Frank Merriwell's First Job; Or, At the Foot of the Ladder
Date: 2021-02-26T00:00:00+00:00
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Title: Frank Merriwell's First Job; Or, At the Foot of the Ladder

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: February 26, 2021 [eBook #64635]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64635

Credits: David Edwards, Sue Clark, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S FIRST JOB; OR, AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER ***

Frank Merriwell’s First Job
OR
AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER

CONTENTS

Chapter | | Page
I. | A Blow by Fate | 5
II. | Farewell to Yale | 11
III. | On the Way Home | 16
IV. | The Reward of Wrongdoing | 23
V. | The Man Who Worked the Wires | 28
VI. | The Setting of the Sun | 34
VII. | Phantom Fingers | 40
VIII. | Unwelcome Visitors | 46
IX. | Captured by Whitecaps | 52
X. | Cowardly Work | 57
XI. | Frank’s Strange Friend | 63
XII. | For His Enemy | 69
XIII. | The Bully of the Roundhouse | 75
XIV. | The Bully Meets His Match | 80
XV. | Striking a Job | 86
XVI. | The First Forenoon | 91
XVII. | The Street Musicians | 97
XVIII. | Uplifted Hearts | 103
XIX. | An Angry Engineer | 109
XX. | Some Points About Hicks | 115
XXI. | Frank Discovers a Break | 120
XXII. | The Interrupted Supper | 126
XXIII. | An Unwelcome Relation | 132
XXIV. | Frank Exacts a Promise | 137
XXV. | On a Switch Engine | 143
XXVI. | Capturing a Wild Engine | 148
XXVII. | Frank’s Friends | 154
XXVIII. | Firing a Freight Engine | 160
XXIX. | The Fight on the Engine | 165
XXX. | Merriwell’s Generosity | 171
XXXI. | An Ungrateful Man | 177
XXXII. | On the Stairs | 182
XXXIII. | Under the Crust of a Human Heart | 188
XXXIV. | The Revelation of a Secret | 193
XXXV. | The Little Pilot | 200
XXXVI. | “On Time, at Last!” | 206

Frank Merriwell’s First Job
OR
AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER

By BURT L. STANDISH

Author of “Frank Merriwell’s School Days,” “Frank
Merriwell’s Chums,” “Frank Merriwell’s Foes,”
“Frank Merriwell’s Trip West,” etc.

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK CITY

Copyright, 1898
By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s First Job

FRANK MERRIWELL’S FIRST JOB.

CHAPTER I.
A BLOW BY FATE.

Biff—thump!

“Oh, what a soaker!”

“Go at him, Rattleton!”

“Don’t let him knock you up against the door like that.”

Biff! biff!—thump!

“There you go again!”

“Oh, jose your claw—I mean close your jaw!” panted Harry Rattleton, as he ducked and escaped a left-hand swing from Frank Merriwell, with whom he was boxing in the room of the latter at Yale. “You fellows are not in this!”

“You’re not in it, either,” lazily laughed Bruce Browning, who was half sitting, half reclining on the couch, watching the boxing bout and smoking a pipe at the same time.

“Well, you weren’t such a much when you got up against Merriwell that time you tried to do him,” snapped Rattleton, backing out as Frank slowly followed him up.

“That’s ancient history,” declared the big fellow. “But Merriwell found me a pretty warm baby!”

“Get up and try him now!” cried Harry. “I’ll bet he’ll bang you all over the room before you touch him.”

“Thanks!” grinned Bruce. “I’ve quit the ring. I’m not looking for pugilistic glory any more.”

“Stand up to him, Rattleton,” advised Diamond. “You do too much running away.”

“Oh, you know!” flung back Rattleton. “You’ve had your turn, too, and you wasn’t so good.”

“You can’t do anything with him if you don’t try to hit him,” said Bart Hodge, who was sitting astride a chair in the corner.

“More thanks! If you’ll put the gloves on, I’ll guarantee you will not hit him any oftener than I have. I believe he gave you a dose of medicine once on a time. I’m the only fellow in the room who hasn’t been punched in earnest by him. You chaps are good talkers, but—— No you don’t.”

Then he went under Frank’s arm like a cat, giving Merry a sharp jab in the ribs.

“Keep it up.”

“Well, that wasn’t so worse!” yawned Browning.

But Frank whirled swiftly and followed Harry, sparring for an opening, which he quickly got.

Biff! biff!—bang!

“Oh, my!” gurgled Harry. “That last one was on the nose! She’s beginning to bleed! I’m knocked out!”

He flung off the boxing gloves and got out his handkerchief in a hurry, for the blow on his nose had started the blood.

“Didn’t mean to hit you hard enough for that, Rattles,” said Frank, apologetically.

“Don’t mention it,” grinned Rattleton. “It’s nothing much. I don’t mind a little thing like that.”

Frank took off his gloves and hung the set up, after which he quickly set the room in order.

Rattleton’s nose bled very little, and he soon recovered.

“It seems to me you are worse than ever since your trip into Maine, Merriwell,” said Harry. “You’ll be a swift one on the football team this fall.”

“I shall not give much time to football,” Frank declared.

“No?” shouted Rattleton, Diamond and Hodge.

“Is that so?” grunted Browning. “You talked like that last fall, and you know what came of it. You had to get into gear in order to save Old Eli from being thrown down.”

Merriwell nodded.

“I know all about that; but it seems to me that I have done my part in the way of upholding the honor of Old Eli, and there should be somebody to fill my place by this time.”

“Why do you want anybody to fill your place?” asked Hodge.

“The time has come for me to study. Fooling must be dropped.”

“The time has come for you to ease up on your studies,” said Diamond. “You know the first year or two are the hardest in college.”

“Yes; but I have some ambitions for class honors. I have managed to scrub right along so far, but I’ve got to make a change.”

Browning straightened up a little.

“I don’t think you can do it, Merriwell,” he said, seriously. “You have made a record as an athlete, and you will be expected to stand by it. Your attempt last year should convince you that you can’t make such a rank change. You stand well with the professors, and you will pull out near the head of your class, anyway. What’s the use to look for too much?”

“I am beginning to realize what is ahead of me, gentlemen,” came soberly from Frank. “My mother is dead, my father is—I know not where. Although I am generally supposed to be independently rich, I have but a small fortune, which was left me by my uncle. I can’t live on that and do nothing; I wouldn’t if I could. I must go out into the world and hustle. Thus far I have not even decided what I will do when it is necessary for me to go to work. Most fellows have this all settled before they go to college. Thus far with me, for the most part, life has been a holiday. Now I realize that it must be something different in the future. I have not got a foolish notion in my head that as soon as I leave college and go out into the world large city newspapers will eagerly offer me editorial positions, bankers will be yearning to take me into their banks, and large salaries for short hours will be thrust at me on every side. In most things influence counts, and it is a fact that the man with a pull and a fair stock of brains generally gets ahead of the man with no pull and heavy brain power. I shall have no pull; but in its place I hope to use considerable push. If I do not land on top in time it will not be my fault.”

“You’ve been struck with one of your serious spells, that’s what’s the matter with you!” cried Rattleton. “Don’t get worried. You’ve had lots of sport this summer. Wish I might have taken that trip into Maine. Next summer——”

“Who can tell what next summer may bring?” said Frank, in a manner that added to the astonishment of his friends. “Before that time some great change may alter all our plans.”

There was a rap on the door.

“Come,” called Frank.

The door opened.

“Lettah, sah,” said the colored man who thrust his head in at the door.

Frank took it, and the colored man disappeared.

“It’s from Prof. Scotch,” he said, and then he laid it on the table.

Prof. Scotch was Frank’s old teacher and guardian.

Three times Frank walked up and down the room. He paused and looked around. It was a pleasant, well-furnished room. There were handsome pictures on the walls, there were foils, boxing gloves, tennis rackets and so forth. There also were strange curios from many lands, all gathered by Frank himself.

This room was like home to Frank. He loved it for its associations. Some day he must leave it, but what pleasant memories of his college days he would carry away.

Watching him his friends saw the strange expression on his face, and they knew not what to make of the change in him. He stopped by the table and picked up the letter.

“Excuse me while I read it, please,” he said.

“Of course,” they cried.

Then he tore it open and read it. They saw his face grow pale and his hand tremble, while his breast heaved. He read to the end, and then he lifted his eyes to his friends.

“What is it?” cried Bart Hodge, in apprehension. “Bad news, Merry?”

“Fellows,” said Frank, hoarsely, “my career at Yale is ended! I am ruined!”

They leaped to their feet.

“Ruined?” gasped Diamond. “What do you mean?”

“My fortune is lost! Prof. Scotch, my guardian, has speculated with my money, and lost every dollar! I am a beggar!”

CHAPTER II.
FAREWELL TO YALE.

Like wildfire spread the report that Frank Merriwell was going to leave college. In an hour it seemed that all Yale knew it. There was consternation in the dormitories and on the campus. Students gathered in groups to talk of it. Everyone seemed to regard it as a great calamity.

Charlie Creighton was perched on the fence, looking as if he had just buried his last friend. Paul Pierson came along.

“Awful, isn’t it?” asked Pierson.

“Terrible!” said Creighton.

“Have you seen him?”

“No; I’m waiting till I can do so without slopping over and making a fool of myself.”

“What will Old Eli do without him?”

“Give it up. Why, the professors have heard of it, and they positively refuse to believe it. Look at those chaps over there in that group. There are Benson and some of the fellows who were supposed to be Merriwell’s enemies. Just came by them, and every man is saying it’s a thundering shame.”

“I don’t believe Merriwell has a real enemy in the college.”

Bink Stubbs came up. Usually Bink was grinning and cracking jokes. Now he did not say a word, but leaned against the fence with his hands in his pockets and kicked the ground with his toe.

Lewis Little joined the group. Lewis was a mild sort of chap generally, but when asked how he felt, he said he’d like to punch the stuffing out of somebody.

Halliday, Griswold and Puss Parker came up in a bunch.

“I tell you it is a practical joke!” Parker was saying. “Somebody has put up this job. I won’t believe Merriwell is going to leave college.”

“He’s forced to leave,” said Halliday. “I saw the letter from his guardian in which Scotch confesses that he has squandered every dollar of Merry’s fortune.”

“How did the old fool do it?”

“In some kind of a wild-cat mining scheme. That is, the most of it was sunk in that, although old Scotch confesses that he tried to retrieve by plunging in stocks.”

“Well, I’m sorry for Merriwell,” sighed Griswold.

“Really, my deah boys, I don’t know that I am sorry, don’t yer ’now,” broke in a voice, and Willis Paulding, a pronounced Anglomaniac, joined the group.

“Oh, you’re not?” snarled Lewis Little, who had the reputation of never speaking an angry word or doing an angry act.

“No, really, I am not,” said Paulding. “Mr. Merriwell flew altogether too high, don’t yer ’now. This will take him down considerable.”

“And this will take you down a trifle!” grated Little, as he struck Paulding with all his strength, knocking him down instantly.

The others immediately closed about the two, and Willis was quickly lifted to his feet, where he stood trembling and pressing a snowy handkerchief to the bruise between his eyes.

“Sir,” he said, his voice trembling, “you are no gentleman! By Jawve! I think I shall report that you assaulted me on the campus!”

“Report and be—hanged!” retorted Little, contemptuously. “But take my advice and close up about Frank Merriwell, or you will get your face broken. No man can say anything against him in my presence!”

Paulding was the only man rash enough to make a public statement of satisfaction over the misfortune that had befallen Merriwell, and even he did not repeat it. If there were any others who really rejoiced at Frank’s bad luck, they kept still.

Merry decided to leave as soon as possible, and he set about packing up his goods without delay. In this work he was assisted by such friends as Rattleton, Diamond and Hodge. Browning started to help, but he stumbled like one dazed, and was so much in the way that he was asked to sit down and keep still, which he did, looking thoroughly ill for once in his life.

The door was locked to keep out the friendly throng that kept coming up to express regret. It was opened for one person, who knocked on the door and called out till Frank recognized his voice. Prof. Such came stumbling into the room and nearly fell over one of the chests.

“Er—er—Mr. Merriwell,” said the near-sighted little professor, looking from one to the other till he found Frank, “is it—can it be true?”

“Yes, Prof. Such,” said Frank, “I must leave at once. You see we are packing my stuff!”

“Oh, dear!” said the little man, his voice trembling. “I am very sorry! I shall miss you, Mr. Merriwell—we’ll all miss you. Perhaps you will not mind if I speak frankly now. I have thought a great deal of you, sir. I have seen in you one of the brightest young men it has ever been my fortune to deal with here. You were very promising. Never before have I known a young man who was able to do the many things you accomplished and still rank so remarkably well in his classes. I believe you are phenomenal in that line. And now you are going to leave us! What will you do?”

“That is something I cannot tell, professor. If my guardian has told the whole truth, I shall go to work to earn my living, and make my way in the world.”

“And you will succeed—I am sure you will, Mr. Merriwell!” declared the little man. “You are built of the right stuff. You have succeeded in everything to which you have turned your hand since coming to college, and you will succeed in the battle of life. If your fortune is really lost, you are now at the foot of the ladder. By your own efforts you will mount upward a step at a time till the top is reached. If you should slip, don’t give up the struggle, but cling and fight your way upward.”

“Prof. Such,” said Frank, “your illustration is a good one, and I shall not forget your kindly advice. Hereafter I shall think of myself as climbing upward on the ladder of life. I thank you, sir.”

“No thanks, young man. Your hand.”

Their hands met, and there was a strange quiver on the professor’s face as he tried to look up at Frank.

“Excuse me,” he said; “excuse me, but my eyes—my spectacles are blurred. I’ll have to wipe them. I can’t see you very well, and I want to take a good look at you before you go.”

He wiped his spectacles and adjusted them, after which he stared at Merry several seconds. Then he nodded his head, saying:

“It’s all right. You have the right kind of chin, and your face shows determination. There is a cast of firmness about your mouth. You will not be easily daunted. I think you will reach the top of the ladder, Mr. Merriwell. I wish you good fortune in every undertaking. Good-by, my boy—good-by!”

Then the little professor turned, as if fearful of remaining longer or saying any more, and hurried from the room.

Every one of the boys were profoundly affected by this scene. Frank the most of them all.

Later Merriwell appeared on the campus, and the students gathered about him by hundreds at the fence, all eager to shake his hand and wish him good luck. Never before had there been an impromptu demonstration of this character that could compare with this. Some of the manly young fellows actually wept, although they tried to hide it, and Frank himself dashed moisture from his eyes more than once, while his voice failed him many times.

Lib Benson, a big, broad-shouldered freshman, who had been the leader of Merry’s freshmen foes, forced his way to a spot where he could grasp Frank’s hand.

“Merriwell,” he said, huskily, “I hope you aren’t ashamed to shake hands with me. I know I’ve been a mean cuss—I know it! I’ve tried to hurt you when I had no reason for doing so, and you’ve always used me white. I hope you won’t hold a grudge against me, Merriwell. I want to say right here, before everybody, that I’ve always been in the wrong, and you’ve always been right. You’re the whitest man I ever saw! Good-by, Merriwell! Good luck go with——”

Then Lib Benson choked, broke down completely, and made a rush to get away, tears dropping from his eyes as he held his head down with shame.

There were other scenes like this.

Frank bade the professors good-by.

That afternoon he was escorted to the train by five hundred students, who marched in silence and looked as solemn as if they were going to a funeral.

It was over at last. Dear old Yale was left behind—forever!

CHAPTER III.
ON THE WAY HOME.

It was a sad homeward journey for Frank Merriwell. After his trip into Maine he had not found time to visit his home before returning to college. In fact, he had seen very little of Bloomfield in recent years. It had not been the home of his mother, but of his uncle. His mother, however, was buried in the quiet little country cemetery at Bloomfield, and he kept thinking of her as he drew nearer home and wondering if her grave had always been cared for as he had directed. Whenever he had visited it he had found it perfectly kept.

Not many persons in Bloomfield were well acquainted with Frank. They had known his crusty old uncle, who had few friends, and it was but natural for them to fancy that the nephew must be somewhat like the uncle, therefore they had not desired his acquaintance. Frank was glad of this, as he approached the place he had called home, for he thought there would not be so many persons to express condolence and ask questions.

He sat alone in the car as the train flew through the twilight and night came down over the brown world. It was a beautiful world. He realized that as he gazed sadly out of the window, but now he, who a short time before had been surrounded by so many friends, felt like an outcast and a wanderer on the face of the earth.

In his bosom was a swelling homesickness for dear old Yale and the friends he had left. He had been torn in one moment almost from those friends and the associations that had become so dear to him. Just when life was looking the fairest the blow had fallen.

Some hearts might have been numbed, some spirits might have been broken; not so with Frank Merriwell. For one moment the thought that life really was not worth living forced itself in upon him, and then he banished it in haste and shame.

He looked up at the sky as the train sped along. High up the clouds had a dull, leaden hue, and were somber and gloomy. Lower down they grew lighter and tinged with color, till they lay bright and golden on the western horizon. It seemed to Frank that the black clouds overshadowing him now must give way to golden ones in the future.

It is the stout heart that looks forward to a bright future that finds real happiness in life.

Merry realized that the time had come when he must fight his own way in the world. It had come suddenly and unexpectedly, and had not found him fully prepared for the emergency, but, nevertheless, he faced it without flinching.

Now he remembered how for some time he had been troubled by a foreboding of impending calamity. It had made him moody and so much unlike his usual gay self that his friends had wondered.

When they had started to plan what they would do on the return of another summer vacation, he had stopped them, saying the circle might be broken before that time.

He had been determined to study hard and fit himself for graduation on his return to college, and not even the influence of his many friends could have changed that determination had he remained in Yale to the end of the course.

Night shut down as the train sped on. The lamps within the cars were lighted, but Frank sat with his face pressed against the window, looking out toward the west where a faint streak of golden light lingered in the sky.

He was thinking of Prof. Scotch now. The professor’s letter had indicated that the unfortunate man was nearly distracted, and Merriwell dreaded the meeting between them. There was no bitterness in his heart and no thought of making his speculating guardian suffer for the criminal mismanagement of his fortune.

Frank knew that Prof. Scotch had not been adapted for the position of responsibility and trust imposed upon him by Asher Merriwell. During active life Frank’s uncle had been regarded as unusually shrewd in all his moves, but old age had brought failing abilities, and, happening to take a strong fancy to Merry’s professor at Fardale Academy, where he had studied, he appointed him Frank’s guardian.

The professor had found it necessary to give much of his attention to the management of Frank’s property. At first he had been cautious enough, but in Bloomfield was a man, Darius Conrad, who was interested in Western mining property, and Scotch became very friendly with this Conrad.

Darius Conrad was a rascal, but he had made money and escaped prison, so he was regarded in Bloomfield as a smart business man. He was away a great deal, and, when he became concerned in the Golden Peaks Mining and Smelting Company, it was said that he was destined to become one of the richest men in the country.

Conrad did not find it difficult to convince Horace Scotch that there was a mint of money awaiting every man who bought stock at an early date in the concern. He said, as he was on the inside, he could let a friend in “on the ground floor,” with a sure chance of doubling every dollar invested in six months’ time.

At first Scotch hesitated. He thought of writing to Frank all about it, but he mentioned it to Conrad, who very quickly showed him that it would be folly, as Merriwell really knew nothing of the true standing of the company, and was not competent to judge as to the value of such an investment. But it was certain that any young man would be very grateful toward a guardian who had good sense and good luck enough to double his fortune at one bold stroke.

So Scotch was ensnared. Within six months the Golden Peaks Mining and Smelting Company went into the air. Then it was hinted that the whole scheme had been a fraud, there was talk of investigations and prosecutions, and nothing at all was done.

Driven desperate by his misfortune, and not daring to let Frank know the truth, Prof. Scotch sought to retrieve by plunging in cotton, but the market turned the wrong way, and he saw the last of Frank’s fortune swept away.

Then came the moment when the distracted professor stood before a mirror with a loaded revolver in his hand and selected the spot against which he would place the muzzle when he pressed the trigger.

As he lifted the weapon he remembered that he had not written to Frank. He sat down and wrote the letter that told Merry everything. The letter was given to Toots to mail, and then the professor locked himself in with the loaded revolver.

He walked the floor till he chanced to look in the glass once more and beheld his own reflection. Then he shook his head, saying:

“That is not Horace Scotch! It is a stranger to me. What a terrible thing it would have been if I had shot a stranger!”

He felt relieved to think he had escaped committing murder. He laughed softly, and then sat down on a rocking chair. As he rocked he hummed a light song to himself.

And thus he waited Frank’s appearance.

That night Toots assisted him to undress and get into bed.

“Yo’ mus’ be sick, p’ofessah,” said the colored boy, anxiously.

“You are mistaken,” said Scotch, wearily; “I am not the professor. I am an entire stranger. The professor is gone.”

Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

Toots shook his head and retired from the room.

Frank did not receive the letter till the following day, and then, as soon as possible, he started for Bloomfield.

It was ten in the evening when the train drew up at Bloomfield Station, and Frank stepped off, grip in hand.

There were few persons at the station. Some of them stared at him with curiosity.

Bloomfield was a sleepy town in the daytime, and now nearly all the houses lay in darkness.

Frank walked down the platform.

“To the hotel, sir?” asked a boy. “Let me carry your grip.”

Frank turned to look at the youngster and ran plump into another person.

“Confound you!” snapped the individual Merry had encountered. “Haven’t you any eyes?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Frank. “I was not look——”

He stopped short. A gleam of light from the station showed him the face of the person to whom he was speaking.

“Dyke Conrad!” muttered Merry.

“Yes,” said the young man; “but I don’t know you, unless you are—you are—— Why, you are Frank Merriwell!”

“Yes.”

They stood there looking at each other, the youth who had been ruined, and the son of the man who had ruined him.

Dyke had always disliked Merry, and now he grinned.

“Well, I don’t know why you have come here to Bloomfield,” he said. “There’s nothing here for you, and you might just as well stay away. In the future you won’t fly quite so high as you have in the past.”

With a sudden mad impulse, Frank half lifted his clinched fist, but he quickly let it fall by his side, turned out, passed the fellow who had taunted him, and walked on into the darkness.

Self-control had always been a strong feature in Frank’s make-up, and now he needed it more than ever.

CHAPTER IV.
THE REWARD OF WRONGDOING.

Frank walked slowly through the village and along the road that led toward what had been his home. As he approached he dreaded the meeting with the professor, and he let his steps become slower and slower.

The main part of the village soon lay behind. He took off his hat and carried it in his hand, letting the evening breeze cool his brow. There was a scent of fallen apples from the orchard he was passing. A bit of silvery sheen was showing in the east, telling that the moon would soon be up. Away in the distance a watchdog was barking, but that was the only sound to disturb the perfect peace of the tranquil night.

At last, through the trees, Frank saw a gleam of light that he knew came from a window of the old mansion that had become his on the death of his uncle. He wondered if the professor was sitting there by that light waiting for him to appear.

As he turned in upon the gravel walk somebody stepped out from beneath a low tree and spoke:

“Who am dat?”

“Toots,” said Frank, “is it you?”

“Bress de Lawd!” cried the colored boy. “It am Mistah Frank him ownself! Oh, sah, I’s po’erful glad yo’ has come!”

Then he embraced Frank.

Frank knew that whatever might happen the colored boy would remain faithful and true, and he appreciated Toots’ affection.

“How are things, Toots?”

“All done gone wrong—done gone wrong!” was the answer. “I dunno w’at’s de mattah, sah, but I knows suffin’ hab happened.”

“Why were you out here under this tree?”

“Watchin’ fo’ yo’, sah. De p’ofessah sent a lettah to yo’, an’ I s’pected yo’ was comin’.”

“He did not say I was coming?”

“No, sah. He’s been powerful strange, sah.”

“Strange? How?”

“He act queer, sah; an’ now he hab tooken his bed.”

“Taken his bed? Is he ill?”

“Think so, sah; but he won’t let me sen’ fo’ a doctah. Said he’d shoot de fus’ doctah showed his haid roun’ yeah, sah, an’ he keeps de revolvah undah his pillow.”

Frank whistled.

“I should say I have not arrived any too soon,” he muttered. “Can’t tell what the professor might take a fancy to do if he is acting that way.”

“I hab been berry scat ob him, sah!”

“I don’t wonder at that. Let me into the house without arousing anybody.”

“Dar am nobody to ’rouse ’cept de p’fessah an’ de cook. Yo’ can go right in, sah. Come on, sah.”

So Toots admitted Merry to the house, having taken the grip from him. Frank decided to go directly to the room of the professor, and mounted the stairs at once. The door of the chamber occupied by the professor was standing slightly ajar, and a light was burning within.

Frank pushed open the door and entered, stepping so lightly that he was not heard by the man.

The professor was in bed. He looked pale and careworn, and there were great hollows in his cheeks. He was not asleep, but lay gazing steadily up at the ceiling, his hands, which rested on the white spread, clasping and unclasping nervously.

There was no bitterness nor resentment in Frank’s heart, only pity as he stood there looking at the unfortunate man, for he could see that his guardian had been terribly shaken by all he had passed through. The lips of the man moved at times, but he spoke no words that Frank could hear.

After a little, the professor slowly turned his head, and his eyes rested on Frank. He did not start or show surprise.

Now Merry advanced quickly, saying:

“Professor, I have come! You are ill?”

“Yes,” said the man, in a weak voice; “I see you have come, but you are too late.”

“Too late? Oh, no, professor. I came as soon as possible after receiving your letter. I am so sorry to see this misfortune has completely upset you.”

“You are making a mistake.”

“I? A mistake? How?”

“You should not call me professor.”

“Why not?”

“The professor, Horace Scotch, is a rascal. Don’t interrupt me. I have thought it all out lying here. That man is a rascal. He should be properly punished. Any man that uses in speculation money held in trust by him is a rascal. It is a criminal act. Horace Scotch must receive his just deserts.”

“My dear professor——”

The man made a weak motion with one thin hand.

“That is where you make the mistake. I am not the professor. He is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vanished.”

“No, professor——”

“He is a coward, or he would not have run away!” faintly but savagely cried the man on the bed. “I did not know he had gone till I looked in the mirror. Till that moment I was thinking myself the professor, but when I looked in the mirror I saw I was quite another man. How he did it—how he slipped away and left me in his place I cannot tell. But here I am, and he is gone. He must be overtaken! He must be captured! He must be punished! You will do it?”

“No! no! I hold no bitterness, for I am sure he did not mean to squander my fortune. Oh, professor, you need have no fear that I will seek to punish you!”

“I—fear? Ha! I see it now! Somehow he left me in his place, and I am the one who is to suffer. Ha! ha! ha! Crafty rascal. Well, I know something was holding me here—I knew there was a spell upon me, for my strength was gone. He put a spell upon me that I might not get away, did he? Ha! ha! ha! Crafty rascal!”

Frank looked into the eyes of the man. They were bright and burning, as if they reflected the fires that were consuming his soul. It was not stimulation, Frank felt certain of that. The professor’s mind was shaken—his reason was tottering on its throne.

Instantly Frank decided to humor him and try to soothe his mind.

“Let the rascal go,” he said, softly. “No one shall be punished. Perhaps it is better for me that he should lose my small fortune than that he should have doubled it. If he had succeeded in making me very rich, I might have become a worthless fellow in the world, content to live on what I possessed. Now I shall have to become a worker, and only workers are worthy to live.”

The professor clasped his fingers very tightly together and stared at the ceiling for some seconds.

“You are right about that,” he said, at last; “but that does not make him any less a criminal. Why do you suppose that pain darts through my head when I try to think? It goes through my eyes and up into the top of my head like a knife.”

“You should not think. What you need is rest—is sleep.”

“I cannot sleep. I have tried. No matter. He left me here to suffer in his place. Perhaps it is right that I should not sleep.”

“No; it is wrong. Wait. I must wash off the dust. I will return in a short time.”

Then Frank went out, found Toots and sent him in haste for the village doctor.

The doctor came and made an examination. He talked with Scotch, asking him many questions. The professor was rambling in his talk. The doctor left some medicine and called Frank from the room.

“His condition is very serious,” said the physician, sagely. “He is threatened by a complete loss of his mental faculties. He must have perfect rest, and light, nourishing food. Give him the medicine according to the directions I have written, and I will call early in the morning. Good-night.”

Then he departed.

CHAPTER V.
THE MAN WHO WORKED THE WIRES.

All through the weary night Frank watched at the bedside of the professor, scarcely closing his eyes to sleep for a moment. When the gray light of morning came the sick man lay in a doze, for the medicine had taken effect at last.

Then Frank was relieved by Toots, and he sought rest.

The doctor sent an experienced nurse, who arrived by nine o’clock that forenoon. The doctor himself came shortly after, and Frank, who had been unable to sleep long, had a talk with him after he had seen the professor.

The doctor was very grave.

“The strain upon the man has been severe,” he said. “He may come round all right in a day or two. I hope to avert brain fever.”

“Do everything you can for him, doctor,” Merry urged. “You shall be well paid, for there must be still something left to pay bills with.”

The physician looked at Frank in a strange manner.

“This man has squandered your fortune?”

“No; he simply misapplied it.”

“And you hold no hard feelings against him?”

“No; I am sure he thought he was doing what was for the best. I pity him.”

“You are a strange young man.”

“Why so?”

“Few persons in your place would care to see him live, unless it were to punish him.”

“What good would it do me to punish him? That would not bring my money back, and it would give me no satisfaction. I think he is being punished now.”

“You are generous.”

“I fail to see the generosity. A person who could wish to harm that poor, old man would be cruel.”

“They say Darius Conrad led him into the first speculations. Have you no feelings against him?”

“Yes! He is the one who should be punished; but he is rich and powerful, and I am poor now. How can I reach him? His money would save him, as it has saved him from his other victims; but he will not always triumph. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but his turn will come!”

Frank’s eyes were flashing now, and his face showed the fire that was burning deep within his soul. Looking at him, the doctor suddenly awoke to the fact that there was something besides forgiveness in his nature. Frank would not forget the real cause of his ruin.

“Be careful, young man,” he warned. “If you seek revenge on him, you will find he is powerful, and he will crush you.”

Frank smiled grimly.

“I shall wait my time,” he said. “It will come, something tells me that. It may not be for years, but it will come.”

“What do you intend to do now that your fortune is gone?”

“Work.”

“At what?”

“I do not know yet. At something—anything.”

“But you are not accustomed to work; you were not brought up to work.”

“The time has come for me to get accustomed to it. I have played, and now I will work.”

“Don’t you dread it?”

“Dread it? No! I welcome it! When I leave Bloomfield it will be to go out into the world and seek honest work of some kind.”

“But you do not expect to become a common day laborer?”

“I expect to become what I must. It is an old saying that beggars must not be choosers.”

“But think of the disgrace of it!”

Frank drew himself up with dignity.

“The disgrace, doctor? There is no disgrace in honest toil. I shall not fear it.”

“Your hand, young man!” cried the physician. “You will get on in the world, I am sure of that. You have the right spirit, and you will make a success in life.”

“Thank you, sir; I hope you are right. I shall do my best.”

“And that will be good enough. I wish you the best of luck, which you will deserve.”

And the physician left the house thinking that the calamity that had befallen Frank Merriwell was not nearly as severe as he had at first imagined.

Frank ate a good breakfast, served by Toots, and then he went up and saw the professor. Scotch awoke, but turned his face away, with a weary sigh, and did not look at Frank again.

There was business ahead of Merry, for it was necessary to learn just how his affairs stood. He obtained the keys to the professor’s desk, and to the little safe, and spent the forenoon in rummaging among private papers and examining documents, but he could find very little to satisfy him.

After dinner he visited the lawyer who had done much of the business for the estate. Two hours spent with the lawyer convinced Frank that he would be fortunate to find a dollar that he could call his own when everything was settled. Indeed, it looked as if he would be forced to sell the old place in order to square all claims against him.

The lawyer attempted to condole with him, but Frank cut him short with the declaration that, although he appreciated the motive, he was not in need of sympathy. He left the office with a firm step, his head erect, his manner betraying no despondency.

And just outside the door he met Darius Conrad.

“Ah, Mr. Merriwell,” said the rascal, with an oily smile that was followed immediately by a look of pretended sorrow; “this is a most unfortunate affair. I assure you that you have my heartfelt sympathy in your misfortune.”

Frank stopped and surveyed the man from his head to his feet, and the look on his face was crushing. Darius Conrad seemed to wither before it, and he rubbed his hands together in a nervous manner.

“Mr. Conrad,” said Merry, very slowly, “it is unnecessary for you to play the hypocrite with me.”

“Eh? What do you mean, sir?”

“Just what I say. I know you for just what you are, and that is an unprincipled scoundrel!”

“Be careful! be careful!” blustered the man, growing red in the face and making a threatening gesture. “I will not endure such insolence from you!”

“I am glad of this opportunity to tell you just what I think of you,” said Frank, grimly. “If I had not met you here by accident, I should have sought you. You lured my guardian into your robber scheme, and you fleeced him easily, as you have many other men; but the time will come when you will overstep the bounds, and the hand of the law will reach you.”

“You have no right to make such statements! Horace Scotch was eager to invest money in the Golden Peaks Mining and Smelting Company. I did not lure him into doing so, and I will not be accused of it. He did ask my advice, and I gave it. I believed the concern solid and all right. I was mistaken, that is all.”

“It is known that the whole business was a fake, and you were one of the chief movers in it. The greater portion of the money you obtained through Horace Scotch went into your own pocket. It is not the first time you have been implicated in fraudulent concerns. Once you were a poor man; now you are rich. You have made your money by fraud and crime!”

“I will have you arrested for using such language. It is criminal libel!”

“You are at liberty to have me arrested, but you will not dare, for you know I might be able to put you in a very bad box. I do not fear you.”

“It is scandalous—scandalous! Why, I really sympathized with you. I thought you would appreciate it.”

“Sympathy from you? Now, I shall despise you even more than I did before!”

Dyke Conrad came up hastily at this moment.

“What is he saying to you, governor?” he asked, glaring at Frank. “Is he using insulting language? If he is, I will slap his face!”

Frank smiled.

“I wish you would do that,” he said, almost entreatingly. “I’d very much enjoy the privilege of knocking you down.”

Dyke hesitated. Something told him it would be very rash for him to attempt to slap Frank, so he said:

“Come away, governor. Don’t talk to the low fellow!”

And he led his father away.

CHAPTER VI.
THE SETTING OF THE SUN.

Toward evening Frank walked out to the village cemetery that lay on the hillside. The sun was letting fall its slanting rays on the marble shafts and white tombstones. Below the hill was a small, pretty lake.

Hat in hand, Frank Merriwell stood beside his mother’s grave, which was marked by a beautiful slender marble shaft, at the apex of which was a pure white dove.

The grave was well kept, as Frank had instructed that it should be. All the grass had been neatly trimmed by a lawn-mower, and the flowers of early autumn were growing there.

A long, long time the young man stood with his head bowed by the grave. His thoughts were of the tenderest and saddest nature. Once again he, a little boy, was standing beside the chair of his dear, sweet-faced mother, and he seemed to feel her arm about him, while he laid his head against her shoulder. How plainly he saw her as she looked fondly into his eyes and told him one of the many stories that he begged her to tell over and over, day after day. Not one of these stories but had a moral and taught a lesson, and yet they were so skillfully constructed and so beautifully told that they were his delight. He realized that with the aid of these little stories she had helped shape his future character, for they had taught him patience, perseverance, truthfulness, honesty, kindness and forgiveness.

He thought it all over now as he stood there in the last rays of the setting sun, and his heart swelled with gratitude and love for that mother of whom he had been so proud and who had been so proud of him. He knew that her whole life had been pure and tender and patient, and her memory was an inspiration.

The tears dimmed his eyes and ran down his cheeks, but on his face was a look of mingled sadness and happiness. Oh, it was good to have such a mother to remember.

Down by the grave he knelt, and he prayed to his mother in heaven. He felt that she was looking down on him and blessing him. He knew her spirit would hover near him and guide him. She had been an angel on earth, and it did not seem that she could be any purer now that she was an angel in heaven.

At last he rose. There had been a pain in his heart, but it was gone; there had been a sadness in his soul, but it was gone. He felt calm and at peace with all the world. From the grave he plucked a few sprigs, and with them in his hand he turned away.

The sun had set, and purple twilight lay in the valleys. Far across the meadows cows were lowing, while the boy, driving them homeward, whistled a merry strain. It seemed that there was nothing but peace and tranquillity in all the world.

Along the road came a horseman at a canter. Frank paid little notice to him till he was near, and then, happening to look at the person, he saw it was Dyke Conrad.

The fellow recognized Frank at the same moment. There was no sidewalk at this point, and Merry was walking along the road. With a muttered exclamation, Dyke cut the horse with his whip, and the spirited animal leaped straight at Frank.

It was an attempt to run Merry down, and Frank did not leap out of the way. Instead, with a swift movement and a grasp of iron, he caught the animal by the bit and set it on its haunches, with a single wrench, causing it to snort with terror and bringing Dyke tumbling into the dust.

Conrad sprang up, snarling forth angry words.

“What do you mean, you dog!” he almost shouted. “Why, I’ll—I’ll——”

“Be good enough to mount your horse and go on your way,” came quietly from Frank. “I do not wish to lift my hand in anger against you—now.”

“But you caught my horse by the bit and made me lose my seat.”

“I was forced to do it to protect myself when you tried to run me down.”

“You might have got out of the way!”

“There was little time for that. Come, do as I asked. I do not wish a quarrel with you now.”

Dyke took this as a symptom of fear.

“Oh, no, you don’t want a quarrel! I know that! But I think I’ll cut you across the face a few times with my whip, just so you will remember me.”

“Stop! Don’t force me to give you a drubbing now, for I have just come from my mother’s grave, and—I——”

“If your mother was like you——” The fellow got no further.

Releasing the horse, Frank sprang like a tiger upon him, caught him by the collar till Dyke choked and grew purple, then swiftly said:

“Take it back! You may insult me, but your lips shall not breathe a word about my mother! Take it back—quick!”

There was a look in Merry’s eyes that frightened Dyke as he had never been frightened before. Before he realized it, he was cowering and whimpering:

“I didn’t mean to say anything against your mother—honest, I didn’t. I spoke before I thought. Of course I wouldn’t say anything against anybody that is dead! Don’t! You choke!”

“You are not worth thrashing!” said Frank, in contempt. “But have a care! It is well you found me in my present mood, or I would not have let you off so easy. Go!”

He released the fellow and walked away, not once turning his head to see what Conrad was doing.

When Frank reached the house he found the place in confusion. The nurse had been driven from the professor’s room by the raving man, and she said he had a revolver, with which he said he was hunting for Horace Scotch, whom he would shoot on sight.

“He is crazy!” declared the excited woman. “He must be taken care of, or he will murder somebody.”

Frank unhesitatingly went up to the room, opened the door and entered. The professor was standing before a long mirror in his nightdress, with the revolver in his hand, talking wildly to himself.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed, shrilly. “So I have found you at last! You thought you could get away, you robber! Ha! ha! ha! There is no escape for such as you! You robbed the boy who trusted you! You deserve to die, and now you shall!”

Then he lifted the revolver and fired straight into the center of the mirror.

Frank reached him with a rush and grappled with him, attempting to hold him still and wrest the revolver from his grasp. But the professor developed the strength of a maniac for a time, and a terrible struggle ensued, in which the revolver was twice discharged, although neither of the bullets did any harm.

At last Frank secured the revolver, but even then the maniac fought on, screaming:

“He deserves death! He shall not escape! Let me go! I will kill him! I will kill him!”

“Be quiet, professor!” commanded Frank, as he finally forced the man down upon a chair and held him there. “Be still, I tell you! You know me. I am Frank.”

“Then why didn’t you let me kill him?” panted the man, giving up at last. “You are the one he robbed. He should die, as he deserves! He was a coward! Once he stood up to shoot himself with that very pistol, but his nerve failed him, and he ran away, leaving me here in his place. I have been watching for him to come back. Ha! ha! ha! Oh, he can’t escape!”

Frank talked soothingly to the man, and finally got him back into the bed. The professor was deathly white, and his eyes fairly burned. His hands were hot and cold by turns.

Frank sat by the bedside till the doctor came and gave the sick man something that put him to sleep.

When the physician heard Frank’s story, he shook his head, saying:

“I am afraid he is done for. There is every indication that his reason is shattered. If he has another violent spell, you will be forced to have him taken to a place where he can be properly cared for.”

“As long as there is a ray of hope, doctor, he shall remain here, and I will care for him myself.”

That night Frank slept in a room near at hand, with the door standing open, so that he could hear the nurse if she called. At intervals he awoke and listened. Midnight passed, morning approached. Frank was sleeping in the gray light of dawn when the nurse awoke him and said:

“He is awake now and a great change has come over him. He is asking for you.”

CHAPTER VII.
PHANTOM FINGERS.

Frank rose immediately, a feeling of sickening dread stabbing him to the heart.

When he entered the professor’s chamber, the sick man lay with his face turned toward the door. Near the bed a lamp burned faintly, although the pale light of morning sifted in at the windows.

“Professor, you are better!”

Frank uttered the exclamation gently, hurrying to the bedside and clasping the thin hands that lay on the white spread.

“Do you think so?” asked the man, with a voice that seemed to come from a great distance.

“Yes, yes! You will soon be well now!”

“But you—you cannot wish to see me get well? You would not wish, even though I have been false to my trust and ruined you, that I should recover and spend the rest of my days in prison? I am an old, old man. At best there could not be many years left for me. They would be made shorter within prison walls.”

“Don’t, professor—don’t talk about prisons!”

“Ah! but I am a criminal! Were I to get well, it would be your duty to send me to prison.”

“Then, for once in my life, at least, I would shirk my duty!” cried Frank.

The thin, cold fingers tightened over the warm ones of the youth, and a light of happiness and admiration showed in the failing eyes.

“You are noble-hearted!” murmured the sick man. “Oh, heavens! how much would I give could I undo the wrong I have done you!”

“There, there, professor! Think no more of that. Perhaps you have done me the greatest good that could happen to me, for I shall be compelled to make my own way in the world, and I might have been a sluggard.”

“No, not that! I am sure there is nothing of the sluggard in your nature. A young man like you, with a small fortune to start on, has great opportunities in life. I robbed you of those opportunities when I lost your fortune.”

“I will make other opportunities, professor.”

“I believe it, my boy; but still I am guilty. I do not care to get well. I am glad the end is near.”

Again that feeling of sickening dread stabbed Frank to the heart.

“You must not talk like that, professor. You are far better than you were.”

“I think I must have been deranged. It seems like a bad dream to me. But that is past. Put out that light, please. It seems to stifle me.”

The light was extinguished and the nurse carried it from the room, leaving the man and youth alone together.

“It is morning,” whispered the sick man; “but how thin and pale the light is! I wonder if I shall see the sunlight shining in at that window again?”

“Of course you will! You must stop thinking and talking like that. I can’t bear it, professor.”

“Oh, you have a kind and noble heart! I have known it always. Frank, I could not have loved you more had you been my own son. I was an old fool and easily duped. I thought I would make a large fortune for you. It was for you alone that I was thinking; not for myself. It seemed a safe investment. Ah, but that man could make things look promising! And then, when I had lost more than half of your fortune, I had not the courage to confess. I was desperate. It seemed that my last hope was to plunge again. I went into cotton, and was led on till I reached the last ditch. The crash came at last, and everything was swept away.

“My boy, this goes to show how one false step leads to another, and to final ruin. Beware of the first step. There is seldom any turning back for a person who once goes wrong. Honor is lost with the first false move, and then the fine sensibilities become dulled so that the descent, slow at first, becomes swift and sure after a time. The black secret cannot be kept long. When it becomes known that the first downward step has been taken, confidence in you is lost, and those who know of your mistake are always expecting you to repeat it. You discover this, and their lack of confidence in you causes you to doubt yourself. As soon as you doubt yourself, the battle has turned against you, and your defeat must follow.”

The professor paused, quite out of breath. After some seconds, he hastened to say:

“I know you do not need this sermon, my boy, but something drew it from me. You have learned the lesson well, and I am sure there is no cause to fear for you. Your mother taught you all these things. I had hoped to live to see you prosperous and successful, an honored man among men. All those hopes are ended. I am weary now, and I shall soon be at rest.”

The final words came like a sigh, and, looking into the face of the sick man, Frank saw the seal of the Destroyer there. Then Merry knew that the time had come for a mortal being to face the Great Creator. Like the lamplight that faded in the day dawn the human flame was growing dimmer in the dawn of Eternity.

A breeze came up and moved the trees outside. Upon a window pane some twigs were tapping like the ghostly fingers of death seeking admittance to that chamber. The swaying of the branches made shifting blots and blurs on the ceiling. They were shadowy hands that beckoned, beckoned, beckoned.

“I was lonely in the world,” said the sinking man, after a time; “I was lonely till you came into my life. Others did not understand me. They said I was erratic and cranky. You seemed to understand me, and there was a bond of sympathy between us. Now, at the last, you are the only one to be with me. It is well; I ask no more.”

The dim eyes rested lovingly on Frank’s face, and the thin hands still clung to those of the youth. Frank tried to speak, but he choked, and then, despite his efforts, burst into tears, dropping his face upon the bed.

“Don’t!” entreated the professor, placing one hand on Frank’s head. “It is not right that you should weep for me, the cause of your misfortune.”

“Please don’t speak of that again!” sobbed Frank. “Do not make it any harder for us both! You have been like a father to me, and it does not seem that the time has come when we must part!”

“It is better. As I said, I am an old man. I have squandered your fortune, and I would be adrift in the world, a wrecked vessel—a derelict on the ocean of life.”

“Not that, professor, for I would stand by you.”

“You? Why, you have your own way to make in the world. You must set a course for yourself and keep to it. Many a good vessel has been sunk by a worthless derelict. It is better that I should go down than, worthless and helpless, I should remain afloat.”

Again his voice failed him. Wiping away his tears, Frank saw the shadow had deepened on the pale face, and the eyes were dimmer than before.

Tap! tap! tap! It seemed that the knocking at the window was louder and more insistent. The dying man heard it.

“What is that?” he whispered, in a tone that filled Frank with awe. “Do you hear that rapping?”

“Yes.”

“Let them enter.”

“It is nothing—nothing but the branches that reach the window.”

“No, no! They have come for me, the boatmen who are to take me over the dark river. Let them enter!”

The weary eyes closed, and Frank leaned forward, thinking the end had come. After some minutes, however, there was a slight heaving of the breast, and the eyes opened again, as if by some mighty effort the dying man had dragged his soul back from the borders of the unknown.

“Frank,” came the whisper like the wind amid the leaves, “are you there?”

“Yes, professor.”

“I had forgotten something. I could not go till you forgave me for the injury I have done you.”

“I freely forgive everything.”

A faint smile came to the life-weary face.

“Now I can go.”

Again the wind swept through the trees.

“Do you hear them? They are rapping again! You have not opened the window!”

“No.”

“Do so at once! Admit them!”

An arm was lifted and a hand pointed toward the window. Frank crossed the room and threw the casement wide. At that moment the morning sunlight shone through the trees and reached the window. When Frank turned about one bright ray was resting on the peaceful face of the dead.

CHAPTER VIII.
UNWELCOME VISITORS.

It was all over at last. The funeral had been held, and Horace Scotch was buried in the little village cemetery.

Frank returned to the old mansion, which seemed so lonely and deserted now. From room to room he strayed, and the memories that hung about the old place crowded thick upon him.

In one of the rooms was an old melodeon that had not been opened for years. He opened it and sat down to it, letting his fingers stray over the keys. It was marvelous how well it was in tune, considering the fact that it had not been played upon for so long.

Frank played many of the old tunes that he remembered. Toots crept up and listened at the door, not making a sound to disturb the young master he loved so well.

At last Frank sang, and the song was one that thrills every heart, “Home; Sweet Home.”

“An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain;

Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;

The birds singing gayly, that come at my call;

Give me them, sweet peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

“Farewell, peaceful cottage! farewell, happy home!

Forever I’m doomed a poor exile to roam;

This poor aching heart must be laid in the tomb,

Ere it cease to regret the endearments of home.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

As Frank stopped singing, he was surprised to hear a sobbing sound behind him, and he turned to see Toots kneeling in the doorway, his face buried in his hands.

“Why, what is the matter with you, Toots?” asked Merry, rising and going toward the colored boy.

It was some moments before Toots could answer. Frank lifted him to his feet.

“Oh, Mistah Frank,” sobbed the colored lad, “I feel so bad!”

“Everything will come out all right in the end, my boy.”

“Dat song neah broke me all up, sah. Dis ole place hab been mah home so long, an’ now—an’ now——”

“And now we must bid it farewell. It is hard, but it is life.”

“I dunno what’s gwan teh become ob me, sah.”

“I will look out for you, Toots. I’ll see that you have a good position somewhere. You are faithful and reliable. You love horses, and you would make a first-class jockey. Don’t worry. I must go out and hustle myself. It needs a stout heart to face the world.”

“Dat’s right, sah, but when I think ob leabin’ dis ole place it clean breaks mah heart.”

Frank succeeded in comforting the colored boy after a time. He spoke to Toots as gently as if the lad’s skin had been white, and the face of the boy showed his love and admiration for his young master.

It was not easy for Frank to throw off the cloud of sadness that bore down upon him, but he made an effort to do so. There was work before him ere he could leave Bloomfield. All the tangled affairs must be straightened, and every account must be settled.

It was some time before Frank could learn just how matters stood, but he succeeded at last, and then he found, as he had feared, that the old place must be sold. It was necessary, too, to dispose of it immediately.

Thus it came about that soon the whole of Bloomfield knew the Merriwell mansion was for sale. Darius Conrad had his eye on the place. Believing it must be disposed of at a great sacrifice, he was eager to get possession of it, and so, with small loss of time, he set out to look the property over.

Toots answered the ring at the door when Darius and his son Dyke called. Young Conrad had been eager to accompany his father, thinking he would find an opportunity to sneer at Frank and be quite safe with his father near.

Toots knew Darius Conrad, and he would have shut the door in the man’s face, but Conrad forced his way in, followed by his worthy son.

“I wish to see Frank Merriwell,” said the man.

“Well, sah,” answered the colored boy, frankly, “I don’ believe he wants teh see yo’, sah.”

“None of your insolence!” growled Darius, shaking his cane. “This is a matter of business.”

“Then I am suah Mistah Frank don’ care teh see yo’. He don’ do business in yoah style, sah.”

“Haw!” snorted the man, growing red in the face. “Why, you black rascal! I will——”

“Bettah be careful how yo’ call names, sah! It don’ set well fo’ a man ob youah class to call anybody a rascal.”

“Shall I thump him, governor?” asked Dyke, aggressively.

“Huah! Jes’ yo’ try hit!” shouted Toots, putting up his hands. “I’d jes’ lak teh see yo’ try hit! Why, I’d smash yeh quicker dan a cat could wink! Yes, sah—yes, indeed!”

“Don’t get into a quarrel with a nigger, Dyke,” cautioned the father.

“Niggah!” exploded Toots. “I’s a cullad gemman, sah, an’ yeh wants teh ’dress me wif respec’.”

“Call your master immediately.”

“Tell yeh he don’ want teh see yeh.”

“I have come to look this place over in view of purchasing it. I understand it is for sale.”

“Mistah Frank won’t sell hit teh yo’, sah.”

“I am not here to waste my breath with you.”

“There is the doah. I guess yo’ hab beat Mistah Frank enough, an’ he’d be silly if he let yo’ beat him some moah.”

“If you do not call him at once, I’ll make you sorry for it! Such insolence I never met before!”

“What is the matter down there, Toots?” called the voice of Frank Merriwell from the head of the stairs.

“Sah, Mistah Conrad insists on seein’ yo’, sah.”

“Mr. Conrad?”

“Yes, sah.”

“I do not care to see the man.”

“I tole him so, sah.”

“Tell him to go away.”

“I tole him dat, sah.”

“What then?”

“He won’t go, sah. He forced his way into the house, an’ I can’t mek him go out.”

There was a sharp exclamation, and Frank came swiftly downstairs in dressing gown and slippers. He halted near the foot of the stairs and gave the two Conrads a withering look.

“I must say that you have considerable crust to come here and force yourselves into this house!” he exclaimed, scornfully.

“Now, don’t talk like that—don’t talk like that, young man!” spluttered Darius. “We didn’t come here to be insulted. We came here on a matter of business.”

“I do not care to transact any business with you.”

“Dar!” shouted Toots, exultantly. “Didn’t I tole yeh! Dat am jes’ what I said!”

“I understand that this place is for sale,” said Conrad, ignoring Frank’s words. “If the terms are satisfactory, and if it suits me, I will buy it.”

“No, you will not.”

“Eh? what do you mean?”

“I will not sell it to you.”

“I knowed it!” nodded Toots, grinning triumphantly.

“But I am ready to pay spot cash, young man—spot cash. Do you understand? I have the money.”

“I know you have it, and I know how you obtained it. No, Darius Conrad, not one dollar of money will I accept from you. This place is for sale, but you can’t buy it.”

“I guess dat will hole yeh fo’ a while!” muttered Toots.

“Well, I must say you are ridiculous!” stormed Conrad—“perfectly ridiculous! If you will be reasonable——”

“There is the door, sir,” said Frank, stepping from the stairs and pointing to the door, which Toots held open. “This is still my house. Will you leave it? or do you choose to be put out?”

“He’s actually threatening us, governor!” cried Dyke.

“Don’t dare threaten me, young man!” snarled Darius, shaking his cane at Frank. “If you do, I’ll give you a good caning, and that is what you deserve!”

“Go!”

“I will not be driven out in——”

Frank grasped the man by the collar and marched him out in a hurry, despite his endeavors to break away.

“Here! here!” cried Dyke, springing on Frank. “Stop that!”

Merry turned and grappled with the younger rascal. He laughed as he swung Dyke off his feet, having grasped him by the collar and the seat of the trousers.

Wildly flourishing his cane, Darius Conrad was hurrying in at the door just as his son came sailing out, having been hurled by the muscular arms of Frank Merriwell.

The young man struck his father fairly amidships, and over they went together, rolling down the steps to the ground.

For the first time in a week, Toots doubled up and shouted with laughter.

“Good-day, gentlemen,” said Frank, gently, as he closed the door.

CHAPTER IX.
CAPTURED BY WHITECAPS.

Fuming with fury, the Conrads walked back into the village.

“I think I will have him arrested!” grated Darius. “Assault and battery—that’s the charge! He must be punished for what he has done, the young ruffian!”

“That’s right, governor,” whined Dyke, who walked with a limp, and had a general shaken-up appearance. “If you don’t give it to him, I will!”

“You? Haw! You are no match for him.”

“Not alone.”

“Nor with me to aid you. Why, the fellow has muscles of steel, and he is quick as a cat!”

“You wouldn’t be asked to help.”

“Hum! No? What are you driving at?”

“You remember how Eli Gibbons was used when he refused to leave town a while ago?”

“Yes. It was scandalous. He was nearly killed by a gang of masked ruffians who carried him off into the woods somewhere, stripped him, tied him to a tree and lashed him with withes till he fainted. Several papers had articles in them about the outbreak of whitecaps right here in our county.”

“Well, I know the fellows who did that job,” grinned Dyke.

“You do?” gasped the father, with a look of great consternation and distress. “My son, I am astonished—I am pained! It cannot be that you associate with such disreputable characters? I will not believe it!”

“Perhaps, if it became necessary, they could be induced to give Mr. Frank Merriwell some of the same medicine. But of course, if you are going to have him arrested, it will not be necessary.”

“Haw! No, of course not. On second thought, however, I am not sure that the charge against him would stand. He might defeat us. He might show that we were the aggressors. That colored boy would swear to anything.”

“In that case——”

“Really, I don’t see that anything can be done.”

“Then the Bloomfield whitecaps will have to take a hand. Oh, he’ll be fixed, governor!”

“Hum! Don’t speak to me of such lawless acts. Really, I cannot countenance anything of the kind. Of course he should receive some punishment. If whitecaps were to take him out and give him such a walloping as Gibbons received, it would be my duty as a peaceable, law-abiding citizen to frown down upon such acts. However, in case it were discovered that you were concerned in it, Dyke, as a parent, I should be obliged to protect you. Money would do that, you know. It is a most disgraceful state of affairs, I must confess, but money will do almost anything in this country.”

“Then we’d better go ahead and do him up, hadn’t we, governor?”

“My son, my son!” cried the old hypocrite, with uplifted hands; “you know I always set my face against such acts of unlawfulness. I am a good citizen and a church member. However, you are too old for me to control now, and I shall not hold myself responsible for your acts. The proud in spirit should be humbled in the dust, even though it may be by human agency, and Frank Merriwell needs humbling.”

Dyke grinned.

“He’ll get humbling enough,” the young rascal declared. “Wait till the gang gets after him. But I’ll need some money to fix it with the gang. There are seven of them, and they won’t do a thing less than ten dollars each. About a hundred dollars will do the trick.”

“I don’t see where the money is coming from.”

“You’ll have to cough, governor.”

“I? You forget! Why, I have told you plainly that I do not countenance such things. The idea that I would give money to have anything of the kind carried on! I am shocked! But I believe you need a new suit of clothes, my son. I am pleased to see you well dressed. Here is a hundred dollars to purchase a new suit.”

Darius took out a roll of bills and stripped off a fifty, two twenties and a ten, which he passed to Dyke.

“That new suit of clothes will be a great deal warmer for Mr. Frank Merriwell than for me,” grinned the worthy son of a worthy father. “This is all right, governor. You’ll hear something drop some of these dark nights.”

“There, there! Don’t mention such disgraceful proceedings to me again. I am pained at the mere thought. If you need any more money for that suit let me know.”

By this time they were in the village, and they separated, Darius going to his office, while his son sought “the gang.”

So it happened that one night as Frank was returning home from the village, he was tripped by a rope stretched across the road about a foot from the ground. Before he could recover, he was pounced upon by a gang of masked ruffians.

Frank made a savage fight, but he was overpowered by superior numbers, and his hands were tied behind his back, while a gag was forced into his mouth. In order to compel him to take the gag between his teeth, he was choked till he was nearly dead.

After this treatment, Frank was too weak to walk. The ruffians did not dare remain in the road longer than absolutely necessary, so the captive was picked up and carried across fields, over fences and into a dark strip of woods.

In the woods the gang rested.

“Well, he made a hard fight fer it,” said one.

“Come mighty near gettin’ away oncet,” observed another.

“Get out!” exclaimed a third. “He made us hustle, that’s all. I expected it. He’s an athlete.”

“Where we goin’ to take him?”

“To the old house.”

“Let’s make him walk.”

“Perhaps he will walk of his own willin’ness, but I don’t believe you can make him. He can’t be drove much.”

“Oh, he’ll be easy enough to handle before the night is over, if the chap that hired us to do this trick carries out his plan.”

Frank heard this talk. He was wondering what it all meant. Why had he been set upon in such a manner and handled so roughly? Why had he been made a captive and taken there into the woods?

He had not been suspecting danger when he was set upon, and so was quite unprepared.

At last the gang was ready to start on again, and Frank was placed on his feet and marched along in their midst. He made no resistance now, feeling that it was folly to do so.

There was a road through the woods, but it was rough and crooked, and they all stumbled along in the darkness, some of them uttering language of a savage nature.

After some time they came to an opening. Frank heard the sound of a waterfall, and then he was taken into a dark house that stood there in the woods.

The door closed behind him, and he was pushed through a hall. Then another door opened, and a lighted room was entered.

In that room a single person was waiting. He was roughly dressed, and over his head was a cowl-like cap of white that fell to his shoulders. In this were two slits for eyeholes.

This person was standing when the other whitecaps forced Frank into the room. He uttered an exclamation of satisfaction when he saw Merriwell.

“Well done!” he cried, in a disguised voice. “I was beginning to fear you had failed.”

So this was the person who had ordered the capture. Frank looked at him searchingly.

“None of your insolent staring!” grated the leader, and, reaching Frank with a single stride, he struck him on the cheek with the open hand.

Quick as thought, Frank lifted a foot and kicked the fellow fairly across the room!

CHAPTER X.
COWARDLY WORK.

Bang!

The fellow struck up against the wall and fell to the floor, where he lay, groaning dismally.

There were exclamations of astonishment from the other members of the gang.

“Well,” grunted one, a strapping six-footer, “he’s tied and gagged, but he is still able to fight.”

“He’s—half—killed—me!” gasped the fellow Frank had kicked. “But I’ll make him suffer for it!”

“Better see his feet are tied before you try any more tricks with him,” half laughed the big whitecap, who seemed to admire Frank’s pluck.

“Tie his legs!” grated the leader, sitting up, but still groaning. “Tie them at the knees!”

Frank made a sudden leap and placed his back against the wall, while his eyes flashed the defiance and warning his lips could not utter. It was plain enough that he meant to defend himself as long as possible, bound though he was.

“At him!” snarled the leader. “Jump on him!”

“Why don’t you get in and do some of the jumping?” asked the big fellow. “Here’s a nice chance for you.”

“Oh, I will! I’ll——”

He finished with a cry of pain and fell back to the floor, after trying to rise.

“My leg!” he gasped. “I believe it is broken!”

A sound like mocking laughter came from behind the gag in Merry’s mouth.

“He’s laughing!” muttered one of the gang, in astonishment.

“Good grit!” nodded the big fellow.

“I believe you are in sympathy with him!” snarled the leader. “Help me up, somebody!”

They aided him to rise, but it was with difficulty that he could stand unassisted upon his feet. He leaned against the wall, glaring in a deadly manner at the defiant captive.

“Are you going to let him stand there and bluff you all?” he fumed. “You can down him with a rush. Go at him now!”

“We’re not paid for that,” said the big fellow. “We were paid to catch him and bring him here. That’s what we’ve done.”

“I’ll pay you! Down him! I’ll make it five dollars more all round.”

“That goes!” was the cry, and the ruffians rushed upon Frank.

Then Merry’s feet came into play. In France he had learned the art of boxing with his feet, and he could handle them almost as nimbly as an ordinary boxer could handle his fists. The first man to spring at him received a kick in the stomach that doubled him up like a jack-knife, the next was hurled to the floor, and the third got one on the side of the head that sent him staggering away, bewildered and blinded.

But there were too many of them, and Frank was not able to stand them off more than a few seconds. They crushed him to the floor, and his legs were bound at the knees, as the leader directed.

In this assault the big fellow had taken no part. He stood aloof, his arms folded over his broad breast, looking on with an air of indifference.

When Frank was subjugated and helpless, the leader turned on the big fellow and expressed anger at his conduct.

“That will do!” was the surly retort that was growled from beneath the mask. “I won’t stand it from you! I did my part of this business according to agreement. I did not agree to do anything more.”

“You don’t get an extra V.”

“I don’t want it, so don’t worry yourself.”

The leader ordered a fire to be built in the old open fireplace, and his directions were carried out. He could scarcely hobble round, and he was in an ugly mood.

With his own hands, he removed the gag from Frank Merriwell’s mouth.

“That is better,” said Frank, coolly. “My jaws were aching.”

“That will be nothing to what is coming!” declared the fellow. “I’ll make you wish you never were born!”

“Marvelous! You must be a perfect savage.”

“Well, I am going to treat you the way savages sometimes treat their captives.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“You’ll be more so before I am done with you. Oh, I’ll make you whimper and beg!”

“Yes? Bright prospect for me; but it’s possible you had better think it over before you go into it. It might not be healthy for you in the end. There are other days coming—and other nights.”

“Bah! You put up a good bluff, but it does not go. I’ll take some of the nerve out of you!”

“Your turn will come! Whatever you do will not be forgotten.”

“Rot! You are welcome to remember it. Little good that will do you.”

“Oh, I don’t know! I may make it decidedly uncomfortable for you.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You will not know whom to strike.”

“Don’t fool yourself with that idea, Mr. Dyke Conrad!”

The leader started and caught his breath. Then he forced a harsh laugh.

“That will be all right,” he said, with attempted flippancy. “You are welcome to think me Dyke Conrad.”

“I do not think anything about it.”

“Indeed.”

“I know!”

“How?”

“By your voice, your manner, your gestures—everything about you.”

“That won’t do. You are welcome to think what you like. I am not Dyke Conrad, but I’m willing you should think so.”

“Dyke Conrad is the only person in Bloomfield, with the exception of his estimable father, who could wish me harm. Whatever happens to me to-night, Dyke Conrad shall suffer for, and that is no bluff. You will find that I can strike when I am aroused.”

The leader of the ruffians ground his teeth together.

“When I am done with you, you will not be in condition to bother anybody for some time to come!” he hissed.

“Oh, but I do not forget easily. I have a splendid memory. If you wish to escape my vengeance for this night’s work, I advise you to kill me outright—then you will hang for it.”

“Oh, I’ll take chances! I am satisfied as long as you believe me Dyke Conrad. I don’t care what you do to him.”

The fellow looked toward the fire, which was beginning to blaze brightly. He nodded his head, with a gesture of satisfaction.

“It will soon be ready,” he muttered.

“Are you going to fry me, or broil me?” asked Frank.

“You will be well warmed,” was the answer. “Somebody sit on his legs and keep him still while his shoes are removed.”

This order was obeyed, and Frank’s feet were stripped till they were bare. Then Merry realized the dastardly purpose of his captor, and, despite himself, he turned faint.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the leader. “Now you are guessing it, and you’re getting pale. I knew you would lose your nerve. I’ll have the satisfaction of hearing you whimper and whine.”

“You cowardly cur!” came contemptuously from Frank’s lips. “You are not a human being! You are a brute! You should associate with cowardly savages. They would make fit companions for such a beast as you!”

“Be careful!” snarled the fellow. “Every word will be charged up against you, and you’ll not get off any the easier for them.”

“It is not possible for me to express my contempt for you by words!” said Frank, his voice clear and distinct.

“You’ll be expressing something else in a short time. Oh, you sing high now, you do; but your tune will change, and you will cry pretty soon.”

The wretch selected a brand from the fire and laughed as he flashed the blaze before Frank’s face.

“Is it warm?” he asked. “Well, it will seem warmer when I apply it to the tender skin on your feet.”

“Go ahead!” grated Merry; “but do not forget what I have told you. My turn will come!”

The fellow prepared to apply the blaze to Frank’s feet, but, as he stooped to do so, another voice was heard:

“Stop!”

It was the tall whitecap, and he was pointing straight at the leader.

“Stop!” he roared. “This job doesn’t go!”

CHAPTER XI.
FRANK’S STRANGE FRIEND.

There was no misunderstanding the big fellow’s meaning. It was plain enough that he intended to interfere.

“What’s that?” snarled the leader, glaring through the slits in the hood, the blazing brand shaking in his hand. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say,” retorted the other, standing over Frank and returning the glare with interest. “This fellow’s all right. He’s got nerve and sand. I’m not goin’ to stand here and see him roasted in that style.”

Angry imprecations burst from the hidden lips of Merriwell’s would-be torturer.

“Stand back!” he shouted, shrilly, flourishing the brand at Frank’s defender.

“Well, I guess not! I helped lace Eli Gibbons, for he was a thief, a liar, a wife-beater, and everything mean; but this case is different.”

“And I know you were in the Gibbons affair, so it’s not best for you to interfere here. I could have a warrant out for your arrest to-morrow morning, and, by the Eternal, if you meddle with me now, I will! This is my business. You were paid for your part of the work, and you did it.”

“Why, blame your eyes!” roared the big fellow. “If you dared to blow on me, I’d skin ye alive! Since I’ve seen what you mean to do with this chap, whose little finger is more man than the whole of you, I’d like the job of tying you up to a tree and giving you the same kind of a dose Gibbons received!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why, my father—my father would have you sent to prison!”

The big fellow snapped his fingers and laughed.

“That for your father! He wouldn’t touch me, for if he did, I would land his son behind bars. Oh, you can’t make any bluffs with me, for they will not go.”

Dyke Conrad, for it was that worthless rascal, literally gnashed his teeth. With the cruelty of a savage, he had planned to torture Merriwell, whom he bitterly hated, and now he could not endure the thought of being robbed of his fiendish enjoyment by one of his hired tools.

He appealed to the others.

“Stand by me, fellows!” he cried. “I’ll double the amount paid you!”

He turned to make this appeal, and, in that moment, the big fellow reached down with one hand, grasped Frank and stood him on his feet. Then, with remarkable swiftness, he retreated to the wall, bearing Merry.

“I’ll have you free in a minute,” he declared.

“Thank you,” said Frank, quietly. “I’ll not forget it.”

“Oh, I’m not doing this for any reward. I’m naturally a mean cuss, but I couldn’t keep still and see a fellow with your grit roasted by that miserable sneak.”

He whipped out a jack-knife and opened it.

Seeing the revolter was about to set Frank free, Dyke Conrad uttered a howl of rage and rushed at him. There was a short struggle, and then, with a scream, Dyke staggered backward.

“I’m stabbed!” he gasped, and fell to the floor, blood spurting from a wound in his side.

“The fool ran right onto the knife!” panted the big fellow, hastily cutting the ropes that held Frank. “I didn’t mean to hit him with the knife. I could handle him with one hand.”

“It’s unfortunate,” said Frank; “but he brought it on himself.”

“You will testify to that if he dies?”

“Yes.”

“I can depend on you?”

“You may.”

The horrified whitecaps gathered about their fallen leader, who was groaning and moaning on the floor, his blood-stained fingers pressed to his side.

“I’m dying, fellows!” whimpered Dyke. “I have been murdered! Oh, dear! I can’t die now—I can’t die!”

Frank Merriwell stepped forward, boldly, moving the helpless whitecaps aside, and knelt beside the wounded youth.

Dyke saw him and tried to move away.

“Oh, don’t!” he whined. “Don’t hurt me now! I’m dying!”

“I will not hurt you,” assured Frank. “I have no desire to harm you now. I am here to help you—if I can.”

“To help me?” repeated Dyke, in wonder.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Let me look at that wound. It may not be so bad, and I may be able to check the flow of blood till it can be properly cared for.”

“Would you do that—for me?”

“Yes. I do not wish to see you die. As yet you have done me no great injury. It is your father who has injured me.”

Frank opened the fellow’s coat and vest, and then made a slit in his shirt and under-garment, exposing the wound, which was bleeding freely. The sight of the blood completely unmanned Dyke, who sobbed:

“Oh, I know I shall die! I am not ready to die! It is a terrible thing to have to die! Save me—save me somehow!”

“Keep still,” ordered Frank, sharply. “It’s useless to get so excited. From the looks, I do not believe this wound is serious, although it is bleeding profusely. I want this hood.”

He took it from Dyke’s head and tore it into strips. Then, with skill that set those who watched him wondering, he bound up the wound, aided by the big fellow.

“There,” said Frank, “that will stop the bleeding in a measure; but you must get to the nearest doctor as soon as you can, and have the cut properly treated.”

“Come,” said the big whitecap, touching Frank’s arm.

But Merry waited till he had seen Dyke assisted to his feet.

“I can’t walk!” whined the fellow.

“It is walk or bleed to death, and you have your choice,” said Frank.

It was wonderful how soon Dyke was able to walk.

As Frank and the companion who had befriended him were leaving, one of the other whitecaps spoke to their companion.

“Look here,” he said, “you are not going to blow on us?”

“Not on your life!” was the answer. “You need not be afraid of that. I shall not blow on any of my pals.”

“All right. We didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry.”

Then Frank and his strange friend set out through the woods and the darkness, Merry following the lead of the other.

They proceeded in silence till the edge of the woods was reached. There the big fellow halted, saying:

“We will part here.”

“All right,” said Frank, holding out his hand. “I want to thank you for your friendship.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“I think you do. But for you, I might have walked on crutches for some time to come, or been crippled for the remainder of my life. I was in a bad box, and I could not help myself.”

“That is true, but I helped put you in that box. Not till you showed your nerve was I ready to stand by you. If you had been a coward, I should not have had the least sympathy with you; but I couldn’t stand by and see Conrad torture a chap with sand.”

“Won’t you tell me your name? You may be sure of my friendship. You need not fear to trust me.”

“I do not fear to trust you, for I am sure that a fellow with your grit is on the level; but I do not deserve your friendship, and I will not tell you my name. It makes no difference who I am. You may be sure I am of no account, or I would not be in with such a gang.”

“Why don’t you cut clear from them? You have the making of a man in you—you are a man! It is a mistake for you to be associating with such a crowd.”

“Perhaps you are right. I never thought much about that, but I shall think of it in the future. You have made me ashamed of myself to-night, Frank Merriwell; and I believe I shall turn over a new leaf.”

“I hope you will. If you ever need a friend, come to me. All you will have to do is to mention this time.”

“I believe you. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

Thus they parted.

CHAPTER XII.
FOR HIS ENEMY.

“Fire!”

Two nights after the events just related, Frank had taken his evening walk and was returning to the old place, which he was leaving forever on the morrow, as it was already sold, and the writings had been made.

The cry reached his ears from a distance.

The cry of fire at night has a weird, peculiar sound, once heard never forgotten.

Frank started from the spell that had been on him. He threw up his head and listened.

“Fire!”

Again the cry reached his ears. It came from a distant part of the village.

Quick as thought he whirled about and ran in that direction.

In the city the alarm is sometimes heard, but, more frequently, the first knowledge of the fire comes from the sight of the engine as it goes dashing to the rescue.

In small country places the wild cry of fire is almost always the first alarm.

Frank knew this. He had lived in cities where the sound of the clanging gong of a fire engine scarcely awakened passing notice; but now he was in a small country town, and it was different.

He had not exerted himself to the utmost for some time, and, with something like a feeling of exultation at the opportunity, he sped along the road.

“Fire!”

The cry sounded nearer. He was in the border of the village, and he thought he saw a red glow ahead and to the right. He turned a corner and sped onward.

Soon he came upon others who were running in the same direction. And then, after a little, he located the red glow beyond a doubt.

Lights were flashing in the windows of the houses, showing that the inhabitants had been awakened and were rising hastily.

“Where is it?” asked a man who dashed out from one of the houses.

“Don’t know,” Merry answered, and sped onward.

“It must be Rufus Gray’s house!” shouted a man who was running and puffing along the street.

Frank said nothing, but passed him like the wind.

The smell of smoke came to his nostrils as he turned another corner. The fire had obtained a fine start before it was discovered. Through the buildings and the trees the red glow was bursting forth with greater brightness each moment.

Another corner turned, and the burning house was before him, with the fire bursting from its upper windows.

“It’s Darius Conrad’s house!” cried somebody.

“Retribution!” exclaimed Frank. “It is the hand of fate that strikes the man!”

For a moment a feeling like exultation ran all over him. He stopped running, and walked forward slowly. Before the house a number of persons could be seen huddled together, as if they were dazed, while others were running about wildly in the red glare of the fire.

Frank came up.

“Are they all out of the house?” asked somebody.

“They must be,” said another person.

Just then the door burst open, and a man came out in a few scanty garments, looking as if he plunged from a sea of fire, which glowed red and yellow behind him. He ran out into the middle of the street, waving his arms above his head and shouting. There he fell in the dust, and the crowd gathered about him.

“Oh, my son! my son!” groaned the man, as he writhed prostrate in the dust. “I went back for him! I could not reach him! He is in there somewhere—sick, wounded, helpless! My God! Can no one save him?”

“Too late!” said a voice. “Is he in one of the chambers?”

“Yes!”

“The entire upper part of the house is in flames!”

“He is lost!”

“My God! My son—my own boy!”

Such a cry of heart-breaking anguish! It stirred Frank Merriwell’s heart.

“I will try to find him and bring him out!” came in a tone of determination from Frank’s lips.

“God bless you!” gasped Darius Conrad. “If you will——”

But the volunteer life-saver was gone. Hands were outstretched to stop him, but he avoided them; voices called for him to come back, but he heeded them not. In at the door he plunged.

“He is gone!” screamed a woman.

“Yes,” said a man; “and that is the last of him. He’ll never come out of that!”

Darius Conrad, wicked old sinner that he was, knelt down in the dust and prayed. His wife found him kneeling there, and knelt at his side. They prayed for their son—their only boy.

The flames crackled with an exultant sound, and the yellow smoke rolled upward. The moments seemed hours. In the distance the volunteer firemen could be heard coming with the hand tub. By the time they reached the spot there would be nothing for them to do but wet down some of the nearer houses to keep them from catching, for then a city fire engine would be unable to save the home of Darius Conrad.

And still Frank Merriwell was somewhere within that burning building searching for the helpless youth who had been his foe. Those who had hoped at first that he, at least, might come forth began to give up in despair.

And then, out from the smoke and flame staggered a figure. It was a human being, and on his shoulders he carried another human being.

“There he is!” screamed a voice.

“Hurrah!” roared a man.

“And he has Dyke Conrad!”

Forward to the street reeled Frank Merriwell, bearing his helpless foe. Then he suddenly dropped to the ground, coughing violently.

Darius Conrad was on hand, and he folded his son in his arms. Dyke’s mother fainted in the arms of a strong man.

But Frank was not forgotten. Scores of witnesses of his brave act gathered about him. He was lifted by a young man who was six feet tall, and very muscular.

“If he’s hurt in the least, it’ll be a dear sacrifice for the life of that worthless dog!” declared the young man, and Frank recognized the voice.

“I—am—not—hurt—my—friend,” he said, faintly. “My lungs are full of smoke—that’s all.”

He had felt those strong arms about him before; he had heard that voice defying Dyke Conrad in the old house in the forest.

But when Frank fully recovered, that strange friend was gone.

Dyke Conrad had been saved, and Darius was asking for the rescuer of his son. They took him to Frank.

“You?” he cried, astounded, as the light of the conflagration showed Merry’s features.

“Yes,” was the quiet answer.

“How can I ever pay you for saving my boy?”

“You can’t!”

Then Frank turned away, and he heeded not that the man called to him.

The time had come for Frank Merriwell to leave Bloomfield. The old home was gone, and everything was settled at last. He had found a place for Toots, and the colored boy had departed a day in advance.

And now Frank must face the world—he must start on a new career as a breadwinner. He did not hesitate; he was not afraid. Deep within his heart was a confidence that he would win in the battle of life, even though forced to start at the very bottom of the ladder and fight his way upward.

He turned and waved a farewell to his old home. The sun was shining, and never had it seemed so beautiful and so dear before.

“Some time,” he said, “some time I will return and buy the old place back. It shall be mine again.”

In Bloomfield now he was all too well known, and it seemed that nearly all the citizens of the place turned out to bid him farewell at the station. They shook hands with him, old men, young men and boys. Old women cried over him, and some young women kissed him.

Neither Darius Conrad nor his son was there.

The train came and bore Frank away.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE BULLY OF THE ROUNDHOUSE.

“Will you please tell me where I can find the foreman?” asked Frank, several days later, as he entered a roundhouse of the Blue Mountain Railroad.

“Hey? The foreman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do ye want?”

“I will explain my business to him, if you will be kind enough to tell me where I may find him.”

The greasy man in greasy overalls and jumper straightened up from his position partly beneath the engine he had been wiping, and glared contemptuously at the smooth-faced, clean, well-dressed youth who had inquired for the roundhouse foreman.

The place seemed dark and dusty, and smelled of smoke and grease. All around were engines, many of them with wipers or machinists working on them. One, with steam up, was standing ready to run out upon the track. The engineer was in the cab, while the fireman, with a long brass oiler in his hand, was making sure that every bearing was properly lubricated.

The well-dressed youth had found admission to the roundhouse in some manner, but it was plain enough that he was unfamiliar there, or he would not have asked a wiper where to find the foreman.

The wiper was an ugly-looking fellow, with red hair and freckled face. He had a brawny arm and thick shoulders, and he glared at the stranger as if longing to eat him.

“What’re ye in here for, anyhow?” he growled.

“That is my business. I asked you a civil question, but you have not seen fit to answer it civilly, so I see that I shall have to inquire elsewhere.”

“Wait!” said the wiper, as the youth turned away. “You’re puttin’ on a heap of manners just because you can wear fine clothes and keep yer hands clean. I’m just as good as you be.”

“We will not argue about that at all, sir.”

“Mebbe you’ll have to dirty yer hands some time.”

To this the stranger made no retort, but, as he started away, the wiper said:

“Hold on. Stay here, an’ I’ll find the foreman.”

“All right.”

Then the man lounged away, growling to himself. He was gone nearly fifteen minutes, and when he returned he was accompanied by four or five other wipers, all looking just as dirty and greasy as he did.

The well-dressed youth was standing by the engine, his eyes taking in everything that was going on in the building.

He had seen the waiting engine run out on the track and another one back in off the turntable. In a brief space of time he had learned something about the work that went on in the roundhouse.

“Well,” growled the red-haired wiper, “ther foreman ain’t round. When he’s out, I take his place. What dyer want?”

“Never mind,” said the youth. “I was looking for a job, but——”

“Hey? A job? What kind of a job?”

The wiper was astonished, as he plainly showed.

“Most any kind of a job,” was the quiet answer. “I will call when the foreman is in.”

“Well, dern my eyes!” shouted the red-headed man, bursting into a roar of coarse laughter. “Mebbe you wanted to hire out as general superintendent or president of the road, or something of that sort? Haw! haw! haw!”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared the other wipers.

Some of the machinists stopped work and came where they could watch and listen; a crowd was collecting around the applicant for work, who began to show embarrassment, his cheeks flushing.

“Look at him, fellers!” cried the big wiper, pointing at the stranger. “He’s lookin’ fer work—here! Haw! haw! haw!”

“Well, sir,” said the youth, sharply, “will you tell me what there is so very funny about that?”

“Oh, it ain’t funny at all!” said the big man. “It’s just thunderin’ ridiculous! I s’pose you’d be satisfied with a salary of ten thousand dollars a year?”

“Oh, I might be willing to accept that,” dryly answered the youth.

“I s’pose likely. What d’yer know?”

“About what?”

“Runnin’ a railroad.”

“Nothing. I am not here to run the railroad, but to work for the men who do run it.”

“Well, you’ve got ter know somethin’ in order ter be fit fer somethin’.”

“I might be able to learn something in time.”

“No; I’m afraid not. You’d have ter begin at the wrong end. You’ve made a mistake. This ain’t no candy store. We don’t sell dry goods here, either. You’d look pretty measurin’ off ribbon for ladies, an’ that’s about all you’d be good for.”

The stranger smiled in a cool manner, letting his eyes run over the wiper from his feet to his head and then back again.

“It strikes me that you must be a misfit at anything,” he said, suavely. “About the only thing you can be real good for is to drink beer. It’s plain that you are a tank!”

“Yah!” snarled the man, ceasing to laugh in a moment and showing his temper. “You don’t want to make any funny remarks!”

“I don’t see anything funny about that. On the face of it, it is a truthful statement, and you are a living, breathing witness. If you can’t have your booze regularly, you do not consider life worth the living. You would make a first-class advertisement for a cheap grog shop.”

The big wiper actually staggered.

“What?” he faintly gasped. “What’s that? Why, I’ll eat him!”

“If you try it, you will find that I digest hard,” came calmly from the stranger, who was watching the man closely. “I can read your history in short order. Numb, rum, bum. That’s enough.”

For a few moments it seemed that the big wiper would hit the stranger, but instead, he struck one of the men who had caught hold of his arm and cautioned him. The force of the blow drove the man up against the rear driving wheel of the engine and made a cut on his cheek, starting the blood. The man put up a greasy hand to wipe away the blood, saying, huskily:

“That’s all right, Mart. I was doin’ it for your good. Knowed you’d be fired if you struck him and he complained on ye. That’s all right.”

And not one of the other men said a word. It was plain that every one of them was afraid of the fellow called Mart, whom the visitor saw was the bully among the wipers.

The lips of the youth curled with scorn as he surveyed the bruiser.

“So you are a brute as well as a drinking bummer!” he exclaimed. “It’s a wonder to me how a man like you can hold any kind of a job.”

“Ya-a-a-ah!” snarled the now thoroughly angered ruffian, showing his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “You get out of here, or I’ll give you some of the same!”

“No, you won’t! I have dealt with brutes like you before.”

This cool defiance of the stranger, scarcely more than a boy, with smooth face and dainty hands, was something the big, greasy wiper could not understand.

“If it wasn’t for spilin’ yer fine clothes, I’d use ye fer a wiper ter finish the job on this machine,” declared Mart. “I think you’re too clean, anyhow.”

Then he ejected into his hand the quid of tobacco that had been stowed in his cheek, and, with a flirt of the hand, sent it full at the white bosom of the shirt worn by the youth.

Spat! it struck and stuck there.

Smack!

With a leap the youth had planted his fist fairly between the eyes of the bully.

Thud! the man dropped to the ground.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE BULLY MEETS HIS MATCH.

It was a clean knockout blow, delivered with marvelous skill and swiftness. The strange youth had not waited an instant before avenging the insult bestowed upon him.

The wipers gasped for breath and showed their excitement, while the engineers came hurrying toward the scene of the trouble.

“Now there’ll be blazes to pay!” whispered one man, his eyes betraying his fear.

“Mart’ll kill him!”

“In a minute! Look out for Old Slugs! He’s gettin’ up!”

The dazed and astounded wiper was sitting up. He looked at the youth in bewilderment. The visitor was calmly removing the tobacco from his shirt with a dainty white handkerchief.

“Did—did he hit me?” asked the bruiser.

“Yes; I hit you, you scum!” rang out the clear voice of the visitor. “If you will get up, I’ll take great pleasure in hitting you again!”

One of the machinists got hold of the arm of the youth, and found it hard as iron. He whispered in the stranger’s ear:

“You’d better get out! That’s Old Slugs, and he’ll kill you! He’s dead nutty when he’s mad.”

“Thank you,” said the visitor, quietly. “Don’t worry about me. That’ll be all right.”

“You took him by surprise before. Next time——”

“Next time I shall hit him harder.”

The wiper scrambled to his feet, snarling savagely. He leaped backward as he got up, in order to be beyond the reach of the fearless youth, who seemed ready to come at him.

“Now,” he grated—“now I’ll smash ye!”

Then he rushed at the other.

With the grace of a fawn and the agility of a cat, the young man avoided the rush, and he planted a swinging blow under the ear of the wiper, sending the latter whirling and staggering away.

But the infuriated man quickly recovered, and came at the stranger once more. This time he did not make such a fierce rush, but closed in as if he would prevent the youth from dodging.

The stranger laughed in the face of “Old Slugs,” as the wiper was often called. It was a peculiar laugh, and it added to the anger of the man.

“Laugh, drat ye!” he snarled. “I’ll make ye laugh outer t’other side of yer mouth pretty quick!”

“Marvelous!” smiled the youth, as, with uplifted hands, he slipped to one side and darted under the wiper’s arm like a flash. “You surprise me, sir!”

Still snarling, Slugs whirled about and let out with his left for the head of the nimble visitor. The blow was neatly ducked, and the stranger countered on the wiper’s wind.

A grunting puff came from the lips of Old Slugs, but he managed to avoid the youth’s straight drive for his jaw. At the same time he realized that had he not escaped the blow must have been a knockout.

Such pugilistic skill on the part of the boyish-looking visitor was astounding, but still the wiper felt confident that he would be able to end the fight with a single blow.

Within a very few seconds he discovered that it was almost impossible to get in that blow. Only once had he been able to hit the stranger, and that was a glancing blow that simply seemed to put the youth on his mettle.

Old Slugs was a bulldog to fight, and, for that reason, the watchers were confident that he would be the victor in the end. For all that the stranger rained blow after blow upon the wiper’s face and body, Slugs continued the fight as if he had not been hit. His face was cut by the hard knuckles of the visitor, and blood was running, but that made no difference.

“I should think there was a flea pesterin’ me if I didn’t know,” said the man, with a sneer.

“How is this for a flea bite?”

The laughing stranger struck Slugs a terrible blow on the chin, hurling him backward into the arms of one of the spectators.

For a second the ruffian was dazed. He lay limply in the arms of the man, his eyes rolling, while he feebly lifted one hand to his chin.

Then, with astonishing swiftness, he recovered, uttering a howl of fury as he leaped out to confront the stranger once more.

Now the wiper made several attempts to close with the visitor, but each time he was avoided or beaten back with severe punishment. It was plain that the youth did not intend to let Slugs get hold of him if he could help it.

“If Slugs ever gets a hand on him, he’ll tear him limb from limb,” said one of the watching wipers.

“Sure,” nodded the other. “And he’ll get him before long. All that thumping don’t bother Mart.”

“That one on the chin shook him up for a minute.”

“Notice how quick he recovered?”

“Yes; but the boy didn’t foller up his advantage.”

“He couldn’t ’thout hittin’ Mart when he was in Dave’s arms.”

“This ain’t no prize fight under rules. He’d oughter finished it up when he had a chance. He won’t get another.”

The spectators were greatly excited. They applauded the stranger as much as they dared, but were universal in their belief that he must get the worst of it in the end.

But still the youth smiled and danced about the man, who was beginning to rush less and fight more slowly. The roundhouse men began to realize that Slugs’ efforts were telling on him, while the stranger seemed just as fresh as at the beginning.

“Oh, why don’t ye keep still a minute?” grated the battered wiper, in disgust.

“All right,” was the cool answer. “I will.”

Then, to the amazement of all, the youth stood quite still, carelessly dropping his hands at his sides.

Slugs rushed, a cry of satisfaction breaking from his lips as he made a clutch to gather the other into his grasp, but his arms closed on empty air, and he felt something catch him about the knees, and he seemed to spin over and over to strike the ground with an awful thud.

The crafty stranger had ducked close to the ground, caught him low, about the legs, and thrown him into the air.

It was an amazing feat, and the witnesses could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes.

Slugs lay still on the ground, breathing heavily and staring straight up toward the dirty, smoky roof.

There were some moments of silence.

“I believe he’s finished.”

Somebody uttered the words, and they were heard by the fallen man.

“Who says so?” he hissed, sitting up. “They lie—they lie!”

To his feet he sprang, although he staggered in a manner that told he was giddy. A torrent of fierce language poured from his lips. He looked scarcely human, with his blood-stained face and tobacco-colored teeth. Still the stranger did not appear in the least alarmed.

Now, however, the youth took the offensive. It seemed that he decided that the time had arrived to end the fight, and he went at Slugs like a whirlwind.

The ruffian tried to withstand the assault, but he was bewildered by it and his defense was feeble. Backward he was forced. The knuckles of the stranger played a tattoo on his face, while not one of his blows seemed to reach.

Smash!

With one swinging hook the youth sent Old Slugs staggering across a track to drop on his hands and knees.

Up the man leaped, but his opponent followed closely. Another blow sent the bully of the roundhouse to earth again.

The excitement was intense, for the witnesses saw that the stranger was determined to end the fight as soon as possible.

Slugs got up, but he was in no condition to carry on the battle, and he fell again almost instantly. Then the fighting youth stood over him with clinched fists and flashing eyes, demanding:

“Have you got enough?”

“Yes,” gasped the whipped ruffian; “I give up!”

CHAPTER XV.
STRIKING A JOB.

A shout went up. For the first time since his entrance into the roundhouse Old Slugs was whipped. He had browbeaten and bullied everybody except the foreman, and now this clean, boyish-looking stranger had defeated him in a square fight.

Such a thing had seemed beyond the range of possibility, but it had happened.

“Here comes the foreman!”

Some one uttered the words, and there was a scattering as a dark-faced man was seen walking swiftly toward the group.

Old Slugs started to get up, but he fell back limply, as if all the strength had been beaten out of him.

The victor calmly took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his knuckles. He scarcely seemed to be breathing heavily after his recent exertions.

The foreman came up and looked the youth over.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he said; “but it was a pretty job, young man. I saw the whole thing from start to finish.”

“I am sorry it occurred, sir,” was the calm retort; “but if you saw it all you know I was not to blame.”

The foreman nodded.

“Hall attempted to bully you—I know. I’ll discharge him.”

“Not on my account, sir. It strikes me that he has received punishment enough. I am satisfied, and you may be sure I shall make no complaint.”

The foreman looked the defeated wiper over.

“Get up!” he growled. “Go wash the blood off your face and go to work again, if you are able. I should have fired you if this gentleman had requested it.”

The wiper succeeded in getting upon his feet, but he staggered a bit as he walked away.

Something like a grim smile passed over the face of the foreman.

“He has received a good lesson,” nodded the man. “It was what he deserved, and I’m glad you were able to give it to him. You are a wonder for a boy.”

“I am hardly a boy, sir.”

“Well, you are hardly more than that. Did I hear you say you were looking for work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of work?”

“Any kind that I can get.”

“Why, there is no work in here that you would do. You are not a machinist?”

“No, sir.”

“Know anything about locomotives?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s no use to talk to you. The only work for an inexperienced man in this place is that of wiper, and you would not like that kind of work.”

“I must do something. Can you give me a place as wiper?”

The foreman lifted his eyebrows and again surveyed the youth critically.

“It can’t be that you understand what wipers have to do. It is the lowest and dirtiest work on a railroad.”

“I presumed so.”

“They have to wipe engines, turn the table, shovel ashes, wash out boilers and tanks, help the machinists to lug and lift, and do a hundred other things equally unpleasant.”

“But there is a chance for promotion?”

“Oh, yes, for good men; but it comes slow. A man must wipe long enough to become familiar with every part of an engine, and know how one is run before he can get anything better. Even then there may be two or three others waiting ahead of him, and he is likely to lose his courage before he gets an opportunity to fire.”

“But engine wipers stand a show of becoming firemen?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would give me a chance as wiper, sir.”

“But you will not stand the work.”

“Won’t I? I am strong, and I think I can stand it.”

“I do not mean that way. You will become disgusted and quit before you have worked a day.”

“Try me.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Frank Merriwell.”

“You have never done any hard work. Your hands show that.”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t understand why you want such a job.”

“Because I must do something, and I think I would like to become a locomotive engineer.”

“Why are you forced to work, Mr. Merriwell? You look like a young man of means.”

“I have lost every dollar I had in the world. I was in college, but the loss of my fortune forced me to leave. When I knew I must do something, I resolved to try to get a job on a railroad. That is all, sir.”

“Parents living?”

“My mother is dead.”

“And your father?”

“I know not where he is.”

“Hum! You’ve had hard luck. But you are not fit to become a wiper. Why, the men would not give you any peace. They would regard you as a dude, and worry you to death.”

The youth smiled.

“I think I can take care of myself, sir,” he said, with quiet confidence. “Haven’t I proved that?”

“By George! I really believe you can! And you seem to be in earnest. I shouldn’t like to bother with you if you are going to get sick in a few hours or a day or two and leave your work. Too many such chaps start in here.”

“I give you my word that you need not fear that I will leave within a day, or a week—or a month.”

“I hardly think you will. If you have the right sort of stuff in you you will work up. I began as wiper, as did the master mechanic and nearly all the engineers on this road. There are some good men among them, too.”

“I believe that.”

“Have you any relatives to support—brothers, sisters, or anything like that?”

“No, sir.”

“Drink?”

“Not a drop.”

“That’s good. You stand all the better chance. Drink is what keeps many a good man down. Of course, if a man wants to take a little beer occasionally, no one can really object to that. I suppose you take some beer once in a while?”

The face of the youth flushed.

“I told you, sir, that I do not drink anything.”

“All right, all right. I thought perhaps you would not consider that drinking. Don’t usually ask men these questions, but I’m interested in you.”

The youth said nothing.

The foreman seemed to hesitate, and it was plain that he was not yet fully convinced that it was worth while to bother with this clean, dainty-looking stripling.

The applicant seemed to think that he had said quite enough, and he did not urge his case at all, but stood there waiting.

The sound of hammering was to be heard in the roundhouse. Another engine ran in on the table outside, and some wipers swung it round. Then the engine ran out again upon the tracks, instead of backing into the house.

Old Slugs, his face patched up with plaster, came back and went to work on the engine he had been cleaning. He moved slowly, as if he felt sore in every limb.

The foreman smiled the least bit as he watched the man. He nodded his head, and there was an expression of satisfaction on his dark face. Then he turned to Frank Merriwell.

“A fellow who could whip Martin Hall should have grit enough for anything,” he said. “Come back to-morrow morning, prepared for work. You shall have a job.”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE FIRST FORENOON.

The following morning Frank Merriwell appeared at the roundhouse in overalls and jumper, ready for work. His working clothes were new and clean, in contrast to the clothes of the other wipers, who stared at him, grinned and made comments on his “dudish” appearance. Although Frank could hear nearly every word spoken, he paid not the slightest attention to anything the men said. He was there to work, and he waited for the foreman to appear and tell him what he was to do.

“He’ll leave quick,” declared one of the wipers.

“It’s two to one he’ll quit before noon,” said another.

“You’d win,” chuckled a third.

“Nivver a bit can yez tell about thot, me b’ys,” put in a young Irishman with a pleasant face. “He had th’ grit to b’ate th’ shtuffin’ oout av Ould Sloogs, an’ it’s a fair chance he’ll be afther havin’ th’ grit to shtay and wor-ruk, no matther av he don’t loike it. Oi’ll bet me money on him.”

Frank gave the speaker a grateful look. He saw a begrimed but rather comely youth of twenty, who looked as if he had a heart overflowing with good nature.

The wipers went to work, relieving those who were there, and the machinists appeared and began their tasks of the day.

After a little, Frank found himself left quite alone, and he began to feel restless and long to be doing something.

“Here, boy!”

A man was beckoning to him, and he hastened toward him.

“Workin’ here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get hold of this casting and help me lift it. I’ll carry the biggest part of it, for it’s heavy.”

Frank’s pride was touched. Immediately he stooped and picked up the heavy casting without assistance.

“Where will you have it, sir?” he asked.

The machinist gasped.

“Well—you’re—no—baby! Bring it over here.”

Frank obeyed and put it down as directed.

“That’s all right, young fellow,” said the machinist; “but I advise you not to keep it up. If you do, you’ll find all the heavy lifts shouldered onto you. I see you are new here. Don’t be too ambitious to show what you can do.”

“Thank you for the advice,” said Merry, quietly.

Then he looked around to discover something else to do, and it was not long before he found a task shoveling ashes. He was working steadily at this when the foreman passed.

Frank expected the foreman would stop and say something to him, but the man did not seem to notice him at all.

“All right,” thought Merry, grimly. “You told me to come prepared for work, and I’m here. I’m going to work, too.”

He found plenty to be done, and also discovered that the other wipers took great satisfaction in giving him the very dirtiest jobs. Still he did not complain, but, no matter what he was asked to do, he kept about his work steadily and quietly.

“How do you like it, dudie?” asked one of the wipers, mockingly.

“Speaking to me, sir?” inquired Frank, placidly.

“Yes.”

“My name is Merriwell.”

“Oh, it is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, dudie is good enough, and that goes.”

“Hey, Bill,” called another wiper, “you don’t know who you’re chinnin’ there.”

“Why, I’m chinnin’ the new superintendent of the road,” grinned the taunting wiper.

“You’re talkin’ to the chap that knocked the stuffin’ out of Old Slugs yesterday.”

“The blazes I am! What, that soft-looking guy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, may I be gosh-darned!”

The man stared at Frank as if unable to believe such a thing possible.

“Why, he’s a kid!”

“If you think so, just get him after ye. Slugs gave you a thrashing, and you wouldn’t last half as long with that kid.”

After this the man did not call Frank “dudie” again, but there were others who did. Whenever two or three wipers were together in Frank’s vicinity, they did their best to jolly him.

Merry did not get angry. He knew that would be the worst thing for him. He said very little, but occasionally he made some retort, and in every case it proved cutting for the one at whom it was aimed. The men began to realize after a while that the soft-looking youth could use his tongue quite as skillfully as his fists.

What surprised everybody was the fact that Frank did not show hesitation in taking hold of any kind of a job, no matter how dirty. He was not squeamish, or, if he was, he did not betray it.

Nearly half the forenoon had passed before Frank learned that Martin Hall, or Old Slugs, as he was generally called, had not put in an appearance that morning, but was reported to be ill in bed, unable to work.

Then some strange workmen came round to see the boy who had whipped Old Slugs. They looked him over doubtfully, and were inclined to disbelieve the story.

“Slugs could chaw him up in a minute,” one declared.

“That’s what everybody thought till they saw him try it,” said a witness of the fight.

“Well, it must have been an accident if that boy knocked Slugs out.”

“It wasn’t no accident. It was the cleanest, smartest fightin’ I ever saw. Why, look at him! He don’t bear a mark, and Slugs is in bed, with his face all cut and plastered.”

“All right, if you say so; but I don’t understand it.”

All this was very embarrassing to Frank, who regretted the unfortunate occurrence that had made him so conspicuous in the roundhouse. He continued about his work, pretending that he did not hear the talk.

Long before noon Frank was smeared with dirt and grease. It was a strange experience to him, for all his life he had been immaculate about his dress and his person.

But he had started out to make his way in the world, and he had begun at the very foot of the ladder. No one understood better than he that there was no room at the top for shirkers. It was honest work, and he hoped for something better in the future.

He did not allow his mind to dwell on the pleasures that were past. He knew the winner in the battle of life is the one who looks forward, not backward.

Frank felt confidence in himself. He believed he would be able to rise in time, and he had entered the roundhouse with the determination to keep his eyes and ears open and learn everything possible as fast as possible.

Along toward noon, when it happened that there was no worse work for him to do, one of the wipers set him to aiding in cleaning up a locomotive.

It happened that the man was of a sociable turn, and he fell to talking with Frank, asking him many questions, all of which Merry answered truthfully.

“It don’t seem to me that you was cut out for this kind of work,” said the wiper. “But mebbe you may have luck and get somewhere. It’s mighty hard, though. Now, I know every part of an engine, and I can handle one as well as half the engineers, but I don’t get no show. I did think there was a chance for me to get on firing till the strike over on the P. B. & Y. That throwed lots of good men out of work, and some of them came right over here and found jobs firing or running engines, which knocked out us chaps who was waiting for an opening. No telling now when my turn’ll come.”

Frank did his best to cheer the man up, and then found his opportunity to ask a number of questions about the names of the different parts of the engine. Every explanation the wiper made to him he fixed in his mind, and, when noon came, he was satisfied that he had not let his first half day pass without learning something.

The foreman came up to him.

“I’ve had my eye on you this forenoon,” he said.

Frank started. He had not fancied that the foreman was noticing him at all.

“Yes; I’ve had my eye on you,” said the foreman. “You’ve worked all right, and you didn’t stand round with your hands in your pockets waiting for somebody to tell you what to do. You found enough to do, and you did it. That’s right. Keep on the same way. That’s all.”

Then he walked away, without another word.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE STREET MUSICIANS.

That afternoon Frank had a chance to help a machinist who was making some repairs on an engine. The work was difficult to reach, and the machinist kept Frank to pass him his tools as he required them. Frank watched to see how everything was done, and asked some questions. At first the engineer growled his answers, but Frank had a pleasant way of leading him on, so that, after a time, he became more agreeable. He was an intelligent man, and he appreciated intelligence in others. This being the case, it did not take him a great while to discover that Merriwell was different from the ordinary wiper.

When the machinist spoke of certain parts of the locomotive he found that his assistant knew something about them, or, at least, quickly caught onto his meaning. Then he was astonished to learn that Merry was spending his first day in a roundhouse.

“How have you picked up a knowledge of so many things about an engine, young man?” he asked.

“I have two books on locomotive engineering which I purchased,” answered Frank, reddening somewhat. “It was a subject that interested me, and I have read the books pretty thoroughly.”

“That’s it, eh? Well, you can’t learn anything of real practical value without experience; but those books may help you, my boy.”

“I think they will, sir, for I have a good memory, and I do not easily forget anything I study.”

“Keep on studying. Anything you want to know you can find out by asking me. They’ll tell you old Tom Bowers is sulky and surly, but don’t mind that. It’s only my way. I rather like your appearance. I think you are a young man with get-there in him, and get-there is what counts in this world.”

In this way Frank found another friend, much to the surprise of the other wipers, none of whom had been able to get along with Tom Bowers.

The work that afternoon was far more agreeable than it had been in the forenoon, and Frank was well satisfied when night came.

At the same time, he knew some of the wipers were already growing jealous of him, seeing that he promised to be something of a favorite, as he had been able to draw Tom Bowers into conversation. As a rule, Bowers swore and snarled at his assistants, but he had treated Frank in a different manner.

As Frank left the roundhouse three of the wipers were talking together near the door, and one of them said:

“There goes the fellow now. I tell you, we don’t want such chaps here.”

“We can’t help it,” said another.

“Why not? We’ve driven men out.”

“If you think you can drive him, try it. Old Slugs didn’t cut much of a figure with him.”

“Oh, I’m not going to try it alone; but the whole of us——”

Frank passed on and heard no more of their talk. He was not disturbed, for he knew there was certain to be rivalries and jealousies among workmen, and he believed he could live down the dislike for him that was being shown at the very beginning of his career.

Frank had taken a room in a cheap quarter. He felt that he must live according to his means, and his pay as wiper was sure to be poor.

Merriwell’s former friends would not have believed it possible for him to bring himself to one small square room, with bare floors and undecorated walls. He smiled as he fancied some of them looking in on him in his new quarters.

But no one realized better than Frank Merriwell that the young man who lives beyond his means forms habits that lead to certain ruin in the end, and he was determined to start right.

There is much in the right kind of a start in life. It is slow, heart-breaking work climbing the ladder of fortune, but the patient plodder wins in the end, for he makes sure of each step as he goes.

Frank had arranged to take his meals at a cheap restaurant, but he went home and washed up thoroughly before going out. He had bought some curled hair, which he knew would, with the aid of good soap, be very effective in removing the grime from his hands, and, after he had washed, scarcely a trace of his work could be discovered by the closest inspection. He knew that in time the dirt must wear beneath his finger nails so it could not be removed, and so he had cut his beautifully-shaped nails as short as possible, preferring to sacrifice them rather than carry them about “in mourning.”

He had been fortunate in finding a place to eat, for, although the restaurant was cheap, everything looked clean, and he was able to eat the food with relish.

Somehow, as he sat there eating, he was not cast down or dejected. Instead, a feeling of self-reliance and independence possessed him, and his heart swelled with something like exultation.

He had been cast upon his own resources, and he must make his way along in the world and unaided. If there was any real ability in him, he firmly believed he would succeed, and he welcomed the test. Not a fear or a doubt concerning the future possessed him.

Having eaten heartily, he went out for a stroll about the city. He felt the need of a walk in the open air, after which he would go to his room and get a good night’s rest.

Gradually he walked toward a better section of the city. At last he was attracted by the sound of music and of singing, and, in front of some shops he saw a boy and girl standing, while a small crowd had gathered near.

The boy was playing on a guitar, while the girl was singing. They were rather poorly clad, although their clothes were neat and clean. The boy might have been seventeen years old, and he had one short, crooked leg, making necessary the use of a crutch. The girl was not over fifteen, and she had one of the sweetest faces Frank had ever looked upon. There was something pathetic about her face—something that struck to Merry’s heart with a pang.

The boy joined in with her on the chorus of the song, and there was something about it that brought a mist to Frank’s eyes. He stopped and listened, feeling in his pocket for a piece of money.

When the song was finished the boy passed around the hat. Few of the listeners gave anything, but each one was thanked. Frank threw a dime into the hat. It was more than he could afford, but he felt that it was the only kind of extravagance in which he would indulge.

The boy and girl looked alike, and Frank decided they were brother and sister. The boy played again, and they sang.

A crowd of roistering young chaps came along and stopped. When the song was finished they made some comments about the girl, bringing the hot blood to the cheeks of Frank Merriwell.

“She’s good enough to hug,” said one.

“That she is,” laughed another. “She’s a peach. What’ll you bet I don’t hug her?”

“She needs money. Perhaps she’d let you kiss her for a quarter, Ned.”

“By Jove! I’d give it!”

“You don’t dare, right here on the street.”

“I’ll go you the drinks on it.”

“Done.”

Then Frank Merriwell moved a little nearer.

The fellow called Ned walked up to the girl and chuckled her under the chin, saying:

“Ah, there, my little daisy! You’ll make a prima donna some day. Give us a kiss, and I’ll give you a quarter.”

The girl shrank away with a little cry of alarm, reaching out in a vague way toward her brother.

In an instant the latter was aroused. He uttered a cry of anger.

“Go ’way!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “She’s my sister! How dare you insult her?”

“Oh, don’t get gay!” said the youth. “I’m not insulting her. I made her an offer.”

“Go ’way, or I’ll strike you with my crutch!”

“You wouldn’t hurt anything. I’ve got a bet on this, and I must kiss her or lose. Come, now, here’s half a dollar. That should be an object.”

“Jack!” gasped the girl.

“He shall not touch you!” exclaimed the boy, trying to push the fellow away.

“Get out!” ordered the aggressor, catching the boy by the collar and giving him a swing that threw him down.

“Shame! shame!” cried some of the spectators.

They started to interfere, but the young bloods jumped in, ready for a fight, and the witnesses hesitated.

With one exception.

Frank Merriwell’s blood was boiling. His lips parted slightly, showing his white teeth, which were set together.

Just as the fellow caught the shrinking, terrified girl by the shoulder, Frank struck him a terrible blow.

CHAPTER XVIII.
UPLIFTED HEARTS.

The fellow seemed to whirl end over end and strike out in the middle of the street, where he lay in a stunned condition, not even appearing to breathe.

Quick as a flash, Frank whirled and faced the others, knowing the fellow’s companions would be sure to attempt to avenge him.

“Come on, you loafers!” he cried.

“He struck Ned!” shouted one. “Give it to him!”

They all jumped for Frank, but in doing so they bothered each other more or less.

Merry met them halfway, his arms working like piston rods, his hard fists cracking on their heads.

It was an astonishing spectacle, for he went into them like a tornado, knocking them right and left.

To Frank it seemed that never before had he felt so strong and able. He was perfectly confident that he could clean out the entire crowd of half-intoxicated young bloods, and he was doing a very satisfactory job when somebody cried:

“Police!”

Instantly there was a scattering. Somebody had aided to his feet the fellow Frank struck first, and in a few seconds every one of the gang vanished.

The policeman came up, followed closely by another, and demanded to know what it was all about.

The witnesses of this remarkable encounter quickly explained, while Frank was reassuring the frightened boy and girl.

The officer came and looked Merry over.

“That was Bloodgood’s crowd,” said one of them.

“And this chap fought the whole of them,” exclaimed the other.

“He didn’t know what he was up against.”

“It didn’t seem to make any difference, if what the crowd says is true. He was getting the best of it.”

“All the same, I reckon it’s a good thing for him that we came along.”

“Young man, you got off easy. We’ll not arrest you, for the people who saw it say you were in the right.”

“I think I was, sir,” said Frank, quietly.

“Oh, Mr. Policeman!” exclaimed the lame boy, “those fellows insulted my sister and threw me down. Nobody else dared interfere with them, but this gentleman fought them all. He knocked down the one who insulted Nellie.”

“If we’d got along in time, we’d gathered some of them in. You want to look out for that gang, young fellow,” addressing Frank. “They are a hard crowd, and they’ll try to get even with you.”

Then the officers dispersed the crowd that had gathered, and moved along themselves.

“Oh, how can we thank you, sir?” cried the boy, getting hold of Frank’s hand. “You were so good—and so brave!”

The girl reached out in a strange, uncertain way, saying:

“I must thank him, Jack! Where is his hand?”

“She’s blind,” explained the boy. “She’s my sister, Nell, and we’re all alone in the world.”

“Blind?” gasped Frank, with a shock of horror. “Why, her eyes look all right.”

“Yes; but a doctor said once that the optic nerve was injured by a fall she received.”

“Blind?” whispered Frank, as he held both her hands and looked down into her blue eyes. “My poor, little girl.”

Her hands trembled in his, and a thrill of sympathy seemed to pass between them.

“Oh,” she said, gently, “I know you are good—so good! And I want to thank you for defending me from that—that person.”

“Don’t speak of that,” murmured Frank. “It was a great satisfaction. You are looking straight at me now. Can’t you see me at all?”

“No, sir.”

“It is strange. Your eyes look all right save for an uncertain expression in them. Some time your sight will be restored. I feel sure of that.”

A look of happiness came to her sweet face, and she almost panted as she answered:

“I am so glad to hear you say so! I don’t know why, but it seems that you must be right. It is so strange, for I feel as if I had known you always. What is your name?”

“Frank Merriwell.”

“My name is Nellie Norton. I wish I could see you, Mr. Merriwell.”

“We are trying to get money enough together to have her eyes treated by a great oculist,” explained the boy; “but times are hard, and people do not have much money to spare.”

“Well, we’ll see what can be done right here,” said Frank, observing that a number of the original crowd had returned and were standing about.

Then he turned to them and said:

“Gentlemen, this girl is blind. She was not born that way, but sustained an injury by a fall that affected the optical nerve. She has been told that her sight might be restored by an operation, and, with her brother, she is trying to get together enough money to pay a specialist to do the work. This she and her brother have just told me, for I never saw either of them before this evening. Now, I am poor, and can afford no luxuries, but I can afford to give a dollar to help this girl recover her sight. I am going to put a dollar in my hat, and then I will pass it round. I hope others will give as much as they can afford.”

He took off his hat and dropped a silver dollar into it. Then, talking in his most pleasant and persuasive manner, he went round with the hat.

Every person present gave something. One old Irishwoman threw in a dime, saying:

“Thot’s arl Oi have, an’ Oi wish it wur a hoondred dollars, so Oi do! Me ould marn sint me out fer a can av beer, but it’s warther he’ll have ter drink to-noight, an’ it’s jist as much good it’ll be afther doin’ av him. God bliss th’ dear girrul’s swate hearrut! an’ it’s bloind she is? An’ she can’t see th’ skoy an’ th’ birruds an’ th’ flowers? An’ it’s me own litthle b’y as is dead now pwhat wur borrun thot way, an’ he uster be afther axin’ me pwhat things looked loike, an’ now he’s gone foriver where he can see. It’s ounly tin cints, a dhrop in th’ bucket, but it will do th’ dear, swate girrul more good thot way than it’ll do me ould marn roonin’ down his throat, bad cess to th’ lazy dog!”

Then she turned and hobbled away in a hurry.

Her example led many of the others to give with the greatest liberality, and when the money was counted and passed over to little Nell, Frank announced that six dollars and eighteen cents had been received.

The blind girl held out her hands to the crowd, laughing even as the tears streamed down her face, and brokenly said:

“Oh! I thank you all so much—so much! You have been so kind to me! It will be such a help!”

“And I thank you, too!” said the boy, his voice trembling. “Why, it’s a small fortune! Sometimes we have worked a whole week and not received so much; but I believe luck has turned now, and Nellie will be able to see very soon.”

Frank was deeply touched. Then he regretted the loss of his fortune for the first time, as it made it impossible for him to take charge of the blind girl and see that she had the best medical attention, which he would have done in other days.

“Can’t we do something?” asked the boy, eagerly. “We will sing something more for you.”

He hastily adjusted the guitar, and strummed the strings a moment.

“What shall we sing, Nellie?” he asked.

“Oh, something lively—some happy song,” she answered, still laughing through her tears.

So they sang one of the late popular songs, but the voices of both were uncertain, and it was pathetic to witness the affection and happiness in the boy’s eyes when he looked at his sister.

In the very middle of the song the girl broke down completely and stopped.

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “I can’t sing! Somehow my heart is so full that the words will not come out. But I want to thank you again and again! I want to thank Mr. Merriwell. Where is he?”

But Frank Merriwell was gone. Stirred to the very depths of his soul, he had hurried away while they were singing; and he walked along the city’s streets, unmindful of his surroundings, uplifted, exalted, strengthened for the battle of life.

CHAPTER XIX.
AN ANGRY ENGINEER.

That night, as Frank was reading in his room by the light of a kerosene lamp, he heard voices from a room adjoining. There seemed something familiar in the sound, and he laid down the book on engineering which he had been studying.

The voices ceased, but there was a sound of clattering dishes.

The wall was thin, and up near the ceiling a crack showed a ray of light.

Frank began to study again, and again the voices interrupted him. This time he was sure there was a familiar sound about them.

“Is it possible?” he muttered, starting to his feet. “Can they have a room so near?”

His curiosity was aroused, and, with a desire to satisfy himself, he drew a chair to the partition and stood upon it. This enabled him to peer through the crack.

He found himself looking into a room much like his own. In the middle of the floor, directly in the range of his vision, was a table, on which stood a lighted lamp. The table was spread for a meal, and at that table sat the street musicians, the blind girl and her brother. It was evident that they had just sat down, for, as Frank looked, the girl bowed her head to ask a blessing.

Hushing his breathing, Frank tried to hear her words. He could not understand them all, but he heard her mention his name, and he knew he was included in that blessing.

Frank could study no more that night. He walked the floor for a time, feeling that a new interest had come into his life, for somehow it seemed there was a bond between himself and the young street musicians.

His dreams that night were pleasant.

Frank’s second day in the roundhouse was almost a repetition of the first, save that he learned to assist in turning the engines upon the table, and he listened to a discussion among the wipers about the mysterious properties of the slide valve, which led him to read up on the subject as far as possible.

A week passed. By the end of that time Frank was able to clean certain parts of the engine in a manner thoroughly satisfactory, and he could see that he was making progress in knowledge.

He had also found an opportunity to make known to the young musicians that his room was next to theirs, and there was visiting back and forth.

It really seemed to the brother and sister that their fortune had turned with the meeting with Frank, for they were doing far better than they had done before.

“You must be a mascot, Mr. Merriwell,” laughed the lame boy, as they all sat together one evening.

“Please don’t call me Mr. Merriwell any more,” requested Merry. “You know my first name. Call me by that.”

“Oh, it doesn’t seem right!”

“It will please me far better.”

“Then we will try, eh, sister?”

The girl smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “Frank is a beautiful name, and it seems so well suited to him. Yes, we will call him that if he really wishes us to.”

“I do; and I will call you Nellie and Jack. I hope it is true that I am your mascot, and there may be something in it, for my friends who have stuck to me have all had good luck.”

“Fortune has been against us a long time,” said the boy; “ever since mother died.”

“Tell me something of yourselves,” urged Frank. “How long have you been alone in the world?”

“Almost two years now. Father was an invalid the last of his life, and so all the money he had saved was used in caring for him. Mother did not live long after he went away. She loved him so! Her heart was broken, and if it had not been for leaving us, I think she would have been glad to go.”

“But have you no relatives?”

“No near relatives who care anything for us. Mother had a brother, but we do not know where he is now.”

“But we feel that we have found some one in you who is almost as near and dear as a relative,” said the girl.

The absolute loneliness of the brother and sister affected Frank, and he resolved to do everything in his power to brighten their lives. Thus it came about that he was so often with them. He took pleasure in playing upon the guitar, and he regretted to discover that his work was beginning to stiffen his fingers. Having made this discovery, he bought a preparation to use on his hands to keep them from growing stiff.

Among the engineers was one by the name of Joe Hicks, a man with a coal-black mustache and a sullen face. Hicks drank a great deal, but he was one of the best engineers on the road, and he managed to keep his job. He was surly when he was not well filled with liquor, and brutal when he had been drinking.

The wipers, with the exception of Old Slugs, who was back at work, were afraid of Hicks. Not one of them liked the job of cleaning his engine, for a speck of dirt left anywhere brought a growl.

And it happened before a week was out that Frank was put onto Hicks’ engine.

The engineer had not left the roundhouse when Merry began work. On his way out he paused and stared at Frank.

“Here!” he growled; “what are you doing?”

“Cleaning this engine, sir.”

“Who told ye to?”

“Mr. Ganzell.”

That was the name of the foreman.

“Ganzell’s a fool! Get away from there!”

Frank kept at work.

“Get away from there, I tell ye!” snarled Hicks. “Don’t you hear what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t ye mind?”

“Because you are not the foreman.”

“The foreman be—blowed. That’s my engine; I run her. I’m not going to have a greenhorn plugging round her. Get away, now. If you don’t, I’ll——”

“What?”

Frank turned and looked the man straight in the eyes, and he was perfectly cool when he said:

“What will you do?”

“Why, blame your head! I’ll break your neck!”

“I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”

The coolness of the youth staggered Hicks, who was accustomed to seeing the wipers start and cringe before him. He felt like collaring Frank, but something caused him to stay his hand.

Larry Logan, the young Irishman, came up and stood looking on, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

“Oi think ye’d betther foind out th’ b’y ye’re tacklin’, Mr. Hicks,” chuckled Larry.

“What in thunder do I care who he is! If he’s one of Ganzell’s favorites, it won’t make any difference. If he don’t get away from that engine, I’ll mop him all over the ground.”

“It’s a roight swate job ye’d be afther takin’, sur,” grinned the young Irishman. “This is th’ chap phwat knocked out Ould Sloogs widout gettin’ a marruk on himself.”

“Hey?”

The engineer looked astonished. He had heard of the encounter between the bully of the roundhouse and an applicant for work, but it did not seem possible that this boy had whipped the ruffian.

“Thot’s dead straight, sur,” asserted Larry.

“Well, I don’t care who he is, I won’t have a slob clean old 33!”

“Phwat are yez goin’ to do?”

“See Ganzell about it.”

“Thot’ll be aisier fer yez than av ye troied to take th’ b’y off th’ job yersilf.”

“Shut up! Don’t you get sassy, fer I’ll thump ye if ye do.”

Then Hicks hurried away in search of the foreman.

“It’s a roight foine toime ye’ll have wid him,” said Larry to Frank. “He’s worse thin Ould Sloogs, fer he’ll be afther hittin’ yez in th’ back.”

“I am not afraid of him,” declared Frank, quietly.

In a short time Hicks came round with the foreman. Stopping near the engine, the angry man pointed to Frank, growling:

“Look here, Mr. Ganzell, you know I take special pride in the way I keep my engine. Now what d’yer mean by puttin’ a greenhorn on her to clean her?”

“It was necessary, Hicks,” said the foreman, with an expression of anger. “I will have an old wiper go over her after Merriwell finishes, so she will be all right.”

“But I don’t want a greenie plugging at her. They’re sure to be tryin’ to find out how things work, and they get things out of order.”

“I don’t think there will be any trouble in that line.”

“Then you don’t mean to take him off?”

“No.”

Hicks was boiling.

“All right!” he snarled. “If anything happens, don’t blame me. You know how particular I am with old 33, an’ I don’t think you are givin’ me a square deal.”

With that he left the roundhouse, muttering and growling as he went.

CHAPTER XX.
SOME POINTS ABOUT HICKS.

Ganzell, the foreman, was not in the most pleasant frame of mind, for he did not fancy being talked to in such a manner.

“See what you can do on her, young man,” he said, scowling at Frank. “Hicks will raise a howl if he finds the least little thing wrong.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” declared Frank, as he continued about his work.

“Here, Logan,” called the foreman, “look 33 over after Merriwell finishes.”

“All roight, sur,” said the young Irishman, who was at work near by. “Oi’ll do thot.”

Then the foreman went away.

After a little Larry Logan came over and watched Frank, making suggestions now and then.

“It’s a bad marn ye have agin’ yez, Mr. Merriwell,” said Larry.

“Who, Hicks?”

“Yis, sur.”

“I have done nothing to get him against me!”

“Oi know thot; but he’ll hate yez jist th’ soame, an’ it’s th’ divvil he is at toimes.”

“Well, I can’t help it if he does hate me. I was set to work on this engine, and I propose to do the job.”

Larry nodded approvingly.

“Oi don’t belave yer afraid av th’ divvil hisself; but it’s well enough to kape yer oie open.”

“That’s right. How about Old Slugs?”

“He’s been quiet as a lamb ivver since ye did him oop. Thot wur a foine job, Mr. Merriwell, but it won’t be thot way wid Hicks.”

“No?”

“Nivver. He’ll not attimpt to foight yez on th’ square.”

“Will he fight?”

“He may be afther stroiking yez whin ye’re not lookin’.”

“Such foes are the most dangerous.”

“Thot they are, me b’y. An’ av all suspicions are thrue, ye’d not be th’ firrust wan Joe Hicks has hit in th’ back.”

“How is that?”

“’Sh! It’s divvil a bit anybody loikes to say it around here, an’ ye must kape shtill thot Oi said a wurrud.”

“I’m dumb.”

“Av old Joe wur not a foine ingineer, he’d not hold his job a day, fer there do be times whin he st’ames op wid phwhisky, an’ they have to put a marn in his place. Anybody ilse would lose his job. Old Joe is docked or laid off, at th’ wurust. An’ whin he has pwhisky in, he’s th’ ould imp an’ all.”

Larry looked about, as if making sure there was no one near enough to hear, and then taking a seat on the pilot, and biting off a huge chew of tobacco from a black plug, he went on:

“It wur a year ago old Joe got in his wurrust schrape. It wur thirty days thot cost him, besides th’ toime he wur in jail.”

“So he got into jail?”

“Yis.”

“What for?”

“Th’ firrust charge wur fer bein’ droonk an’ disorderly, but thot came near not bein’ th’ wurrust av it. It wur thought he did something wurruse thin thot.”

Again the young Irishman looked all around, and his manner showed that he was fearful that other ears than those of Frank Merriwell should hear his words.

“There wur a murther in th’ case!” whispered Larry.

“A murder?” repeated Frank, growing interested.

“’Sh! Nivver a man spakes av it here in th’ place. Hicks were sane wid a marn in a tough parrut av th’ city. Th’ nixt marnin’ th’ marn wur found dead. He had been hit on th’ head wid a shtone, an’ his skull wur not hard enough to shtand th’ crack at all, at all.”

“And they suspected that Hicks did it?”

“Be aisy! be aisy! Th’ charge wur made against him.”

“But not proven?”

“Nivver a bit. He got out av it wid th’ aid av an alibi, av yez know what thoat is, divil a bit do Oi.”

“Why, he must have proved that he was in another locality at the time the murder was committed.”

“Thot’s it! thot’s it! Thot’s th’ way he escaped.”

“Well, if he proved that he was all right.”

“Av he proved it? Well, he samed to prove it. Anyhow, it wur enough to get him off.”

“Of course it is pretty tough to be charged with murder, but many an innocent man has been accused of the crime.”

Larry nodded and turned the quid in his mouth.

“An’ minny a marn thot wur not innocent has got off widout bein’ poonished. It have been talked since thin thot old Joe’s alibi would not hold warther.”

“If that is true, why wasn’t it discovered in the first place?”

“It wur fixed fer him thin, an’ th’ weak point not discovered till aftherward. Even thin it wur not found by anybody thot cared to get mixed in it at all, at all; but thim thot know say it’s more thin aven old Joe tapped th’ unlucky devvil on th’ head. Oi warneted to tell yez, so ye’d know th’ koind av a coostomer ye wur d’aling wid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Logan.”

“Now, don’t be afther callin’ me Misther Logan. Call me Larry. That is good enough fer me.”

“All right, Larry.”

“Take me advice, an’ kape yer oies open fer Joe Hicks. He has been known to stroike more thin one marn behoind his back. He’ll hate yez now.”

“I can’t help that.”

“Nivver a bit. It’s particular he is wid his engine. Ye know some av th’ engineers lave th’ woipers to look out fer breaks on th’ old girruls.”

“Yes; I find a great many of them do that.”

“Joe Hicks is not wan av thim.”

“He inspects his own engine.”

“Yis. No woiper iver found a broken spring, leaver ur hanger on his engine. He discovers all th’ cracked aquilizers an’ iccintric shtraps. It’s really an aisy job cl’anin’ his engine, av ye take care to clane it.”

“Well, I am not liable to have the job again.”

“Ye may. Ganzell is square, an’ he don’t loike to have any marn kick at him. Av ye do it well this toime, he may kape ye roight here on this engine ivery toime she comes in. Oi thought av thot, an’ it’s phwoy Oi warnted to tell yez about Joe Hicks.”

“I appreciate your kindness, Larry.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, Oi’ll get to wurruk, an’ Oi’ll look 33 over whin ye have finished.”

Then the friendly young Irishman left Frank to his labor and his thoughts.

Merry worked slowly and carefully. He was determined to take plenty of time on the job and make sure that everything was done as it should be. When he thought he had finished, he went over everything again. Then he called Larry.

“It’s all roight, me b’y,” declared the young Irishman. “It’s loike the wurruk av an ould hand, but it’s tin to wan thot Hicks will be afther kickin’ about it.”

“All right,” said Frank. “Let him kick. If you say the job is done all right, I am satisfied.”

The foreman came round, but he did not give either engine or Merriwell a glance. He had set Larry to look after the matter, and he knew it would be all right.

CHAPTER XXI.
FRANK DISCOVERS A BREAK.

Engine wipers are severe critics of engineers. They know whose engine is always in first-class order, wedges never down, nuts and bolts in place and tight, and other things as they should be.

Frank rapidly became familiar with all the outward and visible parts of a locomotive, for he had plenty of opportunities to see them taken to pieces by the mechanics, with whom he soon became a favorite, because of his pleasing manners and readiness to do anything.

Manners have much to do with the success of a young man in the world. The one who is polite, courteous and willing to make an effort to please is certain to stand far better show of success than he who is indifferent, thoughtless and rude.

Many young men are taught self-reliance and aggressiveness, and they pay too little attention to the forms and conventionalities of life. On this account they are apt to value too lightly the little courtesies which mark the man of real politeness.

It is said that but for Washington’s courteous bearing and conciliatory manners the War of the Revolution might not have been brought to a successful close. A person entirely familiar with the history of this country at that period, must appreciate the remarkable tact Washington used in allaying sectional jealousies. But for his unselfishness and polished manners he could not have succeeded in reconciling so many conflicting interests and unharmonious elements.

Napoleon well knew the value of courtesy. No great military commander was ever more beloved by the officers and men who served under him, and, while he felt it necessary to observe a certain degree of dignity in his bearing, he often, however, put himself on a footing of perfect equality with the common soldiers. He was known to share his rations with a soldier and to drink from the canteen of a sentinel.

Chesterfield declared that the art of pleasing is, in truth, the art of rising and distinguishing oneself, and of making a fortune and figure in the world.

Frank Merriwell lost no opportunity to please those with whom he was dealing, and, although he had been regarded as something of a dude when he entered the roundhouse, his associates soon found he was ready and willing to attempt any and all kinds of work. He never grumbled, and he was always volunteering to do things.

Thus it was not strange that some of the wipers quickly grew jealous of him, thinking he was shown too many favors.

Frank’s habitual association with well-bred people had done much for him. The very air about him was different from that of the other wipers, no matter if his clothes were as greasy and his hands as dirty. At the same time he never made it apparent that he felt himself too good for his work and associates.

The foreman observed this, although he made no sign. He was watching Frank with astonishment, but scarcely a word of approval did he speak. He was not ready to express himself.

Although he had familiarized himself with the mysterious properties of the slide valve, Merry did not attempt to take part in the deeply erudite discussions which frequently took place among wipers and firemen. He listened and kept still. All the time he was learning, feeling sure the time would come when he would be given an opportunity to display his knowledge to advantage.

To the surprise of everybody, and the disgust of Joe Hicks, Frank was given time after time No. 33 to clean. Hicks growled and glared at the youth, but Frank remained polite in his bearing toward the surly engineer.

To Merry’s surprise, Old Slugs came to him one day, and said:

“I don’t know that I want to see you done up, even if you did give me a thumping. I don’t hold a grudge, for you done it fair and square. But I want to tell ye to look out—keep your eyes open all the time.”

“I thank you for the warning, Mr. Hall; but I am afraid I do not understand what you mean.”

“You’ve got a bad man down on you.”

“Do you mean Mr. Hicks?”

“Just him. Now, I don’t want it known I made any talk, for I’m not hankering to have Joe Hicks get after me when he is on a rampage, but I say look out.”

“I shall try to do so; but I see no real reason why Mr. Hicks should wish to injure me.”

“Mebbe he ain’t got no real reason. When old Joe gets down on a man, he don’t have to have a reason. All he wants is a good chance to do him, and he’ll do you, if you ain’t careful.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I heard him say last night that there was a young upstart here who wouldn’t remain here another week.”

“And you think he meant me?”

“I am sure of it.”

“And he means to do me bodily harm?”

“That’s the way he fixes them he don’t like.”

“All right, Mr. Hall. Thank you again. I shall watch out.”

As Larry Logan had said, old Joe was one who always looked his own engine over for breaks, never trusting the wipers to discover them.

One day, however, Frank noticed that the center casting on No. 33 was broken in such a way that but one bolt held it at all, and that very slightly.

He supposed, of course, that the engineer had reported it, and he expected every minute to see the men come along with the jacks and jack her up to put in a new one.

Though there was a king pin down through both castings, it would be suicidal for a man to trust that alone. In rounding a curve the engine would be apt to sheer off and shoot off the track at a tangent.

Frank was surprised as the time approached for old 33 to leave the house and no attempt had been made to repair her. Then he hunted up Mr. Ganzell and reported what he had discovered.

Ganzell seemed doubtful.

“Come with me,” he said, and together they went round the house to the hook on which the machinists hung the engineer’s work reports after jobs were finished.

He looked the report over and found 33’s.

“It’s O. K.’d,” he said. “Not a word about the center casting. You must be mistaken, Mr. Merriwell.”

“I am sure I am not, sir,” declared Frank.

“Well, I will investigate. Come.”

Away they went to inspect the engine. On the way they came face to face with Joe Hicks.

“Mr. Hicks,” said the foreman, “Merriwell reports that your truck center casting is broken.”

Old Joe’s face turned black, and he gave Frank an awful glare.

“It’s a lie!” he growled. “What’s that kid know about an engine! He makes me sick.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hicks,” said Frank, quietly; “I really thought it better to report my discovery than to let you take the chance of being killed and wrecking the train by going out with her in such a condition.”

“Bah! You are trying to play smart, but you’ve made a fool of yourself.”

“Let’s see about it,” said Ganzell.

“My report is O. K.”

“I know it is, for I just looked it up.”

“That’s enough.”

“No! I shall look at your engine.”

“All right. But, if it ain’t so, I want you to take this boy off my engine and give me a man that knows something. I’ve stood it just as long as I can!”

Down to the engine they went, and the foreman soon satisfied himself that Frank had told the truth. Then he was angry.

“What do you mean, Hicks,” he demanded, “by reporting O. K. when your engine is in such condition?”

Old Joe tried to answer, but he could not do much of anything but swear.

“Such carelessness is astonishing!” exclaimed Ganzell. “You do not deserve an engine. You are incompetent!”

That made the old man furious, and the look he gave Merriwell was evidence of the deadly hatred seething in his heart.

“You shall pay for this!” he muttered, in a deadly way.

“No threats, sir!” exclaimed Ganzell. “Merriwell simply did his duty. We shall not need you for the next week. You may go home!”

So the engineer was laid off because of Frank’s discovery, and it made him hate Merry more than ever.

“He shall pay for it!” he vowed over and over.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER.

One evening the street musicians came home in a greatly disturbed state of mind and hurried into Frank’s room, where they found Merry.

“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Jack; “there is a man who has been following us about everywhere!”

“And—and he spoke to us!” fluttered the blind girl.

“He’s such a bad-looking man!” said the boy.

“He asked us where we lived,” said little Nell.

“I refused to tell him, and then he got angry.”

“And said we should be arrested as vagrants. Oh! I am so afraid of him!”

“There! there!” said Frank; “don’t get so excited. Was the man intoxicated?”

“No! no! no!” answered the boy. “I am sure he was not, and still—and still he might have been drinking.”

“Well, you escaped from him all right, and it’s not likely you will see him again.”

“I’m afraid we shall, for I am sure the same man followed us last evening, though I said nothing to Nellie about it, not wishing to frighten her.”

“I don’t see why he should follow you.”

“All I know is that he did.”

“Did he follow you here?”

“Part way, but I guess we gave him the slip by coming through an alley.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it any more. If he makes any more trouble for you, I’ll see him.”

“Oh! you are so good!” said the girl, getting an arm about Frank’s neck. “I feel safe when we are with you.”

He kissed her tenderly and soothed her fears. Then they invited him in to have supper with them.

It happened that Frank had not eaten, having started in to study upon a certain part of an engine immediately after reaching his room and taken a sponge bath and changed his clothes, he finally agreed to take supper with the little musicians.

“You know what a good cook I am,” laughed the lame boy.

“I should be the one to cook,” said the girl; “but I can’t see to do that. I can help get supper ready, though.”

They went into the room occupied by the brother and sister. There were two small beds in opposite corners of the room, which was rather large, one of them being curtained off with cheap cloth.

At one side of the room was a cupboard and a bench. There was a small cook stove in the room.

“Now,” cried the boy, as he hopped about with his crutch, “I’ll show you what coffee and what biscuits I can make.”

“And I will set the table,” declared little Nell.

“I have a plan,” said Frank. “We will take the table into my room, for it will be hot in here after Jack gets his cooking done. We’ll eat in there.”

This was agreed upon, and Frank managed to move the table, with very little aid from the lame boy.

Jack built the fire and prepared for work. He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, washed face and hands, and then got out the cake board. In a short time he was working in the flour, and the way he went at it proclaimed his skill.

“If you will bring the dishes, Frank, I’ll set the table,” said little Nell.

So Merry carried the dishes, what few there were, out through the short passage and into his room, where the blind girl, after the cloth was spread, stood by the table and arranged them. She seemed to do this work by instinct, for she could not have done it better had she been able to see.

“Oh, we will have such a lovely supper!” she laughed, her sweet face glowing with pleasure. “It seems to me that we have much better times since we knew you, Frank. I am certain we are far happier. I am so glad we found you!”

“And I am glad, Nellie!” Merry declared. “It would have been lonely living here, and you have brightened my life like sunshine bursting through a cloud.”

She came near him, her hands clasped, her sightless eyes turned upon his face, as if she could see.

“I love to hear you talk,” she murmured. “You have such a pleasant voice, and you say such beautiful things. Anyone would know there was nothing bad in your heart just to hear you speak.”

“I hope there is nothing bad in my heart, Nellie,” he said, with deep earnestness. “It is our duty to keep our hearts free from all evil, but sometimes I find it necessary to fight to do so.”

“But you fight so bravely I am sure you’ll never be conquered.”

“Thank you, dear little Nell,” he said, taking both her hands and looking down at her face. “Your confidence in me will help me in the battle of life. I am at the foot of the ladder now, but some day I may mount to the top. If I do, I shall not forget my little companions of my days of misfortune.”

“How good you are!” she murmured. “Oh, how I long to see your face!”

“Some day, as true as it is possible, you shall!” he cried. “I cannot believe you are fated to be blind forever. The money is coming in slowly, but it is coming. Pretty soon you will have enough to travel to New York, and have the great specialist treat you.”

“Yes! yes!” she fluttered. “The money never came in so fast as it has since we met you. Jack says each night that the time is growing shorter and shorter. I can remember something about the way things look. I remember the flowers, and I love them so much! They are like fairies, decked out in all their fancy dresses. Sometimes Jack, who knows how dearly I love them—sometimes he brings me home a few. Then I put them in water, and I sit by them, and smell them, and touch them, and whisper to them. It seems that they must hear and understand me.”

Her face was bright as she was speaking, but, of a sudden, it became shadowed and saddened.

“But, for all I can do,” she went on, mournfully, “they wither and die at last. And that hurts me so! I cry over them, and it makes brother feel bad, and he says he will not bring me any more flowers. It doesn’t seem right that beautiful things should fade and die. Oh, why is it so?”

“It is the law of nature,” said Frank, gently. “All things must have an end, but nothing perishes. The flower turns to dust, and from the dust another flower springs perhaps. Something comes from it. There is a constant and continual change, but nothing really perishes.”

“Yes, yes; Jack and I have talked of that. Sometimes we speak of the loss of our dear mother, for she seemed to fade like a flower, and he says we shall find her again—some time.”

“It is a beautiful belief,” said Frank. “But you are getting sad, little Nell; and we are to be happy to-night, you know.”

Then he cheered her up till soon she was laughing.

Jack came to the door and cried:

“Ready for the feast. The coffee is cooked, and the biscuits will be done in four minutes.”

“Wait,” said Frank. “I want to slip out to the street for something. I will be back directly.”

He seized his hat and went out. At the corner he passed a man who was standing back in the deep shadow. He did not pay any attention to the man.

At a fruit store Frank purchased some oranges and bananas. With them he hurried back.

The man near the corner slunk deep into a doorway as he passed, and then stepped out and followed him lightly.

“Here we are!” cried Frank, gayly, as he deposited the fruit on the table. “To-night we will have a treat.”

Everything was ready, and they sat down. Little Nell folded her hands and asked a blessing, while Frank and Jack bowed their heads. Jack started to pour the coffee. All at once he stopped and stared at his sister.

“Gracious, Nellie!” he cried. “You never looked so much like mother before! Why, somehow you look just like her as you sit there at that end of the table. You should have seen her, Frank. She was a beautiful woman.”

“Get her picture,” said the girl—“get it and show it to him.”

Jack sat down the coffee pot and hopped away into the other room. He quickly returned with a photograph, which he gave to Frank.

Merry looked at the picture, and, indeed, the blind girl showed a strong resemblance to the sad-faced, beautiful woman.

Rap! rap! rap!—a heavy knock on the door.

Little Nell uttered a startled exclamation, and then the door was flung open.

Outside stood a dark-faced man, whom Frank recognized instantly.

It was old Joe Hicks!

“It’s the man who followed us!” cried the lame boy, in a flutter of excitement.

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN UNWELCOME RELATION.

Frank had risen to his feet and he took a step toward the door.

From the lips of the blind girl came another cry, one of fear.

Frank turned to her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, reassuringly. “He shall not harm anyone here.”

Then he demanded to know what the man wanted.

Hicks showed his teeth.

“So this is where you stop?” he said. “Well, I’m glad I found that out, but it was them others I came to see.”

“What do you want of them?”

The engineer stepped into the room, but Merry halted him with a sharp word.

“Stand where you are! You are an intruder here!”

“Oh, don’t put on airs!” snarled old Joe, and Frank saw the man had been drinking. “I know my business.”

“State it.”

“Well, a man gets queer notions in his head sometimes, and when I saw the face of that gal I was hit by a queer one. I tried to talk with her, but she got skeered. I want to know what her name is. Won’t you tell me your name, little gal?”

Nell hesitated, trembling slightly. Her brother had his arm about her now, and was speaking reassuring words to her.

“Why should she tell you her name?” demanded Frank, a strange feeling of apprehension assailing him.

“I’m not doin’ my business with you!” grated the man. “I’ll look after you some other time.”

“You may have to do some business with me now, for I am the friend and protector of this boy and girl.”

“Oh, you are? Well, who made ye so? You’re not old enough to be their guardian.”

“I am old enough to look out for them, and I shall see that they come to no harm.”

“You’re a pretty swift young chap for a common engine wiper. Soon as you get out from work at night you swell round in good clothes, as if you was the son of a millionaire. Where do ye get all your money to do that?”

“That is none of your business!” returned Merry, warmly.

“Ain’t, eh? Well, I reckon I can tell ye. You sponge it out of this boy and gal you are protectin’. They must pick up lots of money on the street, and you get it.”

“It’s not true!” cried the lame boy, his eyes flashing. “Mr. Merriwell does not get one cent of it!”

“No! no! no!” exclaimed the girl. “He helps us! He is so good to us!”

“He’s playin’ his game pretty slick,” declared old Joe, “but he ain’t your friend for nothin’.”

Then the man obtained a fair view of the picture in Frank’s hand. With remarkable swiftness he snatched it, and then, holding it in both hands, he stood staring at it, his face working strangely.

Merriwell had started to take the picture from the man, but he stopped, astonished by the expression on the face of Hicks.

The engineer looked from the picture to the face of the girl. He seemed comparing the two. At last he hoarsely asked:

“Is this the picture of your mother, gal?”

“Yes, sir,” Nell faintly answered.

“Then you are my niece, for it is the picture of my own sister!”

Frank Merriwell started, as if he had been struck a blow. Both the boy and girl uttered cries of astonishment.

“It can’t be that you are our uncle!” said little Jack.

“I am Joseph Hicks,” said the engineer, “and Mary Hicks, your mother, was my sister.”

“That was mother’s name before she married father,” confessed the boy. “But it does not seem possible that you—are—her—brother. You are not a bit like her.”

“Well, I’m her brother. That’s why I follered ye. I saw in your sister’s face the resemblance to Mary. It was so remarkable that I could not help following you about. She is dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Dave Norton?”

“He is dead, too.”

“Good thing! Never liked him. He was too stuck up. He wouldn’t take a drink, or do anything like other people. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Sir,” cried the boy, “he was my father!”

“That’s no credit to you. But you’re orphans now—all alone in the world.”

“Not all alone.”

“No? How’s that?”

“We have Mr. Merriwell.”

“Rot! I’m your uncle. It’s my duty to look after ye. I’ll take care of ye, and of the money ye make, too. Ha! ha! ha!”

The lame boy looked appealingly at Frank.

“You may be their uncle,” said Merry, “but you are not yet their guardian. There is the door.”

“What of it?” snarled old Joe. “You can’t drive me out! I won’t go! I’m goin’ to take charge of these orphans.”

“Not yet.”

“I will!”

“Not till the law gives you the right. Go!”

Then the man appealed to the children.

“I’m your uncle. You must mind me. You can’t refuse.”

“Oh, I am so afraid of him!” half sobbed little Nell, clinging to her brother.

“What do you say, Jack?” asked Frank. “Shall he go?”

“Yes!” cried the boy, straightening up. “He looks like a bad man, and he talks like one. Sister is afraid of him. He must go!”

“You hear,” said Merry to Hicks.

“Yes, I hear,” he snarled; “but I will not go! I stand on my rights. You’re not going to have the money they make to blow for clothes! I’ll take care of it.”

“And squander it for liquor. You shall not do that. If you do not go at once, I shall throw you out.”

“Don’t you dare put a hand on me!”

Old Joe looked dangerous then, but Frank advanced on him. The man flung down the picture and reached toward a pocket. With a leap, Merry was on him and had him by the neck.

“You dog!” said Frank. “You deserve to be jailed! You are thoroughly evil! Out you go!”

There was a struggle, during which the man drew something bright from his pocket. Little Jack uttered a shrill cry and leaped forward, swinging his crutch. With that weapon, the boy knocked the knife from the man’s hand, and it fell clattering to the floor.

“Aha!” grated the engineer. “He saved ye that time!”

When Frank realized that the man had attempted his life, he was furious. With wonderful strength, he lifted old Joe, ran him out into the passage, reached the head of the stairs, and threw him down.

Bump! thump! bang!

The man bounced down the stairs, and struck in the darkness at the bottom.

“Get out!” cried Frank. “I am coming down, and I’ll throw you out if you are there when I reach the bottom!”

The man gathered himself and made haste to get away before Frank could reach him, but he retreated swearing vengeance.

Frank turned and ascended the stairs. In the room, little Nell was sobbing in the arms of her brother.

CHAPTER XXIV.
FRANK EXACTS A PROMISE.

The very next day old Joe appeared at the roundhouse, although his week was not up. He took care to keep out of Ganzell’s sight, but he hung around.

“Phwat th’ divvil is he up to?” asked Larry Logan. “He’s apt to git another wake off av th’ ould marn sees him.”

Some of the men spoke to old Joe, but he snarled at them in reply, so they quickly decided to let him alone.

Hicks was seen in the vicinity of 33, and Logan got a fancy that he contemplated some trick with the engine.

Frank Merriwell was busy at work, and he paid no attention to his enemy.

Hicks showed he was still drinking, for he was in his shirt sleeves, not even having worn a coat to the roundhouse.

Frank’s work often took him outside the building, sometimes to turn the table, sometimes to do other things.

No. 33 was being run by a spare man, who appeared as the time approached for her to go out. The fireman was on hand in advance, and had steam up.

It happened that Frank Merriwell was on his way to the roundhouse from another building when the time came for old Joe’s engine to come out. He was walking near the track just as 33 glided out of the door.

There were several persons about, and Merry was paying very little attention to any of them. He was attending strictly to his business, as was his habit.

As old 33 came along, Frank received a heavy jolt that threw him on the track directly in front of her pilot!

Had the engine been running a trifle faster, or had Frank been less nimble, the life of the young wiper would have been crushed out beneath the wheels then and there. As it was, the pilot brushed Merry as he scrambled from the track.

Frank leaped to his feet, quivering all over with anger.

Whoever the man was, he was on the other side of the engine at that moment, but Merry would know quickly.

The fireman of 33 had been running her out. He saw Merriwell knocked down before her nose, and threw back the lever, although he realized it was too late to save the youth by his efforts to stop the engine. A moment later, he saw Frank was safe from harm, and he sent her ahead again.

Then, as the engine passed on, Frank leaped across the track and sprang after a man who was walking swiftly away.

“Here!” he cried, and his hand fell on old Joe Hicks’ shoulder.

The engineer turned, uttering a snarl. His face was white and his eyes staring. It was plain enough that he was completely unstrung at that moment.

“So it was you who tried to kill me in that cowardly manner!” cried Frank, his eyes blazing. “Well, that is even worse than I expected of you!”

“What d’yer mean?” hoarsely demanded the man.

“I mean that you knocked me onto the track in front of 33, which was a deliberate and criminal attempt to kill me!”

“You lie!”

“It is true!”

“I say you lie!”

“And I say you lie, Hicks!” growled a hoarse voice, and Old Slugs came up. “I saw the whole thing, an’ I’ll swear you done it on purpose.”

“You?” Hicks hissed. “Why, you’re a fool! You ain’t got no reason to love this youngster! You’d oughter be glad ter see him knocked out.”

“Mebbe I had, but I’m no murderer, an’ I don’t care ter ’sociate with murderers. Merriwell gave me a hammerin’, but he done it fair, an’ I ain’t doin’ him dirt in return.”

“You’re a fool!” Hicks again hissed.

“All ther same, I reckon my word will stand if I have ter tell what I jest saw you do. You’ll git scarce mighty quick round this shop when the old man hears of that.”

“You hear!” came from Frank. “I have the proof!”

“All right!” panted the desperate engineer. “I can live. I’ll take care of my nevvy and niece. If I’m out of work, I can look arter them all the better.”

Frank started. So that was what Hicks would do. He would force himself on the lame boy and the blind girl by right of relationship. He would take the money they made on the street, and he would spend it for drink.

A sudden idea came to Merry.

“Look here, Mr. Hicks,” he said, “on one condition I will agree not to make a charge against you.”

“What’s that?”

“You are to let little Jack and his sister quite alone. You are not even to claim them as relations, or try to see them.”

“Think I’ll do that?”

“If you don’t, I’ll swear you tried to kill me to-day, and I have the proof. You were seen by Mr. Hall and by the fireman on 33. You will lose your job on this road. You will be discharged in disgrace, and it will not be easy for you to get a job anywhere else. When they ask you why you left the last place, you’ll have to lie. Perhaps they will know why you left. You may be blacklisted.”

Old Joe’s face turned almost green, while his lips seemed dry and parched. He stood before Frank Merriwell, half cowering, half defiant, like a tiger driven at bay.

“Choose!” commanded Frank.

“I don’t like the idea of letting you have your way with the kids.”

“Choose!”

“Oh, well, you could fix me if you went and told that stuff to the old man. It was all an accident, but——”

“Choose!”

“I don’t care a rap about the kids anyway. You needn’t worry about me botherin’ them.”

“You give your word not to trouble them?”

“Yes.”

“You will not even try to see them? Promise that.”

“I promise.”

“All right. I will not make a complaint against you.”

“But I may,” growled Old Slugs, who did not seem at all satisfied.

“No!” exclaimed Frank, quickly. “You must not!”

“I ain’t makin’ any promises.”

“Why, blow ye!” grated Hicks. “You don’t dare!”

“Yes, I do,” returned Old Slugs, sullenly. “I don’t like you none too well, and I’d as lives see you get out of here as not. It’s my duty to report what I saw, an’ I’m goin’ to do my duty.”

“Ah—a—ah! You’re thunderin’ particular about your duty all to once! I won’t forgit it. I’ll have a score to settle with you!”

“I’ll keep watch for ye better than Merriwell did. You won’t get the chance on me.”

“But you shall not report this affair, Mr. Hall,” came firmly from Frank’s lips.

“Who says so?”

“I do.”

“But you ain’t got any right to say so.”

“All the same, I do. If you report it, I’ll——”

Frank hesitated, and Old Slugs quickly asked:

“What’ll you do?”

“I’ll give you another thrashing, and it will be worse than the first!” flared Frank, looking as if he were ready to start in on the job at that moment. “I’ll fix you so you will not work for more than one day!”

It was plain enough that Frank meant exactly what he said. Old Slugs could not doubt it.

“Why,” said Hall, “I’m your friend now. I came here and stood by you in this matter against Hicks.”

“You are not my friend if you say a word about it to the old man. You will be my enemy.”

“You must be foolish! If Hicks stays here, he’ll get at you ag’in, and he may do me, too. The only safe thing for us now is to report him, and then he’ll be fired.”

“I will take my chances. As for you, you can’t be afraid of him, for you can handle him. Give him another show. Perhaps he will appreciate it.”

“All right, if you say so, but it seems like a fool trick.”

“You’ll keep mum?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I have your promise. Do not break it.”

Old Slugs went away grumbling and growling, and Frank turned to the engineer.

“I have saved you from being discharged,” he said. “Of that there can be no doubt. All I ask of you in return is that you let Jack and Nellie entirely alone.”

Hicks nodded.

“If you do not,” cried Frank, his fine eyes flashing, “by the eternal skies, I’ll make you regret the day you ever saw them! That is all.”

Then he turned and walked into the roundhouse to go about his work.

CHAPTER XXV.
ON A SWITCH ENGINE.

Two days later Frank was working in the yard when Sam Hobson, a yard engineer, came up behind him and addressed him.

“Is your name Frank Merriwell?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you.”

Frank went over to the grimy-looking man who had spoken to him. Engine 91, used for switching purposes, was ready to go out of the roundhouse.

“Get inter the cab there,” said the man, motioning for Frank to climb up.

Merriwell was amazed, and he hesitated, saying:

“Mr. Ganzell——”

“Don’t you worry about Mr. Ganzell, but do as I told you. He sent me for a man. Get inter the cab.”

Frank hesitated no longer, although he was filled with wonder.

Often when short of firemen the yard engineers would take one of the wipers, but it did not seem possible to Frank that he had been selected for such work.

Merry swung up into the cab, and Hobson leisurely followed. Several wipers stared in astonishment, not one of them regarding it as possible that the boy who had been at work in the roundhouse but a short time had been chosen to fire on 91.

The engineer glanced at the gauge, and then looked to see that everything was in place.

“Ring,” he said, for he had received the signal to go ahead.

Frank pulled the bell-rope, and Hobson opened her up a little and let off the brake. Then 91 ran out of the roundhouse into the yard, and was switched onto a certain track.

“Keep the gauge about where she is now,” said the engineer.

Then Frank knew he had been selected to fire on that engine for the time being, at least. His heart gave a great leap of joy, but he simply and calmly said:

“All right, sir.”

Frank was nervous. It was not the first time he had been on an engine, for he had sought the friendship of the engineers, and had found opportunities to ride about the switches and watch the work, but never yet had he flung a shovel of coal in at a furnace door. He had watched and studied, feeling sure that his time would come, and all his life it had been his way to pick up all the knowledge he could obtain, knowing that almost anything a man learns comes of practical use some time.

Open came the furnace door and Merry gave a glance at the glowing heap within. Then he seized the shovel, and, feeling stronger than ever before in his life, began to fling in the coal, giving each shovelful a dextrous flirt that scattered and distributed it evenly. When he thought he had shoveled enough, he closed the door with a clang.

Hobson said not a word, but just then, having received another signal, he reversed, and 91 started backward along the track. Up to the leather seat went Frank, and he rang the bell as the engine backed along the track.

In a very few minutes 91 was busy pushing and hauling cars about and moving them from one track to another.

For nearly an hour Hobson had nothing to say, and Frank made no talk, for his mind was on the various tasks it was his duty to perform. He seemed to know exactly what to do, and not once did the engineer have to give him directions.

Then came a few minutes of leisure when 91 was not busy. Hobson caught up a black pipe and lighted it. As he was rolling great puffs of blue-white smoke out of his mouth, he shut one eye in a queer way and stared at his companion with the other.

“Humph!” he grunted. “When did you fire before?”

Frank flushed, for there seemed a trace of derision in the voice and manner of the man.

“I never fired before, sir.”

“What!”

“That is true. This is my first attempt.”

“You’re pretty young. Ain’t twenty-one yet?”

“No, sir.”

“How long have you worked wiping?”

“Almost four weeks.”

“No longer than that?”

“No, sir.”

“Humph!” grunted Hobson again, pulling away at the black pipe with an expression of deep satisfaction.

It seemed that the engineer doubted Merry’s statements, which made Frank feel rather resentful.

After a brief silence, Hobson spoke again.

“You’re the chap that thrashed Old Slugs?”

“I had a fight with the man.”

“Ya-as, I heard about it. Everybody was astonished. Said a boy licked him, and he’s a tough nut. How’d you do it?”

“With my fists, sir.”

“Of course, but I don’t understand it. You’re a queer case. I wondered why the old man told me to take you to fire to-day.”

Frank started.

“Then you were told to take me?”

“Ya-as. Ganzell told me to find the youngest wiper in the house and take him. Said his name was Frank Merriwell. I wouldn’t have picked you if it hadn’t been for that.”

