The muzzle of the rifle was turned directly toward Frank, and the redskin was on the point of pressing the trigger.
Page [98].

Frank Merriwell’s Brother

OR

The Greatest Triumph of All

BY
BURT L. STANDISH
AUTHOR OF
“Frank Merriwell’s School Days,” “Frank Merriwell’s Chums,”
“Frank Merriwell’s Foes,” etc.

PHILADELPHIA
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER
604-8 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1901
By STREET & SMITH

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

CONTENTS

FRANK MERRIWELL’S BROTHER.

CHAPTER I.
A WARM RECEPTION.

When Frank Merriwell, in a great hurry, flung open the door of his room and sprang in, he was little prepared for the reception that followed.

From all sides they leaped upon him, clutched him, surrounded him, hemmed him in. There were exactly thirteen of them, and he was alone and unarmed.

Never before had Merriwell quailed in the face of odds, but now he took one look at them and then flung up his hands, crying:

“I surrender!”

They clutched those uplifted hands and dragged them down. They grasped him about the body, around the neck, anywhere, everywhere. Howls of joy arose.

“We’ve got you!” they yelled.

Then they wrenched at his hands, one after another, as if trying to tear his arms from their sockets. Then they thumped him on the back, the shoulders, and the chest.

On the outskirts of the attacking mob one wild-eyed fellow fought like a demon to get at Merry.

“Got my vay oud of!” he roared, as he butted into the mob. “Break away! Let me got ad him!”

“Git aout!” cried another, a tall, lank chap, as he put his foot against the fat stomach of the one who was fighting to reach Merry. “Go lay daown, gol ding ye!”

“Give me a cloob!” roared one with a strong brogue of the Ould Sod. “It’s mesilf that’ll be afther makin’ a way here!”

Then he wedged his shoulder into the crowd and flung the others aside till he could get in and grasp Merry’s hand.

“Ye spalpane!” he shouted. “It’s a soight fer sore oies ye are! Begorra, Oi’m ready to die wid joy!”

“Barney Mulloy!” laughed Frank, as he wrung the hand of the honest Irish youth. “I’m delighted!”

“Let me git in there!” rasped the tall, lank fellow. “If ye don’t make way fer me, I’ll bet a darn good squash somebody gits bumped!”

Then he succeeded in getting hold of Merry’s free hand.

“Oh, say!” he cried; “I’m jest reddy to lay right daown and die frum satisfaction.”

“Ephraim Gallup!” burst from Merry.

“Right off the farm, b’gosh!” chuckled Ephraim.

“Vy don’t you both gone und died alretty!” squawked the one who had been kicked, as he came charging in and drove against Mulloy and Gallup. “Id vould peen a goot thing der coundry vor. Yaw! I vandt to shook Vrank Merrivell by my handt! Got avay!”

“And Hans Dunnerwurst!” exclaimed Merriwell, as he grasped the outstretched, pudgy hand of the fat young Dutchman.

“Dot vos me,” nodded Hans, in delight. “How you peen, Vrankie, ain’t id? You vos glatness to seen me. Yaw!”

“You fellows give me that fired teeling—I mean that tired feeling!” declared a handsome, curly-haired youth, as he thrust Mulloy, Gallup, and Dunnerwurst aside. “Why don’t you let somebody else have a show? I want to fake his shin—I mean shake his fin!”

“It’s Harry Rattleton!” Frank ejaculated, as he returned the hearty hand-grip of the curly-haired youth. “Dear old Harry!”

There were tears in Rattleton’s eyes, and his honest face showed the deep emotion he felt and tried to hide.

Fighting, squealing, kicking at each other, two little fellows now plunged against Rattleton. One was red-headed and freckle-faced, while the other had a snub nose and a cherublike face. But they seemed trying to scratch out each other’s eyes.

“Me first!” yelled the cherub.

“I guess nit!” shrieked the one with freckles.

“Here! here! that will do!” smiled Merry, as he grasped them and pulled them apart. “It seems to me you chaps are old enough to quit fighting like kids.”

Then they both turned and seized his hands, which they wrung with all the strength at their command, yelling:

“How are you, Merry? We’re glad you see us!”

“The same Stubbs and the same Griswold,” nodded Frank.

“The same Merriwell!” they returned, in unison. “Only more famous!”

“I reckon it’s my turn to shake Mr. Merriwell’s paw,” said a strong, hearty voice, as a big, broad-shouldered youth put Bink and Danny aside. “That’s whatever!”

“Badger, too!” Frank cried, as his hand met that of the Westerner. “This is untold pleasure!”

“You bet it is!” nodded Buck.

“I trust you’ll not overlook me, Merriwell,” said a pleasant, soft, well-modulated voice, as a handsome, fine-faced youth stepped in, with an agreeable smile and a white hand outheld.

“Jack Diamond, by all that’s good!” Merriwell gasped, as he took that hand. “Back from Europe?”

“Yes, Merriwell; back in time to see you win your final honors.”

The handsome Virginian looked handsomer than ever.

Greg Carker, Bert Dashleigh, Jim Hooker, Ralph Bingham, and Oll Packard were the others who had crowded about Merry when he entered the room, and they were filled with great joy because of his pleasure in meeting those old friends of other days.

“You’ll have to have us arrested for breaking and entering, Merry,” said Carker. “I knew these fellows were going to be here, and we planned this little surprise. I swiped your duplicate door-key so that I could admit them to this room.”

“I’ll forgive you, Carker, if you do not let the earthquake rumble.”

“I think,” said Greg, “that I’ll keep the earthquake suppressed till commencement is over.”

“Do,” urged Frank.

Oliver Packard did not have much to say. He had been accepted as one of Merry’s friends, for all of his vicious brother, Roland, the twin who looked—or had looked in the past—exactly like him. Oliver had all the fine instincts of a gentleman, and the conduct of Roland had worn upon him and given him lines of care. It was now known among the students that, since his final defeat by Merriwell, Roland was fast becoming an inebriate, and it was said that he would not be able to finish his medical course. Of course, this worried Oliver, but he tried to hide his own troubles.

Hooker, once an outcast, was another who had received a warm hand-grasp from Merriwell and had felt in his heart that he was most fortunate to be there.

Ralph Bingham, the big sophomore, had taken part in the struggle, his heart throbbing with satisfaction.

“There are others coming,” he now declared. “All the rest of the flock will be here right away.”

“You mean——”

“Hodge, Ready, Gamp, Browning, and the others.”

“In that case,” said Badger, “I reckon we’d better bring forward the reserves at once.”

“The reserves?” said Merry.

“Yes. Ladies.”

Buck flung back a portière, and then out flitted four beautiful girls, who had been waiting for that moment.

Elsie was there, laughing with joy, her sweet face flushed, her blue eyes like the depths of a lake-mirrored sky. The girl with Elsie put her forward, and it was Elsie who murmured in Merry’s ear:

“Frank, we’re all so happy and so proud of you! Inza is the happiest and proudest!”

“Inza!” exclaimed Frank, in great surprise, for he had not dreamed of seeing her there, for she was in mourning for her father.

“Frank!”

He looked deep into her dark eyes, which gazed upon him in loving pride.

“This,” he said, restraining himself and steadying his voice, “is a pleasure that was entirely unexpected.”

He gave Elsie his other hand.

“We rather reckoned you’d be pleased,” said Badger. “But I don’t want you to forget that the former Miss Lee is now Mrs. Badger, and I’ll not permit you to look at her the way you’re looking at those young ladies.”

Frank flushed and laughed, turning to the handsome, brown-eyed girl at the side of the Westerner.

“Miss Lee—no, Mrs. Badger,” he said, “I am delighted to see you again.”

Winnie gave him her hand.

“Don’t mind Buck,” she said. “He’s jealous of everybody. He’d be jealous of an Indian.”

“That’s whatever,” confessed the Kansan. “I allow I’m built that way, and I can’t help it. I know I make an onery fool of myself sometimes, but Mrs. Badger has a nice little way of forgiving me. I rather think she likes it, to tell the truth.”

Diamond touched Frank’s arm. There was a look of deep pride on his face, mingled with a faint smile.

“Permit me,” he said.

Merry turned.

“My wife, Mr. Merriwell,” said the Southerner.

A handsome, dark-eyed girl, somewhat resembling Inza, stood there.

“Your—your wife?” exclaimed Frank.

The girl was the sister of Dolph Reynolds, whom he had met in London.

“Yes, sir,” said Jack. “We didn’t invite you to the wedding, as it took place rather suddenly on the other side of the pond. I hope you’ll pardon us for the failure to notify you, but we decided to do so in person.”

“Diamond,” said Frank heartily, as he grasped the hand of his college comrade, “I offer you my most sincere congratulations. I think you are a lucky dog.”

The English girl was blushing and laughing.

“You do not congratulate me,” she said. “And you know I had to make an explanation before he would come back to me after he became jealous of my cousin.”

“I’ll reserve my congratulations,” said Merry smilingly, “till I find that he has made you a good husband.”

“Merriwell, I think that right mean of you!” Diamond exclaimed, somewhat nettled. “Your words and manner are calculated to arouse distrust and suspicion in her mind. Do you think that quite fair?”

“Perhaps not,” confessed Frank, seeing how seriously Jack took it. “Far be it from me to arouse anything of the sort by words spoken in jest.”

The Virginian breathed easier.

“Now we’re so nicely introduced all round, let’s try to be real jappy and holly—I mean happy and jolly,” said Harry Rattleton. “Hasn’t any girl married me yet?”

“I see,” said Bink Stubbs, “that idiocy among the female sex is decreasing.”

“There are ladies present,” said Harry severely, as he glared at Bink. “Thus you are saved for the time.”

“Here!” cried Griswold, taking down a gilded horseshoe from the wall and offering it to the other little chap. “Take it. You’re dead in luck.”

Stubbs regarded the horseshoe doubtfully.

“Do you regard horseshoes as lucky?” he asked.

“Of course,” was the answer.

“Then,” said Bink, “the horse I bet on the last time was running barefooted. Cluck, cluck; git ap!”

“Bah!” retorted Danny. “A clean swipe out of the comic column of some paper. Say, who’s your favorite writer, anyhow?”

“My father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

“What did he ever write?”

“Checks.”

“They’re off!” exclaimed Rattleton. “You can’t stop them.”

“You know you can always stop a river by damming it,” grinned Bink.

“But you can’t stop an alarm-clock that way,” chipped in Danny.

“That will do!” said Frank severely, although he was laughing inwardly. “This occasion is not suited for such stale jokes.”

“Stale!” said Danny.

“Stale!” echoed Bink.

“And they are the very best in our repertoire,” declared the little red-headed chap.

“Then your repertoire needs replenishing,” said Merry.

So the little jokers were repressed for the time, although they were sure to break out again and again at the slightest provocation, or without any provocation.

“What makes us feel real bad,” said Diamond, “is that we were unable to get along soon enough to witness the great ball-game to-day between Yale and Harvard. I felt sure Yale would win.”

“Merriwell won the game himself,” declared Oliver Packard, who had once played on the nine, but whose standing as an athlete and whose chance to take part in athletic sports had been ruined by the actions of his brother. “It was the greatest work I ever saw.”

“Right!” agreed Carker, the socialist, also a ballplayer of no mean caliber. “The manner in which he stopped Harvard from scoring near the end of the game was enough to set every Yale man wild with admiration. It was great!”

“Great!” nodded Jim Hooker.

“Magnificent!” laughed Bert Dashleigh.

“Hot stuff!” nodded Ralph Bingham.

Rattleton, Stubbs, Griswold, Gallup, Dunnerwurst, and Mulloy had reached the field after the game began, but in the vast throng they had been unobserved by Merry. All were profuse in their compliments for Frank, but he cut them short.

“Every man on the nine played as if his life depended on the result,” he declared. “They deserve just as much credit as I do.”

But not one who had seen the game would agree to that.

While they were talking, the door opened, and Bart Hodge entered, followed by Browning, Ready, Mason, Carson, Morgan, Starbright, Gamp, and Benson.

The principal members of the varsity nine, the ones who had been mainly responsible for the winning of the championship, had come to that room to gather round their captain for the last time before the parting that might break their ranks forever.

Of course, they were surprised, and, of course, there was more hand-shaking and introducing of Mrs. Diamond. The Virginian was showered with congratulations.

Jack Ready stood and looked at Juliet with an expression of regretful sadness on his face.

“It’s too bad!” he finally sighed.

“What’s too bad, Mr. Ready?” she asked, in surprise.

“That we did not meet before this hot-headed young man from the warm and reckless South drifted across your horizon. Alas, you are no longer a lass! It is too late, too late!”

He seemed to heave a great sob from the depths of his bosom.

“Sir!” exclaimed Diamond, “what do you mean? Are you seeking to insult me?”

