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FRANK MERRIWELL’S CHAMPIONS
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.. meta::
   :PG.Title: Frank Merriwell’s Champions
   :PG.Id: 42049
   :PG.Released: 2013-02-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :DC.Creator: Burt \L. Standish
   :DC.Title: Frank Merriwell’s Champions
              All In The Game
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1904
   :coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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    :xlg:`FRANK MERRIWELL’S CHAMPIONS`

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    OR

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    :lg:`All in the Game`

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    BY

    BURT L. STANDISH

    Author of the famous :sc:`Merriwell Stories`.

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    STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

    PUBLISHERS

    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

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    Copyright, 1904

    By STREET & SMITH

    Frank Merriwell’s Champions
    
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    All rights reserved, including that of translation into  |nl| foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

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.. contents:: Contents
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    :xlg:`Frank Merriwell’s Champions`

CHAPTER I—FRANK AND HIS FRIENDS
===============================

Ping! pang! crash!

Frank Merriwell, making a sharp turn in a narrow
mountain path, felt his bicycle strike something
which gave under his weight with a snapping, musical
sound, and almost precipitated him over the handle
bars of his machine.

Bart Hodge, who was close behind, checked himself
with difficulty, and sang out:

“What’s wrong, Frank?”

“Smashed a music box, I guess,” answered Frank,
leaping down and coming back.

In single file behind Frank Merriwell and his chum,
Bart Hodge, came the other members of the bicycle
party—fat and lazy Bruce Browning; the gallant Virginian,
Jack Diamond; merry-hearted Harry Rattleton;
the Yankee youth, Ephraim Gallup; the Dutch
boy, Hans Dunnerwust; the lad with Irish blood in
his veins and a brogue to boot, Barney Mulloy, and
Toots, the colored boy, who when at home worked
around the Merriwell homestead.

In the previous volumes of this series we have related
how Frank and his Yale chums started out from
college for a tour on wheels to San Francisco. This
great journey was safely accomplished, and now the
boys were on their way to the East once more. They
had journeyed in various ways through California,
Texas, Missouri, Kentucky and other States, and had
now reached the mountain region in the southwestern
part of Virginia. They had left the railroad at the
entrance to the valley, and were now journeying by
a little-used path to the pretty little summer resort of
Glendale, situated by the side of a lake near the top
of the Blue Ridge range.

A view of Glendale and the lake, which was known
as Lake Lily, had been given them a minute before,
at the top of a rise, as they were about to plunge into
the bit of woodland, where the path made its short
turn and brought to Merriwell the accident just mentioned.

The attractiveness of the view was not lessened to
Frank Merriwell and his friends by the rustic cottages
stretching along the shores of the lake and the flag
that floated above them, proclaiming the place the
summer camp of the Lake Lily Athletic Club.

“It’s a violin,” Frank regretfully announced, picking
up the instrument that had been crushed by his
wheel and holding it for the others to see. “I
don’t——”

His words were checked by a movement in the
bushes, and a youth of nineteen or twenty pushed
himself into view. He wore an outing suit of blue
flannel, and a white straw hat that well became him
rested on his abundant brown hair. He was tall and
straight as a pine, with a dark face that might have
been pleasant in repose, but was now distorted by
anger.

“You did that!” he cried, facing Merriwell. “That
is my violin, and you have crushed and ruined it. What
business had you coming up this path, anyhow? This
is a private path!”

“If this is your violin, I must confess that I seem to
have damaged it pretty badly,” returned Merriwell, retaining
his composure, in spite of the biting tone in
which he was addressed. “As to the path being a private
one, I am not so sure of that. At any rate, I did
not run into your violin on purpose. It occurs to me
that a path such as this, whether it is public or private,
is not a place where one expects to come on musical instruments,
and that you are somewhat to blame for
placing it there. However, I assure you I am——”

“You will pay for the violin, and a good round sum,
too!” asserted the youth, doubling up his fists and advancing
toward Frank, who stood beside his wheel,
holding the broken instrument. “This woodland belongs
to my father, and no one has a right to come up
the path except members of our club. If you hadn’t
been trespassing, you wouldn’t have run into the
violin!”

“I was going to assure you of my regret at having
damaged the instrument, and of course I am willing to
do whatever is right to make good your loss,” Merriwell
continued, smiling lightly and deceptively. “But
I still insist that a place like this is no spot for you or
any one else to leave a violin. I presume you speak of
the athletic club down by the lake?”

The youth’s face showed scorn now, as well as anger.

“Those Lilywhites? Not on your life I don’t! I
was speaking of the Blue Mountain Athletic Club. Our
cottages are right back here among the trees. You can
see them from that bend. As for the violin, I was
playing it a while ago, and jumped and left it here when
one of the boys called me, expecting to come back in a
minute——”

Again there was a movement in the bushes, with the
sound of hurrying feet, and a voice shouted:

“Hello, Hammond! What’s the matter out there?”

Then half a dozen boys, attired like the owner of
the violin, hurried into view.

Merriwell’s friends crowded closer to him when they
saw this array of force, and Rattleton was heard to
mutter something about Frank’s punching the violinist’s
head.

“I don’t think there is any need of a quarrel here,”
declared Jack Diamond, pushing forward. “Here, you
fellows! I’ve been bragging all day to Merriwell and
my other friends about the big-heartedness of the people
of Virginia. I’m a Virginian myself, and I believed
what I said. I hope you won’t insist on doing
anything that will make me want to eat my words!”

The statement was not without effect.

“He must pay me for the violin!” growled Hammond.
“I can’t afford to have an instrument like that
smashed into kindling, and just let it go at that. As
for this land, it is my father’s, and very few people besides
members of our club go along the path.”

“Then the path is not wholly private?” queried
Frank. “I am glad to know that.”

“And he as good as said he was to blame for leaving
the thing where he did!” exclaimed Harry Rattleton.
“I don’t think he is entitled to a cent.”

“Come, come!” begged Diamond, again assuming the
part of peacemaker, though he was raging inwardly at
the belligerent Virginia boys. “We expect to stop a
few days in Glendale, and we can’t afford to be anything
but your friends, you know. What is the violin
worth?”

“A hundred dollars!” Hammond announced, though
in reality the instrument had cost him only twenty. “I
doubt if I could get another as good for double that
sum.”

“I don’t want to quarrel with you,” said Merriwell,
“and I won’t, unless I’m driven to it. I’m willing to
settle this thing in one way, and in one way only. We
will pick three disinterested persons who know something
about violins. Let them set a value on the instrument.
You stand half the loss for carelessly leaving
it in a path which, by your admission, is not wholly
private, and I will stand the other half for what I did.”

“Thot’s talk, Merry, me b’y!” shouted Barney Mulloy,
who was itching for a “scrap” with these campers.

Hammond gave Barney a quick glance of hate.

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” he asserted, turning
again to Frank. “You pay me a hundred dollars, or
I’ll have it out of your hide!”

“Oh, you will, will you?” said Merriwell, facing
him, and laughing lightly. “Jump right in, whenever
you are ready to begin!”

One of Hammond’s followers, seeing that, in spite
of the lightness of his manner, Frank Merriwell meant
to fight, caught Hammond by the shoulders and drew
him back.

“Let me at him!” cried Hammond, becoming furious
in an instant, and making a seeming attempt to break
away from his friend. “Let me go, I tell you! I’ll
pound the face off him!”

“Let him go, as he is so anxious!” laughed Merriwell.
“I’m willing he shall begin the pounding at
once.”

At this, another of Hammond’s friends took hold of
him, not liking the looks of Merriwell’s backers, and
the two began to force the enraged lad through the
screen of bushes in the direction of the invisible camp.

“Here is his violin,” said Merriwell, tossing it after
them. “I am sorry I ran into it, and am willing to do
whatever is fair. When he is in the same frame of
mind, let him come down to the hotel at the village, and
we will try to talk the thing over amicably. I will be
his friend, if he will let me; or his enemy, if he prefers
it that way!”

CHAPTER II—THE LAKE LILY ATHLETIC CLUB
======================================

Frank Merriwell’s party was scarcely installed in the
Blue Ridge Hotel when two visitors were announced.
They proved to be a delegation from the Lake Lily
Athletic Club.

“We heard of your arrival only a little while ago,
and we came straight up,” said one, speaking to Merriwell,
who had risen from his piazza chair to greet them.
“My name is Septimus Colson—Sep for short—and
this is my friend, Philip Tetlow.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Colson—and you,
Mr. Tetlow,” answered Merriwell, who then proceeded
to introduce himself and his friends to the callers.

Colson and Tetlow were sunburned youths of seventeen
or eighteen—keen-looking, intelligent fellows, attired
in outing suits.

“You’ll excuse us for the call,” begged Colson, “but
you see it’s this way: We’ve got those cottages down
there, with the flag flying over them, and hardly anybody
in them. The cottages aren’t much to brag of in
the way of looks, but they are comfortable.”

“And you want us to help you occupy them?”
laughed Merriwell.

“Yes, and help us do up the Blue Mountain fellows!”

Barney Mulloy and Harry Rattleton hitched their
chairs nearer.

“Do you be afther m’anin’ thim chumps in the
woods up on the mountain?” asked Barney. “Begorra!
av yez say yis to thot, Oi’m wid yez.”

“I mean the fellows of the Blue Mountain Athletic
Club,” said Colson. “A week ago they sent us challenges,
which we accepted, but which we must back
down from unless your party is willing to join in and
aid us. You see, we had sixteen boys in the camp at
that time. Now we have only five. The others, who
came from the same town down by the coast, had to
leave because of sickness in their homes.”

“How many boys are in the Blue Mountain Club?”
inquired Jack Diamond.

“Well, there are fourteen besides Ward Hammond,
who is their leader. They are already crowing over us
in a way we don’t like, because they think we can’t
meet them.”

“Are they summer visitors?” asked Rattleton.

“Some of them are. The others belong here in the
village. Hammond was brought up here, and his
father owns a good deal of land in these mountains.
He hasn’t a very good name, though, and is not well
liked. I’ve been told that he’s related by blood to some
of these fighting mountaineers, but I don’t know how
true that is. When you meet him, you will notice that
he has the tall, lank appearance of a mountaineer.”

“We’ve met him!” grunted Browning.

“About challenges. What is their character?” questioned
Merriwell.

“The arrangements were for an archery shoot, day
after to-morrow, with a swimming match on the lake
the next day, and that to be followed by a mountain-climbing
contest.”

Colson looked hopefully at Merriwell and his companions.

“You must not say ‘no’ to our invitation,” he insisted.
“You’ll find it much pleasanter in our cottages
down by the lake than in this hotel, and we need you!
We want you to join our club. It is perfectly legitimate,
for we’re allowed to recruit from anywhere. As
I said, a number of the Blue Mountain boys—more
than half of them, I think—do not have their homes
in Glendale.”

“What do you say, fellows?” questioned Merriwell,
turning toward his companions.

“Av it’s thim chumps upon the hill!” exclaimed Barney
Mulloy.

Merriwell nodded.

“I think I’d like that, by thutter!” declared Ephraim
Gallup.

“You pets my poots, dot voult pe a bicnic!” asserted
Hans Dunnerwust, the jolly-looking Dutch boy.

The others assented, each after his own peculiar
manner.

“When do you want us to come down?” asked Frank.

“Right now, this minute, if you will!” cried Colson’s
companion, who had hitherto maintained a grave
silence. “It’s lonesome as a graveyard down there.
And you’ll want to do some practicing! Can you handle
the bow and arrow?”

Philip Tetlow’s face lighted up with such fine
enthusiasm, and his delight was so manifest, that Frank could
hardly restrain a laugh.

“We must see the landlord of the hotel first,” said
Merriwell, “for we have already registered here, and he
may interpose objections to our summary leave-taking.
But you may count on it that we will be with you
without much delay.”

Two hours later, Merriwell and the entire Yale Combine
were snugly installed in the cottages of the Lake
Lily Athletic Club.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have another one of those
infernal chills,” grumbled Browning, as, with a blanket
drawn over him, he reclined in a hammock and looked
across the water toward the village. “I guess I shall
never get that Arkansas malaria out of my system,
though I’ve taken enough quinine to start a drug store.”

Rattleton cast a look of mock anxiety at the rather
flimsy walls.

“I say, Browning, when you get to shaking right
good, as you did that other time, you’ll have your cot
put out under the trees, won’t you? Just for the safety
of the rest of us, you know.”

“No, I won’t!” Browning growled. “If I bring the
house down on myself, like old Samson, it will delight
me to bury all the rest of you in the ruins.”

“Say, fellows,” cried the irrepressible Rattleton,
“why is Browning like a member of a certain well-known
religious organization?”

“Oh, go chase yourself out of here!” begged Bruce.
“I’m already sick, and your weak jokes make me
sicker.”

“It’s because he’s a Shaker.”

Browning groaned and turned his face toward the
wall.

“Won’t some one kindly kill that idiot for me?” he
pleaded.

Frank Merriwell came into the room, holding a handsome
lancewood bow and a sheaf of arrows.

“If we are going to meet Ward Hammond and his
Blue Mountain boys day after to-morrow,” he said,
surveying the lounging group, “it strikes me that it
would be well for the new members of Lake Lily Athletic
Club to get in a little archery practice.”

To this there was a general assent, and the entire
party prepared to leave the room, with the exception of
Bruce Browning, who shivered and drew the blanket
closer about him as they got up to go.

Out by the lake there was a level stretch of greensward.
Here a target had been set up, and the members
of the club had practiced at archery.

Both the new and the old members of the Lake Lily
Athletic Club practiced with the bow so faithfully in
the limited time given them that when they climbed
to the archery ground on the wooded crest of Blue
Mountain they felt that they would be able to give
Ward Hammond and his friends a hard contest, if
nothing more, though Hammond had been heard publicly
to declare that the Lilywhites’ new members would
add nothing to the strength of the club.

The spot was an ideal one, and commanded a view
of the lake and the town. A glade, covered with short
grass, opened on the side toward the village, being
flanked by wooded slopes. Near at hand were the cottages
of the Blue Mountain Club. They were handsomer
and more expensive than those of the other club,
but not more comfortable. Across one corner of the
glade, and dipping down into the dark woods, ran the
path on which Merriwell’s bicycle had collided with and
crushed the violin.

Ward Hammond and his companions were already
on the ground, and Hammond was looking at his watch
as Merriwell’s party came up.

“I didn’t know but you fellows had backed out,” he
declared, with a sneer, snapping the gold case together
and dropping the watch into his pocket.

Jack Diamond flushed and pulled out his own timepiece.

“We’ve ten minutes to spare, if my watch is right!”
he asserted.

“Of course your watch is right!” was the suggestive
retort.

“I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I turned my
watch back for any reason,” said Diamond, gulping
down his growing anger.

“You ought to know that I wouldn’t insinuate such a
thing against any member of the Lilywhites?” Hammond
sarcastically purred, but in softer tones.

Frank Merriwell was stringing his bow and glancing
off toward the target. It was a thirty-pound lancewood
bow, with horn notches at the tips, a handsome
bow, and a good one, as he had reason to know.

The target was set at a supposed distance of sixty
yards from the archers. It was a flat, circular pad of
twisted straw, four feet in diameter, and it was faced
with cloth, on which was painted a central yellow disk,
called the gold. Around this disk was drawn a band of
red, and next to it a band of blue, then one of black,
and finally one of white.

“I suppose you understand how the scores are to be
counted?” inquired Hammond, glad to change the subject,
for he did not like the look that had come into
Diamond’s dark face. “A hit in the gold counts nine,
in the red seven, in the blue five, in the black three, and
in the white one.”

“And if you miss the gol darned thing altogether?”
drawled the boy from Vermont.

“You’ll likely lose an arrow somewhere down there
in the woods,” Hammond laughed.

Craig Carter, a sinewy lad of about seventeen, Hammond’s
most intimate friend and admirer, stepped forward
with drawn bow and placed himself in readiness
to shoot, as his name came first on the list.

“We’re not ready yet,” objected Merriwell, noting
the action and again glancing toward the target. “The
distance hasn’t been measured.”

“We measured it before you came,” said Hammond,
with an uneasy look.

“It is only fair that it should be measured in our
presence,” continued Frank. “Errors can happen, you
know, and as the rules call for sixty yards and we
have been practicing for that we don’t want to run
any risks by shooting at any other distance.”

No one knew better than Ward Hammond how
essential it is in archery shooting to know the exact distance
that is to be shot over.

Hammond’s uneasiness seemed to communicate itself
to other members of the Blue Mountain Athletic Club.

“Get the tape measure,” Hammond commanded, addressing
Craig Carter.

Carter gave his bow and arrows to another member
of the club and hurried into one of the cottages. From
this cottage he was seen to rush into another and then
another, and came back in a few moments with the
announcement that the distance would have to be
stepped, as somehow the tape measure had been mislaid
and he could not find it.

Harry Rattleton promptly drew a tape measure from
one of his pockets.

“You will find that this is as true as a die,” he asserted,
smilingly passing it to Hammond. “Stretch
it across the ground there, and I’ll help you do the
measuring, if you’re willing.”

“Certainly,” said Hammond, critically eying the
tape. “You will do as well as any one.”

Rattleton took one end of the line and ran with it
out toward the target, and Hammond put the other on
the ground. Rattleton marked the point, and Hammond
moved up to it.

“The distance is five yards too short,” Rattleton
announced, when the measurement had been made.

“This line is not right,” declared Hammond, white
with inward rage.

“Send to the village and get another, then,” said
Merriwell. “A dozen if you like. Or take another
look for your own.”

“Of course we’ll set the target where you say it
ought to be,” fumed Hammond, who had hoped to
take a mean advantage, which had been prevented by
the true eye of Frank Merriwell.

What made the discovery so bitter to Hammond
was the knowledge that he had injured the chances of
himself and his friends in the contest, for they had
done nearly all of their practicing at the false distance.
His attempted cheating had recoiled on his own head.

Craig Carter again took his bow and stepped forward
to shoot. He held himself easily and gracefully
and drew the arrow to the head with a steady hand.

Whir-r-r—thud!

The shaft, in its whirring course through the air,
arose higher than the top of the target, but dropped
lower just before it hit, and struck in the pad of
twisted straw with a dull thud.

“Five—in the blue!” called the marker, coming out
from behind the tree where he had screened himself,
and drawing the arrow from the target.

“Heavens! Can’t I do better than that?” Carter
growled.

Sep Colson had the lists of the members of the two
clubs, and he called Jack Diamond’s name next.

Diamond stepped forward confidently and let his
arrow fly.

“In the blue—five!” announced the marker.

“Well, it’s a tie, anyway!” said Diamond, with a
disappointed laugh.

“By chaowder, it ain’t so derned easy to hit that air
thing as it might be!” drawled Gallup. “I think I’d
stand a heap sight better show to strike gold with a
shovel an’ pick in Alasky.”

Dan Matlock, one of the boys of the Blue Mountain
Club, came next, and then Hans Dunnerwust’s name
was called.

“Shoost you vatch me!” cried the roly-poly Dutch
boy, as he advanced and spat on his hands before taking
up the bow. “I pet you your life I preaks der
recort.”

There was a howl of derision at this from the Blue
Mountain boys, and even the Dutch boy’s friends joined
in the laugh.

“Vell, you may laugh at dot uf you don’t vant to,”
he exclaimed, “put maype you don’t laugh on der oder
side your mouts uf pime-py. Ged avay oudt! I vas
goin’ to shoot der arrow oudt mit dot golt, py shimminy,
und don’d you vorgid me!”

He drew the bow slowly up to his face, shut one eye
and squinted along the arrow. Then he put the bow
down, with a triumphant laugh.

“Who vas id say to me avhile ago dot dis pow veigh
dirty pounds, yet alretty? Vy, id can lift me like id
vos an infant.”

“Go on and shoot,” said Merriwell. “The bow
doesn’t weigh thirty pounds. It takes a thirty-pound
pull to bend it. That’s why it is called a thirty-pound
bow.”

“So, dot vos id, eh?” queried Dunnerwust, looking
the bow over curiously. “Id dakes dirty pounds to bent
me! Vell, here I vos go ag’in. Look oudt eferypoty.”

His fingers slipped from the arrow and the bowstring
twanged prematurely.

This was followed by a howl from Toots, who
dropped to the ground and began to roll over as if in
great agony.

CHAPTER III—SHOOTING AT THE DISK OF GOLD
========================================

“Oh, mah goodness, I’s done killed!” Toots gurgled.
“I’s done shot clean through de haid. O-oh, Lordy!
Oh, mah soul!”

“Poly hoker!” gasped Rattleton, who saw the arrow
sticking in the colored boy’s cap, which was lying on
the ground. “I’m afraid he is hurt this time.”

Frank leaped to Toots’ side and lifted him to his
feet.

Hans Dunnerwust had dropped the bow and stood
staring at his work, his round cheeks the color of
ashes.

“You’re not hurt!” exclaimed Merriwell, after a
hasty examination, giving the colored boy a shake to
bring him to his senses. “The arrow cut through
your cap and scratched the skin on the top of your head,
but you are not hurt. Stand up, now, and stop your
howling!”

Toots sank to a camp chair, and made a sickly attempt
at a grin.

“Wo-oh!” he gasped. “It meks me have de fevah
an’ chillins jes’ lack Mistah Browning to fink about an
arrum stickin’ frough mah haid. I bet yo’ fo’ dollars
I don’t git hit no mo’! I’ll git behind dem shooters de
nex’ time.”

“But Dunnerwust is just as liable to shoot
backwards as forwards,” declared Rattleton, who was ready
for a laugh, now that he knew Toots was unhurt.
“He’s like the cross-eyed man. You can’t be sure that
he’s going to shoot in the direction he looks.”

“Handle that bow with a little more care, Hans,”
Merriwell cautioned. “We don’t want to have anybody
killed here this afternoon.”

Hans reluctantly took up the bow and prepared for
another effort, but the mishap seemed to have taken
the energy out of him, and the arrow did not fly as
far as the target.

Ephraim Gallup came forward in his turn with a
queer grin on his thin, homely face.

“Gol darned if I don’t feel ez if I could shoot this
thing clean through that old tree!” he muttered, as he
fitted an arrow to the bow. “Do you shoot at the
thing, er over it?”

“Over it,” said Merriwell. “In shooting so great a
distance you must allow for the trajectory, or curve.
If you don’t, your arrow will drop below.”

Merriwell smiled as he said this, for he had already
given Gallup careful instructions and had seen the boy
from Vermont make some good shots.

Though Gallup stood in an awkward position, he
drew the arrow with care. It was seen to strike near
the center of the target, and then the marker called:

“In the red—seven.”

“Good for you!” cried Diamond. “That’s two better
than I did.”

“Somebody’s got to hustle ef they beat us this day,
an’ don’t yeou fergit it,” said Gallup, that queer grin
still on his face.

Ward Hammond faced the target with a confident
air. He was a good shot with the bow, and was well
aware of the fact.

“In the gold—nine!” cried the marker, as Hammond’s
arrow struck, and then the Blue Mountain
boys sent up a cheer.

Merriwell followed, and let slip the arrow with a
steady hand.

“In the gold—nine!” cried the marker, again, almost
before Hammond’s friends had ceased their
cheering, and then it was the turn of Merriwell’s followers.

Toots would not shoot, excusing himself by saying
he knew he would kill somebody if he did, and when
Dunnerwust came again to the scratch there was a
cautious widening of the semicircle gathered about the
archers.

Hans came near shooting himself, this time, for the
arrow slipped, while he was trying to fit it to the string,
and flew skyward, past his nose.

“Look oudt!” Hans squawked. “Uf dot comes down
your head on, I vill ged hurt!”

It fell near Gallup, who stepped nimbly to one side
as it descended.

“Look here, b’jee!” he growled. “If you’ve got a
grutch agin’ me, say so, but don’t go shootin’ arrers at
me zif you was an’ Injun an’ me a Pilgrum Father.”

“Oxcuse me!” supplicated the Dutch boy. “Dot
string slipped der arrow py ven I dry to fix him. Shust
eferypoty stant avay off, now, so I vill nod ged hurted.”

The semicircle widened this time to a very respectable
distance. Hans spat on his hands, grasped the
plush handle in the middle of the bow, fitted the arrow
and drew it down with exceeding care. When he had
sighted with his open right eye till every one was
growing impatient, he let the bowstring slip.

“In the white—one!” shouted the marker.

In all his practice Hans had never before struck an
arrow in the target, and he was so pleased now that
he fairly hugged himself with delight.

“Vot vos id you tolt me?” he cried, in great elation.
“We peen goin’ to vin dis game so easy as falling a
log off!”

“Yes, it’s won!” said Hammond, with a perceptible
sneer. “There is no doubt, Dutchy, that you’re a
shooter from Shootville. If you hit the white again,
it will count two.”

“You pet yourselluf der v’ite vill hid me so many as
sixdeen dimes alretty!” cried Hans, stung by the sneer.

Hammond struck the gold again, but Merriwell got
only the red. Twice this was repeated; after which
Merriwell put his arrow in the gold three times in succession,
while Hammond dropped to the red, and once
to the blue, which last counted only five.

It quickly developed that there were good archers on
both sides, and the contest waxed hot. Diamond, Rattleton
and Gallup shot well, as did also Colson and
Tetlow. Six times the yellow-haired, big-jointed boy
from Vermont put his arrow in the gold, though he
faced the target so awkwardly that it did not seem
possible he could handle a bow at all.

As for Browning, he had been left at the camp,
muffled up in a blanket and in the grip of another chill.

“I didn’t learn to knock the sparrers out o’ dad’s old
barn with a bow an’ arrer fer nuthin’!” Gallup grinned,
when some one praised his marksmanship.

In addition to Ward Hammond, Craig Carter, of
the Blue Mountain boys, shot excellently, as did also
Dan Matlock and some half dozen others.

The contest grew hotter and hotter. The club scores—the
average scores of the combined membership of
each club—ran very evenly, and as the shoot drew
toward its close, the count of the club scores showed
five in favor of the boys of Lake Lily, with Ward Hammond’s
score three more than Merriwell’s, and the best
that had been made.

“Don’t l’ave him bate yez, Merry, me b’y!” Barney
Mulloy whispered.

“You may be sure I’ll do my best, Barney,” responded
Merriwell, compressing his lips as he stepped
again to the line and took up the bow.

“Seven—in the red!” cried the marker.

Then, as Ward Hammond followed:

“Nine—in the gold!”

There were only three more rounds, twenty-one of
the twenty-four rounds of the contest having been shot.

“Here are the leading scores, as revised after that
last shoot,” announced the youth who kept the score
card, reading from the card, while the excited and
anxious lads gathered closely about him. “Ward Hammond,
145; Frank Merriwell, 140.”

The Blue Mountain boys swung their caps and sent
up a cheer of delight.

Again Frank faced the target and let his arrow fly.

“Nine—in the gold!” came the voice of the marker.

“Good boy!” cried Harry Rattleton. “That gives
you one hundred and forty-nine. Do it another time.”

Frank Merriwell did it another time; and when the
marker called “nine,” Ward Hammond became noticeably
rattled, for he had made only seven in the previous
shot.

Hammond’s hands were seen to shake as he drew on
the bowstring, and when the marker called, “only five—in
the blue,” his dark face grew almost colorless.

“One more round,” said the score marker. “Frank
Merriwell now has 158; Ward Hammond, 157.”

The excitement was at fever pitch as Merriwell again
went forward to shoot.

He knew that everything depended on this last shot.
If he could again hit the gold, it would then be impossible
for Hammond to beat him, for he already led
Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more
than strike the gold. Therefore he went about his
preparations with the utmost coolness and care.

Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand,
he placed the notch of the feathered arrow on the middle
of the string with his right, resting the shaft across
the bow on the left side just above and touching his
left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right
hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect
them, he grasped the string and the arrow-neck.

It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell
at this supreme moment, as he stood ready to shoot.
He seemed to be unconscious that there was another
person in the world. His body was gracefully erect,
his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left
arm rigidly extended, and his right hand drawing
steadily on the string of the bow. There was a shining
light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush.

The profound silence that had fallen on every one
was broken by the twang of the bowstring, by the
arrow’s whizzing flight and by the audible sighs that
went up as it sped on its way.

“Nine—in the gold!” called the marker, with a thrill
in his usually monotonous voice.

But there was no cheering, though Rattleton felt like
cracking the blue dome of the sky and his throat as
well. The excitement was too intense.

“I’ll duplicate that or break the bow!” Hammond
was heard to mutter.

Merriwell walked down toward the target, anxious
to observe the arrow as it struck, a proceeding that was
perfectly allowable so long as he kept out of the archer’s
way.

Diamond, who was watching Hammond, saw the
latter’s face darken while the pupils of the boy’s eyes
seemed to contract to the size of pin points.

“That fellow is a regular devil,” thought Diamond.
“I must warn Frank to look out or he’ll be waylaid and
shot by him some of these fine evenings.”

Hammond drew the arrow to the head with a steady
hand, but, just as he released it, his foot slipped back
on the grass and the arrow was sharply deviated from
the line it should have taken to reach the target. Instead
of flying toward the gold, it flew toward Merriwell.

“Look out!” screamed Diamond, jumping to his
feet.

Merriwell had reached the narrow path that ran
across the grounds and was directly in front of a tree
that stood in the path and cut off the view toward the
village.

He heard the “whir-r-r” of the arrow, heard Diamond’s
cry, and dropped to the ground on his face.

At the same instant, the straight, lithe form of a
girl of seventeen or eighteen appeared from behind the
tree.

She was directly in the line of the arrow’s flight.
She, too, heard the warning, but she did not understand
it. She did not dream of peril.

Then the arrow struck her, and, uttering a cry, she
staggered backward and went down in a heap.

CHAPTER IV—BRUCE BROWNING’S ADVENTURE
=====================================

“Heavens, she is killed!” thought Frank, leaping up
and running toward the fallen girl.

There were excited exclamations from the group of
archers, and a sound of hurrying footsteps.

Frank saw the girl struggle into a sitting posture and
pluck away the arrow, which seemed to have lodged
in the upper part of her left arm or in her shoulder.
Then she staggered to her feet. When he gained her
side she was trembling violently, and her thin face
was as white as the face of the dead.

Only a glance was needed to tell him that she was
the daughter of one of the poor whites of the Blue
Ridge Mountains. Her dress was of faded cotton, her
shoes heavy and coarse. In one hand she clutched a
calico sunbonnet, which had dropped from her head as
she fell.

“You are hurt!” gasped Merriwell. “Will you not
let me assist you in some way?”

She shivered and gave him a quick glance, then
stared toward the lads who were rushing in that direction.
The sight galvanized her into activity.

“I dunno ez I’ve any call ter be helped!” she asserted,
starting back and giving a last look at the arrow, which
lay on the grass at her feet, where she had flung it as
if it were a snake. “Leastways, I ’low ez how I kin
make my way home. I war a good ’eal more skeered
than hurt.”

“But I saw the arrow strike you!” Merriwell persisted.

She put out her hands as if to keep him from coming
nearer, then sprang back into the path, and vanished
behind the tree and into the depths of the woods
before he could do aught to prevent the movement.

“She’s gone,” said Frank, as the others came up on
the run. “There’s the arrow. I saw her pluck it out
of her arm or shoulder, but she would not stay to explain
how badly she was hurt.”

“That is Bob Thornton’s girl, Nell,” said Hammond,
in a shaky voice. “I hope she isn’t much hurt. That
was an awkward slip I made, and if I had killed her I
could never have forgiven myself.”

Merriwell gave him a quick and comprehensive
glance. It was caught by Hammond, and served to increase
his agitation.

“It was a very awkward slip, as you say, Mr. Hammond.
That arrow might have killed me. It would
certainly have struck me, if I hadn’t dropped as I did.”

“Accidents will happen, you know!” pleaded Hammond.
“I hope you don’t think I would do such a
thing on purpose. It was a slip, just as when Dunnerwust
shot the arrow into your nigger’s cap.”

He was about to say more, but checked himself, in
the fear that he was beginning to protest too much.

“Perhaps we’d better gollow the firl—I mean follow
the girl,” suggested Rattleton. “She may have tumbled
down again.”

He did not wait for an order, but sprang into the
path that led behind the tree, and hurried along it, with
a half dozen curious fellows at his heels.

It was soon evident that the girl had not stuck to the
path, which would have taken her back toward the
village, but had plunged into the woods, which in places
was thick with undergrowth.

“It’s no use to follow her,” said Hammond, joining
the searchers. “It is likely she will make a short cut
for home, where her father probably is, and where she
can have the wound dressed. That is, if she was really
wounded, which I doubt, from her actions. Perhaps
the arrow only struck in her clothing, and frightened
her. When I picked it up and examined the point, I
could see no blood on it.”

The archery contest was virtually ended, with Merriwell
and the Lake Lily Club the winners, and no one
was in a hurry to go back to the shooting ground.
But it was universally conceded in a little while that
no good could be done by trying to follow one who
knew the wilderness paths as well as any deer that
roamed them, for it would be impossible to overtake
her as long as she did not want to be overtaken.

While the boys talked and speculated, Nell Thornton
was hastening on through the laurel scrub, unmindful
of the stabbing pain in her shoulder; and, at the same
time, Bruce Browning, wrapped in a heavy coat and
with a handkerchief knotted about his shivering neck,
was advancing slowly and languidly up the path in the
direction of the archery grounds.

“I’m afraid that confounded chill is coming back,”
Bruce grumbled, pushing a vine out of his way, “and
I suppose I was a fool for leaving the cottage. I wish
I had taken that other path, even if it is farther around.
The bushes are thick enough here to make a squirrel
sick, trying to worm through them. Hello! What
does that mean?”

Nell Thornton, who had struck into this path from
the woods, came into view, and was seen to reel and
lurch like a boat in a gale.

Browning stopped and stared.

Then he saw her reach out to steady herself by a
sapling, and sink down in an unconscious heap.

“By Jove! she’s fainted!” he muttered, stirred by
the sight. “She must be ill or hurt! I wonder who
she is?”

He forgot his lazy lethargy, and scrambled up the
path with a nimbleness that would have been surprising
to his friends, and which took him to Nell Thornton’s
side in a very few moments.

“Blood on her hand and running down her arm!”
he declared, with a gasp of astonishment. “Here’s a
mystery for you!”

Nell Thornton lay with eyes closed, motionless, and
seemingly without life. To Bruce her condition appeared
alarming. He lifted her head, then let it drop
back, and stood up and looked dazedly about, wondering
what he should do. He recollected that he had
seen a small stream of water trickling over the rocks
a short distance below.

“Just the thing!” he thought. “I’ll carry her down
there!”

As if she were a feather weight, he lifted her in his
strong arms, and started down the path, moving in a
hurry, now that his anxiety was thoroughly aroused.

“If the boys should see me now,” he groaned, “I’d
never hear the last of it. Luckily, they’ll not be apt
to see me. No doubt they are whanging away with
their bows up on top of the hill. I wonder how she
got hurt? Could it have been——”

He stopped, and stared into the thin, pallid face.

“Could she have been hit by a wild arrow that
missed the target and flew off into the woods? Heavens!
I hope not!”

Down the steep path, slipping, sliding, maintaining
his footing with difficulty, went Bruce Browning, with
Nell Thornton in his arms, until he came to the rivulet
he had seen gurgling over the rocks. There he put
her down, as tenderly as if she were a sleeping child,
and sought to make her comfortable by rolling up his
coat and tucking it under her head and shoulders.

This done, he scooped up some of the water in his
cap and began to bathe her hands in it, and to sprinkle
it in her face.

But Nell Thornton was so slow to return to consciousness
that Bruce was about to rip up the sleeve of
her dress to ascertain the nature of the wound from
which the blood still trickled, when she stirred uneasily.

Thus encouraged, he renewed his efforts, and a little
later had the pleasure of seeing her eyes flutter open.

She stared in a puzzled way up into his face, then
tried to get on her feet.

“Let me help you,” Bruce begged, slipping an arm
beneath her head.

“Whar—whar am I?” she demanded, putting up a
hand protestingly.

“You are hurt, and you fell in the path up there, a
little while ago,” Bruce explained. “I brought you
down here by the brook.”

She looked at her hand, saw the blood, and made
another effort to get on her feet.

She succeeded this time, standing panting and wild-eyed
on the rocks.

“I’m not hurt ter speak on!” she asserted. “I ’low
ez how I must hev got dizzy-like an’ fell, but I ain’t
hurt ter speak on.”

She seemed about to start on down the path, but
checked herself, with the feeling that perhaps something
in the way of an acknowledgment was due this
handsome stranger, and continued:

“I’m ’bleeged to you. ’Twas a acks’dent, the way it
happened. I war behint the tree, an’ they didn’t see
me tell I stepped out, an’ then the arrer war a-comin’,
an’ it war too late to be holped.”

“Then one of the arrows struck you, as I feared!”
growled Browning. “Do you think you are much
hurt? Perhaps you had better make an examination.
The wound seems to be bleeding pretty freely.”

She drew the sleeve down, as if to hide the telltale
color.

“Plenty time fur that when I git home, which, ef I
ever git thar, I’d better be humpin’ myself along, too!”

Again she moved as if to start down the path, but
was checked by Browning’s words:

“You are in no condition to go alone, Miss—Miss——”

“My name’s Nell Thornton,” she said, coloring
slightly, “ef that is what you mean. But these hyar
mounting people don’t waste no breath a-sayin’ of miss
an’ mister.”

Still, Browning could see that she was pleased.

“Miss Thornton,” he said, holding the cap, from
which the water still dripped, “permit me to introduce
myself. My name is Bruce Browning, and I belong
with Frank Merriwell’s party, which arrived in Glendale
only the day before yesterday. We have become
members of the Lake Lily Athletic Club since, and it
may be that the arrow which struck you was shot by
one of my friends, for they are taking part in the
archery shoot up on the hill.”

It was a very long speech for Bruce Browning, as he
himself realized, but it slipped off his tongue very
easily, under the circumstances.

“So I more than ever feel that it is my duty to assist
you,” he continued, “and to see that you reach home
without further accident.”

“I dunno what dad’ll say ’bout that,” she observed,
shyly. “He allus declar’s ez he ain’t got no use fur
citified people, with thar store clo’es, an’ sich. So I
reckon it’d be an uncommon good piece o’ hoss sense
ef you’d track back up the hill.”

“No, I can’t leave you that way,” declared Browning,
who, looking into her white face, saw that she was
so weak she was again on the point of falling. “You
are in no condition to go on alone, Miss Thornton. I
can’t permit it.”

Then he squeezed the water out of his cap, got himself
into his coat, and prepared to assist her down the
hill and to her home.

Bob Thornton’s cabin, the home of Nell Thornton,
did not differ materially in its general aspect from
other cabins Bruce Browning had seen in the mountains,
except that it was larger. A bar of light from
the descending sun fell through a wooded notch in the
hills and lit up the small panes of its one window with
a ruddy fire. A morning-glory, with closed petals,
clambered up the rough stick-and-mud chimney, as if
trying to hide its unsightliness, and a gourd vine
swung its green, pear-shaped bulbs over the door.

Nell Thornton had seemed to gain strength as the
journey continued, and had not often needed Bruce’s
helping hand, even where the way was rough. Now
she stopped in the doorway, as if she did not desire
him to go further.

“I’m ’bleeged to ye!” she said, apparently at a loss
for words with which to express her thanks. “My
arm ain’t hurtin’ so much ez it did, an’ dad’s a master
hand ter fix up a wound like that. I don’t doubt it’ll
be all right by ter-morrer. I’m sorry you los’ so much
time a-troublin’ with me.”

“Don’t mention it,” begged Bruce. “I’m glad to
have been of assistance.”

Then he lifted his cap, and moved grumblingly away.

“Good-by!” she called, timidly.

Bruce turned and faced her.

“Good-by!” he said, again lifting his cap.

He saw her vanish into the cabin, and once more
sought the blind path that led from the cabin up the
mountain.

“It will be darker than a stack of black cats before
I get back to the cottages,” he growled. “What in
thunder makes anybody want to live in such an out-of-the-way
place as this?”

He had almost forgotten the chill which he feared
was coming, but now he again drew the coat collar
about his throat, and began to shiver, as he plodded on.

“That everlasting Arkansas malaria will be the death
of me yet!” he groaned. “I feel just as if a lot of
icicles were chasing up and down my spine. I wonder
which one of the fellows it was shot that arrow?”

The sun dropped out of sight, and the shadows gathered
quickly in the hollows of the hills. The exertion
of climbing warmed Bruce, bringing the perspiration
out on his face and body. He pushed back the collar
of the coat, and mopped his face. Then went on again,
slipping, sliding, grumbling.

“I thought this path ascended all the time,” he
growled, peering into the thickening gloom. “I don’t
remember this slope, but of course we crossed it in coming
down. These hills and hollows look bewilderingly
alike in this light.”

Half an hour later, he came to a dead stop, with the
unpleasant feeling that he had wandered from the right
path and was lost.

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” he groaned. “I’ll
take on another cartload of malaria if I have to lie out
in these woods to-night. Well, it’s no use to turn back.
I couldn’t find Thornton’s cabin if I tried.”

When he had stumbled on for another provoking half
hour, with the darkness increasing, he came to another
halt. A gleam of light, from a lamp or candle, reached
him through the trees.

“I can inquire my way there, if nothing else,” he reflected,
“and perhaps if it seems impossible for me to
get home, I can find a bed for the night.”

Though still in a grumbling humor, he went on again
with a decided feeling of relief, which changed to one
of surprise and bewilderment when he was near enough
the light to make out the manner of house from which
it issued.

He had returned to Bob Thornton’s cabin!

CHAPTER V—HAMMOND’S PLOT
========================

“I don’t see how I could have done that,” Bruce
Browning growled, unpleasantly mystified. “I don’t
suppose Nell will be very glad to see me, and probably
she will think I came back purposely. But her ‘dad,’ as
she calls him, will have to show me the way out of this
place, or give me shelter.”

He walked toward the door, the soft carpet of grass
and leaves muffling the sound of his footsteps. But at
the corner of the cabin he was brought to as sudden a
stop as if struck in the face.

“His name is Frank Merriwell, and I came down to
tell you about him!”

These words, given in the voice of Ward Hammond,
with the hissing emphasis of intense hate, reached
Bruce Browning like a blow, and stayed his feet.

“He’s pretending to be a summer visitor, and is staying
with a crowd at the cottages on the lakeside, but I
overheard him talking last night, and caught on to the
whole thing. He has been sent here by the government
to hunt you down and drag you to jail.”

The voice did not come from within the cabin, but
from behind it, where, as Bruce recollected, there was a
bench under a shade tree.

Bruce put a hand against the cabin wall as a stay, for
he found himself unexpectedly weak and violently
trembling, and listened for the reply. It came at once in
angry, grating tones:

“Then he’s one o’ them thar cussed revnoo fellers!
Dad-burn my hide, ef he don’t wisht he’d never set hoof
in these hyar mountings, ’fore he’s a week older! Ef
he comes nosin’ ’round hyar, I won’t hev no more
mercy on him’n I would a she-wolf!”

“Ef you recommember, Bob, thar war one hyar ’bout
this time las’ year, too!” another and younger voice
put in. “I reckon it air about time ter do a leetle
shootin’!”

“That first one must be Nell’s father, for she said
his name was Bob,” Browning reflected, straining his
ears to catch every word. “I wonder if she is in the
house and hears that?”

“It’s for you to say what you’ll do,” Ward Hammond
purred. “I thought it my duty to tell you what
I had discovered, for I can’t forget that you’re related
to me, even though we live so differently. I could not
bear the thought of seeing you dragged to jail, without
so much as lifting a finger to prevent it.”

“We’re ’bleeged to you, Ward,” Bob Thornton confessed.
“You never did seem like t’other big-bugs up
ter ther village, an’ ’tain’t the fust time ye’ve put yerself
out ter gimme a p’inter.”

“Blood is thicker than water, you know!” avowed
Ward, “I always stand by those who are related to
me. If you go gunning for that fellow, I want to
warn you to keep your eyes open. He’s smart, and if
you give him half a chance, he’ll strike you before you
can strike him.”

“I don’t doubt he is ez sharp ez a steel trap,” Thornton
admitted. “The guv’ment don’t send no other
kind out ter hunt moonshiners, knowin’ ez how it
wouldn’t be no sort o’ use.”

Bob Thornton got on his feet, and Ward Hammond
closed the knife with which he had been whittling.

“Air ye goin’ up thar ter-night?” the younger man
drawled.

“It air my ’pinion that it’ll be better,” said Thornton,
in a husky tone. “Ef you hev a thing ter do, do it.
Them’s my sentiments, an’ I allus acts on ’em. Ef you
hev a thing ter do, do it!”

“I do believe there is to be an attempt to murder
Frank this very night,” Bruce Browning inwardly
groaned, almost afraid to move an eyelid lest it should
bring discovery. “I’ve got to get back to the cottages
ahead of these fellows, or break my neck trying.”

Then he almost groaned aloud as he thought of the
dark woods and the paths that seemed little better than
squirrel tracks, where he had already lost himself, and
could hardly hope to do better in a wild race for the
cottages against these miscreants.

Hammond and Thornton moved away. Bruce
heard the third man strike a match, and caught the odor
of burning tobacco. Then he noticed that the moon
was rising behind him over a shoulder of the mountain,
and that the night was growing lighter.

“I can get along with that moon,” he reflected. “But
I’m afraid it’s going to puzzle me to get away from
this cabin without detection.”

He was on the point of making a dash and trusting
to his heels for safety, for, though he was large-limbed
and heavy, the bicycle trip across the continent had
trained him down into fair condition for running, and
the malarial trouble that seemed to have fastened on
him had not yet materially affected his strength. But
he was kept from this by the voice of Nell Thornton,
who entered the cabin at this juncture, singing that old,
old song of the backwoods:

    | “Fair Charlotte lived by the mounting side,
    |   In a wild an’ lonely spot,
    | No dwellin’ thar fur ten mile ’roun’,
    |   Except her father’s cot!”

The voice was not unmusical, but it had the piping
twang of the mountaineers.

“She has been away somewhere, and heard none of
that talk,” thought Browning, with a sigh of relief.
“I guess her arm was not so badly hurt by that arrow
as I fancied. Anyway, she doesn’t seem to be suffering
much now, judging by the way she sings.”

