said Carson.

Frank smiled.

Browning was regarding Merry searchingly, and an expression of dissatisfaction settled on his strong face.

“But I didn’t think you’d let anybody, not even Hodge, cut you out with Elsie, Merriwell,” he ventured to say.

Frank turned on the big fellow at once.

“There are lots of things you do not know, Bruce,” he spoke in a very quiet manner. “If you were joking, why that’s all right; but I fancied you spoke earnestly, and, if so, I don’t want you to get any false notions that you know it all.”

“Well, I know how things look from the road. You think a lot of Hodge, but no man has a right to give up a nice girl like Elsie Bellwood just because his particular friend gets struck on her.”

Frank was not a little surprised to hear Browning speak in this manner, for Bruce was the last man in the world to meddle with the business of another, especially in such a delicate matter as this. Such being the case, Merry knew that Browning must feel strongly on that particular point, else he’d never ventured to say a word.

Browning was sitting up now, looking grim and solid.

“He’s stuck on Elsie himself!” thought Frank, in surprise. “That is what’s the matter! He’s a big, strong fellow, and such men have a way of getting all broke up over girls like Elsie. It has made him sore to see Hodge walk off with her, same as he has since that Doctor Lincoln affair.”

Aloud Merry observed:

“You are not in a position to correctly understand the matter, old man. Some time you may.”

But Browning shook his head gloomily.

Frank remembered that Bruce had not been in the best of spirits of late, and now he fancied he was beginning to understand the meaning of the change that had come over the big fellow. At last, Browning had realized that some great event had taken place, bringing about a condition of affairs that astonished and displeased him. Merriwell had withdrawn from Elsie, and Hodge had stepped in.

Perhaps, in his heart, Bruce had long admired Elsie, refraining from letting her or any one else know it because he was Frank’s friend, and Frank seemed to care for her. Such being the case, it must gall him greatly to see Merry apparently give up the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl without a struggle, letting Hodge step in and carry her off in triumph.

“All right,” grunted Bruce somewhat sourly. “But you’ve just the same as given any of us fellows an invitation to jump in and lug off any girl you may be bracing to.”

“That’s right,” laughed Frank. “If you can do it, go ahead and do it. If I can’t hold the girl, I’m sure I don’t want her. When she willingly turns to another, he is welcome to her.”

It struck Bruce that Elsie must have willingly turned from Frank to Bart, and, for the first time in his life, he felt resentment and anger toward Elsie. Still, he continued to be angry with Frank for giving her up.

“Don’t believe you’d done it for anybody but Hodge,” he muttered sulkily. “I suppose you have Inza Burrage left. Well, by thunder! you want to look out and keep her. I’m just mad enough to lug her off myself, if I get the chance! She seemed to like that fresh lubber Starbright one spell, and if she can get smashed on him there ought to be a show for me.”

Frank smiled. He had not told Browning of his engagement to Inza. It had been Inza’s fancy that while her father was so very ill it was not best to announce the engagement.

While the situation had cleared up for the four persons most acutely interested and concerned, to those like Browning, who knew only a part of the truth, it looked more complicated and cloudy than ever.

Bruce had not intended to speak out to Frank, especially before others, and his first remark was made in a manner that was half a joke; but, having branched forth, he soon became serious and earnest.

“By gug-gug-gorry!” exclaimed Gamp. “I gotter go git ready for to-night. S’pose you’ll be on hand to lead the class, won’t we, Fuf-Frank?”

“I may not,” said Merry.

“Why? How is that?” cried Carson. “We want you.”

“Got to have you!” declared Mason.

“Can’t get along without you,” growled Browning.

“Well,” said Frank, “I think I’ll be there; but if you should not see me, you are to lead the class, Browning.”

“Me?” gasped Bruce, without regard to grammar.

“Yes.”

“No!”

“That’s all right; you are to do it. You can, if you will.”

“But the idea! I’ve never done anything like that——”

“Since you were ‘King of the Sophomores.’ My dear fellow, you were a leader in those days, and you can be now, if you will be. I know you have become lazy as a dog, but you have to wake up when you play ball, and it will do you good if you have to lead the class to-night.”

“Oh, but say!” protested Bruce, “what kind of an Omega Lambda Chi celebration will this be without Merriwell to take the lead?”

“Rotten!” exploded Carson.

“Bub-bub-bum!” stuttered Gamp.

“Sloppy!” exclaimed Mason.

“The whole class will be sore if you don’t show up,” asserted Bruce. “I know you have some kind of a wild scheme in your head, but you must be on hand to lead the class.”

“I may be,” repeated Frank again. “But you must go right ahead if I am not.” He put his hand on Browning’s shoulder. “I ask this of you as a favor. I know the men will fall in and follow your lead.”

“All right,” muttered Bruce. “But I may be taken sick between now and then. You’d better be on hand.”

“I have told you I expect to be there. That must be satisfactory. Just do the right thing if you do not find me on hand. That’s all.”

They went out and left Merry, who closed and locked the door behind them. And thus hidden safely in his room, Frank went to his trunk, from which he took a certain square box. With the aid of the contents of that box, he proceeded to work a most remarkable transformation.

CHAPTER XVIII.
CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.

The messenger-boy was found and instructed. He set off to find Boltwood, accompanied and directed by Carker. Within the closed hack, behind the drawn curtains, Ready and Bingham waited.

“Oh, luddy me!” chuckled Jack. “How surprised our poetical friend will be!”

“What if he does not take the bait?” muttered Bingham.

“He will, my gentle fairy, he will.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“He is a writer of alleged poetry, and so he’s an easy mark. See if I’m not right. And he thinks all the girls are liable to lose their senses over him. This, however, my sylphlike friend, is going to seem a great conquest to him. He will rush to the arms of Lotta. Oh, yum, yum!”

“If Carker does his part——”

“Cark will find a way, Bing, old baby. He’ll be ready to give Boltwood a gentle push at the right moment, mark my word. Cark is an odd fish, but he’s great at carrying out instructions. Get him to going, and nothing but the Grim Reaper can stop him.”

“Queer you should take up with such a fellow, Ready.”

“Is it? I dunno. Contrast, you know. My dazzling wit has the greater glitter in contrast to his prosaic and peachy ways. I am a good thing, Bing, and I like to set myself off as well as possible. He’s an excellent foil, you know.”

“You’re a conceited ass!”

“Thanks, awfully, Bing, old boy. You have a dainty and delicate way of expressing yourself that I much admire—I don’t think!”

“Oh, well, you’re always shooting off your chin at other people, and it does you good to tell you the sober truth once in a while. You are an ass, Ready, and everybody knows it; and you have got a larger stock of conceit than any other man living.”

“Perchance if you continue this style of comment, I may become angry in time.”

“That’s all right. Get mad if you want to. What’ll you do?”

“I may give you an awfully cutting look.”

“That would be a terrible thing!”

“Hush!” warned Ready, applying his eye to a tiny hole in the curtain. “Methinks it is about time for Boltwood to be rushing to the arms of his Tottie.”

“See anything of him?” asked Bingham.

“Not a thing.”

“He may not come.”

“I think he will.”

“But I believe Merriwell was up to something.”

“He’s a dandy!” commented Jack; “but I caught him once when he was not up to snuff.”

“He may have planned to get even with you.”

“How?”

“Perhaps he has warned Boltwood.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Well, we’ll have the messenger to pay and the cabman, besides sitting cooped up here like a couple of chumps. To-night the whole college may be ready to give us the ha-ha.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

“The game is too simple for Merriwell to play,” he declared.

“Why too simple?”

“He would not go into anything of the sort. If he were trying to even up the old score, he’d be at something on a scale that would make it more even. You have not hit it, Bingham. Besides, I think Merry is willing to let the past remain buried. I confess that he has had fun with me more than once, but I settled his case the night he joined the gang that was hazing me.”

“That’s where your conceit comes in,” said Bingham. “You have an idea that you’re as clever as Frank Merriwell. That’s enough to make anybody sick! Why, he can tell you the trick he’s going to work, and then fool you.”

“Then, indeed, I must be a chump in your eyes!” sighed Ready. “Bing, you are knocking at me because of what I said about that old gal you had out to sup last night. All right! I’ll pay you back; see if I don’t!”

“If you continue to be too fresh, I may take a notion to thump you a little.”

“If you do, old guy, I shall feel it my duty to give you the finest thrashing you ever had, even though you weigh a pound and a quarter more than I do. I shall——’Sh! I see something!”

Jack was peering through the tiny hole in the curtain.

“What?” asked Bingham.

“He comes!” palpitated Ready.

“Boltwood?”

“Sure thing!”

“No mistake?”

“Nary! Get ready to grab, Bing, you darling old knocker! We’ll be having a lively time with him in a minute. The messenger is pointing out the cab. Ha! Boltwood gives the boy a quarter! Well, that youngster has made a good thing out of the job. He approaches! He has thrust out his chest, and is walking hastily in this direction. Here is where we get into gear and have fun with the gentle poet!”

It was true that Rolf Boltwood was approaching the cab. He was a rather good-looking fellow, although he had a peculiar, melancholy cast of countenance and long hair that flowed upon the collar of his coat. Although not an athlete, he had a very attractive figure, and it was possible he could have been athletic had he tried.

In the freshman class Boltwood had attracted very little attention until he wrote a parody on something or other, in which he satirized with considerable ability a number of the prominent sophomores, including, of course, Ready and Carker. This had brought him into notice, but it had made any amount of enemies for him among the sophomores. He was, indeed, a callow youth, who regarded himself as a genuine “lady-killer,” and it had not been difficult, for that reason, to lure him into a trap of this sort.

Straight up to the cab Boltwood rushed, flinging open the door and lifting his hat at the same time.

Two hands came out and clutched him by the collar before he could start back in astonishment. Behind him Greg Carker bobbed up from somewhere and gave him a boosting push. The two hands in his collar gave a surge at the same time, and into the cab went Boltwood with a rush.

Slam! went the door, and up to the seat beside the driver vaulted Carker, saying:

“Let ’er go! We’re off!”

Strange sounds came from within the cab.

“Don’t mind any slight agitation,” said Carker to the driver. “If it happens that any damage is done, I’ll guarantee that we’ll pay double what repairs will cost.”

“All right, sir. Which way, sir?”

“Straight over the Barnesville Bridge.”

Away went the cab with a rattle, a rush, and cracking of the whip.

Boltwood had been flung fairly across the knees of Jack Ready, who cheerily cried:

“Come to the arms of your own Tottie Coughdrop, you dear, sweet thing!”

Then the door slammed.

“What the——” gasped the freshman.

“Tush, tush!” said Jack. “Why, how dare you, sir! Such unbecoming language in the presence of your own Tottie!”

Boltwood began to kick.

“Leggo!” he yelled. “What kind of a job is this?”

“Gently, gently!” warned Ready. “You may smash the window, and, perchance, it will cost you a doubloon, whatever that is.”

“Leggo!” yelled Boltwood again, still kicking.

“Bing,” said Jack, “if he continues to slosh round like this, you’ll have to spank him soundly.”

“I’ll enjoy doing so,” assured Bingham.

Then he gave the freshman a crack with his open hand that brought a yell of pain from the surprised fellow.

“Now will you be good?” asked Jack kindly.

Boltwood stopped kicking.

“Are you crazy?” he asked. “What are you trying to do, anyhow?”

“Is it thus that you speak of your own dear Lotta?” sighed Jack.

“Lotta be hanged!” snarled the disgusted chap.

“Oh, goodness sakes!” gasped Ready. “How pained she is to hear you say that! Does oo ’ike oor ’Otta, pitty boy? Ain’t oo dlad oo tum to see oor dirl, pessus pet?”

“Shut up!” howled Boltwood. “Let me sit up like a man.”

“Can you do it? It’s wonderful what some animals can learn by example.”

Boltwood kicked again.

“Bing, apply the palm-oil,” directed Jack, and the big sophomore again spanked the floundering freshman.

“Ow!” whooped the victim. “Hit me with a ham, but don’t hit me with that thing, please!”

“This is simply the tootsie-wootsie of my friend,” said Jack. “He is caressing you, my pretty boy.”

“I don’t fancy that kind of a caress!” growled Boltwood.

“But you must enjoy resting in the arms of your own Lotta,” urged Jack. “I shall be mortally offended if you say you do not think it just perfectly heavenly.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” snapped the captive.

“Well,” said Ready, “you write poetry, and we have to judge a man by his conduct.”

“Then I’d take you for a monkey!” flung back Boltwood.

“Bing,” said Jack, “give him another application of palm-oil.”

Bingham faithfully followed instructions. The freshman tried to kick out the door.

“My, my!” said Ready, holding onto him with some difficulty. “What a naughty little boy he is!”

“If I keep this up, I’ll have blisters on my hand,” said Bingham.

“He is resting easier now,” said Jack. “I fancy your application has done him good, Doctor Bing.”

“Oh, I’ll get even with you fellows!” vowed the freshman. “See if I don’t!”

“That’s all right,” growled the big sophomore. “Your word will be no good against ours, and we do not remember having seen you this day.”

“What are you going to do with me?” asked the freshman, with greater meekness.

“Why, you are enjoying a date with your own Lotta, who has fallen into lots of mazuma through the death of her Aunt Kit,” said Ready. “How gladly you rushed with fluttering heart to meet her! Your poetic soul swelled with rapture, didn’t it, Rolfie? But you jumped into this cab in such a rude, rude manner! It was perfectly shocking. I don’t think you are a real gent. You should have stood outside, and smiled sweetly on your Lotta, instead of diving headlong at her, and trying to butt her in the solar-plexus with your wooden caput. In the high society where she was a gay butterfly before seeking a career on the stoige, the young gents did not behave thusly. Oh, nit, nit! They were perfect gents—they were!”

“You make me sick!” gurgled Boltwood.

“How rude!” sobbed Jack. “Bing, do you fancy another application of the palm will teach him better manners?”

“Perhaps,” grunted Bingham, who was ready enough to make the application.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Boltwood, almost in tears. “I’ll never get over this!”

Truly it was humiliating for him, a poet, to be treated in such a rude and unfeeling manner.

“Then you are ready to take back what you just said?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And you really do love your Lotta?”

“Oh, Lord!” sobbed Boltwood.

“But you really do?” insisted Jack.

“What business is that to——”

“Bing, apply the palm!”

“Oh, no, no!” screamed Boltwood. “What do you want me to say?”

“Do you really love your Lotta?”

“I adore her!”

“How nice! Will you be a good boy if you are permitted to sit up like a man?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t kick and make a muss?”

“Well, I——”

“Bing, perhaps another application——”

“Oh, I won’t kick!” gasped the freshman, in a hurry.

“You will go along with us quietly?”

“I suppose so.”

“Promise.”

“Yes.”

“That is very good. Do you love your Lotta?”

“Yes.”

“With all your heart?”

“Yes.”

“How nice! Of course, you won’t ever tell a soul about this ride with her, will you, precious boy?”

“Oh, I ain’t likely to!”

“But you must promise, precious one.”

“What the dickens do you take me for?”

“Bing, I fear you will be forced to——”

“Oh, Lord! I’ll promise that!”

“You will never tell a soul about it?”

“No.”

“Not even the faculty?”

“No.”

“That’s lovely of you. And do you love your Lotta?”

“Oh, yes—I love her!”

“Away down to the bottom of your throbbing heart?”

“Yes.”

“How nice! And you’ll never make any fuss about it if she keeps you out real late this evening?”

“Oh, come, now——”

“Promise.”

“If I must——”

“You must.”

“All right. I promise.”

“That’s real sweet of you. Now you may sit up like a man.”

Then Boltwood, glaring and enraged, was permitted to sit on the seat opposite Jack, who smiled on him sweetly.

CHAPTER XIX.
OMEGA LAMBDA CHI.

Behold a transformation scene.

At half-past six P. M. the campus was quiet and deserted, as it usually is at that hour. Streaks of yellow sunlight streamed in from over the low buildings of the quadrangle, making lighted blotches on the ground beneath the canopy of the great elms, and not even the twang of a banjo was to be heard.

The students were all at their eating-clubs and boarding-houses.

Ten minutes later the fence running from Alumni Hall to the space in front of Battell Chapel and curving away to the south was the meeting-place of streams of students coming from all directions. The first to arrive perched on the fence, and the later comers leaned against the knees of those on the fence. It did not take much more than ten minutes for them to assemble.

Then the singing began.

“Chi-Rho! Omega Lambda Chi!

We meet to-night

To celebrate

The Omega Lambda Chi!”

The tune was supposed to be that of “Sailing, Sailing, Over the Deep Blue Sea,” but some of the men sang it to any old tune. They were not particular as long as they could whoop ’er up to the full capacity of their voices.

Somehow it had been noised around among the freshmen that the sophs had already made a move and got the start on them by spiriting away their leader; but when they looked around to confirm the truth of this, or detect its falsity, there was Dade Morgan, with his particular friends about him, and big Starbright, surrounded by his set, both ready for anything that might happen.