“Nay, nay, my dear old college chum,” said Ready, who really took extreme delight in irritating Diamond. “Far be it from me to indulge in such rudeness. Still I cannot help thinking that you would not have stood a ghost of a show had I happened along in advance of you. I would have dawned on her delighted vision like a ten-thousand-dollar diamond sunburst, while you would have resembled a two-dollar rhinestone cluster. I have no desire to cause you misery, so I shall take care not to let her see much of me, well knowing it will lead her in time to regret her choice of a side-partner if she often beholds my intellectual countenance and fascinating figure.”

Juliet bit her lip and suppressed a laugh, but Diamond, knowing Ready was guying him, felt like hitting him.

“It’s a good thing for you,” whispered the Southerner, “that the ladies are here.”

“How?”

“If they were not, I’d give you a black eye!”

“Go ’way!” said Ready. “I think you’re horrid!”

Frank’s rooms were crowded now, and a chatter of conversation arose. Of course, Merry was the center of interest, but he found an opportunity to draw back and look around. These were the loyal friends he had made—the dear friends of his school and college days. They had clung to him through thick and thin, and he felt his heart swelling with affection toward them all. Even Dade Morgan was included, for Morgan had tried his best in these final college days to prove that he was repentant for the past and ready to do anything in his power to make atonement.

Memories of old times came rushing upon Frank in that moment. He thought of his first meeting with Hodge at Fardale, and of the adventures, struggles, and triumphs that followed. He thought of his coming to Yale, of his freshman struggles, of the enemies who seemed to rise around him as he toiled upward and onward, of the friends who were here and who had remained firm in every change that befell him.

Oh, those grand days of toil and pleasure at Yale! He felt that he would give much to live them all over again. But the end had come, and now he was going out into the world—going to bid Yale farewell!

This thought brought him a feeling of unspeakable sadness. It seemed that he was leaving the only home he knew. Home—yes, it was home for him. In truth, he had no other. Life lay before him, and he was to set his course toward a high goal when he received his sheepskin and turned his back on his alma mater. But he felt that he was being parted from the happiest portion of his life.

Then his eyes fell on the girls. Bart had found Elsie and was talking to her, his dark face flushed, his eyes glowing. She smiled and nodded as he was speaking.

“They are happy,” said Frank, to himself.

He did not know that at that moment Hodge was praising him to the skies, telling what a remarkable game he had played and how he had covered himself with glory in the battle against Harvard. He did not know that somehow such praise was the pleasantest thing Elsie Bellwood could hear.

He saw Inza, and she looked toward him. She smiled, and he felt his heart throb.

Home! Yes, Yale had been his home; but now before his vision there seemed to rise the picture of another home and he hastened to Inza’s side.

CHAPTER II.
ANTON MESCAL.

A dark-faced, Spanish-appearing man stopped Roland Packard on the steps of the Tontine Hotel.

“Get out of the way!” snarled Roland, who had been drinking.

“Wait,” said the man, in a soft, not unpleasant voice. “I wish to speak to you. It is important.”

Roland was in anything but a pleasant mood. He had seen Frank Merriwell cover himself with glory in the game against Harvard, and, having foolishly bet that the Cambridge men would win the championship, he had taken to drink immediately after the game.

“It’s got to be cursed important!” he snapped, looking the stranger over. “I don’t know you. What’s your name?”

“Anton Mescal.”

“Never heard it before. Are you one of these blooming old grads who are overrunning the town?”

“No.”

“Then what in blazes——”

A group of men came out of the hotel and descended the steps. They had gray hair about their temples, and some of them were bald beneath their hats. They carried canes, their faces were flushed, and they looked hilariously happy. They were a group of “old grads,” and they had been celebrating Yale’s victory. With them the celebration had just begun; it would extend all through the night. As they rolled down the steps, clinging to one another’s arms, they were talking excitedly:

“He’s the greatest pitcher Yale ever produced!” asserted one.

“Come off, Smithy, old man!” cried another. “You know the class of ’Umpty-six had the champ. This fellow——”

“Don’t talk, Sluthers!” interrupted another. “Baseball was different then. Whoever heard of curves? This Merriwell——”

“Is a marvel!”

“He’s a dandy!”

“’Rah for Merriwell!”

“Let’s all cheer! Yow! I feel just like cheering! Cheer for Merriwell!”

Then they bumped against Roland Packard, who snarled at them. One of them grasped him; others followed the example of that one. They bore him down the steps to the sidewalk.

“What’s the matter with you?” the grad who had grasped him first demanded. “Are you a sorehead? Well, by thunder, I want to hear you cheer for Merriwell!”

“You’ll want a long time!” declared Roland, savagely. “Let go of my collar!”

“Boys,” said the old fellow fiercely, “here’s a chap who won’t cheer for Merriwell.”

“Shoot him!” advised another, who was rather unsteady on his feet. “Don’t bother with him! Shoot him on the spot, Bilton!”

“What spot?” asked Bilton.

“Any old spot.”

“All right,” said the one who had Roland by the collar, “I’ll do it.”

He was just intoxicated enough to be reckless, and he actually took a revolver out of his hip pocket.

“Brought this to celebrate with,” he declared. “Loaded it for that purpose; but I guess I’ll shoot this fellow.”

Then he fired straight at Roland’s breast.

Packard fell back with a gasping cry, and the dark-faced man caught him. The other old grads were appalled by the act of their companion, who himself was rather dazed, not having intended to fire the revolver; but he quickly recovered, saying:

“He isn’t hurt, gentlemen! The danged thing is loaded with blanks.”

Packard threatened to call for the police, not one of whom happened to be near.

Not wishing to get into trouble on account of the reckless act of their companion, the old grads hastened away.

Anton Mescal, the man with the dark face, laughed a little, as he said:

“Is this the East? Why, I didn’t suppose men were so careless with their guns here. For a moment I fancied I must be at home.”

Packard swore.

“Infernal old fools!” he muttered. “I’m going to follow and have them arrested! I’ll put that drunken idiot in the jug for this! Why, he would have shot me dead if the thing had been loaded with a ball cartridge!”

“Better let them go,” urged Mescal. “I want to talk with you about something important.”

“But I don’t know you.”

“I introduced myself just before those men attempted to stampede us.”

Packard seemed in doubt. He wanted to follow and make trouble for the man who had been so reckless with his revolver, and yet something was urging him to listen to the stranger, who claimed to have important business with him.

“If we stay here,” he said, “we’ll get bumped into again by these gray-haired Yale men of other days.”

“Yet I must stay here. Let’s get off the steps, where we can watch both entrances. I am not going to be given the slip again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something I will explain if you prove to be the man I think you are.”

“You are from the West?”

“That’s right, partner. Come down here.”

They moved aside on the walk, where they took pains to avoid the groups of hilarious men who were circulating in that vicinity.

“You do not like Merriwell,” said the man who called himself Mescal. “You refused to cheer for him, even when that man drew a gun on you.”

“I didn’t suppose the howling chump was crazy enough to shoot.”

“Still you refused to cheer for Merriwell, and everybody else is howling for him.”

“What of that?” asked Packard suspiciously. “Haven’t I got a right to refuse?”

“Of course. The very fact that you did refuse convinced me that I had made no mistake in my man. You dislike Merriwell, when everybody else seems wild about him. You seem to be his only enemy here.”

“That’s right. There were enough of them once, but I’m the only one left.”

“What has become of them all?”

“He has triumphed over them, and they have bowed down to worship him. They are howling themselves hoarse over him to-night.”

“You mean——”

“They have become his friends, or else they have been driven out of college.”

“How does it happen that you have not succumbed?”

“Because I will not!” panted Roland fiercely.

“He has never defeated you?”

Packard hesitated about answering, for he knew that in everything that had brought about a contest between himself and Merriwell the latter had been victorious.

“Only temporarily,” he asserted. “I never give up.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mescal. “I am more than ever satisfied that you are the very man I want.”

Packard now demanded a full explanation. His curiosity had been awakened. Still Mescal, the soft-spoken man from the West, was rather cautious.

“Would you like to strike Merriwell a last blow?” he asked.

“Would I?” said the medic. “Ask me!”

For a moment the Westerner knitted his brows. He had asked Packard, and the slang of the East bothered him. But the expression on Packard’s face demonstrated his meaning, and Anton Mescal nodded.

“I thought so,” he said. “I may be able to give you the opportunity.”

“But you have not explained,” insisted Roland.

“I will. It takes a little time.”

“Then let’s go in here and get a drink. I’m dry and tired.”

Mescal shook his head, grasping the student by the arm.

“Stay here,” he directed. “It is necessary if you wish to strike Merriwell.”

This surprised Roland.

“What are you coming at?” he growled. “Think I’m going to hit him with my fist?”

“No. I am watching for a man who is in that hotel. I must not miss that man when he comes out.”

“How is he connected?”

“I have followed him pretty nearly three thousand miles, trying to watch him night and day. Four times he has given me the slip, and four times I have picked up his trail again. I have tried in every possible way to accomplish my purpose before he could reach this place, but thus far I have failed.”

This was interesting, and yet Packard failed to see how it was related to Merriwell.

“I’ll explain,” said the Westerner. “This man is the bearer of an important message to Frank Merriwell.”

“Ah! that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can’t stop him now unless you kidnap or kill him.”

“I don’t want to stop him.”

“What, then?”

“I want to get hold of that message.”

“You wish to know what it is?”

“I know now.”

“Hey? Then why do you wish to get hold of it? Why the dickens have you put yourself to so much trouble?”

“Because I do not wish it to reach the hands of Merriwell.”

“The bearer——”

“Hasn’t the least idea what the message is.”

“Oh-ho!”

“He is simply a messenger—nothing more. He has been instructed to deliver an oilskin envelope to Merriwell. He knows absolutely nothing of the contents of that envelope. If he were to lose it, he would fail utterly in his task.”

Packard nodded, and made a motion for the man to go on.

“This message,” said Mescal, “is of the utmost importance to Merriwell. It will do him great damage not to receive it. Get it and place it in my hands, and you will strike Merriwell a terrible blow. Besides that, I will give you five hundred dollars in cold cash.”

“Five hundred dollars?” gasped Packard doubtingly.

“Just that. I mean it, and here is the money, to convince you that I can keep my word.”

The Westerner displayed a roll of bills, the outside one being for the amount of five hundred dollars.

Now, Roland Packard was involved in debt, and knew not how to clear himself. Of a sudden, he fancied he saw a way to wipe out his debts and strike a blow at Merriwell at the same time, and his bloodshot eyes shone greedily.

“How am I to do this?” he asked.

“That is for you to settle.”

“You mean that——”

“That you are to find a way. I am at the end of my resources, else I would not have applied to you. It was by chance that I heard you spoken of as the only enemy of Merriwell remaining in Yale, and it was by chance—a lucky one—that you happened along and were pointed out. I lost no time in stopping you right here, hoping you might be the man to do this work.”

“I’ll do it if possible; but how is it to be done?”

“Again I say that is something for you to find out. I will point out to you the man who has the message, and you are to follow him and get it if you can. If you succeed, the money is yours the moment you place that oilskin envelope in my hands. Are you ready to try it?”

“You bet! When——”

“Now!” whispered Mescal, as he stepped behind Packard, so that the student was between him and a man who was descending the steps of the Tontine. “There goes the man with the message!”

CHAPTER III.
THE MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE.

The man with the message was smooth-faced and shrewd-appearing. He stepped out from the Tontine briskly. He was dressed in a plain gray suit of clothes.

“After him!” whispered Mescal. “He has the message! Get it somehow—anyhow! Get it before Merriwell reads it!”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Packard. “Where’ll I find you?”

“Here—at this hotel.”

Without another word, Roland Packard started after the man in gray. Up Chapel Street went the man, with Roland not far behind.

The student was trying to think of some way to secure the message. He was desperate, and desperate schemes flitted through his brain. He thought of attacking the man on the street and trying to go through his pockets; but New Haven was thronged with visitors, old and young, and Packard found no opportunity, knowing full well that all chances of success were against him. Desperate though he was, he had no relish for arrest on the charge of assault and robbery. But Roland’s eyes were open, and he was on the watch for an opportunity. Still, something told him that the man was going directly to Merriwell, and he felt that his show of accomplishing his purpose was becoming smaller with every step.

Already preparations were being made for a hilarious time in the vicinity of Osborne Hall that night. Packard knew there would be speeches, cheering, red fire, and all that, but he gave it no thought now.

“All New Haven has gone daffy over Merriwell!” he muttered to himself, as he heard Frank’s name spoken many times by passing men. “Anybody would think there was nothing else to talk of! Merriwell eclipses class day, senior prom, graduation, everything. Oh, if I could get a last crack at him right in the height of his glory! And to make five hundred plunks at the same time. I must do it somehow!”

But how?—that was the question. He ground his teeth as he saw his chances diminishing. The campus was reached, and the man in gray made directly for Vanderbilt.

