Transcriber's Notes:

The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been corrected.

For convenience, a table of contents, which is not present in the original, has been included.

CONTENTS

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

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

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

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

Frank Merriwell’s Marriage

OR,

INZA’S HAPPIEST DAY

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1905
By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s Marriage

(Printed in the United States of America)

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

FRANK MERRIWELL’S MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.
AT EAGLE HEIGHTS.

“I would give ten thousand dollars to know Frank Merriwell’s secret,” declared Wallace Grafter, sitting in a comfortable “Old Hickory” chair on the veranda of the Eagle Heights clubhouse and watching the Albany boat, which was passing on its way up the Hudson.

“It would be worth it, my dear boy,” yawned Philip Phipps, a youth from Poughkeepsie, as he snapped a half-smoked cigarette over the rail and drew out his handsome watch, at which he casually glanced. “But do you think he has a secret?”

“Of course he has!” exclaimed the first speaker decidedly. “His record proves it. What time is it?”

“Ten-twenty,” answered Phipps.

“He’ll be here in forty minutes,” said Grafter. “I’m curious to see him.”

Farley Fisher, straight, square-shouldered, military in his bearing, not over twenty-four years of age, standing at a corner of the veranda, smiled a bit scornfully.

“It is amusing to me, gentlemen,” he observed, “to think that any fellow can keep up a fake as long as Merriwell has.”

“Fake?” cried Phipps, excitement bringing a touch of falsetto into his voice.

“Fake?” questioned Grafter, moving his chair to face Fisher more squarely. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said—no more, no less. I am satisfied that Merriwell is a faker.”

Inside an open window of the reading room, which was close at hand, Hobart Manton had been glancing over the pages of a magazine. The words of those outside reached his ears. He dropped the magazine and leaned on the window ledge.

“I agree with you, Fisher,” he said. “Merriwell is the biggest faker in this country, and in many ways the cleverest. You know I’m a Yale man. At college I heard so much of Merriwell and what he had done while there that I grew sick and disgusted. He was successful in fooling almost everybody, it seems.”

Grafter rose to his feet. He was a well-built fellow, nearly six feet tall, with splendid shoulders and carriage. He was the son of Mike Grafter, the well known Tammany politician, familiarly called “Reliable Mike” by his associates in New York. Although young Grafter had never been guilty of doing a day’s work in his life, he had inherited a splendid physique from his parents and had made athletics his hobby, beginning with the days of his baseball playing on the open lots in Harlem. Like his father, he was generally well liked, although it was claimed that, with his sturdy frame he had also inherited some of old Grafter’s ideas of winning in any contest by whatever method possible, either fair or otherwise. Like his father, he was also able to cover his tracks so completely that nothing crooked had ever been proved against him, and he was prompt to vigorously resent any insinuation or hint of unfairness.

“I presume,” he said, “that you gentlemen have heard the saying of the late Abraham Lincoln that ‘you can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all the people all of the time?’”

“What has that to do with Merriwell?” asked Fisher.

“If he is a faker,” retorted Grafter, “I swear it seems to me that he has succeeded in fooling all of the people all of the time since he started in to fool them at all.”

“I’d like to know what any one means by calling him a faker,” said Phipps.

Manton rose quickly from his chair and came sauntering out onto the veranda, followed by his particular friend, Denton Fisher, of the Harlem Heights A.A.

“Gentlemen,” he said, a knowing smile on his smooth-shaven, bulldog face, “I think I can explain what I mean by calling Merriwell a faker. A faker is a deceiver—he pretends to accomplish things he does not actually accomplish. At college Merriwell won a great deal of glory as a football captain and a baseball player. Investigation will show that the football and baseball teams of those years were the strongest ever turned out at Yale. He obtained the reputation, while the men behind him did the work. It has been so ever since.”

“Apparently,” said Phipps, “you do not give Merriwell any credit for developing such strong teams.”

“I place the credit where it belongs, with the coaches. Merriwell developed nothing. He happened to be fortunate in having such good teams to back him up, and he has lived on the reputation made at Yale.”

“His career since leaving Yale——” began Grafter.

“What has he done? Personally, I mean. He has traveled round more or less, with an athletic team made up from the best Yale men of his day and a few clever outsiders. He still works the old game of living on the glory that should belong to others. But he is careful when he plays baseball teams to choose such teams as he can defeat in most instances. For instance——”

“The Chicago Nationals,” laughed Grafter. “Didn’t he win two games off them in California?”

“Fake!” laughed Manton, in return. “He has plenty of money, and he can afford to buy the rubber game, especially when it costs a big team nothing to lose it. That’s another of his tricks. He goes round the country spending money freely. Who couldn’t win at almost anything if he had plenty of money!”

Grafter shook his head.

“I have found out,” he said, “that legitimate amateur sports are generally on the level. Amateurs, as a rule, cannot be bought.”

“Well,” said the Yale man, with a slight curling of his lips, “I presume you speak from experience.”

Instantly Grafter flushed and his hands closed quickly.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, a threat in his voice. “You may have a reputation as a gentleman boxer; but you had better be careful with your tongue, for I don’t fancy being insulted, even by you.”

Manton looked like a pugilist toned down, or toned up, like a gentleman. He had a thick neck and the cast of countenance that one instinctively associates with pugnacity. He had taken part in many an amateur boxing match, and some of the contests had been “to a finish.” It was his boast that he had never been “put out.” It was generally known that his college career had terminated suddenly and unexpectedly because he had attempted to beat up one of the professors.

“You’re touchy, Grafter,” said Manton, with a slight shrug of his muscular shoulders. “What’s the use? Can’t you take a joke?”

“The right kind of a joke. I presume you’re joking about Merriwell?”

“On the contrary, I’m in sober earnest. I meant just what I said.”

“It sounded like a joke to me,” said Phipps. “Why, I didn’t suppose any one questioned Merriwell’s standing as an athlete. Surely it is not questioned here, else he would not have been invited to take part in our meet.”

“It is possible we may be able to show him up as the faker he is,” laughed Manton. “Why, the fellow actually has the nerve to claim that he is the all-round champion athlete of this country.”

“I don’t think he made such a claim himself,” said Grafter promptly. “The newspapers called him that after he made the best record at Ashport last week. That was a contest for the all-round championship of the country.”

“At Ashport!” sneered Manton. “And where is Ashport, pray? A little country town somewhere on the Ohio River. Who did Merriwell meet there?”

“Amateurs from all over the country,” answered Phipps. “According to all reports, it was one of the most successful contests ever held in this country.”

“But it was not the regular meet of the Amateur Athletic Association of the United States. It was nothing but a country club affair, at most. Championships won at such tournaments do not count. It’s a case of pure gall for Merriwell to set himself up as the leading all-round amateur of the country.”

“Besides,” reminded Denton Frost, “he was defeated there by a local man in a cross-country run a short time before.”

“Who defeated him?” questioned Phipps.

“Oh, some unknown. I agree with Manton that he’ll be shown up here if he ventures to take part. We’ll have the leading amateurs in the East.”

“Gentlemen,” said Grafter, who appeared to have recovered his good nature, “if Mr. Merriwell enters for any of our contests, I’ll give you an opportunity to win some of my money, for I shall bet on him.”

“Better use stage money,” advised Frost. “You won’t miss it so much.”

“Don’t worry about me,” flung back Grafter. “If I lose some real money, I can stand it.”

“That’s a good thing for you,” grinned Frost, in a chilly manner.

“I think I heard you remark that you would give ten thousand to know Merriwell’s secret,” said Manton. “I’ll tell you what it is, and it won’t cost you a dollar. Pick out easy marks as opponents. In that manner you’ll always be a winner.”

“I don’t fancy you think we have many easy marks belonging to this club or entered for the tournament?”

“No, not many.”

“Will you name some of the events in which men are entered who cannot be defeated by Merriwell?”

“Ye-e-es; the standing long jump, the high jump, and the pole vault. The champions of the country are entered for these events, and Merriwell would be outclassed in any one of them.”

“Perhaps he may be induced to take part in them.”

“I doubt it. When he finds out the men who are entered, he’ll keep out. Why, Jack Necker, the Hartford man, is going out for the world’s championship, and he can jump some. My friend Frost is entered for the pole vault. He came within an ace of defeating Burleigh, the world’s champion, last year, and he can vault eight inches higher this year than he could then. He’d make Merriwell look like a high-school kid at it.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to find out very soon what Merriwell intends to do,” said Phipps, rising and looking down the winding drive. “Here comes a carriage, containing Bert Fuller and two strangers. I fancy one of the strangers is Frank Merriwell.”

The Eagle Heights A.A. was peculiar in many ways. It was a “country club” for amateur athletes, most picturesquely located on the Hudson, some miles above Peekskill. One of the qualifications for membership was that each and every member must belong to some other amateur club and must be the champion of his own club in some particular line. For instance, Bert Fuller, president of the Eagle Heights A.A., was the champion gymnast of the Madison Square A.A.; Wallace Grafter was the best shot putter of the Catskill Club; Horace Manton was the star boxer of the Albany University Club; George Branch was the leading long-distance bicyclist of the Century Club, of Boston; Philip Phipps was the champion billiard player of the Poughkeepsie Pastime Club, and Denton Frost, of the Harlem Heights A.A., was a candidate for the championship of the world at pole vaulting.

It will be readily understood that the Eagle Heights A.A. was an organization made up and maintained by rich young men, or the sons of wealthy men—gentlemen they were supposed to be, one and all. But wealth is not always the brand of birth or breeding, and, like other clubs, the Eagle Heights contained members who lacked the natural instincts of the gentleman, although they had a certain veneering, or outward polish.

The Eagle Heights A.A. was the outcome of the modern development of interest in athletics and sports. Ten years ago the organization and maintenance of such a club would have been impossible; and, indeed, the scheme seemed wild and visionary when first outlined at the Manhattan A.A. by Frederick Fuller, the father of Bert Fuller. Although plainly told that he could never carry the project through, Fuller, Sr., went about it in earnest, secured a site for the clubhouse, with fine grounds on every hand, started a fund, interested other men of wealth, and finally pushed the thing through. The Eagle Heights A.A. was nearly two years old and flourishing like a green bay tree. It was generally regarded as the acme of glory to be admitted as a member, and the time had already arrived when it was found necessary to make a finer discrimination in regard to admissible candidates.

As was natural, rivalry for honors among the club members of this remarkable organization was very keen. But not all the contests were held for the benefit of members only. Already there had been three open meets of various sorts, and now there was to be another, in which all athletes regularly registered in the A.A.A. of the U.S.could participate. Frank Merriwell, having reached the East after a tour of the country, had received a special invitation to be present and to compete if he desired.

Having learned that Merry would visit the club at a certain time, there was an unusually large number of members present on the forenoon of this midweek day.

Phil Phipps was correct in thinking that one of the two strangers in the carriage with the president of the club was Frank. The other was Merry’s boon companion, Bart Hodge.

The carriage stopped at the broad front steps and Fuller sprang out, followed by his guests.

“Here we are, Merriwell!” cried the youthful president, with a wave of his hand. “What do you think of our location?”

Frank permitted his eyes to sweep over the beautiful prospect of fields, woodland, and hills, through the midst of which flowed the blue, majestic Hudson. It was a vision to delight the soul of any true lover of nature.

“It is grand, Fuller!” he answered, with enthusiasm. “With such a view outspread before you, you should be constantly spurred to do your level best at any undertaking. Surely it is an inspiration.”

The face of Hodge betrayed his admiration, but he said nothing.

“My father chose the spot,” said Fuller proudly. “He saw what could be done here. Although we are up among the hills, we have one of the finest athletic fields in the country. Let’s go in. I know many of the boys are anxious to meet you.”

“And I am one of them,” declared Wallace Grafter, advancing to the steps.

He was introduced to Frank and Bart, shaking them heartily by the hand.

Phil Phipps and Farley Fisher followed.

“We have a Yale man here, Merriwell,” said Fuller. “I know you’ll be welcomed by a son of Old Eli. Mr. Manton——”

He stopped short, for Hobart Manton, with Denton Frost at his side, had already turned away and was entering the clubhouse.

The president flushed. For a moment he seemed surprised and confused, but he quickly recovered, smiling a little, as he said:

“Evidently Manton’s modesty prevented him from pressing forward at once. He intends to wait to meet you inside.”

Frank nodded. He knew something was wrong, but he did not show it. He did not even return Bart’s queer look of questioning.

They entered the building. In the parlor they met other members, all of whom were very cordial. In the reading room were still others.

Manton and Frost were there when they entered. The pair surveyed Frank and Bart with an air of indifference, and together, just before Fuller would have presented them, they sauntered away into another part of the house.

Fuller was furious, although he tried to conceal it.

There was no mistaking this repetition of the act.

It was a deliberate slight.

The president made a resolution to give Manton and Frost a prompt calling down, but, not wishing to leave Merry just then, he waited for another opportunity.

The visitors were conducted through the building until they finally came to the gymnasium, which they found lavishly fitted with the finest modern apparatus.

In the gym a number of fellows were at work. The only spectators were Manton and Frost. But now neither Fuller nor the visitors gave the two chaps the slightest notice, although walking past them within a few feet.

At one side of the room, and running the full length, was a string of flying rings.

Coming to the end of these, Hodge was seized by a sudden desire to test some of the energy he felt seething within. Giving a short turn, he sprang into the air, caught the first ring, swung to the second, from that to the third, and so on until he had traversed the complete line.

Manton and Frost left the room, laughing softly and saying something to each other about showing off.

Bart had not thought of “showing off,” but he realized that his action might be regarded as the outcome of a desire to exhibit himself, and his face grew dark.

“When the time comes right, one or both of you chaps are going to get something from me,” he thought.

They next inspected the billiard room, coming at last to the bowling alleys.

There they again found Manton and Frost, who seemed on the point of starting a string.

Now an odd thing happened. Manton stepped forward and spoke to Frank.

“You’ve been kept busy shaking hands with the rest of the boys,” he said. “I’m not inclined to rush forward and overwhelm a visitor. I leave that to Grafter.”

Fuller was relieved, and he immediately introduced both Manton and Frost.

“We’re glad to know you, Mr. Merriwell,” declared the gentleman pugilist. “I heard a great deal about you at college. You surely had all Yale hypnotized. Of course some of the things they tell of you are preposterous. I regard you as very clever in being able to secure such a reputation.”

“I don’t think I understand you,” said Merry, disagreeably impressed by the fellow’s words.

“Why, you know they seem to think in New Haven that you were a champion at any old thing to which you turned your hand. No man could excel at everything. That’s out of reason. I presume you were fairly clever as a baseball pitcher, or something of that sort; but they seemed to fancy you were possessed of the powers of a god. For instance, although I was the champion bowler and sparrer, I was continually being told what Merriwell did when he was there. I grew sick of it. I longed for an opportunity to demonstrate to them that you were not the only person on earth. Of course I had no such opportunity. Had you drifted along at the proper moment, I’d taken special delight in showing you up on the alleys.”

He laughed as he made this statement.

“Evidently,” said Frank, “it was a good thing for my reputation that I kept away from New Haven while you were in college.”

“As far as bowling or boxing was concerned.”

“You’re a fine bowler?”

“I am the champion of this club, although one of our members is the champion bowler of the White Elephant, of Paterson.”

“I’m hardly in my best form as a bowler just now,” confessed Merry.

Frost started to laugh, but checked himself.

“I presume not,” smiled Manton.

“I have bowled very little during the last two months, having been interested mainly in outdoor sports.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Manton; “I’m not going to challenge you.”

“But I was thinking of challenging you,” said Merry sweetly, his words causing the heart of Bart Hodge to leap with satisfaction.

CHAPTER II.
IN THE CLUB ALLEY.

“Oh, were you?” exclaimed the gentleman pugilist, with a touch of surprise. “Well, that suits me! If you’re not in your best form, however, you had better wait, for I’ll bury you.”

“Even if you do that, it will give me pleasure to witness your skill,” nodded Frank. “And I believe I am able to accept defeat gracefully. I’ve been compelled to do so more than once in my day.”

“What’s that?” cut in Frost, in his cold voice. “Why, from all reports I should fancy you had never been defeated at anything.”

“You know reports are generally exaggerated.”

“Well,” said Manton eagerly, “if you’re anxious to be trimmed, we’ll get at it.”

Merry calmly removed his coat and vest.

A colored boy had followed them into the room, and he had the pins all set up.

At this point Grafter, Phipps, and Fisher appeared, apparently looking round for the visitors. They were surprised and interested when they found out what was taking place.

“Just in time, Grafter!” cried Manton. “Have you plenty of the needful on your person? You know the sort of talk you were making on the veranda a while ago. Here’s the opportunity to part with some of your filthy.”

Grafter was not one to back down. They stepped aside and spoke in low tones.

“Bet you a hundred I beat him this string,” proposed Manton.

Frank knew what was taking place, and he seized the opportunity to say:

“Mr. Grafter, I’m not in my best bowling form, and bowling is not a specialty with me.”

“I’ll go you, Manton,” said Grafter, without paying the least heed to Frank.

The gentleman pugilist smiled with satisfaction.

“No need to put the money up,” he said. “Then we won’t break any rules. Here’s where I begin to get into you. I hope Merriwell stays around until after the meet. I’ll have you going to your old man for change.”

“For conceit,” returned Grafter, “you certainly take the cake. If you win my money, you’re welcome to it.”

Frost was smiling as they returned and Manton made ready for business.

Merry had been looking the balls over. They were a fine lot, but he weighed one after another in his hands, examined the finger holds and finally selected two of them as his favorites.

A coin was tossed to see who would lead off, and it fell on Manton.

He picked out a large ball, took his position on the right-hand side of the runway, bent forward, swung the ball at the end of his arm once like the pendulum of a clock, then ran forward and rolled.

He started the ball from the right-hand side of the alley, rolling it toward the head pin, which it struck quarteringly.

With a crash, every pin fell.

“Pretty, old man!” cried Fisher approvingly. “That’s the way to start her off!”

“It’s keeping it up that counts,” said Grafter.

“Don’t worry about me,” advised Manton smilingly.

Now the strange thing of the affair was that Grafter, although he had bet on Frank, was inclined to believe Merry would be beaten. He knew Manton to be a wonderfully good bowler, while he was not at all certain that Merriwell had ever accomplished much at it. Having made betting talk on the veranda, however, he was not the fellow to let Manton back him down, and, therefore, he had ventured a hundred dollars on the result.

It is likely that Bart Hodge was the only person present who had perfect confidence in Merry as a bowler. Bart’s face was grave and unreadable as that of a stone image.

Frank picked up one of the two balls he had selected. He was watched closely to note his “form” by all present. He poised the ball in front of his face, made a short run and a single swing.

Seven pins fell.

Denton Frost smiled chillingly.

Farley Fisher shrugged his military shoulders.

Manton managed to repress any exhibition of satisfaction.

Not a word of complaint did Merriwell utter. By his manner no one could have dreamed he was in the least disappointed.

He took the other ball and rolled for a spare.

Two pins went down and the one remaining tottered, swayed, and righted itself.

“Nine pins,” said the scorer, as he made the record on the sheet.

“Hard luck, Merriwell,” said Hobart. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I think I shall,” admitted Merry. “Still I did my level best for that spare.”

“Spares don’t count when the other fellow is making strikes,” observed Fisher.

“The other fellow may not make strikes all the time.”

“It’s plain you don’t know Manton. I’m afraid he’s roped you in as a mark, which was not very nice of him.”

Fuller, who was scoring, looked disappointed, for he had hoped that his guest would do better.

The pins were spotted and Manton went at them again.

Boom! The ball went rolling down the polished alley.

Crash! Every pin fell.

“Another strike,” said Frost. “It’s the natural thing with him.”

Frank had discarded the first ball used by him. He put it aside where it would not get mixed with the others.

At this point he assumed all the self-command possible, fixing his mind on the point where he wished the ball to strike. He was steady as a mill.

The ball was delivered perfectly, leaving his hand without the slightest jar as it touched the polished alley. With a soft boom it rolled straight to the point on which Merry had set his mind.

Crash!

“Strike!” cried Fuller. “That’s the stuff, Merriwell! Now you are showing your style!”

“But he began a trifle late, I fear,” said Frost.

“Don’t let your fears trouble you,” advised Bart Hodge. “The string is just started.”

Grafter could not repress a smile of satisfaction. He did not like Manton, and it was his earnest wish that Merriwell would push the fellow hard, if he could not win.

“You’re getting the range of the alley,” he said. “Of course you were taken at a disadvantage, not being familiar with it. You should have rolled a few before beginning.”

Frank nodded. He realized that Grafter was right, but it was too late to rectify the mistake.

“For one thing,” he said, “I think I made a mistake in the first ball I used. The finger grip was not just right for me. The holes were a trifle too close together.”

“That’s odd,” said Frost. “That’s the pet ball of Spaulding, the champion of the Knickerbocker Bowling Club and the second best man in this club.”

“Without doubt his hand is built differently from mine,” said Merriwell. “It’s a fine ball, but not suited to the breadth of my grip.”

“When I fizzle I’ll tell you why it happened,” laughed Manton, in a most irritating manner.

Hodge felt like punching the fellow; but Frank remained in nowise disturbed.

The Eagle Heights man took his time when the pins were spotted. He chalked the soles of his feet, moistened his fingers the least bit with the sponge, chose his favorite ball, made his habitual swing and smashed down every pin for the third time.

“Thirty in the first box,” said Fuller.

“Which leads Merriwell twenty-one,” observed Fisher. “That’s quite a handicap.”

“It is when a man seems determined to make strikes right along,” admitted Frank good-naturedly.

“I think I have my hand in your pocket, Grafter,” chuckled Manton.

“Perhaps so,” admitted the great shot putter of the Catskill Club. “But ‘there’s many a slip,’ you know. Don’t be too sure of anything in this world. It doesn’t pay. I’ve found that out by experience.”

“He’s setting a hard pace, Mr. Merriwell,” said Fisher, with affected politeness, yet plainly with the idea of rubbing Frank against the grain.

“He is,” confessed Frank; “but that makes it all the more interesting.”

“Your sand seems good.”

Fuller shook his head at Fisher, but the latter pretended he did not see it.

Frank did not hurry. When he did deliver the ball he sent it once more to the exact spot he wished.

Nine pins fell.

Hodge uttered an exclamation of bitter disappointment, followed by another of exultation; for the tenth pin, which had been tottering, finally fell.

“That’s great luck for you, Merriwell,” declared Manton. “You got that strike by the skin of your teeth.”

“It would have been a shame had he missed,” said Hodge. “He struck the pins perfectly.”

“Still you know such things happen and leave pins standing at times. I thought he struck a trifle too far to the right.”

Fisher and Frost exchanged glances and moved closer together.

“This Merriwell is no slouch at it,” said Fisher, in a low tone. “He’s keeping right after Manton.”

“That’s right; but I don’t believe he can crowd him very hard. He’ll slip up pretty soon.”

“It’s not impossible for Manton to slip up.”

“But Manton is not the kind to slip up in a case like this. He’s a sticker.”

By this time Manton was ready again. Again he did the trick, although, as in the case of Merry, one pin threatened not to fall.

“That would have been tough!” declared the Eagle Heights man, with relief.

“Of course you struck the pins just right,” muttered Hodge.

“Yes, I did!” exclaimed Manton. “Any one could see that.”

“It seems to make a difference who rolls the ball,” said Hodge.

“Thirty in the second box for Manton, total of sixty,” said Fuller, as he marked the score down.

When the pins were spotted Frank discovered two that were not set right. He instructed the boy to place them squarely on the spots, which was done.

“Better be careful,” sneered Frost; but pretended to laugh.

Manton had made four strikes in succession. His friends fancied this would begin to shake Merriwell’s nerve; but that was because they did not know Frank, whose nerves invariably became steadier when engaged in a trying contest of any sort.

Merry sent the balls into the midst of the pins.

Crash!

“All down!” exclaimed Fuller. “Thirty for Merriwell in the second box, with a total of thirty-nine.”

“Which is a long distance to the bad,” observed Frost.

Manton frowned the least bit. Merriwell was altogether too successful in following up with strikes.

“Why don’t you quit it?” he cried, pretending to joke.

“I’m waiting for you to quit,” retorted Frank.

“You may have to wait a long time.”

“I don’t think you’ll go all the way through the string with strikes.”

“I may.”

“Of course. Still it is not probable.”

Manton followed with another strike.

As he took his position to bowl, Frank discovered that the pins were spread slightly. He asked the boy about it, but the boy insisted that they were on the spots.

Merry started to go down the alley to investigate, whereupon the boy hastened to alter the positions of the pins slightly.

Immediately Fuller gave the boy a sharp calldown.

“You know what you’re down there for,” he said. “Put every pin up perfectly.”

Frank struck the pins in his favorite manner, and they went down promptly.

“I don’t believe he means to quit,” laughed Fuller. “That gives him a total of sixty-nine in his third box.”

“But Manton has ninety in the same box,” reminded Frost.

“The string is half rolled, that’s all,” muttered Hodge.

Still it looked serious for Frank, as Manton was not the sort of fellow to let slip an advantage that he had fairly within his grasp—at least, that was what his friends thought. No one could have guessed by the face of the gentleman pugilist that he was worried in the slightest degree. He pretended to enjoy it. In his heart, however, he was growling over the persistence of his opponent, which was quite unexpected.

“Why don’t you give up, Merriwell?” he laughed.

“I’m not quite ready to give up,” was the quiet answer.

“I’ve heard that he never gives up, Manton,” said Fuller.

“Some people never know when they are beaten,” chipped in Fisher.

“That’s a good qualification,” said the president of the club.

“But it makes them appear ridiculous at times, don’t you know.”

This time the pin boy had every pin up correctly. Manton hesitated as he was starting, pretended that his shoes were slippery, and resorted to the chalk box.

“He’s beginning to feel the strain,” thought Hodge, in keen satisfaction. “He’s getting shaky.”

Fortifying his nerve, Manton rolled in his usual style.

Crash!

“All down again!” said Frost. “I think he’s going through the string with strikes.”

“Total of one hundred and twenty in his fourth box,” announced the scorer. “That’s a three-hundred clip.”

“Now we’ll watch Mr. Merriwell,” observed Manton, sitting down with a satisfied air.

“Everybody watch,” urged Frost.

“Lots of talking for a match,” reminded Fuller.

“Oh, but this is not a regular match,” said Fisher.

“But it’s regular enough so that a stranger should have fair play,” came in something like a growl from Grafter. “You know what is generally thought of men who try to rattle opponents.”

“Merriwell has the reputation of never getting rattled,” said Frost, with another icy smile.

Frank seemed giving their chatter no heed. With the same air of deliberation he smashed into the pins and cleaned the alley.

Frank had a total of ninety-nine in his fourth box, which left him still twenty-one pins to the bad.

“Well, here goes another strike,” said Manton, as he selected his ball.

CHAPTER III.
SHIFTING WINDS.

Manton seemed just as confident as ever, but apprehension was beginning to grip him. In his heart he was troubled by a slight fear that he might fail.

It is this feeling of doubt that defeats many a man in the game of life, as well as in other games. No person should ever attempt a task while troubled by the smallest shadow of a doubt. He should have such command of himself that his confidence in his ability to succeed cannot waver. Through years of training Frank Merriwell had brought himself to the point where he refused to doubt when in anything like his normal condition.

At the very moment of delivering the ball Manton was assailed violently by the doubt he had been unable to crush out of his heart. That doubt sent an electric shock along his arm to his hand, which quivered as he released the ball.

Instantly he realized he was not going to strike the pins properly. Still he prayed for a fortunate result, knowing by experience that pins often fell well when hit poorly.

In vain.

The ball cut through them, taking down only seven, leaving two on one corner and one on the other.

“At last!” thought Hodge exultingly; but not a sound came from his lips, and only the gleam in his dark eyes could have betrayed what was passing in his heart.

“Well, now that was rotten, hard luck!” cried Manton, in disgust. “The ball slipped.”

“You’ve kept your promise, Manton,” said Grafter.

“What promise?”

“You said that when you missed you would tell us how it happened.”

Manton shot him a look of anger.

The pin boy had sent Manton’s ball back. He took it from the return and stood inspecting the pins.

“There’s a possible spare in it,” said Frost.

Manton turned to inspect the score sheet.

“A spare will save me,” mentally decided the Eagle Heights man. “If I can get those three pins with this ball, I’ll never let him catch me.”

He rolled with precision and determination. The ball went down the alley in beautiful style. It was his hope to send one of the two pins flying across to sweep down the single pin on the opposite corner, and he believed he was going to do it.

Fate was against him, however.

The ball took the two pins, and the head one shot across the alley, but it missed the single pin.

Manton clenched his fist and made a gesture of dismay, breathing an angry exclamation.

Fuller quickly jotted down the score.

“This is Merriwell’s grand opportunity!” cried Grafter. “I have a finger and thumb into your pocket, Manton.”

The Eagle Heights bowler turned away and sat down, mopping his perspiring face. Fisher stepped over and sat down beside him.

“Merriwell will slump, also,” he said, in a low voice. “It almost always happens that way. If the leading man falls down, the one following takes a tumble.”

“That’s something no one can count on,” muttered Manton.

“Great Scott!” gasped Fisher. “You’re not giving up?”

“Hardly; but that was infernal luck.”

It was almost certain that Denton Frost felt quite as bad about it as Manton, but he said nothing. His face was like a cake of ice.

“It’s the golden moment, Merry!” muttered Hodge, in the ear of Manton.

Frank knew it. There was nothing mechanical about him, yet he was steady as a piece of machinery. Through life he had tried to grasp his opportunities. This was an opportunity he must not miss.

The pins were up when he stepped onto the runway. He picked up his ball and took his position.

There was a hush.

In the midst of it Frost turned to Grafter and whispered:

“He’s shaking; he’ll blow up now.”

The whisper was loud enough for every one to hear, and Frost was rewarded by several hisses from the spectators.

Boom!—the ball sped down the alley.

“It’s another strike!” exclaimed an excited watcher.

Crash!

A dozen persons shouted, for it was a strike.

“Still he’s only one hundred and twenty-nine in his fifth, against your one forty-seven,” murmured Fisher, in the ear of Manton.

“But his strike gives him the advantage on the next two boxes,” muttered the gentleman pugilist huskily.

“He can’t beat you if you get right down to it.”

“I’ll do all I can.”

Fisher was disappointed in the manner of his companion.

Manton did try hard the next time, but two pins were left standing.

“I’m getting my whole hand into that pocket,” said Grafter.

Manton clipped off the two pins with his second ball, and secured a spare.

“That may hold Merriwell,” said Frost. “His turn is coming.”

Apparently Frank struck the pins perfectly, but there was another shout when it was seen that he had left two standing.

“I told you!” said Frost.

A gleam of hope came to Manton’s face.

Frank waited for the ball to be returned. Then he tried a difficult shot in the hope of getting a spare, but missed the first pin by the merest fraction of an inch. Fuller swiftly marked down the score, and a perfect roar filled the alley when the result was seen.

Merry had one hundred and fifty-seven in the sixth box and one hundred and seventy-five in the seventh, which tied Manton at that point.

In the eighth box he had one hundred and eighty-three, with the result of Manton’s spare to be recorded in that box, which, without doubt, would again put the Eagle Heights man in the lead.

“You have him!” hissed Fisher, in Manton’s ear. “Keep your nerve now and you’ll beat him out easily!”

Frost smiled in his usual manner.

“Take your hand out of my pocket, Grafter!” cried Manton. “The wind has changed.”

“Perhaps so,” admitted the shot putter. “But it isn’t over yet.”

It was Manton’s turn to roll his ninth.

“Put a strike on top of that spare, old boy!” urged Fisher.

The gentleman pugilist tried hard enough, but the ball swept straight through the centre of the pins, leaving one on either corner.

Manton stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the two pins.

Grafter laughed.

“The wind seems to be full of flaws,” he remarked.

Boiling with anger, Manton seized a ball and sent it booming along to take off one of the two pins.

“One hundred and ninety-three in the eighth box, and two hundred and two in the ninth,” said Fuller.

“Ten ahead of Merriwell in the eighth,” muttered Frost, clinging to hope. “Let’s see what Merriwell will do.”

Frank’s turn came directly, and he went after the pins in a resolute manner.

He got them.

“Strike!” was the shout, as he swept them all down.

Manton seemed to turn green.

Grafter opened his lips to rejoice, but changed his mind and said nothing.

“Luck—nothing but luck!” said Frost freezingly.

Still Manton did not give up, for he knew there was a possibility that his antagonist might take a terrible slump in the last box.

“Keep after him, old man,” urged Fisher. “You may pull out.”

“Not much chance for it,” confessed Manton; but still he tried hard, and swept down all the pins.

“Roll it off; it’s your last box,” said Fuller.

Manton repeated the trick twice more.

“A good string,” observed Fisher.

“Not for me,” muttered the gentleman pugilist, as he went for his collar and necktie.

“Eat ’em up, Frank!” urged Hodge. “Go after them all. The first ball counts.”

Merriwell knew it. He betrayed no uneasiness, but he took the utmost pains.

There was a hush as he sent the huge ball rolling down the polished alley.

Crash! It was a strike.

Manton turned away. He could not speak, and his hands shook a bit as he buttoned on his collar and adjusted his tie.

Merry waited for the pins to be reset and his ball to be returned.

Then he rolled again.

“Another strike!” exclaimed Hodge.

But it was not. Nine pins fell.

Fuller quickly added up the score which showed that Frank had defeated Manton by nine points.

CHAPTER IV.
SOREHEADS.

Hobart Manton was sore all the way through. Having put on his coat, he came over to Merriwell, who was betraying no exultation over the outcome.

“I presume it’s up to me to say something pleasant,” he observed. “You defeated me on the level, all right; but you couldn’t do it again in a week.”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Frank, unruffled. “Still you know there is an old saying that the future may be judged only by the past. I’m not a champion bowler.”

“You’re not?”

“No, sir.”

“Why, I thought you pretended to be a champion at everything you attempted to do.”

“On the contrary, I make no pretensions whatever.”

“He doesn’t have to,” chipped in Grafter. “His record speaks for him.”

“Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to purchase his secret for ten thousand dollars,” sneered Manton. “You are so flush with money.”

“It wouldn’t cost me quite ten thousand now,” retorted the shot-putter. “Only nine thousand nine hundred. I have a hundred coming.”

“That’s right,” admitted Manton; “but winning that hundred may cost you dearly before long. I generally get even.”

“Welcome to try.”

“If you linger until our open meet comes off,” said Manton, again addressing Merriwell, “we’ll try to find some one to defeat you at something.”

“Jumping or pole vaulting, for instance,” said Farley Fisher.

“In a club made up of specialists you should be able to defeat an ordinary all-round man,” said Frank. “You know it is the rule that an all-round man seldom excels at any particular thing.”

“He fancies he is the exception to the rule,” said Frost, in his cold, chilling way.

“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Bert Fuller reprovingly; “don’t forget that Mr. Merriwell is a guest!”

“Oh, never mind them,” smiled Frank. “They’re amusing themselves by seeking to get me on the string. It doesn’t disturb me, and it may give them pleasure.”

“He’s too blamed cool and undisturbed!” growled Farley Fisher, turning away. “Makes me want to punch him! I know Manton is just boiling to get at him with his fists.”

“Manton could show him up that way,” said Frost. “Too bad he didn’t challenge the fellow to put on the gloves. Then there would have been no question about the result.”

The defeated bowler left the alley, accompanied by a few of his bosom friends.

Frank was congratulated by a number of the members, who told him plainly that they had not fancied it possible he could defeat their man at bowling.

“Well,” nodded Merry, “you know there was nothing sure about it until it was over. Mr. Manton is a splendid bowler, but he takes defeat hard. He’s a poor loser.”

Grafter kept close to Merry. Before Frank left the club, he found an opportunity to say:

“I’d like to have a little private talk with you, Mr. Merriwell. Will it be too much bother?”

“Not at all, Mr. Grafter. I’m at liberty any time you may select.”

“Where are you stopping?”

“At Elm Tree Inn, down below. Just going down for lunch now. Will you take lunch with me?”

“I should be pleased to!” exclaimed Grafter. “But why don’t you stop here to lunch?”

“I invited him,” the club president hastened to explain; “but he said he had some business that he must look after, and so he could not stay to-day.”

“Oh, then I’ll interfere with your business?” said the shot putter.

“Not at all. The fact is, I’m half expecting some of my boys to arrive at the inn, and I wish to be there when they show up.”

A few minutes later Grafter was in the carriage with Merriwell, Hodge, and Fuller. Manton and his particular chums watched the four depart.

“Grafter makes me ill!” growled Manton. “He’s ready to bow down and worship Merriwell. Seems to think the fellow has some wonderful secret method of becoming a champion. Oh, hang the luck! Why did I fail to defeat him to-day! I’ll guarantee I can do it next time!”

“You should have challenged him for another string,” said Fisher.

“I couldn’t very well. I think I mentioned that one string would be enough. I said something of the sort before we began bowling. Besides, I was too hot over losing that string. I knew he would defeat me if we rolled another right away.”

Dent Frost had his derby pulled over his eyes. He was humped on a chair, his feet on the window ledge.

“It didn’t seem to bother you as much as it did me,” he observed. “Wonder if Merriwell is coming back here this afternoon?”

“I understand he is. Why?”

“I’d like to run him up against somebody who could knock a corner off him. Who’s the man?”

“There he is now!” exclaimed Fisher, as a young chap in flannels approached the house, followed by a caddie with a golfing outfit.

“Cleaves?” said Manton.

“The very fellow,” asserted Fisher. “He’s the golf champion of this club, and he could be the champion of the country, if he would give up business and turn his attention to golf.”

Manton shook his head.

“It wouldn’t satisfy me much to see Merriwell defeated at such a mild game as golf,” he declared.

“I’d like to see him beaten at something that would hurt him—and hurt him bad.”

“You’re looking for revenge.”

“That’s what I am,” was the confession. “I’m looking for it, and I’m going to have it!”

“Now you’re talking,” nodded Frost. “Rib him into the pole vault at our meet, and I’ll give you a taste of it.”

“Don’t be too sure. I thought I could put it over him on the alley to-day. I’d like to smash his face!”

“Why don’t you?” murmured Frost.

“I may—when I get a chance. Couldn’t pick a quarrel with him here, you know. Hello! here’s Necker.”

A slender, blue-eyed chap approached.

“What’s this I hear?” he exclaimed. “They tell me you’ve let a stranger down you at tenpins, Mant.”

“So they’re blowing it round?” snapped Manton, frowning. “I thought they would. Seem to take delight in it. I suppose there are fools around here who fancy it’s an honor for a member of this club to be defeated by the great Frank Merriwell.”

Necker whistled.

“Was that the fellow who did it?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone. He’s stopping down at the Elm Tree. Grafter’s mittened onto him.”

“I’ve been wanting to get a look at Merriwell. What’s up? Is he here to take part in the meet?”

“I reckon so. He’ll expect to put it all over our bunch. You want to look out, Jack. You know he’s a champion at everything.”

Necker laughed.

“I’m not afraid of that kind of a champion,” he declared. “Jack-of-all-trades and master of none, you know. I hope he does jump against me. It will add interest to that event.”

“Don’t you be too sure of defeating him,” said Fisher.

“I’ll defeat him all right if he jumps,” assured Necker. “But he’ll be too clever to let me show him up. He had better stick to his baseball. That’s what he was cut out for. I’m sorry you fell down when you tackled him, Manton.”

“I tell you he is a bad man at anything,” said Fisher. “I didn’t think it a while ago, but I believe it now. He’s a chap with supreme confidence in himself.”

“Sort of a swell head, eh? Goes round with his chest out and a chip on his shoulder?”

“That’s what makes me all the sorer on him. He doesn’t go round that way. He’s too quiet and modest. Never’d know he considered himself anything in particular. Of course, that’s all a bluff. I’ll guarantee he’s all swelled up inside, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“I’m growing more and more interested,” smiled Necker. “If he can be induced to enter the jumping contest I’ll make him look like a yellow dog with a tin can tied to its tail, I promise you.”

“And I’m ready to do the same thing to him at the pole vault,” said Frost.

“And I’m going to push up against him in another way if I find an opportunity,” growled Manton, clenching his fist and looking at it earnestly.

“It seems to me,” said Fisher, “that Mr. Merriwell will have his hands full of business if he lingers around here.”

CHAPTER V.
THE SECRET.

Frank was a bit disappointed by the failure of his friends to reach the Elm Tree Inn that noon.

Grafter lunched with Merry and Hodge. They chatted pleasantly throughout the meal. The shot putter noted everything that Frank ate.

“Do you conform to a rigid diet?” he asked.

“Not exactly, although I do not eat the things I know are not good for me.”

“Can you outline a diet that is proper for all athletes in training?”

“I might outline one that would be proper for most athletes, yet not for all. I have found by experience that human stomachs vary, and it is an old saw that ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ Still there are some rules that apply to every one. Certain things must not be touched by the fellow who proposes to become an athlete.”

“For instance?”

“Tobacco, liquor, coffee.”

“Don’t you think a man may take a small drink with beneficial effect at times?”

“Never when in health.”

“When not in health——”

“He’s not fit to take part in athletic contests. Liquor may be used as a medicine when prescribed by a doctor who knows his business.”

“How about the theory that liquor in moderate quantity is a food? You know that’s the assertion of the most advanced doctors of the present day.”

Frank nodded and smiled.

“It may be a food,” he admitted; “but it is a most dangerous one. The person who uses it as a food must acquire an appetite for it. Half a pint of liquor a day might not seem to harm a strong and rugged man until he acquired the appetite and desire for it. In the end it might ruin him. It is something that cannot be tampered with. It should be let alone by all healthy persons.”

“What’s the secret of your remarkable success in becoming the champion amateur athlete of America, Mr. Merriwell?”

Again Frank smiled.

“Am I the champion of America?”

“So called by almost every one.”

“Well, there is no great secret about my success. In the first place I began young. I have been working for years to make myself perfect physically without overdoing and breaking down. It’s a delicate thing to know just how much hard work will be beneficial for one, for overdoing invariably weakens. I have been temperate, and I’ve tried to live properly. I have no vices that can weaken me. Petty vices are the ruin of hundreds of would-be athletes. I enjoy life thoroughly without seeking enjoyment in forbidden paths. All the while I have been training my body I’ve trained my mind also.

“Mind and body must work together. The chap who wishes to become a champion must be earnest, sincere, and determined. He must never slight his work. He must always keep himself keyed up to the finest possible point. The moment he grows careless or negligent he begins to slump and go backward. He must have unwavering confidence in himself. It’s hard for a youngster to be confident in himself without showing conceit, and then every one wants to kick him. But there is such a thing as absolute and perfect self-confidence without conceit.”

Grafter seemed a trifle disappointed.

“Have you told me your secret?” he asked.

“I informed you that there was no secret about it. The secret of success is generally hard work. Veterans will tell you so.”

“But some fellows seem to succeed without working.”

“No man has made great success in this world without working; but you know for many men work is play. The boy who enjoys work is certain to be a winner.”

Grafter shook his head.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed, “that I’ll never be much of a winner at anything, for I do not enjoy work.”

“Learn to enjoy it.”

“How can I?”

“Put your heart into it. Get interested. That’s the trick. Never do a thing with the simple desire to get it done quickly, but with the determination to get it done well.”

“That’s good advice, I reckon,” admitted Grafter; “but can you tell me how it is that you happen to be an all-round champion, yet able to defeat fellows who have made a special effort to excel in one particular line?”

“I have told you the whole secret. Other fellows may have been content to perfect themselves in one or two lines; I have tried to become perfect in many lines. Some things I like better than others. If I attempt a thing that I do not like very well, I work at it all the harder. If I find some other fellow who can do it better than I, then I set out to do it better than he can, and I never stop until I succeed. Even then, I generally find still another chap who is my superior and keep on trying to beat him.”

“But you were specially adapted to become a great athlete. You were athletic when a boy?”

“I made myself so. I was something of a weakling when born. My mother expected me to die. I remember hearing her say it was a shame I could not grow up to be strong and rugged. She even fancied I might have lung trouble.”

“It doesn’t seem possible!” cried Grafter, surveying Merry’s sturdy figure.

“When I became old enough to think, I resolved that I would be strong. I sought to learn how to make myself strong. I discovered the way. Do you know it is a fact that almost all great athletes and strong men have been weak children?”

“I did not know.”

“It’s true.”

“But it almost seems that you must hypnotize your opponents in matches. How is it that you defeat them time after time when they appear to have the advantage, the same as you did Manton to-day?”

“I grasp the opportunity.”

“The opportunity? Why——”

“In almost everything there comes an opening, or opportunity, that may be seized with advantage. It came to-day when Manton failed to make his seventh straight strike. I always watch the other fellow to see when he weakens. At that point I try to put forth my best efforts. If he slumps and I succeed, he may lose his nerve. All through life a man must be ready to grasp the opportunity.”

“And that,” cried Grafter, as if his eyes had suddenly been opened, “is the secret of his success!”

CHAPTER VI.
A “GO” AT GOLF.

It was mid-afternoon when Frank and Bart again appeared at the clubhouse. They came walking briskly up the road, and were greeted by Fuller, who, with others, was waiting for them on the veranda.

“I suppose you’re too tired after that climb to think of inspecting our field right away?” said the president of the club.

“On the contrary,” smiled Merry, “that has simply whetted our appetite for more.”

“Then come on.”

A number of club members accompanied them. Fuller led the way along a broad walk and out through a small grove. They came upon a broad, level field, like a plateau. Round the field ran a fine track, inclosing a baseball diamond and football ground. At one side were long rows of open seats, rising in tiers. At one end of the oval was the trackmaster’s house, which also served as a bathhouse and contained dressing rooms for the competitors.

Merry was surprised.

“Certainly I didn’t look for this here,” he confessed. “I was wondering where you could have a field up among these hills. This is splendid.”

“Oh, my father knew what he was about when he selected this location!” laughed Fuller.

They walked along the track, noting its splendid condition.

“It must have cost a pretty penny to lay this out and build this track,” said Hodge.

“It did,” nodded Fuller; “but it’s paid for, and we don’t owe a dollar.”

At the far end of the track they came to the golf links, where a number of enthusiasts were enjoying the sport.

At this moment, seemingly in an accidental manner, Ross Cleaves, the champion of the club, accompanied by Manton, Frost, Fisher, and two or three others, came up to the teeing ground.

“Why, hello!” cried Manton, with attempted pleasantness. “Here’s Merriwell. We were just speaking of you, Merriwell.”

“Were you, indeed?”

“Yes; I was telling Cleaves he ought to challenge you for a round of the links. You have a knack of winning at everything, but we think Cleaves could take a fall out of you at this business.”

“I concede the probability,” said Frank.

This did not satisfy Manton at all.

“Do you dare try him a round?” he demanded. “He’s looking for some one who can make it interesting for him.

“Then I’ll recommend Hodge,” said Merry, placing a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “He’s fairly good at it.”

“It takes some one who is more than fairly good.”

“Does it? Well, perhaps Hodge will prove good enough to keep Mr. Cleaves busy. If Mr. Cleaves isn’t satisfied after it’s over, let him come to me, and I’ll try to give him satisfaction.”

“He seems inclined to duck,” said Frost.

Bert Fuller was annoyed beyond measure. He walked over to Manton and Frost, to whom he spoke in a low tone, his words being heard by no others.

Manton shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.

“Well, I’m looking for some one,” said Cleaves. “Mr. Hodge will do, if Mr. Merriwell doesn’t feel like it this afternoon.”

Without a word, Bart began to peel off, another golfer having offered his clubs for use.

Although he was not in golfing rig, Hodge was quite willing to do his best.

Cleaves teed carefully, addressed the ball in graceful form and led off with a long, beautiful drive. The ball did not rise high into the air, but went sailing away, away until it almost seemed that it would be lost to view.

In the meantime, Fuller had obtained a caddie for Hodge.

“There’s a starter for your man, Merriwell,” said Manton.

Frank spoke to Bart in a low tone:

“Beat this man if you can,” he urged. “I am confident that you can make him hustle if you play half as well as you did in Ohio last week.”

Hodge had won a golf trophy in Ohio.

Having teed, Bart selected a club, got the hang of it, and then addressed the ball. His form was faultless, and he made a drive that seemed fully as handsome as that of Cleaves.

“Well!” was the exclamation of Fuller; “he did that in style. I believe he drove quite as far as Cleaves.”

The two opponents sauntered leisurely down to look for their balls, and it was found that Hodge had driven some yards farther than Cleaves.

It happened that both balls had lodged favorably. Cleaves sent his sailing toward the little flag that marked the first hole. Bart did the same. Then Cleaves made a handsome approach, lodging close to the hole. Hodge fell off somewhat.

“Cleaves makes it in four,” said Frost. “Hodge will be one behind on the first hole.”

Cleaves did make it in four.

Then Bart took his time, pulled some grass away from the vicinity of his ball, selected another club and astonished every one by dropping the ball into the hole.

“A piece of luck, nothing more!” exclaimed Fisher.

“All right, Bart,” nodded Merry. “You have your eye with you to-day, and I’m satisfied that you’ll make it interesting. I’m not going to follow you round the links. You’ll find me at the clubhouse when you’re through.”

Bart nodded.

“Well, what do you think of that, Manton?” hissed Frost, as Frank turned away and, accompanied by Fuller, retraced his steps toward the athletic field. “He seems to consider the thing is settled. The crust of that fellow!”

“It is settled,” said Manton. “Hodge had luck to start with, but Cleaves will put it all over him. What are you going to do? Shall we follow them round?”

“Let’s.”

“All right.”

Something more than an hour later, as Frank sat on the veranda of the clubhouse, chatting with Fuller and others, George Branch came hurrying up.

“Well, what do you think?” he cried. “That was a hot one! They kept neck and neck all the way around. Neither one was more than a hole behind at any time. And then, at the finish, the last hole was made in two. It was amazing.”

“Who won?” cried several.

“Hodge,” answered Branch. “He——”

But he was checked by a shout of incredulity from several of the young men on the veranda.

“What are you giving us?” demanded one. “Hodge won? Hodge defeated Cleaves? Go on!”

“It’s straight,” declared Branch. “I don’t blame you for being incredulous. Cleaves is sore.”

Even then some of the club members fancied he was “stringing” them. They had fancied Cleaves invincible. The good start made by Hodge had seemed an accident; but they knew it could be no accident that the visitor had pushed Cleaves all the way round the course.

Others who had followed the contestants now appeared, and they confirmed the statement of Branch. Hodge had won.

Fuller turned to Merriwell.

“You must have had confidence in your friend all the time,” he said.

“I did,” nodded Merry. “I knew what he could do, for I saw him take the trophy at the St. Andrew’s Club, of Oberlin, Ohio, last week. We were made honorary members of the club and urged to compete for the cup. Hodge competed and won it.”

“Let’s walk over to the trackmaster’s house, Merriwell,” invited Fuller. “We’ll find them there.”

They sauntered over together, followed by some of the others. Manton and Frost were talking with Cleaves in front of the trackmaster’s house. Manton frowned at Merriwell as he approached.

“You did that very cleverly,” he said. “I suppose you’ll take the glory of your friend’s clever accomplishment?”

Frank was more than annoyed.

“I fail to understand why you should suppose anything of the sort,” he retorted.

“Why, you didn’t dare go against Cleaves, so you pushed Hodge into it. You have the reputation of being a great all-round champion, but I’ve noticed that much of your glory comes from the accomplishment of your friends. If any one wishes to know your secret method, that is it.”

“Evidently you’re something of a sorehead,” said Merriwell. “It’s a remarkable thing that a club of this sort always has at least one sorehead among its members. I wish to remind you that neither Hodge nor I came here with the idea of butting into your club and showing what we could do. We were invited as guests. You have attempted to show us up. Blame yourselves if things have not gone to suit you.”

“That’s plain talk,” said Bert Fuller. “I regret to see you exhibit such a spirit, Manton. At the suggestion of the social committee, I invited Mr. Merriwell and Mr. Hodge to visit us. They should be treated with proper courtesy while here.”

It was a proper calldown for Manton. At first the fellow seemed ready to fly into a burst of uncontrollable passion. His face grew crimson and then turned ashen. He dared not make an insulting retort to the president.

“You’re taking me in a literal sense,” he finally managed to say. “Can’t you let me chaff Merriwell a bit? It seems to be the only satisfaction we can get out of him.”

“Unless he enters for some of the special events at the meet,” put in Frost. “The broad jump and the high jump, for instance.”

“And the pole vault,” said Manton. “But I presume he’ll put some of his friends in for these things.”

“That will save him,” nodded Frost.

Frank laughed.

“I’m not here to kick up trouble. Do you think your best men will engage in the events named?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I had not thought of participating; but, just to please you, I’ll agree to enter for the jumping and the pole vaulting.”

“Good enough!” cried Manton. “I see your finish!”

Hodge had been washing up inside. He came out now, looking fresh as a daisy.

“Cleaves is a better man than they had in the St. Andrew’s Club, Merry,” he said. “I won by a lucky drive.”

“I told you it was luck!” exclaimed Manton triumphantly. “I knew it!”

But now Cleaves spoke up like a man and declared there was not much luck in the persistent manner in which Hodge had kept him at his best all round the course. He confessed that he had done his level best to get a lead on his opponent, but had found it impossible to draw away from him.

“I expect he’ll give me another opportunity,” he concluded. “I shall then try to square the score.”

“You shall have the opportunity,” promised Bart.

Suddenly Manton assumed a different air. Laughingly he walked over to Frank, observing:

“Perhaps I’ve been a trifle hasty, Merriwell; but you can’t blame us for feeling it when you and your friend come here and down us so easily. This is supposed to be a club of champions. If you were to defeat us at everything, the papers would make sport of us. As it is, some of the papers have been inclined to poke fun at us and call us a lot of bluffers. We think we’re the real thing; but you’ve taken us off our guard. Were you ever taken off your guard?”

“Oh, yes, I fancy so.”

“I’ve heard not. Why, I’ve even been told that no man could catch you napping and get the advantage of you. I don’t believe that, you know.”

“I presume not.”

“No, it’s ridiculous,” said Manton, pretending to turn away and stepping behind Merry.

Quick as a flash he clasped Merriwell round the body, pinning his arms at his sides.

“There,” he said, “you see how easy it is to prove the falsehood of the statement. I have you foul now.”

“Do you think so?” asked Frank.

“I know it. You can’t do a thing.”

Merry was angry, but he kept a check on his temper. He resolved to teach the fellow a lesson.

Instantly he dropped to the ground, coming down on his right knee. At the same instant, Manton’s arms having slipped up round his neck, he seized the man’s right wrist, pressing on a certain muscle in such a manner that it caused a sharp twinge of pain. He pulled forward sharply, turning Manton’s wrist to the right. Thus, in a twinkling the fellow found himself jerked over Frank’s back and losing his balance. As Manton was falling, Merriwell rose sharply to his feet, and the fellow was hurled flying through the air, to fall flat on his back ten or twelve feet away.

It was done so swiftly that few saw just how it happened; but all realized that the gentleman pugilist had been tricked and grassed at a moment when he had fancied he was demonstrating the ease with which Merriwell could be taken off his guard.

Manton was dazed. He sat up, his face expressing bewilderment, chagrin, and rage.

“What—what——” he muttered hoarsely.

Then he turned his head and glared at Frank. He saw Merry standing quietly, with his hands on his hips, smiling the least bit.

“I trust you are not harmed, sir,” said Frank politely. “As you had secured a grasp on me from the rear, it was necessary to be a trifle violent.”

“Good land!” gasped Bert Fuller.

Manton rose to his feet.

“You tried to break my neck!” he grated, his face livid.

“Oh, no,” denied Frank. “Had I tried, you would have a broken neck now, I assure you of that.”

The gentleman pugilist felt of his arm and shoulder, which had been severely wrenched. He saw some of the witnesses smiling, while others were regarding him with pity. That was enough to infuriate him beyond restraint.

“I’m disgraced if I do not thrash that man!” he thought. “I’ll do it here and now!”

Having arrived at this determination, he tore off his coat.

CHAPTER VII.
THE FIGHT.

“What are you going to do, Manton?” sternly demanded Fuller, stepping forward.

“I’m going to put a few dents in the face of that chap!” was the savage answer. “He may be able to bowl and throw people round with his Japanese tricks; but we’ll soon see if he can fight!”

“There’ll be no fight!” exclaimed Fuller. “You got what was coming, for you tried to impose on him. You have only yourself to blame.”

“Mr. Fuller,” said Merry, in the quietest manner imaginable, “in case Mr. Manton insists, I trust you will not interfere. It seems to me that he is determined to force a personal encounter upon me, and we may as well get at it without delay.”

His fighting blood was up at last, and still he smiled. Bart Hodge was the only one who realized how dangerous Merriwell really was when he smiled in that manner.

“It will disgrace the club!” exclaimed Fuller.

“No need for it to be generally known if Mr. Manton will step down here a short distance behind the trees.”

“I’ll step anywhere you say,” panted the pugilist; “but don’t you try to run away!”

“You don’t know him!” muttered Hodge, whose eyes were gleaming. “You’ll be better acquainted with him in a short time.”

Fuller was regretful, but he finally agreed to let Merry and Manton settle the trouble if they would retire to the spot designated by Frank.

They did so, the witnesses accompanying them. Frost urged Manton on.

“Smash his face!” hissed he. “Spoil his beauty! You’ve got to do it!”

“Leave it to me!” growled the pugilist. “If I don’t beat him up I’ll commit suicide!”

On their way to the spot Frank stripped off his coat and vest and removed his collar and necktie, giving these articles to Bart.

Fuller tried to apologize to Merry, but Frank checked him.

“You’re not in the least to blame,” he said. “You can’t be responsible for the behavior of every member of the club.”

“Manton will be expelled.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that! Don’t do it on my account. I can look out for myself.”

“He’s a great fighter. He was the champion boxer at Yale in his day.”

“Don’t worry, Fuller. I’ll try to take care of myself.”

The moment they reached the spot chosen Manton advanced on Merry. There were no preliminaries and no delay. They were at it in a hurry, crouching, sparring, circling, seeking an opening. No rules had been mentioned. It was a fight to the finish in such a manner as they chose.

Manton feinted with his right and tried for Frank’s jaw with his left.

The blow was parried, and Merry came back with a cross counter that landed and staggered his enemy.

Frost ground his white teeth together and swore.

“Get at him, you fool!” he snapped.

Manton responded by coming back at Merry and landing a body blow; but for this he received one on the mouth that split his lip and loosened a tooth or two.

The fight grew faster and more furious. They came together and Manton clinched, but Merry uppercut him and forced him to break. As he leaped away he was touched lightly by Frank, who followed him closely.

Hodge was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching every move.

“Give him a little more jujutsu, Frank,” he advised.

But Merriwell shook his head. He had seen opportunities to practice the Japanese tricks on Manton, but was resolved to give the fellow his medicine in his own way. Manton considered himself a fine boxer, as, in truth, he was. To defeat him at his own game, and do it twice in one day, ought to settle his hash.

Manton side-stepped skillfully as he got away from Frank, then came under Merry’s guard and delivered another body blow, seeking for the solar plexus.

“That’s his game!” muttered Hodge. “Look out for it, Merry. It’s dangerous.”

Frank was quick to discover that his enemy was working to get a heavy one into his wind, and after that he guarded the spot with greater care.

Time after time the pugilist tried to get another one in on Frank’s body. In fact, Frank led him into making these attempts, and each time he punished the fellow by cutting up his face.

In a few moments Manton was bruised and bleeding, but he seemed just as fierce and determined as when he began.

“He’s a hog for punishment,” decided Hodge.

Dent Frost was quivering with excitement.

“Manton will be a sight, no matter how it ends,” he thought. “Merriwell is marking him all up! I don’t believe he’s touched Merriwell’s face.”

Then he uttered an exclamation of delight, for his friend had blocked a lead and landed on Frank’s forehead, sending his head back.

“That’s the way!” he hissed. “A little lower and Merriwell would have a fine black eye to care for.”

Fuller looked on with his blood stirred, although he was very sorry that the affair had occurred. It was a savage fight, and soon both men began to show the strain, although Manton was breathing much more heavily.

Frank’s lips were pressed together, but his face wore that same smile. It enraged the gentleman pugilist, who was determined to “knock the smile off.”

Manton came in with a rush, and Frank went under his arm, rising and turning in time to get in a blow.

This very thing was repeated a few moments later.

Then they grappled again, and Manton succeeded in blocking as Frank sought to uppercut him as before.

“No you don’t!” he panted. “You can’t do that all the time!”

Merry smashed him on the kidneys, making him wince a little.

Then Manton sought to get in a blow in the break away, but it was blocked.

Manton’s eyes were beginning to puff up, his nose was bleeding and his lips cut. Blood stained his white shirt.

“He’ll be a spectacle to-morrow,” thought Hodge.

Dent Frost was looking for his friend to get in the “wallop” that would settle the fight. Three times Manton had tried for it and missed.

Again he tried, and missed.

Merriwell came back with a blow that sent him to the ground.

He rose at once.

Frank permitted him to get onto his feet. In fact, Merry waited until Manton resumed the attack.

“It can’t last much longer,” said Bert Fuller.

Frank seemed seeking another opening. In a few seconds he found it and his fist shot out.

Smack! The blow landed squarely. Manton went to the turf. He rose more slowly, but he forced himself to get up, although the ground was unsteady beneath his feet.

“He’s done for!” groaned Frost, as he saw his friend stagger.

He leaped in and caught Manton by the arm.

“Quit it!” he said. “You’re out!”

“You lie!” snarled the gentleman pugilist, flinging Dent off and seeming as steady as ever. “I’ve just begun to fight!”

Once more Frank waited until his enemy closed in. Then he took his time and knocked the fellow down for the finish.

Manton lay still a moment, tried to rise, struggled to his elbow and fell back.

“He’s out!” cried Frost huskily, as he lifted Manton’s head.

CHAPTER VIII.
A PAIR OF KNAVES.

About four miles from the Eagle Heights club lived Joel Bemis, a farmer. On the afternoon of the day following the events just recorded in the best “spare room” at the Bemis farm sat a young man whose eyes were covered by a bandage and whose face was cut, bruised, and discolored in places.

A step sounded outside the door, and the man on the chair started and lifted the bandage from his eyes.

“Frost!” he exclaimed, as Dent Frost entered. “Well, you’ve been a devilish long time coming!”

“Came at the first opportunity, Manton,” declared the visitor, eying the other. “Say, but you’re a sight! You did let that fellow cut you all to pieces!”

“You don’t have to tell me!” snarled Hobart Manton. “I’ve looked in the glass.”

“That must have been to-day. You couldn’t see out of your eyes last night.”

“What are you trying to do—rub it in?”

“Oh, no; but I’m sore because you let him hammer you up that way.”

“Not half as sore as I am. I’d like to kill him!”

“Why, I thought you could fight!”

“I can.”

“It looked that way!” sneered Frost coldly.

“I can,” repeated Manton; “but he can fight better. I hate to acknowledge it, but I have to.”

“He certainly made a holy spectacle of you.”

“I’ll get even! You wait!”

“I don’t know how you’re going to do it.”

“I’ll find a way! I’ve thought of a hundred ways. I haven’t had anything else to do. Tell me, what do they say at the club? I suppose they know all about it? Of course Merriwell and Hodge had to blow about it.”

“I don’t believe they have said a thing. I told everybody who asked questions that you were called to the city on business. I think Fuller succeeded in inducing Merriwell and Hodge to keep still for the present. Cleaves hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t like those chaps.”

“But he’s wishy-washy; he doesn’t hate them. I didn’t hate them to begin with. I counted Merriwell a big case of bluff, and I wanted to show him up. This is the result!”

Manton was bitter enough. He realized his mistake, but felt deeply the disgrace he had brought upon himself. It made no difference that he was wholly to blame for the whole unpleasant affair.

“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Frost, taking a chair.

Once he had regarded Manton with considerable respect; but now his respect was gone and he found it difficult to hold in check a feeling of contempt for the fellow.

“What is Merriwell doing?”

“He’s getting ready to participate in the meet.”

“Getting ready—how?”

“Practicing jumping and pole vaulting. Some of his friends have arrived at the Elm Tree. There’s a field near the inn. I watched them through a field-glass this forenoon. Merriwell is a pole vaulter, sure enough; but I don’t believe he’ll press me close.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Let me tell you something, Frost.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve changed my mind about that fellow. He’s a winner if given anything like a square show. If you defeat him, you’ll have to do it through a trick of some sort.”

“Rot! Just because he happened to get the best of you, you fancy he can beat the world. Get over it!”

“All right; but you wait and see. Unless you find some method of preventing him by a trick, he’ll show you up, just as he did me.”

“You make me sick!” snarled Frost angrily.

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes, you do!”

“You’ll be sicker after you go against him.”

“You’re completely whipped. All the spirit has been taken out of you.”

“I’ve learned something. You’ve got your lesson to learn.”

“How can he be defeated by a trick?”

“I don’t know now. If I find a way, will you try it?”

Frost hesitated.

“It’s tom-foolishness,” he declared. “I’d rather beat him on the square.”

“Go ahead! Go ahead! Have your own way and be sorry about it afterward.”

They were silent some moments. At last Frost slowly said:

“If you could tell me of any method that would work I might consider it—that is, if it wouldn’t be detected.”

“I’ll devise a method before to-morrow. I’ve got nothing else to think about. Come round to-morrow and I’ll have a plan. I hope I can get my face into shape so I’ll be able to attend the meet without causing comment. I’ll have to stay shut up here a day or two longer, though.”

“Well, I’m going back,” said Frost, rising. “I’ll come round to-morrow. So long.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE GREAT DAY.

It was the day of the Eagle Heights meet. The morning was misty, but by eight o’clock the sun drove the mists flying down the river toward the sea and shone forth from a cloudless sky of blue.

Never at any country club for amateur athletes had there been such a gathering of “swell” followers of sport for sport’s sake. Contestants came from various parts of the East, and people of wealth, who were interested in open-air sports and who could attend, appeared to witness the events.

Frank Merriwell and a number of his friends reached the clubhouse at nine o’clock in the forenoon.

They were welcomed cordially. Frank met a number of young athletes whom he knew and was given the “glad hand” by all of them.

“I presume you’re going to give the rest of us a show here to-day,” laughed one. “You’re not going in for all the honors?”

“Hardly,” he answered. “I’m entered for three events, and no more—the broad jump, the high jump, and the pole vault.”

“That’s a relief! Let’s see, who are the principal men you’re up against in those things?”

“Jack Necker seems to be the jumper they count on.”

“Necker? Oh, yes; he’s from Hartford. Well, by George! He’s a corker! And in the pole vault?”

“Denton Frost is the representative of this club. They say he is a wonder.”

“Yes, I know about him. He’s a good man, too. Here’s hoping you have luck.”

Bart Hodge had been wandering around. He came back to Merry after a while.

“Manton is here,” he said, in a low tone.

“Is he?”

“Yes. He’s looking pretty well, too. Shows scarcely a mark.”

“Well, I’m looking for no further trouble from him.”

“I don’t think he’ll tackle you personally, although I have no doubt that he would enjoy cutting your throat.”

A little later Wallace Grafter, accompanied by a thickset, florid-faced, baldheaded man, came upon Merry.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I want you to meet my father.”

“Is this the boy ye told me about, son?” cried Reliable Mike, as he grasped Frank’s hand. “Well, it’s a fine-looking lad he is, to be sure. And ye say he has good fighting blood in his veins? He looks clever, but not at all dangerous. I’m proud to know ye, Mr. Merriwell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grafter; I’m very glad to meet you, too.”

“Whist now! Do ye think ye can win at the pole vaulting?”

“It’s impossible to say. I shall do my best.”

“Do. Me boy has a dollar on ye. That chap ye had some trouble with when ye first came here kept after Wallace. He wanted to bet ye wouldn’t win the pole vault. He even offered odds. Betting is bad business for a young man, but Wallace couldn’t stand it, and he took the chap for the limit.”

“I’m sorry he bet on me,” said Frank; “but under any circumstances I shall do my level best. I agree with you that betting is bad business for a young man—or an old man, either.”

“Aw, it’s not so much harm for us old bucks who have learned the ways of the world. It runs away with the young fellows. If they win, they blow the money. If they lose, they can’t afford it. We’ll watch ye, my lad.”

With another hearty shake of Frank’s hand, Reliable Mike drifted along in company with his son.

Dick Starbright and Dade Morgan were there, and they enjoyed more or less popularity as the friends of Frank Merriwell.

When Merry reached the track he was astonished at the size of the gathering. He had not expected half as many people would be present.

The various committees and officials were at work, athletes were moving about over the field, and there was a general air of eagerness.

Great numbers of people were present in carriages. They were the relatives of competitors, and the handsome turnouts told that their stations in the world were not humble ones.

At one side was a double stand, part of which faced the track and part the field. The seats were uncovered.

The early events of the day were to take place on the track, and, therefore, the portion of the stand fronting the field was unoccupied, while the other section had begun to fill up.

A remarkable number of girls and young ladies were there. They were dressed in summer garments and added color and beauty to the scene.

Frank and Bart entered the stand just as the starter’s pistol barked and sent off fourteen clean-limbed young chaps for the mile run.

The day’s events were begun.

The run proved to be an interesting affair, three of the runners fighting for victory right up to the last foot of the finish. One represented Eagle Heights, and he strove as if his life depended on it to start the day with a victory for the club.

But Martin Sayers, of the Knickerbocker A.A., won by not more than a yard, although he fell over a moment after he breasted the tape.

The mile run was followed by a bicycle race, which was won by George Branch, greatly to the satisfaction of all Eagle Heights.

Then came the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yards run, and this was won by a man from the Bison A.A., of Buffalo.

Dade Morgan found Frank in the stand.

“See here, Merry,” he said, “I’ve just learned something that may interest you. Young Grafter has bet a thousand dollars that you will win the pole vault this afternoon. Hobart Manton is the man he’s betting with.”

Frank frowned.

“It might teach Grafter a lesson if he lost,” he said.

Morgan gasped.

“What?” he cried. “You don’t mean that you’ll let Denton Frost defeat you?”

“Frost is not the only other man in the pole vaulting.”

“But he’s reckoned as a sure winner, cutting you out. That tough, Manton, seems to believe he is, anyhow. I don’t understand why he should be so positive. Watch out for treachery, Merry.”

“I don’t see what can be done to spoil my chances in the pole vaulting.”

“Fellows like Manton will resort to anything. I want to see him lose his money. It will hurt him. He has taken advantage of your generosity in keeping still about the fight, and now he’s blowing that you are a faker.”

“That was his first claim when I appeared here. I fancied I had taught him something different.”

“He’s your bitter enemy. I feel that he will try to injure you before the day is done. Watch out.”

CHAPTER X.
THE HIGH JUMP.

The events of the forenoon left Eagle Heights five points in the lead of any other club, and there was rejoicing at the clubhouse during the interval of intermission at midday.

The first contest of the afternoon was jumping.

Merriwell came out in a suit with a large, white M on his breast. The letter stood for his club, but Frost and Manton, who were with the judges, commented on it and declared it marked Frank’s egotism.

There were nine contestants entered for jumping honors. Each club was permitted to enter two men, if it wished; but only two clubs had taken advantage of this.

One was the Merries. Dade Morgan had entered.

This proved something of a surprise to Frost and Manton, who had not known about it.

They seemed to regard it as a joke, however, for they laughed and said that Merriwell might enter his whole club without having a show.

The running broad jump was started by Tom Willis, of Jersey City, who cleared nineteen feet and one inch.

The next man fell an inch short of nineteen.

Then came a long-limbed chap who sailed through the air and planted his heels five inches ahead of Willis’ mark.

He was wildly cheered by a little group of friends.

Morgan and Merriwell were standing close together and watching.

“That’s pretty fair, Dade,” said Frank. “Do you think you can beat it?”

“I believe I can,” nodded Morgan.

The fourth jumper could not reach the mark made by the long-limbed chap.

Then it was Merriwell’s turn.

A cheer went up as Frank stripped off his sweater and made ready. Every one seemed to expect something great of him.

Hodge and Starbright were watching from the stand.

“Merry will show them a trick now,” said Bart. “I can jump some myself; but I’m not in it with him. I don’t see why Morgan went into this.”

“Frank wanted him to.”

“Oh, he did?”

“Yes. You know Morgan was a wonderful jumper at college. Merry was the only man who ever defeated him, and that was by not more than an inch or so. I think he’s in perfect form. Our trip has done him good. He was run down when Frank took hold of him in New York last fall; but he has built up wonderfully. He says Merry saved his life.”

There was a hush now, as Merry walked out to the starting point.

“’Rah for Merriwell!” cried an enthusiast.

“That’s Grafter!” laughed Manton, turning to look at the stand. “He expects to win a thousand off me to-day. I knew better than to bet on the jumping, and I have him caught on the pole vaulting, for he loses no matter what happens, if Merriwell does not win. Merriwell may have a broken neck before the day is over.”

“I hope he gets it,” said Frost, in his cold-blooded manner.

“You can’t hope so any more than I do.”

“He’s going to make his first trial. Watch.”

Frank toed the starting line. He crouched and seemed to gather himself. Then he sped along the run, every muscle tense, a look of resolution on his handsome face. He came up to the mark in perfect stride and launched himself into the air.

The manner in which he sailed over the ground caused more than one witness to gasp with surprise and admiration. His feet were drawn well under him, and at precisely the proper moment he launched them forward. He struck perfectly and came up without a “bobble.”

The crowd shouted.

They knew he had made the best jump thus far.

Dent Frost whistled in dismay.

“Manton, he’s a wonder!” he muttered. “I think he wins!”

“Don’t you believe it. Necker is the man.”

“If Necker beats that, he’ll beat his own record by several inches.”

The measurers were running the tape under the eyes of the judges.

In a moment this was done, and a judge announced in a loud voice:

“Frank Merriwell’s distance, twenty feet, eleven inches and a half!”

There were some Yale men in the stand, and the Yale cheer went up instantly.

“Merriwell wins!” was the cry that was repeated over and over. “That can’t be beaten to-day.”

The next contestant seemed disheartened by the stunt, for he fell far short of nineteen feet.

It happened that Necker was the eighth man on the list, while Morgan was ninth.

When Necker’s turn came Merriwell held the record by eight inches.

Necker had plenty of friends to cheer him. He looked pantherish in his jumping rig. He was thin, but his muscles were like bands of steel covered by pink velvet.

Necker caught Manton’s eye as he walked out to the starting point. He nodded and smiled the least bit.

“He’s confident,” said Manton; “and he knows what he can do. I believe he’ll beat Merriwell.”

“Never!” retorted Frost. “It won’t be done in this event.”

Necker balanced himself, made a start, went flying to the mark, and leaped.

“He’s ’way behind!” growled Frost.

“He has three tries, if he wishes to take them.”

“I know he has. Merriwell didn’t try but once.”

“He didn’t have to.”

Necker’s first jump was not measured, for he had not made more than eighteen feet.

He took his time about returning and starting again.

The Eagle Heights men seemed to think he had little chance to defeat Merriwell, although they knew he could do much better than he had at first.

The second time he tried it was seen that he meant to do his level best. He flew over the ground in strides which gathered impetus steadily, and he came to the mark in a perfect manner.

Through the air he shot, his feet gathered beneath him. When it seemed that he must drop to the ground he kept on, flinging his feet far out, landing on his heels and coming up with an outswinging of his arms.

Hobart Manton gave a yell.

“He’s done it!” he cried. “I believe he’s beaten Merriwell!”

“Keep still!” warned Frost; “they may put us off the field if you make too much of a fuss.”

“How does it look to you?”

“He’s tied Merriwell, at least, and he has still another trial. If he can tie him, he can beat him.”

The stand was buzzing with excitement. Two persons in the stand were very anxious. They were Hodge and Starbright.

“What do you think, Dick?” asked Bart.

“If I’m not mistaken, he’s beaten Merry a bit.”

“It can’t be possible!”

“I’m afraid it is.”

The measurers ran the tape. They took care. Then they consulted with the judges.

One of the judges turned toward the stand.

“Mr. Necker will not jump again,” he said. “His record is twenty-one feet and one inch.”

The Eagle Heights men howled with satisfaction.

Their man had defeated Merriwell by an inch and a half.

Bart Hodge looked ill.

“Why didn’t Merry try more than once?” he muttered huskily. “He could have done better! Now he’s lost his chance!”

“Wait,” said Starbright. “Let’s see what Morgan will do.”

“Oh, Morgan isn’t in that class! It’s a shame!”

Still Dick clung to hope, thinking it possible Morgan might do something that would surprise every one.

Necker was satisfied. He knew he had done his handsomest and that he would fall back if he made another attempt. He had added some inches to his own best record, besides defeating Merriwell.

Dade Morgan, slender, graceful, and electric, walked toward the starting point.

“Who is he?” was the question asked by many in the stand.

“Oh, he’s one of Merriwell’s team,” was the answer. “He won’t cut much ice.”

In all his body Morgan felt the current of life running strong. He believed himself physically at the top notch. He was full of confidence.

In his college days he had never covered twenty-one feet, but something told him he was a better man than he had been in those days. He was matured; his powers were at their flood.

Crouching, he set his teeth and gripped his hands. He started slowly and surely, gathering speed and power. When he reached the take-off mark he was flying. Into the air he went, shooting forward like a bird on the wing. On and on he sailed. It was all over in a moment, but the spectators rose.

They knew Morgan had landed almost in the tracks of Necker.

Denton Frost actually staggered.

“What do you think of that?” he gasped. “I fear he has tied Necker!”

“I fear he has beaten him!” grated Manton.

“Impossible! Who is this Morgan? Whoever heard of him?”

“Oh, he was a rattler at college until he began to dissipate. Then they said he broke down and lost ambition. I’ve been told he was the most dangerous rival Merriwell ever had at Yale.”

“If he has beaten Necker——”

“It will be a bitter pill to swallow.”

“They are going to measure. He isn’t going to jump again! By the great Harry! he’s beaten Necker, or he would try again. He’s the last man and——”

He checked himself and waited.

The tape was stretched. Again the measurers took the utmost care, watched by the judges.

The crowd waited.

Then one of the judges turned and held up his hand.

“Dade Morgan’s record is——”

He paused. The hush of great expectancy seemed to keep every one from breathing. He finished:

“Twenty-one feet and three inches! Morgan wins the broad jump.”

Two more disgusted men than Frost and Manton it would have been hard to find.

They had not dreamed the broad jump would be won in such a manner.

Of course, Necker was also disgusted, but he tried to conceal it and appear a good loser.

The high jump followed.

Ten men were entered for this, both Morgan and Merriwell being of the number.

Necker resolved to retrieve himself.

Manton found an opportunity to speak to him and urge him to try, as if his life depended on it.

“You were too confident,” said Manton.

“That’s right,” admitted Necker. “I thought I had it easy. I might have tried again.”

Frank congratulated Morgan.

“You came in like a dark horse, Dade,” he smiled.

“I was rooting for you inside when you came up to the mark. Necker’s chest has collapsed a great deal. He’s a great jumper, but it doesn’t do for such fellows to get too chesty. It ruins them every time.”

Morgan was delighted with himself.

“I owe it all to you, Merry,” he said. “Remember when you found me in that bum hotel on the Bowery?”

“Yes.”

“I was pretty near all in then. Never expected to be much of an athlete after that. You took hold of me and straightened me out. I won’t forget it.”

“Do. It’s what any friend would do for another.”

“Oh, some day I’ll get even with you!” threatened Dade, with a smile.

In a short time everything was ready for the high jump.

The first man made five feet and ten inches on three trials.

The second man could not clear the bar at five feet eight.

Morgan was third on the list this time. He was cheered as he squared away for the start.

He had the bar placed at five feet ten. Over it he went, drawing his feet well under him and flinging them round sideways.

“This man wins the high jump, too!” hissed Frost.

“That is better than it would be to have Merriwell win,” said Manton.

“Not much better.”

“But some.”

Dade had the bar moved up to six feet.

Then he went at it, but barely touched it with his heel as he went over, which displaced it.

“Ha!” cried Manton. “That’s too high for him!”

Morgan walked back to the starting point. He signaled for the bar to be placed the same as before.

When it was up he seemed to hesitate. He paused a few seconds, then settled himself and started.

Up, up he went. As he reached the highest points he gave a twisting movement of his body and flung his feet sideways over the bar, coming down without grazing it.

“Six feet for Morgan,” announced a judge.

“’Rah for Morgan!” whooped an enthusiast. “He’s the real hot stuff!”

“I believe Necker can beat that,” said Manton. “It’s great jumping; but Necker is keyed up now, and he’ll stretch himself for all he is worth.”

Necker was seventh on the list.

When his turn came no one had reached Morgan’s mark. Could he do it?

He had the bar set at five feet ten for the first trial. Over it he went.

“Why, that was easy!” exclaimed Manton. “He can go higher than that, all right!”

“I believe he can,” nodded Frost hopefully. “Morgan is a better jumper than Merriwell. There is no danger from Merriwell if Necker can defeat Morgan.”

The bar was next placed at six feet.

“Go it, Necker!” cried some one in the stand. “You can do it, old man!”

He did do it, although the least fraction of an inch was to spare as he passed over the bar.

Morgan was tied.

“Put it up an inch and a half,” said Necker quietly.

Hodge heard him in the stand.

“He can’t make another inch,” he said. “He barely cleared the bar at six feet. He’ll dislodge it this time.”

“It’s more than even chances that he will,” nodded Starbright.

But Necker made that jump as if his life depended on it. He rose handsomely and cleared the bar without brushing it.

Then the Eagle Heights crowd cheered, for their man led in the high jump by an inch and a half.

Necker turned away smiling, giving Manton a look. Manton motioned for him to come nearer.

“You might have won the broad jump just as easy,” said Manton.

“I know that,” agreed Necker. “It was my fault. I thought I had it won.”

The men who followed made a sorry showing beside Necker.

Then came Merriwell.

Manton grinned sneeringly, and Dent Frost laughed coldly.

“This day the great champion is not doing so much,” said the gentleman pugilist. “Grafter won’t be offering so much money for his secret method. Secret method! Bah!”

“Has he a method?”

“Oh, that’s rot. He’s a mark. He’s just a little better than ordinary athletes, and he poses as the greatest wonder in the whole world.”

At the very start Frank had the bar placed at six feet.

“Never!” exclaimed Frost. “He can’t do it!”

“Let him knock it down,” whispered Manton.

Frank did knock it down. He did not get away just right, and his heel touched the bar as he was going over.

Manton laughed outright, but checked himself.

Frank spoke in a low tone to the judges.

Then many persons uttered exclamations of astonishment, for he had ordered the bar raised an inch and a half!

That placed it at the height of Necker’s best jump.

“Never!” repeated Frost.

In the stand several persons uttered cries of joshing.

But they were destined to receive a shock, for Merry shot at the bar, leaped into the air, and went over it in beautiful style.

Then the Yale men broke forth into that fine cheer.