“It’s a bluff!” declared the freshmen. “But it’s a mighty poor one.”

And Boltwood was not missed at all, which must have given Ready a feeling of chagrin and perplexity, had he known it.

Usually the beginning of the singing was the signal for the seniors to fall into line and start the ball to rolling, but to-night there seemed to be delay, while the singing continued, growing louder and louder. There was hurrying and skurrying among the seniors. Their leader was not on hand.

“Where is Merriwell?” was the question.

They sent to Frank’s room, but the messenger came back with the information that he was not there. Then it was found that he had not been at his eating-club, and no one remembered having seen him for an hour or more.

“He’s done it!” growled Browning, who was as mystified as anybody. “But I’d give a peanut to know what it is that he’s done.”

Bruce hesitated about taking the lead, for he was not sure the seniors would follow him, and the singing continued.

“Where the deuce is Frank?” asked Bart Hodge, getting hold of Bruce.

“I’ll never tell,” grunted the big fellow.

“He ought to be on hand.”

“Said he might not.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t make known.”

“What shall we do?”

“Got to call the men out. Come on.”

Then Hodge and Browning cried for the seniors to “fall in,” and the singing lulled a little. There was a moment of hesitation, for the class that had followed Frank Merriwell never cared to accept any other leader.

“Fall in!” thundered Browning, in his most commanding manner.

“Fall in!” cried Hodge, in a clear, distinct tone.

The hesitation was over, and a scramble from the senior fence took place at once, the men running to get into line behind the two leaders. They formed in rows of eight, with arms across each other’s shoulders, and were ready in a remarkably short space of time.

“Forward!” roared Browning.

Then, still singing, they started down the campus, dancing with a running step, three steps to the right and three to the left, in time with the song. Every third step ended with a skirt-dancer’s kick into space.

The lines had fallen in so swiftly that more than two hundred men were in motion behind Browning and Hodge, shouting the words of the song. It was a queer sight to see that great mass of men dance forward with three running steps to the right and end with a kick of the right foot, followed by the same action to the left, all the while singing as loudly as they could.

The seniors were not fairly in motion when Hock Mason, with two others, were marshaling the juniors. When the time came, the juniors fell in behind the seniors and followed them with the same skipping, dancing step, singing the same song in the same shrieking manner.

Bingham and Ready brought out the sophomores, three hundred and fifty strong, and they promptly followed the juniors.

None there were that night so eager to get into the sport as the gay young freshmen. They responded to the calls of Starbright and Morgan with alacrity.

But what’s this? Can it be possible? Is that fellow with the long hair Rolf Boltwood? Had Ready observed the man, he would have had a fit. Boltwood, where in the world did you come from? Didn’t Ready, Bingham, and Carker thrust you into a strong room in the basement of an old storage-warehouse, and leave you there locked fast in a room that had held many a prisoner securely before? Did they not inform you that you might pound on the doors and yell as loudly as you liked, for there would be a man outside to keep everybody away from the place, and you would not be heard? When they were gone, didn’t you try the door, and find it solid as granite? Didn’t you examine the walls, and quickly decide that your prison might hold you till you died of starvation, unless you were released by those who placed you in it, or by their orders? And didn’t you sit down on an old box and despairingly bury your face in your hands?

Such being the case, Boltwood, how does it happen that you are here, whispering to Starbright, who nods and laughs, saying something to Morgan, who seems delighted, making yourself generally useful by aiding in mustering the men into line? Boltwood, your escape from that old warehouse is a mystery! How did you do the trick? Are you too busy to tell us now? Then we’ll have to wait a while before we find out.

Both Starbright and Morgan gave out a word that was passed along from man to man. Boltwood was to be obeyed implicitly in every order. He was to be followed in any move he might make.

And thus, in some mysterious manner, Boltwood became a leader at short notice.

But he did not form in line with Starbright and Morgan at the head of the line. Instead of that, he plunged into the very middle of the freshmen, and got into line there, where, for a long time, he was hidden from view.

The freshmen began to move, singing as loudly as the others, but showing they were not familiar with the dancing-step. However, they made a brave showing, and they were happy, for every man had been tipped off that this night they would “Lambda Chi” the sophomores, who were entirely unprepared for what was to happen.

But what was to happen? No one seemed to know, unless, perhaps, it might be Starbright and Morgan and this queer man Boltwood, who had suddenly developed into a leader, not a little to the wonderment of the men he was leading.

For Boltwood, hidden in the middle of the mass, was in command of the rear half of the freshmen, and every man back there knew it. Some of them objected, but others silenced them by saying that Starbright and Morgan knew what they were about, “so shut up your heads and keep on singing.” An order it would have been rather difficult to obey.

Having carried the roaring line the length of the campus, Browning piloted it back to the fence, from which it started out again.

In front of Alumni the seniors halted, the first line of dancing juniors bumping into them before stopping.

“Ready!” roared Browning, who had found a baseball-bat somewhere, which he now flourished in the air as if it had been a mere feather. Having taken command, he was a leader in every sense of the word, full of action, energy, and power, utterly unconscious of himself. “Three times three for Alumni!”

Then came the barking cheer that echoed back from the walls of the quadrangle, Browning timing it with the jerky motions of his bat:

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Alumni!”

“Forward!” roared Bruce, with a sweeping wave of the bat.

All the seniors were off again with the same step, singing the same song.

Mason gave the word for the juniors, and they cheered Alumni in the same manner as had the seniors.

The sophomores came up and followed suit, and the happy freshmen barked like a pack of young hyenas.

Well, say, freshmen! this is sport, isn’t it? This is something you’ll not soon forget. Here is where you have a chance to vent your kittenish feelings to the full extent. Whoop her up, freshmen, but look out for the finish. The sophs are laying for you, and Jack Ready regards himself as remarkably clever in the way of fooling freshmen. If you get ahead of him to-night, you may congratulate yourselves.

The seniors had saluted Dwight Hall and danced on. The juniors took their turn at cheering there, and so they continued on their way from the Treasury to the Old Library, singing and cheering and growing hoarser and hoarser as they progressed. In front of the statue of President Wolsey they nearly roared their heads off. They howled at the Chittenden Library in joyous abandon, and finally they packed into the court of Vanderbilt, where, between the close space of the walls, the cheering sounded like the thunder of thousands.

Then, having cheered for Vanderbilt, they bethought themselves of one who roomed there, but was mysteriously absent from their ranks.

“Three times three for Merriwell!” roared Browning.

Then, to the jerking of his bat, they simply roared:

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Merriwell! Merriwell! Merriwell!”

By the time the head of the line came back to Durfee again, the song had turned to a hoarse shriek. Then Browning and Hodge led down the three-flag-wide stone walk that runs the length of the campus.

And the freshmen followed on, singing joyously.

When Lyceum and South Middle was reached the seniors turned and led the way through the narrow passage between the two buildings, which is known at Yale as the Pass of Thermopylæ. The juniors followed the seniors, and the sophomores came close after.

As is the custom, the sophomores broke ranks at the farther end of the pass, and prepared to fall on the freshmen as they came through.

The head of the freshmen line came on gaily, but the sophomores could not see what the latter half of the line was doing.

“At ’em!” yelled Ready, as he saw the freshmen halt, as if in alarm at the sight of the massed lines waiting for them to run the gantlet.

The freshmen seemed to waver and crowd back, which filled Ready’s heart with fear that they would somehow turn about and escape. Crying for the others to come on, he plunged into the pass. The sophs were eager to have part in the fun, and they followed, choking the exit to the pass and trying to jam in.

Then round Lyceum on the dead run charged in a compact body the second rear half of the freshmen, led by Rolf Boltwood, whose long hair seemed to wave wildly in the breeze. Without a sound, like the rush of a mighty wave, they came upon the sophomores packed and struggling at the exit of the pass, sweeping them back into it.

And thus the sophomores were caught between two fires. Neither seniors nor juniors had been given a hint of what was going to happen, and so they were quite unprepared for this astonishing move on the part of the freshmen.

There were shrieks of alarm from the sophomores, but too late they realized that they had been caught in a trap. They were driven into the pass, hurled down, piled up, stood on end, and battered in the most heartless manner.

But what was worse than anything else was the fact that preparations had been made to drench the freshmen who should be caught in this manner, and now the sophomores’ own allies threw open windows above and hurled down bucketful after bucketful of wet, wet water onto the heads of the poor wretches beneath.

What shrieks went up! What frantic struggles were made! What fury filled the hearts of the tricked and outwitted sophomores!

And the seniors and juniors, themselves delighted by the cleverness of the freshmen, helped rush the sophomores into the pass by crowding upon them as if eager to see the fun, giving no chance to break through and escape.

The slaughter was something terrible to behold. The freshmen were merciless. Starbright, the blond giant, led them on, with Morgan, equally fierce, taking active part.

But the new leader among the freshmen was the marvel of that night. Rolf Boltwood, the poet, his long hair flying about his head, was a perfect cyclone. No one could stand before him. He hurled men right and left as if they were mere children. He piled them up in heaps of four or five, laughing as he did so. He swept them aside as if possessing the arms of a Samson.

They were astounded, for till now no man had ever fancied Boltwood possessed such strength. Some had imagined that he was too timid to do anything but run away on an occasion like this. His own class had not trusted him, and now the sight of him mowing the enemy down in such an irresistible manner set them wild with joy, and made them a hundred times more fierce.

For once in his life, Jack Ready was bewildered. He could not tell just what had happened.

“For the love of goodness!” he gasped. “My, my, my! Where are we at?”

“We’re trapped, you thundering fool!” roared Bingham. “The freshies have played it on us!”

“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” murmured Ready. Then he shouted: “Charge, fellows! Rip a hole through ’em! Come on!”

Slosh!—down came a bucket of water on his head, making him gasp.

“This will be the death of me!” he groaned.

“It ought to be!” roared Bingham. “You did a nice thing carrying Boltwood off, didn’t you?”

“You helped.”

“Well, what good did it do?”

“Merriwell fooled us! Boltwood never could lead in anything like this.”

Then again Jack tried to rally the sophomores and fight his way through. He had turned back now, fancying it might be easier to escape into the mass of juniors and seniors than to get out the other way. In some manner he struggled along, trying to dodge the descending cloudbursts of water. In the midst of his struggles he came face to face with—Boltwood!

Ready nearly fainted.

“Good lud!” he palpitated.

“Good eve,” said Boltwood.

Then he hit Ready with a stuffed club he had captured from a sophomore.

“Wow!” howled Jack.

“Yoop!” laughed Boltwood.

“You long-haired varlet!” snarled Ready.

Biff—the club sent Jack up against the wall.

“You should be more choice in your language, sir,” said the poet pleasantly. “How are you enjoying the fun?”

Then, having made this inquiry, he biffed Ready again. Jack tried to catch hold of the club, but failed.

“Oh, I’m having a perfectly elegant time!” he panted. “But how the dickens did you get here?”

“Me?” inquired Boltwood, in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“Why, you know you ought to be locked fast in that old basement.”

“What old basement?” asked the poet innocently.

“You know; but I don’t know how you escaped. Gimme that club.”

“Thanks! Take it!” Then Boltwood soaked Jack again.

But this time Ready caught hold of the club and tried to wrench it away. Boltwood held on, and they tussled for possession of the weapon, while all round them raged the battle most furiously.

“I’d give a quarter to know how you got out,” said Jack.

“I’ve never been in,” said Boltwood; “so save your quarter. You’ll need it for arnica and court-plaster.”

“Leggo!”

“Nit!”

Then Jack made a spring and tried to grapple with Boltwood.

“I’ll just toss you round a little,” he said, with confidence in his ability to do so.

“That’s right,” said the freshman, getting Ready by the neck somehow and kicking his feet into the air. “I shall enjoy it so much!”

Down came Ready on the back of his neck. Boltwood placed a foot on his breast, struck a pose, and began to recite poetry.

The shock and the surprise had deprived Jack of his breath for a moment, but he quickly recovered and grabbed Boltwood by the leg, exclaiming:

“Come down here a moment! I want to see you!”

Boltwood came down, but he fell so that both his knees gouged into Ready and knocked the breath out of him again.

“Take a good look at me,” said the poet, “for I am the last person you’ll see on earth. You die right here.”

“I’m willing!” came faintly from Jack. “After this death will be a keen delight!”

He had been forced to let go his hold on Boltwood, but he scrambled up as the freshman rose. Then they grappled again, but somehow Boltwood tossed Jack into the air and let him fall upon a pile of struggling sophomores, who were squirming and twisting and trying to get up. A burst of mocking laughter came from the lips of the freshman, and then a descending cloud of water struck Jack in the face and eyes, blotting out the triumphant poet from his view.

When Ready untangled himself from that squirming mass, Boltwood had vanished.

The slaughter went on joyously until the panting freshmen were well satisfied. Then the juniors and seniors tore open the blocking mass of men and opened long lines, down which the sophomores staggered and ran in their wild efforts to escape.

And the men of the two upper classes held onto their sides and roared with laughter. In all the history of Yale there had never been such a Lambda Chi night as this. The tables had been turned completely on the sophomores, and the freshmen were hilariously triumphant.

Jack Ready was sick at heart.

“Confound Merriwell!” he grumbled. “He must have let that fellow Boltwood free in some way, and this is the result! Oh, say! where can I find some rat-poison? I want to take a lunch!”

CHAPTER XX.
THE FIGHT FOR THE FENCE.

The freshmen were overjoyed and triumphant; the sophomores were downcast, battered, and gloomy. But of all the battered and gloomy sophs, Jack Ready was the “batterdest” and the gloomiest.

“It’s awful!” he groaned. “The fall of Jericho was nothing beside this! Talk about the sun and moon standing still! Great cats! This will turn the whole universe backward and set the planets to capering along in the wrong direction. My, my! but I’m very, very tired!”

He held both hands to his head and looked sick.

Having escaped from the terrible pass, the sophomores fled to the fence, where they gathered and excitedly talked over what had happened. They were united in their denunciation of the freshmen. They felt that the freshmen had committed something worse than a crime in thus breaking all precedents.

“It’s the work of Morgan!” declared one.

“No; Starbright was at the head of it,” said another.

“All wrong!” put in a third. “It was that infernal, long-haired freak of a poet, Boltwood. He led the half of the freshies that came round the Lyceum and caught us in the trap.”

“What did he ever do, anyhow?”

“Write doggerel.”

“Well, that doesn’t make a man a leader at anything. How did they happen to follow him?”

That was a mystery. It had been one of the surprises of the evening, and others were to follow.

Bingham found Ready. The big sophomore’s coat was ripped up the back, and one sleeve had been torn out at the shoulder. His nose was bleeding, and there was fire in his eye.

“Say!” he growled.

“What?” asked Jack.

“We’re a couple of diddling-danged fools!”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” urged Ready.

“You’re a chump!”

“That makes two of us.”

“Did we kidnap somebody?”

“I thought so.”

“Well, there is another think coming to you.”

“Then we must have dreamed it.”

Bingham wiped his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief.

“Where is Carker?” he asked.

“Here,” answered a doleful voice, and Greg appeared. His necktie and collar had been ripped off, his shirt was torn open at the neck, his face was scratched, his hat was gone, and he was dripping wet.

“Carker,” said Ready, with a rueful smile, “I believe that earthquake must have bunted into us.”

“Look here,” said Greg fiercely; “what did you let that blinkety-blanked, long-haired doggerel-writer escape for?”

“Who did it?”

“You must. He was here. You locked him in, and you said he couldn’t get away.”

“Well, I thought so,” confessed Jack meekly. “That dungeon cell has held many a freshmen before this, and held them fast and safe.”

“This one got away, and he got me by the collar right here—see! That’s about all I remember. He spun me round in the air as if I was a two-pound Indian club. It makes me dizzy to think of it.”

“He gave me this nose,” confessed Bingham. “I grabbed him round the body from behind, but the chump butted backward with his head and smashed my nose out flat on my face. I dropped him. Then he turned round and had fun ripping up my clothes.”

“I believe I ran across him, too,” sighed Jack. “Why, the fellow must have been everywhere!”

“Or else there is four or five of them,” said Carker. “He threw me down and stepped on me.”

“Then you know how the downtrodden poor feel. It will be a good thing for you to work into your next lecture.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Ready!” said Carker. “Sometimes I can stand it; but just now I think I shall have to kill you if you try to be funny!”

“Kill him,” urged Bingham cold-bloodedly. “I’m too tired to do it, but I shall enjoy the murder very much.”

“What’s the matter with you both that you want to spit your spite out on me?” asked Jack. “You act as if you think me all to blame for the trouble.”

“After I pushed him into the cab!” growled Carker.

“And after I blistered my hand spanking him into submission!” growled Bingham.

“Then to have him handle me in such a manner!”

“I’ll never get over the disgrace!”

“Where is Merriwell?” asked Jack. “I believe he let the fellow free.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Just to have fun with me. He’s trying to get square for that time I fooled him by pretending madness.”

“By the looks of you, I should say he’s pretty near even.”

“But now I’ve got a score to settle with Boltwood. I was not prepared for him, else he’d never been able to cuff me round the way he did.”

