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

CONTENTS

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

By BURT L. STANDISH

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

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

Copyright, 1898
By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s First Job

FRANK MERRIWELL’S FIRST JOB.

CHAPTER I.
A BLOW BY FATE.

Biff—thump!

“Oh, what a soaker!”

“Go at him, Rattleton!”

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

Biff! biff!—thump!

“There you go again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep it up.”

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

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

Biff! biff!—bang!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?” shouted Rattleton, Diamond and Hodge.

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

Merriwell nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Browning straightened up a little.

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

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

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

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

There was a rap on the door.

“Come,” called Frank.

The door opened.

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

Frank took it, and the colored man disappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” they cried.

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

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

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

They leaped to their feet.

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

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

CHAPTER II.
FAREWELL TO YALE.

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

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

“Awful, isn’t it?” asked Pierson.

“Terrible!” said Creighton.

“Have you seen him?”

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

“What will Old Eli do without him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did the old fool do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No thanks, young man. Your hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were other scenes like this.

Frank bade the professors good-by.

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

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

CHAPTER III.
ON THE WAY HOME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus he waited Frank’s appearance.

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

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

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

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

Toots shook his head and retired from the room.

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

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

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

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

Frank walked down the platform.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dyke Conrad!” muttered Merry.

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

“Yes.”

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

Dyke had always disliked Merry, and now he grinned.

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.
THE REWARD OF WRONGDOING.

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

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

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

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

“Who am dat?”

“Toots,” said Frank, “is it you?”

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

Then he embraced Frank.

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

“How are things, Toots?”

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

“Why were you out here under this tree?”

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

“He did not say I was coming?”

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

“Strange? How?”

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

“Taken his bed? Is he ill?”

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

Frank whistled.

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

“I hab been berry scat ob him, sah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Merry advanced quickly, saying:

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

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

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

“You are making a mistake.”

“I? A mistake? How?”

“You should not call me professor.”

“Why not?”

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

“My dear professor——”

The man made a weak motion with one thin hand.

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

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vanished.”

“No, professor——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he departed.

CHAPTER V.
THE MAN WHO WORKED THE WIRES.

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

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

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

The doctor was very grave.

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

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

The physician looked at Frank in a strange manner.

“This man has squandered your fortune?”

“No; he simply misapplied it.”

“And you hold no hard feelings against him?”

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

“You are a strange young man.”

“Why so?”

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

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

“You are generous.”

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

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

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

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

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

Frank smiled grimly.

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

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

“Work.”

“At what?”

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

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

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

“Don’t you dread it?”

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

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

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

“But think of the disgrace of it!”

Frank drew himself up with dignity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just outside the door he met Darius Conrad.

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

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

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

“Eh? What do you mean, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dyke Conrad came up hastily at this moment.

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

Frank smiled.

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

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

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

And he led his father away.

CHAPTER VI.
THE SETTING OF THE SUN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conrad sprang up, snarling forth angry words.

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

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

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

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

“You might have got out of the way!”

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

Dyke took this as a symptom of fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.
PHANTOM FINGERS.

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

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

“Professor, you are better!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will make other opportunities, professor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Let them enter.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, professor.”

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

“I freely forgive everything.”

A faint smile came to the life-weary face.

“Now I can go.”

Again the wind swept through the trees.

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

“No.”

“Do so at once! Admit them!”

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

CHAPTER VIII.
UNWELCOME VISITORS.

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

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

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

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

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

“An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain;

Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;

The birds singing gayly, that come at my call;

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

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

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

“Farewell, peaceful cottage! farewell, happy home!

Forever I’m doomed a poor exile to roam;

This poor aching heart must be laid in the tomb,

Ere it cease to regret the endearments of home.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Call your master immediately.”

“Tell yeh he don’ want teh see yeh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Conrad?”

“Yes, sah.”

“I do not care to see the man.”

“I tole him so, sah.”

“Tell him to go away.”

“I tole him dat, sah.”

“What then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you will not.”

“Eh? what do you mean?”

“I will not sell it to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go!”

“I will not be driven out in——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.
CAPTURED BY WHITECAPS.

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

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

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

“You? Haw! You are no match for him.”

“Not alone.”

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

“You wouldn’t be asked to help.”

“Hum! No? What are you driving at?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In that case——”

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

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

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

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

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

Dyke grinned.

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

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

“You’ll have to cough, governor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the woods the gang rested.

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

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

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

“Where we goin’ to take him?”

“To the old house.”

“Let’s make him walk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.
COWARDLY WORK.

Bang!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I will! I’ll——”

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

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

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

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

“Good grit!” nodded the big fellow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t get an extra V.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Marvelous! You must be a perfect savage.”

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

“I’m sorry about that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You will not know whom to strike.”

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

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

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

“I do not think anything about it.”

“Indeed.”

“I know!”

“How?”

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

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

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

The leader of the ruffians ground his teeth together.

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

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

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

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

“It will soon be ready,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop!”

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

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

CHAPTER XI.
FRANK’S STRANGE FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

The big fellow snapped his fingers and laughed.

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

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

He appealed to the others.

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

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

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

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

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

He whipped out a jack-knife and opened it.

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

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

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

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

“You will testify to that if he dies?”

“Yes.”

“I can depend on you?”

“You may.”

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

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

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

Dyke saw him and tried to move away.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“How?”

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

“Would you do that—for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t walk!” whined the fellow.

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

It was wonderful how soon Dyke was able to walk.

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

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

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

“All right. We didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry.”

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

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

“We will part here.”

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

“I don’t deserve it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I believe you. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

Thus they parted.

CHAPTER XII.
FOR HIS ENEMY.

“Fire!”

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

The cry reached his ears from a distance.

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank said nothing, but passed him like the wind.

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

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

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

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

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

Frank came up.

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

“They must be,” said another person.

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

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“He is lost!”

“My God! My son—my own boy!”

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

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

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

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

“He is gone!” screamed a woman.

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

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

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

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

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

“There he is!” screamed a voice.

“Hurrah!” roared a man.

“And he has Dyke Conrad!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” was the quiet answer.

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

“You can’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither Darius Conrad nor his son was there.

The train came and bore Frank away.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE BULLY OF THE ROUNDHOUSE.

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

“Hey? The foreman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do ye want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey? A job? What kind of a job?”

The wiper was astonished, as he plainly showed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I s’pose likely. What d’yer know?”

“About what?”

“Runnin’ a railroad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The big wiper actually staggered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spat! it struck and stuck there.

Smack!

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

Thud! the man dropped to the ground.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE BULLY MEETS HIS MATCH.

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

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

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

“Mart’ll kill him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Next time I shall hit him harder.”

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

“Now,” he grated—“now I’ll smash ye!”

Then he rushed at the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is this for a flea bite?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Notice how quick he recovered?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were some moments of silence.

“I believe he’s finished.”

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

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

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

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

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

Smash!

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

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

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

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

“Have you got enough?”

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

CHAPTER XV.
STRIKING A JOB.

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

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

“Here comes the foreman!”

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

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

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

The foreman came up and looked the youth over.

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

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

The foreman nodded.

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

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

The foreman looked the defeated wiper over.

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

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

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

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

“I am hardly a boy, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of work?”

“Any kind that I can get.”

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

“No, sir.”

“Know anything about locomotives?”

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“I presumed so.”

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

“But there is a chance for promotion?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“But you will not stand the work.”

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

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

“Try me.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Frank Merriwell.”

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Parents living?”

“My mother is dead.”

“And your father?”

“I know not where he is.”

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

The youth smiled.

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

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

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

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

“I believe that.”

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

“No, sir.”

“Drink?”

“Not a drop.”

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

The face of the youth flushed.

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

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

The youth said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.
THE FIRST FORENOON.

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

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

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

“You’d win,” chuckled a third.

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

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

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

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

“Here, boy!”

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

“Workin’ here?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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