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BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

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

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

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

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

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

To Be Published in July, 1923.

Frank Merriwell’s False Friend

OR,

An Investment in Human Nature

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1901

By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s False Friend

(Printed in the United States of America)

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

FRANK MERRIWELL’S FALSE

FRIEND.

CHAPTER I.
ANXIETY AT YALE.

Yale was in perplexity and distress.

Where was Merriwell?

That question created all the trouble. He had obtained permission to leave a few days on important business, but the “few days” had lengthened into many and still he remained away.

He was needed at Yale, for he had been chosen captain of the baseball-team, and the men were in training for the Easter trip to the South. His absence and the uncertainty of his return seemed to have a most baleful influence upon them, for they failed to turn out with enthusiasm for work in the cage, and they plainly lacked the needed spirit that year after year has led Yale gladiators to stand ready to sacrifice anything and everything, but honor, for the glory of Old Eli.

The coaches were in despair, for never before had they handled such indifferent material. It seemed impossible to find the usual number of new men who took an interest in baseball, and were willing to work with vim and enthusiasm.

The outlook was discouraging. Experienced men shook their heads and looked blue. Was this a relapse after their great victory over Harvard on the gridiron the previous fall?

Among all the new men in the squad only one showed up enough to create general comment, and that one was the black-haired freshman, Dade Morgan.

Having resolved to try for a place on the nine, it was not remarkable that Morgan should attract attention, for at everything he had attempted since entering college he had made himself a marked man. He was a fellow who went at any task with a determination and intensity that would have advanced a poorer subject. Being an athlete, supple, strong, quick, sure-eyed, and confident, it was not singular that he made rapid advancement. It would have been far more singular if he had not.

Morgan had played baseball before coming to college. In fact, he had once captained a very clever amateur team at a summer resort. He was one of those surprisingly versatile fellows who could fill any position. It is a well-known fact that much of the success of a ball-team depends on putting the players into the positions for which they are best adapted, and that it is not often a good first-baseman does equally well on second or third, while a remarkable outfielder may be utterly worthless in the diamond, or vice versa. But Dade could handle grounders, catch flies, cover a base, play behind the bat, even pitch with a certain amount of skill that did not seem lessened in any position.

But it was his ambition to pitch, and for that he began to train as soon as the squad got to work.

There were a number of new candidates for the position, but the coaches confessed to themselves that Morgan was the only highly promising man in the lot.

Frank Merriwell, however, had been depended on as the mainstay in the pitching department of the team.

Of course, Bart Hodge would fill his old position behind the bat, and there were one or two promising men who might serve as substitutes in case any accident happened to him.

But Bart did not go about the work with his usual spirit. In fact, it was hard to get him genuinely interested, and, somehow, he seemed sad and restless, appearing at times to be brooding over something. To the surprise of everybody he did not say much about Merry’s absence, save that he had not heard from Frank and did not know why he was remaining away so long.

The anxiety and restlessness caused by Frank’s unaccountable failure to return spread to the professors, who began to inquire about him day after day.

Merriwell’s enemies had been keeping pretty quiet, for they realized that it would not be best to say too much at first, as he was the pride of the college, and slurs against him would not be tolerated.

Honest men who had once been his enemies were silent now, or his pronounced friends. In fact, it seemed that no open enemies were to be found.

But the petty spite and meanness of the Chickering set was simply held in restraint. Although they were not particularly brilliant, they knew enough to realize that it would not be healthy to express themselves too freely in public.

As time went on and it began to seem that Merriwell might not return to college, these creatures grew bolder. At first they dared not speak outright, but they hinted and slurred and sneered. Without saying why at first, they suggested that there had been “a very good reason” for Merriwell’s sudden departure, and that it was not at all likely he would ever again be seen at Yale.

Thus it came about that one sunny afternoon these fellows were gathered at the fence along with other students, who were discussing the baseball situation.

“I tell you what,” said Lib Benson, “I’m afraid we’re going to get it in the neck all round this spring. It’s a dead sure thing that the men are not taking hold with the usual spirit, and I have it straight that the coaches are disgusted with the material for a nine.”

“Oh, that’s always the way,” declared Irving Nash. “It’s the same old cry that’s heard every year.”

“Not a bit of it,” put in Gene Skelding, who had blossomed out with a handsome new pink shirt, of which he was very proud. “Yale seldom has much to say, though the newspapers may be full of rot about the nine, or the crew, or something or other. This year it is different. We’ve tried to keep the truth from getting into the papers, but it’s out just the same.”

“What maketh me thick,” lisped Lew Veazie, “ith thith thilly talk about all the twoble coming fwom the abthence of that fellow Fwank Merriwell. It ith vewy tirethome!”

“That’s so, chummie,” agreed Ollie Lord, standing as high as possible on the high heels of his polished shoes. “As if he could make any difference if he were here!”

“He’s usually made a difference in the past,” said Nash instantly. “He has a way of stirring things up.”

“That’s right,” agreed Lib Benson. “I wonder where he can be and what is keeping him away. He’ll fail in his exams sure as fate if he stays away much longer. Even now I’m afraid he’ll have to grind so hard that he won’t have much time for baseball, or anything else.”

“Talking about Merriwell?” grunted Browning, loafing up and leaning lazily against the fence. “Don’t worry about his failing. You never knew him to fail in anything.”

“Not even in waking you up and getting you onto the eleven last fall,” laughed Hock Mason. “Why aren’t you in the baseball squad, Browning? You played with Merriwell’s ball-team last summer.”

“And got enough of it, too. It’s altogether too much like work, Old South Carolina; that’s why I’m not sweating in the cage every day.”

“If Merriwell were to show up now, he’d be pretty sure to drag you out in a hurry.”

“Never! There are plenty of others. I refuse to be sacrificed again for the public good.”

“What is this rumor I’ve been hearing lately?” broke in Julian Ives, thrusting his cap back and patting down his pet bang. “It can’t be true that Merriwell got out because he knew he must fail at exams this spring. He has wasted his time, it is said, in athletics and such folly, till now he is face to face with failure in his studies, and he can’t stand that. Rather than to be set back a year he has taken himself out of the way, and he’ll not be seen here again.”

“And I brand that as a malicious lie!” rang out a clear voice.

It was Bart Hodge, who had approached in time to hear Ives’ words. There was a black look of anger on Bart’s face, and his flashing eyes glared with scorn and contempt at Julian.

“There is a very good reason for Merriwell’s absence,” declared Hodge. “Starbright saw him in New York and said he would surely be here in a day or two.”

“But Starbright did not tell what was keeping him away, you know,” gently said Rupert Chickering. “I have nothing against Merriwell, and I sincerely hope the rumors about him are not true, but I have begun to entertain fears.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Hodge, giving Rupert a look of intense scorn. “Why do you still play the hypocrite, Chickering? Everybody knows you. Everybody knows you hate Merriwell and would do anything in your power to injure him.”

Chickering held up his hands, his face expressing denial, resentment, and martyrlike anguish.

“You are very unjust!” he exclaimed. “But as you are a fellow of violent passions, I will forgive you and try to forget your unjust judgment of me. Still, I advise you to remember the Biblical injunction, ‘Judge not that ye be not judged.’”

“Oh, you make me sick!” was Hodge’s rather unoriginal retort. “You are the most sickening thing of your whole sickening crowd. You disguise your hatred under pretense of generosity, even of friendliness—that is, you try to disguise it. But every one is onto you, and it is well known that you are trying to stab a man in the back when you say a pretendedly kind thing about him. That brands you as a snake in the grass, Chickering! This is plain talk, but I’ve been waiting for just this opportunity to make it, and if you or any of your friends wish to pick it up now or any other time, you all know where to find me.”

Rupert heaved a deep sigh.

“It is hard to be thus misjudged,” he said sadly; “but still I must forgive you. I don’t suppose I can blame you, for you must be worried into a dreadful state of mind over Merriwell’s failure.”

“Merriwell never made a failure in his life, and he will not begin.”

“Plainly,” said Chickering, with resignation, “it is useless for me to tell what I have heard and know. I would not tell it, anyhow, but it must come out in time. I am sorry for you, Hodge, as I know you think a great deal of Merriwell; but even you would not like to see him flunk in his last year.”

“More of your dirty insinuations, put in your own nasty way!” flashed Bart.

Ives and Skelding had their heads together and were glaring at Bart, while they mumbled to each other in low tones. Now Gene took a step forward and grasped Chickering’s arm, hoarsely exclaiming:

“Don’t talk to the fellow, Rupert! He knows you or your friends do not care to fight him here, and that’s why he is making all this blow. He’s doing it for a bluff and to obtain notoriety.”

The fire that came into Bart’s eyes made even Skelding start back a bit. But Hodge held himself in check enough so that his voice did not get higher than an ordinary tone. However, it seemed so intense that every hearer was thrilled, and not a word was missed by those on the outskirts of the gathering.

“You, Skelding, are not a hypocrite, but you are a malicious liar, and you know it! I have said that I’ll fight anywhere, and that stands good for you. I never make bluffs that I cannot back up. You do. But now and here I give you fair warning to keep your mouth shut about Merriwell. If you make any further talk about him, I promise to meet you where we cannot be interrupted and give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life!”

Gene laughed and snapped his fingers.

“If I have anything I wish to say you may be sure I shall say it, for all of your threat,” he declared; “but I do not consider the fellow worth discussing.”

“It’s a good thing for you that you do not!”

Skelding and Ives took to mumbling to each other again, and Jim Hooker asked Bart:

“Then you are dead certain Merriwell is coming back? Nothing has happened to cause him to fail to return?”

“I know he’ll be here,” was the declaration, “else he would have communicated with his friends. Something has happened to keep him away longer than he intended to stay, but he’ll show up before long, and I’ll bet my life on it.”

“There he is!” shrieked a voice. “Look, fellows—he’s coming now! Hooray!”

CHAPTER II.
ON THE CAMPUS.

The excitement of the moment was intense, for Merriwell was crossing the campus toward the fence, coming from Vanderbilt Hall.

Alone and unheralded, he had arrived. It had been his fortune to reach his room without attracting attention, and now he had come forth to look for his friends and acquaintances.

When he was seen there was commotion at the fence. The gathering gave a sudden surge, a shout, a dissolving, and then the men went tearing toward him, shouting.

And Bruce Browning—big, lazy, useless Bruce—was at their head!

“Hooray!” he roared.

Then he caught Frank in his arms and gave him a regular bear-hug, while the crowd gathered and pressed around.

“Oh, Betsey!” shouted the giant senior, as he held Frank off and looked at him; “but you may bet your sweet life we are glad to see you, old man!”

They grasped his hands and shook them, coming forward one after another, even if they had to fight to reach him. They laughed and shouted and rejoiced.

“He’s here!” they told each other, gleefully, and when they could not shake hands with Frank they shook hands with each other. “Now we’re all right!” they declared. “Just see if he does not stir things up!”

From somewhere Jack Ready bobbed up and wormed his way into the crowd till he reached Frank, loudly commanding all to stand back and make room for him.

“I salute you!” he cried, making some grotesque movements with his hands. “Oh, great and mighty potentate, we have missed you, yes, we’ve missed you! In sooth, we have been getting into a very bad way without you. Give us a wag of your fin, salubrious one. Ah-ha! ‘Richard is himself again!’”

Then he smote himself violently on the chest with his clenched fist and immediately fell to coughing.

“The same old Jack!” laughed Merry.

“Yes, the same old jackass,” said somebody on the outskirts of the crowd.

Ready straightened up stiffly and glared around.

“Who made yonder insolent remark?” he fiercely demanded. “Bring him away from me, else I may be tempted to do him a severe kindness! It is more than mortal flesh can bear!”

“Somebody is onto you, Jack,” smiled Frank.

“Isn’t it sad?” sighed the queer fellow, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Just when I attempt to assume a little dignity some blame chump has to spoil everything. ’Tis envy, kind sir. They envy me my radiant beauty and my graceful demeanor. Base churls! Common clods! I scorn them all!”

He flung out one hand with a gesture of lofty pride and scorn, his chin high in the air and his eyes closed for a moment.

“That will do,” said Browning. “You’re nothing but the low comedian. Get off the center of the stage.”

“Refuse me!” murmured Jack, as the big fellow pushed him aside.

And now Starbright appeared. At first he was inclined to hold back, being only a freshman, but Frank caught sight of him and stepped toward him.

Dick’s face was flushed with pride and pleasure when, before them all, the great senior, the greatest man in his eyes that had ever attended Yale, grasped his hand and shook it warmly, saying:

“I’m glad to see you, Dick, and I hope you are getting into form for the nine.”

Frank longed to say more, but that was no time nor place for it. He realized that Starbright had opened his eyes to the fact that Inza Burrage really and truly loved him as she had in the old days, if not more intensely, and, regarding himself as an interloper, Dick had withdrawn and left the field to Frank, with the result that Merry had proposed and was accepted.

No time had been set for the marriage, but over the gate of the old home in Fardale they had plighted their troth, and it seemed certain that the happy day must come at last.

Looking into Frank’s eyes, Dick fancied he read the truth there. Despite himself, despite his nobleness in withdrawing, he felt a pang of pain.

Inza was lost to him!

“That’s it, Merriwell!” cried Irving Nash. “You’re needed here to wake the men up. They say the prospects for a winning ball-team this season are decidedly dark.”

Merry looked serious.

“We’ll have to see how that is,” he said.

Chickering’s set had not rushed to greet him, and now they were moving away, seeking to escape without attracting attention. Rupert had expressed a desire to go over and shake hands with Frank, but Skelding had prevented it.

“Don’t give that fellow Hodge another chance to call you down,” he advised. “Besides that, you know Merriwell does not think much of you.”

“It is not right that I should permit his feelings to make any difference in my treatment of him,” murmured Rupert. “If he hates me I am sorry for him, that’s all. He does not know what he is missing by not having me for a friend.”

“Let’s all keep away,” said Ives. “The entire college will go foolish over Merriwell now, see if it doesn’t; I did hope the fellow would never show his head here again.”

“Tho did I,” chirped Veazie. “I think he’th a wegular wuffian! If I could do tho jutht ath well ath not I’d never become tho beathtly stwong ath he ith. I wegard thuth stwength as thimply bwutal.”

“Brutal is the word, chummie,” agreed Ollie Lord. “There ought to be a law to prevent any man from training till he is so much stronger than other men. It isn’t fair to the other men.”

“Don’t talk like asses!” growled Skelding. “You know that either one of you would gladly be as strong as Merriwell if you could; but he’s not the only athlete in the world—or in Yale, for that matter. It’s this bowing down and worshiping him that gives me a pain! Why, I could be just as strong and skilful as he is if I’d deny myself drinks and smokes and good things to eat and keep working away every day to put myself in form. But I like a little booze, I enjoy a cigarette, I like to stuff my stomach full of good things, and I won’t pelt away with dumb-bells, clubs, chest-weights, and such things every moment I get from my studies. What’s life good for if a fellow has got to be a regular slave!”

“I with you wath ath thmart ath Merriwell,” lisped Lew.

“Well, I thought I was once,” confessed Gene; “but I found it was no use for me to try to buck against a fellow like him who kept at his very best all the time. I’m not fool enough now to try to fight him with my fists. If I found another good way to get in a lick at him I might try it.”

“That’s the only way to jar him,” said Tilton Hull, his high collar holding his chin very high in the air. “Let’s go up to Rupert’s room and talk it over.”

“Yeth, yeth!” urged Veazie. “I feel the need of a thigawette and a dwink of wine thince Gene had that wow with that low fellow Hodge. That dithturbed my nerveth.”

So they passed from the campus, and the sun seemed to shine more brightly when they were gone.

Bart Hodge had shaken hands with Frank during the rush and crush of the students to reach Merriwell, but he did so silently and withdrew at once. He had been ready enough to defend Merry from his defamers a short time before, but he was not among those who made the greatest hurrah over Frank’s return to college.

After a while Merry looked round for Hodge and saw him standing quite by himself on the outskirts of the throng. The expression on Bart’s face was not one of happiness; indeed, he seemed sad and depressed.

It is possible that an inkling of the thoughts passing through Bart’s mind came to Merry then.

The dark-eyed lad knew nothing of what had taken place while Frank was away from college. He knew only that he cared for Elsie Bellwood with all the intensity of his passionate nature and that she had repeatedly told him she would never marry at all.

Why had she made that assertion? Was it not because she still loved Frank Merriwell? Bart believed so, and it was his conviction that in the end Frank must win her, for had not he a way of winning anything he greatly desired!

Still, he would not give up. He had told Frank squarely and honestly that he would never cease his efforts to obtain Elsie till he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was no hope for him.

Then, what? Who could tell? For Bart had a peculiar disposition, and a disappointment of this sort might wreak havoc with his sensitive organization.

Merriwell’s hand had lifted him from the path of temptation and ruin in the past and set his feet upon the highway leading to splendid achievements, but this disappointment might undo all the good that had been done and turn him back along the downward course.

Frank thought of this, and he was eager to let his friend know what had happened, revealing to him that the road to Elsie’s heart was open and undisputed.

“Hodge!”

Frank spoke Bart’s name and started toward him. Then one of his many friends caught hold of him and asked him a question, which he paused to answer.

When he looked for Bart again he looked in vain, for Hodge had hastened away.

CHAPTER III.
A SHOCK FOR BART.

Bart Hodge sat alone in his room. The curtains were drawn at the windows and a lighted student’s lamp was on the table, over which books and papers were scattered. In Bart’s hand he held the photograph of a pretty, sweet-faced girl, at which he was gazing with earnest intentness, the light in his dark eyes being one of unspeakable admiration.

It was the picture of Elsie Bellwood. Bart had been trying to study, but his mind would revert to Elsie, try as he might to fix it on other matters, till at last he gave up, brought out her picture and sat there musing over it.

His love for her had seemed to take possession of him full blown in a moment, but cooler afterthought had revealed to him that he had always admired her intensely since that wild night when he had aided Frank to save her from the wreck on Tiger Tooth Ledge, near Fardale.

He had first seen her that night as she was lashed to the mast of the doomed vessel which had struck upon the terrible ledge. Led by Merriwell, the cadets had succeeded in manning a boat and pulling off to the vessel. On reaching the dripping deck Bart had seen Elsie held fast to the mast by ropes, but in the gloom he was unable to discern if she were young or old. Her voice, however, as she appealed to the lads for aid when her father was assaulted by one of the sailors had sounded musical and sweet.

The music of that voice had stirred silent chords within Bart’s heart many times since that wild night. But he was loyal to Merry, his best friend, and it had seemed that Elsie and Frank cared for each other, so, with Spartanlike heroism, he had resolutely compelled himself to think not at all of her.

Thus he had lived with the germ of love in his heart, refusing to permit it to sprout and grow. For a long time he had fancied himself a “woman-hater,” but it was all because other girls made him think of Elsie—made him think of her as a thousand times more winsome, pretty, and attractive. That he wished to forget, so he avoided girls in general.

But it is not natural for a strong, manly youth to shun womanly and attractive girls, and Hodge began to succumb at last. He could not hold himself aloof from them, try as he might. He was naturally attracted by them and enjoyed their society far more than he would confess to himself.

And the time came when, like other young men, he fancied he cared for one of them. The first was Stella Stanley, an actress several years older than Hodge; but Stella had told him it was not true love and that he would get over it.

At first he had taken this rather hard, but he came at last to recognize her wisdom and thank her for her plain speech.

Then there was another, Grace Vernon, who fascinated him for a time.

With Elsie it was different. Having once discovered how much he cared for her, he was unable to brush aside the knowledge, which remained with him constantly, no matter what he did or where he was.

The knowledge that his love for her might be hopeless simply made it all the more intense, for it was not Bart’s nature to relinquish anything on which he had once fairly set his heart.

But Merriwell stood as a barrier between them, and, worse than everything else, Merriwell was his friend.

No wonder Hodge spent sleepless nights! No wonder he spent wretched days! No wonder he lost flesh and became more and more irritable till it became dangerous to cross him in anything!

Still, in his loyal heart he was true to Frank Merriwell, whom he well knew had been his best friend and benefactor in a thousand ways when almost any other fellow would have been a mortal foe.

As of old, Hodge would have yielded up his life for Frank, but his love for Elsie was something stronger and more intense than his love for life, and he could not put that aside. As of old, he had been ready to defend Frank against enemies and traducers; but the sight of Frank’s happy face filled him with gloomy forebodings and intense misery.

Why had Merry looked so happy? Why had he remained away from Yale so long?

Bart could not help being suspicious of that happiness. He could not help wondering if it came through an understanding between Frank and Elsie. And that had been brought about while Merry was away from college!

If this was true, Bart felt that Elsie was lost to him, and the ambition had gone out of his life forever. Therefore he sat alone in his room and gazed longingly, earnestly, and almost hopelessly, at her pictured face. Her open eyes seemed to smile back at him reassuringly, but they did not lift the gloom from his heart. Her lips—--

Impulsively, he lifted the picture and kissed it.

The door opened quietly and some one stepped into the room.

“Hello, Bart, old man!” cried a hearty, familiar voice. “What are you doing there?”

Hodge sprang up, his face flaming, and tried to hide the picture behind him.

Frank closed the door and advanced into the room.

Hodge stood beside the table, trembling from head to feet. His eyes were fastened on Merry and he was speechless.

“I thought you’d come round to see me, Bart,” said Frank. “You did not, so I came to see you, though I’m missing time that I ought to spend in grinding. Oh, I’ll be a greasy grind for a while now till I get on Easy Street again. It will take lots of stiff work for me to catch up, but I believe I can do it.”

Still Bart stood there without speaking, looking straight at Frank.

“What’s the matter?” Merry asked, in perplexity. “Why do you stare at me that way? Why, hang it! you don’t seem at all pleased to see me.”

He was surprised and hurt by Bart’s singular manner.

Hodge opened his lips to say something, but the words did not seem to come freely, and he stuck.

Merry came close and placed his hands on Bart’s shoulders, looking deep into the dark eyes of his comrade.

“Tell me why you meet me like this, old man!” he urged. “Have I done anything to cause it?”

“No.”

“Then why——”

“It’s nothing, Merriwell—nothing!” huskily muttered Bart. “Take a chair. I’ve been thinking, and I expect I’m in a deuced unsociable mood, but I’ll try to be decent.”

Frank did not sit down immediately on the invitation. Instead, he looked at Bart as if trying to read his very thoughts.

“You’re thin,” he said. “You have lost flesh and there are dark circles round your eyes. Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Something is the matter with you, and I fancy I know what it is.”

“Perhaps so.”

“I’ve come to talk it over——”

The dark-eyed lad cut him short with a gesture.

“Don’t!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Talk of anything else—baseball, spring sports, the Southern trip, anything!”

“What is that you have in your hand?”

Almost rudely Bart pushed Frank aside and walked to a desk, into the drawer of which he thrust the photograph. But when he turned round he felt certain Merriwell knew it was a picture of Elsie and that he had been seen pressing that picture to his lips.

“Sit down,” he invited again, with a motion toward a chair.

Frank did so.

“There are a number of things I wish to speak about, Bart,” said he. “One important thing is the nine. Are you working to get into form to catch? That’s one thing.”

“Perhaps I’m not working as hard as usual,” confessed Hodge. “Somehow, I haven’t seemed to have any heart in it. You know you were not here, and that has made lots of difference.”

“I’m here now, and we must get to work, for I hear that the outlook for a strong team is very unsatisfactory.”

“It might be better.”

“Well, if we get into our usual form, the battery should not be so very weak, though, of course, I can’t pitch all the games.”

“Do you know who’s working like a fiend to get into the box?”

“I haven’t heard.”

“That cad, Morgan! Why, he’s training every day, and they say there’s a prospect that he’ll make it. What do you think of that?”

“A good thing.”

“Good? Do you fancy I’ll ever catch with him pitching? Not for my life!”

“Not even for Yale?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you should be ready to do anything for Yale, my boy.”

“I can’t swallow that scoundrel, and I refuse to have him thrust down my throat! That’s all there is to it! If you can stand for him, that’s all right, but I decline.”

“Well, we won’t get into an argument over that now, though I want you to remember the splendid work Morgan did on the gridiron last fall.”

“And I don’t want you to forget that up to the last minute he pulled every string possible to down you, Merriwell. He was as full of tricks as an egg is full of meat.”

“Let it pass now. I hear that Starbright has not been given much of a show with the squad. How is that?”

“Rot! You know any man will be given all the show he deserves.”

“And Browning?”

“He refuses to get out.”

“And Ready?”

“He’s too flip. He’s got himself disliked by his freshness, and I fancy he’ll have a hard pull to make the nine.”

“Nor is he better than other men who are working for his place. I have been promised absolute authority this spring, and I shall have something to say about the make-up of the team I am to captain.”

By this time Bart had begun to cool down somewhat, and now, of a sudden, Merry reverted to the thing about which he had attempted to speak a while before.

“Hodge, you want to stop worrying about the thing that has troubled you so much lately. I am your truest friend, and you must let me speak out frankly. You’ll feel better when I have finished. I know whose picture you held in your hand when I entered—the picture you put in that drawer.”

Bart’s face was very pale now and he had begun to quiver again.

“We had a plain face-to-face talk about her on Cumberland Island not so very long ago, but the finish of that talk left us just where we began. Since then many things have happened, and, as far as I am concerned, that matter has been entirely settled.”

Bart felt a tightening about his heart. So it was true that Frank had remained away from college to see Elsie again and to win her back to him! Somehow, it did not seem just exactly like Merriwell, and yet how could Bart complain, for had not Frank held the prior claim to her?

“Elsie is a beautiful, noble-hearted girl, whom I cannot find words to properly extol,” Merriwell calmly continued, his coolness and confidence causing Bart’s heart to sink still more. “I do not wonder that I came to admire her very much. It would have been far more remarkable if I had not. But I have learned that I wholly misinterpreted my feelings and emotions toward her. Read others however well I may, I did not properly read and analyze myself in regard to her.”

What was Frank saying? Hodge felt a rush of blood to his heart, which began to thump violently in his breast.

“Events which I cannot fully describe have opened my eyes and revealed to me the truth. I loved Elsie and still love her as a very dear friend, and one of the sweetest girls alive, but I do not love her and never did love her as one should love the girl he means to make his wife.”

Bart’s lips parted, but no sound escaped them. He stared at Frank as if turned to stone.

“But I have learned,” Merry continued, “that I love another with all my heart, and that knowledge has brought me great happiness, for my love is returned, and we are engaged to be married some time, though the day is not set yet. Of course, you know without being told that the other of whom I speak is Inza Burrage.”

Bart sprang up.

“Merriwell,” he gasped, “you—you really mean that you are engaged—to Inza?”

“Yes, that is just what I mean. So you see, my dear boy, that you have been worrying over a trouble that does not exist, and the field is open and clear for you to win Elsie.”

There was a ringing as of many bells in Bart’s ears, and the room seemed to whirl round him.

Then he sat down quickly, all the strength having gone out of his legs. But the happiness of the shock made him long to shout, though his lips uttered no sound.

CHAPTER IV.
A DESPERATE ENEMY.

“Ginger up, there, Robinson! You’re worse than a dead man!”

“Get in front of ’em, Dashleigh! Stop ’em with your body if you can’t hold ’em with your hands!”

“You throw like an old woman, Mason! You’ll break your back some day.”

“Here, here, Ready! that will do with those flourishes! When you get hold of a ball throw it. Don’t juggle it.”

“Say, you chap with the curly hair, don’t get so excited. Take a little time in throwing to first, after picking up a ball.”

“Who is that long-legged chap?” Gamp questioned.

“Here, Gamp, it’s your turn to bat.”

“Oh, murder! Who let that grounder go through him? Carker? Is that his name? Say, Carker, you’re a sieve! Keep your feet together and you’ll do better.”

It was a lively scene in the great baseball cage at Yale, for the squad of candidates for the ball-team were hard at work and the coaches were putting them “through the paces.”

The men were working hard, and the coaches were yelling and shouting at them, giving orders, criticizing, commenting—but seldom expressing approval.

It would not do to let any man think he was doing too well at this early stage of the work, for it might spoil him by giving him a good opinion of his ability.

More men have been spoiled by praise than by adverse criticism, and the professional coach knows this very well.

It is a pretty level-headed youth who can stand open praise without thinking himself the “only one.”

Sometimes it pays to praise a man, but it is best to know your man before you venture to praise him. Be sure it will do him more good than silence, or keep your mouth shut.

In rare instances praise will serve to spur a man on to do still better. Far oftener it will cause him to think he is good enough already and that the other fellows should hustle to keep in his class.

The fellow who manages or coaches a ball-team must know this, and he must be exceedingly careful with his praise.

In the cage the sweating crowd of candidates accepted this criticism without a word, for it would not do to “talk back.” When one was called down for something he did, if he was a good man, he shut his teeth and made an extra attempt to do it well the next time. If he was sulky and had a bad temper, he might tell himself he did not care a rap, and then he would be careless and do worse the next time. In that case, the chances were he would be quietly informed that it would be a waste of time for him to practise further, and that the room he occupied in the cage was needed for others.

Of course, there were men, and plenty of them, who worked like slaves to improve, yet failed to make the necessary[necessary] progress, and who were dropped one after another for that reason.

But no man of this class, willing and determined, was dropped till the coaches were perfectly satisfied that there was no possible chance of making good material out of him.

The turnout this year had been most unsatisfactory, barely more than half the usual number of candidates coming to the cage each day.

This happened despite all efforts to get out the usual large squad. It seemed very remarkable, but men came to attribute it to the absence of Merriwell, which, they said, accounted for the apathetic interest taken in baseball.

There was at one time talk of making some move to choose a new captain for the team, to see if that would not bring about better results; but Merriwell had given no notice that he would not be on hand to fill the position, and the one who hinted openly of selecting some one to fill his place was soon hissed down.

But now Merriwell had arrived, and his return showed immediately by the change that took place in the cage. He had made inquiries about the work, and, having learned what men were practising and who were not, he went around among those whom he regarded as having a chance to make the nine.

The following day a swarm of new men flocked into the cage and went to work with a vim that astonished and delighted the coaches. Joe Gamp, Hock Mason, Berlin Carson, and Greg Carker were among the new men.

Carson had given up in despair, having tried to make the team the year before and failed; but during the trip of Merriwell’s athletes through the West the previous summer Frank had been given an opportunity to see what the rancher’s son could do at the game, and he urged Berlin to come out and make one more attempt to get onto the varsity nine.

Frank did not have so much confidence in Greg Carker, the pessimist, for he knew that Carker’s peculiar temperament was such that he could never be at his very best in anything.

Joe Gamp, however, despite his awkwardness, was one of the best outfielders Merry had ever seen. This was rather astonishing, for Gamp was not regarded at college as a person having the least baseball material in him, and he had never tried for a place on the varsity nine.

But Merriwell had seen him play center field on the great athletic trip, and he knew Gamp could cover an “outer garden” in splendid style, and could throw with almost the marvelous power of the once famed Sockalexis, and was an unusually good hitter against pitchers who had not discovered his "weak spot"—high and close to his shoulders.

With Hock Mason it was different. Frank had seen Mason, who was from the South, catch some flies in field practise, which he had done very well; but outside of that Merry knew very little about the fellow except that he was sturdy, well built, and a perfect bulldog at anything he set out to do.

It was well enough to get such a man into the cage and see if something could not be made of him, so Frank urged Mason to turn out and practise. Mason did so.

A long time before this Mason had been one of the greatest bullies in college; but he found more than his match in Frank, and the result of the sound thrashing he received was very beneficial. After that it was his belief that Merriwell must despise him, but when he was injured and lying in a hospital it was Merriwell who came every day to ask about him, it was Merriwell who first reached his side when a visitor was permitted to see him, and it was Merriwell who pressed his hand and spoke encouraging words to him.

When he left that hospital the student from South Carolina was cured completely of his bullying ways, and Frank Merriwell had made a new and stanch friend.

Still, Mason was strangely proud, and he would not force himself on any one, for which reason it happened that he never became one of Merriwell’s recognized “flock.”

Deep in his heart Mason had often longed to join the jolly band of Merriwell’s friends, but his pride had held him back.

Now, when Frank came and asked him to get out for practise in the cage, Hock was ready enough to do so, even though it seemed really preposterous that he could ever make sufficient advancement to have a show to get onto the nine.

Bertrand Defarge was among the men who had taken his regular amount of work in the cage day after day, and he was showing up pretty well, too. But Frank knew Defarge of old, and he was aware that such a fellow, though full of vigor, fire, and intensity at times, could not always be relied upon, having a temper that conquered and swayed him absolutely at times.

Of course, Frank was on hand, and it was his presence in the cage that seemed to make the marvelous change in things, so that the men went at their work with a gingery earnestness that quite surprised and wholly delighted the hitherto disgusted and disheartened coaches.

And Frank had managed to keep himself in excellent form, so that he remained the admiration and marvel of the athletic-loving students. He began his pitching-work easily, however, knowing the folly of starting off with too much vigor, even though he was in perfect condition.

Even Frank was not above taking advice from the coachers, although it is probable that not one man among them knew more about baseball and the work of getting into trim for it than did Merry himself.

If any one watched the first day to see him throw some samples of the “double-shoot” that person was disappointed, for he indulged in nothing of the kind.

But he still had it at his command, as he very well knew, and his wrist was hard as iron. When the time came he would swiftly convince his doubting opponents that the “double-shoot” was not a fanciful invention of some romancer’s brain.

For among the hundreds of pitchers who had worked and tried and schemed to learn his secret, it was not probable that one had entirely succeeded, therefore they gave up in despair, and became scoffers, saying there was no such thing as the double-shoot.

Among the candidates for pitching-honors was Dade Morgan, and he worked persistently and faithfully.

On the first day of Frank’s appearance in the cage one of the coaches asked him to watch Morgan’s work and see what he thought of it. Merry did so for a few moments, and Dade flushed hotly when he saw this, though he kept at it without a break.

When Frank had moved away the man who was coaching Morgan said:

“Try to throw that drop with just the same motion you use in throwing your other curves. You give yourself dead away every time you start to throw a drop. The batter would know just what was coming.”

Dade’s dark eyes flashed and drooped. For one moment he betrayed anger, and then he smiled sweetly, saying:

“I’ll do my level best.”

But Bertrand Defarge quickly found an opportunity to slip over to Morgan and sneer:

“So you got a call-down! I knew it would come the minute Merriwell saw what you were doing. He’s jealous, and you don’t stand the least show of making the nine. You may as well give up trying now.”

“How about you?”

“Oh, I’m not a pitcher, and there is no chance that I’ll rob him of any glory. Indeed, if I pan out well, I may add to his glory by helping him in games, so he’ll let my head alone. Yours comes off before the Easter trip, see if it doesn’t. You may as well quit now.”

“I’ll never quit till I have to!” returned Dade. “Get out and let me alone! I’m sick of your croaking!”

“Go to blazes!” hissed Defarge. “I may find a way to make you sicker!”

A number of men were hard at work fielding ground balls and throwing to first. Mason was one of this squad, and he was not making a great success of it. The coaches yelled at him, but that did not seem to do him much good.

Then Frank Merriwell, being a privileged character, walked down and talked to Mason in a quiet, soothing tone.

“You’re rattled, Mason,” said Merry. “Just get rid of the idea that everybody is looking at you. They are not. The other men are busy taking care of their own affairs.”

“I reckon you made a mistake when you asked me to get out here, sah,” said the Southerner, the perspiration standing out on his drawn and worried face. “I judge I ain’t put up right to be howled at like this by a lot of loud-mouthed duffers.”

“Don’t be touchy, man. You can’t succeed if you are. We’ve all had coaches yell at us in the same way.”

“But it’s mighty galling to a man like me.”

“Haven’t a doubt of it, but you must set your jaws and lay right down to the work. Get your body in front of those bounding balls every time, even if they take your head off. Keep your heels together, and they may stop balls when your hands fail. Jump into the track of anything that comes your way. If it’s a slow one, go ahead to meet it, for every second counts in trying to cut off a runner who is sprinting to first.”

“All right. I’ll try it again, sah, but I’m mighty afraid it isn’t my line.”

After that Mason did better stopping the balls that came his way, even though he did not pick them all up cleanly, but he made his worst mistake in his hurry to throw to first. Seeing this, Frank fancied he had given the fellow a wrong impression, and so worked round to Hock to set him straight.

“Don’t be in such a fearful hurry to throw,” he instructed. “You make poor throws by your hurry.”

“But you told me a little while ago that every moment counts in cutting off a man running to first.”

“That’s true, but it’s far better to lose a little time in taking care to make a good throw than it is to hustle for all you’re worth and lose the man entirely by a poor throw. Besides that, you do not throw right. You never get into the right position.”

“That being the case, sah, I reckon I better quit now.”

“I don’t think you’re a quitter, Mason. Let me tell you where you make your mistake. In your haste to throw, if you pick the ball up with your body leaning away from the base you wish to throw to, you do not take time to right yourself, but you throw in that attitude. You can’t get any force into the throw. Besides, you swing your arm too far. Try a shorter swing; throw from the ear. Never take a hop, skip, and a jump before throwing, as I saw you do a few moments ago. Even though you send the ball whizzing across the diamond like a bullet, you have lost lots of valuable time before you got it away from your hand, and that may mean the loss of the runner. Pull your hand back behind your ear, lean forward a little as you throw, and just as it leaves your hand take a single step. Try that. Practice it all the time.”[time.”]

Then Frank worked on to another man he had selected to advise, and in this manner Merriwell assisted the coaches. In fact, his quiet coaching was far more efficacious than that of some of the regular coaches who made considerable noise.

A regular system of batting-practise was gone through, each man being directed how to stand properly, how to hold his bat, and how to swing. Bunting and place hitting were practised by the more skilful batters.

Base-running and sliding to bases was a part of the regular work. At this the older hands showed up well, but some of the new men were very awkward. It caused the coaches to howl when a runner was told to slide, and he slammed himself prone on the ground as if going through to China and slid about ten inches, but they howled equally as much at the one “who let himself down in sections,” his knees striking first.

Dade Morgan was making excellent showing. He had a good eye for the ball when batting, and he could sprint to first like a deer. When it came to sliding, he slipped over the ground in an easy, graceful manner that was deserving of applause.

Frank felt like giving Morgan a word of praise, but remembering the past, and not knowing just what the effect on Dade would be, he refrained from doing so.

Dick Starbright, the giant freshman, was in the midst of the work, and he went at it with an energy that seemed almost savage. A change had come over him, and the good-natured, pleasant look that had seemed habitual had vanished before one of stern determination.

Indeed, Dick was doing everything possible to keep his mind from dwelling on a certain beautiful dark-eyed girl whom he now knew was lost to him. He studied hard, worked hard, played hard, and in this manner succeeded fairly well in his purpose.

He had read in Frank’s happy face the result of the trip to Fardale, but it had been exactly what he expected.

And Frank’s talk with Hodge had seemed to transform Bart, who had been fretful, listless, and ill-natured before, failing to take much interest in the cage-work or seeming to care whether Yale put a winning team on the field or not.

Now Hodge went into the work with vim and earnestness, and he actually smiled occasionally, which was so remarkable that it caused more than one to comment upon it.

Defarge had seen Merriwell talking to Mason, and at the first opportunity the French youth spoke to the Southerner.

“Did you get a calling down from the high muck-a-muck of this combination?” sneeringly asked Bertrand.

“What do you mean, sah?” demanded Hock.

“Why, I saw Merriwell shooting off his mouth at you, and I presume he was telling you just what sort of a slouch you are, which is a habit of his, the egotistical cad!”

“No, sah, he was not calling me down. He was giving me a few pointers, and I appreciate his kindness in doing so.”

“Well, you’re just like all the others,” growled Defarge. “He can rub it all over you and you’ll think it’s nice, but you’d kick like a mule if anybody else tried it.”

“I may kick like a mule, sah, if you are not careful about your language in addressing me, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll be within reach when I kick.”

Defarge showed his teeth.

“If you ever kicked me I’d make a hole in your skin and let some of your confounded upstart blood out!” he hissed.

“And if you ever tried that trick,” retorted Mason, not in the least frightened, “I’d forget that I’ve sworn never to strike a man who did not weigh as much as myself, and I’d give you the blamedest thrashing, sah, that you ever had in all your life!”

“Pouf!” said Bertrand, as he wheeled away.

“It really would do me good to thump him,” muttered Mason, watching the fellow’s retreating figure. “I think he’s about the only enemy of any account that Merriwell has left in college.”

Roland Packard did not occur to him just then. Besides, Roland had been keeping pretty quiet about Merry since the beginning of the term, realizing that popular sentiment was entirely against him.

The Chickering set was not regarded as worth considering.

Defarge could find little consolation in his attempts to deride and sneer at Merriwell, and it began to seem to him that all the old enemies of Frank with blood in their bodies and courage to take a stand against the idol of Yale had given over the struggle as worse than useless.

Thus, when the practise work was over and the men were preparing for the run into the suburbs, which always followed cage training, Bertrand sulked and growled and was disagreeable to every one.

“I’d like to get a good chance to do up Merriwell!” he thought; but he remembered how all his former efforts had failed and brought disgrace upon himself in several instances, and even his hating heart quailed.

As soon as the men were ready they left the gymnasium in a body and started at a brisk trot along one of the widest and most comfortable streets of the old city. The pace was not made too fast at first, and yet it was enough to keep them going sharply.

It was an interesting spectacle to see these sturdy-limbed youths start out in a body, their heads up, mouths closed, cheeks flushed and nostrils dilated. Surely a representative lot of young Americans they were.

Frank ran lightly and easily, seeming to find it no effort at all to get over the ground at the pace set. Hodge was beside him, and Jack Ready had swung in with them. Ready still ran in his own peculiar fashion, toeing in with his left foot, a habit he had been unable to break, try as he might. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, as he trotted along. “This is the kind of stuff that makes one feel fit to tackle the gods! Yea, verily! Why, just now I believe I could give old Thor, the god of thunder, a rattling good set-to!”

“Yet,” said Frank, “we know any amount of fellows in Yale who are literally grinding their lives out, and not one of them has sense enough to take sufficient exercise to preserve their health.”

“Which means that a few more fools will graduate near the head of their classes and go out into the world with broken constitutions. What will they be good for?”

“It’s all right for a man to graduate as near the head of his class as possible,” Merry asserted, “in case he gives enough time to exercise to keep his health and strength; but when he wears his life away and goes forth from college a physical wreck he has committed a crime. Not only that, but he will be punished for his crime, and there is no way for him to escape that punishment.”

“And all the while he doesn’t dream what fun he’s missing,” laughed Jack, thumping his breast with his clenched hands. “Why, it’s great just to be living and feel this way! I could fly—if I had a flying-machine.”

“You have the necessary wheels in your head,” declared Merry.

“But you’ll never develop a pair of wings,” asserted Hodge.

By the time they were well out into the suburbs it had begun to grow dark. They had passed Beaver Ponds, and were not far from West Rock, before the leader swung to the left by a country road and turned back toward the city.

The men had strung out behind for a short distance. It was impossible to tell if all of them had held out and kept with the squad.

In fact, one of them had not. Defarge had slowly fallen behind until he was near the rear of the squad, and then, making an excuse to tighten up his shoe, he knelt beside the road and let them go on without him.

“I know the way they’ll come back,” he muttered. “And I know where I can watch them without being seen. If Merriwell would just take a fancy to spurt, or would get off by himself! Oh, yes! I’d make one more try to settle his hash!”

Then he turned back, struck into a cross-lane, and ran swiftly through the gathering gloom, his heart filled with black thoughts and evil designs.

CHAPTER V.
BAFFLED.

Defarge crouched behind some rocks and bushes which grew near the top of a high ridge of ground. Some distance below him, running parallel with the ridge, was the road along which he knew the baseball men must come on their way back to town. It was rather dark down there, but the crouching youth could see the road when he lifted his head and peered down.

In his hands Defarge had a large, jagged rock; in his heart was a design so dark that he dared not meditate upon it.

Although it was cold, he felt perspiration starting out upon his face, which he mopped with his handkerchief. He told himself that he was justified in doing anything in his power to down Frank Merriwell, for had not Merry once brought about his disgrace and nearly caused his expulsion from college?

He did not pause to consider that it was through Frank’s generosity alone that he still remained at Yale. Had he reasoned calmly he must have known that any other man might have exposed him fully and compelled him to leave.

Hark! They were coming! He heard the beat of running feet far along the frozen road. It was likely that Merriwell would be among the very first, for of old Frank had often led the squad on the return trip to the gym.

The crouching lad quivered in every limb.

“He disgraced me before them all!” he panted. “He made me the laughing-stock of the college! No man can do that to a Defarge and escape! I’ve waited a long time, but I’m going to fix him now!”

He gripped the jagged rock with feverish intensity and peered along the darkening road. The sound of running feet came nearer.

“Hello, Merriwell!”

Some one of the runners was hailing Frank.

“Hello!” sounded still clearer in the unmistakable voice of the captain of the nine.

“Take the Blake road.”

“All right.”

“Merriwell is leading, as usual!” panted Defarge. “Here he comes!”

A dark figure was coming swiftly down the dusky road. With the stone in both hands, Defarge crouched and watched, every muscle taut, every nerve quivering.

“He’s some rods ahead of the next man,” he thought. “He’s played right into my hands.”

The figure was plainly that of Merriwell. Defarge straightened a little and lifted the stone. In a moment the unconscious young athlete would be directly beneath the revengeful scoundrel on the ridge.

“Now!” Defarge panted the word as he swung the stone over his head with both hands, and hurled it with murderous aim straight at the head of Merriwell.

There was a thud, and he saw Frank go down and lay outstretched upon the ground.

“I’ve done it! I’ve done it!”

With that awful thought filling his heart, the wretch crouched behind the bushes and ran quickly back along the ridge, passing over it and disappearing.

Hidden from view, he ran as swiftly as he could back along the course of the road down which the baseball men had come. Pretty soon the ridge sunk and he was in a piece of thin timber, through which he pressed till he came to the road itself.

He halted amid some trees to let several men pass, and then he sprang out into the road and started along in the same direction as if he had been in the procession all the time.

“Now let any one prove that I did it!” he laughed to himself. “I took nobody into my confidence, and there is no proof against me. It’s a job well done.”

As he approached the spot he was not surprised to find the men ahead of him had stopped and were gathered in a group.

“They’ll take him in on a stretcher,” thought Defarge.

He came up, breathing heavily, as if he had been running all the while.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, as he approached. “Anybody hurt?”

“Hello, Defarge,” said one of the men. “You’ve made good time to-day. You’re usually a tail-ender.”

“Anybody hurt?” persisted Bertrand, coming up and stopping. “What has happened[happened]?”

“Oh, nothing much,” was the answer. “Merriwell’s got a nasty fall, that’s all.”

“That is not all!” declared a voice that caused Defarge’s heart to stand still, for it was that of Frank Merriwell himself. “My fall was nothing, but I’d like to know where this huge stone came from, for I know it whizzed past my head just as I tripped and went down.”

Beneath his breath Defarge muttered an oath.

Frank was absolutely unharmed, for, being in perfect condition, the shock of the fall over a stone which he had not seen in the road affected him to no perceptible extent.

Indeed, when a man is in the best physical condition, ordinary falls, that seem to jar and severely injure the untrained, are not noticed at all. Sometimes a man may, in perfect condition, receive shocks and sustain falls which naturally would break the bones of the unprepared and still escape without any apparent harm.

Thus it is that exercise, physical training, and muscle-building prepare those who follow faithfully the upbuilding of the body for all the hardships they may have to encounter in life.

“The survival of the fittest” is a law of nature that has been in full sway since the dawn of creation, and modern conditions have simply seemed to emphasize its unyielding rigidness.

A weakling might have been severely, even fatally, injured by the fall that had not harmed Merriwell at all.

Sometimes men die from the effects of shocks which trained athletes would have withstood without great distress.

Thousands of weak-backed, narrow-chested, scrawny-necked men are swiftly wearing away their lives in offices and stores and other places of business when, had they known and respected the laws of health, they might be strong, and robust, and healthy.

They will stand up to their tasks as long as the candle of life flickers and flares in their wrecked bodies, but one by one they will lie down and die long before there is any need of it, had they paid the slightest attention to the demands of nature.

Frank Merriwell had not been born strong and healthy. His mother was an invalid, and he had inherited a weak body. But, fortunately, he had been given brains with which to think and reason. And he had used those brains! That was the best part of it.

Having found that others had acquired health by exercise and by obeying the laws of nature, he had made a resolve to do the same. He was stubborn, and, having made such a resolve, he kept at the work day after day, week after week, year after year.

What a glorious reward was his! From a weak boy he had become a strong, supple, superb youth, a typical young American of the very highest class, and all by his own efforts! Was not the reward sufficient for the effort?

It had not always been by chance, as on this occasion, that his enemies had failed to wreak upon him the injuries they sought to inflict. Had he been weak they must have succeeded many times. But one by one they had fallen before him, and he remained triumphant and unharmed.

“The fellow bears a charmed life,” thought Bertrand Defarge. “It’s no use—he can’t be harmed!”

Once more he felt for his handkerchief to wipe from his face the beads of cold perspiration that started forth; but the handkerchief was not in the pocket where he fancied he had thrust it.

“Where could the stone have come from?” Bert Dashleigh was asking. “You don’t suppose——”

“Hello, Defarge!” exclaimed one of a little bunch of men that came up. “How the dickens did you get ahead of us? We thought you behind with the tail-enders.”

“What’s the matter here?” asked another, and, to Bertrand’s relief, they all pressed forward to learn what had happened.

That saved Defarge from answering an unpleasant question and explaining how he came to be ahead of those men.

But Bart Hodge had heard the question and had noted that no answer was given.

When the men started on again, Bart was at Merry’s side. He soon found an opportunity to say, using a guarded tone:

“You still have some enemies, Frank—or an enemy, at least.”

“Then you think——”

“Of course! Somebody tried to knock your brains out with that stone.”

“I don’t like to think that,” declared Frank. “And yet——”

“You can’t help it. Your enemies have been chirping mighty soft of late, but it was because they didn’t dare sing louder. They are not all dead, or converted. Where is Morgan?”

“Somewhere on the road. You know I have that fellow’s pledge.”

“Which doesn’t amount to shucks!”

“But his uncle is dead, and there is no further reason why he should try to injure me.”

“Don’t fool yourself! He’s ambitious and proud. He wants to pitch this spring, and it is his way to long to be cock of the walk at anything he tries. He knows he can’t be that with you on the team.”

“But he could not have possibly done the trick; he did not throw that stone.”

“I don’t say he did.”

“Then what——”

“He is a fellow to use accomplices.”

Frank shook his head.

“I know all about your hatred for Morgan,” he said, “and I confess the justness of it; but something tells me the fellow did not do this trick, or know anything about it. In fact, even though he may not love me, I do not believe he will make any further attempts to harm me. While Santenel lived he held Morgan under his hypnotic influence and made him do some very nasty things. But Santenel is dead.”

“Well, Morgan still lives, and you’ll see that you will have your troubles just as long as he remains in college.”

Frank knew how useless it was to try to reason Bart out of a conviction so firmly implanted in his mind, and so he made no further effort.

Along the hard road they sped, their lungs filled with fresh air, their entire bodies tingling with the intoxication of perfect health.

Ahead of them gleamed the city’s lights. On either side lights shone from the windows of houses.

They strung out on Whalley Avenue, for now they were permitted to speed up some as the end of the run drew near. At last they came to Elm Street and the gym.

There the men were given cold showers, and rubbed down with rough towels, till their bodies glowed like furnaces.

When they left the gym they felt “like fighting cocks,” for all of what they had done and gone through.

Frank and Bart left the gym together.

“Are you going to your room, Hodge?” asked Merry.

“Not now,” was the answer.

“Well, come up to mine. I’ve got to work hard to-night, but we can have a little chat of a few minutes before I get down to grinding.”

“I’ve got to go somewhere else. I’ll see you to-morrow, Merry. So-long.”

Frank wondered as Bart swung away. He would have wondered still more had he observed where Hodge went and what he did.

Direct to a certain store the dark-eyed lad proceeded, and there he purchased a lantern, which he had filled with oil and prepared for lighting. With this lantern he struck out at a brisk walk, avoiding the vicinity of the college buildings.

More than half an hour later Bart was searching along the ridge of high land near where Merriwell had fallen on the road. The lighted lantern aided him in his search behind the mass of evergreen bushes.

He came to a place that interested him very much, for there was every indication that some one had been there ahead of him.

Then he uttered a low cry of satisfaction, and suddenly snatched something from the ground.

It was a handkerchief!

CHAPTER VI.
THE FIGHT WITH RAPIERS.

Defarge had roomed alone ever since entering college. He was so exceedingly unpopular that it would have been difficult for him to find a roommate had he desired one; but he declared that on no condition would he share his apartments with another.

His rooms were well furnished and comfortable, but he cared little about their arrangement or decorations, and about them there was not a single thing in the way of ornament that would suggest to a casual visitor that a Yale man slept and studied there.

In other rooms were flags, badges, blue ribbons, and a hundred other things gathered by the students as tokens to remind them of something connected with their college-life. When they visited home at holidays they took some of these things along to give brothers or sisters, who treasured them with pride.

But it is probable that Defarge felt none of that love for Yale that seems to imbue almost every man among the great throng of students. It is even possible, astounding though it may seem to every other Yale man—that he would have been quite as well satisfied had it been his fortune to attend Harvard, or any other college. He had failed totally and entirely to imbibe the “Yale spirit.”

Personal conquest and advancement had been all the French youth seemed to care for, and his utter selfishness made him offensive to those who might have regarded him in a friendly spirit because of similar likes and dislikes.

He had regarded himself as a wonderful fencer, and, indeed, his skill was most commendable. He found little difficulty in defeating all comers until he encountered Merriwell, upon whom by sneers and insults he forced an engagement.

Merriwell, however, had studied fencing under a past master of the art, and the French youth was easily defeated by the representative American, which filled him with unspeakable shame and chagrin.

His defeat caused Defarge to lose his head entirely, and he took to drink without delay. That very night, while in a state of insane intoxication, he attempted to strike Frank in the back with an open knife. Fortunately, Frank saw him in a mirror and was able to turn and grapple with him.

Then followed something that astonished all who witnessed it, for, looking straight into the eyes of the intoxicated youth, Frank caused him to quail and become as harmless as a lamb.

In that moment Frank discovered that he possessed a strange power, and this power he had been called upon to use many times afterward. Once, at least, it had saved his life. Once it saved the life of his father.

But although Merriwell had declared that he might make a friend of Defarge, the French youth remained his bitter and unyielding enemy. For a time he had avoided Frank, but now, Merriwell having been away from college a while, he ventured to strike again.

Alone in his room that evening, Bertrand cursed the luck that had permitted him to fail in accomplishing his terrible intention. And while he was cursing, the door opened to admit Bart Hodge!

Defarge stared in astonishment. Never before had such an amazing thing occurred and he could not understand it now. He wondered if Hodge had by accident wandered into the wrong room.

But Bart deliberately closed the door behind him. There was a key in the lock. This key Hodge turned, after which he removed it, and quietly put it into his pocket.

“What the deuce are you doing?” cried Defarge, who was now on his feet.

Bart advanced, his eyes fixed on those of Bertrand.

“I’ve called to see you,” said Frank Merriwell’s bosom friend, in a peculiar tone of voice.

“You locked that door?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So it would not blow open,” answered Hodge, in the same queer way.

“Blow open! Why, there’s no danger of that! Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m mad.”

There was a sort of grim, mirthless humor about Bart that made Defarge uneasy.

“You have no right to lock my door and put the key in your pocket!” snarled the French youth.

“That may be true, but I’ve done it. I want to have a little talk with you, and I do not propose to have that talk interrupted, even though you may get noisy and yell for assistance.”

There was a threat in this, and Defarge retreated behind the table that stood in the center of the room.

“What’s your game?” he demanded. “Are you playing the highwayman or the house-robber?”

“Thank you; I do not travel with your class in society.”

Still there was a look in Bart’s eyes that made Defarge think himself in danger. Usually, Hodge was excitable, but now he seemed strangely cool, which gave him an air of menace.

Defarge glanced quickly round in search of some weapon with which to defend himself.

“Sit down!” commanded Hodge. “It won’t do you a bit of good to raise a rumpus.”

“Now, what in the name of the Old Harry do you want?” panted Bertrand, beginning to get angry himself.

“I have a few questions to ask you.”

“Well, go ahead. I’ll answer them or not, as I like.”

“You’ll answer them before I leave this room! In the first place, how did you happen during the run after the cage practise to take the short cut through Beaver Pond Lane from Crescent Street to Fitch Street?”

The French youth had flushed, but now he suddenly became pale.

“I did nothing of the kind!” he declared.

“You are a liar!” said Hodge, without lifting his voice, still keeping his eyes fastened straight on those of the lad across the table.

Bertrand’s bosom heaved and his lips curled back from his teeth, which gleamed white and wolfish.

“You shall answer for the insult!” panted Defarge.

“With pleasure,” was the grim retort. “I think you must know by this time that I take special delight in thumping you.”

“I’ll not fight you that common way! You have not the skill of Merriwell, and you must meet me with rapiers!”

“Hardly,” said Bart. “I know better than that.”

“You can’t avoid it.”

“Oh, yes, I can!”

“You shall not! I will force you into it!”

“And I shall insist on meeting you with the weapons provided for us by nature, our fists.”

“Do you think I could be satisfied that way for such an insult? No! You have come here to force a quarrel upon me! I see that!”

“Nothing of the sort. I’ve come here to compel you to tell the truth, and, by Heaven! I’m going to make you do it!”

“You can never force me to anything! You want the fight, and you shall have it! I will let out some of your nasty American blood! I may kill you!”

Then, with a pantherlike leap, Defarge reached the wall against which hung a pair of crossed rapiers. Quick as a flash, he grasped them and tore them down, whirling them in his hands. Seizing the hilt of one, he flung the other with a clanging sound at Bart’s feet, shouting:

“Take it and fight for your life, you American pig, for I swear I’ll run you through without mercy if you don’t!”

Bart Hodge was a fighter without a drop of cowardly blood in his well-developed body; but he had seen Defarge handle a rapier, and he knew he was not the equal of the wily French youth in that particular line. He could handle his fists, or shoot a pistol with great skill; but he was not an expert fencer, and so would be at a disadvantage in an encounter of this sort.

But it was useless to admit this to Defarge, whose eyes were glaring. Defarge would laugh exultantly and come on. Indeed, he was making ready to attack even now.

“Pick up the weapon!” commanded the French youth. “Do your best, for I’m going to pink you—I swear I am!”

Bertrand’s heart was full of mad joy, for he believed his opportunity to obtain revenge on Hodge for past grievances had come, and he meant to make the most of it. Laughing savagely, he started to advance.

Hodge’s hand rested on the back of a chair, and he had not altered his position when the other youth sprang to the wall and tore down the rapiers.

Now, without the least warning and with such strength and quickness as only a trained athlete could command, he grasped the chair with both hands, swung it aloft, and hurled it straight at Bertrand’s head.

Defarge had no time to dodge, but he put up his arm to protect his face, and the chair sent him reeling against the wall. Hodge followed the chair with two swift bounds, and was on the French youth instantly.

He grasped Bertrand’s right wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, pinning the fellow against the wall and holding him there.

“You devil’s whelp!” grated Hodge. “You would not hesitate at murder! I’ll guarantee that you land in prison yet!”

Defarge had been shocked by the impact of the chair, and for a few seconds he seemed quite helpless and unresisting. Then he suddenly gathered himself and tried to hurl Bart off.

Hodge kept his hold, attempting to twist the fellow’s wrist, and thus force him to drop the rapier. But Bertrand’s hold was not broken thus easily, and with his left hand he tore Bart’s fingers from his throat.

“Dog!” he huskily hissed. “Throw a chair at me, will you? Now I am going to fix you!”

Then the struggle for the possession of the rapier began, Defarge doing his best to cast Bart away long enough to lift and thrust with the weapon.

Bart knew it was a fight for his very life, as the French youth was wrought to a pitch of rage that robbed him entirely of his reason. There was a terrible glare in his eyes. His teeth were set and a white froth began to form on his parted lips.

With all his strength he strove to twist away from Bart’s grip, but Hodge held fast.

“Steady!” Bart growled. “You can’t do it!”

“I will! I will!” panted Defarge. “I’ll kill you!”

“You may find that I’m quite as hard to kill as Frank Merriwell.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean!”

“You lie! You came here to insult me and make lying charges against me. You shall pay for it!”

Again Defarge gave a mighty twist and tried to fling Hodge off. They reeled against a chair, which was overturned. Then Bart’s feet struck against the chair, and he fell backward to the floor, his grip on Defarge’s wrist being broken as he went down.

Down upon Hodge came his antagonist, but he tore himself away from the fingers that tried to clutch and hold him. With a quick spring, Bertrand rose to his feet and stood over Hodge with the rapier uplifted.

“Now!” he hissed, with a savage laugh—“now you get it for fair!”

Then he lunged as if meaning to pin Hodge to the floor.

With a squirming movement to one side, Bart barely avoided being run through by the blade.

“A miss is as good as a mile!” he thought, and at the same time he again cast the chair at Defarge.

Bertrand’s legs were struck and he was confused and disconcerted for a moment, and that was enough to give Bart time to spring up.

As he rose, Hodge had the other rapier gripped in his hand. At last he realized that there was no way to avoid such an encounter, and so he hurled himself into it with the furious energy of a creature at bay.

Clash! clash! rang out the meeting blades.

Probably no stranger encounter ever occurred at Yale than this night battle between two students armed with deadly rapiers. The expressions on their faces told that the struggle was of the most serious nature.

This was no mere fencing-bout for sport. On one side, at least, it was a duel with the most deadly import.

But Defarge had been astounded by the escape of Hodge from that thrust. The crack of the chair against his knees had confused him. And then he was dazed when Bart leaped up like a supple panther, gripping the rapier, and attacked him with the gleaming blade.

The fierceness of Bart’s assault was something impossible to withstand long.

Sparks flew from the meeting weapons, which gleamed and flashed and hissed through the air.

The look on the face of Bart Hodge was one of such furious determination that the French youth involuntarily gave way before him.

“You would have it, you devil’s whelp!” came through Bart’s teeth. “Stand up and fight! You forced it on me, now make good—or take the consequences!”

With a twisting stroke, Bart had torn the weapon from the hand of his adversary and sent it spinning in a far corner, where it fell rattling to the floor.

The next instant, with his left hand, Frank Merriwell’s friend and champion seized the unarmed youth by the throat and hurled him backward upon the table that stood in the middle of the room.

As Defarge lay there helpless and terrified, Bart stood over him, his gleaming rapier raised as if to make the final and fatal thrust of this most remarkable encounter.

The helpless youth turned chalky white with fear.

“Don’t strike!” he gasped.

“Why not?” demanded the other, quivering with the excitement of the encounter.

“You’ll kill me!”

“Just as you tried to kill me when I lay on the floor helpless and unarmed, you cowardly sneak!”

“I didn’t mean to——”

“Don’t lie! If you lie, I’ll be tempted to finish you off anyhow!”

“I was crazy!”

“Well, I’m rather excited myself! Why, it would be a mercy to puncture you now! You are a miserable, crawling snake, and you’ve tried to kill the best man that ever lived!”

“No! no!”

“Don’t lie, I say! You tried to kill Merriwell this day!”

“I did not!”

The look of fury on Bart’s face seemed to become more intense.

“The truth is the only thing that can save your worthless life now!” he panted.

“I shall shout for help!”

“That won’t save you! No one could reach you in time. If you shout, I swear by my life I’ll stick you once for luck!”

There could be no doubt concerning Bart’s sincerity in this threat, and Defarge decided not to shout.

“Confess that you tried to kill Merriwell to-day with a stone, which you threw at his head.”

“I’ll not confess to a lie—not even to save my life!”

“But you must confess the truth. You cannot help it. I have the proof against you.”

“The proof?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here!”

With his left hand, Hodge took out and held up before Bertrand’s staring eyes the handkerchief he had found that night with the aid of the lantern.

CHAPTER VII.
THE FALSE CONFESSION.

“What is it?”

“Your handkerchief.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it. See, here are your initials on the corner. I have been to the laundry where you take your linen, and there I compared this with one of your handkerchiefs in the place. It is your mark, and you cannot dispute it.”

“Well, let me up. What if I do not dispute it? What about that?”

“It proves beyond a doubt that you threw the stone at Merriwell with deadly intent, for I found it on the spot where you stood when you did the trick, just behind the bushes on that high ridge beside the road.”

Something like a mumbled curse came from Bertrand’s lips.

“Let me up,” he begged.

“Will you confess?”

“How can I confess down here this way? Let me up.”

“All right, but you must sit down beside the table here and sign a written confession. If you try any tricks, I shall prick you a little with this sticker. If you know much about me, you realize now that I mean business and I’ll make good every threat. If you were harmed and made charges against me I should swear that you attacked me with murderous intent after I came here and accused you, and that I did the trick in self-defense. Even if you were able to swear to the contrary, which is not likely after I jabbed you with this dainty tool, my word would be as good as yours. Now, get up—and sit down there!”

Hodge stood with the weapon held ready for instant use, and Defarge, like a whipped child, meekly obeyed.

“That’s right,” nodded the victor, with satisfaction. “Now, don’t dare to wriggle, for if you try to get hold of that sticker over in the corner I’ll be on top of you like a catamount, and I’ll finish the job instanter.”

Then Bart stepped over to a desk, still keeping nearer than Defarge to the weapon in the distant corner, and brought over an ink-well and writing-materials.[writing-materials.]

“What do you think you can make me do?” asked Defarge, with a sneer.

“You are going to write out and sign a confession.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you must. Now I know the whole business, and you can’t deceive me by making any false statements. I know who was behind you in what you did—who got you to do the trick.”

Defarge was silent, filled with surprise.

“Don’t try to shield that snake,” urged Bart. “It will be better for you if you do not. You may claim that he hypnotized you, or anything you like, but you must confess that he was behind you in what you did.”

“Who?” asked Bertrand.

“Why, Morgan, of course! Didn’t he suggest this piece of business? Own up!”

The French youth caught his breath and then said:

“Yes!”

“I knew it!” cried Bart exultantly. “I saw him speak to you in the cage! I knew something was up then.”

A sudden idea had taken possession of Defarge. He felt that he was caught in the net, and he would not go down without pulling Morgan with him. He had gradually learned to dislike Dade almost as much as he did Frank Merriwell. Of late it had been impossible for him to interest Dade in his crooked schemes and tricks, which had brought about the strong dislike he now harbored.

“But you don’t know the kind of fellow Morgan is,” declared Defarge. “Oh, those eyes of his! They have such an influence over me!”

“His uncle was a hypnotist!”

“He must have hypnotized me, for I made a pledge that I’d never lift my hand against Merriwell again, yet, when he ordered me to do so, I could not refuse.”

Bart’s heart was throbbing wildly.

“It’s just as I thought!” he declared, feeling almost friendly toward Defarge for this statement. “But there’s only one way for me to prove it against him.”

“I can’t make a charge against him—I can’t!”

“You must!”

“If he is present, it will be impossible. He’ll throw his power over me, and I’ll be helpless to tell the truth.”

“You shall do it here and now!”

“Please don’t make me do that! It will ruin me! I shall be expelled from college, and all on account of Morgan! Think of that! I could not help doing what he told me to do. If he were not here I’d never think of harming Merriwell. I know I did try to do so long ago, but he was generous to me, and I vowed never to lift my hand against him again.”

Hodge was silent a moment, and then he said:

“Merriwell is always generous, you know. I might kick you both out of Yale, having such a chance; but I think he will be easy with you. What I want is for him to refuse to take that dog Morgan onto the nine, and Morgan will make it unless Merriwell objects. With your confession, I can convince Merriwell of the whelp’s perfidy, and Morgan will be dropped immediately.”

This was a very simple matter, and Defarge had feared Bart would use the confession to cause both of them to leave college. If this was the only thing Hodge wanted the confession for, he should have it in short order. Inwardly, the French youth was chucking with satisfaction.

“I told the fellow his head would come off before the Easter trip!” he mentally chuckled. “Now, he’ll find out!”

Aloud he said:

“If you will promise me to show the confession to no one but Merriwell I’ll give it to you; but you must tell him I could not help doing just what Morgan commanded. Ask him to be easy with me. It will ruin me if I have to leave college before I finish my course.”

“I’ll do it,” agreed Bart, readily enough, delighted to get the accusation against Morgan on such terms.

Defarge pretended to hesitate, but Hodge forced him on, and he took up the pen and wrote as Bart dictated, now and then making a suggestion. He stated that Morgan possessed some sort of hypnotic power, and this power Dade had exercised to compel Bertrand to obey his commands. He had commanded the French youth to hide beside the road and hurl the stone down at Frank as Merry came along. Bertrand had begged Morgan not to compel him to do that, but Dade had remained unyielding. Thus it came about that Defarge did the trick against his own will, and he was very, very sorry for it and profoundly thankful that Merriwell had not been harmed.

“Now sign it!” cried Bart exultantly. “We’ll see if Merriwell will have any compassion on that whelp after this.”

“What will Morgan do?” whispered Defarge, seeming to hesitate, with the pen uplifted.

“No matter what he does!”

“But you do not think of me! He will be furious! I dare not sign it!”

He was playing his part very well.

“By Heaven! you must sign!” roared Bart.

“But Morgan’s power over me—what revenge will he take? He will be sure to seek revenge on me!”

Under other circumstances, Bart might have seen that Defarge was overdoing the terrified act.

But Bart was blinded by his own hatred of Morgan and his desire to get this signed confession which must convince Merriwell of Dade’s dastardy.

“Sign it!” he cried, “and I’ll protect you from Morgan! Perhaps Morgan will never know how it came about.”

“He must not know—he must not!” panted the other. “You cannot help me if he finds it out. He will put me under his influence and command me to commit suicide, perhaps! Promise me that you will make Merriwell agree not to let Morgan know I revealed the truth about him.”

After a little hesitation, Bart said:

“I’ll do what I can. Go ahead and sign. You must throw yourself on Merriwell’s generosity, and I know you will not do so in vain.”

Then Defarge signed the lying confession, which Bart soon folded and placed in his pocket.

“That’s all, Mr. Defarge,” said Hodge, as he rose to his feet and walked to the door, taking out the key. “I have obtained just what I came for, though I must say you gave me quite a lively little time before I got it.”

He inserted the key and threw back the bolt of the lock.

“Good night,” he said.

Then he opened the door, flung down the rapier, and went out.

Alone in his room, Defarge laughed softly with satisfaction.

“You are welcome to all you got,” he said. "Now, Mr. Dade Morgan, you’ll find that I told you the truth when I said your head would come off, and perhaps you’ll learn to hate Merriwell again as intensely as you did not long ago. We’ll see if he will make a friend of you, as he has of so many others who began by hating him.

“Bah, Bart Hodge! you thought you had forced an unwilling confession from me; but, instead of that, you played right into my hands. I owe you something for helping me along with my little schemes. Why, I have really enjoyed this call from you!”

And he laughed again, softly, with a hissing sound through his white teeth.

CHAPTER VIII.
FRANK FORCES THE TRUTH.

Bart went straight to Merriwell’s room and turned over the confession. He watched Merriwell’s face, glowing with exultation, as Frank read the remarkable statement of Defarge.

“Where did you get this?” Merry asked, when he had finished.

Bart explained, and Frank listened.

“Well, this is rather astonishing, to say the least,” Merry admitted, frowning over it.

“It proves beyond the least doubt that Morgan is still your enemy, though he is trying to strike you in the most dastardly way without becoming implicated himself.”

“It seems to prove that,” Frank admitted.

“Well, now you have him in your power. But Defarge is mortally afraid of the fellow.”

Then Hodge explained the promises he had made to the French youth.

“That being the case,” said Merry, as he folded the confession and put it into his pocket, “I don’t see how we are going to use this document against Morgan. Do you?”

“You must drop Morgan from the ball-team. That will hurt him as much as anything.”

“How can I do that without an explanation? Would it be right?”

“Right? How can you stop to think of such a thing in connection with that fellow? He ought to be forced to leave college!”

“I agree with you in that, but it cannot be done now, as you have given Defarge those promises, and Defarge might fall with Morgan.”

“Then hang the promises to Defarge! That fellow is a scoundrel, and promises to such dogs do not hold!”

“Yes, they do! With me a promise to any man, high or low, honest or dishonest, saint or scoundrel, holds good!”

“But you don’t mean to say that you will not do a thing?” snarled Bart, in bitter disappointment.

“No, I do not say that; but I shall wait a while before I make a move. I may find some other thing by which I can drop Morgan from the team—something that will permit me to be square and open in whatever I do. Wait and see, Bart.”

The work in the cage went on regularly day after day, and each day the poorer men were weeded out from the great mass and dropped. From nearly a hundred men the squad thinned down to fifty, to forty, to thirty.

Still Dade Morgan remained, though Defarge had been dropped. The latter could not understand it. Apparently Merriwell had made not the slightest move after receiving the confession. One day Bertrand ventured to ask Hodge if he had given the confession to Frank, but Bart snarled at him furiously and would not answer.

Indeed, Hodge was in a most disagreeable humor, kept so by the manner in which Morgan hung on. Fully believing the fellow a wretch of the most dastardly dye, Bart could not understand Merry’s laxity in not forcing Dade to get out, and this served to put Hodge in anything but an agreeable temper.

Many times Frank had studied the confession of Defarge. He did so while quite alone in his own room, and he found something about it that convinced him of falseness and insincerity.

At least ten more men would be dropped before the team would start on the Southern trip, and out of the eighteen or twenty men who were to play during the Easter holidays would come the regular nine.

There was still time enough to drop Morgan, but Frank did not wish to drop him without being satisfied of the absolute justice of such a move. He had watched Morgan closely, and saw there was good baseball-material in the lithe, supple youth. More than that, he saw that Morgan might develop into a clever pitcher, and Frank greatly needed assistance in the box, for he could not pitch all the games.

One night, while sitting alone and meditating over the remarkable confession, Frank began to think of the time he had quelled and controlled Defarge by the power of his eyes. He remembered that the French youth had seemed absolutely helpless beneath his influence.

All at once, Merry sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

“It’s worth trying!”

Two minutes later he had left his room. He found Hodge and said:

“I want you. Come along with me, and don’t say a word.”

Bart was ready enough, for he fancied Frank had decided at last to act against Morgan. But Merriwell led the way to the rooms occupied by Bertrand Defarge, and, by rare good luck, they found the French youth there alone.

Defarge was astonished when both Merriwell and Hodge entered without stopping to knock. He was more astonished when Hodge again closed and locked the door.

What were they after? With pale face, Defarge rose, and faced Frank Merriwell. Frank’s eyes met his squarely, and in their depths the accuser of Morgan saw something that made him shiver.

“What—what do you want?” he weakly asked.

“We have called to see you a few moments,” said Frank, in a calm, soothing tone. “Don’t be alarmed. We have not the least intention of harming you physically.” He had advanced to the table as he spoke, still keeping his eyes fastened on Bertrand’s, who seemed to feel a strange power creeping over him and pervading his entire being. “Let’s sit down here by the table where we can talk,” urged Frank.

Defarge sank into a chair, still staring at Frank’s eyes. As the French youth sank, so sank Merriwell, and Hodge saw them sit looking at each other over the table. Bart held his breath, wondering what was to follow.

Frank seemed to put his very soul into that look, and Defarge gradually paled and took on a limp and lifeless expression, although he sat there looking at Merry.

With a gentle motion, Frank leaned over and lightly touched Bertrand on the forehead. Defarge remained motionless[motionless], without winking.

“It is well,” said Merry. “You must now answer my questions faithfully and truly. You[You] will do so!”

It was a command.

“I will.”

Bertrand’s voice was hollow and listless.

“Now,” said Frank, turning to Bart, with a smile, “We’ll find out the real truth. He cannot lie to me if he wishes.”

“What in the name of all that’s wonderful have you done to him?” gasped the astounded fellow, approaching the table. “Have you——”

“Yes,” nodded Merry. “You remember the time he tried to stab me while intoxicated. I discovered then that I possessed this power over him. To-night I resolved to exercise it to make him speak the truth.”

Then he turned to Bertrand, while Bart looked on and listened expectantly:

“Defarge, do you regard Morgan as a friend?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

“No.”

“Do you hate him?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you hate him?”

“Because he was once friendly toward me, but now seems to be ready to become your friend.”

“Would you like to do him an injury?”

“Yes.”

“Has he any influence over you?”

“No.”

“Not the slightest?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Then he cannot compel you to do anything he commands?”

“No.”

“He did not force you to conceal yourself beside the road one night when the squad took a run into the suburbs and throw a stone at me?”

“No.”

“You did that of your own accord?”

“I did.”

Frank took the confession from his pocket and held it before Bertrand’s eyes.

“Then this confession is false?”

“Every word of it.”

“That’s all,” said Frank quietly, as he tore the paper into shreds. “I have nothing further to ask you. But now, while you are in this condition, I want to force upon you the knowledge that you cannot harm me if you try. More than that, I want you to know that you can never try to harm me again. I hold absolute power over you, and you will never again lift a hand to do me an injury.”

Defarge bowed slightly.

Merry rose and passed his hand before Bertrand’s eyes.

“Wake up!” he said sharply. “I’ve finished with you!”

The French youth gave a start, rubbed his eyes, stared at Frank and Bart, and mumbled:

“Why, what—what—where-—-”

Merriwell and Hodge were retreating. Bart turned the key in the lock.

“Good night,” said Merriwell, as the door closed behind them.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” muttered Hodge, when they were outside.

CHAPTER IX.
A PLOT AGAINST FRANK.

Bart, of course, had no further objection to offer to Dade Morgan as a member of the nine, and the work of choosing the players went on without any other unpleasant incidents. When the final selections were made, Frank was satisfied that the Yale team was competent to put up a good game of ball and would more than hold its own against its Southern rivals, and his judgment was confirmed on the field.

The date scheduled for the game at Charlottesville, Virginia, proved to be a beautiful, mild day, early in April. It was near noon, and among the crowd gathered to greet the players on the platform of the railroad-station were two men strikingly unlike in appearance. One was tall, raw-boned, sinewy; the other was of medium height, young, slender, and flashily dressed. The taller of the two was rough, and plainly given to dissipation. He was about forty years of age and a tough-looking customer. The other was in his early twenties, but he had the face of a youthful drinker, and there was about him an offensive air of conceit.

The elder man was Jack Cunningham, brother of Bill Cunningham, the famous Blue Ridge moonshiner and outlaw. The younger was Roland Ditson, once a student at Yale College.

Cunningham was listening to the guarded talk of his youthful companion. He had reddish hair and beard. His trousers were tucked in the tops of his boots, and he wore a woolen shirt that was open at the neck. His build was that of a man possessing great strength and endurance.

“I reckon yo’ don’t love this Frank Merriwell much,” said Cunningham.

“I hate him,” replied Ditson, who was smoking a cigarette and nervously handling his cane. The first two fingers of his right hand were stained a sickly yellow.

“What makes yo’ hate him so ver’ much?” asked Cunningham.

“I can’t tell the whole story; it’s too long.”

“Did he steal a girl away from yo’ some time?”

“No. We were at college together. He’s still going to college. He set himself up as a leader as soon as he entered.”

“An’ yo’ didn’t approve of that?”

“Well, I didn’t like it much. You can bet your life I did not bow before him, same as most of the fellows came to do.”

“Bucked agin’ him, did yo’, boy?”

“Dicidedly.”

“An’ he slammed yo’ down hard?”

“Confound him! he always had a way of coming out on top. But I’ve got a score to settle, and I’m going to settle it! He disgraced me before the whole crowd one night, and I swore then that I’d find a way of getting even before I died. Oh, I suppose I’ve got the best reason for hating him that a fellow ever had! No matter just what it is; I don’t like to talk about that. He did me dirt, and I’m going to get back at him.”

“Yo’ say he’s comin’ here?”

“Yes. He’s the pitcher on the Yale baseball-team, which plays Virginia here this afternoon.”

“Well, what’s your game?”

“Virginia must win. I have learned that Merriwell will pitch here to-day, for Yale means to take no chances.”

“Well?”

“Virginia can’t win with Merriwell pitching for Yale.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is impossible. The fellow is one of the most remarkable twirlers who ever threw a ball. He has a curve that no batter can hit, and I understand that he is in perfect form this season. Virginia has not a ghost of a show with Merriwell pitching.”

Ditson puffed fiercely at the cigarette, blowing some of the smoke into Cunningham’s face. The giant coughed and fanned it aside with his huge paw.

“What in thunder any human being wants to smoke anything like that for is mo’ than I can understand!” he blurted, in disgust. “The smell of it would make a pig sick!”

“Excuse me,” said Ditson, who did not wish to offend the fellow.

“Why don’t yo’ be a man an’ smoke a pipe?” demanded the other. “Does this Merriwell smoke them?”

“I believe he does not smoke at all. He’s one of the goody-good kind that never does anything bad. Oh, he’s a most sickening and disgusting fellow.”

“Kind of a mammy’s boy, eh?”

“In some ways, yes; but you do not want to make a mistake by getting to think he’s weak, for he isn’t. He is one of the strongest men at Yale—he’s an athlete.”

“Haw!” blurted Cunningham, with a gesture of contempt. “I judge I know what that means. Them college athletes don’t amount to anything. The best of them would be a child in my hands.”

“Now, don’t make the mistake of underrating college athletes,” Ditson hastened to say. “Some of them are wonderfully strong and expert, and this Merriwell is a leader among such men.”

“All right; have it that way if yo’ want to. I don’t care.”

“If Merriwell does not play with the Yale team Virginia will win, for she has a good nine, and Virgil Paragon, her pitcher, is clever. I want her to win the worst way. It will make Merriwell feel mean, for he’s captain of the Yale team.”

“Well, how yo’ goin’ to do the trick?”

“That’s why I sent for you. That’s why I had you to come here with your team.”

“Yo’ ain’t made it clear yet.”

“I want you to carry this Merriwell off.”

“Is that all?”

“Don’t you know some place about two or three miles outside of town where you can take him and keep him till about six o’clock this afternoon?”

“I judge I do. I could take him out to Ben Shannon’s place.”

“That’s all right.”

“But how’m I goin’ to get him to go, suh? I can’t jest openly nab him right here befo’ everybody and carry him off without raisin’ a row.”

“I’ll fix that all right so he will go along with you without a word. When you get him out there you must take care of him and see that he doesn’t come back.”

“Oh, I can do that all right if I can get him to come along without raising a fuss. But how’m I to get him to come along, suh?”

“I’ll explain. There is a girl stopping in this town, whom he knows. Her name is Elsie Bellwood, and she is stopping out at the Parker plantation. Merriwell is more or less smashed on her, and he always stands ready to fly to her at her call.”

Cunningham rolled his quid of tobacco over his tongue, and winked at Roland, as he observed:

“I begin to see yo’ game. I’m ter tell him she wants to see him, git him inter my turnout, an’ whisk off.”

“Something like that, but I’ve prepared something that will make it dead easy to fool him. I happened to get hold of some of her handwriting, and I’ve written a note for you to give him. I’ve imitated her writing and signed her name, and I think it will fool him. He won’t be looking out for tricks, so it will be dead easy.”

“How much money did yo’ say there was in it?”

“Fifty dollars.”

“Cash in advance?”

“Twenty-five in advance; twenty-five afterward.”

“I’ll do it. Where’s the letter an’ the money?”

“Wait. I don’t want anybody to see me give you the letter or the money. Let’s walk out here a piece where we’ll be alone.”

“All right.”

They made a strangely mated pair as they walked down the station-platform and passed round behind the freight-building.

“Here is the letter,” said Roland, as he took a square envelope from his pocket and passed it over to Cunningham.

On the envelope was written: “Mr. Frank Merriwell, kindness of Mr. Muldoon.”

“Who’s Mr. Muldoon?” demanded Cunningham.

“You’re Mr. Muldoon,” explained Ditson, with a crafty smile. “That’s so he will not get onto your real name at once. He’s posted, and he may have heard of you, or your brother. Best not to wake up his suspicions too quick.”

“S’pose that’s right,” nodded the giant, as he thrust the letter into his pocket. “Seems to me I’ve heard of a strong man by the name of Muldoon.”

“There is such a man—William Muldoon, and he’s a wonder.”

“Then I’m his brother, an’ I can throw Willie four times out of five, with one hand tied behind me. Mr. Frank Merriwell will think so when I lay fingers on him.”

Again Roland warned the confident ruffian not to underestimate Merriwell’s prowess.

“If you do, he’ll surprise you, just as true as you live. He is a wonder.”

“That’s all right,” grinned Cunningham. “I know all about them kind of wonders. Where’s yoah money, suh?”

Ditson produced a roll of bills, the sight of which caused the eyes of the rascal to glitter and his fingers to twitch. In that moment it is likely he was tempted to snatch the whole amount, run for it, and let Frank Merriwell go his way.

“Here’s twenty-five,” said Roland, stripping off two tens and a five and handing them over. “I’ll give you the rest to-night after you have done the job. When the train comes in all you have to do is go right in among the Yale men and ask for Merriwell. They’ll point him out to you. Give him the letter and get him into your wagon as soon as you can. After that it’s for you to make sure he doesn’t show up again till after the ball-game is over.”

The train whistled in the distance.

“There she comes!” exclaimed Cunningham.

“Yes, there she comes!” palpitated Ditson. “Get back to the platform and be ready for your work. Don’t make a fizzle of it.”

“There ain’t the least danger of that, suh,” confidently declared Cunningham, as he strode away.

CHAPTER X.
THE GREETING AT THE STATION.

Of course, the expected arrival of the Yale baseball-team brought out a crowd to see the team come in. The fact that Frank Merriwell, the model young American, and the pride of the youth of the whole country, was captain of the Yale nine, had something to do with the gathering of a throng of young men at the station-platform. The students from the college had come down to greet the Yale men, and there was more or less excitement as the train drew up at the station.

Nor were the colors of Virginia the only ones to be seen in the gathering at the station. One freckle-faced, but athletic-appearing, youngster, whose clothes were somewhat shabby, had somehow procured a knot of dark-blue ribbon, which he wore conspicuously.

“Say, Jimmy,” called another boy, as a crowd of youngsters gathered round the wearer of the blue, “what do you think you’re doing, anyhow? What’s them colors ye’re wearin’?”

“Them’s Yale colors,” was the proud and defiant reply. “What have you got to say about it, Scrubby Watson?”

“We want to know what you’re wearin’ them for! Ain’t you for the home team?”

“Well, any other time I am, but not to-day.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Yale nine is run by Frank Merriwell, and I’m for him first, last, and all the time. He’s the boss jim-dandy, and don’t you forget it! Why, I’ll bet a thousand dollars that he just wipes up the earth with U. V. to-day. There ain’t anybody can beat him, and don’t you forget that, either!”

“Go on! He’s pretty good, but Paragon will show him some tricks to-day. You’re a traitor, else you wouldn’t be wearin’ that ribbon.”

“You’re a big fibber, Scrub! I’ve always been for Frank Merriwell, and I’d be a traitor to him if I went back on him to-day. His friends never go back on him!”

“Well, I guess you’ve worn that long enough.”

Then the boy called Watson suddenly snatched the ribbon from the ragged coat of the other lad. A moment later Watson got it good and hard on the point of the jaw, and he went down with a thud.

“That’s one of Frank Merriwell’s settlers,” declared Jimmy, as he snatched up the ribbon. “I read all about how he did it, an’ I’m willing to give any of you other fellers some of the same. Come on, if you want it.”

But by this time the train had come to a stop, and the Virginia students gave a cheer on catching sight of the Yale men. Instantly every lad was pushing and crowding in a mad endeavor to get nearer the car, the trouble between Watson and Jimmy being forgotten.

The Yale men were a lusty-looking set of fellows as they descended from the car. The crowd swayed and pushed and commented.

“There’s Browning—the big fellow!”

“Who’s that farmerish-looking fellow? Can he play ball?”

“Where is Merriwell?”

“That big fellow with the light hair must be Merriwell.”

“No, that’s Starbright, the freshman who made such a football record last fall.”

“Where’s Merriwell?”

“Who’s that black-eyed chap? He looks as if he might sprint.”

“That’s Morgan. He’s a freshman, but he was on the eleven last fall.”

“Where’s Merriwell?”

“Here he comes! That’s Frank Merriwell! Hurrah for Merriwell!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” roared the crowd.

A look of dismay came to the handsome face of the captain of the Yale nine as the crowd broke into a great cheer when he appeared on the platform of the car.

The little fellow with the freckled face and the knot of dark-blue ribbon pinned on his jacket shinned to the shoulders of a man and shrieked:

“There he is! There he is! There he is! That’s Frank Merriwell, the greatest pitcher that ever lived! Hoop-ee! Yee! Hoo-ray!”

Frank saw this excited youthful admirer, whose freckled face fairly gleamed with joyous admiration, and he was forced to laugh outright. That laugh won to Merriwell many friends in the crowd. Indeed, there was something so magnetic and winning about this handsome youth that his mere appearance on the platform of the car was enough to make him friends.

Many in the crowd had heard of Frank and conceived a prejudice against him, fancying him a college youth with a swelled head, but even these were struck by his handsome proportions, his graceful, muscular figure, his fine head and that look of clean manliness which stamped him as a fellow with lofty thoughts and ambitions.

No[No] one could mistake any other for Frank now that Frank had appeared. The word “leader” was written all over him. And yet, remarkable to say, there was not about him the least suggestion of conceit. To be sure, he regarded himself with a certain amount of self-esteem, and it is requisite that any man should so look upon himself if he wishes to win the esteem of others. But the fact that his appearance in any place should create so much excitement and enthusiasm was something he could not understand, and he never ceased wondering over it. It seemed quite inexplicable, for he could not believe that he had ever done anything extraordinary enough to make himself thus well known and admired.

As Frank descended the car-steps he was met by Phil Drake, the captain of the U. V. nine, who grasped his hand, uttering some words of welcome.

But Merry looked round for the little freckled fellow who had uttered such a joyous shriek on seeing him. He found the boy in the clutch of the man upon whose shoulders he had perched, and the man was shaking him roughly, growling:

“Climb me for a tree, will yo’? I’ll teach yo’ better manners, yo’ brat!”

With a sweep of his arm, Frank thrust aside all who stood between him and the man. With a stride he was at the man’s side. Quick and firm was his grasp on the man’s arm.

“Don’t hurt that boy! Stop it, sir!”

With a snarl, the man whirled and——

Jack Cunningham and Frank Merriwell were face to face!

CHAPTER XI.
KING JIMMY THE FIRST.

“Mind yoah business, suh! The youngster climbed all over me, an’ I’m goin’ to——”

“I wouldn’t hurt him, if I were you. He didn’t mean any harm.”

Frank spoke quietly, softly, smoothly, looking into the fierce eyes of the ruffian.

“That settles it!” breathed the delighted boy. “Now I reckon you’ll let me go! If you don’t, Frank Merriwell will do something to you!”

“Frank Merriwell?”

Cunningham repeated the name, his manner changing.

“Are you Frank Merriwell?”

“Yes.”[“Yes.”]

“An’ he can wallop the stuffing out of two of you, if you are big and do chew tobacco!” instantly declared the boy. “If you don’t think he can, just give him a chance. Hit me a good cuff side of the head, and I’ll bet a hundred dollars he’ll throw you clean over the train!”

Frank could not resist his laughter at this declaration of the freckle-faced fellow. Cunningham laughed, also.

“Haw! haw!” he roared. “’Pears to me the youngster is mightily stuck on yo’, mister.”

“Stuck on him!” burst from Jimmy. “You can bet your life I am! He’s made himself what he is, the boss athlete of the United States, and I’m going to be just as much like him as I can. I know some other fellows that feel the same way about it, too.”

“Why, yo’ don’t s’pose he could wallop me, do yo’, boy?”

“Don’t I! Say, he can do it with one hand tied behind him, for he’s Frank Merriwell.”

“But he ain’t got any whiskers.”

“He don’t need ’em; he’s got muscle, and he knows just how to use it.”

“Haw! haw!” roared Cunningham again. “It sure makes me laff at the idea, an’ feelin’ tickled so I can’t hit yo’, so I’ll let yo’ go.”

The boy seemed disappointed.

“I’d just like to see what Frank Merriwell would done to you if you had basted me again,” he sighed. “Won’t you please hit me a good one?”

At this Cunningham roared once more, slapping his thigh.

“Why, yo’re a queer little staver!” he said, with a great show of good nature. “Yo’ want to get me inter trouble, but I refuse to be caught.”

“Well, it’s a mighty good thing for you that you had sense enough to refuse,” nodded Jimmy.

The crowd all about was laughing, and somebody cried:

“Those are the kind of admirers you have, Merriwell.”

Then Frank reached down, grasped the boy, and swung him lightly up to his shoulder.

“And I am proud to have such admirers,” he gravely declared, a look of earnestness on his face. “I had rather have the love and admiration of the boys of this nation than all the wealth of the Klondike! This boy says he wants to grow up and be like me and that there are others who have the same desire. Those words will serve to make me still more careful in regard to my actions, for more than ever I realize that the example of every man affects others.”

The crowd was suddenly silent. From some other these words might have made no impression, or might have sounded stilted and egotistical; from the lips of this splendid specimen of perfect manhood they made a deep and lasting impression on many who heard them.

“My boy,” said Merry, “what is your name?”

“James Lee, sir; usually called Jimmy for short.”

“Well, James Lee, I thank you for your great faith in my prowess, but I’m glad you did not involve me in a fight, for I dislike fighting more than anything else—unless it is lying and cheating, and things of that sort. I prefer a fighter to a liar any day.”

“I don’t s’pose you ever told a lie in your life?”

Frank laughed again.

“I fear I have,” he confessed. “I am not a second George Washington in that respect, but I hope I have never told a malicious or harmful lie, and I hope I may never again tell a lie of any sort. I see you are wearing our colors to-day. Do you live here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are for Yale?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because you are captain of the Yale team, and I know U. V. can’t beat you!”

“Hooray for Jimmy Lee!” roared Bruce Browning, aroused by the words of the boy.

Then from those Yale men rose a cheer, to the end of which was tacked the name of Jimmy Lee.

And Jimmy—well, you should have seen him! He was the happiest youngster in all Virginia. He tingled from his head to his heels. His eyes shone and his freckled face gleamed. These Yale men, these handsome, athletic fellows, these followers of Frank Merriwell, were cheering for him! Why shouldn’t he be happy? Why shouldn’t he thrill with unspeakable delight?

And back at a distance stood Scrubby Watson and his followers, looking on in unspeakable envy. Was this little Jimmy Lee, whom they had often bullied? They had been astounded when he dared hit Watson, the king-pin of their set, for that showed a great change had come over Jimmy. He had been following in the footsteps of Frank Merriwell, and the result was a shock to them. But now—well, now he would be a god among them for some time to come! Watson was deposed; the mighty had fallen; the idol of the past was dust. Up with the new king! All hail King Jimmy, the “man” who had sat upon Frank Merriwell’s shoulder while the Yale team cheered for him!

Jimmy looked about and saw them and smiled upon them. Forgotten was his shabby clothes, his ragged jacket, and patched trousers. He was clothed in robes of royal dignity now. Oh, never would he forget that day as long as he lived. It would always remain the proudest day of his life. He would tell his children and his grandchildren how, when he was a little boy, he had sat upon the shoulder of the great Frank Merriwell while the Yale ball-team had cheered for him! That was glory enough to last a lifetime!

And certain it is that this little event of that day was to have an influence on Jimmy’s entire life. It was to make him a more self-respecting man; it was to give him new and greater ambitions; it was to urge him onward and upward.

Yes, King Jimmy had risen, and it was not likely that he would be deposed. He had been working for some time to develop himself and emulate Frank Merriwell; he would work harder now. He would become a leader among the smaller boys in athletic sports and games, for the man who had sat upon Frank Merriwell’s shoulder must know how to tell them the proper way to develop their muscles! And they would follow in his lead, all of them taking new interest in the work of developing their bodies—the work that is the greatest and happiest play for a boy.

Thus the little event there at the station-platform had wrought a vast amount of good in that handsome Virginia town. Thus it was that the influence of Frank Merriwell spread and broadened so that in after-years it must astound Frank himself.

“Well, well, well!” cried Jack Cunningham. “I judge it ain’t often a kid like you gets cheered in that way.”

Jack Ready, with apple cheeks aglow, pranced forward and posed before Jimmy.

“Ah-ha!” cried the queer fellow, “I salute you, James the First of Charlottesville. May your power never wane, and may your subjects be as numerous as your freckles. James, you have a level head on your youthful shoulders, and I will give you the great and exceeding honor of gently touching my lily-white hand.”

Then he grasped Jimmy’s hand and shook it vigorously.

Other Yale men followed Jack’s example, so that Jimmy received a grand greeting as he sat there upon the shoulder of the young American he admired more than any other living human being. As they pressed forward to shake Jimmy’s hand the Yale men made jolly remarks and the crowd in the background began to cheer.

Why, these Yale chaps were all right! Nothing rowdyish about them! Were they fair samples of what physical training made young men? Then great was physical training. They had life and spirit; their eyes were bright and their cheeks glowed. There could be no mistaking that clear eye and healthy cheek; alcoholic drink had nothing whatever to do with that. The color of the cheek was not the congested flesh of false stimulation; it was the true tint of health which every youth should have.

“See Jimmy!” gasped the former followers of Watson.

“They’re shakin’ hands with him!”

“My goodness, fellers, don’t you wish you was him!”

“Settin’ up there on Frank Merriwell’s shoulder——”

“And shakin’ hands with the Yale ball-team!”

“O-o-o-oh!”

And “O-o-o-oh!” groaned Watson himself, fairly green with envy.

“I’d like to lick him!” thought Watson. Then he put his hand to his jaw and mentally added: “But he can hit like thunder! I never s’posed he could slug that way. Don’t know as I could lick him if I tried.”

You couldn’t, Watson; you’ve lost confidence in yourself, and your day has passed, the sun of your glory has set to rise no more. You are deposed, Watson, and all your feeble struggles will make no difference now. King Jimmy the First is on the throne!

“Say, this is a right good lot of fun,” put in Jack Cunningham; “but if you’re Frank Merriwell, you’re the very feller I’m lookin’ for.”

“Looking for me?” asked Frank.

“Yes.”

“All right; I’ll give you my attention in a minute. Jimmy, I want that knot of blue ribbon. I believe it will be a mascot for me if I wear it to-day, and I’ll give it back to you to-night.”

Off came the knot of ribbon and Jimmy handed it over to Frank.

“I don’t want it back,” he declared. “Keep it, won’t you, sir?”

Frank put him down.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll keep it; but how can I pay you for it? If there is anything——”

“I don’t want pay; but I’d like to have something to remember you by—anything you’ll give me.”

Frank pinned Jimmy’s ribbon to his breast, while Jimmy looked on with mist-dimmed eyes, feeling so proud that it did not seem that there was room enough in his breast for his swelling heart.

Then Merry felt in his pockets for something. He paused and thought a moment. All at once it came to him, and he quickly found a small ribbon badge, having crossed batsticks at the top, a bit of blue with a white Y upon it, and a silver baseball dangling at the bottom.

How Jimmy’s eyes danced when he saw that! He almost shouted for joy. Then came the apprehension that Frank did not really and truly mean to give it to him, and his heart stood still in anxious dread.

“Will that do?” Merry asked.

“Will it?” gasped Jimmy. “Will it do! Just ask me! Oh, say! I’ll keep it just as long as I live!”

Then Frank stooped and pinned it over the heart of the happiest and proudest boy south of Mason and Dixon’s line.

CHAPTER XII.
THE RUNAWAY.

“Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

Standing at a distance, watching with anxious impatience and taking care to keep out of sight, Roland Ditson muttered a little exclamation of satisfaction as he saw Frank Merriwell turn to Jack Cunningham, speaking these words.

The train was starting to pull out from the station.

“I came here to see yo’, suh,” declared Cunningham, turning his chew of tobacco. “I’ve brought ye somethin’.”

“What is it?”

“This.”

He handed over the forged letter. A moment later Frank was reading:

“Dear Frank: I am in serious trouble, and I wish you to come to me alone without a moment’s delay. I know I shall not appeal to you in vain. Tell no one where you are going, for I do not wish it known that I would trouble you at such a time, but I must see you—I must! Don’t lose a minute! Mr. Muldoon will take you in the carriage direct to the house where I am stopping, and you will have plenty of time before the game. Do come, dear Frank. Yours, as ever,

”Elsie."

Frank was not looking for a trick, and his hasty glance over the letter gave him no warning of anything wrong. Ditson had performed a very clever job in imitating Elsie Bellwood’s handwriting.

Merry was aware that Elsie had returned from Florida and was stopping in Charlottesville, a fact which Roland had somehow learned, so the note gave him no surprise. He had anticipated seeing her while in the place. Hodge also anticipated that pleasure—or pain. She had taken care to let the knowledge reach him that she was in Charlottesville.

For a moment Merry seemed to hesitate. In the distance Ditson held his breath.

“Will the fool refuse?” he inwardly cried. “Why, no! for he is in love with the girl!”

Frank turned to Cunningham again.

“Mr. Muldoon?” he said.

“Yes, suh,” declared the ruffian, though he feared some one might hear and expose him. But Jack Cunningham was known and feared in Charlottesville. And King Jimmy was proudly displaying to his admiring subjects the decoration of honor conferred upon him by Merriwell the Great, therefore he did not get at what was going on.

“You have a carriage here?” asked Frank.

“Yes, suh; right over yander.”

“How far must we go?”

“Oh, just out beyond the town a short distance.”

“How many miles?”

“Something over two, perhaps.”

Frank looked at his watch.

“All right,” he said. “Fellows, I’ll have to leave you for a short time, but I won’t be gone much over an hour.”

Then without further explanation he motioned for Cunningham to lead the way.

Roland Ditson chuckled when he saw Frank follow the ruffian out round the station to the place where the team was watched by a colored man.

“He’s going into the trap!” muttered Roland. “And I’ll make a big pot on the ball-game to-day, besides getting even with Merriwell to some extent. My fifty dollars to that big whelp Cunningham will be well spent, for I’ll make more than five hundred if U. V. beats Yale to-day. And I can get more bets, too, with plenty of odds, for it seems the general impression that Yale is bound to win, for all of Paragon’s skill as a pitcher.”

He had taken pains not to explain to his hired tool his full reason for wishing to get Merriwell out of the way, well knowing Cunningham would strike him for more money if he knew he was to win a large sum if Yale met with defeat.

“All right, Sam,” said Cunningham, as he took the reins. “Here’s a plug of tobacco for you.”

He threw a piece of tobacco toward the colored man, who caught it skilfully.

“Thank yo’, suh,” grinned the negro. “Dat off hoss am po’erful nervous, suh, when der cayars come along, suh.”

“Jump right in, Mr. Merriwell,” invited Cunningham.

Frank did so, and the ruffian followed suit, swinging the horses toward the road that led from the station.

The Yale men had started for the nearest hotel, followed by a throng of men and boys, both white and black. At the head of this throng marched King Jimmy, with his head erect and the Yale badge secure upon his breast. After him flocked his new subjects, while behind them walked the deposed king, Scrubby Watson, with his hands thrust into his pockets, his hat pulled over his eyes, and his entire aspect one of hopeless dejection.

Jimmy stared as Cunningham’s team went past with Frank Merriwell seated beside the sandy-haired giant, then off came the little fellow’s hat in a profound salute.

And off came the caps of the followers of King Jimmy.

Frank waved his hand, and away went the team through the outskirts of Charlottesville, soon turning from the town to the country.

April in Virginia is fair and beautiful. The world was green and fresh, and in the purple haze of the west the Blue Ridge rose against the sky. Frank drew in great breaths of the pure air, his eyes glowing as he looked about at the attractive scene. The negro huts were picturesque, and the colored men and women smoking in the shade, with dancing pickaninnies here and there, were sights to delight the eye of an artist.

“Beautiful!” said Frank.

“Hey?” grunted Cunningham.

“I say this is a beautiful section.”

“Yes, I s’pose it is.”

“I presume it does not look as beautiful to you because of long familiarity with it.”

“I dunno. I ain’t been here so long, yo’ see.”

“Haven’t? Are you employed by the Parkers?”

“The Parkers? No, suh.”

“Then how does it happen that you came to the station for me?”

“Oh,” said Cunningham, “she just asked me, an’ I come. I’d do anything fo’ her, suh.”

“That is likely. Any one who knows Miss Bellwood is usually ready to do anything possible for her. Is this your own team, Mr. Muldoon?”

“Yes, suh. Great pair of hosses. Git, there, Demon! Hi, there, Ginger! Yes! Take ’er out!”

Cunningham cracked his whip over the horses, and put them both into a mad run, while with a leering grin he looked sideways at Frank to see the college chap get pale and frightened.

“What do yo’ think of this fer goin’?” he demanded.

“Oh, it’s fair,” answered Frank, “but you haven’t the right kind of a carriage for it.”

“Hey?” roared Cunningham, in astonishment. “Ain’t you satisfied with this? Well, I’ll touch ’em up a little more, suh!”

Then he rose to his feet and—swish, cut! swish, cut!—the whip whistled through the air and twined about the horses. The animals tried to go out of their harnesses, and the carriage careened along the road at a wild rate of speed.

But when Cunningham looked to see the effect on his companion he was astonished to discover that the “college chap” was still unruffled and serene.

“How does this suit yo’, suh?” inquired the ruffian.

“This is very fair, if your horses can do no better.”

“Almighty gizzards!” gasped the brother of the notorious Blue Ridge outlaw. “What do you want, suh?”

“I wouldn’t whip the horses any more, if I were you,” said Frank quietly. “They are already doing their level best. Besides, it is cruel to hit them that way.”

This seemed to make the man furious, for he shouted:

“I judge, suh, I have a right to hit my own hosses! I’ll give yo’ the liveliest ride yo’ evah took, by smoke!”

Then he arose and cut both the frightened horses again. The animals made a mad leap, and—snap!—one of the reins broke in Cunningham’s hand.

The angry man dropped back with a gasp.

“Good Lord!” he said. “The rein is broke, an’ them critters are going to raise some dust now! Whillikens! what a scrape!”

Now he showed alarm himself, but still the youth at his side was perfectly calm.

“You made a fool of yourself, Mr. Muldoon,” Frank grimly observed. “In your attempt to frighten me you have done a very bad job.”

“Them hosses will never stop runnin’ now till they’ve smashed thunder out of this rig!” the man observed. “Yo’ had better jump for it, youngster.”

Then, from another road, an old negro appeared, seated on a wabble-wheeled cart and driving a decrepit horse. The colored man turned into the road directly in front of them.

“Jump!” yelled Cunningham. “Things are goin’ to smash in a jiffy! Jump!”

He rose to leap out, but Frank’s strong hand grasped him and flung him back on the seat, while Frank’s clear voice rang out:

“If you want to escape a broken leg or neck keep still! There is one chance to stop the horses!”

Then, having risen to his feet, with a long clean leap he flung himself over the dasher of the carriage and landed astride of the “near” horse.

CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE TRAP.

The astounded man expected to see the college youth flung headlong to the ground, but to his still greater amazement, Frank landed fairly on the back of the horse, where he clung with perfect ease.

But not a moment was to be lost, for they were close upon the old negro, who was vainly trying to rein his horse out of the road. Still, Frank Merriwell did not seem at all nervous or excited. With a swift, sure grasp he caught both the reins and then he turned the madly running horses to one side.

Just in time. One of the carriage hubs clicked against the car as they whirled past. But a catastrophe had been averted for the time, at least.

Jack Cunningham stared as the “college chap” clung to the galloping horses, drawing strong and sure on the reins, and talking in soothing tones to the badly frightened animals.

It was a revelation to Cunningham, but he had no hope that the youth would be able to handle and stop the runaways.

However, although not seeming to be making great efforts to stop them, Merriwell continued to talk to the terrified creatures, his voice rhythmical, soothing, and pleasant.

For a considerable distance the runaways continued at their mad pace, but at last they began to slacken little by little, reassured and checked by that soothing voice.

And so, watched by the amazed man in the carriage, Frank slowly quieted them down until he was able to bring them to a halt upon the road, although they were trembling and nervous.

Merry had them by the heads the moment they stopped, having leaped to the ground.

Jack Cunningham jumped out of the wagon, declaring, in very picturesque language, that the trick had been well done.

“Yo’ must have been raised with hosses, young feller?” said the wondering ruffian.

“Not exactly,” said Frank, “but I have had some experience with them, and I have learned that no sensible man ever uses a whip on a horse without reason.”

“Do yo’ mean to call me a fool, youngster?”

“Well, I did not state it in exactly that language, but I think you were foolish to whip the horses in order to try to frighten me. That is plain.”

Cunningham glared at Merry, longing to put his hands on the cool youth who dared talk to him thus plainly.

“That’s sassy!” he growled.

“But it’s true, Mr. Muldoon.”

“Well, I don’t ’low everybody to tell me the truth, so yo’ had better be careful in the future.”

“As long as it is my misfortune to be in your society, I shall not hesitate to tell you the truth, sir.”

Frank was gently stroking the muzzles of the horses and patting their necks while he talked, and the animals became calmer and calmer beneath his touch.

“Well, yo’ are a mighty queer chap!” blurted Cunningham, who was beginning to realize that he did not understand Merriwell at all.

“Splice that rein somehow,” said Frank, “and we’ll go on, for I have no time to waste.”

When the horses were thoroughly quieted, Cunningham found a piece of stout twine in his pocket. Merriwell had a jack-knife that was also a handy kit of tools, and with these the rein was securely spliced, Frank doing most of the work.

“Yo’ are clever at some things,” the ruffian was forced to confess; “an’ I judge yo’ don’t scare very easy.”

To this Frank deigned no retort, but asked:

“How much farther have we to go?”

“Not more than a mile, suh.”

“A mile? Why, you said it was not over two miles at the start, and I’m sure we’ve covered a longer distance than that already.”

“Well, suh, Virginyah miles are pretty long.”

“I should say so! Well, make it as soon as you can, for I must get back to town, but don’t use your whip on the horses again.”

Frank vaulted lightly into the carriage, and Cunningham followed him. Then they drove along once more. Reaching a piece of timber, they turned into a road that seemed little used. After driving some distance they came in sight of a ramshackle-looking house with some outbuildings near.

“Is that the place?” asked Frank wonderingly.

“Yes, suh; that’s the place,” averred Cunningham. “The girl is waiting for yo’ there.”

Elsie in such a place as that! It seemed impossible. No wonder she had appealed to Frank for help! She must be in dire distress.