Frank’s heart was filled with gratitude, for he realized that Ganzell had given him this opportunity, which would not, in the natural order of things, have come to him in a long time.

Ganzell had seemed to pay very little attention to Merry, but, in truth, he was watching him closely. It did not take him long to discover that the youth was built of the right material, and, although Frank did not know it, the foreman gave him all sorts of opportunities for learning things.

And now, before the first month was up, Frank had been selected to fire on a switch engine!

He knew the position might be simply temporary, and that there was a chance for him to go back wiping engines, but the mere fact that he had been chosen once, if he proved competent, was enough to pave the way to a regular job as fireman.

Hobson started in to find out how much Frank really knew. He asked Merry a hundred questions about the different parts of a locomotive, and about handling one, and, with very few exceptions, the youth answered correctly.

“Well,” said the engineer, “you know as much in certain ways about a locomotive as some men who have been running ’em for years. How you found out so much in a short time is what sticks me.”

“I have been studying a book on locomotive engineering,” explained Frank.

“Oh, that’s it! Well, what you want to study now is an engine, and let your book alone. We’ve got the signal to run out onto the main track. Here, see if you can run her out.”

Then he stepped away and gave up the lever to Frank.

CHAPTER XXVI.
CAPTURING A WILD ENGINE.

Frank ran the engine out all right, although it startled him somewhat to feel her go the instant he touched the throttle. He knew how she ought to be handled, but found it rather confusing when he came to do it himself. The throttle, reverse lever and brake seemed to be in each other’s way, and he could not find them with his hands without looking for them, something that is a dead giveaway for a greenhorn.

Hobson talked to Frank, telling him just how everything should be done, and he permitted Frank to handle the engine for some time, although some of his criticisms were rather cutting.

Occasionally Frank caught himself in the act of giving her steam when he should have reversed her first, and the laughter of Hobson was not calculated to make him any cooler. Still, after a time, he began to grow more confident, and the engineer ceased laughing and criticising.

At the end of an hour, Hobson said:

“You’ll be a winner all right, young man; but you want to let booze alone.”

“I do not touch it, sir,” answered Frank.

“That’s all right. By booze I mean everything—beer and all.”

“I never drink beer.”

“With your color? Not when you are thirsty?”

“Never.”

“Hum! Where did you work before you came here?”

“I was in college, sir.”

“College? And you never worked anywhere else?”

“No, sir.”

“What college?”

“Yale.”

“Then you used to drink?”

“No, sir.”

“Why, all them college chaps drink! They’re a wild crowd, and they don’t do a thing but steam up at times. You must have had your little toots with the boys.”

“If by ‘little toots’ you mean drunks, you are mistaken. I suppose I have had as much sport as anybody, but I never took a drink of beer or liquor in my life!”

“Well, you’re a wonder! But you’ll have to look out now. Railroad men are worked pretty hard, especially firemen and engineers, and many of them brace up by drinking, especially when they have not had a wink of sleep for twenty-four hours, as sometimes happens. You’ll be tempted to do that some time.”

“I do not think so, sir; but, if I am tempted, I shall resist.”

“That’s right,” nodded Hobson, gravely. “If you never take your first drink, you’ll be all right. I would have been myself. I was a passenger engineer once, and now I am on a switch engine. What put me here? Rum! Couldn’t let booze alone. I don’t like to talk about it, for it makes me feel ugly. I’ve sworn off a thousand times, but it’s no use. I always break over. You see I know so many of the boys who take something. After I have been without it a long time, I get a hankering to do something. Then I run into some of the men. I think I won’t drink, but the man who has done so once is always tempted. His friends say that a little snifter will do him good. He ain’t lookin’ well, and he thinks he ain’t feeling well. He says he’ll just take a small one as medicine. Then it’s all off. That small one starts him in again, and he’s just as bad off as he was before. Yes, if you never take the first one, you’ll be all right, and you will get somewhere in the world. Drink is what holds men down. It keeps them from rising. It wastes their money and keeps them poor. It makes hard times for the laborer. Oh, I know! I know all about the man who gets plumb full, loses his job, and curses the hard times.”

The man’s manner, as much as his words, showed how deeply he felt what he was saying.

It was not necessary to read Frank Merriwell a temperance lecture. He fully realized the truth of Hobson’s words. Years before he had promised his dying mother that he would not drink, and although he had been greatly tempted, that promise had never been broken.

Finally, when the work slackened somewhat, Hobson swung down from the engine and went into the yardmaster’s office, saying he would be back in a minute.

The main track was clear, and Hobson had not been gone a minute when Frank was directed to run up past the freight house and change onto another switch. This was to be done on the main track, as no trains were due.

But just as 91 was running along the main track past the freight house, the operator came jumping out of the little office, showing great excitement.

“Get off the track!” he cried. “Clear the track. There is a wild engine coming, and she ought to be here now!”

Frank’s heart gave a leap. A wild engine was coming, and he was on the main track.

“Which way is she coming?” he cried.

“East.”

She was behind him.

“Here she comes!”

The operator waved his arms and shouted. Looking over the tender Frank saw the wild engine just rounding a curve in the distance. Then he opened up, and 91 jumped ahead.

Frank thought he might get down past the switch, and back onto the first siding, thus letting the wild engine pass. He was going to make the attempt.

But, as he approached the switch, he saw that the tender was not on hand, although he had whistled for the man.

Another look back told Merry he had not a moment to spare if he would get out of the way of the runaway engine. He thought he might be able to stop 91, jump off, open the switch, get on again, and back out of harm’s way. Then he saw that he might not be able to do the trick, and, even if he did succeed, he could not leave the engine again in time to throw the switch and save the runaway from being wrecked.

In such a position it was necessary to think swiftly. There was one thing he could do.

He could run away from the wild engine if he could keep up steam.

Now the engine was close upon him, and he hooked 91 up another notch. Down past the first switch he ran, bidding farewell to the hope of backing in and leaving a clear track.

“I must stop the runaway!”

He muttered the words and his jaws squared. Now that he was in a position of peril, he never felt cooler in his life. Again he looked back at the oncoming engine, calmly measuring the distance between them.

He wondered why the operator had not received notice before of the runaway, but there was little time then to speculate on that point.

As he looked back, he became aware that the runaway was not making much over twenty miles an hour. It was evident that her steam was running down, and she was nearing the end of her wild trip.

Then Frank became confident. He knew well enough that there was a clear track ahead, but it would be necessary to whistle for crossings whenever possible. Four miles away was a hard grade.

“I’ll stop her there,” he decided.

He set about regulating the speed of 91 so that he could keep clear of the runaway, and still the wild engine was permitted to creep nearer and nearer.

It gave Frank a creepy feeling to see her coming up silently, without sound of bell or whistle, and with no human being in her cab.

When the stretch of woods at the foot of the grade was reached, the runaway was not over four rods away. Then Frank permitted her to come nearer and nearer till the nose of her pilot was right under the tender of 91.

Then Frank left the cab and scrambled back over the tender, swinging down onto the pilot of the runaway. He worked swiftly, fearing the wild engine might give out and let 91 get away, but this did not happen, and he succeeded in coupling the two.

“Hurrah!” he cried, with boyish enthusiasm. “I have her!”

Back along the running board he went and soon was in the cab. He found she was hooked up to within one short notch of the center. Her cylinder cocks were open.

It did not take Merry a moment to shut off steam, so that the runaway was helpless, but in that moment he discovered the cause of the runaway—a weak throttle latch-spring.

Back to 91 Merry made his way, and soon both engines were at a standstill. He had successfully captured the runaway.

There was a crowd waiting when Frank backed to the yards with the wild engine. Sam Hobson was there, looking pale but relieved, and a gang of brakemen and switch-tenders welcomed the hero of the adventure with cheer after cheer.

CHAPTER XXVII.
FRANK’S FRIENDS.

“Well done, boy!” cried Hobson, as he swung into the cab. “No man could have done better. But I’ll get it in the neck for being away from the engine. I’ll have to lie about it.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Frank; “but I think that would be the very worst thing you could do.”

“Hey? Well, you don’t suppose I’m going to tell that I was off to get a drink?”

“Was that why you left the engine?”

“Yes.”

“And you were reading me a temperance lecture a short time before!”

“I told ye what the cursed stuff does for a man. No one knows better than I! Just talkin’ about it made me feel that I must have a swaller. I knew where to get it, and I went after it. It was just my luck to have something happen to show that I was gone.”

Frank felt like preaching a sermon on luck then and there, but refrained.

Hobson wanted to know just how Frank succeeded in stopping the runaway, and Merry told him the story briefly.

“That is bound to fix you all right,” said the engineer. “I’ll bet anything your days as wiper are over.”

He was right. That night Frank was told to come the following morning ready to take a regular job as fireman, while Hobson, who was unable to satisfactorily account for his absence from 91, was laid off.

The wipers were jealous and angry. Some of them sneered at Merry, but the most of them kept still and contented themselves by giving him black looks.

The cause of the runaway was explained by the weak throttle latch-spring, which had been reported over and over again, but had not been replaced, as it should have been. However, somebody had to suffer for it, and the man who had charge of her was the one.

Frank was feeling light-hearted as he walked homeward that night, when, of a sudden, he remembered that little Nell, the blind girl, was ill. He stopped on his way and bought some fruit for her.

The lame boy was sitting at the bedside of his sister when Frank came in. There was an eager look on Nellie’s face, for she had heard and recognized Frank’s step.

“I’m so glad you have come!” she said, weakly, stretching her arms toward him.

He hurried to her, took both her delicate hands in his, and kissed her tenderly.

“How is my little girl to-night?” he asked.

“Oh, I was so tired—so tired of lying here!” she answered. “But I am better now that you have come. It seemed that you were away such a long, long time. It is awfully tiresome to be ill in bed—and blind. Oh, if I could see!”

“You know you are going to be able to see again some time when we get together enough money to have the great specialist treat you.”

“Yes, I know; but this being ill is using up all the money we have saved. Oh, it is such an awful setback!”

“That is worrying her,” said the lame boy, anxiously. “I am afraid it keeps her from getting well as fast as she should.”

“Well, do not let it worry you any more, little girl,” said Frank. “I have been given a new job to-day. I am to be a fireman after this, and I shall get better pay. This money business is coming out all right. All I want of you is to get well as soon as you can, and that for your own sake.”

“But we have no right to take your money—the money you have to work so hard for. No, no; we can’t take that.”

“No, no,” cried the lame boy.

“You leave things to me,” laughed Frank. “It will be all right. Think how lonely I should have been if I had not found you for companions. It is the greatest pleasure I have in life to aid you.”

“But we can’t take your money.”

“No, no!”

“I do not wish you to take it as a gift,” said Merry. “I will loan it to you, you know. It will not be much, anyway. What did the doctor have to say to-day?”

“Oh, he said I was doing well,” answered little Nell. “He said I was not strong, and I came very near having a fever, but I will be all right very soon.”

“Well, that is encouraging. He told me last night that I might bring you some fruit, but you must eat sparingly of it. I bought some as I came home.”

“Oh, how good you are to us!” cried the girl, with a graceful sob. “You have such a kind heart! Once it seemed that the world was full of bad, cruel people; but, since we met you, I know it is not true.”

“No, Nellie, there is far more good in the world than anything else. Human beings are peculiar. Sometimes a person may seem very bad and wicked when all it needs is the right influence to develop in him the most surprisingly noble qualities. Never lose confidence in human nature.”

“That is the way you always talk, Frank, and it makes me feel so hopeful and happy. Before I knew you I was often sad, but no one can be sad where you are.”

“I never permit myself to be sad for any length of time,” declared Frank, “for sadness is one of the greatest causes of failure in the world. The person who is always sad and mournful is shunned in business as well as in society. He is anything but a pleasant companion, and men do not care to deal with him. In almost every case, the real source of sadness is feebleness of the soul, and it is the strong soul that wins in the battle of life. But I am not going to preach.”

“Oh, I love to hear you talk!” declared the girl, still clinging to his hands. “There is always a lesson in what you say. I wonder how it is that you know so much.”

Frank laughed.

“You fancy I know so much, that’s all.”

“No. You never say foolish things.”

Then Frank blushed, for he thought of his college days, and he knew that a thousand foolish things had tripped lightly from his tongue in the badinage that prevailed on many an occasion.

“We are glad you have been promoted, Frank,” said the lame boy. “How did it happen? I am sure you deserved it.”

Then Frank told all about his capture of the wild engine, but he was forced to make the account of the adventure as mild as possible, for little Nell grew very excited over the thrilling parts.

“Oh, I knew you would stop it!” she exclaimed. “It is just like you! You always do such things.”

“I might not if I had been able to get off the main line onto the switch,” laughed Frank.

“Oh, I believe you would—I believe you would have followed and captured the engine.”

Frank felt that it was an inspiration to know some one had such confidence in him. The person who knows brave and noble things are expected of him is more likely to be brave and noble than one who realizes that no one has confidence in him.

Little Jack hopped about getting supper ready, while Frank sat beside the bed and talked to Nellie. While he was near her face bore an expression of perfect contentment and happiness. To him she was just a dear, frail, little child who had found a place in his heart by her innocence and her gentleness. To her he was the one great hero of whom she had dreamed, and she loved and revered him more than words could express.

Sometimes she had longed to ask him many questions about himself, but she had been afraid to do so, and, for the most part, he had remained silent. Now, however, she plucked up courage enough to ask some questions, and Frank told her about his early school days, about his mother who was dead, about his life at Fardale and Yale, and about the two girls, Inza Burrage and Elsie Bellwood, who had been so dear to him.

As he spoke of Inza and Elsie, her hands gripped his fingers a bit tighter, and it seemed that her blind eyes were looking into his with a wistful expression. She showed the deepest interest then, and, when he ceased speaking, she asked him to describe both girls to her.

He did so, telling of Inza first. She listened, seeming to hush her breathing, so eager was she. When he had finished describing Inza’s striking beauty and spirited ways, a sigh escaped the listener’s lips—a sight of relief.

“Ah!” she said, with a faint smile; “you cared for her because she was so handsome.”

“No, no!” cried Frank, quickly. “Inza is a splendid girl. She is a girl of whom any fellow would be proud.”

“I believe that, but still—— Tell me of Elsie.”

Frank hesitated.

“I don’t know how to describe her,” he declared. “She is so different from Inza.”

Then, faltering at first, but growing eloquent as he proceeded, he described the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl who had been Inza’s rival. His voice was full of music and tenderness, and, all unconscious to himself, his words became poetic. As he proceeded, he felt little Nell’s hands trembling in his grasp.

At last he finished, and there was a little silence.

“Frank,” said the blind girl, with something like a sob, “you love Elsie!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
FIRING A FREIGHT ENGINE.

The next morning Frank came to the roundhouse at an early hour, for he knew it was his duty to have his engine ready when the engineer appeared.

Old Slugs came up and said:

“I’m glad for ye, boy, but the gang is mighty sore, and ye’ll have your troubles. They don’t like to have a man push in over them the way you have done.”

“I have simply taken things that came my way,” declared Frank.

“That’s all right, but it don’t make no difference. They hate ye just as bad for havin’ the chance.”

“Well, I can’t help that.”

“Of course not. They think I ought to make a kick, but I ain’t sore, and I think you got the place because you was smart, as well as lucky. You and I ain’t never had no trouble since that first time, have we?”

“No.”

“Well, we won’t. I wish ye good luck.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hall.”

Old Slugs slouched away to his work, and, ten minutes later, Frank was set to getting Engine 33 ready.

Merry started when he was put onto that engine, for it was run by his worst enemy on the road, old Joe Hicks, the uncle of the lame boy and blind girl.

Old Joe had tried in every way possible to injure Merry, but had failed in every attempt.

Not a word did Frank say, but climbed onto the engine and went to work making her ready. He knew there would be a warm time when the engineer appeared.

Old Joe came hurrying in and climbed aboard the engine without noticing Frank. When he saw Merry he stopped short, stared at him a moment, and uttered a curse.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he snarled, looking as if he longed to fly at the youth.

“Getting this engine ready to go out,” was the calm answer.

“The deuce you are! What’s the matter with Bob?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I was put onto this engine to fire.”

“Well, I’m blowed if I’ll have it! Get off!”

“No, sir.”

“This is my engine, and——”

“You run her, but you don’t own her.”

“I’ll never run her an inch with you on board.”

“All right. But your chances of running her any more is mighty small if you stick to that.”

“You talk as if you owned the road.”

Frank was silent, for he did not care to waste his breath on the man unnecessarily, and he felt that he had said quite enough. Old Joe snarled at him, and threatened him, but Frank remained unruffled.

“You don’t know how to fire, anyway,” declared the man. “Why, you’ve been at work less than a month. I need a good man on my engine, and I’ll have one.”

“Anyone would think you were running a passenger engine to hear you talk,” said Frank.

“It’s harder runnin’ a freight engine, as you’d know, if you knew anything. You have to dodge all the passenger trains on the line, and you get the devil if you don’t make time. I’m blowed if I’ll keep you on this engine.”

Frank decided that the time had come for him to assert himself, so he straightened up and faced the engineer, looking him straight in the eye as he said:

“Look here, Mr. Hicks, I can fire this engine as well as anybody, and I am going to fire her. You can’t frighten me with a lot of talk, and, as far as you are concerned, I have heard enough from you. I have stood too much from you in times past, and now I tell you what I’ll do. If you work against me and get me dropped off this engine, I’ll thrash you as I did Old Slugs every day for a year!”

This talk was “square from the shoulder,” and it set the engineer to gasping.

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” he muttered.

It took him some moments to recover, and then he grated:

“I’ll take her out alone before I’ll have you!”

Then he jumped down from the cab and made for the office.

Frank kept about his work, and had 33 ready when old Joe came back, looking sour enough. Without a word, he got on and pulled out for the train shed.

It was not till they were coupled on and ready to start that Joe spoke. Then he growled:

“You’ve got to keep her hot, and if you make me lose time for want of steam, I’ll report you to the general manager.”

“That will be all right,” came quietly from Frank. “If you are looking for steam, you shall have all you want.”

Then Frank started in to keep the firebox door and the shovel on the swing, having resolved to give old Joe what he asked for. The engineer sat on his seat and scowled blackly, but said not a word as Frank “ladled in the lampblack.”

To Merry’s surprise, he was unable to get up more steam; in fact, the gauge dropped off a little, even though he worked like a slave. That was something he could not understand, but he thought at first that the fault was with him.

Old Joe looked ugly and triumphant.

“I told ye you didn’t know how to fire,” he said, after a while. “You’re a slouch.”

“And it is my opinion that you are a pounder,” returned Frank, a trifle warmly.

“Ya-ah!” snarled the engineer. “Mebbe you think you can run her better than I can?”

Up to this time Frank had paid no attention to the manner in which she was being run, as all his time had been taken up in shoveling. Now, however, he began to watch old Joe on the quiet.

When the first coaling station was reached, it was necessary to stop and take on coal and water, although Frank knew well enough that not half as much coal should have been used.

After this station was left, Frank resumed the task of keeping the shovel swinging as regularly as the pendulum of a clock. All the while, however, he was thinking. Something told him that he was being worked too hard, but it was not easy for him, a green hand, to discover how it was being done.

At last Frank observed that there was a certain notch in the quadrant that was worn smooth and bright, but old Joe was not running her there. He had her hooked up to a different notch, and he was not cutting off when he could help it, but was wasting every ounce of steam that he could.

When Merry realized this he began to grow warm.

“Look here, Mr. Hicks,” he said, “I am getting tired of this.”

Old Joe grinned in an ugly way.

“Knew ye would,” he grunted. “You’re too tender.”

“It’s not that. But you are making needless work for me just because you do not like me. You are not running her right.”

Then the old engineer was furious.

“Drat ye!” he snarled. “Don’t ye talk to me in my own cab like that! I won’t stand it!”

Then he leaped on Merry so suddenly that Frank was flung from his feet. They went down together, the man on top. He had a wrench in his hand, and he swung it aloft.

“Aha! I’ll fix ye now!” he howled.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FIGHT ON THE ENGINE.

Frank had been taken by surprise at the sudden movement of the infuriated engineer. He had not thought Hicks would dare attack him in such a manner, and thus he was thrown down in the bottom of the cab, with the train running at forty miles an hour.

Old Joe had every advantage, for he had fastened one hand on Frank’s throat, and he was strong. The glare in his eyes as he raised the wrench was that of a maniac.

Merriwell knew his life was in danger, and it was a good thing for him that he was not stunned. Like a flash he squirmed aside, for all of the weight of the man.

Bang! the wrench struck the floor on the very spot where Frank’s head had been a moment before.

The blow would have crushed Frank’s skull like an eggshell had it landed.

“Drat ye!” shouted the engineer, again lifting the wrench. “I’ll do it this time!”

Frank could not speak, for the fingers of the man were crushing into his throat. He could not breathe, and a blur was beginning to come over his eyes. He knew that blur might prevent him from dodging the next blow, and a desperate sensation seemed to burst through his heart.

“Heaven help me!”

He did not utter the words aloud, for he could not, but it was an inward cry.

Then, succeeding in getting one hand free, he reached upward and clutched something.

It was old Joe’s wrist.

In a blind way he had stopped the second blow, and, realizing this instantly, he held on for dear life.

“No, ye don’t,” snarled the man, as he tried to wrench away. “I’ve got ye, and I’ll fix ye!”

Frank held on, although the pressure of those fingers on his throat was awful to endure, and it seemed that colored fires were bursting in his brain. Black shadows and bright lights flitted before him, and, through a haze as of blood and smoke, he caught glimpses of the fiendish face of the mad engineer. The eyes of the man seemed to pierce him like knives.

Then, with his other hand, Frank tore at the fingers which were shutting off his wind and robbing him of strength and reason. He pulled those fingers up till he could get one gasping breath, and then they seemed to close down tighter than ever.

The agony was awful, but through it all Frank tried to keep his wits, and he succeeded.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the engineer.

That laugh sounded far away, but it was full of dreadful meaning. It was the laugh of a murderous maniac.

It seemed that old Joe had gone crazy in one instant, and surely he had the strength of a madman.

“I’ll kill ye!” grated the man, triumphantly. “I’ll tell them how ye attacked me, and I was forced to do it.”

Frank set his fingers around the wrist of the man, turned his head to one side, and made a last desperate wrench.

It seemed to Merry that his windpipe would be torn out by those iron fingers, but he did not give up, for that meant certain death. He dragged the hand away, and breathed again with a horrible gasping sound, as if he were dying.

But now he held both hands of the man for a moment, and, when Joe wrenched one of them away, Frank fought to keep it from getting his throat again.

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” the man kept snarling.

Then, with a sudden change, he tore free the hand that held the wrench. A second later he struck again at Frank’s head.

With his arm Frank warded off that blow. He gave a squirm and a twist that threw the man partly off, but he was unable to get on top as he desired.

Around over the bottom of the cab squirmed the two, the man trying to end it with one blow, while the boy fought for his life.

Onward thundered the engine, dragging the long train of cars. There was no warning whistle as a crossing was approached, and the bell remained silent.

An old farmer was about to drive over the crossing when the train thundered down on him.

“Whoa, Betsey!” he shouted, yanking his horse back on its haunches, much to the surprise of the docile old creature. “Waal, gol darn that train! Why didn’t it toot? There’s a law fer——”

He stopped short as the locomotive thundered past, and then he rose up in his wagon, his eyes as large as saucers, and his jaw dropping on his breast.

“Jee-roo-sa-lum!” he gasped. “They was fightin’ in there!”

He had caught a glimpse of the terrible battle going on in the cab of the locomotive, and it made his hair stand.

Frank began to feel that he was getting some of his strength back, for all that it was necessary to make such a furious struggle to keep his enemy from accomplishing his mad purpose.

Hicks was literally frothing at the mouth. He seemed to grow worse as the struggle continued, and he was baffled repeatedly.

Out of the cab they rolled, and were fairly on the coal in the tender. Three times Frank almost succeeded in getting on top and pinning Hicks down.

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” the engineer panted.

Not a word came from Frank. He was not wasting his breath in such a manner.

At last Merry got hold of the wrench, and then the struggle turned on the possession of the weapon. Old Joe set his teeth in the back of the youth’s hand, but Frank struck him a terrible blow between the eyes with his clinched fist.

That blow was a fortunate one, for it seemed to daze the crazy engineer, although he still fought on.

A moment later Frank succeeded in tearing the wrench away, and he gave it a fling that sent it off the engine.

Then Merry’s confidence came back to him. It had seemed that he might fail and be killed, but now he was sure that he would conquer the man.

Although he was swift as thought in all his movements, he was cool now, and everything he did counted.

He saw an opportunity to dash Hicks’ head back against the iron edge of the tender, and he did it, cutting a gash in the man’s scalp. Blood began to flow.

Frank’s throat had been torn by the finger nails of his enemy, and the two presented a grimy, gory appearance.

“Oh, curse you!” gasped Hicks. “I’ll do it yet.”

“I think not,” said Frank, as he gave the man a flip.

Then he rose to the top for the first time since the encounter had begun.

But Hicks was hard to hold, and he came near getting out from under the youth in a twinkling.

Merry grasped the man’s ears, one with each hand, lifted his head from the floor and banged it down with a thump.

Old Joe screamed with pain and rage.

They had rolled back into the cab, which was rocking and swaying as it plunged along over an uneven bit of road. Around curves whizzed the engine, with the long train reeling along behind.

Frank wondered that some of the train hands had not noticed they were passing crossings without whistling and did not come forward to investigate.

Merry did not wish to severely injure the crazy engineer, but the man fought on so desperately that it became evident something must be done to subdue him.

Again Frank caught him by the ears and banged his head down on the floor. Old Joe groaned and snapped at his antagonist’s wrists as a mad dog snaps at everything within reach.

Bang! bang! bang!

Frank kept it up, having resolved to jar the senses out of the man.

Hicks did not beg, but, after a time, he lay there stunned, so that Merriwell was able to open the box seat and get out some stout pieces of rope, with which he tied old Joe’s hands behind his back. Before this was fully accomplished the man recovered and tried to resume the fight, but Frank was able to handle him then.

Merry did not stop till the engineer was tied so securely that there was no danger of his being able to free himself.

“There!” sighed Merry, with relief, “I think that’ll hold you for a while.”

Then he blew a signal that brought the conductor hurrying over the top of the cars to see what was the matter.

CHAPTER XXX.
MERRIWELL’S GENEROSITY.

The conductor was astounded. He stared at the tied and bleeding engineer, and then at Merry, who was at the throttle. Then he clambered down over the coal in the tender, crying:

“Well, what in thunder has happened here?”

Old Joe groaned and opened his eyes.

“I’ll kill him!” he muttered, thickly.

“I’ve had a fight with Hicks,” said Frank.

“A fight? What about?”

“He jumped on me and tried to beat my brains out with a wrench.”

“I’ll kill him!” grated the engineer again.

“This beats all!” said the conductor, faintly. “He didn’t seem to succeed very well.”

“He came near succeeding. I thought he would one spell.”

“Well, this is a fine scrape. This is Joe’s engine, and he’ll have to take the train through.”

“He isn’t able to take the train through now.”

“What can we do?”

“Send me a brakeman who can fire, and I’ll take her through.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You’re no engineer.”

“I am engineer enough to do that trick.”

“Well, I’ll send you a man, and we’ll wait for instructions at the next station. If this don’t beat thunder!”

As the conductor scrambled back over the tender, Frank flung open the firebox door and put the coal to her. During the struggle the fire had not been tended, of course, and the steam was beginning to show the effect of it.

In a few minutes one of the brakemen came forward, and he fired her to the next station, where the conductor held up and telegraphed for instructions.

By this time old Joe was begging to be released.

“Look here, Merriwell,” he said, “you’re goin’ to do me out of my job, and I can’t afford to lose the place.”

“It’s not my fault,” said Frank. “You will be fortunate if you get off by simply losing your job.”

“Now, ye don’t mean to push me, do ye?” whined the thoroughly subjugated man. “You wouldn’t do that?”

“Why not?”

“That would be tough! It can’t be you’d do it.”

“You deserve it. You tried to kill me.”

“Mebbe I did for a minute,” confessed the engineer; “but I was crazy mad, and I didn’t know what I was doin’. I’ve had a heap of trouble lately, and it’s broke me all up. You don’t want to ruin me entirely, do ye?”

“I do not want to ruin anyone. You brought it on yourself.”

Old Joe had managed to sit up in an awkward position, and he raised his eyes to Frank appealingly. He was a pitiful-looking object, with his begrimed, blood-stained face. Frank could not help feeling sorry for the man.

“I kept my word when I promised you I wouldn’t trouble Jack and Nell,” said the engineer; “and I never bothered you no more till you forced yourself onter me.”

“I did not force myself onto you. I was placed here by the manager. I simply did what I was told to do.”

“I know that’s right; but I didn’t like ye, and I had taken some drinks to stiddy my nerves this morning. The stuff got inter my head.”

“It’s a wonder the stuff has not lost you your job before this.”

“You hadn’t oughter talked to me the way ye did.”

“I told you the truth. You were trying to knock me on the first trip, and you know it. I have not kept eyes and ears open since taking this work without finding out something. I have listened to the talk in the roundhouse, and I know that an engineer can knock out the best fireman who ever swung a shovel.”

Old Joe was silent, and his face showed that Frank had hit upon the truth.

“You were not cutting off short,” Frank went on, “and you were running your pump wrong, besides having her hooked up different from usual. If we had lost time, I should have been blamed for it, and it is likely I should have been taken off. That was what you were counting on.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” admitted old Joe; “but you got the best of me, and it’s no use to kick a man when he’s down.”

The old engineer was pitiful in his humbleness, and Frank began to feel some misgivings about pushing him further, for he realized that it meant the utter ruin of the man.

Watching Merry’s face, old Joe fancied he saw a gleam of hope.

“What can I do now?” Frank asked. “It is too late, for the conductor has dispatched for instructions.”

“Perhaps it ain’t too late,” eagerly said the engineer, “if another dispatch is sent that I am all right. Perhaps you can fix it. I can take the train through, if I have a chance. Won’t you do that for me, Merriwell? Think—think what it means to me!”

Frank swung down from the engine and went after the conductor.

“I wish to speak with you a moment, Mr. Evans,” he said, when he found the conductor in the little office of the station.

He drew the man aside, and said:

“Old Joe has come round, and seems to be all right now. He is begging for a chance to take the train through.”

“What?”

The conductor was amazed.

“That’s right,” nodded Frank.

“Well, the jig is up with him. The old man won’t have a crazy engineer running things.”

“What did you wire?”

“That Hicks was knocked out, and somebody must take the train through.”

“You did not give particulars?”

“Couldn’t.”

“Then, as yet, but ourselves and the train hands know there was a fight between us.”

“And the dispatcher here.”

“Well, you might send another message that Hicks had recovered and was able to take the train through. This is a freight, and perhaps the old man will let him go on with it, as there is no other regular engineer to take it.”

Evans stared at Frank in astonishment.

“You are the queerest chap I ever struck,” he exclaimed.

“Why?”

“Most fellows in your place would be ready to hang Hicks.”

“Perhaps so; but I feel as if he were hanging over a chasm, and I might save him or push him down. If I do not give him a hand, my conscience will trouble me.”

“If you do, the chances are about ten to one that it will put you in a bad scrape.”

“How?”

“It won’t be much trouble for him to make out that you were in the wrong, and he’ll do it, too.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“I think he will be so glad to get out of the scrape that he won’t try anything dirty. He says he will take the train through, and run it right. He will not dare tackle me again, and I shall watch him.”

“But the old man will have to let you take us through if old Joe doesn’t. Saunders can fire for you, and it will give you a great chance to show what you can do. It will be a direct step upward for you.”

“Over the body of another man?”

“That’s the way men get on in this world, my boy.”

“It seems to be; but I do not feel like climbing the ladder by pushing others down.”

“Well, just as you say. If you are for giving old Joe such a chance, I don’t kick. I’ll dispatch that he is all right now and able to take the train through.”

“Do it.”

Evans did so, and in a short time received an answer: “All right; go ahead.”

That settled it. Frank went back to the engine in a hurry, and said:

“I have fixed it.”

“How?” asked Hicks, eagerly.

For answer Frank set him free.

“I ask no promises of you,” he said; “but Evans and the train men know what has happened. If you try to knock me with the general manager, they will have something to say.”

“Oh, I won’t try any knocking. I promise that. You are usin’ me better than I deserve, and I appreciate it. I won’t fergit it—I won’t fergit it!”

CHAPTER XXXI.
AN UNGRATEFUL MAN.

So old Joe took the train through, after all, and he ran the engine right. It made a remarkable difference in Frank’s work, as Merry quickly found out. It was not necessary to bend his back and shovel coal all the time.

The old engineer looked like a wreck when the end of the run was reached, but he had stuck to his post. Scarcely a word had passed between him and Frank after he took the engine the second time. Merry watched him closely, but Hicks never let his eyes meet Frank’s. He paid as little attention to his companion in the cab as possible.

When they pulled back to the roundhouse that night an explanation of the trouble was asked for by the “old man,” who summoned them to his office.

Frank permitted old Joe to tell his story, and the engineer claimed that he had been seized by a fit. Merriwell had fought to handle him.

The manager looked at Frank.

“What have you to say about it, young man?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Merry. “You have heard Mr. Hicks’ story.”

“Yes; and we can’t keep an engineer on this road who is liable to have fits. You can come around for your time to-morrow morning, Hicks.”

Old Joe staggered.

“Then I’m discharged?” he said, huskily.

“Yes.”

The old engineer turned and went slowly out of the office, bent as with a heavy burden. The sight of him going thus filled Frank’s heart with pity, but he could do nothing for him.

“There will be another man on 33 to-morrow, Merriwell,” said the manager. “You’ll go with him. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

Larry Logan was waiting for Frank.

“Pwhat’s this they do be afther tellin’ av me?” asked the young Irishman. “Is it old Joe ye had a foight wid? An’ is he discharraged?”

“Yes; old Joe has been discharged.”

“Well, it’s a moighty good thing, fer it’s th’ divvil he wur at toimes.”

“I am sorry for him.”

“Ye are? G’wan! Fer whoy?”

“He has been a good engineer.”

“Thot’s roight, but his day is parrust, me b’y. He moight be roonin’ a passenger engine now, but he’s killed himseluf wid dhrink. It’s a wonder he has been afther holdin’ his place so long.”

Frank knew that well enough.

“Still, I did not want to have anything to do with his losing his position. It’s not likely he will be able to strike another place very soon.”

“Nivver. It’s done fer he is.”

“That is why I am sorry. He is an old man, and he has not saved a cent. How will he live?”

“That’s no consern av yours.”

“Perhaps not; but it is a sad thing to see an old man like him, who might be something, shut out with nothing.”

“It’s tinder-hearruted ye are, me b’y; but it don’t pay to be to saft in this worruld. Ye’re not thought a bit more av fer it. It’s more loikely they will be afther thinkin’ yez too aisy, an’ dispise yez for thot.”

Frank realized that this was true.

“Some day ye’ll be afther havin’ an engine av yer own,” said Larry; “an’ Oi hope it’ll be me luck ter foire fer yez.”

“I hope you may,” said Frank. “I think we’d be able to get along.”

“Foriver, me b’y! Oi’d sthick ter yez loike glue. But it’s ould Joe yez warnt to look out fer now. He’ll thry to do yez th’ firrust chance he gets.”

“Perhaps so; but I doubt it. I won his gratitude to-day by not pushing him to the wall.”

“Mebbe ye did fer th’ toime; but he’ll fergit it th’ firrust toime he is dhrunk, an’ thin he’ll lay fer yez. Marruk my worrud, an’ watch out.”

“All right, Larry, I’ll do so. Good-night.”

As Frank was passing through the yard a man stepped out and confronted him. It was old Joe.

“Ye’ve done it at last!” huskily said the old engineer, raising one shaking hand to his chin. “Ye’ve knocked the old man out for good!”

“I am very sorry, Mr.——”

“Bah! Little good that does. It’s all over.”

“I don’t see how you can blame me.”

“If ye’d never come to work on this railroad it would have been all right.”

“That may be true; but I did come here, and I had a right to do that, as you very well know. If you had not become my enemy in the first place and tried to injure me, you would have been all right.”

“I always hated ye!” grated Hicks. “Something made me hate ye the first time I saw ye. You was so independent, and so polite at the same time. You never was afraid of me. If you’d been afraid it might have been different.”

“And you hated me because I was not afraid of you. That was unreasonable.”

“Mebbe so; but I couldn’t help it. An’ ye came between me an’ my nevvy and niece.”

“No; I kept you from taking advantage of them.”

“Oh, is that the way ye put it? Well, ye won’t keep me no longer.”

Frank started.

“What do you mean?”

“That I’m out of work here. You was goin’ to get me discharged if I bothered Jack and Nell. You can’t keep me back that way now.”

Merriwell stared hard at the man, and then asked:

“Do you mean to make trouble for them?”

“No; but I’m goin’ to take care of them.”

“Take care of them? Why, how can you do that? You are not earning anything.”

There was a crafty look on old Joe’s face.

“That’s why I’m goin’ to take care of them,” he said.

“By that you mean that you are going to rob them of the money they earn by playing and singing on the street? That is your game, you old scoundrel! You shall not do it!”

“Won’t I?”

“No!”

“Who’ll stop me?”

“I will!”

“How?”

“I’ll find a way. You shall not be a burden to those poor children, if there is any justice in the world.”

“There ain’t. Justice is a mockery. The meaner rascal a man is the better show he has.”

“That may be your belief, but it is not mine.”

“There is some law, an’ I reckon it’ll appoint me as guardeen of my dear nevvy and niece, who need somebody to look out for them properly. That’s what’ll happen.”

“You may apply, but you’ll not succeed in getting appointed.”

“Why not?”

“Because I shall appear and show that you are thoroughly incompetent and unable to take care of yourself, much less two other persons. I have all the proof that is necessary. Your game is to rob them, which can be made very apparent. The boy is lame and the girl is blind. They are trying to save some money that her eyes may be treated, and you would take that away from them. You are even worse than I thought you could be!”

Frank was highly indignant, and old Joe cowered a bit before his flashing eyes.

“Well,” he snarled, “if I don’t get appointed as guardeen, I’ll show that you are beatin’ them, and they’ll be taken care of, that’s all.”

Frank knew it was useless to appeal to the man’s generosity, and so he said:

“Go ahead! I have the proof that you tried to murder me by pushing me onto the track in front of an engine, and, by the eternal skies! I’ll do my best to jail you for it if you carry out your threat! Go ahead! We’ll see who gets the worst of it!”

Then he walked swiftly away.

CHAPTER XXXII.
ON THE STAIRS.

Frank went home with a heavy heart, for he saw the black shadow of coming trouble hanging over Jack and Nellie. He was resolved to protect them to the best of his ability, but he realized at last that there was nothing like gratitude in the heart of old Joe, and there was no foretelling what the man would do.

The blind girl was sitting up on the bed, and Frank heard her singing softly before he reached the door. He entered the room gently, but she heard his step, stopped and stretched out her arms, with a glad cry. He hurried to her, exclaiming:

“You are better, Nellie?”

“Oh, yes; so much better!” she smiled. “The doctor says he’ll not have to come any more.”

“That is fine,” cried Frank, as gayly as possible. “Oh, I told you it would be all right, dear little girl.”

“Yes; I’ll be out soon.”

“Where is Jack?”

“He went out to the store. He’ll be right back. He went out to-day and played and sang all by himself, and he brought back eighty-seven cents, though he wasn’t gone more than two hours. Wasn’t that just perfectly splendid?”

“It was very good. But did he leave you all alone? I told him not to do that.”

“Oh, he has been here so close. I wanted him to go, for we have not been earning any money. I was all right by myself.”

“And you were not lonesome?”

“Well—not much. You see, I was thinking of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes; and of Elsie you told me about. Oh, I have pictured her in my mind. She must be a good girl, Frank.”

“She is one of the sweetest, dearest girls in the whole, wide world!”

There was a flitting shadow on Nellie’s face, but it was gone in a moment.

“I am sure you are right,” she said. “Some time you will marry Elsie?”

Frank felt the blood rush to his cheeks and his heart gave a leap.

“Perhaps so,” he said, softly.

“I know you will,” came from her lips. “I hope you may always be happy, Frank. I hope no shadows may come between you and Elsie.”

“My dear little friend, why have you been thinking so much of this?”

“Oh, I don’t know—I couldn’t help it. It was the way you described Elsie. You told me how beautiful Inza was, but you told how much like a dear little saint Elsie was, and then I knew you cared for her the more. Perhaps, Frank—perhaps I may be able to see when you are married, and perhaps I may be a bridesmaid at the wedding.”

“You shall!” he exclaimed, laughing and kissing her forehead. “What a dear little bridesmaid you will make!”

There was a faint quivering of her chin, and he wondered what it meant. He stared at her in surprise.

“Why, you appear so strange!” he said. “At one moment you are happy, and the next you look sad.”

“Do I? Don’t notice that, Frank. I am not sad; I am very gay because I think you should be. Elsie must have inspired you to be good and brave and noble.”

“I think she has many times. She has so much confidence in me, and it is an inspiration to know some one believes you must do everything right.”

“I do not believe you could do anything wrong, Frank.”

“And you are also an inspiration for me, Nellie. I think of you very, very often.”

“Did you think of me to-day?”

“Many times.”

“Tell me about it. How have you done to-day?”

“The best I could.”

“I know that; but has everything gone well?”

“Not as well as it might.”

“Tell me about it,” she urged again.

But Frank had no desire to let her know what had occurred, and he was glad when, at this moment, he heard the stumping sound of a crutch on the stairs.

“Here comes Jack,” he said.

The lame boy came in, bringing a bundle.

“There,” he said, with a laugh, “I made some money to-day, and I’m going to help provide for this ranch. This thing is altogether too one-sided, Frank Merriwell.”

“You young rascal,” cried Frank, “do you dare play tyrant?”

“On this occasion I do. If you try to boss me now, you’ll find I’m a bad, bad man. Just get ready for supper, and I’ll have it on the table pretty quick.”

“Mutiny! mutiny!” exclaimed Merry, tragically. “I didn’t expect this. I am quite unprepared, and I suppose I’ll have to surrender the ship.”

“If you don’t, I’ll scuttle her.”

“The jig is up. You’re in command to-night.”

This pleased the lame boy, and he hopped off, giving orders like an old sea captain, and speaking in such a deep voice that he soon began to grow hoarse.

“You’d better stop talking that way, captain,” laughed Merry, “or you’ll ruin your voice. Don’t try to talk down in the hold all the time. Come up on deck!”

“Sir,” scowled little Jack, “you should address your superior officer in a more respectful manner. I will not have it, sir.”

“Ay! ay! sir.”

“That’s the stuff! No, I mean that’s right. Shiver my timbers and dash my toplights! I’m a rough old tar; but I am master of my own ship. Get onto your job here, and help me jib up the sheet.”

Frank aided Jack in spreading the tablecloth, assuring him at the same time that “get onto your job” was not a thoroughly nautical expression.

The coffee pot was set to simmering on the stove, and in a short time supper was ready.

Little Nell did not come to the table, but Frank took her food to her, and aided her in eating it. All the while he talked to her in his jolly way, and she declared that she had never eaten such a pleasant supper.

“Here! here!” cried the lame boy, rapping on the table; “on this vessel I will not permit such familiarity with my first officer and the man before the mast. It is certain to result in poor discipline. Break away, there!”

“You’ll have to take another trip to sea, captain, before you get rid all your landlubber expressions. ‘Break away’ is pretty bad.”

When the meal was over, Frank took the lame boy’s guitar, put it in tune, and strummed away on it for some time, while Jack and Nellie listened. Frank played strange little bits of his own composing, some of them lively, some soft and pathetic. He sang one or two of the old college songs, and then turned to and helped Jack clear the table and wash the dishes.

Jack announced that he was going out to see if he could not pick up some money that evening. Frank tried to dissuade him, but the lame boy was determined, and he finally departed with the guitar.

Being left with the blind girl, Merry told her stories for more than an hour. She listened to them, holding onto one of his hands. Outside the wind came up and rattled around the building, slamming a shutter at intervals and moaning at the corners like a creature in pain.

“Hear the wind!” Nellie whispered, after a time. “How it sobs and cries! It seems as if some one with a broken heart were lost out there in the night.”

“Don’t think of such things, Nellie,” urged Frank. “You make yourself nervous and sad, and you will not get well so quick. To-morrow the sun will shine.”

“I cannot see it.”

“You shall soon.”

There was a clattering sound on the stairs, and Frank sprang up quickly, turning toward the door.

“What is it?” asked the blind girl, still clinging to him.

“It is Jack! Hear his crutch.”

“Yes; but why is he stumbling upstairs so fast? Hark! Somebody is following him! I hear heavy steps!”

Frank released her hold and sprang toward the door. Before he reached it, it burst open, and the lame boy staggered in, looking white and scared.

At that moment a heavy body was heard falling down the stairs.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
UNDER THE CRUST OF A HUMAN HEART.

“What’s the matter?” asked Frank.

Little Jack dropped down on a chair, panting for breath.

“He—he followed me!” gasped the lame boy.

“He? Who?”

“My uncle.”

“Hicks?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! don’t let him come in here!” exclaimed little Nell. “Please keep him out, Frank! I am so afraid of him!”

“Don’t worry, little girl,” assured Merry. “He shall not harm you. I will take care of him.”

“He was drunk,” said Jack; “and he talked awfully to me! I was afraid. He caught me by the shoulder once, and said I must go with him.”

“It may be a good plan to turn him over to the police,” cried Frank, who felt that he had already endured too much from the man.

Then Frank went outside the door and listened. From the bottom of the stairs came a low groan.

“He has fallen down and hurt himself,” thought Merry. “He brought it on himself, and no one else is to blame.”

Then he descended the stairs. At the bottom a dark figure was lying. Frank lighted a match, and saw old Joe curled there, with his head doubled under him, as if his neck were broken.

In a moment Frank again became very sorry for the man. He took hold of the engineer and straightened him out into a more comfortable position.

“I wonder how much he is hurt,” thought Frank.

At the head of the stairs little Jack appeared, with a lighted lamp in his hand. The lamp was shaking so that there was danger of losing the chimney.

“What is it?” asked the boy, in a faint tone.

“He is hurt,” Merry answered.

“How bad?”

“I can’t tell; but he seems to be unconscious.”

Then the blind girl, who had risen from the bed, found her way to the door and took hold of her brother.

“Oh, I hope he is not hurt much!” she half sobbed. “He made such a noise when he was falling. It is terrible.”

Frank went upstairs and got some water, with which he wet the head of the unfortunate man. Old Joe remained silent, except for his heavy, rasping breathing, and Frank began to fear that he was seriously injured.

“If I had some place to take him,” he muttered.

His words were heard by the girl, and she quickly cried:

“Bring him up here. If he is injured, we must take care of him, for he is our uncle.”

Merry hesitated.

“Bring him up,” said little Jack, stoutly. “Wait, and I will come down. Perhaps I can help you.”

“No; you cannot help. Stay where you are, and hold the light.”

Then, after considerable trouble, the young fireman lifted the man’s limp body in his arms and carried him up the stairs.

“Put him on my bed,” whispered Nellie. “Oh, it was such a hard fall, and he is our uncle! We must do something for him.”

“It is our duty,” said Jack.

“If I can’t bring him round pretty soon, I’ll go for a doctor,” declared Frank. “Perhaps he is dying.”

But old Joe was not dying. After some minutes he groaned again and slowly opened his eyes. He was completely bewildered, as his manner showed. He stared at those near the bed, then closed his eyes again, and his lips moved.

“I’ve got ’em.”

Little Nell shrank away, one hand lifted to her throbbing heart, while her face bore an expression of fear. Frank put an arm about her, whispering:

“Don’t be afraid, little girl. Remember that I will protect you.”

She clasped his hand and clung to it closely.

“I will not be afraid now,” she said. “I know you can take care of us. How is he? Can’t I do something for him?”

“Perhaps so. Don’t let him see that you fear him. You may be able to arouse a sense of shame and gratitude in his breast, for it can’t be that all human instincts are crushed out.”

Then the blind girl became very brave, and she sat down near the bed, reaching out and touching the hand of the old engineer.

“Dear uncle,” she said, gently, “I am so sorry you are hurt! It was such an awful fall!”

Again the man opened his blood-shotten eyes. He turned his head and lay looking at her in a strange way.

“Isn’t there something I can do for you, dear uncle?” asked little Nell. “I will do anything I can. I am sorry for you.”

“I’m dreamin’,” muttered the man. “An’ I ain’t had such a dream as this for years. I thought I had the shakes, but it’s a dream. I don’t want to wake up.”

A thrill of satisfaction passed through Frank Merriwell, for those words satisfied him that, indeed, the better side of the man’s nature was not entirely dead. At last, old Joe had been touched by the pathetic beauty of the blind girl and by her gentle ways.

“Shan’t we get a doctor for you, uncle?” asked the boy.

“Doctor? No! What does a man want of a doctor when he is dreamin’? Keep still, or I shall wake up!”

“Oh, dear uncle,” said Nellie, touching his iron-gray hair, “you have had such a hard, hard time in the world!”

“Angel!” whispered old Joe. “Never believed in ’em! Never took no stock in ’em. But she’s one! ’Sh! Let me sleep.”

He closed his eyes and was silent for some time. Little Jack looked at Frank, who nodded his satisfaction.

When the old engineer opened his eyes again, he said:

“Go away! You mustn’t touch me like this! I’m not fit to be touched by those white hands! I shall leave a stain upon them. Let me get up. Where am I?”

“You are here—here in our room, which we call home. You shall stay here till you are well. I will nurse you. I have been ill myself, but now I am well enough to nurse you.”

“I don’t deserve it. It’s not a dream, after all. It’s true!”

“Yes; it is true.”

“And you have been ill? Why, ye show it. And ye want to nurse me? Well, nobody ever cared enough about me to do that before. If you knew what a miserable old sinner I am——”

“There, there, uncle! Don’t talk like that! I will be so good to you! You’ve never had anyone to be good to you, and that is all the trouble.”

“Mebbe you’re right,” he muttered, huskily. “Nobody has ever cared a rap about Joe Hicks. I’ve been alone, an’ I’ve never cared about anybody else.”

His voice choked, and he turned his head away, as if ashamed to betray any emotion.

“That is just it,” said the blind girl. “It makes us better when we know somebody cares for us and we have somebody to care for.”

“But you—you are afraid of me, Nellie? Ain’t you afraid now?”

“No; somehow I do not feel afraid of you at all—only sorry for you. And I want to help you somehow.”

“Ye can’t! It’s too late! Old Joe’s done for.”

“It is never too late, dear uncle. You were my mother’s brother, and she was such a dear, good mother to us! We loved her so!”

“Yes; she was a good gal—she always was. I didn’t treat her right when she got married. Your dad was a dreamer—alwus expectin’ to do something great. I was a worker, and I didn’t like him. But she was a good gal, and you look like her. You have her face—and her eyes. But you can’t see?”

“Not now; some time——”

“Some time you shall! I know that! I must think about it, but I can’t think now. My head aches so bad.”

Jack brought some cool water and a handkerchief. Then little Nell wet the handkerchief and placed it upon the man’s forehead. Old Joe watched everything in a wondering way, as if he could not understand why they should do so much for him.

Frank had drawn back out of sight.

“There!” said the man, huskily; “now let me think. I’m a brute. Let me sleep. When I wake up I’ll be able to think better. Sit here by me, Nellie, till I fall asleep. You need not touch me, but it is good to have an angel near!”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE REVELATION OF A SECRET.

The old engineer fell into a sleep or a stupor in a short time, and little Nell, exhausted, was taken to the bed in Frank’s room. Merry carried her in his arms.

“Now you must sleep and rest, dear little girl,” said Frank, as he placed her gently on the bed.

“I am afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I shall think, think, think; and you know it is hard to sleep when you are thinking.”

“You need the rest, Nellie. The excitement to-night might bring on a relapse and make you ill again. You do not want to be ill any longer.”

“No! no!”

“Then keep still and count yourself to sleep. You can do it if you try.”

“If uncle wakes up and calls for me——”

“You shall know it. But I think he will sleep straight through till morning. He has been drinking heavily since he was discharged to-day, and that was why he fell downstairs.”

“I know, for I could smell his breath. Oh, don’t you suppose we may be able to get him to sign the pledge? Perhaps we can save him and make a good man of him.”

“You may be able to do it, Nellie; but it is not possible for me to do anything. I have tried my best with him, and it has been a failure.”

“I will try. Somehow I am not afraid of him the way I was. He seems so ill and lonely in the world. It must be terrible to be all alone in the world, with no one to work for, and no one to care about.”

“Yes,” said Frank, a touch of sadness coming to his handsome face; “I realized it, for I was all alone in the world till we met. I have had more courage since.”

“But—some time—we must be separated.”

Something in the way she said the words smote Frank with a sensation of pain. He had not thought of that.

“I suppose so,” he said, slowly; “it always happens so. Our early friendships are broken, and we are separated from those without whom we often fancied we could not exist. In time we form other attachments, which, in turn, may be broken.”

“Oh, but I know—I know——”

“What is it that you know, dear little girl?”

“I know we can never care for anyone as we care for you. I know it, Frank!”

She reached up her slender arms as he bent down to kiss her, clasping them about his neck and straining him close to her with all her childish strength. He was surprised, for this was quite unlike her; she usually demonstrated her affection by a gentle touch or a whispered word.

“You are overwrought, Nellie,” he said, gently. “Your nerves are all unstrung. It is too bad that that man followed Jack here to-night.”

“No; I am glad of it,” she declared, with her eyes upturned to his face, as if she were trying to pierce the black veil between them. “I do not think it will hurt me, and I shall have a chance to try to save him from certain ruin. It is his last chance. If I fail——”

“If you fail, dear little girl, an angel from heaven could not save him!”

Her lips quivered, and then a slow smile came and lingered on her pale face.

“You do care for me, don’t you, Frank?” she eagerly asked.

“Care for you? Nellie, I love you as if you were my own—sister.”

“And you never had a sister?”

“No.”

“You were the only child?”

“Yes.”

“How lonely it must have been! Just think what if I had not Jack. I love him, and he loves me. But I love you just as much, dear Frank.”

She reached up her hands and placed them on either side of his face, holding them there.

“There,” she softly breathed, “now I know I am looking straight at you, and I fancy I can see you. You are so manly and so noble! Your eyes are dark brown, and so is your hair. Your mouth is tender, but firm, without a hard line about it. You have a high, wide forehead, which is fair and unlined. You are young, and you will always remain young, for your heart will not let you grow old.”

“Why, Nellie, how do you know my eyes are brown—my hair is brown?”

“Ah-a!” she laughed. “A little bird told me. And I have dreamed of you. I saw you in my dream, and I am sure I saw you as you really are. When I can really see again, I shall know you without having you pointed out to me.”

He began to realize how much she loved him—how much time she had spent thinking and dreaming of him.

Still he regarded her as a mere child, nothing more.

“I know how you learned so much,” he laughed. “Jack told you.”

“Yes,” she confessed; “I have had him describe you to me many times.”

“Jack is a good boy.”

“He has always been good to me, and I love him; but, oh, Frank! it does not seem that I care for—anybody—else—as much as—I care—for you!”

She seemed frightened when she had said this, and she half sat up, clasping an arm about his neck.

“Is it wrong?” she whispered—“is it wrong for me to care more for you than I do for Jack? He is my own brother. It does not seem that I could love him more than I do, and yet, somehow, I seem to care more for you, Frank, than I do for Jack. Oh! I am afraid it is wrong. I am afraid I am a wicked girl!”

“There! there!” he exclaimed, smoothing back her hair and patting her head. “Don’t get so excited over it, Nellie. You simply fancy now that you care more for me—that’s all.”

She shook her head, leaning away back as she did so.

“No! no! no!” she whispered. “It is not fancy. I did not think I could care more for anybody than I did for Jack; but, this very day, the truth came to me, and I knew I loved you more. I don’t know what you will think of me for telling you all this. I can’t help it, Frank! I must tell somebody, and I can’t tell Jack. I couldn’t keep the secret longer. I thought I would bury it deep in my heart, and never, never let anybody know; but I could not keep it. If there had been some one else for me to tell, I should not have told you; but there was no one to whom I could talk about you, save Jack, and I could not tell him my secret. He must not know it. It would break his heart.”

Frank knew not what to say. For the first time he was confused.

“Lie down and sleep, Nellie,” he finally murmured. “I know your nerves are unstrung, for you are trembling all over.”

“It is because I am happy,” she declared, and the color came to her face that had been so pale. “I am happy because I told you my secret. You must keep it for me. It will be a secret between us. Oh, I have not had a secret for so long, and it is just lovely to have one now!”

Again she appeared like a mere child, and the troubled look disappeared from Frank Merriwell’s face.

“Yes,” he returned; “if you say so, it shall be our secret, dear little girl. But you must not care for me more than you do for your brother.”

“Mustn’t I?”

“No.”

“Is it wrong?”

“I fear it is.”

She dropped back on the pillow, covering her face with her hands, and lay there quietly. He bent over and spoke some gentle words to her.

“Frank!” she breathed.

“Yes, little one. What is it?”

“What was your pet name for Elsie?”

“My pet name? Why, sometimes I called her Sweetheart.”

“Frank!”

“Yes, Nellie.”

“Just once—for to-night—just once—won’t you call me—that?”

Frank Merriwell started and turned pale, and, for the first time, he fully realized how much the blind girl cared for him.

“Oh, is it wrong for you to call me that—just once?” she asked. “Won’t you be true to Elsie just the same? If it is wrong, don’t do it, Frank. But I’ll never ask it again—I’ll never expect it. Only once, and I know Elsie would forgive you if she knew.”

Remarkable were the emotions which thrilled Frank’s heart, for he understood now what it all meant. Never again could he look on little Nell as a mere child, and he was sorry.

She knew he was hesitating, and she feared he would refuse. She turned away, and it was wonderful how the blood rushed to her face and neck.

Frank bent over her.

“Only once!” he said to himself. “Elsie would not mind.”

Then, with infinite tenderness, he murmured:

“Sweetheart!”

She thrilled all over, and something like a sob came from behind the hands that were again clasped over her face.

He waited, unable to say another word. After a little time she put out one hand and he took it with his own.

“Thank you, Frank,” she said, with as much calmness as she could command. “It was foolish of me, and I am ashamed; but you were kind, and I’ll not forget. You’ll never see me this way again—never! I promise you that.”

He was silent.

“Go to bed and dream of Elsie,” she softly said. “Some day you and Elsie will be so happy together! I will pray for her, Frank—and for you! Good-night!”

“Good-night.”

He rose and started from the room. At the door he paused and looked back. She was lying as he had left her, with her hands over her face. He went out and closed the door.

Then, without making a sound, she wept herself to sleep.

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE LITTLE PILOT.

Frank and Jack slept on the bed of the latter. It was necessary for Merry to rise early and get away, but little Jack was up ahead of him, and had breakfast ready when the hour came for him to get out of bed.

Old Joe had been sleeping. After rising and washing, Frank went over and stood beside the man.

The engineer opened his eyes and saw Merry. Instantly an ugly look overspread his face.

“You?” he grated, hoarsely.

“Yes,” nodded Frank.

“Where did you come from?”

“It must be that you do not remember what happened last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes.”

“No. My head! Why, how strange I feel! Where am I? This is not my room. Let me get up!”

He tried to do so, but fell back limply, moaning a bit.

“Why, my strength—my strength is gone! I don’t know why this is so! What has happened to me?”

“You fell downstairs.”

“Fell? How?”

“You were pursuing Jack Norton.”

“Ha! And I struck on my head when I fell. But that should not make me so weak. I can scarcely lift my hand. I’m afraid I’m going to die. Afraid? No! What do I care? I’d as lief croak now as any time. I ain’t got anything to live for.”

“Oh, yes, you have, dear uncle!” said the blind girl, as she came into the room and approached the bed.

“Dear uncle!” gasped old Joe. “Did she call me that?”

“She did,” nodded Frank. “Last night she cared for you.”

The old man seemed bewildered.

“Mebbe it’s all right,” he said; “but it don’t seem so. Nobody’s called me ‘dear’ for a long time. Why, I’m an old wreck. It’s too much!”

“You are my uncle,” said the girl.

“Well, you’d be better off if I wasn’t. Help me up, somebody. I must go. I can’t stay here. I must have a drink! Won’t you help me up?”

“You had better keep still,” said Frank.

“No; I must get up—I will!”

He rolled off the bed and tried to stand on his feet, but would have fallen sprawling had not Merry caught him.

“All gone—strength all gone!” moaned the engineer, as he was restored to the bed. “It’s sure I’m goin’ to die now!”

“You shall stay here till you have recovered,” said little Nell. “I will take care of you, dear uncle.”

“Why is she so kind to me? Why is anybody so kind to me? I don’t deserve anything.”

“All I have to say,” observed Frank, “is that hanging will be too good for you if you harm one of these children after this!”

Then he turned away to eat his breakfast.

When Frank left that morning the old engineer was sleeping, having eaten some gruel which little Jack had prepared for him.

Frank’s heart was not as light as it might have been when he went to work, for he could not help thinking of the secret the blind girl had revealed to him, and he pitied her.

Frank was put on with an engineer by the name of Hank Slattery. It happened that Slattery was almost the only friend old Joe Hicks had on the road. He scowled blackly at Frank, but said nothing at first. When they had hitched on and pulled out, Slattery observed:

“So you’re the chap that kicked Joe Hicks out of a job, are ye?”

“No, sir, I am not,” was the reply.

“What? Why, your name’s Merriwell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re the one. No use denyin’ it.”

“I do deny it, for it isn’t true. I never kicked any man out of a job. Old Joe had no one but himself to blame. If he had treated me right, it would have been all right.”

“Oh, so that’s the way ye talk! I s’pose you think you’re runnin’ the road now?”

“Nothing of the sort. I think I am attending to my business, and that’s all. It’s plain you do not like me.”

“No.”

“Well, I can’t help that.”

“You think you’re too smart.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, you’ve got the swelled head. Poke in more coal there.”

Frank soon found that he was forced to work quite as hard as he had done when he started out with old Joe, and he was not at all satisfied.

“See here,” he finally said, “what are you trying to do? Have you started in to knock me on this trip?”

“No; but this engine takes a heap of coal.”

“Because you’re not running her right.”

“Hey?” shouted Slattery; “I said you thought you knew too much! That proves it. You’re trying to tell me how to run this engine.”

“You are running her just as old Joe started to run her yesterday. That’s what the row was over.”

“And you’re goin’ to pick a row with me, are ye? Well, they’ll get onter you after a while, if you keep it up.”

“I am not going to pick a row with you, but I am going to tell you this: On the return trip old Joe ran her right, and we got along well. The quadrant shows his notch. You are not keeping her there.”

“His notch? Where?”

“Where it is worn smooth there.”

“Did he run her there?”

“After our trouble.”

Slattery looked doubtful, but Frank gave him some straight talk then and there, telling what Hicks had done on the return trip.

“Joe’s one of the best engineers on the road,” said Slattery. “What he don’t know ain’t worth knowin’. Just you show me how he ran her.”

Frank was surprised, but he did as requested, and his surprise increased when the engineer did his best to change his style of handling the locomotive. As a result, Frank, the fireman, was the instructor of his engineer during the greater part of the trip. When the trip was almost over, Slattery said:

“Young feller, I’m much obliged to you. You’re all right, and I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told any living person before. I’m not a regular engineer; I’m a machinist by trade. When this road was opened, I had a pull, and I got a job. I’ve managed to hook along all right, though my firemen would always growl. I said I didn’t like you when we started out, but I lied. I did like your appearance, and, somehow, I was willin’ to have you show me how old Joe ran his engine. I think I’ve learned something to-day, and I kinder reckon we’ll git along all right. Yes; I’m much obliged.”

Frank felt satisfied with the result of that day.

When he arrived home that night, little Nell was telling old Joe some Bible stories which she had learned from the lips of her mother and Sabbath-school teacher. The old man was on the bed, listening in a wondering way. Without letting them know it, Merry paused and watched them.

“I never read the book any,” confessed the man. “Never seemed to care for it, for I thought it was full of foolish things; but them stories you have been tellin’ me have made me feel a heap better. If them’s the things what’s in the Bible, I don’t wonder people read it. It must do ’em good.”

“It is our guide,” said the girl; “all the guide we have in this life. If it were not for the Bible, all humanity would be adrift.”

“Yep, I reckon you’re right. I’ve been adrift myself, an’ I ’lowed there was no port open for me, but now——”

“Now you see a light.”

“Yes; it seems so. It seems that I’m goin’ into port at last, and I’ll drop anchor where no storms can reach me. You must be my pilot, Nellie.”

He held out his hand, and she took it.

“I will!” she exclaimed. “And I will ask the aid of the Great Pilot above.”

She knelt down beside the bed and began to pray.

Frank Merriwell turned and stole softly away.

“God bless her!” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “She is, indeed, an angel! She has done for that wretched man what no other living being could have done.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.
“ON TIME, AT LAST!”

It was two nights later that Frank came home and found little Jack in a fairly frantic condition.

“What?—what is the matter?” asked Merry, stopping in the door and staring at the lame boy in astonishment.

Jack gave a great cry.

“Here!” he screamed, hobbling toward Frank, and holding out a slip of paper. “Read that!”

Frank took it, and read:

“I can forgive all my enemies but one, and that is Frank Merriwell. I have stayed near him as long as I can, but I can’t leave Nellie, so I take her with me.

“Old Joe.”

That was enough to set Frank’s blood on fire.

“Are they gone?” he cried.

“Yes! yes!” sobbed the lame lad, wringing his hands.

“You went out and left them?”

“Yes; I went to see if I could not earn some money. Nellie said she was not afraid of him, and I left them together. When I came back they were gone, and that note was here. Oh, Frank, it is terrible! My poor little, blind sister!”

“We will find her,” said Frank, growing calm.

“How?”

“Somehow. Don’t cry, Jack. Trust me. I will bring her back to you!”

“Oh! I believe you will!” cried the lame boy; “but do so as soon as you can. Think how frightened she must be, and how she must suffer. She will be ill again. Can’t I help you search?”

“Come,” said Merry.

Taking the note, he went to police headquarters, and reported what had happened. He was asked many questions, and the officer in charge promised that an immediate search for the abducted girl should be made.

Then Frank and Jack started out to search for the missing girl, asking questions everywhere. Till after midnight they wandered about the streets, but found no clew. The lame boy was ready to drop from exhaustion, and Frank literally carried him home on his back.

“Oh, Frank!” sobbed little Jack; “I’ll never see my sister any more. I know I shall not!”

“Yes, you will,” assured Merry. “She will be found.”

“He has taken her away—away out of the city. I feel sure of that, Frank.”

“I do not think he has.”

“Why not?”

“Because he had not the money to do anything of the sort. He used his money as fast as he received it, and I do not believe he had a dollar left to his name five hours after he was discharged from his job on the railroad.”

“But he might put her on a train some way. He might put her into a box car, and carry her off that way.”

“He might,” admitted Frank; “but I do not believe he has. It is likely that by morning the police will have found them both.”

It was difficult to reassure and quiet the boy, and Frank himself feared there might be some truth in Jack’s fancy that old Joe had carried Nellie off in a box car. The old engineer knew the ropes about the railroad so well that he might do such a thing with very little trouble.

Still carrying Jack, Frank mounted the stairs to the rooms they called home.

“Oh, it don’t seem that I can go in there!” moaned the lame boy. “It will be so bare and lonely without her!”

“Hark!” whispered Frank, stopping.

They heard a voice singing softly and sweetly, “Nearer, My God, to Thee!”

Little Jack almost shrieked aloud.

“It’s her—it’s sister!”

Frank bounded up the stairs and flung open the door. Beside the bed sat Nellie. She heard them and turned, with a finger uplifted, still singing.

On the bed lay the old engineer, and there was an ashen grayness to his face. One glance revealed to Frank that the man was facing the last mystery of life—death!

Merry lowered little Jack and gave him his crutch. Then they slowly and softly approached the bed.

“Twenty-three minutes late!” muttered the old engineer. “We’ve got ter make her up somehow. We must be at Roaring Run bridge in an hour and three minutes. More coal, man—more coal!”

“He is making his last run,” whispered Frank. “And the end of the trip is near.”

Little Jack crept up and kissed his sister’s cheek.

“How do you happen to be here now?” he asked.

“He brought me back,” said Nellie. “I begged him to and he did so. Before you came he was asking for Frank.”

“Frank!” exclaimed the dying man, catching the whispered word. “Where is Frank Merriwell? I’ve got to see him.”

“I am here, Mr. Hicks,” said Merry, stepping close to the bed.

“Yes; I hear you, but I can’t see you very well. Bend lower. Yes; it is you. I did hate you, but I was wrong. I ask you to fergive me. Will ye?”

“With all my heart!”

“I am glad. You are a fine young man, and I want to leave them in your care—Nellie and Jack. You will take care of them?”

“I will.”

“I believe it, and they will be safe with you. Oh! she is such an angel! She has put me onto a new trip, and—and I am making the run. The steam is getting low. More coal! more coal!”

He seemed peering ahead, as he had peered out from the window of an engine cab many times.

“This is the straightest strip of road I ever struck,” he muttered. “Not a curve nor a grade as fur as you kin see. It’s wonderful! But the steam is low, and we are behind time. We must be at Roaring Run bridge on time. We must get there somehow. More coal!”

Then, after another period of silence, he began again:

“I’m runnin’ her in the right notch now, and we’re gaining. We will make it. Hear her sing over the rails. Oh, she is humming now! Ah, we are beginning to make up lost time.”

“Sing, Nellie,” whispered Frank.

The girl did so, although her cheeks were wet with tears. For a long time the dying engineer lay still and listened.

“’Sh!” he whispered, now and then. “Somebody is singing. It is such sweet singing! Don’t make a noise, for she may stop.”

Finally he began to peer before him again. All at once he cried:

“It’s getting dark on the track! Light the headlight! We’re gaining—we’re gaining. Only ten minutes late! We—will—make it!”

His hands gripped and relaxed. With his left he reached out, as if feeling for the throttle.

“A little more does it,” he muttered, weakly. “There—that’s it. We’ll be—there—soon. It’s just—just—ahead. Ha! Here we are on time—on time, at last!”

The end of the trip was reached.

And so passed away the principal enemy that Frank Merriwell had. As for Frank himself, he had already won a place and respect on the railroad. He was in a position to help the blind girl and her crippled brother, and there was no one who could hinder him now. He was recognized already as one of the best firemen on the road, and eligible for promotion to the post of engineer at any time. He had taken the first step upward in the struggle through life, and the first step in this struggle is always the hardest one. After this, it would be plainer sailing, and although Frank Merriwell was destined to pass through many more adventures on the railroad, he had overcome the chief difficulties in the way of success, and made a good start. He had started at the foot of the ladder with his first job, but already he had surmounted the lowest rung and was in a fair way to climb, up and up, to ultimate success.

THE END.

THE MEDAL LIBRARY

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339—In School and Out
By Oliver Optic
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By Horatio Alger, Jr.
337—Jack Harkaway After Schooldays
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336—Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme
By Burt L. Standish

To be Published During November

335—The Haunted Hunter
By Edward S. Ellis
334—Tony, the Tramp
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
333—Rich and Humble
By Oliver Optic
332—Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit
By Burt L. Standish

331—The Hidden City
By Walter MacDougall
330—Bob Burton
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
329—Masterman Ready
By Capt. Marryat
328—Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity
By Burt L. Standish
327—Jack Harkaway’s Friends
By Bracebridge Hemyng
326—The Tin Box
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
325—The Young Franc-Tireurs
By G. A. Henty
324—Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian
By Burt L. Standish
323—The Sheik’s White Slave
By Raymond Raife
322—Helping Himself
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
321—Snarleyyow, The Dog Fiend
By Capt. Marryat
320—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune
By Burt L. Standish
319—By Right of Conquest
By G. A. Henty
318—Jed, the Poorhouse Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
317—Jack Harkaway’s Schooldays
By Bracebridge Hemyng
316—Frank Merriwell’s Problem
By Burt L. Standish
315—The Diamond Seeker of Brazil
By Leon Lewis
314—Andy Gordon
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
313—The Phantom Ship
By Capt. Marryat
312—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums
By Burt L. Standish
311—Whistler
By Walter Aimwell
310—Making His Way
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
309—Three Years at Wolverton
By A Wolvertonian
308—Frank Merriwell’s Fame
By Burt L. Standish
307—The Boy Crusoes
By Jeffreys Taylor
306—Chester Rand
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
305—Japhet in Search of a Father
By Capt. Marryat
304—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company
By Burt L. Standish
303—The Prairie
By J. Fenimore Cooper
302—The Young Salesman
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
301—A Battle and a Boy
By Blanche Willis Howard
300—Frank Merriwell on the Road
By Burt L. Standish
299—Mart Satterlee Among the Indians
By William O. Stoddard
298—Andy Grant’s Pluck
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
297—Newton Forster
By Capt. Marryat
296—Frank Merriwell’s Protege
By Burt L. Standish
295—Cris Rock
By Capt. Mayne Reid
294—Sam’s Chance
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
293—My Plucky Boy Tom
By Edward S. Ellis
292—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck
By Burt L. Standish
291—By Pike and Dyke
By G. A. Henty
290—Shifting For Himself
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
289—The Pirate and the Three Cutters
By Capt. Marryat
288—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity
By Burt L. Standish
287—Kit Carson’s Last Trail
By Leon Lewis
286—Jack’s Ward
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
285—Jack Darcy, the All Around Athlete
By Edward S. Ellis
284—Frank Merriwell’s First Job
By Burt L. Standish
283—Wild Adventures Round the Pole
By Gordon Stables
282—Herbert Carter’s Legacy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
281—Rattlin, the Reefer
By Capt. Marryat
280—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle
By Burt L. Standish
279—Mark Dale’s Stage Venture
By Arthur M. Winfield
278—In Times of Peril
By G. A. Henty
277—In a New World
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
276—Frank Merriwell in Maine
By Burt L. Standish
275—The King of the Island
By Henry Harrison Lewis
274—Beach Boy Joe
By Lieut. James K. Orton
273—Jacob Faithful
By Capt. Marryat
272—Facing the World
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
271—Frank Merriwell’s Chase
By Burt L. Standish
270—Wing and Wing
By J. Fenimore Cooper
269—The Young Bank Clerk
By Arthur M. Winfield
268—Do and Dare
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
267—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise
By Burt L. Standish
266—The Young Castaways
By Leon Lewis
265—The Lion of St. Mark
By G. A. Henty
264—Hector’s Inheritance
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
263—Mr. Midshipman Easy
By Captain Marryat
262—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation
By Burt L. Standish
261—The Pilot
By J. Fenimore Cooper
260—Driven From Home
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
259—Sword and Pen
By Henry Harrison Lewis
258—Frank Merriwell In Camp
By Burt L. Standish
257—Jerry
By Walter Aimwell
256—The Young Ranchman
By Lieut. Lounsberry
255—Captain Bayley’s Heir
By G. A. Henty
254—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty
By Burt L. Standish
253—The Water Witch
By J. Fenimore Cooper
252—Luke Walton
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
251—Frank Merriwell’s Danger
By Burt L. Standish
250—Neka, the Boy Conjurer
By Capt. Ralph Bonehill
249—The Young Bridge Tender
By Arthur M. Winfield
248—The West Point Rivals
By Lieut. Frederick Garrison, U. S. A.
247—Frank Merriwell’s Secret
By Burt L. Standish
246—Rob Ranger’s Cowboy Days
By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
245—The Red Rover
By J. Fenimore Cooper
244—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale
By Burt L. Standish
243—Adrift in New York
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
242—The Rival Canoe Boys
By St. George Rathborne
241—The Tour of the Zero Club
By Capt. R. Bonehill
240—Frank Merriwell’s Champions
By Burt L. Standish
239—The Two Admirals
By J. Fenimore Cooper
238—A Cadet’s Honor
By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
237—Frank Merriwell’s Skill
By Burt L. Standish
236—Rob Ranger’s Mine
By Lieut. Lounsberry
235—The Young Carthaginian
By G. A. Henty
234—The Store Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
233—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes
By Burt L. Standish
232—The Valley of Mystery
By Henry Harrison Lewis
231—Paddling Under Palmettos
By St. George Rathborne
230—Off for West Point
By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
229—Frank Merriwell’s Daring
By Burt L. Standish
228—The Cash Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
227—In Freedom’s Cause
By G. A. Henty
226—Tom Havens With the White Squadron
By Lieut. James K. Orton
225—Frank Merriwell’s Courage
By Burt L. Standish
224—Yankee Boys in Japan
By Henry Harrison Lewis
223—In Fort and Prison
By William Murray Graydon
222—A West Point Treasure
By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
221—The Young Outlaw
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
220—The Gulf Cruisers
By St. George Rathborne
219—Tom Truxton’s Ocean Trip
By Lieut. Lounsberry
218—Tom Truxton’s School Days
By Lieut. Lounsberry
217—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour
By Burt L. Standish
216—Campaigning With Braddock
By Wm. Murray Graydon
215—With Clive in India
By G. A. Henty
214—On Guard
By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
213—Frank Merriwell’s Races
By Burt L. Standish
212—Julius, the Street Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
211—Buck Badger’s Ranch
By Russell Williams
210—Sturdy and Strong
By G. A. Henty
209—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
By Burt L. Standish
208—The Treasure of the Golden Crater
By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
207—Shifting Winds
By St. George Rathborne
206—Jungles and Traitors
By Wm. Murray Graydon
205—Frank Merriwell at Yale
By Burt L. Standish
204—Under Drake’s Flag
By G. A. Henty
203—Last Chance Mine
By Lieut. James K. Orton
202—Risen From the Ranks
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
201—Frank Merriwell in Europe
By Burt L. Standish
200—The Fight for a Pennant
By Frank Merriwell
199—The Golden Cañon
By G. A. Henty
198—Only an Irish Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
197—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour
By Burt L. Standish
196—Zip, the Acrobat
By Victor St. Clair
195—The Lion of the North
By G. A. Henty
194—The White Mustang
By Edward S. Ellis
193—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
By Burt L. Standish
192—Tom, the Bootblack
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
191—The Rivals of the Diamond
By Russell Williams
190—The Cat of Bubastes
By G. A. Henty
189—Frank Merriwell Down South
By Burt L. Standish
188—From Street to Mansion
By Frank H. Stauffer
187—Bound to Rise
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
186—On the Trail of Geronimo
By Edward S. Ellis
185—For the Temple
By G. A. Henty
184—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
By Burt L. Standish
183—The Diamond Hunters
By James Grant
182—The Camp in the Snow
By William Murray Graydon
181—Brave and Bold
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
180—One of the 28th
By G. A. Henty
178—Frank Merriwell’s Foes
By Burt L. Standish
177—The White Elephant
By William Dalton
176—By England’s Aid
By G. A. Henty
175—Strive and Succeed
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
173—Life at Sea
By Gordon Stables
172—The Young Midshipman
By G. A. Henty
171—Erling the Bold
By R. M. Ballantyne
170—Strong and Steady
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
169—Peter, the Whaler
By W. H. G. Kingston
168—Among Malay Pirates
By G. A. Henty
167—Frank Merriwell’s Chums
By Burt L. Standish
166—Try and Trust
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
165—The Secret Chart
By Lieut. James K. Orton
164—The Cornet of Horse
By G. A. Henty
163—Slow and Sure
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
162—The Pioneers
By J. F. Cooper
161—Reuben Green’s Adventures at Yale
By James Otis
160—Little by Little
By Oliver Optic
159—Phil, the Fiddler
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
158—With Lee in Virginia
By G. A. Henty
157—Randy, the Pilot
By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
156—The Pathfinder
By J. F. Cooper
155—The Young Voyagers
By Capt. Mayne Reid
154—Paul, the Peddler
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
153—Bonnie Prince Charlie
By G. A. Henty
152—The Last of the Mohicans
By J. Fenimore Cooper
151—The Flag of Distress
By Capt. Mayne Reid
150—Frank Merriwell’s School Days
By Burt L. Standish
149—With Wolfe in Canada
By G. A. Henty
148—The Deerslayer
By J. F. Cooper
147—The Cliff Climbers
By Capt. Mayne Reid
146—Uncle Nat
By A. Oldfellow
145—Friends Though Divided
By G. A. Henty
144—The Boy Tar
By Capt. Mayne Reid
143—Hendricks, the Hunter
By W. H. G. Kingston
142—The Young Explorer
By Gordon Stables
141—The Ocean Waifs
By Capt. Mayne Reid
140—The Young Buglers
By G. A. Henty
139—Shore and Ocean
By W. H. G. Kingston
138—Striving for Fortune
By Horatio Alger. Jr.
137—The Bush Boys
By Capt. Mayne Reid
136—From Pole to Pole
By Gordon Stables
135—Dick Cheveley
By W. H. G. Kingston
134—Orange and Green
By G. A. Henty
133—The Young Yagers
By Capt. Mayne Reid
132—The Adventures of Rob Roy
By James Grant
131—The Boy Slaves
By Capt. Mayne Reid
130—From Canal Boy to President
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
129—Ran Away to Sea
By Capt. Mayne Reid
128—For Name and Fame
By G. A. Henty
127—The Forest Exiles
By Capt. Mayne Reid
126—From Powder Monkey to Admiral
By W. H. G. Kingston
125—The Plant Hunters
By Capt. Mayne Reid
124—St. George for England
By G. A. Henty
123—The Giraffe Hunters
By Capt. Mayne Reid
122—Tom Brace
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
121—Peter Trawl
By W. H. G. Kingston
120—In the Wilds of New Mexico
By G. Manville Fenn
119—A Final Reckoning
By G. A. Henty
118—Ned Newton
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
117—James Braithwaite, The Supercargo
By W. H. G. Kingston
116—Happy-Go-Lucky Jack
By Frank H. Converse
115—Adventures of a Young Athlete
By Matthew White, Jr.
114—The Old Man of the Mountains
By George H. Coomer
113—The Bravest of the Brave
By G. A. Henty
112—20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
By Jules Verne
111—The Midshipman, Marmaduke Merry
By W. H. G. Kingston
110—Around the World in Eighty Days
By Jules Verne
109—A Dash to the Pole
By Herbert D. Ward
108—Texar’s Revenge
By Jules Verne
107—Van; or, In Search of an Unknown Race
By Frank H. Converse
106—The Boy Knight
By George A. Henty
105—The Young Actor
By Gayle Winterton
104—Heir to a Million
By Frank H. Converse
103—The Adventures of Rex Staunton
By Mary A. Denison
102—Clearing His Name
By Matthew White, Jr.
101—The Lone Ranch
By Capt. Mayne Reid
100—Maori and Settler
By George A. Henty

99—The Cruise of the Restless; or, On Inland Waterways

By James Otis
98—The Grand Chaco
By George Manville Fenn
97—The Giant Islanders
By Brooks McCormick
96—An Unprovoked Mutiny
By James Otis
95—By Sheer Pluck
By G. A. Henty
94—Oscar; or, The Boy Who Had His Own Way
By Walter Aimwell
93—A New York Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
92—Spectre Gold
By Headon Hill
91—The Crusoes of Guiana
By Louis Boussenard
90—Out on the Pampas
By G. A. Henty
89—Clinton; or, Boy Life in the Country
By Walter Aimwell
88—My Mysterious Fortune
By Matthew White, Jr.
87—The Five Hundred Dollar Check
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
86—Catmur’s Cave
By Richard Dowling
85—Facing Death
By G. A. Henty
84—The Butcher of Cawnpore
By William Murray Graydon
83—The Tiger Prince
By William Dalton
82—The Young Editor
By Matthew White, Jr.
81—Arthur Helmuth, of the H. & N. C. Railway
By Edward S. Ellis
80—Afloat in the Forest
By Capt. Mayne Reid
79—The Rival Battalions
By Brooks McCormick
78—Both Sides of the Continent
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
77—Perils of the Jungle
By Edward S. Ellis
76—The War Tiger; or, The Conquest of China
By William Dalton
75—Boys in the Forecastle
By George H. Coomer
74—The Dingo Boys
By George Manville Fenn
73—The Wolf Boy of China
By William Dalton
72—The Way to Success; or, Tom Randall
By Alfred Oldfellow
71—Mark Seaworth’s Voyage on the Indian Ocean
By William H. G. Kingston

70—The New and Amusing History of Sandford and Merton

By F. C. Burnand
69—Pirate Island
By Harry Collingwood
68—Smuggler’s Cave
By Annie Ashmore
67—Tom Brown’s School Days
By Thomas Hughes
66—A Young Vagabond
By Z. R. Bennett
65—That Treasure
By Frank H. Converse
64—The Tour of a Private Car
By Matthew White, Jr.
63—In the Sunk Lands
By Walter F. Bruns
62—How He Won
By Brooks McCormick
61—The Erie Train Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
60—The Mountain Cave
By George H. Coomer
59—The Rajah’s Fortress
By William Murray Graydon
58—Gilbert, The Trapper
By Capt. C. R. Ashley
57—The Gold of Flat Top Mountain
By Frank H. Converse
56—Nature’s Young Noblemen
By Brooks McCormick
55—A Voyage to the Gold Coast
By Frank H. Converse
54—Joe Nichols; or, Difficulties Overcome
By Alfred Oldfellow
53—The Adventures of a New York Telegraph Boy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
52—From Farm Boy to Senator
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
51—Tom Tracy
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
50—Dean Dunham
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
49—The Mystery of a Diamond
By Frank H. Converse
48—Luke Bennett’s Hide-Out
By Capt. C. B. Ashley, U.S. Scout
47—Eric Dane
By Matthew White, Jr.

TALES OF VICTORIES

Gained in the Pre-Revolutionary wars by lads of pluck and intelligence. Every true boy will be fascinated with these stories of the exciting adventures of boys who gladly gave their lives to freedom’s cause.

BOYS OF LIBERTY LIBRARY

3.—The Young Ambassador.

By John De Morgan

7.—The Young Guardsman.

By John De Morgan

11.—Fighting Hal.

By John De Morgan

15.—By Order of the Colonel.

By Lieut. Lounsberry

19.—A Call to Duty.

By Lieut. Lounsberry

23.—The Young Patriot.

By Lieut. Lounsberry

26.—The Trader’s Captive.

By Lieut. Lounsberry

Only Ten Cents Per Copy At All Newsdealers

If ordered by mail, add four cents to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers
NEW YORK

CIRCUS LIFE

Is admirably described in Stanley Norris’ great series of books for boys, published in the BOUND TO WIN LIBRARY. The hero has strange adventures while fighting his way to the top of his chosen profession. Every boy will thrill to the finger tips to read of his many narrow escapes.

PRICE, 10 CENTS PER COPY AT ALL NEWSDEALERS

STANLEY NORRIS

- 29 Phil, the Showman
- 31 The Young Showman’s Rivals
- 33 The Young Showman’s Pluck
- 35 The Young Showman’s Triumph
- 82 The Young Showman’s Foes

If ordered by mail, add four cents to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York

WEST POINT STORIES

One of the most interesting series of stories for boys is that which details the adventures of Mark Malloy at West Point. No boy who likes good, exciting tales of adventure should miss reading them. Published only in THE MEDAL LIBRARY.

PRICE, 10 CENTS PER COPY

LIEUT. FREDERICK GARRISON, U. S. A.

- 214 On Guard
- 222 A West Point Treasure
- 230 Off for West Point
- 238 A Cadet’s Honor
- 248 The West Point Rivals

For Sale By All Newsdealers. If ordered by mail, add four cents to cover postage.

Street & Smith, Publishers, New York

Ho! For Annapolis

The enchanted city of every boy’s dreams. All cannot enter its gates, but all may read of the adventures of a crowd of jolly fellows who were fortunate enough to do so. Clif Farraday’s dare-devil plots and pranks are of intense interest. Published only in the BOUND TO WIN SERIES.

ONLY 10c. PER COPY

By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.

- 3. Bound for Annapolis
- 8. Clif, the Naval Cadet
- 13. A Strange Cruise
- 18. The Cruise of the Training Ship
- 23. From Port to Port

If these books are ordered by mail four cents per copy must be added to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York.

Battles on Sea and Land

We heartily recommend our Boys of Liberty Library to boys who have good, red blood coursing through their veins—who like really good tales of adventure.

The books listed below detail the adventures of brave lads who took an active part in the Revolutionary War, who, in many cases, saved the day to the Patriot army when all seemed lost. Read this series boys, nothing you can buy for the money will please you half so well.

1. Paul Revere and the Boys of Liberty
By John De Morgan
5. The first Shot for Liberty
By John De Morgan
9. The Hero of Ticonderoga
By John De Morgan
13. On the Quebec
By John De Morgan
17. Fooling the Enemy
By John De Morgan
21. Into the Jaws of Death
By John De Morgan
25. The Tory Plot
By T. C. Harbaugh
27. In Buff and Blue
By T. C. Harbaugh

For sale by all newsdealers at 10c. per copy. If ordered by mail, add four cents to cover postage.

Street & Smith, Publishers, New York

Horatio Alger, Jr.

The greatest and most famous writer of rattling good tales of adventure for boys, was Horatio Alger, Jr. He is the Dickens of juvenile literature. His best works are published in the Medal library at ten cents per copy. For sale by all newsdealers.

ALGER, HORATIO, JR.

- 42. Young Acrobat, The.

- 50. Dean Dunham.

- 52. From Farm Boy to Senator.

- 61. Erie Train Boy, The.

- 87. Five Hundred Dollar Check, The.

- 118. Ned Newton; or, The Adventures of a New York Bootblack.

- 122. Tom Brace.

- 130. From Canal Boy to President.

- 138. Striving for Fortune.

- 154. Paul, the Peddler.

- 159. Phil, the Fiddler.

- 163. Slow and Sure.

- 166. Try and Trust.

- 170. Strong and Steady.

- 175. Strive and Succeed.

- 181. Brave and Bold.

- 187. Bound to Rise.

- 192. Tom, the Bootblack.

- 198. Only an Irish Boy.

- 202. Risen From the Ranks.

- 212. Julius, the Street Boy.

- 221. Young Outlaw, The.

- 228. Cash Boy, The.

- 234. Store Boy, The.

- 243. Adrift in New York.

- 252. Luke Walton.

- 260. Driven From Home.

- 264. Hector’s Inheritance.

- 268. Do and Dare.

- 272. Facing the World.

- 277. In a New World.

- 282. Herbert Carter’s Legacy.

If these books are ordered by mail, add four cents per copy to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK

A New Novel by

Charles Garvice

The publication of a new copyrighted story by the celebrated Charles Garvice is an event eagerly looked forward to by all lovers of good fiction. We are glad, therefore, to be in a position to offer “Edna’s Secret Marriage.” This story has never been published in book form before and will make its appearance as Eagle Series No. 440.

As the authorized American publishers of Charles Garvice, we take this opportunity to warn the public against purchasing spurious Garvice books. The early novels of Garvice, written before International Copyright, have been published on this side of the water in pirated editions under all sorts of titles to the great confusion of the reading public. In some cases, books bearing the name of Charles Garvice as author, but which Mr. Garvice never wrote, have been forced on the unsuspecting public. We are now preparing to prosecute the offenders in all such cases in behalf of Mr. Garvice.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

MEDAL LIBRARY
A weekly publication devoted to good literature.
November 12, 1904. NO. 284

The HARKAWAY LIBRARY

Detailing the Complete Adventures of Jack Harkaway

Every boy will rejoice to know that at last the adventures of the famous Jack Harkaway are published in cheap paper edition.

Bracebridge Hemyng, the author of these tales, has established an enviable reputation as a writer of stories for boys. No better tales of thrilling adventures, in school and out, on land and sea, have ever been written. The boy reader at once feels a most lively interest in Jack’s welfare and will not miss following him through all the ups and downs of his interesting life.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

238 William Street, NEW YORK

Transcriber’s Note

The Contents has been added by the transcriber.

Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been retained as in the orignal publication except as follows:

- Page 12
did the old food do it changed to
did the old fool do it

- Page 101
cheeks of Frank Merrriwell changed to
cheeks of Frank Merriwell

- Page 131
Jack started to pour the tea changed to
Jack started to pour the coffee

- Page 195
the black vail between them changed to
the black veil between them

- Page 201
an ugly look overpread his face changed to
an ugly look overspread his face

- Catalogue of books page v
Hunting Tour, Burt L. Standish changed to
Hunting Tour, By Burt L. Standish

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Table of Contents

- Frank Merriwell’s First Job OR AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I. A BLOW BY FATE.

- CHAPTER II. FAREWELL TO YALE.

- CHAPTER III. ON THE WAY HOME.

- CHAPTER IV. THE REWARD OF WRONGDOING.

- CHAPTER V. THE MAN WHO WORKED THE WIRES.

- CHAPTER VI. THE SETTING OF THE SUN.

- CHAPTER VII. PHANTOM FINGERS.

- CHAPTER VIII. UNWELCOME VISITORS.

- CHAPTER IX. CAPTURED BY WHITECAPS.

- CHAPTER X. COWARDLY WORK.

- CHAPTER XI. FRANK’S STRANGE FRIEND.

- CHAPTER XII. FOR HIS ENEMY.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE BULLY OF THE ROUNDHOUSE.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE BULLY MEETS HIS MATCH.

- CHAPTER XV. STRIKING A JOB.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE FIRST FORENOON.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE STREET MUSICIANS.

- CHAPTER XVIII. UPLIFTED HEARTS.

- CHAPTER XIX. AN ANGRY ENGINEER.

- CHAPTER XX. SOME POINTS ABOUT HICKS.

- CHAPTER XXI. FRANK DISCOVERS A BREAK.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER.

- CHAPTER XXIII. AN UNWELCOME RELATION.

- CHAPTER XXIV. FRANK EXACTS A PROMISE.

- CHAPTER XXV. ON A SWITCH ENGINE.

- CHAPTER XXVI. CAPTURING A WILD ENGINE.

- CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK’S FRIENDS.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. FIRING A FREIGHT ENGINE.

- CHAPTER XXIX. THE FIGHT ON THE ENGINE.

- CHAPTER XXX. MERRIWELL’S GENEROSITY.

- CHAPTER XXXI. AN UNGRATEFUL MAN.

- CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE STAIRS.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. UNDER THE CRUST OF A HUMAN HEART.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. THE REVELATION OF A SECRET.

- CHAPTER XXXV. THE LITTLE PILOT.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. “ON TIME, AT LAST!”

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE