frank merriwell's reward by burt l. standish author of "frank merriwell's school days," "frank merriwell's chums," "frank merriwell's foes," etc. philadelphia david mckay, publisher - south washington square copyright, by street & smith frank merriwell's reward. chapter i. a runaway automobile. "li, there! hook out!" shouted harry rattleton. "hi, there! look out!" echoed bart hodge, getting the words straight which harry had twisted. "get out of the way, fellows!" warned jack diamond. "the juice that it's loaded with must be bug juice!" squealed danny griswold. "it's crazy drunk!" "tut-tut-tut-turn the cuc-crank the other way!" bellowed joe gamp. "this crank," said bink stubbs, giving gamp a twist that spun him round like a top. "i've always believed that more than half of these new-fangled inventions are devices of satan, and now i know it!" grumbled dismal jones. "you'll be more certain of it than ever if you let it run over you!" frank merriwell warned, stepping to the sidewalk, and drawing dismal's lank body quickly back from the street. "huah! it's worse than a cranky horse!" bruce browning reached down, took danny griswold by the collar, and placed the little fellow behind him. "unselfishly trying to save your bacon at the expense of my own!" browning suavely explained, as danny began to fume. "do you want that thing to step on you?" an electric hansom, which had sailed up the street in an eminently respectable manner, had suddenly and without apparent reason begun to act in an altogether disreputable way. it had veered round, rushed over the crossing, and made a bee-line for the sidewalk, almost running down a party of frank merriwell's friends, who were out for an afternoon stroll on the street in the pleasant spring sunshine. the motorman, who occupied a grand-stand seat in the rear, seemed to have lost control of the automobile. he was excitedly fumbling with his levers, but without being able to bring the carriage to a stop. the street was crowded with people at the time, and when the electric carriage began to cut its eccentric capers there was a rush for places of safety, while the air was filled with excited cries and exclamations. merriwell could see the head of a passenger, a man, through the window of the automobile. "she's cuc-coming this way again!" shouted gamp. "look out, fellows!" the front tires struck the curbing with such force that the motorman was pitched from his high seat, landing heavily on his head in the gutter. bruce browning was one of the first to reach him. "give him air!" bruce commanded, lifting the man in his arms and stepping toward a drug-store on the corner. some of the crowd streamed after browning, but by far the greater number remained to watch the antics of the automobile. the man inside was fumbling at the door and trying to get out. the misguided auto climbed the curbing and tried to butt down the wall of a store building. "give it some climbin'-irons!" yelled a newsboy. the automobile, with its front wheels pressed against the wall, began to rear up like a great black bug, determined apparently to scale the perpendicular side of the building and enter through one of the open windows above. as soon as he saw the motorman pitched into the gutter, merriwell moved toward the carriage. "time to take a hand in this!" was his thought. "there will be more hurt, if i don't!" he leaped to the step, but before he could mount to the high seat the auto was butting blindly against the wall. "he's goin' ter shut off the juice!" squeaked the newsboy. what the trouble had been with the levers merry did not know. when he took hold of them, the hansom became manageable and obedient. he shut off the electricity, and the front wheels dropped down from the wall. the next moment he swung to the ground and opened the door. to his surprise, the man who emerged from the carriage was dunstan kirk, the leader of the yale ball-team. "glad to see you!" gasped kirk. "i couldn't get out, and i was expecting the thing to turn over! i believe i'm not hurt." "the motorman is, though! he has been carried into the drug-store." frank looked toward the drug-store, and saw an ambulance dash up to convey the injured man to the hospital. "glad you're all right!" turning again to the baseball-captain. "these things are cranky at times. i've had some experience with one." a policeman pushed forward to take possession of the automobile until the company could send another motorman. the ambulance dashed away, and browning, diamond, and rattleton came across the street hurriedly from the apothecary's. bink and danny, gamp and dismal--other friends of his--were already crowding round merriwell. back of them was a pushing, excited throng. "which way did that carriage go?" kirk demanded. "which carriage?" "the one that was just ahead of us. i was chasing it in the automobile?" "with a driver in a green livery and a bay horse?" asked the newsboy, who had pushed into the inner circle. "yes. which way did it go?" "turned de first corner." "let's get a cab!" said kirk. "come, i want you to go with me!" he caught merriwell by the arm. a cab had drawn up near the curbing, and toward this they moved, merriwell reserving his questions until later. dunstan hurriedly gave instructions to the driver, and climbed in after merriwell. "now, what does this mean?" frank demanded, as the cab started with a lurch. "what sort of a wild-goose chase are you on?" "what made that auto-carriage do that way?" "there was something the matter with it, i suppose." "it struck me that the motorman may have been in the pay of the fellow i was chasing." he lowered his voice, even though the rattling of hoofs and wheels and the noises of the street rendered it wholly improbable that the driver or any one else could hear what was spoken inside. "frankly, merriwell, the chap i was chasing looked like morton agnew! i was in mason & fettig's, five or six blocks above, when some one came into the other room and passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on the proprietor. he discovered it while the fellow was going through the door, and gave a call. i ran to the door and saw the rascal--not well, you know, but a side glance--not much more than a flash--and i thought he was agnew. of course, i couldn't swear to it. i may have been mistaken. but to satisfy myself, i jumped into that automobile and gave chase. he saw i was pursuing him and he sprang into a cab. i was determined to overhaul the scamp and satisfy myself on that one point. perhaps i ought not to mention the name, as i am so uncertain, and i shall not mention it to any one else." dunstan kirk, the athletic and capable captain of the baseball-team, had come to admire and trust frank merriwell. he had seen enough to know that frank could be trusted in any way and in any place. "what do you think of it?" he asked. "that there is no chance now of discovering whether your suspicions were true or false. unless"--hesitatingly--"you should cause agnew's arrest, and have him taken before the man who was cheated. or you might tell the man your suspicions, and let him act in the matter." "i am not certain enough!" said kirk. "it's too bad he got away! the motorman couldn't have been in his pay?" "if so, he has received his pay!" said merry meaningly. "he went out of that seat on his head and struck hard. i think the motorman simply found the hansom unmanageable, for some reason. those carriages take freaks at times." "and your opinion about agnew?" "he isn't too good to do such a thing, and i have had reason to believe lately that he is hard up. he used to hold himself up by his winnings at cards, but he has cheated so outrageously and boldly that the students fight pretty shy of him." "we're just wasting our time, i'm afraid!" kirk grumbled, as the cab rattled on down the street. "hold on!" said merriwell, looking through the window. "there is your green-liveried driver and your bay horse!" though the cab in question was standing by a curbing, frank saw at a glance that the horse was sweaty and showed other signs of recent fast driving. "empty, and the bird has flown!" he observed, as the cab they were in stopped and they got out. "whoever he was--agnew, or another man--he has had time to escape!" the green-liveried driver was questioned, but no information of value was obtained, and when it was seen that there was no chance of settling the question which had moved dunstan kirk to the pursuit, kirk settled with the driver of the cab that had brought them thus far, and he and merriwell went into the nearest restaurant. "i understand you don't smoke, or i might be tempted to order cigars," he said, as a waiter came forward for their orders, after they had taken seats at a table in one of the small side rooms. "i wanted to have a talk with you about certain matters. not about agnew, but concerning buck badger!" when the waiter had gone he continued: "i am interested in badger's pitching. the fellow has good pitching ability. but he is erratic. sometimes he pitches wonderfully. then the very next time he will fall away down. i am convinced that what he needs as much as anything else is the right kind of encouragement." "i consider him one of the very best of the new men who have come up with pitching ambitions," said merriwell. "i have noticed the things you say." "you were kind enough some time ago to recommend him to my notice," kirk went on, as if feeling his way. "you would be glad to help him, perhaps." "i shall be very glad to help him, if i can, and to serve you in any way, kirk. but you know he doesn't like me very well. there must be a willingness on both sides, you see--just as it takes two to make a quarrel!" "i haven't sounded him, but i fancy he would be willing. he isn't doing any good lately. you may have noticed that, too?" "yes." the waiter brought the things ordered, and went away again. "that _crested foam_ affair is the cause, i fancy," dunstan kirk went on, breaking a cracker and helping himself to some cheese. frank merriwell had thought the same, but he did not wish to say so. "he hasn't acted right since then. and by right, i mean natural, you understand! i suppose it grinds him to know that such a fellow as barney lynn could drug and rob him in that way." merriwell flashed dunstan kirk a quick look. it was evident that the captain of the yale baseball-team did not know that buck badger was intoxicated when he was lured aboard the excursion steamer, _crested foam_. a similar imperfect knowledge of the true condition of affairs at that time had been noticed by merriwell in the conversation of others. the newspapers in the notices of the burning of the steamer had given attention chiefly to lynn, merely stating briefly that badger had been drugged and robbed by the ex-boat-keeper. "i shouldn't think it would be a pleasant reflection," frank answered. "very humiliating to a man of badger's character. and it has just taken the heart out of him. until that time he was one of the most promising of the new pitchers at yale. i was expecting good things from him. now he seems to be nothing but a blighted 'has-been!'" merriwell smiled. "and of all the sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'it might have been!'" "just so," assented kirk. "it's too bad to see a capable fellow go to the bone pile! i don't like it. i talked with him and tried to encourage him, but it had no permanent effect. he braced up for a little while, and then slumped again." "at heart, badger is very proud!" frank explained. "he wouldn't admit it, perhaps, even to himself. he craves popularity, too, though he affects not to care at all for the opinions of others. it has been his misfortune not to be popular. his disposition is against it. this has made him very sore at times, though he has tried to conceal the fact. now you can see that to a man of his disposition the things that happened on the _crested foam_ would be tremendously depressing." the captain of the ball-team would have seen even more clearly how depressing they were if he had known all that merriwell knew. "somehow, he seems to me like a man who is under the impression that he has lost all of his friends," said kirk. "he needs to be assured that such is not the case--that his friends and acquaintances have no desire to cut him. i think if that could be done he would come out of the slough of despond and be worth something. we may need him this summer; or a man who has his pitching ability ought to develop into something worth while." frank saw that dunstan kirk was edging toward some kind of a request. "if there is anything i can do!" he invited. "well, as your picked nine is to play abernathy's nine, of hartford, on the ball-grounds here next saturday, i wondered if you would be willing to let badger pitch. it is an unheard-of sort of request to make, i know, and it leaves me under the suspicion of wanting to see you beaten by the hartford fellows. but i hope you know me well enough to understand that such cannot be the case." "sure! i'd never thought of it, if you hadn't!" "i've thought of asking this of you for a day or two. you see, if you, who are not particularly badger's friend, show such a disposition to recognize and honor his pitching abilities, it ought to brace him up!" merriwell drummed thoughtfully on the table. "perhaps it can be done! if it will brace him up any and put him on his feet, i shall be glad to show badger all the consideration i can." "i was almost afraid to mention it," explained kirk, "for i know that he has not felt just right toward you. but if you will?" "i intended to pitch that game myself, for abernathy's men are not the easiest things on the planet. of course, if badger falls down, i should be compelled to go into the box and do my best to save the day. and with a fellow like badger, that might not work well. it would be just like him to think that i did it to humiliate him and show myself the better pitcher! you see the possibility?" "yes, i see it!" there were other considerations, which frank did not desire at the moment to mention. "i'll have a talk with badger, and see what i can do!" kirk went on. "when he was so wildly ambitious, a little while back, a word from me might have settled it; but i suppose i shall have to show him by argument that he ought to accept your friendly offer. you authorize me to make that as an offer?" "yes. i'm willing to try to help badger. he has good stuff in him, and, as you say, it would be too bad for him to get into the dumps and neglect to develop it. i can arrange it, i think, and, if he will pitch for us saturday, he may. with the clear understanding that i am at liberty without question to take the pitcher's box at any time i see fit!" "of course!" the captain's face had brightened. he was not a partisan of buck badger, nor of any man. he cared only for the recognition and development of the best yale players and the triumph of the yale nine. and because he recognized in frank merriwell these same unselfish qualities he had come to him with this request. "i doubt much if badger will accept the offer," said frank. "i shall take the offer to him, anyway. i believe it will brighten him to receive it, even if he refuses it. that desire for popularity which you mentioned will, i think, make him accept. he may tell himself and all his friends that he doesn't care for your opinion, but he does, just the same! he can't help caring for the opinion of any man who is a gentleman. i shall approach him carefully!" chapter ii. how the news was received. "huah!" grunted browning, opening his eyes a trifle in surprise, "don't that jar you?" "what will bart say?" gasped rattleton. "merriwell doesn't have to take his orders from hodge!" snapped diamond. "but, just the same, i think it's a fool sort of agreement!" merriwell was in his room talking to some of his friends of the request of the baseball-captain. "hodge will be cot under the holler!" sputtered rattleton. "my dear rattles, don't worry about hodge!" diamond begged. "if you had only said to that captain, 'get thee behind me, satan!'" grumbled dismal jones. "but, of course, you could not resist such a temptation! when evil makes itself seem to us good, we're sure to give way. 'let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall!'" merriwell smiled. he liked to get the opinions of his friends, though usually he acted on his own. "so you think it was a temptation instead of an opportunity?" "what is a temptation?" chirped bink stubbs. "why, every time you grin at me that way i want to hit you in the mouth," explained danny. "it's a temptation i can hardly resist!" "crush it!" yelled bink, feinting with his fists. "if you don't, i'll have to!" "somebody throw those idiots out of the window!" growled bruce, seeking solace in his pipe. "somebody give me a light for this cigarette first," begged danny. "if i must fall i want help to alight!" "shouldn't think you'd need it!" browning declared. "you have a light head. it would hold you up like a balloon!" "of course, if the captain wanted you to take on badger and you've promised to do it, you'll have to go ahead. i'll band sty you--i mean i'll stand by you! i'll do my best to hold down third, no matter who is pitching." frank gave rattleton a grateful look. "you're always loyal, harry!" "oh, i suppose that all of us will have to accept it, and do the best we can," diamond admitted, "but i don't like it, and that's flat. none of us has fallen in love with buck badger!" "we'll be bub-bub-bub-beat worse than any old drum!" grunted gamp. "everlastingly thumped!" wailed danny. "i don't know that i can get up enough interest to do much good on first," grumbled bruce, who was as little pleased as any one. "what's the use of going to the trouble of playing when you know at the start that you're to be defeated?" "look here, bruce!" said merriwell firmly. "i don't want to hear you talk that way! we are not going to be beaten. we will wallop abernathy's men, and don't you worry. we can do it all right!" "isn't that the crack team of hartford?" demanded diamond. "yes. nothing better over there, i think." "then there will be no dead-easy business about it. they're not going to lie down and let us walk over them, just for the purpose of stiffening the spine of that kansan!" jack diamond was disgusted with the outlook. "have i said that they are easy?" merriwell asked. "i only said i felt sure we could defeat them. and we can. badger is a good pitcher. you know that. and if he loses his nerve, i shall very promptly take his place. there will be no monkeying. you are the fellows that seem to be in the notion of lying down." "oh, well play!" grunted bruce. "we're just airing our little opinions. i expected to see you in the box saturday, and i'm disappointed. i suppose that's all!" he gave a tug at his pipe and rolled over lazily on the lounge, as if that settled it. "of course we'll play," agreed diamond. "but i don't like to go into the game with badger in the box. i don't like him. the fellow has made himself an insufferable nuisance. i don't agree with you that he is such a wonder. he's a very ordinary fellow, with a rich father and a swelled head. out west, where he came from, everybody got down on their knees to him, and here at yale that sort of business don't go. nobody cares whether his father is a cattleman or a cow-puncher. he wants to be worshiped, and yale isn't in the worshiping business. consequently, he's sore all the time!" jack forgot that, when he arrived at yale a few years ago, he expected homage on account of his family and pedigree. "and i don't forget that he went aboard the _crested foam_ blind drunk, and made an ass of himself generally!" said bruce, rousing again. "that's one reason merry wants to give him a show!" said rattleton. "badger has an idea that everybody who knows about it feels just as you do, and frank wants to show him that they don't. see?" "oh, we'll play, of course!" bruce grumbled, rolling back again. "sus-sure!" declared gamp. "whatever mum-merry says, gug-gug-gug-gug----" "are you trying to say goshfry?" danny mildly asked, wetting the end of an unlighted cigarette. "gug-goes!" sputtered gamp, giving danny a kick that fairly lifted him from the floor. "you mum-mum-mum-measly runt, i'll kuk-kill you!" "because he's a joker, danny thinks he is the only card in the pack!" said dismal. "if merry says we can go into that game next saturday with badger in the box and earth the wipe--i mean wipe the earth with those fellows from hartford, we can do it!" rattleton declared emphatically. "you know he wouldn't say such a thing if he wasn't sure of it." "there are only two absolutely sure things, death and taxes," said merriwell soberly. "if i put too much emphasis on my belief, i'll have to withdraw it. i mean to say that i believe we can." "and that's about the same as saying that we can!" rattleton asserted. "i'm only doubtful about bart," said dismal, like a prophet of evil. "he will never catch for badger!" diamond declared. "i think he will!" sputtered rattleton. "he will see it just as we do, after merry talks with him. of course, we don't any of us love badger, but what's the difference?" "let 'er go!" cried bink, holding up his hands as if they gripped a bat. "of course, we'll play ball!" "of course!" said dismal. "we'll pitch bart out of the camp if he makes a kick. the fellow that balks on that, when he understands it, is 'fit for treason, stratagem, and spoil!'" shortly after, merriwell met hodge on the campus, coming from the fence. he saw at once that bart was "steaming." "look here, merriwell," said hodge, bristling with indignation. "it surely can't be true that you're going to put badger into the pitcher's box next saturday?" frank took him by the arm and turned with him away from the crowd. "yes," he answered, "i have promised to do that." hodge's face grew black with wrath. "you've made a fool of yourself!" he roughly declared. "i wouldn't believe it. i said it was a lie, and i threatened to thump the face off of donald pike because he told it. say, merry, you don't really mean it?" frank had dropped bart's arm, but they still walked on together. it was easy to see that he did not like hodge's tone and manner. "i must say you are outspoken and far from complimentary," he observed. "i know i don't talk like this to you often." "that's right. if you did, i'm afraid we might not be such good friends." "but i must talk straight now, merry!" "i'm willing that you shall drive ahead, but i want you to hold in your temper. don't let it run away with you." "great scott! how can i hold in my temper under such provocation?" "simply by holding it in." "but you know how i hate badger? you know that we're bitter enemies! you know what i think of him!" "i think i've heard you express some sentiments along that line." "you know that he was drunk when he went aboard that excursion steamer! and he can't pitch!" "you are wrong there!" frank declared positively. "he can pitch." "why, merry, those hartford fellows will just put it all over us. i tell you it won't do! you must give it up!" "i suppose you know why i promised to let him pitch?" "well, i haven't heard, but i can guess. after you'd saved him from drowning himself, and he came to realize what everything meant, he came licking round you, professing gratitude and friendship, and all that sort of stuff. and you----" "see here, hodge!" said frank, with uncommon sternness. "i won't stand talk like that, and you ought to know it. i'm your friend, as i've proved many times, but i can't remain your friend if you treat me that way. i'm ready to hear your opinions, but i won't stand abuse from you or any other man!" "i told you a good while ago that whenever you and badger ceased to be enemies you would become friends!" bart declared, somewhat softened. "and now it has come true. you are wanting to befriend and help him now, just as i knew you would. and after all the dirt he has done you! why, he's put dirt all over you a dozen times!" the memory of it caused bart to lose his head again. "badger is my enemy! a man who is his friend is no friend of mine! that is flat! i don't think i can make it plainer." "you can't; it's plain enough. badger is not my friend, but i am not his enemy." "don't tell me, merriwell! you are his friend. you wouldn't ask such a thing, if you weren't. you must know that every one of the fellows will kick. what did you make such a fool promise for?" merriwell's face was flushed. "you are making reckless talk, just because you are badly excited, old man! i am sure you will be sorry as soon as you cool off. if i didn't think so, i'd say some things that would be hot enough to take the skin off your face! now, listen here! i have promised dunstan kirk to let badger pitch next saturday in that game against hartford. kirk thinks it will brace badger up a little, and perhaps it will. i am willing to help badger. he can pitch. we need good pitchers. besides, i have given kirk my promise. i mean to keep it." up to that moment, angry and unreasonable as he was, bart had half-believed that merriwell might yet back out of his position, and refuse to let buck go into the box. he saw now how mistaken he had been. "and you expect me to catch for that scoundrel?" he demanded, shaking with rage. "i tell you, merriwell, i won't do it! i'll do any reasonable thing you want me to do, but i won't do that! i draw the line there, short and sharp! i won't play in a nine with buck badger!" "very well, then, we'll have to get along without you!" "do you mean it, merry?" hodge gasped. "do you mean that you will choose him before me?" "nothing of the kind, and you ought to know it. you would know it, if you were not just blind with anger and prejudice. i am not choosing badger in preference to any of my friends!" "why aren't you?" "because i am not. there is no choosing of friends in this. i have said badger shall pitch in that game. that does not make him my friend, and it ought not to drive any of my friends away. i am manager of the picked nine, and i supposed that my friends who had known me so long would be willing that i should have some privileges." "but when i declare i won't catch?" "you have no right to make any such declaration." "why haven't i?" "simply because, as my friend, you ought to be willing to aid me in this matter. i shall not put it on any other ground." "i'll do anything for you, merry, but that. i can't do that!" "you mean you will not do it!" "i won't do it!" "then i shall get another catcher!" "do you mean it?" "i mean it!" hodge seemed stunned for a moment. then his rage boiled over. "all right, merry!" he flashed. "if you want to favor a scoundrel like badger instead of me, you can do it. but i will not catch in that game. i refuse to play on any nine with badger! i----" "i remember to have heard you say those things before!" said frank, turning short about. "we will not discuss it any further, bart. you are a free man. you may do as you please. i shall not argue the matter with you. badger is going to pitch for me saturday forenoon. good day!" hodge stopped and looked after him, all white and shaky, as merriwell walked away. then the hot blood rushed in a tide into his dark face, and he, too, turned and walked off, filled with smothered exclamations and raging like a volcano. chapter iii. pike's little plan. donald pike was in a nagging mood. he walked up and down the room a few times, finally stopping in front of his chum, buck badger. they had been talking about the saturday ball-game, and both were in bad humor. "i don't know what's the matter with you, badger! i'm disgusted with you!" the westerner shifted his feet nervously, but said nothing. "perhaps you consider it an honor to receive that invitation from merriwell? i don't! i am surprised that he sent it." badger shifted his feet again, and shrugged his thick shoulders. his face was flushed and his eyes looked troubled. "i am, too!" "he had a motive, of course!" badger tossed a leg over the arm of his chair, and looked out of the window. "it has been his boast all along that he would have you in his flock by and by! you have always sworn by all that's good and bad that you would never become a friend of his!" "i'm not a friend of his!" pike laughed sneeringly. "what do you call it? if i say a word against frank merriwell you want to eat me up. it's come to that! you were ready to fight him any minute, at first; now you're ready to lick the polish off his shoes, just like the rest of those fellows." "nothing of the kind!" badger hotly declared. "well, you're going to pitch for his picked team saturday!" "kirk asked me to." "and merriwell sent him?" "yes!" "and they have become such friends that they're almost chums. the fellows are beginning to say that dunstan kirk manages the yale ball-team, and frank merriwell manages dunstan kirk. they are about right, i guess!" "i allow that i'm no nearer being merriwell's chum than i ever was. we could never be chums. but i'm not going to forget what he did for me on the _crested foam_. he saved my life, then, pike!" "and proposes to wind you round his fingers and drag you at his heels to make you pay for it!" "so, when he sent me that invitation, and i talked it over with kirk, i thought i ought to accept it." "don't you know that hodge will refuse to catch?" "don't talk about him!" badger hissed. "he has already said that he will not catch for such a scoundrel as you!" "did he say that?" "he says you will lose them the game; that it's an outrage to put you into the box, and he won't be a party to it. he says you can't pitch." "can't i? he says that, does he?" "he says that if frank merriwell takes up with you, he will never speak to him again. anyhow, what good will it do you to pitch for merriwell? you'll be no nearer getting a show on the regular nine." badger shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and showed his broad white teeth unpleasantly. pike was again walking up and down the room. "i'd almost be willing to become a member of merriwell's flock just to spite bart hodge. my hands just naturally go up, and i want to fight whenever i see him. that's whatever!" "oh, you two will be as chummy as the siamese twins in less than a month." "never! i hate him too badly." "that's the way you were talking of merriwell a month ago. you will come round to it!" "not on your life! hodge is a different sort of fellow from merriwell, i allow." "and you are going to accept that invitation?" "i told you, pike, that i have already accepted it. i'm not merriwell's friend, and i despise bart hodge; but i'm not ungrateful. whatever other things we learn out west, we learn to pay back favor for favor. i'd be a dirty coyote if i refused to accept that invitation after what merriwell did for me. that's the way i look at it. i know that i can pitch ball. you know it, too. i can twirl a ball just as good as frank merriwell, or any other fellow in yale, and you know that, too. i reckon i'm able to ride my bronco alone, without merriwell's help. i am not asking favors--none whatever! i'm simply returning a favor already given! you can see through that, can't you? if you can't, you're as chuckle-headed as a prairie-dog!" "i can see that you are becoming frank merriwell's friend just as fast as you can!" "you're riding away off the line, pike! i shall never be merry's friend in the sense you think. but you know that he is the clean white article. he is straight goods. i've found that out. i used to think different, just as you do, but i've found out i was mistaken. he is a square man. and when he sent that invitation i knew there was no underhand business about it whatever. that's the reason i accepted it; that and because it would have made me feel meaner than a digger indian if i had refused it. i'm going to pitch for him saturday forenoon, and i'll win that game for him, too. don't you let that fact escape your memory! i hope bart hodge will refuse to catch. i'm afraid i couldn't resist the temptation to throw the ball square at his head every time, if he was behind the bat. i want him to stay out!" "well, you're a fool!" pike snapped, striding toward the door. "i never thought you'd do a thing like that. you are no more like the old badger than a calf is like a mountain-lion. you had some fire in you once, but you have become as soft as a ninny. the whole thing simply makes me sick." badger's face was red and his neck veins were swelling. "i'm not used to any such talk whatever, pike!" he exclaimed, as pike hurled these sentences back at him from the doorway. "if you say anything like that again i'll kick you down-stairs! i've taken more off of you to-night than i ever thought i could take from any one, and i won't stand it any longer!" "cool off, old man!" pike sneered. "you're making a chuckle-headed prairie-dog out of yourself, i think. if you should kick me you would kick the best friend you ever had. good-by. see you later!" the westerner did not even grunt a reply, but sat still in his chair with his hands in his pockets, his eyes glittering, his broad teeth showing, his neck veins protuberant and his face as red as a boiled lobster, while pike walked away. when pike came back to the room badger was gone. pike entered with his own key. he knew that the westerner would likely be away a number of hours, calling on winnie lee. he glanced round the room, then went to the closet in which badger's clothing hung. pike was crafty in his hate. he did not intend to lose his grip of the kansan. he realized that he had gone almost too far. badger would bear a good deal from him because of what they had been to each other, but to this there were limits. he felt that he had nearly reached the limit. "he shall not pitch ball saturday, if i can help it!" he hissed, as he looked over the things in the closet. "if i can work it, it will make hodge so hot against him that there will be a fight. and perhaps it will turn merriwell and his precious flock against him, too. it's risky, but it is worth all the risk." he took out a suit of badger's clothes, and laid it in a chair. then he went to a desk and selected from it some "make-up" preparations which had been there ever since the production of the sophomore play, "a mountain vendetta." then, after locking the door, he arrayed himself in badger's suit, and, standing before the mirror, applied the preparations to his face, forehead, and eyebrows. pike had a good deal of artistic skill in such matters, and in a short time he had darkened his face, blackened his brows and drawn certain lines and colors, that, together with the change produced by the clothing, made him resemble badger in a remarkable manner. when he put on badger's hat the alteration seemed complete. "of course, that wouldn't stand close inspection," he muttered. "but there will be no close inspection. i shall look out for that. now for the voice!" he bunched up his shoulders to give them a thick look, cleared his throat, and looking straight at himself in the glass, began to imitate badger's tones and characteristics of speech, speaking so low, however, that there was no danger of being heard by any one who might chance to pass. "i allow that i'm a kansan from away beyond the kaw, and i reckon i'm a diamond pure without the slightest flaw! sure! a genuine prairie-dog from the short-grass country couldn't chatter more like a westerner than that. that would fool badger himself. that's whatever! yes, i reckon. my daddy is a rancher, and i allow that i am great; for my home is on the boundless plains of the wonderful sunflower state! if i should practise, i reckon i could become a poet!" satisfied with his make-up and his abilities to imitate badger's tone and language, donald pike returned the unused articles to the drawer, put away the clothing he had removed, and then sneaked down into the campus, carrying under his coat a long, stout cord. keeping away from the electric lamps and other lights he slipped stealthily on until he reached the entrance which led to the rooms occupied by merriwell and hodge. diamond and browning came down, talking in low tones of merry and bart, and from this talk, pike, who had withdrawn into the shadows, learned that both hodge and frank were out in town somewhere. this suited pike's plans, and when diamond and bruce disappeared, he crawled into the shadow of a column and watched the path along which hodge and merriwell would come on their return. "they'll not come back together, sure, unless all the stories i've heard are lies; for they're not on speaking terms!" he reflected. "the only thing i fear is that hodge may not care to come to his rooms at all." the thought made him uneasy, and caused the vigil which followed to appear torturingly long. "ah! there he is!" he whispered, at last. slipping across the path, he tied an end of the cord he had brought to a post, then retreated into the shadow and tied the other end about the column. the youth he had seen came on at a brisk walk. pike was sure it was hodge. he almost ceased to breathe as the unsuspecting young fellow approached the cord. he put himself in position for a hasty spring. crash! the youth tripped over the string, and went down headlong, falling heavily. "i reckon i've got you now!" pike hissed in a low tone, imitating badger's voice, and at the same time leaping toward the prostrate form. deceived by the darkness, donald pike had tripped frank merriwell, but he did not yet know it. with that imitation of the westerner's speech, he knocked merriwell down, as the latter tried to get up. again he struck, as frank attempted to rise, but merriwell dodged the blow, and, catching pike by the legs, threw him. before pike could realize what had happened, merriwell was on top, with his fingers at pike's throat. "you scoundrel!" frank hissed. "i am tempted to give you what you deserve for that!" but pike was not ready to surrender, though he knew now that he had committed a woful blunder. in fact, the knowledge that he was dealing with frank merriwell aroused him to a fierce resistance. he felt that it would simply be ruinous to be held and recognized by merriwell, and he began to fight like a demon to get away. he freed his hands, and struck frank heavily in the face, at the same time kicking with all his might. he tried to thrust his thumbs into frank's eyes. "i'll kill you, if you don't let me go!" he snarled. frank had felt from the first that his assailant could not be buck badger; now he recognized the voice of donald pike, for pike, in his fright and desperation, forgot to keep up the disguise. seeing that the only way to deal with pike was to choke him into semi-insensibility, he caught and crushed down the flailing fists and arms and tightened his grip on pike's throat. pike writhed and flounced, kicking and struggling, but all without avail. that viselike grip grew tighter and tighter. the pain seemed unbearable. he gurgled and choked, and his lungs seemed to be bursting. he could not breathe, and his brain began to reel. "give in?" frank asked. "don't k-k-k-ill me!" pike gasped, as the grip on his throat relaxed. "you deserve it, you scoundrel!" frank took his knee from pike's breast, removed the choking hand, and flung pike from him. "now get up!" he commanded. "get up before i am tempted to kick you across the campus!" pike shuffled and evaded, as his breath came back. "i thought you were badger, and i was just playing a little joke on you!" he whined. "get up!" frank exclaimed. pike struggled up, and merriwell jerked him toward the nearest light. he saw the "make-up," and recognized the clothes as some he had seen on the kansan. "what were you up to?" he demanded, with threatening emphasis. he saw forms moving in the campus, and he did not want to tarry with pike. "just a little sport!" pike whined. he was completely crushed. "you lie, donald pike! you had some object. i can almost guess what it was. you imitated badger's voice and way of speaking, when you jumped on me. you are wearing badger's clothing. that make-up is intended to lead any one who sees you into thinking you were buck badger. you wanted to make me believe that badger had assaulted me." "just a joke!" pike pleaded. "merriwell, i didn't mean anything, only to have a bit of sport. that is honest. i didn't know it was you." "ah! that last sounds as if you meant it. i hardly think you did know who you were tackling. i think i shall take you over to badger's room, and let him see you just as you are. come along!" pike was not anxious to be seen by the men who were crossing the campus, so he moved along, with frank at his side. frank was thinking rapidly, in an effort to understand pike's motives. "i want to know why you leaped on me in that cowardly way, and struck me when i was down. you wouldn't have served badger that way! and if you wanted to have a little fun with badger, you would not have disguised yourself and imitated his way of speaking. that story don't go with me, pike!" pike was watching for a chance to escape, intending to make a dash for liberty at the first opportunity. "you are disguised as badger. badger would not assault me that way, for badger is a man! but you wanted to make some one think he had been assaulted by badger. that one must be bart hodge!" pike started to run, but frank caught him by the collar, and jerked him back. "don't be in a hurry, pike! i've seen you through and through for some time, and understand your little game of this evening." donald pike walked on for a time peaceably enough, but he was only watching for an opportunity to break away. again he fancied the opportunity had come. but no sooner did he start than frank tripped him, and he fell sprawling. before he could get up, frank's hand was on his collar. he made another fierce struggle as soon as he was on his feet, only to discover that he was as helpless as a child in the hands of frank merriwell. he had never dreamed that merriwell was possessed of such strength and skill. the shadows were heavier at this point, and merriwell kept a grip on pike's collar. "see here, pike!" he exclaimed. "if you try anything of that kind again i shall simply knock you down. you are going with me, if i have to tie and drag you. so you might as well come along quietly and save trouble." "i shall have you arrested for this!" pike blustered, now that whining and begging and fighting had failed. "do! i think your friends would enjoy hearing the story of your remarkable masquerade told in court. go ahead with the proceedings, donald. just now you are going with me, regardless of the after consequences." pike caught at a post, but merriwell jerked him away from it, and then hurried him rapidly on in the direction of badger's room. pike was sure badger was not in, and began to think that he might save himself bruises and rough treatment by apparent acquiescence. "i will go with you," he finally panted, "but under protest. and i shall make you sorry for this outrage. you have no right to treat me thus." merriwell did not answer, but kept a hand on pike's collar while he conducted him up the stairs. to pike's consternation, buck badger was in the room and the door was open. before pike could quite make up his mind to try again to escape, merriwell had bundled him through the doorway. badger scrambled up. "there is your friend!" said merriwell, pointing a finger accusingly at pike, who was too confused and humiliated to speak. "he disguised himself that way, and attacked me awhile ago near my room, thinking i was bart hodge. he has found out his mistake. he wanted to make hodge think that you had done the dirty work, so that you and hodge would lock horns the first time you met, and there would be trouble again all around the camp. he is a contemptible and cowardly puppy, and i feel that i have soiled my hands by touching him. but i wanted you to see him in that rig, and know him as he is." a fierce denial was on the lips of donald pike, but he had not the courage to utter it. he saw that something more than denials would be necessary to explain matters. the westerner was as speechless as pike, and merriwell turned away. "i reckon we'll have a little explanation of this, pike!" were the words merry heard as he reached the head of the stairs. they were spoken in an awesome tone of voice, and came from badger's lips. then the door closed with a bang, and he knew that the kansan had barred the way of pike's escape from the room. the next morning frank received this note: "mr. frank merriwell: pike and i had a settlement last night. he tried to lie out of the thing, but i made him confess to the whole truth. then i kicked him down-stairs. we are not rooming together any more whatever. buck badger." chapter iv. at the home of winnie lee. frank merriwell seemed the personification of spring as he approached the residence of fairfax lee, the next afternoon. spring is the time when the wine of life flows warm through the veins of nature. its face holds the bloom of youth and the smile of hope. its heart is all aglow with the joy of living. the golden summer is before it; and it has no dead past, for the winter seems to belong to the year that has gone. a handsomer specimen of young manhood could not have been found. the flowering spray in his buttonhole seemed part of the jaunty new suit which so became him. he was clean-looking and energetically wholesome. from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet he was nattily neat, yet he was as far from being dudish in appearance as it is possible for one to be. he looked to be what he was--strong, and lithe-limbed, almost physically perfect, with a handsome, intelligent face, hopeful, courageous heart, and active brain. yet many things had come to trouble him in the past twenty-four hours, even though his bright face showed not a trace of their annoying effect. chief of these things, of course, was the defection of bart hodge. hodge had gone away stubbornly angry, and merriwell had not seen him since the moment of parting. every member of the "flock" was hot against hodge, and had not hesitated to speak plainly. hodge's rebellious spirit had rallied them round merriwell as one man. browning and diamond had even argued that he ought not to be longer recognized as a member of merriwell's set. the only one who had ventured to stand up for him, aside from merriwell himself, was harry rattleton. frank had defended him to the last, insisting that allowances should be made for the peculiarities of bart's disposition, and asserting that he would be found all right in the end. frank was thinking of all this as he drew near the home of winnie lee. his intention was to call on inza and have a talk with her about the 'varsity boat-races at new london in june, for inza was the "mascot" of the yale crew that was to meet harvard at new london. in addition, he expected to inform her and her friends of the arrangements made for the ball-game with hartford on saturday. he looked about him after he had tripped lightly up the steps and rang the bell. the lee home was in a fashionable and exclusive part of new haven, and the spacious grounds were beginning to take on beauty and color under the reviving influences of spring. a fountain, shot through with rainbow hues, was spraying a marble sprite, while a rheumatic gardener troweled round the rim of a loamy flower-bed. winnie, who had observed merriwell's approach, came to the door herself to admit him. "oh, you didn't come to see me?" she asked, when he inquired for inza. "that would be pleasant enough, but it wouldn't do to make buck jealous!" he laughed in his cheery way. "i don't think it would be easy to make him jealous of you now," she answered. "and i'm so glad he is to pitch for you saturday! i want to thank you for that, myself. it was just like you to send such an invitation." merriwell's eyes dropped under her earnest look. he dared not tell her just then that the invitation had been procured by dunstan kirk. "who told you he is to pitch saturday?" "why, he told me so this morning himself." "and, of course, you have told elsie and inza?" "yes." "well, i want to see inza, and have a talk with her, about the new london races. so i think i will take a car for mrs. moran's." winnie had informed him that both inza and elsie had gone on an errand of mercy to the home of the grandmother of barney lynn. "and you won't come in, even a little while? you prefer their society to mine, i see! i am ashamed of you, frank merriwell! you are not as gallant as you used to be." her voice was merry and her heart light. "some other afternoon or evening i shall be glad to come in and talk you to death. just now i am pressed for time." "i ought to have gone down there with them," she confessed. "but it seemed that i couldn't get away. frank, you don't know what angels of mercy those girls have been! elsie found out that mrs. moran was starving and dying by inches for lack of proper food and medicines, and since then she and inza have been down there every day, and often two or three times a day." "i trust they don't venture after nightfall!" frank was thinking of a fight jack ready had while rescuing elsie from the drunken ruffian, jim haskins. then he thanked winnie for her invitation, said good-by, and hurried away to catch the first car going in the direction which he wished to take. "i hope badger is entirely worthy of her," he thought, his mind on winnie lee. "she is a fine girl, and if he gets her he will get a prize. now, if they don't pass me, coming back in another car! winnie hasn't the least idea that buck was intoxicated when he went aboard the _crested foam_, and she shall never know it from me!" neither of the girls heard merriwell's gentle rap on mrs. moran's door, and he pushed into the house without further ceremony, feeling sure that they were busy in caring for the old lady or that her condition was such that they could not leave her. then, looking through the doorway at the right of the corridor, his gaze fell on a pleasant sight. the girls were seated by the bed, elsie holding one of mrs. moran's wasted hands in her own warm palms, while inza was reading to the old woman from a little copy of the new testament. merriwell stopped for a moment, for his entrance had been unnoticed. somehow, the pathos of the scene inexpressibly touched him. "they are angels of mercy, just as winnie said!" was his thought. inza had an excellent reading voice, as pure and liquid as falling water. it was a pleasure to listen to it. frank had often heard her read, but it seemed to him never with such expression as at that moment. the sunlight, falling through the small west window, illuminated her face, making it almost radiant, and touched with brighter tints elsie's crown of golden hair. "i wish i were a painter!" he thought. "i should like to preserve that scene. if i could have that to hang in my room, it would be like a flash of sunshine to look at. but no painter could do it justice. there are certain things that can't be painted, and this is one of them." he noisily shifted his feet to call attention to his presence, and inza looked up. the color flooded her cheeks, and her dark eyes showed surprise. "why, frank!" she gasped. "how did you come to be here?" elsie also started up. "how did you get in?" she asked. "opened the door and walked in. you were so busy you didn't hear my knock, so i just took the liberty." mrs. moran stirred, and turning feebly, looked at him, her eyes showing recognition. "i am very glad to see you!" she whispered, as he advanced toward the bed, and she stretched out one of the feeble hands. "sometimes i think that i am not long for this world. i should have died here, i feel sure, if it had not been for these girls. and your other friend, miss winnie, has been very good, too! i hope you are quite well, mr. merriwell!" "quite well! don't let me disturb you. inza was reading to you. let her go on. i will sit here in this chair." so inza read again, until the old woman was tired; after which the trio left the house, and walked down to the car line, where they took a car for the residence of the honorable fairfax lee. "i went to lee's to see you," frank explained, "for i wanted to talk over some details of the trip to new london and the june races. the mascot of the crew hasn't been down to the boat-house this week. and i wanted to invite both of you, and winnie, to the ball-game saturday forenoon." "i am sorry about bart!" inza exclaimed. "but he will come round all right, don't you think?" "he may not play in this game, but he will see how foolish he is, and be heartily ashamed of it by and by." "who is to catch for you, then?" "jack ready!" "what?" "perhaps you haven't seen ready catch? he is a good one!" "you need a strong battery, frank!" elsie asserted. "yes, like you and hodge," nodded inza. "i'm afraid badger and ready will not be able to work well together. they haven't played together before, i believe?" inza was full of bright, snappy conversation, as they sped homeward in the car with merriwell. but elsie was unusually silent. "she can't get mrs. moran out of her mind," frank thought. he left them at the door, for the hour had grown so late that he felt he could not just then spare the time to go into the house, much as he wanted to do so. inza and elsie went up-stairs together. winnie was out or in another part of the house. inza shrugged her shapely shoulders. "what is the matter, elsie, dear?" elsie's lips were quivering as she faced round and confronted her friend. "you ought to know what is the matter, inza burrage!" she declared. "i'm not the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter," said inza, a bit defiantly. "how should i know?" "you do know!" "i should say that you are showing a bit of jealousy, if pressed for an answer." "and haven't i a right to be jealous, inza?" elsie demanded. "haven't i a right to talk to frank merriwell and be nice to him, if i want to?" "of course, inza, but--well--you know----" "it seems to me, elsie, that you came between frank and me once! isn't it so? frank cared for me before he ever did for you. you came between us. i haven't come between you and frank yet, but if i should do so would it be any worse than what you did?" "oh, i thought that was past!" cried elsie, flushing and trembling. "you never understood me, inza!" "and do you fancy for a moment that you understand me?" "perhaps not; but i can see--i'm not blind!" "oh, yes, jealous people can see things that no one else can," laughed inza, with a provoking toss of her proud head. "do you want to make me hate you forever, inza burrage?" elsie cried. "you hurt me! you are heartless!" a sudden look of deep pain shone in inza's face, changing her manner in a twinkling, and she turned away as if trying to conceal it. "of course, nothing ever hurts me!" she said bitterly. "i am steel and iron, and all that! your heart is tender, and such things hurt you!" elsie did not know what to say. she had tried to feel for a time that inza had ceased to care for frank, and then had told herself that inza had no longer any right to care for him. she was beginning to realize that questions of right and wrong cut very little figure in affairs of the heart--that, in fact, love obeys no such laws. when inza turned back, her face had lost its trace of pain. "elsie," she said, "we will not quarrel about frank, for frank's sake. it would distress him if he knew it. he must never know it. promise me that you will not say a word to him about it." "of course i won't say anything about it," elsie agreed. "i should fear to, and i shouldn't want to." "then we'll keep it to ourselves. you have discovered that i haven't ceased to care for frank merriwell. perhaps i never shall. but that is neither here nor there." the old wave of jealousy swept across the tortured soul of elsie bellwood. "do you mean that you intend to win him if you can, after you have told me that you surrender all claim on him?" "i haven't said anything of the kind. but i claim the right and privilege of talking to him and with him as much as i please. you and he are not engaged, even if he has seemed to prefer you. he may change his mind, just as he did before, but remember that i'm not trying to get him to!" "then you do intend to try to win him?" "my dear, you must recognize the fact that frank is the one to do the winning. i shall never run after any man." elsie's blue eyes flashed. "do you mean to insinuate that i would?" "i thought we weren't going to quarrel!" the look of pain came back into the dark, handsome face, and this time elsie saw it. a feeling of remorse began to tug at her heart. "i am not worthy of frank merriwell," she said softly. "i know that. but i thought----" "you thought nothing could hurt me!" "no, not that. i thought he was to be mine, and recently that hope has been slipping through my fingers. i can't tell you, inza, how i have felt." "i can understand!" said the dark-haired girl. "i have good cause to understand!" "i know that really you are more worthy of him, inza, than i am. i have always thought that, when i wasn't crazy with the fear that you might win him away from me. but i just can't surrender my claim, slender as you think it!" "for frank's sake," repeated inza, "we will not quarrel about him! as for these other questions----" winnie's light step was heard in the hall, and the sentence died unfinished. chapter v. hodge's repentance. bart hodge absented himself from class and lecture, but later that night, after all the members of the "flock" had departed from merriwell's room, bart came in. his face was flushed and feverish. "i don't care what the other fellows think, merry!" he said, dropping into a chair as if he felt that he had no right there. "but i do care what you think! i went away in a huff, saying to myself that i'd never come back until you sent for me, when i knew that you wouldn't send for me, and that i would come back. and here i am." "how could i have sent for you, bart?" merry questioned. "i knew you would feel differently when you had time to think it all over, and i told the fellows so." "i don't care for their opinions!" bart snarled. "i'd never come back for any of them!" "they are my friends!" "i've been miserable ever since. i have felt like a cur as i've sneaked round town. you needn't try to stop me! you are the truest friend i ever had, and i've treated you like a dog. i know it, and i'm sorry for it." "i am your friend, bart, because i understand you, and appreciate you. the others would think as much of you as i do, if they understood you as well. we'll not talk any more about this matter, if you're willing, but just turn in for the night and say nothing about it." "how can you overlook a thing like that?" hodge asked. "because i knew all the time that your better nature condemned what you did, and that you would by and by yield to your better nature. the man who meets a powerful temptation and finally masters it is stronger really than one who never is tempted. i forgave you long ago, bart, and would have told you so if you had come back. i was angry at the time, but i didn't remain angry." "i've come back to tell you that i'll catch for you to-morrow--saturday. i swore i'd never catch for buck badger, but i will. i'll catch for the old boy himself, if you want me to. i'm not ready to agree that he ought to be permitted to pitch, for i hate the very sight of him; but i have put that by, and will catch for you. it will be catching for you, you see, merry, and not for him. i ought to have looked at it that way before, but i could not." "i have got jack ready for catcher!" bart gasped, while his dark face seemed to get redder and hotter. "why, he can't catch!" "much better than you think. he is a pretty fair catcher." "and if he falls down?" "i'll put some one else in. i have two or three in mind, and have spoken to two of them." hodge seemed stunned. "i'm willing to catch!" he said. "you may, bart, if i see that ready can't do the work. if the game seems about to be lost i'll go into the pitcher's box and you behind the bat, and we'll pull the nine out of the hole! eh?" hodge's eyes brightened strangely. "we can do it, merry! i'll be as steady as a clock. only i'm sorry things went the way they did and that i showed how mean i can be. i only proved what my enemies say of me. it's too late now, but i'm ready to do what i can to make it right." merriwell came over and put a hand on bart's shoulder. "i understand you, bart, and few do. i know that your friendship for me is true blue, and that your heart is where it should be, even if your head runs away with you. now we'll get to bed. to-morrow we play ball, and i want to be in condition." but bart hodge was not in condition to play ball, nor in condition for anything the next day. when morning came he had a high fever, and the doctor whom merriwell summoned looked grave. "he has lost sleep and been exposing himself and caught cold," he said. "it looks like a case of pneumonia. better send him to the hospital." "will he be better off at the hospital than here, if there is some one here to take care of him?" "no, i don't know that he will. and i was going to say that it is really too bad to move him in his condition." "then he will stay right here. i'll get the best nurse to be had, and look after him all i can myself!" and hodge, under the best of care, remained in his room, while merriwell's nine, with jack ready as catcher and badger as pitcher, went out to meet the team from hartford that forenoon. a big crowd of rooters had come over from hartford to whoop things up for abernathy's men. they were enthusiastic fellows, and they made a great deal of noise. some of them were betting men, and they flourished their money with as much confidence as if the game were already won and they were certain of raking in their winnings. but yale had turned out a big crowd, too, for merriwell was immensely popular, and, of course, the yale and new haven crowd would naturally be the larger on the home grounds. "we'll have a warm time this forenoon!" frank observed to jack ready. "torrid as the equator!" ready answered. "how is your nerve, old man?" ready dropped a finger to his pulse and seemed to be counting. "steady as a clock, merry!" "keep it that way. there is badger coming over for a talk with you. we'll begin as soon as we get a little warming up." he looked at his watch and began to talk with browning, while ready and badger drew aside to confer. merriwell could see that badger was a bit nervous when the game was called. there was a flush in his face and a glitter in his eyes that told of excitement, but this seemed to disappear as he took the clean new spalding ball in his hands and entered the box. in the grand stand frank saw inza, elsie, and winnie, and he lifted his hat to them again, though he had enjoyed a long talk with them not many minutes before. winnie was smilingly happy. she waved her handkerchief to badger, and the kansan's white teeth showed in a grim smile of determination. "if only you and bodge were the hattery--i mean if only you and hodge were the battery!" rattleton groaned in frank's ear. "don't worry, rattles! just do your duty on third!" merry answered. "we are all right!" thus encouraged, harry went away happy and confident. browning was on first, with diamond on second. danny griswold was short-stop; while dismal had the right field, bink stubbs center, and joe gamp the left. the game opened with merriwell's men in the field. the westerner surveyed the ground and his surroundings carefully. then planted his toe on the rubber plate and shot in a "twister." it curved inward as it neared the batter, and cut the heart of the plate. the batter had been fooled and did not swing at it. "one strike!" called the umpire. the batter, who was looking out for an out curve next, swung at it, and fanned the air. the yale men, and especially the sophomores, began to shout. badger thought it time to change to an out curve, and sent one in hot as a mauser bullet. but the batter was looking for out curves. he reached for it. crack!--away it sailed into the right field. "go, long legs!" was screamed at dismal jones, who sprinted for it with all his might. the next man of the hartfords at the bat was the pitcher, pink wilson, a fellow almost as tall and lank as dismal jones, with a hatchet face and a corkscrew nose. his admirers said he got that twisted nose from watching his own curves in delivering. he came up confident, thinking he understood the tricks of the kansan pretty well, and that he would be easy. but almost before he knew it the umpire called "one strike." "that ball must have passed this side of the plate," he declared. "it was an in, and i had to jump to get out of the way." "don't jump at shadows!" shouted a yale sophomore. "that ball was all right." the umpire promptly informed wilson that he was talking too much with his mouth. "i'll get him the next time!" thought the lank pitcher of the hartfords. "he fooled me that time, but he can't do it again!" but badger did it again. again the sophomores began to yell. jack ready tossed the ball back. badger began to look and to feel confident, a thing that merriwell, who was closely watching him, did not like. this time the westerner, after almost bending himself double, gave his arm an eccentric movement and shot in another curve. wilson struck at it desperately, and fanned out. "he can't keep it up!" yelled a hartford man, who had been wildly hunting for bets a short time before, and who felt the need of whistling to keep his courage up. barrows, the center-fielder, came to the bat next. he went after the very first one, and got it crack! and away the ball flew again into the right field, while the hartford lads opened up with great vigor. it was a hit, for everybody saw that dismal, even though he was doing his best, could not possibly get it. barrows raced to first, while tillinghast, the base-runner, took second, without trouble, but stumbled and fell, so that it was impossible for him to make another bag on the hit. badger next tried his highest speed, and the batter fanned, but ready dropped and fumbled the ball, being unable to hold it, and came very near letting both runners advance, although he did get the sphere down to third in time to drive them back. watching closely, frank had discovered that something about badger's delivery bothered ready. badger himself saw this, and he tried a change of pace, but the batter caught it on the handle of his "wagon-tongue," and drove out a "scratch hit" that filled the bases. oleson, a swede, almost as large as browning, came up to the plate. "and there were giants in those days," droned jones, from his position in the field. "how's that for the giant?" cried oleson, as he slashed yet another down into dismal's territory, bringing in the first score and causing the hartford rooters to "open up." jones made a beautiful throw home, which sent barrows scrambling back to third, which he reached barely in time to save himself, for ready had lined it down to that bag in short order. frank was beginning to wonder if all the hartford men were right-field hitters, or was there something in badger's pitching that caused them to put the balls into that field? unable to keep still, he walked down toward first, and browning found an opportunity to say: "we ought to have hodge behind the bat. badger can't use his speed, for ready can't hold him. are you going to let those fellows lose this game in the first inning, merriwell? if you do, i'll kick myself for a week for being chump enough to get out here and swear for nothing." "it's a handicap not to have hodge," admitted frank. browning felt like saying it was a handicap not to have frank in the box, but, fancying he had said enough in that line, he kept still. badger's face took on a hard look. he motioned for ready to come down and advanced to meet him. a few words passed between them, while the hartford "fans" guyed them. this little talk seemed to bear good fruit, for the westerner fooled the next batter with two drops, getting two strikes called. then he tried "coaxers" till three balls were called on him, and again, with every runner taking all the "lead" he dared, the excitement was at a high pitch. frank feared for the result. "oh, for hodge!" he thought. "i see now that our handicap means disaster unless the wind changes." ready was crouching under the bat, nervous, but determined. badger took his time, but put terrible speed into the next ball, which he sent over the inner corner of the plate. the batter struck at it, but missed clean. plunk! the ball struck in ready's hand. thud! it dropped to the ground. but the bases were filled, and the batter was out, for all that jack had not held the ball. he recovered it so that there was no possibility for the man on third to get home. now two men were out, but the bags were filled, and a long, safe hit meant more scores for the visitors. fleetwood, the hartford third-baseman, took his turn at the stick. he was a good waiter, and he found just what he wanted, sending it safe over the short-stop, so that two more scores came in. badger was pale round the mouth when the next hitter stepped up to the plate. he did not spare ready. jack missed the first two balls, being unable to hold them, although he did not let them get past him. both were strikes, and again badger tried to "work" the batter, though he did not slacken his speed. frank was anxious, for he expected to see the freshman catcher let one of those hot ones pass him. nothing of the kind happened, and, after trying two balls, buck used a sharp rise and struck the man out. the college men on the bleachers rose up and howled, but frank merriwell was gloomy at heart, though his lips smiled. "badger is doing well," he told himself; "but ready cannot hold him. i'm afraid the handicap is too great. oh, for bart hodge just now!" the first half of the first inning was over, but hartford had made three runs. chapter vi. ready steady. merriwell saw that ready could not catch for buck badger. there was such an utter absence of anything like team-work that there seemed to be little hope that the game could be won by merriwell's nine if the battery was not changed. badger could pitch like a wonder at times, but he rattled ready, who, as a rule, and in regard to other matters, was as steady as a clock. ready simply could not do himself justice with badger in the box. he felt it as well as merriwell, but he doggedly continued, determined at all events to do his best. ready was a fellow of infinite pluck, and usually a fellow of infinite confidence. he would have had confidence now, but there was not a thing to build his confidence on. merriwell's nine scored four times before it was forced again into the field. frank sent badger into the box again, after talking with him awhile. "you rattle ready, some way!" frank told him. "throw those in curves more, and work in your dropped balls when you can. they get your out curves." then, before playing again, he had a few words with ready. the first man at the bat got a hit, while the next man took first on balls. the next man at the bat knocked a fly into the hands of danny griswold, who was playing short-stop, and the base-runners came back to their places. then the men on bases tried to make a double steal, which was partially successful. the fellow on second reached third, but the runner behind him was cut off at second by a throw from ready. jack should have thrown to third, but he did not. he threw low to second, and diamond got it on the bound, touching the runner as that individual was making a desperate slide. two men were out, and frank hoped that badger would keep the visitors from scoring. buck might have done so, but somehow he "crossed signals" with jack, the result being a passed ball that let in a score. "i'm hot stuff," chirped ready, as he found frank back at the bench of the home team. "when i don't fail, i succeed." "i see you do," answered frank dryly. "you succeeded in letting in that run." "our wires got crossed. badge gave me an in when i was looking for an out. if you'll put in a pitcher who can throw a curve, i'll surprise you." "does badger rattle you?" "refuse me! i think i rattle him." there was no time for further talk, and the game went on. buck was nervous, and frank pitied him, for he could see that the westerner might do well with a good catcher behind the bat. just then merry did not know of a man to put in ready's place, for he could see that the westerner's great speed and queer delivery might be too much for any green catcher who was not used to him. "yes," muttered frank, "the loss of hodge is the handicap that will cause us to lose the game--if we lose it." the next man got first on balls, and then the following batter lifted a high foul. ready got under it, and the hartfords were retired at last. "we're done up, merry," said rattleton, as the men came in. "not yet, old man," declared frank cheerfully. "i think i'll go behind the bat myself next inning." "don't do it!" exclaimed harry. "i know you can play any old position, merry, but your place is in the box. with you there, every man on the team will play like a streak. won't you go in?" "badger----" "can see that he is bound to lose the game if this keeps on. he's got sense. he won't want to make such a bad record for himself." "ready will not be able to judge the double-shoot. i can't use that." "you won't have to. you can win this game without it." "i don't know." "i do! try it." frank was in doubt, and he permitted badger to pitch one more inning. the westerner worked hard, but it was plain he had lost confidence, and he was not at his best. great beads of perspiration stood out on his face. two men scored, despite him, and the visitors had the lead again. "i believe i'll try it in the box," frank mentally decided. "perhaps i may hold ready steady. it looks like the only show to win out." when merriwell finally went into the box, seeing that it must be done, badger retired with as good grace as he could, though his dark face was flushed. "there would be no trouble if it wasn't for jack ready!" he asserted. "i can pitch all right, but the pitcher isn't the whole battery!" "your delivery bothers him," merriwell explained. "i believe that you two together are capable of good work, but it will take a lot more practise, and just now we haven't time for practise. you can pitch, badger, and your best is excellent; but you are irregular. but you'll come round all right. i was talking with dunstan kirk about you awhile ago, and he agrees with me. he has been closely watching you all through the game." "i know it," badger growled. "i've known it only too well! it has helped to make my pitching wild at times. if he had stayed away, i think i could have done all right all the time. but you'll find that ready will worry you. he'd worry anybody. the fellow simply can't catch." "but he can!" merriwell insisted. "we'll win this game yet!" the change that came over jack ready's work shortly after merriwell went into the pitcher's box was little short of marvelous. frank seemed to know how to favor ready's weak points. and this kept ready's head steady for other work, so that he made not another wild throw to bases. merriwell's nine began to feel their courage rise. it put life into them just to see frank in the box. stolen bases on the part of the hartfords stopped. the swiftness with which merriwell struck out three batters made the spectators gasp. from that on ready was steady, and he and frank worked together like a battery team of long experience. frank merriwell won, in spite of his handicap! and so the yale rooters, and especially merriwell's friends and admirers, who were a host in themselves, were roaring wild as they returned from the ball-ground. merriwell joined inza and elsie, while badger took a car with winnie. "i knew that everything was all right, as soon as you went into the box!" inza declared. "but up to that minute i was nervous. i was wanting to shake you all the time for not taking badger's place sooner." "i felt sorry for badger," said elsie. "and i felt sorry for winnie. she got as red as a beet when badger left the box, but i know she didn't blame you, frank. she saw just how it was, and she knew you ought to have gone in sooner, but of course she felt it." "i was afraid ready might begin to doubt his own abilities--though probably there is not any danger that he will ever do that! he was just what i expected of him, though, when i pitched. and if badger and bart were friends and could, or would, work together, they would make a good battery." "you will have to coach badger some," inza suggested. "yes. the captain of the ball-team wants me to. he thinks there is good stuff in both of them, if it can only be properly developed." the three got out at a transfer station, and waited for another car. "dere she comes!" yelled an excited youngster. the "she" he referred to was not the expected car, but the head of a circus procession, which was parading the principal streets as an advertisement of the performances to be given in the big tents in the suburbs that afternoon and night. merriwell and the girls looked in the direction indicated. the crowd at the corner seemed to become thicker. people began to swarm out of the doorways and stream out into the middle of the street. "and this is scholarly new haven!" exclaimed inza. "wild over a circus parade!" "we're not in the scholarly part of new haven!" laughed frank. "i confess that i like to see a circus parade myself!" inza showed evidences that she liked the same thing, for she craned her handsome neck and stood on tiptoe to catch the first glimpse. the nodding plumes on the heads of the horses drawing the gilded band-wagon came into view, and at the same moment the band began to crash forth its resonant music. children danced and capered, heads were popped out of second-story windows, and the pushing crowd grew denser. the band-wagon came slowly down the street in the bright spring sunshine, followed by the performers, mounted on well-groomed horses, some of which were beautifully mottled. there were other horses, many of them--a few drawing chariots, driven by amazons. then came the funny clown, in his little cart, with his jokes and grimaces for the children. there was another band-wagon, as gorgeous as the first, at the head of the procession of wild-beast cages. its music was more deafening than that of the other. the street-cars seemed to have stopped running, owing to the packed crowds, and frank and his girl friends remained on the corner curiously watching the scene. suddenly a fractious horse jerked away from the man who had been standing at its head holding it, and whirling short about, half-overturned the wagon to which it was hitched and raced wildly down the street. people scattered in every direction, several being knocked down in the stampeding rush. the horse climbed to the sidewalk, with wheels bumping the curbing, trying to get out of the way of some men who were seeking to stop it. almost before they were aware of it, horse and wagon seemed fairly on top of merriwell and the girls. elsie gave a startled cry, and dashed across the street, where the people were falling back out of the way, with women pulling nervously and excitedly at their children. a child fell headlong, and the horse seemed about to stamp it, when frank, with a quick leap, picked it up from under the very feet of the runaway, and dropped it safely at its mother's side. then a tremendous roar ascended. turning, frank saw that inza and elsie had disappeared. he did not at first know the cause of the roar. the horse, veering again and wheeling sharply, had hurled the wagon against a cage in which was confined a full-grown tiger. this was an open cage--that is, the screening, wooden, outer shell had been removed, showing the big beast of the jungle, with its keeper in circus costume, seated in the center of the cage on a low stool. against the door of this cage the bounding wagon had struck heavily--so heavily that the lock was torn away or broken, and the cage door pulled open. the roar that went up was a roar of alarm and fright. and it increased in intensity when the striped beast, with nervously flicking tail, leaped past its keeper and into the street, where it crouched, not knowing what to do with its newly found freedom. the street was in the wildest tumult. the horses drawing the cage had been brought to a stop by the driver. but another horse, frightened by the din and the runaway, broke loose just at that time, and came tearing along, with flaming eyes and distended nostrils, like a malay running amuck. frank sprang toward the head of this horse, for the peril to the stampeding people seemed great. but the animal veered and passed by, dragging merry a few yards by the shafts and hurling him to the ground. the sight he beheld as he scrambled up was enough to stop the beating of his heart. inza and elsie had tried to again cross the street. inza had been knocked down by the horse, and lay unconscious, while elsie had been swept on in the crowd. more than that, the keeper of the tiger, who had courageously leaped after the terrible beast with his spearlike iron goad, hoping to be able to prod and cow it into subjection, had been knocked flat also by the horse, his iron goad flying out of his hand and into the street. though frank was some distance away, he started toward the tiger, which had crouched and seemed about to spring on inza. but before he could take a step, he saw elsie run from the crowd toward inza and the tiger. her face was very white, but it was filled with the look of high courage which inspired her. she realized the peril of any attempt she could make to save inza, and she boldly took the risk. a hundred voices were screaming at the big brute, which crouched with undulating tail and open jaws; but not another person seemed to be moving toward elsie to render her assistance, with the exception of frank merriwell. he saw the girl pick up the iron goad. then elsie bellwood leaped between the tiger and inza. as she did so she lifted the goad. the tiger turned its attention from inza to elsie, and the latter struck at it, as if the goad were a spear. frank merriwell heard the click of a revolver at his side. he saw a man shakily lifting it. "permit me!" he gasped, and plucked it from the man's hand. the revolver went up, flashing for a moment in the sunshine. a quick, sharp report rang out. the bullet, sent with true and steady aim, by the hand of frank merriwell, ploughed through the tiger's brain, and the beast flattened out convulsively, and began to kick and writhe in its death agonies. hearing the report and seeing the animal fall, elsie's uplifted hand fell, she swayed like a wind-blown vine, and dropped heavily down across the form of inza burrage. chapter vii. friends. the crack of the revolver and the fall of the tiger seemed to break the spell that had held and made cowards of the throng. a dozen men leaped toward the girls. but merriwell reached them first. he lifted elsie, who had merely fallen in a faint, as he saw; and, passing her to a student whom he recognized, he bent anxiously over inza. there was a bruise and a fleck of blood on the upper part of her face. "inza!" he said, lifting her tenderly and seeking to arouse her. "are you much hurt, inza?" the words and tone seemed to call her back from the land of death. she moaned feebly, and tried to put up a hand. half-lifting her in his arms, he looked around. "is there a surgeon here!" he called. elsie came back to consciousness with a shiver, and heard him call. her face had been very white, but it became pale as death. the sight of inza's bruised face and limp form upheld by merriwell seemed to blur her brain again. she caught at the arm of the student who was holding her, and by a great effort kept her senses. "is she dead, frank?" she whispered. "no!" he answered. "i don't know how much she may be hurt, though." the tiger had ceased to struggle, the crowds were writhing, a babel of sound that was confused and confusing filled the air. the circus procession had come to a halt, with the exception of the forward band, which was blaring away far down the street. a doctor came out of the crowd. other doctors proffered their services, for inza was not the only one who had been knocked over by the rush of the horses. the injured tiger-keeper was picked up and bundled into an ambulance. "right across here!" said the doctor who had answered merriwell's call. then he led the way into an apothecary's. "nothing serious!" he announced, a minute later, when he had made his examination. "the young lady will be all right in a day or two." he spoke of inza, and both merry and elsie sent up fervent sighs of relief. * * * * * coming softly into the room which elsie bellwood occupied, inza burrage saw elsie in tears. "what is it, dear?" inza asked, going up and putting her arms about elsie's neck. except for a telltale bit of courtplaster, inza showed no sign of the dangerous and exciting experiences through which she had that day passed. "don't! don't!" elsie pleaded, with a little shiver. "if you knew what was in my heart you wouldn't speak to me, inza burrage!" "why, dear? why wouldn't i speak to you--you who have proved yourself the most heroic and courageous girl in all new haven?" "it wasn't courage half so much as it was fright. and if you knew the thoughts i had!" inza kissed her. "what?" elsie turned on her a horrified face. "inza, when i saw you knocked down by that horse, the awful wish came into my heart that you might be killed. and even when i saw the tiger about to leap on you, i couldn't drive that thought away. i have been hating you in a way that i never thought i could hate anybody! you see, i began to fear that you were trying to come between me and frank; and if you had been--killed--there--would--have--been--an--end--of--that!" "but you rushed between me and the tiger. and you fought the beast with that goad. you, a girl, standing between me and such a terror as that! frank has told me all about it--about how brave you were! it was beautiful!" "when i felt how wicked my thoughts was, there came an awful revulsion of feeling; and then i rushed into the street, not caring if i was killed, if i could only save you. i felt that the sacrifice of my life, even, if it were necessary, was demanded to pay for those dreadful thoughts. i knew the danger, inza, but that hideous thought made me brave." "you are naturally brave, elsie! i feel that i owe my life to you." "and i wished you dead!" said elsie self-reproachfully. "i can never forget it. wished you dead when you were knocked down and when the tiger threatened you. inza, it was something awful!" "it was because you love frank!" "and you love frank! you have confessed as much." "perhaps i do. i hardly know myself. but you have shown to-day that you are much more worthy of him than i am. don't worry about any of those troubles any more." she straightened up, with the look of a renouncing queen, while her dark eyes shone like stars. "elsie, i will go away from here if it is necessary. i will not disturb you and frank." "i take back all i said the other day!" elsie quivered. "i retract every word. they were selfish, jealous, hateful words. they led me to murderous thoughts--for those thoughts about you to-day were really murderous. you shall not go away! not unless i go away, too!" "then we can be friends, dear!" said inza, laying a hand softly on the golden head. "that is what we will try to be, if you will, in spite of everything." "yes," elsie assented, "though i am not worthy to be your friend." "then we will be friends, dear!" "we are friends!" elsie exclaimed impulsively, drawing the hand down and kissing it. chapter viii. the gun club. "baw jawve, it would be sport if a fellah could draw on a grouse on a scotch moor, don't you 'now! it would be something great to knock such a bird into the heather. there really isn't any shooting in this country to be compared to that, don't you 'now!" willis paulding drawled this in his affected style, and then swung the handsome english greener hammerless to his shoulder and squinted down the barrels as if he fancied he heard the whirring of a moor cock's wings and felt the thrill of the sportsman tingling through his veins. "what's the matter with partridge and woodcock shooting in new england? or quail shooting in the west and south? or duck shooting on the southwest coast? or prairie-chicken and grouse shooting in the far west and rocky mountains?" demanded merriwell, who had arrived on the grounds of the gun club with bart hodge and was taking his gun out of its case. paulding flushed. "if you had ever shot grouse across the big pond, you 'now, you wouldn't ask such a question, merriwell!" "i have shot grouse on the other side of the big pond, and it is fine sport, true enough. but there is just as fine shooting to be had in america. you make me tired. you want to act like an englishman, paulding, but it is an insult to the english, for your imitation is really disgraceful. a true englishman is very much a man!" "and paulding is a mere thing!" snapped hodge. "he isn't worth noticing, don't you 'now!" sneered paulding, moving away with the members of the chickering set. "he is always slinging insulting things at me. it's mere jealousy, don't you 'now, that makes him act so. baw jawve, if i was as jealous as merriwell, i'd go drown myself!" "he is always slinging insults at us in the same way!" ollie lord breathlessly declared, looking as fierce as he could and lifting himself on his tiptoes to increase his fighting height. "i wouldn't let the thing worry me," purred rupert chickering. "merriwell is so spoiled by flattery that he is hardly responsible for what he says. i never like to hold harsh feeling against any one." "i'd like to pull the wetch'eth nothe!" lisped lew veazie, looking quite as fierce as ollie lord. "it would therve him wight if i thould walk up to him thome day and thimply pull hith nothe!" "but he might pull yours!" julian ives warned. "that wouldn't be pleasant, you know." julian ives, in the perfumed sanctity of chickering's rooms, often looked lovingly at himself and his wonderful bang in the long mirror and dreamed the heroic things he would like to do and the revenges he would like to carry out, but his actual courage had been at a very low ebb ever since his humiliating experience as a member of the eskemo dog-team driven by the cowboy, bill higgins. he was likely to remember that a long while. "they're not worth talking about--none of merriwell's crowd!" snarled gene skelding, as if anxious to change the drift of the unpleasant conversation, for he had been given cause to fear and hate merriwell and his friends quite as much as any other individual who claimed the companionship and friendship of the immaculate rupert. "let me see your gun, willis!" he took the greener, snapped it open to see if it was loaded, then winked at chickering. the members of the yale gun club were rapidly coming on the ground, together with a number of noted new haven shots and others interested in trap shooting. browning and rattleton appeared, and diamond, dismal, and several others of merry's set were seen approaching. "i thought bart hodge was sick?" said tilton hull. "but i see he is out again." "when i heard he wath thick i hoped he would never get well. he ith a howwid cwecher! whenever i go near him he thnapth at me like a bulldog." "as if you were a bulldog?" queried skelding, who at times seemed to delight in teasing certain members of this delectable set. "the idea!" exclaimed ollie lord indignantly, putting a hand caressingly on veazie's shoulder. "a bulldog! if veazie is anything, he is like the cunning little dog i had once. it was the darlingest little poodle! and i simply loved it!" "just fawncy!" sniffed willis paulding. but lew veazie seemed pleased. he put up a hand to touch the caressing arm. "you're another, ollie!" he beamed. "i always did like poodles!" "a pair of poodles!" said skelding, and again winked meaningly at rupert, who snatched the cap from the head of julian ives and flung it into the air. skelding took a snap-shot at it as it fell. "if that cap is damaged," said ives, smoothing his precious bang which the brisk breeze began to flirt about, "i'll make you fellows pay for it. that's flat!" but julian's alarm was premature. not a shot had touched it. the members of the chickering set continued the delightful sport of snatching hats and caps from each other's heads and shooting at them with paulding's fine english gun; but the only damage done was by the falls the articles received, for not a shot touched any of them. "of course, fellahs, a moor cock doesn't fly that way," willis drawlingly explained, in extenuation of the poor shooting. "he doesn't go right up and down, you 'now. he has wings, don't you 'now, and flies straight away, like a shot. i could hit a grouse without any trouble, but this kind of shooting! the best shot in england would be bothered with it." "we'll have a try at the clay pigeons and blackbirds soon," chickering comfortingly promised. "but, gwathious, i've twied them, and they're harder to hit than thethe are! i could do better if i could only keep my eyeth open, but the minute i begin to pull the twigger my eyeth go shut, and i can't help it." they had turned round and were retracing their way toward merriwell and his friends without noticing it. suddenly lew veazie jumped straight up into the air, clapped a hand smartly against one of his legs, and began to dance a hornpipe. at almost the same moment a shot was fired by some one. "thay, fellowth, i'm thyot!" he gasped, turning deathly pale. "honeth, thith ithn't a joke! i'm thyot! ow! it burnth like fire!" "where?" ollie anxiously asked, staring at the dancing youth, and looking quickly about to make sure that no loaded gun was pointed in his direction. the others looked about, too. "this reckless shooting ought to be forbidden!" declared skelding, regardless of the fact that the shooting he and his friends had been doing was of the most reckless character. veazie dropped down on the ground, and began to pull up one leg of his trousers. "it stwuck me wight here!" he gasped. "i think it must have gone thwough my leg. i can feel the blood twickling down." ollie went down on his knees and began to help him, and together they soon had the injured spot revealed to their anxious eyes. they beheld a reddish place, with a center like a pin jab, but not a drop of blood. "it was a spent shot!" said rupert wisely. "it came from a distance. but it was a very reckless thing to do to fire at all in this direction." "let me take a look at it!" said julian ives, crowding forward and stooping to inspect it. as he did so, he straightened up with a little screech, and clapped a hand to his hips. "wow!" he howled, dancing round as veazie had done. "i'm shot, too! fellows, this is awful! i believe i'm killed! who is doing this?" "thuch weckleth thyoothing i never thaw!" groaned veazie, though he was much relieved to discover that he had not received a deadly hurt. "thomebody mutht be awwested for thith. i thouldn't be thurpwithed if it ith one of merriwell's fwiendth!" "wow!" howled julian, falling to the ground, and writhing about in his agony. "i'm dead! i never had anything hurt me so! wow-ow-ow!" ollie lord clapped a hand to his head and executed a quickstep. he pulled off his cap and rubbed furiously, expecting to feel the blood come away on his fingers, for he also fancied he had been shot. "goodness!" he gasped. "whoever is shooting this way ought to be jailed. we will all be killed in five minutes. that tore a hole in my scalp, sure!" rupert chickering, who was beginning to look grave and anxious, next jumped up into the air, forgetting his dignity; while willis paulding sat down with a suddenness that jarred the ground, and began to declaim in a quick, nervous way and without the slightest imitation of an english accent. then lew veazie, who had been rubbing his injured leg and looking surprisedly and dubiously about, leaped to his feet with another howl and went dancing off from his friends. "felloth, it ith hornets!" he shrieked, beginning to fight and slap with his cap and his hands. "ow! wow! they're thtinging me to death! help me, thomebody!" "hornets!" shrieked ollie lord, leaping up and following his chum. "fellows, the air is full of them!" tilton hull began to dig fiercely at his high collar. "there is one down my neck!" he screeched. he recklessly tore the collar away and began to dig with his nails in a wild search for the thing that had stung him, and which he fancied he felt boring its way still farther down his back. julian ives took his hand from his hip and slapped it against his breast, where a red-hot lance seemed to have been driven with torturing suddenness. then he began to tear away his beautiful necktie and to recklessly rumple his gorgeous shirt front. "this is awful!" he exclaimed. "where are the things coming from? the air is full of them! wow! another struck me in the arm!" lew veazie was rolling over and over. their outcries attracted the attention of merriwell and his friends, and also the attention of a number of others who had come upon the grounds. "what are those idiots up to?" grumbled hodge, who had no patience with the antics of the chickering set. "they've been making fools of themselves ever since they came out here. awhile ago, they were recklessly burning powder and hurling shot all round. now they act as if they were crazy." "must be playing some sort of game of circus!" guessed browning. "they're tumbling about like acrobats--or fools!" "and howling like wild indians!" said danny. "i think they are playing a wild west." "they ought to have bill higgins here, then, to make the show complete," merriwell remarked, with a smile. "but seriously, i don't believe they're playing anything. those yells sound real." "help!" howled willis paulding, forgetting his drawl, "we're being stung to death!" willis was down on the ground, soiling his beautiful trousers and digging furiously at his head. "hornets!" shrieked ollie lord, kicking about not far from paulding. "wow!" screeched lew veazie, bobbing up and down like a cork in water when a fish is nibbling at the bait. "take 'em off!" begged julian ives, neglecting his lovely bang and scratching with great energy at the places where he had been stung. "we're in a nest of hornets, or bees, or something!" exclaimed rupert chickering, becoming decidedly belligerent in his efforts to rid himself of the stinging creatures. "are you going to stand there and see us killed?" skelding demanded. "i tell you, we are being stung!" "glad to know it!" declared bart. "you need it. it's hopeless, though, to expect that the hornets will sting any sense into your crowd." merriwell started toward the screeching, dancing, jigging, fighting youths, quickening his steps into a run, and his friends followed at his heels. as he did so he heard the loud and discordant jangle of a cowbell furiously shaken. a man, a woman, and a boy had come in sight, appearing from behind the seats allotted to spectators. evidently they had emerged but a minute before from a strip of timber that cut off the view of a farmhouse that was on the right of the gun club grounds and some distance away. they were running as fast as they could, and were shouting something as they came on. the boy, a lanky chap of fourteen or fifteen, was vigorously shaking the bell. the man carried a large pail, and the woman swung a roll of dirty cloth. "hold on! hold on!" the man howled. "jest handle 'em gently, can't ye?" the chickering set, as well as merriwell's friends, heard him. "oh, yes! we'll handle 'em gently!" snarled skelding, slapping at one of the stinging things and crushing it with his hand. he saw then that it was a bee. he jerked his hand away and stuck his fingers into his mouth. then jumped up and began again to hop around. "it run its stinger into my finger an inch!" he growled. "hold on! hold on!" the old man was howling. "i'm holding on!' cried rupert, smashing away at a handful of bees which seemed to be settling down on him all at once. "you're killing 'em!" screeched the old woman. "yes, we're killing 'em!" skelding answered, flailing away as if he had gone crazy. "i'd like to kill a million in a minute! i can't kill them fast enough! i'd like to welt 'em with a club and smash a regiment at a blow!" lew veazie threw himself on the ground, drew his hat down over his head, and began to kick and shriek. "you're jest a tantalizin' 'em!" panted the farmer. merriwell stopped and laughed. the whole thing was too ridiculously funny for him to do otherwise. "they're swarmin'!" shouted the boy, rattling away with the bell as if his life depended on it. "yes, i see they are!" howled julian ives. "they're swarming all over me!" "don't hurt 'em!" the farmer begged. he was only a few feet away, and panting on, almost breathless. "don't kill 'em!" whined the old woman. "they're my bees!" her words reached lew veazie. for a moment the kicking legs were stilled, though the hat was not withdrawn. "take 'em away then, pleathe!" he begged, from under the hat. "i don't want to hurt your beethe, but they're hurting me! take 'em away, pleathe!" the boy stopped his jangling bell. "they are honey bees!" he said. then added, as if he feared this might not be clear to the intellects of city-bred youths: "they make honey!" "i'll tantalize them!" skelding fiercely exclaimed, striking at the bees that were hovering round his head. "i'll treat 'em gently! oh, yes! i'll pick them off very tenderly and put them in your lap, old lady! i don't think! keep your old bees at home!" "but they're swarming!" the old farmer exclaimed. "they're going out to hunt a new hive. we've been follerin' 'em." then lew veazie began to bellow again, more frantically than ever. a large crowd was gathering, men hurrying from all directions, merriwell and his friends had arrived on the scene. "ow-wow!" veazie shrieked. "they're worthe than ever!" for a few seconds he had not been troubled except by the stings previously given, which pained intensely. merriwell looked down and saw a big bunch of bees gathering along the top of veazie's collar at the back. "they're killing me!" veazie screeched, rubbing a hand into this mass and leaping to his feet. but the pile grew. the bees seemed to drop by scores right out of the air upon him. he started to run. the old woman began to shriek, and the boy commenced again to jangle the bell. "you've got the queen!" howled the old man. "jest keep still a minute! you have got the queen!" "is this a card-game?" drawled browning. "lew veazie is the little joker this time!" droned dismal. "that's because he is so sweet!" declared bink. "don't you know the boy said these are honey bees? they're going to carry veazie away and turn him into honey and the honey comb." "if you talk that way i'll have to swear off on honey!" exclaimed browning, with a wry face. "hold on! jest hold on!" the farmer was begging. veazie started to run, and the farmer reached out a hand for the purpose of detaining him. "they ain't stingin' you!" he insisted. "jest keep your hands down and keep still an' they won't do a thing to you!" "oh, they won't do a thing to him!" howled danny. veazie dropped flat to the ground. "jest hold on!" begged the farmer. "jest hold on! they're lightin' round the queen!" then he dipped his big hand into the pail and began to ladle out the water and drench the bees with it, while the old woman flailed with the roll of cloth to keep them away from her, and the farmer's boy, dancing up and down in his excitement, jangled the bell like an alarm clock. "jest hold on!" the farmer urged, as veazie showed signs of rolling over. "i'll git my fingers on that there queen in a minute, and then i'll have 'em. i wouldn't lost this swarm fer five dollars. jest hold on a minute!" "veazie's queen!" some one sang out from the heart of the surging, talking, sensation-loving throng. "i always knew you were attractive, veazie, but i didn't know females rushed at you in that warm way. yes, jest hold on a little, veazie. we don't have a circus like this every day, and we want to get the worth of our money." ollie lord, chickering, hull, skelding, and the others seemed to have been almost deserted by the bees, that were now swarming down upon the hapless lisper, drawn there by the fact that the queen had found lodgment somewhere on veazie's neck. under the influence of the farmer's commands, veazie ceased to kick and strike, and lay like a gasping fish while the man deluged him with water. "thay, i'm dwoning!" he gasped at last. "thith ith worthe than being thtung!" but, in truth, the deluge of cold water took away something of the fiery pain of the stings. "just hold on!" cried the farmer again. then he thrust a thumb and finger down into the writhing wet mass of bees, drew out the queen, which by its size and shape he readily distinguished from the others, and began to rake the bees into the new, empty pail. when he had the most of them in, the old woman threw the cloth over them. the farmer was now down on his knees, and the bees that were still on veazie he began to pick off and pop into the pail as if they were grains of gold. "i've got 'em!" he triumphantly declared. "this is my fu'st swarm this spring. i thought the blamed things was goin' to git away, but i've got 'em. giner'ly they light on a tree when they're swarmin', or on somethin' green!" "that's why they struck veazie!" some one shouted from the crowd. "can i get up?" veazie gasped. "i'm wetter than the thea!" "yes, young man, an' i'm 'bliged to ye. the rest of 'em will find their way to the queen, i guess. when these bees makes honey, if you'll come over i'll give you a hunk." chapter ix. shooting. lew veazie was a sorry sight when he got up from the ground. the water had converted the soil into mud, which plastered him now from head to foot. and here and there on his face and hands were red spots made by the bee stings. gene skelding was flailing at some bees that did not seem to have discovered that the queen was captured and their rightful domicile was the farmer's pail. there were other bees also at liberty, and one of them, angered no doubt by the turn of events, popped a stinger into the cuticle of bink stubbs. "scatt!" shrieked bink. "get away from here, or i'll murder you!" browning moved back, for a bee seemed to be making a desperate effort to single him out as a victim. then he stuck his pipe into his mouth, quickly fished out some tobacco, and crammed the bowl full, and lighted it. "smoke 'em off!" he said. "that's a good way to fight bees." "and tobacco smoke keeps away other female critters!" laughed danny, trying rather vainly to imitate the peculiar quality in the farmer's speech. "that's the reason you have never been popular with the fair. now there is veazie----" "what about cigarettes?" drawled browning, making a fog round his head. "don't let the kettle call the pot blackie! the most disgusting thing ever created is a smoker of cigarettes!" "yah!" growled danny, taking out a cigarette. "lend me a match, old man." and browning lent him a match. bink was rubbing earnestly at the stung spot. "i'll never see honey again without thinking of this." "which honey do you mean?" asked danny. "i heard you calling a chambermaid honey the other evening. you must have thought her sweet!" "and i heard one of them calling you a fool the other evening. she must have thought you an idiot." "thomebody get me a cab!" begged veazie, rubbing his stings and ruefully regarding himself. "thay, fellowth, thith ith awful! i'm a thight! get a cab, thomebody, and take me home. i'm thick!" "no cab here," said skelding, who was also anxious to get away from the joking and guying crowd. "but i see a carriage over there. yes, two of them." "get a cawiage--anything!" moaned veazie. "take me to the hothpital, take me to a laundwy, take me to a bath--anywhere, quick!" the exodus of veazie and his friends was followed by the return of merriwell and his comrades to the traps. hodge had not been long out of a sick-bed, and looked thin and weak. he walked with merriwell. the other members of the flock had forgiven him for the rancorous and sulky spirit which had made him refuse to catch in the ball-game against hartford, in which buck badger had pitched, but they had not forgotten it. they were courteous, but they were not cordial, and hodge felt it. buck badger came upon the ground, but without a gun. he was alone, too, and he kept away from merriwell's crowd. he had not learned to like merriwell's friends, any of them, and he detested hodge. having taken his gun from its case, merriwell put it together, and opened a box of loaded shells, which he placed on the ground. the gun was a beautiful twelve-gage hammerless, of late design and american manufacture, bored for trap shooting. hodge's gun was so nearly like it that they could scarcely be told apart. morton agnew and donald pike came on the grounds before the shooting began. merriwell observed that badger affected not to notice them, but the westerner was plainly annoyed. "perhaps you would like to shoot!" said merriwell, going over to badger with his gun. "i can let you have the use of my gun. hodge has one just like it, and all our other fellows have good guns. so, if you'd like to shoot! it's all right, and as good as they make them." the kansan was plainly pleased. "and i can let you have shells." "i'll take the gun, merriwell," he said, balancing it in his hands and looking it over. "but i can't let you furnish shells, when i can buy all i want right here on the grounds. and there is no reason why you can't shoot with it, too." "none at all, old man, only i thought likely you wouldn't want to mix in with our crowd. i can shoot bart's gun." badger flushed and his face darkened. he was on the point of saying something bitter against hodge. "i didn't intend to shoot when i came out," he said, choking down the angry utterance, "or i should have brought a gun. in fact, i didn't start for this place at all. but i'm here now, and i reckon my fingers would never get done itching if i couldn't get to pull a trigger. i used to shoot some on the ranch, you know, and i hope i haven't lost anything whatever of the knack. if i should beat your score now?" "you're welcome to." "of course i'm more used to a revolver and rifle than to a shotgun, but i allow i know a kink or two about trap shooting, just the same." the rattle and click of guns being put together, the snapping of locks, and the chatter, made pleasant music for gun lovers, as frank returned to his friends. "you didn't let him have your gun?" growled hodge. "yes; i will shoot with yours." "you're welcome to, of course; but i shouldn't have done it." "here goes to kill the first bird!" cried danny, ambling out with a repeating shotgun in his hands. "if you don't hit it first time, you can just sheep on kooting--i mean keep on shooting!" jollied rattleton. "i wish there was a bee round here to sting him!" sighed bink, as danny faced the trap. "i'm so sore from laughing that i know i can't hit anything." "you couldn't hit anything, anyway!" said bruce, putting some shells into his gun. "i can hit you!" bink growled, lunging at him. "i meant anything small!" said bruce, brushing aside bink's blow as if it had been a fly. "shoo! don't bother me, or i may get one of these shells stuck." a trap was sprung, and danny blazed away. "missed!" said dismal. "and danny is our crack shot!" moaned bink. "the papers will say to-night that our shooting was like a lot of schoolgirls." "how?" asked merriwell. "all misses! yah! watch me smash one of those blackbirds into dust." bink went forward with much seeming confidence--and missed, too. "of course i didn't want to take away all the courage of you fellows by hitting the first bird," he blandly explained. "but i could have done it." the conditions for shooting were fair, for the wind was not so strong as it had been earlier in the day. several shots were made, together with a number of hits. then buck badger's name was called, and he went up to the line with merriwell's gun. one of the boys who was manipulating the traps sprung the middle one, and the bird shot swiftly off to the right. it was a rather difficult target, but badger knocked the clay bird into dust. "a good shot!" some one called from the crowd. "it was a good shot!" merriwell commented. dismal jones followed badger, and knocked down the straightaway bird which was sprung from the right-hand trap. "now the earth will fall!" squeaked bink, for browning's name was called, and bruce got up lazily from the ground and walked slowly into position. bruce disliked a light gun, and carried a heavy ten-gage, notwithstanding the fact that trap-shooting rules required the users of such guns to shoot from a longer distance. he believed that the heavier weight and heavier load more than offset this. danny stuck his fingers into his ears as bruce stood ready to fire the "cannon." then there was a thunderous report, as the clay bird flew through the air, and was knocked to pieces by the impact of the shot. "was it an earthquake?" asked bink, falling back on the ground. "he'll be wanting to shoot a krupp gun next!" "watch me this time!" said danny, as he stepped into position. "it's easier for me to do difficult things. if those traps would only throw out a dozen birds at once, i'd show you some nice work!" "yes, you might get one out of the whole flock," said diamond. "if it was a very dense flock, you might get two." ten rounds had been fired, and two birds were to be thrown now at the same time at unknown angles. "ready?" asked the boy. "pull!" commanded danny, throwing up his gun. the birds flew, but danny did not shoot. "i thought one was going to jump out of the right-hand trap," he grinned, "and it didn't." "give him another chance," said dismal. "he oughtn't to be forgiven for anything, but we'll forgive him." "spit on your hands!" some one yelled. danny put down his gun, very deliberately spat on his hands, then took up his gun again. "pull!" he commanded. two birds flew--one from the right-hand trap and one from the middle trap. bang! bang! danny fired at both, but the birds sailed on and descended in the grass. "these shells aren't any good!" he asserted, looking wonderingly into the powder-stained barrels of the gun. "or else this gun isn't choked right for trap shooting. i held on both of those birds." "you mean you aren't choked right for trap shooting," said bink, as danny came back. "i'll choke you!" danny cried, hurling himself on stubbs and gripping him by the throat. "stop it!" commanded bruce, as they struggled on the grass. "if you don't, we'll fire you out of the crowd." jack diamond did the best shooting this time, cleanly killing both birds. merriwell and others struck both birds, but diamond made the cleanest kill. danny ambled out again with his repeater, and this time brought down a bird. "talk about easy things!" he spouted, thrusting out his chest as he pranced back. "that's right!" howled bink. "you're the easiest thing on the planet. that bird was broken and all ready to fall to pieces when it left the trap. i paid the boy to fix it for you." "you're another!" danny declared. "i hit that bird fair and square. see if you can do better." "i'm going to hit both!" bink declared, and for a wonder he did. "take me home to mommer!" squealed danny. "talk about shooting!" exclaimed bink, sticking his hat on the back of his head. "what's the matter with that, eh?" "oh, you're a wonder!" exclaimed danny. "accidents are bound to happen sometimes, you know." browning made clean misses, and diamond got only one bird. the shooting of most of the others was not of the best. "i suppose there isn't any way to clip the wings of those things?" grumbled dismal, who had missed. "they get up and get away so fast that i can't pull on them half the time. i could hit my bird if i could find it. but when i point my gun at it and pull the trigger, it isn't there." "pull ahead of it," merriwell advised. "yes, you must use ahead work," said bink. "if you have a head, that is what it's for. that's the way i did, and you saw the result. i can get 'em every time now." as the shooting continued, it was seen that badger was doing good work, though nothing at all phenomenal. he stepped into position with an air of confidence, fired quickly, and then stepped back. but he kept away from merriwell's crowd, mingling with others from yale whom he knew. hodge's score and the westerner's were nearly alike. hodge saw it and squirmed. then merriwell, who had made only one miss, scored two "goose eggs," and badger climbed up to him. "i don't like that," bart grumbled. "you're not doing your best, merry. badger may beat you." merriwell was cleaning out and cooling his gun--bart's gun--which both were using, and which had grown hot and foul from rapid firing. the first round of twenty shots was nearing its close. only four more shots were to be fired in it, at two pairs of birds. badger had to his credit thirteen hits and three misses, and merriwell the same. "if you should miss one of the four and badger should hit them all you would be beaten!" bart urged uneasily. "and i don't want you to be beaten by him. i'm afraid you are going to tie. i want you to beat him. i can't stand it to have him crowing round." merriwell smiled placidly. "don't steam so, hodge. it just heats you up, and makes you unhappy. if buck badger should beat me, i don't see that it would make a great difference. i haven't been shooting for a record this afternoon." "all right," said hodge. "however good your intentions may be, that fellow will never give you honest credit for them." the shooting had recommenced, and hodge walked back to the crowd, plainly disgruntled. merriwell clutched a handful of shells and went over to badger. "try these, buck!" he said. "they're a good deal better than those you've been using. i had them loaded very carefully under my own supervision for this kind of work, and you'll find them very fine. they're just suited to that gun, too. you have really been shooting at a disadvantage to-day." a smile came to the dark face of the westerner--a stern, determined sort of smile. "better not give them to me, perhaps, merry. i'm going to beat you if i can. we're tied now. if you miss, i shall get you. better not give me any advantages." "you can't beat me!" said frank, looking straight into the eyes of the kansan. "do you mean that you haven't been trying to shoot? i've been watching you, and i allow you have been doing your level best." "you haven't watched closely, then. i threw away two shots awhile ago. i could hardly miss them when i tried. but i'm not anxious to beat any one to-day. i didn't come out here to make a record." badger flushed. "all right. throw away another shot and i'll beat you." "i'll not throw away another, and you can't beat me, though you may tie me." he was smiling and good-humored, and the kansan tried to be. badger took the next two straight, and merriwell did the same. "i'm afraid he is going to tie you!" grumbled hodge. "what's the score?" asked rattleton, roused to the fact that badger and merriwell were now really shooting against each other. "toodness, a guy--i mean, goodness, a tie! don't let him beat you, anyway, merry!" "that comes from being too good-natured," growled hodge. "he wouldn't be anywhere near you, if you'd tried." twice again both brought down their birds. only a pair was left now to each. every member of the gun club present, together with those who, like badger, were being permitted to shoot through the favor of members, and all the spectators, as well, knew now that badger and merriwell had finally pitted themselves against each other in a friendly shooting contest, with the chances in favor of a tie. hodge was hardly able to breathe, and harry rattleton was fidgeting uneasily. the spectators craned their necks as badger, whose trial came first, walked into position with an air of easy confidence, that dark, determined smile disfiguring his face. "i'm afraid your chances are gone, merriwell!" droned dismal jones. "'we never miss the water till the well runs dry.'" "keep still," grunted browning, "or you'll make me nervous!" "i wish somebody would make badger nervous!" wailed bink. "sing out that a queen bee is coming for him!" urged danny, in an undertone. "keep still!" said merriwell. badger balanced his gun, called "pull!" and threw it into position as the birds sprang from the trap. a deafening explosion followed. the gun was torn to pieces and badger was hurled backward to the ground. chapter x. badger's challenge. merriwell and others sprang toward him to offer their aid. frank could hardly believe what he had seen and heard. he feared badger was seriously or fatally injured, but was relieved before he reached the kansan to see the latter rise unsteadily to his feet. badger looked dazedly about, then down at his numbed left hand and arm. they felt dead, and he could hardly lift them. but he saw they were not mangled. "i hope you are not hurt!" frank exclaimed. the blood rushed in a great wave into the westerner's dark face, and he gave frank a strange look. "your gun has gone to pieces!" he said gruffly. "but i hope you are not hurt. there are other guns. i don't understand how it happened." there was a suspicious light in badger's eyes. "i'll not be able to beat you," he said. "i don't know that i can shoot again, and it's a wonder, i reckon, that my arm wasn't torn off." he turned toward the exploded gun. the stock was uninjured and the lock mechanism, but the muzzle end of the right barrel was split open and a section blown out of it. "you didn't get mud or anything of that kind in the muzzle?" merriwell questioned, anxiously examining the ruined weapon. "that will sometimes make a gun explode." "none whatever!" badger grumbled, nursing his numbed hand and arm, while a crowd gathered round him and merriwell, asking excited and eager questions. "do you think i'm fool enough to do a thing like that?" frank plucked at rattleton's arm. "take charge of that box of shells," he said, in an undertone. "don't let any one touch them. the box from which i took the shells for badger! i'm afraid the shells in it have been tampered with." "agnew!" rattleton gasped. "he's somewhere on the grounds, you know, and he was right up here awhile ago!" "i don't know. it may be. we can tell better later. just now, take charge of that box. no more shells must be used out of it, nor out of any others of mine." "all right!" rattleton promised, and moved quickly away. "how is your hand and arm?" merriwell asked, again addressing badger. "well, i allow it's good enough to do some more shooting!" badger snarled, giving hodge a suspicious glance. "you didn't beat me! i missed that bird; but the gun blew up was the reason. i'll shoot you those two, yet; but i'd rather try you ten birds straight--ten double rises, just the kind we were shooting at. i reckon we'd better settle this thing square!" there was something very unpleasant in his tone and manner. hodge saw the glance, heard the words, and could hardly resist the temptation to walk up and knock him down. "the scoundrel!" he hissed to browning. "what is he driving at? does he mean that merry hasn't given him a fair deal, or that he had the gun explode in some way to keep from being tied by him, or beaten? perhaps he is hinting crooked work against me! if he does, i'll punch his head, sure. frank is a fool to stand such stuff." merriwell showed a slight trace of annoyance. he took badger by the arm and they walked aside together. a dozen men were examining the gun, and a score more were craning their necks to get a look at it, while all sorts of excited conjectures and comments filled the air. "see here, badger," said merriwell, somewhat sternly. "you think hodge may be responsible for that accident. he isn't--no more than i am! you either had mud in the gun----" "or something was the matter with the shells!" "exactly. that is what i was going to say, if you had let me finish the sentence. no more shells will be used out of that box. they may have been tampered with, but not by hodge. i know hodge! he wouldn't do such a thing." "i reckon that he is none too good for that, if he had a chance!" "hodge is my friend." "i don't care if he is your friend a dozen times over. that might have killed me, or crippled me for life!" "if those shells were tampered with, it was done for my benefit, badger, and not for yours. hodge wouldn't put in shells that would endanger me. i gave you those shells out of my own box." "and hodge was talking to you, and knew what you meant to do. he could have juggled a fixed-up shell on you." "we won't talk about it!" said merriwell, turning away. "i've a right to think what i please," badger grumbled, following him. "he thinks you can beat me shooting. he was afraid i would. i can beat you, and i'd like to do it, to spite bart hodge." "i don't think you are in any condition to do more shooting." "oh, i'm all right!" badger rather snappishly declared, his heart hot against hodge. "don't let anything of that kind worry you, merriwell. i want to shoot at ten double rises against you--ten double rises at unknown angles. you've declared that you haven't tried to shoot. i dare you to give me this trial. the numbness is going out of my arm, and it will soon be all right. and i warn you not to throw away any shots!" they were near the excited crowd. "all right, buckrum!" merriwell answered. "i'll try you, if you're so anxious!" "we'll buy shells here. and that gun----" "perhaps you think there was something the matter with the gun?" "oh, i'll buy you another gun!" growled badger. frank flushed. "the impudence of the fellow!" grunted browning, who overheard the remark. hodge, who was standing near browning, heard it, too. "i wish you'd hit him, merry!" he panted. "no doubt you'd like to do that," said badger. "but i'd advise you not to try." "mr. badger and i are going to shoot at ten double birds," said frank, pretending not to notice these things. "i will use your gun, bart." "and badger may use mine," said a sophomore, who was one of badger's friends, and had been one of merriwell's enemies. "but for goodness sake, don't use any more dynamite shells!" merriwell saw that morton agnew had come up and was looking earnestly at badger and at the ruined gun. "i wonder that badger doesn't remember that you slipped a 'fixed' cartridge into a gun for him once," was frank's thought. "you are at the bottom of this, and your villainy has gone far enough. when i come to strike you i shall strike hard!" the shattered gun still furnished attraction for many, and agnew pushed forward to get a close look at it, and to ask questions. rattleton came up to merriwell with the box of loaded shells. "they are not all just alike, merry!" he declared. "i have been looking them over. see!" he took up three of the shells and exhibited them to frank. a casual glance would show no difference between them and the other shells in the box. but a close inspection showed that the brass did not go up quite so high on the paper. "i am sure that all the shells in the box were just alike," said merry. "those were slipped in there. keep them safe." "but what if they blow me up?" rattleton gasped. "i'm afraid of the things. some of the fellows are saying there was dynamite in the shell that tore up the gun!" "there is no danger, i think. take care of them, and see that the other boxes are not tampered with. watch morton agnew." "let your bife i'll watch him! and he has been watching me! i caught him at it awhile ago!" "i think agnew fixed up some shells to kill or maim me," said frank. "no doubt he would give a great deal to get the unused ones away. look out for him." then merriwell went back to the crowd, where badger was exhibiting his benumbed arm and hand, and explaining how it felt to have a gun burst in one's fingers. "are you ready?" he asked. "i am." "yes," frank answered. it was strange how the fellows on the shooting-grounds ranged themselves into two companies--the supporters of merriwell in one knot and the supporters of the kansan in the other. it was as if an invisible hand had gone through the crowd and separated merriwell's friends from his foes. about badger gathered walter gordan, bertrand defarge, morton agnew, gil cowles, mat mullen, lib benson, newt billings, chan webb, and more of the same sort, a number of them now merriwell's pretended friends, but all at heart his enemies. while about merriwell swarmed his friends tried and true, with hodge, browning, diamond, rattleton, gamp, bink, and dismal close to his person. "don't monkey with him," urged bart, as merriwell sent danny and bink away for some shells and began to wipe out bart's gun in readiness for the shooting-contest. "don't throw away any shots. show those cads what you can do. a lot of them are beginning to think that badger is really a better man than you are. if he defeats you----" "he'll never defeat merriwell!" asserted rattleton. "come off the dump!" "of course he can't!" added diamond. "there are no dead-sure things," droned dismal. "i've been enticed into squandering good dollars on several dead-sure things. i've got more sense and less dollars." "wait and see!" sputtered rattleton. "who is to shoot first?" badger asked, walking toward merriwell's crowd. badger had noticed the character of the fellows who had gathered round him, and he was nettled. on the outskirts he even saw the face of donald pike--once his friend, now hated by him as a foe. "suit yourself," merriwell answered. "we'll flip a coin," said badger. one of the sophomores drew out a half-dollar and twirled it in the air. "i'll take heads!" said merry. but the head of the coin fell downward, and badger, taking the gun given him, walked out to the line and faced the traps. "we will have no signaling," he said, turning round and facing merriwell's crowd. "as we step up here, let the traps be sprung, and we'll shoot at the birds, whether ready or not." he was supremely confident in his own abilities. "all right. any way to suit you. go ahead!" before badger could turn back, he heard the sound made by the traps springing. two birds shot out, one toward the right and the other straight away. bang! bang! badger wheeled and fired quickly, and made a clean kill of both birds. there was a skirmish fire of clapping hands in the circle of his admirers. "fine work!" merriwell admitted, as he stepped into place with bart's gun. he stood with his gun down until the birds were hurled from the traps, then, with a couple of quick snapshots, smashed them to pieces. "whoop-e-ee-ee!" squealed danny griswold, turning a handspring. "this soft snap can shoot a little!" again the westerner made a clean kill of two birds. frank followed him and did the same. five times more the kansan did this, and merriwell duplicated the performance. the antagonistic crowds ceased to whoop and shout their exclamations of pleasure. the thing was becoming interesting. it began to seem that badger and merriwell would again tie. then badger, becoming overconfident, missed a bird. he stepped back, with a look of chagrin on his face. frank stepped forward, pitched up his gun as the birds were thrown--and missed one! merriwell missed with the left barrel of his gun, and badger had missed with the left barrel. "now you're monkeying!" hodge grumbled, as merriwell retired into the circle of his friends. "don't do it, merry! what did you do that for? you could have made the whole string straight, without a single goose-egg!" badger's dark, heavy face was flushed as he advanced again into position. he felt, like hodge, that merriwell had purposely missed that second bird, and it annoyed and angered him. this was the worst possible thing that could have happened to him, for when he fired he again missed a bird. "don't imitate him again!" hodge implored. and merriwell did not. he made a clean kill of both birds. "only two more birds apiece, and merry one ahead!" squealed bink, vainly tiptoeing to see as well as those who were taller. "you want to see merry do him up?" said bruce. "you little runt, i'll take pity on you!" "me, too!" squeaked danny. with little apparent exertion of strength, browning hoisted the little fellows to his shoulders, thus elevating them above the heads of others, where they sat in great glee, squealing and laughing, danny on the young giant's right shoulder and bink on his left, as badger walked out to shoot at his last two birds. again the westerner killed his birds. "now, if merry misses one, it will be another tie!" grunted bart. "stop hawking through your tat--i mean----oh, i don't know what i mean! but just keep still!" rattleton almost breathlessly begged. "merry is all right!" and rattleton's confidence was justified. merry fired, with the same result. "pulverized 'em!" howled bink. "smashed 'em into bug-dust!" squealed danny. "bub-bub-beat badger again!" sputtered gamp. a cheer of gratification went up from the circle of frank's friends. merriwell motioned to rattleton to bring him some shells. "bring me danny's gun, too!" he called; and harry ran out to him with a box of shells that he knew were reliable and with griswold's repeating shotgun. "all three traps at once!" said merriwell to the trap manipulators. three birds flew at the same moment of time. bang! bang! bang! badger in his best shooting at two birds had never made cleaner kills. the clay birds seemed to vanish in puffs of dust at the crack of the gun. merriwell put down danny's repeater, and took up bart's gun. "three birds again!" he commanded, as he dropped in the two shells and closed the breech with a click. almost before the words were out of his mouth, the birds were thrown. bang! bang! bang! he killed the left and center birds with the two loads in the gun; then reloaded and killed the third bird before it could touch the ground! badger's face grew redder. there was a wild clapping of hands, joined in by many who were in badger's crowd. "whoop-ee-e-ee!" squealed danny, wildly waving his cap. "who says we can't shoot?" they had been shooting at a rise of twenty-five yards. merriwell stepped back five yards, thus increasing the distance to thirty. he loaded his gun and held an extra shell in his left hand. then he turned his back on the traps. "pull when you want to?" he called. the manipulators of the traps seemed to desire to test him. there was an exasperating delay and some questions; then the traps were sprung with startling suddenness. merriwell's quick ear was alert. he wheeled as if on a pivot, killed the left bird and the right one. then dropped in another shell with a slowness that set bart hodge wild, and killed the third bird, which had gone off at a difficult tangent, at a distance of at least sixty yards! "come on!" grated defarge, almost beside himself with anger and disappointment. "the devil can't beat him! let's get out of here!" "right!" said pike, also turning wrathfully away. badger seemed turned to a statue. then again the unexpected happened. a sophomore, who was known to be an intimate friend of morton agnew, by seeming accident fired off a gun with which he had been monkeying. agnew, who had, unnoticed, wormed his way into merriwell's crowd during the excitement of the shooting-contest, fell to the ground with a cry, as if shot, knocking harry rattleton over as he did so. the shells which harry had been so carefully guarding were scattered on the ground, and seemed likely to be stepped on and lost in the excitement that followed. agnew flounced and threshed about, crying out that he was shot. he was anxiously lifted up, and on his face was seen a drop of blood, which had come from a cut recently made. "one shot went in right there!" he cried. "i think there are others! get me into a carriage quick!" a half-dozen young fellows ran for the nearest carriage, toward which agnew was conducted as rapidly as possible. harry rattleton seemed dazed, and began to look about on the ground as the crowd thinned out there, merriwell hurried to him. "what's the matter?" he anxiously asked. "the shells were knocked out of my hands!" gasped rattleton. "and not half of them seem to be here!" merriwell's look became anxious. he stooped down with harry and began to gather up the shells. "a shrewd trick, but it didn't work!" he exclaimed, holding up a cartridge. "here is one of those that were fixed for me, anyway. and now i know that agnew did it, and that he intended to kill me!" the other shells which agnew had prepared were gone, having been gathered up in the midst of the tumult and excitement and cleverly slipped by agnew into his pockets. "who fired that shot?" merriwell asked. "i don't know!" others were gathering round. "he tried to kill me, harry, and i shall strike back. and when i strike i shall strike in a way to make the stroke felt!" chapter xi. frank prevents trouble. badger's belief that hodge had juggled the shell which exploded in the gun was not very strong when he left the grounds of the gun club, but his hatred of hodge was not in any degree lessened thereby. only by a supreme exercise of will-power had he been able to keep himself from rushing upon bart when the latter made his bitter comments to merry. "merriwell is all right, but hodge isn't even a piece of a man!" he growled, as he made his way home, his thoughts in a chaotic state. "i shall have to punch his head for him. merry wouldn't have beat me shooting if i had taken my own gun along! i reckon i was a fool for going into the thing. hodge isn't any too good to slip that shell in on merry! and if he didn't do it, who did? and i'd like to know what was in it? that's whatever!" bart's feelings against the westerner were quite as bitter. he almost hated the ground on which badger's shadow fell. it seemed unlikely that frank could ever reconcile these two antagonistic characters. bart was sore also about the way frank's friends were treating him. nor was the feeling lessened by his own inner conviction that he had dealt rather shabbily with one who had been as true a friend to him as merry had been, and that the other members of the "flock" had good grounds for looking on him with disfavor. "i shall never crawl on my knees for the friendship and good-will of any of them!" was his thought, as he turned a corner on his way to the lighted campus, on the evening of the second day after the shooting. "and as for badger----" he ran violently against a man and was hurled backward. the man was badger. "what do you mean by that?" the westerner demanded, for he, also, had been almost knocked from his feet, and he, too, had been feeding his hot anger with inflammatory thoughts against bart. "you did that on purpose!" hodge lunged at the kansan's face. but the blow did not fall. the fist was knocked down, and a strong grasp on his shoulder turned him half-round. "stop this!" came sternly from frank merriwell, who was also on his way to the campus. "let me get at him!" bart panted, trying to wrench away. "he ran into me and tried to knock me down just now. i can't stand it! i won't stand it!" "oh, let him come on!" the westerner grated. "i've been aching for a crack at him for a month! i'll polish him off in short order, if you will just let him come on! he thinks because he knocked me out once that he can do it again!" "if you fellows are determined to fight, i'll arrange for you to get at each other some time, but you are not going to fight here, and that is flat!" "oh, well, let it go!" said bart, with intense bitterness and disgust. "i'll not trouble him here. but if we ever do come up against each other, i'll hammer the life out of him!" "i don't doubt you'd kill me if you could!" the kansan sneered. "i rather think you tried it the other day." "what do you mean?" bart demanded, again bristling. "do you mean the shell that blew up the gun?" "it's strange you can guess so easy!" badger insinuated. "see here, badger," said frank, who had stepped between the belligerents. "you insult me when you intimate that bart knew anything about that shell. that shell was slipped into my box by morton agnew. i have discovered enough already to convince me of that. i saw him do something to-day, too, which puts a big club into my hand!" badger's face changed, but he would not admit that he might be wrong in laying the dastardly deed at the door of bart hodge. "when you've got the proof, i'll look at it," he doubtingly remarked, turning about. "oh, don't talk to him!" hodge growled. "i wouldn't waste words on him." "i'll hammer your face for this some day!" badger panted, turning back. "it's right here, ready for the hammering whenever you get ready to try it!" hodge snapped, and then moved away with merriwell. seeing that they were heading toward the campus, the westerner went now in a different direction. "i don't know why i should let merriwell come in and interfere in that way," he grumbled. "i allow that it really was none of his affair. but i permitted him to order me to stand back, and i stood back. of course, i'm under obligations to him, and all that, and he said good words to winnie for me when i seemed to need them--but, hang it all! he isn't my boss! who made him my master? it's all right for him to lead hodge around by the nose that way, but----" "hello!" came in an inquiring voice, and badger, looking up, saw morton agnew. the westerner's face took on an unpleasant look, and he did not answer the hail. "don't be surly!" said agnew, coming boldly on. "what do you want?" snapped the kansan. then the thought came to him that it would be a good idea to treat agnew with some consideration, for thereby it might be possible to get the inside facts about the shell that ripped the gun open and came so near mangling his arm. "what do you want?" he asked again, toning down his gruffness. "i know we're not friends," said agnew, with the suavity of a confidence man, "but that is no reason why we should always remain foes. i saw you here, and you looked lonesome. i'm a rather lonesome bird myself to-night, so i whistled to you." "i allow you've the most gall of any man i ever saw!" was badger's thought. aloud, he said: "we'll go down this way, then. did i look lonesome? well, i wasn't feeling any lonesome, i can tell you--none whatever!" "perhaps you object to my company?" drawing back. badger knew that this was a piece of acting, and he wanted to crack agnew on the jaw for it. but he held himself in check. really badger seemed to be gaining some self-control--a thing that was entirely foreign to him when he first knew merriwell. he was enabled to hold himself in by the intense desire he felt to discover if agnew slipped the "fixed" shell into the box. that was an important point just then. "come along!" the westerner grunted. "you said that you were lonesome, if i am not. i'm not so hoggish as to want to run away from a man who thinks he can get good out of my company." "i like to hear you talk that way," said agnew, linking his arm in the kansan's. the touch made badger's flesh creep, but he held this feeling in check, too. "here's a saloon!" said agnew, after they had walked a considerable distance without saying anything of moment. "let's go in. we can talk in there. i never like to chatter much on the street." looking up, badger saw that they were in front of a well-known resort, which he had entered more than once, but of which he had recently fought shy. winnie's face rose reproachfully before him as he stopped and looked at the entrance. it almost drove him back. "we can talk better inside," agnew urged. the westerner glanced hesitatingly up and down the street. "all right," he agreed, again feeling a fierce desire to get at whatever knowledge agnew possessed about the exploding shell. the proprietor nodded familiarly toward him as he walked in. "glad to see you. nice evening!" badger, who was not good at acting what he did not feel, mumbled a reply. "have something?" suggested morton, moving up to the bar. badger pushed agnew's arm away and turned toward a side room. "no! i don't need a drink to talk." "it greases a fellow's tongue," said morton, with one of his persuasive smiles. "you won't have anything?" as a waiter appeared. "not to-night." "some whisky," said agnew, and the waiter went away, returning shortly with a bottle and some glasses. "some cards!" said agnew, and the waiter brought two unopened packs. the westerner's brow grew black. he fancied he saw through agnew's little game. he believed that agnew, who was a card-sharp, hoped to get him to talking, then to drinking, and finally into a game, and fleece him out of what money he had. agnew's funds were low, and he was probably ready for any expedient. "we can talk better over a game," agnew urged, deftly opening a pack. the kansan pushed back. his blood was boiling. he could hold in no longer. "i allow you're a big fool, agnew, if you think you can do me up in that way!" he hotly declared. "i've been told that you tried to kill me the other day. do you want to rob me, because you failed in that?" agnew grew white. "what are you talking about?" he gasped. "tried to kill you? what nonsense is that? i don't know what you mean." however, there was a certain tell-tale shrinking in his manner which badger could not fail to notice. it convinced the westerner that merriwell was on the right track, and his anger burned into deep rage. "i can see from your manner that you did. agnew, you've got the heart of a wolf! that's whatever!" agnew was truly playing a game, but it was not a card-game. he had learned to hate badger. to strike the westerner pleased him now almost as well as a stroke against merriwell. he dropped the cards and pushed back, as if he feared the kansan would leap at his throat. "wh-what do you mean?" he demanded. "on the gun-club grounds!" said badger, rising from the table. "you slipped some dynamite shells into merriwell's box, and i got one of them. it came near tearing my hand and arm to pieces, and it might have killed me. no thanks to you that it didn't. your intentions were good enough." agnew began to bluster, but in a low tone. "i'm not used to being accused of such things. how do you know there was anything the matter with the shell? are you hunting for trouble?" "that was the trick of an apache, agnew!" "don't let the proprietor hear you," agnew begged, and his voice was again as smooth as silk. "what is the use of rowing? i say that i did nothing of the kind, and you're a fool for thinking so. whoever hinted that to you lied." "i allow you might as well say that i lied!" agnew pushed toward the wall and put his hands into his pockets. badger, thinking he meant to draw a weapon, gave him no further time, but leaped on him across the table with the rush of a cyclone. agnew went down under that rush, but he clutched the westerner, and began to struggle, at the same time sending up a sharp call for help. in a moment the proprietor and the bartender were on the scene. "none of this!" cried the proprietor, grabbing badger by the shoulders, and, with the bartender's assistance, bodily dragging him off the threshing, writhing form of agnew. morton did not seem in any hurry to be released or rescued, however, and hung to badger's coat and vest with the tenacity of the under dog that fails to appreciate the fact that it is overmatched. "no fighting in here!" panted the proprietor. "this ain't no boxing-club! see! i'm glad to have gents come in and make themselves to home, but i can't allow any fighting!" agnew slid toward the door, seeming anxious to escape. the next moment he was out in the barroom, and then he vanished into the street. "i'll pay for the damages," said badger, choking down his wrath. "he went to draw a gun on me, and i jumped on him, that's all. a man is a fool to let another get the drop on him, and i allow i don't intend to. you bet i don't. i'll see him again, and when i do i reckon we'll have a settlement." chapter xii. agnew's trick. when the westerner saw agnew again they were in one of the college lecture-rooms and an examination was in progress. of course, they did not speak to each other. badger believed that agnew had kept away from him since their warlike encounter of the night before. the fact that agnew was also a sophomore had long been a disturbing thought to the westerner. badger had class pride. he sometimes declared that he was a sophomore of the sophomores, but there were a number of sophomores with whom he could not and would not mix. his seat was now close to the one occupied by agnew, though somewhat in front of it, and he had the unpleasant feeling that a hole was being bored through the back of his head by agnew's eyes. when the conductor of the examination looked down that way badger could not tell whether the professor's gaze was fixed on him or on agnew. professor barton had fiercely penetrating eyes, anyway, and the peculiar manner in which he looked at students in the classroom had always been especially irritating to the kansan. printed questions were used, and badger found some of them pretty hard. "i wish barton wouldn't look me through and through!" he muttered, noticing again and again that the professor's eyes were fixed on him. "it makes me feel like a cat under the paw of a mouse, or a calf watched by a coyote. i allow there are things pleasanter than barton's eyes." but barton continued to look down that way. "is he watching me, or is he watching agnew?" badger grumbled, as he dug away at the work cut out for him. "hanged if i can tell. perhaps it's just a way he has. maybe every poor devil in the room is feeling just as i do. whoever got up these questions must have lain awake of nights trying to see how hard he could make them. i reckon the chances are about two to one that i'll flunk." in an interval when barton's attention was turned in another direction, morton agnew crumpled a piece of paper, and, with a deft toss, which he made sure was not seen by any one, he threw it beneath badger's desk. badger did not know it was there, but the keen eyes of barton saw it as soon as they were again turned in that direction. now, barton was really not watching buck badger, but he was watching morton agnew. slips of the printed questions had been stolen by some member of the sophomore class the day previous, and agnew was suspected of the theft. that was why the keen eyes of the professor were so constantly turned toward that part of the room. he hoped to discover some evidence of agnew's guilt, if, indeed, agnew was guilty, as was believed. when his eyes fell on the piece of paper which morton had tossed so cleverly beneath badger's desk, he knew in an instant that it had not been there a moment before. the natural conclusion was, therefore, that the kansan had dropped it. its discovery was very suggestive. he began to watch badger as well as agnew. in a little while badger saw the paper also, and stooped to pick it up. "i will take that piece of paper!" came in the calm, even voice of the professor, as the westerner's fingers closed on the crumpled slip. badger, who had intended to open it, wondering what it contained, and vaguely thinking it might be a note which some member of the class had tried to get to him, flushed in a manner to arouse the professor's suspicions. he was almost tempted to tear it open and possess himself of its contents, but barton was moving toward him, with his eyes glued on the paper. "i will take that piece of paper," the professor repeated, and badger reluctantly gave it to him. agnew looked down at his work to veil the look of triumph that had come into his face. badger anxiously watched barton as he opened the slip and glanced it over. "that is your handwriting, i believe?" in an ominous voice. he held it for badger to read, and, to the kansan's intense astonishment, he saw that the paper was scribbled over with answers to the questions used in the examination, and that the handwriting seemed to be his own. he was so bewildered he could not say a word. answers were there to only a part of the questions, however. there was a strange look on barton's bearded face. he had seen badger fishing in his right vest pocket for a stub of a pencil awhile before. he thought, as he remembered this, that it was the left pocket of the vest. "what is in that left pocket of your vest?" he asked, in a voice that fairly made badger jump. barton believed the slip he held in his fingers had come from that left pocket, and he thought it possible more like it might be concealed there. "not a thing!" said the westerner, the angry flush in his face extending to the roots of his dark hair, for he was not accustomed to being spoken to in that suspicious tone, and it enraged him. "will you see if there is not?" barton asked, striving to maintain his calm, though his suspicions were growing. badger confidently thrust in his fingers and--drew out a slip of paper like the others, which was also scribbled over with answers to questions! he could not have regarded it with more surprise and bewilderment if it had been a snake. barton took it from his shaking fingers, and saw that the handwriting seemed to be the same. this exciting dialogue was beginning to attract attention, and many eyes were turned in that direction, which made the kansan get even redder in the face. badger thrust a hand into one of the upper pockets of his vest and drew out another paper of the same kind. "what does this mean?" he growled. he dived frantically into other pockets. he knew that his position was one hard to explain away, but, with a sort of recklessness, he was determined to know if there were more papers of that kind anywhere about him. he could not imagine how they came there, and the rather wild idea occurred to him that he might have scribbled them over that way in his sleep, for the coming examination had disturbed him and made his nights a bit restless. there were no other incriminating slips. "i should like to know what it means myself," said barton. he looked sternly at agnew, but the latter had now obtained control of his countenance, and met the professor's suspicious look with an air of innocent confidence. agnew felt safe. the paper he had crumpled and thrown under badger's desk was the only one he had secreted about him. so he knew that even if a search was forced, nothing of an incriminating character could be discovered on him. "i think i have put you in a mighty tight box, mr. buck badger!" was his gloating thought. and again that look of triumph returned with such force that he could hide it only by lowering his eyes, and did not raise them throughout the rest of the hour. that evening, while morton agnew was amusing himself with a game of solitaire, and chuckling with glee over the clever manner in which he had put buck badger in a "box," a rap sounded on the door of his room that made him jump. "come in!" he said. and frank merriwell walked in! agnew half-rose out of his chair. "sit down!" merriwell urged, closing the door behind him. then he turned the key in the lock and dropped the key into his pocket. "what do you mean by that?" starting to his feet in an agitated way. "sit down!" frank again commanded, in a smooth, quiet tone, which, however, sounded very ominous. agnew looked toward the closed window, and then dropped limply into the chair. "it's two stories down, and a hard pavement below that window. i'd advise you, agnew, not to pitch yourself out of that on your head. it would probably give the undertaker a job." agnew pushed the cards about, without knowing what he did, and stared at merriwell, his face white and his eyes anxious. he was afraid of merriwell. of all the men at yale, merriwell was the one he most feared. and his heart told him that there was something serious back of this unexpected call. "i'm glad to find you in," said frank, "for i want to have a talk with you. i will take this chair, with your leave. you won't mind if i come to the point at once?" "i don't know what you're driving at, and i think you must be drunk or luny to come into a fellow's room and lock him in! if you have an idea that there is anything funny about this, i'm pleased to tell you that there isn't." "i was afraid you might be so uncivil as to desert me. i shall not try to take anything away with me but a bit of your writing. you're a good penman, agnew, and i shall want a sample, after we've had a friendly chat." the cold sweat came out on agnew's brow. "i don't intend to beat about the bush at all. it is not needed. you know what i think of you, for i've given you abundant opportunity. twice within my knowledge you have tried to murder me--once when you slipped a ball cartridge into badger's musket in 'a mountain vendetta,' hoping and believing that i would be killed, and again on the grounds of the gun club, when you slipped some prepared shells into my box, thinking i would get hold of one of them, and that i would be killed by the explosion of my gun!" agnew's face grew as white as writing-paper. he opened his lips to reply, but frank went on: "of course, you are ready to deny these things. but i have some proofs. you thought you could get all the 'fixed' shells when you knocked rattleton over in the crowd, pretending you were shot. but one of them you failed to get. i have had its contents analyzed by one of the professors of chemistry, and he says that in place of powder, the shell contained a sort of gun-cotton, and that he does not see why the gun was not torn into splinters." "this----" "just keep still, agnew, until i am through! i have found the dealer of whom you purchased those shells, and i have found the dealer of whom you procured that gun-cotton!" again agnew opened his mouth to protest. he had stopped pushing the cards about. "once you tried to ruin my right arm by injecting into it a preparation that would produce atrophy of the muscles. i can produce evidence of that, too!" "it's a lie!" agnew finally gasped. "there is not a word of truth in these accusations!" "i have been accumulating evidence against you for some time. you have struck at me and at my friends time and again. it is my time to strike now, and i shall strike hard." the dangerous smile which friends and enemies alike had come to know so well rested on merriwell's face. agnew had seen it there before, and the sight of it made him shiver. "badger used that shell--or one of the shells, and only chance saved him from being killed or maimed for life. not satisfied with that, you struck at him to-day again." "you're crazy, merriwell! there is not a word of truth in any of these things. you have fancied them all, and, because you do not like me, you are determined to ruin me." "you have ruined yourself, agnew. i have given you chance after chance to reform and change about. you get worse. you are a disgrace to humanity, to say nothing of yale college. you struck at badger to-day, as i said. "i know all about it. professor barton fancies that he caught badger cribbing in to-day's examination. the matter has already gone to the faculty. badger will go out of yale as sure as the sun rises if things are permitted to go on. i propose to see that they do not go on. no scoundrel like you, agnew, shall treat a friend of mine in that way." "so he has become your friend, has he?" "no man shall treat one of my foes in that way, if i can help it!" agnew attempted a skeptical sneer, but it was a failure. he was shaking like a chilled and nervous dog. "i have had a talk with badger. he couldn't understand how the papers got into his pockets. but i knew as soon as he told me of your encounter in that saloon last night, for i had seen the slips purporting to be in his handwriting, and i knew they were forged, and i was sure you were the forger!" "quite a sherlock holmes!" said agnew. "this is a very interesting little romance. the only trouble is that, like most romances, there isn't a word of truth in it." "you are the man who stole the printed question slips. you wanted them for your own use, so that you might not fail in this examination. when you knew what they were, and had prepared answers, you planned to use them to throw badger down, hoping that if the theft of the slips were discovered the blow would fall on badger." "you're away off, merriwell!" but frank went remorselessly on: "last night, in the saloon, during that fight, which was of your own seeking, you contrived to put those forged answers, in imitation of badger's handwriting, into his pockets, where professor barton found them to-day. you are a forger, agnew, and you have lately been passing counterfeit money!" "not a word of truth in any of this!" agnew shakily declared. "some of these things i might find difficulty in proving, though i am as sure of them as that you are sitting there. but of other things i have the proof. now, i am going to give you your choice: write at my dictation a confession that will clear badger of the charge of stealing the question slips and using those answers, or i shall take steps at once which will land you in the penitentiary!" agnew grew sick and blind. "i can't do what you say!" he begged. "my god, merriwell, even if the things were true--which i deny--i couldn't do it! it would disgrace me forever!" "the faculty and professors are not anxious to bring odium on the good name of yale. your confession, i am sure, will not be made public. you ought to have thought of the disgrace when you were doing those dastardly, cowardly things! it is too late now." "but i can't!" agnew wailed. he had ceased to deny his guilt. "all right!" said frank, his lips tightening firmly. "i shall clear badger without this. i wanted to give you a last chance. i, too, am anxious that the good name of yale shall not be smirched by publishing to the world the downfall and disgrace of a yale student. but i shall not withhold my hand longer." he pushed back his chair, and the look on his face was so terrible that it robbed the trembling wretch of his fictitious courage. "wait!" begged agnew. "if i do what you say, you'll give me time to get out of town?" "i shall not move against you at all. i shall simply turn the confession over to the faculty, and so clear badger." again agnew hesitated. "here are paper and ink on your table!" the sweat was standing in drops on the brow of the card-sharp. "i'll do it simply because i must!" he doggedly declared. "it is an outrage. i do not admit any of these other charges, but i did put those things in badger's pockets, and i took the questions to help me out in the examination. those are the only things i am willing to confess." "they are all i ask you to confess." with trembling fingers, agnew drew pen and paper toward him. and then, at merriwell's dictation, he wrote a complete confession of the wrong he had done badger. "that is all right!" merry admitted, when he had looked it over. he arose from the chair, folded the paper, and put it in a pocket. "get out of new haven as quick as you can. i shall give this to the faculty in the morning. good-by!" he unlocked the door, with his face turned toward agnew, let himself into the hall, and was gone. forbearance and mercy had ceased to be a virtue, and frank merriwell's hand was lifted to strike and crush a dastardly foe. chapter xiii. cowardice of the chickering set. merriwell encountered hodge in the campus, informed him of what he had done, and together they started down-town. by and by they took a street-car, and, getting out at a familiar corner, found themselves in front of a group of merriwell's friends. "excuse me if i walk on!" said bart. "no, you are going with me!" "my room is preferred to my company with those fellows!" they had not yet been seen by merry's friends, who were grouped on the sidewalk about jack ready, who was talking and gesticulating in his inimitable way. "now don't get sulky, bart!" frank commanded. "those fellows are my friends." "they don't like me. i've seen it, merry. when i think of some things they have said, it makes me hot even against you." "do you want to turn me against you, bart? that is a good way to do it." "i don't care! i shall never snivel round those fellows!" bart snarled. "i'm your friend, merry! that's enough, isn't it?" "you take a poor way to show your friendship, hodge! you vex me sometimes. now, look here! the 'flock' can be together but a little while longer. the last of june is approaching fast, and that brings commencement. diamond, rattleton, browning, gamp, dismal, danny, bink, and a lot more will leave yale forever in june." the reflection touched bart's fiery heart. "all right," he said. "go ahead!" and walked after merriwell. willis paulding, the anglomaniac, passed them, going in the direction of the large hotel across the way. "mud on the bloon--i mean blood on the moon!" exclaimed rattleton, as bart and merry came up. "what's up?" frank asked. "paulding and the chickering set are up--there!" said danny, pointing to some upper windows of the hotel. "they are having a big feed to-night." "drinking tea and smoking cigarettes," explained bruce. "i've invited every fellow here to attend that banquet with me," ready jovially declared. "but not a soul will accept the invitation. they fancy their heads aren't hard enough for that kind of drinking!" "bub-bub-better get an invitation yourself fuf-first!" gamp stuttered. "oh, i circulate everywhere, like first-class currency. want to go up and take a peep with me, merriwell? i'd give a v any time to hear one of those fellows respond to a toast! come along. what d'ye say? i'll be the pilot." but merriwell was no more in the mood for such an escapade than the other members of the "flock." thereupon, ready skipped across the street himself and disappeared within the hotel. merriwell and his friends walked down the street, and in the course of half an hour returned to that corner. then they saw ready at one of the upper windows, looking down at them. he had a big piece of cake in one hand and a glass of wine or tea in the other. "come up to the feast!" he bellowed. "great fun!" but merriwell had his eyes fixed elsewhere. suddenly he exclaimed: "that hotel is on fire!" he had observed a tongue of flame leaping from a window. he started across the street, but before he had taken a dozen steps the fire-alarm bell sounded. a few of the people in the hotel seemed to be awaking to the fact that the building was on fire. merry's friends joined him, and they stood near the center of the street, looking up at the fire and discussing the matter. then ready was seen again at the window, staring about in a bewildered way, as if he contemplated leaping to the street below. "do you suppose the fire could cut him off so soon?" merry anxiously queried. "it doesn't seem likely," diamond answered. "but, of course, no one can tell. the chickering set are up there yet!" a crowd was collecting, and merry's friends were thinking of going on across the street, when the arrival of a clanging fire-engine drove them back to the corner from which they had started. it could now be seen that even in that brief space of time the fire was rapidly spreading. the blaze first seen had increased in size, and flames were now issuing from other windows on that floor. the fire seemed to be in the third story. luckily, the hotel stood on a corner, away from other buildings. people were now pouring in a stream from the exits. merriwell looked again toward the window where ready had been seen. "ready will come right across here as soon as he gets down," he said. "i suppose he is all right, but the fire is on that floor!" but ready did not appear. other fire-engines arrived and began their work. firemen swarmed everywhere. but the fire increased in intensity in spite of this fight against it. the hotel appeared to have emptied itself of its occupants. and still jack ready did not come. willis paulding stumbled across the street, white and shaky. his hair and eyebrows were singed, his lunnon-made clothes were wet and limp, and he was terribly frightened. "merriwell," he gasped, "jack ready is up there!" merry started. a fear that such might be the case had been growing on him. "how do you know?" he asked. paulding forgot his english drawl in his fright and excitement. "i saw him!" he admitted. "he was trying to get lew veazie down the stairs when he fell. veazie had been drinking a little, and couldn't help himself." "and where is veazie?" "he is down on the street somewhere." "and you ran away and left ready, after he had injured himself while trying to aid you!" paulding dropped his head. "the fire was right on us, and we----" "where did he fall?" "on the center stairway leading from the third story," said paulding, shivering under merry's rebuke. "fellows, i am going up there after jack ready," said frank calmly. "you'll go at the risk of your life!" shouted browning. but frank was already half-way across the street. the fire had spread with astonishing rapidity. some combustible material in the second story had exploded with great force, and this had seemed to scatter the fire. the entire second story was on fire now, as well as the one above it. frank vanished in the crowd, which was retreating through fear that the walls were about to fall. other fire-engines had come up. the people who fell back from the dangerous vicinity crowded on the yale men who had looked so anxiously after merriwell as he hastened to the aid of the imperiled freshman. willis paulding, feeling merriwell's rebuke, and stung by a feeling of his own cowardice, had slipped away. "i don't like that," hodge grumbled, looking at the spot where frank had vanished. "i've seen things myself that i like better!" grunted browning. "you can bet your life that merry will go wherever a friend is in danger!" said rattleton. "or a foe, either!" added diamond. "fuf-fellows, i'm worried abub bub-bout this!" stuttered joe gamp. "i'd feel easier a good deal if we had all stayed home to-night!" droned dismal. for once, neither danny nor bink had any comment to offer, funny or otherwise. a feeling that something awful was about to happen stilled their chatter. then all started, leaping as if they had been shot at, and pushed back into the retreating and startled crowd. a furnace or something of the kind had given way in the basement with a thunderous report. a great gap showed in one of the walls, and the wall itself seemed on the point of toppling down. "sounded like a siege-gun!" chirped a well-known voice. "fellows, i'm glad i wasn't in there then! had the greatest time you ever saw--narrow escape and all that; but here i am again, with my stomach filled with cake and my head intoxicated with tea. all right side up, you see!" the speaker was jack ready! "where is merriwell?" bart asked. "merriwell?" and ready looked round. "refuse me, but i supposed he was the center of this intellectual group! yes, where is merriwell?" "he went up there after you--to get you out of the fire!" exclaimed bink, in great excitement. "you haven't sus-sus-seen him?" demanded gamp. some firemen planted a ladder against the swaying wall, as if to brace it, and a group came round the corner dragging a huge muddy hose, which they intended to train on another part of the hotel. but, so far, the fire had baffled all their efforts. "did he go up there?" ready gasped. "sure!" said danny. "he is up there now." ready's round, red-apple cheeks grew white. "if he is up there now, he'll never come out!" bart stared at the shaking wall and the flaming windows--at the smoke clouds rolling from the doorways. the hotel had become a furnace. then he stepped out, with a determined look on his dark face. ready understood the meaning of that look. "you'll go to your death if you try it!" he declared. "it is hotter than ten ovens, and some timbers fell from the second floor as i came out. if i hadn't rolled under the stairway when i fell, and thus had protection, i should have been cooked alive." but if hodge heard the warning, he did not heed it. he pushed aside ready's detaining hand and ran quickly across the street. they saw him reach the first smoke-filled doorway, and then he was swallowed up in the smoke. the other members of merriwell's flock stood still, with shaking limbs and anxiously beating hearts. "they will both be killed!" gasped rattleton. "sure!" groaned dismal. "i don't believe we shall ever see hodge again!" ready declared, and his cheeks grew even whiter. bruce moved as if he, too, thought of rushing into the flames. diamond's hand was laid on his shoulder. "wait a minute. no use risking any more lives! bart can do that, if any one can!" browning felt that this was true, and fell back with a groan, while a bit of suspicious moisture shone in his eyes. the walls were in such a state that the firemen now began to disconnect the hose and to get the engines away. they warned back the crowd, and policemen began to shout orders and to enforce them with batons. in the meantime, what was bart hodge doing, and what had befallen frank merriwell? hodge was sure that frank had made his way to the stairway where willis paulding had said jack ready had fallen. it was the center stairway leading from the third story. hodge had not much difficulty in passing through the hotel office, for, after the dash through the doorway, he found the smoke not so dense. it seemed to be sucked into the doorway, and the clerk's desk and vicinity were comparatively free of it. the room was deserted, and there were everywhere evidences of a hasty leave-taking. bart ran first to the elevator, thinking he might be able to use that, but the door appeared to be warped, and he could not get it open easily. he did not know whether the elevator was in running condition, and much doubted it, because of the explosion in the basement. therefore, not wishing to lose any time, he jumped for the nearest stairway, as soon as he felt that no help could be had from the elevator, and climbed as fast as he could toward the second story. this stairway was filled with smoke, and he felt the heat increase as he ascended, but he still had no trouble, except from the smoke. but when he reached the second floor his heart almost failed. the stairway on which jack ready had fallen, and the only stairway bart could see, was wrapped in flames, which writhed and twined like serpents. the heat, too, was intense. bending close to the floor, to escape the smoke and heat as much as possible, bart groped about, looking everywhere for merriwell, thinking he might have fallen there. he saw him nowhere, and called loudly. but no sound came back except the roar of the fire. it even drowned all the noises of the street. but not for a moment did he think of turning back, though he knew how awful the danger would be if he tried to go up that burning stairway. he cast about for some sort of protection. a flimsy curtain of cotton material was stretched across a doorway. this hodge pulled down and wrapped round his head, protecting his hands with it also as well as he could. then he measured the stairway and its direction with a quick glance, and made a wild dash for the fire. he went up the stairway at a run, with his clothes scorching and the protecting cotton cloth bursting into flame. it was a desperate spurt, but hodge went through the fire, and with a bound threw himself beyond it, and felt, rather than knew, that he was in some kind of hall, where the fire was not so bad. he pulled aside the flaming cloth, pitched it from him, put up his scorching hands to shield his eyes, and looked about. "merriwell!" the cry was one of joy. "merriwell!" this time the exclamation held the tone of fear and dread. frank merriwell was lying in this space, which bart saw now to be a wide corridor. frank seemed unconscious. he was lying close against the wall, with his arms doubled over his head. near him was a piece of timber which had fallen from the floor above. other pieces of timbers seemed about to fall from the same place. this one, as bart saw at a glance, had struck merriwell down. bart's heart almost stopped beating when the thought came to him that perhaps frank was dead. he leaped toward him, with a bound, uttering that cry of "merriwell!" as he did so. "frank! frank!" he cried. "frank, are you much hurt?" the roaring of the fire in the stairway sounded louder, than ever. its noise was like that of a raging furnace. bart's hands were scorched, but he did not feel the pain of the burns. another piece of timber dropped from the floor above within a foot of where he stood. others seemed about to fall. there was fire all round him, and the whole corridor seemed on the point of leaping into flame. hodge lifted merry's unconscious form and faced the fire. a groan came from merriwell's lips. bart looked into the white face and saw a bloody lump on the side of merry's head. that face appealed to him as if for protection from the fire. in spite of his many faults, bart hodge held for frank merriwell the love of a strong and manly heart. frank was the one true and faithful friend who had always stood by him--the one friend who always understood him--the one friend who was every ready to defend him. and hodge would have laid down his life for merriwell! he saw that if he dashed through the fire with merriwell, that face, so strong and manly and true, would be horribly disfigured. he did not think of his own so much as of merriwell's. yet he felt that if he got out of the building with his burden he would have to make haste. there were doors along the corridor, and he knew that they opened into rooms. he put merriwell down, and finding the first door locked, kicked it in with his foot. the room was full of smoke, but the fire had not yet entered it. hodge hastily tore from the bed a big double blanket, and retreated with it into the corridor. this blanket he wound round merriwell's face and shoulders and hands; then lifted frank again, protecting himself with the folds of the blanket as well as he could as he did so. thus dragging merriwell, he stumbled toward the hell of fire that roared in the stairway. there was a jarring sound, and for a moment it seemed that the whole building was tumbling down round his ears. a section of the rear wall had fallen outward, and the part of the hotel containing the kitchen was a burning wreck. bart hardly heard the sound, so absorbed was he in the task before him. he did not feel merriwell's weight--in fact, his strength seemed to be as great as browning's. "frank!" he cried, in his heart--"frank, my dearest friend, if i can't carry you out, we'll die together!" the fire in the stairway had greatly increased. but hodge did not hesitate. wrapping the blanket closer about merriwell and himself, he rushed, with seeming recklessness, but with a boldness that was really the highest form of courage, into that raging cauldron of fire, and descended with the steady celerity of one who sees every foot of the way and has no thrill of fear. the blanket crisped and cracked and smoked into flame as the fiery waves beat against it. bart seemed to be breathing liquid flame. but the thick bulk of the blanket shielding merriwell's face and hands kept them from the searing fire. half-fainting, but victorious, bart hodge reeled out of the hotel, bearing merriwell in his arms. a great cheer went up from the excited crowd, for, somehow, the information had spread that a daring attempt to rescue a friend was being made by one of the college students. merriwell's flock dived through the thick smoke and carried both hodge and merriwell to a place of security. and even as they did so the tottering side wall, that had so long been swaying, fell, and the shell of the burning hotel collapsed like a house of cards. * * * * * the next morning danny griswold bounced into merriwell's room. hodge was there. he and frank were talking about the fire and congratulating themselves that neither had received bad burns and that merry's injury was not serious. "news!" exclaimed danny. "morton agnew left new haven last night." "i knew he would," said frank. "he knows i am going to give his confession to the faculty this morning, and he would not want to stay here a minute after that. yale will never see him again." "good thing for yale!" hodge grunted. chapter xiv. a wild night. a wild lot of sophomores and freshmen were celebrating the beginning of "secret-society week," by marching round the campus at night in lock-step style, singing rousing college songs. they danced in and out of the dormitories, wildly cheered every building they passed, while the classes bellowed forth their "omega lambda chi." down by the fence by durfee's, on the campus, in the gymnasium, at traeger's and morey's and jackson's, and wherever yale men congregated, almost the sole topic of conversation was of who would go to "bones," "keys," and "wolf's head." the air of mystery surrounding membership in these senior societies, the honor which their membership confers, and the fact that but a few men, comparatively, out of any junior class can be elected to them, create an absorbing interest. skull and bones, or "bones," as it is popularly called, is the wealthiest and most respected. then follows scrolls and keys, or "keys," with wolf's head third in order of distinction. the names are taken from the society pins. each of these societies has a handsome and costly club-house, whose secrets are no more to be arrived at than are those of the sphinx and the pyramids. conjectures as to what society would get the most prominent members of the junior class had engrossed a good deal of thought for several weeks. each society takes in fifteen members, or forty-five in all, out of the two hundred and fifty or more men that usually compose the junior class. as every junior is anxious to become a member, the feverish interest with which the subject is regarded by the juniors may be imagined. this interest had gradually spread throughout the college. now the subject suddenly leaped to such importance that it overshadowed the ball-game which yale was to play against princeton, and the coming boat-race at new london, in which the phenomenally popular inza burrage was to be the mascot of the yale crew. class spirit, that wildly jovial night, seemed to melt the sophomores into a fraternizing, loving brotherhood, where discord was unknown, even though the class contained such opposite elements as buck badger, jim hooker, donald pike, pink pooler, the chickering set, porter, cowles, mullen, benson, billings, webb, and others. though these might join in class dances and marches, and howl themselves hoarse in honor of the sophomores and of yale, some of them could no more unite in any true sense than oil and water. the campus was brilliantly illuminated. powerful calcium and electric lights bored holes through the darkness, turning night into day. all the windows of all the dormitories which face the campus were crowded with students and with women. three of these windows held frank merriwell's friends. frank was there, with inza, elsie, and winnie, together with mrs. hodge and inza's invalid father, bernard burrage. "as in life, the good and the evil mingle," sighed dismal jones, as his eyes fell on jim hooker and other honorable sophomores who were marching in close proximity to the chickering set. "the wheat grows up with the tares, and the result is an everlasting bobbery." "there will be tears in your wardrobe if you don't quit walking on me!" squeaked bink stubbs. "climb up on a chair," advised danny, who had already taken his own advice, and was thus able to look down into the campus without stretching his neck until he was in danger of converting himself into a dromedary. "it's just great!" "can't be anything great for me that holds that chickering crowd!" browning grumbled. "isn't the campus beautiful!" was inza's enthusiastic exclamation. it was, indeed, beautiful, for the fresh, tender green of the elms was brought out with marvelous distinctness by the brilliant lights. "they're kuk-kuk-kicking up an awful dud-dud-dud-dust!" stuttered gamp, pushing forward for a better view. "dust assume to crowd in front of me, base varlet?" questioned bruce. "i'll forgive you if you'll just take off your tall head and hold it under your arm!" "i s'pose naow you think that's a joke!" said gamp. "it's more than a dust, fellows," said merriwell. "there is a fight on!" certain of the sophomores had bunched together under one of the elms, and seemed to be struggling, as if in a contest. "it looks as though they might be playing football," suggested elsie. winnie lee leaned anxiously out of the window, for in the center of that knot she had seen buck badger. she had eagerly searched for him in the procession, and had but found him when that indication of a wrangle came to disturb her. the procession seemed to be breaking up and concentrating beneath and around the elm where that struggle was taking place. far in front a number of students were bellowing their "omega lambda chi," but the others had ceased to sing. "see how great a matter a little fire kindleth!" said dismal. and dismal was right. the beginning of that scramble was trivial enough. but the trouble which it kindled was destined to outlive the moment and seriously affect the life and fortunes of at least one of the participants. jones was merely grumbling one of his proverbs, without dreaming how appropriate the words really were. donald pike had been nagging and tormenting the chickering set. he had bumped his toes against ollie lord's high-heeled shoes. in the lock-step walk he had put his hands crushingly on tilton hull's high choker collar. he had pitched against and torn gene skelding's flaring necktie. and he had even dared to knock off julitan ives' hat and disarrange his lovely bang. at last, in his exuberance, he seized a handful of clammy soil that was almost the consistency of mud, and playfully tossed it at lew veazie. it missed veazie, and, by an infortuitous fate, took buck badger smack in the eye. badger, who had seen pike's antics, clapped a hand to his eye with a grunt of pain and astonishment. "you scoundrel!" he bellowed. then he lunged at pike, with a startling suddenness that took donald quite off his guard and threw him headlong. badger believed that pike had thrown the mud into his eye purposely. there had been bad feeling between them, and even worse, for some time, and the gap separating them seemed to be growing wider all the while. each had said exasperating and belittling things of the other, and a wall of hate had been built up where once there had been a bond of strong friendship. the pain in badger's eye was excruciating, and it rendered him for a little while absolutely reckless. fortunately, it also rendered him incapable of inflicting on his former friend the punishment which his rage dictated. for a short time affairs were exciting enough. sophomores and freshmen deserted the procession and leaped for the elm where the crowd was quickly gathering. badger threw himself on pike, after the latter was down, and would have proceeded to pound his face, without doubt, but that his arms were caught and held. it was all over within less than two minutes. some of the westerner's friends held him back and began to talk some sense into him, while pike's friends drew him out and away. "i reckon this isn't the end of it!" snarled badger, flinging the words at pike. "there will be a beautiful settlement of this, remember." then he hobbled blindly out of the crowd with some acquaintances, to have his smarting eye attended to, while the procession reformed, and the rollicking students began again to shout their "omega lambda chi." the "beautiful settlement" came at a late hour that night. badger encountered pike while the latter was on his way to his room. the kansan's eye still pained him, and his rage was hot. as soon as he saw pike he stepped across the walk and took him by the nose. "that's the way i treat such skunks as you!" he hissed, flinging pike from him after offering him that deadly insult. "i want to warn you to keep out of my way after this. if you don't, i'll treat you just as i would a rattler!" "you mean you will kill me!" snarled pike, rushing at the kansan in a fit of blind rage. but he was no match for badger, who flung him off with surprising ease, and then held him at bay and at arm's length by a clutch on his throat. "i've a notion to choke the breath out of you!" said badger. "don't tempt me too far, or i might forget myself and do it. you know that i've got a red-hot, cantankerous temper when i get started. now go! git! if you don't, i'll lift you with my shoe. and keep out of my way, unless you want trouble!" he pushed pike from him with stinging scorn. "i'll go!" said pike. "but i'll pay you for to-night's work! see if i don't! you'll find out that there are more ways of fighting than with fists. you may wish that you had killed me, before you get through with it!" "what does the scoundrel mean by that?" the westerner questioned, staring at pike as the latter hurried away. "i reckon he is mean enough to do anything. well, he had better have a care!" he was soon destined to feel the effects of pike's threat in a manner more crushing than any knock-down, physical blow which pike could have delivered. chapter xv. pike and badger. the next evening, which was tuesday evening, while the societies were hilariously enjoying their annual calcium-light procession, donald pike took a car and hastened to the home of the honorable fairfax lee. he had tarried in the campus long enough to be sure that winnie lee was again enjoying the processional festivities from one of the dormitory windows. "nobody will know whether i am in that procession or not," he muttered, as he started toward lee's. "and if they do know, what is the difference? i'm under no obligation to be there, and i can say that i had a headache, or anything else i want to, if i choose to take the trouble to account for my absence." to pike's great satisfaction, he found fairfax lee at home; and when he told the servant that he had an important communication to make, he was invited into the waiting-room, and finally was ushered into the presence of mr. lee. the facing of mr. lee in this manner, even though he could claim disinterested motives, rather phased even the blunted spirit of donald pike. if he had dared to, he would have committed his story to writing, and so brought it to lee's attention. but things that are written often have an unpleasant way of reappearing, to the discomfiture and undoing of the writer, and pike's caution warned him against such risks. words merely spoken, he assured himself, can be denied, if that becomes afterward necessary. written words, undestroyed, cannot be so easily escaped. "anything i can do for you?" mr. lee queried, when pike hesitated. "you have a communication, i believe?" donald pulled himself together, and the opening sentences of what he intended to say came back to him. he had thought these out with care, and they seemed very fine and even humanitarian. "i want you to know at the outset, mr. lee, that in coming to you with the information i bear i am wholly disinterested. but the truth is due you. no one else seems to have had the courage to tell you, and i shall." fairfax lee began to look interested. "you are very kind," he said, "and i thank you in advance for your favor." this was so auspicious a beginning that pike's courage rose. "i want to have a frank talk with you about a certain young yale man--mr. buck badger. you must have noticed that he is very devoted in his attentions to your daughter?" there was no reply to this, though pike halted, in the expectation that there would be one. "i am well acquainted with badger. in fact, until very recently, he was my roommate, and we were good friends. perhaps when i tell you that he is not a fit man to associate with your daughter, you may think i am led by the fact that badger and i are not now the friends we were once. but it is not so. we are not friends simply because his baseness became so apparent to me that i could no longer associate with him. "i have thought this thing over for a good while, mr. lee, and as an honorable man, i did not think i ought to remain silent and see things go on as they are. you love your daughter, mr. lee?" this last was rather an effective shot, for fairfax lee loved winnie devotedly. "all this is very unpleasant, mr. pike, but i am ready to hear what you have to say. i am free to confess that you rather surprise me." "your daughter is an admirable young lady, mr. lee. and though i cannot say that she and i are more than the merest acquaintances, i thought it a shame that matters should go on as they are without a word from me to you, to let you see what your daughter is walking into. or what she would walk into, if she should ever be so unfortunate as to marry buck badger!" donald pike had at last contrived to get into his tones and manner a sympathetic element that, while it was veriest hypocricy, was very effective. "my daughter is not married to mr. badger yet!" said lee, somewhat bluntly, a frown on his usually pleasant face, for his position was far from agreeable. "and i hope she may never be." "you fail to specify," lee reminded. "you make only vague charges." "there are many things," said pike, coming to the point now with great boldness, "but i shall name only one. buck badger is a drunkard." fairfax lee seemed astonished, and the frown on his face deepened. "he is the worst type of drunkard. not a man who drinks steadily, but one of those who indulge now and then in crazy, drunken debauches. for weeks, even months, he may not touch a drop of liquor. then he will go on a spree. you can verify this, i am sure, by inquiries carefully made among the students. more than once he has been known to be on a drunk. he was drunk when he went aboard the excursion steamer, _crested foam_, when she was burned in the bay." "what?" "it is true, mr. lee, every word of it. your daughter and a good many others think he was drugged by the boat-keeper, barney lynn, and lured on the steamer for the purpose of robbery. but when he met lynn he was already raving blind drunk, and lynn merely took advantage of his helpless condition. you can know that this is true if you will call or send a man to the saloon of joe connelly. he went to connelly's that night--or rather, the evening before--filled himself up on the vilest decoctions, and went out from there as drunk as a fool. he has been there before many times. connelly knows him well." all this was so circumstantial that fairfax lee was alarmed and moved. he knew that connelly's was one of the worst dens of the city, and he felt sure that unless there was something in the story pike would not give names in this way. he resolved to learn the whole truth about the matter. "if what you say is true, buck badger is not fit to associate with any girl," he asserted. "especially not with a girl as innocent and unsuspecting as your daughter, mr. lee. i have seen that for a good while, and it has been a fight with my conscience to keep from coming here with this story. i couldn't delay it longer. i trust you see that i can have no hope of gain, and nothing but right motives in bringing you this story--which you will find fully substantiated by a course of inquiry." fairfax lee was flushed and silent. "all of badger's friends, or most of them, i am sure, know that he was drunk, and not drugged, when he went aboard the _crested foam_. some of them might admit this knowledge." "you are a sophomore?" "yes." "and mr. badger is?" "yes, sir." "and you were recently his friend and roommate?" "yes." "i have your card, which i will put by for reference. i presume, if i call on you, you will be willing to repeat anywhere what you have said to me here?" this was unexpected, and pike hesitated. "i don't care to get myself into trouble with badger. he is of the bulldog, pugilistic type, and the first thing he would do would be to assault me like the bully he is. i have given you the warning. you can get all the proof you want. probably you would never have heard of this until too late, if i had not voluntarily brought you the story." "you are right," lee admitted. "perhaps that would be asking too much." "i have struck the blow, badger," donald pike muttered, as he left the handsome home of the lees. "you will find it more of a knock-down, i fancy, than if i had hit you between the eyes with my fist. nobody ever walks roughshod over don pike and gets off without suffering for it. you will hear something drop pretty soon." and so, chuckling, he took his way to the street-car line, and returned to the campus and the yale jollification. the kansan had accompanied winnie lee home that evening, as usual. the hour was late, and he did not enter the house, but kissed her good-night at the gate. "good-night and pleasant dreams, sweetheart!" he said as he turned to go. his heart was light, for he and winnie had enjoyed a long and loving talk on the way home, and throughout the evening there had been no untoward incident to mar his pleasure. he had noticed donald pike's absence, and had been glad of it, but he merely supposed pike kept away because of the row of the previous evening. if there are such things as premonitions of coming trouble, certainly they did not distress badger that night. winnie was also in a happy frame of mind as she tripped lightly up the steps and entered the house. inza and elsie had returned some time before. as she had expected, they had retired to their rooms. she was surprised, however, to find her father waiting for her in the sitting-room, which was brightly lighted. as she came into the room, she saw something ominous in his face. she thought she was to be lectured for remaining out so late. "sit down, winnie," he said. "i want to have a talk with you." his voice was even more ominous than his face. she came and sat down by his side, when she had removed her hat. he put his hand on her head and drew her toward him. "did mr. badger come home with you, winnie?" he asked, and his voice was slightly tremulous. "yes, father. i know i stayed a little late, but it was so hard to get away while so much was going on. i don't know when i have had so pleasant an evening. and besides, it was hard for buck to get away, and we had arranged for him to come home with me. the festivities had not ended when we left." "buck badger must never come home with you again!" he said, with a firmness and suddenness that took all the color out of her cheeks, and seemed to take all the breath out of her body. she sat still, as if frozen by the statement, while a scared look filled her eyes. then she partly roused herself. "what--why do you say that?" "i have learned that he is not fit to associate with you--is not fit to associate with any girl!" "what have you heard, father?" she demanded, in a trembling voice. "i know that whatever it is, it isn't true, for buck is fit to associate with any girl!" she half-expected him to refer to the fracas of the evening before in the campus. "if there is one thing on which i am determined, it is that my daughter shall never marry a drunkard!" "buck isn't a drunkard!" "he was drunk when he was taken aboard the _crested foam_ by that boatman, barney lynn." "no, father!" "you think not, of course. you think he was drugged." "he was drugged. lynn drugged him. he was not drunk, and he had not been drinking. who has been telling you such things? i am sure it cannot be any one who has any honor." "it was some one who felt it to be his duty to warn me of the fact that my daughter is in danger of marrying a drunkard. i thank him for it." "but, father, you would not take the unsupported word of any one, would you? i know that buck has touched liquor at times, just as nearly all the college men do, but he is not a drunkard, and he is not even a drinking man. and he is now strictly temperate. he told me so himself, that he has taken a pledge with himself never to touch anything of the kind again. and mr. merriwell--you know that mr. merriwell wouldn't befriend and favor him as he is doing now if buck were a drunkard." "but i know, winnie, dear!" lee firmly, yet kindly, insisted. "and i know, father! barney lynn confessed to me that he drugged buck; but he said nothing about buck being intoxicated, which he would have done, wouldn't he, if buck had really been intoxicated when he met lynn?" the girl was quick and alert. she understood that some desperate attempt to separate her from the man she loved had been made, and she did not intend that it should succeed without an effort against it on her part. "who told you this--lie, father?" "i wish it was a lie!" lee groaned. "it is!" "i have just come from connelly's saloon, down in one of the worst parts of the city. i was told to go there and i would find the evidence i wanted. i went; and i have just returned. badger was at connelly's the night before the _crested foam_ excursion. it is an all-night resort--though it professes, i believe, to close at midnight. badger left there at about two or three o'clock, blindly intoxicated. he was simply reeling drunk. he must have gone from there to the wharf, and there he fell into the hands of barney lynn, who drugged him for his money. this is true, winnie. there isn't the slightest doubt about it. i wish it were all a terrible mistake, but it isn't. and that was not the first time that badges had reeled out of connelly's far into the night, drunk. he is given to just such drunken debauches." winnie lee's heart seemed to have turned to lead in her bosom. she was cold from head to feet, except that in her cheeks bright spots burned. her father looked at her with anguished eyes. he noted the pallor and the hectic spots. "winnie, i can't let you throw yourself away on such a fellow as buck badger! you must put him out of your thoughts. he is unworthy of you. i thought he was an honorable young man, and now i find i was mistaken. i shall make further inquiries, but those i have made to-night are enough to condemn him. you must not see him again, and you must have nothing further to do with him. i want you to tell him just what i have said--or i shall tell him myself, and give him a piece of my mind in the bargain." winnie knew that she was trembling as with an ague, but she tried to hold her emotions in check that she might fight for herself and for buck. everything was at stake now, she felt, for she loved badger with an absorbing love. "you have simply been deceived, father," she insisted. "i know it. like many yale men, buck has been a little wild at times. he knows it and acknowledges it but as for that night and that excursion, that isn't true, i don't care who told you. buck has a good many enemies, and some of them have come to you with this story. tell me who told you, in the first place." "it wouldn't be right just now for me to give his name. and it is not needed. connelly admitted that badger had been there often, and had gone from there drunk the night before the steamer excursion. he remembered it, because the story of the fire and of lynn's death, and the drugging of badger, was in the papers, and he could not forget the time. i wish it wasn't true, winnie; but it is true. it will be hard, perhaps, for you to give him up, but better that than for him to make you unhappy, as he is sure to do." "hard!" she mentally cried. "it will kill me!" he looked at her pathetically, yet with decision and firmness. "make up your mind that he is unworthy. i will bring you more proofs, if necessary. but i, first of all, lay on you my commands. you must not see him again, except to tell him that he cannot call again, and that you cannot be anything to each other hereafter but the merest acquaintances." man of affairs and of the world as he was, fairfax lee had not yet learned that love cannot be made to come and go at will. if the little god is blind, he is also stubborn, and has a way of his own. "i can't, father!" winnie begged. "you must not ask it of me." "what? you would not continue to go with him, knowing what i have told you? you would not permit a drunkard to pay you attentions, or a man who is in the habit of going on wild debauches?" "no. but buck is not that kind of a man. you have simply been deceived." "i have given my orders," said lee, with a sternness he seldom used in speaking to winnie. "i expect that they will be obeyed. it is useless to argue the matter. buck badger must not come into this house. i will write him a note to that effect, myself. you shall not see him again! i shall tell him in plain words just what i have learned, and that this house and your company are forbidden to him." "but, father----" "we will not talk any more about it. you are stubborn to-night. you will think better of it in the morning. no one--no one, winnie, loves you as i do! i have given you every advantage. you shall not throw yourself away on any one." he got up, as if to end the interview. the room and its belongings seemed swinging wildly round in a crazy dance before the eyes of winnie lee. she grasped at her chair for support. she seemed unable to lift herself. in her heart there was only one cry--one wild cry: "buck! buck! buck!" by a great effort, she at last arose from her chair. her father saw the marblelike pallor of her face, and, touched by this sign of distress, he came over, put his arms about her and kissed her. her cheek, against which he pressed his lips, seemed cold as ice. "don't be foolish, dear!" he pleaded. "you shouldn't grieve over a man who is so manifestly unworthy of you. you know that i love you, and that i haven't said these things to give you pain, but because it is my duty as your father. now, good night, dear." "good night!" she said, as if in a dream, and blindly walked toward the door. in her room, she threw herself across her bed. "oh, what shall i do?" she moaned. "buck! buck! buck! who has told such terrible lies on you, dear?" and so she lay there, moaning out a grief that was too great for tears. chapter xvi. the blow falls. the next afternoon the westerner received this note, which was delivered at his room by a boy, who went away before badger had a chance to question him: "mr. buck badger: certain facts have come to my knowledge which show that you are not the man i supposed you to be. i find that you are not only a drinking man, but that you often become grossly intoxicated, and that you were so when lured aboard the _crested foam_ by barney lynn. under these circumstances, you cannot expect that i will longer permit your attentions to my daughter. i ask you, therefore, not to try to see her again, and not again to call at my house, where you are most unwelcome. if there is any spark of manhood or gentlemanliness left in you, you will respect my wishes and commands in this matter. yours, "fairfax lee." the kansan stared at the paper as if he could not believe his eyes, while a flush of hot displeasure crept into his dark face. "who has been telling him that?" he growled, jamming the note down on his table, and then picking it up to read again. "i'll break the neck of the man that did that. 'not try to see her again?' well, i don't think! i allow i shall see her every chance i get, and whenever i choose, and i'd like to tell lee so. why, what----" he got up from the table and began to walk back and forth like a caged tiger. he was sure that some enemy had struck at him in this way. suddenly he halted, and the pupils of his eyes contracted. "ah!" he snarled. "i reckon that was the work of don pike. he said he'd strike me in a way that would be worse than if he hit me with his fist, and this is what he meant! well, i'll settle with you, pike, for that, and don't you ever forget it! you won't forget, either, i allow, when i'm through with you. that's whatever!" he crumpled up the note, hastily stuck it into a pocket, jammed his hat on his head, and left his room hurriedly, locking the door. he did not stop in the campus. it was filled with yale fellows, and the fence in front of durfee hall was crowded. he saw here and there men whom he knew well, and who nodded to him. he hardly took time to return the greetings. "what's the matter with badger now?" rumbled browning. "he is charging along like a blind bull at a fence." "why do you ever notice what the fellow does at all?" bart hodge grumbled. "well, even cranks are interesting," said dismal jones, also looking curiously after badger. "curiosities likewise," remarked danny griswold, puffing at his cigarette. "and since our dear merry has just about adopted this wild bull from the plain, my interest in him as a curiosity has increased." "as a guess, i should say he is hunting somebody to fight," said diamond. "then he will be accommodated in mighty short order," browning prophesied. "i never yet saw a fellow go after trouble and return without finding what he sought. mr. badger is not the only fellow who goes pawing round with his hair standing and blood in his eye." "speaking from experience, browning?" mildly inquired bink stubbs, scratching a match to light a cigarette. "you have gone in search of trouble a few times, to my knowledge." "and you're searching for it now!" grunted browning, giving the little fellow a warning look. all unaware of the fact that his rapid transit across the campus had occasioned unusual comment, badger hurried on, and finally entered a car which took him to the office of fairfax lee. "is mr. lee in?" he asked of the clerk in the outer room. "yes." "will you give him my card, please, and tell him i should like to see him a few minutes?" the clerk took the card and disappeared. he was back immediately. "mr. lee says that he cannot see you, sir!" "did he say that he is engaged?" "no, sir. he does not care to see you!" the westerner's dark face burned, and he bit his lip to keep the hot words from rushing out in a torrent. he stood for a moment, hesitating. but a door separated him, he believed, from mr. lee. he was almost ready to push open that door and confront lee and demand an explanation of the letter forbidding him to see winnie again. but he got the better of himself, and walked out of the office. "if he thinks he can bluff me out, or freeze me out, he don't know me!" he grated, as he turned away. "i shall see winnie as often as i can. hanged if i don't go up there right now!" with the kansan, to think was to act. and in a few minutes he was in another car speeding toward the home of the lees. "if i don't get to see her, perhaps i can find out something about this mess from inza or elsie. they may be able to clear away the mystery. i allow i never was in so horrible a snarl in my life. but i'll punch pike's head for this, and don't you forget it! that's whatever!" but the westerner met quite as chilling a reception at lee's home as at the office. the servant who met him at the door had received her instructions. "you are not to be admitted to the house," she said sharply. "is miss lee in?" he persisted. "no." "is that true, or is it one of the society lies which declares that a lady is out when she is in?" he bluntly demanded. to this there was no answer. the servant began to close the door. badger stopped this by taking hold of the knob. "what do you want?" asked the girl, who was somewhat frightened by the westerner's violent manner. "i want to see miss winnie lee." "she is not at home." "then i want to see miss inza burrage." "she is not in." "then i should like to see miss elsie bellwood." "she is not in." badger suddenly changed his tactics. bluster would not do, he saw. he put his hand into a pocket and drew out a five-dollar note, which he held up alluringly. "if you will take a note for me to miss lee, i will give you this five dollars." the servant shook her head and again tried to close the door. "if you will take a note to either miss burrage or miss bellwood, i will give you the five dollars." once more the servant sought to close the door. "i have my orders, mr. badger. i cannot afford to lose my place for five dollars or fifty dollars. and i wouldn't do what you ask, anyway. if you do not let me close the door, i shall call for help." "all right!" said badger gruffly, releasing the door. "but i will see those young ladies, just the same." to accomplish this he remained in the vicinity of the house until long after nightfall. but he was wholly unrewarded for his vigil, and at last, distressed, humiliated, and angry, he took a car for the college grounds, raging like a lion against donald pike. even an enemy of badger must have pitied him that night. the campus was filled with yale men and their friends, and there were excitement and sport, fun and laughter, music and merriment galore. but badger could enjoy none of it. he had no thought for anything but winnie lee and the treatment he had received from her father. he wondered if she were at home, and was half of the opinion that lee had spirited her out of the city. his disappointment in not seeing either elsie or inza was bitter, for somehow he felt that if he could see them they would be willing to help him. with this feeling, he now began to look for merriwell and his friends, but they were not to be found. he went to merry's room, and then from room to room, even venturing finally to knock on hodge's door. later he learned that hodge and merry had called at the home of fairfax lee, after he had given over his vigil, and had been cordially admitted, and had accompanied inza and elsie to a banquet, which was attended by the whole merriwell set. the westerner was more successful in his search for merriwell the next day, though he did not get a chance to speak to frank until the afternoon. badger was looking haggard and distressed as he came up to merry. they were in the campus, and yale's famous "slapping" ceremony was soon to begin. the campus was filling with men, and the members of the junior class were out in full force, for out of that junior class, by the "slapping" process, forty-five men were to be selected as members of "bones," "keys," and wolf's head. "i looked everywhere for you last night," said badger; and frank told him of the banquet. "let's go somewhere where we can talk," the westerner invited, not relishing the throngs. "the air in here chokes me." merry took him by the arm, and they pushed out of the crowd. "now, what it is?" frank asked. badger could have made a long story of it, but he cut it down to narrow limits, acquainting merriwell, in as few words as possible, with the trouble that had come upon him. frank looked grave. "this is serious, badger," he said, not caring to conceal from the kansan his true feelings concerning it. "but i'm ready to help you in any way i can." "my fool jealousy was at the bottom of the whole thing!" badger admitted. "just because i was jealous of hodge, i went on that drunk and let barney lynn fool me into going aboard the boat and in drugging me. jealousy and whisky. that's what did it." "i think you are right there." "but, of course, don pike is the fellow that peached. and i'll smash his face for it! i allow that everything would have gone on as smooth as silk but for that." "now, what are you going to do?" "hanged if i know, merriwell! i'll be driven to something desperate, soon. tell me what the girls said about it." "i don't think they knew anything about it. they reported that winnie had been sick in her room, and the doctor had instructed that they were not to see her or disturb her." "is she in the house, then?" "i can't tell. she may be, and she may not be. one thing is sure, buck. her father is not going to let you see her again. and that makes me think it possible he has spirited her out of the city. if she is in the house, the pretense that she is sick cannot be kept up long." "i don't know about that," said the kansan dubiously. "i allow that likely she is sick. the thing has almost sent me to bed, and the effect on her might be as bad." "worse, probably." "if she is sick in that house, i'm going to see her, if i have to fight my way in." "and be arrested. no, that's not the way, badger. i'll see elsie and inza this evening, and we'll find out something definite." "you have helped me before in this matter, merry!" the kansan gratefully exclaimed. "and am ready to do so again. i feel more certain now than i did then that winnie is not in danger of throwing herself away on you. pardon me for speaking so plainly." "oh, it's all right!" the westerner admitted, though his face colored. "i used to be a dog when i boozed round, and that's what fairfax lee has against me now, of course. he thinks i am the same. but i've sworn off on the stuff, and you know it." "i'll have a talk with the girls, and well see then how the land lays, and what can be done." "it will be a favor--the biggest favor, i reckon, that any man ever received." a number of voices were shooting merriwell's name in the campus. "you'll have to go, i allow," said the westerner, gripping merriwell's hand. "but the first news you get send it to me. don't stop for expense, or anything else. send it along--cab, telephone, telegraph, special messenger, or a dozen, if there's danger one may not reach me--anything, just so you whoop the news to me. i'll be walking barefooted on cactus spines every minute from now until you make some kind of a report." merriwell returned to the campus, where yale tradition was gathering the members of the junior class back of the fence, near durfee hall. the ceremony of "slapping" is peculiar in many respects. no official announcement is made of the fact that this formal and queer manner of announcing elections to the senior societies is enacted. no announcement of the coming event is given to the public. the members of the junior class are not notified by any one that they are expected to appear on that spot by the fence at a certain time to be ready to be "slapped," if they have been lucky enough to be chosen for membership in the great senior societies. nevertheless, the entire junior class, with half the college, and hundreds of spectators from the city, gather there on the third thursday afternoon in may, between the hours of four and six o'clock, and witness or participate in the spectacle. "slates" had been made up weeks before, and shrewd guesses given as to who would be chosen to this society and to that, though it was all mere guesswork. nearly every one had agreed, however, that merriwell would go to "bones," as the leading society is called, and that "bones" would be glad to get him, and would be receiving an honor as well as conferring one. buck badger, restless as a wolf, stood back and gloomily watched this gathering, and heard the buzz of talk and conjecture without really comprehending a word. often he was not aware that he saw the things that were transpiring directly under his eyes. but at length he aroused himself. elsie and inza had suddenly come within the range of his vision, and the sight of them stirred him out of his moody trance. he moved in their direction, but before he could come up with them, to his great disappointment, the pushing crowd swallowed them. then he went in search of merriwell, whom he found without trouble, for merriwell was with the expectant juniors. "which way did they go?" frank asked. "toward that building--i mean in that direction. but i lost them in the crowd." "i thought they might come down this afternoon! winnie wasn't with them?" "no." frank was about to start away to find the girls, if he could, and question them in the interest of badger and winnie, but at that moment he was approached by jack diamond, one of the seniors. diamond walked up to merriwell with all the dignity of the great mogul of kuddyhuddy, and gave him a resounding slap on the back. diamond belonged to "bones," and the slap was a notification that the society had chosen merriwell. "i can't go now, badger," said frank, a bit regretfully. then he left the campus for his room, as each man slapped is expected to do, followed by diamond, where he was notified formally of his election and told to appear for initiation at the society hall on friday evening. of what that initiation consists no one not a member ever knows, and no member will ever tell. its mysteries are more impenetrable than free masonry. chapter xvii. buck and winnie. shortly after nightfall, badger started again for the residence of fairfax lee. he had no definite plans, but rather blindly hoped something might turn up to favor him. he confessed to himself that he was "all gone to pieces," but he had no desire to go into some liquor den and load up with bad whisky, as he was once accustomed to do when trouble or disappointment struck him. "it was red-eye that got me into this, i reckon, and i'll let the stuff alone hereafter. i've promised to, and i will, no matter what comes. that's whatever!" and when buck badger put his foot down he usually put it down hard. "i'd feel better if i could only meet don pike and swell up his eyes for him," he continued to growl. "but the coward has sloped." it did, indeed, seem that pike was making an effort to keep out of the way of the westerner. the very sight of the lee home quickened badger's heart-beats. he felt that he would give anything to know if winnie was in the house, or had been spirited away. "like enough, her father has locked her in her room! but there ain't any keys whatever that are made strong enough to keep me from seeing her. i'll do it sooner or later." fortune favored the westerner--fortune and his sweetheart, winnie lee. winnie was as wildly anxious to see buck as he was to see her. she had been locked in her room for stubbornness in refusing to promise never to see badger again, and the other girls had been told that she was ill and could not be seen. they knew better now, for winnie had finally bribed and coaxed one of the servants to tell them the truth. they had not known it long, but long enough for inza--indignant as she was brave, and brave as she was indignant--to send to winnie a note, signed by herself and elsie, assuring the unhappy girl of their sympathy and firm friendship. and that note was wrapped round a door-key which fitted winnie's door, which the servant was bribed to carry. so it came about that shortly after nightfall winnie let herself out of her room, and creeping down some familiar halls and stairways, emerged into the grounds surrounding the house. then she turned toward the street. she did not know what she meant to do, only she had a feeling that buck was somewhere in the vicinity trying to find an opportunity to speak to her. she had felt sure that he would not abandon the attempt to communicate with her. she had on her jacket, with a scarf thrown over her head. she felt that she would not be easily recognized. she stopped as she drew near the corner which gave a view down the street. there was a stir beyond the wall. the next instant a form came flying over the fence. "winnie!" "buck!" it was badger! "i have been crazy to see you!" he whispered, clasping her tightly in his arms. "i knew it wasn't your fault that i did not get to see you. have they had you locked up?" "yes," she answered, fervently returning the kiss. "i just got out of the room. somehow, i felt that you were down here, and i slipped down as soon as i could." "i knew you were true as steel," he fervently declared. "nothing whatever could ever have made me believe otherwise." "did father write to you?" "yes. he told me never to come here again, and that i must not try to see you. i came to the house, and the servant said you were not in, and would not admit me even when i asked for elsie and inza. i have had an awful time." "i have nearly died!" she confessed. "oh, it has simply been terrible! i thought once i was going crazy. father does not understand how he has tortured me, or he would not do it, i know. he cannot realize what it means. he simply thinks i am still a child, and that i ought to submit to him in this matter, as i have always done in all other things." "you are old enough now to have a mind of your own, i allow!" "and he has heard such awful stories about you, buck. just terrible things." that deep rage against donald pike struggled again in the heart of the kansan. "i think i know who told him. what were the things, anyway?" he said this with a great dread, for he already knew. "oh, i knew you were not guilty, buck! never fancy for a moment that i thought you guilty. i told him you were innocent. i knew that it couldn't be true that you were"--she sobbed--"drunk when you went aboard the _crested foam_." badger winced as if stabbed. the dying boat-keeper, barney lynn, confessed to drugging badger, but did not tell winnie that badger was drunk at the time. the westerner knew this, and had been, as he had admitted to merriwell, just coward enough to be glad that lynn did not tell winnie the whole truth. now, as the sweat of a great inward struggle came out on his face, he wished he had been courageous enough to inform her of the real facts, instead of sheltering himself behind that palatial confession of the boat-keeper. it was a virtual falsehood that was coming home to him in a most unpleasant manner. "i have stood up for you, buck, against everything that father could say," winnie artlessly and innocently continued. "when he insisted that you were drunk at the time, i told him i knew it was not so; and i have stood by it. he thinks he has discovered proofs from a saloon-keeper named connelly, who keeps a vile resort somewhere down in the worst part of new haven. connelly says you were intoxicated at his house that night. but i told father that the same fellow who gave him the information against you in the first place must have hired connelly to say that. a man who will sell liquor will lie, you know, buck!" badger was violently trembling, but winnie, in the ecstatic joy of meeting him, did not notice it. there was a tempest in the kansan's soul. winnie's sweet and trusting faith in him filled him with an anguishing shame. could he tell her now that he was drunk that night--that all the things said against him by connelly and that unknown informant were true? would she not turn against him if he did? would she not despise him? would not her love be obliterated? badger felt as if the ground were reeling under his feet. once he was about to give away to the evil impulses that were fighting against him. but he did not. at last, as she chattered on, so strongly asserting her faith in his innocence, he caught her convulsively to him. "winnie!" he gasped, and his voice was so hoarse and unnatural that she was startled. "my god! winnie, don't say those things! i know that when i confess the truth to you you will feel that i am the biggest scoundrel that ever walked. but i must tell you. i was a coward and a fool, i reckon, for not telling you before. but i just couldn't, winnie! but those things are true! i was drunk that night--i was at connelly's--i was----" her form seemed to grow rigid in his arms. "i must tell you the truth now, if it kills me!" he continued, almost gasping out the words. "and if you cast me off, i believe it will kill me! but it seems to me that i'd rather die than to have you think me innocent when i am guilty. i could never stand it in the world. i'm a dog, i allow! i'm not fit to associate with you whatever--not in the least! your father is right about that. i see it now, though i didn't before. but, winnie, i love you, and i love you! that is all i can say. i allow i haven't a right to say that now, but i must say it. you won't cast me off for this? you will give me another show? before god, i haven't touched the stuff since that night! not a drop! and i'll never touch it again!" "buck," she whispered, at last, "i wish you had told me that at the very first." "and you wouldn't have spoken to me again?" "yes, buck, i should have spoken to you again. i should have been very sorry, buck. i should have grieved over it, as i do now. but i should have loved you just the same, buck." "then you do love me? you do not intend to tell me to go and never speak to you again?" "don't you understand a girl's heart any better than that, buck? she never casts a man off for such things, if she truly loves him--though, perhaps, she ought to! love isn't a thing of the head, but of the heart. i love you, buck, and i am very sorry!" he held her as if he meant never to let her go, and she submitted to his crushing caress. "you are true--true--true as steel!" he exultantly cried. "be careful, or you will be heard, dear! we are right by the house, remember." "is your father in?" "no, but he may return at any time. it would be terrible if he should discover us here." "what are we to do?" he asked. "oh, i don't know. i haven't had time to think. what you have confessed has so upset me that i seem to know nothing else. i can't think of anything else. you see, buck, i can't tell father any more that you were not--drunk that night!" the hated word seemed to choke her. "no!" "and what shall i say to him?" "i reckon that is entirely too much for me." "but i will stand up for you all i can!" "i allow that you are an angel!" he enthusiastically declared. "you have a low conception of angels. i can't imagine one meeting a man in this surreptitious fashion. really, buck, when you come to think of it, it is almost as bad as--as--what you did at connelly's, you know!" "not on your life, it isn't! it's the thing i knew you would do--and there isn't any truer or better girl whatever on this earth!" "i am glad you think so, buck." the westerner was trembling as much now with delight and pleasure as he had before been trembling with apprehension. the fear that winnie would cast him off when she knew the truth about the _crested foam_ affair, that had so distressed him, had given place to a deep satisfaction. "it would be dreadful if father should discover us here. i am really getting scared!" she continued. "i reckon that there isn't any other place whatever where we can go?" he anxiously asked. "no. but we can stand and talk here a little while. then i shall have to hurry back into the house before my absence is noticed. one of the servants i can trust to help me, but, i am afraid, not the others." "and elsie and inza?" "yes, of course, all they can. they have just heard about the trouble i have been having. they thought i was sick. i don't know what they can do." "carry notes," badger suggested. "yes. oh, they will do what they can! they sent me a key that fits the door of my room. and they are coming up to see me to-night and to-morrow, they said in their note, in spite of the prohibition. but, of course, they will have to be careful. father is very set when he makes up his mind to do anything, and he is very stern at times, though he loves me. he thinks he is doing the thing that he ought to do, and that he is really keeping me from throwing myself away----" "on a drunkard!" said the westerner bitterly. "but you don't drink now, buck! and you never were a drunkard!" "perhaps i oughtn't to blame him any whatever!" he grumbled. "his intentions are good, but it is going to make it hard for us, for, of course, i do not mean to give you up, if he keeps on ordering me to do so from now until the day of----" "our marriage!" she laughed. "i was going to say the day of my death!" "i allow that the day of our marriage sounds a good deal better." "i think it does myself," she admitted, and the kansan took this as an excuse to kiss her again. "we'll pull out of this snarl in some way," he hopefully declared. "i don't know just how, but we'll plan something." "oh, i'm afraid of father!" and she shivered. "i don't see just how we are to get round the old man's objections myself at this moment, but something may come our way. if we can continue to meet, i reckon we can plan something." "we can meet to-morrow evening right here." "good. that's all right." "and many more nights, if we are not discovered. i'll be as nice to father as i can, and perhaps he will not dream i am such a disobedient thing, after all. but i do hate to deceive him! i never did before in my life, and it strikes me as something awful. he doesn't dream that i would do such a thing." "i think he does, or he wouldn't have locked you in. if he had trusted you, there would have been no need of that." "true," she admitted. "and i shall be a living lie, just as you were, buck, when you made me think i knew all about that _crested foam_ affair. so you see i am not much better than you were, if any. but you will never deceive me about anything again, will you, buck?" "never!" the kansan asserted. "and if you should find out who told father?" "i'll punch his head." "and get into more trouble? you mustn't!" "i know who it was. don pike did that, i'm certain, and if i don't pay him for it, i allow it will be because i don't get a chance." "don't get into more trouble!" she begged. "there won't be any trouble--for me!" her fear of discovery was so great that she would not remain out long, but crept back into the house and up to her room. badger, however, lingered, staring up at the house and vainly endeavoring to think of some plan which would enable them to overcome the violent objections of mr. lee. "i allow i am in a hole," he grumbled. "but as long as winnie has no notion of throwing me over, i shall not let any coyote weakness get the better of me! not on your life!" he was about to leap the fence and make his way back to the campus, when he saw a man sneak into the yard and drop down behind some shrubbery not far from the front door. he could not make out the man's face and form because of the darkness. "mighty queer, that is!" thought the westerner, staring at the spot where the man had disappeared. "he don't act as if he intended to try to rustle the ranch. i reckon i'll wait a bit." badger had not long to wait. fairfax lee came down the walk from the street scarcely a minute later. "if this wasn't new haven, in the great and cultivated east, i should say the fellow is laying for lee with a gun, or a lariat!" as lee came down the path, the man appeared from behind the shrubbery, as if he had just returned from a visit to one of the side doors, and placed himself in front of the politician. lee stopped in a hesitating way, and it was clear to badger that he was afraid of this intruder. "what are you doing here?" lee demanded. the man advanced a step, with a threatening whine. "you wouldn't see me at your office, and i have come here, lee. when are you going to get me that appointment?" lee was one of new haven's prominent politicians. "i have told you that i can't do anything for you, gaston!" he declared. "but you said before the election that you'd git me a job!" "i said nothing of the kind!" "that's a lie!" the man addressed as gaston fiercely asserted. "you wouldn't see me at the office, so i've come here, and i want justice done. you have been turning me away every day. i was right so long as i could hustle votes for you, and now i'm dirt!" "you are simply a lunatic." "and you mean to put me in an asylum?" the man hissed. "that is the appointment i'll get for you, gaston, if you trouble me." "i'll kill you!" gaston snarled, drawing a knife. "that's what i have made up my mind to do to you!" "stand aside, sir, and let me pass!" lee commanded, though his voice was shaky. "i shall have you arrested if you----" for reply, the man leaped at lee with a snarl like that of an enraged dog. "loony as a locoed cowboy!" thought badger. he was on the point of rushing to lee's assistance. but there was no need. lee, who was light on his feet, avoided the rush and ran for a side door, through which he escaped into the house, leaving gaston to rave and mutter, and at last retreat into the street and hurry away. not until the man had disappeared did the westerner leave the grounds. then he leaped the fence, and hurried back to the campus. here a large number of students were rollicking in the somewhat wild and reckless student fashion, to their own great delight and the amusement of hundreds of spectators. chapter xviii. fun in the campus. under an elm in front of durfee some students were gathering "fruit." they began by collecting it from members of the chickering set. of all the men in the college, the chickering set were the most unpopular with their fellow students. their silliness and superciliousness were so unbounded as to be disgusting to all sensible men. from the immaculate rupert, with his patent-leather shoes and shining tile, down to the cowardly little lisper, lew veazie, they were alike detested. hence it came about that when rupert chickering appeared under the famous "fruit" tree wearing a more than ordinarily gorgeous shirt, the cry of "fruit!" was immediately raised. rupert uttered an exclamation of dismay and turned to run. he had heard that cry before. but he only hastened what he sought to evade. a foot outstretched for the purpose tripped him, and brought him sprawling to the ground. before he could rise, one of the laughing students was upon him. "see here!" he exclaimed, "i'll have you know that i will not submit to any such outrage! i know you, and i shall report you to the faculty!" he tried to fight off the youth who held him, but a dozen other men rushed to this youth's assistance. then a wild-eyed fellow produced a shining pocket-knife and slowly and exasperatingly opened its sharpest blade. "help!" rupert squawked. the knife was flourished in the air, and the tag on the lower end of rupert's shirt-bosom was deftly amputated. "fruit!" was again shouted, and a dash was made for gene skelding, who, as usual, wore a rainbow shirt that outshone joseph's "coat of many colors." "help!" skelding howled. but a score of hands outstretched to grasp him, and he, too, went down, screeching lustily. another knife flashed and another shirt-tag was neatly severed. lew veazie, who had been with rupert and gene, started to run, deeming discretion the better part of valor. but he took only a step when he, too, went down. and again an amputating knife did its work. as soon as a shirt-tag was cut off, the amputator, flourishing it on the blade of his knife, like an indian flaunting a scalp-lock, made a dash for the elm, where it was pinned up as a trophy. then it was found that a "taste" for shirt-tags had been created by this exciting bit of experience, and other men, who had been loudly laughing and cheering over the discomfiture of chickering and his inane friends, found themselves suddenly on the ground, with wicked-looking knives flashing before their eyes, and their shirts being mutilated by the pressure of keen knife-blades. in the midst of this "fun," buck badger arrived on the campus from his stolen interview with winnie lee. though his face wore a perplexed expression, it had lost its gloom. there might be trouble for him in the future, but winnie's words had for the present driven the blackest of the shadows out of his heart. the desire uppermost in his mind just then was to meet and whip donald pike. he had sworn to himself that he would do that the first thing, and he meant to keep the oath. nevertheless, reaching the elms of the campus at this exciting moment, he was willing to cease temporarily his search for pike and view the fruit-gathering. it would be rare sport, provided, of course, that his own shirt was not forced to yield "fruit." to prevent this, and that he might see better, he grasped a low-hanging limb and swung up into one of the elms. "fruit!" was being shouted everywhere, and the indications were that scores of trophies would adorn the old elm the next morning, if some stop was not put to the thing by the college authorities, which was not likely. "society week" is expected to be noisy, and things are winked at which on ordinary occasions would bring reprimands. another person had invaded the branches of the elm but a minute before the ascent of the westerner. that other person was donald pike, who looked down now on the man he felt instinctively to be his mortal foe with a little shiver of dread. more than once pike had regretted making that revelation to fairfax lee, for the chances that discovery would come and that badger would fiercely summon him to answer, seemed very great, when he gave himself time to reflect. and he feared badger. all might have gone well on this evening with pike, however, if his fear of discovery had not made him try to climb farther up the tree. the kansan heard the low scraping sound, in spite of the din in the campus, and glanced upward, and when he did so he saw and recognized the man he was looking for. a calcium-light was sending its rays through the higher branches, and pike's white, scared face was as plainly revealed to badger as if the two were facing each other in a lighted room. the hate which badger had been nursing swelled to the point of bursting. he forgot the search for "fruit," in which he had been interested, seeing only the enemy whom he had sworn to whip as soon as they met. as yet they had not met; but badger, blinded by his intense anger, decided that the meeting should come without delay, even if the place was a tree-top; and he began to climb up the trunk and boughs of the tree toward donald. pike looked about in a despairing way. the distance to the ground seemed dishearteningly great. his first impulse, therefore, was to climb still higher, and this he began to do. but, recollecting the tenacity of badger's purpose in whatever the kansan was engaged, he felt sure that he would be pursued into the very top of the tree and shaken to the ground. therefore, he hastily crawled out over a horizontal limb, whose drooping ends dipped toward the earth. if driven to the worst, he felt that he could drop from one of those drooping ends without serious injury. with a howl of rage, badger climbed on after the frightened youth, and pursued him out on the horizontal limb. but there were to be other actors in this little overhead drama. a couple of cats, chancing to be in the campus when the students invaded it, had run up this identical elm, and had crouched in wild-eyed fear on that same bough, watching the wild orgies of the students. they had probably been there for a considerable period, not daring to descend while that howling, dancing mob held the grounds. perhaps they even fancied that those yells and ear-splitting squeals were directed against them. they must have thought so when don pike crawled out on the limb toward them, followed by buck badger. the cats looked about, meowing anxiously. there was no other bough near which they could gain by a leap. and as pike, looking back and gasping with fright, crawled straight on toward them, the cat that was farthest out on the end of the limb launched itself through the air in a desperate leap for the ground. there was no cleared space in which it could alight, and it struck bink stubbs on the top of the head, jamming his hat down over his eyes and hurling him backward. "dog my cuc-cuc-cuc-cats!" stuttered joe gamp, looking up in open-mouthed wonder. "the sky is raining cats!" whooped danny. "somebody amputate its tail!" yelled a student. "cut off its shirt-tab!" shouted another. bink and danny, gamp and all the others of merriwell's friends who chanced to be grouped there, had already suffered the amputation of their shirt-tabs, and having no further fear on that point, were hilariously anxious that not a shirt-tab should be worn by a yale man that night. the "fruit" on the tree at durfee was increasing in quantity and variety at a prodigious rate. "a dollar apiece for its ears!" some one else screeched. but the cat was too agile for the hands that were reached out to stop its flight. it whisked under the legs of the students and was out and away like a shot. "been up there watching the performance!" some one sung out. "gug-gug-goshfry! there's a man up there!" joe gamp howled, as his eyes fell on donald pike. "it will be raining mum-mum-men, as well as cuc-cuc-cuc-cats, next thing! ahaw! ahaw! ahaw!" as his lips flew open to their widest extent to emit this roar, the other cat sailed downward out of the tree and struck him squarely in the mouth. he tumbled backward with a roar, which, however, was not at all hilarious, and began to dig sputteringly at his tongue and lips, which were liberally coated with cat hair. "more cats!" said dismal. "i'd as soon have the frogs of egypt, as to have the trees showering down cats." "how do you like cat diet, gamp?" screeched bink, who did not relish the way he had been laughed at. "i'll die-it, if one of 'em hits me!" dismal solemnly asserted. "look out!" a student warningly yelled. "the man is coming, too!" everybody beneath the limb fell back out of the way, pushing against those behind, many being hurled down and trodden on. then donald pike, sprawled out like one of the cats, came sailing down out of the tree. his teeth were fairly chattering. he believed that badger was right at his heels, with hands reached out to seize him. fortunately, he was not injured by the desperate leap. "fruit!" was yelled by a dozen voices, and the throng pressed together again to lay hold on him. but don pike's terror gave him the strength of a giant. he hurled aside those who sought to detain him, and leaped through the crowd and away. the next instant the kansan dropped out of the tree, swinging for a moment by one of the drooping branches, to break the force of the fall, and alighting on the ground with ease and lightness. "fruit!" the westerner could not escape, for the students had closed in again, and he was literally ringed in. "fruit! fruit!" was yelled on all sides. twenty men threw themselves on the kansan. he tried to hurl them off, and did succeed in flinging some of them aside. this enabled him to gain his feet. "let go!" he snarled. "fruit! fruit!" was being chorused. again the hands and arms closed on him. "let me go, i say! i want to overtake that fellow!" only a few near him understood his words. the majority thought he was merely showing a vigorous protest against the threatened loss of his shirt-tab, and they had no sympathy with anything of that kind, for they had suffered the same humiliation, and were naturally determined to inflict the same thing on every student they could lay their hands on. "let go!" badger shrieked, white with wrath, lunging with his hard right fist. it struck a student in the face and hurled him crashingly backward. but the next moment the fist and arm were caught and held. then began a fierce struggle for the mastery. time and again the westerner, whose strength was great, hurled off the men who sought to hold him down. twice he got on his feet, merely to be tripped and thrown again. not until he was almost beaten and choked into insensibility were his assailants able to rip open his vest. ordinarily, badger wore a soft silk shirt which had no tab, but on this night he had on a white shirt, whose tab was amputated by a dexterous thrust as soon as the vest was pulled open. then he was permitted to rise to his feet, reeling, sick, blind with rage and humiliation and a sense of baffled hate. but his chief thought still was of donald pike. "which way did he go?" he panted, as soon as he could get his breath. "well, your high-muchness, the cats scattered and the man made himself scarce!" was the scoffing answer, given by the student who had felt the terrible force of badger's fist. "perhaps there is another man up in the elm who can tell you!" badger did not wait for further nagging, and, as no hands were now extended to oppose him, he made as hasty an exit as he could from the midst of the shouting, laughing, howling throng. "heavens!" he thought. "i hope that neither inza, nor elsie, nor any of my friends, saw that from the dormitory windows!" even in the midst of his rage against pike, badger was cut to the quick by this thought, for he was filled with a foolish pride. "i'll thump pike a few extra for that!" he snarled, as he got out of the crowd. his pulse was at fever-heat, and his face as hot as flame. he did not feel the bruises and blows which had been showered on him. "i reckon i'll not get close to him again for a week!" he grumbled. "why couldn't those ruffians attend to their own affairs and let me attend to mine? i allow that it was none of their business whatever! this is my trail, and i wasn't interfering none with their range. confound the luck! but when i do meet him i'll make him pay for it!" but the westerner was mistaken in one portion of his surmise. he met pike, or rather ran against him, at the first building he turned. donald had ventured back to see what had happened to his pursuer, and was looking at the shouting tumult in the campus, and did not observe badger, who came along the walk close to the wall. the kansan recognized pike first, and leaped at him with a snarl like that of an enraged panther, and as he leaped he struck a blinding blow. it knocked donald backward, but it did not fall fairly enough to inflict serious injury. the next moment badger was on him, and had him by the throat. "by heavens! i've a notion to kill you right here!" he hissed, his fingers closing on pike's throat. "don't!" pike pleaded, gasping out the appeal. "you told fairfax lee that i was drunk when i went on the _crested foam_. you scoundrel! you ruffian! you sneaking coyote!" his fingers tightened with every exclamation. "don't kill me!" pike begged wheezingly. "i'll go to him and take it all back!" "then you did tell him? i allow i ought to kick you clean out of your hide, you onery varmint!" there was no answer, and donald pike, apparently ceasing to breathe, fell back as limp as a rag. a bit of reason began to glimmer into the brain of the westerner. though he had asserted that he would almost kill pike, he did not really intend to do anything of the kind. he merely meant to inflict a punishment which should be in a measure commensurate with the wrong which pike had committed against him. but the kansan's great rage, combined with his humiliating experience in the campus, which had still further inflamed him, had driven him to more than ordinary recklessness. he had been fairly insane. the fire began to go out of badger's eyes when pike did not stir and seemed not to breathe. "i reckon i squeezed a bit too hard!" badger muttered, regarding the unconscious youth with some degree of anxiety. "well, i was wild enough to choke his heart out!" he stooped over pike and saw the livid finger-marks on the throat. still pike did not stir, and the westerner's anxiety correspondingly grew. he put a hand on pike's left breast, and failed to locate the heart-beats. at last, after an alarming interval, pike gasped, to badger's intense relief. "i allow i'd better let it go at this," he reflected. "i don't want to kill the skunk, though if any man whatever deserved to be murdered, he does. but i don't want anything of that kind against me. as merry has told me, i've got an awful temper when it gets started. i shall have to watch myself against that, same as against red-eye!" pike gasped again, and then his breathing came at increasingly frequent intervals. the students were wildly howling in and around the campus, but badger scarcely heard them. he was thinking only of pike. "this may keep him in his room a few days," he muttered. "if it does no more than that, i don't care. he deserved that much. but he's got to keep clear of me, or i can't be responsible for the consequences. i'll tell him so as soon as he comes to himself and knows what has happened." chapter xix. a crushing blow. buck badger stared at a letter in a familiar handwriting which had come to his room in the afternoon mail. he had delivered to donald pike that threatening talk the night before, when pike came back to the land of sentient things after that awful choking. the infliction of this punishment on pike, and the feeling that winnie would stand by him in spite of everything, had so satisfied the westerner that he had been in an uncommonly comfortable frame of mind, in spite of the fact that the powerful opposition of fairfax lee was yet to be overcome. with winnie true, and time and youth in their favor, there seemed no good reason why he should be in the dumps. but the letter at which he now gazed with starting eyes and anguished face! it was from winnie herself, and what it said was enough to make the kansan's brain reel: "mr. buck badger: father knows that we met last night, and he is much displeased, as he has a right to be. i am very sorry i said to you the things i did, for we can never be anything more to each other. i have had time to think more clearly since i saw you, and this is my decision. it will do no good to talk it over, for this is final. therefore, if you are a gentleman, you will not try to see me again. i return to you by express your ring and the things you have given me. "winnie lee." "i can't understand it!" he gasped, as he recalled her words of the evening before. "yet she wrote it. there isn't any doubt whatever of that. i wish there were, but i know that handwriting too well." he read it over again and again, as if searching out some other meaning. it seemed so impossible. yet there it was. he got up and began to pace round the room, stopping almost every time he passed the table to take another look at the letter. "thrown over!" he groaned. "and after all we've been to each other! i allow she couldn't stand up against her father. how in thunder did he find out that we met last night? some onery, spying piute of a servant, i reckon. well, i seem to be rounded up now, and winnie's given me the branding-iron with her own white hand." he mopped the sweat from his face. "i won't accept it! that's whatever! she says that if i'm a gentleman, i'll not try to see her again. glad i ain't a gentleman! glad i'm a man--and i allow a man is a good deal bigger than a gentleman! i s'pose a gentleman would sit down and twiddle his fingers, and do nothing. well, i ain't built that way! not on your life! i'm going to see her again, whether she wants to see me or not. i'll see her, if i have to fight my way into that house! that's whatever!" he gave his breast a thump, as if he fancied he was striking at an enemy. his face was red and his neck veins stood out like cords. his heavy shoulders were thrown back, and his broad white teeth gleamed in a determined fashion. "i'll find out just why she changed her mind so suddenly. of course, it was her father's work. he has kept her under his thumb so long that she has come to the conclusion that she has to mind him in this, too! he thinks i'm not good enough for her, i allow! well, i ain't--no man on earth is good enough for her--but i'm just as good as fairfax lee, any day in the week! hanged if i don't tell him so, too! "yes, i'll walk into his office, if i have to knock over that clerk to do it, and i'll tell him what i think of him, if i'm arrested for it next minute. in this beastly east, instead of meeting a man and fighting him, the first thing a fellow thinks of, if he has a word with another, is to call in the police. but i'm not afraid of the new haven police!" badger's heart seethed like a volcano. "see her! well, i reckon! i'll see her if i die for it! i'll see her, even if she refuses to speak to me! i'm going to find out what's at the bottom of this!" while the westerner was thus storming, an expressman came with the little package containing the ring and the trinkets which badger had given to winnie. it contained no note, but the address was in winnie's handwriting. badger tore the package open almost before the expressman was out of the room. a lump came into his throat as he looked at the ring. he remembered so distinctly the time he gave it to her and all the words then said. it seemed impossible that she had returned it now in this curt manner. "i'll ask her to take it back!" he muttered. he dropped the ring into a pocket of the suit he was wearing, that he might be sure to have it with him when he met her--for that he would meet her in some way or other he was firmly resolved. "her father has driven her into this. it's not her wish, i know. but she is so good and dutiful that she may stick by this decision, to please him. i allow that there is where the trouble is going to come. but i won't give her up! not unless she tells me positively with her own lips that everything is ended." badger now did something which he would never have dreamed of doing a short time before. even the thought of it would have been greeted with scorn. he carefully put the letter in an inner pocket, put away the trinkets which winnie had returned, and set out to find frank merriwell. the act did not even strike him as incongruous. "inza and elsie will do anything for merriwell! he can go in and out of lee's house as he wants to. i allow he will be glad to help me in this thing, if he can. the trail looks to be so confoundedly tangled that a bit of help in ciphering it out will be mighty welcome just now!" he scowled as he crossed the campus and remembered the unpleasant experience of the previous night. the tree in front of durfee still bore a large quantity of "fruit." the tab of badger's shirt was there. "come over here and pick out your property!" shouted a student who was standing in a group near the tree. badger strode on without a word, for he was in no humor for pleasantries. "fruit!" squealed danny griswold. "where are you going, my pretty maid?" bink stubbs sang from his perch on the fence. "going to hunt up those cats," said the westerner, with sarcastic scorn. "i hear their kittens squawling for them!" danny fell over against bink. "a joke from badger!" he murmured. "somebody fan me!" "i'll fan you!" grunted bink, who was not pleased with the kansan's retort, pushing danny roughly from him. "do!" begged danny. "that took my breath. what will happen next?" badger swung on at a swift, nervous pace, and mounted to frank's room. "come in!" frank sung out, as the kansan's knuckles hammered on the door. he was rather surprised to see badger at that hour. but he put away the book he had been studying, and pushed out a chair. "take a seat!" he invited. "i reckon you'll think it's mighty funny that i should come to you for advice and help?" "why, no! it's a way my friends have. and they know that i am always ready to do whatever i can for them." "well, it's about winnie!" said badger bluntly. whereupon, in a few words, he told his story. "that rather stumps me, badger," frank admitted. "i think, though, that the straight way is the best. if you're willing, i will see lee in your behalf. i shall have to admit to him that you were intoxicated at that time, but i'll try to make him see that you are pretty straight goods, for all of that. perhaps a few words from one who knows you will be helpful." "if you will, merry, i can't ever thank you enough. it will be about as big a favor, i allow, as one man ever did for another, and i sha'n't forget it." merriwell looked at his watch. "i can't go to his office this afternoon, but i'll see him at his house to-night. i may be late getting there, but i'll try to time it to be there when he gets home from his club." badger went away as if walking on air. he could hardly think of anything else throughout the remainder of the day, and night found him in the vicinity of the lee home, even though he had a feeling that merriwell would prefer he should keep away from there until the result of the promised interview was known. "i wish merry would hurry," he thought, as he finally advanced to the fence, drawn there by his intense desire to be near to winnie. "i'll speak to him before he goes in, and ask him to come right out as soon as possible with the news." as he stood thus by the fence, a light step sounded, and, looking over, he recognized in the dim light the form of winnie lee. he was by her side at a bound. "you must not stand by that note!" he pleadingly began. "i allow that you will see, when you think of it, that it isn't right by me!" he did not attempt to touch her or stoop toward her. she had, in writing that letter, forbidden familiarities. their relations toward each other were unchanged. he remembered the ring in his pocket. "buck! you silly fellow! don't you know that i didn't mean to cast you off?" "but the note?" he gasped. "it was in your handwriting? and the ring? you sent back the ring!" "yes, i wrote the letter because father commanded me to write it, and i sent back the ring for the same reason. you ought to have known that!" the change in his feelings was so great and sudden that he could hardly repress a shout. "i reckon i'm the biggest idiot unhung!" he confessed, as he took her in his arms. "but when i saw that the writing was yours, i fancied your father had by threats, or in some way, induced you to change your mind, and that you really thought, in duty to him, you ought not to see me any more. say, i'm too happy to think! i'm----" "you are just a silly fellow!" "you never shot straighter! i'm a roaring idiot!" he kissed her and held her face toward the light in a rather vain effort to see its outline. "i've been crazier since i got that note than any locoed cowboy that ever tore up the ranges. i've simply been wild!" "i am very sorry, buck. yet i think i must have suffered as much. last night father obtained from me a confession that i had met you in the grounds here. he asked me if i had met you, and my confused looks made my denials useless. then he ordered me to write that note and to send back the ring. he mailed them himself. and he made me promise that i wouldn't meet you again. but when i made it, i realized that i couldn't keep it." "you're an angel!" "i never heard that angels were disobedient." "some of them." "and they were punished for it. oh, buck, i hope we will never regret this--that there will be no punishment for this!" "there won't be!" he grimly declared. "father is gone," she said. "out of the city!" "and i wanted merry to see him here this evening," in a tone of regret, "merry is to have a talk with him and try to get him to see that i am not such a soaking piute as i've been painted!" "i'm sorry, too, buck--though i was glad." "glad?" "i intended to ask you into the house. is it very wrong?" "i don't think so!" he whispered, joy and triumph in his voice. "where you lead i will follow. by and by i hope we will walk abreast." chapter xx. into a trap. when buck and winnie walked into the house, they walked into a trap, though the laying of a trap for them was not contemplated by mr. lee. encountering none of the servants, winnie conducted badger into the parlor. "merriwell will be here soon, i allow." "we're not afraid of merriwell!" "only thinking that you and i want to have this meeting all to ourselves. then the servant that shows merriwell up, if one does, may see us, and i calculate that i ain't hankering to meet up with any of your servants on this trip. none whatever!" but winnie was not disturbed. "father is going over to hartford to-night on business," she laughed, laying aside the scarf and jacket. "i heard him say to the cook that he wouldn't return before to-morrow." there was a certain exultant defiance in badger's bearing that made him, in spite of his bulky, heavy shoulders and modern clothing, somewhat resemble some ancient knight ready to do battle for his "ladye fair." winnie lee observed it, and was pleased. the westerner's devotion was so true that she felt rather proud of it and, indeed, badger, in spite of his many faults, failings, and weaknesses, had some admirable traits of character. all at once winnie heard footsteps approaching the door of the parlor. she thought the steps were those of a servant, and blamed herself for not closing the door. then a familiar form appeared in the doorway, and her cheeks grew white. buck badger looked up at the same moment, and his dark face flushed. fairfax lee had changed his mind about going to hartford! he had returned home, let himself into the house, and walked up-stairs. seeing the light in the parlor, he had approached the door. he was as much astonished as the lovers. for a moment not a word was spoken. winnie seemed about to swoon, and badger put a hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. then mr. lee broke the silence, and stepped into the room. "what is the meaning of this disobedience?" he sternly demanded, speaking to winnie. she staggered to her feet, trembling before him. badger sprang up, erect and defiant. "i thought you promised me that you would never meet him again?" she did not answer. he turned with flashing eyes on the westerner. "and i forbade you the house, sir!" badger wanted to take him by the throat. "see here, mr. lee!" he said, in a voice that demanded a hearing. "i know you told me that i wasn't welcome in this house, and i reckon i know full well that i am not welcome. but that's no sign that i am going to stay out of it, as long as it shelters your daughter!" "winnie, you will go to your room!" he advanced toward her, and she drew away from badger. but she did not go toward the door. her father stepped to her side. "there is the door!" lee commanded, addressing the kansan. "i see it," said badger. "you don't need to show it to me!" "will you go out of it? will you leave this house?" fairfax lee was panting with rage. "get out of this room!" he cried. badger straightened his thick shoulders, and his broad, white teeth gleamed unpleasantly. "mr. lee, you are winnie's father, and because of that i shall pay no attention to your insults; but i tell you now, that you may understand it, that i love your daughter and intend to marry her!" "by heavens, you never shall!" "it may be a long trail, mr. lee, but there will be a home-coming at the end of it. i shall see her as often as i can, and i shall write to her when i can, and i shall marry her! i have promised to, and i'll do it!" "never speak to my daughter again!" mr. lee thundered, pointing badger to the door. "good night, winnie," said the kansan, as he passed out. "there will be better days by and by." then he fairly reeled down the stairway, sick and giddy and almost gasping, yet shaking with rage against fairfax lee. badger waited in the vicinity of the house in a fever of impatience until merriwell appeared. though a more inauspicious time, seemingly, could not have been found, he had strong confidence in frank's ability to aid him. it was a feeling which was invariably produced in the hearts of all. he met merriwell at some distance from the lee residence, and drew him away for a talk, in which he acquainted him with what had taken place. then frank went on into the house, and the westerner recommenced his vigil. the interview which shortly followed between frank and mr. lee was of an interesting and important character. fortunately, fairfax lee had a very high opinion of frank merriwell. otherwise he would not have heard him at all in behalf of badger. even as it was, he at first listened with nervous impatience, unwilling to believe that anything could be presented in the westerner's behalf. merriwell went over the whole ground with great candor and frankness. he admitted that badger was intoxicated when lured aboard the _crested foam_. but he asserted his belief that the kansan was all right at heart. he laid stress also on the fact, which was now clearly understood by fairfax lee, that winnie loved the kansan; and he insisted that the latter had no real taste for liquor, but was driven into his debauch by a fit of jealousy. "i will think over this," lee promised. "as you say, i have no desire to be unjust; still less do i wish to be harsh beyond what is necessary. i once thought well of badger. i can't say more now. his actions have seemed to me very low and very dishonorable." the long interview ended with this. but merriwell, not realizing that badger was still waiting for him in wild anxiety, made a call on inza and elsie, which was so pleasant that it was much more protracted than he had intended it should be, and the hour grew late. in the meantime, other things were hurrying events to a climax. fairfax lee had hastened home that night in fear of his life. bill gaston, once a useful political worker, who had been driven insane by his failure to secure an appointment he craved, and who the day before had been locked up for threatening lee's life, had escaped and was at large. that the man was crazy there could be no doubt, and that he would shoot lee on sight seemed just as certain. buck badger, wandering like a restless spirit in the vicinity of the house, saw a man leap the fence and sneak toward a rear entrance. the man's general appearance and crouching attitude were like those of the crazed office-seeker whom buck had once seen threatening lee in that very place. "after lee again!" was badger's conclusion. "i reckon i'd better camp on his trail. he said he would kill lee, and that must be what he is up to!" thereupon, badger also leaped the fence and slipped through the shadows in the direction taken by the man he supposed to be gaston. "eh! what does that mean?" badger stopped stock-still. he saw several men beneath a window, which they had forced open. one man was being helped through. "can't be a band of assassins, i allow? more likely a lot of burglars trying to crack the crib." the westerner was right in his guess. these were not friends of bill gaston bent on assassination, but housebreakers, whose cupidity had been aroused by the fact, which had chanced to come to their knowledge, that a diamond brooch worth ten thousand dollars had recently been taken from the lee residence. a crib which held such valuables seemed to them a good one to rip open, and they had obtained information that fairfax lee was expected to be away from home that night. they had found that most of the servants were out, too, and because of this it appeared safer to make the raid at an early hour, before the servants returned. badger stood in indecision in the shadows, wondering what course he ought to pursue. before he could make up his mind, the first burglar had disappeared, and a second was being helped through the window. two of the burglars--there were four or five of them, as badger could see--were to wait outside, while their pals on the inside made their search for valuables. suddenly there came a cry for help from within the house, followed by the sounds of a struggle. fairfax lee, unable to sleep and wandering as restlessly about within the house as the westerner had upon the outside, had come unexpectedly upon the first burglar at the upper landing of the rear stairway. the burglar looked so marvelously like the crazy office-hunter, bill gaston, that lee believed him to be gaston, and that gaston had invaded the house for purposes of assassination. though lee had dreaded a meeting with gaston, and would have gone far out of his way to avoid anything of the kind, he was by no means a coward. he expected a shot from gaston's pistol, and to prevent this, he hurled himself on the burglar with a suddenness and boldness that took the latter by surprise. the cry for help did not come from the lips of fairfax lee, but from those of the burglar. badger, however, fancied that the call had come from lee. without waiting to consider the danger, or to ask himself how he was to account for his presence in the grounds and in the house, buck badger ran toward the open window. as he did so, he saw two of the other burglars leap through. they were going to the assistance of their pal. then a shot sounded. badger crossed the intervening distance at a sprinting pace, and found himself suddenly confronted by the burglar who was still on guard at the window. a pistol gleamed in the dim light. badger knocked it aside, struck the man a blow that would have felled an ox, and went through the window with a flying leap that took him to the foot of the stairway. he saw the two burglars on the stairs near the top. one held a dark-lantern and the other a heavy jimmy. above, the sounds of the fight continued, and the burglar attacked by lee was still bawling for help. fairfax lee felt that he was fighting for his life, and he still believed that he was fighting bill gaston. he did not hear the burglars on the stairs. he was trying to get the supposed bill gaston by the throat and choke him into subjection. the burglar's shot, fired almost pointblank at lee, had done him no injury, and now the weapon was on the floor. "help!" bellowed the burglar. he got his throat free, but he could not throw off those clutching hands. visions of striped clothing and prison officials loomed before him, for he had once done time. his anxious ears heard what lee did not--the calls of the ruffians who were hurrying to his assistance--and he fought like a tiger. buck badger went up the stairway in quick leaps. if the burglars heard him, they must have fancied he was the guard left at the window, for they did not look round. but before the kansan could reach the upper landing, the three scoundrels were on lee. "clip him on der head!" one of them growled. "don't use yer barker--too much noise! hit him wid der jimmy. all der cops in new haven will be in dis crib in a minute!" fairfax lee was still putting up a stiff fight, and the jimmy flashed in the air. before it could descend, buck badger flung himself into the midst of them, with the impetuous leap of a mountain-lion. the man with the uplifted jimmy went down before a blow from the kansan's fist, and the other was hurled aside. the burglar that lee had been fighting tore himself loose and turned toward badger and the stairway. then the westerner heard the ominous click of a revolver. these burglars, like all of their craft, were ready to do murder if it seemed necessary. lee tripped the burglar with the revolver, and the shot went into the floor. the other burglar was coming up the stairway with tremendous leaps. the house seemed to be arousing. badger heard a woman scream. "kill him!" was panted by one of the villains. then the jimmy descended, and though the westerner tried to knock the blow aside, his arm was beaten down, and the jimmy fell on his head with crushing force. badger's head seemed to split open under that blow, and a blur of blood and mistiness followed. he felt himself reeling and sinking, with his feet slipping on the stairway, toward which he had fallen. then he dropped like an ox in the shambles. but before complete unconsciousness came, he heard the shout of a well-known voice--the voice of frank merriwell! merriwell came upon the scene from a corridor, having been drawn by the calls and the pistol-shots, and with marvelous quickness and certainty grasped the whole intent of what he beheld. fairfax lee struck aside the revolver that was pointed at frank, and again began to call for help. the next instant merriwell was in the thick of the fight. though no man could have understood his peril more perfectly, there was at that moment in merriwell's heart a wild thrill of joy. he laughed as he struck at the nearest ruffian--a laugh that sounded strangely out of place. the blow fell with crushing force, and the ruffian tumbled backward against the wall. before merriwell could turn, two of the other three ruffians were on his back. one had drawn a knife and the other had the jimmy. the remaining burglar was on the stairs, and was lifting a revolver. merriwell lunged toward him, and the man, instead of firing, lost his footing, and went tumbling down the steps. inasmuch as he had a revolver, he seemed the most dangerous, and frank leaped after him, dragging with him the scoundrels who were trying to strike him from behind. but the terrible fall knocked the breath out of the burglar, and he slid helplessly on down the stairway, letting the revolver go bumping and clattering to the floor below. merriwell wheeled with lightning quickness to meet the man with the threatening jimmy. badger seemed to be slipping down the stairway, also. then frank saw him lift himself and try to stagger to his feet. without taking further note of this, merriwell promptly closed with the other burglar on the stairs. "shoot him, bill!" the fellow cried, to his pal above. but that worthy, believing that "he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day," was making tracks for the nearest window, intending to leap to the ground. the burglar who had closed with frank, endeavored to trip him, with the result that he was himself shot over frank's head, and went to the bottom of the stairs at a flying leap, bowling over his pals, who were trying to get on their feet and pull themselves together. merriwell caught the stairway rail, down which he slid almost as quickly. his hand closed on the revolver which had fallen to the floor; and, with it cocked and leveled, he wheeled, facing the men, who, swearing horribly, were again trying to gain their feet. "surrender!" he sharply called. the answer was an oath. "surrender, or by the gods of war i'll drop you one and all right where you are! up with your paws!" they knew he meant it, and there was no escape. the next moment the three burglars at the foot of the stairs put up their hands in token of submission. * * * * * badger sat in his room. his bandaged head ached painfully, but in his heart there was a glow of pleasure. the surgeon had told him that he would be all right in a day or two, and he had just received a note from winnie lee. "dear buck," it read, "i have had a long talk with father. he says that both you and merriwell fought like heroes, and that your prompt appearance on the scene no doubt saved his life. in spite of this, though, he is not willing that i shall receive calls from you. but i can see that his opposition is not nearly so strong as it was, and i have hopes that it will soon disappear altogether. father says that the burglars which merriwell captured will no doubt be sent to state's prison. thank frank for me for his great favor in speaking to father for you, as he did--for i can see that father's change toward you is due more to frank's talk than to your fight, brave as that was. i will meet you as often as i can, buck, and i will send you a note every day. and we will be true to each other always, in spite of father's opposition. your sweetheart, winnie." "there never was any girl truer!" muttered the kansan, as he read and reread the note. "that's whatever! she is true as steel! but," he continued, "how can i thank merriwell for his part in the affair? he pulled me through, all right, and there's no mistaking that fact." hardly had he uttered these words, than a knock came at the door. "come in," said buck--and in walked frank himself! "well, i'm glad to see you," said buck, "and that's whatever! i want to know how i can thank you for what you've done for me in this affair, in going to winnie's father in the way you did." a gleam came into frank's eyes as he sat there, and a smile played on his lips. "my dear fellow," he said finally, "i don't want any reward from you or any one else for what i do, by way of helping them out. i do the best i can in that respect--the same as you or anyone else would do--and that's reward enough for me--a clear conscience! thanks, all the same, buck." chapter xxi. bad news. so sunshine follows storm! it was a jolly party aboard the _merry seas_, as she bowled along on her way from new haven to new york. it was composed of frank merriwell and a number of his intimate friends; and wherever frank and his friends were, dull care usually hid his agued face and gave place to smiling pleasure. "that grumbling old boatman at the new haven wharf was a liar!" groaned dismal jones, as if it were a grief that he had not found the boatman's unpleasant prognostications true. "what did he say?" asked danny griswold, who had been prancing the deck like a diminutive admiral, stopping now and blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his nostrils. "he said that a smoker of cigarettes is always a measly runt!" grunted bruce browning, from the big chair in which he had ensconced himself almost as soon as he came aboard, and which he had hardly left since. "you're another!" said danny. "he didn't say anything of the kind." "he was a poet," said dismal, "and he threw his comment into rime. i was taken in by him, i suppose, because he seemed to be half-way quoting scripture: "'the pharisees were hypocrites, and the _merry seas_ is a ship o' fits!'" "a ship o' fits? nothing eccentric about this steamer, so far as i can see!" "except danny griswold!" exclaimed bink stubbs. "he is enough to give anything fits." "something your tailor is never able to give you!" danny retorted. "sit down!" growled browning. "you are shutting out the view!" "what view?" danny demanded. "the view of the steamer's funnel. i'd rather look at that. it can smoke and keep still--and you can't." inza and elsie came along, accompanied by merriwell and bart hodge. winnie lee, who was at present under her father's displeasure for her persistence in continuing to encourage buck badger, was not aboard, but amy may was a member of the party. at the moment, she was conversing gaily with bernard burrage, inza's semi-invalid father, on the forward-deck. "we're going to have a fog!" said merriwell, speaking to bruce and those near. "i have been hoping it would hold off until we reach new york, but it isn't going to." "i'd rather be in a ship that has fits now and then, than to be stuck in a fog-bank!" bink declared. "i guess that new haven boatman was a prophet, after all." the _merry seas_ was a steamer running on a somewhat irregular schedule to new haven and new london, and back to the great metropolis by the sea route along the ocean side of long island, touching at one or two long island points. merriwell's friends had decided on a steamer voyage to new york and back as a change from the usual work and athletics at yale. not that they were tired of either. but nothing of signal importance was on the program to detain them in new haven, and they were away, therefore, for this short trip by boat. the ordinary sound route between new haven and new york was familiar ground to every member of the party, and something new was desired. hence they had taken the _merry seas_, which had steamed to new london, and out to sea between block island and montauk point, and had then laid her course down the long island coast for new york harbor. inza laughed at bink's lugubrious declaration. gamp was laughing, too. "if we get stuck in a fog, we can have joe gamp yell a few times for us. that will do for a fog-horn." "then the _merry seas_ will have fits, sure enough!" said bink. gamp looked serious. "well, honest, now, that dud-dud-don't sus-sound so funny to mum-me as it dud-does to you. owned a cuc-cuc-carf once, that was pup-prancing raound in the med-der pup-pup-pasture, and i gug-got so tickled that i just sus-set daown and hollered. goshfry! you wouldn't believe it, bub-bub-but that cuc-carf fell over dead's a stun wall!" "gave it heart-disease, of course!" bink gravely observed. "not to be wondered at." "i'm just tut-tut-telling this story as a warning tut-to you!" joe solemnly observed. "the hoss dud-dud-doctor said that the pup-poor thing's head was weak. sus-so when we get into a fuf-fog and i begug-gin to holler, bub-bub-better pup-put cotton into your ears, binky!" stubbs fell back into danny's arms. "ar-r-r-r!" he gurgled. "i've got 'em now. fits!" "i'll give you fits, if you don't stop tumbling over against me!" danny howled, giving bink a push that landed him in browning's lap. everybody laughed, and merriwell and his companions walked on round the steamer's rail. "it hurts me to think that i must separate soon from all those jolly fellows!" merry observed, in a saddened voice. "but commencement is rushing this way at railroad speed, and most of them will go out of yale then forever." "we'll not get blue about it until we have to," said elsie, though the thought had saddened her more than once. "just see how the fog is coming down!" inza observed. "hello!" cried hodge, "another vessel!" a steamer hove into view through the thickening mist. the boats began to sound their whistles. "a sort of flying dutchman!" remarked merriwell, and, indeed, the passing steamer did seem more a phantasm of the fog than a real vessel carrying living, breathing people. the _merry seas_ sounded her whistle at frequent intervals as she pushed on into the fog, and for some time after the steamer had vanished her hoarse whistle could also be heard. "hello!" cried browning, who had been lazily looking over some late new york papers. the tone and the change in his manner told that he had come on a startling piece of news. "what is it?" diamond asked. "maybe only the same name!" said browning, and then read this paragraph from the telegraphic columns: "a young irishman named barney mulloy was attacked and killed by hoboes near sea cove, on the coast not far from sandy hook, yesterday morning. the object of the tramps was doubtless robbery, as mulloy is known to have had a considerable sum of money on his person." browning looked up questioningly. "likely another fellow, though!" he said. "by jove! i'm afraid not!" exclaimed frank, who had hastily taken the paper from bruce, and was staring in consternation at the fateful item. "there may be a hundred barney mulloys!" said rattleton. frank shook his head. "i had a letter from him a few days ago, and he was then stopping at sea cove. he was making money, too!" merriwell felt stunned. barney mulloy had been one of his dearest friends, faithful and honest, kind-hearted and true, jolly and hopeful. through all of his hilarious experiences at fardale, frank had not a stancher adherent. and now barney was dead, slain by a lot of miserable tramps! tears of honest grief and indignation came into frank's eyes. "barney mulloy dead?" exclaimed inza, coming up at that moment and hearing the news. "what?" cried elsie. "report in the _herald_," frank answered. "killed yesterday by hoboes, somewhere below sandy hook." bad news spreads as if by magic. in a little while the other members of the party, having read the story for themselves or heard of it from others, gathered round merriwell. "well, he was an honest boy," said hodge, a noticeable tremor in his voice. "a better-hearted lad never lived!" merriwell asserted. frank's mind went back to fardale, and, grieved as he was, he could again hear the yells of barney mulloy and hans dunnerwust, when they crawled into bed with the lobsters, which they thought were centipedes. it had been one of the funniest incidents of the fardale days, for both thought they were poisoned by the bites of the creatures, and that they would surely die. the whole thing had been a practical joke, in which frank had played a prominent part. and now barney, the mischievous, the loyal, the reckless, was dead! "i can hardly believe it!" merry declared. "it doesn't seem possible. but there is one thing! i shall spend some money in having those hoboes hunted down and punished for their crime." "i wish i could have happened along there about the time they jumped on him!" growled hodge, and the light in his dark face showed that he would have done his best to make it hot for the hoboes if he could have put his hands on them. "barney had the right kind of stuff in him." this depressing bit of news took all the merriment and life out of the little party. and, as the steamer wallowed on through the increasing fog, the world seemed suddenly to have become wrapped in gloom. "wish we'd stayed in new haven!" grunted browning. "i'll have to smoke faster to keep warm, or go below." "and i wish we were in new york," said bink. "there is something there to warm up the blood." danny looked at him. "drinks? likely the captain has a private bottle tucked away somewhere that he will give you a nip out of." "life, i mean. pulsing streets, swarms of people, theaters, hand-organs----" "oh, yes, a monkey is usually lost away from a hand-organ!" "i suppose that is why you always seem so lonesome! when merry is sad, we all are--grumpy! new york would help to lift us out of the dumps." chapter xxii. adrift in the atlantic. "so thick you might cut it with a knife!" captain darien, who had walked forward and joined the group of merriwell's friends, looked off into the wall of gloom as he said this. the _merry seas_ was mournfully blowing her whistle, and others were continually heard. the steamer was nearing new york harbor. "will you try to run in, captain?" frank asked. "oh i think we can make it. i don't like to anchor out here all night. i have a pretty good idea of just where we are." "the fog may lift before night." the captain looked at his watch, and saw that it indicated nearly three o'clock. "i'm afraid not. and likely it will be no better in the morning. i shall try to go in." a fog-siren somewhere on the invisible shore was sending out its unearthly blasts. then a whistle seemed to cut the gloom right ahead, and a big black shape loomed through the murk. the _merry seas_ sounded her warning, and the helm was jammed hard a-starboard. another shriek came from the phantom that had seemed to rise right out of the sea. with that shriek, she also swung off. "i thought we were in for a collision!" said frank, breathing more freely. "it will be a squeak as it is." elsie had nervously clutched him by the arm. all were moving back from the dangerous vicinity toward the other rail. "a tug!" said bart, who was standing near merriwell. the tug, which was a large one, seemed now fairly on top of them. in size, it was as large or larger than the _merry seas_. a collision of the two vessels would be a serious thing. "we're going to strike, or scrape!" frank warned, taking inza and elsie each by an arm. "brace for it!" orders were being given, and the whistles were hoarsely blowing. both vessels were still falling off. some one on the tug bellowed frantically through a big trumpet. "what was that?" inza asked. "tows!" said frank. "something about tows!" the tug and the steamer did not strike, though they grazed each other so closely that a collision seemed unavoidable. then there was more bellowing through trumpets and more whistling, and frank felt the _merry seas_ tremble under him as her engines were reversed. he knew not what to expect. crash! the big tug, _gladiator_, had a string of heavily laden barges in tow. into one of these barges, in spite of every effort to prevent it, the bow of the _merry seas_ crashed with terrible force. it was as if a horse should rush headlong against a stone wall. the shock was terrific. merriwell heard a sound of smashing timbers and snapping iron. he was pitched violently from his feet as the bow of the _merry seas_ was forced downward by the collision. he felt himself flying through the air. then he struck the water, and went down, down, down! but frank did not lose consciousness. and as he came to the surface, he supported himself by a gentle motion of his hands and feet, and tried to look about. he knew how great was his peril. but his thoughts were not wholly of himself. he thought of inza and elsie, of hodge and his other friends. what had befallen them? had they, too, been hurled into the sea by that awful shock? if so, there could be little doubt that some of them, if not all, would be drowned. he shouted for assistance, and heard a hoarse whistle not far away. he could see nothing, for the fog was as impenetrable as a blanket he began to swim toward the sound. he could not tell whether the whistle was that of the tug or the _merry seas_ or of some other vessel. again he sent up a call for help. the water was cold and his clothing heavy. he was thinking of trying to get out of his shoes and outer coat, when he heard a human cry not far away. "help! help!" some one called. "help! help!" frank shouted. but instead of swimming on, he turned in the direction of the cry. it indicated a human being in distress and peril, and he felt that he might be able to save a life. "help!" came the cry again. the voice was so choked and thick, and there was such a rush of water in his ears that merry could not tell much about it, yet it seemed familiar. it was near at hand, too; and, sending back an answering call, frank swam straight toward it. "help!" was shouted, right at hand now, for the voice seemed to be drifting toward him. "where are you?" for answer, merriwell received a heavy blow on the head and breast from a piece of timber. he went under with a cry, his head ringing and his senses reeling. the next thing he knew, he was stretched out on some sort of raft, and some one was holding him there by sheer force. his feet and legs were trailing through the water. the whistle of the steamer or tug sounded again, but farther away. "is that you, merry? how are you feeling?" it was a familiar voice, though thick and husky--the voice of bart hodge. it steadied merriwell's reeling brain. he took hold of the boards and sought to draw himself still higher on them. "that you, hodge?" "yes. i thought that was you, merry. how are you?" "soaked. but i guess i am all right. something hit me on the head and shoulders, and i went under. i was swimming this way. heard somebody call." "i called, and you were struck by this drift. i heard you, and felt the shock when you struck. i reached out and got hold of you--and here you are?" "yes, here--and where is that?" "in the atlantic, somewhere off new york. i doubt if the captain knew." "what became of the rest of the crowd?" "don't know. that collision threw me clean over the rail. i fell near these boards. i don't know but they came from the barge. when i came up, i bumped against them, and then hung on and began to call for help." there was a moment of silence. both were listening. whistles could be heard here and there. off to the left somewhere they fancied they heard a voice calling, but whether it came from the deck of a vessel or from some unfortunate in the water they could not determine. near and far the whistles of steamers and tugs were hoarsely bellowing. "with so many vessels around, we ought to be picked up soon," said hodge. "we would be, if any one could see anything. but a boat would have to run right over us to find us. hark! wasn't that rowlocks?" again they listened. the sound of oars was certainly heard. clug-clank, clug-clank, clug-clank. "let us call together," said merry. "now! as loud as you can." both shouted with all their might. for an instant they fancied the boat was coming toward them, and they shouted again. but it was almost impossible to determine the direction of sound. they could not themselves be sure of the direction of the boat. the "clug-clank" grew fainter and fainter. "we're bound to be picked up soon," merriwell cheerily declared. "we must be right in the track of vessels. we'd be picked up right away if it wasn't for this beastly fog." hodge was silent. "what do you suppose has become of the others? they were right with us, you know, when we went over!" "i'm afraid to think about it," said frank, with a shudder, which was not caused by the chill of the water. "i can't help thinking about it!" "nor i. but i'm hoping we were the only ones that went overboard. we must try to believe that, bart, until we cannot believe it any longer." hodge was silent. "and as for ourselves!" "oh, i wasn't thinking of ourselves," said bart. "we can hang on here a good while, i think. i suppose we're being carried out to sea, though!" "not much doubt of that, i guess. but we've pulled through worse scrapes together, bart!" "that's right, merry! and we'll pull through this. are you up high enough on the boards? let me help you! you can't be feeling very strong after that blow." merriwell drew himself higher out of the water, and found that the heavy board supported his weight. "if only the fog would clear now! i hear a whistle away off there." "do you suppose the _merry seas_ was sunk?" hodge asked. "i sha'n't think so until i have to. i think the barge got much the worst of it. the steamer seemed to cut it right in two." "perhaps we can get up higher on these boards." "i've been thinking of that myself," hodge answered. the two friends had locked hands across the narrow space that separated them. now, by merriwell first helping bart and then bart returning the favor, they managed to get up higher out of the water, and were gratified to find that the boards were sufficiently buoyant to sustain them. for fifteen or twenty minutes they had thus drifted on, talking and conjecturing, listening at intervals, and now and then sending up a loud call. the fog-siren on the shore was still screeching, and the whistles of vessels were now and then heard. but about them was that impenetrable gray wall of fog. having secured an easier position, frank fumbled with his chilled fingers for his watch, which he finally drew out. it was wet, of course, but, to his surprise, was still merrily ticking away. by holding it near his eyes the time could be told. "about half an hour, i judge, since the collision." "no more than that? seems to me it has been a half a day." again there was silence. "i should think a vessel would anchor, instead of trying to go on in such a fog as this!" bart snarled. the memory of the disaster was beginning to make him bitter against the captain. "they do, usually. the captain thought he could make his way in, that is all!" "and i'm afraid some of our friends have gone to the bottom as a result of it. we seem in a good way to investigate davy jones' locker ourselves!" "i'm going to believe that our friends are all right. it can't be possible that both the tug and the steamer sank. the tug wasn't really in the collision, you know. she would be able to take off every one from the steamer, no doubt, even if the steamer was so injured that she could not float. the thing i most fear is that some of them may have been hurled overboard, just as we were, and were not lucky enough to find anything to sustain them. but i shall not believe anything of the kind as long as i can hope that it isn't so." but for merriwell, hodge would have been very despondent, especially as the long hours of the afternoon began to wear on and no boat came near them, and their frequent cries seemed to remain unheard; but frank's hopefulness and cheerful optimism were not without good effect on the mind of his friend, and they were even able at times to talk with some degree of mental comfort. frank was sure that they were steadily drifting out to sea. he believed, from the change in the apparent direction of the fog-siren, that they were moving down the coast toward sandy hook. but they were evidently floating farther out to sea, for the sounds of the siren were fainter and farther away. "i believe the fog is going to lighten." merriwell lifted himself and strained his eyes through the gloom. a suggestion of a breeze had fanned him. "if the wind gets up, the fog may be driven away," he said. "and the wind will kick up a sea!" suggested bart. "but if the fog lifts, we will probably be seen by some vessel!" there could be no doubt that a gentle breeze was beginning to blow. "sure enough, the fog is thinning!" bart cried joyfully. "but i don't hear any more whistles." "hark! there one sounded." "miles away!" "wait till the fog rises. perhaps there are others." anxiously they watched the gray wall. the wind died away, and once or twice it seemed that the fog was growing denser, instead of lightening. but by and by the sunlight seemed to permeate it. it appeared to become thinner. then, like a great curtain uplifted, it for a little while swung upward from the face of the heaving sea. all around were the green rollers, rising and falling with an oily swell. hodge uttered an exclamation of gratification. "look!" merriwell looked in the direction indicated. not a fourth of a mile away a dingy fishing-sloop was bobbing along, with her dirty mainsail and jib set, yet seeming to catch no breeze. both merry and hodge forgot their discomfort, forgot their chilled and benumbed condition, and, lifting themselves as high as they could, shouted for assistance. there must have been some breeze in the dingy sails, for the vessel was moving athwart the line of their progress, and they were being carried along by the tide. "shout again!" said merriwell, and again they lifted their voices together. in another direction a steamer could be seen, but those on the steamer evidently did not see the sufferers on the raft. "i don't believe there is a soul on the sloop!" bart declared, in a despairing way. "well, if she keeps on her course, we'll get so near that perhaps we can swim to her and climb on board." but bart was wrong. hardly had he made the declaration, when a man appeared on deck, accompanied by a shaggy dog. merriwell and hodge renewed their cries to attract his attention. but the man gave them absolutely no heed. once they fancied that the dog turned his nose in their direction. "he don't want to see us," bart growled. "we are near enough for him to hear! i----" his sentence was interrupted by a young lady who rushed suddenly on deck from the "cuddy" or cabin. a scream issued from her lips as she appeared, and immediately a second man came into view, from whom she seemed to be fleeing. "my god! inza burrage!" merriwell fairly shouted the words. inza did not see the raft and her friends. she appeared to see only the shaggy-bearded fellow, who now stood grimly looking at her. "she's going to jump overboard!" cried hodge, so excited that he almost fell off the raft. merriwell shouted with all his might. inza turned and saw the raft. she uttered another piercing cry, stretched out her hands, and seemed again about to leap into the sea. instead of heeding the cry sent up by merriwell, inza's pursuer leaped at her to prevent her from jumping over the rail; and, then, bearing her in his strong arms, deliberately carried her back into the cuddy. merriwell and hodge shouted, yelled, screamed. the one man on the deck paid not the slightest attention to their cries. "he refuses to hear us!" said hodge. the other man appeared, and they called again. one of the men went to the tiller, and the course of the sloop was changed. "they are going to pretend that they did not see us," frank exclaimed. "hold to the raft, hodge! stay by it!" "what are you going to do?" hodge demanded. "i'm going to swim to that sloop!" chapter xxiii. the mystery of the fishing-sloop. "stay with the raft," merriwell again commanded. "but i want to go with you! you will need help!" "perhaps i may have to return to the raft. i can't find it if you leave it." "we can get on that vessel. and perhaps, if you go alone, you will be killed." merriwell was as anxious and almost as much excited, but he kept his head. "don't you see that the sloop is moving on the new tack. she may be going faster than i can swim. stay on the raft!" as he gave this last command, he slipped out of his heavy, soaked outer coat, quickly removed his shoes, and, pushing these articles to hodge, let himself into the sea, and began to swim toward the dingy fishing-sloop. hodge did not again shout, for he saw that merriwell's plan was to swim to the sloop, climb aboard of it, and by a sudden attack overwhelm the men. "he's crazy!" hodge grated. "they will see him, and they will simply knock him back into the sea. they act as if they were lunatics--or drunk! why don't they look this way?" it was indeed singular, but neither of the men seemed to have noticed the raft or heard the cries that came from it. merriwell was a splendid swimmer, and in spite of his chilled condition and his hampering clothing, he moved through the water almost like a fish. "of course i couldn't have kept up with him!" bart grumbled. "but i could have done my best. he can't overpower both of those men alone." he held tightly to the shoes and the coat, and looked longingly after the swimmer, turning his eyes often to the sloop, that now, under the influence of a light breeze, was going along in a surprising fashion. "and how did inza come to be aboard of that sloop?" bart had not time to think of this before, but now the answer came quickly enough. inza's clothing had clung to her, as she rushed on the deck, showing that her skirts were weighted with water. no doubt, she, too, had been hurled into the sea by the collision of the steamer with the barge, and this fishing-boat had in some manner picked her up. "it's very queer, though, the way that fellow acted! she was afraid of him. but she is below, and he is now on deck. likely enough he has her shut up in the cabin." he beheld merriwell lift himself slightly out of the water and send out a ringing call. but the men on deck did not stir. and the sloop sailed on. "the scoundrels!" bart hissed, through his white teeth. "i should like to knock their heads together. they refuse to hear him. they are carrying inza away, and they do not intend that any one shall come aboard. and this within the very shadows of new york city!" the sloop heeled over under the breeze and increased her speed. merriwell was palpably losing ground. bart heard him call again and again, with the same result, and then bart also lifted his voice. the result was the same. the sloop moved straight on. at last he saw merriwell turn about and swim again toward the raft, when it became evident that he could not overtake the sloop. "that is enough to kill merry!" he thought sympathizingly. "and inza saw us, too! i wonder what she thinks?" slowly and with seeming weariness merriwell came back toward the raft. bart lifted himself as high as he could to mark the spot where the raft lay tossing. when lifted on the crest of a wave, merriwell came plainly in sight; but when either frank or the raft slipped down the glassy surface of those big, green rollers, he seemed to sink into the sea. "i'm afraid he is going to have a hard pull! he must be tired out." he shook his fist at the sloop. it was growing smaller and smaller. a haze was again creeping over the sea. "my god! what if the fog should settle down again and keep merry from finding the raft?" bart shuddered at the thought. but merriwell was so strong a swimmer that bart's hopes rose again almost immediately. there were indications that the fog was once more descending, but merriwell was now swimming straight toward the raft with a bold, firm stroke, and with considerable speed. "right here, old man!" bart encouragingly called. "i'm coming!" merriwell shouted, and his tones did not show exhausting fatigue. then he swam up to the raft, and bart helped him to climb upon it. "what was the matter with those scoundrels?" "deaf!" "what?" "deaf as posts, both of them!" merriwell explained, resting on the boards and panting from his exertions. "they didn't look this way simply because they didn't hear us. i'm sure of that, from the way they acted. i began to think so when i told you to hang to the raft. i believed that if i could overtake the sloop, and could climb aboard and make myself known, or knock them down, as my intention was, i could then release inza and sail the sloop over here and get you. but i couldn't swim fast enough." "you went through the water like a fish!" "but the sloop went faster. if that breeze hadn't sprung up, i think i could have made it." "and what are they doing with inza?" "i don't know. but i'm glad of one thing. she isn't dead." "deaf!" muttered bart. "deaf as posts! well, that does make the thing a bit clearer." the reaction from the tremendous exertions which merriwell had put forth made itself felt now. the excitement having passed, he felt almost exhausted. he climbed up as high as he could on the boards, and bart, who was terribly benumbed and chilled from long exposure to the cold water, held him thus while he rested. "it was too much for you, old man!" he said consolingly. "i had to try it!" was merriwell's answer. "the fog is shutting down again," said bart. "but it won't stay down. the sea looked red out toward the west. i think it will clear away to-night." he was in no mood to say more. and the raft drifted on, while the gray fog settled round them, and its chill and gloominess seemed to go to their very hearts. but as merriwell had predicted, the fog lifted again, and at the end of another hour of an experience as terrible as either had ever been called to undergo, the gray bank again swung up toward the sky. the sun was sinking redly into the sea, and night was at hand--and what night might mean in their weakened and chilled condition, adrift on the great ocean toward which they seemed to be so resistlessly borne, they dared not think. "the sloop!" bart cried, rousing himself. merriwell lifted himself and looked. it was the sloop, sure enough. a little to the southward of east, with its dingy sails furled and their bulging shapes turned to great lumps of gold, with the mast standing out in dark tracery against the red skyline, lay the fishing-sloop. "it's the same!" merry exclaimed. "sure! there can't be any doubt about it." "and she has cast anchor." "what does that mean?" "she is a fishing-sloop, and i've an idea we must be on the fishing-grounds off the jersey or new york coast. there is no other explanation. she is out here on a fishing-trip." "and inza?" "we'll have to wait for her to clear that mystery away." "what will we do? if those fellows are deaf, there is no use in shouting." "we are drifting toward her, you see. we'll be alongside before dark, if this continues." "then we'll get on board of her!" "and we'll find out a few things, if we have to knock those fellows on the head." the thought was so exhilarating that the warm blood was again driven through their veins, and the numbness seemed in a measure to go out of their chilled bodies. nothing is so reviving as hope. and hope was theirs again. the raft drifted so slowly and bart was so eager that he wanted to leap into the sea and swim to the vessel. "let us save our strength," was merriwell's advice. "we are going straight there. we will probably need all the strength we have." "i see only one man. he is pottering about near the cabin." "the other is aboard somewhere. and you noticed that dog? if he puts up a fight, too, i've an idea that he will be worse than either of the men." the progress of the little raft was tantalizingly slow, but it moved steadily, and after the sun had set and while the darkness was gathering on that great expanse of water, it swung close in under the stern of the sloop. not a sound was heard aboard of her as she lazily lifted and rolled on the heaving swell. frank took his shoes in one hand, but thought it not well to burden himself with the extra coat. "now!" he whispered. "let the raft go. we can cut that boat loose if we have to trust to the sea again. follow me!" then he slipped silently into the sea, hodge imitating his example. softly swimming round to the bow, frank got hold of a chain that ran down from the bowsprit. "here," he softly whispered. "lay hold of this, and come right up after me." "i'll be there!" hodge whispered back. then, hampered by the shoes, merry climbed slowly aboard, and bart swung up after him. together they dropped to the deck, and crouched low, with the water running in rivulets from their clothing. frank felt softly about, and his hands fell on a club-like maul which fishermen use for stunning the large fish they catch. there was nothing else near in the shape of a weapon. he passed the maul to bart, and clutched one of the shoes as a club in his right hand. "good luck!" he softly whispered. "how are you?" hodge was chilled to the bone, and his teeth were fairly chattering. "i'm all right. a bit chilly, but i guess things will be warm enough for me in a few minutes. i'm ready. go on!" a dark form was standing beside the cuddy. but for his certainty that the men were deaf, or nearly so, merriwell would not have indulged in even this whispered conversation. he crept now toward this man, with hodge crawling at his heels, and when near enough, leaped on the man with a sudden and disconcerting pounce. though the surprise must have been great, the man, who was large and strong, wheeled round to resist the attack, and the large dog, which had before been seen, sprang up from the deck and flew at merriwell's throat. the ready club in the hands of bart hodge tumbled the dog over with a howl, and merry and the big fisherman began to struggle in the growing darkness for the mastery. to and fro on the deck they reeled. the dog leaped up again and tried to come to the assistance of its master, but turned upon hodge when he struck at it again with the maul. its eyes seemed balls of green fire in the gloom, and the hoarse growl that came from deep down in its throat was anything but pleasant to hear. but bart hodge met its onset with a stout heart, raining his blows with such swiftness and precision that it dropped to the deck. then he hurried to the assistance of merriwell. but frank was already the victor. though the man had the strength of an ox, he had not merriwell's science and skill in fighting, and frank had not only knocked the breath out of him, but had hurled him to the deck. "that rope, bart! it is right here. i tripped over it. tie him!" a cry followed this--a cry from inza. she rushed out of the cuddy door, and after her sprang a man with a lighted lantern. hodge faced toward this man, intending to fell him with the club. "frank! frank!" inza cried. "i knew you would come, frank!" then she noticed the uplifted club. "don't strike him, bart!" she threw herself between hodge and the man with the lantern. merriwell was still holding down the man he had conquered. "what is it?" he questioned, looking up and trying to read inza's meaning by the light of the lantern. "the men are deaf!" said inza. "they rescued me from a piece of boat, to which i clung after the collision!" the man with the lantern seemed about to spring upon frank in spite of hodge's threatening club. inza touched him on the arm. "friends!" she screamed, in an endeavor to make him hear. chapter xxiv. inza's story. the man did not hear inza, but he felt the touch, and, turning quickly about, caught something of her meaning in her manner. the deaf are wonderfully quick in such things. he made a horrible grimace and pointed at merriwell. again she laid a hand restrainingly on his shoulder. "let the man up, frank," she urged. "the fellows are harmless enough, but they are as deaf as adders!" "look out for the dog!" frank warned. the dog, which had crawled away in a seemingly dying condition, had struggled again to its feet and appeared to be meditating another attack on hodge. "i've got an eye on him," hodge called back. "look out for your man!" merriwell released the fellow he had overthrown, and the man climbed dazedly and sullenly to his feet. inza hurried toward him, shrieking and making motions with her hands. the man did not understand her. it began to seem that both of them contemplated an attack on bart and merry. "wait a minute!" she cried. "don't strike them, frank, bart, if you can help it!" "i think i'm awake," growled hodge, as if he wanted to pinch himself to make sure of it. the scene was certainly a strange one--as strange as if taken from a comic opera. the fishing-sloop rocking on the long swell, the dog cowed and uncertain, one deaf man doubtingly flashing the lantern in the face of bart hodge, and the other swaying unsteadily on his feet, as if he contemplated making a blind rush at merriwell. in less than a minute inza reappeared from the cuddy. she held in her hand a piece of paper on which she had hastily written some explanatory sentences. this she thrust beneath the nose of the man who held the lantern. the effect was magical. the lantern came down, something that sounded like an attempt at words gurgled in his throat, and he made a signal to the other fisherman, whose attitude also changed instantly. "it's all right now!" inza laughed, though the laugh sounded a bit hysterical. "well, i'm glad that it is!" said merriwell. "but an explanation would be comfortable." "these men rescued me from the piece of broken boat to which i was clinging," inza hastily explained. "i was knocked overboard by the collision. they are fishermen, and are now anchored on their fishing-grounds." "so i see. but what about one of them chasing you, when you ran out of the cuddy this afternoon? you tried to jump overboard!" "the men both thought me deranged by what i had passed through, and i suppose i may have acted strange. i saw you and bart on the raft, and i tried to make the men see you. but they thought i was going to jump overboard, and i was carried bodily into the cuddy and locked in. i didn't know at the time that they could read writing, or i should have tried that; though i was kept locked in the cuddy so long that it would have done no good!" then she began to motion to the men; and one of the fellows came toward bart in a sheepish way and held out a hand. bart hesitated about taking it, fearing a trick; but the man's intentions were honest. having made this advance, the way to an understanding was so fully paved that within less than ten minutes thereafter both frank and hodge, having wrung out their clothing in a contracted place below deck, were warming themselves and trying to get dry by the cuddy stove, while inza was rattling on with the story of her adventures. "i really don't know yet whether i am awake or dreaming!" said bart. "this about knocks everything i have ever seen!" "just fishermen," said inza. "they would have picked you up, no doubt, if they had seen you--they couldn't hear you; or if i had been able to make them see you. it must have been an hour or more after that when i found that they had writing-material in the little desk over there, and i wrote them a note. but the fog was so thick then that it was no use for them to make a search." "why didn't they run back to new york with you?" "simply because they thought they had done their duty by me, and that it would pay them better to come out to the fishing-grounds and take me in on their return. i promised them money, but----" she laughingly held up a little purse. "i had just ten cents in that, and you see i couldn't convince them of the fabulous wealth of my father and my friends by exhibiting that. they said they would take me when they went in, and i could not get anything else out of them." "perhaps a little money--as much or more than they can make out of this fishing-trip--will induce them to take us right in. that is, as soon as the wind rises. we're not only anchored, but we're becalmed now." frank was thinking of elsie and of the others who had been on the _merry seas_. his heart was aching with anxiety. bart and inza were scarcely less distressed. the cabin or "cuddy," which had been surrendered to them by the fishermen who were now outside, was a diminutive place, smelling unpleasantly of fish and burnt grease. on two sides were bunks. near the center was the rusty stove about which the three friends were gathered. its heat caused their wet clothing to emit a cloud of steam. at one side was the writing-desk, fashioned by clumsy hands, and scattered about was a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends, consisting of sea-boots and oilskin coats, nets, and fishing-tackle. "not a ladies' parlor," inza admitted, glancing about "but i tell you i was glad to get into it." "and you don't know anything about the people on the _merry seas_?" frank asked. a look of pain swept across the dark, handsome face. "not a thing! i am worried to death about all of them, especially father. but i hope for the best. if any others went overboard, the tug was right there to pick them up, and we can believe, until we know otherwise, that it did. we have been so very fortunate ourselves!" "more than fortunate!" merry observed, with a thankful heart. "now, if we can only get to the city without delay! call in the fishermen and perhaps an offer of money can do something. if not, we can capture the sloop and take it in ourselves!" "but there is no breeze," bart reminded. "that is so. but call in the fishermen. we may get some opinions out of them." jabez and peleg slocum, the deaf-mute owners of the fishing-sloop _sarah jane_, of sea cove, new jersey, were what one might call "queer ducks"; a thing not so much to be wondered at when the fact that they had been deaf and dumb from infancy is taken into consideration, with the further fact that the greater part of their fifty odd years had been spent in the lonely and precarious calling of atlantic fishermen. they were rough and gnarled and cross-grained, like the sloop whose deck they trod; yet, in spite of all, like that same sloop, they had some good qualities. to them fishing was the end and aim of existence. hence, as soon as merriwell, with the aid of pencil and paper, began to talk of being taken straight to new york, the fishermen shook their heads. they had work to do out there on the fishing-banks. it was probable they reasoned that it was not their fault that these young people had fallen in their way. they had dutifully rescued them from watery graves--or, in the case of hodge and merriwell--had permitted them to rescue themselves. and thus, whatever obligation they may have been under as fellow human beings had been fully discharged. they did not want merriwell's money--and they certainly did not desire to run to new york. it was not their habit to visit new york. sea cove was their home, and, whenever they pulled up their rusty anchor for a run from the banks, they returned to sea cove invariably, unless blown out of their latitude by a storm, as sometimes happened. finally one of them wrote: "see in morning." "and now we'll have something to eat!" inza declared. "both of you are famished. you are getting thawed out and dry, and if your stomachs are strong enough to stand the odor of things, i'll go ahead and get some supper for you. i know where everything is in the--what do you call it?--locker? peleg, that's the taller one, showed me." "peleg must be sweet on you," remarked frank, laughing. she picked up a "spider" and shook it at him. "don't trouble the cook, mr. merriwell, if you expect to get anything to eat!" "i was just going to remark that i admired his taste. he is a man of most excellent judgment!" "how is your taste, mr. hodge?" inza calmly queried. "do you think you can eat fish?" "i could eat a whale. i'll gobble up this fish-basket pretty soon if you don't hurry and serve something." "very well. fish-baskets on toast. there are fish in a box back there. and there are crackers in this box. and over there i found some pretty nice canned goods." merriwell smiled. inza's manner was like a break of sunshine. "your talk makes me simply ravenous." that they were ravenous they showed when they fell to on the supper which inza prepared as best she could from the materials available. there were many things that might have been improved. they might have gone out on the deck, for one thing, but the wet fog had come down again, with a chill that went to the bones--a chill that was simply horrible to frank and bart in the damp condition in which their clothing still remained. the fishermen did not seem to mind the fog, however, but walked the deck and smoked, garbed in oilskins and sou'westers. they talked, too, by signaling to each other with their hands. merry, hodge, and inza sat up until a late hour, going over and over again all the points of the day's experience, with the many conjectures and unanswerable questions which grew out of it. the fact that the sloop belonged in sea cove, the village near which, according to the newspaper report, barney mulloy was killed, was a matter of intense interest, even though the fishermen could in no wise enlighten them on the subject of barney's murder. frank continued to hope that a breeze would spring up, and that he could induce the slocums, by a liberal money offer, to set him and his friends ashore at the nearest point without delay. in the event of a refusal, the temptation to take the vessel in himself would have been strong, but he knew that such a course would hardly do in these modern days. it smacked too much of piracy. money was the lever he hoped to use, and when the breeze came he intended to make the lever sufficiently strong to move even these placid souls. but the breeze did not come. the fog seemed to grow thicker and damper. at length weariness overcame the whole party. then inza was left in full possession of the cuddy, while hodge and frank crept into a narrow sleeping-place forward which jabez slocum pointed out to them. as for the fishermen themselves, they seemed content to stretch out under a tarpaulin on deck; and the _sarah jane_, with lights set to show her position, though they could not have been seen a dozen feet distant, rocked sleepily in the fog at the end of her cable. when morning dawned, the fog rolled away under the influence of a brilliant sun, showing an attractive sight. other fishing-boats, big and little, were rising and falling on the swell. to the northward a steamer, outward bound, trailed from her triple funnels banners of black smoke. from the southward a "fruiter," as the vessels bringing fruit from the west indies are called, came bravely up the coast. there were other vessels--schooners, barks, sloops, and the coast itself was visible as a blue line. finally, one of the slocum brothers came to merriwell and held out a scrap of paper. frank glanced at it, and read, in an almost illegible scrawl: "sea cove." "they will take us to sea cove!" inza explained. "new york city," merry wrote. the deaf-mate shook his head and again pointed to the name "sea cove." "what's the odds?" said bart. "there is a railway there, and no doubt boats running to new york. and then it will give us an opportunity to investigate the murder of poor barney a little. by to-night we can be in new york, if all goes well!" "put us aboard the fruiter or some steamer," frank again wrote. but the man shook his head. "it is sea cove or nothing," said inza. "and he would be glad, i think, to have it nothing." "sea cove it is, then," frank agreed. but the promise was productive of no immediate good. there was no breeze, and, as the _sarah jane_ was on the shallow banks, far out of the route of the steamers, there was nothing to do but to cultivate patience and wait. at frank's urging, peleg set a signal from the masthead, but it drew no vessel near them. the slocums seemed glad that they were not to be called on to sail at once for land, and they proceeded to get out long hand-lines and fish over the sides of the sloop. wherever they went they were followed by their dog, that limped from the blows bart had given it. the dog would not make friends with the newcomers, but showed its teeth in a threatening way whenever bart or frank came near. finally merriwell and his friends also engaged in the fishing to kill time, and with considerable success. thus the day wore wearily along until well into the afternoon. "a breeze!" frank gleefully exclaimed at last, holding up a hand. "the wind is coming! i feel that if this old boat doesn't get a move on soon, i shall have to jump overboard and swim ashore." "well, i should hope you would take me on your back!" inza observed, her voice thrilled with the thought that the long-expected breeze was actually coming. "i'm as frantic as any one can be to put foot on land and learn what has happened to our friends and to father!" the slocums were ready to go home now, and as the breeze rapidly increased in strength and gave evidence of having come to stay, they speedily got the _sarah jane_ under way, with the help of frank and bart, and stood off for the jersey shore. frank was now perfectly willing that they should run to sea cove direct, for a little thought and some questions put to the slocums had shown him that he could reach new york from there by wire, and by rail from a point near-by, and he could take a little time to investigate the barney mulloy affair. chapter xxv. the ghost of barney mulloy. "another calm!" bart growled, in disgust. night was approaching, and the _sarah jane_ lay becalmed a mile from shore and nearly ten miles from sea cove. the shore, high and sandy, was plainly visible, with pretty cottages among some trees a short distance back from the edge of the water. the slocums had a good glass, which brought all this out with much distinctness. "if we could just draw the land near enough with that glass to jump ashore!" inza sighed. "i've a plan almost as good," said frank. this plan was to have the slocums set them ashore in the dory. by a little questioning in writing, they learned from the fishermen that the group of cottages was glen springs, and that there was a telegraph-office there and a daily visit by a small steamer from new york, but no railway. this increased their anxiety to be set ashore at glen springs, for by putting themselves in telegraphic communication with new york they could ascertain without delay of the fate of the _merry seas_ and of her passengers. for a small financial consideration the slocums were willing to put merriwell and his friends ashore in the dory; which was done by peleg, who pulled a good, strong stroke, and sent the clumsy boat through the water at a surprising rate of speed. "attack the telegraph-office first," inza suggested. a telegram to new york brought this answer: "_merry seas_ towed in considerably injured. missing are frank merriwell, bart hodge, inza burrage. other passengers landed safely. bernard burrage at hotel imperial." bart threw up his cap. merriwell was writing another message, directed to bernard burrage, assuring him of the safety of inza and asking that this fact and the fact that he and bart were also safe be communicated at once to their friends at the hotel and elsewhere. "that will fix things up all right," he remarked, as the operator began to click off the message. "of course, we can't know all the particulars until later; but it is enough to know that none of our friends are lost, and to be able to let them know that we are all right." "you bet!" bart cried. "this is great! i was mighty anxious, i tell you." "and i was simply crazy!" inza exclaimed. the relief to their feelings was so great that the hardships of their recent experience seemed to be at once forgotten, and they became almost happy. they could not be quite happy, for the news of the murder of barney mulloy still cast its shadow. "when does the next boat leave for new york?" frank asked of the operator. "to-morrow noon." "we can drive through to sea cove?" "yes." "and when does a train leave sea cove?" "to-morrow at six-forty-five and ten-thirty." as they were very tired, it was decided, therefore, that they would remain in glen springs until early the next morning, when they would drive to sea cove, make inquiries there about barney, and take the ten-thirty train. the hotel at glen springs was small, but it looked clean and inviting. "what do you know about the murder of a young irishman named barney mulloy, by tramps near sea cove, day before yesterday?" merry inquired. "only what the papers said," was the operator's answer. "and no one else in the village can tell us?" "i think not." the hotel was in the suburbs, having a view of the sea, and was really a summer hotel more than anything else. it had very few guests as yet. from it a number of messages were sent to new york and received from there by our friends that evening--messages from elsie and mr. burrage, and from other members of the party that had been on the _merry seas_. though fairly tired out by his exhausting experiences, from which the long hours on the fishing-sloop had not enabled him to recuperate, frank merriwell was not able to sleep until a late hour. his thoughts were of barney mulloy. in memory he traveled the round of the fardale days. the death of mulloy in that terrible manner had upset him more than he had realized. he had not felt it so much during his exciting experiences and while weighted down with anxiety concerning the fate of the _merry seas_. "i just can't sleep!" he muttered, seating himself at last by a window and looking out toward the sea, along a greensward on which the moonlight fell lovingly. "poor barney! perhaps i ought to have gone on to sea cove and begun my investigations at once. but inza was so tired. she has held up bravely, dear girl, through it all, but this evening she looked ready to drop. i felt that we ought not to go on until she was rested. she will sleep well now, since she knows that her father is safe." something dark moved among the shadows, and a familiar form approached. merriwell started up with a low cry: "barney mulloy!" he saw the young irishman as plainly as he had ever seen him. the face, though, was white and bloodless. the ghostly figure moved with a heavy step, coming straight up the walk toward the building. frank sat rooted to his chair. in the shadow of the piazza the figure seemed to turn, and was then lost to view. merriwell threw up the window. "barney!" he softly called. "barney--barney mulloy!" the only answer that came back was a slow and heavy tread, that seemed to come from a corridor opening out upon the walk along which barney had come. tramp, tramp, tramp! the footsteps sounded with great distinctness. merriwell threw open the door of his room leading out into this corridor. the light of the lamp flooded the corridor, and he was able to view it from end to end. he could have sworn that the footsteps were just beyond his door. but the corridor was absolutely empty. and the footsteps had ceased. frank whistled softly to himself. he was not superstitious, but this was rather shaking to the nerves. he hurried back to the window and looked out upon the walk and down the moon-lighted sward. no sound came, save the dashing of the surf. he leaped through the open window and proceeded to inspect the grounds in that vicinity. the ghostly form had vanished. "hodge!" he called. "hodge! come out here." hodge, who occupied an adjacent room, and who had been asleep, threw up a window and looked out. "yes," he said. "as soon as i can slip into my clothes. what is it, merry?" "i don't know," frank confessed. "i wish i did know." "of course, there are no such things as ghosts," he declared, when bart joined him. "but if ever a man saw one, i did just now--the ghost of barney mulloy!" hodge stared at his friend as if wondering if frank's mind was not affected. "what do you mean?" "just what i have said to you. i saw an apparition that resembled barney mulloy. and i not only saw it, but i heard it. it came right along here, and turned in there, and then i heard it in the corridor. i threw open the corridor door before any one could have got out of there, and the corridor was empty!" "you must have been dreaming!" "not a bit of it, bart. i hadn't gone to bed. i haven't been even a bit sleepy. i was sitting at my window, and i saw it as plainly as i see you." "you certainly must have been dreaming, merry!" bart insisted. "have you looked all about?" "everywhere." bart walked over to the door which opened from the corridor on the lawn. it was not locked. "it couldn't have been barney, of course; but whoever it was went through here into the corridor." "and how did he get out of the corridor?" "walked on through into the office." "the office is closed. the landlord and all the servants retired long ago." "well, it couldn't have been a ghost!" "i am wondering if it could have been barney himself?" "he was--attacked near sea cove, not here!" "i am going to rout out the landlord," merriwell declared. "perhaps he can throw some light on the subject." "he told you, when you inquired, that he had heard nothing except what was in the papers." "but he may be able to help us to clear away this mystery." when summoned, the landlord came down into the little office looking very sleepy, very stupid, and somewhat angry. merriwell told what he had seen and heard, and repeated the newspaper story about the murder of barney. "well, that was at sea cove," was the answer. "ghosts always come back to the place where the person was killed. why should it come here? i don't like this. if you tell it, it will give my house a bad name. no one wants to board in a haunted house, and it will ruin my summer's business." "but i thought you might help us to an explanation," frank insisted. the sleepy and stupid look had passed away. the landlord had once been a seafaring man, and he was a bit superstitious. still, he was not willing to acknowledge that frank had beheld something supernatural. he would not deny its possibility, but repeated over and over his belief that ghosts always return to the place of the murder and to no other place, and that the repetition of the story would drive away his summer boarders. "i tell him he was just dreaming," said bart. "sure!" with a look of relief. "of course, he was dreaming. there's been nobody in glen springs looking like the chap you describe, and i'm sure that nobody has been walking in that corridor, 'less it was burglars." so frank went back to his room, accompanied by bart. he knew that he had not been asleep, though, and he felt sure that he had really seen and heard something, and was not the victim of a hallucination. merriwell sat down again by the open window, and bart dropped into a chair by his side. "if the thing comes again, we'll capture it!" said hodge. "somebody may be playing ghost, just to scare us. i have heard----" he did not complete the sentence, for he really heard something at the moment that stilled the words on his lips and drove the blood out of his face. tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! the sounds came unmistakably from the corridor. "there it is again!" frank exclaimed. bart leaped toward the door and quickly threw it open. the lamplight again streamed out into the corridor. but the sounds had ceased, and the corridor was empty. hodge stared down the corridor in stupid bewilderment. "of all the strange things!" he gasped. "that is the strangest!" merriwell added. "you heard it for yourself then!" bart walked out into the corridor, peered out of doors through the glass set in the side door, and opened the door leading into the deserted office. there was nothing to be seen. when he came back, his face was beaded with moisture. "merry, i wish you'd tell me the meaning of that!" "i wish you would tell me, bart! you thought i was dreaming, or fancied that i saw and heard something. you see now that you were mistaken." "unless i am dreaming myself!" "you are perfectly wide-awake, hodge, and so am i! there is a mystery here." "never knew anything like it," mopping his face. "whew! it brings the cold sweat out on me!" he dropped down into the chair by the window, leaving the corridor door open. nothing further was heard. "ghosts don't like a bright light!" merry reminded, smiling grimly. bart got up, closed the door, and sat down again. then his hair seemed to stand upright on his head. out of the shadow of the building, near one of the angles, walked the ghostly form which merriwell had beheld. hodge was unable to speak at first. merry noticed his manner and the look in his staring eyes, and sprang to the window. as he did so, the ghostly form vanished into the shadow, and again those steps were heard in the corridor. "if barney is dead, that was his spirit, sure enough!" hodge whispered, in an awed way. tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! the steps echoed in the corridor. even merriwell's stout heart was assailed by a feeling that was like superstitious dread. "it looked just like him!" "the very picture of him, only white-faced, as if he had just come out of the grave!" tramp, tramp, tramp! sounded the steps in the corridor. "open the door, merry, for god's sake!" hodge gasped, as if the words choked him. "see if there isn't something in the corridor! there must be!" merriwell stepped to the door and flung it open. instantly the sounds ceased. "somebody is playing a joke on us, i believe!" bart declared, and anger came to drive out the superstitious feeling that had shaken him. "i'm going to take a look round the house myself, and if i find anybody----" "i'll go with you!" merry exclaimed, and both leaped through the open window. they circled round the house, looked down the paths and out over the sward on which the moonlight fell, but not a form could they see. "give it up!" hodge admitted. "i don't know what to think." they came back to the window, and again they heard the footsteps in the corridor. hodge went through the window at a flying leap and hurled open the corridor door, only to again find silence and blankness. "the place is haunted!" he exclaimed. "but there are no such things as ghosts!" "i know it. of course, there can't be--that's what i have always believed. i have always fancied that stories of ghosts were lies and foolishness, and i'm not ready to back water on that belief. but i can't understand this business." "nor i." "shall we call the landlord again?" "what good will it do?" "shall we wake inza?" "and rob her of her rest and fill her with anxiety? no, let her sleep. she needs it." "well, i shall not be able to sleep any more to-night." "and it looked just like barney!" frank declared. "his very image!" chapter xxvi. the phantom again. both merriwell and hodge were so sure they had seen something that they again let themselves out through the window and made a search of the grounds. the result was the same. not a moving form was to be seen. but as they returned toward the room, they once more heard those mysterious footsteps. "stop!" frank laid a hand on bart's arm, and both stood still and listened. "where does that seem to be?" "merry, that's coming from your room! the thing is in your room!" hodge's voice shook, in spite of himself. frank dashed toward the open window. but before he could reach it, the sounds ceased. when he looked in, the room was empty. the light was shining, and the door leading to the corridor was closed. "no one could have got out of that room without our knowing it!" merriwell whispered. hodge had reached his side, and both were staring into the room. "of course not. the thing is impossible." "and yet those footsteps sounded right here." "let's go in and take another look into the corridor." for answer merry drew bart back into the shadows by the window. "keep still right here a little while. perhaps the--the thing will return. if some one is playing us a trick, we may capture him." "i should like to lay my hands on the villain!" bart hissed. though they stood there in utter silence for five minutes, the sounds did not come again. "of course, there is some rational explanation of this," merriwell declared, as they again approached the window. "there must be! it is the wildest nonsense to think otherwise." "well, i wish that rational explanation would hurry this way. i'm ready for it, old man! this thing is shaking my nerves all to pieces." "i didn't know you were troubled with nerves! nerves are for hysterical girls and old women!" "well, i've got 'em now! as the drunken man said when he began to see snakes. i haven't any doubt about it." hodge so seldom indulged in a joke, that merry looked surprised. they had reentered the room, and he glanced at his friend in wonder. "likely that--thing will begin to walk again pretty soon," said frank, after they had remained another minute or so in a listening attitude. "you sit here and watch by this window, while i slip into the corridor." hodge obediently dropped into the chair, and merriwell let himself into the corridor. he closed the door after him, so that if any one approached or entered the corridor that person could not see him, and began his vigil. the silence was so great that he could hear his watch ticking away in his pocket. it seemed strange that it should run after its salt-water ducking, but he reasoned that probably the works were not touched by the salt water. his clothing had dried long ago, but he felt the need of a change. however, he had taken a bath since reaching the hotel, and so was in a measure comfortable. there was a great deal to think of as he stood there in the gloom, but the minutes dragged along like weeks. this sort of vigil was rather nerve-trying. he was sure, now that he had time to think about it, that some very little thing might account for the mystery. he began to think that the footsteps had probably been made by some servant or by a somnambulist. sounds are very deceptive as to direction, as he more than once had discovered. the footsteps might have been at some distance from the corridor. "but that doesn't explain what i saw and what bart saw!" he muttered. "i might have thought my eyes deceived me, but bart saw it, too. that was either barney mulloy, or some one who looks marvelously like him. if it was really barney, then the poor fellow is not dead! i sincerely hope we shall find out that he was not killed. perhaps the entire newspaper report was based on a mistake. the papers are full of errors." the sounds did not come again, and when it seemed almost useless to wait longer for them, he returned to the room, where he found bart watching silently by the window. "seen anything?" he asked. "no. heard anything?" "not a thing." "i didn't suppose you had, or i should have heard it, too." "it will probably not reappear to-night." "well, i'm not in love with ghosts, but i have been wild to have the thing pass along that walk again. it wouldn't get away from me this time! i've planned just what to do." "what?" "i can reach that walk in three jumps from this window, and it would take a lively ghost to get away from me. i was going right out there the first glimpse i got of it." "then you're not afraid of ghosts?" laughed frank, for there was something amusing in his companion's manner. "i might be, merry, if there were any. but i've been thinking as i sat here. i know i saw something, and that something was a man. he didn't look so strong but that i could tumble him over easy enough. that was my plan, and then we could see who it is. it couldn't have been barney, for all it looked so much like him." as he spoke, he saw the ghostly figure again, but much farther away. its face was turned toward the window, and the moonlight revealed it plainly. beyond all question, it was the face of barney mulloy! bart went through the open window at a bound. "barney!" he called. "barney mulloy!" the mysterious figure drew quickly back into the shrubbery and disappeared. merriwell sprang through the open window after hodge, and together they raced to the point where the figure had been seen. when they got there they could discover nothing. "that was barney mulloy!" merriwell asserted. "sure!" "and he isn't dead!" "barney or his spirit!" "it was barney." "why didn't he stop when i called to him?" "i don't know. there is a mystery here." "biggest one i ever struck, merry! it knocks me silly." chapter xxvii. merriwell's friends. the time was well on toward morning before merriwell and hodge turned in to try to get some sleep. no more mysterious sounds or ghostly appearances had been heard or seen. the sun was scarcely up when they were aroused by a trampling of feet and the sounds of well-known voices in the corridor. a rap fell on merry's door. "arise, ye sleepers, and wake--i mean, awake, ye sleepers, and rise!" shouted harry rattleton. "come out here and let me pull you out of bed!" grunted bruce browning. "he is sleeping like the sleeper in the sleeper which runs over the sleeper and does not awaken the sleeper in the sleeper which----" "you give us that sleepy feeling yourself, danny!" bink stubbs grumbled. merry tumbled out of bed, unlocked the door, and thrust his head into the corridor. before him were bruce and diamond, rattleton and dismal jones, bink and danny, and through the half-open door leading into the office he also caught a glimpse of elsie bellwood and bernard burrage. "glad to see you!" he cried. "where did you tumble from?" bart had his door open now, and began to ask questions. "i'll be out in a minute," frank promised, and began to dress with the speed of a lightning-change artist. a little later merriwell's entire party gathered in the hotel office, for inza had been awakened and joined them. mutual explanations flew thick and fast. merriwell's friends, after being taken to new york, had shortly fallen in with a party of yale students, mostly seniors, who had come down from new haven on the steamer _richard peck_, and were on their way to view the new government fortifications at sandy hook, by special permission of general merritt, commander of the department of the east. this permission had been obtained by lieutenant andrew bell, of the first united states artillery, who had recently been detailed by the secretary of war as professor of military science in yale college. merriwell's friends had been invited to join this company of students, that they might the more quickly reach their friends, and had been brought to sandy hook by the government steamer _general meigs_. from sandy hook the steamer's large steam-launch had hurried them on to glen springs. "and now you are going right back with us to sandy hook!" elsie enthusiastically exclaimed. suddenly a silence fell on the jolly party, occasioned by the shadow that came over the face of frank merriwell. "i can't go until we have settled the mystery of barney mulloy," he declared; and then gave a hurried account of what he and bart had seen and heard. "i hoped you wouldn't say nothin' about that!" grumbled the landlord, who had been until then an interested listener. up to that moment he had seemed pleased, though nervous, for it gratified him to have guests who were of sufficient importance to be brought to glen springs by the launch of a government steamer. "this must be all nonsense, you know!" he declared. "and i can't have any such reports go out about my house. if it gits the reputation of being ha'nted, then good-by business. i won't have a guest set foot in the doorway all summer. i know these people who claim not to be superstitious. they ain't superstitious so long as other people sees things, but they git confoundedly so soon's they begin to see things themselves." "you have seen things at sea that puzzled you?" merry asked, knowing that he was making a center shot. "who said that i'd ever been to sea? and s'pose i have? i ain't worried people to death about it and broke up another man's business. there ain't a thing in this. this ain't out at sea, ye know!" the landlord seemed to have the peculiar feeling that only ghosts that sailed or walked the briny deep were worthy of consideration. "explain it, then!" merriwell demanded. "you can make us feel that nothing strange happened last night if you will explain the thing." "you was just dopey!" the captain argued. "your nerves was shook up from bein' in the water so long, and the skeer of the collision." though there seemed no use to make an investigation, merriwell began one immediately. he felt sure that barney mulloy was somewhere in glen springs. "i know that i saw him!" was his persistent declaration. "and heard him walk!" added hodge. "i can swear to it." "yes. and though the thing is so strange, it makes me feel better, for i am sure now that barney is not dead." "but he looked like a ghost!" bart admitted. "i'm with you, though, to the end in this thing. we'll go to the bottom of it." questioning the people of the village yielded no better results. everybody agreed that no person answering to the description of barney mulloy had been in glen springs. some of them were even more nervous and indignant than the landlord, for almost the sole remunerative business of these people was the keeping of summer boarders, and they feared that gruesome reports about the place would drive guests away. "mr. hodge and i are coming back here to-night," merriwell said to the landlord. "perhaps we shall bring some of these friends with us. it seems useless to continue the investigation now, and i want, besides, to ask some questions at sea cove. the launch is all ready to return to sandy hook, and the officer in command says that his orders require him to return there without further delay. but we will come back to-night." the landlord's face did not give the proposition an eager welcome, though one of his business tenets was never to turn a guest away. so the launch steamed away to sandy hook, leaving glen springs and its strange and unsolved puzzle behind. frank only partly enjoyed the trip. but for that seemingly impenetrable mystery, the trip to sandy hook, with the visit of inspection which followed, would have been jolly. however, there was so much to be happy and thankful for, anyway, that the spirits of the party partook largely of the brightness of the day. the run of the speedy launch up the coast was pleasant, and at sandy hook they found their fellow students awaiting them, and were given a right royal welcome by captain isaac heath, the officer in charge of the proving-grounds. "say, fellows, this is great!" danny warbled, as captain heath escorted them to where the big guns were. "i always did like big guns!" "you're such a big gun yourself!" sneered bink, under his breath. "binky, if my brain caliber required no more than a number five hat, as yours does, i'd sing low about big guns!" "number five hat? why----" "this ten-inch breech-loading rifle takes a charge of one hundred and ten pounds of dupont smokeless powder and a projectile weighing five hundred and seventy-five pounds," captain heath was explaining, as they stopped in front of the big seacoast defender. "say, they're going to fire it!" bink gasped. "of course, you idiot! did you think it was going to fire them?" "better stand on your tiptoes and stick cotton into your ears," browning warned, as the big gun was quickly made ready for hurling its terrible projectile. "wh-what if the dinged old thing should bub-bub-burst?" gamp anxiously asked. "we should have to "'ask of the winds, that far around! with fragments strewed the sea!'" was danny's comforting answer. dismal and rattleton retreated a step or two, as did elsie bellwood. but inza stood her ground as bravely as merriwell himself. then, before more could be said, the big cannon boomed forth its volume of deafening sound, making the very walls shake. danny tumbled backward, then picked himself up and felt over his person very carefully. "am i all here?" he anxiously queried. all watched the direction in which the huge shot had been fired, but it fell miles away. merriwell and a few others, provided with strong glasses, saw it drop into the sea. the captain was talking again. "the instruments record an initial velocity of one thousand feet per second, with a pressure of twenty-four thousand pounds." "i've been under greater pressure than that," danny chirped. "when you were shot?" bink asked. "all guns, big and little, are under pressure when they are shot." "i'll put your throat under pressure when we get away from here!" bink threatened. "this is a twelve-inch rifle, loaded with one hundred and thirty pounds of powder and a projectile of the same weight as the first." the party had moved to a new point, and captain heath was again talking. other guns were fired, after the discharge of this one; the last shot being sent from a twelve-inch rifle with a charge of four hundred and seventy-five pounds of dupont brown prismatic powder and a projectile weighing one thousand pounds. the roar, the jar, and the vibration were like that of a miniature earthquake. captain heath's calm voice was heard again, after a short silence. "the velocity was two thousand and eighty-eight feet per second, and the pressure four thousand pounds. this pressure is ten thousand pounds too high. the powder is too quick, and will be condemned." after this there was an examination of the guns and carriages, with a lecture by lieutenant bell; an examination of the gun-lift battery and the hydraulic lifts, and the wonderful buffington-crozier disappearing-carriages, and a look over the site of the new artillery post to be known as fort hancock. then luncheon was served. in spite of the many interesting things which he had seen and to which he had listened, merriwell could not get his thoughts away from barney mulloy. he had already obtained consent for the party to be taken on the launch to sea cove and glen springs at once, after luncheon. thinking of these things and with his head full of the plans for discovering the secret of the happenings at glen springs, he walked round the works again, viewing the emplacements and the big guns, but with his thoughts far enough away from the things on which his eyes rested. suddenly he was attracted by a cry. it seemed to come from the air, and it made him think of the apparition and the ghostly footsteps. but when he glanced up he saw danny griswold's head protruding from the muzzle of a large coast-defense cannon. merriwell was astonished, though such a piece of recklessness was just like danny. it was not that frank feared any peril to danny from the gun, but the officers and gunners would be indignant, no doubt, if they caught the little joker playing hide-and-seek in that way with one of their pets. "i'll give him a scare," he thought. "he is getting altogether too fresh." "danny griswold, that gun is loaded, and they are going to fire it!" merry cried, with well-simulated fear. danny's red head came farther out, like the head of a tortoise issuing from its shell. "then i suppose i shall be able to get out of here!" danny chirped. "i can't do it, unless i am shot out. i slipped in here easy enough, but i've grown, i guess, for i can't slip back." "how did you get in there, anyway?" "climbed in." "i'm afraid you will have to climb out." a gunner came hurrying upon the scene. "wh-what?" he sputtered. "our little friend is in need of assistance. if he gets out of there he will never play cannon-ball again." "if you will just fire me!" danny begged, not a bit abashed. the gunner was not at all willing that danny's plight should be discovered by an officer, so he quickly went to danny's assistance, and "fired" him by bodily pulling him out of the cannon. "thanks!" chirped the little joker, as he dropped to the ground. "bink says that i'm a small-caliber projectile, but i was quite big enough for that cannon. say, do you fire men every day?" the gunner could not suppress a grin. "men? well, you're likely to get fired, young feller, if you monkey round these guns!" he declared. chapter xxviii. the mystery cleared away. what news was obtainable at sea cove about barney mulloy was important, though somewhat unsatisfactory. barney had been attacked by tramps and badly hurt, but not killed, though at first the report of his death had gone out. one of the tramps had been nearly killed in the fight, and mulloy had disappeared. "what became of him? where did he go?" were merriwell's questions. "we didn't pay much attention to it," was the answer given by merriwell's sea cove informant. "likely he walked off, or went away on the boat or train. easy enough to get out of this place." with this meager information, frank and his friends hurried back on the launch to glen springs. "he isn't dead!" was merry's cheerful declaration. "that must have been barney that bart and i saw." "but the walking?" hodge dubiously questioned. "and why should he be in hiding?" diamond demanded. "some men love darkness, because their deeds are evil," dismal droned. "well, you may be sure that barney's deeds were not evil," said frank, "barney is straight, and true blue." night was at hand when the launch cast anchor in the shallow harbor in front of glen springs and sent a boat ashore with merry and the friends he had chosen for the vigil of the coming hours of darkness. the landlord of the little hotel was not pleased that they had returned for the purpose of capturing the "ghost," though he was beginning, as he confessed, to feel "creepy" about it himself. "i was intendin' to set up and watch for it, if you hadn't come," he finally admitted. no one answering to barney's description had been seen in glen springs through the day. in fact, no stranger whatever had been seen in the place from the time the launch went away until it returned. "it's mighty curious," bart grimly observed. "i have a feeling that we will learn to-night just what it is," said merriwell. frank occupied his old room, and sat at the window with hodge, while diamond, rattleton, and bruce remained in the office. the doors leading to the corridor were at first closed. merry looked at his watch after the lights were put out in the part of the building occupied by the landlord and his family. "it ought to be coming around again pretty soon," bart remarked, finding it impossible to escape a queer, uneasy feeling, anxious as he was to see the specter, and determined as he was to effect its capture if it again appeared. as he said it, the sounds of those mysterious steps were again heard in the corridor, and they heard the occupants of the office fling open the door. "you weren't walking in here?" diamond demanded. "not on your life!" bart answered. "but we heard some one!" "of course you did, and so did we. and we heard it last night!" rattleton and bruce came on through into merriwell's room. "scrate gott, this is enough to turn a man's hair white!" rattleton sputtered. "did you think we were just jollying you about this?" bart sharply asked. "no, but----" "you're likely to see the thing, as well as hear it," hodge asserted. the landlord, who had not retired, though making a pretense of so doing, tumbled down in much excitement, in response to rattleton's summons. "did you see it, boys?" he gasped. his face was white, and he was trembling. all the assumed bravery had gone out of him. "only heard it walking there in the hall," frank answered. the landlord gave a jump. he had forgotten that he was standing by the corridor door. "oh, you can't see anything!" frank reminded. "that's the trouble. we can hear the thing walking, but we can't see anything. close the door, and we may be able to hear it again." "don't! don't!" the landlord pleaded. "but i want you to hear it. perhaps you can tell us what it is." "there is never anything in the corridor," the landlord declared. "i can't set here if you shut that door." "there he is again!" said hodge, in the voice of one who expects to behold the supernatural and inexplicable and has steeled himself against unpleasant sensations. "there he comes! barney, as sure as guns!" the landlord dropped limply into a chair, and stared out through the open window in the direction indicated by hodge's pointing finger. the others grouped round merriwell and bart. "you see it?" frank whispered. "let me out of this!" the landlord gurgled, though no hand was restraining him. "booh-h-h! let me out of this. ah-h-h-h-h! it's a ghost, sure enough! don't you see that white cloth on its head--a bloody white cloth?" he seemed about to tumble over in a fit. "he's coming this way!" merry whispered. "just keep still now, all of you!" rattleton seemed about to bolt from the place, though the others were bravely standing their ground. "no ghost there!" said browning. "that's a live man." "it's barney," merry declared. "he is not dead. his head is tied up." "but what makes the--him sneak along in that way?" rattleton gasped. "whee-giz, it makes my blood run cold! ugh!" "just keep still, and we shall soon find out!" frank sharply commanded, in a whisper. the ghostly figure came slowly up the walk. nearer and nearer it drew, walking as if it did not fear discovery at that late hour. "there is another!" rattleton whispered. the figure of a woman came into view, hurrying rapidly along the path after mulloy, and seeming to be in pursuit of him, though he appeared not to know it. "now!" merry whispered. "ready, hodge--now!" he leaped through the window, with bart at his side. the ghostly figure was but a few yards away. before it could turn in the direction of the sound they were half-way across the intervening space. "barney! mulloy!" frank called. the figure uttered a cry, and started to run. but frank's pace was too swift. almost in the next instant his hand fell on the shoulder of the specter. "don't you know me, barney? i'm merriwell!" the figure ceased its struggles. "hurroo! is it yez for thrue, merriwell? i t'ought it wor an officer thryin' to arrist me." "break loose and run, ye fool!" was squealed in a high, feminine voice. "run, barney, dear--run!" "niver!" barney declared. "niver will i run from a fri'nd loike merriwell!" "but you'll be put in jail! you'll be hung!" the woman shrieked, in a vain effort to stampede the irish lad. "them fellers is officers." bart had pushed up, so that mulloy could recognize him. "save me frum her, frankie!" barney pleaded. "woo-oo! begorra! she's crazier than wildcats!" then he whispered: "the ould sinner wants to marry me. think av thot! she's been hoidin' me frum the officers fer matrimoonial poorpuses. take me away from her, frankie, darlint! oi've kilt a thramp, and i'm in peril av bein' hoong for it; but i'd rather be hoong than to marry such a cat as thot! bad cess to her!" "gentlemen, the poor fellow is out of his head!" the woman purred, modulating that shrieking voice. "his head has been hurt, and he don't know nothin' that he's talkin' 'bout." barney clung to merriwell and hodge as if he feared the woman would drag him bodily away from these friends. "oi suppose thot she may be able to foorce me into marryin' her," he moaned. "oi kilt a thramp, and oi wor hidin' frum the officers--may the divil floy away wid thim--and oi sneaked intil her house, d'ye moind, and hid me loike a fool under her bed. the crayther had been lookin' under thot bed for forty years to foind a man! and whin she let her ould oyes loight on me, she pulled me out av there; an' she's been kapin' me and scarin' me intil fits and hoidin' me from the officers iver since--and, bad cess to her, nixt wake she wor goin' to marry me." "why did you sneak round the hotel and along the paths in that queer way?" frank asked, after the vinegary-visaged and matrimonially inclined female had departed in despair and disgust, and he had barney alone. "that still puzzles me. we heard that you had been killed by those tramps, and you looked and acted enough like a ghost to be one!" "a ghost, is it?" said barney, glancing about as if he did not like even the thought. "thot ould witch wor kapin' me hid away from the officers in thot wee bit av a house roight behind the three over there, and all the ixercoise oi could git wor whin oi could shlip out av noights and walk round and swally a brith av fresh air. oi t'ought oi had kilt the thramp and thot the officers wor watchin' for me! thot ould divil hilped me to believe thot hersilf! so whin oi heard yez call, av coorse oi worn't goin' to sthop and be arristed. a ghost, is it? oi'm thinkin' thot yez'd be crapin' round, too, if yez t'ought thot a rope wor riddy to toighten about the neck av yez!" * * * * * "haw! haw! haw!" the roars did not proceed from joe gamp, but from the landlord of the hotel. now that barney was found to be real flesh and blood, and not a spirit, the landlord had entered more heartily into the search for the mysterious source of the strange footsteps. he had been willing that the doors opening into the corridors should be closed--for only when the corridor was darkened could the ghostly sounds be heard. as soon as the "footsteps" came again he threw open the door and chucklingly led the way out through a side room into a shedlike structure that came up against the corridor wall. "there is your ha'nt!" he roared, pointing down into a pen in the shed. "there is your ha'nt! a gol-derned old sea-turtle! haw! haw! haw! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he!" the turtle was a monster in size. "but--i don't see!" said merriwell. "this doesn't explain." the landlord hopped into the pen and flipped the huge turtle over on its back against the wall. thereupon it began to kick out with its great flippers, striking them against the corridor wall and making the sounds which had seemed to be footsteps. merriwell looked round. "i see!" he admitted. "the light from the lighted corridor came through that transom." "jest so!" said the landlord. "whenever your light shined in here it scart the turtle, and it quit kickin'. it's always trying to climb out of the pen and falling over on its back; and when it tips over near the wall and strikes with them flippers, it makes that sound. if it ain't near the wall, of course it don't strike nothin' to make the sound. and, of course, soon's it can turn itself back--which it can't sometimes for hours--it quits kickin' out." "and yez tuk me for thot thing and thot thing for me, and aitch av us knew nothing about it, and it wasn't ayther av us!" chuckled barney. "just so!" said merriwell. "and right glad i am to understand it, and to know that you are living!" "and oi niver wor gladder to see anybody in my loife! the soight av yez makes me well. and bart, me jewel! yez are as foine a laddie as iver lived! give me the touch av yer hand ag'in!" and so the mystery was solved, and barney escaped, be it said, heartwhole and body free--while frank and his friends returned to the city. the end. "best of all boys' books" the famous frank merriwell stories by burt l. standish no modern series of tales for boys and youths has met with anything like the cordial reception and popularity accorded to the frank merriwell stories. there must be a reason for this and there is. frank merriwell, as portrayed by the author, is a jolly, whole-souled, honest, courageous american lad, who appeals to the hearts of the boys. he has no bad habits, and his manliness inculcates the idea that it is not necessary for a boy to indulge in petty vices to be a hero. frank merriwell's example is a shining light for every ambitious lad to follow. _twenty-four volumes ready_ frank merriwell's school days frank merriwell's skill frank merriwell's chums frank merriwell's champions frank merriwell's foes frank merriwell's return to yale frank merriwell's trip west frank merriwell's secret frank merriwell down south frank merriwell's loyalty frank merriwell's bravery frank merriwell's reward frank merriwell's races frank merriwell's faith frank merriwell's hunting tour frank merriwell's victories frank merriwell's sports afield frank merriwell's power frank merriwell at yale frank merriwell's set-back frank merriwell's courage frank merriwell's false friend frank merriwell's daring frank merriwell's brother for sale by all booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the publisher david mckay, philadelphia [illustration: "he finally found himself slugged under the ear and sent flying over a chair."] frank merriwell at yale by burt l standish contents chapter i--trouble brewing ii--challenged and hazed iii--the blow iv--the fight v--the finish vi--a fresh council vii--a surprise viii--the "roast" at east rock ix--the duel x--at morey's xi--"lambda chi!" xii--freshman against sophomore xiii--jubilant freshmen xiv--the rush xv--on the ball field xvi--to break an enemy's wrist xvii--talking it over xviii--merriwell and rattleton xix--who is the traitor? xx--a hot chase xxi--roast turkey xxii--a surprise for frank xxiii--the yale spirit xxiv--gordon expresses himself xxv--the traitor discovered xxvi--the race xxvii--a change of pitchers xxviii--the game grows hotter xxix--the end of the game xxx--rattleton is excited xxxi--what ditson wanted xxxii--ditson is trapped xxxiii--"play ball" xxxiv--a hot finish frank merriwell at yale, chapter i. trouble brewing. "here's to good old yale--drink it down! here's to good old yale--drink it down! here's to good old yale, she's so hearty and so hale-- drink it down! drink it down! down! down!" from the open window of his rooms on york street frank merriwell heard the distant chorus of a rollicking band of students who had been having a merry evening in town. frank had passed his examinations successfully and had been admitted as a student at yale. in order to accomplish this without taking a preparatory course at phillips academy, he had found it necessary to vigorously "brush up" the knowledge he had acquired at the fardale military academy which was a college preparatory school. professor scotch, frank's guardian, had been of great assistance to him, for the professor knew just about what would be required at the entrance examination, and he had kept the boy digging away away at the propositions in the first book of euclid, had drilled him in caesar, caused him to spend weary hours over virgil and the iliad, and made him not a little weary of his xenophon. as he passed without a condition, although he had been told again and again that a course at phillips academy was almost an absolute necessity, frank was decidedly grateful to the professor. professor scotch's anxiety had brought him to new haven, where he remained "till the agony was over," as frank expressed it. the little man bubbled over with delight when he found his _protégé_ had gone through without a struggle. having secured the rooms on york street, the professor saw frank comfortably settled, and then, before taking his departure, he attempted to give the boy some wholesome advice. "don't try to put on many frills here the first year," he said. "you will find that freshmen do not cut much of a figure here. it doesn't make any difference what you have done or what you have been elsewhere, you will have to establish a record by what you do and what you become here. you'll find these fellows here won't care a rap if you have discovered the north pole or circumnavigated the globe in--er--ah--ten days. it will be all the better for you if you do not let them know you are rich in your own name and have traveled in south america, africa, europe, and other countries. they'd think you were bragging or lying if you mentioned it, and--" "you know well enough that i am not given to boasting about myself, professor, and so you are wasting your breath," said frank, rather resentfully. "hum! ha! don't fly off the handle--keep cool. i know you have sand, and you're made of the right kind of stuff; but you are the greatest hand to get into scrapes i ever saw, and a little advice won't do you any harm. you will find that in many things you cannot do just as you would like, so you must--" "i'll get into the game all right, so don't worry. you will remember that i did fairly well at fardale, and you should not worry about me while i am here." "i will not. you did well at fardale--that's right. you were the most popular boy in the academy; but you will find yale is far different from fardale." so the professor took his departure, and frank was left to begin life at college. his roommate was a rollicking, headstrong, thoughtless young fellow from ohio. harry rattleton was his name, and it seemed to fit him perfectly. he had a way of speaking rapidly and heedlessly and turning his expressions end for end. frank had been able to assist harry at examination. harry and frank were seated close to each other, and when it was all over and the two boys knew they had passed all right, harry came to frank, held out his hand, and said: "i believe your name is merriwell. mine is rattleton and i am from ohio. merriwell, you are a brick, and i am much obliged to you. let's room together. what do you say?" "i am agreeable," smiled frank. that was the way frank found his roommate. harry was interested in sports and athletics, and he confided to frank that he was bound to make a try for both the baseball and football teams. he had brought a set of boxing gloves, foils, and a number of sporting pictures. the foils were crossed above the mantel and the pictures were hung about the walls, but he insisted on putting on the gloves with frank before hanging them up where they would be ornamental. "i've taken twenty lessons, old man," he said, "and i want to point you a few shows--i mean show you a few points. we'll practice every day, and i'll bet in less than ten weeks i'll have you so you'll be able to hold your own with any fellow of your age and weight. ever had the gloves on?" "a few times," answered frank, with a quiet smile. "that's all the better. i won't have to show you how to start in. here, here--that hand goes on the other glove--i mean that glove goes on the other hand. that's the way. now we're off. left forward foot--er, left foot forward. hold your guard this way. now hit me if you can." almost like a flash of lightning frank's glove shot out, and he caused the glove to snap on harry's nose. "whee jiz--i mean jee whiz!" gasped the astonished boy from ohio. "you're quick! but it was an accident; you can't do it again." he had scarcely uttered the words before frank feinted and then shot in a sharp one under harry's uplifted guard. "great scott! you do know some tricks! i'll bet you think you can box! well, i'll have to drive that head out of your notion--i mean that notion out of your head. look out for me now! i'm coming!" then harry rattleton sailed into frank and met with the greatest surprise of his life, for he found he could not touch merriwell, and he was beaten and hammered and battered about the room till he finally felt himself slugged under the ear and sent flying over a chair, to land in a heap in one corner of the room. he sat up and held his gloved hand to his ear, which was ringing with a hundred clanging bells, while he stared astounded at his roommate. "wow!" he gurgled. "what have i been up against? are you a prize fighter in disguise?" that experience was enough to satisfy him that frank merriwell knew a great deal more than he did about boxing. as frank sat by his window listening to the singing, on the evening that this story opens, he was wondering where harry could be, for his roommate had been away since shortly after supper. frank knew the merry singers were sophomores, the malicious and unrelenting foes of all freshmen. he would have given not a little had he been able to join them in their songs, but he knew that was not to be thought of for a moment. as he continued to listen, a clear tenor voice struck into that most beautiful of college songs when heard from a distance: "when the matin bell is ringing, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o, from my rushy pallet springing, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o, fresh as the morning light forth i sally, with my sickle bright thro' the valley, to my dear one gayly singing, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o." then seven or eight strong musical young voices came in on the warbling chorus, and the boy at the window listened enchanted and enraptured, feeling the subtle charm of it all and blessing fortune that he was a youth and a student at yale. the charm of the new life he had entered upon was strong, and it was weaving its spell about him--the spell which makes old yale so dear to all who are fortunate enough to claim her as their _alma mater_. he continued to listen, eagerly drinking in the rest of the song as it came through the clear evening air: "when the day is closing o'er us, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o, and the landscape fades before us, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o, when our merry men quit their mowing, and along the glen horns are blowing, sweetly then we'll raise the chorus, u-ra-li-o, u-ra-li-o." the warbling song died out in the distance, there was a rush of feet outside the door, and harry, breathless and excited, came bursting into the room. "i say, old man," he cried, "what do i think?" "really, i don't know," laughed frank. "what do you think?" "i--i mean wh-what do you think?" spluttered harry. "why, i think a great many things. what's up, anyway?" "you know diamond?" "the fellow they call jack?" "yes." "i should say so! it was his bull pup that chewed a piece out of the leg of my trousers. i kicked the dog downstairs, and diamond came near having a fit over it. he's got a peppery temper, and he was ready to murder me. i reckon he thought i should have taken off my trousers and given them to the dog to chew." "he's a southerner--from virginia. he's a dangerous chap, frank--just as lief eat as fight--i mean fight as eat. he's been in town to-night, drinking beer with the boys, and he's in a mighty ugly mood. he says you insulted him." "is that so?" "it's just so, and he's going to dallenge you to a chewel--i mean challenge you to a duel." frank whistled softly, elevating his brows a bit. "what sort of a duel?" he asked. "why, a regular duel with deadly weapons. he's awfully in earnest, frank, and he means to kill you if you don't apologize. all the fellows are backing him; they think you will not fight." "is that so? looking for me to show the white feather, are they? well, i like that!" "but you can't fight him! i tell you he's a fire eater! i've heard that his father killed a man in a duel." "and that makes the son dangerous! no, harry, i can't afford to--what's all that racket?" the sound of voices and of many feet ascending the stairs could be heard. harry turned pale. "they're coming, frank!" he exclaimed. "it's the whole gang, and diamond is with them. he means to force you to fight or squeal!" chapter ii. challenged and hazed. the voices were hushed, the feet halted in the hall, and then there was a sharp knock on the door. before harry could reach the door frank called out: "come in." open flew the door, and there stood the tall, straight, dark-eyed southerner, with half a dozen other fellows behind him. "mr. merriwell," said diamond, stiffly, "i have called to see you on a very important matter, sir." "walk right in," invited frank, rising to receive them. "bring your friends in. state your business, mr. diamond." the party came trooping in, and frank was not a little astonished to observe among them bruce browning, a big, strong, lazy sophomore, a fellow who was known to be a great hand to plan deviltry which was usually carried into execution by his friends. as for browning, he was not given to exerting himself when he could avoid it. that a soph should associate with a party of freshmen seemed but a little short of marvelous, and frank instantly scented "a job." believing he had been singled out for the party to "jolly," his blood was up in a moment, and he resolved to show them that he was not "easy." jack diamond drew himself up, his eyes fastened threateningly on frank, and said: "sir, you had the impudence to kick my dog, and when i remonstrated with you, you insulted me. i demand an apology before these gentlemen." frank held himself in check; he appeared as cool as an iceberg. "sir," he said, "your confounded dog spoiled a pair of ten-dollar trousers for me, and i demand another pair--or satisfaction." harry rattleton caught his breath. was merriwell crazy? he started forward, as if to intervene, but diamond, his eyes blazing, motioned him back. "very well, sir," said the southerner, addressing frank, "you shall have all the satisfaction you desire. mr. ditson will represent me." roland ditson pressed forward. he was a loud-voiced youth who wore loud clothes and sported a large amount of jewelry. "name your second, merriwell," he said in an authoritative way. "we want to settle this matter as soon as possible." frank named harry, and the seconds conferred together. merriwell sat down and coolly awaited the result, with his hands in his pockets. diamond drew aside, his friends gathering about him. bruce browning interested himself in what was passing between rattleton and ditson, and it was plain that he was urging them to do something. after a few minutes harry approached frank, a troubled look on his face. "it's an outrage!" he indignantly exclaimed. "ditson insists that it be a degular ruel--i mean a regular duel with rapiers. he says you gave the challenge, and so diamond has the right to name the weapons. such a thing can't take place!" "oh, yes, it can," said frank, coolly. "accept the proposition and have the affair come off as soon as possible." "but, frank, think of it! i'll bet diamond is an expert swordsman, and he's just the kind of a chap to lose his head and run you through the body! why, it would be dimply serrible--i mean simply terrible!" "i'll have to fight him or take water. now, harry, old man, you don't want me to show the white feather, so go back and complete the arrangements." "but there ought to be some other way of settling it. if you could fight him with your fists i know you'd beat him, but you don't stand a show this way." frank looked his roommate squarely in the eye. "go back and accept every proposition ditson makes," he commanded, and rattleton felt the influence of merriwell's superior will. back he went, and it did not take the seconds long, with bruce browning's aid, to settle matters. browning said he knew a nice quiet place where the duel could take place without danger of interruption, and in a short time the entire party was on the street, following the lead of the big sophomore. harry was at frank's side and he was greatly agitated. "if you are counting on diamond backing down you'll be dadly--i mean sadly disappointed," he whispered. "that fellow doesn't know what it is to be afraid, and he'll stand up to the end." "keep cool," directed frank. "he'll find there are others." harry gave up in despair. "this is a terrible affair!" he muttered to himself. "it's likely to mean arrest, disgrace, imprisonment for the whole of us, if those blamed hot-headed fools don't kill each other!" but he decided to stand by his roommate, no matter what came. browning led them away from the vicinity of the college buildings and down a dark street. at length they came to an old brick structure, in which not a light was to be seen. down some slippery stone steps they went, and the big soph let them in by unlocking a door. it was dark inside. browning closed and locked the door, after which he conducted them along a narrow passage, opened another door, and ushered them into a room. the smell of cigarette smoke was strong there, and frank knew the place had been lately occupied by smokers. a match spluttered, and then a lamp was lighted. "get ready for business," directed browning. "i will bring the rapiers and another light." then he vanished beyond a door that opened into another dark room. frank looked around and saw a table, upon which were cards and empty beer bottles. there were chairs and some copies of illustrated sporting papers. the walls were bare. it was warm down there, and frank immediately discarded his coat. diamond was about to follow merriwell's example, when there was a sudden rush of feet and the room filled in a twinkling with masked youths, who flung themselves on the astonished freshmen and made all but frank a prisoner in a moment. frank instantly understood that they had been trapped and he knocked down four of his assailants before they could bear him to the floor and overpower him. his hands were securely bound, and then he was lifted to his feet. "well, fellows, that was a pretty slick trick," he half laughed, as he coolly looked around. "you sophs have been trying to corral a gang of us for a week, and with the aid of the smooth mr. browning you succeeded very finely this time." "silence!" roared a deep voice, and a tall fellow in a scarlet mephisto rig confronted frank. "you have intruded upon forbidden ground. none but the chosen may enter here and escape with life." "not one!" chorused all the masks in deep and dismal unison. mephisto made a signal. once more the freshmen were seized. "away with them!" shouted the fellow in red. in another moment all but frank had been hustled out of the room. then frank was suddenly held fast and blindfolded. he was dragged along to some place where the opening of another door brought to his ears the sound of horns and shouts of fiendish glee. he was made to mount some stairs and then his feet were kicked from beneath him, and he shot down a steep and slippery incline into the very midst of the shouting demons. he dropped through space and landed--in a vat of ice-cold water. then he was dragged out, thumped on the head with stuffed clubs, deafened by the horns that bellowed in his ears, and tossed in a blanket till his head bumped against the ceiling. then he was forced to crawl through a piano box that was filled with sawdust. he was pushed and pulled and hammered and thumped till he was sore in every part of his body. all through this ordeal not a word or murmur escaped his lips. his teeth were set, and he felt that he had rather die than utter a sound that betrayed pain or agitation. this seemed to infuriate his assailants. they banged him about till he could scarcely stand, and then, of a sudden, there was a great hush, while a terrible voice croaked: "bring forth the guillotine!" there was a bustle, and then the bandage was stripped from frank's eyes, he was tripped up, and a second later found himself lying helpless with his neck in the socket of a mock guillotine. above him was suspended a huge gleaming knife that seemed to tremble, as if about to fall. at his side was a fellow dressed in the somber garments of an executioner. it was really a severe strain upon his nerves, but still his teeth were clinched, and not a sound came from his lips. "the knife is broken," whispered the mock executioner in frank's ear, "so it may accidentally fall and cut you." "have you any last message, fresh?" hoarsely whispered the mock executioner. "there might be a fatal accident." frank made no reply save to wink tauntingly at the fellow. the next instant, with a nerve-breaking swish, the shining blade fell! a piece of ice was drawn across frank's throat and a stream of warm water squirted down his back. it was most horribly real and awful, and for a moment it seemed that the knife had actually done the frightful deed. despite his wonderful nerve, frank gasped; but he quickly saw that the knife had swung aside and his head was still attached to his body. then he forced a derisive laugh from his lips, and seemed not the least disturbed, much to the disgust of the assembly. "confound him!" growled a voice, which frank fancied he recognized as belonging to browning. "there's no fun in him. let's try another." then frank was lifted to his feet and assisted to don his coat. "if you want to stay and see the fun, put on a mask," directed mephisto. "you must not be recognized by the other freshies." he was given a mask and he put it on as directed. a moment later the masked youths began to howl and blow horns. a door opened, and diamond, blindfolded and bound, was led into the room. the young virginian stood up haughtily, and he was seen to strain and struggle in an effort to free his hands. "i protest against this outrage!" he cried, angrily. "i want you to know that my father--" the horns and the shouts drowned his words. he was forced to mount the steps to a high platform, and an instant later he found himself shooting down a slippery incline of planed and greased boards. the racket stopped as diamond scooted down the slippery surface. he dropped sprawling into the vat of icy water. several hands caught hold of him, yanked him up, and thrust him down again. "oh, somebody shall suffer for this!" gurgled the helpless freshman, spluttering water from his mouth. he was dragged out of the vat, and then he was forced to endure all the hustling, and thumping, and banging which frank merriwell had passed through. his protests seemed to fall on deaf ears. it had been reported that diamond had declared that the sophomores would not dare to haze him, as his father would make it hot for them if they did. the report was remembered, and he was used more severely than frank had been. hazing at yale was said to be a thing of the past, but frank saw it was still carried on secretly. "make a speech, fresh!" shouted a voice. "speech! speech!" yelled the masked lads. diamond was placed on a low table. for a moment he hesitated, and then he fancied he saw his opportunity to make a protest that would be heard. "i will make a speech," he declared. "i'll tell you young ruffians what i think of you and what--" swish! a sponge that was dripping with dirty water struck him square in the mouth. some of the water went down his throat, and he choked and strangled. the table was jerked from beneath his feet, and he fell into the waiting arms of the masked sophomores. "he called us ruffians! give it to him!" then the unfortunate freshman was used worse than ever. he was tossed in a blanket, given a powerful shock of electricity, deafened by the horns, pounded with the stuffed clubs, and hustled till there was scarcely any breath left in his body. then the bandage was torn from diamond's eyes and he was confronted by the guillotine, over which fresh red ink had been liberally spattered. the blade of the huge knife was dripping in a gory manner, and it really looked as if it had just completed a deadly piece of work. despite himself, the young virginian shivered when his eyes rested on the apparently blood-stained blade. "be careful!" some one distinctly whispered. "we do not want to kill more than one freshman in a night." some one else spoke of the frightful manner in which the knife had cut merriwell, and then, despite his feeble struggles, diamond was placed upon the instrument of torture. "the other fresh died game," muttered the executioner. "of course we didn't mean to kill him, but the knife is out of order and it slipped by accident. we haven't time to fix it properly, but there are only about nine chances out of ten that it will fall again." "oh, you fellows shall pay for this!" feebly gasped diamond. despite himself, although he knew how unlikely such a thing was, he could not help wondering if a terrible accident had really happened. if not, where was merriwell. he looked around, but saw nothing of frank, who was keeping in the background. and then, when his nerves had been quite unstrung, the knife fell, the ice and warm water were applied, and diamond could not choke back the cry of horror that forced itself from his lips. a roar of laughter broke from the masked students. when diamond was lifted to his feet he was almost too weak to stand. he clinched his teeth, vowing over and over to himself that he would find a way to square accounts. "if it takes me a year, i'll find out who the leaders in this affair are, and they shall suffer for it!" he thought. "give him a chance to see the others put through the mill," said mephisto, and diamond's hands were released. the virginian looked around, seeming irresolute for a moment. not far away he saw a masked lad whose clothes were wet and bedaubed with dirt and sawdust. in an instant diamond sprang toward this person and snatched the mask from his face. "it's merriwell!" he triumphantly shouted, "and he has helped to haze me! his career at yale will be suddenly cut short!" chapter iii. the blow. there was a sudden hush. the students saw that diamond was really revengeful, and his words seemed to indicate that he intended to report any one whose identity he discovered. the virginian was pale and he trembled with anger. "you don't mean to say that you will blow, do you?" asked one. "that's exactly what i do mean, sir!" came resolutely from the lips of the infuriated freshman. "i am a gentleman and the son of a gentleman, and i'll never stand it to be treated like a cur. hazing is said to be no longer tolerated here, and an investigation is certain to follow my report of this affair." a little fellow stepped out. "you claim to be a gentleman," he said, distinctly, "but you will prove yourself a cad if you peach." "i had rather be a cad than a ruffian, sir!" "if you were a gentleman you would take your medicine like a gentleman. you'd never squeal." "you fellows are the ones who are squealing now, for you see you have been imposing on the wrong man." "man!" shot back the little fellow, contemptuously. "there's not much man about a chap that blows when he is hazed a little." "a little! a little! is this what you call a little?" "oh, this is nothing. think of what the poor freshies used to go through in the old days of delta kappa and signa epsilon. why, sometimes a fellow would be roasted so his skin would smell like burned steak for a week." "that was when he was burned at the stake," said a chap in the background, and there was a universal dismal groan. "this is some of the delta kappa machinery here," the little fellow explained. "sometimes some of the fellows come here to have a cold bot and hot lob. you freshies walked right in on us to-night, and we gave you a pleasant reception. now, if you blow i'll guarantee you'll never become a soph. the fellows will do you, and do you dirty, before your first year is up." "such threats do not frighten me," haughtily flung back the lad from virginia. "i know this was a put-up job, and bruce browning was in it. he got us to come here. frank merriwell knew something about it, or he'd never been so ready to come. and i know you, too, tad horner." the little fellow fell back a step, and then, with a sudden angry impulse, he tore off his mask, showing a flushed, chubby, boyish face, from which a pair of great blue eyes flashed at diamond. "well, i am tad horner!" he cried, "and i'm not ashamed of it! if you want to throw me down, go ahead. it will be a low, dirty trick, and will show the kind of big stuff you are!" the masked lads were surprised, for tad had never exhibited such spirit before. he had always seemed like a mild, shy, mother-boy sort of chap. he had been hazed and had cried; but he wouldn't beg and he never squealed. after that browning had taken him under his wing, had fought his battles, and had stood by him through the freshman year. anybody who was looking for trouble could find it by imposing on horner; and browning, for all of his laziness, could fight like a tiger when he was aroused. some of the students clapped their hands in approbation of tad's plain words, and there was a general stir. one fellow proposed that everybody unmask, so that all would be on a level with horner, but the little fellow quickly cried: "don't do it! you'd all be spotted, and the faculty would know who to investigate if anything should happen to diamond. if i'm fired, i want you fellows to settle with him for me." "we'll do it--we'll do it, tad!" cried more than twenty voices. diamond showed his white, even teeth and laughed shortly. "perhaps you think that will scare me," he sneered. "if so, you will find i am not bluffed so easily." "we are not trying to scare you," declared another of the masked students, "but you'll find we are in earnest if you blow." "well, you will find i am in earnest, and i do not care for you all." the boys began to despair, for they saw that diamond was determined and obstinate, and it would be no easy thing to induce him to abandon his intention of reporting the hazing. if he did so, browning and horner would find themselves in deep trouble, and others might become involved during the investigation. it was not probable that the consequences would be serious for merriwell, who would be able to prove his innocence in the matter. what could be done? the boys fell to discussing the matter in little groups, and not a few expressed regret that tad horner had unmasked, as an alibi could have been arranged for him if he had not done so. now he would be too proud to permit them to try anything of the sort, and he would tell the truth about his connection with the affair if the truth were demanded of him. "we're in a bad box," said one fellow in one of the little groups. "diamond is mad enough to do as he threatens." "sure," nodded another. "and that breaks up this joint. no more little lunches here--no more games of penny ante." "it's a howling shame!" exploded a third. "it makes me feel grouchy." "i move we strangle diamond," suggested the first speaker. "it seems that that is the only way to keep his tongue still," dolefully groaned a tall chap. "this is a big horse on us." "that's what," sighed a boy with a face like a girl's. "the whole business puts me in a blue funk." then they stood and stared silently at each other through the eyeholes in their masks, and not one of them was able to propose anything practicable. the rest of the assembled sophomores seemed in quite as bad a plight, and some of them were inclined to indulge in profanity, which, although it relieved their feelings for the moment, did not suggest any way out of the scrape. at this point merriwell spoke up, addressing diamond. "look here, old man," he said in a friendly way, "you've only taken the same dose they gave me. it's nothing when you get used to it." diamond gave him a contemptuous look, but did not speak. "now, i don't propose to make a fuss about this little joke," frank went on. "what's the use? i'm not half killed." "perhaps you think you can hoodwink me!" cried diamond. "well, you cannot! you were in the game all the time. that's why you were so ready to meet me in a duel--that's why you came here." "i assure you on my word of honor that you are wrong." "your word of honor!" "yes, my word of honor," he calmly returned. "see--look at my clothes. you can tell that i have been through the mill." "you may have had them fixed that way on purpose to fool me." "oh, you must know better than that! be reasonable, diamond." the virginian made a savage gesture. "if you are so pleased to be made a laughingstock of it's nothing to me," he flashed. "keep still if you want to. i'm going to tell all i know." "that would make a very large book--full of nice clean, blank pages," said some one in the background. frank's manner suddenly changed. "look here, diamond," he said, "you won't tell a thing." the southerner caught his breath and his eyes stared. "eh?" he muttered, surprised at the other's manner. "i won't?" "not on your life." "why not?" "because it will mean expulsion for you as well as myself if you do." every one was listening. they gathered about the two freshmen, wondering not a little at merriwell's words and manner. "expulsion for me?" slowly repeated diamond. "how is that?" "it's straight goods." "explain it." "well, i will. we came here to fight a duel, didn't we?" "yes, sir." "you admit that?" "i do, sir." "that is all that's needed." "how? why? i don't understand." "duels are not countenanced in the north, and nothing would cause a fellow to be fired from yale quicker than the knowledge that he had had anything to do with one while here. do you twig?" there was a moment of silence and then a stir. a deep sigh of relief came from the masked lads, and some of them showed an inclination to cheer merriwell. diamond seemed nonplused for the moment. he glared at frank, his hands clinched and his face pale. at last he slowly said: "a duel is something no gentleman can blow about, so if you are a gentleman you will have to remain silent, sir." "that's the way you southerners look at it, but yon will excuse us northerners if we do not see it in the same light. a hazing is something we do not blow about, but you seem determined to let out everything, for all that it would be a dirty thing to do. in order to even the matter, these fellows are sure to tell that you came here to fight a duel with deadly weapons, and you'll find yourself rusticating in virginia directly." "'way down in ole virginny," softly warbled one of the delighted sophomores. "that's the stuff, merry, old boy!" diamond trembled with intense anger. he tried to speak, but his voice was so hoarse that his words were unintelligible. a blue line seemed to form around his mouth. "merriwell's got him!" bruce brown lazily whispered in tad horner's ear. "see him squirm!" tad was relieved, although he endeavored not to show it; but a satisfied smile crept over his rosy face, and he felt like giving frank merriwell the "glad hand." diamond's anger got the best of him. he strode forward, looked straight into frank's eyes, and panted: "i hate you, sir! i could kill you!" and then, before he realized what he was doing, he struck merriwell a sharp blow on the cheek with his open hand. chapter iv. the fight. the blow staggered frank. it had come so suddenly that he was quite unprepared for it. his face became suddenly pale, save where diamond's hand had struck, and there the crimson prints of four fingers came out quickly, like a danger signal. with the utmost deliberation merriwell removed his coat. "come, sir!" he said to diamond as he passed coat and hat to a ready sophomore. "i--i can't fight you that way!" protested the virginian. "bring the rapiers." "this time i claim the right to name the weapons, and they will be bare fists." "right! right!" cried several voices. "you'll have to fight him that way, diamond." "i will fight him!" grated jack, furiously. "it is the prize fighter's way, but i'll fight him, and i will lick him!" he tore off his coat and flung it down. the boys quickly formed a ring, and the freshmen foes faced each other. then the door of the room where the other freshmen were confined was thrust open, and harry rattleton excitedly cried: "whee jiz--i mean jee whiz! what do you fellows think? do you imagine we are going to stay penned in here while there is a scrap going on? well, i guess not! we're coming out!" harry came with a rush, and the other freshmen followed at his heels, the party having been abandoned by the sophs who had been placed on guard over them. "hold on! hold on!" commanded harry, forcing his way toward the fighters. "i am merriwell's second, and i'm going to see fair play, you bet!" "and i am diamond's second," said roland ditson. "just give me a chance in the ring there." the appearance of the freshmen caused a brief delay. there was some talk about rules and rounds, and diamond said: "if i must fight with my fists, i'll fight as i please. i don't know about your rules, and there will be but one round--that will finish it." "how does that suit you, merriwell?" asked tad horner, who seemed to have assumed the position of referee. "i am willing that mr. diamond should arrange that matter to suit himself." "but there is to be no kicking," tad horner hastily put in. "certainly not," stiffly agreed the southerner. "all right. shake hands." diamond placed both hands behind his back, and merriwell laughed. "ready!" called horner. "on guard! now you're off!" barely had the words left the little referee's lips when--top, tap, slap!--merriwell had struck diamond three light blows with his open hand. a gasp of astonishment came from the watching sophomores. never had they seen three blows delivered in such lightning-like rapidity, but their ears had not fooled them, and they heard each blow distinctly. merriwell's guard was perfect, his pose was light and professional, and he suddenly seemed catlike on his feet. diamond was astonished, but only for an instant. the tapping blows started his blood, and he sprang toward his foe, striking out with his left and then with his right. merriwell did not attempt to guard, but he dodged both blows with ease, and then smiled sweetly into the face of the baffled virginian. "oh, say!" chuckled harry rattleton, hugging himself in delighted anticipation, "just you fellows wait a minute! diamond will think he has been struck by an earthquake!" bruce browning, himself a scientific boxer, was watching every movement of the two freshmen. he turned to puss parker at his side and said: "merriwell handles himself like an old professional. by jove! i believe there's good stuff in that fellow!" "diamond would like to kill merriwell," said parker. "you can see it in his face and eyes." in truth there was a deadly look in the eyes of the pale-faced young virginian. his lips were pressed together, and a hardening of the jaws told that his teeth were set. he was following merriwell up, and the latter was avoiding him with ease. plainly diamond meant to corner the lad he hated and then force the fighting to a finish. the rivals were nearly of a height and they wore built much alike, although frank had slightly the better chest development. merriwell seemed to toy with diamond, giving him several little pat-like blows on the breast and in the ribs. when the virginian felt that he had frank cornered he was astonished to see merriwell slip under his arm and come up laughing behind him. merriwell's laughter filled diamond's very soul with gall and wormwood. "wait!" he thought. "he laughs best who laughs last." "give it to him, frank!" urged rattleton. "you'll get out of wind dodging about, and then it will not be so easy to finish him off." but frank saw that in a scientific way diamond was no match for him, and he disliked to strike the fellow. he regretted very much that the unfortunate affair had come about, and he felt that there could be no satisfaction in whipping the southerner. merriwell hoped to toy with diamond till the latter should see that his efforts were fruitless and give up in disgust. but he did not yet recognize the kind of stuff of which john diamond was built. "come! come!" impatiently called one of the spectators. "quit ducking and dodging and get into the game." "that's right! that's right!" chorused several. "this is no sport." "and it's no six-day walking match," sneered roland ditson. "merriwell seems afraid to stand up and face diamond." "is that what you think?" frank mentally exclaimed. "well, i suppose i will have to hit him a few times, although it goes against my grain." a moment later he dropped his hands by his side and took a step to meet the virginian. it seemed like a great opportunity for diamond, and he led off straight for frank's face, striking with his left. with a slight side movement of his head frank avoided the blow, allowing his enemy's fist to pass over his shoulder. at the same time he cross countered with his right hand, cracking jack a heavy one under the ear. "hooray!" cried harry rattleton in delight. "that was a corker! bet sparkler saw more stars than there are in the wilky may--i mean milky way." for a few minutes the fight was hot. again and again frank struck his enemy, but without putting his full strength into any of the blows, but it did not seem to have any effect on diamond save to make him more fierce and determined. "the southerner's got some sand," commented bruce browning. "that's right," nodded puss parker. "he takes punishment well for a while, at least; but i don't believe he will hold out much longer. i think he is the kind of a fellow to go to pieces in an instant." "you can't tell about that. i have a fancy that he's deceptive." none of them, save rattleton, possibly, knew that merriwell was reserving any of his strength when he struck his foe. the fellows who a short time before were the most indignant against the southerner because he seemed determined to "blow" were now forced to admire his bulldog tenacity and sand. merriwell had no desire to severely injure diamond, although he had felt some resentment toward the fellow for forcing him into a duel with rapiers. to frank it had seemed that the virginian had no hesitation in taking advantage of an enemy, for diamond must have presumed that merriwell knew nothing of the art of fencing and swordplay. but for this belief, merriwell would have been inclined to keep on and tire his enemy out, without striking a single blow that could leave a mark. but when frank came to consider everything, he decided that it was no more than fair that he should give his persistent foe a certain amount of punishment. again and again frank cross countered and upper-cut diamond, and gradually he came to strike harder as the virginian forced the fighting, without showing signs of letting up. bruises and swellings began to appear on diamond's face. on one cheek merriwell's knuckles cut through the skin, and the blood began to run, creeping down to his chin and dropping on the bosom of his white shirt. still, from the determination and fury with which he fought, it seemed that diamond was utterly unconscious that he had been struck at all. jack did not consider how he had led frank into a duel with rapiers without knowing whether the fellow he hated had ever taken a fencing lesson in all his life. his one thought was that, being an expert boxer himself, merriwell had forced him to a fist fight, believing it would be easy to dispose of him that way. diamond's hatred of frank made him blind to the fact that he was in the least to blame, and filled him with a passionate belief that he could kill the smiling northerner without a qualm of conscience--without a pang of remorse. at last, disgusted with his non-success in striking frank at all, he sprang forward suddenly and grappled with him. frank had been on the watch for that move. then the boys saw a pretty struggle for a moment, ending with diamond being lifted and dropped heavily, squarely on his back. merriwell came down heavily on his persistent enemy. frank fell on jack with the hope of knocking the wind out of the fellow and thus bringing the fight to a close. for a few moments it seemed that he had succeeded. frank sprang up lightly, just as tad horner grappled him by the hair with both hands and yelled: "break away!" roland ditson was at diamond's side in a twinkling. "come, come, old man!" he whispered; "get up and get into the game again! don't let them count you out!" but the virginian was gasping for breath, and he did not seem to hear the words of his second. "that settles it," said puss parker, promptly. "better wait and see," advised bruce browning. "diamond may not give up when he gets his breath." "it doesn't look as if he'd ever get his breath again." harry rattleton was at frank's side, swiftly saying: "why didn't you knock him out and show the fellows what you can do? you monkeyed with the goat too long. he's stuffy, and you had to settle him sometime. it didn't make a dit of bifference whether it was first or last." "that's all right," smiled frank. "he's got sand, and i hated to nail him hard. it seemed a shame to thump such a fellow and cover his face with decorations." "shame? shame?" spluttered harry. "why, didn't he force you into a duel with rapiers, or try to? and he is an expert! say, what's the matter with you? if i'd been in your place i'd gone into him tooth and nail, and i wouldn't have left him in the shape of anything. have you got a soft spot around you somewhere, merriwell?" "i admire sand, even if it is in an enemy." "you take the cherry pie--yes, you take the whole bakery!" harry gazed at his roommate in wonder that was not entirely unmingled with pity and disgust. he could not understand merriwell, and such generosity toward a persistent foe on the part of frank seemed like weakness. in the meantime ditson had been urging diamond to get up. "they'll call the scrap finished if you don't get onto your pins in a jiffy," he warned. "horner's got his watch in his hand." still the virginian gasped for breath and seemed unable to lift a hand. if ever a fellow seemed done up, it was diamond just then. roll ditson ground his teeth in despair. "oh, merriwell will think he is cock of the walk now!" he muttered. "he'll crow and strut! he's laughing over it now!" "wh-what's that?" gasped diamond, trying to sit up. "he is laughing at you," hurriedly whispered ditson, lying glibly. "i just heard him tell rattleton that he could have knocked the stuffing out of you in less than a quarter of a minute. he says you'll never dare face him again." "oh, he does! oh, he does!" came huskily from diamond's lips. "well, we'll see about that--we'll see!" with ditson's aid he got upon his feet. then his breath and his strength seemed to come to him in a twinkling. with a backward snap of his arm he flung his second away. then uttering a hoarse cry, he rushed like a mad bull at the lad he hated. chapter v. the finish. diamond's recovery and the manner in which he resumed the fight caused general astonishment. even bruce browning had come to think that the virginian was "out." frank was taken by surprise. before he could square away to meet his foe, diamond struck him a terrific blow near the temple, knocking him into rattleton's arms. "foul!" cried harry, excitedly. "horner hadn't given the word." "foul! foul!" came from all sides. "there is no foul in this fight save when something is used besides fists," declared merriwell as he staggered from his roommate's arms. "it's all right and it goes." but he found that everything seemed swimming around him, and dark spots were pursuing each other before his eyes. the floor seemed to heave like the deck of a ship at sea. he put out his hand to grasp something, and then he was struck again. once more rattleton's arms kept frank from going down. "this is no square deal!" harry shouted. "by the poly hoker--i mean the holy poker! i'll take a hand in this myself!" he would have released merriwell and jumped into the ring, but frank's strong fingers closed on his arm. "steady, old man!" came sharply from merriwell's lips. "i am in this yet awhile. if diamond finishes me he is to be let alone. the fellow that lays a hand on him is no friend of mine!" "you give me cramps!" groaned harry. instead of aiding in finishing frank, diamond's second blow seemed to straighten him up, as if it had cleared a fog from his brain. the spots disappeared before his eyes and things ceased to swim around him. into the ring to meet his foe sprang frank, and, to the astonishment of everybody he still smiled. at the same time, merriwell knew he had toyed with diamond too long. he realized that the virginian's first blow had come within a hair of knocking him out, and he could still hear a faint, ringing and roaring in his head. frank saw that the only way he could end the fight was to finish his unrelenting and persistent foe. diamond fought like an infuriated tiger. again and again frank's fist cracked on his face, and still he did not falter, but continued to stand up and "take his medicine." in less than a minute the virginian was bleeding at the nose, and had received a blow in one of his eyes that was causing it to swell in a way that threatened to close it entirely. the spectators were greatly excited, and not a few of them declared it was the most gamey fight they had ever witnessed. the front of diamond's shirt was stained with blood, and he presented a sorry aspect. his chest was heaving, but his uninjured eye glared with unabated fury and determination. "will he never give up?" muttered harry rattleton. "he's a regular hog! the fellow doesn't know when he has enough." it was true southern grit. it was the unyielding southern spirit--the spirit that led the soldiers of the south to make one of the pluckiest struggles known in history. while the fellow's grit had won frank's admiration, still merriwell had learned that it would not do to let up. the only way out of the fight was to end it, and he set about trying to accomplish that with as little delay as possible. once diamond succeeded in getting in another blow, and it left a slight swelling over one of the other lad's eyes. but merriwell did not seem to know that he had been hit. he soon cracked the virginian upon the uninjured eye, and that began to swell. in a few seconds it seemed that diamond must soon go blind. "finish him, old man--finish him!" urged harry. frank was looking for the chance, but it was some time before he found it. it came at last, and his left landed on the jaw beneath diamond's ear. over went the southerner, and he lay like a log where he fell. at a glance, it was evident to all that he was knocked out. the boys crowded around merriwell, eager to congratulate him, but he thrust them back, saying: "it's the first time in my life i ever did a thing of which i was ashamed! look after him. i'm all right." "say!" exploded harry rattleton, "you make me sick! didn't you have to do it?" "i suppose so." "didn't he strike you foul twice?" "he knows nothing of rules, and we were fighting by no rules, so there could be no foul." "oh, no! if he'd soaked you with a brick you'd said it was all right! i say, you make me sick! wait till he gets a good chance to do you, and see how quick he will take it." "he'll not be to blame if he tries to get square." "oh, go hoke your sed--i mean soak your head! i'll catch you some time when you are asleep and try to pound a little sense into you." "well, take care of diamond," ordered merriwell. "that last one i gave him was a beastly thump." "let the other fellows take care of him," said harry. "we'll rub you down. you need it. got any towels, mr. horner?" "guess we can find one or two," cheerfully answered tad. "come on, merriwell. we'll fix you up." frank followed them into the room where the captured freshmen had been confined, and there they found running water, an old iron sink, a tin wash basin, and some towels. the visitor was stripped and given a brisk and thorough rubbing and sponging by harry and tad. bruce browning, with his mask still over his face, came loafing in and looked the stripped freshman over with a critical eye. he inspected frank from all sides, poked him with his fingers, felt of his arms and legs, surveyed the muscles of his back and chest, and then stood off and took him all in at a glance. "humph!" he grunted. frank's delicate pink skin glowed, and he looked a perfect apollo, with a splendid head poised upon a white, shapely neck. never had he looked handsomer in all his life than he did at that moment, stripped to the buff, his brown hair frowsled, his body glowing from the rubbing. "by jove!" cried tad horner, who was sometimes called baby, "he's a jim hickey--eh, old man?" the interrogation was directed at browning. "humph!" grunted bruce, and then with his hands in his pockets he loafed out of the room. afterward it was reported that browning said the freshman was the finest-put-up chap he had ever seen, but he didn't want to give him the swelled head by telling him so. by the time merriwell was well rubbed down one of the freshmen came in and reported that diamond had come around all right. "they're going to bring him in here and give him a rubbing," said the freshman. frank hastened to get into his clothes, in order that diamond might have a chance. rattleton had brushed the dirt and sawdust off those clothes, so they looked pretty well, and merriwell showed no traces of what he had passed through when he stepped out of the little room. some of the boys were trying to induce diamond to be rubbed down, but he objected, declaring he was going directly to his room. the blood had been washed from his face, and one or two cuts had been patched up with court-plaster, but his eyes were nearly closed, and he presented a pitiful appearance. frank hesitated a moment, and then he stepped up to his foe, saying in a manner most sincere: "old man, i am sorry this affair took place. i had the advantage, because i have taken boxing lessons, but you made a beautiful fight. i hold no hard feelings. let's call it quits and shake." he held out his hand. diamond's reply was to turn his back squarely on the proffered hand. an additional flush arose to merriwell's cheeks, and he dropped his hand by his side, turning away without another word. a few moments later diamond left the building, accompanied by a single companion, and that companion was not roland ditson. ditson remained behind, and he was among those who crowded about frank merriwell and offered congratulations. "i was diamond's second," said roll, "but i am satisfied that the best man won. he is no match for you, merriwell. i shouldn't have been his second, only he urged me to. i was glad to see you do him up." he got hold of frank's hand and held on, but received no friendly pressure in return. when he said he was glad that merriwell did diamond up frank looked incredulous. "as for me," said the victor, "i was sorry to have to do him up." somewhere about the place rattleton had found an old floral decoration representing a harp. he brought it forward and presented it to frank. "take it," he said. "you'll need it pretty soon. your wings must be sprouting already!" "what is it?" asked frank. "why, can't you see? it's a harp." "it looks to me like a blasted lyre," said merriwell. "you'd better give it to ditson." then everybody but ditson laughed. chapter vi. a fresh council. diamond was in a wretched condition. hunk collins, his roommate, procured two slices of fresh beefsteak, and the virginian had them bound over his eyes, while his face was bathed with soothing and healing lotions; but nothing could soothe his bruised and battered spirit, and collins said he was kept awake all night by hearing diamond grind his teeth at irregular intervals. even when he slept near morning the southerner continued to grind his strong white teeth. collins was dropping off to sleep from sheer weariness when he awoke to find his roommate astride him and clutching him by the throat. "this time i'll fix you!" mumbled diamond, thickly. "i'll kill you, merriwell--i'll kill you!" then he struck feeby at collins, who rolled over and flung him off. they grappled, and it was a severe struggle before diamond was flung down on the bed and held. "what in thunder is the matter with you?" gasped collins, whose hair was standing. "i'm not merriwell! have you gone daft?" "where are we?" "why, in our room, of course. where did you think we were?" "i didn't know. i was dreaming." "well, if you are going to be this way often, i'll have to take out a life insurance policy or quit you." "don't mind. i'll be all right in the morning. oh, hang the luck!" then the passionate southerner turned over with his face toward the wall. collins smoked a cigarette to quiet his nerves, after which he got into bed once more. at intervals he could feel the bed shake, and he knew diamond was shivering as if he had a chill. in the morning diamond was not all right. he was ill in bed, and it was necessary to call a physician, although he protested against it. his eyes were in wretched shape, but when the doctor questioned him, he persisted in saying he had injured them by falling downstairs. of course he could not appear at chapel or recitations, and he sent in an excuse. then mr. lovejoy came around to investigate. now, mr. lovejoy was most mild and lamblike in appearance, and one would have thought never in all his life had he indulged in anything that was not perfectly proper. but appearances were deceptive in the case of mr. lovejoy. when a student at yale he had made a record, but he had been fortunate, and he was never detected in anything the faculty could not approve. by those who knew him he was regarded as a terror, and by the faculty he was looked on as one of the most quiet and docile students in college. when cyrus lovejoy became an instructor he did not forget the days when he had been a leader in scrapes of all sorts, and he was not inclined to be prying into the affairs of students under him. not only that, but he could be blind to some things he accidentally discovered. so when mr. lovejoy reported that john diamond's eyes, being naturally weak, were inflamed by too close application to his studies, especially in the evening, no one thought of investigating further. the doctor, it was said, had forbidden diamond to attempt to study for several days, and had ordered him to wear a bandage over his eyes. two or three evenings after the fight a party of freshmen gathered in merriwell's room, for they were beginning to realize that frank was likely to be a leader among them. "i say, fellows," cried dan dorman, who was sitting on the sill of the open window, with a cigarette clinging to his lips, "do you know what diamond is doing?" "he's doing his best to cure those beautiful eyes of his," said bandy robinson. "i'm giving it to you straight that he was out to-day and went down to the nearest gun store," declared dorman. "collins says he bought a winchester rifle, a shotgun, two revolvers, a bowie knife, a slungshot, and a set of brass knuckles." "wo-o-oh!" groaned dismal jones. "why didn't he purchase a cannon and start for some battlefield?" "look out, merry," laughed ned stover. "he's after your scalp." "he'll have to get a bigger outfit than that before he takes it," declared harry rattleton. "how about it, merry?" asked bandy robinson. "i'll tell you, fellows," said frank, who was not smoking. "diamond is not the fellow to give up whipped very soon. i'm dead sure to hear from him again." "he's a cad," growled dismal jones. "i think you fellows judge him rather harshly," said frank. "he is a southerner, and he looks at many things differently than we do. from his standpoint he seems to be right." "well, he'll have to get those notions out of his head if he wants to stay in college," airily declared dan dorman. "now, i came here with the idea of falling into the ways in vogue. everything goes with me. that's the way to get along." "i am not so sure of that," merriwell returned. "a man must have some individuality. if you do everything everybody wants you to, it won't be long before they'll not want you to do anything." "oh, well, what's the use to be always hanging off and getting yourself disliked?" "one extreme is as bad as the other. now, i make allowances for diamond, and i am not inclined to believe him such a bad fellow." harry rattleton flung a book across the room. "oh, you give me the flubdubs!" he exploded. "why, that fellow hates you, and he means to do you some time. still you are soft enough to say he's not such a bad fellow! it's disgusting!" "time will tell," smiled frank. "all of you fellows must admit that he has sand." "oh, a kind of bulldog stick-to-it-iveness," murmured stover. "i'll tell you one thing," said bandy robinson; "now that diamond has not blowed, he's going to be backed by some of the leading sophs." "eh? what makes you think so?" "oh, i've got it straight. browning has been to see him." "no! why, browning is king of the sophs!" "and he is jealous of merriwell." "jealous?" "sure. he says merry is altogether too 'soon' for a fresh, and he must be taken down. i tell you i've got it straight. he'll put up some kind of a game to enable diamond to get square." "well, this is rather interesting," confessed frank, showing that he was aroused. "i'll have to look out for mr. browning." "he's a hard fellow to go against," solemnly said dismal jones. "he's a le boule man, and they say he may take his choice of the other big societies next year." "oh, what's that amount to?" "it amounts to something here; but then he's a fighter, and he is authority on fighters and fighting." "he is too fat to fight." "they say he can train down in a week. he was the greatest freshman half-back ever known at yale." "half-back--browning a half-back! oh, say, that fellow couldn't play football!" "not a great deal now, perhaps, but he could last year. he'd be on the regular team now, but his father swore to take him out of college if he didn't stop it. you see, browning is not entirely to blame for his laziness. he inherits it from his father, and the old man will not allow him to lead in athletics, so whatever he does must be done secretly." frank was interested. he wondered how a fellow like bruce browning could come to be know as "king of the sophomores," unless such a title was applied to him in derision. now he began to understand that browning was something more than the lazy mischief planner that he had seemed. frank's interest in browning grew. "and you say he is backing diamond?" "that's the way it looks from the road." "well, mr. bruce browning may need some attention. it is he who puts the sophs up to their jobs on us. we ought to put up a big one on him." "that's right! that's right!" "merry," said jones, "set the complicated machinery of your fertile brain to work and see what it will bring forth." "that's right! that's right!" "i'll have to take time to think it over." "we have a few soph scalps," grinned rattleton, pointing to a number of caps with which the walls were decorated, all of which had been snatched from the heads of sophomores. "have the rest of you fellows done as well?" "i have lost two," confessed dan dorman. "they seem to single me out as easy fruit." "and haven't you made an attempt to get one in return?" asked bandy robinson. "i haven't had a good chance." "if you wait for a good chance you'll never get a scalp. you must snatch 'em whenever you can." "by jove!" laughed frank, "this talk about scalps has given me an idea." "let's have it!" exclaimed several of the boys in unison. "not now," he said. "wait till i have perfected it." roll ditson strolled in, smoking a cigarette, and said: "hello, merry! hello, fellows! what's up? council of war?" "just that," said dan dorman. "merry is perfecting a scheme to put a horse on browning." "eh? browning? great scott! is that so? he's a bad man to monkey with. better let him alone, merry." ditson had a patronizing way that was offensive to frank, who had given him numberless digs; but he was too thick to tumble or he deliberately refused to take merriwell's words as they were intended. "you'll have to kick him before he knows he's not wanted," rattleton had said. "thank you for your advice," said frank, with mild sarcasm--"thank you exceedingly! perhaps you are right." "oh, i know i am. i don't want to get the king after me, and i don't believe you care to have him on your trail. he is the most influential soph in college. why, his name is on a table down at morey's." ditson looked around as if his last statement had settled the question of browning's vast superiority over all sophomores. morey's was the favorite resort of the students, and no freshman could enter there. it was an old frame house, with low-posted rooms, and there one could drink everything except beer. no beer could be had at morey's. morey's was headquarters for the society of the cup. this cup had six handles and was kept in a locked closet. on the cup was engraved in large letters the word "velvet," which is a well-known yale drink, composed of champagne and dublin stout, a drink that is mild and soft, but has a terrific "kick." besides the word "velvet," a number of students' names were engraved on the cup, and no one whose name was not there could ask the proprietor to show the cup. the marked tables were two round tables on which names of the frequenters of the place had been cut in the hard wood. one table had been filled with six hundred and seventy-five names and was suspended against the wall, where it would revolve, and the other tables were fast filling up. merriwell laughed at ditson's statement. "i don't see as it is such a wonderful thing for a soph to get his name on one of those tables," he said. "if you had said that browning's name was on the cup, it would have seemed a matter of some consequence." "it may be, for all i know. sophs are not in the habit of telling us everything. steer clear of browning, merry, old man." "thanks again! you have made me so nervous that i think i will take your advice." "that's right, my boy--that's right," nodded ditson, swelling with importance. "always listen to your uncle, my lad, and you will never go wrong." the other lads seemed rather disappointed, but merriwell said nothing more of his scheme to get a "horse" on browning--that is, he said nothing more that night. chapter vii. a surprise. it was singular how quickly browning learned that merriwell had contemplated working a job on him. it seemed an absolute certainty that some one of the party in merriwell's room had gone forth and "blowed." who had done so was a question. as was the most natural thing, considering his dislike for the fellow, frank felt that roll ditson was the telltale. of this he had no proof, however, and he was too just to openly condemn a man without proof. it was certain that browning had learned all about it, for he sent word to merriwell to go slow. at the same time, in all public places he avowed the utmost contempt and disregard for the freshman who had done up diamond. "the boy is altogether too new," browning sneered. "what he needs is polishing off, and he is bound to get it." now, frank had won admiration from the sophomores, and there were one or two who did not like browning and would have given not a little to have seen him beaten at anything. this being the case, it is not surprising that merriwell received an anonymous note warning him to keep in his room on a certain evening and look out for squalls. frank knew browning would not come alone, and he determined to be prepared. with this object in view, he gathered ten stout freshmen and had them come to his room early on the evening mentioned. the curtains were drawn closely, and the arrivals were astonished to see a lot of indian toggery piled up on tables and chairs, imitation buckskin suits, feathered headdresses, bows, arrows, tomahawks, and so forth. on merriwell's table was a full supply of indian red grease paint. "oh, say," gasped ned stover, his eyes bulging, "what's this--a powwow outfit?" "this is the result of the idea you fellows gave me when you spoke of capturing scalps the other evening," laughed frank. "select your suits, gentlemen, and proceed to make up." "make up? what for?" "just you make up, and i will tell you what for afterward." merriwell's influence was sufficient to induce them to obey, and he aided them in the work. "blate grazes--i mean great blazes!" chuckled rattleton, as he rubbed the war paint on his face. "won't we make a bloodthirsty gang of roble ned men--er, noble red men!" the boys aided each other, and frank assisted them all. "aren't you going to make up, merry?" asked bandy robinson. "not now. i am to be the decoy." "the decoy? what's in the wind, anyway?" "well, i have it pretty straight that some sophs, led by browning, are coming to take me out for an airing to-night." "eh? take you out?" "yes." "and he means to take them in," laughed rattleton, arranging a war bonnet on his head. "that's just it," nodded frank. "if they come here, we'll be ready for them. if they do not come, we'll call on mr. browning." "i'm afraid this is rather a serious matter," said dismal jones. "oh, don't begin to croak!" cried rattleton. "merriwell knows his business. hurry up with your makeup. can't tell how early the sophs will call." so the boys hastened to complete their disguise, and a decidedly savage-looking band they were when all was completed. frank surveyed them with satisfaction. "ah! my bold warriors!" he cried. "i am proud of you. to-night--to-night we deal the enemy a terrible and deadly blow." "we're ready to hear what the layout is," eagerly said ned stover. "well, you are to retire to robinson's room, which is exactly opposite this, and wait. i have two fellows outside to let me know when the enemy approaches and to take a hand in the game at the right time. when i whistle you are to make your way into this room if you have to break down the door. that's all." the boys retired to robinson's room, where they smoked and waited with great impatience. frank sat down and coolly went at his studies. nearly an hour passed, and then there was a sound of wheels outside. the sound stopped before the door. a few moments later some one ascended the stairs and there came a knock on the door. "come in," called frank. the door opened, and roll ditson sauntered in, smoking the inevitable cigarette. "hello, merry!" he cried, looking around. "all alone?" "all alone, ditson," yawned frank. "it's beastly stupid but i am having a hard pull at my studies." "better come out with me and get a little air. it's stuffy here." "oh, you'll have to excuse me to-night. i don't believe i'll go out." ditson urged, but frank persisted in refusing. roll stopped near a table and picked up a stick of grease paint. "hello! what's this?" he exclaimed. "aren't going into amateur theatricals, are you, merry?" "oh, i don't know," smiled frank. "i may do a turn." ditson looked at merriwell curiously, as if in doubt concerning his sincerity, but frank simply continued to smile. "indian red," said roll, reading the lettering on the stick. "you don't mean to become a big chief, do you?" "perhaps so." "well, you are pretty sure to become a big chief here at yale, old man," said ditson, with apparent earnestness. "you will be a leader here some day." "think so?" "oh, i am dead sure of it." "thank you." merriwell yawned again. "oh, come on!" ditson urged. "you're stupid from digging over those books. come out and have a walk." "no." "you won't?" "you'll have to excuse me to-night, ditson." "all right. but say, i came near forgetting something. as i came in, there was a fellow down to the door who said he wanted to see you." "a fellow? who was it?" "don't know. some of the students, i think." "oh, if that is the case, go down and bring him up, ditson. you can open the door and let him in without disturbing mrs. harrington." "all right," nodded roll. "sorry you won't come out, old fel. you'll get grouchy. good-night." "good-night." ditson went out, and frank heard him descending the stairs. "there'll be music in the air," muttered merriwell as he again lay back in his chair, elevating his feet to the top of the table. "but the surprisers are liable to be surprised." he heard the front door creak. often he wondered why mrs. harrington did not grease the hinges. frank had good ears, and it was not long before he was sure he could hear rustlings and whisperings in the hall. then one person seemed to ascend the stairs very slowly, but he made out that there were two or three others with that one, the others stepping as softly as possible. merriwell remained cool and apparently quite unaware that anything unusual was taking place. the footsteps reached the head of the stairs and advanced to the door, on which there was a distinct knock. "come in!" frank once more called. the door was promptly flung open, and into the room strode a person who was wrapped in a big overcoat and wore a wide-brimmed hat slouched over his eyes. his face nearly to his eyes was covered with bushy whiskers. "hello!" exclaimed frank, as if surprised. "who are you?" "'sh!" hissed the stranger, with a warning gesture. "are we alone?" "yes." "where is your roommate?" "out." the fellow whistled sharply, and the next minute four masked lads appeared at the door and leaped into the room. one of them slammed the door shut and the others sprang at frank. merriwell flung a book at the first one, and it struck the fellow's mask, tearing it from his face. the well-known countenance of bruce browning was exposed! "good-evening, browning!" cheerfully called the lively freshman as he darted behind the table. "i have been expecting a call from you." "grab him!" directed browning. "get hold of him!" frank was on the point of uttering a whistle, but it was not required, for the whistle that came from the lips of the disguised fellow had served as a signal to the painted braves. there was a bang at the door, which flew open as if assaulted by a catapault, and into the room poured the disguised freshmen. the indians leaped upon the masked sophomores, and for a short time a very sharp struggle took place. bruce browning did his best to escape from the room, but three of the savages laid hold of him, and he was finally subdued. "out of the house with them as soon as possible," ordered frank. "come on, two or three of you. we must nail the hack and the fellows outside." down to the door he led the way. mrs. harrington came out into the hall, caught a glimpse of the painted faces, uttered a wild shriek of terror, and dodged back, slamming the door. "all ready?" said frank as he prepared to fling open the front door. "all ready!" panted harry rattleton, close behind him. "don't let anybody get away," warned merriwell. "i will look after the driver." "go ahead." creak! open swung the door, and out into the night leaped a youth who seemed to be hotly pursued by four painted and bloodthirsty-appearing redskins. the hack was standing exactly as frank expected it would be, and he was on the box with the driver at two springs. "it's all right," he asserted. "we've got the fellow up there, though he did kick up some. a part of our gang was rigged up like indians, and they nipped him all right." "it's the divil's own set ye shtudints are!" muttered the driver. "av ye hurry, oi'll sthay to take him away; but oi'll not remain here long, fer it's th' cops will be down on us roight away." "we'll get away ahead of the cops, don't fear that," declared frank. "they're bringing him downstairs now. we had to take two or three others with him; but well not bother with them long." "arrah! th' poor freshman!" said the driver. "oi'd not loike to be in his place this noight!" he was completely fooled, thinking all the time that frank was one of the party he had brought there to capture the freshman. as they rushed out frank had seen a fellow standing near the open door of the hack, and that fellow had promptly taken to flight at sight of the indians, two of whom pursued him hotly. frank hoped they would be able to overtake the fugitive, for if one of the party escaped he would report to the sophs, who were bound to make a big hustle to rescue their captured comrades. the disguised freshmen came downstairs, bearing their captives, who were swiftly thrust into the hack, which was a big, roomy, old-fashioned affair. as many of the freshmen as could do so piled inside and upon the hack, and then frank gave the signal, the driver whipped up his horse and away they went. "east rock," said frank. "eh?" exclaimed the driver. "thot's not pwhere ye wur goin' in th' firrust place." "we have changed the programme. east rock is where we are bound for now." "all roight, me b'y." the triumphant freshmen felt like shouting and singing in jubilant mood. indeed, rattleton could not refrain from "letting off steam," as he called it, and he gave one wild howl of triumph that made the streets echo: "'umpty-eight! 'umpty-eight!" "break it off!" sharply commanded frank. "want to let the sophs know we're up to something?" "i don't care." "they might raise a rescue party and follow us." "but they wouldn't frop any chost--i mean chop any frost with us." "pwhat's thot?" came suspiciously from the driver. "an' is it not softmores ye are yersilves?" "of course we are," returned harry, instantly. "thin pwhat fer do ye yell fer 'umpty-eight?" "oh, it's a way we have. don't mind it, but keep on driving if you want to retain your scalp, paleface. we are mighty bad injuns!" the driver knew how to pick out the darkest and most deserted streets. by the time the outskirts of the city were reached the freshmen were bubbling over. frank merriwell improvised a stanza of a song, and in a few moments the entire band caught the words and the tune. as the hack rolled along toward east rock the freshmen sang: "we belong to good old 'umpty-eight, for she's a corker, sure as fate, sure as fate. we have met the sophomores, and they're feeling awful sore; so hurrah for good old 'umpty-eight! 'umpty-eight!" "begobs! ye're th' quarest gang av softmores oi iver saw!" cried the driver. "an' it's not wan av yez oi remimber takin' up to th' freshman's boording house." "we have changed," explained ned stover. "and it's the first change i have seen for a week," declared harry rattleton. "i'm waiting to hear from the governor." "howld on," said the driver. "oi want to see the mon thot hired me." he threatened to pull up, but frank caught the whip and cracked it over the horses. "what do you want?" asked merriwell. "oi want me pay." now, frank knew well enough that the driver had received his pay in advance, but he was beginning to suspect that the party that hired him had come to grief, and so he was for exacting an extra payment from the victors. "look here, driver," said frank, sternly, "i want your number." "pwhat fer?" "in case it may appear later on that you have received money at two separate and distinct times for doing the same piece of work." "get oop!" yelled the driver. "it's ownly foolin' oi wur." so the hack rolled on its way, with the happy freshmen smoking and singing, while the captive sophs ground their teeth and railed at the bitter luck. inside the hack dismal jones, most hideously bedaubed, was smoking a cigarette and brandishing a wooden tomahawk at the same time, while he sat astride of bruce browning, who was on the floor. "this is a sad and solemn occasion, paleface," croaked dismal. "you have driven the noble red man from his ancestral halls, which were the dim aisles of the mighty forests; you have pushed him across the plains, and you have tried to crowd him off the earth into the pacific ocean. ugh! you have pursued him with deadly firearms and still more deadly fire water. you have been relentless in your hatred and your greed. you have even been so unreasonable that whenever a poor red man has secured a few paleface scalps as trophies to hang in his wigwam you have taken your trusty rifles and gone forth with great fury and shot the poor indian full of hard bullets. you have done heap many things that you would not have done if you had not done so. but now, poor, shivering dog of a paleface, the injured red man has arisen at last in his might. if we are to perish, we are to perish; but before we perish, we will enjoy the gentle pleasure of roasting a few white men at the stake. ugh! we have held a council of war, we have excavated the hatchet, we have smashed the pipe of peace to flinders, or something of the sort, and have struck out upon the war trail." "you act as if you had struck out," growled one of the captives. "that's because he has had a few balls," gurgled browning. "talk about being burned at the stake! that's not torture after being obliged to inhale his breath. my kingdom for some chloroform! will somebody please hit me on the head with a trip hammer and put me out of my misery?" "whither art thou bearing us, great chief?" asked one of the captives. "we will bare you out yonder," answered dismal. "at the stake you shall stand arrayed in the garments nature provided for you." "i don't care for tea," murmured browning--"not even for repartee." "this is worse than being roasted at the stake!" muttered a soph in a corner. "it is severe punishment." "help!" cried dismal. "somebody take me out! i can't get ahead of these miserable palefaces." "you'll get a head if i ever find a good chance to give it to you," declared the voice of puss parker from the darkness. outside the painted savages were roaring: "farewell! farewell! farewell, my fairy fay! oh, i'm off to louisiana for to see my susy anna, singing 'polly-wolly-woodle' all the day." and thus the captured sophomores were borne in triumph out to east rock, and as they were the ones who engaged the hack, they paid for their own conveyance. never before had anything like it happened at yale. it was an event that was bound to go down in history as the most audacious and daring piece of work ever successfully carried through by freshmen in that college. and frank merriwell was to receive the credit of being the originator of the scheme and the general who carried it out successfully. chapter viii. the "roast" at east rock. a strange and remarkable scene was being enacted in the peaceable and civilized state of connecticut--a scene which must have startled an accidental observer and caused him to fancy for a moment the hand of time had turned back two centuries. near a bright fire that was burning on the ground squatted a band of hideously-painted fellows who seemed to be redskins, while close at hand, bound and helpless, were a number of palefaces, plainly the captives of the savages. that a council of war was taking place seemed apparent. and still the savages seemed waiting for something. at length, out of the darkness advanced a tall, well-built warrior, the trailing plumes of whose war bonnet reached quite to the ground. if anything, this fellow was more hideously painted than any of the others, and there was an air of distinction about him that proclaimed him a great chief. "ugh!" he grunted. "i am here." the savages arose, and one of them said: "fellow warriors, the mighty chief fale-in-his-hoce--i mean hole-in-his-face--has arrived." then a wild yell of greeting went up to the twinkling stars, and every savage brandished a tomahawk, scalping knife, or some other kind of weapon. "brothers," said hole-in-his-face, "i see that i am welcome in your midst, as any up-to-date country newspaper reporter would say. you have received me with great _éclat_--excuse my french; i was educated abroad--in new jersey." "go back to princeton!" cried one of the captives. "fellow warriors," continued hole-in-his-face, without noticing the interruption, "i am heap much proud to be with you on this momentous occasion." "yah! yah! yah!" yelled the savages. "and now," the chief went on, "if you will proceed to squat on your haunches i will orate a trifle." once more the redskins sat down on the ground, and then the late arrival struck an attitude and began his oration: "warriors of my people, why are we assembled together to-night?" "because we couldn't assemble apart," murmured a voice. "we are assembled to avenge our wrongs upon the hated paleface," the chief declared. "it was long ago that the proud and haughty paleface got the bulge on the red man, and we have not been in the game to any great extent since then. every time we have held two pairs he has come in with one pair of sixes or a winchester and raked the pot. he has not given us any kind of a show for our white alley. whenever we seemed to be getting along fairly well and doing a little something, he has wrung in a cold deck on us and then shot us full of air holes, purely for the purpose of ventilation in case we objected. warriors, we have grown tired of being soaked in the neck." "that's right," nodded a savage, "unless we are soaked in the neck with fire water." "at last," shouted the orator--"at last we have arisen in our wrath and our war paint and we are out for scalps. we have decided that the joy of the red man is fleeting. to-night a flush mantles your dark cheeks, but to-morrow it will be a bobtail flush. what have we to live for but vengeance on the white man and a little booze now and then? nothing! our squaws once were beautiful as the wild flowers of the prairie, but now the prize beauty of our tribe is malt extract maria, whose nose is out of joint, whose eyes are skewed, whose teeth are covered with fine-cut tobacco, and who lost one of her ears last week by accidentally getting it into the mouth of her husband. "my brothers, we are not built to weep. it is not the way of the noble red man. a few more summers and we will be no more. we will have kicked the stuffing out of the bucket and wended our way up the golden stair. but before we cough up the ghost it behooves us to strike one last blow at the hated paleface. when we get a chance at a paleface it is our duty to do him, and do him bad. are you on? "we have been successful in capturing a few of our hated foes, and they are bound and helpless near at hand. shall they be fricasseed, broiled, fried, or made into a potpie? that is the question before the meeting, and i am ready to listen to others. let us hear from squint-eyed sausageface." "it doesn't make a dit of bifference--i mean a bit of difference to me how i have my paleface cooked," said the one indicated as squint-eyed sausageface. "perhaps it would be well enough to cook them at the stake." "i think that would be the proper mode," gravely declared another warrior; "for i have heard that they boast they are hot stuff. they should not boast in vain." "warriors," said hole-in-his-face, "you have heard. what have you to say?" "so mote it be," came solemnly from one. "yah! yah! yah!" yelled the others. "that settles it, as the sugar remarked to the egg dropped into the coffee. prepare the torture stakes." there was a great bustle, and in a short time the stakes were prepared and driven into the ground, one of the savages hammering them down with a huge stick of wood. then the captives were bound to the stakes and a lot of brush was brought and piled about their feet. some of the sophs actually looked scared, but browning kept up a continual fire of sarcastic remarks. "ugh!" grunted hole-in-his-face. "this paleface talks heap much. remove his outer garments, so the fire may reach his flesh without delay." then browning was held and his clothes were stripped off till he stood in his under garments, barefooted, bareheaded, and still defiant. "oh, say!" he muttered, "won't there be an awful hour of reckoning! merriwell will regret the day he came to yale!" at this hole-in-his-face laughed heartily, and browning cried: "oh, i know you, merriwell! you can't fool me, though you have got the best makeup of them all." when everything was ready, one of the savages actually touched a match to the various piles of brush about the feet of the unfortunate sophomores. as the tiny flames leaped up the painted band joined in a wild war dance about the stakes, flourishing their weapons and whooping as if they were real indians. some of their postures and steps were exact imitations of the poses and steps taken by savages in a war dance. "say, confound you fool freshmen!" howled one of the captives. "this fire is getting hot! do you really mean to roast us?" "yah! yah! yah! hough! hough! hough!" round and round the stake circled the disguised freshmen, and the fire kept getting higher and higher. puss parker fell to coughing violently, having sucked down a large quantity of smoke. some of the others raved and some begged. but still the wild dance went on. "merciful cats!" gasped tad horner. "i believe they actually mean to roast us!" "sure as fate!" agreed another. "they won't think to put out the fires till we are well cooked, if they do then!" "this is awful!" gurgled parker. "browning, can't you do something?" "well, i hardly think so," confessed the king of the sophomores. "but i will do something if i ever get out of this alive! you hear me murmur!" "say!" cried tad horner. "i can't stand this much longer. the fire is beginning to roast me." "it's getting warm," confessed parker. "but it seems to keep burning around the outside edge." "keep cool," advised browning. "what's that?" yelled horner. "who said 'keep cool?' oh, say! that's too much!" "just look at the wood," directed the king of the sophomores. "you will notice that all the wood about our feet is water soaked, and there's only a little dry wood out around the edges. that's all that is burning." this they soon saw was true, and it gave them great relief, for it had begun to seem that the crazy freshmen actually meant to roast them. at the very moment when the uproar was at its height there came a sudden loud cry, like a signal, and out of the darkness rushed at least twenty lads. they were sophomores who had somehow followed them out there to east rock, having been aroused and told of the capture of browning and his mates by the soph who escaped. one fellow on a bicycle had followed them till he felt sure of their destination, and then he had turned back and told the others, who hastily secured teams and flew to the rescue. "'umpty-seven! 'umpty-seven! 'rah, 'rah! 'rah!" yelled the rescuers as they charged upon the freshmen. "'umpty-eight! 'umpty-eight! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" howled the painted lads in return. then for a few moments there was a pitched battle. the battle did not last long, for the freshmen saw they were outnumbered, and at a signal from their leader they broke away and took to their heels. by rare good luck every man was able to get away, for, not knowing anything about the water-soaked wood piled about the feet of the captives, the rescuers nearly all stopped to scatter the burning brush. "oh, say!" grated browning, as he was released. "but this means gore and bloodshed! we'll never rest till we have squared for this roast, and we will square with interest! merriwell's life will be one long, lingering torture from this night onward!" "what's all this racket and cheering?" asked one of the rescuers. "listen, fellows! by jove! it seems to come from the place where we left our carriages!" "that's what it does, and it's the freshman yell," cried another. "come on, fellows! if we don't get a move on we may have to walk back." they started on a run, but when they arrived at the place where the teams had been left not a team was there. the freshmen had captured the teams, drivers and all, together with the hack, and far along the road toward the city could be heard a cheering, singing crowd. as the disgusted and furious sophs stood and listened the singing and cheering grew fainter and fainter. "fellows," said chop harding, "i am sorry to leave yale, but i am certain to be hanged for murder. after this, whenever i see a freshman i shall kill him instantly." it was a doleful and weary crowd of sophs that came filing back into town and sneaked to their rooms that night. of course the sophs would have given a great deal could they have kept the story quiet, but on the following morning it seemed that every student in the college knew all about it. the juniors laughed and chaffed the sophomores, who were sullen and sulky and who muttered much about getting even. the freshmen were jubilant. they were on top for the time, and they all knew they might not have long to crow, so they did all the crowing they could in a short time. and still nobody seemed to know just who was concerned in the affair, save that merriwell and browning must have been. when browning was questioned he was so blankly ignorant of everything that it seemed as if he had slept through the whole affair. he had a way of turning every question off with another question, and it was soon discovered that no information could be obtained from him. still it was passed from lip to lip that the great and nighty king had been found by the rescuers, stripped to his underclothes, and tied to a stake, while the smoke arose thickly around him and nearly choked him. some one suggested that browning's complexion seemed to have changed in a remarkable manner, and then the students fell to asking him if he really enjoyed a smoke. browning seemed subdued; but those who knew him best were telling everybody to hold on and see what would happen. "this is just the beginning," they said. however, several days passed and still nothing occurred. it began to look as if the sophs had decided that they were outgeneraled and were willing to let the matter drop. frank merriwell was not deceived. he knew the sophs were keeping still in order to deceive the freshmen into a belief that there was no danger, and he continued to warn all his friends to "watch out." in the meantime diamond had recovered and was in evidence among the freshmen. it was said that he went down to billy's, a favorite freshman resort, and spent money liberally there almost every night. the result of this soon became apparent. diamond was surrounded by a crowd of hangers-on who seemed to regard him as a leader. he was working for popularity, and he was obtaining it in a certain way. now, frank merriwell was no less generous than jack diamond, but he would not drink liquor of any kind--he would not touch beer. it did not take him long to discover that this peculiarity caused many of the students to regard him with scorn. he was called the good templar and was often derisively addressed as worthy chief. the very ones who were first to apply the name in derision afterward came to call him worthy chief in sincere admiration. frank went around to billy's occasionally, and although he would not drink, he treated frequently, paying for anything his companions wanted to take, from beer to champagne. one evening frank, harry and dismal jones went into billy's and found diamond and a large crowd there. jack had been drinking something stronger than lemonade, and he was holding forth to a crowd of eager listeners. one look at diamond's flushed face did merriwell take, and then he knew the fellow was open for anything. the high color in the cheeks of the virginian was a danger signal. merriwell and his two friends ordered drinks, frank taking ginger ale. harry and jones lighted cigarettes. frank examined the pictures around the walls. there were ballet dancers who were standing on one toe, famous trotters, painted pictures of celebrated fighting cocks, hunters in red coats leaping five-barred fences, and so forth. as he looked over the pictures he became aware that diamond was saying something that was intended for his ears. "southerners never fight with their fists," the virginian declared. "they consider it brutal and beastly, and so they do not learn the so-called 'art.' they are able to fight with some other weapons, though. there is a man in this college who is trying to be a high cock of the walk, but he will never succeed till he shows his right by meeting me face to face with weapons of which i have knowledge. i have met him with his weapons, and if he is not a coward he will give me a show. but i think he is a coward and a sneak, and i--" that was more than frank could stand. he did not pause to think that diamond had been drinking and was utterly reckless, but he whirled and advanced till he stood squarely in front of the virginian. "i presume, mr. diamond, that you are referring to me," he said, coldly and steadily, although he could feel the hot blood leaping in his veins. diamond looked up insolently, inhaled a whiff of his cigarette, and then deliberately blew the smoke toward frank. "yes, sir," he said, "i presume i did refer to you. what are you going to do about it?" "you called me a coward and a sneak." "exactly, sir." "if i had not already left the marks of my knuckles on you i would slap your face. as it is, i will simply--pull your nose!" and frank did so, giving diamond's nose a sharp tweak. up to his feet leaped the virginian, his face white with wrath. he picked up a glass of champagne as he arose, and then he dashed it into frank's face. in a twinkling friends were between them, keeping them apart. chapter ix. the duel. merriwell smiled and wiped the champagne from his face with a white silk handkerchief. the proprietor bustled in and threatened. diamond quivered with excitement. "there will be no further trouble here," calmly said frank. "this matter must be settled between us--i could see that plainly enough. it wan just as well to bring it to a head at once." "lunder and thightning--i mean thunder and lightning!" panted rattleton. "he won't fight you again with his fists." "i do not expect him to." "you'll have to fight with rapiers, sure!" said another. "merriwell, you're a fool!" "thank you." "you have fallen into his trap. he was making that talk to drive you to do just what you did." "well, he may congratulate himself on his success." "blamed if i understand you! you seem cool enough, and still you act as if you actually meant to meet him with deadly weapons." "i shall meet him with any kind of weapons he may name." roll ditson came forward. "of course you understand that i have no feeling, merry, old man," he said; "but diamond has chosen me as his second once more, and so i can't refuse to serve him. it is a most unfortunate affair, but he insists that you fight him with rapiers." "very well; i agree to that. arrange the time and place with my second, mr. rattleton." frank sat down, picked up an illustrated paper, and seemed deeply interested in the pictures. ditson drew rattleton aside. "my principal," said he, swelling with importance, "demands that this meeting take place at once." "great scott!" exploded harry. "i object to this sort of business. it is outrageous! if one of them should be seriously wounded, what excuse can be made?" "we'll find some excuse that will go." "but what if one of them should be killed?" "i hardly think anything as serious as that will occur." "but should it, there would be an investigation, and expulsion and disgrace, if nothing worse, would overtake us." "oh, well, if you are afraid, just go back and tell mr. merriwell to apologize here and now, and i think mr. diamond will let him off." harry looked at merriwell and then shook his head. "he'll never do that," he said, hoarsely. "we'll have to arrange this duel. there is no other way for it." between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three blood runs hot and swift in the veins of a youth. it is then that he will do many wild and reckless things--things which will cause him to stand appalled when he considers them in after years. frank believed that in order to retain his own self respect and the respect of his comrades he must meet diamond and give him satisfaction in any manner he might designate. but there was another reason why frank was so willing to meet the virginian. merriwell was an expert fencer. at fardale he had been the champion of the school, and he had taken some lessons while traveling. he had thoroughly studied the trick of disarming his adversary, a trick which is known to every french fencing master, but is thought little of by them. he believed that he could repeatedly disarm diamond. his adventures in various parts of the world had made him somewhat less cautious than he naturally would have been and so he trusted everything to his ability to get the best of the virginian. roland ditson longed to force merriwell to squeal. he did not fancy frank knew anything of fencing, and he thought merriwell would soon lose his nerve when he saw himself toyed with by diamond. and diamond had promised not to seriously wound the fellow he hated. the meeting was arranged as quietly as possible, and the freshmen who were to witness it slipped out of billy's by twos and threes and strode away. thirty minutes later, in a small, stuffy room, two lads, with their coats and vests off and their sleeves turned back, faced each other, rapiers in hand. "ready, gentlemen!" called ditson. they made ready. "on guard!" the position was assumed. then came the command that set them at it. in less than twenty seconds the spectators, who kept back as well as possible, had seen something they never beheld before. they saw two beardless lads fighting with deadly weapons and using skill that was marvelous. it took jack diamond far less than twenty seconds to discover that frank merriwell was a swordsman of astonishing skill. he had expected to toy with the northerner, but he found himself engaged with one who met every stroke like a professional. a great feeling of relief came over harry rattleton. "whee jiz!" he muttered. "merry is a cooler at it! i believe he's diamond's match!" with diamond astonishment gave way to fury. was it possible that this fellow was to get the best of him at everything? he fought savagely, and ditson turned white as a ghost when he saw the virginian making mad thrusts at the breast of the lad he hated. "he's forgotten his promise--he's forgotten!" huskily whispered ditson. "what if he should run merriwell through the body?" then came a cry of anger from diamond and a cry of surprise and relief from the spectators. frank merriwell, with that peculiar twisting movement of his wrist, had torn the rapier from the virginian's hand. the blade fell clanging to the floor, and merriwell stepped back, with the point of his rapier lowered. snarling savagely, diamond made a catlike spring and snatched up the weapon he had lost. "on guard!" he cried, madly. "the end is not yet! i'll kill you or you'll kill me!" there was a clash of steel, and then the fight was on with more fury than before. diamond was utterly reckless. he left a dozen openings where frank could have run him through. but merriwell was working to repeat the trick of a few seconds before. the frightened spectators were beginning to think of intervening, when once again diamond was disarmed. at the same moment there came a heavy knocking at the door. one fellow, who had been on guard, ran in from a corridor and cried: "it's the faculty! somebody has given them wind of this!" "here! here!" called a freshman. "follow me!" they did so, and he led them to a back window, out of which they clambered. diamond was the last to get out, and just as he touched the ground somebody came around the corner and grabbed him. "i have one of them!" shouted a voice, which he recognized as belonging to one of the faculty. he struggled to break away, but could not. then somebody dashed back to his side, caught hold of him, and with wonderful strength tore him from the grasp of the man. "run!" panted frank merriwell's voice in his ear. and they ran away together, and in a short while were safe in their rooms. it turned out that it was not the faculty that had tried to get in where the duel was taking place, but some of the sophs. at the time he turned back to rescue diamond, however, frank had believed the virginian was in the grasp of one of the professors. merriwell was regarded as more of a wonder than ever when it became generally known that he had twice disarmed the virginian in a duel with rapiers--or a "fencing contest," as the matter was openly spoken of by those who discussed it. but bruce browning, king of sophomores, was awaiting an opportunity to get at frank. chapter x. at morey's. "say, fellows, this thing must stop!" puss parker banged his fist down upon the table as he made this emphatic declaration, the blow causing the partly emptied glass of ale to dance and vibrate. "aw, say," yawned willis paulding, "you want to be a little cawful or you will slop the good stuff, don't yer know." willis affected a drawl, had his clothes made in london, and considered himself "deucedly english," although he sometimes forgot himself for a short time and dropped his mannerisms. tad horner gave paulding a look of scorn. "come off your perch, paul!" he invited. "you give me severe pains! get onto yourself! i don't wonder parker is excited over this matter." "who wouldn't be excited?" exclaimed puss. "these confounded freshmen have overthrown all the established customs of the college. they have been running things with a high hand. why, they have really been cocks of the walk ever since that little affair out at east rock." "'sh!" cautioned punch swallows, a lad with fiery red hair. "don't speak of that, for the love of goodness! just think of a gang of sophs being captured by freshmen disguised as indians, taken out into the country, tied to stakes and nearly roasted, while the freshmen dance a gleeful _cancan_ around them! it's awful! the mere thought of it gives me nervous prostration!" it was two weeks after the duel, and the five sophomores had gathered in the little back room at morey's, they looked at each other and were silent, but their silence was very suggestive. "by jawve!" drawled paulding, "it is awful! i wasn't in the crowd. if i had been--" "you'd been roasted like the rest of us," cut in parker. "but i'd made it warm faw some of the blooming cads." "haven't we been doing our level best to make it warm for them?" cried horner. "but no matter what we do, they see us and go us one better." "it all comes from merriwell," asserted swallows. "he's king of the freshmen, the same as browning is king of the sophomores." "and he's a terror," nodded horner. "he can put up more jokes than one." "and they say he can fight." "they say! why, didn't you see him do diamond, the fresh from virginia? oh, no. i remember you were not with us that night. yes, he can fight, and he doesn't seem to be easily scared." "i think he is a blawsted upstart," said paulding, lazily puffing at his cigarette. "he needs to be called down, don't yer know." "some time when he is upstairs, call him down," suggested horner. "fists are not the only things that fellows can fight with," said parker. "the matter has been kept quiet, but it is said to be a fact that diamond forced him into a duel with rapiers, and he disarmed the southerner twice, having him completely at his mercy each time." "and diamond prides himself on being an expert with that kind of weapon," nodded horner. "why doesn't browning do something?" asked paulding. "it is outrageous faw a lot of freshies to run things this way." "browning is in training," said parker. "in training? what faw? why, he is so lazy--" "he's training to get some of the flesh off him. it is my opinion that somebody must check merriwell's wild career, and he is getting in condition to do it. you know that browning was one of the hardest men who ever entered yale. he is a natural athlete, but he's lazy, and he has allowed himself to become soft. why, he knocked out kid lajoie, the professional, in a hard-glove contest of three rounds. lajoie was easy fruit for him. i fancy he means to go up against this fresh duck merriwell and do him. that's the only thing that will pull merriwell off his perch. he doesn't mind being hazed." "doesn't mind it!" shouted horner. "confound him! he always manages to turn the tables in some way, and hazes the parties who try to haze him." two youths came in from the front room. "hey, browning! hello, king! come join us. you, too, emery"--to the other fellow. "what'll you have, browning?" browning accepted a seat at the table, but waved his hand languidly as he declined to drink. "i'm not taking anything now," he said. "oh, but you must! have some ale, old man." "excuse me, gentlemen. i tell you squarely that i am not taking anything just now. by and by i will be with you again. emery will go you one. that's what he came in for." "that's right," declared browning's companion. "i was out stargazing last night. looked at the long-handled dipper a long time, and it gave me an awful thirst. i've had it with me all day. yes, mine's ale." so another round was ordered. horner passed around the cigarettes, and browning declined them. the others lighted up fresh ones. "say," broke out emery, suddenly, "do you know that fresh ditson gives me that tired feeling?" tad horner grinned. "he's no good," said tad. "he is crooked and he's a toucher. touched me for a v once, and i am looking for that fiver yet. that was two years ago, before i came here. i knew him then." "he tried to touch us for a drink as we came along," said browning. "i took him in here once, but i've been sorry ever since. he said he had his thirst with him just now. i told him to go sit on the fence and let the wind blow him off." "and he is a big bluff," asserted emery. "the other day he was telling how he once sat at the table with kings and queens. i told him that i had--and with jacks and ten spots. here comes the amber. my! i won't do a thing to it!" the waiter placed the glasses of ale before them, and emery eagerly grasped his. "here's more to-morrow," was his toast, and he seemed to toss it off at a single swallow. "by jawve!" drawled paulding. "you must be thirsty!" "i am. have been all day, as i said before. it was hard stuff last night, and we went the rounds. my head needed hooping when i arose from my downy couch this morning." "well, you shouldn't have gotten intoxicated, in the first place," said parker. "i didn't. it was in the last place. if i'd gone home before we struck that joint i'd been all right." "wow!" whooped tad horner. "you seem full of 'em!" "oh, i am. i've been eating nothing but red pepper lately, and i'm hot stuff. let's have another one all around." more ale was ordered. "your neck must be dry enough to squeak, old man," said parker, addressing browning. "it doesn't seem natural for you to go thirsty. won't you have just one?" "not one," smiled bruce, lazily. "i've got too much flesh on me now, and i'm trying to get some of it off." "going to try for the football team--or what?" "nothing of that sort--but i have a reason." "we know." "you do?" "sure." "what is it?" "you're laying for merriwell, and you mean to do him. i am right, am i not?" the king of the sophomores smiled in a lazy way, but did not reply. "that settles it," laughed parker. "i knew i was right. well, somebody must curry that young colt down and it must be done right away." browning showed sudden animation. he looked around at the faces of his companions and then said: "this crowd is straight, and i am going to make a few remarks right here and now. i feel just like it." "drive ahead." "go on." "we are listening." "i am not inclined to talk this matter over publicly," said bruce, "but i will say that the time is ripe to get after these confounded freshmen, and we must do it. i want to tell you what i found this morning. open wide your ears and listen to this." his companions were quite prepared to listen. "you know i am getting up every morning and taking a stiff walk. i turn out at daybreak." "good gracious!" gasped tad horner. "how do you do it?" "well, i've got one of those electric alarm clocks, and i put it just as far away from my bed as possible." "why is that?" "so i won't get hold of it and smash thunder out of the thing when it gets to going. you know it won't stop its racket till somebody stops it or it is run down, and it takes an hour for it to run down after it starts in to ring you up." "by jawve!" drawled paulding; "i hawdly think i'd like to have one of the blooming things in my room." "i don't like to have one in my room, but it is absolutely necessary that i do. hartwick, my roommate, admires it!" the listeners laughed. "i should think he might," said puss parker. "he's got a temper with an edge like a cold-chisel." "oh, yes, he admires it! i've got so i believe i should sleep right through the racket, but he kicks me out of bed and howls for me to smother the thing. so you see i am bound to get up at the proper time. once i am out of bed, i stay up. the first morning after i bought the clock the thing went off just as it was beginning to break day. i got up and stopped it and then went back to bed. hartwick growled, but we both went to sleep. i had been snoozing about five minutes when the clock broke loose once more. hartwick was mad, you bet! i opened my eyes just in time to see him sit up in bed with one of his shoes in his hand. whiz! before i could stop him he flung the shoe at the clock. i made a wild grab just as he did so, struck his arm, and disconcerted his aim. the shoe flew off sideways and smashed a mirror. hartwick said several things. then i got up and stopped the clock again. i dressed and went out for my walk, leaving hartwick in bed, sleeping sweetly. when i came back i found him, about half dressed, jumping wildly up and down in the middle of the bed, upon which was heaped all the bedclothes, all of hartwick's clothes except those he had on, all of mine, except those i was wearing, and as i appeared he shrieked for me to tear down the window shades and pass them to him quick. "'what's the matter?' i gasped. 'are you mad?' "'yes, i am mad!' he howled, tearing his hair. 'i am so blamed mad that i don't know where i am at!' "'but what's the matter?' "'matter! matter! hear it! hear the daddly thing! it has driven me to the verge of insanity! i tried to stop it, but i couldn't find how it works. and now i am trying to stifle it! hear it! oh, bring me a club! bring me something deadly! bring me a gun, and i will shoot it full of holes!' "then i found that i could hear my clock merrily rattling away under that heap of clothes. it seemed to be defying hartwick or laughing at him. "i got him off the bed, pawed around till i found the clock between the mattresses, and then stopped it. hartwick offered me three times what it was worth if i'd let him use his baseball bat on it. i told him it seemed to be a very willing and industrious alarm clock, and it was mine. i warned him to injure it at his peril. since then i have learned how to stop it so it will stay stopped, but it barely commences to rattle at daybreak when i feel hartwick's feet strike me in the small of the back, and i land sprawling on the floor. that explains how i succeed in getting up at daybreak." "you started in to tell us what you found this morning," said punch swallows, to browning, lighting a fresh cigarette. "so i did, and the alarm clock ran me off the trail. well, i got up this morning as usual--when hartwick kicked me out to stop the clock. i went out for my walk and crossed the campus. what do you think i found?" "a diamond ring. we'll all have ale." "oh, no, tad, it wasn't a diamond ring. i noticed something stuck up on one of the trees. it was a big sheet of paper, and on it was skillfully lettered these words: "'bruce browning will wear a new set of false teeth to chapel to-morrow morning.'" browning stopped and looked around. he was very proud of his even, regular, white teeth. they were so perfect that they might be taken for "store teeth" at first glance, but a second look would show they were natural. the sophs laughed, and bruce looked indignant. "that caused me to look still further," he went on, "and i soon found another sheet upon another tree. this is what i read: "'conundrum. why is king browning a great electrician? because all his clothes are charged.' "by that time i felt like murdering somebody. i did take a morning walk, but it was in search of more stuff of the same order. i found it everywhere in the vicinity of the college, and some of the stuff was simply awful. it made me shudder. i knew who was back of it all. merriwell put up the job." "but you outwitted him by getting around in time to tear down everything he had put up. you matched him that time." "by accident. but i must more than match him. he must be suppressed." "that's right! that's right!" cried the boys in chorus. "i know he put the advertisement for black and white cats and yellow dogs in the papers. my name was signed to it, and more than two hundred black and white cats and yellow dogs were brought me by parties anxious to sell them at any price. one time there were seven women with cats in my room, when two men came up leading dogs. the first woman had managed to get into the room, and while i was arguing with her, trying to convince her that i did not want her blamed old cat, the others found their way in. they opened on me altogether. hartwick shut himself in the clothespress, and i could hear him laughing and gasping for breath. i was nearly crazy when the men sauntered in with the dogs in tow. oh, say!" browning fell over limply in his chair, as if the memory of what followed was too much for him. "you have had a real warm time of it," grinned swallows. "warm! warm! my boy, it was warm! two of the women were showing me their cats. the dogs saw the cats; the cats saw the dogs. one of the cats made a flying leap for a dog. the other fled, and the other dog pursued. the seven women shrieked all together, and the two men swore and tried to catch the dogs. the other cats escaped from the baskets in which they were confined. warm! say!" the king of the sophomores mopped his face with his handkerchief. he seemed on the verge of utter collapse. the listening lads could not entirely restrain their laughter. the picture browning presented and the incident he was relating were altogether too ludicrous. "talk about rackets!" he wearily continued; "we had one then and there. the cats yowled and the dogs howled. the women fell over each other and screamed blue murder. the men chased the dogs and roared blue blazes. and the wind blew hard! "one of the cats alighted on an old lady's head. the cat's mistress grabbed her and took her away. the cat had socked her claws into the old lady's wig, and it came off, leaving her almost as bare as a billiard ball. oh, marmer! "two of the cats fell to tearing the fur out of each other. some of them walked on the ceiling, like flies, in their endeavors to get away from the dogs. one of them pounced on a dog's back and rode him around the room, as if she were a circus performer. the other dog chased a cat under the bed, and they were having it there. oh, they didn't do a thing--not a thing! "after a while one of the men captured one of the dogs and dragged him toward the door. the other man saw him and made a rush for him. 'drop that dawg!' he yelled. 'it's my dawg!' the other man yelled back. and then the other man howled, 'you're another. it's my dawg!' "right away after that there was trouble between the owners of the dogs. they tried to hurt each other, and they succeeded very well. one of them had both eyes blacked, while the other lost two teeth, had his lips split and his nose knocked out of plumb. but they smashed the stuffing out of the furniture while they were doing it. "i climbed up on something in one corner and did my best to cheer them on. i sincerely hoped both would be killed. the dogs seemed to feel it their duty to enter into the spirit of the occasion, and they chewed each other more or less. "then the police came in. i came near landing in the station house, along with the two men who were fighting, but they concluded not to pinch me. the women departed after having once more expressed their opinion all around concerning me. "when they were gone hartwick came out of the clothespress. we sat down amid the ruins and said over some words that will not bear repetition. "that's the whole of the cat-and-dog story. i've never been able to prove that merriwell put the advertisement into the paper, but it is all settled in my mind. it was directly after this that i went into training." some of the sophs laughed and some showed indignation. "it was a very nawsty thing to do," declared paulding. "i can't help laughing over it." chuckled tad horner. "but of course you ought to get back at merriwell." "well, i shall do my best." "i don't think you need to train to do that trick," said punch swallows. "a man who can knock out kid lajoie ought to polish off a freshman in a minute." "you haven't seen merriwell fight?" "no." "i have." "he is clever?" "he is a corker. of course i believe i can do him, but i want to do him easy, and that is why i am training." another party of sophomores came in. "it is harrison and his crowd," said parker, "and i'm blowed if they haven't got roll ditson with them! that cad of a freshman has succeeded in getting in here again." "ditson hates merriwell, don't yer know," said paulding. "he pretends to be friendly with merry, but he's ready to do him any time." chapter xi "lambda chi!" ditson had fawned around browning a great deal since entering college, with the result that the king of the sophomores came to entertain a feeling of absolute disgust for the fellow. the very sight of ditson made the "king" feel as if he would enjoy giving him a good "polishing off." but bruce was no bully, although he was a leader of the sophomores. he had proved his ability to fight when it was necessary, but no one could say that he ever showed any inclination to do bodily harm to one who was weak and peaceable. during his freshman year browning had originated any number of wild projects for sport, and he had always succeeded in carrying them through successfully. thus it came about that he was called the "king," and his companions continued to call him that when he became a sophomore. but now there was a man in college who had fairly outwitted browning on several occasions, and so it came about that the king was aroused against frank merriwell. browning keenly felt the sting of being beaten at his own game, and he was obliged to confess to himself that merriwell had accomplished the trick. but our hero was not inclined to let bruce alone. he did not wait for the king to become aggressive; he set about keeping bruce in hot water, and he succeeded very well. the other freshmen, stimulated by the example of one who was distinctly a leader among them, carried on such an energetic campaign against the sophomores that the latter found themselves almost continually on the defensive. such a thing had never before been known at yale and the sophs were highly indignant. they informed the freshmen that they were altogether too fresh. they said the freshmen were breaking a time-honored custom, and it must be stopped. but the triumphant freshmen kept right on, laughing in the faces of their angry foes. it was expected that browning would not delay about getting back at merriwell and his friends, and the admirers of the king were surprised when he seemed to remain inactive. then it came out that bruce was in training, and it was said that he was putting himself in condition to give merriwell the worst licking of his life. frank heard about it, but he did not seem disturbed in the least. whenever any one spoke to him about it he merely smiled. among the freshmen there were some who believed merriwell able to hold his own against browning. they were harry rattleton, jack diamond and one or two more. diamond and merriwell were not friendly, but they had ceased to be open enemies. for the time being the hatchet was buried, and there was peace between them. but the two did not become friends. merriwell continued to assert that diamond had sand, and diamond was ready to back his judgment in saying that merriwell was a match for any man in yale. morey's was a sophomore resort. juniors and seniors patronized the place, but a freshman was not allowed there unless invited to accompany some of the regular frequenters of the place. ditson was ambitious. he was not satisfied to associate with those of his own class, but he wanted it thought he was such a fine fellow that the sophomores picked him up for his company. thus it happened that he had succeeded in getting into morey's several times, but he was killing his own chances of ever having any popularity, although he did not know it. browning was angry when he saw the fellow come in. he called one of the sophs over and said: "say, what are you bringing it in here again for, my boy? it's been here too many times already." "who--ditson?" "sure." "we're working him." "working him? he's working you--for the drinks." "that's all right. he's telling us what he knows about merriwell. if there is anything in that fellow's history that we can use as a sore spot, we may be able to suppress him." "all right," scowled browning. "go ahead and pump the crooked sneak, but don't swallow his lies. i don't believe he knows anything at all about merriwell." a few minutes later the soph returned and said: "i don't think he knows much about him, myself, but he says he's down at billy's now--or was an hour ago. we might get a chance to lambda chi him a little." browning seemed to arouse himself. "that's right," he agreed. "we'll go down to billy's." the party filed out of morey's and browning took the lead. ditson went along with them as if he was a sophomore. he seemed to feel himself highly honored, but browning had hard work to choke back his absolute contempt for the fellow. as they went along, it was arranged that ditson should go into billy's and see if merriwell was there. one of the sophomores should accompany him. if merriwell was there and he should come out alone or in company with one or two others, he was to be captured. browning had a plan that should be carried out if the capture was made. ditson seemed to think he was doing something very smart and cunning in betraying a fellow freshman into the hands of the sophomores. he fancied he was making himself solid with browning's crowd. billy's was reached, and one of the sophs went in with ditson, while the others kept out of sight nearby. after a little the soph came out and reported that merriwell and rattleton were in there. he had treated the house, but merriwell had absolutely declined to take anything. "oh, yes," nodded browning. "they say he never drinks. that's how he keeps himself in such fine condition all the time. he will not smoke, either, and he takes his exercise regularly. he is really a remarkable freshie." arrangements were then made that a cab should be brought to the corner near billy's, where the driver should remain, apparently waiting for somebody. it was known to be quite useless to attempt to decoy merriwell out, so dependence must be placed on chance. if he came out with no more than one or two companions his name was "mud," according to the assembled sophs. arrangements were made to bind handkerchiefs over their faces to the eyes, so they would be partly disguised. some of them turned their coats wrong side out, and some resorted to other means of disguising themselves. then they waited patiently. it was not so very long before ditson came out in a breathless hurry. he signaled, and they called him. as he hastened up he panted: "merriwell is coming right out, fellows! be ready for him!" the sophomores knew which way frank was likely to go after leaving billy's, and they lay in wait at a convenient spot. "is he alone?" eagerly asked puss parker. "no." "who is with him?" "rattleton." "any others?" "not likely." "good! take a tumble to yourself and skip." ditson did so. "now, fellows," hurriedly said browning, "be ready for a struggle. remember that merriwell is a scrapper and he is likely to resist. we must take him completely by surprise. get back and lay quiet till i give the signal." they did as directed, and as they were in a dark corner, there was not much danger that they would be seen till they were ready to light on their game. footsteps were heard. "here he comes!" browning peered out, and two figures were seen approaching. "how many?" anxiously whispered tad horner, quivering with anxiety. "two. they are easy. ready for the rush." the sophomores crouched like savage warriors in ambush. merriwell's peculiar, pleasant laugh was heard as the two unsuspecting freshmen approached. rattleton was talking, and, as usual, he was twisting his expression in his haste to say the things which flashed through his head. "it doesn't make a dit of bifference if we haven't proved anything against him, i say ditson can't be trusted. he's got a mooked crug--i mean a crooked mug." "oh, don't be too hard on the fellow till you know something for sure," advised merriwell. "i will confess that i do not like him, but--" there was a sudden rush of dark figures out of the shadows, and the two freshmen were clutched. coats were flung over their heads and they were crashed to the ground. although taken by surprise, both lads struggled. in the suddenness of the rush browning had made a mistake and flung himself on rattleton, while he had intended to grasp merriwell. the coat being cast over the head of the lad prevented him from discovering his mistake. punch swallows and andy emery were devoting themselves to merriwell, and it was their first impression that they had tackled rattleton. for an instant it seemed that the trick had worked to perfection, and the freshmen had been made captives easily. then came a surprise. swallows and emery were unable to hold their man down. he tore off the smothering coat and rose with them, despite all they could do. they cried out for help: "give us a hand, fellows! he's like an eel! quick!" some of the sophs had been unable to render much assistance, and they now did their best to aid swallows and emery. in their haste to do something they seemed to get in the way of each other. "well, i don't know--i don't know!" laughed a familiar voice, and the freshman gave swallows a snap that lifted him off his feet and cast him into the stomach of another fellow, who received such a blow from punch's head that the wind was knocked out of him in a moment. "we'll have to see about this," said the freshman as he cracked emery on the jaw and broke his hold. "great smoke! it's merriwell!" gurgled emery as he reeled back. "onto him, fellows!" urged a soph, and frank suddenly found six or seven of the crowd were at him. just how he did it no one could tell, but he broke straight through the crowd and in another moment was rushing back toward billy's, shouting: "lambda chi! lambda chi!" it was useless to try to follow him, as all quickly saw. in the meantime rattleton had been cornered, and the disappointed sophs resolved to escape with him. they lifted him and made a rush for the cab. he was bundled in, and away went the cab. frank rushed into billy's and gave the alarm. he was out again in a very few seconds, with a crowd of excited freshmen at his heels; but when they came to look for the sophomores and rattleton they found nothing. "confound it!" exclaimed frank in dismay. "how could they get him away so quick? i can't understand it." the freshmen searched, but they found nothing to reward them. rattleton was in the toils of the enemy, and the would-be rescuers were given no opportunity to rescue him. then merriwell blamed himself for leaving his roommate at all. but billy's had been so near and his chance with his many assailants had seemed so slim that he had done what seemed the right thing to do on the spur of the moment. he had not fancied that the sophomores would be able to get harry away before he could arouse the freshmen and bring them to the rescue. "poor harry! i wonder what they will do with him?" frank speculated. "oh, they won't do a thing with him!" gurgled bandy robinson. "how did it happen, anyway?" asked roland ditson, who had joined the freshmen after the affair was over. he tried to appear innocent and filled with wonder and curiosity, but his unpopularity was apparent from the fact that nobody paid enough attention to him to answer his question. frank, however, found it necessary to tell his companions all about the assault, and ditson pretended to listen with interest, as if he had known nothing of the affair. the freshmen went back to billy's and held a council. it was decided to divide into squads and make an attempt to find out where harry had been taken. this was done, but it proved without result, and not far from midnight all the freshmen who had been there at the time of the capture, and many others, were again gathered at billy's. they were quite excited over the affair, and it seemed that the beer they had absorbed had gone to the heads of some of them. in the midst of an excited discussion the door burst open, and a most grotesque-looking figure staggered into the room. it was a person who was stripped to the waist and painted and adorned like a redskin, his face striped with red and white and yellow, his hair stuck full of feathers, and his body decorated with what seemed to be tattooing. "bive me a gear--i mean give me a beer!" gasped that fantastic individual. "i am nearly dead!" "it's rattleton!" shouted the freshmen. they crowded around him. "well, say, you are a bird!" cried lucy little, whose right name was lewis little. "a regular bird of paradise," chuckled bandy robinson. "where are those fellows?" demanded frank merriwell. "where did they leave you? tell me, old man." "at the door," faintly replied rattleton as he reached for a mug of beer which some one held toward him. "they took me right up to the door and made me come in here." "out!" shouted frank--"out and after them! capture one of them if possible! we want to even this thing up." out they rushed, but once more the crafty sophomores had vanished, and not one of them was to be found. the freshmen went back and listened to harry's story. he told how he had been blindfolded and taken somewhere, he did not know where. there they had kept him while his friends were searching. when there was no danger that the freshmen would discover them, they set out to have fun with rattleton. "say, merry, old man," said harry, "i know browning was the leader of this job, although he was disguised. they seemed to feel pretty bad because you got away. they got twisted--took me for you at first, and by the time they discovered their mistake you were knocking them around like tenpins. one chap insists you broke his jaw." "well, i am glad i did that much. i didn't mean to leave you, harry. billy's was so near i thought i could get the boys out and rescue you before they could carry you off. i couldn't rescue you alone, so i ran here to stir up the fellows." "that was right. i was glad you got away. they were laying for you. they told me so." "well, come back, and we'll wash this stuff off you." "i don't know as you can do it." "eh? why not?" "they said it was put on to stay a while. they told me we were so fond of playing the noble red man's part that they would fix me so i could play it for a week or two. some of them advised me to use sand to scrub myself with if i hoped to get the paint off." "oh, that must be all a bluff. it will come off easy enough if a little cocoa butter is used on it. here, somebody run out to a drug store and get some cocoa butter." after they had worked about fifteen minutes they looked at each other in dismay, for they had scarcely been able to start the paint, and it become plain that cocoa butter, soap and water would not take it off. "didn't i tell you?" murmured harry, sorrowfully. "i'm done for! i'll never be able to get it off! i'll have to go out west and live with the sioux! if i do i'll take along the scalps of a few sophomores!" they continued to work on him for nearly an hour, but were unable to get off more than a certain portion of the paint. harry was still grotesquely decorated when the boys arrived at the conclusion that further scrubbing with the materials at hand was useless. then frank went out and rang up a druggist who had gone to bed, for it was after midnight. he told the man the sort of scrape his friend was in and offered the druggist inducements to give him something to remove the paint. the druggist said it could not be paint, but must be some sort of staining, and he gave frank a preparation. frank went back and tried the stuff on harry. it removed a certain amount of the stain, but did not remove it all. at last, being thoroughly worn out, rattleton said: "i'll give it up for to-night, fellows. perhaps i'll be able to get the rest off in the morning. i'll poultice my face and neck. but you'll have to watch out, frank. they say they will use you worse than this when they get hold of you." for the time the sophomores seemed to have the best of the game. chapter xii. freshman against sophomore. on the following morning a large piece of cardboard swung from the door of merriwell and rattleton's room in mrs. harrington's boarding house. on the cardboard was this inscription: "good-morning! have you used soap?" harry was up at an early hour industriously scrubbing away. he succeeded fairly well, but despite his utmost efforts the coloring refused to come off entirely. and it was absolutely necessary that he should attend chapel. on their way to chapel frank and harry came face to face with professor such, who peered at them sharply and said: "good-morning, gentlemen." "good-morning, professor," returned the boys. harry tried to keep behind frank, so that his face would not be noticed. the professor was nearsighted, but he immediately noted rattleton's queer actions, and he placed himself in front of the boys, adjusting his spectacles. "hang his curiosity!" muttered harry in disgust. "eh?" said the professor, scratching his chin with one finger and peering keenly at harry. "did you speak, sir?" "yes, sir--i mean no, sir," spluttered harry, while frank stepped aside and stood laughing silently to himself. "i thought you did. er--what's the matter with your face, young man?" "that's the result of my last attack of chilblains," said harry, desperately. "they hent to my wed--i mean they went to my head." "eh?" the professor seemed to doubt if he had heard correctly, while merriwell nearly exploded. rattleton looked frightened when he came to think what he had said. he felt like taking to his heels and running for his life. "chilblains, sir?" came severely from professor such. "sir--sir, do not attempt to be facetious with me! you will regret it if you do!" cold sweat started out on harry's forehead, and he looked appealingly toward his companion; but frank had turned away to conceal his merriment. "i--i don't think i--i understood your--your question," stammered harry. "i'm a little heard of haring--i mean hard of hearing." "i asked you what was the matter with your face, sir." "oh, my face! ha! ha! he! he! i thought you said something about my pace, because i was walking so slowly. that made me fancy you were interested to know what ails my feet. excuse me! i beg your pardon, professor!" "hum!" coughed the professor, again scratching his chin with the tip of his finger, while he peered through his spectacles, plainly still somewhat suspicious. "it is rather remarkable that you should get things mixed in such a manner." "i am not feeling well, professor, not at all." and it was apparent to frank that harry told the truth. "you are not looking well," came somewhat sarcastically from professor such's lips. "your countenance has a strangely mottled hue." "it comes from injun jestion," explained merriwell, coming to his roommate's relief. "eh? from what, sir." "from indigestion," said frank, very soberly. "he is much troubled that way." "much troubled! much troubled!" exclaimed the professor, whose ear had been offended and who immediately turned his attention on frank. "i advise you to be somewhat more choice and careful of your language, young man. there is a right and a wrong use of words." just then the chapel bell clanged, and the professor exclaimed: "bless me! we'll be late if we're not careful!" away he hurried. frank and harry followed him, and as they went along harry expressed his feelings forcibly and violently. "how dare you howl before me?" laughed frank. "excuse me," said rattleton. "i didn't know you wanted to howl first." at chapel harry felt that the eyes of everybody were upon him. he kept one hand up to his face as much as possible, but he saw the sophomores smiling covertly and winking among themselves. he longed to get even; that was his one burning ambition and desire. when the service was over the freshmen stood and bowed to the faculty as they passed out. they were supposed to keep bowing to the seniors, juniors and sophomores, but that custom had long been a dead letter at yale. the freshmen had become too independent for such a thing. however, they stood and saw the upper classmen go past, and it seemed to poor harry that every fellow stared at him and grinned. the sophs added to his misery and anger by winking at him, and tad horner ventured to go through a swift pantomime of taking a scalp. "oh, i am liable to have yours yet," thought harry. on their way back to their rooms harry and frank were greeted by all sorts of calls and persiflage from the sophomores, who had gathered in knots to watch them pass. this sort of chaffing gave rattleton "that tired feeling," as he expressed it, and by the time they reached their room he was in a desperate mood. "i'll get even!" he vowed, fiercely. "i'll do it." "go ahead--you can do it," laughed frank. "you can do anybody." then harry flung a book at him, which frank skillfully caught and returned with the utmost politeness. at breakfast rattleton was chafed by the freshmen, and he boiled more than ever. "somebody has my coat, vest, hat, shirt and undershirt," he said as he thought the affair over. "i had to go home in a linen duster which i got down to billy's last night. i don't care so much for the clothes i lost, but i'd like to know who has 'em. i'd sue him!" but after breakfast an expressman appeared with a bundle for rattleton, and in the bundle were the missing articles. the sophomores were jubilant, and they taunted the freshmen. they said the fate that had befallen rattleton was simply a warning. it was nothing beside what might happen. for the time the freshmen were forced to remain silent, but they felt that the sophomores had not evened up matters by any means. and the affair would not be dropped. during the afternoon of that day it rained for at least two hours, and it did not clear up and let the sun out, so there was plenty of dirt and mud at nightfall. then it was that rattleton some way found out that a number of sophomores who dined at a club on york street were going to attend a party that evening. it was to be a swell affair on temple street, and the sophs were certain to wear their dress suits. "they'll din for dresser--i mean dress for dinner," spluttered harry as he was telling frank. "it's certain they'll go directly from dinner to the party." "well, what has worked its way into your head?" "a scheme." "give it to us." "we'll be ready for 'em when they come from dinner, and we'll give 'em a rush. they're not likely to be in any condition to attend a party after we are through with them. what do you say, old man? what do you think of it?" "we are likely to get enough of rushing in the annual rush, but i'm with you if you want to carry this job through." "all right, then, we'll do it. we'll give those sophs a warm time. i have been grouchy all day, but i begin to feel better now." so frank and harry communicated the plan to their friends, and a party gathered in their room immediately after supper. dismal jones was out as a scout, and he had agreed to let them know when the sophomores left their club. they were inclined to take much more time in dining than the freshmen. pretty soon jones came racing up the stairs and burst into the room. "come on, fellows!" he cried. "the sophs are leaving their club, and there's lots of 'em wearing dress suits. we'll have a picnic with 'em!" dismal seldom got excited, but now he was quite aroused. the freshmen caught up their caps and hurried downstairs. they were soon on the street, and they hastened to meet their natural enemies. the sophomores had formed by twos, with browning and emery in advance. it was true that many of them were in dress suits, and they were not a little disturbed when they saw the solid body of freshmen coming swiftly to meet them. to pass on the right the sophomores were entitled to the inside of the sidewalk, and although they would have given much to avoid the encounter, they formed solidly and prepared to defend their rights. the freshmen also formed in a compact mass, and came on with a rush, keeping hard up against the wall. "turn to the right! turn to the right!" the sophomores uttered the cry as they hugged the wall on the inside. "sweep 'em off! sweep 'em off!" that was the cry that came from the determined freshmen. "hold on! hold on!" ordered browning. "there is a law for this!" "then you will have to produce officers to enforce it," laughed frank merriwell. "but there is a regular time for rushing." "this is not a regular rush, so we don't mind." "but you fellows have no right to do it!" "is that so?" was the derisive retort. "hear the sophs squeal fellows! oh, my! but this is funny!" "stop a minute and we will argue this matter, freshies," invited browning, who was thoroughly disgusted over the prospect. then the whole crowd of freshmen roared with laughter. "hear the baby cry!" they shouted. "he is begging! ha! ha! ha!" browning's face was crimson with anger and confusion. "you are an insolent lot of young ruffians!" he snapped, "and merriwell is the biggest ruffian of you all!" "back it up! back it up!" "i can!" "why don't you?" "i will when the right time comes." "what's the matter with this for the right time?" "no! no! turn to the right and let us pass now. we will see you again." "we see you now, and we are going to raise you the limit." the sophomores held a hurried consultation, and then browning said: "if you fellows will wait till we go change our clothes we'll come out and give you as warm a time as you want." "all right, we will wait." "then let us pass." "we'll do that, but you will have to pass on the outside." that was something the sophomores could not do without yielding to the freshmen, and they felt that they had rather die than yield unless compelled to do so. the sophomores stormed and scolded, and the freshmen, who outnumbered them, laughed and flung back taunts. then the sophomores determined on a quick, sudden rush, but it happened that the freshmen had decided on a rush at the same moment, and the two bodies of lads plunged forward as if at one signal. "'umpty-eight! 