He inclined his head toward the cabin wall, expecting
to catch the voice of the younger man from the bench
under the tree and Nell’s answer to his words. But
he heard only Nell singing of that other mountain girl
who went sleighing to a dance in defiance of parental
authority and was punished for her disobedience by
being frozen to death in the sleigh.

Had Browning looked behind him, his thoughts
would have been given another turn, for he was never
in more peril in his life than at that moment.

The man on the bench, chancing to glance around
the corner of the cabin toward the increasing light, had
seen Bruce clearly outlined against the moon’s silver
rim. His instant thought was that Bruce was the man
against whom he and Bob Thornton had been warned—that
here was the officer of the revenue service, with
head pressed close to the cabin wall, having already
spotted Bob Thornton as a moonshiner and tracked him
to his home.

The man was a muscular giant of a fellow, as big
and as strong in every way as Bruce. He was smoking
and nursing a heavy stick, almost a club, which he
habitually carried as a cane, but which, in his hands,
was a weapon to fell an ox.

He quickly and stealthily slipped out of his shoes,
then stole with catlike steps around the building, and
approached Browning from the rear.

Step by step he moved forward, as silent as a shadow
and as merciless as a red Indian. His face, revealed
by the faint moonlight, was distorted with rage and
hate, and his grip on the deadly club was so tense that
the muscles on his right arm stood out in a knotted
mass under the sleeve of his thin, cotton shirt.

Bruce still stood, with head inclined toward the cabin
wall, listening for the words he was not to hear, wholly
unaware of his peril.

Lifting himself slowly erect, the man poised the club
for a brief instant, then brought it down with an inarticulate
cry.

That cry saved Bruce’s life, but it did not ward off
the terrible blow. Bruce straightened his head and
tried to leap back, instinctively throwing up an arm as
a shield.

But the club descended, beating down the arm and
striking the head a glancing blow, under which Bruce
sank down with a hollow groan.

The blow, the groan, the man’s fierce curse as Browning
fell, reached the ears of Nell Thornton, stilling the
words of the song.

She was out of the cabin in a flash.

“What hev ye done, Sam Turner?” she demanded, as
she hurried around the corner of the cabin, and saw the
man standing over the senseless form, with the murderous
club still in his hands. “Who hev ye killed,
hyar, I’d like ter know?”

“Shet yer yawp, Nell Thornton, an’ go back inter
the house!” Turner harshly commanded. “Go back
inter the house, whar ye belong, stiddy botherin’ with
bizness that don’t consarn ye!”

“But it do consarn me, ef murder is bein’ done!”
she asserted.

Then her voice rose in a shriek, as she bent over
Browning, and recognized in him the youth who had
been so kind to her that afternoon.

Browning lay as he had fallen, without movement or
sign of life.

“Ye’ve killed him, Sam Turner!” she cried, facing
the mountaineer, with white face and flashing eyes.
“Ye’ve killed him!”

“That thar’s what I meant ter do!” Turner declared.
“An’ I’ll kill ever’ other revnoo spy that the guv’ment
sends down hyar ter ’rest me an’ yer dad!”

Nell turned from him, with hot, dry eyes and choking
words, and again bent over Browning, even as he had
bent over her when she lay in a faint in the wild mountain
path.

Then she grasped him by the shoulders and tried to
lift him.

“Help me ter git him inter the cabin!” she wildly
commanded. “He ain’t no revnoo, Sam Turner! If
he’s dead, you’ll hatter answer fur killin’ a man that
never harmed ye. You’ll hatter answer fur it ’fore
God, and that’ll be wuss’n the jedge at the co’tehouse
down in the valley. Holp me ter git him inter the
cabin, I tell ye!”

She gave another surging lift at the shoulders, and
Bruce groaned.

Sam Turner raised the club again.

“Put that down!” she shrieked, flying at him with
the ferocity of an enraged panther.

Turner staggered back under the force of her rush,
and she tore the club from his hands and sent it whirling
far out into the bushes.

“If ye won’t holp me, I’ll drag him in myself,” she
declared, again seeking to lift Browning by the shoulders.

There was another groan from Browning’s lips, and
then Sam Turner, moved by curiosity rather than pity,
consented to assist Nell in getting the unfortunate lad
into the house.

By the light of the kerosene lamp, Turner inspected
Bruce’s injuries, while Nell stood by, with clasped
hands, in an agony of suspense.

She broke the silence.

“’Fore God, Sam Turner, I tell ye you hev made a
mistake! That man hev never hed nuthin ter do with
the revnoo. He belongs up ter the village with them
thar summer folks. It’s bloody murder ef ye hev killed
him!”

“What do you know ’bout him?” Turner asked, suspiciously,
irritated by her reproof. “I hev never said
he didn’t b’long up ter the village. I reckon, now, you
must hev thought ’cause he air a revnoo spy that he’d
be goin’ ’roun’ through the mountings a-hollerin’ out
his bizness ter the owls. I reckon you must hev
thought that. Ef he ain’t a revnoo, why war he standin’
with his head agin’ the cabin a-listenin’?”

Browning groaned again, and moved.

“He ain’t so much killed ez he mout be!” Turner declared.
“That club didn’t ketch him squar’. He
dodged, an’ his shoulder got most o’ it.”

“You’re not goin’ ter strike him ag’in!” Nell
screamed, clutching Turner by the arm.

“Who said ez how I war goin’ ter?” he growled,
shaking her off. “Yer ole dad’ll do that quick ernuff
when he gits back. He’s out now a-aimin’ an’ a-contrivin’
fer a safe plan ter git at this feller, an’ when he
gits back, an’ finds that I’ve got him hyar, he’ll be
plum tickled out o’ one fit inter fifty!”

He stooped toward Bruce.

“What air you a-goin’ ter do to him, Sam Turner?”
Nell demanded, her eyes blazing with a dangerous
light.

Turner caught her and hurled her from him.

“Will you quit a-naggin’ of me, Nell Thornton?
I’m a-goin’ ter drag him inter t’other room, an’ tie him
up fer yer ole dad ter look at when he gits back. I
’low I’ll hev ter tell him, too, that you’ve acted clean
crazy over the feller.”

There was no answer to this fling, and Turner, lifting
Bruce by the shoulders, dragged him into the adjoining
room, the only remaining room of the cabin,
with the exception of the garret.

When he had done this, he hunted up a piece of rope,
with which he securely tied Browning’s hands and feet.
Then he deliberately relighted his pipe, took down a
long rifle from its rack, and, seating himself in the
doorway in a rude, hickory-bottomed chair, he rested
the rifle across his knees, and stared moodily off over
the ridges, on which the moonlight now fell with silvery
radiance.

CHAPTER VI—NELL RETURNS A KINDNESS
==================================

In the little room where Sam Turner had dragged
him, Bruce came back at last to the land of sentient
things. The moonlight, streaming through a crack in
the chinked wall, fell on his white face. His head was
racked with splitting pains, and a dull ache made itself
unpleasantly felt in his shoulder.

When he sought to move his hands and feet, he
found that they were tied. Then memory awakened,
and he stared about at the cabin walls, trying to determine
where he was, and just what had befallen him.

A heavy snore drew his attention, and he beheld the
form of a man stretched across the doorway of his
room. There was a rifle by the man’s side, and he had
evidently placed himself there to guard against any attempt
at escape.

All this was startling enough to Bruce Browning.

“And Merriwell! I was not able to get to him to
warn him of his danger! I wonder what has befallen
him?”

Almost his first clear thought was of Frank, and the
peril which he believed threatened his friend.

He would have groaned aloud in the very agony of
mental torture, if a wholesome fear had not restrained
him.

“I wonder what has become of Nell?” was his next
mental query.

As if in answer, when he looked again he saw her tip-toeing
in shoeless feet toward the man who lay in front
of the door of his prison. Her thin face seemed unnaturally
white and bloodless in the dim light. Her
widely distended eyes gleamed like those of some wild
animal. In her right hand she held something, which
he soon made out to be a knife.

A sense of bewildered fascination fell on Bruce. He
forgot the thumping pain in his head and the ache in
his shoulder.

“She is going to kill him as he sleeps!” was the horrible
thought that seized him.

He moved uneasily, and put out his bound hands, as
if to beg her not to do a thing so dreadful. He might
have done more, but at that moment her eyes met his.
She saw that he was conscious, and put a finger to her
lips to enjoin silence.

Browning lay back and stared at her. His mind was
not yet entirely clear.

Again she put her fingers across her lips, and took
another catlike step toward the sleeping man.

She made no more sound than a gliding shadow.
Browning readily might have believed her a ghost, and
it is quite certain that Toots, if similarly placed, would
have shrieked like a maniac from sheer fright.

With the stealthy silence of a panther creeping on its
prey, Nell Thornton advanced toward the open door.

Then Browning saw that her gaze was not fixed so
much on the sleeping man as on him, and awoke to a
realization of the fact that Nell was trying to come to
his rescue, and that the knife was to sever the ropes that
held him, and was not intended as a weapon with which
to do murder.

He could not restrain the sigh of relief and hope
that welled from his heart.

Nell Thornton’s keen ears caught it, and again her
finger went to her lips, and she stopped, looking anxiously
at the sleeper.

For several seemingly interminable seconds she stood
thus, and when Turner did not move, she took another
cautious step.

With her eyes fixed on Turner’s upturned face, she
stepped warily over his body, and stood in the room at
Browning’s side.

The knife gleamed in the moonlight. It was her
father’s keen-bladed hunting knife.

“I hev come ter git ye out o’ hyar,” she whispered,
laying her lips against Browning’s ear. “Don’t ye so
much ez whimper a sound, er——”

She pointed significantly with the knife toward the
sleeping form of Turner.

Then she pressed the blade against the rope that held
Browning’s wrists. It was almost as sharp as a razor,
and ate through the tough strands with noiseless ease.

She worked quickly, but silently; then stood erect,
and pointed toward the door.

Browning moved his head to show that he understood.

“Do ye need ter hev me holp ye?” she whispered,
stooping till her lips again touched his ear.

For reply, Browning lifted himself cautiously and
struggled slowly to his feet.

She smiled encouragingly, and stepped through the
doorway, Bruce following close after her, as silently as
he could. Thus he passed over the sleeping form of
Sam Turner, and moved toward the outer air.

He scarcely ventured to breathe till they were both
outside, under the flooding moonlight.

Here she took him by the hand, without speaking,
and hurried him away from the cabin, into a path that
led toward the hills and in the direction of the village.

“Hev you a knife?” she anxiously asked, stopping
when they had gained the friendly shelter of the trees.

“Yes. Why?” inquired Browning, venturing to
speak for the first time.

“’Case, ef you hev, I’ll slip back inter that thar room
with it an’ lay it open on the floor, so that when Sam
Turner hev come ter himself he’ll ’low ez how you cut
them ropes an’ got away ’thout anybody holping ye.”

Browning took out his pocketknife, opened the biggest
blade, and placed it in her hand.

“I’m ’bleeged ter ye!” she said.

“And I’m obliged to you, Nell—Miss Thornton!”
declared Browning, with an uncommon warmth of feeling.
“Likely I should have been killed if you hadn’t
come to my assistance. And at such a fearful risk!
I owe you my life!”

She was about to turn away, but faced around abruptly
and looked him squarely in the eyes.

“You ain’t nary revnoo spy, air ye, come hyar ter
hunt down the moonshiners?”

“No!” said Browning, with sturdy emphasis. “I
am not! Nor are any of my friends. I came back to
your house because I was lost.”

Her lips parted in a smile.

“I knowed you warn’t,” she asserted.

Then, before Bruce could say anything more, or even
bid her good-by, she leaped away and hastened back
toward the cabin.

The racking pains, which Bruce had temporarily forgotten,
shot again through his head and shoulder as he
saw her vanish, and he turned toward the mountain
with a groan.

But ever, as he toiled on over the wild path, slipping,
sliding, groaning, he thought of Nell Thornton, going
back into that room, over the body of the slumbering
rifleman, to place the pocketknife on the floor by the
side of the cut ropes, and his heart throbbed in sympathy
with her great peril.

CHAPTER VII—BY THE WATERS OF LAKE LILY
======================================

“It’s a trick to enable them to get out of the match!”
asserted Ward Hammond, with a stinging sneer. “All
this pretense of making a search is the veriest humbug!
The idea that one of their number would wander away
into the woods, or drown himself in the lake while out
of his head from a little fever, is the greatest rot that
any one ever tried to foist on the public.”

A considerable concourse of people had gathered on
the margin of Lake Lily to witness the swimming
match announced to come off that morning at nine
o’clock sharp. They were seated on camp stools, on
wooden benches, and on the rocks and grass. The
boathouse of the Lake Lily Athletic Club was filled
with them.

And now the rumor had gone forth that Frank Merriwell
and his friends of the Lake Lily Club would not
enter the contest because they were organizing to search
for one of their number who had been strangely missing
since the previous afternoon.

“It’s a clear backdown,” declared Hammond, walking
up to a group of his Glendale friends. “They
know they dare not meet us, and they’re simply making
that an excuse. I’ll bet big money that, if the truth
were known, the fellow they say is lost is hidden away
somewhere in one of their cottages.”

Merriwell’s party, with Colson, Tetlow and others,
came out of a cottage at that moment. They wore a
sober, serious air. They had been talking the thing
over, and were intending to institute another search
through the woods and along the shores of the lake,
though they had already made a number of such
searches. Merriwell was to speak to the people, and
explain why it was they could not enter the swimming
match, and was to announce that if nothing was heard
of Browning by noon, the lake would then be dragged
for his body.

But scarcely were they out of the cottage, when
Harry Rattleton swung his cap and gave a great cheer.

“There he is!” he whooped. “Just in sight, coming
over that rise!”

He broke away from the crowd and ran swiftly to
meet Browning, who had lost his way again, in spite
of the moonlight, and had been forced to remain in the
woods all night.

The story that Browning had strolled across the
mountains for a walk, and had been assaulted and
robbed by highwaymen, spread like wildfire.

It was not started by Browning’s friends, but when
they found it current, they did not try to correct it,
choosing to let it go at that, instead of giving the true
account of his experiences.

Ward Hammond’s boasting came to a sudden termination
when he saw Browning return, and knew that
he would have to swim against the youths he had been
so maliciously maligning.

It was ten o’clock, an hour later than the time fixed,
when Frank Merriwell and Sep Colson, who had been
selected by the members of the Lake Lily Club to uphold
the club honors in the swimming match, came out
of their dressing-room in the boathouse.

Ward Hammond and Dan Matlock, the chosen champions
of the other club, were already at the starting
point, and the spectators, who had been kept so long in
waiting, were growing impatient at the delay.

“Oi’m bettin’ thot yez kin bate thim fellies out av
soight, Frankie, me b’y!” cried Barney, jubilantly.
“Thot Hommond sint up his rooster crowin’ a bit too
soon, so he did, as he’ll be foindin’ out moighty quick,
now!”

“I’m sure we’ll do our best, Barney,” promised Merriwell,
touched by the Irish lad’s loyalty.

“We can always depend on you for that, Merry!”
said Rattleton. “We want you to beat Hammond
worse than you did in the shooting. And you can do
it, too!”

“I don’t doubt he’s safe enough to do that,” grumbled
Bruce, who had come down to the boathouse in
spite of his aching head and generally used-up condition.
“But as for me! Ugh! I wouldn’t leap into
that water for wages. It makes me shiver to look
at it!”

Rattleton gave a wink and thrust his hands into his
pockets. Gallup and Mulloy imitated his example, and
when their hands came out, they were seen to contain
each a number of white capsules.

“Take another dose of quineen, and keep off that
chill,” said Rattleton, extending the capsules toward
Bruce.

“Gullup daown another dost of quinine an’ keep off
that gol darn chill!” cried Ephraim, pushing the capsules
into Browning’s face.

“Swally anither dose av quoinin an’ kape aff thot
ager,” advised Barney, doing the same.

Browning arose to his feet and shook his fist at them
in mock rage, whereupon they dodged backward and
made a feint of swallowing the capsules themselves.

“Mistah Browning’ll make you have wuss dan de
fevah an’ chilluns,” warned Toots. “I’s su’mised dat
Mistah Browning ain’t feelin’ berry good dis mawnin—no,
sar!”

Suddenly Browning was seen to straighten up and
stare toward the slope where the benches had been
placed.

“There she is,” he whispered, nodding his head in
that direction.

“She! Who? What are you talking about?” demanded
Jack Diamond.

“Nell Thornton! Don’t look at her right now, and
all at once. But you can see her on the end of that
farthest bench. The slim girl, with the cotton dress
and calico sunbonnet. Heavens! I’m glad to see her,
for I know now that she succeeded in pulling the wool
over the eyes of that villain, Sam Turner!”

“And she has come here for no other purpose than to
let you see her, so that you may know that she is safe,”
observed Diamond.

“I believe you are right,” assented Browning.

Then the entire party went out to the edge of the
boat landing, from which point the swimmers were to
dive and begin the race.

“Are you all ready?” asked the starter, as Merriwell
and Colson, Hammond and Matlock stood up side by
side, and faced the deep-blue water in which they were
to contest for the supremacy.

“Ready!” ran along the line.

“One, two, three—go!”

At the word, four trim, muscular forms flashed in the
air, shot downward, and slipped into the depths with
scarcely a splash.

“They’re off!” some one yelled.

With a waving of handkerchiefs and a fluttering of
fans and umbrellas, the spectators began to cheer.

Ward Hammond and Frank Merriwell came to the
surface first, with Colson and Matlock close after them.
Hammond was a full yard ahead of Frank, and the
latter’s friends saw that Merriwell would not have an
easy task if he defeated the Glendale youth, who seemed
to be able to dive and swim like a fish.

But Merriwell was not worrying over the outcome
of the race. He knew that a race is not always won by
a brilliant start, and that the final stretch is what tests
the strength of the swimmer. So while Ward Hammond
spurted and increased his lead, Merriwell swam low
and easily, with his head well back on his shoulders,
and without any unnecessary expenditure of muscle.

Craig Carter, who had been seated in a boat beside
the landing, now pushed the boat off, and dropping the
oars into the rowlocks, prepared to follow the
swimmers leisurely, that a boat might be at hand in case of
accident. Of course, he was one of Hammond’s most
fiery henchmen, and he did not hesitate to show his
partiality by shouting encouraging cries to him.

“That’s right, Ward! Give full spread to your
hands and feet. Gather a little quicker, frog fashion.
That’s right! Go it, old man! They can’t any of
them beat you! Hurrah for the Blue Mountain boys!”

“I hope he’ll fall out of that boat and drown himself,”
was Rattleton’s uncharitable wish. “He actually
makes me sick!”

“His friend hasn’t won the race yet,” said Diamond,
studying the swimmers with a critical eye. “Colson is
a good swimmer, too, isn’t he? He’s coming right up
alongside of Merriwell.”

The race was to a stake, set far enough from the
shore to test the strength and wind of the swimmers,
thence back to the point of starting.

Up to this stake and around it Ward Hammond led,
with Merriwell second, Colson third, and Matlock
closely crowding Colson.

When the stake was turned and the swimmers headed
shoreward, it was seen that Hammond was fully six
yards in the lead.

Craig Carter was standing up in his boat, alternately
sculling and swinging the oar aloft to give emphasis to
his Indian-like yells, and the excitement among the
spectators perceptibly increased.

“By Jove! I’m afraid Hammond is going to beat
Merry!” confessed Bart Hodge, with an uneasy
shifting of his feet. “See him spurt! He goes through the
water like a torpedo boat!”

“I’ll het you my bat—I mean I’ll bet you my hat—that
he doesn’t!” averred Rattleton, whose faith in Merriwell’s
ability was always supreme. “Now look, will
you? Hurrah for Merry! Talk about your torpedo
boats! That’s the stuff, Frank! Hooray! hooray!
hooray!”

Rattleton crowded so near the edge of the landing
that he was in danger of tumbling into the water, and
there, standing on tiptoe and swinging his cap, he sent
his shrill cries ringing across the surface of the lake.

Merriwell seemed still to be swimming easily, with
his body well under and his head poised lightly on his
shoulders, but it was observed that he was greatly increasing
his speed. Not in the spurting, jerky manner
of Hammond, but with a steady pull, that was bound
to tell in the outcome.

The spectators noticed this, and their clamor increased.
One solemn-looking man jumped to the top
of a tall stump and capered like a schoolboy, while a
couple of Glendale’s severest old maids, whom nobody
supposed could be moved to any show of emotion by
such a scene, were actually seen to hug each other and
shed tears.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, and yard by yard, Frank
gained on his opponent and bitter enemy. His head
drew alongside of Hammond’s thrashing heels, forged
up to Hammond’s side, came up to Hammond’s shoulder
and neck, then passed him.

Hammond gave his antagonist a frightened glance,
and tried to swim faster, seeking to regain his lost
ground by another spurt. But he had seriously winded
himself, and he found the feat impossible.

And still the crowd yelled, and whooped, and fluttered
handkerchiefs, and thumped the benches.

Craig Carter had long ceased his insane antics. His
face wore a look of anxiety.

Suddenly, as the swimmers were drawing past a
point that jutted out into the lake, a dog sprang into the
water and paddled toward them. It was Craig Carter’s
spaniel. It recognized him as he sat in the boat,
and was anxious to join him. The boat was beyond
the swimmers, and the dog, in attempting to reach it,
swam against Merriwell, and almost lost him his position.
Frank lifted himself and gave the spaniel a
heavy shove, which caused it to sink beneath the surface.

The sight threw Craig Carter into a rage. He was
already in a desperate mood, and now he seemed to become
furiously insane.

Merriwell was still in the lead, and again swimming.
White and panting, Carter rose to his feet, lifted an oar
with both hands and struck at Frank.

It was a cowardly blow, and brought cries of
“Shame!” from those who witnessed it.

But it did not reach Frank. He dived like a flash,
and the oar struck harmlessly on the water.

When Frank came up, he was seen to be swimming
neck and neck with Ward Hammond, and the goal not
a dozen yards away.

Then pandemonium again broke loose on the shore.

Inch by inch, and foot by foot, Frank again drew
ahead of his antagonist. The crowd yelled like mad.
A dozen men crowded to the water’s edge to take him
by the hand, for they saw that he was to be the winner.

In vain Ward Hammond threshed and flailed. His
wind and strength were gone.

Merriwell reached the landing three yards in the lead,
and was immediately drawn out on the boards.

Then, all wet as he was, he was hoisted to the shoulders
of his admirers—to the shoulders of men who
loved pluck and fair play—and borne around the boathouse,
while they bellowed at the top of their lungs:

“See, the conquering hero comes!”

After that there were exhibitions of fancy diving
and swimming by Frank Merriwell and others, which
were not taken part in by the disgruntled Hammond,
however, and by only a few of his intimate friends.

Thus the swimming ended, to the entire satisfaction
of those who had waited so long and so patiently for
its beginning.

“And to-morrow comes that mountain climb,” said
Merriwell, speaking to Colson, when they were again
in the dressing-room. “I wonder if Hammond will
be as palpitatingly anxious for that as he was for this
swim?”

CHAPTER VIII—A FAIR GUIDE
=========================

The mountain chosen for the climb was one of the
wildest and ruggedest of the Blue Ridge range. It
rose just beyond Blue Mountain, whereon Hammond
and his friends had their summer camp, and its dark
shadows fell afternoons into the hollows and dells
where clung the cabins of the poor whites who recognized
the leadership of Bob Thornton.

“It’s not a pleasant feat to contemplate,” grumbled
Bruce Browning, looking from the door of the cottage
he occupied in company with others, and staring up at
the half-naked heights that thrust themselves skyward.
“It’s much prettier at a distance. I haven’t any sympathy
for these fellows who form Alpine clubs, to bury
themselves in snowdrifts and break their necks in
crevices, when they might be staying at home, sensibly
enjoying themselves.”

“I don’t doubt you’re really wishing for a rattling
good chill,” laughed Sep Colson. “It would be such
an excellent excuse to laze all day in that hammock.”

“Hardly that,” grunted Bruce. “A fellow might as
well wish he’d break an arm to get out of the job of
sawing a little wood. But, seriously, doesn’t it seem to
you a great waste of energy for a mighty little return to
go panting up that mountain, trying to beat a lot of
other fellows who haven’t any more sense than you?”

“No more of that,” cried Rattleton, coming up at
that moment, and overhearing the question. “You’re
the worst grumbler on the face of the footstool, Browning.
I should think you’d be just dancing with joy
this morning to think how you slipped through that
scrape down at Thornton’s. And if there is anything
prettier than that mountain, with the morning mists
creeping around it, I don’t know what it is.”

“Oh, it’s pretty enough—at a distance!” growled
Bruce. “And, of course, I’m going with you, even if
I haven’t got over that headache yet. You couldn’t get
along without me.”

“Roight yez are in thot!” declared Barney Mulloy,
coming, with a shining face, from a dip in the lake.
“Indade, we couldn’t git on widout yez, an’ it’s moighty
bad we filt whin we thought ye wur dead.”

After solemn consultation over the matter, it had
been determined to keep Browning’s adventure a close
secret. It would be difficult to prove anything against
either Sam Turner, Ward Hammond or Bob Thornton,
and the effort would necessarily involve Nell Thornton,
whom they naturally wished to protect, and not injure.

Bob Thornton had not been seen, and it was reasonable
to suppose that, Turner’s attempt having failed he
was keeping himself out of sight, and would continue
to do so until the supposed revenue officers had disappeared
from the neighborhood.

The starting point of the climb was a glade at the
foot of Bald Mountain, and the goal a flat rock beyond
the mountain’s outthrust shoulder, both the shoulder
and the rock being well-known landmarks.

A score of men from the summer cottages in the
village were at the starting point when Merriwell’s
party arrived, and two had been sent on some time before
to station themselves at the rock, that the time occupied
in the ascent and the victors in the contest might
be accurately determined.

“Hammond’s fellows don’t seem to be here,” declared
Rattleton, stabbing his alpinstock in the ground,
and looking about.

“I don’t doubt they will come all right,” Merriwell
hastened to say.

“Meebe dey ain’ got ober shoutin’ ’bout dat swim
yit!” observed Toots, a smile of pleasurable recollection
lighting his ebony face.

“Here they come, just the same,” announced Bart
Hodge. “They’ve got sand, and that’s something to
praise them for. It’s my opinion, too, that they’ll give
us a hard climb, for most of them are familiar with
these mountains and hardened to such work.”

Ward Hammond was diplomatic enough on his arrival
to try to conceal the intense hatred he felt for
Frank Merriwell. He recognized that Craig Carter
had made a sad mess of it by striking at Frank with
the oar. Even Hammond’s friends had denounced this
as a criminal and cowardly piece of work.

As for Craig, he held himself aloof from the joking
and conversation, and was not without a fear that Merriwell
would seek to punish him yet for his contemptible
conduct.

But Merriwell’s victory in the swimming match had
been so complete that he chose to pass the matter by
without comment, instead of dealing blow for blow.

The starter looked at his watch.

“The party, or any member of either party, that
reaches the rock first is to be counted winner. The object
is to reach the rock in the shortest possible time.”

Browning glanced up at the mountain, and groaned,
as Merriwell grouped his party, and the boys broke into
a hearty laugh.

“It is now nine o’clock,” said the starter, when all
were ready. “You ought to do it in two hours, or
less. I won’t attempt to give you any advice. You
know what’s before you. Go!”

Ward Hammond led off at a sharp run, swinging his
alpinstock and taking the path that led toward the
right, while Sep Colson, who had been chosen to lead
the Lake Lily Club, because of his greater familiarity
with the ground to be covered, swung into the path
that wound around the mountain on the left.

“It’s a little farther,” he said, “but the traveling is
easier, and we’ll make better time.”

Frank Merriwell crowded close to Colson’s heels,
and others fell in behind him, with Hans Dunnerwust
bringing up the rear.

“Yes, this is what I call fun!” grunted Browning, as
a bowlder slipped under him and he half fell.

“Be afther takin’ a little more quoinin’ to roise yer
spairts,” advised Barney Mulloy, with a grin.

When more than half a mile had been passed over,
and they were jogging down a declivity at a lively
pace, Colson stopped so suddenly that Merriwell fairly
tumbled over him.

“What is it?” Frank questioned.

“Look there! There’s Nell Thornton waving
to us.”

“She wants to speak to us,” said Rattleton, looking
in the direction indicated by Colson’s pointing finger.

Bruce straightened up and forgot to grumble, when
he saw the slim form of the girl descending the rocks.

She was letting herself down a precipitous bluff,
clinging to the vines and bushes.

“She can get over places I shouldn’t care to try,” declared
Bruce, with an admiration that was akin to enthusiasm.
“I wonder what she wants?”

“We shall find out very soon now,” said Merriwell.
“It won’t take her long to reach us.”

Dropping to the level ground, Nell came shyly toward
the party, with evident embarrassment.

“Do you uns want ter beat them thar other fellows
bad?” she asked.

“The worst kind,” declared Rattleton.

“Thar’s a way it kin be done,” she said, with kindling
glance, “ef so be ez you uns air good climbers.
Thar’s a path which the mounting men foller
when they air in a hurry, sech o’ them ez knows ’bout
it. I kin show it ter ye, though ef dad knowed I done
it he’d jes’ nacherly kill me!”

“You may show it to us with perfect safety,” promised
Merriwell.

She gave a quick glance toward Browning, as if for
confirmation of the promise.

Browning flushed.

“As Mr. Merriwell says, the secret will be perfectly
safe with us, Miss Thornton,” touching his cap. “You
may rely on it!”

“I kinder sorter wanted you uns ter beat ’em,” she
confessed, “an’ it’ll pleasure me ter help you ter do it.
You uns’ll hev ter shin up that thar bluff somehow
er ’nuther ter git a start.”

She pointed to the precipice down which she had
swung, and Browning gave an inward groan.

“Heavens!” he inaudibly grumbled. “She must
want to see me killed. Those vines will come down
like cotton strings when I put my weight on them.”

Merriwell nodded, and the girl led the way to the
bluff.

“Take holt o’ that thar saplin’ an’ that’ll holp you
ter reach the cedar. Then grab them vines an’ git
along ez best ye kin. Them vines’ll bear a good heft,
an’ ye needn’t be skeered uv ’em.”

Having said this, with pointing finger, she stepped
aside. Frank Merriwell grasped the slim hickory and
drew himself up to the scrubby cedar that here thrust
its roots into a crack in the ledge.

He was followed by Colson and Rattleton. Then
came Bart Hodge and Jack Diamond.

The climb was not so difficult as it looked. Some
of the smaller vines broke under the weight of Browning,
and of Ephraim Gallup, but in a comparatively
short time all were at the top of the bluff.

The girl swung herself up after them, and pointed
to a dim path leading through a thicket of laurel
straight toward the frowning cap of the mountain.

“Thar’s yer way!” she whispered. “I see ye’ve got
a rope fer ther bad places. Two or three uv ’em’ll
maybe hump ye, but I’m sure you uns, by holpin’ each
other, kin make it. An’ it’ll save ye nigh about half
the distance.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, as she turned away.
“You have placed us under great obligations.”

This time Merriwell took the lead, plunging into the
laurel, for the route was an unknown one to all. He
hurried forward as rapidly as the ground would admit.

A number of hogs of the razorback variety leaped
up in front of him and scurried out of sight.

“Look out that you don’t get bitten,” shouted Rattleton,
with a laugh. “Those are wild hogs, you must
understand, and you’d better not crowd them.”

The hogs looked fierce enough to justify Rattleton’s
assertion.

“A boar hunt in these hills wouldn’t be bad,” said
Hodge. “One of those fellows had tusks like razors.”

They soon found abundant use for the rope, of
which Nell Thornton had spoken, and for the stout
alpinstocks they had provided as well. The way was
rough and steep, and they quickly came to a series of
benches, where the rope was found invaluable.

“This is what I call tough,” grunted Browning,
mopping his heated face at the end of one of these
climbs.

“Cyant hab no chillins, an’ fevah, dough, Mistah
Browning, when you sweat dat way,” laughed Toots.
“Dis clamb is gwan ter cure yeh.”

“Or kill me!” Bruce growled.

“I wonder how these other fellows are getting on?”
said Hodge.

“I don’t doubt they’re going faster than we are,” answered
Merriwell. “But I’m depending on the judgment
of that girl, and you know that we have the best
of authority for believing that the race is not always
to the swift.”

“Or the battle to the strong!” chimed in Diamond,
completing the quotation.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Rattleton.

“Mr. Rattleton, what are you grinning about now?”
queried Hodge.

“I was just thinking that if the battle were always
to the strong, what a fight a polecat would put up!”
answered Rattleton, with another shout.

“I believe, by chaowder, they air the strongest things
on earth,” declared the boy from Vermont, with a
smile. “I tried to poke one out of dad’s old barn once,
an’ I thought it would lift the roof, b’gosh!”

Higher and higher the dim path led, zigzagging at
times, crossing perilous crevices, which they were
forced to leap, dipping into narrow gorges, through
which ran icy streams of water from hidden springs.

“I tell you we’re nearing the top!” cried Rattleton,
with a burst of enthusiasm.

Merriwell looked at his watch.

“We’ve already been an hour on the way,” he declared.
“That starter thought the climb could be
made in two hours. We may have to cross that rocky
shoulder yet.”

“No, we shall not have to cross it,” said Hodge. “I
caught a view of the path from that other slope a while
ago, and it swings under the point instead of over it.”

“Hello! I don’t know about this!” cried Merriwell,
coming to a full stop at another bend.

The path ended at the foot of a flat rock that rose
upward like the wall.

“We’ve got to get up there somehow,” asserted Diamond.
“The path will be found again at the top.”

Browning stepped forward.

“There’s only one way, fellows. I understand now
just what Nell meant when she said we’d have to help
each other. Climb up on my shoulders here, Gallup.
You’re the longest and can reach that notch with your
hands. Perhaps Hans had better go next.”

“By gum! he ain’t here!” snorted Gallup, staring
around.

“He must have got tired and stopped,” said Merriwell.
“We can’t wait for him. We may lose the race
if we do. And it will punish him right, when he
comes to this place and finds he can’t get up.”

“We’ll come back and lower the rope for him,” said
Browning, putting himself in position against the wall
of rock. “As Merriwell says, we haven’t any time
to lose.”

Gallup glanced quizzically upward, then gave his
hand to Merriwell, and was assisted to Browning’s
broad shoulders.

“No fooling,” grunted Browning. “If I’ve got to
play the strong man in this game of high and lofty
tumbling, I want you fellows to get a move on you.
Gallup alone feels as if he weighs a ton.”

Barney climbed to Gallup’s shoulders, and Merriwell
came next, carrying the rope.

Standing on Barney’s shoulders, he was able to
grasp the branches of a tree that hung down at that
point, and scrambled quickly on to the top of the bluff.

“Yes, the path is up here,” he shouted back, letting
down an end of the rope. “Put that loop around your
waist, Diamond, and I’ll pull as you climb. You’ll
find it will be a good deal easier.”

“You’d better hurry on without me,” advised
Browning, when all were at the top but himself.
“You’ll lose valuable time trying to get me up there,
and it’s not necessary.”

“We’ll have you up in just a moment,” promised
Merriwell. “Take a seat in that loop. You won’t
need to do much, only keep yourself from scratching
scales off the rock. There’s enough of us up here to
lift you, and the rope is strong. Bring up the alpinstocks
that were dropped, too. We may need them
again.”

“Well, if I must, I must!” grumbled Browning, who
would not have been sorry if they had gone on without
him. “Haul away. And remember that my life
isn’t insured.”

It was no easy task to lift him to the top, but it was
accomplished without mishap.

“No Hans in sight yet,” said Merriwell.

Rattleton, who was running up the path, was heard
to give a whoop.

“Fellows, we’re right there!” he announced, hastening
back to bear the glad tidings. “I took a peep
through the bushes, and the rock isn’t a hundred yards
away. I saw the men who were sent up here standing
by it, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.”

Merriwell looked at his watch again.

“An hour and twenty minutes since we started.
Lead on, Rattleton. If you’ve seen the rock, you may
act as guide. We’re after you.”

Rattleton dived into the bushes again with a whoop,
closely followed by Merriwell, who saw in a few moments
that Harry was right.

The goal was just before them, with only the timekeepers
there, and they had won the race!

CHAPTER IX—THE VALIANT DUTCH BOY
================================

Where was Hans?

The Dutch boy, who by reason of his roly-poly
body and fat, short legs, was not well adapted to
mountain climbing, was much fatigued by the headlong
haste with which his friends proceeded.

“Some volks peen plame vools enough to call dos
sbort,” he secretly grumbled, panting along at the heels
of the procession. “Maype it vos sbort vor me, alretty,
py shimminy! put don’t you pelief me! Ven I vos
caughd py a voolishness like dot again, I hope I vill
gick someboty.”

He was stumping along in this manner, dropping
gradually behind, when at a short turn in the path
his friends vanished. At the same moment a pebble
that had found its way into one of his shoes began to
cut his foot so that he could hardly walk.

“Wa-ow!” he gurgled. “Dot feel shust like I pit a
snake by. Dunder and blitzens! Dot toe vos cud off,
I pelief me!”

He stared along at the dim path and at the bushes
beyond which he heard the voices of his friends, then
plumped himself down on a rock and began hastily to
unloose the shoe lace.

“Uf I get oudt uf dis scrabe, anudder vun von’t go
into me right avay, I dell you!” he muttered. “I haf
to haf a boultice vor dot toe, I pelief me, der vay id
veels. Waow!”

He pulled off the shoe with a jerk, felt of the injured
toe, and gave the shoe a shake to remove the
pebble.

It rolled out, a tiny thing, not larger than a small
shot, but with a cutting edge almost as hard as a
diamond.

“Some liddle dhings make a pigger vuss dan——”

He cocked an ear around, and listened for the voices,
but they were no longer to be heard.

“Shimminy Ghristmas! Dose vellers gid along like
shain lighdnings. I vos half to hurry uf dey gacht me
oop, I tolt you!”

He crowded his foot back into the shoe, hurriedly
laced and tied it, then picked up his alpinstock and set
his short legs in motion.

But it was a hopeless chase. They were swinging
on at a swift pace, and had gained so much that it was
quite impossible for the Dutch boy to come up with
them.

Discovering this, he became terrified.

“Vot uf dose shinermoons shoult pe hiding dese
pushes behint, und kilt myselluf mit a club der head
ofer?” he panted, staring about in wild-eyed expectancy.

He heard a movement in the bushes, which almost
raised the hair on his head. The brush cracked. The
sound came toward him.

He dropped his alpinstock and turned to run, but his
short, fat legs became so weak they would not sustain
him.

He dropped to his knees with a bellow of fright, and
pleadingly threw up his hands.

The brush cracked again, sending cold shivers up
the Dutch boy’s back, and a lean sow, followed by three
or four thin, sharp-backed pigs, came into view.

Hans scrambled up, with a screech of fear.

“Vilt hocks!” he squawked. “Shimminy Ghristmas!
I vos deat alretty yet!”

The sow ridged the rough bristles along her spine
and made a sound which Hans thought her battle cry.

He gave another squawk and dived for the nearest
tree. Into its low branches he scrambled, throwing his
feet across a bough and pulling himself by his hands.

As it chanced, the tree was in the direct line of the
sow’s flight. She dashed toward it, bringing another
squeal of fear from Hans, and the pigs scampered at
her heels.

While hanging in this inverted position, with his
cap gone and his pockets upside down, some peanuts
that Hans had thrust into a pocket to munch on the
mountain climb, dropped out to the ground.

One of the pigs saw and scented them. Its chronic
hunger overcame its fright, and, while its mother and
the other members of the porcine family bounded on
into the depths of the laurel it stopped and began to
munch the peanuts.

“I vos a deat mans!” gurgled Hans, fairly paralyzed
by terror. “He vos going to ead up dose beanuds
und my gap, und den he vill glimb dese dree ub und I
vill ead heem! Hel-lup! hel-lup!”

Now and then a peanut spilled out of the pocket,
and when the pig had devoured all, it looked up at the
peanut fountain for more, placing itself directly under
Hans with its mouth expectantly open.

“Oh, I vos deat! I vos kilt!” he howled. “Someboty
gome guick und shood me, so dot I von’t ead
mineselluf ub!”

It was impossible for him to climb higher, both on
account of his weakness, and the springy nature of the
bough, and he was dimly conscious of the fact that he
could not hold on much longer.

Ordinarily, the pig would have fled from him, but its
hunger now caused it to half lift itself on its hind legs
and stretch its long nose up toward him.

In that moment of supreme terror the Dutch boy’s
strength entirely deserted him, and he fell from the
bough, striking the pig directly in the center of the
back.

It went down, with a squeal. Hans rolled quickly
over and tried to scramble to his feet. He could do
nothing, however, but thresh his heel in the air and
bellow for assistance.

After a while it began to dawn on him that the
dreaded monster was not devouring him alive, as he
had fully expected, and that, since his fall, he had not
heard a sound, except such as he made himself.

“Id vos skeert me avay,” he thought, stopping his
flailing heels and turning his head slowly to the point
where the ravenous beast might be expected to be
seen.

He lifted himself slowly on his hands and stared, his
eyes rounding out in astonishment.

The pig lay on the ground as if dead.

“Id vos maging a vool uf me, maype,” he reflected.
“It vos shust agting like I vos deat. Id shust vant to
play mit me, like I vos a gat und id vos a mouses.”

Still, when the pig maintained that strange silence,
Dunnerwust’s courage began to come back.

He lifted himself still higher, ready to drop down
and play the game of “’possum” for all it was worth if
the pig showed signs of life and pugnacity. Still, the
pig did not move.

Hans rolled over, and slowly got on his hands and
knees, then lifted himself to a standing position, ready
to run if the pig so much as moved.

“It maype is sdill voolin’ me, alretty yet!” he gurgled.
“Dere vos no tepending on me somedimes. I
haf heert apout dose vilt peasts dot blay sleeby to vool
demselves like dot!”

But the pig was dead. There could be no doubt of
it, and if Hans had not been insane from fright, he
must have discovered the fact sooner. He had struck
with all his weight, and that was not small, in the middle
of the pig’s curved spine, and had snapped it as if
it were a pipestem.

“Whoop!” he yelled, as soon as he was sure the pig
was dead. “Dot vos a recklar knock-oud, you pet
me! He vos kilt me der virst lick!”

Then, to make sure that the pig could not by any
possibility come back to life to frighten him again, he
picked up an enormous club, and proceeded to belabor
it to such an extent that if there had been any life remaining
in the pig’s body, it would have been beaten
out.

Having done this, Hans walked around his fallen
foe with the victorious air of a conquering hero, uttering
exclamations of delight, and figuratively patting
himself on the back for his valor.

“Who vos a cowart?” he demanded, squaring his
shoulders and striking out at imaginary foes. “I
vould bunch mine heat uf you sait nottings like dot,
Hans Dunnerwust, you vos der pinking uf vighting
mans dis moindain on, und don’d let dot vorget me! I
pet him you vos der beacherino uf der Lilywhites!”

Then, still strutting like a peacock, he threw the
dead pig over his shoulders, picked up his alpinstock,
and marched along the path like a high-stepping horse.

From the top of the bluff, where his friends had
found their way seemingly blocked, he heard voices
calling to him—the voices of Harry Rattleton and
Jack Diamond, who had turned back to search for him.

Hans answered, with a squeak of delight.

“See dot!” he cried, taking the pig from his shoulders
and holding it above his head. “Dot vos a vilt
hock vot kilt me ven I dried to ead him ub! I vos a
fighder, I tolt you, ven I ged him starded!”

It was with the utmost difficulty that Ward Hammond
concealed his intense chagrin and bitter hate
when he arrived with his companions at the goal of the
mountain-climbing race and found that Frank
Merriwell’s party had beaten them by more than thirty
minutes.

“It’s all right,” he said, with a sickly smile.
“Though I do think you fellows must have had wings
hidden about you to get here so soon. But wings
weren’t barred. Of course, we wanted to win, but we
didn’t, and that’s all there is to it.”

While he was talking, old Bob Thornton, carrying
the long rifle that Sam Turner had taken from its peg
in the cabin, was creeping through the laurel and over
the vines toward a point of rocks that commanded a
view of the path by which he was sure Merriwell and
his friends would descend from the mountains.

He did not try to conceal his bitter hate, as Hammond
was doing. His mind was inflamed with the
angriest of passions, for Hammond had made him believe
that the mountain climb was an excuse on the
part of Merriwell to get into these hills, where Thornton’s
little copper still, for making liquor, lay hidden.

The ravine that held it was less than a mile from
the top of Bald Mountain, in a wild and almost inaccessible
gorge, and he was fairly shaking with the fear
that Merriwell had spotted the gorge from the mountain’s
top, and would try to enter it later in the day.

“He’ll never hunt anuther still ef I git a good crack
at him!” the mountaineer growled. “The guv’ment’s
got ter be larnt that it jes’ ain’t ary bit o’ use to send
revnoo spies peekin’ ’roun’ hyar. We uns o’ Bald
Mounting won’t stan’ it!”

Ward Hammond dissembled with considerable skill.
He laughed, joked and praised the climbing of the
members of the Lake Lily Club, all the while wondering
if Bob Thornton would try the shot he threatened,
and hoping that the bullet would at least maim Merriwell
for life.

Hammond held by inheritance from these rude
mountaineers the fierce hate that made them such a terror
to their foes, and caused among them such bloody
feuds. In him Frank Merriwell had an enemy to be
feared.

He had a purpose in playing a friendly part that day,
and in staying with Frank’s party. He fancied that
if Merriwell should be killed by a shot sent from the
woods by an unseen hand, he might be suspected as
the shooter, which could not be the case if he remained
at Merriwell’s side.

“Hammond doesn’t seem so bitter as we’ve been led
to believe,” declared Rattleton, speaking to Bart
Hodge. “Perhaps he’s been painted a good deal
blacker than he really is.”

“I hope so,” said Hodge, who more than once had
been made uneasy by the accounts given by Colson and
others of Hammond’s fire-eating and unforgiving
spirit. “He seems pleasant enough to-day, at any
rate.”

Without a thought of danger, Frank descended the
mountain path, laughing and joking.