“Going straight to Merriwell’s room!” thought Roland. “Perhaps I’ll have a chance on the stairs.”

No one paid much attention to Packard. Everybody seemed hilariously happy. He was close behind the bearer of the message when that individual entered Vanderbilt; but the opportunity did not come. It seemed that a perfect stream of men was making for Merriwell’s room or coming from it.

“Just pouring congratulations on him,” said the medic. “Oh, he’s the king-pin here!”

He saw the messenger reach the door of Frank’s room, which was standing wide open. Within that room there seemed to be a mass of happy students.

“No use!” grated Packard. “I didn’t get a chance!”

Just then Oliver Packard and Hock Mason came out and descended the stairs. Neither of them observed Roland.

“He has been there,” muttered Merry’s enemy, looking after his twin brother, whom he so closely resembled in outward appearance, although otherwise there was not the slightest similarity.

Then a sudden thought came to him. In the past he had been mistaken for Oliver a score of times, and again he might perpetrate the deception. No one would expect him to boldly enter Merriwell’s room. If any one had observed the departure of Oliver, it might be fancied that Oliver had returned, if Roland were seen.

“I’ll do it!” he muttered, and he boldly followed the messenger into the room.

He saw Frank in the midst of his friends. He would have given ten years of his life to win such homage from that admiring throng. Yet he could not help seeing that Frank Merriwell bore himself with perfect modesty, as if feeling himself no better than his humblest friend. Merry’s position was most difficult, and only a man of remarkable tact could have filled it without seeming to pose. It was this atmosphere maintained by Frank at all times that had made him so popular. He did not betray exaltation, and yet in no way did he lower himself by his quiet, unaffected manners.

The man in gray slowly pushed forward till he could touch Frank’s arm. In a moment when Merry was not engaged, the stranger spoke, saying:

“Mr. Merriwell, I beg your pardon for bothering you now, but my business is most important. I will trouble you only a minute, if you will kindly step aside.”

Frank was surprised, but his courtesy was sufficient to enable him to betray it only by a slight lifting of the eyebrows. Then he excused himself to those immediately about him and stepped apart with the man.

“I would not have bothered you now,” said the stranger, “but I am the bearer of an important message to you, and I wish to get it out of my hands without delay, as there is danger that I may lose it. I shall not feel easy till I have turned it over to you, when my task will be completed.”

“A message?” said Frank. “From whom?”

“I do not know. I know nothing, save that I have been paid a large sum of money to bring it to you, and to guard it with my life till it is in your hands.”

Such a statement as this was calculated to arouse interest.

“And you do not know whom the message is from?”

“I do not. It was not my place to make inquiries. All I know is that I have been pursued from Colorado to this city by a man who has seemed determined to rob me of it.”

This added to the interest.

“But he did not succeed?”

“No, sir. I am here, and I have the message, which I will now hand over to you.”

From an inner pocket the man took an oilskin envelope, which he gave to Frank, who looked at it curiously. On the envelope were traced these words:

“To Frank Harrison Merriwell; not to be opened until the day after he graduates from Yale.”

The moment Frank saw that writing, which was wavering and unsteady, he uttered a little exclamation, his face paling.

“It’s from my father!” he murmured. “I wonder what it can be!”

The messenger now presented a receipt for Frank to sign, having produced a fountain pen.

Merry signed the receipt, although for some reason which he himself did not fully understand his hand was not as steady as usual.

“There,” said the man, “I thank goodness that my task is accomplished!”

“Who gave you this?” asked Frank.

“My chief.”

“Your chief? You mean——”

“I am in the employ of the Great Western Detective Agency, of Denver, and my chief placed this in my hands. He stated that I was to receive two thousand dollars if I delivered it into your hands. He had been asked to name a man who was reliable, and I was chosen. The man who sent the message fixed the remuneration I was to receive. What he paid the chief I do not know.”

Strange thoughts ran riot in Frank’s brain. He had not heard from his father for some time, and he had not seen Mr. Merriwell since they parted in Florida. The last letter had assured Frank that his father was safe and comfortable, and, knowing the peculiarities of the man, he had not worried much for all of the period of silence. But now something told Merry that strange things were soon to happen.

“You have performed your duty well,” said Merry, as he returned the pen to the man in gray.

“Thank you,” said the stranger quietly. “And now I will bid you good-by.”

Then he quietly departed, leaving the mysterious message, and Frank stood there studying the oilskin envelope, wondering what it contained. For the time he forgot his surroundings, forgot the friends who were present, forgot the triumphs of the day, and gave himself up to vain speculation.

His father was a most mysterious man, seldom doing anything in a conventional manner. Yet somehow it seemed to Merry that this did not account for the care and expense to which Mr. Merriwell had gone in order to have the message safely delivered into the hands of his son.

Of course Frank had no thought of opening that envelope before the time set—the day after graduation. He wondered if it could be that the envelope contained a check for a large sum of money which he was to use in starting out in a business career. Anyhow, it was certain, Merry thought, that the contents must be valuable.

He was not aware of a pair of greedy eyes fastened upon him. He was not aware of a person who moved cautiously toward him without attracting attention.

Roland Packard was desperate. The message had been delivered, but as yet Merriwell knew nothing of its import. Packard reasoned that this was his last chance to earn that alluring five hundred dollars.

Reaching a favorable position, Roland glanced round toward the door, observing that, for the present, the coast was clear.

Then he turned, and, like a flash, his hand went out, his fingers closing on the envelope, which was snatched from Merriwell’s grasp.

Without a word, without a sound, the desperate student leaped toward the door.

Merry, who had thought himself surrounded by friends, who to the last man were constant and true, had been taken utterly by surprise, but he quickly recovered.

“Stop, Packard!”

With that cry, he sprang after Roland, who was vanishing through the door. In a moment there was great excitement in the room.

Hans Dunnerwurst had seen the envelope snatched from Merry’s fingers, and he tried to overtake Roland, shouting:

“Come away back mit dot! Id dit nod belonging to you!”

In his rush for the door he collided with Ephraim Gallup, who likewise had leaped after the thief, and they went down heavily in the doorway, locked fast in each other’s arms.

“Gol ding a fool!” spluttered the youth from Vermont.

Merry was compelled to leap over them both, which he did, dashing out after Packard. Half-way down the stairs Frank clutched Oliver, who was calmly returning to Merry’s room.

“Give it up!” commanded Merry sternly.

Oliver was astounded.

“Give what up?” he asked.

“The message.”

“What message?”

“You know. This is no time for joking, and it is a very poor joke, at best.”

“Joke?” said Oliver wonderingly. “What are you talking about, Merriwell? I know nothing of any joke.”

Frank held him off and looked at him sternly. Merry’s friends were swarming to the head of the stairs.

“Frank’s got him!” they cried.

“Yaw!” shouted Hans Dunnerwurst. “Dot vos der lobsder vot didded id! Holdt him onto, Vrankie!”

“Shut yeour maouth, yeou dinged Dutch chump!” came from Gallup. “Yeou come nigh fixin’ it so he couldn’t git him.”

“Roight ye are, Gallup, me bhoy,” put in Mulloy. “Thot Dutch chaze is foriver in th’ way.”

To the eyes of Merry the look of amazement on Oliver Packard’s face seemed genuine.

“What has happened?” Oliver asked. “I heard the sudden commotion, and then you came leaping down here at me.”

“Make him give it up, Merry!” cried the students above.

“I’ve got nothing to give up,” protested Oliver, his face, which had turned pale, now flushing hotly. “What do they mean?”

Frank Merriwell was doing some swift thinking just then. He had not seen Oliver leave the room in company with Hock Mason, and he had not observed Roland’s face fairly as the latter whirled with the snatched envelope in his grasp; but he realized that Oliver’s actions in the past had stamped him as in no respect likely to perpetrate such a trick, while it was very much like his brother.

But it did not seem that Roland had been in the room. That he would dare come there in the midst of Merry’s friends seemed utterly beyond reason, and not worthy of consideration. Yet Frank asked Oliver a question:

“Where is Roland?”

Again Oliver’s face paled.

“Roland?” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t he pass you just now on these stairs?”

“He did not.”

Frank’s face was hard and grim.

“Come up to my room,” he commanded.

Oliver did not demur. He saw Frank’s friends regarding him with looks of accusation, but, knowing he was not guilty of any wrong-doing, he quietly ascended the stairs and entered Merriwell’s room.

At that moment, panting, yet trying to still his breathing and his thumping heart, Roland Packard was listening behind the closed door of another room near Merriwell’s, into which he had darted. He had seen the door slightly ajar, and had leaped in there as he fled with the stolen message.

As Oliver, surrounded by Frank’s friends, entered Merriwell’s room, Roland opened the door the least bit and cautiously peered out. His ears had told him something of the truth, and he chuckled to think that his brother had appeared just in time to fall into the hands of the pursuers.

“He’s all right,” thought the young scoundrel. “And he turned up at just the right moment to divert suspicion from me long enough for me to get away. My last blow at Merriwell will be effective, and I’ll make a ten-strike at the same time.”

He saw Merriwell’s door closed by some one who meant to make sure that the captured suspect should not break away and escape. Then Roland stole swiftly out from the room and hastened down the stairs, chuckling with evil triumph.

Oliver Packard was in a bad scrape, and somehow his face seemed to indicate that he felt guilt. Still he persisted in being told what had happened. When he heard the story, he firmly said:

“This is a mistake, Merriwell—I swear it! I left this room ten or fifteen minutes ago in company with Hock Mason, as I can prove. I left Mason outside and came back. I was just in time for you to rush out and grasp me on the stairs. This is the truth, as Heaven hears me!”

There were murmurs of doubt on all sides. Many of Merry’s friends had never trusted Oliver fully, being inclined to judge him by the conduct of his brother. Some of them had remonstrated with Frank for his friendliness with Oliver. These were the ones who now muttered their incredulity on listening to the words of the suspected student.

Oliver turned pale as he heard that muttering.

“Search him!” said somebody.

“Search him!” was the cry.

“Yes, search me!” panted Oliver. “I demand to be searched!”

“No,” said Frank, as his hand fell on Oliver’s shoulder. “I believe you! I am satisfied that you speak the truth. It is a mistake.”

“But we saw him with the envelope in his hand,” said Dade Morgan.

“It was not I!” asserted Oliver.

“No, it was not you,” agreed Merriwell, “but it was one who hates me and who looks so much like you that we were all deceived.”

“My brother!” muttered Oliver huskily.

“It must have been,” nodded Frank. “He has stolen that message, which is of great value to me.”

“Merriwell,” exclaimed Oliver Packard excitedly, “I’ll recover the message for you! Trust me to get it. I will restore it to you, if I live!”

CHAPTER IV.
THE FALSE MESSAGE.

Roland Packard was exultant as he hastily left Vanderbilt. Safe in his pocket was the precious message.

“I have it! I have it!” he laughed, as he hastened away. “Oh, that was a piece of luck! Let Oll fight it out with them. He’ll get off somehow, and they never can prove I did it.”

He seemed utterly regardless of the shame and humiliation he had cast upon his brother by his rascally act. Having sunk lower and lower, Roland’s conscience no longer gave him much trouble, no matter what he did.

“Five hundred dollars!” he muttered. “All mine! That will clear me of every debt.”

He was hastening to find Anton Mescal, when, of a sudden, he stopped.

“If that man is willing to pay five hundred dollars for this message the old envelope must contain something of great importance.”

That set him to thinking, and soon he softly exclaimed:

“I’d like to know what is in that envelope! It might be worth much more than five hundred dollars to me.”

He was on Chapel Street, opposite the green. Glancing around to make sure he was not watched, he took the envelope from his pocket and examined it.

“Sealed!” he muttered, in disappointment. “Too bad! But for that, I might——”

He grew silent, examining the seal.

“This is luck!” he finally laughed. “The seal was struck with a ring made to represent the symbol of one of the old freshman societies. The man who struck that seal may have received the ring from Merriwell himself. I know where to find another ring exactly like that.”

Packard thrust the envelope into his pocket and hastened straight to a jeweler’s shop, where he soon purchased a ring which he knew would strike a seal exactly like the one on the envelope.

From the jeweler’s store he went to a stationer’s, where he purchased a stick of sealing-wax like the wax used on the oilskin envelope.

Then came the hardest thing to obtain, an envelope like the one in his pocket; but, after much search, Packard secured just what he wanted.

“Now, I am going to know what the message is!” he exulted.

At first he started for his own room, but he did not go far.

“Oliver may be there,” he thought, “or he may come before the job is done. I must not go there.”

In a moment he thought of a place, and then he proceeded straight to a little club-room, where some of the reckless Yale men often gathered to play cards.

The club-room was deserted now, as everybody seemed out to take part in the gay time that night. Roland knew there was little danger that he would be disturbed, for it was not probable that any Yale man would care to play cards on such a night.

The place had been lighted by ordinary kerosene-lamps, and Roland had one of these burning in short order. Then he set to work to open the envelope. At first his hands trembled, which caused him to stop and wait for his nerves to become steadier. He took a silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and drank from it.

“There!” he said; “that will fix me.”

Slowly and cautiously he worked with his knife, removing the seal from the envelope. When this was done he found some trouble in opening the flap without leaving a trace, but the task was accomplished at last.

“Now!” he exclaimed, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming, “we’ll see what this great message is all about!”

From the envelope he took several sheets of parchmentlike paper, which were covered with writing. Then, by the light of the lamp, he settled himself to read the message that had never been intended for other eyes than those of Frank Merriwell.

As Packard read he showed signs of surprise. At first he whistled softly, then he uttered an exclamation, and at last he exclaimed aloud:

“Well, by Jove! this is interesting!”

When he had finished reading, he started up, exclaiming:

“Frank Merriwell’s fate is in my hands! Almighty goodness! What a ten-strike! With the aid of this I can turn him out into the world a pauper! Roland Packard, this is the greatest piece of work you ever did. Five hundred dollars! Why, this is worth five million dollars!”

He was wildly excited, and could hardly repress wild shouts of joy. Indeed, he executed a savage dance of exultation.

“At last!” he panted. “Now I am able to obtain revenge for every injury Merriwell has done me! Oh, but my revenge will be a sweet one!”

The rascal was so excited and interested that he again read the wonderful message from beginning to end.

“Now,” he said, “to fool Mescal first. He must pay me the five hundred, for I need it.”

There was some writing-paper on a table near. He took several sheets, folded them, and thrust them into the envelope from which the message had been removed. Then he stuck down the flap with care and brought out his sealing-wax and the ring he had purchased.

Removing the chimney from the lamp, he heated the wax in the flame and dropped it on exactly the spot where the original seal had been. At the proper time he pressed the ring on the wax, and an exact reproduction of the first seal was made.

Packard surveyed his work with pride, examining it closely to see if a casual observer could detect that the envelope had been tampered with.

“It’s all right,” he decided. “I’ll defy anybody to tell that it has been opened. Oh, I’m a clever devil! Mr. Merriwell is in the midst of his glory now, but he shall go out from Yale a beggar! If he only knew! Some time he shall know. When it is too late, I’ll tell him all, and that shall be my triumph.”

Then he set about fixing the other envelope, into which he placed the message, sticking down the flap and putting on the seal.

“All that is necessary is to soil it a little,” he said. “Then it will be exactly like the original. No—by George, no!”

He had turned the original envelope and seen the writing upon it.

“Well,” muttered the fellow, after a few moments. “I’m rather clever at imitating handwriting, so I’ll see what I can do in this case.”

Finding pen and ink, he set about the task. At first he imitated on a sheet of paper the writing on the original envelope. The first trial was not perfectly satisfactory, so he made another attempt.

“There,” he said, as he examined it, “if I can do as well as that on the envelope it will be a first-class job.”

Without delay he set at work on the envelope, and the result was greatly to his liking.

“It’s all right,” he decided, as he blotted it. “I believe it would fool Merriwell himself.”

He destroyed the sheet on which he had been practising, and then placed the envelope containing the message in his pocket, where it would be safe.

“Now to get the five hundred!” he laughed, as he picked up the other envelope. “Hamlet’s ghost! but won’t Mr. Anton Mescal be hot under the collar when he opens this and finds nothing but blank paper in it!”

There was a slight sound at the door. A key turned in the lock, and Packard leaped to his feet, turning in time to see the door swing open. Quick as a flash, he thrust the envelope into his pocket.

Oliver Packard stepped into the room.

“You?” exclaimed Roland.

“Yes!” said Oliver.

He stepped in, closed the door, and locked it.

“Why the devil are you here?” snarled Roland.

“To find you,” said Oliver quietly.

“What do you want of me?”

“I want that message.”

“What message?”

“The one you snatched from Merriwell.”

“What ails you? Are you nutty?”

“Hand it over!” commanded Oliver.

“You go die!” sneered Roland. “You’re silly.”

“I am here to take it, and I shall,” declared Oliver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What did you put in your pocket just as I entered?”

“None of your business!”

“I know what it was.”

“Then if you know so much, why do you ask me?”

“It was the message.”

“What are you giving me about a message?”

“It’s no use to play innocent with me, Roll.”

Roland uttered a savage exclamation.

“You get out of here!” he cried, taking a step.

Oliver did not stir.

“I’ll go when you give me what I am after,” he said.

“I’ll give it to you—in the neck!”

“Roll,” said Oliver quietly, “you can’t bluff me. I know you snatched a message from Frank Merriwell’s hand to-night, and you have it with you. I was accused, but Merriwell believed me on my word of honor.”

“That’s more than he would me,” said Roland, with a harsh laugh.

“You have only yourself to blame if no one will believe your word of honor,” said Oliver.

“Sermon, is it?” cried the other. “You’re always preaching nowadays, Oll.”

“It’s no sermon now, for I have no time to waste.”

“I’m glad of it. Get out and let me alone.”

“I shall not go till I get what I came for. I will clear myself of suspicion, and I will restore to Merriwell what rightfully belongs to him.”

“You’ve tackled a big job.”

“I shall do it.”

“How?”

“Somehow—anyhow. You have disgraced me time and again, Roll, and I have stood it for mother’s sake. She loves you more than she does me, and——”

“Oh, cut it out! You’ve told me this before.”

“But for me you would have broken her heart already.”

“Good little Oliver! he was his mammy’s precious boy!” mocked Roll. “Oh, you make me sick!”

“You know what I say is true. But for me you would have been expelled in disgrace before this. I have saved you when Frank Merriwell was ready to punish you for your wrong-doing. How have you repaid me! To-day you have done something that has filled me with intense shame and humiliation. Yet I do not believe you care a snap.”

“What’s the use?”

“Ingrate!” panted Oliver, aroused.

“Bah!” returned the other, snapping his fingers.

Oll advanced into the room, his eyes flashing.

“Before this I have shouldered the blame that you should have taken,” he cried. “Your actions have caused me to be dropped by my best friends, with the exception of Merriwell. Your actions caused me to lose my chance of making the nine again this year. I have endured all that I can. The limit is reached.”

“Now what?”

“I’m going to cut clear from you.”

“I’m glad of it!”

“But first I am going to restore that stolen message to Merriwell.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, go ahead.”

Roland was defiant.

“Give it to me!” panted Oliver, his hands clenched, while he trembled in every limb. “I demand it!”

“Well, you’ll have to demand. You won’t get it.”

“You can’t get out without giving it to me, Roll,” asserted Oliver grimly, as he now advanced upon his brother.

“What do you think you are going to do?” demanded the young rascal. “Don’t make an idiot of yourself!”

Oliver clutched his brother by the collar.

“Give it up!” he commanded. “I’ll take it if I have to strip your clothes off to do so.”

Roland laughed defiantly. Then he suddenly broke Oliver’s hold and struck the hand of his brother aside.

A moment later Oliver flew at Roland with terrible fury, grasping him by the throat.

Then began a desperate encounter between the brothers. Roland found Oliver desperate and determined. For at least ten minutes they fought, and at last Oliver had thrown his brother to the floor and pinned him there. Then he thrust his hand into Roland’s pocket and drew out the envelope that the youthful villain had prepared to deceive Anton Mescal.

“I have it!” exclaimed Oliver triumphantly.

“Well, keep it!” grated Roland, inwardly delighted over the fact that the message was safe and Oliver was deceived. “Let me up! You ought to be satisfied.”

Having put the letter in his pocket, Oliver quickly leaped to his feet and backed away, saying:

“I am satisfied in getting the message, but I’d had it even though you had forced me to kill you!”

“You’re a nice one!” snapped Roland, sitting up. “You’re a fine brother to have!”

“I can return the compliment with interest. But never again will I shoulder any of your wrong-doing, Roland. If you get into a bad scrape in the future through your actions, you must not look to me for assistance.”

“Oh, I won’t! Don’t worry about that. After to-night we are no longer brothers! You are my enemy!”

“I have been your best friend. You have made your choice by your conduct.”

Oliver had retreated to the door, still watching Roland, who now laughed and said:

“Get out if you want to; I sha’n’t try to stop you. I’ll not fight again over that old message. I don’t believe it amounts to anything, anyhow.”

Oliver unlocked the door cautiously, for he did not trust Roland, even then.

“I shall tell Merriwell the truth,” he said, “and I shall not ask him to let you off without punishment, as I have in the past. He may punish you or not, as he chooses. If he does not, it will be because he is the soul of generosity.”

Then he opened the door and disappeared quickly, closing it behind him.

Roland Packard laughed in noiseless triumph.

“Go it, you fool!” he whispered. “I have the message, and you have nothing but an envelope containing a lot of blank paper. I’d like to see Merriwell’s face when he opens that envelope!”

CHAPTER V.
CELEBRATION OF THE OLD GRADS.

The celebration was in progress. Frank Merriwell, with Inza Burrage at his side, was watching the fun from Vanderbilt. Frank’s heart was troubled because of the loss of the message, but his face was smiling.

The class of ’Umpty-six was celebrating its silver-wedding. Twenty-five years had passed since these hilarious old grads received their sheepskins. They were back in force, and they had set out to make things lively.

The great dinner at Heibs’ was over. But, unless one eats the dinner, what profit to describe it. So the class of ’Umpty-six made merry on this occasion of hilarious good cheer. After twenty-five years the class had returned to dear old Yale, dined in the shadow of her buildings, and drunk often and lovingly to the memory of bygone days.

A band awaited those sons of ’Umpty-six outside the door. The toasts were over, so that now they were ready to start upon their night of fun. What though their hair is streaked with gray! What though some are bewhiskered to the eyes! Have they not left dignity, business cares, and such minor matters at home?

The band struck up, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” The ’Umpty-sixers came out of Heibs’, arm in arm. They caught up the song, and, in full blare, the band moved toward Chapel Street, the grads following. They turn into Chapel Street, which, even at this hour, is brilliantly lighted, for no one thinks of sleep to-night. And thus they move toward Osborne Hall.

On that corner, where is now the sober recitation hall, for half a century stood the old Yale fence, the focus of college life, the scene of storied struggles, the theater of evening glees, the symbol of happy days at Yale.

But now the old fence is gone. However, nothing will do for these old grads but that a substitute, propped up by iron supports, must be set in front of Osborn, and thither the jolly old ’Umpty-sixers direct their course.

“To the fence! Clear the road! Let off the red fire! Turn loose the sky-rockets and Roman candles, and cram the night full of blooming noise!”

Up Chapel Street they come in a flare of colored fire, with the rockets hissing skyward, the Roman candles popping aloft their gleaming balls of colored flame, while torpedoes and giant crackers add to the racket.

The windows of the New Haven House are filled with women and pretty girls who had been watching the hilarious crowd of grads across the street all the evening. This is a new and wild scene to them, and now, when they behold the ’Umpty-sixers come singing and dancing up to the fence, not a few are more than ever impressed by the fact that it is a dangerous thing to turn a Yale graduate loose on old New Haven town upon the occasion of one of his class reunions.

“’Umpty-sixers, take the fence!” goes up the cry.

There follows a rush of the old fellows, all eager to gain a place on the fence.

Then the band plays all the old college songs, and for several hours to come these hilarious old gray-beards will bawl and howl to the strains of the band.

But ’Umpty-six is not the only class mixed up in this general blow-out. Other and younger classes are there, back for occasions of lesser significance than the silver-wedding. Nearly a thousand Yale men are surging about Osborn corner, which is kept brilliantly lighted by the glare of Egyptian red lights. Judging by the deafening noise, it would seem that the entire stock of fireworks in the city must have been set off already. But they will keep coming in wagon-loads.

And in the midst of all this tumultuous rejoicing the man who has won for Yale the baseball championship of the season is not forgotten.

“Long cheer for Merriwell!” shrieks an ’Umpty-sixer.

Then the whole vast crowd of Yale men pause to roar out the cheer for a Yale man who to-night is more famous than all others.

No wonder that Merriwell himself felt a thrill. No wonder some of his friends laughed while their eyes were dimmed with tears.

And on his arm was the pressure of a hand—the hand of the girl he loved. And at his side was a radiantly beautiful girl, who felt that on this day of his glory her joy must be even greater than his.

Hans Dunnerwurst was sobbing.

“Whut in thunder is the matter with yeou?” blurted Ephraim Gallup, giving the Dutch youth a punch.

“I don’d knew vot id vos,” answered Hans, “but I veel like I vos peing tickled a fedder by till I couldn’t stood him no longer alretty.”

“Begorra! Oi fale loike Oi’d nivver get over it!” said Barney Mulloy. “Oi’ll drame av this fer a year.”

Elsie is there. She is saying nothing, but the joy in her blue eyes speaks. She looks at Frank as that mighty cheer for him rolls up to the rocket-riven sky. She sees Inza’s hand on Frank’s arm, and then—then she turns to Hodge.

Bart, once called selfish, feels that he is far happier than he would be were those men cheering for him. A good, true friend Bart had been, and in this hour there is nothing of envy in his heart.

Why should there be? Elsie was beside him, and, somehow, he felt that for all of Frank’s great glory, for all of bewildering, dark-eyed Inza, he—Bart—had won the prize of prizes.

“Speech!” shouted an ’Umpty-sixer, as the cheering subsided.

“Speech! Speech!” roared the others.

“Speech by Billy Bilton, the only and original windmill of ’Umpty-six!” cried an old grad. “Put him up—put him in the wagon with the fireworks! Shoot off your face, Billy! Billy Bilton!”

“Billy Bilton! ’Umpty-six!” roared the crowd.

Billy Bilton was the Honorable William P. Bilton, representative in Congress for the great and glorious Commonwealth of Maine. Billy smiled, and that smile was something worth beholding! He removed the cigar from his mouth and held it between his fingers.

“My contemporaries,” he began, pointing with the cigar toward the fireworks in the wagon, “have been doing such good work that I feel handicapped. But I want to say that the greatest thing in this great university on this great night, next to the great class of ’Umpty-six, is the great Frank Merriwell!”

Then they cheered again.

“Now,” said Billy, when he could again be heard, “I want to tell you what Frank Merriwell has done for Yale. He has made for her the proudest athletic record of any college in the country. Since the day that he was placed in command not one important game has been taken from us. It was he who arose in time to lift Yale from the slough of despond into which she had fallen, and it was he who has led her to the dazzling heights of glory where she now stands. That’s not all. While he has uplifted Yale he has risen himself, until to-day he is known from the broad Atlantic to the blue Pacific. Yea, wherever the flag of our country floats, the glorious Stars and Stripes, there has spread the name and fame and glory of Merriwell, of Yale.”

It was impossible for him to continue until they had cheered again.

“Even to foreign lands his glory has spread,” the speaker went on. “Wherever the English language is spoken the name of Merriwell may be heard. From the Klondike to Patagonia, from the Philippines to South Africa, he is known and admired and reverenced as the model American youth. Old men commend him to the young, the young try to model after him, and even the child at its mother’s knee lisps the name of Merriwell.”

“Oh, say!” muttered Frank; “he’s putting it on too thick! I can’t stand this!”

But Billy was ready to switch now, although he had no thought of stopping. He waved his hand, and sparks flew from his glowing cigar.

“Now,” he shouted, “I want to tell you what ’Umpty-six has done for Yale. ’Umpty-six is the greatest class that ever graduated from Yale!” he declared, with another wild gesture that caused him to drop his cigar. “’Umpty-six is——”

Bang—barked a cannon cracker in the wagon.

“’Umpty-six——”

Bang! bang! bang!

A series of terrible explosions set William to dancing in a lively manner, for his fallen cigar had ignited the fireworks in the wagon.

The horse attached to the wagon was frightened and broke away, despite all efforts to hold him.

Immediately the Honorable William lost his footing and fell upon his knees in the wagon, while away pranced the horse at a mad gallop. The orator was kneeling in the midst of a pyrotechnic display of hissing Roman candles, flaming red lights, bursting cannon crackers, and screaming rockets. Jack Ready afterward declared that it was a grand and awe-inspiring spectacle.

“There goes Windy Billy!” shouted the crowd, and every man, to the last one, started after the blazing wagon and the most startling piece of set fireworks ever seen in New Haven, which was long remembered by the name of “The American Representative in All His Glory.”

As the wagon disappeared Frank Merriwell, who was laughing at the astonishing climax, felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Oliver Packard.

“I have found you at last,” said Packard. “I’ve been hunting for you more than two hours.”

“I have been right here all along,” said Frank. “What do you want, Oliver?”

“I have brought it,” was the triumphant answer, as Packard put his hand into his pocket and drew out the sealed oilskin envelope. “Here it is, Merriwell.”

“Good!” exclaimed Merry, in great satisfaction, as he immediately thrust it into his pocket. “I’ll take care it is not snatched from me again. I’ll ask you no questions, Oliver, and I’ll not forget what you have done.”

CHAPTER VI.
ANTON MESCAL STRIKES.

Roland Packard had fancied he might be forced to destroy the original oilskin envelope in removing the message from it, and for that reason he had secured a duplicate. When he succeeded in getting the message out without destroying the original envelope, he decided that the best thing to do was to place the blank paper in that same envelope, as the clean newness of the other might betray the trick. Then he was seized by a desire to put the message in the other envelope and copy as accurately as possible the writing upon it, which he did.

The villainous student chuckled gleefully as he thought how his brother had been deceived.

“I have the message safe in my pocket,” he muttered, “while Oll is taking the fake to Merriwell. But must I give up this genuine article in order to get the five hundred from Mescal?”

He was not at all pleased by the thought. In fact, he quickly decided not to give up the message, if he could help it. He set to thinking the matter over, and it was not long before he had decided on his course of action. He left the club-room and skulked away to his own room, taking care to attract as little attention as possible.

The following morning Roland secured another oilskin envelope. Knowing Oliver would be off to the exercises of the day, he sought his own room and prepared the envelope there.

When he came out the seniors, in caps and gowns, were assembling at the chapel, into which a crowd of visitors was flowing.

“Merriwell will be there in all his glory!” muttered Packard to himself. “He will be the cynosure of all eyes. Oh, he’ll feel proud and fine, but little he’ll dream that it is my hand that will send him forth from Yale a pauper.”

The chapel was thronged with visitors when the exercises began, and Packard was right in thinking that Merriwell would be the center of attraction.

In the meantime Packard had sought Anton Mescal, whom he finally found in a room at the Tontine. Mescal had a bottle of wine on the table at his elbow, and was smoking a Spanish cigarette. His face was flushed and his eyes gleamed wolfishly when Roland entered. He did not rise, but regarded the student grimly.

“I’ve come,” said Packard, with an air of triumph.

“I see you have,” said Mescal coldly, showing his white teeth after the manner of a wolf.

“You do not appear glad to see me.”

“But I am glad—very glad,” said the man from the West, in a very singular way.

Packard paused, and a shiver ran over him. There was something deadly in the atmosphere.

“Sit down,” invited Mescal, in that same awesome manner, making a slight gesture toward a chair.

“I had a hard time getting the message,” began Packard awkwardly.

“Then you did get it?” asked Mescal.

“Yes. When I set out to do a thing, I have a way of doing it. But you do not seem much pleased.”

“I am pleased—very pleased. Go on. How did you get it?”

“I went straight to Merriwell’s room in the tracks of the man you bade me follow.”

“To Merriwell’s room?”

“Yes. I could not get a chance to tackle the fellow and secure the message. You know the streets were full.”

“Yes.”

“If I had tackled him on the street I must have failed, and I would have been lodged in the jug.”

“Possibly. Go on.”

The manner of the Westerner had not changed in the least, and Roland felt that those daggerlike eyes were piercing him through and through.

“Merriwell’s room was packed with his friends, who were there to congratulate him. I walked right in after the messenger.”

“Very bold of you!”

“The messenger took the message from his pocket and handed it over to Merriwell.”

“And you?”

“I was near enough to spring forward and snatch it from Merriwell’s hand.”

“But you did not?”

“I did! I snatched it and fled. I eluded the pursuers and got away with it. Of course, they were searching for me last night, so I was compelled to lay low. But I am here now.”

“And you have the message?”

“I have.”

Mescal rose to his feet, and the look on his face seemed to become more dangerous than ever.

“Where is it?”

“Here,” said Packard, also rising.

From his pocket he took the fake envelope, which he held in his hand.

“Give me the five hundred dollars,” he demanded. “It is yours the moment you pay me the money.”

Mescal stepped clear of the table, and by a sudden spring placed himself between Packard and the door. He was like a panther in his movements.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Roland, in alarm. “What are you doing? Don’t think for a moment that you can take the message from me without paying the money.”

“You fool!” said Mescal, in a low tone. “You liar! You traitor!”

Packard saw there was trouble in the air. He wondered if in any manner this man could have discovered his trick.

“What do you mean by calling me such names?” he blustered.

“I mean just what I have said; you are a fool, a liar, and a traitor. You came here to deceive me!”

“To deceive you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“With that thing!” said the man, pointing at the oilskin envelope. “It does not contain the message!”

Packard was astounded, but he resolved to make a good bluff.

“What are you saying?” he exclaimed, pretending to be much astonished. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I know your game to beat me out of five hundred dollars! I mean that I was watching you last night! I mean that I saw you when you went to Merriwell and gave the message to him with your own hand!”

Roland gasped.

“Went to him—and gave him—the message?” he faltered. “Why, man, you are——” Then he paused, uttering a little cry, as a sudden light broke on him.

It was Oliver this fellow had watched! It was Oliver he had seen give the fake envelope to Merriwell!

“You are mistaken,” he said swiftly, although he could not quite see how he was going to make things clear. “I have a twin brother who looks exactly like me. You saw him.”

For one moment Mescal seemed surprised, and then a dangerous laugh came from his lips.

“And what was your twin brother doing with the message?” he demanded.

Roland choked and hesitated. That hesitation seemed to fan the man to a burst of fury.

“Fool!” he hissed, crouching. “You have tried to deceive the wrong man! Had you known me better you would not have done so! In my body flows the blood of the Spaniard, and I never forgive an injury! You betrayed me, and I will settle with you as we settle such scores in the West!”

Out flashed a slender dagger in his hand. Roland uttered a cry of fear as Mescal leaped upon him. The student tried to defend himself, but Mescal’s blade rose and fell.

“You devil!” gasped Packard. “You have stabbed me.”

Then, as Roland sank to his knees, Mescal broke away, flung the blood-stained dagger on the floor, and bounded to the door. One backward look he took as he disappeared, seeing the bleeding youth upon the floor.

Then he fled from the hotel and from New Haven.

Packard was not fatally wounded. The dagger had pierced the muscle of his arm, and the point had penetrated his side as far as a rib. The wound in the arm was the most painful, and the other was not dangerous. In the hospital Roland was skilfully treated, but he persistently refused to tell how or by whom he had been wounded.

Nor would he stay in the hospital when he found that his wound was not at all dangerous if properly cared for. He came out that afternoon and returned to the college.

He found the afternoon exercises on the campus taking place. The place was like an open arena, with temporary seats rising in tiers all round it. Those seats were packed with human beings, spectators and friends of the students. Already the classes had marched in, led by the band, and assembled on the benches in the middle of the arena, where they now sat sedately smoking long clay pipes and wearing caps and gowns. They were listening to the historians of the class, who were reading the class histories.

Packard looked on, feeling that something was occurring in which he had no part and no interest. His arm was in a sling, and this last enemy of Merriwell at Yale looked a forlorn and wretched figure.

The histories read by the different historians had been full of hits upon the various members of the class. As a man’s name was called his companions lifted him upon their shoulders, while his history was given to the strained ears of the gathering. He was compelled to submit gracefully, but some of those sharp hits caused the victims to look like fresh-boiled lobsters.

The historian was reading when Packard reached a spot where he could see and hear. Bruce Browning was held aloft upon the shoulders of his fellows. When it was finished, Browning was lowered, and up came Bart Hodge as his name was mentioned.

“Merriwell’s friends!” muttered Packard bitterly. “Everybody seems to be Merriwell’s friend to-day. I’m the only one of the whole howling pack who has remained his enemy. He has conquered them all, but I’ll conquer him!”

Then Hodge was lowered. There was a stir. The name of Merriwell came from the lips of the historian. Instantly something remarkable took place. Merry was lifted and held aloft, but every man on these benches rose to his feet. It was a tribute to Frank, and the great crowd of watching spectators caught the feeling. Up rose that mass of men and women and youths and girls in one great surge, standing for the moment to do honor to the most famous college man in the world. It was a spectacle never forgotten at Yale.

Then those students who were not holding Frank aloft sat down, and the spectators followed their example.

The historian, his voice ringing out clear and strong, delivered a blood-stirring eulogy on Merriwell.

“Bah!” muttered Packard, and, sick at heart, he slunk away, unwilling to listen to those words of adulation for one he hated with undying intensity.

Late that afternoon, when the exercises were all over, Oliver Packard found Roland in the room they had occupied together. Oliver was surprised when he saw his brother’s arm in a sling, and he asked what had happened.

“None of your business!” answered Roland surlily.

“You are hurt?” exclaimed Oliver, forgetting that he had vowed he would take no further interest in his wayward brother. “What is it, Roll! Won’t you tell me how badly you are hurt?”

“Go to the devil!” snarled Roland.

Oliver sat down, a look of sadness on his face. For some time he sat in silence; but he spoke at last.

“Where were you while the exercises were taking place to-day?” he asked.

“That’s my business,” said Roland.

“You should have been there. If you had, it’s possible your arm would not be in a sling now. Roland, I have returned the message to Merriwell, and I feel that he will take no action against you. I did not ask him not to do so, for I have been forced to ask him so many times before that I was ashamed.”

“Then I owe you no thanks.”

“No; but you do owe him something. Is the last spark of honor and the last particle of justice driven from your heart? Can’t you see where you have placed yourself by your conduct toward this man, who to-day has been honored as no Yale man ever before was honored?”

“Honored by fools!” growled Roland.

“Honored by the wisest men in college! Honored by every one! If you had seen every person in that great crowd on the campus rise when his name was spoken by the historian——”

“I did see it, and then I got away.”

“Then you were there? But you were not in your place.”

“If I had been, they would have seen that one college man did not rise when Merriwell’s name was called.”

“And you would have brought on yourself the scorn of every one. Can’t you see that by his generosity, his fine character, and manliness, he has risen far above you?”

“No! I see that he has a trick of fooling everybody but me. He can make his enemies forget that they were once enemies, but I am not like the others. I want to tell you something, Oll. You think Merriwell has triumphed, but you are wrong. I am the one who has triumphed, though no one save myself knows it. Some time Merriwell shall know, and then he will realize that one of his enemies was more than a match for him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Oliver, amazed. “Are you crazy?”

“Never mind what I mean, but I speak the truth. I have triumphed, and Merriwell is my victim. I’ll talk no more about it, so you may as well close your face.”

And Oliver could get nothing further from his brother.

CHAPTER VII.
THE END COMES.

The day of graduation came. The sun shone bright and clear on this great day in the life of Frank Merriwell, but still that feeling of sadness was lingering in his heart, for he felt that he was bidding farewell to his dear home.

Frank had competed to be a Townsend teacher, and he had been chosen one of the fortunate six who were to speak for the DeForest gold medal.

Thus it happened that he was given little time for thought and little in which to see his friends, all of whom were eager to be in his company.

Had he known that the oilskin envelope in his possession contained nothing but blank paper it is not probable he could have spoken as brilliantly as he did.

When the speaking was over it was generally conceded that the handsome medal must go to Merriwell.

The faculty adjourned to the Treasury building, and there Frank was awarded the splendid prize. Each member of the faculty shook his hand in turn and spoke some word of praise to him. They looked on him lovingly, for they knew that he had done more to raise the standard of college life than any other student in the country.

Frank was on his way to his room when he almost collided with Roland Packard.

Packard had been drinking heavily, and he stopped, his lip curling in a scornful sneer.

“You think you’re it, Merriwell,” he said, in a tone of great contempt; “but, if you only knew it, you are the biggest fool alive.”

Frank had no desire to exchange words with the fellow.

“You’re drunk, Packard,” he said quietly.

“You’re a liar, Merriwell!” snarled Packard, who seemed not to have a single remnant of reason left.

Frank was not in the habit of taking the lie from anybody, but now, seeing Packard’s arm in a sling, he did not heed the fellow’s insult.

“Your friends think you’re a great gun,” Roland went on; “but you really are mighty small potatoes. Won the DeForest prize, did you? Well, you may have to pawn it soon to get bread to keep you from starving!”

This did not have the effect Roland had fancied it might, which angered him to a still further expression of rage.

“Oh, you’re mighty cool; but you won’t be so cool when you find you’re a beggar! And you are! I know what I’m talking about. You will find it out in time, and I want to tell you now that it is I—I, Roland Packard, whom you despise, who has made you a beggar! Don’t forget it!”

He wheeled and walked swiftly away.

Frank stood still and looked after the fellow.

“I wonder what he meant,” Merry muttered, a feeling of uneasiness in his breast. “Is he plumb daffy? I know he’s pretty drunk, but still it seems that he must have some reason left.”

Frank was troubled despite himself, and he hurried to his room, where he made sure the oilskin envelope was still safe in his possession.

Packard had hurried away to drink still more. Already he was half-crazed by liquor, but he felt consumed by a burning fire that called for more, more, more.

The afternoon of graduation-day came and saw all graduating students in caps and gowns, headed by the faculty, likewise garbed, march to the music of a band out of the campus and down Elm Street to the green, which they crossed, turning up Chapel Street to Vanderbilt. The gates of Vanderbilt are opened but once a year, always on this occasion, and through the gates they marched, under the arch and across the campus. The chapel was entered, and then came the last solemn ceremony of conferring the degrees.

Frank thrilled when he stood up to receive his sheepskin. There was a choking in his throat, his sensation was a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow that was like exquisite pain. His face was pale as marble. When the certificate was placed in his hand he felt that it was the document that divorced him from dear old Yale, and he sat down with his teeth clenched to hold back the moan that sought vent.

It was over!

That afternoon a man was seen reeling over the Barnesville bridge. He was intoxicated, and he seemed to fancy he was pursued by an enemy or enemies who sought his life. Filled with mad terror, he climbed upon the railing not far from the eastern end of the bridge and flung himself headlong into the river.

Several persons had seen this crazy act, and they rushed to rescue him, if possible. Two men pulled out in a boat toward the spot where he had last been seen. As they pulled he rose to the surface, made a few feeble splashes, and sank.

One of the men stripped off his coat and plunged in. He brought the drowning fellow up, helped the other man get him into the boat, crawled in himself, and they pulled ashore.

On the shore men worked nearly an hour over the poor wretch, but all their efforts were unavailing. He was dead. In his pocket they found some letters, which told them he was a student and that his name was Roland Packard.

And thus it came about that in the pocket of his dead brother Oliver Packard found another envelope that looked exactly like the one Roland had snatched from Merriwell. He was astonished and puzzled, but he took it to Merriwell.

“One of them must contain the message, Merriwell,” said Oliver, whose face was marked with deep sorrow.

“To-morrow will tell,” said Frank, “for then I will open them both.” He took Oliver’s hand. “I am very sorry, Packard,” he said.

“It is for the best,” declared Oliver; but his chin quivered as he turned away.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE MESSAGE STOLEN AGAIN.

“The time has come!”

The words came from the lips of Frank Merriwell, who was standing beside a small table in a room of one of New York’s big hotels. In his hand he held the two oilskin envelopes. Across each envelope had been written:

“To Frank Merriwell; to be opened the day after he graduates from Yale.”

Frank had studied the writing on those envelopes, and he was convinced that the words on one had been imitated and copied from the other.

Bart Hodge was Merry’s companion, sitting near and showing no small amount of interest in the singular envelopes.

“Which contains the message?” was the question that came from Bart’s lips.

“That is a conundrum,” admitted Frank, as he gazed from one to the other.

“This is the one Oliver Packard returned that night the old grads were celebrating on Osborne corner.”

“Which one is that, the original or the fake?”

“The original.”

“Then what do you make of it?”

“I believe it does not contain the message. I believe the original envelope was opened by Roland Packard.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I don’t know, unless he expected he would have to give up something and was determined to hang on to the real message. I am convinced that there was somebody behind Roland Packard. He was not working on his own hook. The messenger was pursued all the way from Colorado to New Haven by a man who seemed determined to do him injury. That man failed, but is it not possible he instigated the action of Roland Packard?”

“And you think the stranger employed him to get hold of the message?”

“I have arrived at that belief.”

“Still, that does not explain the fake envelope.”

“It seems to me that Roland Packard’s curiosity was aroused and he determined to find out what the original envelope contained. He opened it. In fact, having studied and examined this envelope closely, I think I can detect indications that it has been broken open.”

“Then it is likely that Oliver Packard did not restore to you the message, after all.”

“Not in this first envelope, but you know he brought me this other, which was taken from the body of his dead brother.”

“Then it is possible that the second envelope is the one that contains the message.”

“Yes,” nodded Frank. “I almost dread to open it, although the time to do so has come. Something seems to whisper that it contains a great surprise for me.”

Frank sat down beside the table, and, with a firm hand, tore open the envelope he regarded as the original. An exclamation escaped his lips as he drew forth the contents.

“Look, Bart!” he cried. “I was right! Nothing but blank paper!”

He held the unsoiled sheets up before the eyes of his almost breathless companion.

“By Jove! you were right!” said Hodge. “You have a way of figuring things out correctly, Merriwell. The other envelope must contain the message.”

But, strange to say, Merriwell seemed to hesitate again.

“What if it should not!” he muttered. “What if that also contains nothing but blank paper!”

“But it must contain the message!” exclaimed Bart.

“Why?”

“Because—because the message was not in this one.”

“A poor reason, Bart. It’s likely this envelope was fixed to deceive the man who employed Roland Packard to secure the message. I presume that man offered Packard money to get the message and turn it over to him. Packard’s curiosity was aroused, and he decided to find out what the message contained, which led him to remove it from the envelope. Then he fixed up the original envelope to deceive the man who had paid him to do the crooked work, but his brother took it from him in the fight. Following that it is likely that he fixed up this other envelope for the purpose of fooling his rascally employer. In such a case, it is almost certain that envelope No. 2 contains blank paper, the same as the first.”

“Open it!” panted Hodge.

“That will settle it,” said Frank, as he did so.

Bart was rigid as a marble image as Merry drew the contents of the envelope forth.

From Frank’s lips came a sigh of satisfaction.

“It is the message!” he said.

Had he not been so preoccupied, so absorbed, Frank Merriwell would have heard the slight rustling sound in the alcove bedroom behind him. In times of expected danger his alertness was something remarkable, but just now his mind was concentrated on the mysterious message which he had taken from the envelope.

Nor did Bart hear anything to arouse his suspicions.

A slight breeze came through the open bedroom window, and gently stirred the portières behind Frank’s back.

Merriwell’s face grew very pale as he read the opening words of the message, and his watching companion knew something had produced a profound effect on him.

“What is it?” Bart was compelled to ask.

“It is from my father, as I believed,” said Merriwell, plainly making an effort to steady his voice. “I have read nothing but the opening sentence, but this is what it says:

“‘This, my son, is the confession of your father, who, near to the point of death and beyond all hope of recovery, is lying in the cabin of Juan Delores, near Urmiston, which is about fifty miles from Denver.’”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Hodge. “Your father dying?”

“Dead by this time, it is likely,” came sadly from Frank’s lips. “And I not near in his last moments!”

The expression of regret and grief on Frank’s face was sincere and profound.

“Too bad!” muttered Bart. “But he always was such a strange man!”

“Strange, indeed,” nodded Frank. “I knew little of his life after he went to seek his fortune amid the mines, save that part which is closely connected with his fight against his great enemy, Santenel. He told me that portion of it, but concerning the rest he has said little or nothing.”

“This may throw light upon it. He calls it a confession.”

“And the fact that he has called it that makes me hesitate once more about reading. But it must be done.”

Again Merry lifted the message to read.

Over his shoulder darted a hand that snatched the message from his grasp!

At the same moment, uttering a cry of warning, Bart Hodge sprang to his feet, pointing toward the parted portières behind Merriwell.

Merry shot to his feet like a flash, but he was barely in time to see a man disappearing between the portières.

A second time had the precious message been snatched from his fingers.

“Stop him!” shouted Hodge.

Merry was first to leap between the portières, and yet he was barely in time to see a man disappearing through a window that led out upon a fire-escape.

A single glimpse of the man’s face Merriwell obtained as he plunged after him. He saw him entering the open window of an adjoining room, the fire-escape running from one window to the other.

At a single bound Frank reached the other window and followed the man into the room. The fugitive was passing out through a door that led into the hall as Merry jumped in by the window.

Toward that door bounded Merry. It was slammed in his face.

It had a spring-lock, and for a moment it bothered Frank, who was compelled to pause to open it. By that time Hodge had reached the window of the room, into which he looked in great surprise, seeing that Merry was there alone.

“Where is the——” Frank heard no more of Bart’s question, for he tore open the door and leaped out into the corridor.

The fugitive had disappeared.

Frank went dashing along the passage, looking for the man, but seeing nothing of him. The fellow had disappeared in a most remarkable manner after leaving the room.

“Search, Hodge!” called Merry, and Bart joined in the hunt.

But though they searched everywhere, they found nothing of the man they were after. The hotel was aroused. The clerk in the office was notified, and he sent the hotel detective to join in the search.

But, after an hour of hunting, the searchers were forced to give up, as the unknown thief had not been found.

Then Merry went to the office and took a look at the register to find out who had occupied the room next to his—the one through which the desperate rascal had made good his retreat from the fire-escape.

The name on the register was “Anton Mescal, Fair Play, Col.”

“Fair Play!” muttered Hodge, who was looking over Frank’s shoulder. “What does a scoundrel like that know of fair play?”

Frank asked the clerk if he could give a description of Mescal.

“He is slender, looks like a Spaniard, and has a small, pointed, black mustache,” was the answer. “I do not remember how he was dressed, so his clothes must have been fairly within the style.”

“That’s the man!” exclaimed Hodge. “I saw his face, and the description fits.”

Frank nodded.

“I believe Mescal is the man,” he said. “I will give one thousand dollars for his capture and the restoration to me of the document which he snatched from my hands.”

The clerk looked at Merry, as if doubting his ability to pay such a sum; but the young Yale graduate was taking a small roll of bills from his pocket. From the roll he drew off two five-hundred-dollar bills, which he handed to the cashier, who stood near the clerk.

“The money is to be paid to the person or persons who capture or cause to be captured the thief who stole the document from me, in case it is restored to my hands,” said Merriwell quietly. “You are to enlist the services of the regular police and do everything in your power.”

“The police have been called already,” said the clerk. “I telephoned the nearest station immediately, and two officers appeared very shortly. They have been guarding the entrances to the hotel, while the regular house detectives have been searching. I suspected this Mescal and gave an accurate description of him to the policemen. They have not stopped him as yet.”

“Only two officers on guard!” exclaimed Frank. “Yet there is a front and back entrance, and one through your barber’s shop and by the way of the bar. Mr. Mescal is out of the hotel by this time.”

“We have done everything we could” declared the clerk.

Frank turned away.

“The message is lost, Bart,” he said.

“Lost?” said Bart, astonished that Frank should give up so easily.

“Yes,” Merry nodded, his face wearing a grim expression.

Hodge was trembling with rage at the outcome.

“It’s an infernal shame!” he hissed. “Merriwell, you must——”

Frank’s hand gripped his arm.

“Come!” said Merry’s voice, still calm and restrained.

Together they went to the nearest police-station, where Frank told his story to the sergeant in charge, repeating his offer for the arrest of the thief and the restoration of the message. He was told that everything possible should be done, and with that promise he was compelled to be satisfied.

Frank scarcely spoke as they returned to the hotel. Bart wiped the perspiration from his face and said things to himself.

In his room Merry sat quite still for some time, the look on his face indicating that he was in deep thought.

Bart did not venture to break in upon his meditations. To Hodge this second loss of the message, at the moment when Merry had begun to read it, was something to throw him into a perfect tempest of rage; but Frank had shown that he was master of his temper.

Bart knew Merry was thoughtfully considering the situation and studying over it in view of the proper course to pursue. After half an hour he quietly said:

“That is what I’ll do.”

“What is it?” asked Bart, unable to repress his curiosity longer. “What have you decided to do?”

“I believe there is not one chance in a thousand that the man who snatched that message will be captured before he can get out of New York, and this has led me to decide on a course of action. In the single sentence that I read my father said that he was at the cabin of Juan Delores, near Urmiston, which is about fifty miles from Denver. I shall wait here until to-morrow. If the police have not made a capture by that time, I shall leave New York.”

“Whither bound?”

“For the cabin of Juan Delores, near Urmiston, Colorado. I am going to find out the truth, if possible. There is a mystery to be solved, and I mean to solve it. Bart!”

“Frank!”

“Are you with me?”

Merry had risen. Hodge leaped to his feet. Their hands met, as Bart exclaimed:

“To the end, through thick and thin!”

CHAPTER IX.
THE OLD INDIAN.

Before them lay the mighty Rockies, rising range on range, till their glittering, snow-capped summits pressed the sky. Wild and picturesque and awe-inspiring was the scene. They were in the foot-hills, and the country was rough and broken.

Frank had drawn rein at the mouth of what seemed to be a small valley. He was covered with dust, and the hardy mustang he bestrode showed signs of weariness.

Merriwell was clothed to rough it, having exchanged the garments of the cities and towns for those more suited to the latter stages of his search for the cabin of Juan Delores. On his head was a wide-brimmed felt hat, and he wore a woolen shirt, with a side collar and a flowing tie, a cartridge-belt about his waist, and leather leggings covered his trousers nearly to his thighs. There were spurs on the heels of his boots. His coat he had stripped off, for the day was warm to an uncomfortable degree.

A Winchester repeating rifle was slung at the pommel of Merry’s saddle, and a pair of long-barreled revolvers rested in the holsters on his hips. Taken altogether, he looked like a young man who had made preparations for almost anything he might encounter.

Bart Hodge, similarly mounted and dressed, had drawn up beside Frank.

Despite their attire, there was something in the appearance of the two young men that marked them as belonging to “the tenderfoot breed.” In other words, the experienced eye would have discovered at a glance that they were Easterners.

A cool breeze came down the valley, bearing with it a pleasant odor of wild growing things.

The faces of both lads, lately fresh from college, had been burned and blistered by the hot suns and searing winds.

“It’s remarkable,” said Frank, “that the people at Urmiston know Delores, know he lives somewhere in this vicinity, yet not one of them could give us accurate directions to reach his cabin.”

“Hanged remarkable!” growled Bart. “This is the third day we have spent in hunting for his old place, and we’ve not even found a clue to it.”

Merry nodded, frowning beneath the wide brim of his hat.

“We may have passed and repassed it,” he said. “There are plenty of places where cabins could be hidden in these valleys.”

“That’s right. What are we to do?”

“Keep on hunting.”

“It’s rather tiresome.”

“I shall stick to it till I find the cabin of Delores, if it takes a year!” exclaimed Frank grimly.

Bart knew he would do exactly as he said.

“Perhaps we may be disappointed when we do find it.”

“At least, I should be able to learn if my father is dead, and where he is buried.”

“But the message——”

“I have hopes that I may learn the secret of that, also. It may be that he did not trust it alone to that one document.”

“It’s getting late. What are we to do now? Shall we explore this valley to-night, or wait till morning?”

Little of the valley could be seen through the narrow pass, and that little seemed to promise that it led onward far into the hills. After a moment Frank answered:

“We’ll ride forward and see if we can get a look into it.”

He started onward, and Bart followed, but they had proceeded only a short distance when they were startled to see, sitting on a boulder at one side of the pass, a strange figure. At first it was hard to make out whether it was man or woman, but, as they drew nearer, it straightened up and revealed, peering from the folds of a dirty red blanket, the wrinkled and gnarled face of an old Indian. A pair of beady black eyes were steadily regarding the two young men.

“Watch him, Merry,” cautioned Bart, in a low tone. “These half-civilized red dogs are treacherous.”

The Indian did not stir as they approached. Beside him, leaning against the boulder, was a handsome rifle. He did not touch the weapon.

“Hello, chief,” said Frank, addressing the old man in a manner he knew was flattering to some redskins, as he drew up.

“How, how,” grunted the old fellow, in answer.

“Are you acquainted in this vicinity?”

“Ak-waint?” said the old man. “No savvy.”

“Are you familiar with the country?”

“Fam-mil? What him?”

“Have you been all round every place here?” asked Merry, with a sweep of his arm, using the simplest words he could command.

“Heap been all over,” was the assurance.

“Know Juan Delores?”

“Him don’t live round here.”

The answer was prompt enough—a trifle too prompt, Frank fancied.

“Doesn’t?” said Merry. “Where does he live?”

“Heap long way off there,” and the redskin pointed to the north.

“Are you sure?”

“Heap sure.”

“How far? How many miles?”

“Two time ten.”

“Twenty?”

The old fellow grunted an affirmative.

“Do you know the way to his place?”

Another affirmative grunt.

“Can you guide us there?”

“No time.”

“We will pay you well.”

“No time.”

“I will give you fifty dollars to guide us to the cabin of Juan Delores.”

“No time.”

“A hundred dollars.”

“No time.”

“Confound him!” growled Hodge angrily. “Money is no object to him. It’s likely he doesn’t know the value of money. Now, if you had a quart of whisky to offer him, Merriwell, you might get him to do the job.”

“I will give you a new blanket and a rifle,” promised Merry.

“Got blanket an’ rifle,” said the old Indian.

“I will give you a good horse.”

“Got heap good horse.”

“What haven’t you got that you want?”

“No want nothin’.”

“Will you tell us how to get to the cabin of Delores?”

“Go there two time ten mile, find stream, go up him to spring, take trail from spring; it make you come to where Juan he live.”

Merriwell was not at all satisfied with these directions. There was something in the manner of the old redskin that seemed to arouse his suspicions and make him feel that he was being deceived. Of a sudden Frank asked:

“Who lives in this valley?”

The old man shook his head.

“No know,” he said. “Wolf, bear, mebbe.”

“That’s not what I mean. Is there a white man who lives in this valley?”

Again a shake of the head.

“Wolf, bear, that all. No; big mount’n-lion—him there. Him kill hunter—one, two, t’ree, four hunter—what come for him. Him vely bad lion—heap bad.”

Frank was watching the man closely.

“That’s just what I’m looking for!” he exclaimed, as if delighted. “I want to shoot a mountain-lion.”

“You no can shoot him. Big hunter try—no do it. Him kill you heap quick, you go in there.”

“He is trying to frighten us so we’ll not go into the valley,” thought Frank. Aloud he said:

“That’s all right; I’ll take chances. I reckon the two of us will be too much for Mr. Lion.”

“White boy much foolish,” declared the old redskin grimly. “Make big supper for lion. Lion him like white man for supper.”

“And I’ll have the pelt of that lion just as sure as I live,” said Merry, as if in sudden determination. “Come on, Bart!”

The old Indian rose quickly as they were about to start forward.

“Stop!” he cried. “Ole Joe Crowfoot him tell you truth. If you go in there you never come back some more. Ole Joe Crowfoot him good Injun—him like white man heap much. No want to see um hurt. Tell um to stay back.”

The old savage seemed deeply in earnest now, but that earnestness was something that added to Frank’s suspicions and made him all the more determined to go on.

“That’s all right,” said Merry, with a grim smile. “It’s kind of you to take so much interest in us, but we’re going after your heap bad lion, and we’ll have his pelt.”

“Night come soon,” said the Indian, with a motion toward the range on range of mountains rising to the westward. “Then lion him crouch and spring. Him git you quick.”

“We’ll see. If you wait round here long enough we’ll show you the pelt of your bad lion when we come back.”

“No come back,” declared Old Joe Crowfoot, solemnly. “No see you some more. By-by.”

An expression of deep sadness and regret was on his wrinkled old face as he uttered the words. Merry laughed lightly, and they rode past him and headed onward into the valley.

“He was very anxious to stop us,” said Hodge.

“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “He was altogether too anxious. As soon as I tumbled to that I decided to take a look into the valley. Do you know, we stumbled on the entrance to this valley by accident. I fancy we might search a week for it, if we were to go away now, without finding it.”

“I was thinking of that,” said Bart. “It might puzzle us to find it again. Perhaps that old duffer was counting on that. Those red dogs are treacherous, and——”

They heard a sharp cry behind them. Whirling in the saddle, Frank saw the old Indian standing with the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder.

The muzzle on the rifle was turned directly toward Frank, and plainly the redskin was on the point of pressing the trigger.

Frank knew he was in deadly peril, and he would have attempted to fling himself from the saddle but for something else he saw.

On a mass of jagged rocks behind the Indian and about twenty feet above his head had appeared a boy. Not over thirteen years of age was the lad, whose curly, dark hair fell upon his shoulders. He was dressed in fanciful garments, like those worn by a young Mexican lad, and the bright colors of his clothes made him a picturesque figure.

Plainly it was from his lips that the cry had issued.

In his hand the boy held a stone as large as a man’s fist, and even as Merry turned he hurled the stone. Straight through the air whizzed the missile, striking the barrel of the old Indian’s rifle.

Smoke belched from the muzzle of the weapon and the crags flung back the sound of the report, but the bullet flew wild.

Frank Merriwell’s life had been saved by the stone thrown by the strange boy.

With an exclamation of rage, Hodge snatched up his rifle and reined his mount round to take a shot at the redskin, who had wheeled instantly and was clambering up the rocks toward the boy, as if bent on murder.

“Soak him, Merry!” panted Bart.

Frank’s first impulse was to shoot, but he quickly saw that he was in no further danger just then, and he had no desire to shed human blood unless compelled to do so.

Bart’s rifle rose, but Merry thrust the muzzle aside just as the weapon spoke, and the bullet flattened on the rocks.

“Why did you do that?” roared Hodge, in amazement and anger. “Can’t you see! That red devil is going to murder the kid!”

It did seem that the Indian meant the boy harm, and Merry shouted:

“If you put a hand on that boy I’ll bore you!”

At the same time he held his own rifle ready for instant use.

Old Joe Crowfoot seemed either not to hear or to be too enraged to heed. Like a mountain-goat, he raced upward over the rocks and hastened straight toward the boy. But, what was strangest of all, the boy made no effort to escape, nor did he seem at all frightened. Instead, he seemed to stand and await the approach of the Indian.

Frank and Bart were surprised by this, but they were still more surprised by what followed. The Indian reached the boy and quickly clutched him. Then, with a swift swing, the strange old redskin swept the lad round behind him and up to his back. The arms of the boy immediately clasped about the Indian’s neck, while his legs twined round the old fellow’s body, and there he hung pickapack fashion.

Scarcely had Old Joe Crowfoot paused in his upward race. When Frank and Bart had confronted him at the mouth of the valley both had fancied him old and rather feeble, but now he seemed to have the strength of a youth and the agility of a mountain-goat. Having swung the boy to his back, he continued to clamber upward over the rocks as if quite unimpeded by his burden.

“Well,” gasped Hodge, “if that doesn’t beat the old boy himself!”

Merry was no less amazed. To both it had seemed that the old Indian meditated doing the boy harm as he clambered toward him, but the youngster had betrayed no fear, although his hand flung the missile that destroyed Old Joe’s aim and saved Frank Merriwell’s life.

“He’s running off with the boy!” palpitated Bart.

“And the boy is perfectly willing,” said Merry.

“But the kid threw the stone at the old duffer.”

“For which I am very thankful, as it is certain the old duffer meant to perforate me.”

Then they sat there on their horses and watched till the old Indian and his remarkable burden disappeared amid the rocks. Just before vanishing from view, Old Joe Crowfoot paused, turned and looked down on the boys. Then he made a gesture that seemed to be one of warning. The boy, still clinging to the back of his peculiar companion, took off his wide hat and waved it gaily. A moment later they were gone.

Frank and Bart sat there, staring upward and remaining silent for some moments. At last Merriwell said:

“Well, that little affair is over. Let’s move along and see what will happen next.”

“I don’t understand it,” muttered Hodge, in disappointed perplexity.

“Nor do I,” confessed Frank cheerfully.

“It’s strange.”

“Mighty strange.”

“A white boy and an Indian.”

“Companions beyond a doubt.”

“Yet the boy threw a stone at the Indian.”

“I believe he threw the stone to hit the Indian’s rifle, a feat he accomplished. I do not think he intended to hit the Indian. Anyhow, I owe him my life, and I am grateful.”

For a few minutes longer they remained there, discussing what had happened, and then Merry again led the way into the valley. As they advanced it slowly broadened before them. The valley was eight or ten miles in length, and a stream ran through it, disappearing into a narrow gorge. Near the head of the valley was a pretty little lake, with timber about it. In the valley were to be seen a few grazing cattle, yet from their position the boys could see no ranch-house.

“But I’m certain somebody lives here,” said Frank. “The sight of the cattle convinces me of that.”

They soon found that it was no easy matter to ride down into the valley from that point, but they discovered a dimly defined trail, which they ventured to follow. Fortunately the hardy little mustangs were steady and sure of foot, for there were points where it seemed that no horse could go down without falling.

The little beasts squatted on their haunches more than once and literally slid along till they could recover themselves.

Bart had his teeth set, and no word came from his lips, as he was ready and determined to follow wherever Merriwell led. No accident happened, and the level of the valley was reached. Then they headed toward the lake at the upper end.

The sun was dropping behind the western peaks when they entered a strip of timber that lay across their path in the vicinity of the lake.

The cattle they had passed gave them little notice, convincing them that they were accustomed to the presence and sight of mounted riders. The timber was open, yet they were unable to ride through it at a swift pace, as they had not entered on a regular trail. When they had proceeded a considerable distance they came at last upon a path. In the deepening gloom it was not easy to make out if it was a horse-trail or a foot-path.

As they reached this path, Frank suddenly pulled up, uttering a soft word of warning.

“Stop, Hodge!” he said. “I thought I heard something.”

Bart stopped promptly, and they sat there, motionless and listening. At first they heard no sound save the breathing of their mounts. Bart was about to speak, when Merry lifted his hand.

Straining their ears, they distinctly made out the sound of swift footsteps, which were approaching. Hodge gripped the butt of a revolver and drew it from its holster. A moment later the silence of the gloomy timber was broken by a sound that sent the blood leaping to their hearts.

“Help! Oh, oh—help!”

It was the cry of a child in great fear and distress.

CHAPTER X.
THE KIDNAPED GIRL.

“Choke off the kid, Bill! Are you crazy, to let her screech like that?”

The command came quick and sharp and suppressed.

“Hanged ef I like this yar business of chokin’ babbys! I wouldn’t mind ef she wuz a man.”

The retort was growled forth in a gruff bass voice. Two dark forms were seen coming along the path. One of them, the one in advance, carried in his arms a little girl of twelve.

The ruffians did not observe Frank and Bart until they were quite close. Then, of a sudden, as the big fellow in advance halted, uttering a startled oath, Merriwell’s clear voice rang out:

“Drop that child, you whelps, or we’ll drop you.”

The man behind made a quick movement, and Frank flung himself from the saddle. It was well Merry did so, for the man had whipped out a revolver and fired over the shoulder of his companion, the bullet whistling past Frank’s ear as he dropped.

“Got him!” grated the man, evidently believing he had shot the youth. “Down goes the other one!”

Bart had a revolver in his grasp, but, in the gloom of the timber, he had refrained from firing, fearing to injure the girl, who now uttered another cry for help.

But Hodge knew he was in danger, and he feared Frank had been hit by the shot of the ruffian. He ducked beside the neck of his horse and was barely in time to save his life, for another flash of fire punctured the shadows, another report rang through the timber, and the second bullet cut a hole through the hat of the dark-faced youth.

Then Hodge saw Merriwell leaping straight at the ruffian in advance, and he knew Frank was not seriously hurt. With a shout of relief and satisfaction, Bart sprang to the ground and jumped after Frank.

“Give it to the dogs, Merry!” he exclaimed.

Merriwell was on the big ruffian in a moment. The man had swung the child under his arms, and he brought forth a revolver as Frank came up.

The young athlete ducked and struck out, and the revolver was sent spinning from the grasp of the wretch, being discharged as it flew through the air.

Then Merry was on the scoundrel and the ruffian was forced to drop the child and meet the attack of the fearless youth.

Hodge went past like a leaping panther, but the other man had darted behind a tree and melted away amid the underbrush in a most surprising manner, and while Bart slashed about in search of the fellow who had disappeared, Merriwell fought the other, who was a gigantic man of remarkable strength.

The child had crept away a short distance, where it crouched on the ground, watching the battle in fascination and fear.

“Dern yer!” growled the ruffian. “Whatever do ye mean by botherin’ two peaceable gents in this yar way?”

“We mean business,” answered Frank.

“Waal, danged ef I don’t cut yer inter ribbons!” declared the giant, as he made a movement and wrenched forth a knife.

Frank moved swiftly, and was barely in time to fasten his fingers on the wrist of the murderous wretch.

“No, you don’t!” he exclaimed. “I object to anything of the sort!”

“Object and be dished!” came from the other. “Why, do you think yer kin hold that yar hand? Ye’re nothin’ but a kid!”

Then the ruffian made a furious, wrenching twist to get his hand free, but, to his surprise, the grip of the beardless youth was like steel, and he failed utterly in his attempt.

This was the fellow’s first surprise; others followed swiftly.

“What’s this?” he howled, in fury. “Dang my hoofs! kin you hang on that way?”

“You’ll find I’m something of a sticker,” laughed Frank.

Now, the other did not know that when Frank Merriwell laughed in that peculiar manner he was the most dangerous, and he fancied the youth thought the affair not at all serious.

“I’ll git him in a minute,” the ruffian mentally decided, “an’ I’ll give him the length of this yar toad-sticker, which’ll convince him that this is a mighty sad world, I reckon.”

But though he made another furious attempt to get his hand free, the fingers of the youth were like riveted bands. Then the ruffian grew still more angry.

“Double dern yer!” he panted. “You kin hang on, so I reckon I’ll just have ter break yer back!”

Then he tried to fling Frank to the ground, but Merry used a wrestling-trip, and the man went down instead. In the fall the grip of the youth was almost broken, and, with a snarl of satisfaction, the ruffian twisted his wrist free.

Then he swung back his hand to drive that terrible knife to the hilt between Merry’s ribs. But Frank knew his danger, and, like a flash, he had the thick, hairy wrist again in his clutch.

The man swore and tried to fling his youthful antagonist off, but he found he could not do so and retain his hold on the knife. Then he relinquished the knife and put every effort into the struggle to hurl Merry aside.

The little girl, on her knees by the foot of a great tree, watched this fearful battle with distended eyes.

Bart Hodge was still beating about for the man who had so cleverly vanished in the gloom. There was a sudden report, as fire belched from a tangled thicket, and a bullet grazed Bart’s cheek.

Hodge dropped, knowing now the other man had sought shelter, and waited till he felt that he could bring one of the youths down with a sure shot. Evidently the man believed he had succeeded, for he rose to his feet, so that Bart obtained a glimpse of him.

In his impatient rage, Hodge did not wait for the fellow to advance, but he took a quick aim and fired immediately. Down went the man.

“Soaked him!” said Bart grimly. “He brought it on himself.”

Then he lifted himself to his feet. It was Bart’s turn to meet with surprise, for again from the thicket came a flash of fire, and this time Hodge felt something burn and sting in his shoulder.

With a shout of fury, Hodge leaped straight toward the thicket, into which he fearlessly plunged, reckless of his life.

But when he reached the spot where he believed the enemy must be, he found no one there. The desperado had slipped away as Hodge came leaping toward the spot, being aided to escape by the deepening darkness.

Finding the man was not there, the conviction came on Hodge that he was crouching near, waiting to obtain another shot, which he would take care to make sure. Then the instinct of self-preservation overcame Bart’s great fury, and he crouched close to the ground, holding his revolver ready, while he peered about in the gloom and listened.

Not far away the battle between Frank and the giant ruffian was still raging fiercely.

With every sense on the alert, Bart squatted there, ready to shoot or spring. His nerves were tingling, but he did his best to be steady and cool. An encounter of this sort, however, was something to unsteady the nerves of almost any man, and it was not at all strange that Bart found himself shaking somewhat as he remained motionless and waiting.

The breathing of the floundering giant who was trying to conquer Merriwell sounded hoarsely through the gloom, and there was something awesome in it. Suddenly the sounds stopped. The struggle seemed to be ended. Who had conquered?

At the risk of betraying his position to the man who might be waiting to shoot at him, Bart ventured to call:

“Merriwell!”

Hodge’s heart gave a leap of joy when Frank’s voice answered:

“Here! Are you all right?”

“Sure thing! And you?”

“Well, I’ve succeeded in quieting this chap, though he did put up an awful fight.”

“Look out for the other!”

“Then he is——”

“He’s around here somewhere. I popped at him two or three times, but I didn’t bag him.”

Crouching low, Bart moved as quietly as he could toward Frank, still ready to shoot instantly. But in the gloom no pistol flashed, and no deadly bullet sang through the timber.

Bart found Merriwell with his arm about the frightened child, while near-by, on the ground, lay the body of the giant, sprawling grotesquely.

“Have you killed him?” asked Hodge, looking down at the silent ruffian.

“I’m afraid so,” said Frank.

“Afraid?” exclaimed the dark-faced youth.

“Yes.”

“Why afraid?”

“I have no desire to kill anybody.”

“But this murderous dog——”

“Not even a human being of his caliber.”

“Well,” said Hodge grimly, “I did my level best to bore the other cur, and my conscience would not have troubled me had I succeeded. How did you do this one?”

“He had wonderful strength and wind, and he thrashed round to beat the band. I was forced to be at my best all the time, and I hurled him back repeatedly after he had partly succeeded in rising with me. The last time I did so his head struck against the exposed root of that tree, and it doubled under him with a snap like a pistol-shot. Then he was limp as a rag, and the fight was over, so far as he was concerned.”

Bart caught the ruffian by the shoulders and partly lifted him. Then he let the fellow drop back, a slight shiver running over him.

“Neck broken!” he said shortly.

“Broken!” exclaimed Frank. “As bad as that?”

“Sure thing!” said Hodge. “He won’t try to kidnap any more children, for I reckon that was what they were doing with this one.”

Frank turned his attention to the child once more, while Bart looked after the tired mustangs. As he approached the animals, a figure suddenly sprang out of the gloom and onto the back of one of them. There was a yell, and away dashed the animal along the path, bearing the ruffian who had escaped.

Hodge took a shot at the fellow, and then, finding the man still clung to the mustang, having disappeared in the gloom, he fired again in the direction of the sound. Still the mustang fled on with its burden, and Bart muttered an exclamation of rage.

The other animal had been alarmed by this, and Bart found some trouble in approaching the creature, though he finally succeeded in capturing him.

“Well, Merriwell,” he said, as he returned, leading the single mount, “we’ve lost one of our beasts.”