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Title: Frank Merriwell's danger

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: June 17, 2024 [eBook #73850]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1904

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73850

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S DANGER ***

The Medal Library

Famous Copyrighted Stories

for Boys, by Famous Authors

PUBLISHED EVERY WEEK

This is an ideal line for boys of all ages. It contains juvenile masterpieces by the most popular writers of interesting fiction for boys. Among these may be mentioned the works of Burt L. Standish, detailing the adventures of Frank Merriwell, the hero, of whom every American boy has read with admiration. Frank is a truly representative American lad, full of character and a strong determination to do right at any cost. Then, there are the works of Horatio Alger, Jr., whose keen insight into the minds of the boys of our country has enabled him to write a series of the most interesting tales ever published. This line also contains some of the best works of Oliver Optic, another author whose entire life was devoted to writing books that would tend to interest and elevate our boys.

To Be Published During March

250. Neka, the Boy Conjurer. By Capt. Ralph Bonehill.

249. The Young Bridge Tender. By Arthur M. Winfield.

248. The West Point Boys. By Lieut. Frederick Garrison, U.S.A.

247. Frank Merriwell’s Secret. By Burt L. Standish.

246. Rob Ranger’s Cowboy Days. By Lieut. Lounsberry.

To Be Published During February

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.

To Be Published During January

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. 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 William Murray Graydon.

215—With Clive in India. By G. A. Henty.

214—On Guard. By Lieut. Frederick 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. 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 Canon. 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.

Frank Merriwell’s

Danger

By BURT L. STANDISH

Author of “Frank Merriwell’s School Days,” “Frank

Merriwell’s Chums,” “Frank Merriwell’s Foes,” “Frank

Merriwell’s Trip West,” “Frank Merriwell Down

South,” “Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour,” “Frank

Merriwell’s Bravery,” “Frank Merriwell in Europe,” etc.

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS

238 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK CITY

Copyright, 1904

By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s Danger

FRANK MERRIWELL’S DANGER.

CHAPTER I.

OUT FOR A CRUISE.

Spring!

All through the long winter the only green thing to be seen on the Yale campus was the festive freshman, but now, on this mild, sunny April day, which was a promise of June soon to come, a few blades of grass were struggling to appear.

It was a day to bring everybody out. For the first time one could realize that winter was really a thing of the past.

At noon the campus swarmed and the fence was lined with roosters. The juniors came out and smoked their big English pipes, and did their best to imitate the graveness and dignity of the seniors. The sophomores loaded their line of fence, joking, laughing and guying the freshmen. And the freshmen gamboled like young colts just turned out to pasture, betraying their absolute “newness” by every word and act.

Big Bruce Browning smoked in lazy abandon, leaning against a post, feeling far too tired to climb to a seat upon the top rail. Bink Stubbs was whittling with a brand-new knife, while Danny Griswold whistled a rollicking tune. Dismal Jones actually wore an expression on his face that was as near perfect satisfaction and happiness as anyone had ever seen on his long countenance. “Lucy” Little, with a necktie “loud enough to jar the bricks out of South Middle,” was doing his best to see how many packages of cigarettes he could smoke in five minutes.

Everywhere the talk was baseball. Who would make the team? Would it be as strong as the year before? and would they win out from Harvard?

It was pretty certain Harvard would have an exceptionally strong team. The material to choose from was better than ever before, and Harvard was “making a brace” in all directions. Yale had won the last football game from Harvard more by the wonderful work of one man than by the superior strength of her eleven, and the Cambridge lads were thirsting for revenge.

The man who seemed to stand head and shoulders above all others in Yale sports and athletics was Frank Merriwell. But Merriwell had become a “greasy grind” during the winter, and there were those who prophesied that he was satisfied with his fame, and would retire on his laurels. It was even reported that he was ambitious to be valedictorian, and it was known that he could go to either Bones or Keys, as he might choose, which was a most remarkable state of affairs, as there were hundreds of good men and true, with hearts full of ambition, who could not reach either.

All along Merriwell had refused to say anything about his plans, and he would not talk baseball. He had been drawn into the football game with Harvard through force of circumstances, and against his inclination, so it was not strange that the general belief was that he might refuse to become the leading “twirler” for Yale that season.

It was generally conceded by Merriwell’s friends and foes alike that his refusal to play would be a great blow to Yale. Hugh Heffiner and Dad Hicks, the old timers, were gone, and Merriwell was the only man left who had been tried by Yale and not found wanting.

True, there was some new material. Walbert, an Andover man, was a promising candidate; and Haggerty, who had come to Yale after being dropped at straight-laced little Williams for some thoughtless prank, was said to be a great “southpaw” twirler.

But what Yale wanted was steady, reliable material in which confidence could be placed. The new men might show up all right when the time came, but what if they did not? The “if” was in the way.

So baseball was the theme on this bright April day, and the enthusiasm which the game always arouses among the “cranks” was beginning to make itself manifest.

While they were talking of him, Frank Merriwell appeared. He looked trim and well-groomed. It was one of his peculiarities that he always looked as if he had just emerged from a bath.

Barely was Frank upon the campus before Harry Rattleton, his old-time chum, rushed up and caught him by the arm.

“Looking for you, old man—looking for you!” he excitedly sputtered. “There’s tomething on sap—I mean something on tap.”

“You know I never drink beer,” smiled Frank.

“Never mind—t’ain’t beer,” Harry rattled on. “This is just the day, isn’t it?”

“Just the day for what?”

“Cruise.”

“What sort of a cruise?”

“On the sound. I’ve got a cat.”

“A cat? Well, what has a cat to do with a cruise on the sound?”

“I mean a batcoat—no, no, a catboat! Bought her yesterday.”

“Oh! I must say you are starting early.”

“None too early. And this is just the day for a sail. We can have a glorious afternoon on the sound. What do you say to it, old man?”

“Who is going?”

“Anybody you want. We’ll take along Browning and Diamond.”

“I don’t think I ought to spend the time.”

“Oh, come off! You have been cramming like a fiend all winter, and an afternoon’s outing is just what you need. You can’t say no. Think of the sport.”

Frank did think of it. He knew it was true he had become a “dig,” and he felt that a sail on the sound would do him good. It would serve as a relaxation for half a day, and he could return to his studies with fresh energy on the morrow.

All at once he turned on Harry, exclaiming:

“I am with you, old fellow!”

“You will go?”

“Dead sure. I’ll be able to study all the better for it afterward.”

“That’s the talk, Merry! Who’ll we take?”

“Name your own crew.”

“Diamond and Browning.”

“They’re all right. What say if I get Hodge and take him along?”

“Get him. That will make just the right sort of a crew. I’ll get a lunch, and we’ll meet at the New Haven Yacht Clubhouse. The Jolly Sport is moored off the clubhouse. We’ll all get down there as soon as possible. I know Browning and Diamond will go when they know you are coming along, Frank. You go for Hodge, and I’ll look after the others.”

In this way it was settled. Frank started to get Bart Hodge, another old chum, who roomed at a distance. Hodge had passed examinations successfully, and was a Yale student at last. Rattleton made for Browning, who still leaned in solemn stateliness against the fence.

Rattleton and Diamond were on the Jolly Sport, getting her in trim, when Frank and Bart appeared.

“Where’s Browning?” shouted Frank.

“Coming,” Harry called back.

“So’s Christmas, but it’ll be a long time getting here. If you really expect that fellow to sail with us this afternoon, you should have brought him along.”

“We can’t waste the afternoon waiting for him,” said Jack, impatiently.

Frank and Bart got on board the boat, and then Bruce appeared, perspiring and staggering under a heavy load, for he carried a huge basket in either hand.

“Dat the whickens—I mean, what the dickens has he there?” cried Harry. “Oh, I know, the lunch!”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Frank. “We were smart not to think of that. But he has brought enough to provision the Jolly Sport for a week’s cruise.”

“Hurry up, Browning!” shouted Jack, testily. “We’ve waited long enough for you.”

“Oh, fall overboard and cool off!” flung back the big fellow, who seemed a bit out of sorts himself from the exertion. “You’re always in a hurry.”

“What have you there, anyway?” asked Frank, as Bruce came on board.

“Beer.”

“Beer?” shouted all the lads.

“Sandwiches.”

“Then it’s not all beer?”

“Most of it is.”

“That’s all right,” said Diamond, beginning to look satisfied. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” grunted Browning. “I brought it along for myself. Supposed you chaps would bring your own beer and provisions.”

“You don’t mean to say you brought all that stuff in those two great baskets for yourself and no one else?”

“Why not?”

“How long do you think this cruise will last?”

“Can’t tell about that.”

“You’ll divvy, or we’ll put you in irons and cast you into the hold!” declared Rattleton. “I’m owner and captain of this vessel, and what I say goes. See?”

To this Bruce simply grunted.

The baskets were stowed as snugly as possible, and then Rattleton began to give orders.

“Haul away!” he cried. “Haul away on the throat halyards! Up with the peak! That’s right. Slack off the sheet a bit, Diamond. Lay her a bit more to port! Steady, so!”

The tide was running out, and the wind was light, but the Jolly Sport seemed eager to get out into the sound, and was soon running down past an anchored fishing vessel at good speed.

“Well, this is great!” muttered Hodge, as he lay back comfortably, lighting a cigar.

Down past the fort in Indian Hill they slipped, steered across to the old lighthouse, and tacked into the sound.

“Hurrah!” cried Skipper Rattleton. “The breeze is with us, boys!”

Then he sang a snatch of “A Life on the Ocean Wave.”

“What do you think of my singing?” he asked. “It’s entirely by ear.”

“Great heavens!” cried Merry, tragically. “That explains it!”

“Explains what?”

“Why, I didn’t think it possibly could be by mouth.”

Browning grunted. It was as near as he could come to laughing without exerting himself.

The boys took off their coats and prepared to enjoy life. All fell to smoking, with the exception of Frank.

“Going to pitch on the nine this spring, Merry?” asked Bart.

“I may,” answered Frank. “I was practicing yesterday, and I threw the ball a mile.”

“What’s that? Threw a baseball a mile? Oh, come off!”

“You see, I threw it at a mark.”

“Well?”

“I missed the mark.”

“What of that?”

“Isn’t a miss as good as a mile?” chuckled Frank.

Rattleton came near having a fit.

“If this keeps up,” said Diamond, “there will be a lot of maniacs on board before the Jolly Sport sails back to New Haven.”

As they passed a puffing tug, an old salt hailed them:

“Better be careful, boys,” he called.

“Careful? What for?”

“There’ll be a reg’ler nor’wester to-night. This is a weather breeder.”

“All right, cap,” returned Frank. “We’ll be back before night.”

And they did not think of the warning afterward.

Away down the harbor ran the Jolly Sport. The boys smoked, laughed, sang and joked. It was like a midsummer day. They took the East Channel out toward Brandford Point, and then set their course toward the Thimble Islands.

After a time the wind freshened a little, and they put on their coats. The Thimbles were seen glistening in the bright sunshine. Harry had brought along a glass, and they took turns peering off toward the islands, of which there are said to be three hundred and sixty-five, one for each day in the year.

The wind rose steadily till they had a “spanking breeze,” and the catboat danced along right merrily.

“Perhaps we hadn’t better try to make the islands,” said Frank, but the others cried him down.

“What’s the matter with you?” they demanded. “This is a beautiful breeze. Of course, we’ll go to the Thimbles.”

They were enthusiastic, for the way the Jolly Sport reeled along was exhilarating. Soon the glistening islands grew to bits of green and then took on definite shapes.

“Look at that schooner yonder,” said Jack. “Isn’t she a queer-looking craft?”

He pointed out a black two-master that was running up into the sound. There was something rakish about the slant of the masts, and the vessel seemed to creep over the water in a stealthy fashion. The boys watched her with increasing interest.

“Makes me think of some of the stories of pirate vessels,” said Bart.

“Jingoes!” exclaimed Diamond. “She does look like a pirate!”

“But the days of pirates are past,” said Harry. “Probably she is a fishing vessel.”

“Guess not,” said Frank. “She does not look like a fisherman. There is something mysterious in her appearance.”

“You know Capt. Kidd ran in here something over a hundred years ago and landed on the Thimbles,” Harry reminded. “He hid his vessel behind the rocky islands and buried his treasure where he and no one else has since been able to find it. His ‘punch bowl’ and initials remain to prove that he really did come in here.”

“Imagine we are living in the days of pirates,” said Diamond, his eyes sparkling. “Imagine that fellow coming yonder is one.”

“We’d be headed the other way, instead of bearing down to cross close under his stern,” declared Hodge.

“I don’t believe that schooner is much of a sailor, for all of her rakish appearance,” said Harry.

“She’s running under light sail,” observed Frank. “It would make a difference if she were to crack on every stitch.”

At the wheel a man seemed half asleep. Another man was at work forward, and those were all the boys could see.

“Don’t believe she carries a heavy crew,” said Browning, surveying the schooner with lazy interest.

Somehow or other as they drew nearer to the black vessel they lowered their voices and all seemed to feel an air of awe stealing over them.

“Do you make out her name, Merry?” asked Harry of Frank, who had the glass.

“Yes. There, you can all see it now.”

The schooner swung to port, and the white letters on her stern were distinctly seen.

“P-i-r-a-t-e,” spelled Diamond.

“Pirate?” gasped Harry, doubtfully.

“Pirate!” exclaimed Hodge, excitedly.

“Pirate,” came languidly from Browning, who showed no remarkable interest.

“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “An appropriate name for her, sure enough.”

“I should say so!” nodded Rattleton. “She looks like a pirate.”

“And I’m hanged if the man at the wheel don’t look like one!” half laughed Frank, passing the glass to Harry.

Rattleton took a look through the glass.

“Both men are tough-looking fellows,” he declared. “They have the appearance of men who would not hesitate to cut a throat for a sawbuck. I wouldn’t—— What’s up now?”

There was a commotion on board the black schooner.

CHAPTER II.

THE MAN WITH THE GUN.

“Something’s wrong!”

“Sure pop!”

The boys heard a scream. It sounded like the voice of a woman.

Then there was a hoarse shout. The man at the wheel woke to a show of interest, and the man forward started aft.

Suddenly a girlish figure appeared on deck. She ran to the rail and tried to leap overboard, but two men, besides those already on deck, appeared in pursuit, grasped and held her.

The girl seemed to see the small sailboat.

“Help!” she wildly cried. “Save——”

One of the men clapped a hand over her mouth, and she was carried away, struggling.

Then there was excitement on board the Jolly Sport.

“The Old Nick is to pay on board the Pirate!” exclaimed Rattleton.

“It’s a girl, boys!” cried Diamond, all his natural gallantry awakened and aroused. “She is in distress. We must aid her!”

“Bring her round, Hodge—bring her round, and we’ll——”

“Lay her up, Hodge, lay her up, and we’ll make a run after the schooner!” came promptly from Frank. “I want to know something more about this.”

“That’s right,” nodded Rattleton, who did not resent the manner in which Frank took command. “What right have they to treat a girl like that! There’s something wrong going on!”

Even Browning was aroused.

“I believe Rattleton is right,” he said. “Maybe that girl has been kidnaped.”

The Jolly Sport was headed in pursuit of the black schooner, without immediately attracting the attention of anyone on board the Pirate.

The girl had been overpowered with ease and carried below.

“What are we going to do when we overtake them?” asked Browning.

“We’ll do something if we get on board!” exclaimed Hodge.

“But it’s not likely we’ll be able to get on board.”

“Oh, I don’t know!”

It was not long before the man at the wheel saw the boat in pursuit. He called to another man, who went below, after coming astern to take a look at the pursuing catboat.

In a short time two men came up from below and took a survey of the Jolly Sport. One of the men seemed to be captain of the schooner. He betrayed uneasiness.

Coming to the rail, the captain harshly shouted:

“What are you lubbers chasin’ us fer? Go about, and mind your own business!”

“We wish to talk with you, captain,” returned Frank.

“Don’t want to talk,” was the surly retort. “Keep off.”

“We want to talk, I tell you. What’s the use to be so unsociable. Make yourself agreeable.”

“What do you want?”

“We saw you were having a little trouble on board and so——”

“Ain’t havin’ no trouble. Tell yer to mind your own business! If you nose round us, you’ll get hurt.”

“Who was the young lady who tried to jump overboard?”

“That was my gal,” answered the man, after some hesitation.

“Why did she try to leap over the rail?”

“She’s been sick, an’ she’s a little daffy in her upper deck, that’s all.”

“He’s lying!” exclaimed Hodge, in a low voice. “You can tell that he is lying by the way he says it!”

“We’ve got a doctor here,” fibbed Rattleton. “We’ll come aboard and he’ll prescribe for her.”

“Keep off!” roared the man on the schooner. “We don’t want no doctors botherin’ round here.”

“But we are coming aboard!” flung back Diamond. “We want to see that girl.”

“You can’t see her! If you come round here, you’ll get yer heads broke!”

The black-bearded sailor was angry. He shook his fist at the boys, and used language that would not look well in print.

Still the Jolly Sport kept after the Pirate, as if the youthful crew of the former had determined to overhaul the schooner and board her.

There was a consultation on board the schooner, and then one of the men hastily went below.

The Jolly Sport was drawing close to the other vessel when the man reappeared, bringing a gun, which he handed to the black-bearded man who had done all the talking.

“Jee whiskers!” gurgled Rattleton. “That means trouble!”

“He won’t dare use it!” declared Diamond.

The man with the gun leaned over the rail of the schooner.

“Now, look here, you fresh young lubbers,” he roared, “if you don’t go round and git, I’ll fill you full of duck-shot, or my name’s not Cyrus Horn!”

The way he said it seemed to indicate that he meant business.

“Hanged if I don’t think he’ll do it!” grunted Browning. “He is a genuine old pirate, for sure.”

“Are you the captain of that schooner?” asked Frank Merriwell.

“I be,” was the answer.

“Well, what’s the use to be touchy, captain! We’ve got some beer on board, and you must be thirsty. You’ll find us a jolly crowd.”

“I don’t drink beer and I don’t want nothing to do with yer. Git!”

Capt. Horn leveled his big gun at the pursuing boat.

“Don’t be hasty, captain, for——”

“Git!”

“Listen to reason.”

“Git!”

The captain of the schooner was not to be beguiled by smooth words. They could see his greenish eyes glaring along the barrel of the gun he held, and he looked like a person who would not hesitate to shoot.

“I’ll give ye till I count three to go about,” he roared. “If ye don’t do it, I’ll begin shootin’.”

Then he counted:

“One!”

The boys looked at each other undecidedly.

“Two!”

“It’s no use,” said Frank, quietly. “If the man is in such a mood, it’s worse than folly to try to board his boat. He could claim that he took us for robbers, and——”

“Down with your helm!” cried Rattleton, and the Jolly Sport was put about.

None too soon, for the captain of the schooner was seen taking aim with great deliberation.

“Now git!” he roared. “If I see anything of yer again, I’ll take a shot at yer jest for the fun of it.”

“Well, if that man isn’t a genuine pirate, it’s not his fault,” growled Browning. “It’s certain he was cut out for one.”

“He’d cut a throat with pleasure,” nodded Hodge.

Merriwell was silent, with his eyes fastened on the receding schooner. There was a troubled expression on his handsome face, and it was plain enough that he regretted their inability to solve the mystery of the girl who had tried to leap overboard.

It was not like Frank to give up so easily, but he had realized that it was the height of folly to attempt to board the schooner in the face of the enraged man with the gun.

It might be true that the girl was crazy, but Frank could not help feeling that it was not true. Something seemed to whisper that she was a captive in the hands of wretched and unscrupulous men.

Such a thought was quite enough to arouse within Frank’s heart a strong desire to rescue her, but it seemed that he was utterly helpless to render her any assistance.

Had our hero been sure the girl was a captive, he would have felt like following the Pirate at a distance and making an attempt to have the proper authorities render the girl assistance when Capt. Horn ran into some port.

If it was true she was crazy, the boys would make themselves objects of ridicule by interfering in her behalf.

The situation was discussed, and they finally decided to continue on their course to the Thimbles.

They steered for Pot Rock and the cove, where it was said Capt. Kidd had hidden his vessel, and near which, it was supposed, his treasure was buried.

It was past three in the afternoon when they ran into the little steamboat dock.

CHAPTER III.

ON THE ISLAND.

Under a tree they lunched, drank their beer and smoked cigars and cigarettes. They were jolly, seeming to have forgotten the adventure with the mysterious black schooner.

Browning stretched his massive frame on the ground and puffed away in serene laziness.

“I’d like to stay right here the rest of my life and do nothing but eat and drink and sleep,” he grunted.

“You’d miss the ball games this spring,” said Diamond.

“Go to!” said the big fellow. “What are the ball games? A lot of fellows get up and bat a ball around, while another lot of fellows chase it. They run and whoop and throw the ball and get covered with perspiration. It is a most distressing spectacle. Ball games, indeed! Go to, I say—go to!”

“And the spring boat race—you’d miss that,” said Harry.

“Another distressing spectacle. Nine men in a boat, eight of them working, working, working as if their lives depended on it. They strain every muscle, their faces are contorted with the agony of it, their eyes bulge with distress, their breasts heave as they try to breathe, and when the race is over some of them are like rags run through a wringer. Again I say, go to!”

“But you used to be enthusiastic over such things. You played football yourself.”

“Which goes to show what a fool a fellow can make of himself. Of all things football is the worst. That is a real battle for life between twenty-two mad and furious fools, every one of whom is thirsting for gore. They tear at one another, like famished wolves, buck one another, fling one another to the ground, jump on one another. Did I play football?”

“Surely you did.”

“It’s a far reach from such folly to the wisdom of to-day. Ten thousand dollars would not induce me to engage once again in a real game of football.”

“But think of the excitement—the glory.”

“The excitement is the delirium of fools. The glory—what is glory? How long does it last? Last fall, when Merry carried the ball over the line for a touchdown on Jarvis Field, with half the Harvard team on his back, he covered himself with glory. For a little time he was the talk of the college. His picture was in the papers. He was dined, and he would have been wined—that is, if he would have been. But now—now how is it? Spring has come, football is forgotten and his glory is fading. Everybody is talking of baseball and the way the nine will be made up.”

“And you’ll find they are talking of Merry just the same,” declared Harry. “They haven’t forgotten that he twirls the sphere.”

“Oh, no, they haven’t forgotten; but what if he were not available—what if he should refuse? How long would his glory last! Another would arise to fill his place, and he would be forgotten. Glory! It is the dream of fools. Give me plenty to wear, plenty to eat and lots of time to rest, and the world may have its glory.”

Frank laughed.

“The same old Browning,” he said. “And yet you are as much of a football and baseball enthusiast as any man at Yale. It breaks your heart when Harvard or Princeton wins from Old Eli. You go into mourning and don’t recover for a week. Oh, you put up a good bluff, old man, but I can read you like an open book.”

Bruce grunted derisively.

“Very astute,” he commented, and then relapsed into silence, as if it were a great effort to speak, and he had already exerted himself too much.

“And think of the pretty girls Merry wins by his popularity,” said Jack. “He has opportunities to kiss lots of them.”

“If a fellow has an opportunity to kiss a pretty girl he should improve it,” declared Hodge.

“Ah!” cried Rattleton; “such an opportunity could not be improved.”

To this all agreed, laughing, with the exception of Browning, who had closed his eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep instantly.

The boys talked of Yale’s prospects on the diamond, and Harry said:

“It strikes me that we are going to be weak behind the bat this year. What do you think, Merry?”

“There are several fellows who will try for the position.”

“Yes; but what do you know about them?”

“I don’t like to say.”

“Oh, come! You are with friends, and you may talk freely. What do you think of Ned Noon?”

“He is, in my estimation, one of the most promising men, but he can’t run, and bats weakly. Behind the bat he might work very well, but he would be weak in other directions.”

“That’s string as a straight—I mean, straight as a string,” cried Harry. “If Ned Noon stands a show to get on the ’varsity nine, there is hope for me.”

“Well, there’s Roger Stone,” put in Diamond. “What about him?”

“He can bat like a fiend,” said Frank, “but he is weak on his throwing. He’ll stop anything he can reach, but it takes him so long to get a ball to second base that a good runner can steal down from first every time. That is a big fault. Stone will not do.”

“Right again,” nodded Rattleton. “And those two men are the strongest of the new candidates.”

“Some man may show up who is not talked of at all now,” said Jack.

Harry gave Hodge a quick glance.

“Old man,” he cried, “why don’t you make a try for the nine?”

An embarrassed flush showed in Bart’s dark cheeks.

“That would be pretty fresh for a freshman, wouldn’t it?” he asked.

“Not so confounded fresh. Merry got on the first year he was in Yale.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I am not Frank Merriwell, and there are not many fellows his equal.”

Frank laughed merrily.

“Come off!” he cried. “The world is full of them. In order to get on at anything, a fellow must seize his opportunities. At the time that I got on to the nine there was a great cry for a change pitcher. I laid out to fill the bill, and I managed to fill it. That’s all. Now there’s a cry for a catcher, as well as for pitchers. It will be somebody’s opportunity.”

Hodge was silent, but there was an eager look on his face.

“I have pitched to you, Bart,” Frank went on, “and I know what you are. We work well together. You are a dandy thrower, a good batter, and a bird on the bases. Take my advice, get into gear and make a try for the nine.”

“I don’t know how to do it.”

“There’ll be plenty of fellows to coach you,” said Diamond, quickly. “I am going in for a shot at third bag. I may get there, although several good men are looking in the same direction. If I fail, it won’t kill me. I know I am not the only cake of ice. There are others just as cool. Make a bluff at it, Hodge. It won’t hurt you to get left.”

“Perhaps not,” said Bart; but he felt in his heart that he would be cut keenly if he made a desperate try to get on the nine and some other fellow was chosen.

Browning sneezed and awoke.

“You’re catching cold, old man,” said Frank.

“No danger,” said Rattleton. “He’s too lazy to catch anything.”

“That’s got a long gray beard on it,” grunted Bruce, with an air of disgust.

The wind, chill and raw, began to blow. Black clouds were piling up in the west, and the sun was shut out. This came so suddenly that the boys were startled.

“Jove!” cried Hodge. “There’s a storm coming!”

“Remember what the old fellow on the tug said when we came out?” exclaimed Diamond. “He warned us.”

“That’s so!”

Frank was on his feet taking a survey of the sea and sky.

“If we want to get back to New Haven to-night we’d better get a hustle on,” he declared.

Then there was a hasty gathering of such things as they wished to carry back and a hurrying down to the Jolly Sport. They clambered on board, stowed things away, cast off from the pier, ran up the sails, and made the first tack out to sea.

The sky became dark and overcast. Down near New York somewhere great rollers started and seemed to gather force and size as they surged along the sound.

The spray began to fly as the catboat plunged from roller to roller, and the boys saw a prospect of getting “good and wet.”

Frank was at the helm, and his face wore a serious look. He realized that they were in for a bad run, to say the very least.

And the wind was dead ahead!

Harry showed nervousness. He owned the boat, but it was not that he was thinking about. He remembered the story of the Yale crowd lost on the sound some years before.

“Mink we’ll thake it—I mean think we’ll make it all right, Frank?” he asked, with evident agitation.

“We must,” was all Merriwell answered.

The wind grew stiffer and stiffer. The Jolly Sport floundered considerably, and the spray flew thicker and thicker.

“We’ve got to take in a reef,” cried Merry. “Get ready, all hands. Now—work lively!”

Lively work they made of it, but the catboat shipped a sea before the reefing was over and she was brought into the wind again.

The boys fell to bailing, and away went the Jolly Sport like a racer.

The wind continued to rise, and Frank found Harry’s boat had her faults.

“She’s no wind-jammer,” he said. “Can’t hold her close, and she will fall off, best I can do.”

“If we’d paid some attention to the old fellow who warned us there would be a blow,” regretted Harry.

“No use to cry over that,” came sharply from Diamond. “We’ve got to make New Haven harbor.”

Browning shivered.

“Don’t know why I was fool enough to come,” he grumbled. “Might be safe and warm in my room now.”

It was five o’clock, but was so dark that it seemed much later. Rattleton, for all of his nervousness, cracked several jokes. Diamond made an effort to look unconcerned, and succeeded very well. Hodge was grim and silent.

The wind was fitful. Now and then Frank would cry:

“Ease her off.”

Then they would let out the sail quickly, and the cat’s-paw would sweep over them.

“How is your old sheet, Rattles?” asked Diamond. “Will she hold?”

“Can’t say,” confessed Harry. “She isn’t new.”

“How are the halyards?”

“Strong enough so I have been up the mast with them.”

“They ought to be all right.”

Sizz—boom! A big wave struck the bow, the spray flew in a thick cloud, and they were drenched to the skin.

“Awfully jolly!” grinned Harry.

“Yes, more fun than a barrel of monkeys!” said Jack, sarcastically.

“That’s nothing but the beginning,” assured Frank, consolingly. “It’ll be a regular picnic before New Haven is reached.”

“How nice!” groaned Browning.

They took turns at bailing till all were weary and exhausted. Diamond’s temper was beginning to rise, while Hodge was holding his down with an effort.

“Don’t anybody ever again ask me to go sailing on an April day!” snapped the Virginian.

Darkness came down without the moon they desired.

“I wish we were back on the island,” said Bart.

“Can’t we run back there now?” asked Harry.

Frank looked away over the water and then shook his head.

“It’s more than even we’d run straight out to the open sea,” he said.

Frank took full command, and his sharp orders were obeyed unhesitatingly, showing they all had confidence in him.

The Jolly Sport lurched and staggered. She fell off amazingly. Frank gave orders that another reef be taken, and the boys sprang to obey, Browning making a show of haste.

Frank put two men on the sheet when the reef had been made, a laborious task, for their fingers were numb with the cold. The boat shook ominously.

But under the double reef she rode better.

All at once a cry broke from Bart’s lips.

“Luff! luff!” he screamed. “Hard a-port, or we’re goners!”

He pointed, and they all saw a dark mass that was bearing down upon them with the speed of an express train. It seemed to loom above them like the black shadow of doom. It sent a shudder of horror to their hearts.

“A vessel!” screamed Diamond.

“A vessel!” thundered Browning. “Look out, Merry!”

With all his strength Frank jammed down the tiller, and the boat came about on the other tack, although she seemed to do so with deathly slowness.

Every lad held his breath, expecting to hear a crash, feel the shock, or be hurled into the sea.

There was a slight jar, a scraping sound, and the black mass fled past.

“It’s the black schooner!” shouted Diamond.

The same thought had come to Frank. There seemed to be something familiar in this overshadowing peril of the deep.

Past them flew the strange vessel. The wind was making a great racket, but high above its clamor the boys in the catboat heard a cry that must have come from human lips. It was wild and weird, and it sent a shudder through them.

On sped the mysterious vessel.

Round came the Jolly Sport, and, almost before anybody was aware of it, the catboat was running after the schooner.

Running before the wind the Jolly Sport was a wonder. She flew like a bird.

“What are you going to do, Merry?” shouted Rattleton, in amazement.

“I am going to try to get back to the Thimbles before it is pitch dark.”

“It can’t be done!” declared Diamond.

“It’s our only show. The night is going to be blacker than a stack of black cats. We’ll be run down here on the sound, or the seas will swamp us. We can’t make New Haven against this wind. It is utterly impossible.”

The others felt that Frank was right. The boat had shown that she was but little good against the wind, but she could run like a deer before it. They had been a long time beating off from the Thimbles, but it could not take them long to run back.

Then they thought of the vessel that had so nearly run them down.

“Did you hear that cry, Merry?” asked Rattleton.

“Yes, I heard it,” nodded Frank.

“What do you think it was?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Sounded like a cry of distress.”

“Yes, that was what it sounded like.”

Then all the boys thought of the girl they had seen on the mysterious schooner. It occurred to each one of them that it was possible the cry had come from her lips.

For all that the Jolly Sport seemed to fly, the vessel was making still greater speed, and she was soon lost in the gloom.

The boys felt that the chance of making the Thimbles and running into the snug little harbor was small indeed, but they trusted everything to Frank Merriwell’s judgment.

They had been bailing all along, thinking the water was coming in over the rail, but when they had turned about a startling discovery was made.

The water was coming in as fast as ever, although but little spray flew into the boat.

“She’s leaking!” cried Hodge.

Frank had made that discovery some time before, and it was for that reason he had turned about so suddenly and unexpectedly. He hoped to strike the Thimbles, and, as a desperate resort, he could pile the Jolly Sport high and dry on the beach.

Frank knew the boat would not hold to continue the desperate attempt to beat across the sound. He was not sure she would hold to reach the islands.

But what if they missed the islands entirely?

They would be driven out to sea, and the chances were a thousand to one that not one of them would ever live to again place a foot on dry land!

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE HOUR OF PERIL.

It was a terrible risk running blindly for those islands, but it seemed a still more terrible one to attempt to beat across the black sound.

The five lads in the boat held their breath, strained their eyes, listened.

Around the boat the sea swirled and seethed. It rolled darkly on either hand, and the Jolly Sport cut through the water with a hissing sound.

Somehow through the darkness they could see great white bubbles of foam that came up out of the water and winked at them like the eyes of the mighty demons of the deep.

Those blinking eyes filled them with awe and horror. They shuddered and turned sick at heart. Their ears listened for the breaking of the surf on the beach of the islands, a sound which they longed, yet dreaded, to hear.

But all they could hear was the shriek of the wind, the swish of the sea, and the rushing sound of the boat.

“Bail!”

The word came like a pistol shot. It woke them to a realization of the peril that was creeping upon them.

Water was pouring into the boat from her leaks. It was rising around their feet, and the Jolly Sport was beginning to plunge and flounder distressingly.

“Bail!”

Again the word shot from Frank Merriwell’s lips.

They hastened to obey. They scooped the water up with the bailing dishes, with a sponge, and with their caps; but it came in faster than they could throw it out.

“We’re going down!”

Rattleton uttered the cry.

“Well,” said Browning, in the same old lazy manner, “it does look as if we might have to swim for it pretty soon.”

Diamond and Hodge were silent. Their teeth were set, and they were straining their eyes through the darkness, as if they longed to see something that would give them hope.

A light flashed out, winked, disappeared.

“Lighthouse there!” shouted Rattleton.

“Running straight for it!” cried Diamond.

“Be on a ledge in a minute!” grunted Browning.

Frank shoved over the tiller, and the Jolly Sport went floundering off through the seas, with her course changed somewhat.

“Bail, boys—bail!” Frank again commanded. “It is our only hope. If we can keep afloat five minutes longer——”

The wind tore the words from his lips, with a mocking shriek. He bent his head and gripped the tiller, while the boat wallowed along bravely, seeming like a wounded creature seeking cover as it grew weaker from loss of blood.

The boys worked with all the energy they could command to get the water out as fast as it came in. Bruce Browning did his best. They were chilled to the bone, dripping wet, and sick at heart. Every man of them felt that his chance of being drowned was most excellent.

Swish—bump! the big waves came down on the boat, struck her, piled over her. A score of times it seemed that she was swamped, a score of times she fought her way to the surface, a score of times prayers of relief were whispered by white lips.

She was not making much headway. The wind was carrying her off helplessly.

Still Frank clung to the tiller, trying to steer and succeeding in a measure, so that he kept her from rolling helplessly broadside to the seas.

“Light again!” cried Diamond, as the flash of fire again gleamed out and disappeared.

Now came a sound that was like the sullen roar of an animal in distress. It was the booming of the surf on shore.

“If I don’t strike the mouth of the cove, we’ll be piled up on a ledge, or high and dry on shore in less than two minutes,” came from Frank’s lips.

They heard him, and they realized they were close upon the islands. The sound of the surf added a feeling of terror to their other sensations, and yet they were thankful they had not missed the Thimbles and been driven out to sea.

Louder and louder came the booming roar of the surf. Through the darkness they seemed to see a white wall of foam that shifted and heaved, leaped and roared.

All the tigers of the deep seemed to be at play along that white line. They saw the boat and its helpless crew. They roared their delight over the coming feast.

But ahead—what was that? A spot where the white line was not dancing and howling. The boat made for that spot.

“Hold fast!”

Frank was not sure it was the mouth of the cove. He could not tell in that dense darkness, but he headed straight toward that spot. They might strike at any moment.

Onward floundered the Jolly Sport, making a last gallant effort to keep afloat. The roaring surf was on either side. The leaping tigers in white were there, gnashing their teeth and howling with impotent rage.

“It’s the cove!” screamed Harry Rattleton. “We’re all right! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” cheered Diamond.

Frank said nothing; he knew their peril was not over.

Bart Hodge said nothing; he would not have murmured had they gone down in mid-sound.

Bruce Browning was silent; he was exhausted by his efforts at bailing.

The great waves pursued the fugitive boat into the cove, like wolves in chase of a wounded deer.

All at once a black hulk loomed before them.

“A vessel!” cried Harry.

“Look out!” warned Jack.

With all his strength, Frank pulled over the tiller. The boat obeyed slowly and with reluctance. She could not clear the black hulk entirely.

“Confound them!” muttered Frank. “Why don’t they have a light out? There’s a law for this, and——”

Bump!—the Jolly Sport struck. Scrape!—she slid along the side of the vessel.

It was a marvel she did not go down then and there, but they continued to scrape and slide along the side of the vessel, which was heaving at anchor.

The shock was felt on board the vessel. As the boys looked up there was a faint gleam of light, and a man looked down at them from the rail. He snarled out something at them, but the shrieking wind drowned his words, and they did not understand what he said.

The boat cleared the vessel and went wallowing across the dark waters of the cove.

“Can’t strike steamboat pier,” muttered Frank. “Strike shore beyond. Bound to swim for it.”

Then he called to the others:

“All ready, fellows! Got to swim. We’re all right now, if we stand by each other.”

They knew they would be in the water directly, but they were not scared now, for what was before them was nothing beside what they had escaped.

“Harry, are you ready?” called Frank.

“All ready, Merry,” came back, promptly.

“Ready, Jack?”

“Sure,” answered Diamond’s voice.

“And you, Bruce?”

“I’m too fat to sink, don’t worry about me,” said Browning, with a laugh.

“How about you, Bart?”

No answer.

“Hodge, are you ready?” called Frank.

No answer.

“What’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he speak?”

“Where is he?” asked Rattleton, excitedly.

“Isn’t he here?”

“No! He is gone!”

“Impossible.”

But it was true; Hodge was not in the boat. He had disappeared in a most remarkable manner, as if he had been dragged from the boat by the grim demons of the deep.

There was no time to think about this most astounding and terrible discovery. They had stopped bailing for a few seconds, but the water had continued to rush in, and now, without so much as one last faint struggle, the Jolly Sport floundered and sank.

“She’s going!” screamed Harry.