“Hear those freshmen singing!” muttered Bingham. “Isn’t that enough to make a man’s blood hot?”

“It is, indeed!” confessed Ready. “I’ll never get over this night if I live to be a hundred!”

The freshmen could be seen massing in the distance.

“By the gods!” grunted Bingham; “I believe they are going to try it!”

“Try what?” asked Carker.

“To take the fence!” said Bingham.

“That’s just what’s up!” palpitated Ready. “Boys, we must get ready for them. They are drunken with success, and they’re going to bear down on us.”

“Here is where we get even!” Carker almost snarled. “My fighting-blood is up! Naturally, I am a peaceful man, but the limit of endurance has been passed!”

“Amen!” said Ready. “I’m another! I shall strew the ground with corpses! I shall wade knee-deep in gore! I pray that I may again encounter that long-haired freak!”

“Get the men ready!” ordered Bingham. “Let’s give them a hot reception when they do come!”

Then the three set about getting the sophomores ready for the expected attack.

“We must defend the fence to the last!” was the cry. “Don’t give way an inch!”

“We won’t!” declared the rallying sophs. “Let ’em come!”

“It’s to a finish!” said Ready, through his teeth. “If they get the best of it this time, I’ll go jump off the earth!”

“Here they come!” was the thrilling cry.

The freshmen came with a rush. They were full of confidence and enthusiasm, and they felt able to do almost any old thing to the sophomores.

“Stand firm!” roared Bingham.

The compact mass of onrushing freshmen looked formidable enough, and, to tell the truth, the sophomores were not quite prepared for them.

“Down with the sophs!” was the war-cry of the freshmen. “Soak ’em! soak ’em!”

And in the lead came the long-haired poet, Boltwood, running like a deer, calling for the others to follow him.

Morgan and Starbright were also at the head of the freshmen, but somehow since the affair in the pass Boltwood had suddenly been recognized as a bold, strategic, and skilful leader.

“He’s the chap I’m looking for!” cried Ready, and he sprang out to grapple with the new leader of the freshmen. Ready cast himself forward to make a head-on tackle about the freshman’s hips, intending to bring Boltwood to the ground with a jolt that would settle him for a while.

Then, to the astonishment of everybody, Boltwood leaped into the air and went clean over the head of the crouching sophomore.

Then came the clashing shock of the two classes meeting, and in the furious struggle that followed not a few fellows were hurt more or less. The freshmen tried to sweep the sophomores away with the vigor of their onset, and they did hurl them back somewhat.

Then, rallied by the cries of their leaders, the sophs braced and held their ground. Those in the front ranks of both classes received a squeezing that drove the breath from their bodies and seemed to flatten them out like pancakes.

“Ow-wow!” gasped a fat soph. “I’m being squoze to death!”

“Squoze!” panted the freshman against whom he was jammed, “is no—name—for—it! I’m being squashed!”

Both sides cheered and pushed and jammed. From a distance the juniors and seniors looked on and laughed and urged each class to keep at it.

This was sport, indeed, for the two upper classes.

The voice of Boltwood sounded clear and loud, urging those behind him to shove the harder.

“Somebody hit that long-haired jake with a brick!” cried an angry soph. “He’s made the whole thing a fizzle to-night!”

“’Rah for Boltwood!” roared Dick Starbright, without the least show of jealousy.

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!” yelled Dade Morgan.

That was the most singular part of it all. Those men, so long rival leaders of the freshman class, seemed ready and willing to surrender the leadership to this new man, who had never before done anything to distinguish himself.

But there was no time to wonder over that now. There was little time to give it a passing thought. Harder and harder pressed the freshmen, and the sophs began to sway and waver. A moment later the soph line broke, and then those on the outside began to jump in and try to yank the freshmen out, to tear up in this manner the compact mass of rushers.

But, with a twisting movement, the freshmen swept on and bore the sophomores back from a part of the fence. This partial victory seemed to give the attacking-party greater vim, while it literally maddened the sophomores.

“Yank ’em! yank ’em!” cried those who were working on the edges, and they would catch the freshmen by the arms or collars, and drag them out from the rushing body, fling them down, sometimes hit them. In fact, both sides were beginning to use their fists, and the rush was degenerating into a free fight.

And the seniors and juniors roared with laughter, still urging the mad combatants on. Not for years had there been such hot times on Omega Lambda Chi anniversary as there was to-night. If the faculty did not interfere, the riot might result in a large collection of beautiful black eyes on the morrow.

Through the thickest of the fray stalked Boltwood. Man after man tackled him, and man after man went down before him. He seemed to have the power of a Hercules, and he soon became a perfect terror for the sophs.

Jack Ready had been dazed when he failed to bring the fellow down by a tackle. It was wonderful that Ready was not trampled under foot by the oncoming freshmen, but he managed to straighten up, finding himself caught in the rush and whirled along like a feather.

In vain he had tried to break away; he was hurled against his own class, and seemed to help in the work of beating back his friends, to his unspeakable disgust. But through all the wild times that followed, Ready’s one thought was to find Boltwood and meet him again.

“I’m done for if I don’t!” he thought. “I’ll be the guy of both classes! Oh, mama! why was I ever born into this world of strife and worry?”

And when the fighting became general, Ready finally found Boltwood. They were face to face. At the same moment Bingham came up behind the poet.

Both sprang at him. Boltwood seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, for he kicked out cleverly and struck Bingham in the pit of the stomach, doubling the big sophomore up instantly. Then he somehow caught hold of Ready, twisted Jack round, grasped him by the neck and the slack of his trousers, and lifted him with a swinging movement clean off his feet.

Up into the air went Ready, struggling and kicking, gasping with astonishment, bewildered and angry. Having swung Jack up thus, Boltwood seized him firmly by the belt, and held him aloft with one hand, high above his head.

“See that!”

Freshmen and sophomores uttered the shout, and it seemed that the fighting lulled for a moment, in order for the astounded men to witness this remarkable feat of strength.

Boltwood laughed!

“Why,” he cried, “I always knew the fellow was a lightweight as far as his brains went; but now I find him a lightweight in every way.”

Down came Ready, being lowered and tossed aside. Bingham had just recovered enough to attempt to come to the rescue of his classmate, but he was too late. Boltwood dropped Jack, caught Bingham by the wrist, gave him a twisting wrench and a trip, and sent him spinning end over end.

As long as he lived Bingham never forgot how he felt just then. It seemed that his arm had been wrenched out of the socket and something had caused the earth to whirl like a top. He came down flat on his back and lay there, while the uproar continued, looking at a calm, white star that he could see through an opening in the trees.

“I didn’t come out here,” muttered Bingham thickly, “to study astronomy.”

Boltwood soon became the terror of the sophomores, who were afraid to stand up before him. As a consequence, the freshmen had things their own way in a very short time, and the sophs were driven from the fence.

Then the freshmen piled onto the fence and sang and whooped and had a glorious time. This was their night, and Boltwood was their pride. They wondered how it happened they had never known the fellow was such a perfect whirlwind.

“Why, he’s a match for Merriwell!” some of them declared.

Others, however, and there were more of them, declared that Merriwell would handle Boltwood just as easily as Boltwood had handled Jack Ready.

They patted Boltwood on the back and told him he was “it.” They shook his hand, and wanted to hug him, but he told them not to slobber. He seemed a really modest fellow, who was not at all anxious to be praised and applauded. They decided that it must be his natural modesty that had kept him in the background so long. And yet, had they paused to think it over, they must have known that the poet was not nearly as modest about some things.

But the freshmen were in no condition to think. All they could do was cheer and sing and laugh and taunt the chagrined and mortified sophomores.

CHAPTER XXI.
SOLVING THE MYSTERY.

“Fellows,” growled Jack Ready, “we’ve got to retake that fence if we do it with the aid of Gatling guns! I am willing to shed my heart’s blood, but I am not willing to listen to the insulting howling of those freshies.”

But the sophomores were sore and discouraged. The heart and life had been taken out of them. They had lost confidence in Ready and Bingham. They had lost confidence in themselves. They remembered with terror the stalking wonder of the freshmen, the new leader, Rolf Boltwood.

“That’s all right to say,” muttered one; “but we’re no match for them as long as they have that fellow.”

“And that fellow should be safe under lock and key now!” growled Bingham, rubbing his lame shoulder.

Jack Ready begged them to follow him. Do it then, he urged, and they might take the freshmen by surprise. The freshmen thought they had driven them off for good and all. But it is not at all certain he could have induced them to follow him had not Frank Merriwell suddenly appeared and put in a word.

“You fellows will never hear the last of it if you let the freshmen keep your fence,” he said. “You can’t do that, and you know it. Try a rush, locked together, and see if you can’t sweep them back. Go at them in earnest while they are singing and whooping over their triumph.”

“If we had you for a leader,” said some one. “If you would meet that holy terror Boltwood.”

“Oh, he’s a mark!” said Frank. “Anybody can handle that chap.”

“My, my!” murmured Ready. “How wise you are! Bet a cabbage you can’t handle him so easy!”

Frank laughed.

“I’m ashamed of you, Ready,” he said. “He’s no athlete.”

“Maybe not,” growled Bingham; “but he’s the devil let loose!”

But Frank led the sophomores into forming quietly and quickly for a rush. When they were ready, Frank saw that they started and got under way without any yelling to give the freshmen warning that they were coming.

Thus it happened that the first the freshmen knew the sophomores were sweeping down on them in a compact mass, ready to make another fierce struggle. Starbright and Morgan cried for the freshmen to fall in and get ready to meet the rush, but there was not enough time to prepare properly before the rushers were on them.

Somehow, Boltwood had disappeared. This had been noticed a short time before, and now they called to him in vain. He was not there to give them courage to withstand that furious rush of the sophs.

The sophomores plowed into the freshmen in an irresistible surge, and they could not be checked. As they found the freshmen melting before them, their spirits rose and they grew fiercer and more determined. The result was that the freshmen were swept away like chaff, and the sophomores retook the fence with so little trouble that they were almost bewildered.

“Where is Boltwood?” was the question asked on all sides as the freshmen were put to rout.

“He’s sneaked!” declared somebody resentfully. “He’s a coward, anyhow. It was only when excited that he had any courage. The moment the excitement was over, his courage left him and he got out of the way.”

But neither Starbright nor Morgan made any such remark. Both of them knew what had become of Boltwood, and they held their peace.

Some of the freshmen were for making another attempt to recapture the fence, but the most of them had had enough and were well satisfied. They had defeated the sophs in the pass and captured and held the fence for a while, which was glory indeed, and that seemed sufficient. So they began to disperse at once, and to the sophomores was left the satisfaction of holding what was their own.

As soon as it was seen that the rioting was over for the night, the students betook themselves to other parts. The sophomores lingered the longest at their fence, growling over what had happened. Jack Ready found himself regarded with considerable disfavor, many seeming to think he should have foreseen the trick at the pass and been prepared for it.

“Alas!” he sighed. “I did foresee it to the extent of capturing that devil Boltwood, but somehow he broke forth, or fifth, from his dungeon cell, and was right in the midst of the prayer-meeting.”

“But where did he go to?” growled Bingham. “He disappeared mighty suddenly.”

“That was strange,” put in Carker.

“Strange!” exploded Ready. “Will you tell me something that happened to-night that was not strange? This poet works in wondrous ways his marvels to perform. I’ll never get over it. Think of being held up for ridicule by a wall-eyed he-goat like that! Yow!”

“And he slammed me round as if I never cost a cent in my life,” said Bingham.

“He had the strength of—of——” began Carker.

“An earthquake,” finished Ready.

“Let’s shake the earthquake for a while,” begged Greg.

“We look as if it had shaken us,” muttered Bingham.

“There’s a mystery about that man Boltwood,” declared the sophomore socialist.

“I believe you!” grunted the big man.

“Where did he get those muscles?” demanded Greg.

“That’s what I’d like to have you explain,” said Ready.

“I’m another,” nodded Bing, rubbing his lame shoulder.

“No man ever gets strength like that unless he trains for it,” persisted Carker.

“You’re right,” agreed Bingham.

“Well, when has this doggerel writer trained, may I ask?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Then how comes it that he is so thundering strong?”

“There is the mystery.”

“And it’s deep and dark,” said Ready. “If he’d been any stronger he might have wiped us all off the face of the earth. I’ve been up against Merriwell before now, and it seems to me that this man was fully the match for Merriwell. Somehow, he had the same careless way of slamming a fellow round.”

“If we’d just had Merriwell in disguise to run against him,” said Carker. “Oh, but the fur would have filled the air!”

“Merriwell in disguise!” exclaimed Ready, suddenly starting and giving his own head a punch. “Why didn’t I think of that before! Oh, lud!”

“It would have been a great trick,” said Carker; “but it’s too late to think about it now.”

“Merriwell in disguise!” repeated Ready, as if in a trance.

“Come out of it!” growled Bingham.

“Oh, lud! Oh, lud!” murmured Jack, again smiting himself back of the ear with his clenched fist. “What chumps we have been! If we’d just ripped off his wig, he would have stood exposed! And I lost the chance to do the trick! I must find a good soft place to lie down and expire!”

“What the dickens are you talking about?” snapped Carker.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Bingham.

“Fellows,” said Ready, “we have played right into the hands of Merriwell. We gave him the chance to be the principal figure in the affair to-night.”

“Are you daffy?” asked Carker. “What do you mean?”

“He lured us into catching Boltwood and confining the fellow so that he could get into this game,” said Jack.

Still both Carker and Bingham were in the dark.

“Why, hang it all!” exploded Jack; “can’t you see through a ladder? Boltwood wasn’t here at all!”

“What?” gasped Carker.

“What?” roared Bingham.

“Then who in blazes——” began Greg.

“Merriwell,” said Jack quietly.

“Merriwell—Boltwood?” gurgled Bingham. “You can’t mean——”

“That Merriwell got us to kidnap Boltwood so that he might disguise himself as that freak and take part in the fun. He did it, while Boltwood languished in the dark hole where we have stowed him. You both know Merriwell’s ability to make up. He is a great actor. He fooled everybody into thinking he was Knight at the regatta. This Boltwood is about Merriwell’s height, and——”

“Merciful heavens!” gasped Carker. “I believe you are right!”

“I believe so, too!” admitted Bingham reluctantly. “Now that I think of it, it seems to me that Boltwood to-night was too well built for the poet. And it also seems that I observed in his movements some of Merriwell’s ways.”

“He did it to get even with me,” said Ready.

“And you must confess that he has about made the score even,” said Carker.

Ready actually seemed relieved.

“Well, I’m glad I wasn’t tossed round like that by that freak of a freshman poet!” he exclaimed.

“Tell you what,” said Bingham, “let’s go see if Boltwood is still in the basement of the old storage-house. If that was Merriwell, he must be there.”

“I’m with you!” cried Jack. “Come on, Carker!”

Away they went. They found a cab and piled into it in a hurry, having given the driver directions.

“He’ll be there,” said Bingham confidently. “I haven’t a doubt of it now.”

“Nor I,” said Carker.

“I hope he is,” said Ready. “I feel like slamming him round a few, just to relieve my feelings.”

They stopped at last near the old warehouse. Leaving the cab to wait, they jumped out and approached the dark and gloomy building. A watchman stopped them.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“It’s all right, Bill,” assured Jack. “Here’s your pay for watching. We’ve come for the captive. Is he safe?”

“Sure thing,” said the man, taking the money from Jack. “You’ll find him right there.”

“Had to drive anybody away from the building?”

“Not a soul.”

“That settles it!” growled Bingham. “Now we know who did the trick! Ready, Merriwell is more than even with you!”

“Don’t say a word!” muttered Jack. “I believe I shall have to slam Boltwood round a little, just to ease the strain on my nervous system.”

They entered the old building and descended into the basement. It was dark down there, but they found a candle and lighted it. Then they proceeded to a heavy door, on which there was a padlock, and against which was a heavy bar.

Jack took out a key and unlocked the padlock, while Bingham removed the bar, Carker holding the candle.

Then the door was yanked open, and the light of the candle shone into the room beyond. It showed them, sitting on a box and calmly waiting, the well-known figure of the long-haired freshman poet!

“Yah!” snarled Jack Ready, jumping in and pouncing on Boltwood. “So you are here, are you?”

“Well, where in thunder did you think I’d be?” growled the freshman sulkily. “I hope you are satisfied with your scurvy trick!”

“Scurvy trick, hey?” cried Jack, growing warm. “Be careful! Your language is offensive, sir!”

“Well, you haven’t done anything to me that was offensive, have you? You think you can do just as you hanged please without anybody saying a word. But I’ll fix you! I’ll write a poem about you!”

“I don’t believe you will,” said Jack.

“Yes, I will. I’ve made up my mind to that, and I’ve been composing some of the stanzas while you’ve kept me locked up here.”

“Oh, you have? Well, you want to get them right out of your head.”

They led the freshman forth and made their way from the old building. As they departed, the man they had paid for watching stood at a distance and chuckled.

“Well, this has been a great night’s work,” he muttered. “Both chaps paid me a fiver. Ten dollars for doing nothing! I’d like to make a strike like that every night.”

The sophomores led Boltwood to the cab, into which they thrust him. Then they piled in, the door slammed, and the cab rolled away.

“Now,” said Ready, when they were all in the cab, “I want you to repeat some of the poetry you have composed about me.”

“You won’t like it,” said Boltwood, with a chuckle.

“I don’t expect I will. But begin.”

“All right. It begins like this:

“There was a little Jack,

And it came to pass

That this poor little Jack

Became a jackass.”

Bingham snorted, and Carker made some sort of a gurgling sound.

“I don’t think I’ll repeat any more of it,” said Boltwood, in a tone of voice that seemed to tremble with apprehension.

“Perhaps you hadn’t better!” said Ready coldly. “That is quite enough.”

“I should say so!” muttered Carker.

“It’s not poetry,” asserted Ready.

“I admit,” said Boltwood, “that it contains more truth than poetry.”

Then Bingham snorted again.

“You’re altogether too gay, my fresh young friend!” cried Jack, getting hold of Boltwood and giving him a shake.

“Oh, I think you are mistaken!” exclaimed Boltwood, getting hold of Jack and giving him a fiercer shake.

“What the deuce are you doing?” cried Ready.

“What the deuce are you doing?” asked Boltwood.

Then Jack got mad and smacked the freshman with his open hand. But quick as a flash Boltwood came back with his open hand, nearly knocking Jack’s head off.

“Give it to him, fellows!” cried Ready angrily. “Let’s teach the chump a lesson!”

“Do!” urged Boltwood, as he suddenly biffed Bingham. “I shall enjoy it so much!”

That made the big fellow mad.

“You are a chump!” he growled.

But somehow Boltwood managed to yank Carker round so that Greg received the blow Bingham intended for Boltwood.

The freshman laughed.

“Isn’t this fun!” he said. “It’s far better than being shut up in that dark hole.”

“Oh, wow!” howled Carker. “That nearly knocked my head off!”

“It wouldn’t have been any great loss,” said Boltwood.

By this time the three sophomores were angry in earnest, and they proceeded to pitch into the freshman.

“We’ll have to spank him again, Bing,” said Ready.

But when they tried to yank the freshman down and get him into position for spanking, they found it could not be done very easily, and he managed to rap their heads together till they saw stars and heard bells ringing.

“Aren’t you having lots of fun with me?” inquired Boltwood.

“Oh, lud!” groaned Ready. “My head, my head!”

“Never mind,” said the freshman. “It’s hard to crack solid wood.”

“Now, that’s too much!” exploded Jack.

“Is it?” asked Boltwood. “Then it may not be solid; perhaps it’s hollow.”

“Jump on him!” urged Carker, whose “dander” was up. “Let’s kill him!”

“That’s right!” urged the fellow; “go ahead and kill me. I’ll see how you do it.”

Ready thought he had the range of Boltwood, and he struck out. His knuckles, however, encountered something hard, knocking the skin off them.

“Too bad!” said the voice of the freshman. “Try it again, please.”

“Slam him down in the bottom of the cab!” roared Bingham.

“Won’t that be nice!” laughed the freshman. “You can use me for a foot-mat. He, he!”

But he got hold of Bingham by the back of the neck, and gave the big fellow a twisting flop that threw him to the bottom of the cab.

“Steady,” said the poet, as he held the big soph down with his knees. “Lie still and take things easy.”

Both Carker and Ready tried to grapple with the fellow, but they got hold of each other by mistake, and he proceeded to slam them down on top of Bingham, filling the space between the two seats with their bodies. Then he sat on them and held them down.

The cab rumbled on, and the freshman began to sing, “Throw Him Down, McClusky.”

Bingham howled, Carker squawked, and Ready squealed.

In this manner the cab rattled up to the corner of College and Chapel Streets, where it stopped. The freshman wrenched open the door, jumped out, bade the discomfited and disgusted sophomores good night, and ran into Osborn Hall.

The events of that night completely mystified Ready, Bingham, and Carker. They were certain that one of the “Boltwoods” was Merriwell, but which one was the question that troubled them. After a while Jack Ready figured it out.

“They were both Merriwells!” he declared.

“How could that be?” asked Bingham.

“Merriwell somehow found out where we had taken Boltwood. He left the fellow there, while he made up and led the freshmen. When the fight for the fence was over, he hastened to set Boltwood free and take his place, again in disguise. So it was Merriwell we encountered both times.”

It seemed marvelous, but it was the real explanation, Jack felt confident. However, when they accused Frank, Merry lifted his eyebrows, seemed greatly astonished, and told them they must be going daffy. Nor could they get him to admit that he had taken any part in the rush or had been in the cab with them.

“But to my dying day I shall believe it was Merriwell!” said Jack.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE MAN WHO LOST THE GAME.

The baseball season had fairly opened up.

Yale men were full of enthusiasm for their nine, which easily wrested victory from the Princeton Tigers in the first game of the series. But the confidence of the rooters met with a severe shock, and it was a pretty sore lot of lads that came back from Princeton after the second game with the Tigers. The first game had been won so easily that Yale counted on taking two straight without much trouble, and a great crowd of fans had accompanied the nine to “whoop ’er up” and rejoice and have a high old time.

During the game the rooters from New Haven had done their best to make as much noise as the great throng of Princeton admirers, and some of the Yale crowd quite lost their voices; but, alas! all this whooping and cheering could not save the game when the final pinch came, and Princeton lowered the blue to the dust.

During the first four innings Yale led, and it looked like a repetition of the first game, when Yale had never been headed from the start throughout the game. But in the fifth inning came a change.

The score was five to two. The “hot end” of Princeton’s batting order came up, and the first man sent a skipper past Morgan, who was playing short. It was not an error, for Dade did not touch the ball. Some thought he might have touched it if he had tried hard.

The next batter dropped one just over the infield and out of reach of the outfield. Then an error by Carson at third filled the bags.

Then came the first great catastrophe. Starbright was pitching. The next batter connected with one of his curves, driving a long fly into center field. Mason made a run for it, and it struck fairly in his hands.

But he did not hold it! It dropped down somewhere, and, while he was wildly searching for it about his feet, four men romped in over the home plate, putting Princeton one in the lead.

This was simply awful. Merriwell saw what was liable to happen, and he started in warming up at once. Frank had made no mistake in his anticipations. Starbright went up in a balloon. The next two men hit him safely, and then he gave a base on balls. The bases were filled when Merriwell went into the box.

The cheering of the Tigers was meant to encourage the home team and rattle the visitors still more. Somebody asked what was the difference between Buffalo Bill and Yale. Somebody else answered that Buffalo Bill had a show and Yale hadn’t. And the crowd laughed at this chestnut.

But the next batter found it impossible to connect with Merry’s shoots. He made two fouls, and two strikes were called on him as a penalty. Then he fanned and missed. The ball plunked into Bart Hodge’s mitt, and the striker ambled sadly back to the bench. That made the second man retired.

The next batter put a long fly into left field, but Gamp pulled it down and retired the side. Princeton, however, had the lead.

In the next inning Yale tied the score; but in the seventh Princeton again took the lead, making two. The crowd roared with joy, for it seemed that Merriwell was going to pieces. Frank, however, steadied down after his own fashion and struck out two men, which retired the Tigers.

But Princeton held the lead, and there was great rejoicing. The Yale rooters kept up their ’rah-’rah-ing. Neither side scored in the eighth, and the ninth came on with the orange and black waving triumphantly.

Merriwell was the first batter up, and he led off with a three-bagger. That seemed to wake the Yale men up, and some lively hitting followed, so that the blue tied the score, setting the rooters crazy with joy.

Princeton was savage, and the first man got a pretty single off Merry. A dropped fly in the outfield let the runner round to third and put the second batter on second.

Hodge was nervous and Frank became afraid of him, for he did not seem to hold the ball after his usual fashion. Merry tried the double-shoot and Bart came near having a passed ball, which must have let in a score.

Then, forced to be careful, Merriwell became too careful, which let Princeton fill the bags by getting the batter down to first on balls.

Not a man was out. Yale was in a hole, and the cheering of the Tigers rolled across the field, while the orange and black fluttered and flaunted joyously.

This was the kind of a game to thrill the nerves of the spectators and set their hearts pounding. The great concourse of people leaned forward on the benches and watched breathlessly for what was to follow.

There came a hush.

Whizz—crack! The ball had been hit.

“Strike—one!” cried the umpire, as the ball went foul.

“All right, Leverage,” said the captain of the Tigers encouragingly. “You’ve got his alley. You’ll line it out next time.”

Leverage was a hitter. Frank feared the fellow might smash out a long one, and so he resorted to the double-shoot without delay. Two balls were called; then another strike. But Bart was having great difficulty with the double-shoot.

Merry gave Leverage a rise, but could not pull him with it.

“Three balls,” decided the umpire.

The next ball delivered would decide the matter.

Frank used a drop. Leverage got under it, and hit it a savage crack, lifting it into the air.

“Hold your bags!” roared a coacher, as he saw Hock Mason getting under the ball. “Run the moment he catches it!”

The coacher on third was giving the runner there some advice, getting the man braced, ready to start for home. Leverage had skipped down to first. The men on first and second were ready for whatever might happen.

Mason got under the ball and waited for it. It seemed certain that he must catch it, but could he stop the runner on third from scoring?

There was a hush. The ball struck fairly in the hands of the Southerner, and——

Bounced out! He had muffed it!

“Run!” shrieked the coachers, while the great crowd of Princeton men rose up and roared.

The runner who had been on third came scudding home. The man who had been on second raced like a wild-eyed runaway colt to third, where the coacher made furious gestures for him to keep on hard for home. The man on first got to second safely, and Leverage, the batter, was comfortably on first.

Mason found the ball, his heart full of rage and dismay, picked it up and threw wildly into the diamond.

Fortunately, Frank got in front of it, and was able to hold the runners on their bases, not letting them move farther; but he could not stop the second man, who had been sent tearing home, and Princeton was two scores in the lead.

How the Tigers roared! How their colors fluttered and waved! No wonder they were delighted. Yale had her very best team on the field.

The Yale fans looked weary.

“That’s ten runs for Princeton,” said Chan Webb, who, with Cowles, Mullen, and Nash, had come down to see Lib Benson play in right field. Benson was one of their particular set. He had once been an enemy of Merriwell, but he soon found that he was making himself very unpopular, and he changed his tune. However, his friends had prophesied that he could not make the ball-team as long as Merry was captain. In this he had shown them they were mistaken, for Frank had put him into right field, though his ambition was to cover a bag.

“That’s right,” nodded Gil Cowles gloomily. “And it looks as if they might make more. Nobody’s out.”

“Ye gods!” sobbed Irving Nash. “It’s an awful thing to lose this game, and that man Mason is to blame for it all.”

“Right!” exclaimed Cowles. “Princeton has made ten scores, and Mason is responsible for exactly six of them. His first muff let in four, and this one let in two more. He’s a bird!”

“He’s not to blame at all,” asserted Mullen, to the astonishment of his companions.

“Why isn’t he?” they fiercely demanded, turning on him. “Who is to blame?”

“Merriwell,” said Mullen grimly.

“How do you make that out?”

“Merriwell put Mason on the team, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He has been told that the man was not fast enough, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t drop him, would he?”

“No.”

“Well, that fixes the responsibility. Merriwell has shown mighty poor judgment, and that’s all there is to it. I have nothing against Merriwell, but I have against the association that lets him run the team just as he likes, in defiance of anybody else. Merriwell is a wonder as a pitcher, and he’s all right as captain of the team; but he should not have supreme authority, and I’ve said so right along. Why, some of his best friends are against Mason.”

“Who?”

“They say Hodge has kicked like a steer. Notice Hodge has not been in his usual form to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I understand he tried to get Merriwell to drop Mason off last night, but Merry wouldn’t hear of it. That’s what ails Hodge to-day.”

“Well, it looks bad for us now.”

Then they fell to watching the playing, for Frank was in the box, ready to resume, and Princeton was booming her cry over the field.

Frank settled down to business now. He had talked with Bart. Hodge was mad. His face was flushed and his teeth set. The shoots came over the plate in bewildering variety, but Bart froze to them all and held them.

One, two, three strikes were called on the next batter, and down he went.

The next man lifted a little fly, which Merry took himself.

“Merriwell is pitching now!” said the Yale spectators. “Just watch him!”

The ball did not look larger than a marble when it left Frank’s hand and went whistling over the corners of the plate. Princeton was still cheering, but something told every witness that the orange and black would score no more that day.

One strike!

Two strikes!

Three strikes!

“Batter is out,” announced the umpire.

Then Yale cheered, and the men came trotting in from the field.

Mason was a sorry-looking fellow. He hung his head, for it seemed that every eye in that great crowd was turned on him.

Of course, Frank did his best to cheer his men, but Yale was doomed to defeat that day.

And thus it happened that a very gloomy and very sore set of fellows returned to New Haven after the game.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A PROUD-SPIRITED YOUTH.

In all Yale no man felt as bad as Hock Mason. He was proud, and he knew he was almost universally blamed for the loss of the game. Thinking the matter over, he could see that he was responsible. If he had caught both flies but one man could have scored off each of them, at most, and that would have left the score eight to six in Yale’s favor.

“I was a fool to try to play baseball!” he bitterly thought. “I’d never have tried it if it hadn’t been for Merriwell. He wanted me to do it.”

Then it occurred to him that such a thought was selfish in the extreme, and he was ashamed of himself.

“You’re a mighty mean chap, Mason,” he grimly declared, to himself, “to think such a thing about a man who has done as much for you as Merriwell! Don’t try to lay the blame on him!”

No shouting crowd met the returning players at the station and escorted them in triumph up Meadow, Church, and Chapel Streets. No band turned out to thrill them with its music. No shouting, cheering students surrounded them and strove for the glory of a hand-shake. On the campus no bonfire blazed and flared and reddened the foliage of the elms, its light being reflected back from the windows of the quad.

“There seems to have been a funeral somewhere,” said Jack Ready. “How sad it is! La! la! Makes me feel like weeping large, fat, briny tears. Oh, me! oh, my! How different this time is from some other times!”

“Keep your face closed!” grunted Browning. “Every time you open it, there’s such a rush of wind that I have to hold my cap on.”

“Some things are awfully sad to contemplate,” persisted Ready, who could not be easily suppressed. “It is said that in ’steen billion years the sun will burn out, and we’ll all freeze to death for want of heat. Isn’t that awful? And what would you say if I were to tell you that all our rivers would soon dry up?”

“I’d sus—say,” stuttered Gamp solemnly, “gug—go thou and dud—do likewise.”

Whereupon Browning shook with suppressed laughter, for all of the feeling of disgust that had possessed him ever since the ending of the game in Princeton.

Mason went straight to his room, where he spent a most bitter night, scarcely closing his eyes in sleep. All night long he dreamed that he was pursuing flies that got away from him, or that ten thousand eyes were turned on him in withering scorn and contempt, seeming to glare at him as one great eye of fire.

His Southern pride had been touched to the quick. He felt that he could not endure the sidelong contemptuous glances of those who must look on him with scorn for what had happened. If it had not seemed cowardly, he would have contemplated getting away from college somehow for a while.

“But I can’t play ball any more!” he told himself. “I can’t! I can’t do it! Gamp would have caught that fly—both of them! He always catches anything he can get his hands on. He’s a Yankee, and everything sticks to a Yankee’s fingers! They can hold onto money harder than any class of people I ever saw.”

Mason was homesick. He did not confess it to himself, but he longed for a sight of his South Carolina home, with the red road winding past and running away into the pine woods. He longed for a sight of the negro cabins, with the old mammies smoking by the doors and the pickaninnies romping and playing and rolling their white eyes up to the passing stranger. He longed for the peaceful quiet that pervaded the air and the genial warmth of the bright Southern sunshine. He felt that the North was cold and heartless, and he wished himself away.

And so he tossed and turned till the gray light of morning sifted in at his window and reached his bed. In the morning light he slept dreamlessly for the first time, and there was a smile on his face, for at last he was at home and his misery was forgotten. Through his dreaming he seemed to hear the joyous singing of colored laborers in the fields, and the sound was sweet as the chime of heavenly bells.

It was six minutes of eight when Mason awoke. He came out of bed with one great leap. It was his habit to take a sponge bath in the morning, but there was no time for anything of the sort this morning. He flung on his underclothing, tore open his wardrobe door, yanked out a mackintosh and a pair of rubber boots, jumped into the boots, pulled on the mackintosh, seized an old hat, and tore out of his room.

In this rig, Mason appeared at chapel in due time, and he was not the only student present who was dressed in a wild and weird fashion.

To Hock it seemed as if the eyes of all present were on him. He did not dare look up, but felt his face burning. His sensitive nature suffered extreme torture until he could escape, when the service was over, and hurry to his room.

Merriwell had observed Mason, and Frank fancied he understood how the proud fellow felt.

It was somewhat remarkable that Hock Mason, a man who had once been a bully, should have such a sensitive nature; but of late Frank had been studying the chap, and he found the Southerner a very queer character.

When he came to Yale, Mason had regarded himself as far superior to the majority of the students there, just as he fancied a man born in South Carolina must naturally be superior, everything considered, to a man born anywhere else. It had irritated him when he found that in the democratic atmosphere of Old Eli there was none to bow down and acknowledge him a superior. Then he had started out knocking into the heads of his associates the conviction that he was “the real thing,” but this policy had not worked very well. He became more and more disliked until he ran against Merriwell, who gave him a sound thrashing and took some of the growing conceit out of him.

But it was Merriwell’s interest in Mason while the latter lay ill in a hospital that completely won Hock. Not another soul came to inquire how Mason was getting along. Those who pretended to be his friends remained away, but daily Frank Merriwell called, and Frank it was who came first to the side of Hock’s cot when a visitor was permitted to see him.

When Mason left the hospital he was completely cured of his bullying inclinations. More than that, he had become a stanch friend of Merriwell.

Mason never anticipated that he would be accepted as a member of Merriwell’s “flock.” That was too much for him to dare to hope. All the same, he was stanch and true. He did not obtrude himself on Merry or Merry’s friends, and he conducted himself modestly and quietly.

By some it was thought that the spirit of the Southerner had been broken, which, however, was not the case. He had simply learned his lesson, and learned it well. When the time came he showed that he had quite as much spirit as of old. And he could fight better when forced to do so, for he knew he was fighting in a just cause.

But for all that Mason had once seemed to be a bully, there was not much of the bulldog about him. He was not a quitter, but he felt always that it was best to get out of a thing before he was kicked out.

Not till he was pulled into Merriwell’s set did he become one of the circle. Even then he was rather quiet, although his quietness was that of pride, instead of modesty. Sometimes this sort of retiring pride is mistaken for modesty.

After chapel Hock had plenty of time to think. He kept away from his eating-club, finding breakfast at a lunch-cart. He knew it would do him little good to study that day, but he tried to apply himself. As he was leaving his room some time after breakfast, he paused at the head of the flight of stairs. At the foot of the flight, three men were talking.

“It was just a case of bad judgment on Merriwell’s part,” said one. “Mason can’t play ball.”

“Everybody is kicking about it,” declared another. “Mason must be dropped from the team.”

“He’d never made the nine in the first place, if he had not been one of Merriwell’s friends,” declared the third.

Then they moved away together, still talking baseball.

Hock Mason stood quite still, his face rather pale.

“So that is what they’re saying!” he muttered. “They are blaming Merriwell for taking me onto the nine. Well, I’ll get off it at once.”

And he started to find Frank.

CHAPTER XXIV.
FRANK SETTLES A POINT.

“Hello, Hodge!” cheerfully called Frank, as Hodge came into his room.

“Hello!” said Bart shortly.

“Sit down. I’ll be ready to chat a bit as soon as I finish this sentence.”

“Always writing,” muttered Bart, looking curiously at Frank’s work. “Don’t you ever give yourself a minute’s rest?”

“Oh, yes!” Merry laughed. “You know the fellows come round and make me hold up sometimes. But I’m rushing this work through, and I plug away at it when I find time.”

“What is it—a book?”

“You’ve guessed it.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Bart, surprised.

Frank nodded. Then, while Bart watched in wondering silence, he finished the sentence.

“There,” he exclaimed, throwing down the pen. “That chapter is nearly completed. One more and I’ll have the book done.”

“You’re not going to turn author, are you?” asked Bart.

“To some extent—perhaps,” nodded Frank. “I am thinking of giving some of my time to the work, which I find very pleasant, even though I have been forced to do it here in snatches and under great difficulty. When the idea came to me, I thought of putting it off till after leaving college, but it preyed upon me till I was forced to sit down and begin the work. Once begun, it has forced me to push it through to completion. I have written many a night when other fellows were sleeping, and I was supposed to be in bed myself.”

“What is it, anyway—a novel?”

“No.”

“Then what——”

“You’ll see when it is published. I think it will contain a lot of good advice.”

Bart nodded.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “If I had not had you for an example, Merriwell, there’s no telling what I’d be now. I’m certain I must have developed into a cigarette fiend.”

“And cigarette fiends never can be strong until they give up the things forever,” asserted Frank. “Every day a fellow smokes cigarettes on this end of life he wipes off a day on the other end. He is cutting his life shorter day by day, though he may not know it. It’s true, Hodge, and it makes me feel bad for some of the foolish chaps who think they are sporty and up to date because they smoke the little paper-covered life-destroyers.”

“That’s all right,” agreed Bart; “but there are some fellows who do not smoke cigarettes, and who cannot play ball.”

Merry looked at his companion sharply, quickly divining what Bart was driving at.

“You’re feeling bad over the loss of that game,” he said. “Well, don’t you think I felt rather sore? If I’d pitched the whole of it there might have been——”

“The pitching did not lose that game, Frank, and you know it.”

“Perhaps not; but——”

“You know, I know, and everybody knows, just where the responsibility falls. Mason lost that game. He let in six runs by dropping those two flies.”

“Two men must have scored, anyhow, even if he had caught them. It would have been great work if he had stopped either runner at the plate.”

“But what if they had? We’d carried off the game, with a score of eight to six. It was the other four scores that beat us. Three of them came in off Starbright’s pitching. Now, you know I have never taken much stock in Mason. Some fools have said it’s because Mason is like me; but that’s not it at all. He hasn’t sand, Merriwell, and it takes sand to play ball.”

“I think you are wrong, Hodge. I believe Mason has plenty of sand.”

But Hodge shook his head grimly.

“I don’t believe it. Even if he has, he can’t fill that field, and you must know it by this time. There are plenty of better men than he who are eager to get onto the nine.”

“Name a few of them.”

“Hershal, for one.”

“And would you advise me to drop Mason and take on Hershal?” asked Frank quietly.

“It would be worth trying.”

“Do you believe in experimenting at this stage of the season?”

“Not exactly in experimenting,” said Bart, uneasily. “But you have tried Mason and found him a fizzle.”

“Hodge, you know the condition in which I found things when I came back to college this spring. The prospects for a first-class ball-team did not look very bright. The coaches were worried and disgusted. The newspapers were saying Yale could not put a winning team onto the field. Everybody lacked confidence. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I had to do something. I went to my friends who had some ability to play and asked them to come out and take hold. I asked them to get out everybody who had any chance of making a player. You know how the cage was filled with new men. Some of them were no good and did not stay long, but the coaches were encouraged, and things began to look up. Confidence was restored, and people began to say Yale had a chance. The tone of the newspaper reports changed. Things began to go better. On the Easter trip I took along every man who was promising. From those men I made the nine as it now stands, and I am still confident that the team is all right. I have every reason to be confident. Yale, for all of prophecies to the contrary, has had a strong team on the field and has won a great majority of her games. I know the hard games are to come, but the team is pulling together better every day. As long as the men have confidence in each other and all work hard to win everything will go right. The moment they begin to pull apart things will begin to go wrong. Jealousy, petty hatred, small spite, and such feelings ruin many ball-teams.”

Bart flushed.

“I hope you’re not firing shots at me!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure I’m not envious of Mason; but I will confess that I have lost my confidence in the fellow. You know as well as I do that he is a conceited, self-satisfied prig. He thinks himself much better than common folks.”

“And do you reckon yourself as common?” asked Frank.

“Not common—but—er—well, you know what I mean. He always was that way. He can’t get over the idea that the son of a South Carolina landowner, a chap whose father has never done work, is better than the son of a Northern farmer, who has bent his back to the plow. That kind of a feeling makes him hold his nose high, and it makes me sick! I’ve never had to work; my father had money, and he never performed manual labor; but I know fellows here who are working their way through college who are just as good as I am—some of them may be a blamed sight better. Mason, if his father were to fail to-morrow, would have to quit his college course. He couldn’t get through just because he couldn’t bring himself to honest work. Think he’d go up in the White Mountains and be a waiter at a summer hotel? Not much! He tries to hide it, but I know he feels contempt for fellows who are compelled to do such work. And the real truth is that such fellows are a hanged sight better men than Mason or any of his ilk! There—now you know what I think of Hock Mason.”

Frank smiled.

“Bart,” he said, “I knew you were prejudiced against Mason, although you have never spoken thus plainly before. It is because you do not understand the fellow. His rearing has been different from that of Northern men. He cannot at once accept a new point of view. He has been raised where day labor was looked on as suited to the black man and to poor white trash. The colored men and the low whites have degraded labor in that way. In the North colored laborers and illiterate whites do not carry the great burden of work. Some of our millionaires have been poor boys who have had to work hard at any old thing, and thus we look at work from another view-point. But we must not be too hard on Mason and fellows like him from the South. Above all things, Hodge, you must not let personal likes and dislikes influence you in baseball. No matter how much you dislike a man, if he can play ball, you must go in with him and work for the good of the nine.”

Bart was fidgeting.

“That’s all right,” he said; “but Mason can’t play. He proved it yesterday.”

“Have you ever seen him put up such a game before?”

“No; but he’s green.”

“And he has come forward faster than any green man I have ever tried. He has worked like a dog to make himself valuable. Not another man on the nine has worked so hard. He could catch a ball when he began, and that was about all he could do. He could not throw, but in one week’s time he became a good thrower. In three weeks he was good enough for the field. He could not bat, but he practised faithfully, and every day he made progress. He is now one of the safest hitters on the team.”

“But you can’t depend on him in an emergency, and you know it, Frank.”

“There were plenty of men who used to say the same thing about you. They don’t say so now.”

Bart shrugged his shoulders.

“They are saying everything you can imagine about Mason.”

Frank looked grim.

“Because Mason had a bad day and put up a poor game. Every player has such days, no matter how good he may be.”

“And you mean to keep him for all of what everybody says?”

“I mean to give him another trial.”

Just then there was a knock, and Mason stood outside the door. He came in at Merry’s invitation, looking blue as a whetstone. Without glancing at Hodge, he began:

“Mr. Merriwell, sah, I judge you’ve made a mighty big mistake in me. You thought I could play ball, but by this time, sah, you must be pretty well satisfied that I’m a first-class flub. I have come, sah, to give notice that I do not propose to make a jackass of myself any more. I am done, sah. As long as I live and have my right mind I’ll play no more baseball.”

A feeling of satisfaction seized upon Hodge, who thought:

“The fellow has more sense than I imagined.”

Frank looked at Mason calmly and steadily, something like deep indignation showing in his face.

“And is this the way you propose to treat me?” he sternly demanded. “I did think, Mason, that you were my friend.”

Hock gasped.

“I am, sah!” he cried quickly. “That’s why I’m taking myself off the nine. You don’t know what they’re saying, Mr. Merriwell. They say you took me on because you regarded me as a friend, and that it was a mighty bad piece of judgment on your part, sah. They say I must get off or ruin the team.”

“And you propose to leave me in the lurch just because some fellows have been making that kind of talk! I didn’t think it of you, Mason—I swear I didn’t!”

Hock looked distressed.

“I’m only doing what I think is the right thing, sah,” he protested. “If you knew what a miserable night I spent last night, Merriwell! I’d a heap rather been shot than to have lost that game. And I know I was the one who lost it! I should have held both of those flies. They were right in my hands.”

“Have I ever said anything to you because you failed to hold them?”

“No, sah.”

“Well, it was because I knew you felt bad enough about it. Had you been some one else on the team, I might have said something. Until that time you remain on the nine. You will report for practise to-morrow. There is no practise to-day.”

Mason’s breath was taken away by Frank’s masterful manner. He had come there firmly resolved to take himself off the team, no matter what Merriwell might say.

“But you—you don’t want me out there in center field,” he weakly said. “There are others——”

“You’ll report for practise to-morrow, Mason,” Frank again said, escorting Hock to the door. “And you’ll play in that field until I put you elsewhere. That matter is settled.”

When Mason was gone Frank turned and found Hodge looking black as a thunder-cloud.

CHAPTER XXV.
MERRIWELL’S POWER.

So it happened that Hock Mason appeared on the field for practise the following day. His appearance was generally unexpected. It was thought that, having discovered the universal sentiment, Merriwell could not help dropping the South Carolinian from the team.

Hock walked into the field with his head up and his lips pressed together. He knew he was being eyed in a curious, scornful manner, and the fact gave him an air of defiance.

“Look at the nerve of him!” muttered Dick Starbright, who could not get over the fact that Hock had dropped that first fly in the Princeton game.

Dick had hoped to pitch that game through to a successful finish, but the dropping of that fly had rattled him so that Merriwell was compelled to take his place. Starbright did not pause to consider that before the long fly came the bases were filled. Nor did it occur to him that, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a most fortunate thing for him had the long fly been driven straight into the hands of the center-fielder instead of going far to one side and out of reach.

He only knew that the center-fielder had dropped the ball, lost it in the short grass near his feet, and four scores had come chasing in for Princeton.

Mason could not help feeling the air of cool scorn, but he had nerved himself to meet this sort of thing, and he made a pretense that he did not mind it at all.

“It takes nerve to get along in this world,” declared Ready fliply. “Now I’ve begun to learn playing the cornet. How is that for nerve?”

“Everybody knows you have plenty of it,” said Browning. “Learning to play the cornet, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Who is your teacher?”

“Oh, I haven’t one. I’m my own tooter.”

Then Jack got out of the way, for he knew the big senior might smash him.

Merriwell met Mason.

“Just in time, Hock,” he said pleasantly. “We’re going out for field practise. You know your position.”

Several students had come out to the field to witness the practise. They heard what Frank said to Hock, and it created a buzzing among them.

The men trotted onto the field, and Mason went down to the middle garden.

Now, of course, there was a manager for the team, although he was a mere figurehead. It was known throughout the college that Merriwell was the real manager, as well as the captain, and he could run things to suit himself. But the ostensible manager had been given a hint from the board of directors, and he braced up to approach Frank. His name was Filkins, and he could put on a great front.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he observed pompously. “I wish to speak with you.”

Frank nodded, and followed Filkins aside.

“It’s a serious matter,” Filkins began. “Of course we rely on your judgment, Merriwell, but even the best of us sometimes make—er—ah—breaks, you understand. Of course, I’m not casting any—er—reflection on—on—anything you may have seen fit to do; but it is the universal opinion that—ah—something must be done. I don’t like to—to—ah——”

“Come to the point, Mr. Filkins,” urged Frank. “Time is precious. What do you wish to say?”

He knew well enough what the fellow was driving at, but Merry had no intention of helping him out. Somehow Filkins’ air of pomposity vanished.

“I’m not doing this on my own accord,” he declared. “But I’ve been compelled to do it. You understand? As I said, we’re well pleased with your judgment generally; but there is one matter that is not satisfactory. We do not think center field is properly filled.”

“Is that it?” said Frank grimly. “Well what about it?”

“I would suggest a change.”

“Very well.”

“You will make it?” exclaimed Filkins, in great relief.

“I did not say so.”

“But you said ‘very well.’”

“Which simply meant that I would hear your suggestion.”

Filkins’ relief changed to uneasiness again. He had been instructed to be firm and impress on Merriwell that a change must be made, and he had promised to do so. Now, however, he found all his firmness oozing before the steady gaze of that grim-faced athlete.

“But you—you must act on it,” he said huskily.

“Must?” said Frank, still more grimly. “Who says so?”

“Why, I—er—we—the board says so. There is general dissatisfaction.”

“Filkins, I believe it is generally understood that I am to use my own judgment in handling this team?”

“Why, yes; but——”

“When I took hold of the nine it was in a very bad way. Yale was desperate. I had an understanding with you and the board of directors. You know what followed. I was given full power. I turned out a host of new men to practise, and out of them I found some good timber for the nine, filling the very gaps that were open. I confess that many of the players are my personal friends, but they have been trained to play ball under me, not only here but last summer and the summer before during vacation. I knew the kind of stuff to be found in Browning, Gamp, and Ready.

“Parker, who tried to make the team, and who played with us last summer, did not succeed because I found a better man. That man is Mason. He has in him the making of a remarkable outfielder. He has played well so far, with the exception of that last game. He is not popular, and just because he lost that game for us there has risen a general outcry, and an attempt is being made to push him off the team. Some of my own friends are helping, or trying to help, get rid of him. But let me tell you this, Filkins: Until I have further evidence of Mason’s incapacity, he remains on the team. When I am satisfied that I have made a mistake, I’ll drop him, but not a minute before. That’s business, and you may report it to the board.”

Then Frank left Filkins, and the fellow felt that he hadn’t a leg to stand on.

“Great gash!” he gurgled, glaring after Merry. “Think of it! Think of the captain of a ball-team daring to talk to the manager like that! Oh, jiminy! Never was another man at Yale could do it and hold his job a minute. Merriwell knows he has us in a hole. Just as he says, the team is made up mainly of his friends, and they’d quit quicker than a wink if anything were done to him. That would leave us in the soup.”

It was true that never before had any man at Yale possessed such complete authority and power. No man but Merriwell could have obtained such a hold; but he had it, and he felt that he was doing right in standing by the position he had assumed.

So those who had gathered at the field expecting Mason would be shelved if he appeared to practise were greatly disappointed. Hock filled the middle field, and the practise he put up that day was gilt-edged.

CHAPTER XXVI.
MASON’S CHALLENGE.

“Mason!” cried Merriwell, who was batting to the outfield.

Then he sent out a long, difficult fly, forcing Mason to run for it as hard as he could.

Hock held it, though forced to take it on the dead run.

“Gamp!”

Merry gave Joe one very much like that driven out to Hock, and the New Hampshire youth made his long legs fly as he pranced over the ground. He gathered the fly in, whirled round, and sent it almost on a line to the plate. Gamp was a wonderful thrower, and he sometimes fancied showing off a little.

“Benson!”

Frank cracked out a liner to Lib Benson in right field. It was not straight at Benson, and he was compelled to jump to get in front of it; but he took it handsomely, giving Nash, Mullen, and Cowles a chance to applaud.

In the meantime, another man was batting all kinds of balls to the infield, keeping every one on the jump. Pretty soon Frank changed places with the other batter. He had given the outfielders the kind of work that he felt was best for them, and now he wished to see the infield practise.

Ready, covering second, was sent leaping after a ground-skimmer.

“First!” rang out Merry’s voice.

Jack picked it up, and, without straightening, still running, he snapped it to Browning.

“Second!”

The command came from Merry while the ball was on its way to Bruce. Browning took it and threw, to second without a moment’s delay.

Morgan had leaped to cover the bag, but he was a trifle too slow, and he touched the ball with one hand only.

“Ginger up!” commanded Frank promptly. “You must cover that bag, Morgan, when Ready is after the ball like that.”

Dade started to shrug his shoulders, but changed his mind instantly, smiled a bit sweetly, and called in a musical, good-natured voice:

“All right, sir.”

And this was the same Dade Morgan who had once seemed to be Frank Merriwell’s bitter and unrelenting enemy. A great change had come over Dade since the death of Santenel. Released from the power of the hypnotist, Morgan was fast becoming quite a different fellow.

Next Frank drove a liner to Carson, who was on third, and the Westerner took it with out-thrust hand.

“First!”

Berlin lined it across the diamond in a very pretty manner.

“Home!”

Hodge was waiting, and the ball plunked into his mitt.

“Second!”

Bart’s throwing to second was a feature of any game. His short-arm throw was perfect, and he could line a ball down to the second bag without getting out of his tracks.

“Oh, Laura!” murmured Ready, as he took the throw. “What a peach!”

“Home!”

Jack sent it back, and his throw was almost as beautiful as Bart’s, but he made harder work of it.

Base-running, batting, and signal practise followed. The team this year had a complete signal system, so that every man could tell just what was to be done or tried without a word being spoken by anybody. From the bench, the box, or the coaching-lines Merry could give directions, and he was sure an attempt would be made to follow them. If two runners were on the bases, one on first and one on second, Frank could make a signal that would cause the batter to “take one,” while both runners knew they were to try a “double steal” on the first delivery, and they started together with no misunderstanding. Even if one of them were cut off, the other was pretty sure to advance a bag. A sacrifice could be called for by a signal, a man could be directed to bunt or to try to place the ball in any particular field. When Frank was pitching he simply assumed certain positions that caused the fielders to move to the right or left, to play short or long, brought the infield in or sent it out, and every player knew just what the kind of a ball he was going to deliver.

But now the disagreement over Mason threatened trouble. Frank knew the feeling of distrust, and lost confidence was the very worst thing that could assail a ball-team, and he was doing his best to give the Southerner a chance to restore confidence to some extent.

Mason never worked harder in a game. Not even once did he drop a ball he could touch with his hands. He ran in for them and ran out for them. He dug them out of the dirt, pulled them down out of the sky, and took them over his shoulder. When it came to batting he seemed able to hit anything that might be called a strike. He ran and slid bases handsomely.

Hodge watched with sour looks the practise of the Southerner. Several of the players who had failed to make the regular nine were on the field now, giving the players a chance to come in to the bench and do batting and base-running.

“What thinkest thou?” murmured Jack Ready, as he saw Hodge gloomily watching Mason. “Perchance he may redeem himself—not?”

“I don’t think there is any hope that he will,” said Bart harshly. “He’s one of these fellows that can do almost anything in practise, but is no earthly good in real work.”

“Thinkest thou so?” chirped Jack. “Then it’s plain that you do not agree with our great and mighty chieftain. He must think otherwise, else he’d not retain him.”

“Oh, Merry’s got a fool notion that the fellow can play. Usually, I’m ready to stand by anything Merry says, but in this case I’m not, for I know he’s wrong.”

“Perchance you do not love this Mason, whose front name is Hock?”

“I never did, but I’ve had to tolerate him.”

“He has ways which much resemble some of yours,” ventured Jack.

Bart scowled.

“That may be true, and I think likely it’s why I dislike him; but I swear I never entertained some of his fool notions about dignity and the degrading influence of honest work. I respect a man who has enough snap in himself to get out and hustle. Mason looks with pity and disdain on a man who has to get out and hustle. That’s where his cursed Southern training makes him a cad!”

“I myself love work,” asserted Ready. “I love it so much that I can peacefully lie down beside it and sleep almost any time. Besides, there are so many others working that I don’t see as if it would be important whether I helped them or not.”

“It would be a good thing if Mason had to get out and make his way in the world. Perhaps it would teach him not to curl his nose up at honest people who labor.”

“It may be thou art right; but I think he’d go into politics and become a congressman before he would stoop to work. Some men, you know, will suffer any degradation rather than toil.”

“He needs to be taken down a peg or two,” said Bart. “I hate a cad, and Mason is a cad of the first water.”

“I don’t care to get into a fight here,” said the voice of Mason himself, who had, unperceived, come in from the field after making the round of the bases; “but, sah, if you want to back up your talk, sah, I’ll meet you anywhere you like, sah.”

“La! la!” murmured Ready. “Methinks I smell smoke!”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” said Hodge. “I wouldn’t waste my time thrashing a fellow like you.”

Mason’s face was white, and his eyes glittered.

“You must agree to fight me, sah,” he said passionately, though trying to hold himself in check.

“Why should I?”

“Because, sah, if you do not, by the gods! I’ll brand you as a miserable coward, and I’ll slap your face in the presence of these fellows.”

Bart saw that Mason really meant fight. Now, to tell the truth, Hodge was not adverse to a fight with Hock, and it gave him real satisfaction when he saw that he could truthfully declare he had been forced into it. He had not wished Merriwell to think he would seek such a quarrel.

“Oh, well,” he said, “if you will have it, all right; but I call on Ready to witness that I did not force this affair.”

“That’s all right,” nodded Jack. “I am ready to witness that, but I had much rather witness the scrap. Say, I’m to be one of the guests of honor, am I nit?”

“I leave that to Mr. Mason,” said Bart coolly.

Hock made no reply. Instead, he said:

“I’ll see you, Mr. Hodge, sah, immediately after practise.”

“The sooner the better,” said Bart.

CHAPTER XXVII.
WHO WON THE FIGHT?

How and when Mason and Hodge disappeared from the field Ready never knew; but disappear they did, and Jack went about wildly seeking to learn in which direction they had departed.

“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” he moaned. “I wouldn’t miss the circus for two dollars in real money!”

“What circus?” asked Frank Merriwell.

“Why, the mill,” said Jack.

“What do you mean by the mill?”

“The scrap.”

“Hey? A scrap? Who——”

“Hodge and Mason.”

Merriwell grasped Ready by the arm, demanded to know all about it, and Jack told him what had happened.

“It must be stopped!” exclaimed Frank, who fancied he saw no end of trouble on the nine arising from such an encounter. “We must find out which way they have gone.”

But though they tried to do so, they did not learn until it was almost dark that the two young men had been seen walking swiftly toward Edgewood Park.

Neither of the enemies was found. When they returned to college Hodge was not in his room. Some time later he had arrived, but his door was locked and no one gained admittance.

All the following day Hodge and Mason kept to their rooms. Of course, Frank gained admission, although both fellows were reported “ill.”

Mason was wearing a beefsteak poultice over both eyes, while Hodge was making liberal applications of witch-hazel and arnica and soap liniment.

Mason would not say a word about the fight. Nor would Hodge.

When Merry tried to draw Mason out he closed up like a clam. Hodge did the same. Neither man would speak of the other.

Of course, it was known by this time that there had been some kind of an encounter between these two, and the students generally were interested to learn how it had resulted.

Finding Merriwell had obtained admission to Bart’s room, Jack Ready sought it. His second knock on Hodge’s door caused Bart to turn the key in the lock.

“Important, dear boy,” declared Jack, as he rushed right in. “Refuse me! Awfully dark here. Why don’t you run up your curtain?”

Ready was about to lift the curtain when Hodge harshly growled for him to let it alone.

“Refuse me!” exclaimed Jack again. “Are you ill?”

“Bad headache,” said Bart. “What in thunder do you want? You’re enough to make a well man sick!”

“Thanks, awfully,” chirped Ready. “I don’t mind if I do sit down.” He took a chair. “Now, what I wanted to see you about is this: You and I agree on one point—Mason is N. G. on the nine. He lacks sand.”

“Who said so?” demanded Hodge.

“Why, I though somebody told me you said so.”

“Think again.”

“Well, he is not the man we want for center field.”

“Are you managing the nine?”

“No, but——”

“Then you’d better dry up and let other people run it.”

“Ye gods!” gasped Ready. “I fail to understand you. Anyhow, you cheated me out of my just dues. I was to see that scrap. I suppose you licked him?”

Hodge did not answer.

“I say I suppose you thrashed the cad?” repeated Jack.

Still Bart was silent.

“But,” Ready continued, “I didn’t think you’d shut yourself up and go into mourning over it. Was it a hard job?”

“If you have anything you wish to see me about, come to the point. If you haven’t, get out. You make my headache worse.”

“My! my! how touchy you are!” murmured Jack. “You need some spring bitters.”

“You’re an ass!” snapped Bart.

“Thanks!” smiled Jack. “So am I. There are lots of us to keep you company. Where did you fight?”

“Will you go?”

“By me soul!” cried Ready; “I have a suspicion that you did not fight at all! You have shut yourself in your room to avoid meeting him. You are afraid of him, Hodge.”

But even this did not lead Bart to assert that the fight had taken place.

“It is insinuated around the campus,” lied Ready, “that Mason thrashed you. Will you give me authority, as a particular friend, to contradict the report?”

“I will give you authority to mind your own business.”

“Great gash!” whooped Jack. “You don’t mean to confess that he did thrash you?”

Bart opened the door.

“You get out,” he said fiercely, “or I’ll throw you out!”

“La! la!” said Ready. “Isn’t it too bad? Just to think that a cad like him should thrash a man like you! Oh, luddy me! how could it be!”

Bart strode over to Jack, whom he seized by the collar.

“There’s the door!” he growled.

“Nothing remarkable about it that I can see,” said Ready. “Just a plain, ordinary door.”

Bart yanked him over to it.

“But a first-rate door to go out of,” he said, as he ejected Jack. “Come round again—when you’re invited.”

Slam!—the door closed in Ready’s face, and the key turned in the lock.

“Isn’t it sad!” sobbed the queer fellow to himself. “Just to think that a good man like Hodge should be thrashed by a fellow like Mason! Oh, me! oh, my!”

Then he sought Mason’s room, but Hock would not admit him at all.

Late that evening Mason escaped from his room and visited the little store of a man who “decorated black eyes.” There Hock had his eyes painted in a most artistic manner, and the next morning he did not wash his face when he rose from his bed, though he took a cold sponge bath and brushed and combed his hair.

In some manner Hodge had managed to hide traces of the conflict, and the two students put up a great bluff. This simply served to make every one all the more anxious to learn the particulars of the fight.

“It must have been a corker,” said Ready. “I feel that I have missed one of the greatest events of the century.”

Ready knew something about Bart’s fighting-abilities, and, for all of the talk he had made to Hodge, something convinced him that Hodge had come out the victor. Never, however, could he induce Hodge to confirm this belief.

After a time it became apparent to all that the two men must have agreed to say nothing about the result of the encounter, no matter what it was. Without doubt this agreement had been made before the engagement began.

Who whipped? That question remained unanswered to the end of time, for, true to any agreement they may have made, neither youth would speak of it. They would not even acknowledge that there had been a fight.

But Mason played center field in the next ball-game. Only one chance was given him, and he accepted it prettily. His batting was good, as he got two clean singles. He ran bases well, but did nothing sensational.

All this proved neither one thing nor the other, for the game was regarded as sure for Yale from the start, the team pitted against the blue being from one of the minor colleges. In a game of that sort the weak man may show up well, as he has plenty of confidence. Against a strong team the weak man may lose his courage and go all to pieces, believing defeat is almost certain.

Merriwell, however, was well satisfied with Mason’s work. He found an opportunity to quietly tell the Southerner so, and Hock’s eyes showed that he appreciated this.

“Thank you, sah,” he said. “I did as well as I could. But I ought to have had another hit. I tried to drop the ball behind second, but made a misjudgment, so the baseman got it.”

“I noticed,” said Merry, “that you were trying to place all your hits. That’s the way to do. Men who simply try to hit the ball out any old place never make as good batters as place-hitters.”

“But sometimes,” said Hock, with a bit of a smile, “I find I’m up against a pitcher that I’m right glad to hit out to any old place. Pitchers are not all alike.”

Frank laughed.

“That’s quite true; but a bunting-team can make the slickest pitcher work hard. The trouble with most teams is that they never practise bunting. I’ve seen a game won off a clever pitcher after the seventh inning by a team turning to on finding they could not hit the ball out and going to bunting man after man as they came up. It rattled the pitcher and broke the luck of his side.”

Hodge made no further protests against Mason. He knew it was quite useless to do so as long as Merry had decided to keep the Southerner in defiance to popular clamor.

But still, deep in his heart, Bart continued to think Frank had made a mistake in judgment.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
MASON PROVES HIS NERVE.

The first circus of the season had come to town. Now, when a circus strikes New Haven, Yale men take it in with a vengeance. Something about a circus sets their coltish blood to dancing, and they are bound to patronize it. They take in all the side-shows, too, and it is apparent that the most of them enjoy the side-shows more than the performance under the main tent.

Behold Jack Ready and a party of kindred spirits taking in the “sights.” Of course, Ready has dragged Joe Gamp along, and whenever he can start the New Hampshire youth to “haw-hawing” he delights to do so. Starbright is with them, and he smiles and enjoys everything. Big Bingham chaffs with Ready, who is sometimes witty, sometimes “chestnutty,” but always eccentric.

“Come in and behold Melba, the most beautiful woman snake-charmer in the world!” cries the barker outside the side-show.

“Your royal giblets,” says Ready, “didst ever see Weary Wiggins? Nay? Then be careful of thy statements, for he is something of a snake-charmer himself.”

“G’wan!” retorts the barker. “Wot yer givin’ us! You wouldn’t know a snake-charmer if you saw one. Now, honest, did yer ever see one?”

“Well, you are very nearly the first I’ve ever seen,” Ready answered breezily. “Your nose is your own advertisement, sir. You can provide your own snakes with a pint of bug-juice.”

“T’ink ye’re smart, don’t yer!” retorted the fellow angrily. “Some time yer’ll get yer face dented if you shoots off yer lip so free. If I had time, I’d ’tend to der job meself.”

“I am very sorry you haven’t the time. I’d like to go out behind the big tent and soothe you to sleep. I am a very soothing chap.”

To this the barker made another angry retort, and Jack and his friends laughed, bought tickets, and entered the tent.

When they were inside Jack began to lecture on the “wonders” there assembled. He gave them a little “game of talk” about the tattooed man, the Chinese giant, the “armless acrobat,” the fat woman, and other freaks on exhibition. When, however, he started in to call attention to a long-whiskered farmer from the country he came near getting into trouble.

“You sassy young cub!” roared the old farmer, clenching his fists and glaring at Jack, “I’d good mind to smash ye!”

Jack looked very frightened.

“Honestly?” he gasped. “You wouldn’t do that to a poor orphing bhoy, would you?”

“Think ye’re funny tellin’ folks about the wind blowin’ through my whiskers, don’t ye?” snorted the farmer. “When you have more whiskers, mebbe ye’ll hev some more brains to go with ’em!”

“That’s right, by gum!” agreed Gamp, sidling up to the farmer. “Give it to him, mum-mister. He’s sassed mum-most everybuddy.”

This made the old farmer fiercer than ever, and he shook his fist under Jack’s nose, roaring:

“Dang my boots! but I believe I will smash ye!”

His wife, a mild little woman with an umbrella, now grabbed him by the arm, timidly crying:

“Don’t ye git into a row, Joel! The last time you was to town you got into trouble with these here college chaps, an’ they made the perlice believe ye was crazy. Came nigh puttin’ ye inter a ’sylum.”

“Ah-he!” cried Ready. “’Tis he!” And he pointed a darting finger at the farmer. “The police have been looking for you ever since. Will somebody call an officer? Wait; I’ll do it.”

“No, ye don’t!” shouted the farmer, clutching Jack’s arm. “I’ll thrash ye if ye open your mouth to do it!”

“Oh, Joel! Joel!” quavered his wife. “You’re alwus gittin’ inter trouble! Come erway before ye git arrested!”

She tried to drag him away, but he turned on her savagely, snarling:

“Don’t be such a dratted fool, old woman! Let me alone, can’t ye!”

Then she fired up.

“Joel Haskins,” she exclaimed, “don’t ye darst to call me a fool right before all these people! If ye do, I’ll pull ev’ry hair outer your old head!”

“Take your hands offen me!” he retorted. “All women is fools!”

“Oh, what a libel on the fair sex!” said Ready. “A man who will speak thus to a beautiful and charming wife deserves to be drawn and quartered! I don’t see how such an old brute ever succeeded in marrying such a refined lady.”

“He is an old brute!” agreed the wife.

“Don’t call me an old brute, Marthy Jane!” roared the man savagely.

“You called me a fool first.”

“Well, ain’t ye showin’ it? Heaven sakes! but I’ve put up with enough of your nonsense!”

“Oh, hev ye?” she shrilly screamed. “And you will talk like this before folks, will ye?”

Then, in her excitement, she swung her umbrella aloft and brought it down on his head with a whack.

The delighted college boys roared with laughter and urged her on. She hit him again.

“Hey! Stop it!” he squawked, holding up his arms to protect his head. “I never saw such a dratted woman!”

She smashed the umbrella to pieces before the showmen could stop her. Then both the farmer and his wife were escorted from the tent, the woman sputtering at him and he growling back at her.

Ready looked sad and regretful.

“Alas!” he sighed. “At least, she was once a lass. She has outgrown it somewhat!”

“Ready,” said a voice, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You caused the trouble and ruined the show for those old people.”

Frank Merriwell was the speaker, and, despite his attempt to reprove Jack, he could not help smiling.

“It is ever thus,” sobbed Jack. “Whenever I am having my loveliest time somebody comes along and calls me down.”

At this moment the announcement was made that Melba would give her wonderful performance with the snakes. The lecturer explained that one of the snakes was a mighty python “ya-a-ahmsteen feet in length.”

Melba arose. She was really pretty for a professional snake-charmer, and could not have been more than twenty-three or four years old.

“Yum, yum!” said Ready. “Would you believe it! She’s the first one I ever saw who didn’t look like a snake-charmer.”

“She’s new at the business,” declared Frank.

Melba opened the case in which the snakes were kept. She took them out one by one and twined them about her arms, waist, and neck. She was very pale while she did it, and the boys could see that she trembled a little. No one guyed her. For once the irrepressible Ready was silent.

Bart Hodge had entered the tent and was near the platform.

Having handled the smaller snakes, Melba put them back in the case and prepared to take out the python. She was more agitated than ever.

Frank decided that the girl really was afraid of the snakes, and pitied her. The act was unpleasant to him, and he turned away.

Carefully the girl took out the python. The snake was a large one, and those near the stand fancied he seemed rather more active than the others. With care Melba handled the great snake, forcing a smile to her painted lips. The reptile coiled and moved its head.

All at once, without warning, Melba dropped to the platform in a dead faint. Women screamed and men shouted and pushed away.

Hodge was close to the platform, and he saw the girl had fallen on the snake in such a manner that the weight of her body was squeezing it. This was angering the snake.

Instantly Bart leaped onto the platform and lifted the unconscious girl to take her weight off the serpent, at the same time calling for an assistant to come and give him aid.

Then something happened that filled all beholders with horror. With a swift movement, the snake threw a coil round Bart’s legs. Another shout of horror went up from the men. The python twisted about Hodge with great swiftness, its head rising higher and higher.

Such snakes have strength in their natural state to crush the ribs of an ox. If the thing were to twine itself about Bart’s body and exert pressure the young college man would be killed before the eyes of the horrified spectators.

Out of the throng leaped a youth, who hastily snatched from his hip pocket a shining revolver.

It was Hock Mason. The Southerner leaped to the edge of the platform, with the weapon uplifted.

“Steady!” said Bart, in a calm voice. “Got to smash his head with the first shot! If you don’t——”

Mason had raised his revolver, but he could not get a shot at the head of the snake without great risk of fatally wounding Bart.

“Here!” he cried, dropping the weapon. “I’ll hold the creature! Somebody take that pistol and shoot its head off!”

Then, without the least hesitation, he grasped the snake with both hands just back of its head.

Fortunate, indeed, it was that Frank Merriwell was at hand. He had the revolver almost as soon as it touched the ground. As Mason held the snake’s head for a moment two shots rang out, and both bullets hit the reptile’s head fairly. Its coils loosened from Bart, and Mason flung the squirming thing aside, where it thrashed and twisted on the ground.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hodge to Mason.

“Don’t mention it, sah,” said Mason politely.

Never again as long as he lived would Bart Hodge say that the man from South Carolina lacked nerve. Whatever else could be said of him, that accusation could not be made against him.

Both Hodge and Mason were the heroes of the day.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FIRST SCORE.

Princeton was out to win the last game of the series with Yale. The two clubs had met on neutral ground, and, remembering their slump in football, the Tigers meant to down Yale in order to reestablish Princeton’s standing in athletic sports as one of the “Big Three.”

Of late Columbia had loomed ominously on the horizon, and there were those who prophesied that she would succeed in pushing Princeton out and getting herself accepted as one of the three first colleges in manly sports.

Starbright had asked to go into the box against Princeton again. Hard work and considerable worry was telling on Merriwell, so that he was not in his best form, while the big freshman felt fit to pitch against National League champions.

Morgan longed, also, to try his hand against the Princeton nine, but Merry could not spare Dade from the position he was filling in such splendid style. For Morgan had turned out to be one of the cleverest short-stops seen at Yale for several years. He could cover a vast amount of ground, could pick up grounders cleanly, could gather in liners and flies, and his throwing across to first delighted the spectators.

To tell the truth, Dade’s pitching aspirations had never seemed to please the fans at Yale, but he soon won a way into their hearts after Merriwell placed him at short. This placing came about by accident. One night during practise Morgan got out at short, the regular man being gone, and the way he got around amazed everybody. Frank tried him there in the very next game, and Dade remained there after that.

This cut the regular pitching-stock down a head. Of course, Dade could be used in the box if necessary, but Merriwell believed in keeping the team unchanged and in position just as far as possible, it having been his experience that shifting men about was extremely bad policy.

As this was the deciding game between the colleges, Princeton turned out as large a crowd of rooters as did Yale. The bleachers on one side of the field were packed with the admirers of the orange and black, while the other side fluttered blue with Yale flags.

It was two-thirty when the Princeton players trotted onto the field, being given a royal greeting by their admirers.

At once the men prepared for practise.

The Tigers began to sing a stirring battle song, and the men to work on the field with snap and earnestness.

This practise work was watched closely by both sides. It was plain that Princeton was in her very best form, and her players had come out to win.

Confidence is of great importance in a game of ball, but overconfidence is dangerous. Princeton had confidence, but knowing from past experience what she was up against, she was not overconfident.

The infield worked fast and sure, picking up everything clean, making handsome throws, and never hesitating, nor fumbling.

Lib Benson’s friends were together in a group.

“This is going to be a tight old game,” said Irving Nash anxiously. “There is no doubt about it.”

“Sure thing,” nodded Mat Mullen. “But Old Eli must win. It would be something awful to lose the series to Princeton!”

“Wouldn’t it!” gasped Chan Webb. “But there are some fellows who still claim that we’ll lose if the game depends on Mason in a tight place.”

“I think so myself,” asserted Gil Cowles. “Merriwell dropped Castlemon for work not so poor as that of Mason in the last Princeton game; but Castlemon was not one of his particular friends.”

“Oh, we all know Merriwell will not do any man an intentional wrong,” said Nash; “but it does seem he has been influenced for Mason by a strange liking.”

“Look at those chaps practise!” said Mullen. “I don’t think I’ve seen such clever work this season.”

“But you know that it often happens that a team shows up well in practise and plays a poor game,” said Webb.

“Something tells me it isn’t going to happen that way to-day.”

“Look—look at Jerome pull down that fly out in center field!” urged Cowles. “Now, there is a fielder. If we had him in Mason’s place!”

“Mason may be all right to-day,” said Nash. “Let’s hope he will be. But this is a critical game, and he seems to lack something in critical times.”

“He didn’t seem to lack anything when he grabbed that snake and held the thing for Merriwell to shoot its head off,” said Webb.

“That was a piece of nerve,” nodded Nash. “Even Hodge is not now making claims that Mason lacks nerve.”

“I’d give ten dollars,” asserted Mullen, “to know which of those fellows got the best of that fight.”

“I don’t believe it was Hodge,” said Webb.

“I’ll bet my life it wasn’t Mason!” exclaimed Cowles.

“Then it must have been a draw,” grinned Mullen.

There was a stir, and then the men down in front gave a signal with waving arms. Onto the field trotted the Yale team, and the Yale bleachers rose and greeted the heroes with a great roar of welcome.

“There’s Benson!” cried Nash. “Who’d thought at one time that he’d ever be playing ball under Merriwell? Why, he was a leader in everything against Merriwell.”

Merry spoke to the Princeton captain, and then the Tigers were called in from the field, Yale trotting out to get some practise.

“Of course, Merriwell will pitch this game straight through,” said Mullen.

“If he doesn’t he’ll display poor judgment,” asserted Cowles. “He can’t afford to fool round.”

But Frank Merriwell was not feeling like pitching. In the pocket of his coat which he had left in the dressing-room was a letter from Inza Burrage, and that letter contained the information that Inza’s father was dead.

Inza was now quite alone in the world.

Merry’s heart was torn with sympathy for the beautiful girl whom he knew was almost heart-broken with grief, and he longed to turn from the baseball-field and seek some place where no one might disturb him.

So Starbright was to have an opportunity to gratify his ambition to again pitch against Princeton.

The practise of the Yale team was not nearly as snappy as that of the nine from New Jersey. Somehow the gloom that had fallen on Merriwell seemed to communicate itself to the whole team.

The spectators felt it. The Yale crowd started to singing to rouse up some spirit and vim, but there was a mournful note about it that added to the gloom.

The umpire came onto the field. Princeton went first to bat, and Dick Starbright entered the pitcher’s box, while Merry sat on the bench.

Following was the batting-order of the two teams as given to the scorers:

Yale. | Princeton.
Ready, 2d b. | Clackson, ss.
Carson, 3d b. | Leverage, lf.
Browning, 1st b. | Walpole, 1st b.
Starbright, p. | Merritt, rf.
Morgan, ss. | Grady, 3d b.
Gamp, lf. | Lewsell, c.
Mason, cf. | Jerome, cf.
Hodge, c. | Willis, 2d b.
Benson, rf. | Vinton, p.

Only one change had been made on the Princeton team since the last game with them. Willis was a new man on second base. Harding, the former player in that position, having sprained his ankle. But it was said that Willis was regarded as a better man than Harding, who had retained his position through virtue of having played it the previous season.

Vinton was Princeton’s cleverest pitcher. Before him had fallen all of the minor teams he had pitched against. He had a wild and bewildering delivery, and he varied it in a most remarkable manner, so that it was impossible to tell just what all his contortions meant.

“Play ball!” rang out the voice of the umpire.

Clackson picked out a bat and stepped up to the plate. Starbright prepared to deliver the ball.

Clackson was regarded as Princeton’s safest single hitter. He could not drive out a long hit, but he could place his hits beautifully, having a way of driving the ball through any opening left in the infield.

Starbright had tried Clackson on all sorts of twists and benders, and he had found the fellow able to hit almost anything. It was a mystery to know just what sort of a ball to give the fellow.

Starbright tried him with an out curve, but Clackson calmly let it pass.

“One ball,” was the decision.

Then Dick put one close to the fellow’s body, but the latter simply stepped back and let that pass.

“Two balls!”

The big Yale freshman followed with a sharp drop.

Clackson swung at it and missed.

“One strike.”

“Fooled him that time,” thought Dick exultantly.

Then he used a rise, but it was above the latter’s shoulders, and Clackson did not offer.

“Three balls.”

“Bad hole!” thought Starbright. “But I can put ’em over if I want to.”

He felt that his control was good, and so he followed with another drop.

Whiz—went the bat, but the ball was not touched.

“Two strikes.”

“That’s better!” thought Dick, with relief. “He doesn’t seem able to connect with a drop to-day.”

Fancying Clackson would not be looking for another drop, Dick ventured to give it to him.

The Princeton man had his teeth shut, and he hit the ball a nice easy little tap that dropped it just over the second-baseman’s head, but far enough back so Ready could not get it.

The Princeton crowd cheered. The first man up had obtained a hit, which was starting the game right.

Leverage followed Clackson. He grinned at Starbright in a most derisive manner as, with a flirt of his head, he tossed a waving mane of yellow hair out of his eyes.

Dick smiled back, but he remembered that Leverage was a “bad un,” for he had given Dick trouble in the last game, besides lifting the long fly out to Mason while Merriwell was pitching.

But Starbright fancied the batter would wait to give Clackson an opportunity to try to steal, and so, after letting the runner get a little start the big freshman whistled a ball straight over.

Starbright did this because he had absolute confidence in Hodge, knowing Bart could put a ball down to second like a bullet from a rifle.

But it did seem that Starbright had delayed too long, for Clackson was away toward second and running like a deer.

It scarcely appeared that the ball rested fairly in Bart’s big mitt before his right hand went back and shot it toward second. Starbright seemed forced to crouch a little to let that beautiful liner go over.

“Slide!” roared the coachers.

The runner flung himself forward and slid along the ground toward the bag.

With a languid motion, Ready took the handsome throw and put the ball onto the sliding man just a moment before Clackson’s hand reached the bag.

“Out!” declared the umpire, as Ready coolly tossed the ball to Starbright.

Then a wild roar went up from the Yale side. The crowd appreciated this kind of work, and a great cheer rose to the sky.

When the cheer subsided, some twenty or more fellows rose in a body and loudly chanted in chorus:

“That’s Hodge—he’s a dandy!

That’s Hodge—he’s a beaut!

He’s swift; he is handy;

He can shoot the double-shoot.

Look out! he’s a ripper;

Run fast or you’re done!

Ha! ha! See him zip her!

Well, say—that’s Hodge! This is fun!”

The Yale crowd greeted this with further cheering and laughter, and the young men sat down feeling very well satisfied.

“It’s all right,” declared Walpole, the captain of the Princeton team. “He can’t do it every time.”

“Just keep your men going down to second and see,” smiled Merry.

A strike had been called on Leverage. Starbright was cool and cautious, and he tried to coax the fellow into swinging at some wide ones, but the batter could not be coaxed thus easily. Two balls were called, and then Dick ventured to give Leverage a high one.

The batter hit it, sent it up into the air, and, when it fell, Browning had it back of the foul line.

“Man is out!” announced the umpire.

Another roar from the Yale crowd. Princeton was not so happy now. The game that had started off so well was beginning to look different.

Walpole himself came up to the plate. He cracked the very first one Starbright delivered. It was a corker, too. The spectators rose up and watched that ball sailing off toward center field.

Could the fielder get under it? At first it seemed there was no show for Mason to do so, but he was running like the wind, covering ground in a most surprising manner.

Walpole scudded down to first. Those watching Mason declared at first that he could not touch the ball. Then they changed their minds.

“He’ll reach it!” cried some of the Yale men.

“But he can’t handle it!” asserted others.

The suspense was great. At the last moment it seemed the ball would go beyond Mason’s reach, but he made a great leap into the air for it, and it stuck in his hands.

“He’s got it!”

“No—he’s lost it!”

The ball struck Hock’s hands, but did not strike them fairly, and away it flew.

Down came Mason, but he made a dive in the direction the ball had taken, while Walpole raced on to second base. The ball had disappeared into a tiny hollow, and Hock could not see it at once. He was almost blind from disappointment over his failure to catch it, and that added to his trouble in seeing it.

Walpole raced to third.

“Home!” shrieked the coacher, making gestures for the runner to keep right on.

Mason was straightening up with the ball in his hand.

Walpole kept straight on for home, and Mason threw to try to stop him.

It was a very good throw, being sent in to bound once, but though it came into Bart’s hands handsomely, the runner slid across the base, and the first score had been made for Princeton.

CHAPTER XXX.
IN THE FACE OF DEFEAT.

The first score had been made off a muffed ball by Mason. True it was thoroughly excusable, but the fact that Mason made it caused many to look at it in a different light.

“There he goes!” growled Gil Cowles. “Now will Merriwell pull him out?”

“He made a good bid for it,” said Nash.

“But he didn’t get it,” sneered Cowles. “He simply knocked his ball aside so that it was lost, which gave Walpole a chance to score. Mason is directly responsible for the first score made by Princeton. In the last game he was responsible for more than half the scores made!”

“Merriwell will have to take him out now,” said Mullen.

But Frank Merriwell had no thought of taking Mason out for that piece of work. He knew there was not one fielder in twenty who could have touched that ball. Mason had come very near getting it. Had he caught it, it would have been one of the most remarkable and sensational outfield plays of the season.

Hodge said not a word, but he did look toward Frank inquiringly. Starbright’s face wore an expression of disgust.

“Hard luck, boys; that’s all,” said Frank quietly.

“Take him out!” shouted somebody on the Yale side.

Mason heard that cry, and it cut him like a keen knife.

“Gods!” he growled, through his teeth, “I’d never have been here if Merriwell hadn’t insisted. Luck is against me, that’s all!”

Merritt, the next batter, was one of the heavy hitters of the Princeton nine. He picked out a good one and lammed it hard. It went sailing away toward left field.

Starbright was being hit rather freely.

It seemed that Gamp would have difficulty in getting under the ball, but he tore over the earth and pulled it down with one hand while at full speed.

That electrified the Yale side, and the crowd of witnesses on the blue bleachers rose up and howled.

“There’s the man to put in center field!” shrieked somebody.

The Yale team came in from the field, Mason’s face looking hard and grim.

“You made a good bid for that fly, Hock,” said Merriwell openly. “If you’d held it, it would have been a marvel.”

This brought a bit of color to the fellow’s cheeks. Ready advanced to the plate.

“Move your outfielders back,” he chirped. “Enlarge the enclosure. I am going to disturb the atmosphere with a severe shock. Now, watch out.”

Vinton’s lips curled, and he gave Jack a slow out curve.

Ready had a long bat, and he reached for that ball, caught it on the tip of the “slugger,” and sent it whistling over the head of the second-baseman.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Jack, as he pranced down to first. “Also ho! ho! That’s the time you found yourself up against the real thing, Vinton, old mark. Just give me one of the same every time I come to bat, will you?”

Vinton shrugged his shoulders, but seemed to give Ready no further attention. However, as Jack played off, the pitcher suddenly snapped the ball over to first in an attempt to catch him.

Ready got back.

“Slow, Vint,” he said. “You seem to be in a trance. Can’t you move quicker, old cinch?”

Vinton kept Jack dodging back to the base for some seconds, but Ready attempted a steal very promptly on the first ball delivered. He might not have reached second in safety, but the catcher was bothered a little about throwing, which gave the runner barely time to slide down.

“Slow again!” chuckled Ready, as he lay on the ground with his hand on the bag. “Oh, I’m harder to catch than the elusive will-o’-the-wisp. La! la! What an easy thing this game is going to be!”

But Jack could not steal third, and he was not taking another desperate chance just then. He had reached second to prevent a double play, and it was lucky that he did so, for Carson batted a grounder straight into Clackson’s hands and was thrown out at first with ease. Had Ready been forced on that hit, both men must have been put out.

Browning hit the second ball pitched and sent it flying past the head of Walpole out into extreme right field. That let him down to first, while Ready took third.

It was Starbright’s turn.

“Here is where we tie the score without an effort,” declared Ready. “Oh, luddy me! What a good, soft thing this is!”

Browning was not a great base-runner, but he took chances and stole second on the first ball pitched. The catcher threw to the short-stop, who came in to take the throw and cut Ready off if he tried to score. But Jack was onto that game, and he pranced off third only to prance back again, with a merry ha-ha.

Starbright, however, although a good hitter, could not meet the ball fairly, and he went out on a foul fly.

Morgan walked up to the plate, ready for anything. Morgan was a good hitter, and Vinton knew it, so the Princeton pitcher became too cautious, with the result that Morgan, who waited well, got his base on balls.

Gamp was a long hitter, and the outfielders moved back a little for him. He did his best to clean the bases and bring every man home by slashing a terrible fly into deep center. The fielder, however, got under it and pulled it down, which retired Yale without a score and gave the Princeton rooters a chance to cheer and cheer again.

The second inning was in some respects a repetition of the first. Princeton obtained one score, but this time it was Benson who muffed the fly, instead of Mason, letting in the runner.

“Oh, Lord!” gasped Nash. “Wasn’t that a shame!”

“How in the world did Lib do it?” growled Cowles, in deep disgust. “But that is the first one he has dropped for a long while.”

“It’s a shame!” said Webb. “Now, if it had been Mason again——”

“We’d all raised a howl,” said Mullen dryly.

The scoring stopped right there, for Starbright struck out the next two men.

Benson was sore enough with himself, but he said nothing.

Yale did her level best to score, but Vinton was in first-class form, and not a tally was made.

The third inning proved to be a whitewash for both sides.

Then came the fourth, and a combination of errors and hits gave Princeton two more runs, besides filling the bases after that.

Then Merriwell was forced to pull Starbright out again and go into the box himself. The Yale crowd rose up and greeted Frank with a wild roar of satisfaction and relief.

For the time Merry put all thoughts of Inza away from him. He was compelled to do so. Thus far Yale had not made a run, while Princeton had four to her credit. This game must be won somehow.

One man was out when Merry entered the box. Hodge was in fighting humor, as Frank saw by the black look on his face.

Merry called Bart down, and they met to have a few quiet words.

“Keep cool, old man,” said Merry. “We’ll win this game. The boys have not struck their gait yet.”

“They never would if you had remained on the bench,” growled Bart. “In some things, Merriwell, you do have bad judgment. You knew just what this game meant to us, and yet, after keeping one man on the team against protests, you let Starbright go in to pitch. Why in thunder you did it no man knows!”

“I know,” said Frank quietly.

He had not told Hodge of the news from Inza. Merry went back to the box and began to use the double-shoot without delay; but Hodge was so irritated that he could not hold it. Twice he let the ball drop to the ground, and once it twisted off to one side, nearly giving the man on third an opening to come home.

Frank frowned, for he was getting worried. Plainly the whole team was in a bad way, but Hodge was worse than any of the rest.

A rise caused the batter to lift a high fly foul, and the third-baseman captured it.

Two men were out.

Frank tried speed, giving Hodge something to do to hold the terrific pitching. This made Bart angrier than ever, and he closed his teeth and froze onto them.

With the aid of good head-work, Merriwell was able to strike out the last man, which kept Princeton from getting any more scores.

Merry tried to arouse his men, but still Vinton worked them cleverly and kept them from scoring.

By the time the fifth inning began Hodge had cooled down, and he could take Merriwell’s pitching in handsome style. Then, in his usual form, Frank struck out three men straight, which set the Yale bleachers wild with joy.

Still, though a runner reached third, Yale could not score. For five straight innings she had been whitewashed.

The crowd on the Princeton bleachers were singing “The Orange and the Black,” and everything looked gloomy for Yale. However, the Yale side kept up the cheering.

In the sixth, Princeton came near squeezing in another run, but a great throw from Gamp cut the runner off at the plate.

Frank congratulated Joe when the men came in from the field.

Still Merriwell himself was worried, although he tried not to show it. His mind was inclined to wander, and he feared he might give some batter the kind of ball he was looking for, which would result in more scores for the enemy.

But Princeton had enough already if she could hold Yale down.

Frank led the batting in the sixth, and he obtained a clean two-bagger.

“Here is where we start!” cried Ready.

But it proved to be where they stopped, for Morgan put up a fly that was easily captured, Gamp followed suit, and Mason struck out.

“That man can’t play a-field and he can’t hit the ball!” growled Gil Cowles. “He lost the last Princeton game, and I count him as the loser of this game. He gave them the first run.”

“Oh, the game isn’t lost yet,” said Nash.

“It is,” asserted Cowles. “I’ve got that feeling in my bones. We can’t win. It’s tough on Merriwell, but he brought it on himself by sticking to Mason against the advice and protests of everybody. His own bad judgment has brought him defeat.”

The spell was broken in the seventh, for Yale squeezed in a single score.

In the eighth Princeton got another, making five in all, and seeming to clinch the game.

Yale put up a desperate fight in her half, but one score was the best she could do, leaving the Tigers still three in the lead.

“Alas!” said Jack Ready.

Merriwell never gave up hope, but he could see that his men were feeling that defeat could not be averted, and he knew that was a bad way for a nine to feel.

The first man got his base on balls. A double play should have followed, but, instead of that, Ready fumbled and permitted the man on first to reach second and the batter to get down to first.

“Oh, wow!” gasped Jack. “I’m it! Refuse me! I’ll have to look for a small hole to crawl into after this game.”

Frank was cautious now, but the umpire would not give him the corners, so that the next batter got a “life” on balls and the bags were filled.

Merry used the double-shoot.

“One strike!” called the umpire.

The next one whistled.

“One ball.”

Frank tried a drop.

Out in deep center something started Hock Mason to running in just as Frank delivered that ball. When the game was over Hock could not explain how it happened that he started so soon, but he knew he was running before the bat met the ball.

Crack!—the batter hit it.

Every man ran, for it seemed certain that the hit was safe, going over second, but being bound to drop far inside the reach of the outfield.

In truth, had not Mason obtained his start just when he did, and had he not started in the right direction, he never could have touched that ball.

Of course, he was seen running for it, but no one reckoned he had obtained such headway, and so it was thought he would not be within a rod of it when it touched the ground.

Never in all his life had Mason covered ground so fast. He fairly flew along. He saw the ball dropping, and, with a great forward diving leap, he scooped it up just before it touched the ground.

Being unable to stop, Mason held fast to the ball and ran over second with it in his hands, thus putting out the batter and the runner who had left second.

But the runner on third had been sent home, which he had reached by this time. A howl went up for him to go back, but he could not comprehend what it meant, for it had seemed to him that no man could catch the ball.

Straight on toward third ran Mason, having taken a single glance to see if the runner was trying to get back. With the ball in his hands he touched third, thus making one of the most astonishing plays ever witnessed on a ball-field, for, unassisted, he had put out three men and retired the side!

When the spectators understood this there was a thunderous uproar. A triple play unassisted was a marvel indeed. Yale cheered and cheered, ending with the name of Mason.

Frank Merriwell looked pleased, while the bewildered Princeton players could not realize that the side was out.

But now came the last half of the ninth, and Yale was three scores behind. Carson was the first batter up. He shut his teeth and picked out a good one, off which he made a single.

Then came Browning, but in this emergency Bruce fanned.

Merriwell longed to hit it out, but he played a waiting game on Vinton, who was afraid to give Frank just what he wanted, and so Merry got his base on balls.

Morgan was nervous. He was seen to tremble, but he made a desperate bid for a hit, which Clackson succeeded in getting. Two men were out.

“It’s all over!” shouted somebody on the Princeton side. “Too bad. Poor old Yale!”

Gamp had a wild glare in his eyes when he came up to strike. He looked toward Frank and received a signal to play a waiting game.

Vinton was cautious, and Joe, though longing to baste the ball, obeyed instructions, with the result that he was given four balls.

The bases were filled.

“Oh, for a home run now!” exclaimed Irving Nash.

“The game is lost!” asserted Gil Cowles. “Mason is the hitter. He’s as good as cooked.”

Mason was given a cheer as he came up, which seemed to rattle him, for he slashed at a very wild one on the very start.

“All over!” asserted Cowles. “He has done all he can do to-day. With a good man in his place there might be a show.”

Mason was pale as death. He knew all eyes were on him, and it was the desire of his soul to get a safe hit. Still, he knew he had made a fool of himself by striking at the other ball, and he let the next one pass.

“Two strikes,” announced the voice of the umpire.

A cold sweat broke out on Mason. In that moment he suffered untold tortures. He felt that he would give his very life for a good clean hit.

The next ball was an out curve, and Hock started to swing at it. Seeing it was going wide, he stopped, but he shuddered for fear the umpire would call it the third strike.

“One ball,” said the umpire.

The heart of the Southerner gave a great choking throb.

The next one was too close, and he did not offer at that.

“Two balls.”

“Now Vinton will put one over,” said Cowles. “It’s all off. Let’s get away, fellows.”

“Hold on,” urged Nash. “An accident may happen. Heaven knows I am praying for one!”

Vinton, however, did not get the range of the plate, and still Mason remained motionless.

“Three balls,” said the umpire.

Then at that moment a great calmness came on Hock Mason. He knew Vinton must put the next one over, and he gripped the bat hard.

Vinton did it, and Hock hit the ball fairly. It did not seem to him that he hit it very hard, but that ball shot off straight as a bullet from a gun.

Then a frightful uproar arose, and every runner started. Mason ran as if his life depended on it. And the Yale bleachers were in such a mad tumult that it seemed as if a mob of maniacs were trying to destroy each other.

The ball was not caught, and out into the field it bounded, with a fielder chasing it.

Mason kept on to second. He could not hear the coachers, but he saw somebody at third wildly beckoning for him to come on. With a haze before his eyes he dashed for third. When he got there he seemed to see those arms waving him toward home. He did not stop. Into his head came a wild thought of the glory of this achievement, and he felt that he would willingly drop dead on the home plate if he could reach it in safety.

How the Yale men thundered and shrieked and screamed and went mad, as Mason tore down to the home plate.

Hock did not hear anybody tell him to slide, but he felt the danger, saw the catcher ready to take the ball, and threw himself along the ground.

The ball reached the catcher, who swept his arm round with it in his grasp.

Too late!

Mason’s breast was on the rubber plate, and Yale had won by a score of six to five.

Then the crowd came down into the diamond and picked Mason up. Tears ran down his face as they lifted him to their shoulders and roared his name again and again. Frank Merriwell was lifted beside him, and Frank smiled upon him.

Never again as long as he lived would Hock Mason experience the untold joy of that thrilling moment.

THE END.

No. 72, of the Merriwell Series, entitled “Frank Merriwell as Coach,” by Burt L. Standish, tells of a great game between rival college teams, with victory for the nine coached by our young hero.

SPORTS

Everybody is interested in some sport or other these days.

The stories in the Merriwell Series and in the Sport Stories Library, both of which lines sell at 15 cents, are devoted to sports of all kinds, so if you love the great outdoors and the healthful exercise which goes with outdoor sport, buy these stories and make the acquaintance of some very fascinating athletes.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

The cover image was repaired by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 26: ‘Had he possesed’ replaced by ‘Had he possessed’.
Pg 54: ‘to do someting’ replaced by ‘to do something’.
Pg 133: ‘It that right?’ replaced by ‘Is that right?’.
Pg 151: ‘shut the nozle’ replaced by ‘shut the nozzle’.
Pg 170: ‘My goodnes!’ replaced by ‘My goodness!’.
Pg 171: ‘These litle quivers’ replaced by ‘These little quivers’.
Pg 192: ‘had a very atractive’ replaced by ‘had a very attractive’.
Pg 207: ‘Boltwod, whose long’ replaced by ‘Boltwood, whose long’.
Pg 210: ‘carrying Boltwod off’ replaced by ‘carrying Boltwood off’.
Pg 295: ‘Meriwell believed in’ replaced by ‘Merriwell believed in’.
Pg 299: ‘Grady, 3r b.’ replaced by ‘Grady, 3d b.’.

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Table of Contents

- Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm OR, SAVING AN ENEMY

- CHAPTER I. WHEN THE SPRING COMES AGAIN.

- CHAPTER II. A STRONG ARM.

- CHAPTER III. MAKING A FRIEND.

- CHAPTER IV. THE STRONGEST MAN.

- CHAPTER V. THE MEETING WITH ELSIE.

- CHAPTER VI. THE PARTY.

- CHAPTER VII. FOR ELSIE.

- CHAPTER VIII. A FIGHT WITH A MANIAC.

- CHAPTER IX. THE FIFTEENTH MAN.

- CHAPTER X. THE MAN WHO WAS NOT CHOSEN.

- CHAPTER XI. HOW SKELDING QUIT.

- CHAPTER XII. THE MAD STUDENT.

- CHAPTER XIII. FRANK OFFERS HIS HAND.

- CHAPTER XIV. A WILD NIGHT.

- CHAPTER XV. THE PROMISE.

- CHAPTER XVI. PASSING OF AN EARTHQUAKE.

- CHAPTER XVII. FRANK HAS A SCHEME.

- CHAPTER XVIII. CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.

- CHAPTER XIX. OMEGA LAMBDA CHI.

- CHAPTER XX. THE FIGHT FOR THE FENCE.

- CHAPTER XXI. SOLVING THE MYSTERY.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE MAN WHO LOST THE GAME.

- CHAPTER XXIII. A PROUD-SPIRITED YOUTH.

- CHAPTER XXIV. FRANK SETTLES A POINT.

- CHAPTER XXV. MERRIWELL’S POWER.

- CHAPTER XXVI. MASON’S CHALLENGE.

- CHAPTER XXVII. WHO WON THE FIGHT?

- CHAPTER XXVIII. MASON PROVES HIS NERVE.

- CHAPTER XXIX. THE FIRST SCORE.

- CHAPTER XXX. IN THE FACE OF DEFEAT.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE