Frank Merriwell's New Comedian; Or, The Rise of a Star

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

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

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

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

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Frank Merriwell’s School Days By Burt L. Standish
2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums By Burt L. Standish
3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes By Burt L. Standish
4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West By Burt L. Standish
5—Frank Merriwell Down South By Burt L. Standish
6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery By Burt L. Standish
7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour By Burt L. Standish
8—Frank Merriwell in Europe By Burt L. Standish
9—Frank Merriwell at Yale By Burt L. Standish
10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield By Burt L. Standish
11—Frank Merriwell’s Races By Burt L. Standish
12—Frank Merriwell’s Party By Burt L. Standish
13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour By Burt L. Standish
14—Frank Merriwell’s Courage By Burt L. Standish
15—Frank Merriwell’s Daring By Burt L. Standish
16—Frank Merriwell’s Alarm By Burt L. Standish
17—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes By Burt L. Standish
18—Frank Merriwell’s Skill By Burt L. Standish
19—Frank Merriwell’s Champions By Burt L. Standish
20—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale By Burt L. Standish
21—Frank Merriwell’s Secret By Burt L. Standish
22—Frank Merriwell’s Danger By Burt L. Standish
23—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty By Burt L. Standish
24—Frank Merriwell in Camp By Burt L. Standish
25—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation By Burt L. Standish
26—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise By Burt L. Standish

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

To Be Published in January, 1922.

27—Frank Merriwell’s Chase By Burt L. Standish
28—Frank Merriwell in Maine By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in February, 1922.

29—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle By Burt L. Standish
30—Frank Merriwell’s First Job By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in March, 1922.

31—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity By Burt L. Standish
32—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in April, 1922.

33—Frank Merriwell’s Protégé By Burt L. Standish
34—Frank Merriwell on the Road By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in May, 1922.

35—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company By Burt L. Standish
36—Frank Merriwell’s Fame By Burt L. Standish
37—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums By Burt L. Standish

To Be Published in June, 1922.

38—Frank Merriwell’s Problem By Burt L. Standish
39—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune By Burt L. Standish

FRANK MERRIWELL’S NEW COMEDIAN

OR,

THE RISE OF A STAR

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION, PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1899 By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign

languages, including the Scandinavian.

FRANK MERRIWELL’S NEW COMEDIAN

CHAPTER I.—“NEVER SAY DIE!”

It is not a pleasant experience to wake up on a beautiful morning to the realization that one has failed. There seems a relentless irony in nature herself that the day that dawns on a night when our glittering hopes have become dead, dull ashes of despair and ruin should be bright and warm with the sun’s genial rays.

So Frank Merriwell felt this fine morning in Puelbo, Colorado. The night before, with high hopes, he had produced his new play, “For Old Eli.” He recalled the events of that first production with almost a shudder. “For Old Eli” had been a failure, a flat, appalling, stupefying failure. From the rise of the curtain everything and everybody had gone wrong; lines were forgotten, Ephraim Gallup had had stage fright, his own best situations had been marred.

How much of this was due to the lying handbills which had been scattered broadcast, asserting that he was not the real Frank Merriwell, but an impostor, a deadbeat and a thorough scoundrel, Frank could not tell. He believed that these efforts to ruin him had little effect, for when, at the close of the performance, he had made a speech from the stage, assuring the audience that he would bring his play back and give a satisfactory performance, his reception had been cordial.

But the play had failed. Parker Folansbee, his backer, had acted queerly, and Frank knew that, after the company had reached Denver, the relations between him and his backer would cease. “For Old Eli” had been well-nigh ruinous, and when they got back to Denver, Merry and his friends would be without funds.

Then the thought came to him of the prejudice expressed against a poor black cat he had allowed to travel with the company. He could not restrain a smile as he perceived that the superstitious members of the company would feel that the cat had hoodooed them. As if a cat could affect the fortunes of men!

The thought of the cat gave a pleasant turn to his reflections, and he cheered up immensely.

He had failed?

No!

He would not acknowledge failure, defeat, disaster. He would not lie down and abandon the struggle, for he was not built of such weak material.

Where was the fault? Was it in the piece, or in the way it had been played?

He realized that, although the piece was well constructed, it was not of a high, artistic character, such as must appeal by pure literary merit to the best class of theater patrons.

It could not be ranked with the best productions of Pinero, Jones, Howard, Thomas, or even Clyde Fitch. He had not written it with the hope of reaching such a level. His aim had been to make a “popular” piece, such as would appeal to the masses.

He fell to thinking over what had happened, and trying to understand the cause of it all. He did not lay the blame entirely on the actors.

It was not long before he decided that something about his play had led the spectators to expect more than they had received.

What was it they had expected?

While he was thinking of this alone in his room at the hotel, Bart Hodge, his old friend and a member of his company, came in. Hodge looked disgruntled, disappointed, disgusted. He sat down on the bed without speaking.

“Hello, old man,” said Frank, cheerfully. “What’s the matter with your face? It would sour new milk.”

“And you ought to have a face that would sour honey!” growled Bart. “I should if I were in your place.”

“What’s the use? That wouldn’t improve things.”

“If I were in your place, I’d take a gun and go forth and kill a few stiffs.”

“I always supposed a ‘stiff’ was dead. Didn’t know one could be killed over again.”

“Oh, you can joke if you want to, but I don’t see how you can feel like joking now. Anybody else would swear.”

“And that would be foolish.”

“Perhaps so; but you know, as well as I do, that your play was murdered and mangled last night.”

“That’s so, b’gosh!” drawled a doleful voice, and Ephraim Gallup, another of the company, Frank’s boy friend from Vermont, came stalking into the room, looking quite as disgusted and dejected as Hodge. “An’ I’m one of the murderers!”

Frank looked Ephraim over and burst out laughing.

“Why,” he cried, “your face is so long that you’ll be hitting your toes against your chin when you walk, if you’re not careful.”

“Whut I need is somebuddy to hit their toes against my pants jest where I set down, an’ do it real hard,” said Ephraim. “I wisht I’d stayed to hum on the farm when I went back there and giv up the idee that I was an actor. I kin dig ’taters an’ saw wood a darn sight better’n I kin act!”

“You’re all right, Ephraim,” assured Merry. “You had to fill that part in a hurry, and you were not sure on your lines. That worried you and broke you up. If you had been sure of your lines, so that you would have felt easy, I don’t think there would have been any trouble as far as you were concerned.”

“I dunno abaout that. I never felt so gosh-darn scat as I did larst night. Why, I jest shook all over, an’ one spell I didn’t think my laigs’d hold me up till I got off ther stage. It was awful!”

“You had an attack of stage fright. They say all great actors have it once in their lives.”

“Waal, I never want to feel that air way ag’in! An’ I spoilt that scene in the dressin’ room of the clubhaouse. Oh, jeewhillikins! I’m goin’ aout of the show business, Frank, an’ git a job paoundin’ sand. It don’t take no brains to do that.”

“Cheer up! You are going to play that same part in this play, and you’ll play it well, too.”

“Whut? Then be yeou goin’ to keep right on with the play?” asked the Vermonter, in astonishment.

“No,” said Merry, “I am not going to keep right on with it. I am going to put it into shape to win, and then I’m going out with it again. My motto is, ‘Never say die.’ You heard what I told the audience last night. I promised them that I would play in this town and would make a success. I shall keep that promise.”

Hodge shook his head.

“You are smart, Frank, but there’s a limit. I’m afraid your luck has turned. You are hoodooed.”

Just then a coal-black cat came out from under the bed and walked across the room.

“And I suppose you think this is my hoodoo?” smiled Merry, as the cat came over and rubbed against his leg. “That’s where you are away off. This cat is my mascot, and she shall travel with me till the piece wins. She has stuck to me close enough since she walked onto the stage where we were rehearsing in Denver.”

“The cat is not the hoodoo,” said Bart, shaking his head. “I know what is.”

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“Name it.”

“I am!”

“You?”

“Yes.”

Frank stared at Bart in surprise, and then burst out laughing.

“Well, how in the world did you happen to get such a foolish notion into your head?” he cried.

“It’s not foolish,” declared Bart, stubbornly. “It’s straight, I know it, and you can’t make me think differently.”

Frank rose and walked over to Hodge, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Now you are talking silly, old man,” he said. “You never were bad luck to me in the past; why should you be now. You’re blue. You are down in the mouth and your head is filled with ridiculous fancies. Things would have happened just as they have if you had not joined the company.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You always were superstitious, but I believe you are worse than ever now. You have been playing poker too much. That’s what ails you. The game makes every man superstitious. He may not believe in luck at the beginning, but he will after he has stuck to that game a while. He will see all the odd things that happen with cards, and the conviction that there is such a thing as luck must grow upon him. He will become whimsical and full of notions. That’s what’s the matter with you, Hodge. Forget it, forget it!”

“I think you are likely to forget some things altogether too early, Merriwell. For instance, some of your enemies.”

“What’s the use to remember unpleasant things?”

“They remember you. One of them did so to an extent that he helped ruin the first presentation of your play.”

“How?”

“It isn’t possible that you have forgotten the lying notices circulated all over this city, stating that you were not the real Frank Merriwell, accusing you of being a fake and a thief?”

Something like a shadow settled on Merry’s strong face.

“No, I have not forgotten,” he declared, “I remember all that, and I’d like to know just who worked the game.”

“It was a gol-dinged measly trick!” exploded Ephraim.

“You thought it would not hurt you, Frank,” said Hodge. “You fancied it would serve to advertise you, if anything. It may have advertised you, but it did you damage at the same time. When the audience saw everything was going wrong, it grew angry and became convinced that it was being defrauded. Then you had trouble with that big ruffian who climbed over the footlights with the avowed purpose of breaking up the show.”

“Oh, well,” smiled Merry, in a peculiar way, “that fellow went right back over the footlights.”

“Yes, you threw him back. That quieted the audience more than anything else, for it showed that you were no slouch, even if you were a fake.”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll find out some time just who did that little piece of advertising for me.”

“Perhaps so; perhaps not.”

Tap, tap, tap—a knock on the door.

“Come!” Frank called.

The door opened, and Billy Wynne, the property man, looked in.

“Letter for you, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.

Frank took the letter, and Wynne disappeared, after being thanked for bringing it.

“Excuse me,” said Merry, and he tore open the envelope.

A moment later, having glanced over the letter, he whistled.

“News?” asked Bart.

“Just a note from the gentleman we were speaking of just now,” answered Frank. “It’s from the party who gave me the free advertising.”

“Waal, I’ll be kicked by a blind kaow!” exploded Gallup. “An’ did he hev ther gall to write to ye?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “Listen to this.”

Then he read the letter aloud.

“Mr. Frank Merriwell.

“Dear Sir: By this time you must be aware that you are not the greatest thing that ever happened. You received it in the neck last night, and I aided in the good work of knocking you out, for I circulated the ‘warning’ notice which denounced you as an impostor, a deadbeat and a thief. The public swallowed it all, and, in disguise, I was at the theater to witness your downfall. It was even greater than I had dared hope it would be. I understand the managers in other towns have canceled with you, Folansbee has declined to back your old show any longer, and you are on the beach. Ha! ha! ha! This is revenge indeed. You are knocked out at last, and I did it. You’ll never appear again as the marvelous young actor-playwright, and the name of Frank Merriwell will sink into oblivion. It is well. Yours with satisfaction,

LESLIE LAWRENCE.”

“I knew well enough it was that dirty rascal who did the job!” cried Hodge, springing up. “The cur!”

“Waal, dinged if he hadn’t oughter be shot!” burst from Gallup. “An’ he knows Folansbee’s gone back on ye.”

“It’s no use, Frank,” said Hodge, disconsolately; “you are done for. The story is out. Folansbee has skipped us, and——”

“He has not skipped us. He’s simply decided to go out of the theatrical business. It was a fad with him, anyhow. As long as everything was going well, he liked it; but I see he is a man who cannot stand hard luck. He is changeable and that makes him a mighty poor man to back a venture. It takes a man with determination and a fixed purpose to win at anything. Changing around, jumping from one thing to another, never having any clear ideas is enough to make a failure of any man. Folansbee doesn’t need to follow the show business for a living. He went into it because it fascinated him. The glamour is all worn off now, and he is ready to get out if it. Let him go.”

“It’s all right to say let him go, but what are you going to do without him? You are talking about putting your play out again, but how will you do it?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“That is easier said than done. You have been lucky, Frank, there is no question about that. You can’t be that lucky all the time.”

“There are more ways than one to catch an angel.”

“I rather think you’ll find that angels are not so thick. Once in a while there is a soft thing who is ready to gamble with his money by putting it behind a traveling theatrical company, but those soft things are growing scarcer and scarcer. Too many of them have been bitten.”

“Still, I have a feeling that I’ll find a way to succeed.”

“Of course you can advertise for a partner to invest in a ‘sure thing,’ and all that, but those games are too near fraud. Rascals have worked those schemes so much that honest men avoid them.”

“I shall not resort to any trickery or deception. If I catch an ‘angel’ I shall get one just as I obtained Folansbee, by telling him all the risks and chances of failure.”

“Well, you’ll not get another that way.”

“Darned if I ain’t afraid now!” nodded Ephraim. “But Mr. Folansbee’s goin’ to take keer of this comp’ny, ain’t he? He’s goin’ to take it back to Denver?”

“He has agreed to do so.”

At this moment there was another sharp rap on the door, which, happening to be near, Frank opened.

Cassie Lee walked in, followed by Roscoe Havener, the soubrette and the stage manager of “For Old Eli,” Cassie showed excitement.

“Well, what do you think of him?” she cried.

“Of whom—Havener?” asked Merry,

“No, Folansbee.”

“What about him?”

“He’s skipped.”

“Skipped?”

“Sure thing. Run away.”

“Impossible!”

“It’s a straight fact,” declared the little soubrette.

“There’s no doubt of it,” corroborated Havener.

“Waal, may I be tickled to death by grasshoppers!” ejaculated Gallup.

“This caps the whole business!” burst from Hodge.

“I can’t believe that,” said Merriwell, slowly. “How do you know, Havener?”

“His baggage is gone. Garland and Dunton traced him to the station. They were just in time to see him board an eastbound train as it pulled out. He has deserted us.”

CHAPTER II.—DARKNESS AND DAWN.

Frank could not express his astonishment.

“I can’t believe it,” he repeated. “Folansbee would not do such a thing.”

Hodge laughed shortly, harshly.

“You have altogether too much confidence in human nature, Merry,” he said. “I never took much stock in this Folansbee. He is just the sort of person I would expect to do such a trick.”

“The company is hot, Merriwell,” said Havener. “They’re ready to eat you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For getting them into this scrape.”

“I don’t see how they can blame me.”

There came a sound of feet outside and a bang on the door, which was flung open before Frank could reach it. Into the room stalked Granville Garland, followed by the remainder of the company. Plainly all were excited.

“Well, Mr. Merriwell,” said Garland, assuming an accusing manner and striking a stage pose, “we are here.”

“So I see,” nodded Frank, calmly. “What’s the matter?”

“You engaged us to fill parts in your play.”

“I did.”

“We hold contracts with you.”

“I beg your pardon. I think you are mistaken.”

“What?”

“I made no contracts with you; I simply engaged you. You hold contracts with Parker Folansbee.”

“Folansbee has deserted us, sir,” declared Garland, accusingly. “We have been tricked, fooled, deceived! We hold contracts. You were concerned with Folansbee in putting this company on the road, and you are responsible. We have come to you to find out what you mean to do.”

“I am very sorry——” began Frank.

“Being sorry for us doesn’t help us a bit,” cut in Garland, rudely. “I believe you knew Folansbee was going to skip.”

Frank turned his eyes full on the speaker, and he seemed to look his accuser straight through and through.

“Mr. Garland,” he said, “you are rude and insulting. I do not fancy the way you speak to me.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” put in Lloyd Fowler. “I want my money. I didn’t come out here to be fooled this way.”

“Mr. Fowler,” spoke Frank, “you have not earned any money. Instead, you have earned a fine by appearing on the stage last night in a state of intoxication.”

“Who says so?”

“I do.”

“Then you li——”

Fowler did not quite finish the word. Frank had him by the neck and pinned him against the wall in a moment. Merry’s eyes were flashing fire, but his voice was steady, as he said:

“Take it back, sir! Apologize instantly for that!”

Garland made a move as if he would interfere, but Bart Hodge was before him in an instant, looking straight into his face, and saying:

“Hands off! Touch him and you get thumped!”

“Get out!” cried Garland.

“Not a bit of it. If you want a scrap, I shall be pleased to give you what you desire.”

“Here, fellows!” called Garland; “get in here all of you and give these two tricksters a lesson! Come on!”

“Wait!” cried Havener, stepping to the other side of Merriwell. “Don’t try it, for I shall stand by him!”

“Me, too, boys!” cried Cassie Lee, getting into line with her small fists clinched, and a look of determination on her thin face. “Don’t nobody jump on Frank Merriwell unless I take a hand in the racket.”

The rest of the company were astonished. They realized that Frank had some friends, but it was not until after he had awakened to realize just what the situation meant that Ephraim Gallup drew himself together and planted himself with Merry’s party.

“Whe-ee!” he squealed. “If there’s goin’ ter be a ruction, yeou kin bet I’ll fight fer Merry, though I ain’t much of a fighter. I’d ruther run then fight any day, onless I have ter fight, but I reckon I’ll hev ter fight in this case, if there is any fightin’.”

Immediately Granville Garland became very placid in his manner.

“We didn’t come here to fight,” he said, “but we came here to demand our rights.”

“An’ to sass Frank,” put in the Vermonter. “But, b’gosh! yeou are barkin’ up ther wrong tree when yeou tackle him! He kin jest natterally chaw yeou up.”

Frank still held Fowler against the wall. Now he spoke to the fellow in a low, commanding tone:

“Apologize at once,” he said. “Come, sir, make haste!”

“I didn’t mean anything,” faltered the frightened actor. “I think I was too hasty. I apologize.”

“Be careful in the future,” advised Merry, releasing him.

Then Merry turned to the others, saying:

“Ladies and gentlemen, until Havener just brought the news, I did not know that Parker Folansbee was gone. It was a great surprise for me, as I did not dream he was a person to do such a thing. Even now I cannot feel that he has entirely deserted us. He may have left town rather than face us, but I hope he has been man enough to leave money behind that will enable us to return to Denver, at least. You must see that we are in the same box together. I am hit as hard as any of you, for I had hoped that Folansbee would stand by me so that I would be able to put the play in better shape and take it out again. I have lost him as a backer, and if he has skipped without leaving us anything, I have barely enough money to enable me to get back to Denver.”

“Haven’t you any way of getting hold of money?” asked Harper.

“Unfortunately, I have not,” answered Merry. “If I had money in my pocket I would spend the last cent to square this thing with you.”

“And I know that’s on the level!” chirped Cassie Lee.

“Well, it’s mighty tough!” muttered Billy Wynne. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“We’ll have to get up some kind of a benefit for ourselves,” said Havener. “That’s the only thing left to do.”

“Come up to my room,” invited Miss Stanley, “and we’ll try to devise a scheme for raising the dust. Come on.”

They followed her out, leaving Ephraim, Bart and Frank.

“Whew!” breathed Gallup, sitting down on the bed. “Hanged if I didn’t kinder think there was goin’ to be a ruction one spell. I wanted to run, but I warn’t goin’ to leave Frank to be thrashed by a lot of hamfatters, b’gee!”

“They were excited when they came in,” said Merry, apologizing for the ones who had departed. “If it hadn’t been for that, they would not have thought of making such a scene.”

“Well, Frank,” spoke Bart, “I hope this will teach you a lesson.”

“How?”

“I hope it will teach you not to put so much confidence in human nature after this. Have less confidence and do more business in writing. I haven’t a doubt but Folansbee would have stuck by you all right if the new play had proved a winner, but he saw a chance to squeal when it turned out bad, and he jumped you.”

“I had a contract with him about the other piece,” said Merry; “but you know he did not return from St. Louis till just before we were ready to start out, and so I had not been able to arrange matters about this piece.”

“And that lets him out easy.”

“Yes, he gets out without any trouble, and I don’t believe I can do a thing about it.”

Again there came a rap on the door. When it was opened, a bell boy, accompanied by a gray-bearded gentleman, stood outside.

“Mr. Merriwell,” said the bell boy, “here is a gentleman to see you.”

The man entered.

“Walk right in, sir,” invited Merry. “What can I do for you?”

Frank closed the door. The stranger slowly drew off his gloves, critically looking Merriwell over.

“So you are Mr. Frank Merriwell?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I recognize you,” nodded the man. “Do you remember me?”

“No, sir; I can’t say that I do, although I believe I have seen your face before.”

“I think you have, but I did not wear a full beard then.”

“Ah! Then it is possible the beard has made the change that prevents me from recognizing you.”

“Quite likely.”

“Will you sit down?”

“I have some important business with you,” explained the stranger, with a glance toward Gallup and Hodge.

Immediately Bart started for the door.

“See you later, Frank,” he said. “Come on, Ephraim.”

Gallup followed Hodge from the room.

When they were gone, Frank again invited the stranger to be seated.

“Thank you,” said the man, as he accepted a chair. “For reasons I wish you would look at me closely and see if you recognize me. I recognize you, although you are older, but I must proceed with the utmost caution in this matter, and I wish you would recognize me and state my name, so that I may feel absolutely certain that I am making no mistake.”

Frank sat down opposite the gentleman, at whom he gazed searchingly. He concentrated his mind in the effort to remember. Frank had found that he could do many difficult things by concentration of his mental forces. Now he sought to picture in his mind the appearance of this man without a beard. Gradually, he felt that he was drawing nearer and nearer the object he sought. Finally he made a request:

“Please speak again, sir.”

“Why do you wish me to, speak again?” said the stranger, smiling.

“So that your voice may aid me in remembering. I wish to associate your voice and your face.”

“Very well. What do you wish me to say?”

“You have said enough. I have your voice now.”

“I’m afraid you’ll not be able to remember,” said the stranger. “It doesn’t make any great difference, for I recognize you, and I can make assurance doubly sure by asking you a few questions. First, I wish to ask——”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Merry. “You are from Carson City, Nevada. You are connected with the bank in Carson, where I deposited a certain amount of valuable treasure, found by myself and some friends years ago in the Utah Desert. Your name is Horace Hobson.”

“Correct!” cried the man, with satisfaction. “Now, can you produce the receipt given you for that treasure?”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Frank, immediately producing a leather pocketbook and opening it. “I have it here.”

In a moment he had found the paper and handed it to Mr. Hobson.

The gentleman adjusted some gold-rimmed nose-glasses and looked the receipt over.

“This is the receipt,” he nodded. “You instructed the bank officials to use every effort and spare no expense to find the relatives of Prof. Millard Fillmore and the rightful heirs to the treasure.”

“I did.”

“I am here to inform you that the bank has carried out your instructions faithfully.”

“Then you have found Prof. Fillmore’s relatives?” quickly asked Merry, his heart sinking a bit.

“On the contrary, we have found that he has no relatives living. He seems to have been the last of his family—the end of it——”

“Then——”

“It has been necessary for us to go to considerable expense to settle this point beyond a doubt, but we have done so, in accordance with your directions. Of course, we shall not lose anything. We have ascertained the exact value of the treasure, and have deducted for our expense and trouble. At a meeting of the bank directors I was instructed to turn over the remainder to you. I have here papers showing the exact valuation of the treasure as deposited with us. Here is a complete account of all our expenses and charges. We have found a balance remaining of forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars. I was sent to turn this money over to you, as I could identify you beyond doubt, and there could be no mistake. To make it certain in my own mind, I wished you to recognize me. You did so, and I knew I could not be making a mistake. I will take up this receipt here, and in return will give you a check for the amount, if that is satisfactory to you.”

Frank sat like one dazed, staring at Horace Hobson. Was it possible that he was not dreaming? Was he in his hour of need to receive this immense sum of money? No wonder he fancied he was dreaming.

At last he gave himself a slight shake, and his voice did not falter as he said:

“It is perfectly satisfactory to me, sir. I will accept the check.”

CHAPTER III.—MERRIWELL’S GENEROSITY.

Mr. Hobson departed, and then Frank rang for a bell boy and sent for Bart and Ephraim. Merry’s two friends came in a short time.

“I have called you up,” said Merry, “to talk over the arrangements for putting ‘For Old Eli’ on the road again without delay. I have decided on that. It will take some little time to manufacture the costly mechanical effect that I propose to introduce into the third act, and we shall have to get some new paper. I believe I can telegraph a description to Chicago so a full stand lithograph from stone can be made that will suit me, and I shall telegraph to-day.”

Hodge stared at Frank as if he thought Merry had lost his senses.

“You always were a practical joker,” he growled; “but don’t you think it’s about time to let up? I don’t see that this is a joking matter. You should have some sympathy for our feelings, if you don’t care for yourself.”

Merry laughed a bit.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “I assure you I was never more serious. I am not joking. I shall telegraph for the paper immediately.”

“Paper like that costs money, and the lithographers will demand a guarantee before they touch the work.”

“And I shall give them a guarantee. I shall instruct them to draw on the First National Bank of Denver, where my money will be deposited.”

“Your money?” gasped Hodge.

“Jeewhillikins!” gurgled Gallup.

Then Frank’s friends looked at each other, the same thought in the minds of both.

Had Merry gone mad? Had his misfortune turned his brain?

“I believe I can have the effect I desire to introduce manufactured for me in Denver,” Frank went on. “I shall brace up that third act with it. I shall make a spectacular climax on the order of the mechanical horse races you see on the stage. I shall have some dummy figures and boats made, so that the boat race may be seen on the river in the distance. I have an idea of a mechanical arrangement to represent the crowd that lines the river and the observation train that carries a load of spectators along the railroad that runs beside the river. I think the swaying crowd can be shown, the moving train, the three boats, Yale, Harvard and Cornell, with their rowers working for life. Harvard shall be a bit in the lead when the boats first appear, but Yale shall press her and take the lead. Then I will have the scene shifted instantly, so that the audience will be looking into the Yale clubhouse. The rear of the house shall open direct upon the river. There shall be great excitement in the clubhouse, which I will have located at the finish of the course. The boats are coming. Outside, along the river, mad crowds are cheering hoarsely, whistles are screeching, Yale students are howling the college cry. Here they come! Now the excitement is intense. Hurrah! Yale has taken the lead! The boats shoot in view at the back of the stage, Yale a length ahead, Harvard next, Cornell almost at her side, and in this form they cross the line, Yale the victor. The star of the piece, myself, who has escaped from his enemies barely in time to enter the boat and help win the race, is brought on by the madly cheering college men, and down comes the curtain on a climax that must set any audience wild.”

Hodge sat down on the bed.

“Frank,” he said, grimly, “you’re going crazy! It would cost a thousand dollars to get up that effect.”

“I don’t care if it costs two thousand dollars, I’ll have it, and I’ll have it in a hurry!” laughed Merriwell. “I am out for business now. I am in the ring to win this time.”

“Yes, you are going crazy!” nodded Hodge. “Where is all the money coming from?”

“I’ve got it!”

Bart went into the air as if he had received an electric shock.

“You—you’ve what?” he yelled.

“Got the money,” asserted Frank.

“Where?” shouted Bart.

“Right here.”

“May I be tickled to death by muskeeters!” gasped Gallup.

“Got two thousand dollars?” said Hodge. “Oh, come off, Merriwell! You are carrying this thing too far now!”

“Just take a look at this piece of paper,” invited Frank, as he passed over the check he had received from Horace Hobson.

Bart took it, he looked at it, he was stricken dumb.

Gallup looked over Bart’s shoulder. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged from his head, and he could not utter a sound.

“How do you like the looks of it?” smiled Merry.

“What—what is it?” faltered Bart.

“A check. Can’t you see? A check that is good for forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars.”

“Good for that? Why, it can’t be! Now, is this more of your joking, Merriwell? If it is, I swear I shall feel like having a fight with you right here!”

“It’s no joke, old man. That piece of paper is good—it is good for every dollar. The money is payable to me. I’ve got the dust to put my play out in great style.”

Even then Bart could not believe it. He groped for the bed and sat down, limply, still staring at the check, which he held in his hand.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“It’s for the Fillmore treasure, which I found in the Utah Desert,” exclaimed Frank. “It was brought to me by the man who came in here a little while ago.”

Then Gallup collapsed.

His knees seemed to buckle beneath him, and he dropped down on the bed.

“Waal, may I be chawed up fer grass by a spavin hoss!” he murmured.

Hodge sat quite still for some seconds.

“Merry,” he said, at last, beginning to tremble all over, “are you sure this is good? Are you sure there is no crooked business behind it?”

“Of course I am,” smiled Frank.

“How can you be?” asked Bart.

“I received it from the very man with whom I did the business in Carson when I made the deposit. In order that there might be no mistake he came on here and delivered it to me personally.”

“I think I’m dyin’!” muttered Ephraim. “I’ve received a shock from which I’ll never rekiver! Forty-three thousan’ dollars! Oh, say, I know there’s a mistake here!”

“Not a bit of a mistake,” assured Merriwell, smiling, triumphant.

“And all that money is yourn?”

“No.”

“Why—why, ther check’s made out to yeou.”

“Because the treasure was deposited by me.”

“And yeou faound it?”

“I found it, but I did so while in company with four friends.”

Now Hodge showed still further excitement.

“Those friends were not with you at the moment when you found it,” he said. “I’ve heard your story. You came near losing your life. The mad hermit fought to throw you from the precipice. The way you found the treasure, the dangers you passed through, everything that happened established your rightful claim to it. It belongs to you alone.”

“I do not look at it in that light,” said Frank, calmly and positively. “There were five of us in the party. The others were my friends Diamond, Rattleton, Browning, and Toots.”

“A nigger!” exclaimed Bart. “Do you call him your friend?”

“I do!” exclaimed Merry. “More than once that black boy did things for me which I have never been able to repay. Although a coward at heart so far as danger to himself was concerned, I have known him to risk his life to save me from harm. Why shouldn’t I call him my friend? His skin may be black, but his heart is white.”

“Oh, all right,” muttered Hodge. “I haven’t anything more to say. I was not one of your party at that time.”

“No.”

“I wish I had been.”

“So yeou could git yeour share of the boodle?” grinned Ephraim.

“No!” cried Hodge, fiercely. “So I could show the rest of them how to act like men! I would refuse to touch one cent of it! I would tell Frank Merriwell that it belonged to him, and he could not force me to take it. That’s all.”

“Mebbe the others’ll do that air way,” suggested the Vermont youth.

“Not on your life!” sneered Bart. “They’ll gobble onto their shares with both hands. I know them, I’ve traveled with them, and I am not stuck on any of them.”

“I shall compel them to take it,” smiled Frank. “I am sorry, fellows, that you both were not with me, so I could bring you into the division. I’d find a way to compel Hodge to accept his share.”

“Not in a thousand years!” exploded Bart.

“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, “I ain’t saying, but I’d like a sheer of that money well enough, but there’s one thing I am sayin’. Sence Hodge has explained why he wouldn’t tech none of it, I be gol-dinged if yeou could force a single cent onter me ef I hed bin with yeou, same as them other fellers was! I say Hodge is jest right abaout that business. The money belongs to yeou, Frank, an’ yeou’re the only one that owns a single dollar of it, b’gosh!”

“That’s right, Ephraim,” nodded Hodge. “And there isn’t another chap in the country who would insist on giving away some of his money to others under similar circumstances. Some people might call it generosity; I call it thundering foolishness!”

“I can’t help what you call it,” said Frank; “I shall do what I believe is right and just, and thus I will have nothing to trouble my conscience.”

“Conscience! conscience! You’ll never be rich in the world, for you have too much conscience. Do you suppose the Wall Street magnates could have become millionaires if they had permitted their conscience to worry them over little points?”

“I fancy not,” acknowledged Merry, shaking his head. “I am certain I shall never become wealthy in just the same manner that certain millionaires acquired their wealth. I’d rather remain poor. Such an argument does not touch me, Hodge.”

“Oh, I suppose not! But it’s a shame for you to be such a chump! Just think what you could do with forty-three thousand dollars! You could give up this show business, you could go back to Yale and finish your course in style. You could be the king-bee of them all. Oh, it’s a shame!”

“Haow much’ll yeou hev arter yeou divide?” asked Ephraim.

“The division will give the five of us eight thousand seven hundred and forty-six dollars and eighty cents each,” answered Frank.

“He’s figured that up so quick!” muttered Hodge.

“I snum! eight thaousan’ dollars ain’t to be sneezed at!” cried the Vermonter.

“It’s a pinch beside forty-three thousand,” said Bart.

“Yeou oughter be able to go back to college on that, Frank.”

“He can, if he’ll drop the show business,” nodded Bart.

“And confess myself a failure! Acknowledge that I failed in this undertaking? Would you have me do that?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t confess anything of the sort. What were you working for? To go back to Yale, was it not?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you expected to make so much money that you would be able to return with more than eight thousand dollars in your inside pocket?”

“Hardly.”

“Then what is crawling over you? If you are fool enough to make this silly division, you can go back with money enough to take you through your course in style.”

“And have the memory of what happened in this town last night rankle in my heart! Hardly! I made a speech from the stage last night, in which I said I would play again in this city, and I promised that the audience should be satisfied. I shall keep that promise.”

“Oh, all right! I suppose you’ll be thinking of rewarding the ladies and gentlemen who called here a short time ago and attempted to bulldoze you?”

“I shall see that the members of the company, one and all, are treated fairly. I shall pay them two weeks salary, which will be all they can ask.”

Hodge got up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at Frank, with an expression on his face that was little short of disgust.

“You beat them all!” he growled. “I’d do just like that—I don’t think! Not one of those people has a claim on you. I’d let them all go to the deuce! It would be serving them right.”

“Well, I shall do nothing of the sort, my dear fellow.”

“I presume you will pay Lloyd Fowler two weeks salary?”

“I shall.”

Bart turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going out somewhere all alone by myself, where I can say some things about you. I am going to express my opinion of you to myself. I don’t want to do it here, for there would be a holy fight. I’ve got to do it in order to let off steam and cool down. I shall explode if I keep it corked up inside of me.”

He bolted out of the room, slamming the door fiercely behind him.

Frank and Ephraim went up to the room of Stella Stanley, which was on the next floor. They found all the members of the company packed into that room.

“May we come in?” asked Merry, pleasantly.

“We don’t need him,” muttered Lloyd Fowler, who was seated in a corner. “Don’t get him into the benefit performance. Let him take care of himself.”

“Come right in, Mr. Merriwell,” invited Stella Stanley. “I believe you can sing. We’re arranging a program for the benefit, you know. Shall we put you down for a song?”

“I hardly think so,” smiled Frank.

“Ah!” muttered Fowler, triumphantly. “He thinks himself too fine to take part in such a performance with the rest of us.”

“I rather think you’ve hit it,” whispered Charlie Harper.

“And I know you are off your trolley!” hissed Cassie Lee, who had not missed the words of either of them. “He’s on the level.”

“Really!” exclaimed Miss Stanley, in surprise and disappointment. “Do you actually refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because there will be no performance.”

“Won’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I refuse to permit it,” said Frank, a queer twinkle in his eyes.

Then several of the company came up standing, and shouted:

“What!”

“That beats anything I ever heard of in my life!” said Fowler.

“For genuine crust, it surely does!” spoke up Harper.

Cassie Lee looked surprised, and Havener was amazed.

“Surely you are not in earnest, Merriwell?” the stage manager hastened to say.

“Never more so in my life!” answered Frank, easily.

“Then you’re crazy.”

“Oh, I guess not.”

“Well, you are,” said Garland. “You have gone over the limit. We are not engaged to you in any way. You said so. You explained that we could not hold you responsible. You cannot come here and dictate to us. We shall carry out this performance. If you try to prevent it, you will make a great mistake.”

“Be calm,” advised Merry. “You are unduly exciting yourself, Mr. Garland.”

“Well, it’s enough to excite anyone!”

“Meow!”

Out of the room trotted Frank’s black cat, which had followed him up the stairs.

“Put that cat out!” cried Agnes Kirk. “It has caused all our bad luck!”

Frank picked the cat up.

“I told you the cat was a mascot,” he said. “It has proved so!”

“I should say so!” sneered Fowler.

“Let him take himself out of here, cat and all!” cried Charlie Harper.

“Let him explain what he means by saying we shall not give a benefit performance,” urged Havener, who really hoped that Frank could say something to put himself in a better light with the company.

“Yes,” urged Cassie. “What did you mean by that, Frank?”

“Such a performance is quite unnecessary,” assured Merry.

“We’ve got to do something to raise money to get out of this city.”

“I will furnish you with the money, each and every one.”

“You?” shouted several.

“Yes.”

“How?” asked Havener. “You said a short time ago that you hadn’t enough money to amount to anything.”

“At that time I hadn’t. Since then I have been able to make a raise.”

Now there was another bustle of excitement.

“Oh!” cried several, “that’s different.”

“I knew there was something behind it!” exclaimed Cassie, with satisfaction. “Have you been able to raise enough to take us all back to Denver, Frank?”

“I think so, and I believe I shall have a few dollars left after we arrive there.”

“How much have you raised?” asked Havener.

“Forty-three thousand dollars,” answered Frank, as coolly as if he were saying forty-three dollars.

For a moment there was silence in the room, then expressions of incredulity and scorn came from all sides.

Fowler set up a shout of mocking laughter.

“Well, of all the big bluffs I ever heard this is the biggest!” he sneered.

“Say, I don’t mind a joke,” said Stella Stanley; “but don’t you think you are carrying this thing a trifle too far, Mr. Merriwell?”

“I would be if it were a joke,” confessed Frank, easily; “but, as it happens to be the sober truth, I think no one has a chance to ask. I will not only pay your fare to Denver, but each one shall receive two weeks salary, which I think you must acknowledge is the proper way to treat you.”

“I’ll believe it when I get my hands on the dough,” said Fowler. “Forty-three thousand fiddlesticks!”

“Any person who doubts my word is at liberty to take a look at this certified check,” said Merry, producing the check and placing it on the little table.

Then they crushed and crowded about that table, staring at the check.

Fowler nudged Harper, to whom he whispered:

“I believe it’s straight, so help me! I’d like to kick myself!”

“Yes, it’s straight,” acknowledged Harper, dolefully. “I am just beginning to realize that we have made fools of ourselves by talking too much.”

“What can we do?”

“Take poison!”

“We’ll have to eat dirt, or he’ll throw us down.”

“It looks that way.”

Thus it came about that Fowler was almost the first to offer congratulations.

“By Jove, Mr. Merriwell,” he cried, “I’m delighted! You are dead in luck, and you deserve it! It was pretty hard for you to be deserted by Folansbee, in such a sneaking way. I have said all along that you were a remarkably bright man and merited success.”

“That’s right,” put in Harper; “he said so to me last night. We were talking over your hard luck. I congratulate you, Mr. Merriwell. Permit me!”

“Permit me!”

Both Harper and Fowler held out their hands.

Frank looked at the extended hands, but put his own hands in his pockets, laughing softly, somewhat scornfully.

“It is wonderful,” he said, “how many true friends a man can have when he has money, and how few true friends he really has when he doesn’t have a dollar.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Merriwell!” protested Fowler. “I know I was rather hasty in some of my remarks, but I assure you that you misunderstood me. It was natural that all of us should be a trifle hot under the collar at being used as we were. I assure you I did not mean anything by what I said. If I spoke too hastily, I beg a thousand pardons. Again let me congratulate you.”

Again he held out his hand.

“You are at liberty to congratulate me,” said Merry, but still disdaining the proffered hand. “I shall pay you the same as the others. Don’t be afraid of that. But I shall give you your notice, for I shall not need you any more. With several of the others I shall make contracts to go out with this piece again, as soon as I can make some alterations, get new paper, and start the company.”

Fowler turned green.

“Oh, of course you can do as you like, sir,” he said. “I don’t think I care to go out with this piece again. It is probable I should so inform you, even if you wanted me.”

Harper backed away. He did not wish to receive such a calling down as had fallen to the lot of Fowler.

Cassie Lee held out her hand, her thin face showing actual pleasure.

“You don’t know how glad I am, Frank!” she said, in a low tone. “Never anybody deserved it more than you.”

“That’s right,” agreed Havener.

Douglas Dunton had not been saying much, but now he stood forth, struck a pose, and observed:

“Methinks that, along with several of me noble colleagues, I have made a big mistake in making offensive remarks to you, most noble high muck-a-muck. Wouldst do me a favor? Then apply the toe of thy boot to the seat of me lower garments with great vigor.”

Frank laughed.

“The same old Dunton!” he said. “Forget it, old man. It’s all right. There’s no harm done.”

While the members of the company were crowding around Merriwell, Fowler and Harper slipped out of the room and descended the stairs.

Straight to the bar of the hotel they made their way. Leaning against the bar, they took their drinks, and discussed Frank’s fortune.

Another man was drinking near them. He pricked up his ears and listened when he heard Merriwell’s name, and he grew excited as he began to understand what had happened.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, after a time. “I do not wish to intrude, but I happen to know Mr. Merriwell. Will you have a drink with me?”

They accepted. They were just the sort of chaps who drink with anybody who would “set ’em up.”

“Do you mind telling me just what has happened to Mr. Merriwell?” asked the stranger, who wore a full beard, which seemed to hide many of the features of his face. “Has he fallen heir to a fortune?”

“Rather,” answered Harper, dryly. “More than forty-three thousand dollars has dropped into his hands this morning.”

“Is it possible?” asked the stranger, showing agitation. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure. I saw the certified check on a Carson City bank. He was broke this morning, but now he has money to burn.”

The stranger lifted a glass to his lips. His hand trembled somewhat. All at once, with a savage oath, he dashed the glass down on the bar, shivering it to atoms. As he did so, the hairs of his beard caught around the stone of a ring on his little finger, and the beard was torn from his face, showing it was false.

The face revealed was black with discomfiture and rage.

It was the face of Leslie Lawrence!

Frank’s old enemy was again discomfited!

CHAPTER IV.—IN THE SMOKER.

So Frank took the company back to Denver. He was able to do so without depositing the check till Denver was reached, as Horace Hobson furnished the funds, holding the check as security.

Hobson went along at the same time.

While on the train Frank made arrangements with several members of his company in the revised version of “For Old Eli,” when the play went on the road again.

He said nothing to Lloyd Fowler nor Charlie Harper. Although he did not make arrangements with Granville Garland, he asked Garland if he cared to go out with the company again, informing him that he might have an opening for him.

Fowler saw Merry talking with some of the members, and he surmised what it meant. He began to feel anxious as time passed, and Frank did not come to him. He went to Harper to talk it over.

Harper was in the smoker, pulling at a brierwood pipe and looking sour enough. He did not respond when Fowler spoke to him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fowler. “Sick?”

“Yes,” growled Harper.

“What ails you?”

“Disgusted.”

“At what?”

“Somebody.”

“Who?”

“Myself for one.”

“Somebody else?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“You’re it.”

Fowler fell back and stared at Harper. He had taken a seat opposite his fellow actor. Harper returned his stare with something like still greater sourness.

“What’s the matter with me?” asked Fowler, wondering.

“You’re a confounded idiot!” answered Harper, bluntly.

“Well, I must say I like your plain language!” exclaimed Fowler, coloring and looking decidedly touched. “You were in a bad temper when we started for Denver, but you seem to be worse now. What’s the matter?”

“Oh, I see now that I’ve put a foot in the soup. I am broke, and I need money. All I am liable to get is the two weeks salary I shall receive from Merriwell. If I’d kept my mouth shut I might have a new engagement with him, like the others.”

“Then some of the others have a new engagement?”

“All of them, I reckon, except you and I. We are the fools of the company.”

“Well, what shall we do?”

“Can’t do anything but keep still and swallow our medicine.”

“Perhaps you think that, but I’m going to hit Merriwell up.”

“Well, you’ll be a bigger fool if you do, after the calling down you received from him to-day.”

At that moment Frank entered the smoker, looking for Hodge, who had been unable to procure a good seat in one of the other cars. Bart was sitting near Harper and Fowler.

As Frank came down the aisle, Fowler arose.

“I want to speak to you, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.

“All right,” nodded Frank. “Go ahead.”

“I have heard that you are making new engagements with the members of the company.”

“Well?”

“You haven’t said anything to me.”

“No.”

“I suppose it is because I made some foolish talk to you this morning. Well, I apologized, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I presume you will give me a chance when you take the play out again?”

“No, sir.”

Frank said it quietly, looking Fowler full in the face.

“So you are going to turn me down because I made that talk? Well, I have heard considerable about your generosity, but this does not seem very generous.”

“Ever since joining the company and starting to rehearse, Mr. Fowler, you have been a source of discord. Once or twice you came near flatly refusing to do some piece of business the way I suggested. Once you insolently informed me that I was not the stage manager. You completely forgot that I was the author of the piece. I have heard that you told others not to do things as I suggested, but to do them in their own way. Several times before we started out I was on the verge of releasing you, which I should have done had there been time to fill your place properly. Last night you were intoxicated when the hour arrived for the curtain to go up. You went onto the stage in an intoxicated condition. You did not do certain pieces of business as you had been instructed to do them, but as you thought they should be done, therefore ruining a number of scenes. You were insolent, and would have been fined a good round sum for it had we gone on. In a number of ways you have shown that you are a man I do not want in my company, so I shall let you go, after paying you two weeks salary. I believe I have given the best of reasons for pursuing such a course.”

Then Frank stepped past Fowler and sat down with Hodge.

The actor took his seat beside Harper, who said:

“I hope you are satisfied now!”

“Satisfied!” muttered Fowler. “I’d like to punch his head off!”

“Very likely,” nodded Harper; “but you can’t do it, you know. He is a holy terror, and you are not in his class.”

Behind them was a man who seemed to be reading a newspaper. He was holding the paper very high, so that his face could not be seen, and he was not reading at all. He was listening with the keenest interest to everything.

As Frank sat down beside Hodge he observed a look of great satisfaction on Bart’s face.

“Well, Merriwell,” said the dark-faced youth, with something like the shadow of a smile, “you have done yourself proud.”

“Let’s go forward,” suggested Merry. “The smoke is pretty thick here, and some of it from those pipes is rank. I want to talk with you.”

So they got up and left the car.

As they went out, Fowler glared at Merriwell’s back, hissing:

“Oh, I’d like to get even with you!”

Instantly the man behind lowered his paper, leaned forward, and said:

“I see you do not like Mr. Merriwell much. If you want to get even with him, I may be able to show you how to do it.”

With startled exclamations, both Harper and Fowler turned round. The man behind was looking at them over the edge of his paper.

“Who are you?” demanded Fowler.

“I think you know me,” said the man, lowering his paper.

Lawrence sat there!

In Denver Frank was accompanied to the bank by Mr. Hobson. It happened that Kent Carson, a well-known rancher whom Frank had met, was making a deposit at the bank.

“Hello, young man!” cried the rancher, in surprise. “I thought you were on the road with your show?”

“I was,” smiled Frank, “but met disaster at the very start, and did not get further than Puelbo.”

“Well, that’s tough!” said Carson, sympathetically. “What was the matter?”

“A number of things,” confessed Frank. “The play was not strong enough without sensational features. I have found it necessary to introduce a mechanical effect, besides rewriting a part of the play. I shall start out again with it as soon as I can get it into shape.”

“Then your backer is all right? He’s standing by you?”

“On the contrary,” smiled Merry, “he skipped out from Puelbo yesterday morning, leaving me and the company in the lurch.”

“Well, that was ornery!” said Carson. “What are you going to do without a backer?”

“Back myself. I have the money now to do so. I am here to make a deposit.”

Then it came about that he told Mr. Carson of his good fortune, and the rancher congratulated him most heartily.

Frank presented his check for deposit, asking for a check book. The eyes of the receiving teller bulged when he saw the amount of the check. He looked Frank over critically.

Mr. Hobson had introduced Frank, and the teller asked him if he could vouch for the identity of the young man.

“I can,” was the answer.

“So can I,” spoke up Kent Carson. “I reckon my word is good here. I’ll stand behind this young man.”

“Are you willing to put your name on the back of this check, Mr. Carson?” asked the teller.

“Hand it over,” directed the rancher.

He took the check and endorsed it with his name.

“There,” he said, “I reckon you know it’s good now.”

“Yes,” said the teller. “There will be no delay now. Mr. Merriwell can draw on us at once.”

Frank thanked Mr. Carson heartily.

“That’s all right,” said the cattleman, in an offhand way. “I allow that a chap who will defend a ragged boy as you did is pretty apt to be all right. How long will it take to get your play in shape again?”

“Well, I may be three or four days rewriting it. I don’t know how long the other work will be.”

“Three or four days. Well, say, why can’t you come out to my ranch and do the work?”

“Really, I don’t see how I can do that,” declared Frank. “I must be here to see that the mechanical arrangement is put up right.”

“Now you must come,” declared Carson. “I won’t take no for your answer. You can give instructions for that business. I suppose you have a plan of it?”

“Not yet, but I shall have before night.”

“Can you get your business here done to-day?”

“I may be able to, but I am not sure.”

“Then you’re going with me to-morrow.”

“I can’t leave my friends who are——”

“Bring them right along. It doesn’t make a bit of difference if there are twenty of them. I’ll find places for them, and they shall have the best the Twin Star affords. Now, if you refuse that offer, you and I are enemies.”

The man said this laughingly, but he placed Frank in an awkward position. He had just done a great favor for Merriwell, and Frank felt that he could not refuse.

“Very well, Mr. Carson,” he said, “if you put it in that light, I’ll have to accept your hospitality.”

“That’s the talk! Won’t my boy at Yale be surprised when I write him you’ve been visiting me? Ha! ha! ha!”

Mr. Carson was stopping at the Metropole, while Frank had chosen the American. The rancher urged Merry to move right over to the Metropole, and the young actor-playwright finally consented.

But Frank had business for that day. First he telegraphed to the lithographers in Chicago a long description of the scene which he wanted made on his new paper. He ordered it rushed, and directed them to draw on his bankers for any reasonable sum.

Then he started out to find the proper men to construct the mechanical effect he wished. He went straight to the theater first, and he found that the stage manager of the Broadway was a genius who could make anything. Frank talked with the man twenty minutes, and decided that he had struck the person for whom he was looking.

It did not take them long to come to terms. The man had several assistants who could aid him on the work, and he promised to rush things. Frank felt well satisfied.

Returning to his hotel, Merry drew a plan of what he desired. As he was skillful at drawing, and very rapid, it did not take him more than two hours to draw the plan and write out an explicit explanation of it.

With that he returned to the stage manager. They spent another hour talking it over, and Frank left, feeling satisfied that the man perfectly understood his wants and would produce an arrangement as satisfactory as it could be if it were overseen during its construction by Frank himself.

Frank was well satisfied with what he had accomplished. He went back to the American and drew up checks for every member of the old company, paying them all two weeks salary. Lloyd Fowler took the check without a word of thanks. The others expressed their gratitude.

Then Frank moved over to the Metropole, where he found Kent Carson waiting for him.

Hodge and Gallup came along with Frank.

“These are the friends I spoke of, Mr. Carson,” explained Frank.

“Where’s the rest of them?” asked the rancher, looking about.

“These are all.”

“All?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why, by the way you talked, I reckoned you were going to bring your whole company along.”

He remembered Hodge, whom he had seen with Frank once before, and he shook hands with both Bart and Ephraim.

“You are lucky to be counted as friends of a young man like Mr. Merriwell,” said the cattleman. “That is, you’re lucky if he’s anything like what my boy wrote that he was. My boy is a great admirer of him.”

“It’s strange I don’t remember your son,” said Frank.

“Why, he’s a freshman.”

“Yes, but I know a large number of freshmen.”

“So my boy said. Said you knew them because some of them had been trying to do you a bad turn; but he was glad to see you get the best of them, for you were all right. He said the freshmen as a class thought so, too.”

“Your son was very complimentary. If I return to Yale, I shall look him up.”

“Then you contemplate returning to college?”

“I do.”

“When?”

“Next fall, if I do not lose my money backing my play.”

“Oh, you won’t lose forty-three thousand dollars.”

“That is not all mine to lose. Only one-fifth of that belongs to me, and I can lose that sum.”

“Then why don’t you let the show business alone and go back to college on that?”

“Because I have determined to make a success with this play, and I will not give up. Never yet in my life have I been defeated in an undertaking, and I will not be defeated now.”

The rancher looked at Frank with still greater admiration.

“You make me think of some verses I read once,” he said. “I’ve always remembered them, and I think they’ve had something to do with my success in life. They were written by Holmes.”

The rancher paused, endeavoring to recall the lines. It was plain to Frank that he was not a highly educated man, but he was highly intelligent—a man who had won his way in the world by his own efforts and determination. For that reason, he admired determination in others.

“I have it!” exclaimed the rancher. “Here it is:

“‘Be firm! One constant element in luck
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck.
See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake’s thrill,
Clung to its base and greets the sunrise still.
Stick to your aim; the mongrel’s hold will slip,
But only crowbars loose the bulldog’s grip;
Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields
Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields.’”

CHAPTER V.—NATURE’S NOBLEMAN.

Frank found the Twin Star Ranch a pleasant place. The house was large and well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he had expected.

Merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he said nothing about. He was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. Nobody dreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or taken part in a round-up.

Gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was a source of constant amusement to the “punchers,” as the cowboys were called.

After one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room where Frank and Bart were sitting, filled with amazement.

“Vermont farms are different from this one,” smiled Merry.

“Waal, naow yeou’re talkin’! I’d like ter know haow they ever do the milkin’ here. I don’t b’lieve all ther men they’ve got kin milk so menny caows. Why, I saw a hull drove of more’n five hundred cattle about here on the farm, an’ they told me them warn’t a pinch of what Mr. Carson owns. Gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!”

“Mr. Carson seems to be pretty well fixed,” said Merry.

“That’s so. He’s got a fine place here, only it’s too gol-dinged mernoternous.”

“Monotonous? How?”

“The graound’s too flat. Ain’t any hills to rest a feller’s eyes ag’inst. I tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin see somethin’ besides a lot of flatness an’ sky. There ain’t northin’ in the world purtier than the Varmount hills. In summer they’re all green an’ covered with grass an’ trees, an’ daown in the valleys is the streams an’ rivers runnin’ along, sometimes swift an’ foamin’, sometimes slow an’ smooth, like glars. An’ ther cattle are feedin’ on ther hills, an’ ther folks are to work on their farms, an’ ther farm haouses, all painted white, are somethin’ purty ter see. They jest do a man’s heart an’ soul good. An’ then when it is good summer weather in Varmount, I be dad-bimmed if there’s any better weather nowhere! Ther sun jest shines right daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an’ ther sky’s as blue as Elsie Bellwood’s eyes. Ther birds are singin’ in ther trees, an’ ther bees go hummin’ in ther clover fields, an’ there’s sich a gol-durn good feelin’ gits inter a feller that he jest wants ter larf an’ shaout all ther time. Aout here there ain’t no trees fer ther birds ter sing in, an’ there don’t seem ter be northin’ but flat graound an’ cattle an’ sky.”

Frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy. A lover of nature himself, Merry realized that Gallup’s soul had been deeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home.

“Yes, Ephraim,” he said, “Vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. The Vermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten.”

Gallup was warmed up over his subject.

“But when it comes to daownright purtiness,” he went on, “there ain’t northing like Varmount in the fall fer that. Then ev’ry day yeou kin see ther purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. Then is the time them hills is wuth seein’. First the leaves on ther maples, an’ beeches, an’ oaks they begin ter turn yaller an’ red a little bit. Then ther frost comes more, an’ them leaves turn red an’ gold till it seems that ther hull sides of them hills is jest like a purty painted picter. The green of the cedars an’ furs jest orfsets the yaller an’ gold. Where there is rocks on the hills, they seem to turn purple an’ blue in the fall, an’ they look purty, too—purtier’n they do at any other time. I uster jest go aout an’ set right daown an’ look at them air hills by the hour, an’ I uster say to myself I didn’t see haow heaven could be any purtier than the Varmount hills in ther fall.

“But there was folks,” he went on, whut lived right there where all them purty sights was an’ never saw um. They warn’t blind, neither. I know some folks I spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me they hedn’t noticed um! Naow, what du yeou think of that? I’ve even hed folks tell me they couldn’t see northin’ purty abaout um! Naow whut do yeou think of that? I ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin’. They was born with somethin’ ther matter with um.

“It uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin’ gun an’ go aout in the woods trampin’ in the fall. I uster like ter walk where the leaves hed fell jest to hear um rustle. I’d give a dollar this minute ter walk through the fallen leaves in the Varmount woods! I didn’t go out ter shoot things so much as I did to see things. There was plenty of squirrels, but I never shot but one red squirrel in my life. He come aout on the end of a limb clost to me an’ chittered at me in a real jolly way, same’s to say, ‘Hello, young feller! Ain’t this a fine day? Ain’t yeou glad yeou’re livin’?’ An’ then I up an’ shot him, like a gol-durn pirut!”

Ephraim stopped and choked a little. Bart was looking at him now with a strange expression on his face. Frank did not speak, but he was fully in sympathy with the tender-hearted country youth.

Bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh.

“I’m afraid I missed some things when I was a boy,” he said. “There were plenty of woods for me, but I never found any pleasure in them. I used to think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now I believe it would have been greater pleasure for me if I had not shot them. I never listened to the music of the woods, for I didn’t know there was any music in them. Gallup, you have shown me that I was a fool.”

Then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of the room.

Because Ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the Twin Star fancied that Mr. Carson’s other visitors must be equally as accustomed to Western ways.

Frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick pretty close to the house. However, he was a person who believed in exercise when he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, he went out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony.

The man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal his contempt.

“Kin you ride?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Frank, quietly.

“Hawse or kaow?” asked the cowboy.

“If you have a good saddle horse, I’d like to have him,” said Merry. “And be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. I don’t like it.”

The puncher gasped. He was angry. The idea of a tenderfoot speaking to him in such a way!

“All right,” he muttered. “I’ll git ye a critter, but our Western hawses ain’t like your Eastern ladies’ hawses.”

He departed.

Hodge had overheard all this, and he came up.

“You want to look out, Merry,” he said. “That chap didn’t like the way you called him down, and he’ll bring you a vicious animal.”

“I know it,” nodded Merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. “It is what I expect.”

Bart said no more. He had seen Merry ride, and he knew Frank was a natural horse breaker.

The puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyed broncho. He was followed by several other cowboys, and Merry heard one of them say:

“Better not let him try it, Hough. He’ll be killed, and Carson will fire you.”

“I’ll warn him,” returned the one called Hough, “an’ then I won’t be ter blame. He wants ter ride; let him ride—if he kin.”

Frank looked the broncho over.

“Is this the best saddle horse you have?” he asked.

“Waal, he’s the only one handy now,” was the sullen answer. “He’s a bit onreliable at times, an’ you’d better look out fer him. I wouldn’t recommend him for a lady ter ride.”

“By that I presume you mean he is a bucker?”

“Waal, he may buck some!” admitted the puncher, surprised that Frank should ask such a question.

“You haven’t anything but a hackamore on him,” said Merry. “Why didn’t you put a bit in his mouth? Do people usually ride with hackamores out here?”

“He kinder objects to a bit,” confessed the cowboy, his surprise increasing. “People out here ride with any old thing. Mebbe you hadn’t better try him.”

“Has he ever been ridden?”

“Certainly.”

“You give your word to that?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Then I’ll ride him.”

Frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that he contemplated such a thing. He yanked the halter out of the man’s hand, who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping being hit by the broncho’s heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with a shrill scream.

Frank was entirely undisturbed. He had put on a pair of spurred riding boots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick of the spurs.

Then the broncho began to buck. Down went his head, and up into the air went his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. Then he came down on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. He came down stiff-legged, his back humped. Again and again he did this, with his nose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle.

“Good Lord!” cried the wondering cowboys.

Bart Hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet confidence on his face.

From an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out, seeing everything. Frank had noticed her just before mounting the broncho. He wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had known nothing of such a girl being there. He had not seen her before since coming to the ranch.

All at once the broncho began to “pitch a-plunging,” jumping forward as he bucked. He stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nose where his tail was a moment before. He did that as he leaped into the air. Then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nasty motion. He screamed his rage. He pitched first on one side and then on the other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop down almost to the ground.

“Good Lord!” cried the cowboys again, for through all this Frank Merriwell sat firmly in the saddle.

“Is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin’ ter learn a lesson, Hough?” they asked.

“Waal, I’ll be blowed!” was all the reply Hough made.

The broncho pitched “fence-cornered,” but even that had no effect on the rider.

Hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before. Realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceased all attempts to unseat Frank. Two minutes later Merriwell was riding away on the creature’s back, and Hough, the discomfited cowboy, was the laughing-stock of the Twin Star Ranch.

CHAPTER VI.—A CHANGE OF NAME.

At the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched and waited till Frank Merriwell came riding back over the prairie.

“Here he comes!” she whispered. “He is handsome—so handsome! He is the first man I have seen who could be compared with Lawton.”

Kent Carson had heard of Frank’s departure on Wildfire, the bucking broncho. He found it difficult to believe that his guest had really ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with Bart and Ephraim, when Merry came riding back.

Near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to Hough, who was with them, looking sulky and disgusted.

Mr. Carson hurried to greet Frank.

“Look here, young man,” he cried, “I’d like to know where you ever learned to ride bucking bronchos?”

“This is not the first time I have been on a cattle ranch, Mr. Carson,” smiled Frank, springing down from Wildfire.

One of the cowboys came shuffling forward. It was Hough.

“Say, tenderfoot,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “I allows that I made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. I kinder hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. I’ll take it all back. You may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any of us. I said some things what I hadn’t oughter said, an’ I swallers it all.”

“That’s all right,” laughed Frank, good-naturedly. “You may have had good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will know all tenderfeet are not alike. I don’t hold feelings.”

“Thankee,” said Hough, as he led Wildfire away.

Frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a glimpse of that sad, sweet face.

Mr. Carson shook hands with Frank.

“Now I know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life,” he declared. “I can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. I am beginning to understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much of you.”

He took Frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house. Again Merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that face had vanished.

It was after supper that Merry and Hodge were sitting alone on the veranda in front of the house, when Bart suddenly said, in a low tone:

“Merriwell, I have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this place.”

“Is that so?” said Frank. “What is it?”

“I think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen by the rest of the people about the place.”

“What makes you think so?”

“There is a room up there that I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave. The door is always closed. Twice while passing the door I have heard strange sounds coming from that room.”

“This grows interesting,” admitted Frank. “Go on.”

“The first time,” said Bart, “I heard some one in there weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break.”

“Her heart?” came quickly from Merry’s lips.

“Yes.”

“Then it is a female?”

“Beyond a doubt. The second time I heard sounds in that room to-day after you rode away on the broncho. I heard some one singing in there.”

“Singing?”

“Yes. It was a love song. The voice was very sad and sweet, and still there seemed something of happiness in it.”

Hodge was silent.

“Well, you have stumbled on a mystery,” nodded Frank, slowly. “What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of Carson’s is confined in that room.”

“Why confined there?”

“You know as well as I do.”

Frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the window, but at that moment Carson himself came out onto the veranda, smoking his pipe. The rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away as twilight and darkness came on.

“How are you getting along on your play, Mr. Merriwell?” asked the man.

“Very well.” answered Frank. “You know it is a drama of college life—life at Yale?”

“No, I didn’t know about that.”

“It is. Just now I am puzzled most to find a name for it.”

“What was the name before?”

“‘For Old Eli.’”

“U-hum. Who was Old Eli?”

“There!” cried Merry. “That shows me there is a fault with the name. Even though your boy is in Yale, you do not know that Yale College is affectionately spoken of by Yale men as ‘Old Eli.’”

“No, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, Berlin did write something in some of his letters about Old Eli. I didn’t understand it, though.”

“And the public in general do not understand the title of my play. They suppose Old Eli must be a character in the piece, and I do not fancy there is anything catching and drawing about the title. I must have a new title, and I’m stuck to find one that will exactly fit.”

“I suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?”

“Oh, yes! That is what I want. One that brings Yale in somehow.”

“All you Yale men seem to be stuck on that college. You’re true blue.”

Frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight.

“I have it!” he exclaimed.

“What?” gasped Mr. Carson.

“The title!”

“You have?”

“Yes; you gave it to me then!”

“I did?”

“Sure thing.”

“What is it?”

“‘True Blue.’ That is a title that fits the play. Yale’s color is blue, you know. People may not understand just what the title means, but still I believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. ‘True Blue’ is the name! I have been well paid for coming out here, Mr. Carson! Besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m glad if I’ve done that,” laughed Kent Carson.

“I must put that title down on the manuscript,” said Frank. “I feel an inspiration. I must go to work at once. I am in the mood now, and I can write.”

Excusing himself, he hurried into the house. Soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. Looking in at that window, Hodge saw Frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. He was seated at a table, writing away swiftly.

Kent Carson got up and stood beside Hodge looking into the room.

“Merriwell is a great worker,” said the rancher.

“He’s a steam engine,” declared Bart. “I never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. There is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. Now that he has the title, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning.”

“If that happens, I shall be sorry I gave the title so soon,” said the cattleman, sincerely. “I have taken a great liking to that young man.”

Frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. At last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. He had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. He arose and flung wide the window.

The moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. Soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. There was a haze on the plain. Slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching.

“Cattle,” said Merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again.

He resumed work on the play. He did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room.

Like a flash Frank whirled about and found himself face to face with——

The girl he had seen at the window!

In astonishment Frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. He saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. The color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was.

Only a moment did Frank remain thus. Then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying:

“I beg your pardon! I did not know there was a lady in the room.”

She bowed in return.

“Do not rise,” she said. “I saw you to-day from my window, and I could not sleep till I had seen you again. Somehow you seemed to remind me of Lawton. I thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way. Still you made me think of him. I have been shut up there so long—so long! I have not talked to anybody, and I wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world—something of the places far away. I am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses.”

Frank’s heart was thrilled with sympathy.

“Do they keep you shut up in that room?” he asked.

“No; I stay there from choice. This is the first time I have been downstairs for weeks. I have refused to leave the room; I refused to see my father. I can’t bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger.”

“Your father—he is Mr. Carson?”

“Yes.”

“It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son.”

In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom.

“No!” she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; “he never speaks of me! He says I am dead—dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche.”

Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry’s heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand this.

“Don’t think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way,” she entreated. “Don’t think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me—hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world.”

“I shall be glad to do so,” said Merry, gently. “But don’t you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?”

“Nothing—nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I interrupted you?”

“No; I am through working on my play to-night.”

“Your play?” she cried, eagerly. “What are you doing with a play? Perhaps—perhaps——”

She stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check.

“I am writing a play,” Frank explained. “That is, I am rewriting it now. I wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. I am going out again soon with a new company.”

Her eagerness seemed to increase.

“Then you must know many actors,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”

“Know whom?”

“Lawton—Lawton Kilgore.”

Frank shook his head.

“Never heard of him.”

She showed great disappointment.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. If you can tell me nothing, I must tell you. I must talk to somebody. You see how it is. Mother is dead. Father sent me to school in the East. It was there that I met Lawton. He was so handsome! He was the leading man in a company that I saw. Then, after the company disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town where I was at school. I suppose I was foolish, but fell in love with him. We were together a great deal. We became engaged.”

Frank fancied he knew what was coming. The girl was skipping over the story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all.

“I didn’t write father about it,” she went on, “for I knew he would not approve of Lawton. He wanted me to marry Brandon King, who owns the Silver Forks Ranch. I did not love King. I loved Lawton Kilgore. But the principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote father. Then Lawton disappeared, and I heard nothing from him. They say he deserted me. I do not believe it. I think he was driven away. I waited and waited for him, but I could not study, I could not do anything. He never came back, and, at last, father came and took me away. He brought me here. He was ashamed of me, but he said he would not leave me to starve, for I was his own daughter. His kindness was cruel, for he cut me off from the world. Still I believe that some day Lawton will come for me and take me away from here. I believe he will come—if they have not killed him!”

She whispered the final words.

“They? Who?” asked Frank, startled.

“My father and my brother,” she answered. “They were furious enough to kill him. They swore they would.”

She had told Merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. She asked him many questions about the actors he knew. He said he had the pictures of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. She asked to see them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing them to her one by one. She looked at them all with interest.

Of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. Her hand darted out and caught up one of the photographs.

“Here—here!——” she panted. “You have his picture here! This is Lawton Kilgore—Lawton, my lover!”

It was the picture of Leslie Lawrence!

CHAPTER VII.—THE TRAGEDY AT THE RANCH.

“That?” exclaimed Frank. “You must be mistaken! That man’s name is not Kilgore, it is Lawrence.”

He fancied the girl was crazy. He had wondered if her misfortune had affected her brain.

“This is the picture of Lawton Kilgore!” she repeated, in a dull tone.

“Do you think I would not know him anywhere—under any circumstances? This is the man who promised to marry me! This is the man my father hates as he hates a snake!”

“Well, that man is worthy of your father’s hatred,” said Merry, “for he is a thoroughbred villain. But I think you must be mistaken, for your father met him in Denver. This man had me arrested, and your father followed to the police station, and was instrumental in securing my release. If this man was Kilgore, your father would have found his opportunity to kill him.”

“You do not understand,” panted the girl. “Father has never seen him to know him—has never even seen his picture. If Lawton was known by another name, father would not have recognized him, even though they met in Denver.”

Frank began to realize that the girl was talking in a sensible manner, and something told him she spoke the truth. To his other crimes, Lawrence had added that of deceiving an innocent girl.

“And he is in Denver?” panted the rancher’s daughter. “He is so near! Oh, if he would come to me!”

Frank was sorry that he had permitted her to see the photographs, but it was too late now for regrets.

The girl pressed the picture to her lips.

“You must give it to me!” she panted. “I will take it to my room! I wish to be alone with it at once! Oh, I thank you!”

Then she hurried from the room, leaving Merry in anything but a pleasant frame of mind.

There was a sound outside the window. Frank got up and went over to the window. Looking out, he saw two horses standing at a little distance from the ranch. A man was holding them, and the faint light of the moon fell on the man’s face.

“Well, I wonder what that means?” speculated Frank. “Those horses are saddled and bridled. Who is going to ride them to-night?”

Then he remembered the two forms he had seen coming out of the mist that lay on the plain, and he wondered if they had not been two horsemen.

Something about the appearance of the man at the heads of the horses seemed familiar. He looked closer.

“About the size and build of Lloyd Fowler,” he muttered. “Looks like Fowler, but of course it is not.”

There was a step on the veranda, and a figure appeared at the open window. Into the room stepped a man.

Frank sprang back, and was face to face with the intruder.

“Leslie Lawrence!” he whispered.

“Yes,” said the man, advancing insolently; “I am Leslie Lawrence.”

“What do you want?”

“I want an engagement in your new company. I have come here for it. Will you give it to me?”

Frank was astounded by the insolence of the fellow.

“I should say not!” he exclaimed. “What do you take me for? No, Leslie Lawrence, alias Lawton Kilgore, villain, deceiver of innocent girls, wretch who deserves hanging, I will not give you an engagement, unless it is with an outraged father. Go! If you wish to live, leave instantly. If Kent Carson finds you here, he will know you now, and your life will not be worth a cent!”

At this moment the door was flung open, and Ephraim Gallup came striding into the room, saying as he entered:

“Darned if I knowed there was a purty young gal in this haouse! Thought I’d come daown, Frank, an’ see if yeou was goin’ to stay up all night writin’ on that play of—— Waal, I be gosh-blamed!”

Ephraim saw Lawrence, and he was astounded.

“Didn’t know yeou hed visitors, Frank,” he said.

“So you refuse me an engagement, do you, Merriwell?” snarled Lawrence. “All right! You’ll wish you hadn’t in a minute!”

He made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. Then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning.

“That’s the last of your old play!” he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames.

Both Frank and Ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent Lawrence’s revengeful act.

“You miserable cur!” panted Frank.

Out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down.

At the same time Ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it.

Lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. He wrenched out a revolver and lifted it.

Frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke.

The shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, Lawrence realized that Merriwell had escaped. But beyond Frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. He heard her cry “Lawton!” and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand!

Horror and fear enabled him to spring up, plunge out of the open window, reach the horses, leap on one and go thundering away toward the moonlight mists as if Satan were at his heels.

There was a tumult at the Twin Star. There was hot mounting to pursue Lawrence and his companion. Carson had heard the shot. He had rushed down to find his daughter, shot in the side, supported in the arms of Frank Merriwell.

A few words had told Carson just what had happened.

He swore a fearful oath to follow Lawrence to death.

The girl heard the oath. She opened her eyes and whispered:

“Father—don’t! He didn’t mean—to shoot—me! It was—an—accident!”

“I’ll have the whelp stiff at my feet before morning!” vowed the revengeful rancher.

He gave orders for the preparing of horses. He saw his daughter carried to her room. He lingered till the old black housekeeper was at the bedside to bind up the wound and do her best to save the girl.

Then Carson bounded down the stairs and sent a cowboy flying off on horseback for the nearest doctor, a hundred miles away.

“Kill the horse under ye, if necessary, Prescott!” he had yelled at the cowboy. “Get the doctor here as quick as you can!”

“All right, sir!” shouted Prescott, as he thundered away.

“Now!” exclaimed Kent Carson—“now to follow that murderous hound till I run him to earth!”

He found men and horses ready and waiting. He found Frank Merriwell and Bart Hodge there, both of them determined to take part in the pursuit.

“We know him,” said Merriwell. “He fired that shot at me. We can identify him.”

Frank believed that Lawrence had murdered the rancher’s daughter, and he, like the others, was eager to run the wretch down.

They galloped away in pursuit, the rancher, four cowboys, Merriwell and Hodge, all armed, all grim-faced, all determined.

The sun had risen when they came riding back to the ranch. Ephraim Gallup met Frank.

“Did ye git ther critter?” he asked, in a whisper.

“No,” was the answer.

“Then he got erway?” came in accents of disappointment from the Vermonter.

“No.”

“Whut? Haow’s that?”

“Neither Lawrence nor Fowler escaped.”

“Then it was Fowler with him?”

“I believe so.”

“Whut happened to um?”

“They attempted to ford Big Sandy River.”

“An’ got drownded?”

“No. Where they tried to cross is nothing but a bed of quicksands. Horses and men went down into the quicksands. They were swallowed up forever.”

The doctor came at last. He extracted the bullet from Blanche Carson’s side, and he told her she would get well, as the wound was not dangerous.

Kent Carson heard this with deep relief. He went to the bedside of the girl and knelt down there.

“Blanche,” he whispered, huskily, “can you forgive your old dad for treating you as he has? You are my own girl—my little Blanche—no matter what you have done.”

“Father!” she whispered, in return, “I am glad you have come to me at last. But you know you are ashamed of me—you can never forget what I have done.”

“I can forget now,” he declared, thinking of the man under the quicksands of Big Sandy. “You are my daughter. I am not ashamed of you. You shall never again have cause for saying that of me.”

“Kiss me, papa!” she murmured.

Sobbing brokenly, he pressed his lips to her cheeks.

And when he was gone from the room she took a photograph from beneath her pillow and gazed at it long and lovingly.

She knew not that the man had been swallowed beneath the quicksands of the Big Sandy.

The tragic occurrences of the night hastened the departure of Frank and his friends from Twin Star Ranch, although Kent Carson urged them to remain. Frank had, however, finished his play, which, thanks to the prompt act of Ephraim, had been only slightly injured by its fiery experience, and was anxious to put it in rehearsal.

So, a day or so later, Frank, Bart and Ephraim were once more in Denver.

CHAPTER VIII.—THE OLD ACTOR’S CHAMPIONS.

Along a street of Denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to attract attention wherever seen. That he had once been an actor could be told at a glance, and that he had essayed great rôles was also apparent. But, alas! it was also evident that the time when this Thespian trod the boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished.

His ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and grotesque in appearance. His Prince Albert coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. His trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. The legs of the trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. His shoes were in the worst condition of all. Although they had been carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they could not hold together much longer. The soles were almost completely worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. The “linen” of this frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. His black silk necktie was knotted in a broad bow.

The man’s face was rather striking in appearance. The eyes had once been clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature showed weakness. The head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow. The eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns—for red they were and bloodshot. The man’s long hair fell upon the collar of his coat.

And on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought his downfall. The bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and aspirations.

He had been drinking now. His unsteady step told that. He needed the aid of his cane in order to keep on his feet. He slipped, his hat fell off, rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there.

The unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time before he found it. When he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. At last, with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his feet with his hat and cane.

“What, ho!” he muttered, thickly. “It seems the world hath grown strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet.”

Some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. He looked toward them sadly.

“Mock! mock! mock!” he cried. “Some of you thoughtless brats may fall even lower than I have fallen!”

“Well, I like that—I don’t think!” exclaimed one of the boys. “I don’t ’low no jagged stiff to call me a brat!”

Then he threw a stone at the old actor, striking the man on the cheek and cutting him slightly.

The unfortunate placed his crushed and soiled hat on his head, took out a handkerchief, and slowly wiped a little blood from his cheek, all the while swaying a bit, as if the ground beneath his feet were tossing like a ship.

“‘Now let it work,’” he quoted. “‘Mischief, thou art afoot; take thou what course thou wilt. How now, fellow?’”

The thoughtless young ruffians shouted with laughter.

“Looker the old duffer!” cried one. “Ain’t that a picture fer yer!”

“Look!” exclaimed the actor. “Behold me with thy eyes! Even lower than I have fallen may thou descend; but I have aspired to heights of which thy sordid soul may never dream. Out upon you, dog!”

With these words he reached the walk and turned down the street.

“Let’s foller him!” cried one of the gang. “We can have heaps of fun with him.”

“Come on! come on!”

With a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. They reached him, danced around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his eyes.

“Give the old duffer fits!” cried the leader, who was a tough young thug of about eighteen.

There were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on the run, eager to have a hand in the “racket.”

The old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader. As if declaiming on the stage he spoke:

“‘You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty
That they pass me by as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.’”

This caused the boys to shout with laughter.

“Git onter ther guy!”

“What ails him?”

“He’s locoed.”

“Loaded, you mean.”

“He’s cracked in the nut.”

“And he needs another crack on the nut,” shouted the leader, dancing up, and again knocking the hat over the old man’s eyes.

Once more pushing it back, the aged actor spoke in his deep voice, made somewhat husky by drink:

“Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awaken your senses, that you may——”

“Oh, that’s too much!” cried the ruffianly young leader. “We can’t stand that kind of guy. What’re yer givin’ us, anyway?”

“He’s drunk!” shouted several.

“Alas and alack!” sighed the old man. “I fear thou speakest the truth.

“‘Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And the fall of many kings.’”

“That’s what causes your fall,” declared the ruffianly leader, as he tripped the actor, causing him to fall heavily.

“What’s this?” exclaimed Frank Merriwell, who, with Hodge for a companion, just returned from Twin Star Ranch, at this moment came into view round a corner. “What are those fellows doing to that poor man?”

“Raising hob with him,” said Bart, quickly. “The old fellow is drunk and they are abusing him.”

“Well, I think it’s time for us to take a hand in that!”

“I should say so!”

“Come on!”

Frank sprang forward; Bart followed.

The old actor was just making an effort to get up. The young ruffian who led the gang kicked him over.

The sight made Frank’s blood leap.

“You cowardly young cur!” he cried, and he gave the fellow a crack on the ear that sent him spinning.

Hodge struck out right and left, quickly sending two of the largest fellows to the ground.

“Permit me to assist you, sir,” said Frank, stooping to aid the actor to rise.

The leader of the gang had recovered. He uttered a mad howl.

“At ’em fellers! Knock the stuffin’s outer them!” he screamed, rushing on Frank.

Merry straightened up instantly. He whirled about and saw the biggest tough coming at him, with the rest of the gang at his back. Then Frank laughed.

“Walk right up, you young terriers!” he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. “We’ll make it rather interesting for you! Give it to them, Hodge!”

Hodge did so. Together the two friends met the onslaught of the gang. Their hard fists cracked on the heads of the young ruffians, and it was astonishing how these fellows were bowled over. Bart was aroused. His intense anger was betrayed by his knotted forehead, his flashing eyes, and his gleaming teeth. He did not speak a word, but he struck swift, strong and sure.

If those chaps had expected an easy thing with the two well-dressed youths who had interfered with their sport, they met the disappointment of their lives.

It actually seemed that, at one time, every one of the gang had been knocked sprawling, and not one was on his feet to face the fighting champions of the old actor.

It was a terrible surprise for the toughs. One after another, they sprang up and took to their heels.

“What have we struck?” gasped the leader, looking up at Frank.

“Get up!” invited Merry, standing over him—“get up, and I will give you another dose!”

“Excuse me!” gasped the fellow, as he scrambled away on his hands and knees, sprang up and followed the rest of the young thugs.

It was over; the gang had been put to flight, and it had been accomplished in a very few moments.

Hodge stood there, panting, glaring about, looking surprised and disappointed, as well as angry.

“That was too easy!” he exclaimed. “I thought we were in for a fight.”

“Evidently they did not stand for our kind of fighting,” smiled Frank. “It surprised them so that they threw up the sponge before the fight was fairly begun.”

“I didn’t get half enough of it,” muttered Bart.

During the fight the old actor had risen to his feet. Now Frank picked up his hat and restored it to him, after brushing some dirt from it. The man received it with a profound bow. Placing it on his head, he thrust his right hand into the bosom of his coat, struck a pose, and cried:

“‘Are yet two Romans living such as these?
The last of all the Romans!’”

“We saw you were in trouble,” said Merry, “and we hastened to give you such assistance as we could.”

“It was a goodly deed, a deed well done. Thy arms are strong, thy hearts are bold. Methinks I see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived in the days of knighthood.”

“You are very complimentary,” smiled Frank, amused at the old man’s quaint way.

The actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture, saying:

“‘Nay, do not think I flatter; for what advancement may I hope from thee?’ I but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. I am old, the wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. I cannot reward you. I can but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never heard—one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness, might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. Gentlemen, accept the thanks of William Shakespeare Burns.”

“Mr. Burns,” said Frank, “from your words, and your manner, I am led to believe that you are an actor.”

“Nay, nay. Once I trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the immortal bard, for whom I was named. That time is past. I am an actor no longer; I am a ‘has been.’ My day is past, my sun hath set, and night draweth on apace.”

“I thought I could not be mistaken,” said Frank. “We, too, are actors, although not Shakespearian ones.”

“Is this true?” exclaimed the old tragedian. “And I have been befriended by those who wouldst follow the noble art! Brothers, I greet thee! But these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. The legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and vaudeville—ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. The indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to make the immortal William turn in his grave. Oh, for the good old days! But they are gone—forever gone!”

“It seems strange to meet an actor like you ‘at liberty,’ and so far from the Rialto,” declared Merry.

“I have been touring the country, giving readings,” Burns hastened to explain. “Ah, it is sad, sad! Once I might have packed the largest theater of the metropolis; to-day I am doing well if I bring out a round dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the country. Thus have the mighty fallen!”

“I presume you are thinking of getting back to New York?”

“Nay, nay. What my eyes have beheld there and my ears have heard is enough. My heart is sick within me. I was there at the opening of the season. One Broadway theater was given over to burlesque of the very lowest order, while another was but little better in character. A leading theater close to Broadway was packed every night by well-dressed people who went there to behold a vile French farce, in which the leading lady disrobed upon the stage. Ah, me! In truth, the world hath gone wrong! The ways of men are evil, and all their thoughts are vile. It is well that Shakespeare cannot rise from his grave to look upon the horrors now perpetrated on the English-speaking stage. If he were to be restored to life and visit one of our theaters, I think his second funeral would take place the following day. He would die of heart failure.”

Frank laughed heartily.

“I believe you are right. It would give William a shock, that is certain. But there are good modern plays, you know.”

The actor shook his head.

“I do not know,” he declared. “I have not seen them. If there is not something nasty in the play of to-day, then it must of a certainty have its ‘effect’ in the way of some mechanical contrivance—a horse race, a steamboat explosion, a naval battle, or something of the sort. It seems that a piece cannot survive on its merits as a play, but must, perforce, be bolstered up by some wretched device called an ‘effect.’”

“Truer words were never spoken,” admitted Frank. “And still there are a few plays written to-day that do not depend on such devices. In order to catch the popular fancy, however, I have found it necessary to introduce ‘effects.’”

“You speak as one experienced in the construction of plays.”

“I have had some experience. I am about to start on the road with my own company and my own play.”

Of a sudden Frank seemed struck by an idea.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Did you say you were at liberty?”

“Just at present, yes.”

“Then, if I can get you, you are the very man I want.”

The old man shook his head.

“Your play can contain no part I would care to interpret,” he said, with apparent regret.

“But I think it is possible that you might be induced to play the part. I had a man for it, but I lost him. I was on my way to the Orpheum, to see if I could not find another to fill his place.”

“What sort of a part is it?” asked Burns, plainly endeavoring to conceal his eagerness.

“It is comedy.”

“What!” cried the old actor, aghast and horrified. “Wouldst offer me such a part? Dost think I—I who have played Hamlet, Brutus, Lear and Othello—would stoop so low? ‘This is the most unkindest cut of all!’”

“But there is money in it—good, sure money. I have several thousand dollars to back me, and I am going out with my piece to make or break. I shall keep it on the road several weeks, at any cost.”

The old actor shook his head.

“It cannot be,” he sadly said. “I am no comedian. I could not play the part.”

“If you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. It is that of a would-be tragedian—a Shakespearian actor.”

“Worse and worse!” moaned the old man. “You would have me burlesque myself! Out upon you!”

“I will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. How can you do better?”

“Thirty-fi——”

The old actor gasped for breath. He seemed unable for some moments to speak. It was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. At last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself.

“Young man,” he said, “dost know what thou hast done? I—I am William Shakespeare Burns! A paltry thirty-five per week! Bah! Go to!”

“Well, I’ll make it forty, and I can get a hundred good men for that at this time of the season.”

The aged Thespian bowed his head. Slowly he spoke, again quoting:

“Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck to the heart of my mystery.”

“But the money, you seem to need that. Money is a good thing to have.”

“‘Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.’ It is true. Ah! but how can I thus lower myself?”

“As you have said, the good old days are past. It is useless to live for them. Live for the present—and the future. Money is base stuff, but we must have it. Come, come; I know you can do the part. We’ll get along splendidly.”

“‘Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.’ As Cassius saith, ‘Men at some time in their lives are masters of their fates;’ but I think for me that time is past. But forty dollars—ye gods!”

“It is better than reading to a scant dozen listeners at crossroads schoolhouses.”

“Ah, well! You take advantage of my needs. I accept. But I must have a dollar at once, with which to purchase that which will drown the shame my heart doth feel.”

“You shall have the dollar,” assured Frank. “Come along with us, and we will complete arrangements.”

So the old actor was borne away, outwardly sad, but inwardly congratulating himself on the greatest streak of luck he had come upon in many moons.

CHAPTER IX.—WELCOME LETTERS.

Frank Merriwell was determined to give a performance of his revised play in Denver for advertising purposes. He had the utmost confidence in “True Blue,” as he had rechristened the piece, but the report of his failure in Puelbo had spread afar in dramatic circles, being carried broadcast by the Eastern dramatic papers, and managers were shy of booking the revised version.

Some time before, after receiving the fortune from the Carson City Bank, Merry had made a fair and equal division, sending checks for their share to Browning, Diamond and Rattleton. Toots’ share he had been unable to forward, not knowing the address of the faithful darky, who had been forced to go forth into the world to win his way when Frank met with the misfortune that caused him to leave Yale.

And now came three letters from three Yale men. Diamond’s was brief.

“Dear Old Comrade: It is plain you are still a practical joker. Your very valuable (?) check on the First National of Denver received. I really do not know what to do with so much money! But I am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. Why didn’t you draw one on ‘The First Sand Bank of Denver’? It would have served your purpose just as well.

“Can’t write much now, as I am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. I’m afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. Then we were all together, and what times we did have at Fardale and in Maine! I’m blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. I fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in the Dramatic Reflector of your unfortunate failure in Puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. Hard luck, Frank—hard luck! All the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now.

“What are you doing? Can’t you find time to write to us and let us know? We are very anxious about you. I will write you again when I am more in the mood. Hoping your fortune may turn for the better, I remain,

“Always your friend,

“Jack Diamond.”

Frank read this aloud to Hodge and Gallup in his room at the Metropole Hotel.

“Waal, by ginger!” exploded Ephraim. “What do yeou think of that?”

“Now you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you, Merry,” said Hodge.

“Well, I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe Diamond considers it a joke!” laughed Frank.

“Of course he does,” nodded Bart.

“Well, he is putting a joke on himself. He’ll be somewhat surprised when he discovers that.”

Ephraim began to grin.

“That’s so, by thutter!” he cried.

“Here is a letter from Rattleton,” said Merry, picking up another from the mail he had just received. “I wonder how he takes it?”

“Read it and find aout,” advised Gallup.

“A wise suggestion,” bowed Frank, with mock gravity, tearing it open.

This is what he read:

“Dear Merry: Cheese it! What do you take us for—a lot of chumps? We’re onto you! Eight thousand fiddlesticks! I’m going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. It will be a reminder of you.

“Say, that was tough about your fizzle in Puelbo! It came just when we were hoping, you know. The fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since Browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. Now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. It’s tough.

“Diamond is in a blue funk. He hasn’t been half the man he was since you went away. Hasn’t seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he’ll be dropped a class.

“But Diamond is not the only one. You know Browning was dropped once. He is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. Now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means.

“I’m not going to say anything about myself. It’s dull here. None of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. The whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves.

“Baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. We are down in the mud, with Princeton crowing. It takes you, Merry, to twist the Tiger’s tail! What was the matter? Everything. All the pitchers could do for us was to toss ’em up and get batted out of the box. The new men were not in it. They had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. It was pitiful! I can’t write any more about it.

“I’d like to see you, Frank! Would I? Ask me! Oh, say! don’t you think you can arrange it so you can come East this summer? Come and see me. Say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! We won’t do a thing but have a great time. Write to me and give me your promise you will come. Don’t you refuse me, old man.

“Yours till death,

“Rattles.

“Here’s another!” cried Frank. “If that doesn’t beat! Why, they all think those checks fakes!”

“As I said before,” said Hodge, “you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you.”

“I see,” nodded Frank. “It is giving me a chance to get a big joke on those fellows. They will drop dead when they learn those checks actually are good.”

“Waal, I should say yes!” nodded Ephraim. “Jest naow they’re kainder thinkin’ yeou are an object fer charity.”

“Here’s Browning’s letter.”

“Mr. Frank Merriwell, Millionaire and Philanthropist.

“Dear Sir: I seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. With my usual energy and haste, I dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. After cashing your check with the pawnbroker, I shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time—less than two years, I think. The sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and I would pay him off entirely, if it were not that I wish to get my personal property out of my ‘uncle’s’ safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time.

“It is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. That is great, as Griswold would say. And it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. The little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift.

“There is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. I suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know I would intensely enjoy, as I do love to work. It is the joy of my life to labor. I spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but I will confess that I might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up.

“When are you coming East? Aren’t you getting tired of the West? Why can’t you make a visit to Yale before vacation time? You would be received with great éclat. Excuse my French. I have to fling it around occasionally, when I can’t think of any Latin or Greek. Why do you suppose Latin and Greek were invented? Why didn’t those old duffers use English, and save us poor devils no end of grinding?

“Unfortunately, I have just upset the ink, and, having no more, I must quit.