“Jump!” cried Frank.

He saw them rise and plunge into the cold water, and then, with some trouble, he cleared the dripping sail that sought to settle down over his head and drag him under with the Jolly Sport.

They were close to the shore, else they could not have escaped even then. They helped each other out, and dragged themselves upon the bank, where they sank down, panting and helpless.

Beyond the mouth of the cove the breakers roared, and now in their clamor there seemed a note of triumph, as if they knew not all of the crew on board the Jolly Sport had escaped.

And the four water-dripping lads who lay upon the shore were too numb for words. But their hearts were torn with grief, even though they had reached solid ground, for one of their number was not with them.

Where was he?

Had he been swept overboard by a wave and carried down without a sound?

It did not seem possible.

Frank was thinking of him. Where, when and how had it happened?

Frank remembered that Bart had been silent all along, but he was sure Hodge had been in the boat when the black schooner so nearly ran them down.

He was in the boat after that. The others remembered that he had helped them bail.

The mystery of his disappearance was appalling. It crushed down upon them all like some mighty weight.

He had helped them bail. Frank kept thinking that over. He understood Bart better than anyone else, and he knew Hodge had realized that the Jolly Sport was overloaded.

Then came a thought to Frank that brought an exclamation from his lips.

“Did he jump overboard purposely?”

That was the question that gave Frank a shock. He realized that Hodge might have done so. Bart might have felt that his added weight was helping to sink the catboat and that the others would stand a better show of reaching shore if he were gone. Then——

Merry did not like to think of that. He did not like to fancy Hodge slipping overboard to lighten the boat so that the others might have a better chance to reach land.

Still he could not help thinking, and his fancy pictured Bart struggling with the surging waves, trying to keep afloat a few moments, rising on the crest of a wave and straining his eyes through the darkness for one last glimpse of the boat that contained his friends—his friends for whom he had sacrificed his life.

If Bart had done such a thing, Frank was certain he knew why. Merry had done everything in his power for Hodge, and Bart had felt his utter inability to make repayment. Now it was possible he had sacrificed his own life that Frank might possibly be saved.

Such thoughts brought to Merriwell the tenderest emotions.

“Dear, brave fellow!” he whispered.

Then he murmured a prayer, the words being torn from his lips by the furious gale.

Merry seemed to see Hodge feebly battling with the waves, his strength failing him swiftly. He fancied the waves tearing at him, beating upon him, hurling him down.

The last struggle had come and passed, and the cruel, triumphant, deadly sea rolled on.

In the morning they would search for him on yonder shore where the white tigers were dancing and howling. They would walk along the shore, hoping, yet dreading, to see his white face on the sand.

Frank thought of the time he had first met Hodge at Fardale Station. They had met as enemies, and Merry had struck the proud and haughty lad who was shaking a barefooted urchin, after having kicked the urchin’s dog from the station platform.

Hodge had vowed vengeance, and he had resorted to questionable methods for obtaining it; but in everything he had been beaten by Frank.

Then came the time that Bart had realized the cowardice of his own actions and Merriwell’s nobility. Later they had become friends, roommates, chums. They had fought for each other, and Bart had said more than once that he would die for Frank Merriwell.

CHAPTER V.

A MYSTERY.

Huddled together on the shore, the boys began to talk it over. Rattleton did not remember seeing Bart after the second appearance of the black schooner, while Diamond was sure Hodge had been with them till they were near the mouth of the cove. All wondered why they had not seen him when he plunged overboard.

“Perhaps he felt that he had a better show to get ashore if he swam for it than he had if he remained in the boat,” suggested Browning.

“Hodge was not a fool,” said Frank, a bit sharply. “He knew he had no show at all if he left the boat.”

“Then why did he leave it?”

“That the rest of us might have a better show. He thought the boat would keep afloat longer.”

“Do you think that?”

“It seems that way.”

They talked it over and over, wringing the water from their clothes. Despite the fact that four of them had escaped, all felt that a frightful calamity had occurred. At one time it had seemed there was not one chance in a hundred for any of them to escape, but, now they were ashore, the horror of the loss of a single man made them sick at heart.

“I’ll never own another boat!” declared Rattleton. “I’ve had enough of it.”

A light flashed out on the cove. It was on board the vessel that they had run against.

Then they spoke of her.

“Do you know,” said Diamond, “I believe I can name that vessel.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Harry.

“Sure.”

“Name her.”

“Pirate.”

“What?”

Harry and Bruce uttered the exclamation together. Both were startled.

Frank Merriwell said nothing. Had he been asked to name the vessel, he would have said the same thing.

“How can that be?” asked Harry. “We thought it was the Pirate that came so near running us down on the sound.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“Impossible! She could not be here.”

“Why not?” asked Frank. “We ran into this cove, and the Sport was disabled at that.”

“But the Pirate is a big vessel.”

“Not so very large.”

“Why should she run in here?”

“There is some mystery about her. Like Diamond, I think that is the black schooner. She had time to run in here and drop anchor ahead of us, and that’s what she did. We know no vessel was here when we left the cove this afternoon. She must have come in since then.”

“Say, fellows,” grunted Browning.

“Say it.”

“I don’t believe her name is a misnomer. It strikes me she is a genuine old pirate. If not, why is she running around in this way and taking such chances of being piled high and dry on these islands? She came into this cove to hide.”

“The days of pirates are past,” said Jack.

“Don’t care,” growled Bruce. “Capt. Horn is a pirate chief, or he’s the ghost of one, and his old schooner is a phantom, like the Flying Dutchman.”

“She’s a pretty solid phantom,” said Frank. “We struck against her and scraped her side.”

“If that is the Pirate.”

“Hark!”

The boys listened, and the wind brought to their ears sounds that interested them.

“They are lowering a boat out there,” said Frank. “Surely they are at some unlawful business, or they would not work in the dark and fail to display a single light.”

A few moments later the boys heard the sound of oars clanking in rowlocks.

“Coming!”

Rattleton uttered the exclamation.

“Sounds like it!” agreed Diamond.

Browning grunted.

Merriwell was silent.

The wind was right for them to hear any sound that might come from the direction of the unknown vessel, but when it rose to a wild shriek nothing but its howling could be distinguished. When it fell, each of the four boys distinguished the sound of oars.

Somehow there seemed something mysterious about the movement of the boat. Each of the listening lads felt the mystery, although they could not have told why.

Harry’s teeth chattered. He was cold, and he was nervous. The events of the night had quite unmanned him.

Clug-clank, clug-clank, clug-clank.

More than a single set of oars were being used. Frank felt sure of that, for his keen ear distinguished something in the sound that settled the point in his mind.

The boat was coming straight toward the point where the boys were crouching on the shore.

“Pier is near here,” thought Frank. “They’re going to run in there and get in the lee of it. But why are they coming ashore in this confounded storm?”

In the teeth of the wind a fine sleet was carried. It was too cold for a genuine storm of rain, and the sleet fell like some particles of ice.

No wonder Harry’s teeth chattered together.

“Keep still, boys,” warned Frank. “We’ll get a look at those fellows.”

“Huah!” grunted Browning. “Don’t know how you are going to get a look at anybody in this darkness.”

“They are bringing some kind of a light.”

“Can’t see it.”

“They’ve got it just the same.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Saw a gleam of it when they were getting into the boat.”

“Yes; but it may have been left on the vessel.”

“No; I’m sure I caught a flicker after the boat started.”

“Well, what sort of a light is it if we can’t see it now?”

“Dark lantern.”

“Eh? Great Scott!”

All the boys, with the exception of Merry, gave a start. Why should the men in the boat carry a dark lantern?

Rattleton, Browning, Diamond, all three of them, flung the question at Frank.

“I don’t know,” confessed Merry; “but it is a part of the mystery.”

It added to the keen interest with which the boys awaited the approach of the boat.

Burglars carried dark lanterns. Crooks carried dark lanterns. What sort of men were these? What sort of a night expedition were they making?

For the moment the mystery surrounding the fate of Bart Hodge was forgotten. The boys had no thoughts for anyone or anything but the approaching boat.

The sound of rowing became more and more distinct.

“Changed now—not coming straight here,” whispered Frank. “Going in at pier. I thought so.”

Rattleton’s imagination was at work; strange fancies flitted through his brain.

“What if they are kidnapers?” he thought. “What if they had stolen that girl? What if they were paid to put her out of the way? What if they have murdered her and are bringing her ashore to bury her under cover of darkness, where her body will never be found. What if——”

That was the limit. He did not dare carry the speculation any further. Already he was gasping for breath, overcome with the horror of the thought. The adventures of the night bore heavily upon him. For the first time in his life he felt like a coward. He was willing to keep still and let the men in the boat go their way and do their will, no matter what crime they had perpetrated.

Frank did not feel that way. His curiosity was fully awakened, and he was eager to solve the mystery.

“Come!”

He arose to a crouching posture and moved toward the pier, stumbling blindly over the rough ground.

Diamond was ready to follow anywhere Merriwell might lead, and he followed close at Frank’s heels.

Rattleton hesitated. It was not till Browning, with a groan, arose and started to follow the others that he seemed to awaken from the spell that had fallen upon him.

“Brace up!” he grated. “What ails you? Are you going to wilt now?”

He did brace up, but he followed along behind the others.

They did not go far before Merriwell brought them to a stand.

“They’re landing,” whispered Frank.

The rowing had stopped. They could hear a subdued murmur of hoarse voices.

The boat had come round under the lee of the pier, and the men were coming ashore.

As the boys stood there, they again caught a gleam of light—a moving ray, shot from a reflector. It was gone in a moment, but it had shown them several figures.

“Nearer!” palpitated Diamond, eagerly.

“Dangerous,” declared Frank. “Might shoot the light on us at any moment. Can’t tell what those men are doing.”

The others felt that Merriwell was right. It might be very dangerous to be discovered.

“Shall we follow them?” asked Browning, who had been awakened in a most unusual manner.

“Perhaps. Wait and see.”

The wind howled, the fine sleet beat upon them, the white tigers roared from the distant shore.

“Down!”

Merriwell hissed the word, sinking to the ground. The others followed his example.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jack, throbbing with excitement.

“Coming,” answered Frank, laconically.

This was true. The men had left the pier, and they were advancing toward the boys.

Again strange fancies flitted through Harry Rattleton’s head. Had they been discovered? Were those men coming to attack them? Were they destined to soon be engaged in a savage battle for life?

“If I ever get out of this scrape, I’ll let the Jolly Sport rest where she is and keep off the sound in April,” he mentally vowed.

“Lay low!” hissed Frank.

They flattened themselves upon the ground, hearing footsteps close at hand. They looked up and saw dark figures passing. One, two, three, four of them.

“Don’t try any funny business with us, old man!” sounded a hoarse voice. “Take us straight to the spot!”

“If he tries ter fool Capt. Horn he’s as good as dead!” said another hoarse voice.

Then there was a muttering of harsh laughter, and the four men passed on into the darkness.

Frank sat up, and the others did likewise.

“This is interesting!” Merry softly exclaimed.

“Yes, very!” grunted Browning. “Give something to know what it means. Can you tell?”

“No,” confessed Frank. “All I could make out is that three of those fellows are making a fourth lead them somewhere.”

“Let’s follow,” suggested Diamond. “Let’s know what they are up to. What do you say, Merry?”

“Just what I’d like to do.”

“What’s the use——” began Rattleton. Then he checked himself, biting his tongue and thinking:

“Don’t be a fool! If you’re scared, don’t give it away. They may never know it.”

“Come ahead!”

Frank arose and took the lead. The others trailed out after him. He was following the sailors through the darkness, and his companions were following him. Not one of them knew what the adventure might lead to; all of them realized that it might be very dangerous. They were sure the men ahead were desperate ruffians, but curiosity overcame every other emotion.

CHAPTER VI.

GHOSTLY SOUNDS.

Clank! clink! clank!

“What are they doing?”

“Digging!”

The boys had followed the men to a lonely part of the island, where the wind howled through the trees when it came down in fitful gusts, or moaned when it sank low.

The booming of the surf was like the steady roar of a distant battery in action. The night seemed full of alarms and terrors.

Frank had followed the unknown men with the skill of an Indian trailer. The others had followed him with less skill, but the sounds of the storm had favored them by drowning such noises as they made while stumbling along through the darkness.

At last the men had stopped, and, bit by bit, the boys had crept upon them.

There was a gleam of light to guide them. The lights came from two dark lanterns, the sides of which had been opened. The lanterns were held to aid the men who were at work.

Clink-clank! clink-clank! clink-clank!

One man was plying a pick. After a little he paused.

Scrape-swish! scrape-swish!

Another man was using a spade, flinging out the earth which the man with the pick had loosened.

“Digging!” repeated Diamond, in a palpitating whisper. “What does that mean?”

“Digging!” fluttered Rattleton. “Digging a grave!”

“Huah!” grunted Browning. “For whom?”

“Somebody! I knew it! Going to bury that girl! She’s been kidnaped! They’re going to put her out of the way!”

“How about the man they have with them—the man they forced to show them this spot?” asked Diamond. “What are they going to do with him?”

“Don’t know. Kill him, too, perhaps! Let’s git!”

“And leave him to be killed?” said Frank. “Well, I didn’t think that of you, Harry!”

Harry felt the cut of the reproach. He choked as he tried to whisper something back. After a little, he asked:

“Well, what can we do? Tell me that.”

“We can do our best for the man, if necessary; but I do not think it will be necessary.”

“Then you think—just what?”

“That you are off your trolley.”

“How? Which way?”

“I do not believe they are digging a grave.”

“Then what are they doing? Why are they digging that hole?”

“They are looking for a souvenir.”

“Eh? Are you jollying, Merry? A souvenir of what?”

“Capt. Kidd!”

The others had been listening eagerly. Frank’s words caused all of them to gasp for breath.

“Then—then you think they are digging for——”

“Kidd’s gold!” finished Merriwell.

There was a moment of silence, and then Browning hoarsely whispered:

“That’s it—just it! It explains everything.”

“Everything but the prisoner. One of those four men is not here of his own free will. That is certain.”

“And the mystery of the girl on board the vessel,” came from Harry. “It is certain she is not there of her own free will.”

There was no doubt in the minds of the boys; all were satisfied that Frank had hit upon the truth.

Harry, however, was no less afraid, for he realized that, without doubt, the men who had taken such pains to come there under cover of the storm and had brought a captive with them were ruffians capable of any desperate deed.

The men worked steadily. One would use the pick a short time, and then the other would toss out the dirt with the spade. Not one of the four spoke. Deeper and deeper grew the hole.

The light fell on the faces of the men occasionally. They were rough and bearded. Frank watched them closely, and he soon decided that one was the man who had been at the wheel of the black schooner when they first saw the vessel that day.

Now there was no longer a doubt that the same black schooner lay in the cove, having run in there under cover of darkness, for all of the frightful risk.

The boys had heard one of the men speak to Capt. Horn as they crouched to let them pass, and that was quite enough to settle the point.

Who was Capt. Horn?

He was the commander of the black schooner Pirate, but what was his record and his business? He had looked like a man who would not hesitate to enter into anything by which it seemed likely he might make money, no matter how dishonest or dangerous the project might be.

Frank crept a bit nearer the four men, hugging the ground. The others followed him.

Merriwell remembered the stories he had heard of other attempts to recover Kidd’s buried treasure—remembered how it had been necessary, according to superstition, for the treasure hunters to obey certain rules. They always dug on a dark and stormy night, and not one of the party could speak from the time they began to work till the treasure was found. If they did speak the treasure would turn to old iron or vanish entirely.

For some time the boys watched the digging, wondering if there was a bare possibility that, at last, some one had located the spot where the pirate’s treasure was buried.

The hole grew deeper and deeper. The two men got down into it, and were hidden to their hips.

Frank became tired. He resolved to test the courage of the diggers in some manner.

The wind sank to a low moaning, but, from far, far away it seemed to bring a sound that caused the men in the hole to start, stop digging and listen.

It was a voice singing, and it seemed to be away on the distant cove:

“Oh, my name was Capt. Kidd.

When I sailed, when I sailed;

And so wickedly I did,

When I sailed, when I sailed.”

It was the famous song of the famous pirate, and it caused those men to tremble in their boots. They felt like dropping pick and spade and taking to their heels, but one of the men who stood above savagely motioned for them to go on with the work.

The wind rose to a shriek, full of mockery. The surf boomed in the distance.

Slowly the sailors picked up the pick and spade and resumed their work, but they were trembling now.

The sound of singing came nearer and nearer, as if Kidd himself were approaching the spot, singing at the top of his voice as he advanced.

The men grew more and more nervous as the sound came nearer, but still the man above motioned for them to go on.

At last, when the singer seemed close to that very spot, the song ceased.

“Thunder!” muttered Browning. “Where is that fellow? Thought it must be another one of their gang coming.”

“Nothing of the sort,” whispered Diamond. “Didn’t you see how scared the men digging were?”

“Sure.”

“They would not have been frightened if it had been one of their own crowd.”

“That’s so. Who was it, then?”

“Capt. Kidd’s spook,” suggested Harry. “You know it is said his ghost haunts the place where he buried his treasure.”

“Rot!” grunted the big fellow. “Don’t take stock in spooks.”

Then, of a sudden, when the wind had died once more to a low moaning, a wild burst of laughter was heard. That laugh was full of fiendish glee and mockery, and it seemed to come from some vague point in the very midst of the treasure-seekers.

Then the men in the pit did drop their implements and scramble out in hot haste. But they were met with a revolver in the hand of one of the men above, and it drove them back to their digging.

“Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!”

Again the weird laughter sounded, and it seemed to the excited imagination of the diggers, to come from the pit they had made.

But that revolver was menacing them, and they dared not leap to the surface and take to their heels, although it was certain they wished to do so.

Again and again that laugh rang out. Then a deep, sepulchral voice was heard to say:

“Fools, do ye think to rob me now that I am dead? You shall find I guard my blood-stained gold! Not a single piece shall you touch!”

That was quite enough to frighten any sailor. Again the men in the pit dropped the pick and spade, but they seemed paralyzed with fear, and stood there, staring about with bulging eyes.

“Avaunt!” cried the hollow voice. “Flee from my wrath, or ye shall feel the touch of my dead hands—the touch of doom! That touch means death!”

A wild shriek broke from the lips of one of the diggers.

“I feel it!” he screamed. “He has touched me! I am a dead man! I am doomed!”

Then, shrieking with terror, he leaped out of the pit and fled.

That was enough to completely unman the others, and they lost no time in taking to their heels also.

CHAPTER VII.

PURSUIT.

Frank had caused all this terror. As old readers know, he was a skillful ventriloquist, and he had seized the opportunity to work upon the superstitious fears of the ignorant sailors. With a skill that was absolutely wonderful he had made the singing seem to come nearer and nearer till it was close at hand, and then he had laughed so the sound appeared to issue from the pit the men had dug.

It was sport for Frank, and he hoped to frighten the men away so completely that they would abandon their captive. This, however, they did not do. Capt. Horn kept a clutch upon the captive, whom he dragged along as he hurried after the fleeing men, whom he savagely cursed as poltroons.

Capt. Horn did not know whence the ghostly voice had come, but, although he was startled, the sound of that voice had added to his belief that they really were on track of the pirate’s treasure. He had more than half expected something of a weird and ghostly nature would happen, and he had tried to fortify the courage of his companions so they would keep at work for all of anything that might happen.

But those sailors, who had promised faithfully not to desert him, were frightened, and they fled as if the very Old Nick was in pursuit.

When Frank saw that Capt. Horn was dragging the captive away, he leaped up and ran to help the man; but the dark lantern was dropped, and both captor and captive disappeared in the shadows beneath the trees.

Frank ran in the direction he fancied they had taken. First he tripped over a stone and went sprawling upon the ground; but he jumped up instantly and dashed on again.

Bump—shash—grunt!

Frank was hurled down again, but this time he had struck the trunk of a tree, and he was stunned. It was some moments before he could recover, but still he did not give up the hope of rendering the captive some assistance.

When he got upon his feet he realized that the chances of overtaking Horn and his captive in the darkness was slim.

“Must do something,” he muttered. “What?”

Then he thought of the boat.

“Cut ’em off! Perhaps I can do that. I’ll try!”

He ran for the pier, hoping to get there ahead of Capt. Horn—hoping Capt. Horn and the captive would be the next to arrive after he reached the spot.

Frank’s clothing was heavy with water, and thus he was hampered. He could not see what lay before him, and he took chances of a broken neck. Two or three times he went down, but he came up again like a bounding rubber ball.

“This—isn’t—anything—to—bucking—Harvard’s—line—in—football—game,” he panted.

He enjoyed it. The thought came to him that he would have a jolly time telling the fellows of the adventure. For one moment he saw in his fancy a crowd of friends gathered in his room eagerly listening to the narration of that night’s adventures.

He did not wait for his friends to overtake him. He had lost them in the darkness, and he knew it would not do to wait.

In a short time he approached the little steamboat pier, still running like a racer, head up, and breathing through his nostrils.

“Wonder—if—I’m—ahead.”

He could not tell. When he was close to the pier, he stopped and listened.

He heard nothing but the sweep of the wind and the boom of the surf.

“Can it be they got here ahead? Can it be they are gone?”

He crept out on the pier and looked over. Was that a boat under the edge of the pier?

He let himself over, hung down, felt out with his feet, found the boat and dropped into her.

“This is the one they came ashore in,” he decided. “It’s the only one here. I am ahead of them.”

The boat had drifted under the pier when he dropped into her. He put his hands against the wet and slimy timbers and pushed her out. Then he started to climb up on the pier.

Hark! Voices close at hand! The men were coming!

He took hold of the edge of the timbers above and pulled himself up, but the moment his head rose above the edge of the pier he realized that the men were close at hand. They were coming, and he could not get off the pier before they reached it!

“Trapped!”

He felt out with his feet, dropped back into the boat, sat down.

Then it was that Frank Merriwell’s brain worked swiftly. What was he to do? He thought of several things. His first thought was to cut the boat adrift, push it under the pier, where they could not find it, and keep still. Then he knew his friends would soon be coming down to that pier, and, if the sailors were there, a collision must take place.

His hand touched something in the prow of the boat.

“A tarpaulin!” he whispered.

With that discovery a daring scheme entered his mind. Not one boy in a hundred would have ventured to carry it out had he thought of it.

The boat was fairly large, and there was little danger that one of the four men would be placed in the bow.

“Got to hustle!” whispered Frank, as he heard the feet of the men on the pier above his head.

He lifted the tarpaulin, crawled under it, stowed himself as closely as possible in the forward end of the boat.

Not a moment too soon.

There was a tug at the rope, and the boat was dragged from beneath the pier. Then several cursing, growling, shivering men dropped into it.

Capt. Horn was there. He snarled at everybody, he swore at everybody, he was furious.

“A lot of lubberly cowards!” he raved. “A lot of fools! You were scared at nothing!”

“No, sir,” said a sullen voice. “I heard it, cap’n.”

“An’ I felt it’s touch, cap’n,” chattered another, who seemed almost overcome with terror.

One of the men planted his heel fairly on Frank’s fingers, but Merry set his teeth and made no attempt to pull his hand away, although he felt that his fingers would be crushed. It was a great relief when the man removed his foot.

Capt. Horn realized that his men were utterly overcome with fear, and so he allowed them to push off from the pier and row toward the black schooner, which was hidden in the darkness of the cove.

The waves beat against the boat with heavy thuds, but the arms of the sailors were strengthened by fear, and they pulled lustily, seeming in terror that the ghost of the pirate chief should follow them even after they had left the island.

Capt. Horn continued to curse and snarl. His captive was silent.

That captive was a mystery to Frank. Surely it was not the girl they had seen on the vessel. It was a man, but not a word had Frank heard him speak.

The thought that he might be gagged came to Merriwell. Perhaps that was why he remained so silent.

The schooner was reached at last. There was a hail from the boat, answered from on deck, and then a line came down from above, was caught, and they were alongside.

Frank remained quiet for a little time after the men had left the boat. At last, he stirred, for he was in a most uncomfortable position, cramped and aching in every limb.

With great caution, Merry pulled the tarpaulin off him and got a breath of fresh air. It had ceased raining, and it did not seem as if the wind was blowing as hard as it had been.

“Short storm,” Frank decided; “but it was long enough to raise the Old Nick with us and send Bart Hodge to the bottom. Poor Bart! I’ll never see him more!”

The thought made Frank sick at heart, and, for some moments, he remained there motionless, benumbed by this fresh sense of the loss of his friend.

Merry knew Bart had regarded him as a hero. He had reached out his hand and steadied Hodge more than once when the dark-faced, passionate lad was tottering on the brink of a precipice. His hand had guided Bart’s wavering footsteps into the path of honor, and for his sake Hodge had studied for months that he might be in condition to pass the examination and enter Yale that spring.

And now he was gone!

No wonder Frank was sick and numb. After a time he aroused himself and sat up.

A short line held the boat close under the stern of the black schooner, upon which he could see no sign of life.

“I might cast off and slip ashore without a soul on this vessel being the wiser,” he thought. “I could find the boys and bring them on board. What could we do then? There are, at least, four sailors. There are but four of us. It is a sure thing that the sailors are armed, and we are not. It’s more than even chances that they’d do us up in a square fight.”

It did not take him long to decide he would not be in a hurry about bringing the rest of the boys on board, but he resolved to go on board himself.

With the aid of the line, he pulled the boat close under the stern of the vessel, and, a moment later, he slipped like a cat over the rail of the Pirate and reached her deck.

Frank crouched low in the shadow of the wheel, listening and trying to peer through the darkness. He saw no moving thing. The wind was whistling through the rigging of the heaving schooner, and a loose rope was making a slatting sound, but that was all.

Frank moved. He did not stand upright, but, on his hands and knees, he crept along the deck toward the companionway. He had not gone far before the sound of voices reached his ears.

“They are all below,” he decided.

The companionway was reached, and he started to slip down the stairs. He had not gone far before he halted suddenly and turned his head, having heard a sound behind him.

At that very moment, with a hoarse shout, a man sprang down the stairs and landed on Frank’s shoulders.

With a crash and a bump, they went to the bottom together. Frank received a shock that robbed him of his senses for the moment, so that he was utterly helpless.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHAT BECAME OF BART.

When Merriwell recovered a light was glaring straight into his eyes, causing him to blink. He saw four rough-looking men around him, and realized that he was in the cabin of the mysterious vessel.

One of the men was Capt. Horn, and, on closer view, he looked more the ruffian than he had seemed at a distance. His beard was black as ink, while his huge nose was turned up and his nostrils were wide open, like the mouths of two black funnels. He showed his teeth as he saw the captured boy look up.

“It seems to be raining boys to-night,” he said, with a sneer. “Well, I can take care of ’em as fast as they come.”

Frank looked at the others, and quickly decided that they were fit followers for such a captain.

“Excuse me,” he said, with an effort. “Just dropped in. Thought I’d come aboard and see how much you’ll ask to take me to New York. Must have slipped on the stairs—or something. Don’t seem to know what happened. First thing I knew I fell, and then—here I am.”

“Cute, ain’t ye!” sneered Capt. Horn. “Think you’ll make me swaller that, I suppose! Think I’m a durned fool! Made a mistake this time—biggest mistake of your life.”

“You may be right,” acknowledged Frank, promptly. “It’s just like me. Seems to come natural for me to make mistakes. Made a mistake when I joined that picnic excursion. Made another when I let the boat go off without me. And now you say I made another when I came aboard to see if you won’t take me back to New York. I am getting it in the neck, sure.”

“What’s this you’re trying to tell, anyway? Spit it out. How’d you happen to be on the island?”

“Came down on an excursion, got left, and here I am. I’ll pay well if you’ll take me to New York.”

Capt. Horn pulled his beard and glared at Frank.

“What sort of an excursion?” he asked. “One of the regular kind from New York?”

“Of course,” answered Frank, thoughtlessly.

“You’re a liar!” said the man with the black beard, instantly. “Knew it all the time.”

“Thank you,” answered Frank. “You are polite.”

“I saw you on the small boat to-day,” said Capt. Horn. “You wanted to come on board then. How you ever succeeded in doing so now is more than I can tell, but you’ll be sorry for it. When you go back to New York the tide will take you there.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Feed you to ther fish, durn ye! It’s no use to ask you questions, for you’ll lie faster than I can ask ’em. Lies won’t do ye no good.”

“Sorry about that,” was Frank’s cool retort; “but it’ll save me a heap of trouble to invent ’em. Shan’t have to rack my brain to get ’em up.”

Capt. Horn looked at the boy in astonishment. Frank was a cool customer for his years.

Merry was securely bound, as he had already discovered. The men lifted him and flung him into a berth, where he was left to his thoughts, which might have been more pleasant.

Frank’s head had been injured in the fall, and it throbbed painfully, but he made no murmur.

The men talked a while, and then fell to playing cards. Three of them played, while the fourth remained on deck to watch.

Frank could see nothing of the captives.

The night wore on. Capt. Horn arose and looked into Frank’s face. The boy’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing steadily and regularly.

“Never saw anything like that!” exclaimed the captain. “The youngster is asleep! He is a cool one!”

The watch on deck was changed, and the men took turns in guarding Frank.

Toward morning, after going on deck, Capt. Horn announced that the wind had changed, and they could get out of the cove.

Merry still seemed to be sleeping when all the sailors went on deck to get up the anchor and make sail.

Barely were they gone when Frank was startled by a voice that called:

“Hello, Merry!”

“Eh?” exclaimed Frank. “Who are you?”

A head rose up from the opposite berth. The light shone full on the face of the person in that berth, and Frank Merriwell came near shrieking:

“Bart Hodge!”

Frank was incredulous. He could not believe the evidence of his eyes. He was almost inclined to think himself staring at a phantom.

“Hodge—impossible!”

“Not a bit of it,” assured the voice of Hodge himself. “I am here, but I’m tied, like yourself, and it strikes me we are in a mighty bad scrape.”

“But—but we thought you dead,” said Frank. “We felt sure you were dead. How do you come to be here?”

“That’s an easy one. When the Jolly Sport slammed up against this vessel I thought she was a goner, and I made a scramble to get on board here, expecting the rest of you to follow. I was astonished when you failed to do so, and I looked down to see nothing of the boat. She was gone, and I did not know but what she had gone to the bottom with the whole of you. They have kept me here ever since, for I was knocked over and tied up with ease, like the fool that I am! I’ve tried to get away, but it’s no use. Then I heard you captured, and saw you dragged in here.”

This was very astonishing, but Frank Merriwell’s heart was filled with thankfulness to know that Hodge still lived. Hastily they talked over what had happened since the Jolly Sport was driven into the cove before the gale.

“Merry.”

“Yes, Bart.”

“Got a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t want to tell you now, but I know the captives—Capt. Horn’s captives. We must do something for them. You are full of schemes, old man; can’t you plan something now?”

“I can plan enough, but the trouble is to put the plans into execution. Where are the captives?”

“Beyond that door there.”

Frank saw a door at the farther end of the cabin. He had not noticed it before.

At this moment one of the sailors came down from above. The sound of hoisting the anchor had stopped, and it was evident that the man popped down to take a look at the captives and make sure they were all right, for he stopped but a moment.

Soon the boys realized that the vessel was under way. They could tell by the motion.

Capt. Horn came down.

“Hello, cap,” called Frank. “Whither away?”

“Out to sea,” was the surly answer. “Going to drop you over where it is deep.”

“Couldn’t persuade you to change your mind about that? I don’t want to be dropped overboard.”

The man grunted. After a time another man came below. Capt. Horn rolled into a bunk and slept.

Frank strained and worked at his bonds. At first it seemed that he simply made them cut deeper and deeper into his wrists without loosening them in the least. After a time, he began to fancy he was making some progress.

If he could get his hands free he felt sure he would be able to liberate Hodge. Between them they could make a fight for life and liberty.

Hours passed. Capt. Horn got up and went on deck, accompanied by the man who had been in the cabin with him. Then the other two men came down and turned into the bunks. They seemed exhausted, and quickly fell asleep.

Morning dawned.

With the coming of dawn, Frank succeeded in getting one hand free. Then it was not long before he was entirely free, and he hastened to release Hodge.

Bart was palpitating with excitement.

“What’ll we do, Merry?” he asked, in a whisper.

“First set the other captives at liberty,” said Frank. “We must work lively.”

“Steady, then,” warned Hodge. “No matter whom you see, do not utter a cry. Here, tie this handkerchief over your face to your eyes.”

“What for?”

“So the captives will not raise a cry when they see you.”

Both boys tied handkerchiefs over their faces, and then Frank approached the door. This was bolted and hasped. There was no lock upon it. It did not take Frank long to shoot back the bolt and release the hasp. Then he slowly opened the door, and looked into the small room beyond.

An old man was sitting helplessly in the corner, and a young girl, pale and wan, with tangled curls of yellow, lay on a bunk. The old man raised his head, and the girl looked up.

Frank recognized them both, and, despite the warning Hodge had given him, came near uttering a shout.

Before him were Capt. Justin Bellwood and his daughter, Elsie!

Elsie Bellwood was there—Elsie, his old-time friend, who was so dear to him! She was a captive in the power of those ruffians!

That thought was enough to make Frank furious and desperate. He suddenly felt that he was able, single-handed, to conquer all the ruffians on that vessel.

With his hand he motioned for Capt. Bellwood and Elsie to come forth. They realized that Frank was not one of the ruffians, and Elsie sprang up.

“Come out here,” whispered Frank. “We want you to help us capture this vessel.”

New life and hope sprang up in the heart of the old sea captain. He responded eagerly.

“Here,” whispered Merry, pointing to the sleeping sailors, “watch those fellows, and do not hesitate to crack them over the head if they awaken. Take this stool, Capt. Bellwood, and give it to them if necessary. We are going on deck to tackle Capt. Horn and the other fellow.”

The man nodded. He took the stool and stood ready. Then, to Frank’s surprise, Elsie picked up a heavy boot as a weapon and stood over the other man.

“Come!” whispered Frank.

With Hodge at his heels, he crept swiftly up the companionway. A peep on deck showed him one man at the wheel, while Capt. Horn was near. The vessel was plunging through a sea of rolling billows, the aftermath of the storm.

Capt. Horn’s back was turned.

“Now is our time!” hissed Frank, as he tore the handkerchief from his face and cast it aside, fearing it might hamper him in some way.

Then he leaped on deck, with Bart close behind him, and they rushed at the two men.

The man at the wheel saw them, and uttered a cry. Capt. Horn whirled in a moment.

With loud shouts the boys rushed forward and Bart grappled with the sailor at the wheel.

Horn managed to avoid Frank’s rush, and Merry saw him tugging at his hip pocket. That was enough to indicate that he was trying to draw a weapon.

Snatching up a belayingpin, Frank did not hesitate in attacking the ruffian with the black beard, who succeeded in pulling forth the weapon his hand had sought.

Before Capt. Horn could use the revolver, Frank leaped forward and struck the weapon from his hand. A second blow, delivered with all the strength and skill the young Yale athlete could command, stretched the ruffianly commander of the Pirate upon the deck.

A coil of rope was close at hand, and, with the aid of that, Merry quickly bound the fallen man. Then he hastened to the assistance of Bart, who was having a fierce battle with the other sailor.

The two boys succeeded in downing the ruffian after a time, and then they tied him, as they had tied the captain.

Frank secured Horn’s revolver, and Bart obtained a knife from the other sailor. The wheel was set and lashed, and then both hastened below.

Capt. Bellwood and Elsie were still standing over the sleeping sailors, who had not been disturbed by the encounter that was taking place on the deck.

At sight of Frank, Elsie uttered a cry of amazement and joy, and nearly swooned. That cry aroused the men, but when they sat up one was astonished to find himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver, while the keen blade of a wicked-looking knife menaced the other.

They were so astonished that they were incapable of offering resistance, and were easily captured.

Capt. Bellwood’s story was simple, but interesting. Being a follower of the sea, it was not strange that he should acquire information purporting to reveal the whereabouts of Kidd’s buried gold. His secret was known to another sailor, and that sailor shipped with Capt. Horn. Then Justin Bellwood and his daughter were lured to New York, and induced to board the Pirate, where they became Horn’s captives. Horn knew every inch of the sound, and he set about forcing Capt. Bellwood to reveal his knowledge of the supposed hiding place of Kidd’s treasure. Capt. Horn also made love to Elsie, nearly driving her mad with fear, so that she attempted to jump overboard, an act that was witnessed by the boys on board the Jolly Sport.

Fortune had worked in a singular manner to bring about the undoing of Capt. Horn. When the ruffian and his crew were made secure, Capt. Bellwood took command of the Pirate, running her back into the cove where Diamond, Browning and Rattleton were stranded. The reappearance of the black schooner with Merriwell and Hodge on board nearly paralyzed the three lads with amazement. It took considerable explaining to make clear to them how such a thing had come about.

Capt. Bellwood carried the boys over to New Haven, where he turned Capt. Horn and his crew of ruffians over to the authorities. It may be as well to add here that it afterward developed that Horn was a most notorious sound smuggler. He was tried and convicted and sent to prison. His men all received short sentences.

Justin Bellwood was not able to recover Kidd’s treasure, although he tried to find it. Filled with superstitions, he sometimes wondered if the treasure had not been spirited away in some uncanny manner on the night that Horn tried to dig it up.

As for the boys who sailed out of New Haven harbor that warm April day, they had a story to tell that was marvelous, and not even Frank Merriwell’s reputation for veracity could make all who heard it believe it fully.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LONE FISHERMAN.

“Look!”

“Where?”

“On the corner. It’s another one of them!”

“It’s Browning!”

“Sure!”

“What is he doing?”

“Fishing, by the Lord Harry—fishing in the street! That is the most ludicrous spectacle yet. Ha! ha! ha!”

A burst of laughter came from the little band of students who had been making their way along one of New Haven’s principal streets and come upon this astonishing spectacle:

Bruce Browning sat there on the corner, perched on a high stool, dressed like a fisherman, with a sailor’s “sou’wester” on his head, and rubber boots on his feet, gravely pretending to fish in the street with a pole and line.

Pedestrians paused to stare, poke each other in the ribs, laugh and chaff the big fellow on the stool, but he did not heed them in the least, calmly continuing to fish, as if he expected at any moment to feel a bite.

Frank, Hodge, Pierson, Gamp, Griswold and Noon were some of the students who had come upon this surprising spectacle while walking along the street.

Noon was a prominent candidate for the position of catcher on the ’varsity ball team, but Hodge was coming into notice through his work on the freshman nine, and, although he was a freshman, it was rumored that, aided by the influence of Frank, he stood a chance of getting on for a trial.

Joe Gamp was a big, awkward boy from New Hampshire, who, for all of the time he had spent in college, could not drop the vernacular of the farm. To hear him talk no one could have dreamed he was a college student, and that he stood well in his class. And he stammered outrageously.

“Gug-gug-gug-great gosh!” he cried, standing with his hands in his pockets and staring at the fat youth on the stool. “Will somebody tut-tut-tell me what in thunder it mum-mum-mum-means? First we saw a fuf-fuf-feller walkin’ araound with his cuc-cuc-clothes turned wrong sus-sus-sus-side out, then another was bub-bub-bub-barkin’ like a dorg, another was tryin’ to stand on his head in fuf-fuf-front of the pup-pup-pup-post office, and here’s Browning fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf—— Here is Bur-bub-bub-bub-bub—— I sus-sus-sus-sus——”

“Whistle, Joe!” laughed Frank. “Whistle, quick. You’re going backward, and you’ll have to say it all over if you don’t whistle.”

Gamp whistled.

“I sus-sus-sus”—whistle—“I say here’s Browning tut-tut-trying to cuc-cuc-cuc-catch a fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf”—whistle—“a fish in the middle of the sus-sus-street, just as if he was fishin’ in the dud-dud-dud-dud”—whistle—“the deep blue sea. I don’t understand what all this bub-bub-business is abub-bub-bout.”

“I didn’t know but the first fellow we saw was doing it on a wager,” said Bart; “but now——”

“Those fellows are candidates for some society,” explained Pierson. “They have been commanded to do those things, and they dare not disobey if they wish to pass.”

“Is that it?” cried Gamp, who was astonishingly green for a Yale man. “Well, dud-dud-darned if that ain’t fuf-fuf-fuf-funny! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

He had a laugh that was like the braying of a mule, and a passing pedestrian dodged so suddenly that he jumped from under his hat, while an old lady with an umbrella turned and cried:

“Shoo! Git away! Don’t you bite me!”

She waved her umbrella in Gamp’s direction and peered fearfully over her spectacles, as if she fully expected to see some fierce wild beast rushing upon her.

That caused all the other boys to laugh again, while Joe paused, with his huge mouth wide open, and stared in surprise at the excited and trembling old lady.

“Hey?” he cried.

“Mercy!” gasped the old lady. “I thought so. I thought it was a horse whickerin’ for hay.”

Then she hurried on, while the boys, with the exception of Gamp, were convulsed with merriment.

Joe stared after the old lady’s retreating form, gasping for breath.

“First tut-tut-tut-time I ever was took for a hoss!” he exclaimed.

“That’s a horse on you,” chuckled Danny Griswold.

Despite himself, Bruce Browning had not been able to keep from turning his head a moment to see what all the excitement was about. As he did so, a street urchin slipped out quickly and hitched a dead cat onto the end of the line that lay in the street, losing not a moment in scampering out of sight.

Bruce pulled up the line to cast it out again, and the cat came with it.

Then there was another shout of merriment.

“Browning has met with a cat-astrophe,” laughed Frank.

“He’s caught a cat-fish,” cried Danny Griswold.

“Spt! spt! Me-e-e-ow! Ma-ri-ar!”

Danny Griswold gave vent to a perfect volley of cat-calls, and there was an uproar of mirth around that corner.

Through it all Browning retained his sober dignity, removing the cat from his hook, as if he had captured a fish, and flinging the line out into the street again.

A policeman, who was sauntering along at a distance, heard the sounds, and came rushing forward. He was a green man on the force, and he had not been many moons on this side of the “pond.” He had red hair, and a face that looked like a painful accident.

“Pwhat’s this, Oi dunno?” he exclaimed, bursting through the crowd and halting so suddenly that he nearly fell over himself when he saw Bruce. “An’ now will yez be afther tellin’ me pwhat ye’re doin’ there?”

Browning made no reply, but gravely pulled up his line, looked at the hook, as if to ascertain the condition of the bait, and again made a cast into the street.

The little Irishman grew red in the face.

“Look here, me foine b’y!” he cried, flourishing his stick; “it’s the magisty av th’ law Oi ripresint, an’ Oi do be afther axin’ ye a quistion. Pwhat are yez doin’ there, Oi want to know?”

Bruce remained silent.

The spectators looked on with interest, wondering what the outcome would be.

The policeman came a bit nearer Bruce, and again shook his stick, crying:

“Is it a lunathick ye are? It’s a foine spictacle ye do be afther makin’ av yersilf. Av ye don’t belave it, jist shtep over this way an’ take a look at yersilf a-sittin’ on thot stool loike a frog on a log. Get down now, ur Oi’ll plaze ye under arrist!”

Browning did not heed.

“It’s me duty Oi’ll have to do,” declared the officer, as he advanced on the big fellow; “an’ av ye resist me, Oi’ll have to club th’ loife out av yez. It’s a lunathick ye are, an’ Oi know it. Come along now, to th’ station house.”

But as he was on the point of pulling the big fellow from the stool, Browning gave him a look that made him stagger. His face worked convulsively, and he looked around for assistance.

“Pull him in, Paddy!” cried one of several town boys, who had gathered to see the fun, and who felt delighted to see a student placed under arrest.

“Thot Oi will!” cried the little cop, as he advanced on Bruce.

He caught the big fellow by the collar and yanked him off the stool in a moment.

“If it’s a bit aff trouble ye’re afther givin’ me, Oi’ll crack yer shkull wid me shillayly,” he declared. “Come on, now.”

Browning did not wish to be arrested, so he tried to argue with the officer, but it was useless to talk.

“It’s a lunathick Oi know ye are,” said the policeman; “an’ it’s not safe to let yez run at large.”

“Take your hand off my collar!” said Bruce, sternly. “I have done nothing to cause you to arrest me.”

“Now none av yer thrits to me, ye spalpane!” shouted the policeman. “Coom along!”

He gave Bruce a yank.

It was a comical spectacle to see the little red-headed cop yanking about the giant of the college, but it did not seem very funny to Browning.

“Say,” he growled, thrusting his fist under the officer’s nose, “if you do that again, I’m going to thump you once, for luck.”

The policeman had a violent temper, and very little judgment.

“Attimpting to resist arrist, are yez!” he shouted, and then, without another word, he rapped Bruce over the head, bringing the big fellow to his knees.

Browning had not looked for such a move, and he was so stunned that he could not rise at once, whereupon the policeman lifted his club again, as if to hit him once more.

The blow did not fall.

Frank’s hand caught the club and held it back, Paul Pierson and Bart Hodge yanked Browning to his feet, Danny Griswold gave the big fellow a shove, and the voice of Ned Noon was heard shouting:

“Git!”

This turn of affairs was not at all satisfactory to the town boys, who had been delighted when the officer started to arrest one of the college lads.

At New Haven there is constantly more or less feeling between the town lads and the students. Sometimes this feeling is so strong that it is not safe for a well-known student to be caught alone in town at a late hour of the night. He is in danger of being stoned, pounded and forced to run for his life.

At the time of which we write the feeling between the college lads and the “townies” was rather bitter. Thus it came about that, as soon as Browning’s friends tried to help him, one of the watching toughs cried:

“Come on, fellers! Dey’re helpin’ der bloke git erway. It’s our duty ter stop dat.”

The gang didn’t care anything for duty, but they had been called upon to do a thing by their leader, and they did not hesitate about jumping in to the policeman’s aid.

Thus it came about that, in a very few seconds, a small riot was taking place there on that corner, where, a short time before, all had seemed hilarity and good nature.

The little cop clung tenaciously to Browning.

“I call on yez to hilp me arrist this spalpane!” he squealed.

“We’ll help yer!” declared the leader of the town lads.

“Yes you will!” flung back Bart Hodge, the hot color of anger rushing to his face. “Yes you will—not!”

Then he went at the leader of the gang, and, before that fellow was aware that he was attacked, Hodge cracked him a blow between the eyes that sent him sprawling.

The downfall of their leader seemed to infuriate the others.

“Thump ’em! Hammer ’em! Slug ’em!”

Uttering these cries, the roughs pitched into the college boys. Fists began to fly, and there was a hot time on that corner without delay.

The little cop rapped for assistance. While he was doing this, Browning gave him a twist and a fling that broke his hold and sent him flying into Bart Hodge’s arms.

Hodge was thoroughly aroused.

“You’re the cause of all this trouble, you little red-headed fool!” he grated.

Then, with a display of strength that was astonishing, Bart lifted the officer and hurled him violently against a stone hitching-post. With a gasp and a groan, the policeman dropped down limply and lay on the ground as if he had been shot.

Bart was astonished by the remarkable manner in which the little man had been knocked out. He paused and stared at the motionless figure, a feeling of dismay beginning to creep over him, for he realized that his ungovernable temper had once again led him to do an act that he would not have done in his sober moments.

“Great Scott!” shakily cried Ned Noon. “You’ve killed him, Hodge!”

Bart said nothing, but he felt a pressure about his heart—a sickening sensation.

It seemed that Noon was the only one of the party engaged in the struggle who witnessed Bart’s thoughtless act of anger. The others were far too busy among themselves.

But all realized the officer had rapped for aid, and they knew other policemen were sure to arrive on the spot very soon.

“Got to run for it, fellows!” panted Griswold, as he put in his best licks. “Got to get away, or we’ll all be locked up.”

Hodge plunged in to aid the others. He was a perfect tiger. Not even Frank seemed to fight with such fury and be so effective. Bart bowled the “townies” over as if they were tenpins.

It was not long before the fight was going in favor of the college men. Then another party of students happened along, and, at sight of them, the town lads promptly scattered and ran.

“Now’s the time!” cried Merry. “We want to get out of this in a hurry, fellows.”

Then he saw the officer lying stretched on the ground, and stared at him in surprise.

“What’s the matter with him?” he asked.

“Nothing!” cried Hodge, feverishly. “He got a crack under the ear, and it knocked him out. He’s all right. Come on.”

The college boys lost no further time in getting away. They separated and made their way back to the college grounds with certain haste.

As if by general consent, they proceeded to Merriwell’s room. They found Frank there, making himself comfortable while he studied, as if nothing serious had happened. He welcomed them all as they appeared.

Pierson was the first, and he was followed by Griswold, who strutted proudly as he entered, crying:

“Did you see me do ’em up, fellows? Did you see me lay ’em out? Oh, I’m a hot biscuit right out of the bakery!”

“Quite a little racket, eh, Merriwell,” smiled Pierson.

“Sure,” nodded Frank. “We needed something to stir up our blood. We were getting stagnant here of late.”

Joe Gamp came lumbering in.

“Dud-dud-dud-dog my cuc-cuc-cuc-cats!” he stuttered. “Ain’t seen so much fun as that sence I was a fuf-fuf-freshman. But Browning did look comical up on that sus-sus-stool. A-haw! ha-aw! a-haw!”

Even as Gamp roared with laughter, Bruce came slouching into the room. He sat down and kicked off the rubber boots, which were too large for his feet, then he flung aside the “sou’wester,” removed his oilskin jacket, and stretched himself wearily on the couch, observing:

“Fishing is thundering tiresome work.”

“Were you doing it on a wager, old man?” asked Griswold.

“No,” yawned Bruce; “I was doing it on a stool.”

That was all they could get out of him. It was plain that he did not want to talk about it, and did not mean to talk.

“Anyway, we did up the townies all right,” said Frank. “There was some sport in that.”

“Too much work,” grumbled Bruce. “Everything is too much work, and work was made for slaves.”

Ned Noon came in and looked around.

“Where is Hodge?” he asked.

Bart was not there, but they fancied he would put in an appearance very soon, so, while they discussed the fight with the “townies,” they kept looking for Hodge.

But Bart did not appear.

“Hope he wasn’t pinched,” said Frank. “He’s so proud that arrest would seem a frightful disgrace to him.”

There was a queer look on the face of Ned Noon.

CHAPTER X.

HODGE IN DANGER.

Frank was crossing the campus when a voice called to him:

“Hey, Merry, hold on; want to speak with you.”

He looked around, and saw Danny Griswold hurrying toward him. There was a strangely serious look on the face of the little fellow, who was of a jovial nature and seldom inclined to take anything seriously.

The moment Frank saw Danny’s face, he realized something was wrong.

“What is it, old man?” he asked, as Griswold came up, panting.

“They’re looking for the fellow who did it.”

“Did what?”

“Broke his ribs.”

“Broke whose ribs?”

“The cop’s.”

“Why, the little fellow with the red head and liver face.”

“The one who tried to arrest Browning?”

“Same.”

Frank whistled.

“And his ribs were broken?”

“That’s it. He says it wasn’t the big fellow who did it, but some other chap slammed him up against a stone post and smashed his ribs in. Officers have been here trying to locate the fellow. We’re in danger of being pulled up as witnesses—or worse.”

“Accused, you mean?”

“Any of us may be.”

“Well, who did it, anyway?”

“Hodge.”

Frank started.

“Hodge?” he cried. “Are you sure, old man?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Noon says Hodge slammed the cop up against the post.”

“Noon says so, eh? Did he see it?”

“Says he did.”

“And he is talking about it openly?”

“Don’t know about that. He talked to me about it.”

“Anybody else present?”

“No.”

“I must see Noon.”

Merriwell was aroused, for he realized that Bart Hodge was in danger. Were Hodge arrested for injuring the policeman, and should the charge be proved against him, his college career might come to a sudden termination.

Frank had pulled his friend out of more than one bad hole, and he believed he understood Bart’s nature pretty well. Hodge was again on the high road to an honorable career, guided by Merriwell’s hand, but to thwart him at the very outset of his college life would mean almost certain ruin.

Merry’s teeth came together with a click when he realized the danger that menaced Bart.

“I’m afraid you made a mistake in introducing that freshman to our gang,” complained Griswold. “None of the fellows cared to know him, but they accepted him simply because of your friendship toward him. This is the result.”

Frank was not pleased by Danny’s words. They did not sound as if they came from the little fellow’s mouth.

“None of my friends were forced to meet Bart Hodge,” he said, quietly. “Hodge and I were schoolmates together, and, when he came to Yale, I was not going to be cad enough to cut him because he is in a lower class than myself. I am not built that way.”

“Oh, you might have treated him decent, without having him in your room so much.”

“No, you are mistaken. At Fardale Academy we were roommates. What sort of a fellow would I have been had I shown, when he came to Yale, that he was not wanted in my room?”

Danny did not answer the question, but stood grinding his heel into the ground, looking downward.

“I trust you see plainly enough that I did what any white man should do, Gris?” said Frank, letting a hand fall on Danny’s shoulder.

“Oh, I am not going to set myself up as a judge of your actions,” was Griswold’s impatient retort. “All I know is what it has brought us to. If I am pulled up and forced to tell what I know about the way the cop was hurt——”

“What will you tell? What do you know? You confessed to me that you did not see it.”

Frank cut in rather sharply, giving Griswold a start. Danny looked rattled and flushed.

“Oh, I didn’t see it, but Noon told me——”

“That sort of evidence will not go, old man, and you should know it. Take my advice, and keep still. This business must be hushed up, and it will be the fellow who talks too much that will get us into trouble.”

“What if you are pulled up and questioned? Are you going to swear to a lie?”

It was Frank’s turn to flush, but the flush was one of indignation.

“Did you ever know me to lie?” he asked, sharply.

“No, but this is different, and——”

“It will not be necessary for me to lie about this in order to shield Hodge. I did not see anything. I did not see the cop injured. I can swear to that, and it’s all they’ll ever get out of me.”

After a moment of silence, Griswold said:

“We may be able to protect Hodge by keeping silent, but I want to give you some advice, Merry. I am serious now. Don’t grin at me. This is one time in my life when I am not thinking of anything funny, as the fellow said when the surgeons were getting him ready to cut off his leg. If you are wise, you’ll let up on one thing you have been trying to do.”

Frank could not help grinning when he thought of taking advice from Griswold, but he tried to look serious, and said:

“Go on.”

“You have been pushing Hodge for the nine. Is that right?”

“Well,” admitted Frank, “I have been using my influence to get him on, for I know he is a corker.”

“Drop it!” cried Danny, pulling out a package of cigarettes and extracting one. “It won’t go, and you are going to get the other candidates for the position of catcher down on you. Hodge is a very fresh freshman, and he does not stand a show of getting on the nine this year.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Frank, quietly. “I got on in my freshman year, if you will remember.”

“I know, but circumstances brought that about. Yale was in a hole for pitchers. You did some clever twirling on the freshman nine, and you were tried as a desperate expedient. That is the secret of your getting on the ’varsity nine your first year in college.”

“Well, Hodge did some clever backstop work last Saturday, when the scrub played the regular nine. He played on the scrub, and he made a better record than either Noon or Stone, who took turns on the regulars.”

“Oh, that was a chance, and it didn’t show his mettle, for there was nothing at stake. He had better opportunities than the other fellows, that’s all.”

“Come off!” cried Frank, dropping into slang. “He did better throwing, and he would have caught every man who tried to steal second if the pitcher had not been a little slow in his delivery. As it was, he caught four men, while Noon and Stone caught only one each. He did not have a passed ball, for all that the pitcher was wild as a hawk, and he got three fine hits.”

“Two of which were off you, Merry. That part of it didn’t fool anybody. Ha! ha! ha!”

Frank flushed again.

“By that I presume that you mean to insinuate that I gave him easy ones, so he might hit it out. Look here, Gris, I have told you that I do not lie. Now I am going to tell you that I did my level best to fool Hodge, for he had told me that he would bat my eye out. I thought I knew his weak points. I gave him a high inshoot, and he got a pretty single off it; I gave him one round his ankles, and he lifted it out for three bags. The fellow who says I favored him in the least says something that is not true.”

“Oh, well,” said Danny, shortly, “I am not here to talk baseball. Anyway, I don’t think Hodge stands a ghost of a show to catch on. Noon is the man who will get there.”

“Nit!” muttered Frank, as Danny walked away, smoking.

CHAPTER XI.

NED NOON MAKES AN OFFER.

What Danny had said to Frank set the latter to thinking. Up to that time he had not been aware that any of his friends were kicking because of his being chummy with Hodge.

Had Merriwell been a sophomore and Hodge a freshman the situation would have been altered materially, for sophomores and freshmen are natural enemies, and it is regarded as a crime for a soph to be chummy with a fresh.

On the other hand, there is more or less friendliness between juniors and freshmen. Juniors do everything they can to encourage freshmen in their struggle against the sophomores, even going so far as to marshal them for their rushes and give them points to be observed in their struggles with the sophomores.

It is true that there seldom seems to be any further bond of sympathy between freshmen and juniors than the dislike of both for sophomores. The discomfiture and downfall of the freshmen arouses nothing like pity on the part of the juniors; more often it causes the latter to openly express contempt.

At first, the apparent friendliness of the juniors leads the unsophisticated freshmen to think the third year men really like them, and have sympathy for them; but it does not take long for the freshies to discover their mistake—it does not take long for them to find out they are a thing quite apart from the juniors in every conceivable manner except their mutual dislike for sophomores.

Still, it sometimes happens that a junior and a freshman may become chums, while such friendliness between a freshman and a sophomore would be regarded as a disgrace to the latter.

Frank had an independent way; he did not seem to care for traditions or precedent. He had shown that all along, but never so strongly as since becoming a junior. Almost his first act was to show friendliness toward a freshman bully, after conquering the latter in a fair struggle. This brought forth a howl from those who believed the only proper thing for him to do was to treat the bully with scorn and contempt after downing him.

But Frank kept calmly on his way, doing what he believed was right, regardless of anything that was said.

And now that Hodge was in college, he had chosen to accept Bart as a chum. If his former friends did not like it, he could not help it. He knew Bart Hodge’s nature, and he knew Hodge would need to be steadied by the hand of a friend after entering college, else he would be certain to fall under evil influences and go wrong.

Frank had used his influence to get Bart on the ’varsity nine because he believed Hodge a better backstop than any of the candidates for the position.

Yale’s catcher of the two preceding years had graduated and gone West, which left the position vacant.

Good pitchers are absolutely necessary on a good ball team, but the work of a good pitcher can be ruined by a poor catcher. The pitcher shines as the bright, particular star, but it is the work of the man behind the bat, almost as much as the pitcher’s own skill, that makes him shine.

A good catcher steadies and encourages a pitcher at all times, and particularly at such moments as the game is hanging in the balance so that a safe hit or a fumble may win it or lose it. At such a time, if the pitcher has perfect confidence in his catcher, he stands a good show of doing his level best; but if he lacks confidence, he may think the game is lost anyway, and fail to exert himself to his utmost.

Frank had first pitched to Bart on the old Fardale Academy nine, at which time the Fardale battery was a wonder and a terror to the ball teams of the surrounding country. Fardale had never lost a game with Merriwell and Hodge as the battery.

On the sporting trip across the continent, Frank found occasion to pitch to Bart again, and he discovered that Hodge had lost none of his cunning. Merriwell’s “Yale Combine” played against the regular Fort Worth professionals, Fort Worth having the famous “Dad” Morse in the box, and beat them by the remarkable score of two to one.

In this game the throwing and batting of Hodge was a feature, and Frank Merriwell was delighted to find Hodge in old-time form. On the following day, Merriwell and Hodge had acted as battery for Fort Worth, the Texans easily defeating the Little Rocks, who were the leaders of the Southern League.

Frank had the Fort Worth papers containing records of the games, and he had placed them before the baseball committee and the captain of the ’varsity nine, calling attention to the fact that in the two games Hodge had not had a passed ball, had not made an error, had obtained seven assists, six hits and two scores. A record to be proud of, considering the fact that he was in company that was considered very fast.

But Hodge was a freshman, which counted against him in the eyes of the committee. The other candidates for the position were a sophomore, a junior and a senior. It was acknowledged that the senior had slight show of getting on. It was not his first attempt to get under the bat. He had played an outfield position one year, and had been substitute catcher one year, but this counted against him, if anything, for he had never done anything particularly brilliant.

The other two men, however, Ned Noon, the junior, and Roger Stone, the sophomore, stood a fair chance of making the team. It was whispered about that Noon had some sort of “pull” with the committee, and he was almost sure to catch on, for all that it was thought Capt. Hardy favored Stone.

Hodge was called “Merriwell’s candidate,” and, for all of Frank’s popularity, for all of the fact that he was looked on as the mainstay of the nine that season, it was agreed that Bart did not have much show of making the nine.

Frank, however, persisted in his attempt to get Bart on. Up to the time of his talk with Griswold he had not suspected the feeling that existed in relation to Hodge. Now he saw it all, and he realized that Bart was in double danger.

“He has injured a policeman, and, should it become known, some of his enemies might hold it over him. I must have a talk with him.”

Frank started for Farnham Hall without delay.

Just outside the wide doorway, before putting his foot on the steps, he paused, brought to a sudden halt by the sound of voices within.

“Noon!” he thought.

Then he heard another voice.

“And Hodge!” he added.

The rivals were standing just within the doorway, talking earnestly. Frank could see the back of Bart’s coat.

The first words that reached his ears caused Frank to stop thus suddenly.

“I tell you that you are in for it, Hodge. You knocked the cop out, and it will go hard with you if the job is fastened upon you.”

“Well, I can’t help it if it does,” said Bart, and there was a sullen sound in his voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt the little runt, but it was my confounded quick temper that caused me to fling him up against the post.”

“You made a fool of yourself,” declared Noon, with a sneering inflection.

“Well, I don’t need to have you come and tell me of it!” cried Bart, angrily.

“If it is known that you did the job, you stand a good show of being dropped from Yale with a dull thud.”

Not a sound from Hodge.

Merriwell was no eavesdropper, and he started to ascend the steps; but he dropped back and stood still, brought to a stop by Noon’s next words.

“I am the only fellow of our crowd who saw you fling the cop up against the post. The others were too busy attending to the ‘townies.’ If I keep still, you stand a good chance of escaping; but, if I tell, you are a goner. That makes it plain enough that I can wind you up in a moment if I want to.”

Frank would have given something to be able to see the expression on Bart’s face when those words were spoken, but he could not do so. Breathlessly he awaited Hodge’s retort.

“So that is your game, is it?” grated the voice of Merry’s Fardale chum. “Well, I swear, I did not think it of you, and I haven’t liked you, either!”

“You are shooting off too soon,” hastily said Noon. “I didn’t say I had any game at all, but I wanted you to understand just where you stood. You can do me a favor. Of course, I would not be mean enough to go back on a fellow who did me a favor. Instead of that, I would protect him, if necessary, by swearing one of the ‘townies’ knocked out the cop.”

“I do not ask that much of my friends, much less of you!” flashed Hodge. “If you want to blow on me, go ahead. All I can say is, that I’ll punch the face off you if you do!”

“You wouldn’t get the chance,” declared Noon. “You’d be pulled for assaulting an officer in performance of his duty, and it would go hard with you.”

Again Hodge was silent.

Once more Merriwell was on the point of ascending the steps, when Noon began again:

“There is no reason why we should be enemies, Hodge. We should be friends——”

“Not by a long distance!” exclaimed Bart, contempt in his voice. “I know you now too well for that, Ned Noon! We can’t be friends.”

“Oh, have it as you like; but you’ll find it for your good not to make an enemy of me.”

Hodge uttered a scornful exclamation.

“Oh, you needn’t turn up your nose!” cried Noon; “for you’ll have to pull it down again. I see I’ve got to talk straight to you. You make me tired! For a freshman you put on too many airs. What I want to say is this: If it wasn’t for Merriwell’s influence, you would not have a ghost of a show to get on the nine. As it is, you do not stand much chance, but——”

“But you are worried,” sneered Bart. “That is remarkable.”

“You do not stand much chance,” Noon repeated; “but I shall stand a better show if you retire, for the only man against me who is at all dangerous will be Stone. It is easy enough for you to get out. You can tell Merriwell that you have decided not to play, anyhow. That will settle it, if you stick to it. If you do that, I’m ready to swear that I saw one of the ‘townies’ flop the little cop up against the post.”

CHAPTER XII.

FRANK TALKS PLAINLY.

Merry listened breathlessly to hear what Hodge would say to that.

There was a few seconds of silence, during which Frank fancied he could hear Bart breathing heavily. Then Hodge spoke, and the scorn and contempt in his voice was withering.

“You have proved yourself to be just the cheap cur that I thought you were at first!” he said. “Nobody but a dirty dog would try to get the best of a rival in such a manner!”

Frank felt like crying out, “Good for you!” but clasped a hand over his mouth and held back the words, while he laughed softly with intense satisfaction.

Noon uttered a curse.

“Do you dare to talk to me like that, you miserable freshman!” he grated. “Why, I’ll—I’ll——”

“What will you do?” asked the voice of Hodge, trembling with eagerness. “I wish you would do something! I’d like to have you lift your hand to me, Noon! I’d take delight in soaking you just once, and I do not feel like it as long as you keep your hands down. Oh, do put ’em up! I don’t know but I’ll let you hit me once, if you will!”

Frank laughed out loud, but the excited lads within the doorway did not notice it.

“That’s Hodge—the same old Hodge!” thought Merry. “The blood in his body is boiling now. He would eat Noon.”

“Oh, so you’re a fighter!” sneered Noon. “Well, I am not going to fight with you. I would not disgrace myself by fighting with such a fellow as you are. But I want your answer.”

“You shall have it. Here it is!”

A second later, Noon came tumbling down the steps, assisted by Bart Hodge’s boot, which struck with violence beneath Ned’s coattail, fairly lifting the fellow off his feet.

“That’s my answer!” called Hodge, from the doorway. “Now, go ahead and do your worst, you dirty sneak!”

Noon picked himself up, cursing bitterly. One of his hands was cut and bleeding, and the left knee of his pants was torn.

“That settles your hash!” he snarled, shaking his fist at Bart, and failing to observe Merriwell in his rage. “I’ll cook you for that!”

He turned away, and, with a biting laugh, Hodge disappeared, ascending the stairs.

Frank started after Noon, quickly overtaking him.

“I want to speak with you,” he said, quietly.

Noon started and turned pale. He was tying a handkerchief about his injured hand.

“What do you want?” he huskily asked.

“Hold on a minute, and I will tell you.”

“I don’t want to stop here,” said Ned, looking around. “I have fallen and torn my trousers, besides hurting my hand here. If you wish to talk to me, you know where to find my room.”

“I am not going up to your room,” said Frank, quietly; “and I am going to talk to you now. What I have to say will not detain you long.”

“All right, go ahead,” snapped Ned, scowling.

“I happened to see you when you took your tumble,” said Frank, still speaking smoothly and serenely. “I know all about it, for I overheard by accident some of the conversation between you and Hodge.”

Noon’s face turned paler than it had been, and he bit his lip. Then, with a sudden effort at bravado, he snapped:

“Well, what of it?”

“I heard your threat to blow on Hodge.”

“What of that?”

“You will not blow.”

“By the eternal blazes, I will!” cried Noon, his eyes glaring. “I will get even with that fellow!”

“You will do nothing of the sort.”

“Who will prevent me?”

“I will!”

The eyes of the two met squarely. For some moments Ned tried to look straight at Frank, but, after a little, his eyes drooped, but he sneered:

“You? I know you are the chum of that sneaking freshman, but I fail to see how you can keep me from blowing on him.”

“I’ll tell you how,” came quietly from Frank. “If you blow on him, I am going to blow on you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I will tell what I know—what I overheard. I will tell how you tried to frighten Hodge into giving up the attempt to make the nine. How you threatened to blow on him about the affair with the cop if he didn’t withdraw, and how he booted you out of Farnham Hall, as you deserved. How do you like that?”

“It won’t save Hodge,” muttered Noon, sullenly.

“Perhaps not; but it will cook you. How much show do you think you will stand when it is known that you resorted to such an expedient to get a rival out of the way? You will be branded as a sneak, and your friends will avoid you.”

Noon was whiter than ever.

“I don’t know,” he said; “perhaps my word is as good as yours.”

“Perhaps so. If you think so, go right ahead and see where you land. I’ll go you ten even that you strike on the back of your neck. I know you will not make the nine. You will defeat yourself by your own meanness.”

Frank was talking plain. He believed it was necessary to talk thus to a fellow like Ned Noon. He felt that Noon could not be shamed into abandoning his plot against Hodge, but he might be brought to do so through fear.

Ned ground his teeth, for he began to realize that Merriwell was right in saying he could do so much. Frank had influence, and he would be believed.

“I am giving it to you straight, Noon,” said Merry. “Have a little reason. Do you want to knock yourself out just to down a rival? You say Hodge does not stand much of a show getting on the nine. Then, if this is the case, you are liable to beat him in a fair and square manner. It strikes me that such a thing would be far better revenge than beating him in a sneaking manner. It would be far better to beat him in an honest struggle than it would to have him withdraw and thus give you a better chance of getting on the nine. Isn’t that plain? If you won over him fairly, you would have a chance to crow.”

Frank was talking in his smoothest manner, and he was making his words count.

“Perhaps you are right,” admitted Noon, after a time. “I had not thought of it in that light. But, if I agree to let Hodge alone, you must promise not to tell what you overheard. Will you promise?”

“Sure.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

Soon after they separated.

Frank sought the officer who had been hurt, and found him in the hospital. The little Irishman did not recognize Frank as one of the students.

“Mr. O’Farrel,” said Frank, “I wish to speak with you concerning a matter of importance.”

O’Farrel gave Merry a close scrutiny.

“Pwhat’s thot ye want to spake about?” he asked, suspiciously. “It’s yersilf Oi dunno at all, at all.”

“My name is Merriwell,” said Frank, “and I am a student.”

A look of anger came into the face of the injured cop.

“An’ is thot pwhat ye are?” he cried, glaring at Merry. “May th’ ould b’y floy away wi’ all studints, yersilf included! Divvil a bit av good are they at all, at all. Look at me, mon! Oi’m here fer doin’ av me duty an’ attimptin’ to arrist wan av thim spalpanes, bad cess to him!”

“That is what I wished to see you about, sir,” said Merry, in a manner that seemed to indicate that he had something he wished to say to O’Farrel in confidence.

“Well, now, me b’y, Oi dunno pwhat ye want ter see me about thot fer. There’s some av thim hillions thot Oi’ll make sorry they iver bothered wid Patsy O’Farrel in th’ discharge av his duty. Here Oi am in bid, wid me body bruised, an’ it’s a miracle that none av me bones are broken.”

Frank started slightly.

“It was fortunate that none of your bones were broken,” he said.

“But me back is spraint so it pains me th’ whole toime,” said O’Farrel, hastily.

“I believe it was thought at first that some of your ribs were broken?”

“Yis, Oi thought so mesilf, but th’ docthers say Oi’m not thot bad hurrut.”

Frank drew a breath of relief, feeling thankful, indeed, for this knowledge.

The little cop began to scowl again, and pucker up his homely face.

“So it’s a studint ye are?” he exclaimed. “Well, Oi dunno thot Oi want to talk wid ye at all, at all.”

“But I know something you may desire to know, Mr. O’Farrel.”

“Oi’m not sure av thot.”

“I understand you are anxious to learn just who it was that threw you against the post and injured you?”

“Pwhat av thot?”

“Perhaps I can tell you.”

An eager look came into the face of the man on the cot.

“Av ye can do thot——” he began; then he stopped short, showing suspicion. “Pwhy should ye be afther doin’ such a thing?” he asked. “Is it not a studint ye said ye wur?”

“Yes; but I might tell you what you want to know, just the same.”

“Divil a bit ye will! Thim studints shtick by ache ither too well fer anything loike thot. It’s foolin’ me ye’re troying to do.”

“You are hasty in your conclusions, sir,” said Frank, calmly. “I know that, as a rule, students stand by each other; but there are exceptions to every rule. Now it is possible that, for some very good reason, I may wish to divulge to you the name of the fellow who laid you up. It is possible that he is an enemy of mine, and I am taking this means to hurt him.”

“Is thot it?” said O’Farrel, slowly, again keenly scrutinizing Frank’s face. “Oi’ll confiss Oi didn’t take ye fer thot sort av a chap at all, at all.”

“You can’t always tell what a man will do by the looks of his face,” laughed Frank, flushing.

“An’ ye want to blow on another studint?”

“Well, I saw a part of your encounter with the students, and I know who it was that did you up. If you are going to make it hot for him, it is possible that I will tell what I know.”

“Oh, Oi’ll make it hot fer th’ spalpane! An Oi’ll make it hot fer th’ rist av th’ gang! They intherfered wid an officer in th’ discharge av his duty, an’ a sorry piece av business it will be fer thim!”

“How long will you be laid up, do you know?”

“A week, th’ docthers say.”

“Perhaps two weeks?”

“Oi can’t afford thot. Oi have me family to support.”

“How much is your salary a month?”

O’Farrel told Frank.

“And you may lose half a month’s wages. That is tough.”

“Sure an’ it is!”

“Now, Mr. O’Farrel,” said Merry, in his most suave manner, “there is such a thing as a misfortune that is a blessing in disguise. You have no accident policy, and you need money. How would you feel if you were to receive during the time that you are idle a sum every week double your regular salary, besides having all your bills paid?”

CHAPTER XIII.

FRANK AND THE POLICEMAN.

O’Farrel gasped.

“Here! here! here!” he cried; “don’t be afther tryin’ any av yer funny thricks on me! Oi won’t shtand fer it!”

“There is nothing funny about this; it is sober, serious business. Although you have not been long on the force, Mr. O’Farrel, you have distinguished yourself by your courtly bearing, your utter fearlessness and your politeness to the ladies. You have been a bright and shining star on the New Haven force, shedding brilliant effulgence around you, so that, although in your modesty you were not aware of it, you were regarded with admiration and esteem by a large number of citizens. Whenever you were on night duty, the belated citizen who passed over your beat felt that he was safe, for he knew you were a terror to footpads. In the daytime the ladies went blocks out of their way in order to have you escort them across the street. The moment it was known that you had been injured, there was general sorrow and indignation. Then it was that your friends showed themselves, and they have raised a fund to be paid you as long as you shall be incapacitated for work.”

O’Farrel nearly lost his breath.

“In—inca—— Pwhat’s thot mane?” he gurgled.

“It means as long as you are unable to perform your duties.”

“Is thot it? Oi didn’t know but it wur th’ name av some new disease. You don’t be afther tellin’ me thot th’ citizens av New Haven are goin’ to pay me fer bein’ hurted?”

“Exactly that.”

“Oi’ll belave it whin Oi receive th’ money.”

“Here is your first week’s payment,” said Frank, producing a roll of bright new bills and dangling them before the officer’s eyes.

“Let me fale ’em,” said O’Farrel, reaching out.

“Wait a bit,” said Frank, putting the money behind his back. “There is a condition. You can do a certain person a favor.”

“Oi thought there wur something behind all thot. Pwhat shall Oi do?”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“Kape me mouth shut? How?”

“About the manner in which you were hurt. Tumble? Catch on?”

O’Farrel looked doubtful.

“Oi dunno,” he confessed. “Will ye be afther makin’ it a bit plainer?”

“That’s easy. Certain persons in New Haven—friends to you—are interested in the chaps who were concerned in this unfortunate affair. They are also interested in you. They do not wish you to bring harm to the students, and they do not wish you to be at any loss on account of that unfortunate encounter.”

The injured man looked still more bewildered.

“It’s big worruds ye are afther usin’ now,” he said, hazily. “Oi’m worse mixed thin Oi wur before.”

“I am trying to make it plain that it is for your interest not to push this matter. Doctor says you are not much hurt. It was a boy who hurt you. You are an officer, and you do not want it known that a boy without a whisker on his face did you up. Some folks might think you were no good. The ladies who have walked blocks out of their way to have you assist them across the street would turn their backs on you. The citizens who have felt perfectly safe while passing along your beat at night would feel safe no longer. Burglars and footpads who have trembled at the mention of your name would sneer at you. You would fall into deep disgrace. It is more than likely that you would be fired from the force as inefficient.”

O’Farrel blinked and gasped again.

“Begobs! Oi niver thought av thot,” he muttered.

“You can see it plainly enough now. You must state that the fellow who slammed you against the post was a giant—six feet four. Say he caught you from behind. Say another fellow hit you with a baseball bat. Say you are satisfied you were mistaken in thinking them students. Say they must have been hoodlums of the town.”

“An’ pwhat do Oi get fer thot?”

“This!”

Again Frank flourished the money before Patsy O’Farrel’s greedy eyes.

“You get this now,” declared Frank. “You get as much more next week. You get another lot the next week, if the doctor says you are not fit to go back to duty.”

“Begorra! it’s a timptation.”

“No temptation; an act of friendship on the part of your friends. And your friends are working for your good.”

“Pwhat av they bring th’ spalpane that did it before me?”

“You must fail to recognize him. That is easy. You might say you never saw him before. You might call attention to the fact that you are an officer who could handle such a boy with one hand. You might become indignant to think that anybody fancied such a boy could do you up.”

“It’s a good schame; but Oi’m not sure this ain’t a thrap.”

Frank saw that he must allay O’Farrel’s suspicions, and he talked his prettiest. When he made the effort, Frank could be extremely suave and persuasive. Never in his life was he more persuasive than just at that time. Occasionally he would flourish the bright, new bills before O’Farrel’s eyes.

At last the officer succumbed. He took the money, and then Frank snapped out a little book, saying:

“Sign here, Mr. O’Farrel.”

“Soign! Soign pwhat?”

“Your name.”

“Th’ divvil Oi will! Ye don’t catch me thot way! Whoy should Oi sign me name, Oi dunno?”

“Receipt. That’s all. Reads like this: ‘Received of Frank Merriwell the sum of twenty-five dollars, in consideration of which I agree to his proposal.’ That’s simple.”

“It looks loike a thrap.”

“No trap.”

“Phwat av ye wur to show thot recate against me?”

“You could swear that the proposal was any old thing. If I swore it was something else, your word is as good as mine. As you are an officer, it should be a little better. This is a mere formality—a matter of business. I always take a receipt when I pay out money.”

“It’s an Oirishman ye ought to be, me b’y,” declared O’Farrel, admiringly. “It’s a slick tongue ye have in th’ head av yez.”

Then he signed the receipt, and Frank left the hospital, feeling well satisfied with the result of his visit.

“I believe Hodge is safe now,” he thought.

He was right. Somebody “blowed” on Hodge, and Bart was taken before O’Farrel. The injured policeman looked him over, and then positively stated that Hodge was not the one who slammed him against the post. He added that he did not remember Bart at all.

Hodge was released.

Ned Noon swore when he learned of this.

“Beastly luck!” he grated. “Thought I had fixed it so Hodge would get snapped. That cop must be a fool!”

Others were taken before O’Farrel, Browning among them, but he failed to say that he recognized one of them.

The town lads who had been engaged in the affair kept still, fearing they would get into trouble if they came forward and told what they knew.

All were astonished when O’Farrel failed to recognize Hodge, for it was not known that Bart had been saved by the hand of a friend.

It was a great relief for Hodge, who had feared the outcome of his passionate act.

As often as possible the regular nine and the “scrub” got out for practice.

Hodge had not been given a trial on the regulars, for all of his good work on the scrub team.

“We’ll fix that, old man,” said Frank Merriwell. “Haggerty and Walbert are going to be tried in the box next time, while I am to pitch against the regulars. Haggerty, you know, is the little chap who came here from Williams. He pitched against Yale year before last, and held Old Eli down to seven singles. Without doubt he is a good man. Walbert is an Andover man, who may show up well, although he is rather new.”

“How are you going to fix the regulars?” asked Bart, eagerly.

“I am going to pick the scrub to suit myself.”

“How will you make up the team?”

“You and I will make the battery, and I shall put Browning on first.”

“What?” shouted Bart, astonished. “You can’t mean it?”

“Why not?”

“Why, he is too lazy to draw his breath, to say nothing of playing ball.”

“That’s all right. He will play for me.”

“And he will be worse than a wooden man on first bag.”

“Not on your life! I know Browning. He is all right.”

“Can’t see how you can say that, Frank. His laziness is something awful. He won’t be able to stir out of his tracks to stop a hit or a wild throw.”

“Don’t believe yourself, my boy. You seem to have forgotten that he covered first for us when we played against Fort Worth.”

“No, I have not forgotten. But he was in different condition then. He had worked himself down during the trip across the continent. There was some life in him then, but now——”

“You shall see there is some life in him now. I can wake him up, if anybody can, and I’ll do it. He will do anything for me.”

“Perhaps he might if he thought it of any importance, but he will not think so about a game against the regulars. He’ll say it’s simply to give the regulars practice, and he won’t stir up.”

“You’ll see what he will do after I talk to him. He will surprise you, and you won’t be the only one.”

“All right; have your own way. I know you will, no matter what I say. Who are the others?”

“Diamond on second.”

“He’s all right.”

“Rattleton on third.”

“He’s fair, but Flobert is a better man.”

“I’d rather have Rattleton, for he is another fellow who will break his neck, if necessary, for me. I can get out of him all there is in him, and Flobert sulks sometimes.”

“All right. Suit yourself. Who will play short?”

“Haven’t decided on that position yet. There are two or three to choose from.”

“Take Fales.”

“What Fales?”

“Freshman. Good player. I recommend him.”

“Well, we’ll take Fales if you say so.”

“Now, how have you fixed the outfield. Who is in right?”

“Tom Thornton.”

“Good man?”

“Pretty good. I’ve taken him for his batting. If he could play as well all round as he can bat, he’d be on the regulars.”

“Middle?”

“Jones.”

“What, the fellow you call Dismal?”

“Same.”

“Why, he’s too sad and slow to play ball!”

“Wait till you have seen him. He can wake up, and he’ll throw almost as well as Ephraim Gallup. If he gets a good chance, he’ll surprise somebody.”

“Who’s the left fielder?”

“Joe Gamp.”

Hodge gasped.

“That beats all!” he cried. “Why, that fellow is a regular blunder-heels. He can’t play marbles!”

“Wait and see. He’ll be another surprise, or I’m mistaken. He is a slugger with a stick, and no mistake. Tried to fool him one day, and he seemed able to rap out anything I gave him. He dug ’em out of the dirt with his bat, took ’em two feet off from the base, and reached up into the air and drove ’em out. The pitcher who tries to fool him will drop dead before the game is over.”

“Well,” said Bart, slowly, “you have seemed to be a pretty good judge of ball players, old man, but I think you are away off this time. You have named the most confounded aggregation ever seen around here.”

“The other side will be confounded,” smiled Frank. “Wait and see, old man. All I ask of you is to do your prettiest.”

“You may be sure I will.”

CHAPTER XIV.

OUT OF PRACTICE.

A large crowd turned out to witness the six-inning game between the ’varsity nine and Frank Merriwell’s “scrub” team. Yale was anxious about her ball team, for it was not showing up as well as it should, while Harvard and Princeton were said to be in prime condition.

Despite his popularity, Frank had enemies in college, and those enemies were circulating the report that his arm was “broken,” that he had a “dead wing,” and that his day as a pitcher was past. They declared Yale was leaning on a broken reed when it depended on Merriwell to win games.

There were stories about the new pitchers to be brought out by Harvard and Princeton. They were feared not a little.

All acknowledged that Yale was in serious need of a first-class backstop. Stone or Noon might develop all right, but the uncertainty about them was wearing. Hodge, Merriwell’s candidate for the position, was sneered at.

When it was known that Merriwell would get up a “scrub” team and play the regulars, Frank’s enemies hastened to say that the time had come when it would be seen how easy he could be batted. They knew that, as a rule, no pitcher who feels secure of his position on the regulars will take the chance of doing himself injury by pitching his level best for a “scrub” team. Generally, he considers it practice enough for the regulars if he pitches fairly well and lets it go at that. Frank’s enemies thought that was what he would do. They knew little of his plan to make the regulars hustle to win the game.

There was much speculation as to the exact make-up of the “scrub.”

“They say Diamond and Rattleton will play,” said Bink Stubbs, speaking to Sydney Gooch. “They are two of Merriwell’s particular cronies, you know, but neither one of them can play fast ball.”

“What do you care?” laughed Gooch.

“Oh, it’ll be nuts for me. I hope the boys will hammer Merriwell all over the lot.”

When the “scrub” appeared there were exclamations of astonishment.

“Whiskers!” cried one. “Is this to be a comedy game? There’s Bruce Browning. He’ll go to sleep running bases.”

“Doing what?” cried another. “You don’t suppose he’ll run, do you? He wouldn’t run for a doctor if a rattlesnake bit him!”

“Look!” shouted a third. “There’s Dismal Jones! Mommer! But this will be a peach of a game!”

“And there’s Joe Gamp!” gasped a fourth. “When did he ever play ball? Oh, my! my! my!”

“They’ve got him to coach!” laughed the first speaker.

Phil Hardy, captain of the regulars, looked Merriwell’s nine over quizzically.

“Look here, old man,” he grinned, drawing Frank aside, “what sort of a job is this?”

“What?” asked Merry, blankly.

“We are out here for practice, and we want to play against a team that will give us some.”

“Don’t let that worry you. You are going to get all the practice you want, captain.”

“But not with that turnout?”

“Yes.”

“Rats!”

“You’ll see.”

“What’s the use to fool! Why don’t you take the regular ‘scrub’?”

“Because I have a better nine.”

Phil saw, with no little surprise, that Frank seemed to mean it.

“All right,” he said; “but we are not going to play six innings if this gets to be too much of a farce.”

“You may stop any time you like after the third inning,” smiled Frank.

“I know you are going to pitch against us,” said Phil; “but I don’t suppose you fancy you can play the whole game?”

“Not at all. You will find there are others.”

“Why don’t you take somebody in the place of Browning? He will drop dead getting after a ball.”

“Don’t worry about Browning. He’s all right.”

“I know he was a good man once, but he has had his day.”

Frank smiled confidently.

There was a little preliminary practice, as if it was to be a regular match game. Frank got off his sweater and warmed up in earnest, just the same as he would have done had he been preparing to pitch against Harvard.

The “scrub” took the field first. As they went out scores of students shouted at them sportively, and they were the butt of ridicule.

“Where did you find ’em, Merriwell?” shouted a voice. “They are a lot of flubs!”

Frank laughed easily.

“Wait a little,” he advised, “and these flubs will give you apoplexy.”

He looked his men over to see that they were in proper positions, and then, as Cal Jeffers, Yale’s heavy-hitting center fielder, came up to the plate, he motioned for Gamp to move a little farther back.

This caused some laughter, and a voice cried:

“What do you want to put him back for, Merriwell? He couldn’t catch anything, anyway.”

“Oh, he might—by accident,” returned Frank, who seemed ready to talk to anybody. “I have known more surprising things than that to happen.”

Stubbs nudged Sydney Gooch.

“He knows he’s going to be hammered,” said Stubbs. “See him get the fielders back.”

“I hope they will hit every one he throws!” said Gooch, maliciously, as he fingered his throat, thinking how Merriwell’s fingers had felt there once on a time.

Browning had slouched down to first as if going to his own funeral. There was a sad and hopeless look on his face, that made him look even more dismal than Jones.

Frank turned to look at him, and then burst out laughing heartily.

“Come, come, Bruce!” he cried. “It isn’t quite as bad as that. Wake up, now, for I am going to get into gear and shoot ’em over.”

Browning said nothing, but his face did not grow a whit less dejected.

Jeffers poised his bat, and Merriwell faced him. Then the first ball was sent spinning toward the backstop.

Jeffers knew it was a fine thing to hit the first ball pitched, if possible, as it made a good showing for the batter. He went at this one.

He hit it!

Crack!

Away the ball sailed, away over the head of the shortstop, away toward left field.

“I knew he would do it!” cried Bink Stubbs, in delight. “It is a homer! Oh, that will nearly break Merriwell’s heart!”

Down toward first Jeffers scooted.

It was seen immediately that, for all that Merriwell had sent Gamp back, the ball was going far beyond the position held by the left fielder.

Gamp turned and ran for it, but the effort seemed a waste of energy. The spectators laughed to see the long legs of the country boy working furiously as he raced out after the ball.

“If he gets those feet going much faster, he won’t be able to stop for a week,” shouted somebody.

“What’s he think he’s going to do?” laughingly questioned another.

“He’s playing chase with himself!” shouted Sydney Gooch.

Jeffers reached first, and tore down toward second. Surely it was a home run. What a blow for Merriwell.

The ball was dropping now. Gamp was near it, but he could not touch it. He was looking up, trying to locate it. He looked over his shoulder and saw the ball.

Then he made a last spurt that astonished everybody. Still the ball was passing far over his head.

Safe?

Not quite!

Gamp was tall, and he was running swiftly. With a mighty leap, he went into the air after the ball, still going in the same direction. He reached far up with both hands and——

More than a hundred spectators caught their breath. Some rubbed their eyes in amazement. Some muttered exclamations of astonishment.

The ball had struck in Joe Gamp’s hands!

“He’s got it!”

“He’s caught it!”

“Hooray! hooray!”

A few cheered, but the most of those who witnessed the phenomenal catch were dumb with amazement.

For Gamp held the ball, having robbed Jeffers of one of the prettiest hits ever seen on that ground.

Frank Merriwell laughed.

“Well, that’s pretty good for a lumber-heels,” he said, with satisfaction; “but I expected something of the kind from him.”

Cal Jeffers was disgusted when the coacher at third stopped him. He could not believe he was out.

“What’s the matter with you?” he angrily cried. “It’s a home run!”

“Ought to have been,” said the coach; “but that long-legged farmer caught it. See, he’s just throwing it in.”

“He must have picked it up,” said Jeffers.

“He did,” nodded the coach; “picked it up in the air. Finest catch I ever saw.”

“What—he made the finest catch you ever saw? Come off! This is a jolly!”

But Jeffers found it was no jolly, for the umpire declared he was out, and he walked in to the bench, railing at the luck.

Bink Stubbs was gasping for breath. It was some time before he could say a word, and then he faintly cried:

“Take me home to mommer! It always makes me sick to witness a frightful accident like that.”

“Of course it was an accident,” said Capt. Hardy, who was not playing, although on hand in a suit.

“Of course nothing of the sort,” laughed Frank Merriwell. “Might just as well say it was an accident that Jeffers hit the ball, and I do not claim that.”

“We know that wasn’t an accident,” cried Sydney Gooch, getting behind a knot of students as he shouted the words.

“That’s right,” nodded Bink Stubbs, laughing as if it was a joke; “that wasn’t an accident. Merry is easy. They’ll hammer him out of the box.”

He said this openly, but Frank knew him well enough to understand that it was intended for a sneer. Bink Stubbs seldom joked.

Frank paid not the least attention to the cries of his enemies, but caught the ball, which was flung in to him, and took his position in the box.

CHAPTER XV.

IN THE GAME.

The regulars had been so dazed by Gamp’s marvelous catch that not a man had moved toward the plate, so the umpire was forced to call:

“Batter up!”

Hal Faunce was the next man on the list. He left the bench and picked out a bat.

“I’m going to do the same trick Jeffers did, just to see if that farmer out there in left garden can repeat his trick,” declared Faunce. “Look out for me, Merriwell.”

“That’s right,” cried a voice from the crowd of spectators; “line her out, Fauncie. Jeffers showed how easy Merriwell is to-day. Anybody can hit him.”

Frank continued to smile, but, mentally, he exclaimed:

“Think so, my fine fellow, if you like! I’ll have to see what I can do. I know Hal Faunce’s weakness, and I’m going to lay for him.”

He sent in a “coaxer” to start with, but Faunce did not try to repeat Jeffers’ trick by lining out the first one pitched, and the umpire called a ball.

The next one was high, and the umpire called another ball.

“Merry doesn’t dare to let him hit it,” shouted somebody.

Frank smiled, motioning for Hodge to come under the bat.

Bart walked down and put on a mask. He had not smiled during all the excitement. His face was unmoved, and he made a strong contrast to Frank Merriwell, who looked as pleasant as if he were witnessing a free show.

Taking his place close under the bat, Bart signaled for an out drop.

Merry shook his head, immediately assuming a position which Hodge understood to mean that he would deliver a high inshoot.

In order to make the others believe he was doing all the signaling, Bart made a fake signal, which did not mean anything at all.

With his greatest speed Frank sent a ball whistling through the air. To Faunce it looked like a high straight one, and he could “feast on that kind.”

He struck with all his strength, but the only resistance met by his bat was that of the air, and it was such a surprise that Faunce was thrown off his feet.

Plunk!—the ball was held in Bart Hodge’s glove.

“One strike,” called the umpire.

“Here! here! here!” laughed Frank. “Don’t be trying to throw yourself at the ball, Fauncie. That won’t do. Hit it with the bat.”

Faunce picked himself up, looking red and disgusted.

“Oh, I’ll hit it next time!” he savagely declared. “I’ll knock the peeling off it!”

“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “Knock the stitches out of it—if you can. I don’t believe you can.”

Some one in the crowd groaned derisively.

“Hello!” said Merry, with perfect good nature. “Your friends are groaning for you now, Hal. They know you have no show to get a hit. Take my advice and wait for two more balls. Perhaps I can’t get ’em over, and you will get a life on four.”

“Oh, you go to—Chicago!” flung back Faunce, nettled. “I’m going to hit her next time, and you want to get off the earth if it comes your way.”

“All right, let her go.”

Bart was ready, and Merry sent another ball flying over the plate. It was another high inshoot, and Faunce swung again, missing it as cleanly as before, and nearly throwing himself down a second time.

“Two strikes,” called the umpire.

Frank laughed heartily, but Hodge was as mirthless and stern as before.

“What is he doing with you, Faunce?” cried Danny Griswold, from the seats. “He seems to be making a monkey of you.”

“I’d make a monkey of you if I had you by the neck, you little runt!” muttered the batter, under his breath.

Frank saw that Faunce was so angry that he trembled, and he felt that it would be easy to strike the fellow out.

He was right, for he sent in a third high inshoot, and the batter went after it just as hotly as he had gone after the others, missed it, and was out.

“Sorry for you, old man,” said Frank, quietly. “Don’t believe I can work that on you again.”

“I know you can’t!” snapped Faunce, as he walked to the bench.

“Costigan, come up and take your medicine,” laughed the scorer.

Joe Costigan, the left fielder, who had played third the season before, advanced to the plate. He was a stocky fellow, a reliable man, and a good hitter. It was said that he had no weak points at the bat.

Merry gave him a high swift one, and Costigan let it pass for a ball. Then Frank made the same motion, but sent in a slop drop. Costigan tried to get under it, struck too quick, and missed it.

“One and one,” called Capt. Hardy. “Merry is easy fruit for you, Joe.”

“I am not so sure of that,” muttered Costigan. “I have seen him fool too many good men to think him easy.”

Frank feared Costigan more than he had Faunce, although the latter was the more brilliant hitter. Costigan was not puffed up with too much confidence and he was as steady as a mill.

“I’d give something to strike him out,” thought Merriwell.

He tried to “tease” the batter, but Costigan would not bite, and two more balls were called.

“Now you have him in a hole, old man,” cried Phil Hardy. “He’s forced to put it over.”

Frank thought swiftly just then. Which had he better do, put it over or try a “fooler?” That was a question of some moment just then. He knew well enough that Costigan was the kind of fellow who would take four, instead of breaking his back for a hit, and laugh as he trotted down to first.

But there was something else to be considered. Costigan had seen considerable of Merriwell’s pitching, and he knew Frank was at his best when forced to send them over. Merry had great control, and no one was better aware of it than Joe Costigan. Frank decided that Costigan would think that the next one was sure to be straight over and swift.

“He will try to line it out if it looks good,” decided Frank.

Then he made a delivery that seemed to put all the speed possible into the ball, which started as if to go straight over the plate.

Frank had made no mistake in his reasoning. Costigan bit, but, as it was an outcurve, he did not touch the ball.

“Two strikes!”

Bart tossed the ball back to Frank.

Costigan looked disgusted, and Capt. Hardy cried:

“It would have been a ball if you had waited.”

No one knew that better than Costigan himself.

Without delay Frank sent in another. This time it was an outcurve, but it was started straight at the batter. Costigan was a trifle mixed and he started back. Too late he saw what kind of a ball it was, and weakly swung his bat at it.

He missed.

“Three strikes—man is out,” called the umpire.

Hodge flung down his mask and sent the ball rolling down toward the pitcher’s box, while Merriwell and his “scrub” team came in from the field.

“Who said they would bat me out of the box?” laughed Merry.

“Wait,” grinned Bink Stubbs, trying to appear pleasant and jovial. “The game has just begun.”

“That was crafty work, Merriwell,” complimented Capt. Hardy. “I will give you the credit of that.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, pleasantly. “Jeffers gave me a shock, and that made me brace up.”

“That farmer out there on the left lawn gave all of us a shock,” said Hardy. “How did he catch that ball?”

“With his hands,” smiled Frank.

“I didn’t think he caught it with his feet, but there was a time that it seemed as if he had just as good show to catch it with his feet as with his hands. How did you know he could play ball?”

“Oh, I’ve talked with him considerable, and I discovered that he knew all the fine points of the game. Then he told me that he used to play on a strong country team up in New Hampshire—sort of a league team.”

“Huah!” grunted Hardy. “That would bar him from playing with Yale, even if he should prove fast enough. Without doubt he has taken pay for playing.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It would make him a professional, if he had. Say, how about that Fort Worth business? I understand you and Hodge played with the team down there. Were you paid for it?”

“Not a cent.”

Hardy looked relieved.

“I was afraid you had taken pay,” he said. “If you had been that foolish, we would be in a scrape, for you might be barred as an amateur, you know.”

“And that would give some of my very particular friends great satisfaction,” smiled Frank. “But you need not let that worry you at all. We played with Fort Worth for the sport of it, and did not receive a cent for doing so.”

By this time the regulars were in the field. Ned Noon was behind the home plate, with little Haggerty, the Williams man, in the box.

Jones was the first batter up for Merriwell’s side. He looked sad and heartless as he advanced to the plate.

Haggerty flung his cap on the ground by his side. He stood with his little legs spread, chewing gum rapidly and grinning. He was a pleasant little fellow.

Ned Noon came up under the bat at the very start. It was plain he was going to show what he could do.

Haggerty sent in a pretty one, and Jones stared in surprise when the umpire called a strike.

“Too bad!” he sadly muttered, with a shake of his head. “Didn’t know it was going over.”

Some of the spectators laughed at him.

“Look at the ball, Dismal,” cried one, “and you will make it weep.”

Haggerty grinned and poised himself again. He made a round arm flourish, and sent in an outcurve.

Jones struck, but he could not reach the ball by a foot.

“Two strikes!”

The spectators began to laugh.

“Wait,” smiled Frank. “He may hit it all right.”

But Dismal was a trifle rattled, and he missed the third one, striking out.

“Oh, say, Merry!” exclaimed Capt. Hardy, who was sitting on the bench at Frank’s side; “this is going to be too much of a farce.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” was Frank’s careless retort. “You can’t tell about that yet. You fellows may hold us fairly good play, so that there will be some interest in the game. Don’t get discouraged as soon as this.”

“Come off! You know what I mean. That gang of yours hasn’t a show against us.”

“Really! And you did not score the first time at bat! Your crust surprises me, old man.”

“We didn’t score because that jay from New Hampshire caught a ball by accident, and you struck out the next two men. You can’t keep that up.”

“I don’t know about that, either.”

“Say, you make me tired!” came warmly from the captain’s lips, for he was aroused. “If you keep on, I’ll go in and take a hand myself.”

“Do it! It will be jolly sport to strike you out, captain.”

“Don’t get the swelled head, Merriwell! Don’t think you can strike everybody out! That is what spoils a good pitcher.”

“You are right, Hardy,” nodded Frank, seriously. “The pitcher who is forever trying to strike out every batter who faces him soon kills himself. It is the man who holds them down to small hits who makes the success.”

Hardy nodded, cooling down somewhat.

“That is sensible talk,” he said. “I was afraid you had a bug in your nut. A fellow with a bug is N. G.”

Tom Thornton followed Jones. One strike was called on him, and then he cracked out a hot one, which the shortstop fumbled long enough to let the batter reach first.

Then, to the surprise of all, Joe Gamp took his place on the coaching line near first.

“I swear if he isn’t going to coach!” cried a voice. “Well, this will be a riot!”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared Gamp, slapping his thigh. “If this ain’t the gug-gug-gug-greatest pup-pup-pup-pup-pup-picnic I ever struck! Why, this is more fun than chasin’ a yallar cuc-cuc-caow all over a forty-acre pasture lot! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

That laugh was infectious, others caught it, and the crowd roared.

“Fun!” shouted Harry Rattleton, from a position on the coach line over by third. “It’s more fun than bodging dullets—I mean dodging bullets.”

Hodge was the third man to come to the bat.

Noon believed he knew Bart’s weakness, and he motioned for a slow drop.

Haggerty faced the batter.

“Nun-nun-nun-now you’re off!” shouted Gamp to the runner. “Pup-pup-pup-play away off. He can’t cuc-cuc-catch you in a year! Oh, what a good time! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

Haggerty snapped the ball over to first, but Thornton got back all right, and Joe Gamp roared again.

“It is a farce, isn’t it?” smiled Frank, speaking in Capt. Hardy’s ear. “My team seems to be having fun with yours, old man.”

“Oh, wait some,” advised Hardy. “You will laugh out of the other side of your mouth in a minute.”

“Just keep that little cuss tut-tut-tut-throwing, Tom,” said Gamp. “Pup-pup-pretty soon he’ll get excited and tut-tut-tut-throw it a mile.”

But Haggerty did not make another attempt to catch the runner. He suddenly sent in a straight one for Bart, making it high.

Bart struck at it—and missed.

Frank was surprised, for Hodge, as a rule, could hit high ones.

“Oh, he is easy,” cried Ned Noon, derisively. “We’ll have him going after sky-scrapers in a minute.”

“So that is the man you have been recommending, Merriwell,” said Capt. Hardy. “And he wastes his strength on a ball like that. Any boy would have known that was a rod too high.”

“Wait a little yet,” advised Frank. “He may be a trifle anxious just now, for he knows everybody is watching him. I’ll wager my life that he shows up all right directly.”

“He hasn’t done anything in the game yet.”

“He hasn’t been given a chance, has he?”

“Well, not much of a chance,” Hardy was forced to confess.

Down by first Joe Gamp was stammering and haw-hawing, and it was plain that his talk was getting Haggerty a little nervous. The grin had vanished from the face of the pitcher, and his jaws were working convulsively over the chew of gum. He tried Hodge on a low drop, but Bart let it pass. Then he sent in a rise, and Hodge went for it.

To the surprise of both Haggerty and Noon, Hodge hit the ball. It was a frightful crack, and away flew the sphere toward left field.

“Run!” roared the coachers, and Hodge raced down to first, while Thornton went flying toward second.

CHAPTER XVI.

MERRIWELL’S NINE LEADS.

“Costigan will get it!” cried several voices, as the stocky left fielder raced back after the ball.

“He can’t reach it!” cried others.

“Gamp ought to be out there now,” shouted somebody.

The coachers yelled and motioned for the runners to keep right on, for it was plain that the ball was going over Costigan’s head.

Thornton dashed over second and made for third. He was running fast, but Hodge seemed to fly.

“Watch Hodge cover ground,” called Frank in Capt. Hardy’s ear. “How is that for running?”

Hardy did not say a word, but he was astonished, for he did not dream Hodge could run so fast. Frank Merriwell was a swift man on the bases, but it seemed that Bart Hodge was getting along quite as fast as Frank could.

Costigan strained every nerve to get under the ball, and made a flying leap into the air for it, but it was just beyond his reach, and he did not even touch it.

“Gamp would have caught it,” somebody declared.

While the left fielder was chasing the ball, which went bounding along the ground, the runners were making a streak round the diamond. When Thornton passed over third, Hodge was halfway between second and third. When Thornton crossed the plate, Hodge was close at his heels, and both men scored.

“Th-th-th-thutteration!” shouted Joe Gamp, in delight. “Ain’t this a ju-ju-jolly time! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

Capt. Hardy looked disgusted. Was it possible Frank Merriwell’s remarkable “scrub” team was going to hold the regular’s good play? It would be a standing joke in the college.

“Come, Haggerty!” he cried, sharply; “you’ll have to brace up. We’re out here for practice, and not to fool away our time.”

Haggerty flushed, but said nothing. He had not thought of fooling, and he did not relish being called down in such a manner.

Ned Noon was the most disgusted man on the field. Beneath his breath he muttered bitterly.

“Such beastly luck!” he muttered. “Think of Hodge getting a home run the first time up! It is frightful! I must do something to attract attention to me.”

He wondered what he could do, but resolved to watch his opportunity. Unfortunately for Noon, Haggerty was a trifle rattled, and that made him wild.

Fales was the next batter up. Haggerty was so wild that Fales might have obtained four balls, but he struck at two poor ones. Then, with the score standing two strikes and three balls, Fales struck again at an inshoot and missed.

Right there was where Noon’s hard luck came in, for Haggerty had crossed signals with him. Noon had expected an outdrop, but it was a high inshoot. Ned made a desperate attempt to stop it, but simply got his hands on it, and it went caroming off to one side, while Fales ran for first and made the bag all right.

“Look here, Noon,” came sharply from Capt. Hardy’s lips, when Ned had recovered the ball and thrown it in, “you must get a brace on. What are you under the bat for?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” declared Ned. “Haggerty crossed signs with me.”

That made Capt. Hardy angry with Haggerty, and he called him in to the bench, sending Walbert out.

Walbert had not warmed up, and what he had seen made him feel a trifle nervous. This was not like a practice game. It seemed to be a game for blood.

The spectators realized that the fate of more than one player depended on their work in that game. Capt. Hardy was merciless, and he would not hesitate to lop off the head of any man he considered weak. He had no favorites, and he was fearless in the way he handled the team. His power was great, as he was manager, as well as captain.

Rattleton followed Fales. He popped up an easy one to shortstop who got under it and dropped it purposely, trying to draw Fales off first to make a double. But Fales knew that trick, and he hugged the bag.

Rattleton was out.

Diamond came next. He hit a hot one straight at Walling, the third baseman, and it was gathered in, putting the side out.

But at the end of the first inning, the score stood 2 to 0 in favor of the “scrubs.”

“Now, I do hope they’ll get on to Merriwell,” muttered Sydney Gooch, who was looking very serious. “This is not the kind of fun I came out to see.”

“Same here,” admitted Bink Stubbs. “But it can’t continue. Merriwell’s gang has had a streak.”

The first man up for the regulars got a fine safe hit.

Both Gooch and Stubbs brightened.

“Ah! what did I tell you!” said Harris. “I knew it would come. Now, if the others will keep it up.”

He did not know that Frank had given the batter a good one, hoping he would get a single. Frank wanted Hodge to have a chance to show his throwing.

Merry was sure the runner would be sent down to second for a steal if he was given a show. He did not pretend to hold the fellow close to the bag, believing it a good plan to let him get a start, for it would make Bart’s throwing show up all the better if the man should be caught.

Diamond knew what was coming, for he understood that Merry was working to show Bart up, and he hugged close to second.

As Merry had anticipated, the batter made a false swing when the ball was pitched, hoping to bother Bart, while the runner scooted for second.

Hodge gathered in the ball, and then, without stirring from his tracks, sent it shooting down toward second like a bullet.

It was a low throw, and it seemed that it must strike the ground before it got to second; but there was force behind that ball, and it did not fall.

“Slide! slide!” yelled the coachers.

The runner slid.

Diamond came in just right to take the ball about two feet from the ground, and then he “nailed” it on to the back of the sliding base-runner, catching him at least two feet from the bag.

“Man is out,” announced the umpire.

Frank laughed, and the spectators applauded.

“Good boy, Hodge!” cried Danny Griswold, to the surprise of Frank. “That was a beautiful throw.”

“Oh, those things will happen now and then,” sneered Ned Noon. “He might throw wild next time.”

This did not come with good grace from Ned’s lips, as he and Bart were rivals, but he was so overflowing with spleen that he could not hold it back.

“It was a good throw,” nodded Capt. Hardy. “I didn’t think he had a chance to catch the man after the start Merriwell gave him. If Hodge can keep up the work he has been doing——”

He did not finish, but there was a deep significance in the hiatus.

The next batter obtained a single, and again a man was given a chance to play off first by Merriwell, who seemed remarkably careless.

Down he went for second on the first pitched ball.

“He’ll make it?”

“Hodge can’t stop him!”

“He’s a runner!”

“See him scoot!”

“He’s fairly flying.”

Hodge did not seem to get excited in the least, but he made a quick, sharp throw for second.

Again Diamond came in and took it on the run. Again the runner slid. Again Jack bored the ball into his back. And again——

“Man is out!” cried the umpire.

“Hodge is all right!” said several voices. “He is a corker to throw!”

Bart was arousing admiration by his cool, steady work. Ned Noon saw this, and ground his teeth in fury.

It was Noon’s turn to come to bat. He advanced, resolved to do something or drop dead in the attempt.

A gleam entered Frank Merriwell’s eyes. He gathered himself. Two men had been allowed to hit; but if Ned Noon got a hit he would earn it. Then Merriwell sent them over with all kinds of twists and curves. Ned was fooled. He fanned three times, flung his bat to the ground and uttered a curse.

The regulars had failed to score in their half of the second inning.

CHAPTER XVII.

A GOOD FINISH.

Walbert did his prettiest. He struck out one of the “scrub,” and then the bases were filled. It looked like several more scores for Merriwell’s side.

Walbert set his teeth and pitched. He realized that he was working for a place on the ’varsity nine, and never had he done better. He struck out another man. Then the next batter sent a long one straight out to the center fielder, who gathered it in and the inning ended.

The spectators were greatly interested, for it was a hot game, something they had not expected. They began to chaff the regulars. Some of them said Merriwell’s team was the right one to represent Yale on the diamond that season.

Browning had not been given much work, but, to his own surprise, he was wide awake. The excitement of the game had aroused him from his lethargy.

Up to the close of the fourth inning the score stood 2 to 0 in favor of the “scrub.” Merriwell’s men did not seem able to obtain another score, although they came near it several times.

In the fourth inning, aided by a hit, a fumble and a dropped ball, the regulars ran in one score. Then Merriwell put on steam, and shut them off.

The fifth inning proved a whitewash for both sides, and the sixth began with the game standing 2 to 1 in favor of Merriwell.

The regulars were first to bat, and Capt. Hardy had a talk to them. He told them they must beat the “scrub.” He told them it would be a disgrace to be beaten by the “scrub.” He told them they were playing for something more than the game, and they understood him. Several of them were playing for positions on the nine.

Merriwell resolved to do his best to keep the regulars from making another score. He was laughing when he went into the box, but there was a serious purpose in his heart.

Gooch and Stubbs were two very disgusted fellows.

“This isn’t what we came out to see,” muttered the former.

“Not much!” said Stubbs. “Why, the ’varsity nine can’t play marbles! Harvard and Princeton will walk all over ’em. I’ll bet on it.”

“Is it always luck?” asked Gooch, hesitatingly.

“Of course it is!” snarled Stubbs.

The last inning began, and the two haters of Merriwell watched it in despair.

The first man up was out on an easy one to Rattleton, who lined it across to Browning. Bruce gathered it in, smothering it in his glove and yawning at the same time.

The next man got a hit. He could not steal second, for he did not dare try, as Hodge had caught every man who tried it. But the following man hit the ball to Fales, who fumbled it, and then threw wild to first.

Over second scooted the runner, and he reached third ahead of the ball.

That placed a man on second and one on third.

Stubbs and Gooch brightened up.

“Here’s where they win the game!” cried the former.

Frank continued to smile. He did not seem at all anxious.

The next batter obtained two balls and then had a strike called on him. He hit the next one and once more it shot straight at Fales.

The man on third took a desperate chance and scooted for home.

Fales saw the runner going, and he was so anxious to stop that score that he fumbled again. He got the ball at last and threw home, but it was a bit too late, for the man had scored.

The game was tied.

Then Frank was in earnest, and the way he pitched was a surprise to the two men who faced him. They did not even foul the ball, and both struck out.

The sixth inning closed with the score a tie. Frank was anxious to play another inning, but Capt. Hardy seemed satisfied.

He said such practice was too much like business, and the game was over.

But the “scrub” was hilarious over the result. It was almost equal to beating.

Some time after the game Frank and Capt. Hardy were seen talking together on the campus.

Ned Noon was strolling along when he saw them. From the fence Bink Stubbs called to him:

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think,” returned Ned, sourly. “It’s too much trouble.”

“See those chaps over there?” and Bink jerked his thumb toward Frank and Phil.

“Yes.”

“Merriwell is cooking your goose.”

“I suppose so. Well, let him cook it. I’ll get back at him some time!”

“That’s the talk!” said Stubbs, approvingly. “I hope you’ll do it, too!”

Noon sauntered on.

That evening Hodge came hurrying into Merriwell’s room, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Old man,” he cried, with unusual enthusiasm, “I want to thank you! You have worked it!”

“Worked what?”

“Got me on for a trial.”

“On the nine?”

“Yes, Capt. Hardy told me just now that I am to have a trial in the game against Williams next Saturday.”

Frank sprang to his feet.

“Congratulations, old chum!” he cried, extending his hand. “I wanted you behind the bat, and, if you are given a fair show, you will stay there. We have worked together before, and we’ll try it again for the sake of old Yale—dear old Yale!”

Bart clasped the extended hand. It was a warm clasp, the clasp of true friendship.

On Saturday the ball game came off. There was a tremendous crowd on hand to witness the game and not a little betting on the result.

At first matters seemed to go against Yale and more than one groan of dismay went up.

Capt. Hardy was very anxious to win and made such a desperate two-base run in the sixth inning that he dropped down utterly exhausted, much to his friends’ surprise.

But after that occurrence the Yale team braced up. Frank never worked better and Hodge did equally well, and at the conclusion the score stood 4 to 5 in favor of Old Eli.

“We won, but it was close,” said Bruce Browning.

And all realized that this was true—the score was altogether too close for comfort—considering the heavy games still to be played.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MORE BASEBALL TALK.

“Poor old Yale!” said Ben Halliday, mournfully.

“Poor old Yale!” echoed Dismal Jones, with something like a sob.

“Oh, what’s the use of squealing before we know whether we are hurt or not?” cried Puss Parker. “Old Eli has a way of coming out on top at the last moment.”

“It’s a mighty slim show she has now,” said Pink Pooler, and it almost seemed that there was something like satisfaction in his voice. “If she can’t do better than beat little Williams by one score, what can she do against Princeton? Nat Finch is one of the finest amateur pitchers in this country, and he will make monkeys of Yale’s ordinary batters, while our best men will stand a poor show against him.”

“How did Princeton get hold of such a fellow?” asked Halliday.

“I don’t know, but I am willing to bet something that his tuition does not cost him anything.”

“If we could prove that we could end his career as a pitcher in the college league,” said Halliday.

“But it can’t be proved,” said Pooler, quickly, “and so Princeton has us by the neck.”

“I wouldn’t bet that way if I could get odds,” grunted Bruce Browning, as he came loafing up to the fence on the Yale campus, where the little knot of lads were holding the earnest discussion. “Princeton is not so many, and Finch is not the only shirt in the laundry. He can be done up.”

“He’ll never be done up by Yale,” declared Pooler, lighting a cigarette.

“Look here, man!” cried Ben Halliday, turning sharply on Pink, “what is the matter with you? You talk as if anxious for Princeton to beat Yale.”

“That’s so,” nodded Jones, giving Pooler a sour look.

“You ought to know better than that,” said Pink, protestingly; “but I have got eyes, and I do know something about baseball. When Yale has a struggle to beat little Williams in a practice game, she is not going to stand much of a show in the college league.”

Browning grunted.

“Huah! Yale has a way of starting out weak at the beginning of the season and making a rattling finish. You forget that, Pooler.”

“No, but that does not happen every time.”

“Pretty near it.”

“There was a time, not so many moons agone,” began Dismal Jones, in his queer way, “when it was thought that Yale’s one weak point was behind the bat.”

“That’s been settled,” said Browning.

“Oh, I don’t know,” grinned Pooler.

“What’s the matter with Hodge?” quickly asked Halliday.

“It was his pretty work that saved the game with Williams,” declared Parker.

“That’s once,” said Pooler, meaningly.

“Merriwell says he can do it right along.”

“Merriwell says many things.”

“And you can bet your life that what he says goes!” came with unusual warmth from Browning. “I’ve seen Hodge work before, and he’s all right.”

“They say he has a nasty temper,” said Pink. “Sometimes he gets mad and sulks.”

“Merriwell can handle him any time.”

“It’s always Merriwell, Merriwell, Merriwell!” sneered Pooler. “He is a good man, but most of the fellows seem to think he’s a phenom. It makes me tired!”

“He has done some phenomenal work,” said Parker. “Take the football game with——”

“Oh, that’s ancient history! You fellows don’t seem to get over that football game.”

“He did some fine twirling last season.”

“And spoiled his arm in the last hard game he pitched.”

“It didn’t look that way when he pitched for the ‘scrub’ against the regulars, and made a draw game of it. It struck me that he was in fine trim.”

“He worked for all there was in him that day,” declared Pooler, “and I have it straight that he has been tending his arm since then as if it were a sick baby. He does it up in arnica and witch hazel, and keeps it bandaged all the time. He wasn’t in condition to go in and save the Williams game.”

“He didn’t have to,” grunted Browning.

“He was needed badly enough. It was Hodge’s three-bagger in the ninth that brought in two scores when two men were out, and saved the game. I claim that hit was an accident. That being the case, it was an accident that beat Williams. If Merriwell could have gone in and saved the game, why didn’t they put him in?”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Parker. “They were saving him and they wanted to test the stuff in Haggerty and Walbert.”

“You know Haggerty said he knew the weak points of almost all the Williams men,” said Halliday. “That was why he was kept in so long.”

“Well, Williams didn’t do a thing to Mr. Haggerty!” grinned Pink. “He was hammered beautifully, and they used Walbert fully as bad. Anyone with sense will say those two men are no good, and surely it isn’t sense to think Merriwell can pitch every game for Yale and give us a winning team.”

“It doesn’t strike me you know much about pitchers and pitching,” yawned Browning. “If you did, you would not be in such a hurry to judge Haggerty and Walbert by their first game. The best pitchers have streaks when anybody can hit them, and those streaks come when they are least expected. There is nothing so unreliable as a first-class baseball pitcher. He may win a dozen hard games, and then, for no apparent reason, lose one that everybody considers dead easy.”

Pooler knew this was true, but he felt the sting of the big fellow’s slowly drawled words, and he snapped:

“I’ll guarantee that I know as much about baseball as you do. You did play on the ‘scrub’ with Merriwell, but you didn’t have any work. If you had—well, you are not the most wide-awake man in college.”

Pooler felt that he was safe in making this talk, for Browning would not exert himself sufficiently to resent it by personal violence.

Beyond a grunt, Bruce did not seem to resent it at all.

Parker hastened to say something.

“I don’t think there is any reason why we should be frightened because Princeton put up a good game against the New Yorks to start off with, while we made a poor showing against Williams. That doesn’t settle it.”

“Last year New York beat the packing out of us at the Polo Grounds,” said Halliday, “but we won the college championship just the same.”

“That only goes to show how much stronger Princeton is than we are.”

“It goes to show that you can’t tell what Yale will do by the way she starts off.”

“I’ll tell you this,” said Bruce; “Hodge works much better with Merriwell in the box than with anybody else. Everybody says he played great ball last Saturday. He will play much better next Saturday, for Merriwell will pitch then.”

“The battery isn’t the whole nine,” said Pooler. “Hodge and Merriwell can’t do the batting, base-running and fielding for all the others.”

Joe Gamp came hurrying toward the little knot. He was excited and breathless.

“I say, bub-bub-boys,” he stammered, “have you heard the latest nun-nun-nun-nun-nun——”

“Whistle, Joe!” cried Halliday and Parker, together.

The excited lad began again:

“I say, bub-bub-boys, have you heard the latest nun-nun-nun-nun—I say, bub-bub-boys, have you heard the lul-lul-lul-lul——I say, bub-bub-bub-bub——I sus-sus-sus-sus-sus——”

“Whistle quick, Joe,” cried Halliday. “You are going backward, and you won’t be able to start at all in a minute.”

Joe began the third time:

“I sus-sus-sus-sus”—whistle—“say boys, have you heard the latest nun-nun-nun-nun”—whistle—“the latest news?”

“We’re not liable to hear it if we wait for him to tell it,” muttered Pooler, scornfully.

“What is the latest news?” asked Parker.

“Phil Hardy, cuc-cuc-cuc-captain of the ’vuv-’vuv-’varsity nine——”

“What about him?” asked several.

“Cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc”—whistle—“can’t pup-pup-pup-play any more this sus-sus-sus-sus”—whistle—“this season!” shouted Gamp.

Cries of astonishment broke from the boys. Browning seemed to awaken from the trance that was on him, and he grasped Gamp by the arm, taking hold so strongly that Joe cringed.

“What’s that you say?” demanded the big fellow, fiercely.

“Phil Hardy can’t play any more this season?” questioned Parker.

“Did you say that?” demanded Halliday.

Gamp nodded.

“Dud-dud-dud-doctor said so,” he declared.

“Whew!” whistled Pooler. “That knocks the backbone out of the ’varsity nine.”

No one paid any attention to him, but Browning growled at Gamp.

“How do you know this? Are you sure it’s straight?”

“Sus-sus-Sile Blossom told me, and he is Hardy’s ch-ch-chum.”

“Then it is straight, for Uncle Blossom never jokes,” said Bruce, in deep dismay.

There was general consternation among the fellows gathered there at the fence.

“Poor old Yale!” exclaimed Halliday, for the second time.

“Poor old Yale!” again echoed Dismal Jones.

“Now,” said Pooler, “it is a sure thing that Yale does not stand a show in baseball this season.”

Bruce Browning turned savagely upon Pink—so savagely that Pooler was startled.

“You make me sick!” growled the big fellow. “You’re always croaking! You have been stuck good and hard betting against Yale, and I hope you’ll be stuck again if you bet against her this year!”

“That’s all right,” said Pooler, sullenly. “I have a right to my convictions. I’d like to see Yale win as well as anybody, but my good judgment tells me she can’t win.”

“Your good judgment is not worth a hoot! It has told you she could not win before, but she has won just the same.”

“Perhaps it’s not so bad,” said Parker. “Why, Hardy is in the pink of condition. Why should any doctor forbid his playing?”

“He’s been having queer spells lately whenever he’s got excited and worked hard,” said Halliday. “In the Williams game, you know, he fell limp as a rag in Jeffers’ arms after making a hot run for two bases. It didn’t seem that he’d be able to get his breath again. They fanned him and turned water on him till they came near drowning him.”

“That was the first time I ever saw anything out of the way with the fellow.”

“What is the matter with him, anyway?” asked Pooler. “Why has the doctor ordered him not to play?”

“Heart tut-tut-trouble,” explained Gamp. “He’s liable to drop dead some tut-tut-time when he exerts himself too much.”

The boys looked at each other in doleful silence. The news had cast a deep gloom over them.

“Who’ll be captain now?” said Halliday. “You ought to know, Parker.”

“How should I know?” asked Puss. “I don’t have anything to do with the management of the team. It’s all I can do to play first base.”

“Well, who do you think stands the best chance?”

“Frank Merriwell.”

Pooler started and scowled.

“I hope they won’t be fools enough to put him in!” he said. “His head is swelled enough now. He’ll feel so big that he won’t be worth anything if he is made captain.”

“Oh, how can you say that!” exclaimed Sidney Gooch, who had joined the crowd. “Mr. Merriwell is such a splendid fellow!”

Sidney was a hypocrite. No one in college hated Frank more than Gooch, but he pretended to admire Merry greatly. In his sneaking way he lost no opportunity to injure Frank, but he never came out openly like an honorable foe.

Of the two fellows, Pink Pooler was far the more manly, but that was not saying much for him.

Bruce Browning was angry. He grasped Pooler by the collar and shook him till his teeth rattled together.

“You envious whelp!” roared the big fellow. “You know Frank Merriwell is not troubled with the swelled head. What you deserve is a punch in the jaw, but I’d be ashamed if I gave it to you, so you get off without it.”

Then he gave Pooler a fling that sent the fellow staggering.

All were astounded by this display of energy on Browning’s part, for it was a rare thing that anything could arouse him.

But Bruce was loyal to Frank Merriwell. He had been Frank’s foe when Merry first came to Yale, but, when he was dropped a class and found himself received in a manly manner by Merriwell, he suddenly changed from a foe to a stanch friend.

No one but Frank seemed able to handle the big, lazy fellow, but Merriwell could do anything with Bruce. He even succeeded in inducing him to play first base on the “scrub” ball team, and Browning had not made a single error.

Pooler ground his teeth together and gave Browning a fierce look, but he let it go at that, for he knew the big fellow was strong as a giant.

“Merriwell will make a good captain,” said Ben Halliday. “He has a knack of getting more out of a lot of fellows than anybody I know. If they put him in Hardy’s place, the nine will not suffer.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you were right,” purred Sidney Gooch.

“I am not going to give up that Hardy can’t play at all till I hear it from his lips,” said Parker.

“You may as well give it up,” declared a voice, and Bart Hodge joined the group. “It is straight goods, fellows. I’ve just had a talk with Capt. Hardy.”

They turned eagerly to the dark-faced, proud-looking lad, and plied him with questions. All he could tell them was substantially the same as they had learned from Gamp. Capt. Hardy had been examined by competent physicians, and he had been ordered to drop baseball and refrain from all kinds of violent exertion.

“It’s a shame!” groaned Jones. “Just at this time Yale can’t afford to lose a single good man.”

“Don’t you worry a bit,” said Hodge. “If Merriwell is made captain of the team, Yale will not lose anything. I know Phil Hardy is a dandy, but Frank Merriwell is another.”

Somebody laughed scornfully and shortly.

Hodge looked round quickly, his face flushing crimson.

“Laugh!” he exclaimed. “I know what I am talking about! I have traveled with Frank Merriwell, and he is all right.”

“From his head up,” said a voice.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Pooler. Well, you are the one I’d expect would make such a remark.”

Pooler strode forward, scowling blackly.

“Why, you miserable fool!” he snarled; “do you dare talk to me like that? I’ll—I’ll——”

Hodge looked Pink straight in the eyes.

“I am going to tell you now that I do not think but little of you, Mr. Pooler,” he said. “You are always croaking. Now you are howling about Yale’s ball team. I’m willing to bet fifty dollars that Yale beats Princeton next Saturday, and I’ll bet fifty more she wins the college championship.”

Pooler was digging down into his pockets.

“Money talks!” he cried. “It’s a shame to rob a fool, but I can’t stand everything. Here is my money. I’ll put it in the hands of Gooch.”

“Put it in Halliday’s hands and I will cover it,” said Hodge, hotly.

“All right. I’m not fussy. Halliday suits me.”

The money was staked and covered.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE DOUBLE SHOOT.

“You have speed to burn, Merry,” cried Bart Hodge, as he rounded up on catching a ball that had come flying like a bullet from Frank’s hand. “There must be powder behind those whistlers.”

Frank laughed. His hat, coat and vest were off, and he was perspiring freely. Together with Bart, he was putting in a little practice. Frank was in the pink of condition. His eyes were clear and bright, his complexion almost girlish in its pink-and-white, while his legs, arms, muscles, all were firm and hard. The flesh of his arm, from which the sleeve was rolled back, was white as marble.

“Some of the fellows who have been croaking about your ‘dead wing’ will drop dead when they see you shoot ’em over,” said Hodge, his face glowing with enthusiasm and earnestness.

“There are always croakers, Bart,” said Frank, indifferently. “A fellow is a fool if he permits them to bother him.”

“They make me thundering mad.”

“Mustn’t notice them.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Can if you try.”

“No. I am not built like you.”

“It all comes of practice. If you keep trying, in a short time you get so you do not notice it at all. Get on to this twist, old man.”

Then Frank made a jumping motion with his body, but held his feet on the ground, and sent in a ball that made Bart blink and gasp.

“Talk about chain-lightning!” cried Hodge. “Why, that one was a regular dodger! How’d you do it, Frank? or did my eyes fool me?”

Merriwell laughed heartily over Bart’s surprise.

“I call that my double shoot,” he explained. “I’ll give it to you again.”

Bart tossed back the ball, and Frank carefully wound his fingers round it; then made the jumping motion, sending it whizzing through the air again.

This time Hodge dodged and let it go past.

“Scissors!” he cried. “That fooled me. I thought it was going the other way. It took a queer shoot on the last end.”

Again Frank laughed.

“That was the double curve the other way,” he said.

Hodge trotted back to the netting and got the ball. As he came down with it, he said:

“I’d like to know when you got onto that quirk. I’ve heard of ‘zigzag curve pitching,’ but I never took any stock in it. I don’t see how it is possible to give a ball two motions, so it will curve in and then turn and curve out without stopping.”

“I discovered the trick by accident,” confessed Frank. “It’s a hard one, and no man can use it much, for it will knock the stuffing out of his wrist if he does. You know a drop-ball pitcher soon uses himself up. Well, this is worse on a fellow than pitching the drop.”

“What does it do?”

“Makes the back of the wrist lame, right here,” and Frank touched the spot. “There is a snap to it that does the job. The motion of the ball when it leaves the fingers gives it one curve, and the other curve is given to it by the snap of the wrist.”

“Say, Merry.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell anybody about this.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Because if you do, they won’t believe it. There’s not one old ball player in a hundred who will believe any pitcher can make a ball curve in and out without stopping. There is such a thing as an outdrop, but a double-shoot—Great Scott! it will be the sensation of the season!”

“I don’t propose to use it much.”

“I should say not!”

“It will be a great thing on some occasions.”

“You bet! Why, it’ll paralyze a batter! He’ll think he’s got ’em.”

Frank pitched two more of those queer curves, and then stopped, saying he did not dare to follow it up, for fear of hurting his wrist.

“Look here, Merry,” cried Bart; “you’ll have to let me know when you are going to do that, or I’ll have a passed ball sure. And I want to know what the final curve will be, too. Can you pitch a rise and a drop the same as you do this in and out?”

Frank shook his head.

“I have tried all sorts of ways, but I can’t pitch a ball that will have a double motion up and down. Some fellow may strike it some time, but I am inclined to think it an impossibility.”

“Did you ever see a pitcher who could pitch a double-shoot before you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Billy Mains.”

“Who’s Billy Mains?”

“He’s a tall, angular Yankee from somewhere down in Maine—Windham is the town, I believe.”

“Where did you see him?”

“With the Bostons.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“He was not given a fair trial. He pitched the last three innings of the opening game at Boston between Boston and Baltimore last season. The first Baltimore batter to face Mains thought he had the jim-jams, sure, for Mains started an outshoot, and, while the batter stood with his stick poised, expecting the ball would pass two feet beyond the plate, the sphere curved in round his neck and glanced off the end of his bat. The fellow was so astonished he dropped his bat and fell down himself trying to get out of the way after the ball had passed. He may have thought from the curves it had that it might turn round and come back his way. I was sitting in the grand-stand directly behind the catcher, so I plainly saw the double curve of the ball. A hundred others saw it, and half of them uttered cries of astonishment. One old man said he had been following baseball for seventeen years, but never had he seen anything like that before. Right then I resolved to find out how to make that curve, and I have been working at it ever since. One day, when I wasn’t thinking of it, I happened to throw an out with a peculiar snap of my wrist. I saw it take the double curve, and I was lucky enough to remember just how I did it. After that I kept at it till I was sure of throwing it when I wanted to, but I tried it so much I came near knocking my wrist out.”

“That’s it!” cried Bart. “That’s how the story started that you had a ‘dead wing.’ The fellows knew you had lamed your arm, but they did not see how you did it with the amount of throwing you did.”

“The wonder to me now is that I did not lame it more. I was working at it altogether too much.”

“This Mains, what became of him?”

“Oh, he has been in the New England League and the Eastern League since his trial with Boston.”

“Do you consider him a good man?”

“He has one bad fault.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s wilder than a hawk at times, and he is liable to weaken or go to pieces when the batters fall on him. But for that, he is fast enough for the National League. I consider him a better man than lots of pitchers in the National League, and he will get there some day, too.”

“I should think his double-shoot would land him in the big league.”

“I don’t believe he can control it, and, after he uses it, he seems to get wild right away. It knocks him out.”

“Isn’t it going to do that with you, Merry?”

“Can’t tell,” confessed Frank. “If it does, I won’t use it except on a pinch at the very last end of a game when everything depends on striking out a good batter. It will be valuable if I don’t use it more than three or four times for the season.”

Hodge nodded.

“It might save the championship. Nobody can tell. What do you know about Nat Finch, the new Princeton man?”

“Nothing, save what I have heard in the way of gossip and what I have read in the papers.”

“Everybody seems to think he’s a terror.”

“He must be a good man, or he would not have such a reputation. But he will have his bad days, like the rest of us.”

“We can’t expect to win the pennant on his bad days.”

“Not much. Harvard is not making such a blow as Princeton, but she will put a strong team in the field.”

“What do you know about Harvard?”

“I know she will be in it with both feet. To-day I consider Harvard fully as dangerous as Princeton.”

“She is not generally considered so.”

“I know it, but Harvard is coming in these days. I’ll tell you something. If Yale does not win the pennant this year, Harvard will.”

Hodge was surprised, and he showed it; for, like others, he had regarded Princeton as Yale’s most dangerous rival. Never before had he heard Frank so freely express an opinion as to the situation.

Bart knew Frank well enough to feel confidence in his judgment on baseball.

“Where is Harvard’s strong point?” he asked.

“The whole team,” declared Frank. “They are not making a great howl over one pitcher, for they have two good men left over from last season, besides any new men that may develop. Reports from Cambridge say they are putting in plenty of practice. They are getting in team work, and team work pays. A nine of brilliant individual players will often be slaughtered by an inferior nine simply because the latter is well up in team work. Yale should have more practice in team work, I think.”

“Perhaps you’ll have a chance to take charge of her practice. You know Phil Hardy is out of it, and——”

“There’s very little chance for me,” said Frank, quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because the only way I would accept the position is on certain conditions, and the committee will never agree to those conditions.”

CHAPTER XX.

RATTLETON’S WARNING.

Hodge felt no little curiosity to know what those conditions were, but, as Merriwell did not show an inclination to state them, he refrained from asking questions.

Bart had begun to understand Frank very well, and he could tell when Merry wished to talk and when he chose to be silent. With rare good judgment, Hodge seldom attempted to induce Frank to talk when he showed a disposition to be reticent.

Merriwell rolled down his sleeve and picked up his coat. He felt that he had practiced quite enough for the time.

Just then Harry Rattleton entered the park and approached hurriedly, his face betraying no small amount of excitement.

“I want to Merry you, see—I mean I want to see you, Merry,” he spluttered.

“All right,” smiled Frank. “Here I am. Take a good look at me.”

“Want to tell you something.”

“I will listen.”

Harry cast a quick glance at Bart.

“Want to tell it to you privately,” he said.

Bart turned and strolled away, pulling on his coat.

“Fire away,” said Frank. “No one will hear you.”

Rattleton seemed troubled about beginning. He stammered some, and then burst forth:

“Don’t you do it, Merry—don’t you do it! It’s a put up job! Don’t you do it!”

“If you’ll tell me what it is,” smiled Frank, “I may be able to tell you if there is any danger that I will do it.”

“They’re going to try to run you in.”

“How run me in? Arrest me?”

“No, no! Run you in captain of the nine.”

“Oh, is that what you are driving at?”

“Yes. I am dead on to the grooked came—I mean the crooked game!”

Harry was so excited that he twisted himself badly.

“What is the crooked game?” asked Frank. “You are talking in enigmas.”

“It’s a plot!”

“What kind of a plot?”

“A plot to put you in disgrace.”

“How?”

“Everybody most seems to think the team we have now stands no show of winning the pennant.”

“Well?”

“That’s why they want to run you in captain.”

“Think so?”

“Know so. I’m willing to bet Phil Hardy paid that doctor something to forbid him from playing. Hardy is a sharp one. He saw Yale stood no show, and he was sick. He wanted to get out, and he took that way of crawling.”

Frank shook his head.

“I don’t want to think that of Hardy,” he soberly said. “I don’t want to think any man that much a sneak. No, Rattles, you are dead wrong about Phil.”

“I’m red dight—I mean dead right!” excitedly declared Harry. “You have too much confidence in human nature. You never will think a man crooked till it is proven for you, and then you don’t like to believe it.”

“What’s the use?” said Frank, quietly. “I dislike to have my confidence in human nature shattered—I refuse to have it shattered. I know there is more good than bad in the world. The person who is forever looking for the bad is the one who never sees the good, and he has no one but himself to blame. I am no pessimist.”

“But you are a thundering fool sometimes!” blurted Rattleton. “I don’t care a continental if you punch my head for saying so, but you are a fool sometimes!”

Instead of showing anger at these plain words, Frank beamed in a sunny manner, his red lips parting to show his gleaming white teeth.

“You are jolly original to-day, old man,” he said, merrily. “You surprise me.”

“Oh, say!” snapped Harry. “There isn’t anything to laugh about. I am in earnest. Now, look here, Frank, I want to tell you something. By chance I heard some of your particular admirers talking about you.”

“Who were they?”

“Gordan, Gooch, Pooler, Paulding and Marline.”

“Marline’s all right.”

“I should think so!” burst forth Harry. “He’s the fellow who was going to kill you!”

“In a fair duel.”

“Oh, he’s a bloodthirsty dog!”

“He has seemed friendly enough since our encounter.”

“Hasn’t dared be any other way. He was in the gang, and he doesn’t like you any too much. He thinks you are holding your head too high, and he’d like to see you taken down several pegs.”

“Well, what were they saying?”

“Saying Hardy got out because he saw Yale did not have a show this season. Saying that you would be made captain, and that you’d get all the blame for Yale’s hard luck. They laughed over it like fiends. Oh, they were having a jolly time to think how it would pull you down.”

Frank’s lips closed and were pressed together. A hard, resolute look settled on his face, and still he smiled. There was confidence in that smile, and there was scorn in it.

“My enemies have thought the same thing about many things I have taken part in,” he said, quietly.

“But this is different,” Rattleton declared. “I tell you this is a plot, and I believe Phil Hardy is in it. He knew they would put you in captain, and that is why he got out. There’s no more trouble with his heart than there is with mine.”

“He has the doctor’s certified statement.”

“That’s nothing. Bet he had to pay for it.”

Still Frank refused to believe that. He had known Hardy but a short time, but he believed the fellow on the level. Phil had played fast ball on the team the season before, although he had not been friendly with Merriwell, who was one of the regular pitchers. He had been chosen to captain the nine, as well as manage it, and, with few exceptions, the choice was considered a good one. It did not seem possible now that because Yale had not turned out as strong a team as usual, Hardy had weakened and resorted to a trick to get out of his position of responsibility.

“You must remember, Rattles,” said Frank, “that he had a bad spell in the game last Saturday.”

“Made it.”

“Then he is a corking actor.”

“He didn’t fool me.”

Still Frank refused to be convinced.

“There is little danger that I’ll be put in captain of the nine,” he said.

“There is every danger of it. You are the very man who will be offered the place.”

“But the committee will not accept my terms.”

“Your terms?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why, you——”

“I shall have a proposal to make to them.”

Harry did not have such scruples about questioning Frank as troubled Hodge. His curiosity was aroused.

“What sort of a proposal will you make?” he asked.

Frank did not answer the question, for, at that moment, another man entered the park, saw Merriwell, and approached him swiftly.

“Hardy!” exclaimed Frank.

“Hardy!” cried Rattleton, softly. “He’s up to something now. Look out for him, Merry! Don’t be trapped.”

CHAPTER XXI.

CAPT. MERRIWELL.

Phil Hardy was an honest-looking fellow, and it was not remarkable that Merriwell did not believe him the crafty chap Rattleton represented him to be.

He came forward swiftly.

“You are the very man I am looking for, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.

“Well, you have found me,” smiled Frank.

“I thought I might find you here when I found you were not in your room or on the campus. You are wanted at a meeting of the directors of the ball team.”

Rattleton gave Frank a warning look.

Hardy took hold of Merriwell’s arm and led him away, while Hodge and Rattleton followed.

“It’s a shame to drag Merry into this!” spluttered Harry.

“Into what?” asked Bart, innocently.

“Why, don’t you know? They’re after him to be captain of the ’varsity nine in Hardy’s place.”

“That’s good.”

“Good!” cried Harry. “It’s a conspiracy—a plot—an outrage! That’s what it is!”

“Oh, come off! What are you driving at, anyway? Are you nutty?”

“Not a bit of it, Hodge. I tell you it is a plot to hurt Frank! He’s a fool if he lets them pull him into it after what I have told him! But, for all of his shrewdness about most things, he is easy sometimes. He wants to think everybody white. He is the kind of fellow who will let a chap walk all over him and then play the friend to that sort of a cur. That’s where he makes his mistake.”

Now Hodge was aroused, for Rattleton had touched him on a tender spot.

“You are wrong!” cried Bart, flushing. “No man walks all over Frank Merriwell. You never knew a fellow to get the best of Merriwell and hold his advantage. Frank is a fighter, and his worst enemies agree on that point, but he fights fair. He will not take an unfair advantage of his meanest and most sneaking enemies, and, for that very reason, the worst enemies he has respect him.”

“Rot!”

“There is no rot about it. I know, for I was his enemy once, and I did everything in my power to injure him. I did not hesitate to resort to any sort of expedient, no matter how mean and sneaking. I did some very mean things, but still I could not get the best of Frank Merriwell. Sometimes I thought I had him, but I always found out my mistake. When I got him down I was unable to hold him. It made me furious, for I have a temper of my own and a little pride. I was fierce enough to kill him.”

“Well, what does that prove?” impatiently asked Harry.

“Wait. I am not through. What I want to tell you is this: The more I tried to hurt Merriwell in a sneaking manner the lower I sunk in my own estimation, for I found that he knew what I had done, and yet he refused to get back at me in the same way, although he had opportunities enough. He would not lower himself to fight me with the same kind of weapons I was using. At first I thought him afraid of me——”

“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Rattleton. “That’s just what they think of him when he goes easy with them.”

“But I learned better than that after a time,” Hodge went on. “I found out he was not afraid at all. It was not cowardice, but it was courage. He was willing to fight me fairly while I took any mean advantage of him, and still he was not afraid I would get the best of him in the end. He felt himself my match, and I began to feel that he was a better man than I in every way. That was what hurt me most. I did not like to think that the fellow I hated was more honorable than I; I did not like to think he would scorn to strike me a foul blow, knowing all the while that I had struck him many such blows. I was forced to confess to myself that he was a squarer man than I, and that hurt me more than anything he could have done to me. It is the same with his enemies now. They know he is white, and they feel that they are sneaks. That galls them.”

“Let Frank Merriwell alone, Rattleton. He has a level head, and he can take care of himself.”

“Oh, you don’t understand the situation now!” cried Harry, showing impatience. “That is plain enough. Frank is so square he would not dream anybody could pull him into the trap that is set for him. Now look here, Hodge, I want you to understand that I am just as much Merry’s friend as you are, and I don’t like to see him trapped. I have warned him, but I’ll bet he’ll let them fool him just the same.”

“It’s seldom he is fooled, old man. It may seem for a time that he is fooled, but, in the end, it turns out the other party is the one fooled.”

“It can’t turn out that way this time. I have been in college longer than you, Hodge, and I know something about what I am driving at. The ’varsity nine is in a bad way this season. It is weaker than it has been before in six years, while Princeton and Harvard are stronger. Yale’s stanchest supporters say she has no show of winning the pennant. Now, right here is where the trick comes in. Phil Hardy is captain and manager. He knows he will be blamed more or less for the fizzle Yale is bound to make, and he gets out in a hurry——”

“By his doctor’s orders.”

“Bah! Fake! Trickery! Can’t fool me that way! Doctor’s fush! I talk what I’m knowing about—I mean I know what I’m talking about. It was a trick. Hardy wanted to get out, and he took that way. Now, Merriwell is to be pulled in to fill the place, so all the blame may be piled on his shoulders. I’ve told him the whole business, and he will go in with his eyes open.”

“If you have told him, don’t worry about him,” said Bart, quietly. “He won’t be caught.”

“That’s what Hardy is after him for. I heard him say the directors of the ball team wanted to see him.”

“That’s all right. They will not trap Frank Merriwell. Don’t let that worry you.”

But Bart could not impart this feeling of confidence to Harry. They got on to the same car with Hardy and Merriwell, and Rattleton was uneasy and nervous all the way back to the college.

Harry wanted to get another word with Frank before the latter went before the directors, but Hodge held him back.

“I tell you to let him alone,” said Bart, sharply. “I should resent it if you kept after me in such a manner.”

“You needn’t worry!” snapped Harry. “I wouldn’t keep after you at all. If I took the trouble to warn you once, I’d let you go after that.”

“Surely Frank Merriwell is as shrewd as I am.”

The afternoon exercises were over. On the campus were gathered knots of students, all of whom seemed to be eagerly discussing something of general importance.

“They know what is up,” said Harry. “They are talking baseball.”

He was right. Almost the sole topic of conversation on the Yale campus that afternoon was the baseball situation. The outlook for Yale was so dark that the most hopeful felt the shadow of gloom. Right on top of the loss of Capt. Hardy, Bink Stubbs had been conditioned, so that he must give up playing or take the chance of being dropped a class. The general feeling seemed to be that Yale’s nine was all to pieces.

The appearance of Merriwell in company with Phil Hardy caused a stir.

“There goes the lamb to the slaughter,” laughed Walter Gordan, who was in the midst of a little gathering of Merry’s old-time foes.

“Wouldn’t it be moah propah to say the cawfe?” drawled Willis Paulding, with a weak attempt at wit.

“Oh, he made himself a big gun by his work on the football team last fall,” said Pooler, with a grin of satisfaction; “but he’ll lose it all if he takes Hardy’s place on the nine.”

“He can’t get Hardy’s place,” said Walt Forrest.

“Hey?” cried the others. “What do you mean by that? It’s what they want him for.”

“I guess not,” grinned Forrest.

“Really?” questioned Sidney Gooch, in his smooth, insinuating way. “Why, that is what I heard.”

“They may want him to be captain of the nine,” said Forrest; “but he can’t have Hardy’s place. He will be substitute captain, and that is all. Besides that, Hardy was manager. I know for a fact that the directors intend to keep Hardy in manager just the same, so Merriwell will be under him.”

“And I know for a fact,” said Pooler, “that Phil Hardy has no intention of remaining manager. He knows better than that. Don’t take that boy for a fool.”

“You think—just what?”

“He wants to get out of it entirely.”

“Because he thinks Yale has no show?”

“Sure.”

“Aw! I think that is wight, don’t yer ’now,” drawled Paulding. “Some verwy fine fellows in Hawvard. I weally think they awe going to win this yeah.”

No one paid any attention to Willis, for his opinion was not regarded as important.

“If Hardy gets out, Merriwell will be manager,” said Walter Gordan, who was green with envy, although he was trying to hide it.

“Not on your life!” laughed Forrest. “The directors will attempt to manage the team themselves, and I pity the poor devil of a captain. He’ll get it in the neck on all sides.”

This caused a general laugh, for these fellows rejoiced to think of the trouble Frank Merriwell would get into.

“Weally,” said Willis, again attempting to call some attention to himself, “I am wuther glad Hawvard has a show this yeah. I do not think it propah faw Yale to win all the time, deah boys.”

“Oh, rats!” cried Gordon. “Harvard hasn’t a show. It will be Princeton this year.”

The others nodded.

“Finch will make monkeys of our poor fellows,” said Pooler, with an attempt at dolefulness.

“What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Forrest. “You want to see Yale defeated?”

“Oh, really I protest!” cried Pooler.

“Still, as long as Merriwell has anything to do with the Yale team, it will give you satisfaction to see Yale defeated. You can’t deny that,” said Forrest.

“Oh, I’d rather see Yale win, for all of Merriwell, but I do not have so much sympathy with her when she loses if he plays.”

“Say!” cried Forrest. “I want you to think of one little thing. Yale seldom loses at anything when Frank Merriwell is in the game. He seems to be Old Eli’s mascot.”

“Of cawse, it’s all beastly luck,” put in Paulding. “He doesn’t really have any more to do with it than any other good man would.”

“You may think as you like about that,” said Forrest, evasively; “but you must confess that he seems to bring Yale good luck. We thought she was a dead duck at football last fall, but he put new life and snap into the team, and Yale came out on top.”

“He can’t do that with the ball team,” said Gordan. “There’s where he’ll meet his Waterloo.”

“Let’s see, Gordan,” said Forrest, “I believe you and Merriwell were rivals for pitching honors the first year in college. He got on to the ’varsity nine, and you got left. Ha, ha! You haven’t admired him since.”

Gordan flushed.

“Oh, it wasn’t that,” he declared; “but he thinks he is so much. That’s what makes me sick.”

“We all have our reasons for not loving him,” said Pooler. “It’s no use to talk about that. The worst thing I wish him now is that they make him captain of the ball team.”

Rattleton and Hodge drifted from knot to knot of the students on the campus, finding all were talking baseball. The events of the last few hours had stirred up the “sports” wonderfully.

Rattleton was excited and nervous. He was waiting for the reappearance of Frank Merriwell.

On the other hand, Hodge seemed unusually cool and unconcerned. Bart smiled whenever he heard fears expressed as to the result of the struggle for the pennant, and he smiled more when some one declared Yale did not have a show.

It was generally known that the directors meant to appoint Merriwell captain of the nine, but there were not a few who declared Frank was too wise to accept the position at that late hour and under such unfavorable circumstances.

An hour passed. It was growing dark swiftly. Lamps were sending gleams of light from the windows of the quad. It was a mild spring night, and voices could be heard calling from the open windows. Over in South Middle a banjo was plunk-plunking. There were bursts of laughter now and then. Some fellow was whistling “Maggie Murphy’s Home.”

Still the “sports” lingered on the campus, waiting for Hardy and Merriwell to appear.

Rattleton was so nervous he could not hold himself still three seconds at a time. Hodge was not disturbed in the least.

“Here they come!”

Somebody uttered a cry. The former captain of the nine was seen approaching, with Frank Merriwell at his side. He was seen to grasp Frank by the arm and draw him toward the largest collection of students near the fence. Other students made a rush for that spot.

“Gentlemen,” said Phil Hardy, speaking clearly and distinctly, “I wish to introduce to you my successor, Mr. Merriwell, who is now captain and manager of the ’varsity nine.”

CHAPTER XXII.

FRANK’S TERMS.

“Three cheers for Capt. Merriwell!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

“Three more for Manager Merriwell!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

The pent-up feelings of the crowd burst forth in a wild roar of satisfaction.

“Now,” rang out the clear voice of Charlie Creighton, as he scrambled up on the shoulders of two strong fellows and waved his cap in the air, “now give three cheers for plain Frank Merriwell, the whitest man, the truest sport, and the best all-round athlete in Yale! Wake ’em up!”

They did. The feeling of enthusiasm that seized upon them just then was intense, and they cheered and cheered again.

The windows of the quad filled. The news spread, and the cheering became general.

Harry Rattleton was numb with dismay.

“Manager and captain!” he gasped. “Gracious!”

Bart Hodge was palpitating with satisfaction.

“Manager and captain!” he cried. “Hurrah!”

On the outskirts of the crowd that had gathered so swiftly about the new captain was Walter Gordan, eating his heart out with envy.

“Oh, it’s just his infernal luck!” Walter whimpered. “Hear the fools cheer for him! It’s all they know!”

“Let them cheer now,” Pink Pooler muttered in Gordan’s ear. “The cheering will turn to groans after a few ball games have been played.”

“I don’t know,” said Forrest, who had caught Pink’s words. “He has been shrewd enough to get himself appointed manager, as well as captain. There is no telling what he may do with the team.”

“It’s too late for him to make it a winner,” said Pooler, with satisfaction. “It takes time to build up a winning nine.”

Frank’s friends crowded about him, shaking his hand and congratulating him, with a few exceptions. Some of his friends were not enthusiastic over his appointment. Harry Rattleton was one of them. A few others thought the same as Harry about it.

But these were but few of the crowd that swarmed about Merry. Of course, some of those who shook his hand and expressed their delight were hypocritical, but the most of them were sincere.

Frank was modest. He smiled and said:

“Thank you, fellows. You are more than kind. It does one good to know he has such friends.”

Harry Rattleton groaned.

“It seems to me Merry is getting to be a soft thing!” he muttered. “They have made a mark of him this time, and he walked into the trap with his eyes open.”

Harry was disgusted. He had warned Frank, but Frank had not heeded the warning. From what he had overheard, Rattleton was sure it was a trap to injure Frank.

For a little while Harry was so disgusted that he went off by himself and declared he was glad of it, and that he hoped they would soak it to Frank.

Then he was ashamed of himself for wishing ill luck to such a friend, and he felt like punching somebody’s head.

It was about this time that Andy Emery, on the way to his room, saw Rattleton standing all alone in a dejected attitude beneath one of the big elms.

“Hey, there, Rattles!” called Emery, coming close enough to recognize Harry in the twilight. “What are you sulking here for? Why aren’t you making merry along with Merriwell’s other friends?”

Harry looked at Andy and scowled. The scowl was wasted in the gloom, for Emery did not see it.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Emery, coming closer. “You should be happy to know Merriwell is captain, even if Yale does not stand a show of winning.”

“Now, you want to be careful!” growled Harry, fiercely. “I’m in no mood for your jokes! I’ll bet you something Yale does win! They can’t beat Frank Merriwell!”

“Come off!” laughed Emery. “He’s made a chump of himself this time, and everybody knows it.”

“That’s a lie!” snarled Rattleton. “And I won’t stand to have anybody call Frank Merriwell a chump before me!”

Then he let fly his right hand, struck Emery on the chin with his fist, and knocked the fellow down.

The moment Rattleton did this he was sorry. It seemed he did it without thinking.

Emery was dazed and astounded. He had always regarded Rattleton as a peaceable sort of fellow, but now——

“What in blazes do you mean?” he gasped, lifting himself upon his elbow.

In a moment Harry was kneeling beside the fellow he had struck.

“Forgive me, Emery, old man!” he cried, his voice quivering with shame and regret. “I didn’t know I was going to do it—honest, I didn’t! I did it before I thought! I’m half crazy, anyway! You know I wouldn’t do such a thing purposely! Let me help you up!”

“Get out!” said Emery, sharply. “I can get up myself. You are not to be trusted! It must be you have been drinking!”

“Not a drop. But I think I am dind of kaffy—I mean, kind of daffy! If I hadn’t been——Say, old man, hit me! I’ll take it all right. Soak me a good one! Knock me down!”

Emery was on his feet, and Harry was begging to be struck in turn. Andy looked at him in amazement, and then turned away, gently rubbing the spot where Rattleton’s knuckles had struck.

“You are daffy!” Emery flung over his shoulder. “You ought to be in an asylum.”

Harry stood still and stared after Emery till he was gone. Then an almost irresistible desire to shed tears assailed the excited fellow, who was completely unstrung.

He hurried to his room and locked himself in, feeling that he never wanted to see anybody again.

Deep down in his heart Harry Rattleton was one of the truest of Frank Merriwell’s friends. His affection for Frank was of the most intense nature, and, being somewhat excitable, he had become hysterical over the misfortune he believed had befallen Merry. He would have done anything to keep Frank from walking into the trap. He was proud of Frank’s record at Yale, and he felt sure this meant the ruin of the proud reputation Merry had won.

Harry got hungry after a time. He began to realize it, and he became aware of the fact that he had not eaten dinner. Then he decided to go out to a restaurant somewhere and have something all alone by himself. He would be alone in his misery.

He was slinking along the streets like a whipped dog when somebody blocked his path, and a voice cried:

“Here he is, fellows! We won’t have to go to his room for him. It’s a streak of luck.”

Harry’s heart gave a thump as he recognized Merriwell’s voice. He looked up, and saw three fellows before him. They were Merry, Hodge and Browning.

“Come,” said Frank, locking arms with Harry. “We had started out to have a little feed when I thought of you, and we turned back to get you, if you have not eaten.”

At first Harry thought he would lie—thought he would say he had just eaten, so he might get away. But when he tried to say so, the words stuck in his throat. So Merry had thought of him, and they were coming to hunt him up and take him out. He choked, and there was a blurr before his eyes.

“You are very good,” he said, weakly, “but——”

“There is no but about it,” said Frank, in his hearty, whole-souled manner. “If you have not eaten, you must come along and have a square feed; if you have eaten, you must come along just the same and watch us fill our sacks. Line up, fellows, and close in on him.”

Hodge took Rattleton’s arm, and Browning fell in behind, lazily observing:

“He’s in for it now. Escape is impossible.”

So they bore him away to a first-class restaurant, where they had a little private dining room all to themselves, and Merriwell ordered an elaborate spread, and they pitched into the food and ate like the hearty, hungry fellows they were.

As he ate, Harry’s heart warmed. Frank was jollier than ever before. He laughed and joked, he told stories that caused the others to shout with laughter. He was the prince of good fellows, that was sure. Still, Harry could not help thinking what a shame it was that he had been trapped.

Hodge was unusually talkative, although his talk was of a serious nature. Browning managed to crack a joke now and then, and he was able to eat and laugh as heartily as anybody.

Not a word did any of them say about Merriwell’s new position of responsibility till the meal was over and their appetites satisfied.

Then Browning produced cigarettes and offered them to the others, laughing as he did so.

No one accepted a cigarette.

“I don’t suppose anybody will object if I smoke,” said Bruce, as he selected one.

“Yes,” said Frank, quietly, “I shall object, old man.”

With no little surprise, Browning saw Merriwell was in sober earnest.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Why should you object?”

“I have a very good reason. I may want you before the season is over.”

“Want me?” cried Browning. “What for?”

“First base.”

“Come off!”

“I am in earnest.”

“Why, I am too fat, Frank—I am not in condition. Such a thing is ridiculous!”

“You are large, but you might be fatter than you are. I know you can train down swiftly. A week of hard work will pull you down at an astonishing rate.”

Bruce groaned.

“It might; but I should not live through it,” he said, as he struck the match and prepared to light the cigarette.

Frank blew out the match and took the cigarette from Browning’s fingers.

“I am talking business to you now,” he said, almost sternly. “You are going to work systematically to-morrow to work off your flesh, for I may want you on the ’varsity nine. When you are in condition, you are a better man than Parker on first, while Parker is a better man than Faunce in the field. One trouble with the nine is that several of the men are not playing in their proper positions.”

“But you are not going to have the nerve to switch them around! You will not have the crust to fire some of them and take on new men?”

“Won’t I? Wait and see. You know I am manager, as well as captain. I considered everything before I told the directors what I would do. They wanted me to be captain, while they retained the management of the nine. I said ‘Nit!’ I told them that, if I became captain, I must be manager also, and that I must have absolute and thorough control of the team. I must have the authority to do just as I pleased, with nobody to forbid me.”

“Good for you!” cried Hodge, while Rattleton brightened up and showed great interest.

“It staggered them at first,” smiled Frank. “They thought I had a crust. They tried to induce me to agree to their terms, but I would not. Then they had a fight among themselves, for some were against giving me so much rope. I waited quietly till the smoke of battle cleared away, and then I found they were ready to accept my terms. So I am manager, as well as captain, and I am going to run things just as I please. If I make a fizzle of it, no one else will be to blame.”

“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed the enthusiastic Hodge.

Harry shook his head, but said nothing.

Frank saw the movement, and quickly asked:

“What’s the matter, Rattles? Come, come! You are off your trolley. Everything is all right.”

“I’m afraid everything is all wrong,” said Rattleton, gravely; “but I warned you, and you went into it with your eyes open.”

“Yes, but I went in on my own terms. I’ll make an overturning in the nine.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Besides, the material is not here to make a corking nine. You can’t make a first-class ball team out of second-class material.”

“I believe the material is here,” said Merry, quietly; “but I do not think it is all on the nine. I got Hodge on, and now I am going to have Browning.”

“Oh, come, Merry!” gasped Bruce. “I’ll do almost anything for you, but I can’t torture myself to work off flesh in a hurry. Besides, I could not get enough off to——”

“You can get off enough in ten days so you will be able to play ball all right. I want you for your batting. Batters count. You are a good hitter, and the team is weak at the bat. It’s no use, Bruce; I want you, and am going to have you. You must quit drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. You must go into training to-morrow, and you must work hard to get off superfluous flesh. One week from Saturday you go on the nine.”

It was useless for Browning to beg; Merry had decided, and the big fellow could not get out of it.

“I wouldn’t do it for any other man living,” declared the lazy student; “but I suppose I’ll have to for you. You are a perfect tyrant, anyway. What you say goes.”

“And what he says is right,” declared the confident Hodge.

“Then I will say right here,” spoke Frank, with quiet assurance, “that Yale will have a nine that will be the surprise of the season. We are going after that pennant, and Princeton and Harvard will have to hustle to win.”

Hodge nodded. He was thinking of Merriwell’s marvelous double-shoot.

“They can’t touch it,” he muttered.

“Eh?” said Browning. “What’s that? Touch what?”

“You’ll see,” said Hodge, his eyes gleaming. “Frank says the Yale team will be a surprise, but I know what will be a still greater surprise.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

PRINCETON’S STARTER.

The opening game of the college league was on. Yale and Princeton were drawn up for the first struggle on the grounds of the latter nine. Yale was in the field, with “Stew” Walbert in the box. The preliminary practice was all over, and the umpire was opening a box to extract a brand new ball.

Haggerty and Merriwell were on the bench in uniform. Browning was on the bench in citizen’s clothes. Merriwell showed no signs of nervousness. Browning was placid as a spring morning. Haggerty fidgeted.

Yale was not well represented by “rooters” from New Haven. There was one lonesome little knot huddled on the bleachers, trying to look happy and confident, but making a sad failure of it.

Yale men had stayed away. They felt that their team had no show at all, and they did not have the heart to go down to Princeton and root against a sure thing.

But there was plenty of blue in the grand stand. The young ladies there showed that they admired the boys from Connecticut, and they were not afraid to show their colors.

But the orange and black predominated even there. It seemed to be everywhere. Princeton had a strong team, and men of good judgment were confident she would start off a winner, flukes not taken into consideration.

Walbert was pale as he faced the first Princeton batter. He had seen long Joe Varney before, and he knew the “gangling” left fielder of the “Tigers” was a “lacer.”

Walbert took a little time to look over the ground near his feet. He planted his toe on the rubber plate, and then wound up with an eccentric movement of the arm, and shot in a “twister.”

Varney went after the very first one, and got it!

Crack!—and away flew the ball toward right field, while the Princeton lads opened up at the crack of the bat.

“Hurrah! hurrah! Tiger—sis-s-s! boom! ah!”

It was a hit. Everybody saw that in a moment, for Hal Faunce could not gather it in, although he sprinted for it.

Down to first raced Varney. He was an exuberant fellow, and he flapped his long arms, like the wings of a rooster, and crowed hoarsely as he stood on the bag.

That caused another roar to go up. Coachers were on hand, and they began rattling off their talk as soon as the ball was returned to the pitcher.

Walbert tried to grin derisively, but there was a sick expression on his face.

Bruce Browning grunted.

“Another one like that will break his heart, Merriwell,” he said. “He may be a good man when things are going his way, but he can’t stand grief.”

Frank said nothing. He sat there as if taking very little interest in the game, but he was watching Walbert closely.

Beverage, Princeton’s short, was the second batter. He laughed as he came to the plate; he laughed in Walbert’s face. The Tigers were full of confidence. They had heard all about Yale’s weak points, and they were looking for a snap.

Walbert resolved that Beverage should not get a hit off the first ball pitched to him, so he sent him an outcurve that a four-foot bat could not have reached.

The ball was so wide that Hodge had to fling himself after it, and he lost his footing.

A great cry of delight and mingled derision went up.

Varney was scudding down to second, and Hodge was on his knees. But Bart had stopped the ball, and now he turned. Without attempting to get upon his feet, he drew back his arm and sent a liner flying toward second base.

It was possible that every one but Frank Merriwell was surprised by this attempt of the catcher to throw to second while on his knees. A shout of contempt and merriment went up.

That shout turned to one of astonishment, for they saw the ball fly through the air like a bullet, seeming to shoot on a dead line for second. It did not seem that a man could make such a throw while on his knees. It did seem like a miracle.

The coachers were so astounded that they forgot to shout for the runner to slide, and Varney, who had seen Bart fall when he went after the ball, believed there was no need of taking a chance of hurting himself by sliding.

Wintz, Yale’s second baseman, came running toward the bag to cut Varney off. He acted as if he expected to take a throw, but Varney laughed aloud.

“Can’t fool me that way,” he said. “The trick is stale.”

But, a moment later he nearly fainted, for something shot before him and struck with a plunk in Wintz’s hands. Then the second baseman touched the runner, while Varney was still four feet from the bag.

Varney stopped on second and turned quickly. He was in time to see Wintz snap the ball to Walbert and hear the umpire cry:

“Runner is out!”

Varney was dazed.

“Who threw that ball?” he gasped.

“The man behind the bat, of course,” laughed Wintz.

“I know better!” cried Varney. “He couldn’t do it! He was down! It passed him. Some outsider threw it in. It is a blocked ball.”

But the umpire motioned for him to come in, and it dawned on him after a time that in some marvelous manner the Yale catcher had thrown the ball to second.

Hodge was cheered, and the wearers of the orange and black joined in the ovation he received. The little group of Yale men fairly split their throats howling their delight.

Pooler was one of the party from Yale, but he did not cheer as fiercely as the others. He was disgusted, as well as astonished.

Walt Forrest shouted in Pink’s ear:

“That is a feather in Merriwell’s cap. Hodge has done good work all along, but that throw was phenomenal. He is bound to become one of the greatest college catchers ever known.”

“Rot!” grunted Pooler. “He’ll make a fluke sometime that will take the wind out of his sails. He can’t keep it up always.”

Pooler had not been able to get many bets, as he had wished to bet on Princeton, and everybody else seemed to want to bet the same way. However, he had obtained a few by giving big odds, and all he regretted was that he could not get more.

When Browning saw Hodge throw Varney out at second he lay back with a deep sigh of satisfaction, and it must be confessed that Frank Merriwell breathed easier, for it had seemed that the runner was sure to make the bag safely.

When the shouting was over, Walbert again faced the batter. It seemed that he had gained fresh confidence, for he got two strikes on Beverage right away. Then he tried to “coax” the batter, and soon the score stood three balls and two strikes.

Then Walbert put one over, and Beverage sent it whistling through the Yale short as if nobody was there. It was a two-bagger, and the Tigers howled their delight.

After that, a hit and an error filled the bases. Then Walbert went “up in a balloon,” for he could not find the plate, and he forced two runs.

Haggerty had been warmed up before the game began, and now Frank lost no more time in taking Walbert out and putting the little Williams man in his place.

“What’s that mean, anyway?” growled one of the Yale rooters. “Why doesn’t Merriwell go in? Is he too lazy?”

“He doesn’t dare!” declared Pooler. “He knows Princeton is out for blood, and he doesn’t want to pitch a losing game.”

“I don’t believe that!” cried Charlie Creighton. “I don’t believe Frank Merriwell is a coward.”

“Well, you won’t see him pitch to-day, if he can help it.”

Haggerty flung his cap on the ground by his side, held the ball up before him with both hands, suddenly jerked it toward him, humped his back in a queer manner, and sent it whistling over the plate.

The batter lined it out. The first ball the little fellow pitched had been met squarely and sent flying toward left field.

The man on third held the bag and watched Joe Costigan get under the ball. Costigan did get under it, waited for it and dropped it!

Then the man on third came scudding home, while the others moved up a bag each, and again the bases were full.

“That is what comes of playing a man out of position,” thought Frank. “Costigan is a fine third baseman, but he is no fielder.”

But he did not say a word aloud.

Haggerty did his level best, and succeeded in striking out the next man.

The Yale rooters cheered feebly.

The next batter put up a long fly, which Cal Jeffers captured after a hard run, and the first half ended with Princeton “three to the good.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

FRANK IN THE BOX.

“That is easy,” said Charlie Creighton, hopefully. “Our boys will tie that without a struggle.”

But he was mistaken. Nat Finch, the Princeton wonder, did not do a thing but strike out three men in succession, while the great crowd roared its delight.

“That settles it!” said Pooler. “Those are three top-enders, the best batters on the team. If he can make monkeys of them like that, what will he do with the weak batters?”

The rooters were silent. They were discouraged. Not a few of them wished themselves back to New Haven.

Frank was the only one who seemed calm and unruffled. Bart Hodge was pale.

“That fellow Finch is a wizard, Merry!” he huskily exclaimed. “I don’t believe anybody else can fool Cal Jeffers like that. Why, Jeffers is a hitter!”

“That’s right,” nodded Frank, quietly. “But there is a question.”

“Eh? What sort of a question?”

“Can Finch hold this up?”

“He has a reputation.”

“I don’t care. I’ll go you something that he slumps before the game is over. He is a strike-out pitcher. He likes to do that trick, as it attracts attention to him. That is what will count against him.”

“We don’t have one show in a thousand unless you peel off and get into the game.”

“That is foolishness.”

“Not a bit of it. He has taken the wind out of the fellows.”

Frank sent Haggerty into the box again. The little fellow dreaded what was before him, but he went out resolved to do his best.

The first man up got a hit, while the next man got first on balls. Then the two tried a double steal, but Hodge shut the fellow off at third with an easy throw, and Walling came near making it a double by a snap throw to second.

Then another man got a hit, which left a man on first and third, the one on second only getting one base on the hit, as he stumbled and fell when he ran.

“A hit means a score!” roared a voice from the midst of the Princeton rooters.

“It may mean two scores,” cried another voice. “Murphy will steal second on the first ball pitched.”

Hodge called Haggerty up, and they whispered together, while the Princeton crowd guyed them.

Haggerty sent in a high ball on his next pitch, and Murphy, who was on first, shot toward second.

Hodge made a motion to line the ball down to second, and, as Stubbs was not playing in for a short throw and a return to the plate, the man on third started toward home.

Hodge did not throw to second. With a snap he wheeled toward third, and sent the ball whistling at Walling, who was hugging the bag.

The runner saw the trick, stopped short, and tried to get back to the bag.

Over his shoulder sped the ball, and he saw he was caught between the bases. He tried to dodge back and forth along the line, but Walling ran him down and pinned him.

Two men were out.

Thus far Yale had kept Princeton from scoring on the second inning, but it had not been by work in the box.

Now the men in yellow and black fell on Haggerty fiercely. They hammered him to right, to left, and to center. With two men out, they ran in three more scores in a hurry.

Before the third score was made, Frank Merriwell was out of his sweater and warming up. When the third man crossed the plate, he walked into the diamond, and Haggerty, sick at heart, came out of the box.

Frank was greeted with a cheer. The Yale men cheered him, and Princeton men clapped their hands, for he was well known and admired for his prowess.

His face was quite calm as he went into the box.

Pink Pooler sneered:

“Here is where Mr. Merriwell takes his medicine. Oh, Princeton has won the game now! Yale can’t get six scores off a fellow like Finch.”

Nobody said a word. All seemed to feel that Pooler was right.

Merry remembered how Billy Mains had paralyzed the Baltimore batter by sending in a double-shoot for the first ball, and he resolved to try it on the Princeton man. Bart signaled for a drop, but Frank gave him a signal that told his decision to use the double-shoot at the very start.

Having taken plenty of time, Merriwell sent in a “smoker.” The ball made a sharp outcurve, and then curved inward so quickly that it passed fairly over the outside corner of the plate, although it had looked like a wild one.

“One strike!” cried the umpire.

The batter dropped his stick and stared at Merriwell, while cries of astonishment came from the grand stand.

The face of Bart Hodge was calm and cold as ice, while his nerves were steady as a clock, although they had been badly shaken till Frank entered the box.

“Have I got ’em?” muttered the batter, as he rubbed his eyes and picked up his bat.

“What’s the matter?” sharply asked the captain of the team. “Why did you drop it?”

“You should have seen that ball!” returned the man at the plate. “It had more curves than a corkscrew! I’ll bet he can’t do it again.”

Not a word did Frank say, but again he assumed a position that told Hodge he would pitch a double-shoot.

This time he started it with an in, and it changed to an out, just as the batter leaped back to get out of the way.

Over the outside corner of the plate passed the ball.

“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.

The batter was dazed.

“I’d give a hundred dollars to know what kind of twists he is getting onto that thing!” he muttered. “Never saw anything like that before.”

After that he felt that he could not tell where the ball was coming. The next one started with an outcurve, but the batter feared it might twist in somehow, for all that such a thing seemed utterly impossible, so he fanned the empty air trying to hit it, and was out.

Frank had pitched three balls and struck the man out.

“Now, fellows,” said Frank, as his men gathered around him near the bench, “if you will keep cool and think you can hit Finch, you will hit him all right before you quit. I am going to try to hold them down hard. If we can make some scores in any possible way, we stand a fair shot at this game yet.”

“That’s rot!” said Hal Faunce. “We do not stand a ghost of a show. I can’t hit Finch, and I don’t believe the rest of you can.”

Without showing the least excitement, but speaking very coldly, Merry said:

“Faunce, go into the dressing room and get out of that suit. Browning will put it on if he can get into it.”

“What?” cried Faunce, harshly. “What do you mean?”

“I do not propose to put a man up against Finch who feels sure he can’t hit the fellow. It’s a waste of time.”

“You are going to lay me off?” growled Faunce.

“Yes,” said Frank, and turned away.

Cursing under his breath, Faunce started toward the dressing room. Frank motioned for Browning to follow, and Bruce obeyed.

It happened that Faunce was a big fellow, and the suits were loose, so that there was a chance for Browning to get into the one worn by the angry right fielder.

The game went on.

Bink Stubbs came to the bat and fanned out easily. Then Walling came up and popped an easy fly into the air, so Finch gathered it in and got an out to his credit.

Wintz was the next batter. He did not try to slaughter the ball, but he got up against it fairly, and sent it out toward short. Beverage should have picked it up, but he made a fumble, and Wintz succeeded in reaching first ahead of the ball.

“Here is where we start,” said Frank.

But Parker, the next man, batted a liner straight at Murphy, who took it easily.

Still not a hit had been obtained off Finch.

Frank went into the box, prepared to make a fight to keep Princeton from rolling up a score. He could not use his great double-shoot often, but he resolved to use it at critical times. He could control it in a marvelous manner, so it was not dangerous to use.

The first man up managed to find the ball. It was not a hit, but he got first on an error by Wintz.

Then Merry toyed with the next batter, while the anxious runner was held close to first, without daring to try a steal. At last the batter tried to bunt, but Frank apprehended the trick, and ran in the moment he pitched the ball.

Down toward third rolled the ball. Merry got it ahead of Walling, scooping it up with one hand, and turned, throwing it with the same motion that picked it from the ground.

Down to second sped the ball. It got there ahead of the runner, and Wintz snapped it to first quick as a flash.

It was a double play; both men were out.

Then the Yale rooters took heart and cheered. Once more not a few of the Princeton men were generous enough to give a hand.

Frank was not trying to make a brilliant record on strike-outs, but he was holding his opponents down on hits.

The next man up struck out, however, and then Yale once again came to the bat.

For the next three innings the score remained just the same; Princeton had made six, while Yale had not been able to score, although Merriwell, Hodge, Browning, Jeffers and Wintz obtained good hits. Finch, however, was keeping the hits scattered, and the cloud of gloom had settled thickly over the few Yale rooters huddled on the bleachers.

Merriwell was toying with Princeton’s best batters. Whenever it looked as if a good man had Merriwell in a hole, he would “put on steam,” send in one or two more of those baffling double-shoots, and strike the man out.

The rooters growled. Why hadn’t Frank gone in at the start? Then it might have been different. Now the game was lost beyond recovery.

“That shows what a fine manager he is,” sneered Pooler.

In the sixth inning Yale seemed in just as bad luck as ever. The first two men up went out, and then Hodge came to the bat. There was fire in Bart’s eye. He waited for a good one, and then smashed it out for one of the longest drives of the day, landing on third before the outfielders could get the sphere back into the diamond.

Merriwell was the next batter. He was very particular in the selection of a wagon-tongue bat, and, when he came up, he resolved to bring Bart in if possible.

Finch was shooting them over like bullets. He tried to strike Frank out, and that was where he made his mistake. Merry picked out a good one, found it, met it, and sent it humming.

In came Hodge, while Frank made two bags with ease.

The Yale rooters brightened up.

“What’s this? What’s this?” cried Charlie Creighton. “They have dropped on Finch at last! Now they will hit anything he sends over the plate.”

The Yale yell was heard, and the little bunch of rooters did their best to encourage the players.

Finch was astonished by Merriwell’s success. Suddenly he lost some of the supreme confidence that had buoyed him up all the while. Yale had scored at a time when a whitewash seemed sure. What was going to happen next?

Cal Jeffers came to the plate. He had been placed at the head of Yale’s batting list because of his qualities as a hard, sure hitter.

Hodge and Merriwell had secured hits, and Jeffers looked as if he meant to do the same.

Finch fiddled with the ball, while two Yale coachers shouted from opposite sides of the diamond. He pitched twice and had two called balls on him. Jeffers stood calmly waiting for a good one.

Finch decided to put on his greatest speed and cut the outside corner of the plate. He did, and Cal Jeffers swung his bat.

It did not seem that Jeffers put any force into that hit, but the ball went skimming down between short and second so fast that no one could touch it, and it placed Jeffers on second, while Merriwell scored with ease.

Two for Yale!

The rooters broke loose in earnest. This was better than they had expected.

And big Bruce Browning was at the bat!

Now Bruce seemed very much awake. He had barely been able to pull on Faunce’s suit, and it looked as if he might split open the shirt or the trousers at any moment.

Finch was nervous; he showed it. His confidence had dropped in an astonishing manner.

“It’s too bad,” said Pink Pooler, who showed some symptoms of uneasiness. “Why didn’t the fellows do this before? Now it is too late.”

“It’s never too late to mend,” said Dismal Jones, solemnly. “There is a chance for you.”

Finch resolved to worry Browning, but he made a mistake with the first ball he pitched. Without intending to do so, he sent that ball over close to the ground.

Browning hit it, and rapped out a daisy-cutter that enabled him to get first, while Jeffers, by the most brilliant running, crossed third and came home on a slide, getting in the score.

“There’s half of it!” screamed Jack Diamond, from the bleachers.

His voice was drowned by the Yale cheers.

Right there Finch went entirely to pieces. He became so wild that the next two men got a base on balls, and the bags were all taken. Then Walling rapped one to Princeton’s third baseman. It should have been an easy out, but the man was so anxious to pick it up cleanly that he juggled it, tossed it into the air, caught it, threw it to first, and put it away over the head of the baseman.

Browning had scored, Costigan followed him, and Bink Stubbs made a slide for third.

The right fielder was the man who got the ball. He shot it to first, and first sent it across to third. It was another wild throw. The whole Princeton nine seemed “up in the air.”

Stubbs scrambled up, hearing the coacher yelling for him to make for home. He did so. His short legs fairly twinkled as he tore down the line, and he crossed the plate ahead of the ball.

Then the Yale rooters yelled, and shrieked, and cheered till it seemed they were crazy, for the score was tied!

CHAPTER XXV.

VICTORY!

Another pitcher was set to warming up right away, although it was as much the fault of the infield players as of Finch that Yale had tied the score. Finch saw the man getting ready to go in, and that helped take the sand out of the fellow. He gave the next batter a base on balls, and then Parker got a hit that brought Walling home and gave Yale the lead.

It was a happy crowd of rooters who wore the blue just then. A few minutes before it had seemed that Yale did not have a show in the game. At the beginning of the inning Yale had not scored, and Princeton apparently had a snap. Now Yale was one score in the lead.

The students from New Haven acted like maniacs. They howled like so many savages, they sung, they thumped each other, they laughed and shrieked.

There was one who did not shout. It was Pooler. He looked very ill.

“Too bad!” he grated. “Is it possible Merriwell and Hodge are going to be the cause of beating me again! Oh, Merriwell is poison to me! His man, Hodge, started the ball rolling, and he followed it up. Then those Princeton puppies acted like a lot of children! It’s awful!”

He wiped the cold sweat from his face.

“Here’s to good old Yale, drink it down!” sang the rooters.

Finch dallied for time. He wanted to get out of the box, for something told him Yale would keep right on piling up scores while he remained in.

The Princeton captain sent out a new pitcher, and Finch dropped the ball willingly.

The new man pitched a very slow ball. It was a great change from the speed of Finch, and the batter popped up an easy fly to the infield, which retired Yale at last.

But the rooters were jubilant, and the players were hopeful.

“Now, fellows,” said Frank, as the men went out into the field, “we must be steady and hold them down. If we can do it, this game belongs to us.”

But it did not take him long to discover that the men were too anxious. Walling let an easy hit go through him, and the batter reached first. Stubbs dropped a hot bounder, and two men were on bases. Wintz made a wild throw to third, and the bases were filled without Princeton having made a hit.

The Princeton rooters were warming up.

They were doing their best to rattle Merriwell.

Frank did not believe in working for strike-outs, but he began to realize that the time had come when strike-outs counted. He trimmed the next batter’s whiskers with an in, he pulled him with an out, and he paralyzed him with a double-shoot.

“Three strikes—batter out,” decided the umpire.

“Got to do it twice more,” thought Merry, while Hodge nodded at him encouragingly.

He did. With astonishing ease, apparently, he made the next two men fan, and Princeton had not scored.

Yale held the lead.

As Frank came in to the bench, Hodge met him and said:

“It was beautiful work, Merry! It was grand! Keep it up. You must win this game in the box. The team can’t be trusted.”

“I will do my best,” said Frank, quietly.

He did. Although Yale was unable to make another score, Frank held Princeton down so she could not recover her lead, although she filled the bases in the ninth, and made a desperate bid for a score. For the last time in the game, Merry used the double-shoot, and the last Princeton man fanned gracefully.

It was all over but the shouting. Yale had won, and the little crowd of loyal rooters were weak from their vocal efforts, but happy—so happy!

Without doubt, the most wretched man in New Jersey that day was Pink Pooler. He hated Frank Merriwell, he hated himself, he hated everybody and everything. The victorious shouts of the Yale men made him sick at heart, and he slunk away by himself.

The news was sent to New Haven by wire. The score had been sent out by innings, and at the end of the fifth inning, with the score six to nothing in Princeton’s favor, a deep cloud of gloom hung over the Yale campus. The only hope of the most hopeful was that Yale would manage to get in one run and save a shutout.

When the result of the next inning came in everyone seemed paralyzed with astonishment. They could not believe the defenders of the blue had made seven runs in a single inning. It seemed utterly ridiculous. They thought it was a hoax. Some bets were made that it was not right.

And, when the game continued and ended, and they knew for a certainty that Yale had won, there was a wild scene on the Yale campus. To snatch victory from defeat in such a manner was enough to set the Yale men wild.

“Where is Finch?” was the cry. “Oh, he had his troubles in the sixth! Our boys didn’t do a thing to him!”

It was a remarkable game; the score board told that. A hundred fellows said they would have given anything had they seen it. They were regretful when they thought how they had remained away because they thought Yale did not have a chance to win.

Everybody talked baseball, and Frank Merriwell’s name was on everybody’s tongue. It was generally believed that he was responsible for the marvelous manner in which Yale had won.

“You may bet your life he did most of the pitching,” chuckled Paul Pierson. “Princeton did not score after the second inning. I’ll bet something Merriwell pitched the last seven innings of that game.”

It was a happy crowd of players and rooters who took the train for New York that night. Some Princeton men came down and saw them off.

“It’s all right, fellows,” called the Tigers. “You won by a fluke. Next time Finch will paralyze you. He is a dandy!”

“What’s the matter with Merriwell?” cried Charlie Creighton. “You did not make a score off him. How do you like that delirium tremens curve of his?”

“It’s a bird!” was the answer; “but we’ll eat it next time.”

“Oh, I don’t know! Finch is a dandy, but what’s the matter with Merriwell?”

“He’s all right!” shouted the jolly lads on the railway station.

“You bet he is!” flung back the Yale men on the train. “Three cheers for Merriwell!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

Then the train drew out of the station.

It was one of those glorious hours that comes to every college lad who admires the manly game of baseball. And it seems remarkable that any live American boy with warm blood in his body can fail to love the game with all his soul.

CHAPTER XXVI.

FIGHTING A GANG.

“Merriwell won the game.”

That was the report brought back to New Haven by the victors, and Frank was more of a hero than ever.

There was one man who came back with a heart overflowing with bitterness. Pink Pooler had made bets right and left that Yale would not win the pennant that season. He had offered all sorts of odds, and he felt that he would be in a bad hole if Yale did win.

Yale played Harvard on Yale field to follow the Princeton game. Now that the blue had won over the orange and black there were enough fellows with money to bet that Yale would down Harvard.

Pooler had received a “straight tip” that Harvard was coming with a powerful team, and he raked every dollar he could raise to back her as a winner.

Pooler firmly believed Yale had won the Princeton game by a fluke. Harvard must come out ahead in the game on the following Saturday. If not by fair means—well, there would be a way to fix it!

Much talk was made about Merriwell’s double-shoot. Hodge was enthusiastic over it. He declared Merry would paralyze the Harvard men with that curve.

Frank retired Hal Faunce from the team. He put Puss Parker in right, and placed Bruce Browning on first. Then he pulled in Joe Costigan from left field and restored him to third base, the position he had played the previous season.

“Who will he play in left?”

That was an open question. He practiced with both Gamp and Walling in that position. Walling showed up poorly, while Gamp, tall, “gangling” and awkward, made some remarkable catches. Walling was placed on the bench, and Gamp was installed in left.

Old players looked on aghast. Surely Merriwell was crazy. Gamp was not a practical man. Browning might go to sleep on first. What sort of a team was Frank getting together?

Merry did not pay any heed to what was being said. He took his team out for practice every day. He worked them hard. He drilled them on team work. He had them so everyone understood the code of signals which he introduced.

Pooler went out day after day to see them practice. He was deeply interested, and not a few fellows believed his interest came from patriotic motives.

He was sizing up the nine, and, as the day for the game with Harvard approached, he became more and more nervous.

“I can’t lose this time!” he thought. “It will ruin me! Merriwell is the moving spirit of the whole team. With him out of the way, Harvard would have a walk-over.”

With him out of the way!

That thought kept running in Pink’s head. How could Merriwell be disposed of so he could take no part in the game against Harvard?

Pooler fell to scheming. He formed plan after plan, but discarded them all. He thought of trying to drug Frank on the field, but that had been tried too many times. It was dangerous, and it might not prove successful.

“No,” he decided, “I will see that he is cooked in advance.”

He went into town, and was seen talking with some lads who seemed rather disreputable in appearance.

Friday came. Among the first to reach the park for practice was Merriwell and Hodge. Frank was going to pitch to Bart a while before all the team assembled on the field.

It happened that Bart and Costigan were the first to get out of the dressing room, and Frank was left putting on his shoes. He finished his task, and rose to his feet. As he did so, the door opened and a rough-looking chap dodged in.

“Hello!” exclaimed Frank, in surprise. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The fellow caught up a bat and swung it aloft.

“Shut up!” he hissed. “If you holler, I’ll split your head open!”

Then he gave a sharp whistle.

Frank knew that whistle was a signal, and he instantly realized crooked work was a-foot. With his eyes he measured the distance to the intruder. An instant later, he made a catlike spring, caught hold of the bat, twisted it from the fellow’s hand, and had him by the collar.

“You infernal sneak!” he cried. “What is your game? I am onto you!”

The door came open with a bang.

“Come on, fellers!” cried the first fellow to enter. “We’s got him all alone! We kin fix him!”

Five or six young ruffians started to swarm in at the door. They had heavy sticks, and it was plain they meant to do Merriwell harm.

The one Frank had by the collar tried to give him a swinging blow, but, quick as a flash, Merriwell caught him up and flung him straight at the gang in the doorway!

The human catapult struck the foremost of the ruffians and nearly swept them off their feet. Before they could recover, Merry caught up the bat and charged them.

Mercilessly he belabored them over the shoulders. Once or twice he cracked one on the head.

They howled with terror and disgust, and Frank soon drove them from the dressing room. He slammed the door, barred it, and held them out successfully till some of the other players arrived on the field and came to his rescue.

The gang, seeing they had been baffled in their attempt, lost little time in getting away.

“I’d give something to know who put them up to the job,” said Frank. “I am sure they were hired to do me up. If I had not tumbled and acted in a hurry, they would have done it all right.”

Hodge was indignant.

“I’ll wager something I can tell just who put them up to the game,” he said.

“Name him.”

“Pink Pooler.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Pooler hates you. He bet me fifty dollars Yale would lose the game with Princeton. I beat him at that, and I know that was not all the money he had on the game. He has put up everything he could rake that Yale will not win the pennant. If Yale wins, Pooler is ruined. If he didn’t hire that gang to do you up, I don’t know.”

“I hate to think it of him, but I remember now that he did stand in with some of my enemies who have been driven to leave college. I’ll keep my eyes open for him in the future.”

“You won’t make a mistake if you do.”

The story of the attempt to knock out Merriwell caused no small excitement, for Frank had hundreds of friends, and all Yale seemed to look to him as the Moses who might lead them out of the wilderness.

The time of the game with Harvard rolled round at last, and the boys from Cambridge came down in force. Rooters with powerful lungs and tin horns galore were on hand.

Yale was at home, and she was stuffed full of courage, for all of the queer team Frank had got together.

Yale started off like winners, making two scores in the first. But, not to be outdone, Harvard managed to get in two on two scratch hits and as many errors.

Then both pitchers settled down, and not another score was made for six innings.

In the seventh Harvard scored. In the eighth Yale tied her. In the ninth Yale got another and took the lead.

Then was the time for Frank Merriwell to show the timber he was made of, and he did so. Then it was that his double-shoot came into use, and won the game by fooling three of Harvard’s best batters so they all struck out.

Yale had won the first two games of the series with Princeton and Harvard, and was fairly on the road to the pennant.

Pink Pooler felt like murdering Frank Merriwell. He took no part in the jollification that night, but kept at a distance, listening with burning heart to the songs and cheers of the hilarious students.

That night he realized that he was a traitor in every sense of the word, and he was more bitter at heart than ever before.

“Frank Merriwell is responsible for it all,” he kept declaring. “He has the greatest luck! Sometime he will have the luck to get it in the neck. Those fellows made a failure of the attempt to knock him out before the game, but they got away with my money, for they would not attempt the job unless I paid in advance.”

Although Frank knew he had enemies in Yale, he was not aware there was one quite so desperate and dangerous as Pink Pooler.

And, despite all his enemies, with the aid of his double-shoot, he succeeded in piloting the Yale team to victory that season. The feat stands on record as most remarkable, for it was generally acknowledged that never had Yale put a poorer team in the field at the opening of the season.

It was generally agreed that she won almost all of her games in the box.

CHAPTER XXVII.

NIGHT REVELLERS.

“Phi Theta Psi! Caw! Caw!

And oh! Phi Theta Psi!

Most glorious band

In all our land

Is, oh! Phi Theta Psi!”

It was ten o’clock at night when the fine old society song reverberated along York Street under the elms.

The freshmen at Mrs. Henderson’s “select house of apartments for students” heard the song, and it set their blood to bounding. They had been waiting and expecting to hear it for nearly an hour.

“They’re coming!” was the cry.

Along the street from the opposite direction came another chorus!

“And Theta Psi had better hence,

Do da, do da;

For Beta Xi has got the fence,

Do da, do da day!

Oh, we’re bound to sing all night,

We’re bound to sing all day,

The glories of our Beta Xi

Forever and for ay!”

“Is the punch ready?”

“All ready,” answered the voice of Bruce Browning, who, along with Merriwell and other juniors, had come down to stand by the “timid freshmen” through the “frightful ordeal.”

It was a “wild and weird decoction” Browning had mixed in the great punchbowl. A huge cake of ice was in the bowl, and it was floating in dark, amber-colored liquid. The big junior had promised the freshmen that he would give the sophomores something that would make them “harmless.”

Diamond had tasted the punch. Immediately he howled “fire,” and asked somebody to run to the nearest box and send in an alarm.

“If you would add some strychnine to it, Browning, it might improve the flavor,” said Dismal Jones, with the utmost seriousness, apparently.

“I don’t think it would make it any more deadly!” exclaimed Diamond.

“Let Theta Psi and Beta Xi stand from under,” said Bruce, with a wild flourish of the big ladle.

The freshmen were happy, but nervous. Some of them had been chosen for Theta Psi and Beta Xi. They knew it, but as yet were not aware who were to become the “victims.” The company of the juniors gave them confidence. Little did they dream that not a few of the juniors had been members of those very societies, and were there really for the purpose of helping along the sophomores in their work.

When the first sound of singing was heard on the street the freshmen were all agog. Cigars were flung aside, and there was a rush for the windows.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! The steady, regular tread of heavy feet told of the approach of the rival clans.

Looking from the windows, the freshmen saw two great gleaming balls of fire advancing from opposite directions. These were locomotive headlights carried in advance of the two bodies of sophomores. They were symbolic of Diogenes searching for an honest man. With the aid of these lanterns the sophomores sought out the freshmen in their studies and conferred upon them the glorious election to the soph. societies.

It was an old custom, and had been some years in disuse because of the opposition of the faculty. On the year of which I write, it was revived again in defiance of all authorities, although the faculty had given warning that it would not be tolerated.

The freshmen had been notified to get away from the big dormitories, which the societies dared not approach, and assemble on York Street. Certain ones had been given the tip to make Mrs. Henderson’s their headquarters for the occasion. Some had taken heed to the tip, but many, fearful of the consequence and not feeling certain of the intention of the sophomores, had remained away.

It was a dangerous thing to do, for the leaders of the movement stood in great danger of expulsion from college if they were found out.

“Here they come, boys!” cried one of the freshmen in the windows. “They are both singing, and there is going to be a fight between them!”

“That’s where you show your freshness, young fellow,” said Jack Diamond. “They all belong to the same class, and you couldn’t make them fight.”

“Put out the lights, freshies!” yelled a score of voices from the street.

Both societies gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Henderson “ranch.” It was seen that they were disguised in various ways. Some wore long dusters and high, pointed hats of white, while others wore black gowns and high black hats. There were sixty of them in all, and they made the night hideous with their wild cries. However, there was no scuffling between them, and everything indicated a friendly rivalry.

Soon the doors were opened, and the sixty sophomores came rushing into the house. They had captured a bass drum somehow, and they beat it all the way from the sidewalk up the stairs.

The committee were in advance, and they singled out their freshmen, giving them the notification in a certain manner that was both mysterious and formal. When it was all over few of the freshmen selected knew of anybody else who had been thus honored.

Then the fun began.

Browning and Rattleton ladled out the punch in cups and goblets, and it was “absorbed” with great rapidity by the innocent sophies. Cigars, pipes and everything that would make a smoke were lighted, and it was not long before the atmosphere could be cut with a dull knife.

As usual, Frank did not smoke or drink, but he was able to withstand the fumes of liquor in a marvelous manner, and he was enjoying it all immensely. He sang the songs with the others, cracked jokes, and his ringing laugh was infectious.

“Walk up, gentlemen—walk up and get your poison!” cried Rattleton.

“That’s a good name for it,” said Jack Diamond.

In one of the rooms there was a scuffle and fall.

“What was that?” cried a startled freshman. “It sounded as if something broke.”

“If it were a little later,” laughed Frank, “I should think it was the break of day.”

It was learned that nothing serious had happened. Two freshmen had punched each other a little, but that was not worth considering as long as neither freshman had been killed.

Charlie Creighton climbed on a table and gave a toast, holding a brimming goblet of punch aloft.

“Gentlemen, here is champagne to our real friends and real pain to our sham friends.”

“Good! good!” was the cry, and a big inroad was made on the supply of punch.

Dismal Jones arose and gravely said:

“I would like to inquire, gentlemen, how you regard the manufacture of Eve from Adam’s rib?”

“I regard it as a side-splitting joke,” cried Merriwell quickly, and this answer brought a burst of applause, while Jones relapsed into his chair with a sweet, sad smile, and drank more punch.

The freshmen were happy that night. Never before had they known the sophomores were such jolly good fellows. They took to the punch, regardless of the fact that not a few of them had seen it manufactured. They began to get “mellow.” Sophomores and freshmen, rivals and enemies, hugged each other and danced about. They were seen with their arms about each other’s necks. The freshmen swore the sophomores were fine fellows, and the sophomores swore the freshmen were “dead easy people.”

The punch ran low. It was replenished out of a large tin canister, and Diamond swore that its last state was even worse than the first.

“Oh, what a jolly lot of heads these fellows will have in the morning!” murmured Browning, as he continued to ladle out the stuff, the perspiration pouring down his face.

Then of a sudden arose a fearsome cry:

“Faculty! faculty!”

Consternation, confusion, dismay! There was a furious scramble to get out of the way somehow, anyhow, somewhere, anywhere. To be seen and recognized by the faculty was a very serious matter just then.

The sophs and the juniors dove into bedrooms and plunged under the beds and into the clothes rooms, leaving the poor freshmen to conceal themselves as best they could.

Heavy feet were ascending the stairs. Voices were heard.

“That’s Prof. Mower!” sibilated a voice from one of the overflowing clothes rooms.

“I don’t care about seeing him any more,” softly groaned a voice from beneath a bed.

Then there was a deep grunt of disgust for such a pun, proceeding from various portions of the dark room.

A shrill voice was heard outside the door.

“That’s Prof. Such!” came a husky whisper from the clothes press.

“He shouldn’t come here at such an hour,” punned another voice, from some mysterious corner of the dark room.

“He’s too near-sighted to see anybody if there was a light in the room,” declared somebody.

“Hark!”

Another voice was heard beyond the door.

“That is Prof. Babbitt!” whispered several of the hiding ones. “He is dangerous!”

Prof. Babbitt was a man who was continually in trouble with the students, who despised him, and lost no occasion to hector him.

Rap! rap! rap!

Three sharp raps on the door.

Silence within the room.

A hand fell on the latch, and the door was opened. Peering from beneath the bed and from other hiding places the students saw three persons stalk into the room.

“It’s very dark here,” said the voice that sounded like that of Prof. Such.

“I—I think I smell tobacco,” said another voice, which the trembling culprits were certain came from the lips of Prof. Mower.

“I am certain I smell something worse than tobacco,” fussed the voice of Prof. Babbitt.

“Dear dear!” exclaimed the first speaker. “It is awful! I shall not be able to remain in this room.”

“It’s the punch they smell,” whispered one of the students under the bed, holding his lips close to the ear of a companion.

“It seems to be like some deadly gas,” hoarsely said the voice of the second speaker. “Wait a minute, and I will find the lamp.”

“What are you going to do, professor?” asked the third individual. “Surely you are not going to——”

“Light the lamp—yes, sir.”

“But it is very dangerous. This room does seem filled with gas. It might produce combustion if you struck a match here.”

“Nonsense, my dear Babbitt!” exclaimed the one recognized by his voice as Prof. Such. “Do light a lamp. I wish to see if any of those noisy rascals are present. We could hear them plainly enough from the street, although it is strangely quiet in the house now.”

Prof. Such generally carried a cane with a brad in the end of it. It was for the purpose of aiding his somewhat unsteady feet at all times of the year. The boys under the bed could hear that cane jabbing about on the floor in a nervous manner.

Somebody produced a match and attempted to light it, but broke it in two. Another was produced and struck. Then the three professors looked about for the lamp, but could find none.

“Dear, dear!” fussed the voice of Such. “This is quite exasperating. Can you see anyone, Babbitt?”

“Not a soul,” was the reply; “but the rascals may be in hiding. If we catch them, they shall suffer severely for daring to do anything in defiance to the expressed order of the faculty.”

“Quite right, professor—quite right. Some of them may be under the bed. I will feel about with my cane.”

Then the cane with the brad in the end was thrust under the bed, and that brad was thrust into one after another of the students hiding there. Some of them started, but not one uttered a sound, although they longed to scream when they felt that sharp point.

“I don’t seem to find anyone,” said the squeaky voice. “Light another match, Mower.”

Another match was lighted, and the professor with the cane went round to the foot of the bed.

Now it happened that Bruce Browning had attempted to crawl under the bed at that end, but had stuck fast after getting his head and shoulders under, and could not crawl farther or retreat, he was there in that uncomfortable position when Prof. Such came round.

“Hold the match here, Mr. Mower,” directed the shrill voice of the near-sighted professor. “That is it.”

“Have you discovered anything?” asked Mower’s voice.

“No, no,” was the answer. “I thought so at first, but all I can see is a suit of clothes carelessly thrown down here. There it is, professor.”

He jabbed the brad into something broad and round and fat.

Then there was a wild howl and an upheaval of that bed, as if an earthquake had occurred. Up came Bruce Browning, crimson in the face, and rubbing with both hands a portion of his person usually hidden by the tails of his coat.

“Confound you!” he roared. “I’m killed! You’ve stabbed me with that thing!”

Then, with remarkable agility, he pranced past the three professors and slammed the door, shouting:

“Up, fellows—up! This is a horse on us! It’s not the faculty! These fellows are in disguise, and they’re hoaxing us!”

Then the three professors made a break to get out by that door, dropping the match. The room was in darkness, and there was a furious battle for a few moments.

Some one brought out the lamp and lighted it. The light showed an interesting spectacle.

Browning, still up against the door, was seated on the fellow who had represented Prof. Such. Rattleton was holding down Prof. Babbitt; but it took Sidney Gooch and three others to keep the third one from getting away.

“It’s no use, fellows,” said Bruce, grimly. “We’ve got you, and you may as well give up.”

The false Prof. Mower did so, with a laugh.

“You are right,” he confessed. “You caught us easy.”

Bruce turned his captive over. His spectacles had been lost in the scuffle, and his disguise was torn away, so he was readily recognized.

“Griswold, you confounded little villain!” roared Browning. “I have a mind to give you a good basting! You rammed about two inches of that brad into me!”

Danny Griswold, for it was the little joker, laughed heartily, saying:

“I guess some of the others felt it.”

“I guess yes!” cried one. “You found me.”

“Me, too!” admitted another.

The removal of “Babbitt’s” disguise revealed Charlie Creighton, who was convulsed with merriment.

“Well, fellows,” said Prof. Mower, “you turned the tables on us that time, and you did it in a hurry, or you would not have caught us.”

He pulled off his false beard, and Frank Merriwell was before them.

“You?” cried Browning. “I’ll wager something you put this job up.”

“Guilty,” laughed Frank.

“Boys,” thundered Bruce, “as punishment, we ought to hold him and turn a quart of that punch down his throat.”

“Mercy!” cried Frank. “Shoot me if I am to die, but do not torture me to death!”

By this time those who had hidden in other rooms realized something violent had happened, and were trying to get in. Bruce pulled his captive from the door and admitted them. They set up a howl for vengeance when they learned how they had been hoaxed.

Mrs. Henderson came upstairs and begged them to be quiet, but she was unceremoniously conducted to the head of the stairs, informed that a collection for her benefit would be taken up soon, and instructed to remain below.

While the students were debating over the punishment that should be meted out to the captives, Sidney Gooch suddenly cried:

“Fellows, I’ve been robbed! My watch is gone!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A POOR JOKE.

“It must be you lost it in the fracas,” said one of the freshmen.

“Let’s look round for it.”

“Be careful not to step on it, fellows,” said another. “It must be on the floor here.”

“I don’t see how I lost it in the scuffle,” said Gooch. “See here; it was taken off this snap—or it came off,” he added, slowly.

Sidney’s manner plainly indicated a firm conviction that he had been robbed.

“When do you think you lost it?” asked Newton Billings, one of the freshmen.

“I had it before we hid from these bogus professors,” said Sid.

“Then it is probable you lost it in the struggle to hold onto Merriwell,” said Harry Rattleton. “It must be right around here.”

“What sort of a watch was it?” asked Irving Nash.

“It was a Waltham, gold, hunter’s case, with my monogram inside the front case. My mother gave it to me on my last birthday, and I would not take anything for it.”

This was enough to make the boys forget the offense of the fellows who had attempted the practical joke on them, and all set about searching for the watch. They took the light and went over the floor carefully. They moved the bed, peered into every corner and into the clothes press, but not one of them found the watch.

“Meers a history—I mean, here’s a mystery,” said Harry Rattleton. “Astonishing disappearance. Watch out.”

Gooch seemed ready to dissolve in tears.

“I wouldn’t care so much if it hadn’t been a present from mother,” he said, huskily.

“A fellow who would steal it must be mighty mean,” said Newton Billings, and somehow it seemed that he looked at Frank Merriwell in a significant manner.

Billings was a freshman who envied Merriwell his popularity. Immediately on coming to college he had attempted to become a leader of his class, after the manner in which Merriwell had led the freshmen in the past. Billings and his clan carried things with such a high hand that it became necessary for somebody to take the conceit out of the fellow, and Merriwell had been selected to do the job, which he accomplished without difficulty.

From the time of his downfall Billings hated Merriwell, although pretending to be one of Frank’s greatest admirers. But he had never attempted to do Merry an injury, and was considered harmless.

“I hardly think there is a person who would deliberately pick a man’s pocket,” said Frank, slowly, looking around. “I don’t wish to think such a thing of anybody in the room.”

“Neither do I,” said Sidney; “and, of course, I can’t be sure I lost it here, although I think I did.”

“Well,” said Billings, “if it is found in the house, you will be sure to get it back. The gang in this house is strictly on the level.”

Sidney had to be satisfied with this, and then the lads returned to the consideration of the case against the three fellows who had hoaxed them.

It was decided after a time that, as punishment, one of the three should tell a story, one should make a speech, and one should sing a song.

Griswold was selected to tell the story, Creighton agreed to make the speech, while Merriwell was to sing a song.

The room was packed full of students, and Browning insisted that the punch should be sent round again before the fun began once more. Not a few of the fellows had taken too much already, but they were not the ones to protest against taking more.

Danny told a story, and it proved to be hilariously funny, as it was all about a “horse” on a student well known to them all.

More punch was absorbed.

Then Creighton mounted upon a chair and made a flowery speech, which was vociferously applauded.

More punch was disposed of by the merry crowd.

The sophomores were reckless in their hilarity. They were out for a racket, and they had it. They seemed to forget the barrier between them and the freshmen. Freshmen and sophs could be seen hanging on each other’s necks and pledging eternal affection over the flowing bowl. Fellows were friendly who would not recognize each other on the morrow. The freshmen were fearless of the older classmen. They addressed them familiarly, talked to them in a familiar manner, joked them and toasted them.

Sidney Gooch seemed trying to drown his grief with punch. Once in a while he would break out about his watch, but everybody else seemed to wish to forget all about that.

Newton Billings had a brannagan on. He slapped sophomores and juniors on the back and told them they were the “right kind of stuff.” He applauded Danny’s story and Charlie’s speech.

“’Ray!” he cried. “Whazzer matter wi’ us! We’re all ri’! What comes nex’? ’Sit Merriwell? ’Ray fer Merriwell!”

“This is getting pretty swift,” thought Frank. “I’ll sing, and then I’ll watch for an opportunity to skip in a hurry. Some of these fellows will have to be taken home on shutters.”

Browning seemed happy. There was a calm, sweet smile on his weary face as he ladled out more punch. At last the deadly stuff was getting in its work.

Frank sang “Those Evening Bells,” an old-time college song. He rendered it beautifully, assisted by several voices on the chorus, and a dozen fellows were extravagant with their praise.

“’S great!” declared Billings, getting beside Frank, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. “’S beautiful! You can shing, Merriwell! ’S w’at! Give us ’nozzer.”

Others urged Frank to sing again, and he saw they would not be satisfied if he refused. He struck into “Stars of the Summer Night.”

“Stars of the summer night,

Far in yon azure deeps,

Hide, hide your golden light,

She sleeps, my lady sleeps.”

This was another of the old-time college songs, seldom heard at Yale in these modern days, but the music of Merriwell’s voice, and the mellowing influence of the punch, moved one of the freshmen to tears.

“’S great!” murmured Billings, getting his arm about Frank’s neck and seeming to sob. “Merriwell, you’re a brick! Give fi’ hundred dollarsh ’f I could shing shame’s you can.”

“Make it something lively next time,” urged Irving Nash.

“Do!” cried several. “Give us something so we can come in on the chorus and bear down heavy.”

Bink Stubbs started to sing “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” but that had seen its day and Bink came near getting himself killed.

“That’s all right, gentlemen,” he said, from his retreat behind the bed. “I didn’t mean any offense, and I beg your pardon, as the convict said when the governor passed his cell.”

“You are lucky to escape with your life,” said Rattleton. “Sing something late and catchy, Merry.”

Frank struck into one of the popular songs of the day, and the fellows all “made a stagger at it.”

As Diamond afterward declared, it was something awful.

“If this keeps up, the faculty is bound to come down on us,” Frank decided.

When the song was ended, Frank declared that he must go.

“Don’t!” cried Billings, clinging to Merry with affection that was not relished.

“It’s getting awfully late.”

“We won’t go home till morning,” somebody sang.

“How late?” said Billings, familiarly reaching into Frank’s vest pocket. “Where’s your watch, Merriwell? Oh, here she is. Wonder ’f I can see to tell what time ’tish?”

He took a watch out of Frank’s pocket and began to fumble to open it.

“Say,” exclaimed Merry, “aren’t you getting a bit too new? Hello! What is that, anyhow?”

Sidney Gooch started forward, uttering an exclamation of astonishment and satisfaction.

“That’s my watch, Billings!” he shouted. “Where did you get it?”

Billings looked up in a stupid manner.

“G’way!” he gurgled. “’S Merriwell’s watch. Got ’tout of his pocket.”

“It’s my watch!” cried Gooch, clearly. “See, fellows, there is my monogram on the inside of the front case! That is the watch that was stolen from me.”

Gooch snatched it from Billings’ hand.

Frank Merriwell arose to his feet. He was aware that every eye in the room was on his.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “this looks to me like an attempt to get square with me for the little joke of a short time ago. If so, it strikes me as decidedly a mean way of getting back at me.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE SPYING PROCTOR.

Although he had not lifted his voice the least, there was indignation in Merry’s manner, and his eyes were flashing. He looked from one to another of the lads before him, as if seeking to discover the guilty one or ones.

There was a brief silence, and then Bruce Browning hastened to say:

“Oh, it’s all right, Merriwell. Billings must have done it, for a joke, himself.”

“Not by a blamed sight!” came surlily from Billings, who seemed to have sobered up wonderfully when he realized that the watch really belonged to Gooch instead of Merriwell. “I may have taken considerable punch, but I’m no practical joker, and I won’t be called a thief by anybody. Anybody calls me a thief I’ll fight him right here and now!”

Billings seemed, in a half-drunken manner, to realize that he was suspected by some of having stolen the watch.

“Oh, I don’t think you took it, Newt,” hastily said Gooch, as the freshman glared at him.

“Well, it’s a good thing f’you that you don’t!” growled Billings.

Then he turned to another freshman and muttered plainly enough for all to hear:

“I’d punch face off’n him if he hinted anything of the sort! Dunno where the old watch came from. Took it out of Merriwell’s pocket.”

“One thing is certain——” began Harry Rattleton.

“And that one thing is that Frank Merriwell did not steal Gooch’s watch,” finished Charlie Creighton.

“Oh, I don’t want to think anything like that!” hastily exclaimed Sidney, with apparent sincerity. “As for Billings, he has not been near me this evening, so he could not be the one who took it from me.”

“It is possible no one took it from you, Gooch,” said Diamond. “Some fellow may have picked it up from the floor and tucked it into Merriwell’s pocket for a joke.”

“If any fellow did so, he will prove his manhood and relieve Merry of suspicion by stepping forward and speaking up,” said Creighton. “Step right out! It was no crime, although it was a foolish sort of joke.”

The boys waited for some one to step forward, but not a soul moved.

“Who had a good chance to swipe the watch, Gooch?” asked Walter Gordan, who had been keeping in the background.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” answered Sidney. “I suppose lots of fellows have had a chance.”

“You missed it first just after we caught those fake professors?”

“Yes.”

“You were one of the fellows who held Merriwell?”

“Yes, I was the first one to get hold of him. I couldn’t hold him alone. It took four of us, and then he came near getting away.”

“What are you driving at, Gordan?” flashed Jack Diamond, his face flushed with anger, for he fancied Walter was attempting to wind the net about Merry.

“I’m just trying to find out——”

Walter hesitated, for he saw a gleam in the eyes of the hot-tempered Virginian that was more than a simple warning.

“I hardly think anyone will believe that I would steal a watch,” said Merriwell, slowly; “and yet I do not like to have this thing hanging over me. I repeat, if it was a joke, it is a pretty poor joke.”

“Joke!” exploded Diamond. “It’s an infernal outrage, and I can lick the sneak who did the job! If more than one fellow took part in it, I’ll agree to lick the whole gang one at a time!”

This brought something like the ghost of a smile to Frank’s face, for he thought of the time when Jack Diamond had regarded fighting as low and beneath the dignity of a gentleman and Virginian. Then it was that Diamond had refused as far as possible to engage in a “low fistic encounter,” but now he was making fighting talk without saying anything about calling anybody out upon the “field of honor.” Since coming to Yale there had been a wonderful change in the passionate lad from the South, but he was not a whit less courageous and full of chivalry.

“Thank you, old fellow,” said Frank, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I assure you of my appreciation, but perhaps you’d better let me do my own fighting.”

Jack was thinking, too—he was thinking of the trip across the continent, when Frank Merriwell had stood by him for all of his peevishness and ill temper. Then Jack had become so disagreeable that the others of the party would have been glad to rid themselves of him, but Merry had been patient to a most remarkable degree, for all that he seemed to be the butt of Diamond’s anger on every occasion.

When it was all over Jack could look back with calmness at those things, he began to realize what kind of a friend he had in Frank, and it aroused in the heart of the chivalrous Virginian a feeling of affection that positively was without bounds. No danger could be appalling enough to keep Jack Diamond from Frank’s side.

It was in moments of danger when Diamond showed his affection for Frank. At other times he seemed rather cold and undemonstrative. He was quite unlike Harry Rattleton, who, in everything and at all times, showed his high regard for Merry.

It is pretty certain that Bruce Browning was no less Frank’s friend, but it was very seldom that he showed it so that his friendship was conspicuous to anyone but Merriwell himself.

Frank understood Browning, and he knew full well how loyal the big fellow was. He knew that no other person would have induced Bruce to train down and get in condition to play baseball. The giant had done that for Merry, for all that he was so lazy it seemed the most frightful punishment that could be inflicted on him.

Now Frank’s friends ranged themselves by his side. They showed by their looks and words that nothing could make them believe he would do a crooked thing.

“You can fight your own doing, Merry—I mean do your own fighting,” spluttered Rattleton; “but I’m going to say it’s a mighty mean trick for anybody to put up in order to get square for the joke you worked on us.”

“If it was done for that purpose,” put in Diamond; “but I don’t believe it was.”

“Oh, I don’t wish to think it was done for any other purpose,” came quickly from Merriwell’s lips. “I know some fellows in college do not like me, but I do not wish to think they would be dirty enough to try to make me out a thief.”

“That would be mean,” said Gooch, mildly.

“Well, you don’t think he stole your watch, do you, Sid?” demanded Creighton.

“Of course not,” answered Gooch, with a smirk. “Oh, of course not!”

The way he said those words caused Diamond to clinch his hands and grate his teeth together. At that moment Jack longed to knock Sidney down.

“Well, Merry,” said Charlie, “you can rest assured that nobody here will ever think you tried to steal the watch.”

“Just the same,” came from Frank, “I would give something to have it explained how the watch came in my pocket.”

“Perhaps that will be explained sometime.”

“This is the proper time.”

“Say, fellows,” called one of the freshmen, “are we going to let this business break up the fun? We were getting good and jolly when——”

There was a rush of feet outside, and Silas Blossom came bursting into the room.

“Fellows,” he said, excitedly; “you had better make a sneak, and you must get out by the back way.”

“What is it?” asked several. “What’s the matter?”

“Is it another faculty scare?” demanded Nash.

“No, but the faculty has a spy who is piping us off.”

“Is that it?”

“Sure.”

“Who is the spy?”

“Rudge.”

“The proctor?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“In front of the house, keeping watch of the door. He is taking down the names of everybody who comes in or goes out.”

“And there isn’t a doubt but he will report us if he sees us,” said Frank. “What business has he on York Street? It strikes me it would be a good time to give Mr. Digby Rudge a lesson.”

“What sort of a lesson?”

“Oh, one that he will not forget—one that will cause him to attend to his business in the future and let things outside the college grounds and buildings alone.”

“We are with you, Merry,” declared several. “What is your little game?”

Then Frank proceeded to unfold his plan.

CHAPTER XXX.

YOUNG KIDNAPERS.

Back of Mrs. Henderson’s house was a yard that was surrounded by a high board fence. Over this fence several dark figures were cautiously making their way, having left the house by the back door.

Frank was in the lead, and he carried a blanket he had taken from the room of one of the freshmen. The blanket had been donated “for the good of the cause” by the enthusiastic freshman who had listened to Frank’s scheme, which was now being carried out.

Having climbed to the top of the fence, aided by others behind, Merriwell let himself down by his hands on the other side and dropped. Then he picked up the blanket, which was in a closely rolled bundle, that had been flung over in advance, and whistled a low signal to the others.

They followed him in turn, their blood warm at the thought of the danger and the adventure before them. They were Diamond, Rattleton, Browning and Griswold, making five in the entire party.

Others had begged to take part in the adventure, but Merriwell had declared that five was the greatest number that could work to advantage without danger of attracting attention.

Browning groaned as he clambered to the top of the fence and hung balanced there.

“The fellow who follows Merriwell wants to take out a life insurance,” he hoarsely whispered.

Then, with some difficulty, he let himself down and dropped heavily to the ground.

When all were over, Frank led them from the yard, and soon they were on the street.

“Griswold,” said Frank, “make a hustle for a cab, and bring it to the corner nearest Mrs. Henderson’s. If you are not lively, we’ll be there ahead of you.”

“O. K.,” said Danny. “I won’t be more than a year.”

Away he scudded.

“Now,” said Frank, “if Rudge is where Blossom said, we’ll have him inside of fifteen minutes. Come on.”

They followed him, and soon he led them round into York Street.

Opposite Mrs. Henderson’s house was a tree with wide-spreading branches. Beneath that tree was a deep shadow, where the electric lights did not reach.

The boys took the opposite side of the street and walked along by twos as if they were on their way to their rooms and happened to come that way. From their manner no one would have suspected they had lately come from Mrs. Henderson’s, or that they were looking for the spying proctor.

Frank and Jack were in advance. Their hats were tipped down over their eyes, for they did not wish Rudge to recognize them before they could use the blanket.

As they approached the tree they could see a dark figure that was hugging the trunk. That dark figure almost seemed to be a part of the tree.

“There he is!” whispered Jack.

“’Sh!” cautioned Merry.

It was plain enough that the man under the tree wished to escape observation, for he remained perfectly motionless where the shadows were thickest.

Frank and Jack walked along as if they meant to pass him. When they were directly beneath the tree, Merriwell suddenly made a pantherish sidelong leap.

Open fluttered the blanket, and in a moment it was wrapped about the head and shoulders of the spying proctor.

Jack sprang to Merriwell’s aid, and, despite the man’s struggles, he was helpless before Rattleton and Browning came running to the spot, eager to help.

The proctor had uttered a smothered cry and then fought fiercely, but Merriwell hoarsely growled:

“Be silent if you value your life! We are desperate men.”

When Browning placed his hands on the proctor he handled the man as if he were taking charge of an infant.

“Move lively!” whispered Frank. “If we are caught——”

All knew what that meant. To be caught in this meant expulsion from the college.

“Look!” palpitated Harry, pointing along the street. “See there! Some one is coming!”

“Where?”

“Right there! Coming this way!”

A figure was seen hurrying toward them, and, as it passed beneath an electric light, Merriwell whispered:

“Prof. Babbitt himself.”

This talk was made so low that the half-smothered proctor could not understand a word, although he was aware that something had alarmed his captors. He made another effort to struggle.

“Keep still!” growled Browning, like a huge mastiff, and he held the man easily.

Prof. Babbitt suddenly stopped. It seemed that he saw the dark forms beneath the tree. He peered sharply at them, and then, with surprising suddenness, whirled about and hastened away.

Frank chuckled.

“Thought he had made a mistake,” he softly whispered. “Thought the proctor could not be here as long as he could see more than one fellow beneath this tree. Didn’t want us to recognize him. See how he is crossing the street to keep from passing directly under that light.”

“The old sinner!” came from Harry. “I wish we had him instead of this fellow!”

“We’ve seen enough to know that Babbitt put the proctor up to this job,” declared Diamond.

“Well, now is our time to get out,” said Bruce.

“Sure,” nodded Frank.

The big fellow picked up the proctor and carried him along with ease, refusing assistance from any of the others. Frank took the lead, and they hastened toward the corner where Griswold was to bring the cab.

Before that corner was reached a cab rattled up and stopped.

“Gris is there!” said Frank, with satisfaction.

Then he stopped short, quickly adding:

“So is a cop!”

“How do you know?” asked Harry, in great agitation.

“Saw him pass by the light of the side lamp. There—there he goes!”

They saw the policeman cross the street and disappear, walking along slowly.

“Wheejiz!” gurgled Rattleton. “That was a close shave!”

Again they went forward.

Frank whistled a soft signal, and Griswold whistled back. Danny was standing beside the open cab door as the daring young kidnapers came up.

“All right?” asked Frank.

“O. K.,” Griswold assured in his curt way. “Cop just went along, but he’s gone now.”

“Gone!” hissed Diamond. “Not much! Look—there he is! He is coming back!”

“Thunder and guns!”

“Blue blazes!”

“Lively, fellows!”

They attempted to bundle the captured proctor into the cab, but he had caught enough of their words to know they were in danger of detection, and he fought as savagely as he could, crying out in a muffled voice for help.

“Hang him!” growled Browning. “He’ll get us all nipped!”

“Better drop him and make a run for it!” fluttered Harry.

“The cop sees something is wrong!” palpitated Jack. “He’s coming in a hurry!”

This was true, and the kidnapers were in great peril.

CHAPTER XXXI.

RECKLESS DARING.

“In!”

Browning growled the word.

“Chuck him!”

Rattleton hissed the exclamation.

“Lively!”

Merriwell gave the command.

Flop—thump! The half-smothered proctor was flung into the cab.

“After him!”

The words came from Frank.

In went Browning on top of the proctor. Diamond followed him with alacrity, and Griswold scrambled in instantly, then Rattleton forced himself in without delay.

Slam—the door shut.

The policeman had seen something of the struggle, and he broke into a run.

“Hold on there!” he cried.

“Can’t stop!” panted Frank.

A spring took Merriwell up beside the driver. Before that person could say a word he had snatched the reins and whip.

Crack!—the whip fell on the backs of the astonished horses.

Unfortunately, the animals were headed toward the approaching officer. They leaped forward.

“Stop!” cried the policeman, springing from the sidewalk to the street.

“Couldn’t think of it!” flung back Merry. “Get out of the road!”

The officer waved his club, and then, seeing the horses were snorting beneath the blows of the whip and badly frightened, he attempted to catch them by the bits. He made a miscalculation, slipped and fell.

Frank Merriwell’s heart leaped into his mouth, for it seemed that the wheels of the cab must go over the policeman. With all his skill it did not seem possible Merry could avoid the man’s fallen body.

He reined sharply to the right, hearing a cry of horror break from the lips of the driver. He bent to the left and looked down, although he was nearly flung from the seat.

What Frank saw brought a prayer of thankfulness and relief from his pale lips.

The policeman was not slow to realize his peril, and he rolled over once, getting far enough out of the way so that the wheels did not pass over him, although they brushed his clothes.

“All right!” laughed Frank, with a great burst of relief. “Close call, old chap; but a miss is as good as a mile.”

It was one of the desperate adventures of Frank’s life, as he well knew, for to be caught and stopped then meant certain disgrace and expulsion for all connected with the affair. Frank had realized this as soon as the policeman started toward them, and for that reason he had made the hustle of his life to get away with the kidnaped proctor.

On leaped the horses.

The driver began to demur.

“What in blazes does this mean?” he demanded. “Why are you snatching the reins from my hands? I can drive me own cab.”

“Steady, my friend,” said Frank. “I haven’t a doubt of it, but the case was desperate. Keep cool and it will be all right. Just give me the pleasure of driving, and it will be an extra ten dollars in your pocket.”

Ten dollars! That meant something to the driver, but still he was afraid, as well as angry.

“I don’t care about gettin’ into no scrape with the cops,” he said. “What kind of business are you chaps up to?”

“It’s all right, don’t let that worry you. If that cop doesn’t catch us, you won’t get into any trouble. Listen! There goes his call for aid!”

“Are you a student?” asked the driver.

“Sure.”

“Hazin’ some feller, I reckon?”

“You are a good guesser, old man.”

The driver was relieved. If it was no more than a case of hazing, it was not so very serious. More than once his cab had been hired to assist students in some hazing scheme.

“But I’ll take the reins,” he said, as he took them from Frank’s hand; “and I want to warn you not ter snatch ’em from me again. If you do—well, something will hit you hard. As it was, I came near throwin’ you off. Would, too, if I hadn’t been so scared for fear you’d run down the cop.”

“Then it was a good thing for me you were scared,” laughed Frank, who seemed remarkably at his ease now that the danger of the moment was over.

He turned to look back.

“Cop is running after us,” he said. “Turn to the right at the next corner. Hope he won’t stir up any chap who will try to stop us. We can’t afford to be stopped now.”

“You student chaps are a fast gang,” said the driver, and Frank could not tell if the man’s voice expressed admiration or contempt.

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Merry, easily. “I presume we are pretty rapid.”

The cab was rattling over the stones at such a pace that talking was not easy, so they dropped it here for a time. Few words passed between them save when Frank gave the driver directions.

It seemed possible the policeman had been injured somewhat by his fall, for he did not pursue them far, for they did not encounter another officer.

Finally they approached the river and the railroads which cross the drawbridge.

Frank had been there before, and he remembered his experience on that occasion with some amusement.

“The water is warmer now than it was then,” he thought; “and we’ll give the proctor what I did not get—a genuine ducking.”

He told the driver to stop, paid him well, as agreed, and then sprang down and opened the door for the others to get out.

Diamond, Rattleton and Griswold sprang out hastily, and then Browning passed out the captive, being himself the last to step to the ground.

“Shall I wait for you, young gentlemen?” asked the driver, with great politeness, as he was feeling in a softened mood since receiving his money.

“No,” answered Frank. “We shall not want you again.”

Although he was ready to wait if wanted, it seemed to afford the driver some relief to be able to depart at once.

“Them chaps may be initiatin’ the chap they’ve caught to some secret order, or they may be hazin’ him,” muttered the driver, when he was on his way from the vicinity. “Either thing is bad enough, and I don’t want to be mixed in it. Nobody can tell what’ll happen.”

It is true that a few accidents have happened to students in New Haven. Sometimes those students were being hazed, sometimes they were being initiated into a secret order. In the old days of the freshmen societies, Sigma Ep, Gamma Nu and Delta Kappa, there were far more accidents than happen now that the faculty stand by the decree that abolished everything in the form of a recognized society for freshmen.

The “old grad.” mourns the death of the old customs and tells with pride of the “hot times” that took place in the “good old days.” He insists that Yale society is degenerating and becoming insipid. In his time there were a hundred pitched battles where now there is one mild skirmish. In those days freshmen fought freshmen for the possession of a new arrival, and when the “candidate” was captured he was run through a wild and horrible initiation ceremony that left his nerves in a shattered condition and his entire system in a state of collapse. Sometimes the reckless freshmen carried this too far, with the result that the candidate received an injury of more or less seriousness. One or two injured victims “peached” on the whole business, and the outside world was shocked and horrified. It seemed to the ignorant that a state of semi-barbarism existed there at Yale, and the effect of this belief was felt by those who had the best interest of the college at heart.

Then the freshmen societies were abolished. There even has been talk of abolishing the sophomore societies, but it is not at all probable that this will happen.

Of the leading junior and senior societies little is actually known, save that they exist and have quaint, curious and handsome society houses. A member never talks about the society to which he belongs. The pin which he wears in its proper place tells that he is a member, and no more than that can he reveal to an outsider. This badge is supposed never to leave his person, even during a bath, at which time he must hold it in his mouth. If you ask him questions, he will receive them in absolute silence.

These societies have never brought censure on the college by carelessness or recklessness. Of them all Skull and Bones is the richest and most respected. Every year it takes in fifteen men from the incoming senior class, and he is not a Yale man who would prefer any scholarship honors or prizes to membership in “Old Bonesy.” The ones chosen for membership stand head and shoulders above the rest of the class in distinction, literary, scholastic, athletic, social or otherwise.

The other two top-notch societies are Scroll and Key and Wolf’s Head. “Keys” is rated next to “Bones,” and Wolf’s Head comes third in order. Instances are not unknown where a man unnoticed by “Bones” or “Keys” has refused to join Wolf’s Head.

It was generally believed in Yale that Merriwell was sure of making “Bones.”

When the daring kidnapers had removed their captive from the cab and the driver had driven away, Frank produced a stout piece of rope. This was small, but seemed strong enough to support the weight of a man.

“Here,” whispered Frank, motioning to Harry, “tie it about his waist, and make it fast. Be sure of that.”

Rattleton obeyed hurriedly.

“Now, fellows,” came in a whisper from Merriwell, “we have no time to waste. He must be nearly smothered. We’ll souse him, release the blanket and get away. We can do it here in the darkness without the least danger that he will recognize us.”

There was a sudden movement beneath the blanket, which was fiercely flung aside, and the hoarse voice of the proctor uttered a cry for help.

Swift though the movements of the proctor were, Frank Merriwell was quite as quick. He caught the blanket and again drew it about the head of the man, hissing:

“Tie his hands, fellows! Make them fast this time!”

The proctor’s cry had been cut short and smothered. He had a short battle, but his spirit seemed broken, and he easily succumbed, his hands being tied behind his back.

“Wheejiz!” panted Harry, looking round fearfully. “S’pose anybody heard him?”

“Not likely,” said Diamond.

“Can’t tell,” admitted Frank.

“Let’s get the job over in a hurry,” urged Griswold, who seemed to be growing nervous and apprehensive.

Then they made the proctor march blindly onto the bridge. Frank held fast to the rope that was tied about the man’s waist.