Bob Thornton was still stealing through the bushes,
with the long rifle in the hollow of his arm.

But there was another stealing after him, with bated
breath and shining eyes. Nell Thornton, his daughter,
who, having observed his movements, suspected his
evil intentions, and was now following to thwart them
if she could.

When he reached the rocky point, from which he
expected to send the shot, and from which he could
dive into a jungly growth that would protect him from
view and pursuit, Nell was close at his heels, though he
was still unaware of it.

His face darkened as he dropped the rifle out of the
hollow of his arm and inspected the percussion cap,
when Merriwell and the others came into view around
a bend in the path.

“He’ll never hunt anuther moonshiner!” Thornton
grated, through his set teeth. “He’d better be a-sayin’
of his prayers when I pull down on him with this
ole Bet!”

Nell heard the grated threat, and shivered, but the
look of determination grew in her white, thin face and
shone brighter in her glittering eyes.

Thornton waited until the party was near enough to
make the shot safe, but still far enough off to enable
him to plunge into the undergrowth and lose himself
to pursuit before any one could reach him.

Then he threw the long rifle to his cheek, ran his
eyes down the brown barrel, and covered Frank Merriwell’s
heart with the sights. Though his eyes were
blazing, his muscles seemed as steady as iron.

The finger pressed the trigger, and there was a
whip-like report.

But the bullet did not reach Frank Merriwell!

Just as Thornton’s finger pressed on the trigger,
Nell leaped from the bushes that screened her and
caught at his arm, thrusting the rifle aside.

With a shriek, Ward Hammond threw up his arms
and dropped to the ground.

The bullet intended for Merriwell had lodged in the
body of his enemy.

CHAPTER X—NELL’S LETTER
=======================

“How is Hammond this morning?” Frank anxiously
asked of Browning, whom he joined near the
boathouse. “Have the doctors found the bullet yet?”

Bruce had just come from the village, whither he
had gone to make inquiry concerning Hammond’s condition.

“Yes,” he answered, as they walked together toward
the cottage. “They extracted it this morning. It
struck a rib, and the wound isn’t as bad as it might be.
He’ll be laid up for a time, they say. There is no
question but that he’ll get well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” was Frank’s sincere rejoinder.
“I thought he was a goner when I saw him drop near
me at the crack of that gun.”

“Hello! what’s this?” Bruce exclaimed, a moment
later, as they entered his room.

He stepped quickly to the little table, and took up a
bunch of flowers, to which was tied a note, oddly
scrawled and spelled.

It was from Nell Thornton, and this is what it said:

    “I am ergoin’ ter slip in an’ put these on yer table,
    ’ca’se I hav’ heern that grand folks like ’em, an’ leeve
    this letter ’bout dad, ’ca’se I thot mebbe ez how you
    uns would want ter knowl. He hez knocked a hole in
    his ole still, an’ is ergoin’ ter leeve these mountings, he
    sez, an’ try ter be ’spectable. So good-by. I node
    frum the fust thet you warnt no revnoo.

    “Frum your fr’end furever,

    .. container:: right
    
        “:sc:`Nell Thornton.`”

“She’s an all-right girl,” said Bruce, after a pause,
“even if she is rather awkward.”

“Bedad, we had better be gittin’ out av the mountains
before some more shootin’ takes place,” put in Barney.

“That’s right,” came from Harry. “One shot like
that is enough.”

But the boys lingered for several days, and during
that time their newly made friends did all possible to
make the stay a pleasant one.

“We won’t forget you Yale boys!” cried one, on
parting. “Let us hear from you, by all means.”

“Ve vill,” said Hans. “Put don’t neffer oxbect me
to kill some more piks py mineselluf again alretty!”

There was a gay time at the parting, for a crowd had
come to see them off as far as the railroad station.

It had been decided to make their way eastward to
the Potomac River, for Diamond wanted to show his
friends that beautiful stream of water.

“I’ve sailed on the Potomac many times when at
home,” said the Virginian. “And I want to give you
boys a sail, too.”

“All right—anything to take it easy,” sighed Bruce.
“That mountain climbing was work enough to last a
month.”

The ride in the train was enjoyed by all, and as they
passed eastward, mile after mile, Diamond pointed out
many objects of interest.

At last they reached the station to which their wheels
had been sent, and here they left the train.

“There is an easy road along here,” said Jack. “I
know you will all delight in a spin.”

Bruce groaned.

“More work—and just as I was getting so comfortably
settled in that car seat, too.”

“Oh, brace up, Bruce!” cried Frank, cheerfully.
“You’ve done well ever since we left New York. Don’t
collapse on the last lap.”

“All right; I’ll brace up,” sighed the big fellow, and
followed the others.

Toots had seen to it that the bicycles were polished
to the last degree, so that they shone like silver in the
bright sunshine.

For over an hour the crowd spun along over the
road.

Then unlucky Hans ran into a hollow, throwing himself
over the handle bars and twisting one of the pedals
of his machine.

Luckily, there was a repair shop not very far off, and
to this they took their way, where a machinist went to
work on the wheel without delay.

While the others were waiting for Hans’ bicycle to
be mended, Diamond called Frank to one side.

“Come down to the river with me,” he said. “I
want to show you a particularly fine view.”

“How far?” asked Frank.

“Only about half a mile.”

“All right, I’ll go with you.”

And the two set off, never dreaming of the tremendous
surprise in store for them.

CHAPTER XI—A TRAITOR AND A SPY
==============================

“Steady! steady!” roared a commanding voice.
“Stroke, keep at it, and pick it up quicker on the beginning.”

The eight oarsmen in the boat were doing their level
best, their oars flashing in the sunlight as they came
dripping from the water to disappear again, sending the
light craft flying along.

On the shore, which at this point was a high bank,
the coach watched them as they skimmed past, and
shouted his commands.

“Drive your legs at it, four! What are you in the
boat for? Carry it through all the way. Up, now!
Long swing! Great Scott! don’t think you’ve got to
break your neck to recover because you pull hard on the
stroke.”

He was a young fellow with a beardless face that
plainly indicated his firm conviction that what he did
not know was not worth finding out. His lips were
red and full, and his entire bearing plainly betokened
unlimited self-conceit.

He was dressed in a flannel outing suit, and wore a
straw hat, about which was a bright red ribbon. His
necktie, also, was bright red. On his feet were well-polished
russet shoes. There was a diamond in his
tie, and diamonds set in the rings on his fingers.

It seemed at a glance that this lad had “money to
burn.” His swell appearance was enough to make almost
any ordinary boy regard him with envy and admiration.
And his manner would impress an ordinary
boy with his astonishing knowledge and importance in
the world.

“Oh, say!” he shouted; “what do you chaps think
you are doing? Feel for the water. Be delicate and
gentle when you are coming forward. This is not a
question of bull strength. If it was, a crew of longshoremen
and freight handlers could row all around
you.”

Not a word from the sturdy, sun-browned young fellows
in the boat. They were there to obey, and to
stand such abuse as this insolent, overbearing coach saw
fit to heap upon them.

“Great Scott!” cried the coach, once more. “You
chaps make me sick! Will you never get onto yourselves?
There you go, five! Can’t you see what
you’re doing? You’re pulling out, and you are wasting
the end of your stroke. You are finishing ahead
of four every time. It would take a club to beat anything
into your head! Vast, turn around, coxswain.”

Then this important person fell back a step, and
spoke to another lad, who was concealed by some
bushes, from which he was peering at the crew in the
boat.

“A lot of lubbers,” said the coach, contemptuously.
“You fellows needn’t worry about them. You’ll show
them clear water from the start.”

These words were uttered in a low tone, so they could
not be heard by the rowers.

The boy hidden in the bushes laughed softly.

“You are playing them for suckers, all right, Harlow,”
he said; “but it does seem to me that they are improving
under your coaching. Look out and not make
them so good that they will stand a show of winning
over A. A. C.”

“If they didn’t improve, they wouldn’t keep me as
coach,” returned the other; “but I’ll knock the stuffing
out of them at the last moment by advising the removal
of a good man and the substitution of a poor one. I
want them to have enough confidence in me by that time
so they will do exactly as I say.”

Two other lads, in bicycle suits, unseen by the treacherous
coach and the spy in the bushes, having left their
wheels near the highway that ran some distance from
the river, had come down and stopped near enough to
hear all this conversation.

They were Diamond and Frank.

Diamond had brought Merriwell to that point in
order to show him the pretty view of the Potomac
River, and not till they had advanced more than two-thirds
the distance from the road did they hear the
shouted cries of the coach, and see him standing on the
bluff.

The curiosity of the boys was aroused, and they
came forward quietly to see what was taking place.

The coach, and the spy in the bushes, were so absorbed
in the movements of the crew that neither saw
Merriwell and Diamond, and so, without thinking of
playing eavesdroppers, the Yale lads heard something
that was not intended for their ears.

Jack clutched Frank’s arm.

“What do you think of that?” he hissed, his dark
face growing still darker.

“Think,” said Frank, scornfully. “I think that
coach should be ducked in the river!”

“And I think the spy should be ducked with him!”
came fiercely from the lips of the young Virginian.

“Look here, Jack!” said Frank, “there is something
familiar about that fellow in flannels. I’ve seen him
before.”

“His voice sounded familiar to me,” nodded Diamond.

At this moment, as if he had heard their voices, the
coach looked in their direction, and saw them. He
gave a violent start, seemed a bit confused, and then
cried:

“What are you doing there—playing the spy? Don’t
you know you have no right there?”

In another instant Frank was bounding toward the
spot, followed by Jack.

“No, we are not spying,” said Merriwell, “but we
know a chap that is! Here he is!”

Then he pounced on the startled youth in the bushes
and dragged him forth, for all of his resistance.

“Let me go, hang you!” came from the fellow Frank
had exposed. “If you don’t let me go, you will be
sorry!”

“I’ll let you go when I have shown you to the
gentlemen in that boat down there,” declared Frank. “I
have dealt with sneaks like you before.”

The spy struggled desperately, furious at the thought
of exposure and disgrace.

“You shall suffer for this!” he grated.

Then the coach advanced quickly on Merriwell,
speaking in a low tone, although his voice quivered
with passion:

“Let him go—let him go! If you don’t——”

“What then?” said Jack Diamond, placing himself
in the path of the treacherous coach. “What do you
think you will do about it, my fine fellow?”

“I will—— Great Scott! It is Jack Diamond!”

The coach staggered from the shock of the discovery,
for up to that moment he had been too excited
to recognize either of the boys. Now he looked at the
other, adding, hoarsely:

“And that’s Frank Merriwell! Satan take the luck!”

This attracted Frank’s attention, so he turned and
took a square look at the coach, in whose appearance he
had fancied there was something familiar from the
very first.

“Great Jove!” he cried. “Rolf Harlow!”

The name and the sight of its owner awakened a host
of unpleasant memories in Frank’s heart.

Harlow, expelled from Harvard for gambling and
cheating at cards, had come to New Haven in search of
“suckers” among the Yale students. He had been
introduced by a student by the name of Harris, and
Frank, whose one great failing was his strong
inclination to play cards for a stake, had been drawn into the
game in his endeavor to pull Rattleton out of it.

In the end it had proved fortunate that Frank was
led into the game, for he had detected Harlow in his
crooked dealing and exposed him, compelling him to
give up certain of Diamond’s promises to pay, and thus
saving Jack from disgrace.

Harlow was revengeful, and he had tried to “get
square” with Frank, but each attempt had rebounded
disastrously upon him. When last seen, Rolf was following
a circus through the State of Missouri, and
working a shell game on the country people.

Now he was in Virginia, coaching a crew of oarsmen
who were practicing for a race!

And, as usual, he was playing a crooked game.

The crew in the boat saw the struggle on the shore,
and wondered what it meant. There was a landing
near, and toward it the coxswain directed the boat,
saying:

“Pull, fellows! We must go up there and investigate
this affair. We have been watched.”

Harlow turned very pale when he recognized Frank,
for he had learned to fear our hero. He had not
dreamed they would meet in Virginia.

As soon as Diamond could recover from the astonishment
of the discovery, he scornfully cried:

“Harlow it is, and he is up to his old tricks!”

The spy, whom Frank had captured, made a savage
attempt to thrust Merriwell from the edge of the bluff
into the river, seeing the crew was coming, and he
soon would be face to face with a lot of angry lads
who might not have any mercy on him.

“Easy, my fine chap!” laughed the Yale athlete.
“What’s the use! You can’t do it, you know!”

“Help, Harlow!” appealed the spy. “The Blue
Cove fellows are coming, and they’ll be awfully mad!”

Harlow hesitated, and then a desperate light came
into his eyes. Young ruffian that he was, he always
went armed, and now he decided to make an attempt
to bluff Frank.

With a quick movement, Rolf produced a revolver,
which he pointed straight at Merriwell, crying:

“Let him go—let him go, or I’ll shoot!”

The expression on his face seemed to indicate that he
really meant it, and Diamond shivered a bit, knowing
Harlow as he did, and thinking him desperate and reckless
enough to do almost anything in a burst of passion.

Jack crouched to move aside, so he could spring at
Rolf, but Harlow saw the movement, and hissed:

“Stand still there, or I’ll shoot you first!”

“You don’t dare——” began Jack.

“Don’t I?” interrupted the desperate lad with the
revolver. “You’ll find I do! I’ve been jumped on by
you fellows till I can’t stand any more of it! This is a
case of self-defense, and I can prove it so. You attacked
us! I have a right to defend my life!”

It was plain that Harlow was trying to convince himself
that he was in the right, and, could he do so, hating
Frank Merriwell as he did, it was certain that he might
shoot on the slightest provocation.

Jack stood still; for the moment he knew not what
to do.

“Come here, Diamond,” called Frank, sharply.
“Come quick! Don’t mind that fellow! If he does
any shooting, I won’t leave much of a job for the lynchers!
I believe they string people up down in this State
in a hurry!”

“Stand where you are, Diamond!” shouted Harlow.

But Jack obeyed Frank, and Harlow did not shoot.

“Now, hold this spy, and I will deal with that crook,”
said Frank, turning the lad he had captured over to
Jack.

As soon as he had done this, Merriwell started to
walk straight toward Harlow, who still had him covered
with the revolver.

“Stop!” shouted Rolf, fiercely; “stop! or by the Lord
Harry, I will shoot!”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” answered Merriwell, with the
utmost confidence, as he calmly continued to advance,
apparently as unconcerned as if it were a toy pistol in
the hand of his enemy.

Harlow hesitated, and gasped. Reckless though he
was, intensely though he hated Frank, he had not the
nerve to shoot the cool lad down.

Through Harlow’s head flashed a thought. What
if he should pull the trigger, and the revolver failed to
go off? He knew Merriwell would be on him like a
furious tiger. He knew Merriwell would have no
mercy.

He dared not try to shoot. The eyes of the Yale
athlete were fastened steadily upon him, and there was
something in their depths that made him falter.

One, two, three seconds, and then Frank’s hand
grasped the revolver and firmly turned it aside. Harlow
seemed incapable of resistance, and, to his own astonishment,
as well as to the unutterable amazement of
the witnesses of the act, Frank took the revolver away
without being resisted.

Diamond was paralyzed by the nerve of his friend.
Although he had known Frank long, and thought he
knew him fully, this act was a revelation to him.

Then it was, while Diamond was staring and muttering,
that the spy suddenly struck him a terrific blow behind
the ear, sending Jack to grass.

For an instant Diamond was stunned, and when he
recovered, the spy was far away, running as if his very
life depended on it.

Jack scrambled up as quickly as he could, and would
have followed, but Frank called:

“Let him go! It’s useless to chase him.”

“Well, that was a fool trick of mine!” growled the
Virginian, disgusted with himself. “I ought to have a
leather medal!”

The boat’s crew had made a landing, and now they
came toward the spot on a run. Handsome, manly
young chaps, from sixteen to nineteen, they were.

“Genuine Virginians, they are!” muttered Jack, admiringly.
“They don’t grow anything better anywhere!”

Harlow seemed cowed by what had taken place.

Since being disarmed without a struggle, all the spirit
seemed to have left him. He stood still, looking sullen
and uncertain, as if not quite sure what to do.

Up came the oarsmen, a solid-looking, brown-eyed
lad in the lead.

“What’s all this about, anyway?” he sharply asked,
addressing Rolf. “Who are these chaps, and what are
they doing?”

An idea came to Harlow; he grasped at it.

“They are spies—enemies!” he quickly declared.
“They were watching here in the bushes. They must
be connected with the Alexandria fellows.”

Then the rowers, sunburned and brawny appearing,
gathered about Frank and Jack, regarding them with
anything but pleasant looks.

“Give it to ’em!” shouted Harlow, hoping to set the
boys on Frank and Jack before any explanation could
be made. “See here—don’t you see one of them
threatening me with a revolver? They are desperadoes!”

“In that case, gentlemen, perhaps it would be well
enough not to push us too hard,” coolly observed
Frank, as he moved the muzzle of the revolver about in
a careless manner. “Just give us time to say something
for ourselves.”

“Don’t listen!” cried Rolf, wildly. “They will try
to lie out of it, but I saw them spying!”

“Who was the chap that ran away?” asked the leader
of the oarsmen, the stroke, whose name was Kent
Spencer.

“He was one of them,” asserted Harlow.

“In that case, it is odd we didn’t run away with him,”
smiled Frank. “We might have done so, you know.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” asked Spencer.

“Because there was no reason why we should run,
and several reasons why we should stay. We can tell
you a few things that may surprise you.”

“Don’t listen to their lies!” shouted Harlow. “Pitch
them into the river! It’s what they deserve!”

For a moment it seemed that the young oarsmen
would obey him. They seemed about to precipitate
themselves on the strangers. Again Frank’s coolness
caused a delay.

“If you want to souse us in the river after we have
made our explanation, you can do so,” he smiled; “but
isn’t it well enough to hear what we have to say first?”

“I don’t see that it can do any harm,” admitted Spencer.
“Give the fellows a show, boys, but don’t let ’em
get away.”

This did not suit Rolf Harlow at all, but he saw it
was useless to try to urge the oarsmen on. They were
inclined to obey Spencer.

“All right!” he grated; “listen to their lies, if you
like. You’ll be disgusted when you hear what they
have to say.”

Spencer eyed Harlow closely, wondering why he
should be so eager to keep the strangers from speaking.
He seemed to fear something that he knew would be
said.

“As for lies,” said Frank, “if I am not mistaken, I
fancy you will hear a few from this fine gentleman who
has been coaching you, but who is a traitor to you at
the same time.”

“A traitor!” cried Spencer. “Be careful! Mr. Harlow
is a gentleman and a student of Yale College.”

“A what?” shouted Diamond.

“A what?” echoed Merriwell. “Why, the nearest
this fellow ever came to the inside of Yale College was
Jackson’s poker joint in New Haven. If he has represented
himself as a student of Yale, it shows he began
by lying to you right off the reel. This fellow was expelled
from Harvard, and was drummed out of New
Haven for cheating at cards! That’s the kind of a
bird he is!”

CHAPTER XII—HARLOW’S DISCOMFITURE
=================================

Something like a grating imprecation escaped Harlow’s
lips, and it seemed that he would leap for Frank’s
throat.

But the revolver was still in Merriwell’s hand, and,
somehow, its muzzle wandered around, and stopped
when it covered Rolf.

The accused lad literally gnashed his teeth.

The others were aghast for a moment, and then Kent
Spencer seriously said:

“Look here, sir, you will have to prove that charge.
Otherwise, you will find you have made a big mistake
in accusing a gentleman of being a blackguard.”

“I can prove it without a struggle,” assured Frank.

“How?”

“In several ways. To begin with, I am a student at
Yale myself. It was in New Haven I first met this
crook. I exposed him when he was bleeding some of
my friends by playing poker with them and using
marked cards.”

“A lie!” Harlow almost screamed; “a vile lie!”

“It is the truth,” asserted Jack Diamond. “I was in
that game. Harlow beat me, and he would have
beaten me worse but for Mr. Merriwell.”

“Mr. Who?” Spencer shouted.

“Merriwell.”

“Who is Mr. Merriwell?”

“That is Mr. Merriwell right there,” said Jack, nodding
toward Frank.

“Frank Merriwell—Frank Merriwell, the ball player
and all-around athlete?” questioned Spencer, excitedly.

“That’s who he is,” assured the Virginian.

“Then Mr. Harlow should be very well acquainted
with him,” said the stroke of the crew, “for he has said
that Frank Merriwell is his particular friend.”

“Yes,” spoke up another, “he referred us to Frank
Merriwell when he applied for the position to coach
our crew.”

“My eyes! what a crust!” shouted Diamond. “I
never heard of such cheek! He referred you to Merry
because he thought you could not reach him by letter
as he knew Merry was somewhere out West on a bicycle
tour.”

“All of us had heard of Mr. Merriwell,” said Spencer.
“We saw his name in the papers often. A sporting
magazine spoke of him as the destined leader in
baseball and football at Yale. Besides that, I know a
person who is personally acquainted with him. Naturally,
when Mr. Harlow declared that Frank Merriwell
was a particular friend of his we were inclined to regard
him with favor, and I am greatly astonished to
discover that he has been deceiving us.”

Harlow looked disgusted.

“I presume you are ready to take the word of these
strangers against me!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think
that of you, but——”

“If this is Frank Merriwell, why shouldn’t we take
his word?”

“How do you know he is Frank Merriwell?” demanded
Rolf.

“I can prove that with ease,” smiled Frank, thrusting
his hand into his pocket and pulling forth some letters.
“Here is some of my correspondence, here is my card,
and here is my name and address on this key check. If
you want further proof, gentlemen, I can show you
my name marked upon my clothes.”

“That is quite enough,” assured Spencer. “We are
satisfied that you are what you represent yourself to
be. And now will you be good enough to tell us the
meaning of this struggle here on the bank?”

“With pleasure,” bowed Frank. “My friend here,
Jack Diamond, a Virginian born and bred, asked me to
leave the road over yonder and come here, where he
could show me a pretty view of the Potomac. We
locked our bicycles to a tree, where it was not likely
they would be seen, and came this way. As we approached,
we saw this chap in flannels standing on the
bank and shouting his orders to your crew. Curiosity
brought us nearer, and then we heard him talking with
another chap who was hidden in the bushes where he
could watch your work. From what we overheard——”

It was getting too hot for Harlow, and he interrupted
Frank.

“It is plain to me,” he cried, “that you are ready to
take the word of a stranger instead of mine, and that is
too much for me to stand. That being the case, I’ll
leave you with your new friends.”

He was about to hurry from the spot, but Frank
checked him.

“Hold on, Harlow,” he said, suavely. “I have your
revolver, you know.”

“Then give it to me!”

“Come take it.”

Although thus invited, Rolf did not hasten to obey,
for the muzzle of the weapon was looking straight at
him.

“I thought you would wait a while,” nodded Frank.
“You shall have the gun directly.”

Then he continued his story:

“From what we overheard, we learned that your
coach and the spy in the bushes were in league with
each other. Evidently, the spy belongs to a rival crew,
and he was watching to get points from your work.”

Exclamations of anger broke from the rowers, and
it was plain they were greatly incensed.

Harlow fidgeted uneasily. A short time before, he
had been very popular among these fellows, but now
they regarded him with distrust and positive contempt.

All through Frank Merriwell! How he hated Merriwell!

“It was one of the A. A. C. fellows!” cried a red-headed
fellow, whose name was Fred Dobbs. “I
thought I recognized him from the river.”

It was plain that Spencer was loath to believe such
a thing about any person.

“Why should Mr. Harlow betray us?” he asked, in
an undecided way.

“That’s it!” cried Rolf, catching at this as a drowning
person might catch at a floating chip. “Why
should I do such a thing?”

“He’ll do anything for money!” scornfully exclaimed
Jack Diamond.

“And the Alexandria fellows have money to burn,”
came from Fred Dobbs. “They are furious because we
won the championship of the Potomac last year, and
they mean to win it back this year by fair means or
foul. I can understand why they should buy up our
coach.”

“But Harlow has seemed to work for our interest
thus far,” said another. “Surely we have improved
under his coaching.”

“If you hadn’t you would not have confidence in him
as a coach, would you?” asked Jack.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, that’s just where he has been playing his card
shrewdly. He wanted you to have enough confidence
so you would make up your crew at the last minute just
as he directed. That would settle it.”

Harlow saw the case had gone against him.

“Settle it to suit yourselves!” he cried. “This is the
first time ever I was treated like this! I fancied they
raised gentlemen down here in Virginia!”

“And so they do!” came sternly from Kent Spencer;
“but we have found they are not always all gentlemen
who come down here from the North. Mr. Harlow,
you shall be given a fair show. A meeting of the Blue
Cove Academy Athletic Club shall be called, and the
charges against you shall be impartially investigated.
If they are proven, we shall publicly proclaim you a
scoundrel. But you will be given a good opportunity
to disprove them. You can ask for nothing more.”

Rolf braced up.

“I do not ask for anything more,” he declared. “I
will be on hand at the meeting, and I will prove that
I have been defamed and lied about by these fellows.
I did think Frank Merriwell was my friend; but he is
never a friend to a rival in athletics and sports, so he
has turned against me, and is trying to down me.”

This came near being too much for Jack Diamond to
stand. Knowing Frank as he did, and thinking how
generous Merriwell always was in dealing with a rival,
Jack felt like slapping Rolf across the mouth.

Frank seemed to divine the feelings and thoughts of
his comrade, for he caught Jack’s arm, saying, swiftly
but quietly:

“Never mind that, my boy. If it’s a lie, these fellows
will find it out in time, and it will harm nobody
but the one who told it.”

Jack growled a bit, but he always obeyed Frank, so
Rolf escaped.

“Here, Mr. Harlow,” said Merriwell, reversing the
revolver and handing it to its owner, “here is the gun
you pulled on me. I have no further use for it.”

Sourly, the exposed rascal accepted the weapon, and
put it in his pocket. Then he said:

“I am going now, and I leave you fellows to listen
to the lies these chaps may tell about me. I don’t care!
They don’t cut any ice. I’ll be on hand at the investigation,
and I’ll show you what monumental liars they
both are.”

Then he walked away, not a hand being lifted to stop
him.

“Mr. Merriwell,” said Kent Spencer, when Rolf had
vanished, “I am pleased to meet you, but sorry that the
meeting should be under such unpleasant circumstances.”

“Don’t mention it,” smiled Frank. “I am glad to be
of service to you in helping expose a rascal like
Harlow.”

“If the charges against Harlow stand, we’ll need a
new coach,” quickly put in Fred Dobbs.

“That’s right,” nodded Spencer; “and I don’t know
where we will get one, unless we can induce Mr. Merriwell
to serve us.”

“He’ll make a dandy for you!” cried Diamond.
“The first year he was in Yale he coached the freshmen
so that we beat the sophomores without a struggle, and
we had the poorer boat, too. Oh, Frank can put you in
shape all right.”

“We may not need a coach,” said a slender chap by
the name of Bob Dean. “If Alexandria has resorted
to such dirty tricks as putting spies on us and bribing
our coach, I am for refusing to row with them.”

“And I!”

“Same here!”

“I’m another!”

The boys of Blue Cove Academy were aroused.

“Easy, fellows,” advised Spencer. “We must row
with Alexandria. If not, with whom can we row?”

“Bristol Academy,” suggested one.

Kent shook his head.

“It won’t do,” he declared. “Bristol is not in our
class. And everybody would say we were afraid to
meet Alexandria. If there was another crew——”

Diamond struck Frank a slap on the shoulder.

“By Jove, Merry!” he cried; “we can turn out a crew
ourselves. If we can get into this race, why not do so?
Blue Cove Academy against the Yale Combine. That
should be a better race than the other. It would attract
more attention.”

The Blue Cove boys were interested immediately.

“What do you mean?” asked Bob Dean. “How
could you row against us? Where is your crew?”

“The rest of them are stopping at a bicycle repair
shop near Brooke,” Jack explained. “Merry and I
rode out by ourselves for a spin, and that is how we
happened to be here. Say, fellows, this is a great idea!
Let us into this race, anyway. We are on a regular
athletic tour, and have taken part in every event we
could get into since leaving San Francisco. We’ve left
a trail of glory all the way from California to Virginia.”

The Blue Cove boys looked at each other doubtingly.
Bob Dean was the only one who seemed to snap at the
scheme with eagerness.

“Let’s do it, fellows!” he cried. “Let’s leave Alexandria
out and race with the Yale crowd!”

“I do not think we can leave Alexandria out now,”
said Spencer, gravely. “We have agreed to meet them,
and the time is set.”

“But think of the sneaking trick they have played on
us! That ought to be enough to queer them.”

“It ought to, but we can’t be hasty in this matter.
We’ll consider it at the special meeting that will be
called to investigate the charges against Harlow. Mr.
Merriwell, you and your friend must be present at that
meeting.”

“If necessary, we’ll be there.”

“And if we were to decide to let you into the race,
have you a boat?”

“If you decide to let us in, we’ll soon provide ourselves
with a boat,” declared Frank.

“Anyway, you must come to Blue Cove Academy—all
of you. The boys will make you welcome. Will
you come?”

“Where is the academy?”

“Up the river about four miles.”

“Yes, we will come.”

“Good!” shouted the oarsmen. “We’ll give you a
jolly reception.”

Then Kent Spencer drew Frank aside.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “my knowledge of you has
not been obtained entirely from the papers.”

“Indeed?” smiled Frank, lifting his eyebrows.

“No; I have heard much of you from a personal
friend and admirer who is stopping at the Cove.”

“That is pleasant news. I shall be pleased to meet
him. I am always glad to meet my friends. Is it a
Yale man?”

“No,” said Kent, “it is not a Yale man. It is some
one you have not seen in a long time. There is a little
hotel down at the Cove, and you must bring your party
there. This friend of yours is stopping at the cottage
of a retired sea captain who lives at the Cove. My sister
is also stopping at the same place.”

In vain Frank urged Spencer to tell the name of the
mysterious person of whom he spoke. He declared
that it was some one Merriwell would be delighted to
see, and that was all Frank could get out of him.

“Well,” laughed Merry, “you have aroused my curiosity
so that I am going down to Blue Cove immediately.
I shall send Jack back to Brooke for the rest
of the fellows, but I shall continue on to Blue Cove.”

This pleased Spencer.

“Do it!” he cried. “You won’t be sorry.”

Then Frank went back and told Jack of his decision.

“I will go on to Blue Cove and make arrangements
for our party at the hotel,” he said, “while you are to
go back for the fellows.”

Jack was not quite pleased with the idea of wheeling
back to the others all alone, but he did not murmur
much.

CHAPTER XIII—AGAINST ODDS
=========================

A short time later, the Blue Cove boys were pulling
up the river in their boat, while Diamond was riding in
one direction and Merriwell in another.

Frank arrived at the Cove ahead of the crew. He
found a pretty little spot, with a hotel set back on an
elevation from the water, while the academy was surrounded
by well-kept grounds and tall trees.

It was the vacation season at the academy, but two
of the professors lived in the building the year around,
and by the rule of the institution, the annual boat race
on the Potomac was not allowed during the spring
term. For some years it had been a midsummer event,
a number of students remaining at the academy and
getting into trim after the spring term was over.

As the Cove was something of a summer resort,
where there were often many pretty girls, this was a
pleasure instead of a hardship, and the rivalry for the
crew was intense.

Often from six to a dozen students besides the crew
remained at Blue Cove during the summer, and at the
time of the race every student who could get there was
on hand.

There were nearly a dozen cottages at the Cove, and
Frank’s first view of the place brought a cry of delight
from his lips.

Amid the trees, hammocks were swung, and in them
could be seen several girls in light dresses, idly perusing
paper-covered novels or chatting with the young fellows
who lingered near.

There were two large tennis courts, and upon one of
these, despite the warm sun, a party of four, two fellows
and two girls, were engaged in a most exciting
game.

Above the Blue Cove Academy boathouse flew a
beautiful flag, and several pleasure boats lay beside a
float, or were moored at a distance from the shore.

“Great stuff!” exclaimed Frank, with satisfaction.
“And to think we might have missed this place but for
the little adventure down the river. We won’t do a
thing here but have sport!”

Straight to the hotel he rode, attracting some attention.
Soon he had disposed of his wheel, and made arrangements
for the accommodation of his party, fortunately
being on hand in time to take some rooms left
vacant by some visitors who had departed that
morning.

Having settled this matter, Frank went out to look
for Kent Spencer and the crew. He found they were
not yet in sight, and he was devoured by curiosity to
learn without delay what friend of his was stopping at
the Cove.

Being thus impatient, Frank made inquiries about a
retired sea captain who lived in the neighborhood.

He was told that an old sea captain by the name of
Tobias Barnaby lived about half a mile away.
Barnaby was said to be queer, having considerable money,
but being rather close-fisted and mean.

Frank was shown a path that led over a rise and
through some timber to Barnaby’s home, and he immediately
set off in that direction.

Merry’s curiosity seemed to increase as he hurried
along the path. What friend of his could be stopping
with this queer old sea captain? It was some one who
had spoken well of him to Kent Spencer.

The timber through which the path passed was rather
thick, and Frank did not obtain a sight of the old sailor’s
home till he came out suddenly and saw the wood-colored
roof of the old house showing amid the trees
in a little hollow at his feet.

“Well, that’s a cozy nest!” he muttered, as he paused
to admire the picture; “and the last place in the world
where I should expect to find any one who knows me.”

At that moment he was startled by a sound that came
from the midst of the trees near the back of the house.

“Go away and let me alone!” sounded the voice of a
girl. “If you don’t—— Help! he-e-e-lp!”

The cry for help was uttered in a smothered, frightened
manner, and it stirred Frank Merriwell’s blood
from his crown to his toes.

“I think I am needed down there!” he muttered.

With that, he went leaping down the steep path at
breakneck speed.

“Stop your screaming!” roughly commanded a voice.
“I won’t hurt you, you little fool! But I am going to
kiss you, and you can’t stop me, for I know old Barnaby
is away. I saw him row off in his boat.”

“Help—help! Kate!” cried the appealing voice of
the girl from the midst of the trees back of the old
house.

These voices served to guide Frank. He left the
path and rushed toward the spot from whence the
frightened appeal came, his feet making very little
noise on the grass.

In a moment he came upon a spectacle that fired his
heart with the greatest rage.

A girl with golden hair was struggling in the arms
of a young fellow, who was doing his best to hold her
while he pressed a kiss upon her unwilling lips.

And that young fellow was Rolf Harlow!

Frank recognized his enemy at a glance, and the
sight of the fellow added to the consuming fury burning
in his breast.

By brute strength, Harlow overcame the girl, and, as
he held her helpless in his arms, he laughed triumphantly,
crying:

“What’s the use to make so much fuss! I won’t
hurt you. I was stuck on you the first time I saw
you, my little peach, and I made a bet that I’d kiss
you within two days. I must do the job now, or lose
my bet.”

“Then you will lose your bet!”

Rolf heard the words, but he had no time to turn and
meet Frank, who was right upon him.

In a moment, Frank had torn the girl from Harlow’s
arms, and planted a hammer-like blow under the fellow’s
ear.

Merry’s knuckles cracked on the neck of the young
ruffian, and Harlow went down as if he had been struck
by a club.

With the girl on his arm, his fist clinched, Frank
stood over Rolf, ready to give him another if he tried
to get up.

But Harlow lay gasping and quivering on the
ground, knocked out for the moment.

The girl, who was almost swooning, slipped her soft
arm about Frank’s neck, and then, to his astonishment,
he heard her whisper:

“Frank! Frank! is it you—can it be?”

Then he looked at her, and, to his unbounded astonishment
and joy, he saw resting against his shoulder
the sweet, flower-like face of Elsie Bellwood.

Was he dreaming? For a moment it seemed that he
must be. He doubted the evidence of his eyes.

Was this Elsie, his old-time girl, of whom he had
thought so often and so tenderly—Elsie, of whom he
had dreamed, and whom he longed to see—Elsie, blue-eyed,
golden-haired, trusting and true!

How his heart leaped and fluttered! How the love-light
leaped into his eyes! How his stern face softened!

It was Elsie—dear little Elsie—the old sea captain’s
daughter, and, if possible, she was sweeter, prettier,
more attractive than when last he had seen her.

She was pale when he first looked at her, but as she
saw the joyous light of recognition in his eyes, the
warm color stole into her cheeks, and she gasped with
a delight that was almost childish.

“It is!” she panted; “it is Frank—my Frank!”

He drew her close to him, forgetting the scoundrel
he had knocked down. Both his arms were about her,
and for the moment the joy of his heart was too deep
for words.

She lay in his strong arms, laughing, almost crying,
half hysterical, wholly happy. From the terror and
despair of a few moments before to relief and joy of
the present was so great a revulsion of emotions that
she felt herself incapable of any movement or act.

It was the same noble fellow she knew so well, only
it seemed that he was handsomer and nobler in appearance
than ever before. He was older, and there was
more than a hint of dawning manhood in his face.

For the time, wrapped about with the unbounded delight
of their unexpected meeting, they were utterly
oblivious to their surroundings. They did not see Rolf
Harlow struggle to a sitting posture, rubbing the spot
where Frank’s fist had been planted. They did not see
him glaring at Merriwell with deadly hate, while he
felt to make sure that his revolver was where his hand
could find it quickly.

Harlow arose quietly to his feet, assuming a crouching
posture, ready to leap upon Frank, whose back was
toward him.

At that instant, a handsome, black-eyed girl came
running around the corner of the house, closely followed
by another lad, the latter being the spy Merriwell
and Diamond had detected in the bushes farther down
the river.

A cry from the lips of the girl warned Frank, and
caused him to whirl quickly about. As he did this,
Harlow leaped and struck out with all his strength.

Frank was able to dodge slightly and avoid the full
force of the blow. However, he did not escape it entirely,
and it staggered him. He released his hold upon
Elsie immediately, for Harlow was closely following up
the attack, and Merriwell saw he was in for a fight with
the furious young scoundrel.

That would have not alarmed Frank, but Harlow
called to the other lad:

“Here, Radford, jump in here and help me thump
the stuffing out of him! He’s alone! It’s the chap who
caught you down the river, and he just hit me a thump
when I wasn’t looking. Come on!”

“I’m with you!” shouted Radford. “We’ll lick him
till he can’t stand! This is our chance to get square!”

He hastened to join Harlow in the attack upon
Frank.

Merriwell laughed. It was his old, dangerous laugh,
which came from his lips when he was most aroused in
time of peril.

“Come, on!” he invited, promptly. “Sail right in
and lick me! I’ll watch and see how you do it! The
way I feel now, it would take four or five more such
chaps as you to do that little job! There is one for
you, Radford!”

Harlow had struck at Frank. Merry dodged under
his arm, came up behind him, and struck Radford a
stinging blow before Rolf could turn about.

Then a furious struggle began, while the two girls,
clasped in each other’s arms, looked on in terror, fearing
the dauntless fellow who was battling against such
odds would be severely punished.

“Who is he, Elsie?” gasped the other girl. “Isn’t
he brave! Isn’t he smart! Oh, I never saw a fellow
who could fight like that! I do admire a fellow who
can fight!”

“It’s terrible!” whispered timid little Elsie, her hands
clasped in distress. “A fight always terrifies me! But
they can’t whip him!” she declared, with the utmost
confidence. “I know they can’t!”

“Who is he? You must know him, and you have
not told me who he is.”

“That is Frank Merriwell, of whom I have told you
so much, Kate,” said Elsie, proudly. “He is the
bravest fellow in the whole world!”

“Frank Merriwell?” cried Kate Spencer, for it was
Kent Spencer’s sister. “How can that be? How
comes he here?”

“I don’t know yet, but he came just in time to save
me from that Rolf Harlow, whom I fear and detest.
He knocked Harlow down.”

“And Berlin Radford was holding me so I could not
come to your assistance when you were crying for help.
They knew Aunt Hannah had gone to the store, and
they saw Uncle Tobias row away in his boat. That
was how they dared do it.”

“Look!” gasped Elsie; “see how they are fighting
now: It is dreadful!”

She covered her face with her hands, but the other
girl continued to watch the fighting lads, her heart beating
in sympathy for Frank Merriwell.

Radford was a savage fighter, and Merry found him
even more formidable than Rolf Harlow. Radford
was a member of the Alexandria Athletic Club, although
he had been stopping in Blue Cove a few days.

Frank did not escape some punishment, but he skillfully
managed to cause his enemies to interfere with
each other to a certain extent, and when he did strike
a blow they were certain to feel it.

Three times was Harlow sent to grass, and Radford
was knocked down twice, the second blow causing blood
to spurt from his nose, on which Merriwell’s hard fist
had landed.

Still, encouraging each other, they pressed Frank
hard. Finally, Radford got in a blow that brought
Merriwell to his knees.

Elsie, who had uncovered her eyes, screamed with
fear, and held her hands over her face once more.

Kate quivered with excitement and fear.

“Oh, the cowards!” she exclaimed. “He could whip
either one of them alone!”

“And I can whip them both together!” panted Frank,
who caught her words.

“On him—on him!” shouted Harlow. “Now is our
time to do him up! We can finish him in a hurry!”

Both boys rushed at Frank. Radford was in advance.
Merriwell ducked and arose. He had grasped
Radford about the ankles, and he lifted the fellow into
the air, flinging him clean over his head!

Radford fell and struck on his back, while Frank
was barely in time to grapple with Harlow. Rolf’s
rush swept Merriwell back, and both fell over Radford’s
prostrate form.

Then the latter made a scramble, and the two pinned
Frank to the ground!

They had him foul at last!

CHAPTER XIV—FRANK AND ELSIE
===========================

As well might they have tried to hold an eel. With
a squirming twist, Frank managed to writhe from beneath
them, somehow thumping their heads together till
they were dazed by the stars that seemed to flash before
their eyes. While they were in this condition, he got
upon his feet, breathing heavily, but laughing as if it
were a matter of sport.

Harlow and Radford sprang up quickly. They located
Frank, and, though amazed by the manner in
which he had escaped them, renewed the attack.

Now all three were fighting somewhat slower, as if
the strain upon them was telling on their wind.

The struggle was still raging when a stout, motherly-looking
woman, with a basket in her hand, came around
the corner, and stopped, staring in amazement at the
scene.

“Well, I never!” she exclaimed.

The girls heard her, saw her, flew to her.

“Oh, Mrs. Barnaby!” cried Elsie.

“Oh, Aunt Hannah!” exclaimed Kate.

“Stop them!” palpitated the girl with the blue eyes
and golden hair.

“Drive away those horrid fellows who are trying to
whip the one in the bicycle suit!” urged the other girl.

“What’s all the row about, anyhow?” asked the
woman.

Then, hurriedly and brokenly, the two girls told her
what had happened. Her kindly face grew stern and
her eyes flashed as she listened.

“The rascals!” she exploded. “They oughter be
hoss-whipped! I’d like to do it, too! Hey! you git
out!”

She flourished her hands and swung the basket about,
but the fighting lads did not heed her command.

Then Aunt Hannah hastened forward boldly and
resolutely struck Rolf Harlow over the head with the
basket.

Smash—spatter!

The basket contained eggs, and they were broken
and smashed over Harlow’s head. Out flew the sticky,
yellow mass, spattering all over Rolf.

A howl of astonishment and dismay broke from the
lips of the rascal, and then, taking one look at the angry
woman, he turned and fled, while Kate Spencer
screamed with laughter.

Seeing he was deserted, Berlin Radford did not delay
about following his friend, and the two were hard
scrambling up the path, and uttering cries of impotent
rage.

There was a hammock near, in which Elsie Bellwood
had been reclining when Rolf Harlow came upon her
and into it Kate Spencer dropped, holding her handkerchief
to her face and laughing as if she would lose
her breath.

“Oh, goodness!” she cried. “Oh, Aunt Hannah!
didn’t you do it that time! Ha! ha! ha! How astonished
and disgusted that chap looked! And what a
spectacle he made as he stood there, with those broken
eggs dripping down his face and neck! Oh! oh! oh!
Brother Kent will die when I tell him about this!”

“The rascals!” burst forth the woman, as she stood
with her smashed and dripping basket in her hand, regarding
it in dismay. “All them good eggs broke to
pieces, and I jest bought ’em over at the store! Who’s
goin’ to pay for them eggs?”

“I will be happy to pay for them,” laughed Frank.
“It was worth the price of a bushel of eggs to see Rolf
Harlow after you struck him with the basket. I have
to thank you for saving me the trouble of finishing both
those chaps.”

Elsie ran to Frank.

“Oh, are you hurt much?” she fluttered. “I am
afraid you are hurt!”

“Not a bit, dear little girl,” smiled Merry, tenderly.
“They did thump me a few times, but all that thumping
did not damage me at all.”

It was nearly ten minutes before Kate Spencer could
stop laughing, and for an hour afterward she would
break out occasionally when she remembered how Harlow
had looked after being struck by the basket.

The whole affair was explained to Mrs. Barnaby, and
Frank was introduced. He promised to send her over
another basket of eggs from the store, which eased
her feelings greatly.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Merriwell, sir,” said the
good woman. “Elsie has told us lots about ye, but I
never expected to see you here.”

Frank explained how, by accident, he came to be
there, telling of the treacherous work in which he had
detected Harlow not long before.

“The fellow must have come directly here after returning
to Blue Cove,” he said. “And that other chap
was the spy.”

“That other chap has been stopping at the Cove a few
days,” said Kate Spencer. “He thinks he is a masher,
and he was determined to force his attentions upon me.”

After they had talked a short time, Mrs. Barnaby
went into the house, and Kate, seeing Frank and Elsie
wished to be alone, soon excused herself and left them
seated in the hammock.

“Oh, Frank,” whispered Elsie, looking up at him
with her innocent blue eyes, “I am so glad to see you
again! I had begun to fear we’d never see each other
any more.”

“And I had begun to fear so myself, dear little girl,”
he confessed. “I did not know where you were, for
you were sailing over the world with your father, and
you did not have any permanent address.”

“You did not answer the last two letters I wrote
you.”

“I answered every letter I received from you, Elsie.
It must be they did not reach me.”

A look of relief added to the happiness of her sweet
face.

“And I thought you were getting so far above the
sea captain’s poor little daughter that you did not wish
to answer. I heard that you were in college, and that
you had become famous, and—and all that. Oh,
Frank! you cannot know how I waited, and watched,
and longed for an answer to my letters!”

“It was a shame, little girl! But you should have
known me better than to think I would forget you.
You should have known that, no matter what fortune
might befall me, I could not forget you. I have
thought of you a hundred—a thousand—a million
times! I have longed to see you more than I can tell!”

His arm was about her waist, and he drew her close.
Her golden head fell on his shoulder, and she smiled
up into his eyes.

“How does it happen that I find you here?” he asked.

“Capt. Barnaby is one of father’s old sailor friends.
He has told father many times that I could have a
home with him, and at last, when I was tired of going
to sea, father sent me here. Here I met Kate Spencer.
Mrs. Barnaby is her own aunt.”

“And you are not going to sea any more?”

“No; I am tired of it. I have tried to induce father
to leave the sea and settle down, but he always says:
‘After one more voyage.’ I’m afraid he’ll never give
it up. He was rich once, you know, but he put all his
money in ships, and his ships met with bad fortune, so
he lost everything. It is his dream to wrest fortune
from the sea once more.”

“I am glad you are going to sea no more, for now I
shall know where to find you, and you will receive all
my letters.”

“Oh, Frank!” she murmured; “I believe you are
braver and nobler than you used to be—if possible.”

“And you, Elsie—why, I didn’t dream you could become
prettier than you were, but you have!”

Light-hearted, whistling on his way, Frank returned
to the hotel at Blue Cove.

Kent Spencer, who was seated in a bamboo chair on
the veranda, smiled on him as he approached.

“Well, Mr. Merriwell,” he called, “I should say by
your face that you have found the friend I told you
about?”

Frank laughed and nodded, blushing a bit.

“You are right,” he confessed; “and it was the surprise
of my life. But it was lucky I went over, for I
was just in time to protect her from Rolf Harlow. By
the way, have you seen Harlow within a short time?”

“I have,” nodded Spencer; “and I rather fancy I
know the spy you saw with him. Something had happened
to Harlow when he showed up at the hotel a
short time ago, for his clothes were very wet, and he
looked wretched and disgusted. A fellow by the name
of Berlin Radford was with him.”

Frank laughed heartily.

“I’ll tell you what happened to Harlow,” he said,
and then proceeded to describe the fight, and the climax
when Mrs. Barnaby struck Rolf over the head with the
basket of eggs.

Spencer joined in Frank’s merriment.

“He had washed the broken eggs from his clothes,
and that is why they were so wet,” declared Kent.

“Where are those fellows now?”

“They’re gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“I don’t know where, but they ordered a carriage as
soon as they reached the hotel, and it did not take them
long to pack up and get out. I am inclined to think
they are gone for good.”

“Which may prove a lucky thing for them.”

“I rather fancy so, as I should have called Radford to
account for annoying my sister. Wasn’t he the spy
you caught?”

“He was,” nodded Frank.

“I fancied as much when I saw him with Harlow.
You have done Blue Cove Academy a great service to-day,
Mr. Merriwell. We did not suspect Harlow. As
for Radford, he has been here but a few days. It must
be that he is a member of the Alexandria Athletic Club,
although we did not know it. I didn’t think those fellows
up there would resort to such low tricks; but they
are bound to beat us this year and win back the title of
champions, which they lost last year. They have
money, and I understand they are betting heavily that
they will win.”

“I hope you will let our crew into this race,” said
Frank. “It will add to the sport, even if you row
Alexandria, which I think you had better do.”

“I will see that a meeting of the association is called
immediately, and the matter shall be considered. I am
for taking you in. If Alexandria kicks, let them stay
out.”

Frank expressed his satisfaction if such arrangement
could be made, and then went up to his room.

An hour later, the others of the Yale Combine arrived
at the hotel, Diamond in the lead, and Hans Dunnerwust
bringing up the rear, as usual.

At least a dozen of the Blue Cove Academy boys
were on hand to greet the young bicyclists, who gave a
cheer when they saw Frank come out of the hotel.

“Hurro!” shouted Barney. “Here we are Frankie,
me b’y!”

“Yaw!” cried Hans; “here you vos, Vrankie, mein
poy! You peen glat to seen us, ain’t id?”

“Gol darn my punkins!” drawled Ephraim Gallup;
“but this here is a slick place, I snum!”

“Diamond tells us there is a chance for some sport
here,” said Rattleton. “That’s what we’re looking for,
you bet!”

Bruce groaned.

“I’m looking for quinine, blankets, hot water, pepper
tea, any old thing to warm me up!” he said. “I
feel another of those confounded Arkansas chills coming
on.”

Then Frank introduced his friends to Kent Spencer,
and there followed a general case of introducing. The
Blue Cove lads seemed a rather pleasant set of fellows,
reminding Frank and his friends of the Lake Lily
boys.

Browning did not stop for introductions, but hustled
into the hotel, and lost no time in beginning the battle
to ward off a chill. Browning’s chills were unpleasant
for him, but they were the subject of much joking on
the part of his comrades.

Frank had been certain that the boys would be
hungry when they arrived, and he had ordered a square
meal served for them all, so that the table was ready
for them shortly after they appeared and washed up in
their rooms.

Browning was on the bed, covered with quilts and
blankets, which he had pilfered from the beds of the
other fellows, gulping down quinine in huge doses and
groaning dismally.

“Aren’t you coming down to get something to eat,
old fellow?” asked Hodge.

“Oh, yes, I’m cuc-cuc-cuc-coming down to eat!”
chattered Bruce, sarcastically. “I’d enjoy eating,
wouldn’t I?”

“We’ll have something good,” grinned Rattleton.
“We’ll have posen frudding—I mean frozen pudding.”

“Boo!” gasped the big fellow. “Dud—dud-don’t
speak of it!”

“And ice cream—good, cold ice cream.”

“Gug-gug-get out bub-bub-bub-before I tut-tut-throw
you out!” roared Browning, in exasperation.
“You are tut-tut-taking your life in your hand when
you cuc-cuc-come around me talking about ice cuc-cuc-cuc—— Confound
it! get out!”

Then the laughing lads left him alone in his misery.

It was a jolly meal in the cool dining-room of the
little hotel. The boys cracked jokes, told stories,
laughed and enjoyed themselves fully.

In the midst of it all, Browning stalked into the
room, bundled to his ears in blankets.

“Say,” he called, “is there any good, hot tea or
coffee?”

“Plenty of it,” assured Merriwell.

“Gimme a cup—quick!”

Bruce found a seat at the table, and Frank ordered a
cup of tea to be brought. Then, while Rattleton and
Mulloy were condoling with Browning over his misfortune,
Merriwell gave the waiter a tip to bring a cup
of cracked ice with the tea, but to place it beside Frank’s
plate.

The waiter obeyed the order, and soon the tea, boiling
hot, was before Browning. Bruce was so eager to
swallow something hot that he caught it up and gulped
down nearly half of it. Then he uttered a roar of
dismay.

“Confound it!” he cried, as soon as he could speak.
“That tea has taken the skin off all the way down! I’m
parboiled inside! Oh, great Cæsar!”

“You wanted it hot,” said Rattleton. “The waiter
brought it hot, so you could cool it to suit yourself.”

“That ought to break up your chill,” laughed Frank.

Browning groaned.

“I wish I’d never seen Arkansas!” he declared.
“We’d been all right if Merriwell hadn’t tried to carry
out his scheme of riding through the eastern part of the
State. I caught the ague in those howling swamps,
and goodness knows when I’ll get rid of it!”

“Vot you vants to done,” said Hans, “is to froze dot
ague oudt. Uf you sot yourselluf down mit an ice-houses
in und stayed there elefen or nine hours, you
shook all der ague away britty queek. Yaw!”

“Oh, yes!” grunted the afflicted lad. “That is a fine
scheme! All you need is a pill box and a few brains to
become a first-class doctor. I don’t think!”

He tried to cool his tea so that he could drink it.
After a time, he was able to sip it. Then Frank caught
Harry’s eye, and made a signal that Rattleton understood.
Immediately Harry engaged Browning’s attention.
Bruce sat the cup of tea down a moment, and
Frank quickly exchanged it for the cup of cracked ice.

After a bit, the big fellow took the cup by the handle,
and, feeling sure the tea must be cool enough for him
to drink with impunity, lifted it and took a mouthful
of the fine cracked ice.

If possible, that gave Bruce a greater shock than he
had received from the scalding tea. Some of the ice
slipped down his throat, and with a shout of rage, the
big fellow sprang up from the table and rushed from
the room, his blankets flopping about his heels.

And all those jolly, heartless jokers at the table
shouted with laughter once more.

CHAPTER XV—A BOXING MATCH
=========================

That afternoon, the Yale lads were invited down to
the combined clubhouse and boathouse of the Blue Cove
boys. They went along in a body, Browning having
recovered sufficiently to make one of the party.

The boathouse was built over the edge of the water,
and a wing of it served as a clubroom. The regular
eight-oar racing boat lay high and dry on her brackets,
and the visitors inspected her with interest.

“What do you think of her, Merriwell?” asked Kent
Spencer, rather anxiously.

“She’s all right,” nodded Frank. “It is plain she is
a new boat, and made from an up-to-date model.”

“We bought her last season. She is the first really
good boat we ever owned, and that is how we happened
to win the championship from Alexandria. She cost
us a pretty sum, but we more than made it up on the
race.”

The final words were murmured into Frank’s ear,
and Merriwell understood that, although betting on
the races was forbidden, the Blue Cove lads had found
a way to win some of the money Alexandria was so
willing to stake on her crew.

“Our old boat was too wide in the waist,” Spencer
explained. “She could not slip through the water as
easily as this one. I presume this may be improved
upon, but I can’t see how.”

“Nor can I,” confessed Frank. “If you do not win
the race this season, it is certain the boat will not be the
cause of your defeat.”

Besides the large boat, there was a four-oared shell,
also new and handsome. This attracted no little attention
and admiration from the Yale lads.

When the boats had been inspected, the visitors were
invited into the clubroom, which they found comfortably
furnished, with large windows, which could be
opened to let the cool air sweep through the place.
Everything about the place was clean and in perfect
order.

“It is an ideal summer clubhouse,” declared Frank,
as he looked about admiringly.

There were two large tables, upon which were papers
and sporting magazines. About the tables were strong
but cheap hardwood or rattan chairs. All around the
room ran a stationary settee against the wall. On the
walls were pictures, nearly all of a sporting character.
There was a picture of a yacht race, besides imaginative
pictures of a football match and a game of baseball. A
prominent picture was that of a great single-scull rower.
There were also pictures of bicycle races.

One thing Frank noticed with intense satisfaction.
There were no pictures of professional sports and prize
fighters.

“Now, fellows,” cried Jack Diamond, “what do you
think of Virginia and Virginia boys?”

And from the Yale crowd came a shout of:

“They’re all right!”

The Blue Cove boys did what they could to make
the visitors comfortable, and a general jolly afternoon
was spent. For amusement, Hans and Ephraim were
induced to don the gloves and have a bout.

“Vot you pet you don’d knocked me oudt der virst
roundt in, Efy?” grinned the jolly Dutch lad. “You
oxpect I peen a holy derror der cloves mit, eh?”

“Gol darned ef I know anything abaout ye!” answered
the Vermonter, as he stuffed his long fingers
down into the gloves. “All I want is plenty of room,
an’ there ain’t enough in here, b’gosh!”

“Yaw, you gif me blenty uf rooms,” urged Hans.
“Vy you don’d come der odder part uf der puilding
indo, hey?”

“That’ll suit me. Come on.”

So out they went into the room where the boats were
kept.

“You want to look out for the slip,” said Spencer.
“You might fall into the water, and——”

He did not say more, for he saw Frank violently
shaking his head, and tumbled to the fact that Merriwell
did not want the boxers warned against the opening
by which a boat could be rowed into that very room.

Ephraim seemed to feel lively and belligerent as soon
as he pulled on the gloves, for he pranced around Hans,
making furious feints and chuckling:

“Oh, jeewhiskers! ain’t this goin’ to be a reg’lar darn
picnic! We’ll have heaps of fun thumpin’ an’ punchin’
each other, Dutchy.”

“Yaw,” grinned Hans, but with a sudden expression
of dubiousness, “it peen goin’ to be so much fun as
nefer vas. Vot you pet on der game? Vot you pet
you don’d lick me? I know I can let you done dot,
und I pet von tollars on him. Uf you got der nerfe,
you pet me dot.”

“Don’t talk about betting, but come an’ see me!”
cried Ephraim, still prancing about and flourishing his
arms.

“Oh, you peen in a pig hurry, don’d id,” cried Hans.
“Vale, look avay oudt!”

Then he made a rush at Ephraim, who simply
straightened out one of his long arms, permitting the
Dutch boy to run against his glove.

With a terrific thump, Hans sat down on the floor.

“Yow!” he cried. “Oxcuse me for dot! I didn’t
know you vas lookin’! Uf you hurted mein nose, I
didn’t meant to done id.”

The witnesses laughed, and Hans got upon his feet.

“Come on!” invited Ephraim. “Come right at me!”

“I peen goin’ to done dot britty queek, you pets my
poots!” declared Hans, as he bounced around the
Yankee boy, keeping at a safe distance. “Der nexd
dime you hit me, id vill pe mit you faces mein fist on.
Yaw!”

“Brace up to him, ye Dutch chaze!” urged Barney,
who began to itch all over at the sight of anything resembling
a “scrap.” “Don’t let th’ long-legged farmer
be afther froightenin’ yez.”

“Who vos frightened?” demanded Hans. “He
don’d peen afraidt uf me. I vas goin’ to shown him a
trick vot I nefer seen. Here id vas, py shimminy!”

Then he made another rush at Ephraim, who thrust
out his fist once more, expecting the Dutch lad to run
against it. But Hans had not forgotten what happened
the first time, and he dodged under Ephraim’s glove,
and gave the Yankee lad a terrific thump just below the
belt.

With a howl, Ephraim doubled up like a jackknife,
holding both hands to his abdomen and turning purple
in the face.

“Yah!” shouted Hans, triumphantly. “Vot you
toldt me a minute ago, ain’d id? I know I peen goin’
to done dot! Oh, I vas a holy derror somedimes!”

“Gol—darn—yeou!” gasped Ephraim. “Yeou hit—me—below—the—belt!”

“Yaw,” nodded Hans; “you pet I done dot. I
known der blace vot takes uf you der vindt oudt, und I
don’d haf a latter to climb higher up mit.”

Ephraim was mad. As soon as he could straighten
up, he sailed into Hans in earnest, and the spectators
shouted with delight at the spectacle.

To the surprise of all, the fat little Dutchman proved
a rather stiff antagonist for the Vermonter. It made
no difference to Hans where he struck Ephraim, and
he managed to duck under the Yankee lad’s wicked
blows.

In their excitement, the boxers did not observe that
they were working toward the open slip, assisted by
Frank and his friends, who pressed upon them from the
opposite side.

Suddenly, as he was being pressed close, Hans
dodged under Ephraim’s guard and clutched the
country lad about the waist. Gallup wound his long arms
around Hans’ neck, and they swayed and strained in
each other’s grasp.

It was uncertain whether they staggered of their own
accord or were given a slight push, but all at once they
reeled and went over into the slip.

Them was a great splash as they struck the water,
and they vanished from view, still locked in each other’s
arms.

In a moment they came up, having broken apart.

“Hellup!” squawked Hans.

“Help!” howled Ephraim.

They splashed about wildly, clutched each other
again, and sank once more, while the boys in the boat-house
screamed with laughter.

“They are frightened enough to hang onto each other
and drown right there,” said Frank. “We must help
them out.”

So Merriwell and Rattleton each secured a boathook,
and as soon as possible hooked it into the clothes of the
boys, who were floundering about in the water.

“Pull, Harry!” Frank shouted.

They were on opposite sides of the slip, and so they
succeeded in dragging Hans and Ephraim apart, for all
that the Dutch boy made a frantic effort to hang fast to
the Vermonter.

Harry had fastened into a convenient part of the
Dutch lad’s trousers, while Frank had hooked onto
Ephraim’s belt. The latter was pulled out easily, but
the fat boy’s head and feet hung down, and Rattleton
was forced to call for assistance. Fortunately, Hans’
pants were stout in that particular spot, and did not
give way.

When the boxers were brought out, they sat on opposite
sides of the slip, water running in streams from
their clothes, and stared across at each other in ludicrous
disgust and rage.

“Gol darn ye!” Ephraim gurgled, weakly shaking
his fist at Hans. “Yeou was to blame fer that! Ef I
could reach ye, I’d swat ye right plumb on the smeller,
b’gosh!”

“Yah!” sneered Hans, shaking his fist in turn, “uf
I peen so near to you as you vos to me, I vould gif you
somedings dot I vouldn’t like, und don’t you remember
dot!”

Then the spectators shouted with merriment once
more.

CHAPTER XVI—THE CLUB MEETING
============================

That evening a meeting of the Blue Cove Academy
Athletic Club was called in the clubroom of the boat-house,
and every member in the vicinity was present.

Frank and Jack were asked to attend the meeting,
and they were on hand.

When the meeting had been formally opened, Kent
Spencer arose and explained that it had been called for
two reasons, the first matter for consideration being the
charge of double dealing and treachery which he should
make against their late coach, Rolf Harlow.

Then the red-haired boy, Fred Dobbs, who was secretary
of the club, said he had a brief communication
from Harlow, which would render it quite unnecessary
for them to go through a regular investigation, and call
the two witnesses, Merriwell and Diamond, who were
present.

“This note,” Dobbs explained, “was left at the hotel
by Harlow when he suddenly decided to get out of
Blue Cove to-day. The clerk forgot it, and did not
hand it to me till a short time ago, which explains how
it happens that I have not spoken of it.”

He then proceeded to read it aloud. It ran as
follows:

    “:sc:`Mr. Fred Dobbs`, Secretary B. C. A. A. C.

    “:sc:`Dear Sir`: As I am about to leave Blue Cove, I
    write this to let you know that your entire club, and
    yourself and Kent Spencer in particular, are a lot of
    chumps. You are easy stuff, and if it hadn’t been for
    Frank Merriwell, with whom I will yet get square, I
    would have worked you for a jolly good haul in cold
    cash. You must have thought me a fool to waste my
    time coaching you for the paltry sum you agreed to pay
    me. I am out for dust, and I generally get it. I intended
    to fix things so you could not win against Alexandria,
    and I should have had a good sum bet against
    you, being certain of winning. That was my game,
    and now that it is spoiled, I don’t care who knows it.
    I think the Alexandria boys will win anyhow. As for
    Merriwell’s charge that Mr. Radford was sent here by
    Alexandria as a spy, there is nothing in it. The Alexandria
    fellows knew nothing about his being here. He
    is a friend of mine, and, as I had advised him to bet
    against Blue Cove, he wished to see you in practice.
    That is all. Yours derisively,

    .. container:: right
    
        “:sc:`Rolf Harlow`.”

This insolent and insulting note brought cries of
anger from the listening lads, and when Dobbs finished
reading, the entire club was in an uproar. On all sides
fierce denunciations of Harlow were to be heard. The
things said about Rolf were far from complimentary.

Spencer, who was president of the club, found some
difficulty in calling the excited and enraged boys to
order. A dozen times he hammered on the table before
him with his gavel, sharply commanding them to
sit down and be still. At last they subsided, grumblingly,
scowling and muttering to each other.

Kent then arose and said:

“Gentlemen, we should thank Mr. Rolf Harlow for
saving us the trouble of an investigation by frankly
acknowledging himself the contemptible and pusillanimous
scoundrel which he is. A fellow who could make
such a confession without shame—indeed, a fellow who
could make it boastingly, as this fellow did, is not
worthy an instant’s consideration from gentlemen!”

“Right! right!” cried the boys.

“All there is to be considered in connection with this
matter, then, is whether Alexandria was concerned in
this dirty game or not.”

“But he says Alexandria was not,” quickly said a boy
by the name of Anson Addison.

“And I would not believe him under any circumstances!”
cried Fred Dobbs.

Then arose another discussion, which ended in the
appointment of a committee to discover, if possible, if
the Alexandria Club had resorted to such a sneaking
and ungentlemanly trick.

The committee listened to what Frank and Jack had
to tell of the conversation they had overheard between
Harlow and the spy. They looked serious, and were
of the opinion that a further investigation seemed certain
to prove beyond a doubt that Alexandria, enraged
by their defeat of the previous season, had resorted to
unfair means to win back the title of “champions.”

The next matter that came before the meeting was
the consideration of Frank Merriwell’s proposal to
enter the race with his Yale Combine.

As soon as this matter was called up, Anson Addison
jumped to his feet and protested against considering it
while two members of the Yale Combine were present.

Frank and Jack immediately arose to withdraw.
Spencer urged them to stay, saying he did not see why
they should not remain, but they excused themselves
and left the room.

Then followed a red-hot discussion as to the advisability
of letting Merriwell and his friends row in the
race. Addison argued against it, and he made many
strong points. He claimed that the Yale Combine was
a temporary organization, which would not be in existence
long, and might not last another year. If it
won the championship, there was no certainty that Blue
Cove would get another opportunity to row against the
combine. Alexandria might object to rowing a three-cornered
race; in fact, it was almost certain Alexandria
would object. There was no proof that Alexandria
had not dealt fairly with Blue Cove, and if the Yale
Combine won the race, and failed to row next season,
Alexandria could claim Blue Cove had lost the championship,
which would give them an opportunity to row
against some other organization and bar Blue Cove.

Fred Dobbs, hot-headed as usual, made a spirited reply
to this, but was checked by Spencer, who used better
judgment, talking quietly and calmly, and showing
that the things Addison pretended to fear were not
likely to happen. He also showed that in case the
charge of double dealing was proven against Alexandria,
Blue Cove might bar them, and give them no
chance to make any claim to the championship, or a
right to win it back. In case this charge was proven,
and Alexandria was barred, where was there another
crew to row against Blue Cove on the date set for the
event? The Yale Combine was the only one, as a race
with another organization could not be arranged in
such a short time.

Addison was neither silenced nor convinced, but the
question was put to the test, and but two votes were
cast against admitting the Yale Combine to the race.

Then the meeting adjourned, and several of the Blue
Cove boys hastened to notify Merriwell and his friends
of their decision.

Frank’s party was delighted, for here was fresh sport
for them, and of a sort they had not encountered on
their tour.

“I shall take a train for Washington to-morrow,”
said Merriwell, “and see what I can do about securing
an eight-oar shell.”

“An’ it’s oursilves will be afther gettin’ inther thrainin’
immediately afther ye return wid it, me b’y!” cried
Barney.

Frank remembered the Irish lad had been handy with
an oar in the old days at Fardale, while Ephraim, at one
time a genuine lubber, had been to sea and could pull
like a sailor. Hans was the one Frank feared would
cause trouble, but he said nothing of his fears. It
would take some time and hard work to hammer his
crew into any sort of shape, but he was out for sport,
and to him work of such a nature seemed sport.

On the following morning Frank left Blue Cove for
the nearest railway station, where he boarded a train
bound for Washington. He was gone more than
twenty-four hours, but when he returned he announced
that a boat would follow him shortly.

That very afternoon a handsome eight-oar shell was
brought to Blue Cove, and the boys received it with
cheers of delight and admiration, the Blue Cove lads
cheering as loudly as the others.

“Look at them!” exclaimed Diamond, his eyes shining.
“True sons of Old Virginia, every one of them!
Hearts as big as buckets and souls as large as their
entire bodies! Virginia, Virginia! mother of presidents
and fairest spot of all our glorious country! Who
would not be proud to call you home!”

The Blue Cove boys permitted the Yale Combine to
put their shell in the boathouse, and for more than an
hour the place was filled with boys who were making
comparisons between the two boats. The final decision
of nearly all was that, although the new boat showed it
was new, there was no perceptible difference between
them.

Being doubtful about Hans, Frank decided to take
his trial trip under cover of darkness, and the time
was set for that evening.

It was nearly nine o’clock when, with his crew in
their allotted positions and himself as stroke, Merriwell
gave the word, and the light shell slipped out from beneath
the shadow of the boathouse and glided away
upon the calm waters of Blue Cove.

To Frank’s surprise, Hans could row far better than
he had expected, and the trial was fairly satisfactory,
although it was apparent that the boys would need no
small amount of coaching to get them into a uniform
and even stroke.

How this coaching was to be done puzzled Merriwell
not a little, for he knew he must be out of the boat and
in position to watch every man in order to give them
points.

“I’ll have to borrow a stroke of the Blue Cove
chaps,” he thought. “Spencer’s work is all right, but
it would overwork him to take my place occasionally.”

When they returned to the boathouse, they found
Spencer and Dobbs awaiting them.

“Well,” called Kent, “how does it pan out?”

“The boat is all right,” said Frank, “but my crew is
rather rocky, and I am puzzled to know how I am
going to coach it. I can’t do it in the boat, but I don’t
know where I’ll find a substitute to take my place occasionally.
That’s what’s wanted.”

“Noel Spudd is the very man!” exclaimed Dobbs.

“Sure!” nodded Spencer.

“Who is Noel Spudd?” asked Frank.

“Fellow who was going to be on our crew, but his
father would not let him stay and train,” explained
Kent. “He came to the Cove this morning, and will
stay after the race.”

“Can he row?”

“Can he? He’s a daisy!”

“Then he’ll do—if I can get him. See if you can fix
it for me, Mr. Spencer.”

Kent promised to do so, if possible, and then the new
boat was lifted out of the water for the night.

The following morning Spencer brought Noel Spudd
to see Frank. Spudd proved to be a pleasant-looking,
freckle-faced chap, good-natured and obliging, and he
agreed to help Merriwell out, if possible, although he
was anxious that his father should not find it out.

“You see, the governor is a crank,” he explained.
“He has a theory that violent exercise is injurious to
anybody, and he talks about enlargement of the heart
and other evils that follow racing. I had to promise
that I would not take part in the race before he’d let
me come to the Cove to see it. I’ll keep my promise,
but that will not prevent me from helping the thing
along by aiding in the practice.”

So it was arranged, and Frank lost little time in getting
the boys together and putting them to work.

Browning grumbled, as usual, and Rattleton declared
he was praying for a chill, that he might get out of
taking part in the work of training.

Spudd took Frank’s place in the boat, and Merry
watched his crew row down the river, after which he
mounted his wheel and followed.

For an hour Frank stood in a favorable position,
watching the work of the boys in the boat and giving
directions. He told each one of his faults, and how to
correct them, and by the end of the hour he was well
pleased with the progress made.

Of course, Merriwell did not expect to have a perfectly
trained crew, capable of rowing against first-class
college crews, but he believed his boys could be whipped
into such shape that they would stand a fair chance of
winning over Blue Cove and Alexandria.

A great surprise to him was the remarkable manner
in which Hans Dunnerwust showed up at an oar. On
the land, the Dutch boy was a perfect clown, but his
whole manner and appearance changed the moment he
got into a boat. He could row nearly as well as the
best of them.

Frank felt generous in the matter of the race, for certainly
Blue Cove had been most generous in its dealings
with the strangers. He offered to take Harlow’s place
as coach till another coach could be secured.

Spencer appreciated this, and the offer was accepted,
so that afternoon found Merriwell on the river’s bank
once more, shouting his commands to the Blue Cove
crew.

That night Kent Spencer publicly declared that it
was his conviction that the crew had improved more in
one hour under Merriwell than during the entire time
Harlow had coached it.

Anson Addison was the only one who was not enthusiastic.
He remained silent and sulky, saying nothing,
but thinking a great deal.

Addison was not well liked at Blue Cove, but he was
something of an all-around athlete, and without doubt
as good a man with an oar as could be found among the
academy students. He was considered of great value
to the academy crew.

Since his defeat in the attempt to bar the Yale Combine
from the race, Addison had sulked and held himself
aloof, refusing to speak to Frank and his friends,
whom he pronounced “a lot of plebes, not fit associates
for any gentleman.”

Addison’s friends had seen him sulky before, and
Spencer advised them to let him alone, saying he would
get over it after a while if he was not troubled.

CHAPTER XVII—THE EIGHT-OAR SHELL
================================

After their work on the river, the boys enjoyed themselves
lolling about in hammocks, playing tennis and
strolling and talking with the pretty girls they found at
the Cove.

The girls seemed to take readily to the newcomers,
which added to Addison’s hostility, as a young lady on
whom he had bestowed a great deal of attention was
quickly appropriated by Bart Hodge.

It was a remarkable thing that, although Bart was a
serious fellow, with a rather moody face, he was a great
favorite with the girls. There was some sort of magnetism
about him that attracted them.

Rattleton, on the other hand, although he could crack
jokes and keep a party shouting with laughter, did not
seem to have much success with the opposite sex. They
all pronounced him a splendid fellow, but it was seldom
one cared to take a stroll with him or swing with him
in a hammock on the hotel veranda of a moonlight
evening.

Frank and Jack often were seen taking the path that
led over to the little hollow in which stood the home of
Capt. Barnaby.

Elsie Bellwood was there, and no other girl could
make an impression on Merriwell, although not a few
of them tried.

Frank had introduced Diamond to Kate Spencer, and
Jack was smitten with her immediately. It proved to
be a case of mutual admiration, for Elsie told Frank
that Kate had “raved” over Jack the night after her
first meeting with him.

“Frank,” said Jack, as they were returning to the
hotel the evening of his first meeting with Kate, “I believe
Blue Cove is the place for me. I could stay here
the rest of my life.”

Merriwell chuckled softly.

“How long have you felt that way?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. But this, Merriwell, is Old Virginia,
and I am on my native soil. I feel like myself
once more.”

“I am glad of that,” declared Merriwell, “for you
were like anything but yourself by the time we reached
California. I never saw anything make such a change
in a fellow as that trip across the continent did in you.
You began to grumble a little by the time we had
passed through Jersey, and you grew worse and worse
till San Francisco was reached. By that time there
was no getting along with you in peace. But when we
turned toward the East again, you grumbled less and
less till Virginia was reached. When you knew you
were in Virginia once more, you were so supremely
happy that it was utterly impossible to ruffle your temper.
Even Ward Hammond and his gang did not seem
to stir you up as you would have been ordinarily. And
now—now—— What do you think of Kate Spencer,
old fellow?”

“She’s a darling!”

Frank had sprung the question so suddenly that the
answer came from Jack before the latter realized what
he was saying. When Frank shouted with laughter,
Jack felt the hot blood rush to his face, but he doggedly
said:

“She is that! Laugh if you want to! I don’t
care!”

“It’s plain it’s not so much Blue Cove as what you
have found at Blue Cove that is attracting you and
making you feel as if you could stay here the rest of
your life.”

“I don’t know but you are right,” confessed Jack,
honestly.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” declared Frank. “Kate
is a fine girl—not quite like Elsie, but a fine girl, all the
same.”

While Frank and his friends were enjoying themselves
and getting ready for the race, Blue Cove was
keeping up a hot correspondence with Alexandria, the
club of the latter place having protested against admitting
the Yale Combine to the race.

Blue Cove insisted, and the mail bore letters each
way. At last Dobbs, who as secretary was carrying
on the correspondence with Alexandria, plainly hinted
that the eight of the latter club could row in a three-cornered
race or not at all.

That brought a proposal from Alexandria that the
Yale Combine be admitted with the understanding that
it was to row for honors only. If it won over both
Blue Cove and Alexandria, it was not to claim the
championship of the Potomac. In that case, the
championship remained with Blue Cove. But if Alexandria
led at the finish, the championship was to go to the latter
place.

This was more liberal than the boys of Blue Cove
had expected, and they readily accepted the terms, so
that an agreement was made without delay.

From this proposal from Alexandria, however, it
was plain she expected to win over both her rivals.
Otherwise she would not have been so liberal.

“She’ll have to hustle if she does that trick,” said
Frank, when he had heard of the final settlement of
terms, to which he had acceded readily enough, as he
and his friends were out for the sport of the race, and
did not wish to carry away the title of champions.

“Marruk me worrud,” said Barney Mulloy, “it’s
some sort av a thrick Alixandry is up to, ur it’s nivver
a bit she’d make such a proposal. Look out fer her!”

One thing in connection with the regular training
for the race proved somewhat unpleasant for all the
boys. They possessed hearty appetites, and Merriwell
laid down a course of diet to which he insisted that
they should adhere. For Browning and Dunnerwust,
this was particularly hard, as each possessed an enormous
appetite, and was in the habit of satisfying it to
the fullest extent whenever possible.

“When I have a chill, I can’t eat, and when I don’t
have a chill, Merry won’t let me eat,” grumbled the big
fellow. “Sport! Is that what you call it? Well,
when I get back to Old Yale I’ll forever forswear taking
part in anything that resembles sport.”

“Yaw,” grunted Hans, in deep disgust, “dese may pe
fun vor me, put don’t you pelief me! Mein stomach
veels shust like a raw tog could ead me. You don’d
peen vell ven mein stomach veels dot vay, eh, Prowning?”

“Say, yeou fellers make me tired, b’gosh!” burst
forth Ephraim. “I ruther guess I’ve got jest as big
appertite as any other critter livin’, but I don’t growl
an’ kick all ther time. It ain’t goin’ ter be forever.”

“You don’d know apout dot,” squawked Hans,
growing excited. “Ven you peen done dese race mit,
maypie Vrankie got someding else indo you. Firginia
peen a long tistance py Yale Goallege. I veel shust like
takin’ a drain und valkin’ all der vay to New York.”

“Yeou make yerselves miserbul by thinkin’ an’ talkin’
about it so much. Why don’t ye try ter fergit it?”

“I don’d peen unaple to done dot. Dot eadin’ dinks
apout me all der dime. Id peen awful ven you felt
your packpone efry dime you put your handt mein
stomach on.”

The Dutch boy finished with a lugubrious groan,
which was faintly echoed by Bruce, while Ephraim
went away laughing.

Each day Dunnerwust seemed to grow more wild-eyed
and desperate. Frank had given strict orders at
the hotel, so it was impossible for any of his crew to
get food between meals, and only certain kinds of food
could be found on the table at regular meals.

Hans became so ravenous that he was seen to stand
glaring at a cow for an hour at a time, his mouth watering
as he tried to estimate how many steaks could be
obtained from her; and he often went across the Cove
to the house of a settler who kept pigs. When asked
why he stood staring at the pigs so much, he answered:

“I peen tried to vigger oudt how much bork und
peans dose bigs vould made uf dey peen gooked dot vay.
I veel shust like one uf dose bigs could ead der whole
uf me. Id vos dreatful ven you haf dot gone veeling
py der mittle my stomach uf. Dunder und blitzens! uf
I don’d got nottings to ead britty soon, you vill starf
to death!”

The owner of the pigs became suspicious of the
Dutch lad, and fearing Hans would try to steal one of
the animals, he drove him away.

Three days before the time set for the great race,
there was a “hop” at the little hotel. The dining-room
floor had been cleared and polished, and an orchestra
of musicians formed from the musical lads of Blue
Cove Academy.

It was a happy night for Blue Cove. All the young
folks stopping in the vicinity assembled at the hotel, and
when the music struck up, the floor quickly swarmed
with smiling lads and pretty lassies.

Elsie Bellwood was there, and of course Frank
claimed her for the first waltz. As they glided over the
floor to the soothing strains of music, Elsie felt that
were she to live thousands of years, never could she be
happier than she was at that moment. Frank’s strong
arm was about her, her hand was in his, and she gave
herself up to his guiding will on the floor, as she had
sometimes dreamed of giving herself up to be guided by
him through life.

Never had Elsie waltzed so well before, and never
had Frank waltzed better, so it was not strange that
they attracted attention and were universally admired.

Next to Frank and Elsie, the most graceful dancers
on the floor were Bart Hodge and his partner, the pretty
girl whom Anson Addison so much admired.

Addison had claimed the first waltz with her, and
great was his rage when Hodge appeared and reminded
her that she had promised him that dance. As they
whirled away, leaving Addison standing alone, the latter
ground his teeth and vowed vengeance.

When the dance was over, Addison found an opportunity
to speak to Hodge.

“Come out,” he said; “come out alone and fight me—if
you dare!”

“I’ll do it—with pleasure,” nodded Hodge, promptly.
“Lead the way.”

Then he followed at Addison’s heels.

Kent Spencer had heard Addison muttering threats,
and he was watching the fellow. When he saw him
speak to Bart, the manner of the two lads was enough
to betray what was coming, so Spencer hastened to find
Diamond.

“Come on!” he excitedly whispered. “There’s a
scrap in the air!”

That was enough for Jack. If a fight was going to
take place, he wanted to see it; if it was possible, he
would wish to take a hand in it.

“Go ahead,” he said; “I’m after you.”

When they reached the outer air, they saw two figures
moving away in the direction of the academy
ground, one following the other.

“They are going to fight over on the ball ground,”
said Spencer. “Come ahead, and we’ll get there another
way.”

Jack followed, and they made a half circle, coming
around to the ground on the side opposite the hotel.

By the time they arrived there, Hodge and Addison
were hard at it, having stripped off their coats and
vests. They were striking, grappling, struggling, falling,
getting up, breaking away and going at it again.
Spencer and Diamond heard the sound of their blows
and panting breaths before the fighting lads were seen.

“Let’s keep away,” said Diamond. “I’ll risk Hodge.
I haven’t known him long, but he strikes me as a
terror.”

The fight lasted some time, and it was fast and furious.
At last, it was seen that Hodge was getting the
best of it. He would not take a mean advantage of his
enemy, but he pressed Addison, who began to weaken.
Bart got in some heavy blows, occasionally knocking
Addison off his feet.

“Will you give up?” he demanded. “I don’t want to
use you too rough. Give up, old fellow—give up!”

Addison made a last spurt of rage, but he was
knocked down, and Hodge stood over him, ready to
thump him again if he tried to rise.

“Will you give up now?” Bart demanded.

“Yes,” came the reluctant reply. “Don’t strike me
again! You are too much for me.”

“That settles it. Get up and we’ll shake hands.”

But Addison refused to shake hands after he got
upon his feet.

“You have won the fight,” he confessed, wiping the
blood from his face with a handkerchief, “but I hate
you just as much as I did before. I won’t shake hands
with anybody I hate.”

“I don’t blame you a bit,” said Bart, at once. “I
wouldn’t do it if I were in your place; but I don’t hold
any hard feelings, though, to tell the truth, I might if
you had licked me. I’m going to my room, and see if
I can get myself in shape to dance again. So long.”

Then, tossing on his coat and vest, he sauntered away
toward the hotel, leaving the defeated Blue Cove lad on
the ball ground.

Addison put on his coat, muttering to himself:

“Oh, I hate all of that Yale crowd! I can’t wait any
longer! I don’t believe they’ll have time to get another
boat before the race. I’ll do the job now!”

As he started away, Diamond whispered to Spencer:

“That fellow is up to something crooked. Let’s
watch him.”

“All right,” nodded Kent.

They followed Addison, and saw him go down back
of the boathouse, where he stripped off all his clothing
and prepared to go into the water.

“I think I know what he is up to,” declared Kent.
“Come with me.”

Taking care not to be seen by Addison, the two boys
made their way to the door of the boathouse, where
Spencer produced a key and hastily admitted them, closing
the door cautiously when they were inside.

“Here,” whispered the Blue Cove stroke, “we’ll hide
in this corner. If I am right, Addison is coming in
here for something.”

They crouched in a corner and waited. Before long
there was a splash of water in the slip and a blowing
sound, as if a diver had just come to the surface.

With his lips close to Diamond’s ear, Spencer gently
whispered:

“Just as I thought! He dived from the outside and
came under the door, which is closed.”

Then the intruder was heard pulling himself out of
the water, and the eyes of the crouching lads, having
become accustomed to the darkness of the place, saw a
form moving about.

Addison went into the clubroom, soon returning.
Then he struck a match and lighted a lamp.

“There are no windows in this part,” he muttered.
“The light won’t be seen.”

The light shone on his wet and dripping body. The
watching boys, hushing their breathing, for fear they
would be detected, watched his every movement.

“There’s the boat,” Addison grated, glaring at the
handsome new shell of the visitors. “I’ll soon spoil its
beauty!”

Then he went to the wall and took down from some
brackets an ax, with which he approached the boat.
There was a glare in his eyes, and his pale face was contorted
with rage.

“Now! he cried, I’ll do the job!”

He raised the ax.

“Stop!”

Out leaped Spencer and Diamond, and the ax was
torn from Addison’s hand before he could carry out
his dastardly design.

CHAPTER XVIII—THE RACE
======================

The race was on at last. At the crack of the pistol,
the three boats had jumped away, Alexandria taking a
lead of half a length by a quick start. The course was
straightaway down the river, but against the tide.

A large crowd had assembled near the start and the
finish to watch the race. Those at the starting point
cheered wildly as the boats shot away.

Alexandria rowed with short, snappy strokes that
made the boat jump, jump, jump all the time. The
strokes of the Blue Cove crew and the Yale Combine
were much alike.

Toots was coxswain in the Yale boat, and proud
indeed he was of the position. His black face shone
with delight.

On the river was a small steam launch that was
loaded with admirers of the Alexandria crew. They
waved hand and hats and shouted like a lot of wild
Indians when they saw the Alexandria boat increase
its lead so that clear water could be seen between it
and the other boats.

With a regular, long swinging stroke, the other
boats kept side by side for a time. Then Frank’s crew
began to gain slightly on the Blue Cove lads.

Steadily Merriwell drove them on. He did not
attempt a stiff spurt so soon, but forced them gradually,
drawing away from Blue Cove. Soon the Yale
boat was close behind that of Alexandria. The latter
spurted, and then it was that Frank held close, like a
leech, determined not to permit the crew from up the
river any further advantage.

The stroke of the Yale crew was strong and steady,
sending the boat through the water at high speed. Before
a mile had been made the short stroke of the
Alexandria men was beginning to tell on them.

And Blue Cove was clinging in a remarkable manner,
for all of the fact that it had lost one of its best
men at the last moment. Anson Addison, caught in
the dastardly attempt to ruin Merriwell’s boat, had
been dropped from the crew and expelled from the
club.

In vain Spencer had urged Noel Spudd to take Addison’s
place in the boat. Spudd longed to do so, but
did not dare disobey his father to such an extent.

So another and far less valuable man was substituted,
and Blue Cove felt that it had very little show of
winning the race.

“You must save us, Merriwell,” said Kent Spencer,
a few moments before the start was made.

“I am sure we’ll do our best,” nodded Frank.

The shouts of the Alexandria crowd on the launch
became less and less confident as the Yale boat was
seen to creep up on the leader. At last it lapped Alexandria.
Then, despite the most desperate efforts of
the crew from up the river, the Yale boat crept alongside
and gradually took the lead.

On an elevated bank near the finishing point a crowd
was seen. The ones assembled there were all aflutter
with excitement.

Blue Cove was doing good work. Up beside Alexandria
the boat was stealing, and it was plain that a
most exciting finish would be made.

The cheering on the launch had ceased. It was
keeping near the Yale boat, and, in the midst of his
work, Frank heard a familiar voice declaring:

“They can’t win to-day—not much! The race is
not over yet!”

Harlow was on the launch.

But it seemed plain enough to everybody that the
Yale boat would cross the finish more than two lengths
ahead of the others, for it was gaining rapidly now.

The crowd on shore was cheering, and it was a
scene of wild excitement.

Suddenly something whizzed through the air and
struck the water. Then there was an explosion, and
the entire forward end of the Yale boat was blown
to pieces!

The boat filled immediately, and the crew was in the
water, while the other boats shot past and crossed the
line together, it being difficult to tell which was
leading.

.. vspace:: 2

“One of the greatest races ever rowed on the river,”
declared Kent Spencer in the boathouse that evening.
“You Yale chaps would have won easily if it hadn’t
been for that bomb that ruined your boat. As it was,
that put you out of the race, and we got over the finish
a little in advance of Alexandria. Blue Cove still holds
the championship.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the delighted
lads.

“It’s lucky there were boats ready to give us a
lift,” said Jack Diamond. “Hans was floundering
about like a maniac, and——”

“Who told me so?” cried the Dutch boy. “Dot
Bodomac Rifer vater vos der thinnest sduff dot efer
tried to valk on me. Id don’d seem unaple to subbort
me ven I tried to svim oudt der shore to. I sunk der
pottom to shust like you vos von sdick uf vood.”

“Where is Browning?” asked Fred Dobbs.

“Oh, he’s in the hotel, having a chill,” laughed Rattleton.
“The plunge in the river brought on the ague
again.”

“I don’t suppose there is any doubt as to the identity
of the fellow who threw the bomb?” said Noel Spudd,
questioningly.

“Not a bit of it!” exclaimed Bart Hodge. “Miss
Bellwood and Miss Spencer both saw him when he did
the trick. He was on the steam launch. Miss Bellwood
was looking at him through field glasses, and
she is ready to swear it was Rolf Harlow.”

“In that case,” said Spudd, “I presume Mr. Merriwell
will see that the fellow is punished, if he is arrested?”

“Bet your life on it!” cried Diamond. “Merry
means to put Harlow where the birds won’t peck him.
That chap has given Merry trouble enough.”

“Anyway,” said Kent Spencer, “we want you
fellows to stay at Blue Cove a while longer. We’ve had
more sport since you struck the Cove than ever before.”

“Had to glear it—I mean glad to hear it,” said Rattleton.
“But you haven’t had any more sport than
we have. It’s been the jolliest time of the whole trip
for me, and as for Merriwell, Diamond and Hodge—well,
there are attractions enough to keep them here
the rest of their lives.”

“The only gal I ever was able to ketch was away
aout in Forth Wuth, Texis,” put in Ephraim, grinning.
“I kainder knocked the spots aout of a feller
that was cuffin’ her brother some, an’ she stuck to me
zif I was kivered all over with mewsledge. She was
a peach, too, b’jee! Some time I’m goin’ back aout
there an’ ax her will she splice to me. Ef she’ll have
me, I’ll have her quicker’n a cat kin wink her eye.”

“Vale,” said Hans, with unusual sadness, “I don’t
peen aple to had a girl catch me. Vot vos der madder,
somehow? Don’d I peen peautiful py my faces?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Rattleton; “you are a perfect
chromo! I don’t understand why all the girls are not
trying to catch you.”

“Mebbe you understood dot shust as pad as I did. I
sed ub nighds dryin’ to haf dot vigger me out vot id
vos, but now I don’d knew so much apoud id as you
did pefore.”

Frank Merriwell came bounding into the room, waving
a scrap of yellow paper over his head.

“A dispatch!” he cried. “It was just brought me
from the nearest station. Harlow has been arrested
in Alexandria!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the boys.

“Will you appear against him?” asked Harry of
Frank.

“I think I ought to.”

“Certainly,” came from several of the Blue Cove
boys.

The matter was talked over for half an hour, and
then Frank set off for the jail in which Harlow had
been confined.

On the day following the rascal was brought out
for a hearing.

He was held for trial and bail was placed at several
thousand dollars.

As he could find nobody to go his bondsman he was
compelled to remain in jail for the time being.

The boys of the Yale Combine remained with their
friends for two days more. During that time Frank
saw Elsie twice, and when the pair parted it was with
a promise to write every week or oftener.

The combine got a rousing cheer on leaving Blue
Cove, the celebration being fully equal to that participated
in at Lake Lily.

“Virginia is all right,” said Frank to Jack. “I
don’t wonder that you are proud of your mother
State.”

The tour now led northward, toward New York,
and two days later found the boys in the southeastern
portion of Pennsylvania.

Here the roads were found to be fairly good, and
they took again to their bicycles, but taking their time,
for Bruce and Hans absolutely refused to hurry.

“The boat race nearly killed me,” growled the big
fellow. “Give me a chance to recover.”

As for Hans, he wanted to stop and eat five or six
times in every twenty-four hours.

“Dot draining vos make me empty by mine heels
up,” he declared. “You could eat me mine own head
off alretty, ain’t it?”

On one occasion Frank felt like spurting ahead and
did so. He was quickly joined by Barney, and the
two kept it up until they were well out of sight of the
rest of the crowd.

“Sure an’ this tickles me to death,” observed Barney.
“Me wheel acts loike grased lightning, bedad!”

“I love a spurt myself,” replied Frank. “Especially
when my wheel is just in proper trim.”

They had passed over a slight rise and were now on
a down grade where coasting became a double pleasure.
There was a wood on either side of the road, with
great trees interlocking their branches high overhead.

“Listen!” cried Frank, presently. “What is that?”

“Sure an’ somebody is gettin’ a drubbin’,” replied
Barney. “Come on, we’ll see who it is!”

“Confound the beast!” came the cry from a curve
ahead. “I will teach the beast how to mind!”

And then followed more blows, mingled with a low
cry in a female voice.

Rounding the curve, Frank and Barney saw a man
and a girl who were mounted on handsome horses.
The man was belaboring with his riding whip the
horse he bestrode, while the animal danced about, refusing
to go ahead.

At every blow of the whip the horse under the girl
started in fear, trembling and snorting. She was
obliged to give him much of her attention, but she
sharply called to the man:

“Don’t whip Firefoot that way, Cousin Stephen!
He is not used to your harsh ways, and——”

“I’ll make him used to them!” grated the man, his
face flushed with anger. “He is a miserable brute
anyway!”

“But not half such a brute as the man on his back!”
muttered Frank.

“Roight ye are, me b’y,” agreed Barney. “It’s a
foine lookin’ crayther he’s batin’ there.”

“And a fine creature it is,” declared Frank;
“but it will not take long to spoil it in that way. The
fellow doesn’t know how to ride, and he has confused
the horse between yanking and whipping it. It’s likely
the creature stopped and began to rear and back because
it did not know what its rider wanted.”

The sight of the approaching bicycles seemed to
startle the horse more than ever, and it bolted out of
the road with its rider, who was nearly swept from
the saddle by an overhanging limb.

Again the man fiercely applied the whip. Then he,
too, saw the bicyclists, and cried to them in a snarling
voice:

“What do you mean by riding along here like this?
You chaps have no right in the road, anyway! Can’t
you see you have frightened this horse?”

That brought a touch of warm color to the handsome
face of our hero, but his voice was calm and
steady as he retorted:

“We have as much right on the public highway as
you. The trouble with your horse is that you have
abused and frightened it. You are not a fit person to
ride a horse or have any dealings with one.”

That seemed to make the man more frantic than
ever. He tried to force the horse at Frank, but the
creature shyed at the wheel, so the rider did not accomplish
his design of riding Merriwell down.

With a muttered cry of anger, the man struck at
Frank with his whip, and the lash fell upon the boy’s
shoulder, so that he felt the sting through his coat.

Then of a sudden, away leaped the horse, nearly unseating
its rider. The girl followed.

“Confound him,” muttered Merriwell, watching the
retreating figure of the horseman.

“May th’ Ould Nick floy away wid him!” cried Barney.
“Did he hurrut yez, Frankie?”

“No. If he had, I might be tempted to follow him.
Let him go. It is plain he thinks he is a blue blood
and owns the earth. What he really needs is a sound
thrashing.”

“An’ ye’re th’ b’y to give him thot, Frankie!”

“I want no quarrel with him, though it did make
me hot to see him lash that horse. Look at him now!
See him bob in the saddle and saw at the reins! He
will ruin the mouth of that horse, as well as spoil its
temper. It’s a shame!”

“So it is!” nodded Barney.

The man and girl disappeared from view, and gradually
the sound of the galloping horses died out in the
distance.

CHAPTER XIX—A RESCUE ON THE ROAD
================================

Frank and Barney rode along leisurely.

“The mouth of a horse, until it is spoiled by bad
usage, is a very delicate thing,” declared Frank. “As
a common thing the mouth of a horse is ruined before
the creature is seven years old. In order to preserve
its natural delicacy, the right sort of a bit must be
used and the reins must be handled gingerly. A
heavy hand will ruin a good mouth in a short time,
but not one man in fifty can drive with a light hand.
The man who saws on the reins has no business in the
saddle. If I owned that black horse it would take the
price of the animal to induce me to let such a rider
mount him for a ten-mile canter.”

“But whin a crayther runs away, thin phwat’re yez
goin’ to do?” asked the Irish lad. “Ye’ve got ter
yank him up, me b’y.”

“Not at all, Barney. Yanking and sawing are
vile practices.”

“Thin how do yez be afther holdin’ the b’aste?”

“There is a trick in holding a horse with a light
hand. Proof of this is that some of the most famous
jockeys, although slight and weak, can control and
hold horses which would run away with strong men,
and could not be sawed or yanked into submission.
The best jockeys are never seen leaning back in the
saddle, pulling and sawing to hold their horses.”

“Oi belave it’s roight ye are, me b’y,” nodded the
Irish youth, after a moment, “although Oi niver
thought av it before.”

“Take notice of it on race tracks hereafter. Horses
are apt to behave better with women, if they are skillful,
for women commonly have lighter hands than
men. That fellow did not know how to ride, for all
that the horse did not throw him when it jumped sideways
or started ahead. It’s ten to one he thinks himself
an expert rider, but he is a bungler, for, besides
having a bad hand, he did not sit well in the saddle.
When the horse started suddenly he was forced to support
himself somewhat by a hard pull on the reins, a
thing that never should be done. A good rider has a
seat low in the saddle, which he grips with his knees
and thighs, keeps his back straight, keeps his elbows,
and hands down, and varies the force on the reins only
for the purpose of controlling his horse, and not for
steadying himself.”

Barney gave Frank a glance of wonder. He saw
that Merriwell was warming to his subject and growing
enthusiastic.

“Oi don’t understhand it!” muttered the son of the
Emerald Isle.

Frank gave him a quick glance of surprise.

“Don’t understand what?” he asked. “I thought I
was talking plain enough.”

“Ye wur, me b’y—ye wur! It’s how ye know so
much about iverything thot puzzles Barney Mulloy. If
there’s iver a thing ye’re not posted on Oi dunno
pwhat it is. Ye can talk about iverything, an’ ye can
tell me more in a minute thin Oi iver knew. How do
ye foind it all out, Frankie?”

Frank laughed.

“I’ll tell you, Barney,” he said. “Some years ago
I made up my mind that I couldn’t know too much,
and I resolved to find out all about everything that
came beneath my notice. Since then I have practiced
the art of observation and investigation. That is the
way I have found out about things. It is one way of
obtaining an education. Lots of fellows are not able
to go to college, but they can keep their eyes and ears
open and lay up a store of practical knowledge that
will be of the greatest use to them in all probability.
Of course many of the things I have investigated and
found out about may not be of value to me at any time
during my life; but there is no telling what will be of
value and what will not. All my life I have taken an
interest in horses, and it is but natural that I should
find out as much as possible concerning them. If this
had not been the case, I could not have astonished the
cowboys by my horsemanship during this trip. They
regarded me as the most remarkable tenderfoot they
had ever seen, and it all came from the fact that I had
found and improved an opportunity to ride, shoot and
throw the lasso. I didn’t learn those things without
some trouble, but trouble doesn’t cut any ice with me
when I set out to do a thing.”

“Well, it’s not ivery fellow can put hissilf out to
learn all about th’ things he says.”

“He can if he will. The trouble is that he sees
things without thinking of learning anything about
them. If he begins to cultivate the habit of investigation
it will grow on him, and it will not be long before
he will discover the value of some of the knowledge
thus obtained. Try it, Barney.”

“Begobs, Oi will! Oi niver thought av it before,
but it’s mesilf thot’ll be after trying it. Did yez notice
th’ girrul wid thot horse-bater, Frankie?”

“Yes. Rather pretty, I thought.”

“It’s a p’ache she wur, me b’y!” enthusiastically declared
the Irish lad. “It’s not plazed she wur wid th’
way th’ spalpane wur b’atin’ th’ poor b’aste.”

They came out of the wood to the open country, and
a beautiful stretch of country lay before them.

Of a sudden, Barney gave an exclamation:

“Look there, Frankie!” he cried, pointing.

Along the road from a distance, coming toward
them at a mad and furious gallop, was a horse, bearing
a girl, who was vainly trying to hold the frightened
animal.

In pursuit of the runaway was a man who was
fiercely lashing another horse, and Frank recognized
this animal even before he did the rider.

It was the handsome black horse that the stranger
had been maltreating in the wood, and its rider was
the same hot-tempered young man.

The girl on the runaway was his companion.

Instantly Frank seemed to understand what had happened.

“The fool!” burst from his lips. “He has kept at
his own horse till the one the girl is riding has been
frightened and is running away with her. She may
be thrown and killed!”

Without loss of time, Frank turned about, so he
was heading in the same direction as the runaway
horse, which was coming behind him.

“Pwhat are yez goin’ to do?” cried Barney.

“I am going to stop that runaway horse if I am
built right!” returned Frank, with grim determination.

“Look out—look out, there!”

The man in pursuit of the runaway shouted to the
boys.

Barney was not given time to turn about. He tried
to do so, but in his haste and confusion, ran out of the
road into the ditch, and was forced to dismount. Before
he could get into the saddle again the frightened
horse was bearing the girl past.

The Irish boy caught a glimpse of her face, from
which the warm color had fled. Her lips were pressed
firmly together, and there was a look of fear in her
dark eyes; but she was doing her very best to check
the frightened horse, although the animal had the bit
in his teeth, and her gloved hands seemed unable to
do but little to restrain him.

A thought of Frank’s theories concerning a “light
hand” for driving flashed through Barney’s head, but
he instantly realized that this was an exceptional occasion.
Even brute strength might not avail now.

Then how did Merry expect to check the runaway?

The Irish youth saw his friend, who was pedaling
swiftly along the road, glance over his shoulder at the
approaching runaway. Then Barney held his breath,
wondering what Frank would do, but feeling that he
was bound to make some desperate attempt to stop the
horse.

Frank was pedaling along at high speed when the
runaway reached his side. He swerved toward the
horse, crying to the girl:

“Hold fast, if he swings sideways suddenly! Don’t
let him pitch you out of the saddle.”

She nodded that she understood. She realized that
this daring young cyclist was going to try to check
the horse.

Frank was close to the animal’s head, and then Barney
saw him reach out swiftly and grasp the bit. A
moment later Merriwell was torn from the saddle and
carried along, dangling at the head of the runaway.

“Hurro!” shouted Barney. “It’s just loike th’ b’y!
It’s niver a bit is he afraid av anything at all, at all!”

With a death grip, Frank clung to the bit, knowing
he might receive fatal injuries beneath the feet of the
horse if his hold was broken. With his other hand he
reached up and obtained a hold. He lifted his feet so
they did not touch the ground, and, within three seconds,
the speed of the runaway slackened.

Then, still clinging, Frank talked to the horse softly,
soothingly, reassuringly. His words were snatched
out sometimes, sometimes broken, but there was nothing
in the sound of his voice to add to the fears of the
frightened animal. Instead, there was something to
calm and quiet the frantic creature.

“Hold fast!” he again called to the girl.

Then the horse was turned from the road, was swept
about in a complete circle, and by the time it again
faced in the direction it had been running, it was
brought to a stop.

“Jump down quickly,” directed Frank, as he saw the
pursuing man come thundering nearer and nearer.
“This horse will act bad when he comes up.”

The girl obeyed. Down from the saddle she slipped
to the ground, losing no time in getting away from the
prancing horse.

Up came the man, flushed of face and shaking with
excitement. He gave a yank at the bit that fairly
flung the black gelding upon its haunches, and he
hoarsely cried:

“That confounded beast ought to be shot through
the head!”

At the sound of the man’s voice the horse Frank
was holding showed every symptom of fear, making a
sudden attempt to break away.

Merriwell spoke soothingly to the creature, holding
fast to the bit with a firm, steady hand, and patting its
neck.

“It’s not the horse,” was his thought, “it’s the man
who ought to be shot!”

“You are not harmed, are you, Iva?” somewhat
anxiously asked the man, addressing the girl.

“No,” she answered, her voice showing the least
trace of agitation; “thanks to the brave action of this
young stranger, I am not.”

At this the horseman scowled fiercely on Frank.

“Thanks to nothing!” he muttered. “I should have
overtaken and stopped the skittish brute. If it hadn’t
been for these smart youngsters on their confounded
bicycles, the horses would not have been frightened.”

“I think you are mistaken about that, sir,” said
Frank, promptly. “When we came in sight of you
both horses were frightened, and you were abusing
your own mount. I think you are entirely responsible
for this runaway, and, if I were this young lady, I
should be cautious about riding out with you again.”

“Insolent puppy,” grated the man. “How dare you
talk to me like this! Why, I—I’ve a mind to——”

“I wouldn’t try it, sir!” came sharply from Merriwell,
as the fellow lifted his whip. “You touched me
with that back in the woods, and I do not care to
have you repeat it.”

There was something in Frank’s manner that caused
the man to lower the whip, boy in years though it was
who faced him so boldly.

The girl stepped forward quickly.

“Stop, Cousin Stephen!” she cried. “This brave
young man stopped Rex, and it may be that he saved
my life. You should thank him instead of quarreling
with him.”

“Thank him for nothing!” growled the man. “It’s
a wonder he didn’t pitch you out of the saddle and
kill you when he caught the horse by the bit and
yanked its head around.”

Barney came riding up, and both horses pricked up
their ears and regarded the bicycle with signs of mingled
doubt and alarm.

“Get off—get off from that, you fool!” cried the
man. “What do you want to do—scare the blooming
beasts into running away again? Don’t you know
anything?”

That was enough to start Barney’s temper.

“Av ye’ll shtep down a minute, Oi’ll be afther showin’
yez a few things Oi know,” he flung back.

Other horsemen were seen approaching swiftly.
There were three in the party, and they headed straight
toward the little group in the road.

“Why, it is father and Kenneth!” exclaimed the girl,
as she observed them. “And the other is—is Mr.
Harden!”

Something like a curse came from beneath the black
mustache of the man she had called “cousin.” He
glared at the approaching horsemen, and Frank heard
him mutter:

“What in Satan’s name is Harden doing here? I
believe he saw the runaway! Hang the fellow! he’s
always around!”

Up came the horsemen, with a clatter of hoofs. The
youngest of the party was not older than Frank, and
he was a fine-looking youth, with dark eyes and curling
hair. Next to him was a young man of twenty-two or
three, with a blond mustache, and the third was a
man of fifty, with an iron-gray beard.

The youngest of the strangers leaped from the saddle,
and was at the girl’s side in a moment, exclaiming:

“Are you all right, sister mine? You are not
harmed?”

“Not a bit!” she half laughed; “but there is no
telling what might have happened but for the brave
young man there who stopped Rex. The horse had
the bit in his teeth, and I could do nothing with him.”

“We saw it—saw it all,” declared the youth. “We
reached the top of the hill yonder in time to witness
his act, and I must say it was as nervy and skillful as
anything I ever beheld. Sir”—speaking to Frank—“I
wish to thank you for your gallant rescue of my
sister.”

He held out his hand, and Frank accepted it. Each
felt a thrill as they crossed palms, and their eyes met,
and it seemed that a bond of friendship was cemented
between them.

“My name is Kenneth St. Ives,” explained the
strange lad.

“And mine is Frank Merriwell,” said our hero.

“Mr. Merriwell, I am happy to know you,” declared
Kenneth. “Permit me to properly present my
sister.”

Smiling, Frank lifted his cap and bowed gracefully,
but the girl held out her hand, her full lips parting to
show her fine white teeth, as she smilingly said:

“Let me shake hands, also, Mr. Merriwell. Pardon
the glove.”

On his horse, “Cousin Stephen” glared and ground
his teeth.

CHAPTER XX—AT SPRINGBROOK FARM
==============================

Then Kenneth St. Ives introduced his father and Mr.
Harry Harden. To avoid an introduction, Stephen
Fenton had turned his horse about, and was staring
sullenly in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Merriwell,” said Preston St. Ives, dismounting
to take Frank’s hand, “I owe you much for your
daring service to my daughter. I shall always feel
that I am indebted to you.”

Harden dismounted, and talked with Iva, while Fenton
glared at them in a side-long manner, chewing the
ends of his black mustache and scowling fiercely.

Within a very few moments Preston St. Ives found
out that Frank and Barney were on their way to New
York, and that they were closely followed by a party
of friends.

“New York is a long distance away,” smiled the
father of the girl Frank had rescued. “At most, you
would not think of proceeding farther than Philadelphia
to-night.”

“We intended to stop there,” said Frank.

“But there is no reason why you should be in a
great hurry,” said St. Ives, “and so you must stop at
Springbrook Farm to-night.”

“Springbrook Farm?”

“That is our country place,” Kenneth hastily explained.
“It is a roomy, old-fashioned place, and
there will be plenty of room for you all. You can’t
refuse, Mr. Merriwell!”

At first Frank attempted to decline the invitation,
but Iva added her invitation to that of her father and
brother, and Kenneth promised a jolly time, so that
Merry was really inclined to go. A look at Barney’s
face showed he was eager to have Frank accept the
invitation.

“Well, Barney,” said Frank, “if we stop at Springbrook
Farm to-night, you’ll have to watch out for the
fellows and let them know about it.”

“Thot Oi’ll do, Frankie,” immediately agreed the
Irish lad. “But pwhere is Springbrook Farrum!”

“The farm may be seen from the top of the hill yonder,”
said Kenneth. “Come along with us, and we
will point it out to you.”

At this juncture, Stephen Fenton suddenly yanked
the head of his horse about, gave the creature a cut
with the whip, and went tearing along the road in a
cloud of dust, having left the others without a word.

“What is the matter with him?” cried Preston St.
Ives, watching the fellow with a look of displeasure.
“It’s a wonder that horse doesn’t run away with him
and kill him!”

“Oh, he has been in a cross mood all the afternoon,
papa,” said Iva. “He is out of sorts with everything
and everybody, and it was because he accidently struck
Rex with his whip that the dear old fellow ran away
with me.”

She caressed the muzzle of the horse as she spoke,
and the creature seemed pleased with such attention.

“It would serve him right if Firefoot should run
away with him!” exclaimed Kenneth, also watching
the retreating form of Fenton. “He is hard on a
horse, and it’s a wonder to me that he hasn’t been
killed before this. He seems to stick in the saddle
some way, although he is anything but an easy rider.”

“If that horse’s mouth is not already spoiled, he will
spoil it in a week,” declared Frank.

Mr. St. Ives gave Merry a quick look, as if wondering
what he knew about horses.

“I think you are right, young man,” he said. “I
didn’t want to let him have Firefoot, but he seemed
to take a fancy to the creature, and not another horse
out of the stableful would satisfy him. He’ll not get
the animal again.”

Then there was a mounting of horses, while Frank
went back along the road to look for his wheel He
found the bicycle all right as it lay beside the road,
Barney having stopped to get it out of the highway.

The Irish lad accompanied Frank, and he was enthusiastic
over the prospect of sport at Springbrook
Farm.

“It’s no tellin’ pwhat we’ll stroike there, me b’y!” he
chuckled. “It’s the last chance for a bit av fun before
we get inther New York.”

“I didn’t intend to stop again for anything, for we
spent far too much time at Blue Cove. Virginia was
not easy to break away from.”

“Roight ye are, Frankie. It’s a great Shtate Vir-ginny
do be. An’ the b’ys down there are all roight.”

“As fine a set of fellows as I have met anywhere in
the whole country,” declared Merry, with a touch of
enthusiasm. “They are chivalrous, hospitable and
sporty. Jack Diamond is a representative Virginian.
He is all right.”

“Yis, he seems to be since he got back inther this
parrut av th’ country, but it’s a growler Oi thought
he wur at firrust.”

“He did not seem like himself while we were in
the West,” confessed Frank. “I was surprised at the
change in him, but I knew it was not natural, and I
bore with him.”

The others came up, Frank mounted his wheel, and
they all rode along together, chatting pleasantly.
Frank was questioned, and he told of his trip across
the continent and back, arousing Kenneth St. Ives’
interest.

“Well, you must have had sport!” Kenneth exclaimed.
“I should have enjoyed that. Say, father,
we must get up something in the way of sport while
they are at Springbrook. Can’t we have a hunt?”

“It’s too early in the season, my son,” smiled Mr. St.
Ives.

“I don’t know about that,” declared Kenneth.
“We’re liable to have a frost any morning now. It is
chilly at times for this season. Perhaps to-morrow
morning——”

“The Meadowfair Club visits us to-morrow, you
know.”

“I had forgotten that. So much the better! If
Mr. Merriwell and his friends will stay, we’ll find
some sort of sport to amuse them.”

The top of the hill was reached, and then Springbrook
Farm was pointed out, lying on a hillside two
miles distant. It was a beautiful place. The great
stables seemed modern, but the house was an immense
colonial mansion, surrounded by tall trees. The farming
land was a broad prospect of cleared land, upon
which were great meadows and small groves. Cattle
and horses were to be seen, and it had the appearance
of a stock or dairy farm.

“There is the place, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Kenneth
St. Ives; “and a more beautiful spot is not to be found
in all Pennsylvania.”

Frank did not wonder at Kenneth’s enthusiasm.

Not far from the old mansion was a small lake, with
a boathouse on the shore, and some boats lying near.

Frank felt sure that the rest of the party could not
be far behind, so Barney would not be compelled to
wait long; but it was necessary that some one should
meet them, as Springbrook Farm lay off from the
main highway, being reached by means of a private
drive, and the bicyclists, unless notified, would not
know Frank contemplated stopping there.

Barney was willing to wait for them, and so the
others rode onward, Frank wheeling along and chatting
with them all.

Stephen Fenton was seen riding up the last incline
toward the distant mansion, still forcing his horse.

When the place was reached a hostler was at work
over Firefoot in one of the stables, and the animal
showed the abuse it had received.

Mr. St. Ives dismounted and looked Firefoot over,
observing:

“That’s fine shape for a horse to be in after a canter
along the road. The creature could not look worse if
it had been following the hounds across country. I
think Stephen will have to take another horse the next
time he goes out.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” said the hostler, with
gruff respect; “but he says as how he were not to
blame. You knows, sir, as how this beast is onruly,
sir, an’ Mr. Fenton says it were skeered by some saucy
chaps on bisuckles that paid no attention to its snortin’
an’ rearin’. You know yerself, sir, as how most of
the bisuckle riders are sassy villains, sir.”

This was said regardless of the fact that Frank had
trundled his wheel into the stable, and the hostler could
not help knowing a cyclist was hearing every word he
spoke.

Preston St. Ives did not deign to make any reply
to the hostler’s words, but said:

“See that Firefoot is well rubbed down and cared
for, Wade. You need not let Stephen have him again.
Remember.”

“All right, sir—all right,” muttered the hostler,
glancing at Frank in a side-long manner. “You
knows your business, sir, an’ I’m here to take your
orders, sir.”

The hostler had several assistants, and they were
on hand to care for the animals just brought in.

Kenneth showed Frank where to leave his wheel,
and then Merry followed the youth into the house.

CHAPTER XXI—TWO ENCOUNTERS
==========================

“Vale,” grunted Hans, as he stretched himself on
the ground in the shade of some shrubbery, “uf dese
don’t peat der pand, you vos a liar!”

“Wal, I’m swuzzled ef it ain’t pretty gol darn
slick,” agreed Ephraim, thrusting his hands into his
pockets and looking around admiringly. “It’s queer
haow Frank falls inter sech snaps as these. Heer we
be invited to stay right heer at this place an’ make aourselves
to hum jest as long as we want to.”

“And I feel as if I could remain here forever,”
grunted Bruce, from a comfortable hammock, of which
he had taken immediate possession on seeing it.
“There’s something soothing and restful about this
place that agrees with my nerves and promises balm
and healing for my constitution that has been shattered
by Arkansaw chills. It’s simply great!”

“It is rather jolly,” said the voice of Harry from the
cool shadows of a vine-covered arbor.

“But it’s tame it’d be afther a bit, me b’ys,” declared
Barney Mulloy, who was leaning against the trunk
of a tree. “It’s sbort we’re lookin’ afther, an’ it’s ded
quoiet here.”

“Mr. Kenneth St. Ives promises us some sport if
we care to remain,” put in Bart Hodge, quietly.

“Phwat sort av sbort do yez think they can scare
up here?” asked Barney, with a trace of contempt in
his voice. “It’s croquet we moight play, but thot’s
altogither too excoiting.”

“Yaw,” grunted Hans; “dot growkay likes me, for
id don’d peen so much drouble to blay him. Der balls
can knock me apoud shust so easy as nefer vas.”

“Frank and Jack seem to be enjoying some mild
sport,” said Harry, as the click of billiard balls and
Merriwell’s infectious laugh came from the open windows
of a large summerhouse in the shrubbery close
at hand.

“Those fellows never seem to care about resting,”
grunted Browning. “They will wear themselves out
long before they are old men, unless they let up in their
wild career.”

All of the boys had reached Springbrook Farm, and
Toots was taking care of their wheels. They had been
left to themselves for a time, while Preston St. Ives
and Kenneth went away to see that proper arrangements
were made for the entertainment of their guests.

It had not taken Frank and Jack long to find the
billiard table and get into a game, pulling off their
jackets to it, as if they were in deadly earnest.

As the boys lolled there in the shade, they saw Harry
Harden and Iva St. Ives come down a walk and pass
near them, chatting and laughing, seeming well satisfied
with each other’s society.

At a distance behind them, taking care not to be
seen, Stephen Fenton stole along, keeping jealous watch
of them.

“Aisy, b’ys,” warned Barney, speaking softly.
“Take a look at th’ spalpane through th’ bresh here.
It’s a dirruty face he has, or me name’s not Mulloy.”

“That’s what he has,” nodded Hodge, who took an
instant dislike to Fenton. “Who is he? Is that the
fellow who was with Miss St. Ives?”

“Th’ same, bad cess to him! She was afther callin’
him ‘cousin’.”

“He is following them!” exclaimed Harry, softly.
“You don’t suppose he will try any crooked work, do
you?”

“Oi have a fancy Misther Harden can look out for
hisself, me lads,” said Barney. “Oi’ll back him
against Mr. Fenton.”

“Yaw,” said Hans. “When Parney says dot, id
peen all right. He knows my pusiness.” Then the
Dutch boy relapsed into a position of comfort again,
while the jealous spy passed on, watching the couple
ahead of him.

Five minutes later the boys were startled by the
sound of excited voices and a feminine cry of alarm.

Barney seemed to be waiting for that sound, for he
sprang away like a flash, and Bart Hodge was not far
behind him. Through the shrubbery crashed the two,
and, in a moment, reached a spot where they were
able to see what was taking place.

One young man was rising from the ground, while
another stood over him, with clinched fists, evidently
having knocked him down. To the arm of the latter,
begging him not to strike again, clung Iva St. Ives.

“Oi knew it!” chuckled Barney in delight. “It’s
Fenton thot interfared, an’ th’ other b’y knocked him
down.”

In truth, Fenton it was who was getting up from
the ground, while it was plain that he had been struck
by Harden.

“Oh, I’ll even this!” snarled the man who had received
the blow.

“Come on!” cried Harden, whose blood was
aroused.

“Stop, Cousin Stephen—stop, Mr. Harden!” cried
the girl, in distress. “You shall not fight!”

“He insulted me!” flamed Harden.

“I called you a sneaking cur, as you are!” hissed
Fenton, getting upon his feet.

“And I knocked you down, as you deserved!” flung
back the other young man.

“Hurro!” came softly from the lips of the Irish lad.
“Thot’s th’ shtuff! Sail in, Misther Fenton, an’ do
up th’ spalpane!”

At this moment the other boys, with the exception
of Browning, came crashing through the hedge, and
were by the two young men.

Fenton looked up, muttered an imprecation and then
sibilated at Harden:

“We will settle this some other time!”

“At any time you like,” was the prompt retort.

Then Fenton whirled and quickly vanished in the
shrubbery.

“It’s all over,” said Hodge. “Let’s get out of this
instanter, for it must be a trifle embarrassing to Miss
St. Ives.”

This little encounter had revealed to the boys that
Fenton was jealous of Harden, who, plainly enough,
was paying attentions to Iva.

“I believe Fenton is a bad man to have for an
enemy,” said Rattleton, with unusual seriousness, as
the boys once more gathered about the hammock, which
Browning had not left for all of anything that was
taking place beyond the shrubbery.

“Well,” said Hodge, slowly, “it’s not likely he is in
love with Frank, for Merry was not willing to be imposed
upon by him. Frank may have to look out for
the fellow.”

“What’s that you are telling about me?” called the
pleasant voice of Frank himself, as he emerged from
beneath the vines over the door of the summerhouse
followed by Diamond. “I’m all the time looking out
for somebody. Here I’ve been having the battle of
my life with Jack, and only beat him one point. I won
the game on a fluke, at that.”

“But he won it, as he always wins everything he
goes into,” said the Virginian, with traces of mingled
vexation and admiration.

Toots came panting toward the spot all out of
breath.

“Lordy! Lordy!” he gasped; “I done ’clare teh goodness;
I’s ’feared to stay ’roun’ dat stable any mo’!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Frank. “You haven’t
cleaned up all those wheels as soon as this?”

“No, sar; but dat hostler in dar am crazy ma-ad,
sar.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He done suffin’ to dat hawse Fiahfoot, an’ de
hawse don kick him up again’ de side ob de stall.
Wondah it didn’t kill him, sar! Po-erful wondah it
didn’t bre’k some ob his bones! Made him so mad he
got a fork an’ was gwan teh stick it right inteh dat
hawse. I couldn’t stan’ teh see dat, an’ I hollered.
Den he see I was a-watchin’ ob him, an’ he was ma-ad
enough teh kill meh, sar. I don’ dar’ stay an’ clean
dem bisuckles, Marser Frank.”

“Those wheels must be cleaned to-night,” said Merriwell,
decisively. “Come with me, Toots, and I will
settle this thing so the hostler will not interfere with
you.”

He strode away toward the stable, and the colored
boy followed at his heels. Hodge and Rattleton followed
more leisurely.

As Frank entered suddenly he detected the hostler,
wrench in hand, doing something to one of the bicycles.
It looked as if the man was making an attempt to ruin
the wheel.

And it happened that the wheel belonged to Frank!

Three bounds took Merriwell to the side of the
man, whom he grasped by the collar, crying:

“What are you doing there?”

The man straightened up, and turned his bloodshot
eyes on the youth. His face was flushed, and the odor
of his breath told he had been drinking heavily.

“Leggo!” he snarled; “leggo, or I’ll smash ye!”

“What were you doing to that wheel?” demanded
Frank.

“None o’ yer business!” roared the hostler. Then
he dropped the wrench, and made a swinging blow at
the boy.

Frank dodged the blow and thrust out his foot in a
manner that sent the awkward man sprawling.

“Land ob wartermillions!” squawked Toots, delighted.

As the hostler scrambled up, his fingers encountered
the handle of the wrench and closed around it. His
face was purple with anger, and there was a furious
glare in his bloodshot eyes. The thick lips, purple
and swollen, curled back from his tobacco-stained teeth,
and with a snarl that might have issued from the throat
of some wild beast, he flung the wrench at Frank’s
head.

“Look out dar!”

Toots uttered the cry, but Merriwell was watching
the man closely, and he dodged the missile, which went
whizzing past with an unpleasant sound.

A man was just stepping in at the door, and the
wrench struck him on the breast, knocking him down
as if he had been shot.

Then Rattleton and Hodge came running up, and
bent over the fallen man, who lay groaning on the
ground.

It was Stephen Fenton!

The hostler seemed suddenly sobered by his act.

“Gosh!” he muttered. “It were Steve I hit! Hope
I didn’t kill him!”

Frank was keeping watch of Wade, but saw the
man was appalled by the result of his angry act, and
so ventured to turn about and hasten to Fenton’s side.

“Bring some water!” he ordered. “He may be seriously
injured!”

Fenton’s face was purple, and he was gasping for
breath, but, as Merriwell stooped to lift his head, he
feebly but savagely motioned him back.

“Hands off!” gasped the man. “Keep away from
me!”

Toots came running up with some water.

“Heah, boss!” he cried; “heah’s yo’ watah!”

“What do I want of water! Anybody—got some—whiskey?”

“Here!” cried Wade, quickly stepping forward, and
taking a bottle from a pocket inside his red flannel
shirt; “here’s a bit.”

It was a pint bottle, nearly a third full. Fenton
grasped it with a shaking hand as he sat up, lifted it
to his lips, and did not take it down till he had swallowed
the last drop.

With a growl, he got upon his feet, flinging the
empty bottle aside. He gave Frank a fierce look, then
addressed Wade:

“What’s the matter with you, Bill? Did you want
to kill me?”

“I didn’t throw it at ye, Steve—I mean Mr. Fenton.
I didn’t mean ter hit ye.”

Fenton rubbed his chest and coughed.

“Lucky you didn’t kill me,” he said, huskily.

Kenneth St. Ives appeared.

“What’s the matter here?” he asked.

The hostler hastened to explain that he was simply
moving the bicycles out of the way when Frank Merriwell
assaulted him.

“It was my wheel,” said Frank, making a hasty examination,
“and he has loosened things up generally
around it. If I were to attempt to ride it now without
putting it in shape, the chances are that I would
break my neck the first hill I came to. It is plain
enough that this wheel has been doctored to give me
a fall.”

Kenneth examined it, and saw at a glance that Frank
was right. Still, the hostler protested that he had
done nothing to the wheel save move it over slightly,
so it would not be in the way.

“These wheels are not in your way, Wade,” said
Kenneth, sternly, “and you may let them alone. You
have been drinking, and you know that means you
stand a good chance of losing your position.”

The hostler looked sullen and subdued, but said
nothing. His assistants had appeared, attracted by
the sound of the encounter, but they were holding
aloof.

Kenneth reprimanded Wade severely, and then informed
Frank that supper was ready for the party.

The boys had been given a chance to wash up,
and soon they were seated about a long table in the
cool dining-room of the old mansion, with Kenneth St.
Ives acting as host.

CHAPTER XXII—HANS USES THE HOSE
===============================

A jolly party it was. They laughed, and joked, and
told stories. They ate, and drank, and were happy.
Browning fairly groaned with satisfaction, and then
tried to disguise the groan by a cough. Hans gasped
as he looked about at the good things with which the
table was loaded, and his eyes bulged.

“Shimminy Ghristmas!” he gurgled. “I feel like all
dot stuff could ead me up und not half dry. I ain’d
seen nottings like dot for so long dot you don’d rememper
id.”

“Wal, gol darned ef this air ain’t a slappin’ good
layout!” observed Ephraim. “I was beginnin’ to wish
I was to hum on the farm where I could git some baked
’taturs, but baked ’taturs won’t cut no ice with me
arter I git threw with this fodder.”

“Hearty appetites are in vogue at Springbrook
Farm,” laughed Kenneth; “and I want you all to eat
till you are perfectly satisfied. Athletes should eat
well at times.”

“Yaw,” nodded Hans, “I pelief me; but dot Vrankie
Merrivell peen keepin’ der barty in draining so much
dot I don’d had nottings to ead vot you like two
veeks a time at. Dot kindt uf pusiness makes you got
fat like a ghost.”

“Speaking about ghosts,” said Kenneth, with a sly
wink at Merriwell, “there is a story that our summerhouse
is haunted. As you fellows are going to stop
there to-night, I trust you will not be troubled by
spirits.”

Hans’ jaw dropped.

“Vot?” he squawked. “I don’d toldt you dere peen
a ghost dot house in?”

“Sure,” nodded Kenneth. “Those who have seen
it describe it as a tall, white figure, and those who have
felt it say it has clammy, ice-cold hands.”

“Woo!” cried Hans, shivering. “I don’d pelief I
vant to slept dot summerhouses in!”

“Oh, the ghost only appears occasionally, and it is
not at all likely it will visit the summerhouse to-night.”

“Vale, you don’d know apout dot. Uf dot ghost
heard I vos here, he peen sure to come. Uf you gif me
a bistol und dot ghost came, mape he peen aple to shot
me.”

“You mean that you will be able to shoot the ghost.”

“Yaw, I meant dot I peen aple to peen shot der
ghost py.”

“That wouldn’t hurt him any. Spooks don’t mind
being shot.”

“I don’d toldt you dot? Oxcuse me! I vill slept
py der open air. I don’d care apout sleepin’ in dot
summerhouses.”

“Oh, say!” exclaimed Ephraim; “gol darn it! can’t
you see you’re bein’ guyed. There ain’t no ghost there
at all.”

“How you known dot, Efy?”

“Why, see um larf at ye! Can’t you tell by the
way they act?”

But the Dutch boy was not satisfied, and it worried
him greatly to think he might be visited by a ghost
that night. He insisted that he would not sleep in the
Summerhouse unless provided with a gun.

After supper however, Kenneth took Hans aside
and explained that a bullet from a gun or a charge of
grapeshot and canister out of a cannon would not
have the least effect on a ghost, but that ghosts could
not stand water.

“In the room where you are to sleep to-night,” said
Kenneth, “there is a hose pipe with a stopcock nozzle.
All you need to do is take the nozzle end of the pipe to bed
with you. If the spook appears, point the nozzle at
him, turn the stopcock, and let him have it. He will
be knocked out in the first round.”

“Vos dot der lefel on?” asked Hans, suspiciously.

“That is strictly on the level,” assured Kenneth,

“Vale, den I done dot. Let dot ghost come, und
I vill gif him der greadest path vot I efer got.”

In the meantime, Frank Merriwell had taken Ephraim
aside, and was saying:

“Gallup, you must scare the wits out of that Dutchman
to-night. You are the tallest one in the party,
and so you must wrap yourself in a sheet and play
ghost on him. St. Ives is going to fix it so we can all
hide behind a curtain in one corner of the room and
see the fan. Will you do the trick?”

“Course I will,” nodded Ephraim. “I’ll skeer the
Dutchman aout of his senses, b’gosh! Won’t it be
heaps of fun!”

“Sure it will,” nodded Frank. “You must strip
yourself of all your clothes, so you will look as gaunt
as possible, then wrap the sheet around you and stalk
in on Hans. He’ll have a fit.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed the Vermonter. “I
know I’ll die of larfin’ to see him! Haw! haw! haw!”

So it was arranged, and Frank hastened to tell the
other boys.

“This is where Ephraim gets taken in,” smiled
Merry. “Kenneth St. Ives has arranged for him to
turn the hose on the spook, if one appears. If Hans is
not too frightened to do anything, he’ll give Ephraim
the surprise of his life. With nothing but a sheet
over him, the water from the hose will go through
to Gallup’s skin the first squirt, and we’ll be where we
can see the fun.”

With no small difficulty Hans was induced to sleep
alone in a room of the summerhouse. At one end of
the room was an alcove that served as a wardrobe. In
front of this alcove was a curtain.

Kenneth arranged it so that the hose attached to the
private waterworks of Springbrook Farm was run in
at the window of the Dutch boy’s room, and a full head
of pressure kept on. He showed Hans how to turn the
stopcock and let the water fly at the spook.

Just before the party was ready to retire Frank came
upon Gallup and Dunnerwust, who were talking together
and laughing in an odd manner.

“Here!” exclaimed Merry, “what are you fellows
chuckling over?”

He was afraid the Dutch boy had told Ephraim
about the manner in which he expected to vanquish the
ghost.

“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Ephraim. “I was
jest tellin’ him I’d eat the gol darn ghost if he’d
ketch it.”

“Yaw!” chuckled Hans; “und I toldt him I peen retty
to pet zwi tollars der ghost vould ketch it. He don’d
know vot I mean py dot, un don’d you toldt him nottings.”

Frank hastened to get the two boys apart, and remained
with Hans till the latter was ready to go to bed.

“You don’d pelief dere peen any ghost, did you,
Vrankie?” asked the Dutch lad, sleepily.

“Of course not,” assured Frank. “That’s a guy
yarn St. Ives gave you. There’s nothing in it.”

“Vale, I peen so sleeby I can’d kept meinseluf avake
no longer. Good-nighd, poys. I vas goin’ to ped.”

Then Hans waddled off to his room.

It was not far from midnight when the boys arose
and prepared for the fun. Kenneth St. Ives was on
hand. He had provided some ice for Ephraim.

“When we all get behind the curtain that hangs before
the alcove,” said Kenneth, “you come into the
room, Gallup, stalk up to the bed and run this piece
of ice around over the Dutchman’s face. If that don’t
frighten him out of his wits, I’ve made a big mistake.”

“It’s a yell thot’ll wake ivrybody fer a moile he’ll be
afther givin’ whin he fales th’ oice an’ sees Ephraim in
the whoite shate,” chuckled Barney.

In pajamas and nightclothes, the boys tiptoed up to
the door of Hans’ room, opened it softly, and listened.

Hans was snoring.

One by one, the young jokers slipped into the room
and concealed themselves behind the curtain. The
moon was up, and a broad strip of light came in by the
window and made the room light enough for them to
watch what was to take place.

With a sharp knife, which went the rounds, each boy
cut a slit in the curtain so he could peer out.

When everything was ready for the appearance of
the “ghost,” they were startled to hear Hans muttering:

“I know how to feex you. Vater—goot coldt vater;
Oh, uf I don’d gif you a path, you vos a liar!”

“He is sleeping in his talk—I mean, talking in his
sleep,” whispered Rattleton. “He is thinking of the
way he will fix the ghost. Oh, my! what a joke!”

Then he clasped a hand over his mouth to keep from
laughing aloud to think what fun they would have.

“Ven you peen all retty you said so,” muttered Hans,
apparently continuing to talk in his sleep.

“Wal,” said the “ghost,” speaking aloud, to the astonishment
of the boys behind the curtain, “I ruther
guess ev’rything’s all ready. Let her rip!”

Then the curtain behind which the jokers crouched
was suddenly snatched away.

At the same instant, Hans sat up in bed, and turned
the stopcock of the hose.

Swish—spat!

A powerful stream of chilling water shot through
the air directly toward that alcove. If struck the astounded
boys, drenching them in a moment and knocking
some of them over. The others piled upon the
fallen ones, and all shouted with astonishment and
disgust.

Then Hans, grasping the hose, bounced to his feet,
standing upright in the middle of the bed, and poured
the stream of cold water down upon that struggling,
squirming mass in the corner.

“Oh, say, vot a shoke dot vos!” cried the Dutch
boy, swaying the nozzle of the hose to evenly distribute
the water over all the boys. “Ain’d you hafin’ fun
mit us! I don’d belief you nefer seen der peat uf dese
shoke before all your life in! You don’d vorget der
fun vat you had mit us to-nighd a long dime in.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Ephraim. “Soak it to
um, Hans! Ain’t they havin’ a regular picnic with
us! Ho! ho! ho! This is more fun than hoein’
’taters!”

“Stop it!” cried Rattleton, gasping for breath.
“You blundering Dutchman turn that hose——Woogh-uh-oogh-uh—oogh!”

The stream from the hose had struck Harry full
and fair in the mouth, and he was nearly drowned.

“Oi’ll murther thot Dutch chaze!” shouted Mulloy.
“Oi won’t lave a whole bone in his body! Oi’ll—— Wa-ow!
Murther! Boo! Thot’s cold! It’s dead Oi
am intoirely!”

“Hello, Parney!” called Hans, mockingly; “how
you don’d like dot ghost pusiness, hey? Don’d id peen
vunny!”

“Thunder and guns!” roared Browning. “This
will give me another Arkansaw chill! Somebody will
get hurt when I find out who put up this job on
me!”

Hodge and Diamond made a desperate attempt to get
away, but Hans saw them, and gave them a straight
shot that knocked them down again in the midst of
the struggling, squirming, kicking and shouting lads.

“Great Cæsar!” cried Kenneth St. Ives, as he untangled
himself from the drenched and kicking mass.
“The joke is on us!”

“It looks that way from the road,” admitted Frank,
who was laughing heartily as he crowded his body
back into a corner to get away from the water. “That
confounded Yankee was too sharp to be taken in, and
he put up this job with Hans. Goodness! hear him
laugh!”

Ephraim was haw-hawing in a manner that told
how delighted he was, and the roly-poly Dutch boy was
dancing up and down on the bed, as he continued to
drench the shivering, scrambling, shouting lads in the
alcove.

“Oh, don’d you think dese pen der most fun I efer
had!” gurgled Hans. “Dese peen der vay to got a
shoke a ghost on. Yaw! Vot do I think uf dese
ghost pusiness now, hey?”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Ephraim, holding onto
his sides, and doubling up with laughter. “Gol darned
ef this wouldn’t make a kaow larf! Give it to um,
Hans!”

“Oh, yaw, I peen goin’ to cool them down. After
’dese don’d you pelief me ven dey toldt you I vos scared
mit a ghost. Hello, Raddleton! Oxcuse me uf you
got der vay in. I didn’d seen you pime-py. You oxbect
I vos havin’ a goot time, hey?”

Harry had been untangling himself from the others,
and now he tried to get up, but the stream of water
struck him behind the ear, and keeled him over once
more, plumping his head with great force fairly into
Browning’s stomach.

“Thunder and lightning!” roared the big fellow.
“I’d rather be in a football rush! I’ll give ten dollars
to anybody who will pull me out of this and get me out
of the room. My eyes are full of water, and I can’t
see.”

“You don’d haf to took a shower path der morning
in, Prowning,” laughed Hans.

Then St. Ives and Merriwell got hold of each other,
and made a break for the door, doing it so suddenly
that they escaped before the Dutch boy could turn the
hose on them. They remained outside, laughing and
calling to the others, who came stumbling blindly out,
one by one, dripping wet and hopping mad.

“The joke is on us, boys,” laughed Frank, “and we
may as well make the best of it. It’s no use to
kick.”

CHAPTER XXIII—CHOICE OF PONIES
==============================

Fearing the boys would attempt to retaliate, Hans
and Ephraim closed and barricaded the door, and the
Dutch boy shouted that he would “soak” anybody who
tried to force an entrance.

Thoroughly disgusted with the turn affairs had
taken, Merriwell and his friends sought towels and dry
clothing, and decided to let Hans and Ephraim alone
for the rest of the night.

In the morning every one about Springbrook Farm
knew of the “ghost joke,” and the boys were “jollied”
unmercifully, Kenneth St. Ives being forced to endure
it with the others.

The general uproar in the summerhouse had been
heard by those in the mansion, and it had set the
hounds to barking in the stable, but the shouts of
laughter coming from the house told that it was some
sort of frolic, so no one sought to investigate.

Ephraim and Hans came forth in the morning, arm
in arm, although they made a most grotesque couple,
the Dutch boy being short, round and fat, while the
Yankee lad was tall, lank and angular.

The faces of this odd pair were grave and solemn,
and their air of innocence was refreshing to behold.

“Good-mornin’, fellers,” nodded Ephraim. “I hope
yeou all slept fust rate late night?”

“How you peen dese mornin’, boys?” inquired Hans,
with apparent concern. “I hope you didn’t disturb
me der night in. I peen aple to slept shust like a top
all der night ofer mitout vakin’ ub ad all.”

“I am glad you slept so well,” smiled Frank. “There
was some noise about the house in the night, and I
thought it might have aroused you.”

“I nefer heard something ad all,” declared Hans.
“I pelief me I hat a tream someding apout a ghost, but
dot peen all.”

“Oh, say,” grunted Browning, clinching his huge
fist and shaking it close down by his side. “You wait!
There are other days coming!”

“Vell, I hope so,” said the Dutch boy, blankly. “I
don’t vant dese von to peen der last von.”

After breakfast a jolly party came over from the
Meadowfair clubhouse, five miles away. There were
nearly a dozen young ladies, and half as many gentlemen.
It was plain they were in the habit of visiting
Springbrook Farm often, for they were warmly welcomed,
and made themselves quite at home.

“This is jolly!” cried Kenneth St. Ives, as he introduced
Frank to Paul Stone, the leader of the party.
“I knew something in the way of sport would turn
up to-day. Do you play polo, Mr. Merriwell?”

“Yes,” nodded Frank, with unusual eagerness; “I
have played the game, but it has been some time since
I have touched a mallet.”

“Mr. Stone is a member of the American Polo Association,
as also is Steve Fenton, my cousin. Harden
and I have applied, and we expect to get in. Father
has caused a beautiful green to be laid over yonder.
He has worked upon it till it is as solid as the finest
green in the country, and we are looking to enjoy
several meets here before we return to the city. We
have been having a few games, and I think it is royal
sport.”

“It is the greatest sport in the world!” exclaimed
Paul Stone, enthusiastically.

Frank smiled.

“It can’t be that you have played much football or
baseball, Mr. Stone,” he said.

“Baseball hasn’t the dash and go of polo,” declared
Stone; “and too many accidents happen at football.
It is a dangerous game.”

“There is some danger in polo,” said Merry.

“Just enough to make it spicy,” declared Stone.
“There is not as much danger of getting broken noses
and broken necks as in football.”

Frank’s blood was beginning to bound in his veins,
for the thought of a hot, exciting polo game, with its
sharp races and its fierce charges, was quite enough
to arouse the sporting instinct within him. He was
like a war horse that sniffs the smoke of battle from
afar.

“Well,” he cried, “if there is to be a polo match, I’d
like to get into it.”

“You can,” laughed Kenneth. “You shall have
Liner, the finest pony in our bunch. That animal
knows as much as a human being. Why, he can almost
play polo alone!”

A short distance away Stephen Fenton was talking
with another of the Meadowfair party. He was trying
to be sociable in his sullen way, but his ears were open
to all that was passing near at hand, and he plainly
heard the conversation concerning polo.

Kimball, the man Fenton was talking with, also
heard something of it, and he exclaimed:

“Polo is the very thing! I had thought of a coaching
party, but it is too late for that this morning.
You’ll play polo, won’t you, Fenton?”

“Yes,” nodded Fenton, “I’ll play with your side.”

“I think that will be agreeable to Stone,” said Kimball;
“but I don’t believe Springbrook will want to give
you up.”

“Well, I’ll not play with those stiffs,” muttered the
sullen-faced fellow. “I want a good opportunity to
play against them.”

In a short time it was arranged. For Springbrook,
St. Ives, Harden, Merriwell and Diamond were the
players; for Meadowfair, Stone, Kimball, Fenton and
a jolly young man by the name of Lock were to handle
the mallets.

“Come, Mr. Diamond and Mr. Merriwell,” called
Kenneth; “I will provide you with suits.”

They followed him into the summerhouse, where
such paraphernalia was kept, and in a short time all
three were rigged out in white breeches, striped blouses
and high boots.

“You will find Liner a dandy polo pony, Mr. Merriwell,”
declared Kenneth. “Father paid nine hundred
dollars for him.”

“It’s jolly good of you to let me have him, St. Ives,”
said Frank. “Why don’t you ride him yourself? I
don’t feel like taking him away from you.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” laughed Kenneth. “You are
my guest. I’ll ride Coffin Head.”

“Coffin Head! What a name for a horse!”

“He’s an old-timer—a gone-by; but he knows the
game, and that is something in his favor. Of course,
I do not expect to cut much ice with him, but I want
Diamond to have a good mount. Coffin Head has
seen his day, but he has been a dandy.”

Frank mentally decided that St. Ives was a fine fellow,
and all right in every way.

They went out to the stable, hearing the ringing
sound of a coach horn, and seeing a coaching party approaching
along the road.

“There’ll be a jolly crowd here!” cried Kenneth.
“There’s a party from Cloverdale. We’ll have no
end of sport, fellows!”

There was a flush in Diamond’s cheeks, and it was
plain he was eager for the fray, although he said very
little.

Just as they were on the point of entering the stable,
Stephen Fenton rode out on a handsome pony with
four white feet and a general smart look.

St. Ives halted in astonishment.

“Hello, there!” he cried. “What are you doing
with that horse, Steve?”

“I’m going to ride him in the match,” answered
Fenton, grimly.

“I guess not!” exclaimed Kenneth. “I have promised
Liner to Mr. Merriwell.”

“Can’t help that,” retorted Fenton, with a sneer. “I
rode him in the last match.”

“And so you should be willing to let somebody else
have him to-day. Don’t be piggish, Steve.”

The man scowled.

“I didn’t suppose anybody would object to letting
me have him to-day, and that is why I took him. I
see you are afraid of being beaten. What pony did
you propose to let me have?”

“Any one but that one. I did think of riding
Coffin Head, but you may have him.”

“Coffin Head! You must think I’m a fool! Why,
that old cob is played out, and I’d be a perfect guy
on him. You can’t work that on me, Ken.”

St. Ives was angry. He showed it in his face
and voice.

“I don’t care what you ride! You can have anything
but Liner.”

“And I’ll have Liner!” flung back Fenton, defiantly.
“I’ve got him, and I’m going to keep him. What can
you do about it? We’ll show you chaps up in great
shape.”

Then he started the pony up, and rode away toward
the green.

St. Ives seemed about to follow him.

“I’ll make him give that pony up!” he grated. “He
has no right to take Liner! If he doesn’t want to play,
let him get out.”

“I wouldn’t have any trouble with him about it,”
said Frank. “If you do, he’ll make a big fuss about
our being scared. Let’s look at the other ponies first,
anyway.”

After a few moments of hesitation, St. Ives led
the way into the stable, and the boys looked the other
ponies over.

One of them was a homely old crock, with knees
and hocks bunched up out of all semblance to those
built on strictly anatomical principles. This pony attracted
Merriwell’s attention.

“That is Coffin Head,” said St. Ives.

Instantly an inspiration seized Frank.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll ride Coffin
Head.”

Kenneth gasped.

“You can’t mean it!” he exclaimed.

“I do,” nodded Merry. “Somehow I’ve taken a
fancy to the old fellow. You say he has been a good
one?”

“One of the best.”

“Then he hasn’t forgotten the tricks of the business.
I’m going to try him.”

“The boys will have sport with you, Merry,” said
Diamond.

“Let ’em,” smiled Frank. “I may get as much sport
out of it as they do. May I have Coffin Head, St.
Ives!”

“Of course you may if you want him,” said Kenneth,
“but I’m sorry that——”

“Never mind it!” came gayly from Merriwell. “Saddle
up old Coffin Head for me, boy,” he cried, to one of
the assistant hostlers. “I’ll manage to take some
part in the game. Hurrah for Coffin Head, the old-timer!
He may prove a surprise party for somebody.”

CHAPTER XXIV—THE FIRST GO
=========================

Tang! tang!

It was the timekeeper’s gong, and the game of polo
was begun with a charge.

Each team had lined up within twenty feet of their
respective goals, and, as the ball was dropped in center
field, the little ponies tore forward like blooded racers.

It was a spectacle to send the blood leaping in an
instant.

For all that the game had been hastily gotten up, the
boundary line was crowded with the *élite* of the countryside.
It seemed as if people had risen from the
ground.

Merriwell’s friends were all together, and, with the
possible exception of Browning, they were keenly interested.
Bruce was stretched out in a lazy position
on the ground, seemingly as apathetic as usual.

Bart Hodge’s dark eyes were gleaming and his
cheeks glowing.

“Oh, if I could have taken part in that!” he muttered.
“I don’t believe Diamond can play the game a
bit better than I can.”

Bart was disappointed, and a feeling of jealousy
toward Diamond had been aroused in his heart. It
began to seem that Frank cared too much for Jack.

“It’s queer, too,” thought Hodge. “Diamond was
growling all the time while we were in the West, and
he made the rest of the crowd tired. Merry is the
only one who has had any patience with him; but
that’s just like Frank. He’s mighty queer, and I don’t
understand him now, for all that I have known him so
long.”

Kenneth St. Ives was captain of the Springbrook
side, while Paul Stone commanded the other side.

“Soy,” cried Mulloy, “will yez take a look at thot
ould bob Frankie is shtraddle av! Did yez ivver see
th’ loikes av thot?”

“Gol darned ef that don’t look jest like dad’s old
plaow hoss!” laughed Ephraim Gallup. “Ther sight
of that critter makes me wish I was to hum on the
farm. I’m humsick, b’gosh!”

Bruce Browning grunted and looked disgusted.

“Merry must be a fool to take such a pony!” he
growled. “They’re making a guy of him.”

“G’way dar, boy!” muttered Toots, shaking his
head. “Don’t yeh beliebe yehself! Dey don’ mek no
guy ob dat boy ver’ much.”

“Say, Browning,” cried Rattleton, excitedly, “you
ought to know better than to think anybody can fake a
mool—I mean make a fool of Frank.”

“Yaw!” nodded Hans; “I oughter known petter dan
dot, hand’t you? Vot do I take you for, Prowning!
Vere you peen all my life, ain’d id? You don’d fool
Vrankie Merrivell haluf so much as I think you can,
you pet my axidental bolicy.”

In the opening charge Frank did not get in quite as
quick as the others. Mounted on Liner, Steve Fenton
shot down on the ball, and with a skillful crack, sent
it skimming toward the Springbrook goal, causing a
shout to go up from the spectators.

“He’ll make a goal for Meadowfair, in less than
two——Great Scott! how’d the boy do that?”

Frank, somewhat behind the others, had caught the
ball as it skimmed like a bullet over the ground, even
though it seemed that he must have swung his mallet
almost at the same instant as Fenton. The first crack
was answered by a second, and the basswood ball suddenly
went skimming back toward the Meadowfair
side, with Diamond racing after it to send it through.

But Liner showed his mettle. It did not seem
that Fenton paid the least attention to the pony, but
the creature twisted about in a moment, and carried
its rider along at Diamond’s side.

It was a brief but most exciting race, and the spectators
cheered and waved their handkerchiefs.

“Go it, Diamond, old boy!” cried Harry Rattleton.

“Go id, Shack, oldt poy!” shouted Hans, hopping
about like a toad. “You vill pet on my head!”

“Git doawn an’ crawl, gol darn ye!” whooped Ephraim.
“Naow hit her a knockaout blow, and—— Great
gosh!”

In a most skillful manner Fenton’s pony had forced
Diamond’s mount over, and the dark-faced man swung
across in time to get a crack at the ball. The skill with
which he struck it told that he was the most dangerous
player on the Meadowfair side.

“Look out there, Harden!” cried St. Ives.

Harry stopped the ball, but it caromed from his
mallet and came near going out of bounds. In a twinkling
there was another hot rush and a threatened
crash. Immediately all the players were clumped about
the ball.

“Where are you, number one?” cried Paul Stone.
“Strike, Kimball—strike, man! What’s the matter
with you?”

For some moments the ball “hung,” and the players
“dribbled”; but they were cool, and Lock made a neat
and quick turn, passing the ball to Fenton, who took
it up and hit it to boundary.

Over the board went the ponies, and the sticks
crooked as they tried to give the ball a fillip outside.
But Diamond, “half-back” for Springbrook, saw his
opportunity, made a rush and a hard backhander on the
near side, and out shot the little white sphere on
its way to glory.

Merriwell was on it, as if he had been waiting for
that very play. His stick, which he had selected with
great care, seemed to swing free for a moment from
the strap about his wrist, then the malacca did its
work.

“Hooray!” cried Ephraim Gallup. “It’s a goal
sure! Hooray!”

“Yaw!” screamed Hans, “id peen a dandy!”

“Outside! outside!”

“Who says outside?” snapped Rattleton. “The
referee? I know better! It’s a goal sure!”

“Outside, I tell you!” came the voice of the referee,
and the game stopped.

It was a disappointment for Frank’s friends, for
they had felt certain he would make a goal, but the
fairness of the referee was not to be questioned.

The captain of the Meadowfairs had the strike-off,
and the Springbrooks fell back from the line.

But Stone was cunning, and he gave the ball a clever
sweep to right field, and away from his goal. His
“forward” knew the trick, and Liner was keyed up for
a race to boundary.

But Frank had seen that trick before, and he resolved
to find out what sort of stuff Coffin Head was made
of, now that there was a good opportunity. The pony
had handled himself with such ease and skill, for all
of his awkward and homely appearance, that Merry
was more than delighted, and now came the supreme
test.

Liner flew out after the ball, upon which Fenton’s
eyes were steadily fastened. But Coffin Head was in
the race, and the old crock didn’t do a thing but spread
himself. The way he tore along over the ground
amazed everybody who saw it. It seemed that the
old horse had renewed his youth and was out for blood.
He made the run of his life to get his rider on that
ball. Like a meteor he flew across the green, and
Liner was fairly beaten, causing Frank Merriwell’s
friends and admirers to rise up and shout with astonishment
and delight.

The check was too sudden, however, and the old
pony slid on his haunches. Then up rushed a mass
of men and ponies, making for a moment a wild
*mêlée*.

Kimball got a crack at the ball, but it glanced off
the ribs of Harden’s pony, causing the animal to wince
and swerve.

That let in Merriwell, who had brought Coffin Head
about, and he made a skillful stroke. As he did so,
he felt something whistle past his head, and realized
that he had narrowly escaped a blow that must have
spoiled the effectiveness of his work.

Frank did not take his eyes off the ball; but, nevertheless,
he saw it was Fenton who had attempted the
foul stroke, being unable to reach the ball himself.

Diamond went down on the sphere with a rush, and
carried it along toward the enemy’s posts. With a
clean lead at the proper moment, the Virginian, who
had already showed himself a perfect horseman and
perfect polo player, sent the white ball sailing through
the timber, and Springbrook had made the first goal.

CHAPTER XXV—THE END OF THE GAME
===============================

Diamond was heartily congratulated, and his dark
face flushed with pleasure over his success.

“But I didn’t do it alone,” he declared. “Merriwell
deserves as much or more credit, for he sent it
out of the bunch, and gave me my chance at it.”

“You fellows must have played together a great
deal,” said Harden. “You work together perfectly.”

Frank laughed.

“We never played together in a game before,” he
said. “I didn’t know Diamond played polo till a short
time ago.”

“It’s remarkable!” smiled St. Ives, who was delighted
over the work of his team. “And old Coffin
Head is right in the game.”

“You bet!” cried Merry. “He is an old dandy! I
wouldn’t swap him for Liner now!”

“But he has not done such work this season. He is
in his old-time trim, and I believe two-thirds of it
comes from his rider.”

Diamond touched Frank’s arm, and drew him aside.

“Say, Frank,” he whispered, “do you know you
came near getting a crack over the head?”

“Sure,” nodded our hero.

“Well, take my advice and look out for that Fenton.
I saw him when he struck at you, and I know he would
have struck just as quick if his mallet had been made
of iron.”

“I’ll watch out for him, Jack.”

“Do it, and I’ll keep my eyes open myself.”

Lock had strained his side twisting in the saddle for
a stroke, and a fellow by the name of Hawley was
substituted. Kimball and Stone both rushed to the
stable to change ponies, and Hawley called for another
pony in the place of the one Lock had ridden. Of the
Meadowfairs, Fenton was the only one who retained
his mount.

Harden was the only Springbrook man who made
a change. His pony had not acted satisfactorily, although
it was considered a fairly good animal. But
it is an old saying that “the more a man knows about
polo ponies the less he knows about them,” and the
paradox is an indisputable truth.

Nearly all polo ponies are Western bred, and have
broncho blood in them. A broncho is unreliable at best.
For a thousand times he may serve you perfectly, and
then, when you least expect such a thing, for no apparent
reason, he may prove utterly unreliable.

Ponies for expert players must have lots of speed
and good blood in them, but it is necessary that they
should be tough and hard to injure.

As for the game of polo, there is no other sport
in which the nervous force, cool decision and quick
judgment of man are coupled to such an extent with
the natural instincts of the horse.

Polo, properly played by man, with ponies thoroughly
trained and keyed up to the highest tension,
is a game which possesses just danger enough to make
it attractive to men of nerve. It requires a cool head,
quick eye, infinite perseverance and marvelous horsemanship.

The chief qualifications of an expert polo player are
the ability to measure distance while riding at top
speed, the knowledge when and where to race, and the
judgment and skill to play a waiting game at times.
The best player should be a past master of all the
strategies and tactics of a cavalry horseman.

Besides this, it requires courage. A player must
have the kind of nerve that would face unflinchingly
a hand-to-hand struggle for life on the battlefield.

The friends of Frank and Jack hastened to congratulate
them, with the exception of Browning and
Hodge. The former was too lazy to exert himself so
much, and the latter was in the “dumps,” as the sulky
look on his face plainly indicated.

“Gol darned if I ever saw sich a crummy lookin’
hoss as that what could git araound so humpin’ lively!”
declared Ephraim Gallup.

“Yaw, dut bony peen lifely as a pedpugs,” nodded
Hans. “Vot vould you take for him uf you vant to
bought him, Vrankie?”

“Merry, me b’y,” put in the Irish lad, “it’s a lulu ye
are, an’ Diamond is a p’ache; but it’s thot spalpane Finton
ye want to be lookin’ afther roight sharrup, fer Oi
saw him swat at yez.”

“Don’t worry, Barney,” said Frank. “I’ll keep
watch of him.”

Iva St. Ives chatted with Harry Harden, while
from a distance, Stephen Fenton chewed his dark
mustache and watched them sullenly, muttering to
himself.

There was a sudden hurrying out from the stable.

“Time!”

Bang!—sounded the gong, and once more the game
was on.

“Now play, boys!” cried Paul Stone. “We won’t
waste any time. Don’t fool with it! Hit it hard!”

Fenton was on the ball, and he struck it as if an
engine was back of him. The sphere flew over the
grass, and Liner took his rider in hot pursuit.

Harden tried to get in at the ball, but was cleverly
hustled by Kimball. It seemed plain sailing. The
Meadowfairs were going at it with a rush, and it
looked like a goal at once.

Another hundred feet, and then, with a clever stroke,
Fenton passed the ball to the mallet of Hawley. But
Hawley’s stick was too short by three inches, and he
missed on the swing.

Harden was making a hard push for the ball, and
Fenton, who was following it up, tried to crowd him.
They came along side by side, with their knees jammed
together as the ponies raced.

Then—how was it done? Liner seemed to stop suddenly,
as if turned to stone, and Harden was torn
from the saddle of his pony, which shot on without
him. He fell heavily to the ground in the very track
of the whole mass of onrushing ponies.

A scream of fear broke from Iva St. Ives, who was
watching it all, for it seemed that Harden was doomed
to be severely injured beneath the hoofs of the ponies—perhaps
killed.

Frank was slightly in advance of the others, and,
quick as thought, he leaned far over to one side, like
a cowboy, and his hand fastened on the belt of the
fallen player.

Harden was too heavy for Merriwell to swing back
into the saddle, but he carried the young man along till
the other players could swerve aside, and he did not
drop him till he could stop Coffin Head.

In a moment Harden was on his feet, and, as he
sprang up, the spectators broke into loud cheers.

“Thank you, Merriwell!” exclaimed the man Frank
had thus cleverly saved by a cowboy trick. “I won’t
forget that.”

Then he darted away after his pony, apparently uninjured.

“I know it was a foul trick that flung him from the
saddle,” thought Frank. “I wonder why the referee
doesn’t declare a foul? Is there some kind of a job
in this?”

Then a shout came from his lips as he awoke to the
fact that the game was still on, and Diamond had
cleverly prevented Fenton from making a goal.

Coffin Head was away after the ball almost before
the shout came from Frank’s lips. As if nothing of
an unusual nature had happened, the game continued.

Hawley tried to cut Merriwell off from the ball,
but old Coffin Head would not have it, and Frank got
in a crack that made the spectators shout with delight.
Then Kimball shot across ahead of Frank, and
Kenneth St. Ives found a chance to carry the ball
down the field, but broke his stick trying to strike a
goal, and was forced to ride out of bounds for another
mallet.

Luckily for Springbrook, Diamond was playing the
game of his life. He came down and drove the ball
from under the nose of Kimball’s pony, making another
goal just as the first half closed.

Then came a rest of ten minutes, during which the
ponies were rubbed down and the perspiring but enthusiastic
players secured a respite.

Frank was quickly surrounded by an admiring
throng. Pretty girls crowded about him, and sought
an introduction, and men came up and felt of his
arms, expressing their amazement that he should have
been able to rescue Harden from beneath the feet of
the charging ponies.

This was all very embarrassing for him, and he
sought to get away. As soon as possible, he joined
his friends, but they were ready with congratulations.

“It must have been tough, don’t you know,” yawned
Browning; “but it was clever, Merriwell—confounded
clever.”

“It was a dandy trick!” cried Harry Rattleton, bubbling
with enthusiasm and admiration. “What’ll the
fellows at Old Yale say when they hear of your cowboy
trick, Merry?”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell them about it!” exclaimed
Frank. “What is there to make such a fuss
over?”

“Gol darned if I don’t think that feller was throwed
off his hoss by Fenton!” put in Ephraim. “I couldn’t
see just haow the trick was done, but I bet four dozen
aigs it was done somehow.”

On this point Frank was silent.

Soon the gong sounded again, and the play was on
once more. The Meadowfair men seemed desperate,
and they fought like tigers. Three times within as
many minutes the ball was forced down so near the
Springbrook goal posts that a clever strike would have
made a goal, and three times, mounted on old Coffin
Head, Frank Merriwell sent it back into the center of
the field.

On the third trip, Kenneth St. Ives got in a clever
stroke and passed it to Diamond, who had been playing
a waiting game. Jack saw his chance, and he rushed
it for the Meadowfair posts.

Fenton charged on Jack like a whirlwind, but made a
miss stroke, and the Virginian rushed the white sphere
down through the posts, making another goal for
Springbrook.

Two minutes’ rest followed, and then the ball was
put in again.

The face of Stephen Fenton was dark with anger,
and he played as if possessed by a fiend. But all his
work was vain, for Springbrook made three goals in
the last half, and the game closed with a complete whitewash
for Meadowfair.

CHAPTER XXVI—BEFORE THE HUNT
============================

“I believe there will be a frost to-morrow morning,”
declared Kenneth St. Ives, as the boys were gathered
in the summerhouse that evening. “It has turned very
cold within an hour, and there is not a breath of wind.
If there is a frost look out for sport.”

“What sort of sport?” eagerly asked Harry Rattleton.
“Something we can all take part in?”

“Sure.”

“Name it.”

“Fox hunt.”

“Jupiter! That will be great.”

“We’ve got as fine a pack of hounds as can be found
in this part of the country, although it is not a large
pack,” said Kenneth; “and we have the foxes. Every
one of you fellows who can ride may take part in the
hunt.”

“I’m pretty sure I shall have another chill to-morrow.”
mumbled Browning. “I wouldn’t dare start out
on a hunt.”

“Rats!” cried Rattleton. “The trouble with you
is——”

“Let Browning stay behind and take things easy,”
said Hodge, quickly. “The rest of us can go. For
real sport, give me a fox hunt.”

“Yaw!” nodded Hans; “dot peen der sbort vor you,
hoch. I peen britty coot at dot.”

“Hev yeou got guns for ther hull on us?” asked
Ephraim.

“Guns?” cried Kenneth, astonished.

“Yeh.”

“What do you want of guns?”

“Why, to shoot the gol darn fox with, of course!”

“But what do you want to shoot him for?”

“Hey!” gasped the astonished Vermonter. “Haow
be yeou goin’ to hunt him if yeou don’t shoot him?”

“Why, we hunt foxes on horses, and let the dogs
run them down.”

“An’ don’t do nary bit of shootin’?”

“No.”

“Wal, that’s what I call a mighty slim sort of a
hunt,” declared Gallup, in disgust. “Yeou oughter
see Win Page hunt foxes daown hum. Give that
feller one dorg an’ a good gun, and he’ll go out ’most
any mornin’ an’ gather in two or three of the critters
afore breakfast. He keeps the door of his barn all
nailed over with fox skins, an’ skunk skins, an’ muskrats,
an’ he kin set araound the grocery store an’ tell
huntin’ stories fer a week at a time ’thout stoppin’ to
eat ur ketch his breath.”

“It is evident that Mr. Page hunts foxes in a different
way and for a different purpose than we do,”
smiled Kenneth.

Then Frank briefly explained to Ephraim the style
of hunting foxes on horseback for sport, but Gallup did
not seem to think there could be much sport in it that
way.

“I’m sorry father had to fire Wade, the head hostler,
to-night,” said St. Ives.

“Had to fire him?” questioned Frank. “What
for?”

“He was drunk and insolent. But he knows more
about taking charge of a stable than any man I ever
saw, and he kept our hunters in fine condition. He
has been drinking too much lately, however, and he
was getting intolerable. By the way, Merriwell, you
had better look out for him.”

“Why—how is that?”

“He seemed to think you were the cause of his dismissal,
and he said he would ‘make it all right.’ He’s
got a bad temper when he’s boozing.”

“Why, I didn’t say anything to your father about
Wade.”

“I know it, but I told father about your trouble with
him, and it is possible that’s why father was so ready
to get rid of the fellow. Father insists that his guests
shall be treated properly by everybody connected with
the place.”

“If Mr. Wade knows what’s good for him, he’ll
let Merry alone,” declared Rattleton.

“He may not be seen around here again,” said Kenneth.
“Father told him to get away and stay away.”

The boys’ discussed the prospect of a hunt and grew
very enthusiastic over it, with the exception of Browning.
Hodge was aroused, for he fancied he saw his
opportunity of making evident the fact that he was
quite as good a horseman as Diamond, whom he could
not help envying for the glory he had won at polo.

Bart had not been able to change his nature, and
so he frequently was jealous of others, although he
tried to suppress and conceal the fact, and, when he
considered it in cold blood, he was always disgusted
with himself.

Kenneth said the visitors at the house, those who
had arrived that day and remained there, had been
talking of a hunt, but it was not thought probable
there would be an opportunity thus early in the season.
The cold turn would be sure to arouse their expectations,
however, and he would see that they were prepared
for what might happen in the morning.

“I’ll guarantee a mount for every one who cares to
go,” he said; “so don’t any one worry about getting
left.”

The prospect of such sport seemed to revive Hodge,
and he challenged Rattleton to a game of billiards,
which challenge was promptly accepted.

St. Ives rang the bell for a colored boy, who lighted
up the billiard-room, and soon Bart and Harry were
at it, while the others lay around and looked on.

St. Ives motioned to Frank and Jack.

“You fellows come with me,” he said. “I’ve something
to show you.”

They followed, and he took them out to the huge
dog kennel, which was a house by itself, located under
the trees by the stables. Their approach aroused the
dogs, but the sound of St. Ives’ voice quieted them,
and the boys entered. Kenneth lighted two lamps,
while the dogs frolicked around him.

“Down, Bruiser—down!” he ordered. “Off Pirate!
Away, Madge—get out!”

The dogs obeyed him reluctantly,

“There, fellows,” he cried, proudly, “what do you
think of them? I say they are all right, and they
are dying for a run. I reckon they will get it in the
morning.”

Frank and Jack looked the dogs over critically.
Diamond’s eyes gleamed and he called Pirate to his
feet.

“Here is the old dandy for any sum!” cried the Virginian.
“That dog will be in at the death if he can keep a foot
under him.”

Kenneth nodded.

“Pirate is a great hunter,” he said; “but he doesn’t
run away from Madge very often.”

For half an hour they looked the dogs over, and
then left the kennel.

“I’ll have to go into the house, and see what the
others think about it,” said St. Ives. “Won’t you
come in, fellows?”

“No,” said Diamond; “I am too tired.”

“I’m tired myself,” confessed Frank. “I think
we’ll roll into our beds very soon.”

The boys strolled down past the summerhouse,
while Kenneth went into the mansion. Through a
window Frank and Jack could see the billiard players
at work, and they heard Rattleton shout with laughter
at some fluke Hodge made.

“It strikes me this is the last round of sport before
we get back to the grind,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Frank, somewhat sadly; “we’ve had our
summer’s whirl, and it’s over; but it was fun while it
lasted.”

Arm in arm, they walked down through the garden.
They did not take the gravel path, but kept on the
grass. Their feet made no noise, and they were silent,
as both were thinking of their varied adventures since
starting westward on the bicycle tour.

All at once they heard voices, and stopped suddenly.

“Catch your chance, Bill. A hundred for the boy
and two hundred for the man. You do not like either
of them, so——”

“Like ’em! Cuss ’em, I hate ’em! I’ll do it if I git
a good chance.”

“That is settled, then. You’d better get away from
here, for you don’t want to be seen. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Frank leaped toward the bushes beyond which the
voices sounded. They were thick, and he broke
through with difficulty. When he reached the other
side, he could hear the sound of running feet in dull
retreat, but both men were gone.

Frank started in pursuit, but the ones who were
running away seemed to know the turns of the garden
walks better than he did, for both got away.

Diamond found Merriwell near the summerhouse
chewing his lip and standing in an attitude that expressed
mingled rage and disgust.

“Didn’t catch either of them, did you?” asked Jack.

“No,” was the answer; “but I think I know them
both. They were the discharged hostler and Steve
Fenton, or I’m daffy.”

CHAPTER XXVII—THE HUNT
======================

“Hark away!”

The sound of baying hounds and the hunter’s horn
cut the crisp morning air.

“The dogs have struck a track!” gayly cried Frank,
who was mounted on Firefoot, having chosen that
horse, although warned that he was the most dangerous
animal in the Springbrook stables. “Listen to that!
Is it not music to stir the blood?”

The baying of the hounds grew more and more distinct,
and surely it was sweet music to the ear of the
enthusiastic hunter. Rising, falling, now loud and
clear, now faint and low, the mellow notes came across
the meadows.

“They’re coming this way!” cried Diamond, excitedly,
as his mount pricked up its ears and pawed the
ground, plainly longing to be off after the baying dogs.
“Come, Frank!”

“Shimminy Ghristmas!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust,
who was astride an old steed. “You don’d pelief dese
hoss vos bound to run avay mit myseluf, do I?”

“I don’t think ye need ter worry abaout that,”
grinned Ephraim Gallup.

“I make you feel petter ven you said dot,” declared
the Dutch boy. “I peen avraidt I might run avay mit
dese hosses und throw heem off.”

“It’s a warm scent, fellows!” palpitated Bart Hodge,
who was a-quiver with excitement. “Oh, this morning
will be filled with glory!”

“I thought you fellows would enjoy it,” said Kenneth
St. Ives, who was with Frank and his friends,
the hunters having split into two parties. “I want you
to enjoy all the time you spend at Springbrook.”

“There’s the horn again!” fluttered Diamond; “and
there they come! It’s a signal to us. Look! look!
look!”

Out from a bit of scattering timber far across the
meadows broke the hounds, the foremost running nose
to the ground, the others following close, but often
baying with uplifted muzzles. As the dogs had just
struck the track, the hunters were close after them,
and the bright colors of their clothing showed through
the trees almost before the dogs appeared, rising and
falling with the movements of their galloping horses.

“Harden is in the lead!” cried Kenneth St. Ives,
“and Fenton is a close second. Look—look, fellows!
The third one is my sister! Doesn’t she ride beautifully!
Oh, she is as good as the best of them! I’ll
wager a sawbuck she leads both Fenton and Harden
before the chase is over, and she is sure to be in at the
death.”

“That’s a habit I have myself,” smiled Frank Merriwell;
“and I shall make an attempt to be in at the
death this morning.”

“Firefoot will balk on you before you are through
with him,” declared Kenneth. “He’s got speed and
blood, but he is treacherous.”

“I don’t believe he will play any tricks on me,” said
Frank. “I do not believe he has been handled right.
Your hostler, Wade, had a grudge against the horse,
and Fenton didn’t know how to treat him. But this
is no time to talk of that. See—the dogs take that
hedge! Hurrah! See Harden follow! What a glorious
sight! Hurrah! hurrah!”

The boys could not repress their cheers. The horses
they bestrode were dancing now, but the animals were
held in check yet a little longer, and then, with a cry to
the others, Frank gave Firefoot his head.

Down toward the hunters charged the second party,
riding to join them. They were seen, and Harden set
the horn to his lips and blew a welcome.

Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-tar!

How the bugle note cuts the frosty air! It is
enough to stir the blood in the veins of a sluggard.

The horses cannot be held in check. Oh, the glorious
excitement of the mad ride—the delight of speed!
Whip nor spur is not needed, and like birds they go
across small washouts, down into a tiny ravine, and
then up again with short, sharp jerks.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

It is the baying of the hounds, the whole pack bursting
into a grand swell of melody. Who would not rise
early to hear such a morning chant!

The fox—there he goes! He is a red fellow, fine
and large, good for many a mile. He seems to run
with his legs stretched straight and his body almost
touching the ground, while his brush is defiantly erect.

“This is indeed sport!” thought Frank Merriwell.
“And, barring accidents, Firefoot will bring me in at
the death.”

“Hi! hi! hi!”

The fox came to a fence. Under it he went. A
moment later the hounds reached the fence, Pirate in
the lead. Over they went in a stream, as pretty a spectacle
as one could ask to see.

Firefoot swept along like a meteor. Frank could
have cut ahead of Harden, but he knew better than to
do such a thing. He fell behind the bugler, but ahead
of Fenton. The others of his party were farther back.

The fence was reached, and Harden cleared it beautifully,
without seeking for an easy spot. Frank followed,
and Firefoot sailed over the obstruction like a
bird.

“Good boy!” laughed Merry. “You’re all right!
I’d like to own you!”

A strong feeling of affection for the horse sprang
up in his breast. He touched Firefoot’s neck with a
caressing hand.

Now came some scrub timber, and through it darted
the fox, with the hounds plunging at its heels. Harden
did not swerve, but held straight on the track. Frank
followed.

Limbs were dodged, bushes slapped him in the face,
and vines tried to drag him from the saddle; but he
did not draw rein. Straight on he kept, and soon the
small timber was behind.

A road was reached and crossed. Ahead was a
field that sloped gradually, presenting a full view of
the chase. Still the fox was running speedily, holding
its own with the dogs.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

Again and again the entire pack gave tongue. An
old farmer on his way to market, stopped his cart on
the road, stood up, waved his hat about his head, and
cheered like a boy.

Once Frank looked back.

“Jove!” he exclaimed.

Almost neck and neck, Steve Fenton and Iva St.
Ives were following him. It was plain that the girl
was riding with as much reckless abandon as the best
of them. It was not an easy thing for her dark-faced
cousin to hold his own with her.

“She is a queen!” muttered Frank, as he once more
gave his attention to the chase. “I don’t wonder that
Harden is stuck on her. And he appears like a fine
fellow. I hope he wins her.”

The fox had darted under another fence, and again
the dogs were streaming over. Harden followed close,
seeking no favors. His horse cleared the fence, and
onward he went.

“Firefoot, old boy,” laughed Frank, “you can follow
him anywhere he goes.”

Straight at the fence he charged. Firefoot lifted to
the couch, settling on his haunches, then going up into
the air.

Just then, from some unknown point, a shot rang
out, and the black horse pitched forward. Its forward
feet struck the rail, and Frank was flung headlong.

Firefoot came down with a crash, and lay still, a
bullet in his brain!

And just beyond the fallen horse Frank was curled
in a heap upon the hard ground!

But Frank did not lie thus a great while. As he
was getting upon his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder,
he saw Iva St. Ives and Stephen Fenton come over
the fence. And Fenton jumped his horse almost in
the track of the boy who had been in advance, although
he must have seen that an accident of some sort
had happened.

One glimpse of Fenton’s face did Frank obtain, and
he knew the man had hoped to maim or kill him.
Barely was he able to leap aside and escape from beneath
the feet of the horse Fenton bestrode.

Iva St. Ives would have reined about, but Frank motioned
for her to keep on, shouting:

“Don’t stop for me! I’m all right! I’ll be in at the
death!”

The other hunters cheered him, while Fenton and
the girl went on without stopping.

Frank knew a shot had been fired. He stooped over
Firefoot, and a glance showed him the horse was dead.
From a bullet hole in the animal’s head blood was
welling.

“I knew it!” muttered the boy, his face hard and
set. “I saw the puff of smoke even as I fell. It came
from those bushes yonder.”

Toward the bushes he ran, paying no heed to those
who called to him. He was on a fresh scent, and he
kept repeating over and over:

“I’ll be in at the death—in at the death!”

Into the bushes he plunged, regardless of the fact
that he did not know but the would-be assassin was
still crouching there. He was ready for anything he
might meet.

The clump of bushes was small; the ground was
moist. He looked around, then stooped and examined
the ground. Yes, this was the very spot! Here were
the footprints of a man, and here he had kneeled upon
one knee as he took aim when the shot was fired.
Without doubt he had rested the gun in the crotch of
a sapling that was just the right height. A slight
abrasion in the bark of the sapling told Merriwell he
was right.

But whither had the wretch gone? Frank looked
around, he forced himself through the bushes. There
were the tracks.

A valley lay below. Away to the west the baying of
the hounds sounded, fainter and fainter. Through the
valley ran a small stream. There was some timber,
and into the thickest of this a horseman was vanishing.
Something in his hands looked like a gun.

“There’s my game,” cried Frank. “I’d give something
for a good horse——Jupiter!”

A horse was feeding in a pasture at a distance. It
looked like a fairly good animal.

A moment later Frank was running back toward
the spot where the dead black horse lay under the
fence. Two or three of his friends were there. He
gave no heed to them, but, with feverish haste, he
stripped the bridle from the dead animal.

“What’s up, Merry?” asked Rattleton, excitedly.
“Who did it, anyway? and what are you——See
him go!”

But Frank stopped suddenly and wheeled about.

“I want that horse, Rattleton!” he cried. “There’s
one over yonder you may take, if you want to bother
to saddle and bridle him. I can’t spare the time to
catch him.”

Harry tried to ask further questions, but not a word
would Frank reply. He pulled Rattleton from the saddle,
and sprang up himself. Then he gave the animal
the spur and was away.

Frank did not glance over his shoulder to see if
the others were following. He thought of nothing
but the human game he was after. Would the wretch
secure such a start that it would not be possible to overtake
him?

“No!” came through Frank’s set teeth. “I will run
him down!”

Round the clump of bushes he guided the horse, and
then cut down through the valley toward the spot
where he had seen the unknown horseman riding into
the timber.

Over the stream leaped the horse, up the slope he
galloped, and the timber was reached. Then Frank
found the very spot where the man’s horse had been
hidden, and he struck the trail of the murderous-minded
rascal.

Now, Eastern boy and Yale student though he was,
Frank Merriwell had followed at the heels of the best
trailers in this country. He had seen them work, and
he had studied their methods, becoming a fairly
expert trailer himself.

At first what he discovered puzzled him. The tracks
of the horse showed quite plainly on the soft ground,
but the marks of the shoes did not seem to indicate that
the animal had gone toward the timber.

“I saw him!” muttered Frank. “It was no optical
delusion.”

Then he got down on his knees, holding on to the
bridle of his horse, and examined the tracks still more
closely. An exclamation broke from his lips.

“Queer horse that! Never heard of a horse walking
on his heels before!”

A moment later he sprang into the saddle and was
away, but he was riding in a direction precisely opposite
that which it seemed the horse had gone!

Into the timber Frank plunged. It was not a very
wide strip, and he soon passed through it. On the
farther side he found the tracks again. The shoes of
the horse pointed to the north, but Frank Merriwell
rode to the south.

The other boys had paused to help Rattleton catch
the horse in the pasture, so they were unable to follow
Frank closely.

Ahead of Merriwell, beyond a field, lay a road. He
made straight for a gap in the fence, and there he found
the horse had passed through, apparently having turned
from the road and taken to the field at that point,
judging by the direction in which the shoes pointed.

Frank took to the road, gave his horse the spur, and
tore along till he came around a bend. Nearly a mile
away a horseman was just leaving the road and taking
to the fields. He carried a rifle in his hands.

“You’re my game for a cool thousand!” thought the
boy, triumphantly; “and I believe you have handicapped
yourself by the trick you have tried to play.”

He rode in hot pursuit, and it was not long before
the man discovered he was followed. Then the unknown
showed guilt, for he whipped up his horse and
tried to run away.

“I’ll kill this horse before you shall do it!” grated
Merriwell.

It was a hunt by sight now, with the fugitive making
for a long strip of timber between some hills. Frank
felt that the man stood a good chance of escaping if he
got into those woods.

A fence lay before the man in advance. It was a
high, zigzag affair. Without seeking an opening, he
made straight for it.

Frank was watching. He saw the horse try to
clear the fence, saw the animal strike, saw the man and
beast go down.

“Hurrah!” shouted the boy. “That’s a check!”

But neither the man nor horse got up. Both
were hidden beyond the bushes that grew along the
base of the fence.

Before long Frank was close to that fence, and he
was lying flat on the back of his horse, half expecting
the one he was pursuing was crouching behind the
bushes, ready to stop the pursuit with a second shot.

With his usual reckless disregard of consequences
in times of great danger, Merriwell rode at the fence,
rose in the saddle, and jumped his horse over.

Man and horse lay under the bushes. The latter
lifted his head and struggled to rise, but fell back.
The man lay quite still, with his head curled under his
body in a cramped position.

Out of the saddle leaped the boy, and he was bending
over the man a moment later. Still the man did not
stir, but the horse regarded the boy with a look of pain
and appeal in its eyes, and whinnied pitifully.

Frank turned the man over, and the bloated face of
Bill Wade, the hostler, was exposed. The man was
stone dead, his neck being broken, and the horse had
broken a leg.

“Poor fellow!” muttered Frank, but he was thinking
of the horse.

Then he stooped and looked at the horse’s feet.

“Just as I thought!” he cried. “The shoes are set
the wrong end forward on the creature, and I might
have been fooled if I had not seen Wade riding into the
timber. It was a clever trick, but it failed.”

Then he turned and looked down at the man once
more.

“In at the death!” he grimly said.

CHAPTER XXVIII—A CHANGE OF SCENE
================================

With the death of Wade, the paid tool of Stephen
Fenton, the latter took alarm and disappeared from
Springbrook Farm, leaving a clear field to Harry
Harden.

Before leaving Springbrook, Frank was forced to
repeat the story of the hunt so many times that he became
heartily tired of it. He was also tired of being
regarded as a hero, and hearing compliments from all
sides. A less level-headed lad might have become
inflated with his own importance, but “swelled head”
was a disease that never secured a hold on Frank
Merriwell.

But the boys all voted that they had enjoyed themselves
hugely at Springbrook, and each and every one
of them was forced to promise that it would not
be the last visit to the place.

They might have remained longer, as it was, but
the fall term of college was at hand, and several of
them were impatient to return to dear Old Yale.

“I want to get back and take a rest,” said Browning.
“A big, long rest. I think I need it.”

“Did you ever see the time you didn’t rest a need—I
mean, need a rest?” cried Harry.

“Are we to go right straight through to New York?”
questioned Jack.

“I thought so at first,” answered Frank. “But I
have received a letter which may change our plans—if
you agree.”

“What letter?” asked several.

“A letter from Charlie Creighton, of Philadelphia.
He urges us to stop off and pay him a visit.”

“Creighton, eh?” said Jack. “I remember him. He
was a good chap at Yale.”

“Can we have some sport in Philadelphia?” questioned
Harry.

“I think so. But not such sport as we have had here
or in the mountains.”

“Dot vos all right alretty,” put in Hans. “I peen
villing to take it easy for you, you bet mine life!
No more vild adventures py me alretty!”

“By gum, it’s time we quieted deown,” snorted Ephraim.
“Ef we don’t we’ll be as wild ez hawks when
we git ter hum!”

The matter was talked over for quite a while, after
which a vote was taken by which it was unanimously
resolved to move on to Philadelphia, pay a short visit
to the college youth mentioned, and see “how the land
lay,” as Harry expressed it.

Two days later found them on the way. They
picked out the best bicycle road, and took their time,
so that even Bruce did no growling.

A telegram was sent ahead to Charlie Creighton,
and he met them at the Continental Hotel, at which
place they decided to put up for the time being, for
they knew Creighton could not very well accommodate
the whole crowd, and they were unwilling to separate.

“You must stay over, at least a few days,” said
Charlie Creighton. “And some of you must stay up
to our house too. It’s up on Chestnut Hill, and I
know you will like it. My sister has a number of girl
friends up there, and all of us will do what we can to
make you comfortable.” And so it was settled.

Frank found the Creightons very nice people, and
soon felt at home with them. Mabel Creighton was a
girl who reminded him slightly of Elsie Bellwood, although
he did not think her quite so pretty as his old-time
sweetheart.

Mabel had several girl chums, and soon Frank and
the other boys were on good terms all around.

The girls loved to play tennis, and it was not long
before they induced Frank and the others to play.

What one of these games led to will be told in the
chapter to follow.

CHAPTER XXIX—FRANK MEETS DEFEAT
===============================

“Look out, Merriwell!” called Bart Hodge, from
his comfortable seat in the shade of the vine-covered
arbor. “This game decides the set.”

“I know that,” smiled Frank, as he took his position
back of the base line of the right court, poised his
racket, and prepared to serve. “Miss Creighton is a
wonder at tennis.”

The pretty girl on the opposite side of the net
laughed merrily.

“Oh, what a jolly thing it will be to defeat Frank
Merriwell, the great Yale athlete, of whom my brother
is forever telling some improbable yarn!” she cried.

Three other girls, two of whom were swinging in a
hammock, clapped their hands and laughed.

“Do it, Mabel—do it!” eagerly urged Bessie Blossom.
“My brother is forever talking about Frank
Merriwell, too! Sile seems to think Mr. Merriwell
is the only fellow in college.”

“Oh, he’s not the only pebble on the beach!” sang
Fanny Darling, who, for half an hour, had been trying
to tease Jack about Frank, and had succeeded in making
the loyal fellow decidedly sour and sarcastic. “He
may be able to cut some ice with men, but he’ll have to
sharpen his wits when he encounters the opposite sex.”

Fanny was freckled and given to slang, but she was
independent, could take care of herself, and was
popular.

The third girl, Lucy Lake, said nothing at all, but
seemed to enjoy it all very much.

Frank was not at all disturbed by the chaffing of the
girls. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and
he laughingly said:

“If I am to fall, I could choose no fairer conqueror.”

Mabel Creighton laughed, but added color came to
her flushed face, and she could not entirely conceal her
happy confusion. She betrayed in a moment that already
she had learned to regard her brother’s guest with
unusual favor.

At tennis Mabel Creighton was a wonder. Never
had Frank seen a girl who was so light on her feet and
so deft with a racket. She had actually driven him to
the base line game, while she played a net game and
volleyed with such bewildering skill and rapidity that
it made Frank gasp for breath.

To himself Frank confessed that he had never before
seen a girl who could serve so perfectly, or who
ran up on her service so quickly. It seemed impossible
to take her off her guard.

Frank had started out with a half-formed fancy
to let her win, but it was not long before he discovered
she was an opponent worthy of his best efforts.

And now, as he prepared to serve, the score stood
“games all,” with one “advantage game” to Mabel’s
credit. If she could win again, Frank would be defeated.

If possible, Frank resolved to keep her from winning
that time, just to make it interesting.

But, on this occasion, Frank was to discover it was
not such an easy thing to keep a determined girl and
a good tennis player from defeating him.

With as much freshness and vigor as if she had
not been so long at work, Mabel received the ball,
returning it with a smashing stroke, upon which she
risked everything.

Frank was not looking for such a play at the very
start, and it took him slightly off his guard. He got
the ball on the bound, but drove it out of bounds, and
lost the first point with surprising quickness.

“He’s going to lose the set!” muttered Hodge, disconsolately.

Fanny Darling laughed merrily.

“Of course he is!” she cried. “Why, he isn’t in it!”

The game went forward swiftly, but Frank won the
second point by “lobbying,” being able to toss the ball
over the girl’s head so she could not get back to receive
it.

“He’s getting desperate when he resorts to that style
of play,” decided Diamond.

Fanny Darling gave a shriek of laughter.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “Did you see that,
girls? That’s all the way he can get a point now!
He’s afraid to try a drive! Is this the mighty Frank
Merriwell, of whom we have heard so much? Oh,
my! oh, my!”

Frank joined in the burst of laughter.

“Miss Creighton has me guessing,” he confessed.
“I acknowledge I fell back on what seemed my last and
only resort.”

“It’s too bad to laugh like that, Fan,” protested
Lucy Lake. “Just see what a gentleman he is, and
how honest he is in owning up that Mabel is giving
him a close game.”

“Too bad!” mocked Fanny. “Oh, I don’t know!
He’s altogether too honest! Nothing seems to ruffle
or disturb him. I don’t like a fellow who is so cool.
I’d give anything if I could get Frank Merriwell real
good and mad.”

“Why do you wish to do that?”

“Oh, just for fun! I’d like to prove that he can lose
his temper occasionally.”

On the very next play Frank succeeded in winning
another point by placing the ball skillfully, which made
the score stand thirty-fifteen, in his favor.

Hodge brightened up.

“Oh, Merry has been fooling all along,” he declared.
“You’ll see how easy he will pull off the set, Miss
Darling. He hasn’t cared to hurt Miss Creighton’s
feelings by showing her up.”

“Indeed!” scornfully returned the saucy little witch
with the freckled face. “Don’t count your chickens so
soon. Mr. Merriwell won’t melt things.”

Mabel Creighton looked doubly determined as she
again prepared to serve. Her eyes measured the distance
to the net carefully, and though she made a fault
by placing her first ball against the top of the net, she
sent the next over with a speedy drive.

In a moment Merry was on it, and he made a
handsome return, which, however, did not deceive the girl
in the least. Mabel volleyed, and Frank was forced
to resort to the same play. For some moments the
game was highly exciting, and the spectators gasped
for breath. Then the girl smashed one down within
three inches of the outside line, and Frank’s return
was outside, so the score was evened.

“Oh, I knew it!” chattered Fanny Darling. “I’ll
bet a pound of Huyler’s that Mr. Frank Merriwell
does not make another count.”

“Done!” cried Hodge.

“Oh, say, isn’t this easy, girls?” laughed Fanny.
“It’s a perfect snap!”

“For us,” smiled Bessie Blossom. “We’ll have some
of that candy who ever wins.”

The next point was scored by Mabel, and Diamond
called:

“You must quit fooling, Merry, old man. It’s
forty-thirty, and she wins if you do not tie her this
time.”

“I shall do my best,” declared Frank.

He did do his best, and it seemed that he would tire
the girl out, but he was not successful, and a final daring
drive from Mabel’s racket was successful.

She had won the game and the set.

“Well, Merriwell, I must say you are a good thing!”
called a laughing voice. “I didn’t suppose you would
let a little girl like that get the best of you at anything.”

It was Charlie Creighton himself who had entered
the grounds, and was standing near the tennis court,
accompanied by a stranger.

The latter was a stocky-built lad of nineteen or
twenty, with thin lips and a hard-set jaw, besides
having a large neck that swelled at the base. He was
dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly, but were a
trifle “loud” or “sporty,” to say the least.

“Yes, I am a good thing,” returned Frank, also
laughing; “and your sister has enjoyed herself with
me immensely. If you taught her to play tennis,
Creighton, she does you credit.”

“Oh,” cried Fanny Darling, “now that Mr. Merriwell
is defeated, I suppose he will say it is not polite
to win from a girl, and so he did not do his best. That
makes me tired!”

“I shall say nothing of the sort, Miss Darling,” declared
Merry, with unfailing good-nature. “I tell you
honestly that I soon discovered I would not be in the
game at all if I loafed, and I did my prettiest. I think
I played my average game, and I know that Miss
Creighton defeated me without receiving any favors.”

“Really, you astonish me!” said Fanny, who did not
seem pleased by this confession. “But I see you are
inclined to be diplomatic. I don’t blame you,
but——”

She interrupted herself with a toss of her head, and
she had hinted quite enough to bring the hot blood to
Frank’s cheeks, although he pretended not to understand
her meaning.

Generous to a fault, it cut Merriwell deeply to be
suspected of declaring he had been beaten fairly and
not meaning it. A blow in the face would not have
hurt him so much, but he simply smiled, saying:

“You do me an injustice, Miss Darling.”

No one understood how Frank had been touched
better than Bart Hodge, and he growled under his
breath, giving Fanny Darling a scowl, which she did
not see.

The stranger with Charlie Creighton was sizing up
Merriwell in an open manner that was little short of
insolent.

“Merry,” called Creighton, “permit me to introduce
Mr. Wallace Hegner—Mr. Hegner, Mr. Merriwell.”

Frank came forward, and offered his hand, which
Hegner accepted with an air that was rather supercilious,
to say the least.

“How do you do, Mr. Hegner?” said Frank. “I’m
always pleased to meet any of Creighton’s friends.”

“How are yer?” said Hegner.

The touch of the fellow’s hand gave Merry a feeling
of repulsion. He dropped it almost instantly.

“Mr. Hegner is Burk’s trainer, you know,” explained
Creighton. “You remember what I was telling you
last night about Hank Burk going against Tom
Jackson?”

“Yes, I remember,” nodded Merry. “I believe you
said this Jackson is backed by the Olympic Club?”

“Yes, they are the challenging parties. They think
Jackson can whip his weight in wildcats, and it is
their boast that he will hammer the best man Fairmount
can put up all over the ring. Mr. Hegner has
been handling Burk nearly six weeks, and has him in
the pink of condition. He says our man will give
Jackson the biggest surprise he ever struck. If it was
to be with hard gloves, it’s more than even Burk would
knock Jackson out in four rounds. But we——”

“Oh, Charlie!” exclaimed his sister; “what do you
suppose we care about that! You can talk of those
things at the club, and you are there the most of the
time.”

“I beg your pardon,” laughed Creighton. “I forgot
the young ladies present. They do not care for
boxing.”

“Some of them do,” said Fanny Darling, quickly.
“I like a fellow who can handle his fists scientifically
and take care of himself. That’s why I admire Mr.
Hegner so much.”

“Thank you,” Hegner bowed, with great gravity.
“The manly art is worth acquiring, if it were useful
only to protect young ladies from insult.”

“Haw!” grunted Hodge. “There are some fellows
who can box a little, and yet do not make a great spread
about it.”

Hegner’s eyes narrowed, and he surveyed Hodge
with the same insolent air with which he had regarded
Frank Merriwell.

“I presume you box some, sir?” he asked.

“Not much, but I have friends who are able to put
up quite a little go.”

Charlie Creighton interposed laughingly, and introduced
Hegner and Hodge. Bart bowed stiffly, but did
not offer his hand, while Hegner nodded as if he had
rheumatism in his neck. Then Diamond was introduced.

“Do you put on the gloves?” Hegner asked of the
Virginian, in a blunt way.

“Not often,” was the answer, as Jack’s cheeks
glowed a bit. “Never had them on in my life till I
went to Yale and ran up against Merriwell. Southerners,
sir, have a way of settling differences with other
weapons than their fists.”

“Oh!”

Jack bit his lip, for there was a hidden sneer in that
simple exclamation. For a moment he felt like challenging
Hegner on the spot, but remembered that he
was in the North, where such things did not “go.”

Hegner turned to Frank, whom he again surveyed
from head to feet.

“From what Mr. Diamond says, I infer that you
are something of a boxer,” he observed.

“Well, there are others,” smiled Merry. “I do not
consider myself anything more than fairly handy with
the gloves.”

“Now, Frank!” began Hodge; but Merriwell cut
him short with a glance.

“Well, I didn’t know but you thought you could
spar,” said Hegner, in a bored way, and then he turned
and began to talk to Fanny Darling, who chatted and
laughed with him as if pleased by his attention.

Frank was thoroughly disgusted by the air assumed
by Creighton’s companion, and Charlie himself was not
pleased. And Bart Hodge was chewing his tongue as a
war horse might champ its bit, while he glared at
Hegner’s back in a way that told he was thoroughly “stirred
up.”

After a while, Creighton proposed that they should
go down to the club. To this the girls objected, but
Hodge and Diamond exchanged significant glances,
and then expressed sudden eagerness to go.

“I’ll have to go anyway,” said Hegner. “Burk will
be there, and I am due to give him his regular course.”

“Well, I will remain here and do my best to entertain
the girls,” said Frank.

“Not by a hanged sight!” said Hodge, quickly.
“We want you to come along with us, Merry.”

“That’s right,” agreed Diamond. “Won’t you
come, old fellow?”

“Oh, yes, by all means, go!” cried Fanny Darling.

“We can get along very well without any fellow to
bother us.”

It was too good an opportunity for Frank to miss,
and so he quietly said:

“If I remained behind I should not bother you
much, Miss Darling.”

This was unusually ungallant for Frank, but he began
to see that Fanny must be met with her own
weapons, and he had suddenly decided on his course of
dealing with her in the future. His retort brought
the blood to her cheeks, and her eyes flashed as she
snapped:

“That’s right! I wouldn’t let you!”

As the five lads walked away to take a car, Bessie
Blossom said:

“How could you be so rude to such a splendid fellow,
Fan? It was just perfectly horrid of you!”

“That’s so!” chorused Lucy and Mabel. “Frank
Merriwell is splendid!”

“Say, girls,” cried Fanny, “you make me weary!
The trouble with Mr. Merriwell is that he is smart,
and he knows it. He has been accustomed to having
everybody flatter him, and it will do him good to know
there are persons who do not think he is the only
item in the paper. Perhaps it will reduce the size of
his head so an ordinary hat will fit him.”

“If there is any fellow in the world who has every
reason to have a swelled head, and still hasn’t got one,
it is Frank Merriwell,” declared Mabel Creighton.
“My brother says so, and he knows. He says that, for
a fellow in such a position, Merriwell is the most unassuming
chap in college. You do him an injustice,
Fanny.”

The girl with the freckles gave her head a saucy
toss.

“Oh, that’s what’s the matter—every one of you is
stuck on him! I saw that right away. And it always
happens that way. Wherever he goes, the girls get
all broke up over him, and then flock around him.
Well, he’ll find there is one girl who doesn’t care a
cent for him—so there!”

“At least, Fanny, you might treat him decent,” protested
Mabel.

“I will, for I won’t have anything at all to say to
him after this. I hope that will satisfy you. If
Wallace Hegner would put on the gloves with him, and
give him a good thumping, it would help take the conceit
out of him. But Mr. Merriwell, the great Yale
athlete, would be far too shrewd to stand up in front
of Hegner for a bout.”

CHAPTER XXX—FRANK EXPRESSES HIS OPINION
=======================================

The members of the Fairmount Athletic Club, of
Philadelphia, were mainly lads under twenty years of
age. There were a few older members in the club to
keep everything straight and see that it was run all
right, but the club was organized and conducted for
the advantage of lads from fifteen to twenty-one.

Not a few of the members were sons of wealthy
parents, but it was not necessary for a fellow’s parents
to be rich in order that he might become a member.
Rich men contributed liberally to the support of the
club, which made it possible for the regular fees and
dues to be light, and youngsters whose parents were
quite unknown, but who were regarded as “all right”
themselves, obtained admission to the club.

Although great precaution had been exercised not to
let in any one who would be objectionable, it was impossible
to exclude all objectionable parties, for, after
getting in, some of the members showed traits of character
which their best friends had never dreamed they
possessed.

Gambling in the clubrooms was prohibited, but
cards, billiards and pool were permitted. There was a
fine bowling alley, and the gymnasium was fitted up
splendidly with all needed apparatus. In the reading-room
were all the late magazines and papers, among
which were the leading sporting publications. There
also was a good library of books, containing volumes
treating of sports and athletics. On the walls were
pictures of famous amateurs, of matches, contests and
races, of all sorts, and of the members of the club who
had made records.

Creighton had opened the club to Frank Merriwell
and his friends, all of whom were led to understand
that they would be welcomed there as long as they remained
in Philadelphia.

After leaving the girls at the tennis ground, Charlie
and the others proceeded directly to the club. There
they found a number of fellows assembled, waiting to
see Hegner put Burk through his daily course.

Burk was there, a tall, thin fellow, with short-cropped
hair and a bullet-head. There was nothing
attractive about his face, and there was something
vicious in his little eyes.

At a glance, Frank saw that the fellow selected to
represent the Fairmounts had many of the characteristics
of the professional prize fighter. He was hard
and sinewy, quick in his movements, had a big knotty
fist, and looked as if he could stand any amount of
punishment. Blows would have very little effect on
him, unless they were delivered with skill sufficient to
knock him out.

Creighton introduced Burk to the boys, and Frank
talked with the fellow. It did not take Merry long
to find out that, although Burk had a father who was
wealthy and moved in good society, the son belonged
to that class of boys who never advance beyond a
certain limit, no matter how much they may be pushed.
He had no fine sensibilities, and was coarse-grained
in everything.

“What do you think of him?” asked Charlie Creighton,
as they moved away, after Frank had chatted with
the young pugilist.

“Well, you know I have not had sufficient time to
form a settled opinion,” answered Merry, evasively.

“Come off!” exclaimed Creighton, quickly. “I
know you, and I know you have sized him up. What
do you think of him?”

“To be honest, Charlie, I am astonished to find him
a member of this club.”

“Eh? Oh, I know what you mean; but Hank is
all right, and his dad cuts a figure in this town.”

“I presume he got in on his dad’s reputation?”

“Well, that had something to do with it.”

“He looks as if he might make a good professional
bruiser in time.”

“Well, you know there is to be nothing professional
about this affair, old man. That’s on the level.”

“How do you manage it?”

“Why, there is a fierce rivalry between the Olympics
and Fairmounts. This club started first, and it rejected
a number of fellows who applied for membership.
Those fellows usually were sons of rich parents, but
they had a bad record, and we didn’t want them. They
got mad and formed an organization of their own.
Their fathers were angry to think their sons should
be shut out of here, and they swore the Olympic should
knock the spots off this club. They have a building
of their own, and it is furnished magnificently. The
dues are high, and no one but the son of a rich man
can afford to belong there. It has cost their fathers
a royal round sum to establish the club, and it is costing
them big money to keep it going. At first, they
attempted to be exclusive and look down on the Fairmount
with disdain, but that did not seem to bother
us, and when they found it appeared to be just what
we wanted, they adopted another policy. They set
out to lead us in athletics, and their men have been
against our men in every event possible since then,
while they have poured out money like water in order
to down us. They have not always been inclined to be
thoroughly fair and square about it, either. If they
can get the best of us at anything by foul means, there
is no doubt but they will do it.”

“I understand. But you said this match is not to
be like a professional contest. In what way do you
mean?”

“Why, it is like this: There is no purse offered, no
admission will be charged, and the victor will win
nothing but glory.”

Frank looked doubtful.

“I fail to understand how you can carry the thing
on in that way. Did Burk agree to it readily?”

“At first he wanted to fight for a purse, and tried to
have it a hard glove affair; but that would have made
it a regular prize fight, and Fairmount could not
stand that.”

“I should say not! I believe in boxing, but if there
is anything I heartily detest it is prize fighting and
prize fighters.”

“I believe I have heard you express your opinion in
that direction before.”

“I have expressed it often enough.”

“And still you can fight yourself, Merriwell.”

“I can fight if it is necessary, and I believe every
fellow should learn to do that, for there will come times
when he’ll find the knowledge valuable. As long as
the world stands there will be ruffians and bruisers who
will attempt to impose on peaceful people, and there
have been scores of times in my life when I have not
found it possible to avoid a fight. When I have to
fight, I sail in for all I am worth, and do the other
fellow up as quick as I can; but I do not like it, and
the chap who does has too much of the brute in him
to suit me.”

“You have very decided ideas on almost everything,
Merry.”

“What is a fellow worth if he does not have a few
convictions he is willing to stand by?”

“Not much.”

“That’s right. I respect a fellow who will fight for
what he thinks is right, even though it may be wrong;
but I do not respect a prize fighter who will fight like
a beast for a purse of money.”

“Well, there is to be no purse in this affair. I think
you will like Burk better when you know him better.
He is going to fight Jackson for the honor of the
club.”

“And Jackson—what about him?”

“I don’t know. Those fellows can make such arrangements
with him as they like; it’s nothing to us.”

“You do not expect to stop betting?”

“No betting will be allowed in the clubroom. Of
course there may be betting on the outside. We can’t
expect to stop that.”

“Well,” said Frank, “it has a slight flavor of a
prize fight, and still it is not one. What sort of gloves
will they use?”

“Six ounce.”

“Eight ounce gloves are allowable.”

“I know it, but six have been decided on. This is
for points.”

“And will it be carried out under the rules of the
Amateur Athletic Union?”

“Sure.”

“How do those fellows class?”

“Light. Burk’s weight is one hundred and forty-six
usually, but Hegner has him down to one hundred
and thirty-two now, and says he does not care to get
him lighter.”

“I presume two judges and a referee will be chosen?”

“Yes. If the judges disagree, the referee will decide.”

“Well, I hope you win the trick, Creighton.”

“Oh, we’ll do that if it’s possible. Hegner knows his
business, and he says Burk can do Jackson.”

“I wouldn’t trust Hegner as far as I could throw
a Texas steer by the tail.”

“That’s because you have taken a dislike to him. I
will confess that he is not agreeable sometimes, but it
is his way.”

“It’s a very poor way.”

“Yes, I’ll admit that; but he was on his guard
against you, for he has heard so much about you.
He expected to find that you thought you knew it all.”

“That does not excuse his boorishness.”

“Admitted; but still I say he knows his business,
and we depend on him when he says Burk will win.
Hegner is the cleverest boxer of his age in Philadelphia.”

“That is saying considerable.”

“I mean it, and he’d prove it to you if you were to
put on the gloves with him. I know you are pretty
good, but Heg would give you a surprise.”

“He must be good, if you have so much confidence
in him. Well, I sincerely hope your confidence is not
misplaced, but there is something about the fellow’s
face that makes me suspicious of him. I would not
trust him, and I believe he is treacherous. It is my
opinion that he will try to get something out of this
mill some way.”

“He is getting something out of it.”

“Ah! So?”

“Yes; we’re paying him to put Burk in shape.”

“It is possible that will satisfy him, but I think he’s
a schemer. I tell you, Creighton, you’ll find it to your
advantage to look out for Hegner.”

CHAPTER XXXI—THE FIRST BLOW
===========================

Hegner was giving Burk his regular daily training,
explaining just when it was best to use the stop for the
left-hand uppercut and when it was advisable to duck
and counter on the body.

Quite a throng had gathered to watch them. Both
were stripped down to their regular training suits,
which gave Frank a chance to size them up still better
than heretofore.

Merriwell saw he had made no mistake in Burk, but,
if anything, Hegner was more sinewy and had better
muscular development than Frank had thought.

The two lads were working gently, going through
the movements for each blow, parry, dodge and counter
with deliberation, and Frank soon saw that Hegner
really knew his business.

“What do you think of those chaps, Merriwell?”
asked Hodge, who seemed strangely restless and
nervous.

“I haven’t seen them get to work in earnest yet,”
was the answer.

“Say, old man!”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to see you go up against that Hegner and
hammer him all over the lot. I despise the sight of
him.”

“Perhaps I couldn’t do the trick, you know.”

“What? Get out! I know you could!”

Diamond was attracted by what was passing between
them, and dipped in.

“Could? Could what?” he asked.

“Could knock the packing out of Mr. Hegner,” declared
Bart, incautiously.

“Of course!” nodded Diamond.

Frank was about to caution them to speak lower, but
it was too late. Hegner’s keen ears had heard enough,
and he whirled on the trio like a tiger.

“Who is it that can knock the packing out of Mr.
Hegner?” he harshly demanded. “If it is one of that
party, let him step out! I’ll give him a chance.”

This sudden action confused both Hodge and Diamond,
and Merriwell was silent. The eyes of all in
the room were turned on the little group.

After a moment, Hegner laughed scornfully.

“What’s the matter with you chaps?” he sneeringly
demanded. “I heard one of you say that somebody
could knock the packing out of me. If you will bring
the gentleman forward, I’ll be happy to give him a
chance to try.”

Still the three were silent.

“Bah!” cried Hegner. “You’re a lot of bluffs! I
can do you all in turn, one after the other, but there’s
not one of the lot who has the nerve to put on the
gloves with me.”

“If that is what you think, Mr. Hegner, it won’t
take long to show you that you are mistaken,” said
Frank, quietly, as he stepped out. “I am willing to
put on the gloves with you for a friendly go.”

“You’ll be a snap,” came derisively from Hegner.

“Possibly so; but you can tell better about that later
on.”

Creighton was somewhat disturbed.

“Hold on, fellows!” he exclaimed. “If you’re going
to box, we do not want any hard feelings about it.”

“Don’t let that worry you as far as I am concerned,”
said Frank, as placidly as ever. “Can I borrow a suit,
Charlie?”

“Yes, you may have mine.”

Frank followed Creighton to a dressing-room, and
Diamond went along. Hodge started to accompany
them, and then seemed to change his mind, and remained
behind.

“It’s too bad!” declared Creighton, as soon as they
were in the room. “I’m sorry anything of the kind
should happen.”

“I’m glad of it!” exclaimed Diamond, whose dark
face was flushed and who seemed to be well satisfied.

“Oh, it’s all right,” laughed Frank, as he began to
strip off. “There’s no damage done, old man.”

“But there may be. Hegner has an ugly temper.”

“Unless he can control it, it will be all the worse
for him.”

“I don’t know. You can’t tell what he will do.”

“Don’t let it worry you.”

“But you do not profess to be away up in fighting
and that fellow can fight like a tiger.”

“All the same, I shall do my best to give him a
lively go.”

Creighton was worried, and he did not get over it
quickly. In his heart he feared that Frank would get
so much the worst of it that he would be regarded with
derision, and he had bragged a great deal about Merriwell
as an all-around athlete.

Diamond was not worried at all. He had the utmost
confidence in Frank, and he seemed elated to
think Merry was about to get at Hegner.

It did not take Frank long to strip and get into
Charlie’s suit. Then the three came forth and found
Hegner waiting for them.

The fellows present had gathered around, and it
was the almost universal opinion that Hegner would
make short work of the fellow from Yale.

Frank looked handsome in the sparring suit. He
was neither too stocky nor too thin, but was graceful
and supple, with a figure that aroused the envy of
many a lad who looked him over then.

“This is to be a friendly bout, Mr. Hegner,” he said,
as he accepted the gloves which were passed to him.
“We are not to attempt to murder each other.”

“Oh, not at all!” said the other, with a crafty twinkle
in his eye. “There is not much danger of murder with
such gloves as these.”

When the gloves were carefully put on, they faced
each other and shook hands, after which they were
at it quickly.

Hegner danced away and came in with a bewildering
rush, which was avoided with ease by Frank, who
gave him a light body blow as he passed. Like a cat
Wallace came about and was after Merriwell again.
They sparred a moment, and Hegner tried to get in
with a feint and a straight left-hand drive for the
face. He put all his force into the blow, and it would
have been a stunner had it landed; but Frank guarded
with his right and countered with his left, sending
Hegner staggering backward.

At the very outset Merriwell had the best of it, much
to the surprise of those who had expected Hegner to
“walk into him with a rush.” They looked at each
other, and then said over and over that there would
be a sudden change.

Wallace seemed a bit dazed by the reception he had
received, and he ground his teeth with anger. He did
not delay about coming to the scratch, however, and
the bout went on.

After a little sparring, both led for the face, neither
guarding, and both blows told. Then, like a flash,
Hegner dropped under and tried to uppercut Frank,
thinking to do this before Merry could recover.

The Yale lad went back with a bound, and Hegner
found nothing but air. In another instant Frank came
in again, and they were at it with fresh fury.

Again both led at the face with their left, but both
ducked, and, with crossed arms, their fists shot over
each other’s shoulder. They got away instantly, and
Hegner followed Frank up, apparently determined to
press the battle.

“If he gets Heg angry, he’ll be sorry,” declared one
of the club members. “The fur will fly.”

Diamond, who seldom laughed, laughed now.

“If Mr. Hegner knows what is good for him, he’ll
hold his temper,” he said. “If he loses it, Frank Merriwell
will play with him.”

“Rats!” was the return. “Mr. Merriwell won’t
melt things, if he is from Yale. He’s not the only
shirt in the laundry; he can be done up.”

“You may be right, but Wallace Hegner hasn’t the
starch to do the job.”

“Wait and see.”

For some moments the boxers sparred craftily, feeling
for an opening, and then Hegner pushed things
again. But his leads were met or dodged, and he
received several sharp raps in return. One of his
swinging blows came near landing, and it would have
knocked Frank down had it reached.

It was plain enough that all Hegner wanted was a
good opportunity to strike Merriwell with every bit of
force at his command. He tried the trick repeatedly,
and the look of rage increased in his eyes as each attempt
was a failure.

“Merriwell is cleverer than I fancied he would be,”
admitted one of the club members; “but he can’t last.
Hegner will get him on the run after a while.”

A lead with Hegner’s left brought a sharp cross-counter
from Merriwell, and the tap set the head of
the young trainer ringing. He tried to get in with his
right, and, instead of retreating a bit, was met with
a right-hand cross-counter. Then he made a savage
effort to uppercut with his left, but Frank ducked to
the right and gave him a wind-killer under the heart.

Then it was seen that Hegner was fast losing his
temper. He did his best to get Merriwell’s head under
his arm, but simply succeeded in receiving a tap on the
nose that made the blood run freely.

Hegner would have gone on fighting with the blood
streaming down over his mouth, but several fellows
jumped in and stopped the bout for the time, declaring
that he must wash up.

“I know nothing has been said about rounds, but
this is enough for the first one,” said Creighton.

“Steady, Heg, old man!” warned Burk, as he got
hold of the excited fellow. “You are losing your
head and giving him all the best of it. Take a little
time to cool off, and you will be better off for it, my
boy.”

So Hegner was led away to wash off the blood, but
he called to Frank that he would return and finish the
bout.

With the exception of Hodge and Diamond, nearly
every one of the spectators was astonished by what
he had seen. It was evident that Frank had much the
best of the battle thus far, but still they could not
bring themselves to believe he was a more scientific man
than the trainer of Hank Burk. Hegner would redeem
himself quickly enough in the next round, they were
sure.

Frank was quite cool, smiling a bit as he pulled
off the gloves and stood talking with Diamond and
Hodge. But most remarkable of anything, although,
with the possible exception of Frank, those who saw
it did not know it, was the fact that there was a smile
on the faces of both Bart Hodge and Jack Diamond.
A smile was something remarkably rare for the face
of either, and never before had they been known to
smile both at the same time.

“Oh, this is great—simply great!” muttered Hodge.
“Wonder if he isn’t beginning to think I knew what
I was talking about when I said you could knock the
packing out of him?”

“Oh, if you had on anything but those soft gloves!”
said Diamond. “But you want to keep your eyes open.
Some of his blows are wicked. They’d shake you up
bad if they landed.”

“Have you seen any of them land yet?” asked
Merry, in his quiet way.

“Not yet; and that’s why I’m happy. This is going
to be the biggest surprise that ever struck the Fairmount
Athletic Club.”

Hegner came hurrying back, with his companions
trailing at his heels. He had succeeded in stopping the
flow of blood very quickly, and now he was palpitating
to be at Merriwell again.

“Come on!” he cried. “Let’s settle this thing! I
haven’t got warmed up yet.”

“Give it to him, Merry!” cried Hodge.

“Crowd him this time!” whispered Diamond.

Again the lads faced each other. They began sparring
slowly, Hegner making an effort to control his
temper. He led at Frank a number of times, but
Merry broke ground quickly each time, and it began
to look as if he had resolved to hold off and keep
away from Hegner. Wallace decided this was so, and
attempted to press the tussle.

Right there he made his mistake. Merriwell had
been trying to lead him on, and the effort was successful.
One of the trainer’s rushes was met as if Frank
had been nailed to the floor, and Hegner was sent spinning
backward with two well-directed blows, catching
his heels and sitting down heavily on the floor.

Somebody laughed outright.

Almost frothing at the mouth, the fallen fellow
leaped to his feet. For a moment he stood glaring
at Frank, and then, with a cry of rage, he threw off
both gloves and leaped forward!

“I know when you try a foul!” he grated. “Two
can play at the same trick!”

Then he tried to smash Merriwell in the face with
his bare fist.

Frank was not in the least excited, and he did not
attempt to get the gloves off. He met Hegner, parried
his first blow, gave him a jolt that drove him back two
steps, followed him up and came in with a swinging
smash that landed on the fellow’s jaw.

Hegner was literally lifted off his feet and sent flying
through the air. His head struck against the hard
wall with a resounding crack, and then he dropped to
the floor, where he lay in a limp and motionless heap.

CHAPTER XXXII—A SURPRISE PARTY
==============================

“I am sorry it was necessary to strike him such a
blow,” said Frank, as he deliberately removed the
gloves from his hands; “but I call on you all to bear
witness that he came at me with his bare fists, and I
was forced to defend myself.”

“That’s right,” said Charlie Creighton, quickly.
“Hegner had no right to do such a thing. You would
not have been to blame if you had got off your glove
and struck him.”

To this a number of the club members agreed, while
some were silent. Hank Burk and two others bent over
Hegner and tried to arouse him, but the fellow had been
severely stunned when his head cracked against the
wall and it was some time before he seemed to realize
what had happened.

When he did understand, however, he was furious.

“Let me get at him!” he madly cried, struggling to
his feet. “I’ll hammer the life out of him! I’ll have
revenge!”

“Steady, Hegner!” warned Burk. “You’re in no
condition to go against him now. You slipped when
he struck you the last time, and——”

Hegner caught at this eagerly.

“Yes, yes, I slipped!” he snarled. “If it hadn’t been
for that, he’d never have got the best of it. And I
fell and struck against the wall. I can do him any
time.”

“Of course you can, old fellow. But you know a
fight will not be allowed in this club. You’ll have to
wait for your opportunity. It will come all right.”

Hegner cooled down.

“Take your hands off me,” he said. “I won’t touch
him again, but I want to tell him something.”

“Sure you won’t get excited and jump him?”

“Sure.”

“All right.”

They fell back and let him go. He advanced toward
Frank, and shook a clinched fist in his face, harshly
grating:

“This is all right, Merriwell! I’ll not forget you!
You can bet your life I’ll more than get even!”

“I simply defended myself from an attack on your
part, and I kept the gloves on all the time, Hegner.”

Frank stood with his hands on his hips, looking the
raging fellow straight in the eye.

“You struck me foul before that. Oh, I’ll not forget
your blow! I’ll have another whirl with you!”

“Well, let me warn you to look out for my next
blow. It may be much more severe than the last one.”

“Bah! You are a blowhard! I’ll not waste my
breath on you!”

Then Hegner turned and walked away, accompanied
by Burk and two or three others.

Frank turned to Charlie Creighton, saying:

“Old man, I trust you will believe me when I tell
you I am very sorry this affair occurred. It was not
of my seeking, even though I had no liking for
Hegner.”

“You are not to blame in the least, Merriwell, and
I believe the majority of the fellows who saw it will
say so. Eh, boys?”

“Not in the least,” chorused nearly all those present.

“Still I am sorry it occurred here,” asserted Frank.
“I am a visitor here, and——”

“That is a reason why we should express our regrets,
not you,” said a member. “Hegner lost his head when
he saw you were getting the best of him. He owes you
an apology for that and for his insulting words just
now.”

“Well,” smiled Frank, “I scarcely expect an apology
from him, for I believe he is a fellow who will nurse
his discomfiture and brood over it, thinking he is the
one wronged. I am glad, gentlemen, you do not think
I was at all to blame.”

Then Frank, Charlie, Jack and Bart went away to
the dressing-room, where Merry stripped off and was
rubbed down with a coarse towel before resuming
street clothes.

“Merriwell,” said Creighton, as he admired the magnificent
figure of the handsome young Yale athlete,
whose entire body was glowing from the rub-down, “I
want to say right here that I underestimated you
previous to this. I knew you were a good man, but
did not think you could make a monkey of a fellow
like Hegner, who is a semi-professional prize fighter.
I was afraid he would be too much for you, and you
know I have had considerable to say about you to the
fellows.”

“I didn’t know but he might be too much for me
when I put on the gloves with him,” confessed Frank;
“but that would not have killed me. I do not consider
myself invincible.”

“Well, Hegner was a mark for you, and we have
considered him as good as anything going in his class.
It made him furious when he saw he was no match
for you.”

“In my estimation that fellow is a fake,” declared
Hodge. “He puts up a big bluff, but——”

“He may be a good trainer,” said Frank. “Many a
first-class trainer is unable to put up much of a mill
when it comes right down to business.”

“Oh, you want to be too easy with the fellow!”
broke out Diamond. “I don’t believe he is any good,
and I am sure he is crooked.”

“You have taken a dislike to him, and that’s why
you think that,” said Creighton. “He is all right in
his way.”

“But that is a very poor way.”

“I confess that he lost his head and made a fool of
himself, and I hope he will realize it when he cools
down.”

“If he should apologize I presume you would meet
him halfway, Merriwell?”

“You may be sure of that,” nodded Frank, getting
into his clothes. “I’d be a churl if I didn’t.”

“If he ever apologizes I am a fool,” grunted Hodge.

When the boys came out of the dressing-room they
immediately left the club and proceeded directly to the
hotel, where the rest of Frank’s friends were staying.

Barney, Hans, Ephraim and Bruce were engaged in
a game of pinochle when the others came in, and the
Dutch lad was greatly excited.

“You poys don’d gif nopody a show!” he squawked.
“On der last handt Parney feex der carts, und dese
dime I haf a shance to meld dree hundret beenuckle,
but you don’t let me done him. Uf dot peen fair blaying
you vos a liar!”

“Arrah, come off yer perch, ye Dutch chaze!” retorted
the Irish lad. “Ye troied to milt two quanes av
doimonds an’ two jacks av spades instid av voicy varsey,
an’ thot koind av a play don’t go in this game.”

“Vot vos der madder mit me anyvay!” cried Hans,
flourishing his cards. “You pelief I don’d know nottings
apout dot game, hey? I shown you britty queek,
py shimminy! Vait a bit! I haf der deese und a
hundred und vifty drums, und den I pelief you vill
laugh oudt uf der odder side uf my mouth.”

“Oh, say!” grunted Browning, with a yawn, “are
you chaps going to play cards? or are you going to
shoot your mouths at each other all the time? I’m
getting tired.”

“So be I, b’gosh!” put in Ephraim, banging his fist
down on the table. “I never played this game before,
and yeou fellers roped me in for a sucker, but I’ll show
ye what kind of suckers they raise in Varmont. I’m
gittin’ hot enough to melt the hull gol darn pack!”

“There is a lively game of cards,” laughed Frank.
“It is better than a circus when they get to playing
pinochle.”

The appearance of Frank and his companions broke
up the game, for Hans protested that he was being
cheated, and refused to play any more, to the disgust
of the other players.

Creighton invited the entire party to be present
at the bout between Burk and Jackson, and an hour
was spent discussing the coming event, at the end of
which time Charlie departed, having invited them all
to call on him any time. Before departing, he gave
Frank and Bart a quiet tip that he would be pleased to
see them that evening.

Nearly all the boys had secured tickets for the Chestnut
Street Theatre that evening, with the exception of
Frank and Bart. They were resolved to have a pleasant
time while they remained in the Quaker City.

Although it was September, the evening proved to
be very warm, and, on arriving at Creighton’s, Frank
and Bart found something of a lawn party was in
progress. The garden was illumined by Chinese lanterns,
with the exception of certain cozy corners where
comfortable seats could be found, and such corners
were much sought by more or less sentimental young
couples.

An orchestra furnished delightful music, and the
hum of voices and sound of laughter could be heard
on all sides, while pretty girls and manly-looking lads
strolled and flitted hither and thither about the grounds.

“Jove!” muttered Frank, as he and Bart paused and
looked about. “This is a surprise! Creighton didn’t
tell us what was going to happen.”

“If he had, I should have spruced up a trifle more,”
came ruefully from Hodge. “I have half a mind to
skip out now.”

“And I have half a mind to skip with you,” confessed
Merry.

“Neither of you shall do anything of the kind!” exclaimed
the voice of Mabel Creighton, and then she,
accompanied by Bessie Blossom, swooped down on the
hesitating lads and made them captives.

“This is just a jolly surprise all around,” Mabel explained.
“There is scarcely a soul present who knew
what was going to happen. Charlie said it was the
last opportunity we’d have for a lawn party this season,
and we decided to improve the occasion. We’ll have a
jolly time.”

“We always have a splendid time here,” said Bessie,
clinging to Bart’s arm. “Charlie said you were coming,
and we have been waiting for you.”

“And now we’ve caught you, you can’t get away,”
laughed Mabel.

“Then we must resign ourselves to fate and thank
goodness we have such charming captors,” smiled
Frank.

“I don’t seem to care what happens to me now,”
Hodge declared. “I can be led to any fate without a
struggle.”

“Then come on,” cried Mabel, “and we’ll lead you
to cake and ices.”

Soon they were cozily seated at a small table, with
ices before them. As they chatted and laughed, another
couple came along and took a table near at hand.
Before they appeared Frank recognized the saucy laugh
of Fanny Darling.

“Oh, it was such fun!” she was saying, as she sat
down. “I knew I could touch him if I kept firing hot
shots in his direction, and I was right. He stood it
as long as he could, and then he shot back. But wait
till I get another good chance. I won’t do a thing to
that fellow!”

“He is not worth wasting your time and breath on,
Miss Darling,” said the voice of Wallace Hegner.
“The best thing you can do is not to notice him.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that! There wouldn’t be any
fun in it. He may be smart, but there are others. I’d
like to see you get at him, Mr. Hegner. I’ll bet you’d
do him up in short order with the gloves.”

“Well—ahem!” coughed Hegner, “I mean to get at
him some time, and I may not wear the gloves. What
I’d like to do is to leave the mark of my fist on
his——”

The girl gave a startled exclamation and grasped
Hegner’s arm, saying something in a low tone. Hegner
was heard to ask, “Where?” and a whispered conversation
followed.

Frank was genuinely amused, for he knew they had
been speaking of him. A low, musical laugh came
from his lips, and he observed:

“It is remarkable how really amusing some little
occurrences are, Miss Creighton. Did you ever notice
it?”

The others of the party had not failed to take in the
significance of the words they had heard, and it was
with no small difficulty that they repressed a hilarious
burst of laughter. Indeed the girls were unable to
refrain entirely from laughing, and Hodge smiled
in a weary, derisive way, saying:

“Some people never know how really amusing they
are. They go through the world thinking they are
having fun with everybody else, and all the while they
are making a show of themselves.”

Fanny Darling jumped up quickly.

“Come, Mr. Hegner,” she said, her voice not quite
steady; “I do not care to sit here.”

Hegner said something in a growling tone, and they
moved away.

“It’s too bad,” said Frank; “but we are not to blame.
We could not help hearing.”

“I don’t know as it’s too bad,” declared Mabel.
“They should be careful what they say. I can’t bear
Wallace Hegner, and I do not understand what there
is about him that interests Fanny. But she is queer,
anyway.”

“It doesn’t strike me that she is very agreeable,” said
Bart.

“If she takes a fancy, she can be awfully hateful; but
she is good-hearted, and when she likes a person she
would do anything in her power for him. It’s too
bad she is so freakish.”

“She is just saucy enough to be amusing,” declared
Frank. “I do not mind it in the least.”

“It is evident she does not know of your little bout
with Mr. Hegner,” said Hodge. “She thinks he can
do you.”

“Charlie told me all about it,” put in Mabel, quickly.
“I’m so glad, for Wallace Hegner has carried himself
with an air that was little short of bullying.”

“Perhaps he has learned a lesson,” smiled Bessie.

“It will take more than that to teach him a lesson,”
Mabel asserted. “What he really needs is a good whipping.”

“Well, that is what he is liable to get if he does not
let Merry alone,” nodded Bart.

A few minutes later Creighton appeared.

“Hello, fellows!” he cheerfully called. “I’m glad
you are here, and I see you have found the parties who
told me to be sure to invite you.”

This confused Bessie somewhat, but Mabel immediately
confessed that she had told her brother to be
sure to invite Frank.

Charlie sat down a few moments and talked, and
then strolled away, saying he must see that every one
was enjoying the evening.

CHAPTER XXXIII—A GIRL’S REMORSE
===============================

During the greater part of the evening Frank and
Mabel were together, while Bessie seemed to cling to
Hodge, who appeared very well satisfied.

Several of the fellows Frank and Bart had met at
the club were present, and it was natural that all should
drift together after a time, and fall to discussing the
affair between Merriwell and Hegner.

The boys were almost universal in positively declaring
that Hegner was entirely in the wrong, and Frank
was glad to know he was not blamed for what he had
done.

While they were talking Hegner drifted past, but
seeing Merriwell in the group did not pause.

A little later, however, Frank and his foe came face
to face. Hegner turned as if to walk away, but whirled
back swiftly, saying:

“You have had your turn; mine comes next. I
won’t do a thing to you! I’ll make you sorry you
ever saw the inside of the Fairmount Athletic Club!”

Then without waiting for Frank to speak he hastened
away.

“That fellow is full of threats,” thought Merry;
“and I fancy he means to make them good if he gets
a chance. I must keep my eyes open, for he would
strike a fellow behind his back.”

He found Bart talking to Bessie and Mabel, and they
all went over to a distant part of the grounds, where
there were to be fireworks on the lawn.

There was music, laughter and song. It was a night
for youth and happiness. It was a night when a hand
touch, the perfume of a breath, a half-understood whisper,
the rustle of the leaves caused the blood to flow
swift and warm in youthful veins.

The fireworks consisted mainly of mines, Roman
candles and red fire. There were a few pinwheels, but
no rockets.

Wallace Hegner and Fanny Darling were together
again. With her usual daring, the girl was touching
off Roman candles and laughing merrily. She seemed
to be enjoying herself thoroughly, but it seemed certain
that she had avoided Frank since he had overheard
her talking with Hegner the first of the evening.

The musicians played a lively air as the candles
burned, the mines exploded, the pinwheels buzzed, and
the red fire glared. Fanny Darling ran across the lawn
swinging a Roman candle and letting the fireballs pop
into the air. Hegner was close behind her, with a
glowing stick of fire in either hand.

Suddenly there was a scream of terror, followed by
a chorus of shrieks and hoarse cries. Then it was
seen that Fanny’s dress was blazing.

The girls scattered and fled from her, while the boys
stood still for the moment and stared at her stupidly.
Hegner dropped both sticks of red fire, but fell back,
calling for water.

Through the circle burst a youth who stripped off his
coat as he ran. He leaped straight toward the imperiled
girl, who was vainly trying to beat out the
flames with her hands, a look of terror pitiful to see
upon her face.

“Steady, Miss Darling!” called the voice of Frank
Merriwell. “Don’t resist me and I will save you!”

He flung the coat about her, lifted her, dropped her
upon the grass, knelt over her, rolled her, smothered
the flames and beat them out with his hands.

It was all over in a moment. He had extinguished
the fire before others could think to move. As they
gathered around he lifted her to her feet, anxiously
asking:

“Are you severely burned, Miss Darling? I sincerely
hope you are not. I reached you as soon as
possible.”

She tried to speak, and her eyes met his. She
choked, her chin quivered, and she burst into tears,
sobbing:

“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!”

It was all she could say, but there was a world of
self-reproach, shame and remorse in that exclamation.

It was found that Fanny Darling had been burned,
but her injuries were not severe. In beating out the
flames Frank had burned his hands, but there was a
doctor present who attended to the girl and her rescuer.

Frank’s hands were covered with a coating of creamy
stuff and bound up with handkerchiefs.

“I think that will prevent them from blistering,”
said the doctor. “I always take a small case with me
wherever I go, and it is fortunate I was here to-night.”

“Oh, I am all right!” laughed Merry; “but I sincerely
hope Miss Darling was not injured much. I
reached her as soon as possible.”

“It is almost certain you saved her life, and I am
sure you prevented her from being disfigured as long
as she lives,” declared the physician. “She has much
to thank you for.”

In another room, with her girl friends hovering
about her, Fanny Darling distinctly heard what the
doctor said, for there was an open door between the
two rooms.

Her face was very pale, and she bit her lip till the
blood started, while her hands were tightly clinched.

“Is the pain so terrible, Fanny?” tenderly asked
Mabel Creighton.

“Pain? What pain?”

“Why, the pain of your burns.”

“That’s nothing. It was another pain that I felt.”

She covered her face with her hands, and they saw
a tear steal down between her fingers, although she
made no sound.

“Mr. Hegner wishes to see you,” said Bessie Blossom.
“He is at the door, and he is very anxious to
learn from your lips just how you are.”

Fanny’s hands dropped, and her face grew crimson.

“Tell Mr. Hegner that I do not care to see him!”
she exclaimed.

So Wallace Hegner was turned from the door, much
to his rage and chagrin.

“I suppose she wouldn’t see me because I didn’t happen
to be the one to put out the fire,” he grated, as he
left the house. “What could I do? My coat was too
thin. It was just that Merriwell’s confounded luck
to jump in there and do the trick. Oh, but I’m going
to settle with him!”

After a time the most of the girls left the room, and
Fanny was alone with Mabel and Bessie. Then it was
that she burst into tears, sobbing as if her heart were
breaking.

Both girls tried to comfort her.

“What is the matter, Fanny, dear?” asked Bessie,
kneeling beside her. “I suppose your nerves are all
shaken.”

“She is almost hysterical, poor girl!” said Mabel.
“And I do not wonder a bit.”

“Who wouldn’t be, after such a narrow escape?”

“It—it’s—not—that!” sobbed Fanny.

“Not that?”

“No.”

“Then what can be the matter with you, dear?”

“Oh, girls—I’m—I’m just the meanest creature in
the—whole world—and I just—just hate and despise
myself! So there!”

Mabel and Bessie looked at each other in astonishment.

“You must be silly, Fanny! You are nothing of
the sort!” cried Mabel.

“Yes, I am!” sharply declared Fanny, using a handkerchief
to dry her tears. “I am just as mean and
hateful as I can be, and I wish I were dead! It would
have been a good thing if I’d burned!”

Mabel and Bessie looked horrified.

“It’s dreadful!” they exclaimed.

“I don’t care, it’s true!” cried Fanny. “Just think
of the mean, hateful things I said to Frank Merriwell,
and then think what he did for me! And I did not
mean those things at all! Oh, I’m wicked, and I know
it!”

“Why, Fanny! Mr. Merriwell did not mind what
you said,” assured Mabel, hoping to pacify her in that
manner.

“He heard them, and he must think me the meanest,
hatefulest creature alive. I shall never dare to look
him in the face again—never!”

After a long time her agitation subsided, and then,
of a sudden, she exclaimed:

“Girls, do you know what I am going to do?”

“No; of course not.”

“I am going to ask Frank Merriwell’s pardon on
my knees! I will do it now!”

Both Mabel and Bessie were so astonished that they
could hardly speak. The idea of Fanny Darling getting
on her knees to any one was utterly preposterous. But
there seemed a most astonishing change in her, and
now she started to find Frank.

But Frank was gone. Charlie Creighton came in
and told the girls that Frank and Bart had departed to
their hotel.

“Oh, it’s too bad!” cried Fanny. “I should have
gone to him at once, but truly I was so ashamed that
I could not face him. Tell me, Charlie, was he burned
much?”

“Well, the doctor could not tell just how severe the
burns on his hands might prove to be.”

“Well, the very next time I see him I’ll do my best
to let him know I appreciate his heroism,” said Fanny.

In the meantime Frank and Bart had taken a car and
were on their way to the Continental. Bart showed
considerable agitation concerning Merry’s hands.

“I hope you will not be knocked out so you’ll be unable
to go in for athletics the same as usual this fall,
Merry,” said Hodge. “What would the Yale eleven
do without you?”

“They would get some other man equally as good,”
smiled Frank.

“They couldn’t!” cried Hodge, loyally. “That
would be an impossibility!”

“It can’t be you really mean that, old man?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you are foolish. Why, Hodge, there are
hundreds of men just as good as yours truly. I know
I am a good player, but I also know there are others.”

It was nearly midnight when they left the car and
started to walk the short distance to the hotel. Frank
led the way by a short cut through a narrow street,
which was rather dark and deserted.

“There are not many fellows who would have done
what you did to-night for a girl who had treated them
as Miss Darling treated you,” said Bart.

“Oh, I don’t know! It seems to me that almost any
fellow would have done that.”

“Hegner was with her, but he did not lift a hand to
save her.”

“It is plain he did not know what to do. He did not
think quickly enough.”

“That is just it, Merry. In any emergency you think
of just the right thing to do, and that is what makes
you such a good man. I say Yale can’t afford to lose
you from her eleven, and I hope you will not be damaged
so it will knock you out.”

At that instant five or six dark forms suddenly
darted out from both sides of the street and surrounded
the boys. A voice snarled:

“When we are through with him he’ll be damaged
so he won’t play football this season!”

CHAPTER XXXIV—A FIGHT AGAINST ODDS
==================================

“Ambushed!”

“Trapped!”

Frank and Bart uttered the exclamations as those
dark forms gathered around them and they heard that
snarling voice.

At a glance they saw the faces of their assailants
were hidden by handkerchiefs which had been tied
across them to their eyes, and one of them had turned
his coat wrong side out.

The one with the turned coat seemed to be the leader
of the party.

“Get around them, fellows!” he ordered, sharply.
“Don’t let them skip!”

“We’re in for it!” grated Hodge.

“It looks that way,” admitted Frank.

“We’ll have to fight!”

“Sure.”

In another moment they had placed themselves back
to back, and were ready to meet the assault of the
young thugs of the street.

“So you’ll fight, will you?” grated the leader.
“Well, you won’t stand much show with this crowd.
We can knock the packing out of you in short order.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Frank, with that
singular laugh which Hodge knew indicated Merry
was thoroughly aroused. “You may not find it. such
a snap.”

“We are three to your one.”

“Even then you are not so many.”

“The trouble with you is that you think yourself
a great deal smarter than you are. Well, you’ll change
your mind after this. To-morrow you’ll be in a hospital.”

“You may be in a coffin, my fine fellow.”

The masked ruffians had surrounded Frank and
Bart, and were ready for the attack. Their leader gave
the word:

“At ’em, boys! Hammer ’em! Knock ’em down
and kick ’em!”

Then the assault was made with a rush that was
hard to withstand. For a moment it seemed that
Merry and Hodge would be swept off their feet, overthrown,
crushed.

Hodge was a fighter. He had a temper like a cold
chisel, and he did not fear anything that walked.
Frank knew the caliber of his Fardale chum, and he
was glad that Hodge happened to be with him.

A big fellow got Bart by the throat, after Hodge
had sent two others reeling backward before cracking
blows, and for some seconds it seemed that Frank’s
friend would be overcome.

But Bart broke the hold of his assailant, gave him a
terrible jab in the wind, and then smashed him under
the ear, when he doubled over. That put him out of
the fight for a few moments at least.

The others were ready to come at Bart again by this
time. They were cursing in a manner that told they
were genuine toughs of the slums.

“Kill der bloke!” snarled one.

“Give it to him, Bill!” howled the other.

“That’s right!” cried Hodge fiercely. “Come right
on and give it to me! You’ll find me here!”

One of them succeeded in striking him a blow on
the cheek that cut his face and started the blood to
flowing; but that did not daze Bart for a second, and
he got a kick at the ruffian that doubled him over and
made him gasp and groan.

Frank could use his feet, as well as his hands. He
had learned the trick in France, where a style of boxing
with the feet is taught. When a man can strike and
kick with equal skill he is a dangerous antagonist, and
it was not long before the ruffians found they had a
Tartar in Merriwell.

Frank watched his chance and then tried to tear the
handkerchief from the face of the leader of the gang,
but he failed in this, although he knocked the fellow’s
hat from his head.

“I know you just the same!” cried Merry. “You
have proved to be just the kind of a fellow I thought
you were!”

“You know too much!” the fellow flung back. “You
won’t know so much in a few minutes!”

One of the other ruffians came in on Frank, who
made a feint to strike, and then kicked him in the
neck with such violence that he went down as if he
had been shot. He lay on the ground like a log, and
it was plain he had been knocked out.

“Blazes!” howled one of the others. “He’s knocked
Shiner out!”

“All I want is a good chance at you,” laughed Merriwell.
“You’ll get the same dose, my fine fellow!”

“Hammer him—hammer him!” panted the leader.
“Get in on him quick! We must do this job before the
police come!”

He rushed at Frank, who attempted to kick him
over, as he had the other chap, but failed, for the fellow
dodged. In a moment two of them were pressing
Frank close.

“Here’s where we do a little in-fighting,” said
Merry, as if he were jubilant over the prospect.

It was hot for some seconds, but it proved too hot
for Merriwell’s assailants. Frank had a way of causing
them to bother each other, and it sometimes seemed
that one could have done much better against him.

But Frank was not to escape without a scratch. He
was unable to watch every enemy, and a blow on the
ear made his head ring and staggered him.

“Now we have him!” shouted the leader.

They sprang upon him, and Frank found himself
forced to his knees.

“Down with him!”

He fought them off, but they assailed him like furious
tigers. He was struck repeatedly while on his
knees.

It happened that Hodge had beaten off his foes for
a moment, and he saw Merry’s peril. With a growl
such as might have issued from the throat of a wild
beast, he whirled to aid his friend.

Crack! crack!—with two blows Bart sent two fellows
spinning, and then he dragged Frank to his feet.

“Much hurt?” he asked.

“No, not a bit,” was the cool answer.

The ruffians were astounded by the fight made by
the two fellows they had expected to overcome with
ease. They had never before struck anything just like
that, and, for a moment, they hesitated.

The leader, however, was raving like a madman,
made insanely furious by the rebuff.

“At ’em again! at ’em again!” he fumed. “I’ll make
it ten more each. Do ’em up some way!”

A scornful laugh came from Frank.

“So these are your hired bruisers, my fine chap!”
he cried. “Well, they are fit associates for a creature
of your low instincts. It’s a hundred to one you land
behind the bars with the rest of them.”

The fellow urged his satellites to a fresh attack, and
they came at the boys once more. The one Frank
kicked had recovered and joined in the new assault,
although he took care not to get another one from
Merry’s feet, for which he had a healthy respect.

The fight was resumed with fresh vigor, but still
Frank and Bart held their own, for they had been given
a few moments to recover their breath.

“Why, this is a regular cinch!” cried Frank as with
a corking left-hander he bowled one of the masked
rascals over. “I haven’t struck so much sport as this
in an age! Hit hard, Bart—hit hard!”

No need to tell Hodge to hit hard; he was putting
in his best licks, and they were counting. Blood was
running down his face, but he did not realize he had
been touched at all.

Again Frank resorted to the use of his feet, and he
sent one chap back with a sharp kick in the middle,
while another caught his heel on the back.

Then it was that one of the ruffians cried:

“We can’t do ’em without the others. Call the
guards!”

A shrill whistle cut the air, and it was answered from
up and down the street.

“There are more coming, Bart!” cried Merriwell.
“Put as many of these fellows out of the game as you
can before the others get here! This has turned out
to be a very warm evening!”

CHAPTER XXXV—MERRIWELL’S CLOSE CALL
===================================

Frank had quite forgotten his burned hands; there
was no time to think of them then. Had both arms
been in splints, he would have tried to defend himself
just the same.

Down the street came a running figure; up the street
came another. They were two of the gang, who had
been set to watch for the approach of officers.

Although there were three of the ruffians to one of
the boys they had attacked, the gang had been forced
to call on the watchers for assistance!

“What’s the matter?” panted one, as he came up.
“You’re making an awful racket! Can’t you do them
two stiffs?”

“Get at ’em!” ordered the fellow whose coat was
turned. “It’ll take all of us to do the job.”

“All of you may not be able to do it,” cried Merry.

But the two fellows who had been on guard were
fresh, and they pitched in fiercely. In a short time
Bart and Frank found they were being overpowered.
They were blinded by blows and beaten breathless, but
still they fought.

Hark! What was that? The sound of singing
from a distance—the old, familiar song:

    | “Here’s to good Old Yale—drink it down!
    | Here’s to good Old Yale—drink it down!
    |     Here’s to good Old Yale,
    |     She’s so hearty and so hale—
    | Drink it down! Drink it down! down! down!”

From Frank Merriwell’s lips pealed a wild cry—the
Yale yell. It echoed along the street, and the distant
singing stopped. The cry was answered!

“Help, fellows!”

There was another answer, and soon running feet
were heard.

“A thousand furies!” snarled the leader of the ruffians.
“Those other fellows are coming!”

Then he made a desperate lunge at Frank, who saw
something bright glitter in his fingers. Merriwell
avoided the thrust, but heard a cutting sound as the
bright instrument slashed his coat.

Frank knew the wretch had struck at him with an
open knife, and again he snatched for that handkerchief.
This time he caught it and tore it from the fellow’s
face.

But the leader of the ruffians turned and ran like a
deer. Merry would have followed, but, in trying to
do so, he stumbled over one of the gang who had been
knocked down.

This fellow grappled with Frank, and then Mulloy,
Diamond, Rattleton, Gallup, Browning and Dunnerwust
came running up.

“Pwhat’s this?” cried Barney, excitedly. “Is it a
schrap, an’ Oi not in it? Did yez ivver see th’ loikes
av this!”

“Wal, gol darn it all!” puffed Ephraim. “If this
don’t beat all natur! Where’s the rest of um?”

“They ran when they heard you coming,” said
Frank; “but I have this chap all right.”

“Shimminy Ghristmas!” gurgled Hans. “Uf I
hadn’t peen here before, dem vellers vould peen licked
britty queek, ain’d id! Ven I heard dem comin’ they
all rund avay off. I pet your life dey known vot vas
coot vor mineseluf. Yaw!”

“Blame the luck!” grunted Browning. “Think of
running like that and then arriving too late to get into
the fight! It’s disgusting!”

“Who were they, Frank?” asked Diamond.

“I think I know the leader, and I have the handkerchief
he had tied over his face. As for this fellow—— No, you don’t!”

The one Merry was holding made a desperate attempt
to break away, but was prevented.

And, now the fight was over, a policeman approached,
saw the crowd, and rapped a call for assistance.
Within a minute three officers were on the spot.

Frank and Bart told their story. At first the officers
were inclined to discredit it, thinking there had been a
street row among those found there by them, but when
they saw Merriwell’s captive and obtained a good look
at the fellow’s face one of them cried:

“It’s Shiner Gregg! He belongs to the Stone Alley gang.”

Then Frank showed where his coat had been slit
open by a knife, told where he was stopping, and
satisfied the officers that he was telling nothing but the
truth.

Two of the officers took Shiner Gregg to a police
station, while another accompanied the boys to the
hotel, where he satisfied himself that they had told
the truth, and made Merriwell and Hodge promise to
appear against Gregg.

After washing up, Frank and Bart found they were
not severely scarred; but that it had been a close call
for Merry was made evident by the slash in his coat.

“Well,” said Frank, as he held up the coat and
looked at it ruefully, “that finished your career, but you
did one good job to-night. You smothered the fire
that would have burned a very saucy and very attractive
young lady. I think I will keep you as a reminder
of the occasion.”

“It’s fortunate we were out strolling around after
leaving the theatre,” said Rattleton. “We were feeling
rather gay, and did not seem to want to turn in so
early.”

“New Yorkers say Philadelphia is slow,” grunted
Browning; “but I’ll be hanged if it doesn’t seem to be
a hot town! I think New Yorkers are sore on the
place.”

“Slow,” drawled Ephraim Gallup, with a queer
twist of his homely face. “Thutteration! There’s
more goin’ on here than there ever was araound aour
taown up in Varmont, an’ we uster think that was
purty gosh-darn lively sometimes. Once we had a
dorg fight, a thunderstorm an’ Jeduthin Blodgett’s
chimbney burnt aout, all in one afternoon, an’ I tell
yeou things was all fired lively up raound them diggin’s.
But I swan Philadelfy has more goin’ on than
that ’most any day but Sunday.”

Some of the boys laughed at this, but Hans stared
at Ephraim in a bewildered way.

“Dot must peen a lifely down,” he said. “Uf you
vos to life there a great vile I oxbect id vould turn my
hair gray.”

For a long time the boys talked over the street encounter,
and then Frank produced the handkerchief he
had snatched from the face of the leader of the ruffians.
After looking it over carefully he uttered an exclamation.

“What is it, Merry?” asked Rattleton.

“I have made a discovery,” said Merriwell, with a
look of satisfaction, as he restored the handkerchief to
his pocket.

“What sort of a discovery?”

“One that may prove of great importance.”

“Don’t be so mysterious about it,” urged Diamond.
“Tell us what you have discovered.”

“Wait,” said Frank. “I will tell you later.”

“Do you think you know any of the ruffians who
assaulted you besides the one caught?”

“I fancy so. Let’s go to bed now. We can talk this
over to-morrow.”

Frank went to bed and slept as well as if nothing
serious had happened.

This was not the case with Hodge. His blood had
not cooled, and he turned, twisted, muttered and grated
his teeth in his sleep. Diamond, who slept with him,
got out of bed, went into the room where Hans and
Ephraim were sleeping together, awoke the Dutch boy,
and sternly ordered him to go into the other room and
sleep with Hodge.

Dunnerwust protested some, but as he was stupefied
with sleep and being somewhat afraid of the Virginian,
he finally obeyed.

Toward morning there was a wild outcry in that
room, a thump on the floor and sounds of a struggle.
Then Hans was heard calling:

“Hellup! hellup! Somepody gome und took him
off! Uf you don’d gome und done dot britty queek he
peen sure to kilt himseluf! Hellup! Fire!”

Several of the boys rushed into the room, and when
they turned on the light, an astonishing spectacle was
revealed.

Hans and Bart were struggling on the floor, all
tangled up in the clothes they had dragged from the
bed. Hodge was striking out wildly, muttering:

“Come on! come on! We are enough for you!
Three to one is small odds! Back to back, Merry!
We’ll fight as long as we can stand! They can’t lick
us! They never could lick us at Fardale, Merry!”

One of his fists landed on the Dutch boy’s ear, and
Hans squawked louder than ever.

“Hoch, I peen gone grazy!” he cried. “Took him off
I toldt you! Uf you don’d took him off he vill kilt
mineseluf! Murter! Id hurts heem ven he hits me
dot vay!”

Frank and Jack grasped them and dragged them
apart, but Hodge turned on Diamond and gave him a
crack that sent him up against the wall.

“Come on, the whole of you!” he shouted. “You
can’t do us up! Give it to them, Merry!”

Hans broke away and tried to crawl under the bed,
wildly crying:

“Oxcuse me vile I look vor my vatch! Id might
step on somepody uf I don’d took care uf id.”

Merriwell made a leap and caught hold of Hodge,
whom he ran up against the wall, where he held him,
speaking sharply:

“Steady, Bart, old man! It’s all over! We have
cleaned out the whole gang.”

Bart struggled a moment, and then a wondering
light came into his eyes, which had been wide open
and staring all the while. His hands dropped at his
sides, and he ceased to struggle.

“What’s the matter?” he faintly asked.

“You have had a rather lively touch of nightmare,”
explained Merry.

“Nighdtmares!” cried Hans from under the bed, in
a smothered voice. “Uf he didn’d haf a whole heardt
of vild hosses you vos a liar!”

The racket had aroused a number of guests, and the
night watchman and two bellboys appeared. It took
considerable smooth talk from Frank to convince them
that murder had not been attempted in that room, but
the curious ones departed at last, although there were
mutterings of “disgraceful,” “an outrage” and “ought
to be fired.”

Frank laughed when it was all over.

“We’ll be lucky if we are not fired in the morning,”
he said.

Hans refused to go to bed with Bart again, when
he had been dragged from beneath the bed.

“Uf I done dot, you vos a fool!” he squealed.
“I vould peen in dancher uf killin’ me pefore der
mornings! Shack Tiamon’, you haf no peesness to
done notthing like dot! Id vos an imbosition on me,
und you von’t stood id!”

So Diamond was obliged to sleep with Bart, but
Hodge did not create any further disturbance. The remainder
of the night passed quietly enough.

CHAPTER XXXVI—AN EXPLOSION COMING
=================================

When Bart and Frank presented themselves at the
police court on the following day to testify against
Shiner Gregg, the judge took them into a private
room and heard the story they had to tell, after which
he said:

“I am going to hold this Gregg a day or two for a
purpose before I give him a trial. The police are looking
for some information they believed the prisoner
could give them, and they proposed to ‘put on the
screws.’”

Frank and Bart assured the judge that they would
remain in Philadelphia four days and could be found
at the Continental when wanted. Then they were allowed
to depart.

Immediately after lunch Merriwell started for Charlie
Creighton’s, feeling a strong anxiety to know how
severely Fanny Darling had been burned.

As for Merriwell, he was astonished to find he had
not been seriously injured by the fire. The prompt
attention given his hands by the doctor had saved
them from blistering, and, although they were red
and tender, they promised to be all right in a day
or two. He had them done up again, and was advised
to keep the air from them as much as possible till
the following day.

Creighton and his sister were at home, and they welcomed
Frank warmly.

“I called at the Continental this forenoon to see
you,” said Charlie; “but you and Hodge were out.
However, the fellows told me your hands seemed much
better than you had expected they would be.”

“Yes,” nodded Frank; “they seem to be coming out
all right. The stuff the doctor put on them appears to
have worked marvels.”

“I am so glad!” exclaimed Mabel. “It seemed terrible
to think you might be hurt so you could not play
football this fall, for Charlie says Yale could not get
along without you.”

“Creighton is too kind!” exclaimed Frank. “He
overestimates my abilities. But I wish to ask about
Miss Darling. Have you heard from her to-day?”

“Yes, I have seen her. One of her arms is quite
severely burned, but that seems to be all. She says she
will be all right in two or three days, at most.”

“I am very glad to hear that, for I feared her burns
might be more severe than was supposed at first. I
reached her as soon as possible after she screamed.”

“It’s amazing to me that you reached her as quickly
as you did,” declared Charlie. “Wallace Hegner was
with her, and he did not find an opportunity to lift
his hand to help her.”

“He acted like a coward!” exclaimed Mabel, her eyes
flashing. “He retreated from her, and he has been
rewarded for his pusillanimous act.”

“Rewarded—how?”

“When he tried to see her last evening after her
burns had been attended, she refused to have anything
to say to him, and she says she’ll never speak to him
again.”

“Well,” said Merry, slowly, “I don’t know but that
fire was a good thing if it has opened her eyes to
Hegner’s true character.”

Creighton flushed and looked abashed, whereupon
Frank quickly cried:

“I beg your pardon, old man! I made a break then,
for I forgot you introduced us.”

“It’s all right,” declared Creighton; “and it is my
place to beg your pardon for the introduction; but
I assure you that I did not dream Hegner was the fellow
he has since proved to be. If I had——Well, I
scarcely think you would have met him at my home,
and I am sure you will not see him here again. You
have done considerable to show him up, and——”

“I may do more.”

“More? How?”

“I cannot explain just now, but I am not through
with Mr. Hegner. Yesterday I struck him with a boxing
glove. The next time I strike it will be a far more
severe blow, and I shall not use my hands.”

“That sounds queer from you, Merriwell. At college
you have been considered altogether too kind to
your enemies.”

“I am ready to be easy with an enemy who shows
any redeeming features, and I am aware that a fellow
may dislike me and still be a good fellow at heart.
Such things happen. I have my own failings, and I
believe in doing by others as I would that they should
do by me. But a fellow like this Hegner—well, I
doubt if he has a single redeeming trait, and I consider
it my duty to expose him as far as possible. That’s
all.”

Mabel was regarding Frank admiringly, and she
was thinking that he could be stern and unrelenting if
the occasion demanded, although he was naturally generous
and forgiving.

After a little, Merriwell told of his street encounter
of the previous evening, and his hearers listened with
breathless interest.

“Great Scott!” cried Charlie. “You must have had
a close call! And you think the object was not robbery?”

“I am sure it was not.”

“Then the gang must have attacked you with the
sole object of doing you up.”

“That’s right.”

“And you think you know one of them?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“That is something I will tell you later. Shiner
Gregg may be induced to squeal. Look out for an
explosion, Creighton. It is coming.”

Two days later, while walking along one of Philadelphia’s
principal streets, Merriwell noticed a fellow
who was blocking the path of a girl with his person
and speaking to her excitedly, although she was trying
to pass to reach a carriage that stood at the curb.

“It’s Hegner!” muttered Frank. “And the girl is—Fanny Darling!
She is trying to avoid him, and
the rascal is—— Confound him!”

The exclamation escaped Frank’s lips as he saw
Wallace Hegner grasp the girl by the wrist, lean forward
and hiss something in her ear.

Frank made a spring, and as he came forward, Hegner
happened to turn his head slightly and see him.
The girl also saw him, and a look of relief came over
her face.

Hegner scowled blackly and hesitated, then he
dropped Fanny’s wrist and hurried away.

Merriwell was tempted to follow him, but Fanny
called to him, and he stopped. As he did so, lifting
his hat with a graceful movement that was natural for
him, her face, pale a moment before, grew crimson.

But she did not hesitate; immediately she came forward
and held out her hand, saying:

“Mr. Merriwell, I said I would ask your pardon on
my knees, but I can’t do it here in the street, and so
perhaps you will not expect it.”

“Well, hardly!” laughed Frank. “I don’t know
why you should ask my pardon at all.”

“I do! I ask it now, Mr. Merriwell! You were a
gentleman, and I know I was not a lady. Oh, I have
been so ashamed of myself when I thought it all over
and realized what sort of an opinion you must have
formed of me!”

“Miss Darling!”

“And I am trying to leave off slang, although I will
make a break occasionally—there! I want to thank
you for the heroic manner in which you came to my
rescue when my clothes were on fire.”

“I am afraid you make too much of that. I fail to
see where the heroism came in.”

“That—that fellow you just drove away did not
make a move to help me, and he was the nearest of anybody!
I don’t care, it was heroic of you!”

“All right,” smiled Frank; “if you are determined
to have it that way, I’ll have to let you regard me
as a hero.”

She looked him straight in the eyes, and softly said:

“I do!”

After a moment, her eyes drooped before his steady
gaze, and he saw she had long lashes that almost
touched her cheeks.

“Mr. Merriwell.”

“Yes, Miss Darling.”

“I am afraid it may seem bold, and I know you think
me far too forward now——”

“No, no—I protest!”

“I can’t help it if you do think so. I can’t be strictly
conventional at all times. We are standing in the
street, where we must attract more or less notice.
There is my carriage. Will you ride with me?”

“With pleasure.”

The footman in livery held open the door for them
to enter, and then that door closed behind them. The
dignified footman ascended to his seat, and the coachman
started up the horses. The closed carriage rolled
away.

For some moments Frank and Fanny were silent,
both seeming embarrassed. At last, he asked her about
the burns she had received, and they chatted in a commonplace
way for some time.

“Do you know,” he said, “when I heard you scream
that night and saw the fire, my heart nearly leaped
out of my mouth. I was afraid I could not reach you
in time to keep the fire from your face and neck.”

“What if you hadn’t! I’m not a raving beauty
now, and it would not have damaged my looks very
much.”

“Don’t say that, Miss Darling! It would have been
terrible! And you are pretty! I am sincere!”

She gasped for breath.

“Really—really, Mr. Merriwell! It’s impossible!
Why, there is Mabel!”

“I know. She is charming, but to my eyes, you are
far prettier. Don’t think I am trying taffy, for I give
you my word, Miss Darling, that I am not.”

“Why, I—I thought you were dead stuck on
Mabel!” cried the wondering girl.

“Not that. I like her, and she has treated me very
nicely.”

“Yes, far better than I have; but that night, after
you had saved me, I heard the doctor say, that if you
did not save my life, at least you had prevented my
frightful disfigurement. Oh, you will never know the
sensation that came over me then! Such a sense of
shame, for I thought how I had treated you. But—but
I want to tell you something now, Mr. Merriwell.
It is awfully hard for me to say, but I must say it.
I did not treat you that way because I disliked you.
No! no! no! It was for just the other reason. I
liked you too well—there! I thought you did not care
anything for me and was all taken up with Mabel, so
I tried to get a dab at you every time I could. It was
mean—I know it! I didn’t expect you to forgive me,
for I am sure I did not deserve it. And then, after all
the mean things I had done, you passed all those near
me when I was in danger and saved me! I could have
died from shame!”

She was sobbing now, although fighting back the
tears. He did his best to soothe her, and succeeded
very well.

“I think we understand each other very well now,”
he said.

The closed carriage rolled on. The coachman pulled
down the horses to a slower pace, as if he knew there
was no need to hurry. The footman sat up very
straight, with folded arms and solemn, dignified countenance,
as if such a thing as curiosity had never entered
his heart, and he had no thought of the young
couple within the carriage.

Yes, they understood each other very well at last.

CHAPTER XXXVII—THE LAST BLOW—CONCLUSION
=======================================

The gymnasium of the Olympic Athletic Club was
crowded. There were seats all around the room, and
a roped-off ring in the center. A referee and two
judges had been chosen. Hank Burk’s second was
Wallace Hegner, his trainer. Tom Jackson had a
second who seemed to know his business.

The excitement was at fever heat, for the great
match was about to begin. The principals came out
and entered the ring, accompanied by their seconds.
They wore bath robes, which were soon flung aside.
Then the spectators cheered as they saw the two lads
stripped to the waist.

On choice by lot the Olympic had secured the bout
for themselves; but the guests of the Fairmount were
admitted, so all of Frank Merriwell’s friends were
there.

But Frank—where was he?

“I can’t understand it,” declared Diamond. “It is
most remarkable that he should not be here. I didn’t
suppose anything could keep him from this mill.”

Hodge looked worried.

“He will be here,” Bart declared. “You know he
has promised a sensation, but I’m afraid he failed in
securing the evidence he needs.”

Tang!—the gong sounded.

Burk and Jackson advanced to shake hands.

Then it was that Frank came hustling into the room,
looking flushed but triumphant. Hurrying to the
ringside, he turned to the spectators and cried:

“This match must be stopped five minutes! I have
something to tell you before it goes on!”

There was a murmur of astonishment and disapproval.
The audience, their nerves tingling with the
desire to see the boxers go at each other, were angered
by the interruption.

“You can tell it afterward,” cried a voice.

“No!” came firmly from Frank. “It must be told
now, for it concerns this match. I know you all want
to see fair play—with a very few exceptions. I tell
you now that there is a job here, and I can prove it!
This match is fixed!”

What a stir that created! For some moments it
seemed that there would be a riot, but the excited spectators
cooled down at last, although a dozen voices demanded
the proof.

In the ring Hank Burk and Tom Jackson looked at
each other in a startled way, while Wallace Hegner’s
face grew pale.

“What does he know?” asked Burk in a whisper.

“He can’t know anything,” said Jackson. “He is
putting up a bluff.”

Hegner found his voice and demanded that Merriwell
be removed from the room. But it was too late,
as he soon saw, for the young fellows who had heard
his assertion were eager to hear more.

“I know you do not permit betting,” Frank cried;
“but there has been betting on this match. Large sums
of money have been staked on the result, but a most
surprising fact is that the principal backer of Jackson—the
one who has furnished most of the money bet
on him is the trainer of Burk, Mr. Wallace Hegner!”

Hegner gave a howl and made a rush for Frank,
but Bruce Browning was on hand and interposed his
massive form, grasping the furious lad by the collar
and holding him helpless.

“I will tell you how I know this,” Frank went on,
speaking swiftly. “This Hegner has a grudge against
me, and, with several of his friends, a gang of thugs,
he attacked me the other night. In the fight I secured
a handkerchief marked with his initials, and he came
very near getting a knife into me. One of the gang
was captured, a fellow known as Shiner Gregg. The
police have been wanting to get hold of Gregg for
some time, and when he fell into their hands they ‘put
on the screws.’ As a result of the squeezing the fellow
has confessed everything. He told how Mr. Hegner
obtained his money to stake on this crooked match.
Two weeks ago the jewelry store of Isaac Rosenfeld
was entered and robbed. Gregg says Hegner planned
the robbery and was one of the four concerned in it.”

“It’s a lie—a downright lie!” screamed Hegner,
struggling to reach Frank. “Let me get at him! I
will kill him!”

“It is the confession of Shiner Gregg,” said Frank.
“He says this match was fixed—that Jackson would
win, and Burk would receive good pay for flunking.
Here is the proof that I have spoken the truth.”

He whistled, and into the room came six uniformed
policemen. They quickly reached the ring, and Hegner,
who had fought like a tiger to break from Browning,
was collared, handcuffed and taken in charge.

By this time, in some mysterious manner, Burk and
Jackson had disappeared. The spectators were furious.
They talked of tar and feathers.

Wallace Hegner, limp, white and crushed, was
marched away between the officers. As he passed Merriwell
he lifted his eyes, but they fell instantly, and
his appearance was that of a whipped cur.

Frank’s second blow had been a knockout.

.. vspace:: 2

Hegner was held for the Grand Jury, tried and convicted,
for overwhelming evidence against him was
obtained. As it seemed to have been his first offense,
he was given a comparatively light sentence.

Frank pitied the fellow at last, for all the heart and
life seemed gone out of him. Never before had Frank
struck an enemy such a blow as that.

Burk and Jackson escaped from the Olympic with a
portion of their clothes, and they took care to keep in
hiding for a long time after that.

It was suspected that the judge had been tampered
with, but this was never proved. That several of the
Olympic men knew all about the game was certain, but
Jackson and one other were the only ones expelled from
the club.

Before leaving Philadelphia Frank Merriwell and
his party attended a banquet given in their honor by
the Fairmount Club. It was a jolly affair, for young
lady guests were present and everything passed off finely.

There were speeches and toasts, and the mention of
Merriwell’s name always brought a tumultuous burst of
applause.

A gay time was had for two days more in Philadelphia,
their new-found friends doing everything possible
to make the visit a pleasant one.

From the South came news that Harlow had escaped
from jail by striking down a keeper. But he had been
hit in the head with a club later on, and was now in the
hospital.

“He won’t come to trial just yet,” said Frank. “And
perhaps it is just as well.”

“And now for Yale!” cried Jack. “Hurrah for old
Eli!”

“So say we all of us!” shouted Harry.

And then a roar went up in which all of their new-found
friends joined:

“Hurrah for old Eli! Hurrah for the brave boys of
the Yale Combine!”

.. vspace:: 1

.. container:: center

    THE END.

.. vspace:: 2

No. 20. of the :sc:`Merriwell Series`, entitled “Frank
Merriwell’s Return to Yale,” gives an account of games,
sports, and pastimes, work and study, in all of which
Frank shines conspicuously, and retains the admiration
of all his old friends.

.. clearpage::

BUFFALO BILL BORDER STORIES

.. vspace:: 1

The Career of the King of Scouts

.. vspace:: 1

Your Dealer Has Them!

.. vspace:: 1

Western Adventure. Without a Dull Line. Every Man Wants Them.

.. vspace:: 1

Since the Ladies’ Home Journal began the publication of the
personal history of William F. Cody, or, as he was better known,
Buffalo Bill, that famous old-time scout and plainsman has
assumed a new importance in the eyes of Americans. For many
years we have been telling the American reading public that no
more interesting, native character ever lived. The stories of his
adventures as narrated by his friend and chum, Colonel Prentiss
Ingraham, are mostly facts, but they are written with such
engaging interest that it is impossible to tell where the fact
leaves off and fiction begins. Buffalo Bill was a truly great character.
Prentiss Ingraham is truly great as an author and between
the two they make the books in this line well worth the
while of any American who wants to know something of the
wild life on the rolling prairies of the Far West.

.. vspace:: 1

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

    | 1—Buffalo Bill, the Border King
    | 2—Buffalo Bill’s Raid
    | 3—Buffalo Bill’s Bravery
    | 4—Buffalo Bill’s Trump Card
    | 5—Buffalo Bill’s Pledge
    | 6—Buffalo Bill’s Vengeance
    | 7—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Grip
    | 8—Buffalo Bill’s Capture
    | 9—Buffalo Bill’s Danger Line
    | 10—Buffalo Bill’s Comrades
    | 11—Buffalo Bill’s Reckoning
    | 12—Buffalo Bill’s Warning
    | 13—Buffalo Bill at Bay
    | 14—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Pards
    | 15—Buffalo Bill’s Brand
    | 16—Buffalo Bill’s Honor
    | 17—Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt
    | 18—Buffalo Bill’s Fight With Fire
    | 19—Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail
    | 20—Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders
    | 21—Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail
    | 22—Buffalo Bill’s Trackers
    | 23—Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight
    | 24—Buffalo Bill, Ambassador
    | 25—Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage
    | 26—Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission
    | 27—Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail
    | 28—Buffalo Bill Against Odds
    | 29—Buffalo Bill’s Hot Chase
    | 30—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Ally
    | 31—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Trove
    | 32—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Foes
    | 33—Buffalo Bill’s Crack Shot
    | 34—Buffalo Bill’s Close Call
    | 35—Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise
    | 36—Buffalo Bill’s Ambush
    | 37—Buffalo Bill’s Outlaw Hunt
    | 38—Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel
    | 39—Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame
    | 40—Buffalo Bill’s Triumph
    | 41—Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer
    | 42—Buffalo Bill’s Death Call
    | 43—Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard
    | 44—Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt
    | 45—Buffalo Bill and the Doomed Dozen
    | 46—Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout
    | 47—Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide
    | 48—Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza
    | 49—Buffalo Bill’s Swoop
    | 50—Buffalo Bill and the Gold King
    | 51—Buffalo Bill’s Deadshot
    | 52—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Bravos
    | 53—Buffalo Bill’s Big Four
    | 54—Buffalo Bill’s One-armed Pard
    | 55—Buffalo Bill’s Race for Life
    | 56—Buffalo Bill’s Return
    | 57—Buffalo Bill’s Conquest
    | 58—Buffalo Bill to the Rescue
    | 59—Buffalo Bill’s Beautiful Foe
    | 60—Buffalo Bill’s Perilous Task
    | 61—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Find
    | 62—Buffalo Bill’s Blind Lead
    | 63—Buffalo Bill’s Resolution
    | 64—Buffalo Bill, the Avenger
    | 65—Buffalo Bill’s Pledged Pard
    | 66—Buffalo Bill’s Weird Warning
    | 67—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Ride
    | 68—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Stampede
    | 69—Buffalo Bill’s Mine Mystery
    | 70—Buffalo Bill’s Gold Hunt
    | 71—Buffalo Bill’s Daring Dash
    | 72—Buffalo Bill on Hand
    | 73—Buffalo Bill’s Alliance
    | 74—Buffalo Bill’s Relentless Foe
    | 75—Buffalo Bill’s Midnight Ride
    | 76—Buffalo Bill’s Chivalry
    | 77—Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard
    | 78—Buffalo Bill’s Private War
    | 79—Buffalo Bill’s Diamond Mine
    | 80—Buffalo Bill’s Big Contract
    | 81—Buffalo Bill’s Woman Foe
    | 82—Buffalo Bill’s Ruse
    | 83—Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit
    | 84—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Gold
    | 85—Buffalo Bill in Mid-air
    | 86—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Mission
    | 87—Buffalo Bill’s Verdict
    | 88—Buffalo Bill’s Ordeal
    | 89—Buffalo Bill’s Camp Fires
    | 90—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Nerve
    | 91—Buffalo Bill’s Rival
    | 92—Buffalo Bill’s Lone Hand
    | 93—Buffalo Bill’s Sacrifice
    | 94—Buffalo Bill’s Thunderbolt
    | 95—Buffalo Bill’s Black Fortune
    | 96—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Work
    | 97—Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Trail
    | 98—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Train
    | 99—Buffalo Bill’s Bowie Duel
    | 100—Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Man
    | 101—Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play
    | 102—Buffalo Bill: Peacemaker
    | 103—Buffalo Bill’s Big Surprise
    | 104—Buffalo Bill’s Barricade
    | 105—Buffalo Bill’s Test
    | 106—Buffalo Bill’s Powwow
    | 107—Buffalo Bill’s Stern Justice
    | 108—Buffalo Bill’s Mysterious Friend

To Be Published in June, 1921.

    | 109—Buffalo Bill and the Boomers
    | 110—Buffalo Bill’s Panther Fight
    | 111—Buffalo Bill and the Overland Mail

BUFFALO BILL BORDER STORIES

.. vspace:: 1

To Be Published in July, 1921.

    | 112—Buffalo Bill on the Deadwood Trail
    | 113—Buffalo Bill in Apache Land

To Be Published in August, 1921.

    | 114—Buffalo Bill’s Blindfold Duel
    | 115—Buffalo Bill and the Lone Camper
    | 116—Buffalo Bill’s Merry War

To Be Published in September, 1921.

    | 117—Buffalo Bill’s Star Play
    | 118—Buffalo Bill’s War Cry

To Be Published in October, 1921.

    | 119—Buffalo Bill on Black Panther’s Trail
    | 120—Buffalo Bill’s Slim Chance

To Be Published in November, 1921.

    | 121—Buffalo Bill Besieged

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that
the books listed above, 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.

.. vspace:: 2

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

.. vspace:: 1

Is the favorite writer of a million boys. Do
you realize what this means? His stories
are good!

.. vspace:: 4

MERRIWELL SERIES

.. vspace:: 1

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

.. vspace:: 1

YOUR DEALER HAS THEM!

.. vspace:: 1

Handsome Colored Covers—Stories of Generous Length

.. vspace:: 1

For three generations, the adventures of the Merriwell brothers
have proven an inspiration to countless thousands of American
boys.

Frank and Dick are lads of high ideals, and the examples they
set in dealing with their parents, their friends, and especially
their enemies, are sure to make better boys of their readers.

These stories teem with fun and adventure in all branches of
sports and athletics. They are just what every red-blooded
American boy wants to read—they are what he must read to
develop into a manly, upright man.

.. vspace:: 1

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

    | 1—Frank Merriwell’s School Days
    | 2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums
    | 3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes
    | 4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
    | 5—Frank Merriwell Down South
    | 6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
    | 7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour
    | 8—Frank Merriwell in Europe
    | 9—Frank Merriwell at Yale
    | 10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
    | 11—Frank Merriwell’s Races

To Be Published in June, 1921.

    | 12—Frank Merriwell’s Party
    | 13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour

To Be Published in July, 1921.

    | 14—Frank Merriwell’s Courage
    | 15—Frank Merriwell’s Daring

To Be Published in August, 1921.

    | 16—Frank Merriwell’s Alarm
    | 17—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes
    | 18—Frank Merriwell’s Skill

To Be Published in September, 1921.

    | 19—Frank Merriwell’s Champions
    | 20—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale

To Be Published in October, 1921.

    | 21—Frank Merriwell’s Secret
    | 22—Frank Merriwell’s Danger

To Be Published in November, 1921.

    | 23—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty
    | 24—Frank Merriwell in Camp

To Be Published in December, 1921.

    | 25—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation
    | 26—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that
the books listed above 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.

.. vspace:: 2

..

    | MARY J. HOLMES
    | CHARLES GARVICE
    | MAY AGNES FLEMING
    | MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

Four authors enshrined in the heart of every
reader of fiction in America. See the list of
their works in the NEW EAGLE SERIES.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::