They came to a halt at last. On the bridge below a light gleamed brightly. They were in the shadow.

“Are you ready, fellows?” asked Browning, as he took hold of the captive.

“Get onto the line here,” ordered Merriwell, and Diamond, Rattleton and Griswold took hold at once.

The water gurgled below with a sound similar to that once heard by Frank in the throat of a drowning man. Somehow a cold chill crept over Merry, and of a sudden he felt like backing out. It was true that he had no love for the proctor, who was something of a sneak and therefore cordially disliked by most of the students, but Frank believed in giving a man a fair opportunity to fight for himself, and Rudge had been given no such opportunity this night.

But for the fact that it would have seemed cowardly to back out at this stage of the game, Frank would have abandoned the whole project then and there. He was a person who seldom felt presentiments, but now a warning of coming evil seemed to oppress him. All his life he had observed that first impulses and first impressions were best, and now it seemed that something bade him stop at this point and wash his hands of the affair.

Frank refused to heed this warning.

“Come,” whispered Diamond, “what are you waiting for, Merry?”

“Nothing.”

Again the water gurgled chokingly. The shadow was deep down there below the bridge. Distant lights made glimmering streaks like wavering pencil marks upon the bosom of the river.

Frank looked down. For a single instant his imagination pictured a dark form floating on the water.

“We can’t stay here long,” said Bruce. “It must be near time for a train.”

“Ready!”

The word came from Merriwell’s throat, but it was husky, and he choked a bit. He was angry at himself and gave himself a savage shake.

The captive seemed to realize that something unpleasant was before him, and he shrank back.

“In with him!”

Bruce lifted the proctor in his strong arms and dropped him into the river.

“Hold fast!”

Splash!—the man struck the water.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Danny Griswold. “Bet that was a shock for his nerves!”

Somehow his laughter sounded hollow and ghastly.

“Pull in!”

Just as the word was given Danny Griswold uttered a low cry of warning:

“Look, fellows! Somebody is coming toward the bridge! See—right over there!”

They looked in the direction indicated, and dark forms were seen approaching.

“It won’t do to be caught!” cried Frank. “Pull in lively, fellows! We must have Rudge out in a minute!”

Pull they did in the greatest haste. The proctor was lifted from the water, and then——

Snap—splash!

The rope seemed to part, and down went the boys who were pulling. There was a splash as the body of the helpless proctor fell back into the river!

Frank started to scramble up, but some one caught hold of him and dragged him back in an effort to rise first.

“Let go!” he grated. “The proctor is in the river, and he will drown if some one does not pull him out in a hurry!”

“Right!” came from Rattleton. “Oh, murder! what an awful scrape! What if Rudge should drown?”

“We would be murderers!” quavered Griswold.

“Those fellows are coming!” sibilated Diamond, as he got upon his feet. “Jove, fellows, they are police! We are pinched if we do not run for it!”

“Can’t run!” came firmly from Frank, as he also scrambled to his feet. “Got to get Rudge out of the river at any cost!”

“It means disgrace, expulsion, shame if we are caught!” fluttered Diamond.

“It means murder if we do not save the proctor!” came back from Frank, as he tore off his coat.

“What are you going to do?” hoarsely demanded Browning.

“Pull Rudge out or go to the bottom with him!” was the retort.

“Stop!” Bruce caught Frank by the shoulder. “You are mad!”

“Let go, Bruce Browning!” said Frank, swiftly. “You are my friend, and you will have no one but yourself to blame for what follows if you do not let go!”

“I’m not going to see you drown yourself, Merriwell! Go slow!”

“This is no time to go slow. Last warning, Browning! Let go!”

Bruce did not obey.

Smack! Frank Merriwell’s fist struck Browning fairly between the eyes. The big fellow was not prepared for the blow, and it dropped him instantly.

Then Frank turned and plunged headlong from the bridge into the dark Quinnepiac River!

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE HORRORS OF REMORSE.

“He’s gone!”

Diamond panted the exclamation as he leaned over and looked down.

“Here are the cops! Run!”

This warning came from Rattleton, who snatched up Frank’s coat and took to his heels. Bruce rose quickly, assisted by Griswold, and, seeing the dark forms approaching, he also hastened from the bridge.

Griswold caught hold of Diamond and dragged him from the edge, crying in his ear:

“Merry is all right. He can swim like a fish. We can’t stay to be nipped by the cops. We must get away and find a boat. That is the best way to help him.”

The Virginian realized instantly that this was true, and he followed the little fellow from the bridge.

In the meantime, Frank had struck the water and was swimming about, searching for the unfortunate proctor. It was dark down there under the bridge, and he could see nothing of the man.

“Heavens!” gasped Frank. “With his hands tied behind him, and that blanket over his head, Rudge must have sunk like a stone! He is drowned, and we are his murderers!”

The thought made Merry sick at heart. Never before in all his life had anything given him such a feeling. He saw himself, a wretched, guilty creature, with the blood of a fellow being on his hands. For an instant he thought of the just retribution that must follow the awful crime, but that thought was banished in his agony over the unfortunate death of the helpless man.

Frank heard voices above on the bridge, and seemed to realize that some one was looking down at the surface of the river, but he could not spend a moment to look up, for in that moment Rudge might rise to the surface and sink again.

He fought against the current for some moments, and then permitted it to carry him along, realizing that it must carry a helpless man in the same direction.

Frank prayed. He fancied his whole life being blighted in one moment by this reckless lark. He forgot that the man for whose salvation he was praying had been almost universally despised by the students. He forgot that Digby Rudge was a spy, a tattle-tale, a sneak and a manufacturer of trouble unmentionable for the students. He remembered that Rudge was a human being, and that was quite enough.

The water gurgled with the same choking sound that had been a warning to him—a warning to which he had paid no heed. For a moment his nerve seemed deserting him, and he longed to scream—to shriek for help.

He was angry with the current, and, almost as he prayed for the life of Digby Rudge, he cursed the strength of the water, for he felt that it had dragged the helpless proctor down—down.

A train came rushing along and passed over the bridge. Then he realized that the current had carried him a long distance away, and the despair that was crushing his heart grew stronger.

“Rudge! Rudge!”

Twice he cried out the name of the proctor. It was when the train was yet on the bridge, and then he realized that with the water-soaked blanket over his head the man could not answer if he heard.

But he felt that the ears of Digby Rudge were forever deaf to the sound of a human voice. By this time the deadly water had done its work, and the man was murdered.

Then Frank thought how four living persons besides himself had been ruined by this wild prank that had ended in a tragedy. The lives of the four fellows who had assisted in carrying out the scheme had been blighted.

“I am the one who is all to blame,” he told himself. “It was my plan. I’ll swear to that. I did the most of the work—I’ll swear to that. Perhaps it will help them.”

His mind worked strangely then, for he felt a twinge at one thought. He would make a clean breast of it—a full confession. He would try to lift as much of the burden as possible from the shoulders of the fellows with him; but he knew it would be regarded as bravado on his part. The finger of scorn would be pointed at him, and the newspapers would tell how he gloried in the deed. That thought hurt him.

“It will be part of my punishment,” he reasoned. “I shall deserve it all!”

Never before in all his life had Frank felt like a criminal, and the sensation was new to him. It was far more terrible to his sensitive nature than anything else could be. It filled him with repulsion for himself.

He did not try to make any excuses to himself by saying it was an accident. He felt that there could not be an excuse, for he had been warned by his feelings at a time when he could have stopped short of the act which brought about the tragedy.

When he remembered how he had felt, and how he had failed to stop then and there and set the proctor at liberty for all of anything his companions might say, he scorned himself as a coward. He was sure he had done one cowardly act, and this was what it had brought him to.

These thoughts raced through his mind as he floated on the surface of the river, trying to see something of the man who had been cast from the bridge. Farther and farther the current bore him, and still he peered across the dark bosom of the river in vain.

“It is ended!” he gasped. “Rudge is at the bottom—dead before this!”

Then he realized that his clothing was soaked, his feet felt like lead, and the current seemed trying to drag him down.

“It would be an easy way to end it all!” was the mad thought that came to him. “Then they could not point at me with scorn. My friends would tell how I died trying to save the life of the proctor.”

The temptation was powerful upon him—it was almost irresistible. How easy it would be to fold his hands upon his breast, stop struggling and sink. It would wipe out the stain in a measure.

Then came the thought that it would be cowardly to end his life there in the river to escape. He would be abandoning his friends to their fate. They would live and be punished. If he lived, he might save them in a measure by telling the truth. That would be the only manly thing to do.

He was doubly ashamed of himself because he had almost yielded to the temptation to do another cowardly thing. Never had he dreamed that he could feel so mean and contemptible.

He started to swim toward the shore, but now he found that the current was strong, and he had been in the water so long that he was nearly exhausted. His clothes were heavy, and the shoes on his feet seemed made of lead.

With all his strength he struck out. He would not give up. It was not for his own life he was struggling now, but he was determined to live and do all he could to take the blame of this terrible affair on his own shoulders.

With his teeth set, he battled against the strength of the stream that tried to sweep him on. He fought his way toward the shore, but his progress was slow.

Clank—clank!

He looked up the river at the sound. Between him and a distant light that was reflected on the water shot a black object.

It was a boat containing three persons.

“Merriwell—where are you?”

It was Jack Diamond’s voice!

“Here—this way!”

Weakly Frank answered. Not till he tried to cry out did he realize how very far gone he was. Then it seemed that, but for his friends who were coming to his rescue, there was not one chance in a hundred to reach the shore.

They turned the boat toward him, but it did not seem that they could see him, for they called again and again. He answered and held his own against the current till they reached him. Strong hands reached down and grasped him, following which he was pulled over the bow and into the boat, where he dropped, quite beat out.

Diamond was bending over him.

“The proctor, where is he?”

“Heaven knows!” answered Frank, with a heart-breaking sob. “He is drowned, and I am to blame for it all!”

“Not by a blamed sight!” came vehemently from the lips of the Virginian. “You are not the only one to blame! We are all to blame!”

“That’s so,” said the voice of Harry Rattleton.

“Merriwell was the one who originated the scheme,” said Danny Griswold. “If it hadn’t been for him——”

A grating exclamation broke from Diamond’s lips.

“Don’t play the coward now, Gris!” he snarled. “Shoulder your part of the blame! You are in it, just the same as the rest of us.”

Then, in gloomy silence, they pulled back against the stream to the place where they had found the boat. There Browning was waiting for them. He questioned them eagerly, fearfully, but their silence was the answer he had feared.

Half an hour later they were far from the spot, sitting in the back room of a certain student’s resort. Frank had emptied the water from his shoes, and now he was drying his trousers. He had drawn on his coat over his wet clothes.

Very few words passed between them. Griswold was frightened, Browning was dejected, Rattleton was desperate, and Diamond was defiant. Frank seemed to be thinking deeply.

After a long time, Bruce asked:

“What is to be done, Merry?”

“Leave everything to me,” said Frank.

“We should form some sort of a story,” faltered Griswold. “We should swear the proctor broke away from us and rushed into the river himself. Of course, he could not see, for the blanket was over his head, and so he did not realize his danger. We should swear we tried to save him. We should——”

“We should lie at every breath if we told anything of the sort,” said Frank. “There is but one thing to be done now.”

“And that is——”

“Tell the truth.”

“When?”

“In the morning. Leave it to me.”

It was useless for Griswold to urge them to manufacture a story that would relieve them somewhat of the responsibility; not the least attention was paid to him.

They left the place and started toward the college. Few words passed between them.

The college grounds were reached, and they separated, each going toward his room.

Frank had moved from old South Middle to Farnham Hall, doing so because he could not find accommodations in the old building for all his furniture and bric-a-brac.

Now he approached Farnham with his head down. It was dark, but, as he came near, he saw some person was sitting on the steps, smoking.

“Wonder who is out here at this time of night?” thought Frank. “Some fellow must have insomnia.”

He reached the steps. Then the person who had been sitting there stood up and peered into his face.

“Hello, Merriwell!” exclaimed a triumphant, malignant voice. “I thought it was you. Been out rather late, haven’t you?”

Frank staggered as if he had been struck a heavy blow in the face.

The voice was that of Digby Rudge, the proctor!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

JOYFUL NEWS.

Frank came near shouting his astonishment. At first he scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses.

The proctor—alive—uninjured—there! The proctor, whom he had believed drowned and at the bottom of the Quinnepiac River! It seemed a miracle.

For a moment it seemed to Frank that it could not be true. How was it possible?

The man seemed to understand Merriwell’s agitation, for he laughed exultantly. That laugh did more than anything else to bring Frank to himself.

“So you are surprised to see me here!” sneered the proctor. “Why are you so surprised? Is there any reason why you did not expect to see me, sir?”

Frank became remarkably cool in a moment. His heart was overflowing with gratitude and thankfulness, but he realized that he was in frightful danger—danger of disgrace and dismissal from college. A short time before he would have thought that nothing to be compared with the just punishment that menaced him, but now the proctor was alive, and it was different.

More than that, there was something in the manner of the man that aroused Merriwell. Frank realized that the proctor was thirsting for revenge, and he was just the sort of man who would not hesitate at anything to obtain it.

Had Digby Rudge met Frank in a different manner, had he not shown his fierce hatred in his words and his voice, Merry might have betrayed himself by an expression of his thankfulness to learn that the man still lived.

In some marvelous manner the man had escaped drowning, and now he would do his best to be revenged upon the lads who had ducked him in the river.

“Good-evening, Mr. Rudge,” came with amazing coolness from Frank’s lips. “You gave me quite a start, for I was not noticing, and you rose up so quickly before me.”

“Oh, was that it?” sneered Rudge.

“Yes,” laughed Frank. “As a rule, I am not easily startled, but——”

“Some things that have happened to-night made you nervous, eh? Well, you will be more nervous before I am through with you. I’ll see that you are disgraced and driven from college, sir! I tell you this to your face.”

So that was the proctor’s game. He knew Rudge would not hesitate at anything to make good his threat.

“All right,” said Frank, quietly. “Go ahead. But it seems to me you are not as crafty as usual, or you would not give me this warning. Now I shall be on the watch for you.”

“I’ll fix you, just the same!” vowed the man.

“All right; go ahead. Good-night, Mr. Rudge. Pleasant dreams!”

Frank ran up the steps and disappeared, leaving the proctor to fume with fury.

In his room Frank knelt down and uttered a thankful prayer, for a great load was lifted from his soul. He felt that the adventure of that night had taught him a lesson that he could never forget. Then he remembered the temptation that had assailed him while he was in the water. When he remembered all his thoughts and despair, he believed he had been “tried as by fire,” and it seemed that he had come forth from the trial better in every way. Experience had been his teacher that night, and the lesson was wrought upon his brain in lines of fire. It would live there as long as life lasted. In the future it would serve as a blazing warning to hold him in check whenever he was tempted to do anything in the least unmanly.

The load had been lifted from his soul, but he remembered that there were four fellows who still were tortured by the belief that they had aided in cutting short the life of a human being. It was his duty to carry the joyful news to them and relieve their feelings as soon as possible.

He waited till he felt sure the proctor had departed from the steps, and then he slipped down and out into the cool night air again. How grateful that air was to him now! How sweet it seemed! He drew it in by deep draughts, as if it were wine. For the time he forgot the peril that menaced him—he forgot the shadow of disgrace that hovered over him.

From room to room Frank went, bearing the joyful news, which seemed far too good for belief. Bruce Browning gasped, and dropped down in a limp heap when he heard it, Danny Griswold came near crying for joy. Jack Diamond laughed, and Harry Rattleton danced. All were for sneaking out again and making a night of it, but Frank would not agree to join them. He had not stopped to get out of his wet clothes, and he felt that he had made quite enough of that night.

Merry returned to his room, stripped, and took a rub-down with a coarse towel. That put him in a glow. He opened his window and looked out upon the dark and deserted campus before jumping into bed.

“A little while ago I never dreamed I could be happy again,” he thought; “now my heart is bursting with happiness. Poor old Rudge! I do not wonder that he hates me. Let him get his revenge if he can. I shall be well satisfied to defend myself as far as possible, and I shall make no effort to strike back.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.

HOW THE PROCTOR ESCAPED.

Rat-tat-tat!

Some one was knocking on Frank Merriwell’s door. The knocking awakened Merry, who had been sleeping soundly, and he arose and admitted Harry Rattleton.

“What’s the matter, Rattles?” Frank asked. “Why are you turning a fellow out at this unearthly hour?”

“How can you sleep after all that happened last night?” cried the visitor.

“Didn’t you sleep?”

“Not a wink. I tried to, but it was no go. I kept dreaming the most horrible things all about murder and bloodshed!”

“That was pleasant.”

“Nit. Did you sleep?”

“Like a top.”

“Confound you!” exclaimed Rattleton, as if provoked. “I believe you could sleep under any circumstances.”

“I hardly think I should have slept had not the proctor turned up all right. That relieved my mind.”

“It did mine for a time, but, after thinking the thing all over, I got into a stew pretty nearly as bad as before.”

“How was that?”

“Why, I thought the whole thing out, and I can see the whole crowd of us is dead sure of being expelled.”

“Think so?”

“Sure of it.”

“Oh, I don’t know!”

“I do.”

“What makes you so sure of it?”

“The proctor knows us.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Remember how he snatched the blanket from his head on the bridge?”

“Yes, and I remember that it was wrapped about his head again before he could recognize a soul in the darkness. I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“I’ll go you something he did recognize us. If not, why was he stepping on the smokes—I mean smoking on the steps, and waiting for you to appear? He was watching for you.”

“That may be, and still he may not be sure I was one of the crowd. He suspected me, but suspicion is no proof. Even if he suspected me, it is improbable that he knows the others of the party. Don’t let this matter tear you all up the back, Rattles. I believe I am the only one of the party that Rudge knows for sure. I may get it in the neck, but the rest of you will escape.”

“There’s heaps of consolation in that!” exclaimed Harry, dolefully. “If you get it in the neck, the rest of us deserve it. If you are disgraced, I shall feel like a sneak if I do not confess my share in it and take my medicine.”

Frank came close to Harry, placing his hands on Rattleton’s shoulders, and looking him in the eyes.

“That shows your heart is all right, Rattles,” he said, with deep feeling; “but it would be a foolish thing for you to do. However, I think you are borrowing trouble. It is likely that there will be a charge against me, but I am going to laugh at it, and I doubt if Rudge can bring any proof.”

“Unless some fellow blows—some enemy of yours.”

“No fellow will dare do that.”

“Why not?”

“Such an act would brand him as a sneak.”

“It might not become publicly known who blowed.”

“It would be, for if any fellow told on us, he would have to go before the faculty. That would let it out. Oh, I do not believe I have an enemy in college who would dare do such a thing, for he would know it must bring about his social ruin the minute he did it.”

Frank was so confident on this point, that, after a time, he relieved Rattleton’s feelings somewhat, and Harry departed in a much better frame of mind than he had been when he rapped on Merry’s door.

Frank took a cold dip and went out for a walk before chapel. Diamond seemed to be waiting for him to appear, and they took the walk together.

Frank told Jack of Harry’s call and fears, and the Virginian confessed that he had not slept very well himself. From what he said, Merry saw that Diamond did not fear for himself, but felt certain that Frank was in danger.

“Although I do not know why, I am sure the proctor has never liked you, Merry,” said Jack.

“That’s all right enough,” smiled Frank. “He tried a bit of blackmail on me when I first came to college. It did not go, and he has hated me ever since.”

“Well, it is pretty sure he will make charges against you. What are you going to do? What sort of a story will you tell?”

“If I tell anything, it will be the truth.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Then I shall keep still.”

“Silence in such a case will be regarded as confession.”

“I can’t help that. It will be the only course left for me.”

It was plain that Diamond feared not a little for Frank’s safety.

Merry could see this, but the relief from the torturing thoughts when he believed the proctor had been drowned was enough to make him comparatively lighthearted and hopeful.

For the time all thoughts of the unpleasant scene that took place when Billings drew Gooch’s watch from Merry’s pocket were banished from Frank’s mind.

Gooch was in Farnham Hall. He was a fellow who made quite a spread and tried hard to be popular, with very poor success.

It was reported that Gooch lived far beyond his allowance. Certain it was that there were times when Sidney was frightfully “hard up.” He borrowed right and left of anybody and everybody who would lend him anything.

Within a few weeks of the time concerning which I am writing a number of robberies had been committed in the dormitories. Students had lost rings, pins, watches and money. The thief was crafty, for thus far he had escaped detection.

At the time that Sidney’s watch was found in his pocket Frank had realized that such a discovery must throw suspicion on him with those who did not know him well enough to be thoroughly convinced of his absolute honesty.

Now, however, there was something else to think about, and he forgot that.

To Frank’s astonishment, the day after the adventure with the proctor passed quietly, and he was not summoned before the faculty.

“It must come to-morrow,” he thought.

But another day passed, and still things went on as if nothing had happened.

Among the students it was known that Prof. Babbitt had tried to find out just who had taken part in the York Street “racket.” He had obtained the names of a few who were present, but he could not seem to discover the identity of the ringleaders. His spy had been kidnaped and dragged away just in time to keep him from accomplishing his purpose.

The mystery of the proctor’s escape from the river remained a mystery till, one day, as Rattleton was descending the stairs, after paying Frank a visit, a conversation between Gooch and Billings was overheard.

Harry paused and listened. It was plain Billings had come to see Gooch, and found him in the lower hall.

“We could cook Merriwell if we came out and told all we know,” said the freshman. “That is just the evidence Rudge wants to prove that Merriwell was the leader of the attack on him. It would ruin the fellow’s college career.”

“But we can’t peach,” declared Gooch. “It would be the end of our college careers, too, for we’d be run out of Yale by the fellows who think Merriwell the only pebble on the beach. We’ve got to keep still and find some other way of getting at the chap we hate.”

“It’s too bad to lose such an opportunity!” exclaimed Billings. “I have it straight that Rudge was nearly drowned. The rope broke when they tried to pull him out. He had twisted his hands free, and that was all that saved him. He tore the blanket from his head, swam under the bridge, and clung to a pier till he was strong enough so he could get out.”

“Jingoes!” exclaimed Gooch. “The case could be made to look like an attempt to murder Rudge.”

“Sure.”

“Well, we will think this matter over some. If we know of an absolute attempt at murder, it may be our duty to tell the truth about it.”

“That’s the talk!” cried Billings, gleefully.

CHAPTER XXXV.

FRANK’S ENEMIES.

Rattleton’s blood was boiling.

“I am not much of a fighter,” he muttered; “but I am going down there and punch the faces off those dirty dogs!”

As he started to resume the descent of the stairs, Gooch and Billings left the building. Harry went down on the leap. When he reached the door the two rascals were walking away.

Rattleton saw Browning passing at a little distance. Immediately he made a rush for Bruce, and told him all he had heard.

Then the big fellow was aroused.

“Let’s have a little talk with Mr. Gooch and Mr. Billings,” said Bruce, grimly. “It is possible we may be able to persuade them to keep their mouths shut.”

They hastened after Gooch and the freshman, Browning actually hurrying for once in his life.

“Hold on, you chaps!” called Bruce.

The cry was heard. Gooch and Billings turned and looked about. Then they seemed on the point of taking to their heels, but did not do so.

Browning and Rattleton came up.

“We want to talk to you,” said Bruce, surlily.

For some reason neither of the fellows seemed to care about talking, but they could not get away, and in a very few minutes they heard some straight talk from Bruce.

“If either of you blow on Merriwell,” said the big fellow, with such fierceness that both were astounded and appalled, “I’ll take particular pains to see that you are tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail. You will not be tolerated in Yale. I swear to hound you out of college in less than two weeks, and I’ll be aided by a hundred others. That is business, and it is straight from the shoulder.”

Both Gooch and Billings protested that they had not the least idea of exposing Merriwell.

“That’s all right,” said Browning, grimly. “Rattleton heard enough to know you might do it. If Merry is exposed, I shall know you did it, no matter how well you cover your tracks, and that will mean the end of your college life in this city. I’m not going to say any more. I have said enough. If you are not fools, you will go slow.”

Then Bruce and Harry walked away, and Gooch and his freshman chum were left to their thoughts, which were anything but pleasant.

“Confound him!” muttered Billings. “He would keep his word!”

“Sure,” nodded Gooch, with something like a whimper in his voice. “I wouldn’t dare tell anything about Merriwell now, even if I knew I would be protected by the faculty.”

“Oh, this Merriwell has such beastly luck!” snarled Billings. “Now, if the fool of a proctor had drowned in the river——”

“That would have been great!” chuckled Gooch, fiendishly. “Then we would have been forced to tell, and Merriwell and his gang of pals would have gone to prison. Why didn’t the proctor drown!”

“Well, I guess we may as well drop it. There is a charmed circle about Frank Merriwell, and no harm can come to him.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Sidney, showing his white teeth. “There may be a way to cover him with disgrace.”

“The fellows seem to have forgotten the watch incident.”

“They have not. When something else in the same line comes up, they will remember it. Poor Harris was a good fellow, but Merriwell hounded him from college. The tables will turn at last. Before summer vacation you will see Frank Merriwell driven in disgrace from Yale.”

“You may think so, but I doubt it.”

“Wait,” said Sidney. “I am not going to blow on Merriwell, but there may be another way to pull him down from his lofty position.”

As Browning and Rattleton were walking away, the latter looked back and saw Gooch and Billings talking excitedly.

“I reckon we have settled them,” said the big fellow.

“Hope so,” nodded Harry. “Say, old man, I have an idea.”

“Name it.”

“I have thought of something since I saw those chaps together and heard them talking.”

“What?”

“You remember how Gooch lost his watch the other night?”

“Yes.”

“And Billings, who seemed to be pretty full, took it out of Frank Merriwell’s pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Both of those fellows hate Merry. They are somewhat chummy, and they are mean enough for anything. So I think——”

“That it was a put-up job between Gooch and Billings. That Billings made believe to take the lost watch from Merriwell’s pocket. That it was an attempt to make the fellows suspect that Frank stole the watch.”

“Exactly.”

Bruce stopped.

“Bet you are right!” he growled. “I’m going back and say a few more things to those chaps. If we were somewhere else, I’d knock them both down.”

Harry urged Browning not to go back, for he saw Bruce was fearfully angry, and he realized that the big fellow might forget he was on the campus and strike Gooch or Billings.

They went to see Frank, and told him what Rattleton had heard. Merry looked grave and concerned, but he did not display the least anger.

“Hang it!” growled the big student. “Why don’t you get mad?”

“What’s the use?” said Merriwell. “I pity those chaps.”

“What?” shouted Browning and Rattleton, together.

“Yes,” said Frank, “I pity them. They hate me, and they suffer tortures because I have many friends and am popular. Since the adventure of the other night I have learned to be more tolerant with everybody, for I see how easy it is to get on the wrong track and go to the bad. To a certain extent, Gooch and Billings are not responsible for their nature. They make themselves wretched. I am glad you silenced them, and all I ask is that they keep still. If they will let me alone, I’ll not trouble them.”

“And you will be soft with them if they do not let you alone,” growled Bruce. “I hope your experience of the other night is not going to make you worse than ever that way.”

As the days passed, Frank felt safer and safer. He saw the proctor sometimes, but, as a rule, Rudge pretended not to notice Merriwell.

One day they came face to face. For a single instant something like a smile came across Merry’s face. The proctor saw it, and it seemed to arouse his anger, for he exclaimed:

“I know what you are laughing about! It came near being no laughing affair! Some day, Frank Merriwell, I will get even with you for that!”

“Sorry to know you hold a grudge against me,” said Frank; “but I am glad to have one of my enemies come out boldly and declare himself.”

The proctor passed on without another word.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE THIEF IS CAUGHT.

Frank was calling on Paul Pierson when Harry Rattleton burst into the room like a whirlwind.

“Quick, Merry!” he cried. “The pickens is to-day—I mean, the dickens is to pay!”

“What’s up?” asked Frank, springing to his feet.

“Come on, and I will tell you. Got to move quick. Come along, Pierson. Don’t waste a moment.”

Out of the room hustled Harry, with the others at his heels.

Pierson’s room in Farnham was on the same floor with Merriwell. Now Rattleton led the way straight toward Frank’s room.

As they came in sight of Frank’s door it swung open, and, with the stealth of a cat, Sidney Gooch slipped out.

Frank saw the fellow come out, and, with an exclamation of anger, Merry shot past Rattleton and grabbed Gooch by the collar. Sidney gasped, turned pale and tried to break away, but Frank held fast, angrily demanding:

“What were you doing in my room?”

“Take him in again, Merry,” advised Rattleton. “If you chin with him out here a score of fellows will hear it all.”

Frank instantly realized this was true, and, as Rattleton threw open the door, he forced the trembling Gooch back into the room. Pierson followed them, and Rattleton closed the door.

“Now answer me,” said Frank, his eyes flashing fire as he looked at his cowering enemy; “what were you doing in my room?”

“I—I was looking for a friend,” faltered Sidney, his manner proclaiming the lie.

“What friend?”

“Oh—ah—Billings.”

“Billings? Well, I must say my room is a singular place to look for Billings! That gentleman never calls on me. It won’t go down, Gooch. How did you get into my room?”

“Why, I simply opened the door and walked in.”

“That is not true! The door was locked. I took pains to lock it when I went out, as there have been a number of fresh robberies in this building of late.”

“Perhaps you think you took pains to lock it, but you were mistaken. I found it unlocked.”

“You lie!” came hotly from the lips of Harry Rattleton. “I saw you unlocking the door with a key! I saw you when you came in here. I hurried to tell Merriwell, and that is how we came to catch you. You are trapped, Gooch. It’s plain we have caught the thief.”

A crafty look came into the eyes of the captive, and he muttered:

“Oh, I don’t know! You may think so, but you’ll soon find out who the thief is. I was simply doing a little detective work, and I shall appear as evidence against the real thief.”

Frank and Harry exchanged glances.

“Search him,” advised Rattleton.

“That’s right,” nodded Pierson. “Search him.”

Gooch paled again.

“You shall not!” he cried. “I will not stand it! I protest against the outrage!”

“Protest and be hanged!” exploded Rattleton. “We are going to search you! Come on, fellows.”

“I shall shout for help! I shall scream!”

“If you do, we’ll tell whoever comes how we caught you in Merry’s room.”

Then they fastened on Gooch, and, despite his struggles, set about searching him.

“Ha! what are these?” cried Pierson, as he brought forth a great bunch of keys. “Door keys! What do you want of all these, Gooch?”

Sidney began to whimper.

“What’s this?” exclaimed Rattleton, drawing a handsome cigarette case from Gooch’s pocket. “It’s marked with a monogram, ‘P. P.’”

“It’s mine!” cried Pierson. “It was taken from my room within two days!”

“And what is this?” said Frank, taking a ring from the captive’s pocket. “That’s a queer place to carry a diamond ring.”

“Let’s look at it!” said Pierson, catching it from Frank. “By Jove! It’s Emery’s! He lost it yesterday!”

“Fellows,” said Harry, “we have the thief!”

Down on his knees Gooch dropped.

“Don’t tell on me, fellows!” he begged, shivering like a leaf. “Don’t expose me! It will ruin me! It will kill my mother! Just think what it will mean to me! I will be disgraced for life!”

“You deserve it!” came pitilessly from Pierson. “We can’t keep still now.”

“And we won’t!” cried Rattleton.

Tears rained down the face of the guilty fellow.

“Don’t ruin me, boys!” he begged. “I am sorry I did it! I’ll write home to mother and confess to her. She will send me money to pay back everything I have taken, and I will restore every article. Right here may be the turning point of my life. You may be responsible if I become a criminal! Give me one chance.”

“Gooch,” said Frank, sternly, “if we give you a chance, will you promise to turn over a new leaf? Will you promise to make good everything you have stolen, and never touch another thing that does not belong to you? More than that, will you agree to go personally to the fellows you have stolen these articles from and ask their forgiveness as you return them? You can pledge them to secrecy. If they keep your secret, you will be safe. It’s your only chance. What do you say to it?”

“I will do anything! I will show you I am in earnest by beginning now and exposing a plot to ruin you, Frank Merriwell!”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE SHADOW LIFTED—CONCLUSION.

Three of the professors were in consultation with Digby Rudge, the proctor. They were Babbitt, Mower and Such.

“You say you can bring absolute proof against him?” questioned Prof. Babbitt, eagerly.

“Yes,” nodded the proctor. “I have suspected him for some time, and now I have the proof I need.”

“I cannot believe it true,” said Prof. Such, stroking his chin. “Merriwell has always seemed like an upright and honorable young man.”

“So he has,” nodded Prof. Mower, stroking his beard.

“Ah, you do not know him,” said Babbitt, triumphantly. “He is cunning, but I read his character aright from the start.”

“Prof. Babbitt,” said Such, sternly, “I believe you are prejudiced. You have seemed to have something against Merriwell from the first, and your antipathy for him increased when you failed to trap him at your special examination, which——”

Babbitt drew himself up stiffly, and made a protesting gesture.

“I scarcely thought this of you, Prof. Such,” he said, interrupting. “Even though I am aware that Merriwell is a favorite of yours, I did not think you would accuse me of permitting my prejudice to influence me against him.”

“You will soon see, gentlemen,” said the proctor, “that this is not a matter of prejudice. For some time robberies have taken place in Farnham Hall, and——”

The door opened, and Frank Merriwell stepped into the room.

Instantly the proctor pointed an accusing finger straight at Frank, adding:

“There, gentlemen, stands the thief!”

For a moment there was a tableau, and then Prof. Such hastened to say:

“Your proof, Rudge—we demand your proof.”

“It is ready,” said the exultant proctor, stepping to a side door, which he flung open. “Mr. Gooch.”

Sidney Gooch entered the room. His face was nearly as white as snow, but Frank gave him a look of encouragement when their eyes met, and Sidney braced up.

“Gentlemen,” said the proctor, “Mr. Gooch once had his watch stolen from him by this Mr. Merriwell. He has lost it again, and he can give positive evidence that Frank Merriwell has it, either about his person or concealed somewhere in his room.”

“Is this true, Mr. Gooch?” excitedly demanded Prof. Such.

“It is not!”

Sidney spoke the words distinctly, so that no one could misunderstand them. The proctor was the most astounded person in the room. Frank smiled a bit, while Prof. Babbitt uttered an exclamation.

As soon as he could recover, the proctor excitedly cried:

“What is that, sir? Didn’t you tell me your watch had been stolen again, and you knew for a certainty that Frank Merriwell was the thief?”

“I did.”

“Then what do you mean——”

“I was mistaken,” said Sidney. “I have since found my watch, and I was wrong in accusing Mr. Merriwell. I ask his pardon here in the presence of you all. I do not know anything against Mr. Merriwell, and I feel certain he is not the thief.”

Prof. Such laughed shortly in a satisfied way, while Prof. Mower looked relieved.

As for the proctor, he was both astounded and disgusted. When he started to say something more, Such interrupted him sharply:

“Rudge, I think you had better follow Gooch’s example, and apologize to Mr. Merriwell. It is the only graceful thing you can do.”

So the proctor was forced to apologize, although it was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

“I trust you will hold no hard feelings against anyone for this little mistake, Mr. Merriwell?” said Prof. Mower.

“Not in the least,” smiled Frank, his face full of sunshine and good will. “I have not been harmed, and if I have done anything to arouse anybody here against me, I wish to beg their pardon now, and say I am sorry. It is all I can do.”

“Very generous—very generous for a young man who has been accused of theft!” nodded Such.

So the plot against Frank proved a failure. His generosity in wishing to give Gooch a chance to reclaim himself had led Sidney to make a clean breast of everything. Gooch had been in Frank’s room for the purpose of concealing some of the stolen articles there, where they might be found if the room was searched after Merry was accused. He pointed out the articles and told Frank that he was to be summoned before three of the faculty that very afternoon.

Together Merriwell and Gooch left the room and the building. Together they walked across the campus.

“I have kept my word so far,” said Sidney, huskily.

“You have,” said Frank, “but the worst is to come. It will be far harder to go to the fellows from whom you have taken things and confess to them; but right there is where you will prove your manhood, and it will be a mighty mean fellow who will not respect you for it if he thinks you are going to try to turn over a new leaf. I will see each one, and do all I can to keep them still, so it will not leak out. If we can save you from disgrace, Gooch, we will.”

It seemed that Sidney’s heart was moved by this.

“Merriwell,” he said, “you are the whitest man living! Your heart is as large as your whole body!”

Frank kept his promise to Gooch, and in the end the erring lad was given ample chance in which to redeem himself.

And this was not all that Frank did. He sent an anonymous letter to the proctor, stating that he was sorry the man had suffered, and that he begged to inclose a present in consequence, said present being a beautiful gold watch charm.

This charm completely won the proctor’s heart, and for a long while after he was remarkably easy on all the college lads.

For the time being all ran smoothly, and here we will leave Frank, hoping to meet our readers once more in a new volume of this series, entitled: “Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty,” wherein we will learn how true our hero could be to his chums, no matter how great the danger.

“He’s all right, Frank is,” said Bruce. “No better lad in Yale.”

“Right you are,” echoed Rattleton. “Frank is Old Eli’s favorite son.”

And all the others agreed.

THE END.

MEDAL LIBRARY   A weekly publication devoted to good literature.   NO. 251

March 26, 1904.

THE Cobb Library

All the Best

Copyrighted

Works of the

Famous

SYLVANUS

COBB, JR.

THE GUNMAKER

OF MOSCOW

by

SYLVANUS COBB, JR.

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

This new line, is composed exclusively of the well-known copyrighted works of the renowned Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. Every reader has heard of and perhaps read some of the works of this author, whose wonderful genius is made so manifest in his stories.

Every book in this line has a strong plot, into which are woven a host of adventures—the kind that makes the reader thrill with pleasurable excitement. His love situations are most pleasing and underlying all there is a spice of mystery that only whets the reader’s appetite and makes him long for all the books of this gifted writer.

The first number will be “THE GUNMAKER OF MOSCOW,” one of the strongest and most pleasing pieces of popular fiction ever written. It was formerly published in higher priced editions and is now being offered in cheap form for the first time.

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Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Spelling has been retained as originally published.

Page 28:

“a shudded of horror”

“a shudder of horror”

Page 90:

“off his feet. feet.”

“off his feet.”

Page 114:

“Frank thought swftly”

“Frank thought swiftly”

Page 117:

“Oh, say, Merrry!”

“Oh, say, Merry!”

Page 121:

“in such a mannner”

“in such a manner”

Page 124:

“fannned three times”

“fanned three times”

Page 132:

“are lease expected”

“are least expected”

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S DANGER ***

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Table of Contents

Frank Merriwell’s Danger

FRANK MERRIWELL’S DANGER.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Transcriber’s note

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