'umpty-eight!" yelled the freshmen. "'umpty-seven! 'umpty-seven!" shouted the sophomores. crash! they met! then there occurred one of the liveliest struggles of the season up to that date. each side did its best to force the other off the sidewalk, and for some moments they swayed and surged in one spot. at last the superior weight of the freshmen began to tell, and the sophomores were slowly swept backward, contending every inch. feeling that they must be crowded to the outside, browning gave the signal for them to break and make it a hand-to-hand affair. then he grappled with merriwell. frank was ready, and he willingly left the line as the freshmen forged onward. he was anxious for an opportunity of seeing just what sort of stuff the king of the sophomores was made of, and this was his chance. finding that they could not hold the freshmen back, the sophs had each singled out a man, and the contest became hand to hand. in a few moments several parties were down, and some of them rolled from the sidewalk into the street. now that they had been forced to do battle, the sophs were desperate, and they sailed in like a lot of tigers. rattleton found himself pitted against andy emery, and emery had the reputation of being as full of grit as a bulldog. he was on the 'varsity crew, and he had a back and shoulders which were the admiration of those who had seen him strip to the buff. emery had a quick temper and a strong arm. he grappled with harry, lifted him off his feet and tried to throw him, but the freshman came down on his feet like a cat. a second later emery was astonished to feel his own feet flung into the air, and he could not help falling, but he clung to his antagonist and they went down together. over and over they rolled, each striving to get on top. they were soon off the sidewalk and into the street. emery was furious, for he felt that his dress suit was the same as ruined, and he uttered some very savage language. "that's right," chuckled harry. "cuss a little--it may help you." it seemed to, for emery finally succeeded in getting astride rattleton and holding him down for a few moments. he was soon pulled off by another freshman, and the merry war went on. little tad horner was right in the hottest scrimmage, and he proved formidable for the freshmen, despite his size. he had a way of darting under them and tripping them up, then getting away before he could be grappled. dismal jones was quoting scripture and doing his best to make himself felt by the sophomores. jones was a character. his parents were "shouting methodists," and they intended him for the ministry. he had a long, sad face, but he was full of deviltry, and it was very seldom that the freshmen entered into any affair against the sophomores that he was not on hand and interested. "lay on and spare not!" he cried, after the style of a camp-meeting revivalist. "if the wicked entice thee, consent thou not. get behind me, satan! brothers, oh, my dear brothers! it makes my heart sad and weary to see so much wicked strife and contention." punch swallows, the red-headed soph, found himself pitted against lucy little. despite his name, little was not a "sissy," and he was no mean antagonist, as punch found out. it was nip and tuck between them, and neither seemed to have the best of it. some of the sophs were able to down their men, but they were so outnumbered by the freshmen that they could not hold an advantage very long. the struggle between browning and merriwell waxed furious. the big sophomore exerted himself to his utmost, and he found that it was necessary that he should do so if he had any thought of holding his own with the freshman leader. frank knew all the time that he was pitted against a hard man, and so his muscles were strained and his nerves were taut. "now, fresh, we'll see what we can do for you," browning said, as he made a mighty effort to land frank on his back. "you are very kind," laughed merriwell. "i will not forget your kindness." "you are not the only one," panted browning. "there are others." "are you going to the party this evening?" chuckled frank. "not till i have done you up, my friend with the swelled head." "then you expect to be rather late?" "we'll see!" frank resorted to all the tricks he knew, but browning was familiar with every one of them. they gave up trying to down each other by main strength, and science cut quite a figure in their battle. at length browning got frank foul, and to his dismay the leader of the freshmen felt himself falling. browning fell with him, a cry of triumph coming to his lips. that cry turned to an exclamation of dismay, for merriwell seemed to twist about in the air, and they fell side by side on the ground. in a twinkling they were at it again, and over and over they went, till they finally stopped and got upon their feet together. "very good thus far," laughed merriwell. "but i see your wind will not hold out. i am bound to do you in the end." that was the very thing browning feared. "well, i don't know about that," he said as he broke frank's grip. "this may settle the whole business." he struck hard and straight at merriwell's face! chapter xiii. jubilant freshmen. spat! merriwell staggered. "down you go!" browning followed the freshman closely, launching out again, with the full expectation that the second blow would be a settler. frank had been taken slightly off his guard, so that he had failed in getting away from the first blow, but he skillfully ducked the second, countering as the king's fist passed over his shoulder. browning reeled backward, having received a terrific crack on the ear. if frank had not been slightly dazed he might have followed the sophomore closely, but he was a bit slow in getting after bruce. for a few seconds the boys gave an exhibition of scientific sparring which would have proved very interesting to their comrades if all had not been too busy to watch them. frank merriwell contiuued to laugh, and it had been said at yale that he was most dangerous in an encounter when he laughed. "you came near doing it, browning," he admitted, "but it was rather tricky on your part. i wasn't looking for a fight." "you will get many things you are not looking for before you have been at yale much longer," returned the king. "think so?" "dead sure." the two lads seemed to be very evenly matched, save that merriwell was the more catlike on his feet. browning was solid, and it took a terrific blow to stagger him. merriwell was plainly the more scientific. he could get in and away from his foe in a most successful manner, but he saw that in the confined limits of a ring browning's rush would be difficult to escape. what the result of this encounter might have been cannot be told, for two freshmen suddenly appeared and gave the alarm that at least a hundred sophomores were coming in a body to aid their comrades. a moment later the sophs appeared, hurrying along the street toward the scene of the encounter. "'umpty-seven! 'umpty-seven! rah! rah! 'rah!" then the signal was given for the freshmen to break away and take to flight, which they promptly did. "oh, soph--oh, my poor soph!" cried many taunting voices. "good-evening, gentlemen!" called bandy robinson. "shall i toss you down soap and towels?" "say, fellows," cried lucy little, "don't you think it is rather warm out this evening?" "hello! hello!" shouted rattleton. "has it been raining, or did we have a small shower?" then merriwell's beautiful baritone voice pitched the chorus of a familiar negro melody, in which the triumphant and delighted freshmen joined: "git erway from de window, mah love an' mah dove! git erway from de window--don't yeh heah? come eround some odder night, for dere's gwine ter be er fight, an' dar'll be razzers er-flyin' through de air." the sophomores retired to a safe distance and then challenged the freshmen to come out and fight. they called them cowards and other things, but the freshmen laughed and taunted them in return. "is--er--king browning present?" yelled a freshman, leaning out of a window. "if so, i'd like to inquire if he means to attend the party this evening." "if he does," said another freshman, "he will be able to obtain a dress suit down at cohen's, price 'von tollar ber efenin' to shentlemen.'" "oh, you wait till we get at you fresh ducks!" shouted back an angry sophomore. "we'll make you sweat for this!" "go on! you're only fooling!" sang the freshmen. "we'll show you we're not fooling!" excitedly declared punch swallow. "we'll scalp a few of you!" "ah!" cried bandy robinson. "he is a bad man! methinks i can detect his cloven foot." "you're wrong," laughed merriwell. "but you may have been near enough at some time to detect his cloven breath!" the three freshmen who were leaning out of one of the upper windows repeated in chorus: "punch, brother--punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenjair." another freshman shouted: "say, swallows, give us a lock of your hair. it'll save the expense of gas in my room." "i'd like a lock of it, too," declared another. "i'm troubled with rats, and i haven't any paris green handy." "oh, rats!" yelled twenty voices. "hello, parker!" cried little. "i hear you were held up last night? is it true?" "oh, yes," said rattleton. "he'd been down to morey's, and that was the way he got home." "but oh, what a difference in the morning," sang the freshmen. "ask rattleton if he means to join the indians?" called a soph. "or will he sioux for damages?" put in another. "oh, say!" groaned dismal jones. "that's the worst i ever heard! it's enough to give one heart failure!" "come out and fight! come out and fight!" urged the sophomores. "you don't dare to come out and fight!" "you will have to excuse us this evening, gentlemen," said merriwell, suavely. "we have done our best to entertain you, and we will see you again at some other date." "you are certain to see me again," assented browning. "you ran away, or we would have settled matters between us this evening. as it is, i am going to watch my opportunity to do you fairly and squarely. when i am done with you one of us will be beautifully licked." "and that one will not be king bruce," declared andy emery. "say! say! say!" spluttered rattleton. "i'll go you a shot that it is! i'll stand you a supper for twenty at any place you'll name that merriwell knocks the everlasting stuffing out of browning." "done!" returned emery. "you name plime and tace--i mean time and place, and we'll be there, you bet!" declared harry. "all we want is a fair deal." "you'll get that," assured browning. "this little affair shall be arranged very soon." "the sooner the better. don't delay on our account." the sophomores, seeing it was useless to linger there and be taunted by the freshmen, began to stroll away one by one. up in merriwell's room rattleton got down his banjo and began to put it in tune. a merry party gathered there. one of the strings snapped, and as he was putting on another harry fell to laughing. "what are you laughing at?" asked bandy robinson. "down at the table to-night," explained harry, "merriwell was poking his finger into the butter. i asked him what he was doing that for, and he said he was only feeling its muscle." the boys who dined in the house appreciated that, and there was a general laugh. then harry adjusted the string and placed the banjo in tune. pretty soon the boys were singing "bingo," "upidee," "nellie was a lady," and other college songs. every one of them seemed familiar with "paddy duffy's cart" and its pretty chorus: "twinkling stars are laughing, love, laughing on you and me, while your bright eyes look into mine, peeping stars they seem to be." such glorious days and such merry nights will never come again to those who have known them. here's to good old yale! chapter xiv. the rush. at last the sophomores were thoroughly aroused. the freshmen had long been carrying things with a high hand, but the rushing of a lot of them who were in dress suits and bound for a swell party was the straw that broke the camel's back. an indignation meeting was held, and certain freshmen were placed under the ban. of these merriwell was the leader, and it was agreed that every effort must be made to "take the starch" out of him. that browning intended to "do" merriwell was well known, but some of the others proposed to get at him. "wait," advised bruce--"wait till i have had it out with that fellow. then you may do whatever you like with him. but i feel it a solemn duty to settle our little affair before anybody else tackles him." the freshmen were getting their ball team in condition for the coming season, and they were practicing as often as possible. frank was interested in the team, and it was said by those who watched him that he seemed to have the making of a pitcher in him. he had sharp curves and good control. if he had a head, they said, he was all right. but this was something that could not be decided till he had been tried in a game. another freshman by the name of walter gordon seemed certain to be the regular pitcher of the team. he had a record, as he had shown, while merriwell would say nothing about what he had done in the way of pitching. the students had found it extremely difficult to find out much about merriwell, as he persistently avoided talking about himself. if he had been one of the kind of fellows who go around and brag about themselves and what they have done he would not have aroused so much interest; but the very fact that he would not talk of himself made the students curious to know something of his history. in a vague sort of way it became known that although he lived in simple style, like any freshman whose parents were not wealthy, he had a fortune in his own right and had traveled extensively in various parts of the world. frank's silence seemed to cast an air of mystery about him, and that air of mystery made him all the more interesting, for the human mind is ever curious to peer into anything that has the flavor of a secret. the sophomores had been rushed by the freshmen, and they resolved to retaliate in a similar manner. on saturday afternoons the freshmen ball team practiced, and saturday was at hand. it would be an opportune time to meet the youngsters and make it warm for them. the affair was carefully planned, but wind of it reached the freshmen. as a result, the youngsters prepared for what they knew must take place. there could be no such thing as avoiding it, so when saturday noon came they dressed themselves in their old clothes and started for the park, going out as much as possible in a body. when the park was reached it was found that the sophomores were there ahead of them. more than that, the sophs had closed and fastened the gate, and they proposed to hold it. they taunted the freshmen, and told them they would have to climb the fence if they hoped to get into the park. then there was a consultation among the freshmen. "we'll have to make a rush," was the universal decision. frank looked the ground over, and he decided that an ordinary rush would not be successful, for that was the very thing the sophomores were expecting. but there seemed no other way of getting into the park unless they climbed the fence, and not a man thought of doing such a thing as that. the sophomores formed in front of the gate, five deep. in the front rank of the sophs were browning and two 'varsity crew men. bruce was in the middle, with the rowers on either side. the ends were two men from the football team. thus the very first line of the sophomores made a formidable array, and it is not surprising that some of the freshmen were chicken-hearted. with assistance, frank marshaled the freshmen, reserving a place in the first line for himself. while that might be considered a position of honor, it was the most dangerous, and every fellow there knew this rush was to be no baby play. for companions merriwell selected dismal jones, jack diamond, puss parker and a big, broad-shouldered fellow by the name of hovey. rattleton and robinson, together with a dozen others, were appointed as "scouts." it was their duty to "hook" out men from the ranks of the sophs and break the force of the enemy's rush as far as possible. the sophomores had likewise appointed a dozen scouts, strong, active fellows, every one of whom had shown ability as an athlete. the sophs prepared quickly for the rush, but it took more time to get the freshmen in order. in this the seniors rendered not a little assistance. when everything was ready the order was given, and the freshmen started forward. those in the front line leaned back at a slant, and those behind pushed. at the same time the sophomores moved toward the freshmen, and then there were shouts, taunts and jeers. each side gave its own cheer. "this is the last of the freshmen!" cried the sophomores. "we'll wipe them off the earth. good-by, freshies!" "'umpty-seven will never be heard of again," returned the freshmen. "they'll be angels right away." then the two bodies came together with a frightful impact. they had locked their arms about each other's waists, and there they clung, while they pressed upon each other with all their might. for a little time they swayed and swayed. there were screams and cries of pain. they wavered and turned about, but still the crush continued. the scouts were getting in their work, hooking their bent arms around the necks of their opponents and yanking them out of the line. before long the rush turned into a general pushing and hauling. freshman pitted himself again sophomore, and a score of wrestling matches were in progress. merriwell and browning had clinched at the outset, but it was a long time before they could do anything but cling to each other. when they did have an opportunity another soph, a scout, spoiled the match by making a low tackle on frank and flinging him to the ground. browning came down heavily on the leader of the freshmen, but he immediately jumped up, crying: "that was not a square deal. let's have it over." but the breath had been knocked out of frank with the force of the fall, and he fell back twice as he struggled to arise. "are you hurt?" asked browning. "no," panted frank, who could dimly see his opponent through a thick haze which seemed to hang before his eyes. "then why don't you get up?" "i--i'm going to." setting his teeth, he did so, but rattleton caught browning by the collar and flung him aside as the big soph sprang at frank. "you are hurt, old man!" insisted harry. "i saw the fellow when he tripped you. it wasn't a fair thing. you are in no condition to meet browning now. wait till you get your wind." "i must meet him!" cried frank. "he'll say he did me up if i do not." "then he'll lie. it's all right. you do as i say." frank tried to resist, but rattleton dragged him aside, being able to do so because browning found himself occupied by a little freshman who stuffily blocked his way, declaring that merriwell should have a show. frank was more than disgusted by the result of the affair. he felt that he must have it out with browning then and there, and he made desperate attempts to break from harry. ordinarily he would have succeeded with the greatest ease, but the fall had robbed him of his strength. then came the knowledge that the freshmen had been repulsed. the sophomores were cheering wildly, and the unfortunate freshmen were downcast. "they've held us out," muttered harry, bitterly. "it begins to look as if we'll have to climb over the fence if we get inside." "what's that?" cried frank, bracing up a little. "climb the fence? not much!" "then how'll we get in? will you tell me that?" "we'll find a way." "wind a fay!" spluttered harry excitedly. "it's easy enough to say that, but i don't believe we can do it." "oh, freshies! oh, you poor freshies!" tauntingly cried the victors. "don't you wish you could? but you can't do it, you know!" "that remains to be seen," muttered merriwell, brushing the hair back from his eyes. "i didn't think we could do it in this way. but there are others." "you'll be a dandy if you devise a way," declared little. diamond, with his coat off, his vest ripped up the back and his shirt torn open at the throat, was regarding the jeering sophomores with a fierce, sullen look. evidently he was ready for anything. he glanced at merriwell, but said nothing. frank called the freshmen around him. "look here, fellows," he said, "we are bound to go into that park, and we're going through that gate." "that sounds well," said dismal jones, who wore an unusually long face, "but i'm inclined to believe we're not in it with that crowd." "guess again!" exclaimed frank. "now listen to me, and i don't want one of you to look around. you might arouse suspicion if you did. close to the wall there lies a long stick of timber." "well?" "we'll use it." "how?" "as a battering-ram." "to batter down the gate? why, how are we to get to the gate?" "the timber will take us there, and it will open the gate. when i give the word we will rush for it, pick it up, and sail right into the sophs. i'll bet anything they get out of the way when they see us coming with that. it will take them by surprise." "'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" yelled several of the enthusiastic freshmen. the sophomores yelled back at them in derision. "they think we are beaten now," said diamond, whose face had lighted up somewhat as he listened to merriwell's plan. "if we only can get the best of them that way!" "we can and we will," assured frank. "those who can't get hold of the timber may look out that they don't hook our men away from it. that is all." the freshmen became eager for the effort, but frank held them back till he was certain they all understood just what was to be done. "are you ready?" he finally asked. "all ready," was the eager reply. "then go!" the sophomores were astonished to see the freshmen suddenly whirl all together and rush toward the wall. "they're going over! they're going over!" the sophomores shouted their satisfaction and delight, fully convinced that they had forced the freshmen to abandon all hope of going through the gate. then came a surprise for them. the freshmen caught up the timber, and merriwell cried: "charge!" like a tornado they bore down on the men near the gate, toward which the timber was directed. with cries of amazement the alarmed sophomores broke and scattered before the oncoming freshmen. crash! the timber struck the gate, bursting it open instantly, and the triumphant freshmen swarmed into the park, cheering wildly. "hurrah for 'umpty-eight!" yelled bandy robinson, turning a handspring. "we are the boys to do 'em!" "hurrah for frank merriwell!" shouted harry rattleton, his face beaming with joy. "it was his scheme that did it." "hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" roared the freshmen. "'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" then frank felt himself lifted to the shoulders of his enthusiastic admirers and carried to the home plate of the ball ground, where the freshmen cheered again and again. the sophomores were filled with rage and chagrin. "that was the blamedest trick i ever heard of in all my life!" declared andy emery. "we weren't looking for anything of the kind." "and we have merriwell to thank for it!" snapped evan hartwick. "he's full of tricks as an egg is full of meat." "by jawve!" said willis paulding, who had managed to keep out of harm's way during the entire affair. "i think somebody ought to do something to that fellaw--i really do, don't yer know." "suppose you try to see what you can do with him," grinned tad horner. "you ought to be able to do something." "aw--really you will hawve to excuse me!" exclaimed willis in alarm. "i hawdly think i could match his low cunning, don't yer understand." "oh, yes, i understand," nodded horner, significantly. "it takes a man to go up against merriwell." "i hope you don't mean to insinuate--" "oh, no!" interrupted tad. "i have said it." "eh? i hawdly think i understand, don't yer know." "think it over," advised the little soph as he turned away. it is probable that bruce browning was more thoroughly disgusted than any of his friends. "confound it!" he thought. "if i'd stuck to that fellow and done him up anyway he wouldn't have been able to carry out this trick. if he is given any kind of a show he is bound to take advantage of it." bruce felt like fighting. "i'm going in there and lick him," he declared. "i will settle this matter with merriwell right away." but some of his friends were more cautious. "it won't do," declared puss parker. "won't do?" "no, sir." "why not?" "it might be done under cover of a rush, but a single fight between a soph and a fresh under such public conditions would be sure to get them both in trouble." "i don't care a continental! i've stood him just as long as i can! if i can give him a good square licking i'll stand expulsion, should it come to that!" they saw that browning was too heated to pause for sober thought, and so they gathered close around him and forced him to listen to reason. it took no small amount of argument to induce the king to give over the idea of going onto the ball field and attacking merriwell, but he was finally shown the folly of such a course. however, he vowed over and over that the settlement with merriwell should come very soon. chapter xv. on the ball field. the sophomores went in to watch the freshmen practice and incidentally to have sport with them. two nines had been selected, one being the regular freshman team and the other picked up to give them practice. as merriwell had been given a place on the team as reserve pitcher, his services were not needed at first, and so he went in to twirl for the scrub nine. walter gordon went into the box for the regular team, and he expected to fool the irregulars with ease. he was a well-built lad, with a bang, and it was plain to see at a glance that he was stuck on himself. he had a trick of posing in the box, and he delivered the ball with a flourish. the scrub team did not have many batters, and so it came about that the first three men up were disposed of in one-two-three order, not one of them making a safe hit or reaching first. rattleton had vainly endeavored to get upon the regular team. he had played pretty fast ball on a country nine, but he was somewhat out of practice and he had not made a first-class showing, so he had failed in his ambition. he went into catch for merriwell, and they had arranged a code of signals beforehand, so that they were all prepared. there was no affectation about frank's delivery, but the first man on the list of the regulars found merriwell's slow drop was a hard ball to hit. he went after two of them before he saw what he was getting. then he made up his mind that he would get under the next one and knock the peeling off it. he got under it all right, for instead of being a drop it was a rise, and the batter struck at least eighteen inches below it. "well, say," laughed gordon, who had been placed second on the list at his own request. "i'll go you something he doesn't work that on me." he was full of confidence when he walked up to the plate. the watching sophomores were doing their best to rattle merriwell, and it seemed that he must soon get nervous, even though he did not seem to hear any of the jolly that was being flung at him. the very first ball seemed to be just where gordon wanted it, and he swung at it with all his strength. it twisted in toward him and passed within two inches of his fingers. gordon looked mildly surprised, but he was still confident that he would be able to hit the next one with ease. he found out his mistake later on when he went after an out drop and failed to come within six inches of it. then it was gordon who grew nervous. he did not fancy the idea of being fanned out by his rival, and he felt that he must make connections with the next one. he resolved to wait for a good one, and frank fooled him by putting two straight ones right over the center of the plate. gordon felt sure that both would be curves, and so he offered at neither of them. the umpire, however, who was a particular friend of gordon, called them both balls. then gordon went after the next ball, which was a raise, but found nothing but empty air. the third man was easy, and he fanned, also, making three in succession. parker punched browning in the ribs. "say," he observed, "i'll go you two to one that merriwell is on the 'varsity team before the end of next season." "if he is alive he may be," returned the king, grimly. our hero's pitching was a surprise to his friends, for until that day he had not seemed to let himself out. even then he did not appear to be doing his best work, and one who watched him in a friendly way fancied he might do still better if forced to make the effort. walter gordon was filled with disgust and dismay. "he's having great luck," muttered gordon. "why, i don't see how i missed a ball i struck at. every one was a dead easy thing, and i should have killed any of them." he squirmed as he heard burn putnam--familiarly called old put--the manager of the team, compliment merriwell on his skillful work. "i fancy i'll be able to use you more than i thought i should at first, merriwell," said putnam. "we can tell more about that in the future." "i've got to strike that fellow out," thought gordon as he went into the box. but he did not. merriwell came first to bat in the second inning, and he sent a safe single into right field, deliberately placing it, as was evident to every ball player present. gordon turned green with anger, and then he became nervous. to add to his nervousness, merriwell obtained a lead from first and stole second on his delivery, getting it easily. but that was not the end of gordon's woes, for merriwell seemed in a reckless mood, and he made for third on the next pitch, getting it on a beautiful slide, although the catcher made an attempt to throw him out. the catcher came down scowling, and gordon went to meet him, asking as he did so: "what's the matter with you? you ought to have stopped him at second and held him there." "i ought to have stopped him!" came derisively from the disgusted backstop. "i came down to ask you if this was the way you were going to pitch in a regular game. why, that fellow is getting a long start on your delivery, and he does it every time. you've got to stop that kind of business." for some moments they talked, and then gordon sulkily walked back to the box. he tried to catch frank playing off third, but simply wasted time. then he made a snap delivery and hit the batter, who went down to first. by this time gordon was rattled, and he sent the next ball over the heart of the plate. the batter nailed it for two bags, and two men came home. gordon walked out of the box and up to the bench where old put was sitting. "i am sick," he declared. he looked as if he spoke the truth. "i thought something was the matter with you," said the manager. "you're white as a sheet. it's folly for you to practice while you are in this condition." gordon put on his sweater and then drew his coat over that. he wandered off by himself and sat down. "hang that fellow merriwell!" he whispered to himself. "i never thought he would bother me so much. i am beginning to hate him. he is too cool and easy to suit me." the practice was continued, and merriwell showed up finely, so that old put was pleased. the sophomores quit trying to have sport with the freshmen, as it happened that two of the professors had wandered into the park and were looking on from a distance. browning saw them. "why are they out here?" he snapped. "never knew 'em to come before. i won't even get a chance to talk to merriwell." "better keep away from him this afternoon," cautioned hartwick. "he can't escape you, and there is plenty of time." "that's so," agreed bruce. "but i hate to think how he is crowing to himself over the way the freshies got into the park. i'd like to take the starch out of him at once." hartwick induced browning to leave the park, and the departure of the king caused the sophomores to wander away in small groups. as a general thing they were discussing merriwell, his position with the freshmen, and his pitching. some insisted that he was not a pitcher and would never make one, while others were equally confident that he was bound to become a great twirler some day. some of the groups discussed the antagonism between merriwell and browning, and all were confident that the king would do the freshman when he got himself into condition. it was not strange that they believed so, for they remembered how bruce had knocked out kid lajoie, who was a professional. browning himself proceeded directly to his rooms, where he sat himself down and fell to thinking. twice had he been up against merriwell, and he had found out that the leader of the freshmen was no easy thing. in neither struggle had he obtained an advantage through his own unaided efforts, and in this last affair he had felt that he was losing his wind, while merriwell seemed as fresh as ever till he was thrown by a third party. "that's where i am not yet his match," bruce soberly decided. "if i were fortunate enough to land a knockout blow with my left at the outset i'd finish him easily; but if he should play me and keep out of my reach he might get me winded so he could finally get the best of it. i must work off more flesh." having arrived at this conclusion, browning was decidedly glad that his friends had kept him from closing in on merriwell and forcing a fight on the ball field. "another week will do it," bruce thought. "no matter what is said, i'll not meet that fellow till i am his match--till i am more than his match, for i must do him. if i do not my days as king of the sophs are numbered. i can see now that some of the fellows sympathize secretly with merriwell, although they do not dare do so openly. it must be stopped. he may be a first-class fellow, but when he treads on my corns i kick." hartwick tried to talk to bruce, but the latter would say very little, and it was not long before he left the room. browning stepped out briskly, and a stranger who saw him could not have believed that he had the reputation of being the laziest lad in college. in one line bruce was thoroughly aroused, but he was neglecting his studies in a shameful manner, and more than once a warning voice told him that while he was putting himself in condition to dispose of merriwell he was getting into trouble in another quarter. he did not heed that warning, however. his one thought was to retain his position as king of the sophomores, and in order to do that he must not let any freshman triumph over him. in town he went directly to a certain saloon and stopped at the bar, although he did not order a drink. "is the professor in?" he asked. "i think he is," replied the barkeeper. then browning passed through into a back room and climbed some dirty stairs, finally rapping at a door. "come in!" called a harsh voice. bruce pushed open the door and entered. the room was quite large, but was not very clean. the walls were pasted over with sporting pictures taken from illustrated papers. there was a bed, some old chairs, one of which had a broken back, a center table, a cracked mirror, and two cuspidors. a door opened into another room beyond. lounging in a chair, with his feet on the table beside an empty beer bottle and dirty glass, was a ruffianly-looking chap, who had a thick neck that ran straight up with the back of his head. his hair was close cropped and his forehead low. there was a bulldog look about his mouth and jaw, and his forehead was strangely narrow. the man was smoking a black, foul-smelling pipe, while the hands which held a pink-tinted illustrated paper were enormous, with huge knuckles and joints. his hand when closed looked formidable enough to knock down an ox. "how do you do, professor?" saluted bruce. "waryer," growled the man, still keeping his feet on the table. "so it's you, is it? dis ain't your day." "i know it, but i decided to come around just the same. i am not getting the flesh off as fast as i ought." "hey?" roared the man, letting his feet fall with a crash. "wot's dat? d'yer men ter say i ain't doin' a good job wid yer? wot der blazes!" "oh, you are doing all right, professor, but i find i must be in condition sooner than i thought. my gymnasium exercise doesn't seem to--" "dat gymnasium work is no good--see? i knows wot i'm givin' yer, too. i told yer in der first place ter stick ter me, an' i'd put yer in shape. it'll cost more, but--" "i don't mind that. no matter what it costs, i must be in condition to lick that fellow i was telling you about, and i must be in condition one week from to-day." "dat's business. i'll put yer dere. an' yer know wot i told yer--i'll show yer a trick dat'll finish him dead sure ef de mug is gittin' de best of yer. it'll cost yer twenty-five extra ter learn dat trick, but it never fails." browning showed sudden interest. "i had forgotten about that," he said. "what will it do?" "it'll do der bloke what ye're after, dat's wot." "yes, but how--how?" "t'ink i'm goin' ter give der hull t'ing erway? well, i should say nit! i tells yer it'll fix him, and it'll fix him so dere won't be no more fight in him. it'll paralyze him der first t'ing, an' he won't be no better dan a stiff." "how bad will it hurt him?" the man paused a moment and then added: "well, i don't mind sayin' dat it'll break his wrist. yer can do it de first crack arter i shows yer how, but it'll cost twenty-five plunks ter learn der trick." after a few moments of hesitation browning drew forth his pocketbook and counted out twenty-five dollars. chapter xvi. to break an enemy's wrist. buster kelley was a character. professor kelley he called himself. he claimed to be a great pugilist, and he was forever telling of the men he had put to sleep. but he couldn't produce the papers to show for it. the public had to take his word, if they took anything. in fact, he had never fought a battle in his life, unless it was with a boy half his size. he made a bluff, and it went. the youngsters who came to yale and desired to be instructed in the manly art were always recommended to kelley. to give kelley his due, he was really a fairly good boxer, and he might have made a decent sort of a fight if he had possessed the courage to accept a match and the self denial and energy to go through a regular course of training. but kelley was making an easy living "catching suckers," and there was no real reason why he should go through the hardships of training and actually fighting so long as he could fool the youngsters who regarded him as a one-time great and shining light of the prize ring. he was too shrewd to stand up with any pupil who might get the best of him and permit that pupil to hammer away at him. he kept them at work on certain kinds of blows, so he always knew exactly what was coming. in this manner of training them he never betrayed just how much he really knew about fighting. some of the young fellows who became kelley's pupils were the sons of wealthy parents, and then it happened that the professor worked his little game for all there was in it. he sold them "secrets," and they paid dearly for what they learned. some of the secrets were of no value at all, and some were actually worth knowing. it happened that he did know how to break a man's wrist in a very simple manner, providing he could find just the right opportunity. it was a simple trick, but the opportunity to practice it could seldom be found in a fight. kelley's eyes, which were somewhat bleary, bulged with greed as he saw browning count out the money. "it's givin' yer der trick dirt cheap--see?" said the professor. "i never sold it less dan twice dat ermount before. dat's straight. i'll have ter make yer promise not ter tell it ter der odder chaps before i instructs yer." "if i buy it it is mine," said bruce. "come off der roof! you enters inter an' agreement wid me dat yer don't blow dis t'ing, ur i don't tell yer." "what if i want to tell a particular friend?" "yer don't tell him. dat's all. i had ter pay t'ree hunderd dollars ter learn dis, an' sign a 'greement dat i wouldn't give it erway. jem mace tort me dis trick w'en i sparred wid him in liverpool. he says ter me, says he: 'buster, ye're a boid, dat's wot ye are. if you knowed der trick of breakin' a bloke's wrist dere ain't no duffer in der woild dat can do yer. i'll show yer der crack fer sixty pound.' he wouldn't come down a little bit, an' i paid him wot he asked. since dat time i've knocked roun' all over der woild, an' it's saved me life fife times. dat was a cheap trick wot i got from old jem, dat were. a dago pulled a knife on me oncet fer ter cut me wide open, but i broke der dago's wrist quicker dan yer can spit." "well, here is your money, and now i want to know that trick." "yer 'grees not ter tell it ter anybody?" "yes, i agree." "dat settles it." kelley took the money and carefully stowed it away in his clothes. "strip up an' git inter yer trainin' rig," he directed. bruce went into the back room, and buster poked himself in the ribs with his thumb, grinning and winking at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. "oh, say! but i'm a peach!" he told himself in a confidential whisper. "if der college perfessers don't git arter me ergin i'll make me forchune right yere." kelley had originally hung out a sign and advertised to instruct young gentlemen in boxing, but the faculty had made it rather warm for him, and it was generally supposed that he had been forced to leave new haven. he had not left, but he had changed his quarters to the rooms he now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon. in a short time bruce called that he was ready, and the professor leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia such as a man in kelley's business might need. at one side of the room were several small closets, in which kelley's pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them. the door of one closet was open, and browning's street clothes were hanging on some hooks inside. browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes. he was stripped to the waist. buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye, punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh. "well, say!" cried the professor. "i'd like ter know wot yer kickin' erbout! i never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has, an' dat's on der dead. why, w'en yer comes yere yer didn't have a muscle dat weren't buried in fat, an' now dey're comin' out hard all over yer. you'd kick ef yer wuz playin' football!" "that's all right," said bruce, rather impatiently. "i know what i want, and i am paying you to give it to me. go ahead." "don't be so touchy," scowled kelley. "tackle der bag a while, an' let's see how yer work." browning went at the punching bag while the professor stood by and called the changes. he thumped it up against the ceiling and caught it on the rebound thirty times in succession, first with his right and then with his left. then he went at it with both hands and fairly made it hum. then, at the word, with remarkable swiftness, he gave it fist and elbow, first right and then left. then he did some fancy work at a combination hit and butt. by the time buster called him off browning was streaming with perspiration and breathing heavily. "dat's first rate," complimented the professor. "yer does dat like yer wuz a perfessional." "great scott!" gasped bruce. "i'd never torture myself in this way if i didn't have to! it is awful!" he looked around for a chair, but buster grinned and said: "dat's right, set right down--nit. youse don't do dat no more in dis joint. wen i gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough--see? dat's der way ter pull der meat off er man." "well, what's next?" "see if yer can raise yer record anoder pound on der striker." bruce went at the striking machine, which registered the exact number of pounds of force in each blow it received. "has any one beaten me yet?" he asked. "naw. dere ain't nobody come within ninety pound of yer." bruce looked satisfied, but he made up his mind to raise his record if possible, and he succeeded in adding twelve pounds to it. "say!" exclaimed buster, "if dat cove wot yer arter does you he's a boid!" "that's just what he is," nodded bruce, streaming with perspiration. "he is a bad man to go against." "if yer ever gits at him wid dat left ye'll knock him out, sure." "he is like a panther on his feet, and i shall be in great luck if i find him with my left." "yer don't want ter t'ink dat. yer wants ter t'ink yer goin' ter find him anyhow. dat's der way." "i have thought so before, and i have discovered that he is a wonderfully hard man to find." "wen yer goin' ter fight him?" "i am going to try to make him meet me one week from to-day." "where?" "i don't know yet." "is he a squealer?" "i don't believe you could drag anything out of him with horses." "if dat's right yer might make it yere, an' it could be kept quiet. i'd charge a little somet'ing fer der use of der room, but dat wouldn't come out of eder of youse, fer we'd make der fellers pay wot come in ter see it." "we'll see about that," said bruce. "but now i want to know that trick." "oh, yes. i near fergot dat." "well, i didn't." "say, if yer use dat on him i don't t'ink we can have der scrap here." "why not?" "if one of dem freshies got injuries in dis place so bad it might git out, an' dat would fix me." "i don't intend to use it on him unless i have to. go ahead and explain your trick. if it isn't straight i want my money back." "dere won't be any money back, fer der trick is all right, all right. now stan' up here an' i'll show yer how it's did." kelley then showed bruce how to bring the edge of his open hand down on the upper side of an enemy's wrist just back of the joint. "yer wants ter snap it like dis," buster explained, illustrating with a sharp, rebounding motion. "if yer strikes him right dere wid der cushion meat on der lower edge of yer hand an' snaps yer hand erway like dis, it's dead sure ter break der bone. jes' try it on yer own wrist, but be careful not ter try it too hard." bruce did as directed, and he found that he hurt himself severely, although he struck a very light blow. "dat's ter trick," said kelley, "an' it's a dandy. don't yer ever use it 'less yer dead sure yer wants ter break der odder feller's wrist." then the professor called up a colored boy, who rubbed bruce down, and the king of the sophomores finally departed. as he walked back toward his room in the dusk of early evening, browning began to feel sorry that he had learned the trick at all. "it would be a dirty game to play on merriwell," he muttered, "but now that i know it, i may get mad and do it in a huff, especially if i see merriwell is getting the best of me." the more browning thought the matter over the greater became his regret that he had learned the trick of breaking an opponent's wrist. for all that he had a strong feeling against merriwell, he could see that the leader of the freshmen was square and manly, and he did not believe frank would take an unfair advantage of a foe. bruce became quite unlike his old jovial self. he was strangely downcast and moody, and he saw that he was fast losing prestige with those who had once regarded him as their leader. hartwick, browning's roommate, was more bitter against merriwell. "the confounded upstart!" he would growl. "think of his coming here and carrying things on with such a high hand! when we were freshmen the sophomores had everything their own way. they lambda chied us till they became sick of it, and all our attempts to get even proved failures. now the freshmen who are following the lead of this fellow merriwell seem to think that they are cocks of the walk. i tell you what it is, bruce, you must do that fellow, and you must do him so he will stay done." "oh, i don't believe he is such a bad fellow at heart, it wouldn't be right to injure him permanently." "wouldn't it? give me the chance and see if i don't fix him." hartwick began to regard his roommate with disdain. "for goodness' sake, don't get soft," he implored. "the fellows will say you are chicken-hearted, and that will settle your case. you'll never get back to your old position if you once lose it." "i'd rather be thought chicken-hearted than hold my position by dirty play." hartwick made no retort, but it was plain to see that he entertained a different view of a case like the one in question. browning worked like a beaver to get himself in shape for the coming struggle, but he promised himself over and over that he would never do such a thing again. it was pride and hope that sustained him through his severe course of training. "no fresh mug can do youse now," buster kelley finally declared. "i'll put me dough on you, an' i'll win, too." bruce was really in very good form, and he felt that he stood more than an even chance with merriwell. he had seen the freshman fight, however, and he realized that he would not have a walkover. the freshmen began to think that browning feared to meet merriwell, and they openly told him as much. they taunted him to such an extent that it was with the utmost difficulty he held himself in check till the expiration of the time he had set for getting himself in condition. "what if i should see the freshman getting the best of me and should break his wrist?" he thought. "i might make it appear to be an accident, but i would know better myself. i'd get the best of merriwell, and the fellows would still hail me as king browning, but i would be ashamed of myself all the while." it was that thought which troubled him so much and made him appear so grouchy. "browning is in a blue funk whenever he thinks of stacking up against the freshman," one sophomore confidentially told another. "i believe he has lost his nerve." "it looks that way," admitted the other. thus it came about that bruce's appearance led his former admirers to misjudge him, and he saw a growing coolness toward him. "i'll meet merriwell on the level," he finally decided, "and i will whip him on the level or i'll not whip him at all." then he instructed hartwick to carry a challenge to frank. "i will fight him with hard gloves," said bruce. he had decided that with a glove on his hand he could not easily perform the trick of breaking his enemy's wrist in case he was seized by an impulse to do so. "gloves?" cried hartwick. "why, man, why don't you challenge him to meet you with bare fists?" "because i have decided that gloves are all right." "the fellows will say you are afraid." "let them say so if they like," returned bruce, but he winced a bit, as if a tender spot had been touched. hartwick did his test to induce his friend to challenge merriwell to a fight with bare fists, but bruce had made up his mind and he was obstinate. so it came about that hartwick carried the challenge just as browning desired, and it was promptly accepted. merriwell was not a fellow who sought trouble, but he knew he must meet browning or be called a coward, and he did not dally. he quietly told hartwick that any arrangements mr. browning saw fit to make would be agreeable to him. in that way he put browning on his honor to give him a square deal. the matter was kept very quiet. it was decided that the match should come off in kelley's back room, and a few of merriwell's and browning's friends should be invited. bruce paid for the room and firmly "sat on" the professor's scheme to charge admission. "this is no prize fight," he rather warmly declared. "we are not putting ourselves on exhibition, like two pugilists. it is a matter of honor." "well, if youse college chaps don't git der derndest ideas inter yer nuts!" muttered kelley, who could not understand browning's view of an affair of honor. "youse takes der cream, dat's wot yer do!" on saturday afternoon one week after the rush at the park certain students might have been seen to stroll, one at a time, into the saloon over which were the headquarters of professor kelley. it was three in the afternoon that about twenty lads were gathered in buster's training-room to witness the meeting between merriwell and browning. tad horner was chosen referee. "look here," he said before the first round, "if any man here isn't satisfied with my decisions, let him meet me after the match is over, and i will satisfy him or fight him." this was said in all earnestness, and it brought a round of applause and laughter. it was agreed that it should be a six-round contest, not more and no less, unless one side threw up the sponge or one of the men was knocked out. rattleton was frank's second, and hartwick represented bruce. a regular ring had been roped off, and the men entered from opposite sides at a signal. much to his disgust, kelley was not allowed to take any part in the affair. both lads were stripped to the waist. merriwell was clean limbed, but muscular, while browning was stocky and solid. the sophomore had gotten rid of his superfluous flesh in a wonderful manner, and he looked to be a hard man to tackle. the gloves were put on, and then the rivals advanced and shook hands. an instant later they were at it, and the decisive struggle between them had begun. their movements were so rapid that it was difficult for the eyes of the eager spectators to follow them. both got in some sharp blows, and the round ended with a clean knock-down for browning, who planted a terrific blow between merriwell's eyes and sent the freshman to the floor. the sophs were jubilant and the freshmen were downcast. merriwell simply laughed as he sat on rattleton's knee. "whee jiz--i mean jee whiz!" spluttered harry. "are you going to let that fellow do you. the sophs will never get over it if you do. hear 'em laugh!" "don't worry," smiled frank. "this is the beginning. there must be an ending." "do him--do him, bruce!" fiercely whispered hartwick in the ear of his principal. "it's plain enough that you can." "i think i can," said bruce, confidently. the sophs offered three to two on browning, and many bets were made. then time was called and the rivals advanced once more. the second round was hotter than the first, if possible, and merriwell drew first blood by giving browning a heavy one on the nose. it ended with both sparring, and neither seeming to have a decided advantage. now the freshmen were encouraged, and they expressed their confidence in their man. more bets were made, the sophomores still giving odds. the third round filled the freshmen with delight, for merriwell knocked browning off his feet twice, while he seemed to get no heavy blows himself. the sophs became quieter, and no money at odds was in sight. in fact, the freshmen tried to get even money, but could not. the fourth and fifth rounds were filled with good, sharp, scientific work, but toward the close of the fifth both men seemed a trifle groggy. neither had a decided advantage. "dat merriwell is a boid!" declared buster kelley enthusiastically. "why, dat chap could be der champeen of der woild if he went inter der business fer fair. dat's on der level, too." both lads were battered and bruised, and there was blood on their faces when they retired to their corners at the command from horner. "he's a nut," confessed frank. "he has given me some soakers, and he takes his medicine as if he liked it." "you'll finish him next round, sure," fluttered harry. "i shall buck the kickit--i mean kick the bucket if you don't." "how is it?" hartwick eagerly asked as he wiped the blood from browning's face. "can you finish him next round?" "i shall try, but i don't believe the fellow can be licked unless he is killed. that's what i think of him." "didn't i hear you say you knew a trick that would do him?" "yes, but it is not a square deal, although no referee could call it foul if this were a fight with bare fists. as it is, i'd have to get my glove off." "do it! do it! you're a fool if you don't!" "then i'm a fool. that man has trusted this entire affair to our honor, and if i can't whip him fair i won't whip him at all." "you make me sick!" sneered hartwick. at the call the two men promptly faced each other for the final round. at first they were a bit wary, but then, as if by mutual agreement, they went at each other like tigers. blow followed blow, but it was plain that one man was getting quite as much as the other. browning got in one of his terrific drives, but it was not a knockout, and merriwell had the sophomore up up against the rope three times. "time! break away!" yelled tad horner, forcing himself over between the combatants. "it's all over." "what's the decision?" shouted a dozen voices. "a draw," was the distinct answer. "i declare it an even thing between them." there was a moment of silence, and then, bruised and smiling, frank merriwell tore off his glove and extended his hand. off came browning's glove, and he accepted the hand of the freshman. chapter xvii. talking it over. before night nearly every student knew that merriwell and browning had fought a six-round, hard-glove contest to a draw, and it was generally said that the decision was fair. evan hartwick seemed to be the only witness of the fight who was dissatisfied. roland ditson had not been invited to see it, but he expressed a belief that browning would prove the better man in a fight to a finish. several weeks slipped by. after the glove contest browning had very little to say about the freshman leader. whenever he did say anything, it was exactly what he thought, and it was noted that he admitted merriwell to be a comer. evan hartwick could not crush down his powerful dislike for merriwell. he admitted to bruce that he felt an almost irresistible desire to strike the cool freshman whenever they met. "i wouldn't advise you to do it, my boy," lazily smiled browning, who was growing fat again, now that he was no longer in training. "he is a bad man to hit." "it depends on what he is hit with," returned hartwick, grimly. "you made a fool of yourself when you failed to break his wrist, after paying twenty-five toadskins to learn the trick. that would have made you the victor." "and it would have made me feel like a contemptible sneak. i have been well satisfied with myself that i did not try the trick. it is a good thing to know, but it should be used on no one but a ruffian." "it's surprising to me how soft you're getting. this merriwell is dangerous in many directions, and his career would have been stopped short if you had broken his wrist. he has shown that he is a baseball pitcher, but no man can pitch with a broken wrist. he is one of the best freshmen half-backs ever seen at yale, according to the general acknowledgment. and now he is pulling an oar and coaching the freshmen crew at the same time--something never attempted before--something said to be impossible. where would he be if you had broken his wrist?" "he could coach the freshmen just the same, and the very fact that he can do all these things makes me well satisfied that i did not fix him so he couldn't." "wait! wait! what if the freshmen beat us out at lake saltonstall? what if they come out ahead of us?" "they won't." "i know the fellows are saying they will not, but i tell you this merriwell is full of tricks, and there is no telling what he may do with the fresh crew. he is working them secretly, and our spies report that he seems to know his business." "well, if he makes them winners he will deserve the credit he will receive. but he can't do it. no man can coach a crew and pull an oar at the same time. the very fact that he is attempting such a thing shows he isn't in the game." "don't be so sure. they say he has a substitute who takes his place in the boat sometimes, and that gives him a chance to see just how the crew is working." "rats! who ever heard of such a thing! merriwell is all right, but he doesn't know anything about rowing. he may think he knows, but he is fooling himself." "well, we will have to wait and see about that." "i really believe you are afraid of merriwell. why--ha! ha! ha!--you are the only one who has an idea the freshmen will be in the race at all." "i know it, but few have had any idea that the freshmen could do any of the things they have done. they have fooled us right along, and--" "oh, say! give me a cigarette and let's drop it. from the way you talk i should say you would make a good sporting editor for a sunday-school paper." "that's all right," muttered hartwick, sulkily, as he tossed bruce a package of turkish cigarettes. "wait and see if i am not right." after this bruce went about telling all the sophomores what hartwick thought, and urging them to "jolly him" whenever they could get a chance. as a result evan was kept in hot water the most of the time, but he persisted in claiming that the freshmen were bound to give them a surprise. one evening a jolly party gathered in browning and hartwick's rooms. cigarettes were passed around, and soon the smoke was thick enough to cut with a knife. "how are the eggs down where you are taking your meals now, horner?" asked puss parker. "oh, they are birds!" chirped little tad, who was perched on the back of a chair, with his cap on the side of his head. this produced a general laugh, and parker said: "speaking of birds makes me think that riches hath wings. i dropped seventy-five in that little game last night." punch swallows groaned in a heartrending way. "that's nothing," he said, dolefully. "i lost a hundred and ten last week, and i've been broke ever since. wired home for money, but the gov didn't respond. after that game all i could think of was two pairs, three of a kind, bobtail flushes, and so on. i made a dead flunk at recitations for two days. the evening after i lost my roll i was to attend a swell affair up on temple street. i was in a rocky condition, and i took something to brace me up, for i knew there would be pretty girls there, and i wouldn't have missed it for anything. the memory of that horrible game was still with me, and whenever my mind wandered i was thinking of jack pots and kindred things. well, i went to the party, and there were plenty of queens there, but i didn't seem to enjoy myself, for some reason. i fancied it possible they might smell my breath, and that worried me. i thought i would go off by myself, and so i wandered into a little room where i imagined i would be alone, but hanged if i didn't run into the hostess and a stack of ladies. then, with my mind confused, i made a fool of myself. 'er--er--excuse me,' i stammered; 'what room is this?' 'this is the anteroom, sir,' replied the hostess. 'what's the limit?' says i, as i fumbled in my pocket. then i took a tumble to myself and chased out in a hurry. i saw the girls staring after me as if they thought me crazy. it was awful." "oh, well, you mustn't mind the loss of a few dollars," said andy emery. "a man can make a fortune in this country picking up chips--if he puts them on the right card." "put a little perfumery on that before you use it again, emery," grinned tad horner. "it's got whiskers." "i think swallows all right, but he reminds me of a man i knew once on a time. i haven't seen swallows when he had over twenty-five at a time since he's been here, and still he says he dropped a hundred and ten in one game." "how about this man you knew?" asked parker. "he was a great fellow to stretch the long bow, and it became such a habit that he could not break it. he seemed to prefer a falsehood to the truth, even when the truth would have served him better. well, he died and was buried. one day i visited the cemetery and gazed on his tombstone. on the top of the stone was his name and on the bottom were these words: 'i am not dead, but sleeping.' now that man was lying in his grave, for his habit--" parker flung a slipper at emery, who dodged it. the slipper struck tad horner and knocked him off the back of the chair. "that's all right," said swallows, nodding at emery, who was laughing. "i'll square that the first chance i get." "do! but when you get a roll, remember there are others who are looking for you." "drop this persiflage and come down to business," said browning, winking at the others and nodding toward hartwick, who did not seem to be taking any interest in what was going on. "let's talk about the races." "yas, by jawve!" drawled willis paulding, who tried to be "deucedly english" in everything. "let's talk about the races, deah boys. that's what interests me, don't yer know." hartwick squirmed. he knew what was coming, and still his disposition was such that he could not resist a "jolly" in case the jolliers expressed opinions that did not agree with his own. browning enjoyed seeing the gang get hartwick on a string, and he was ever ready to aid anything of the kind along. by nature the king of sophomores was a practical joker. he had put up more jobs than any man who ever entered yale. that was what had given him his reputation. "i understand the freshmen are rapidly coming to the front," observed hod chadwick, with apparent seriousness. "is that right?" asked parker. "heard anything new?" "why, they say this merriwell has the genuine oxford system." "where'd he get it?" "he has been abroad. it is even reported that he has studied at oxford. he has watched the work of the oxford coach, and he is working the freshmen eight on the same lines." "that's right--that's right," nodded hartwick, and the boys winked at each other. "how do you know it is right?" asked emery. "what do you know about merriwell?" "i know he has been abroad, and i have it straight that he spent considerable time at oxford." "that's nothing. any lubber might watch the work at oxford, but what would that amount to?" "merriwell is no lubber, as you fellows should know by this time." "we don't seem to know much of anything about him. who are his parents? what about them?" "i hear his father was drowned in bed," murmured tad horner. "by jawve!" exclaimed willis paulding. "how could that happen?" "there was a hole in the mattress, and he fell through into the spring," gravely assured tad. willis nearly lost his breath. "that's all wrong," said browning. "it's true merriwell is no lubber. why should he be? his father was a skipper." "what! a sea captain?" asked hartwick. "no, a bank cashier. he skipped to canada." "wow!" whooped tad horner. "how that hurt! don't do it again!" "you fellows have things twisted," asserted parker, with apparent seriousness. "i have private advices that merriwell's father is a poor dentist." "a poor dentist, eh?" "yes, rather poor, but he manages to pull out." tad horner fell off the back of his chair and struck sprawling on the floor. "water!" he gasped. "you wouldn't know it if you saw it," grinned parker. "without a doubt and without any fooling, merriwell's father is dead," said hod chadwick. "do you know this for a fact?" asked swallows. "yes. it is said that he died on the field." "then he was a soldier?" "no; a baseball umpire." "this is a very dry crowd," laughed browning. "i should think you would say something," hinted chadwick. "it isn't in the house. we'll go down to morey's after supper settles and i'll blow." "to fizz?" "not this evening. ale is good enough for this crowd." "oh, i don't suppose we can kick at that. but we were speaking about merriwell and the freshman crew. how are we to escape death at their hands?" "have another cigarette all around," invited parker as he passed them. "that's too slow, but i'll take a cigarette just the same." hartwick got up and walked about in a corner, showing nervousness. they urged him to sit down and take things easy. he felt like making a break and getting out, but he knew they would roar with laughter if he did. "you fellows are a lot of chumps!" he exclaimed, suddenly getting angry. "you treat this matter lightly now, but you are likely to change your tune after the race." the boys were well satisfied, for they saw he was getting aroused. "oh, i don't know as we treat it so very lightly," said emery. "we've got to have our fun, no matter what we may think." "but every one of you is of the opinion that we are going to have a cinch with the freshmen." "it does look easy." "have they been easy thus far?" "oh, that's different." "you will find this is different when it is all over." "now, see here, hartwick," said parker; "you are the only soph who does not think we have a soft thing with the freshmen. what's the matter with you?" "why, he wants to disagree with us, that's all," said browning. "why, he wouldn't eat anything if he thought it would agree with him. that's the kind of a man he is." hartwick looked disgusted. "keep it up! keep it up!" he cried. "but you'll find out!" "now, see here, man," said parker once more; "are you stuck on merriwell?" hartwick showed still greater disgust, his eyes flashing. "stuck on him!" he cried. "well, not any! you fellows ought to know that! stuck on him! that gives me pains!" "well, i couldn't see what ailed you unless you were." "it is because i am not stuck on him that i am so anxious to beat him, as you fellows ought to be able to see." "oh, that's it? excuse me! well, now, how is he going to make a lot of lubberly freshies beat us?" "he's found some men who can pull oars all right, and he has introduced a few innovations that will be surprises." "how do you know so much about it?" "i have been investigating, and i am not the only one." "well, what are his innovations?" "the oxford oar, in the first place." "what is that?" "two to four inches longer than our oar, with a blade five and one-half inches wide, instead of seven inches." "for goodness' sake, what is the advantage of such an oar?" "i'll tell you. with a short course and high stroke no set of men are strong enough to use the old oar and go the distance without weakening. you must admit that." "well?" "with the narrow blades a longer oar can be used and the leverage increased. that is plain enough." the boys were silent for some moments. here was a matter they had not considered, and they were forced to confess that it was a point for discussion. "but that is not enough to enable the freshmen to win, even admitting the english oar to be better, which has not been proven," said emery. "by jawve! i am rather inclined to believe the english oar is superior, don't yer know," put in willis paulding. "that's not surprising in your case," said emery. "that's not all merriwell has done," declared hartwick. "what else has he done?" "he has introduced the oxford style of catch, finish and length of strokes, which means a longer swing, with more leg and body work." "well, that will cook 'em!" cried tad horner. "if he has done that, we'll make a show of those greenies." "what reason have you for thinking anything of the sort?" "every reason. the regular yale stroke cannot be improved upon. that is beyond question." hartwick smiled wearily. "that's what i call conceit," he said. "you don't know whether it can be improved upon or not." there was an outburst of protests by the boys, who believed, as almost every yale man believes, that yale methods are correct and cannot be improved upon. hartwick was regarded as disloyal, and all felt like giving it to him hot. "a longer body swing is certain to make a difficult recovery," said browning. "that is plain enough." "not if the men are worked right and put in proper form," declared hartwick. "i have been told that the english long stroke and recovery is very graceful and easy, and that it does not wear on a man like the american stroke." "by jawve! i think that's right, don't yer know," said paulding. "what you think doesn't count," muttered tad horner. "with such a stroke and swing the men are bound to recover on their toes," asserted browning. "oh, rats!" said punch swallows. "what does that amount to, anyway, in a case like this? we are talking of this tub load of freshmen as if they were the 'varsity crew. what's the use? it won't make any difference what kind of a stroke they use. they are mighty liable to use several different kinds, and they won't be in it at all, my children. let's go down to morey's and oil up." "go ahead," said hartwick, grimly. "but you will think over what i have said after the race comes off." the boys put on their caps and trooped out, laughing and talking as they went. chapter xviii. merriwell and rattleton. "harry!" "hello!" "you've got to stop smoking those confounded cigarettes." harry rattleton let his feet fall with a thump from the table on which they had been comfortably resting and turned about to stare at merriwell, his roommate. his face expressed astonishment, not unmingled with anger. "will you be good enough to repeat that remark?" he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and holding his roll daintily poised in his fingers. "i said that you must stop smoking cigarettes." "well, what did you mean?" "i am in the habit of saying what i mean," was the quiet answer as frank scanned the paper over which he had been pondering for some time. harry got upon his feet, shoved one hand into his trousers pocket, and stared in silence for some seconds at merriwell. that stare was most expressive. "well, may i be jotally tiggered--i mean totally jiggered!" he finally exclaimed. "you'll be worse than that if you keep on with those things," asserted frank. "you'll be totally wrecked." "this is the first time you have had the crust to deliberately tell me that i must do anything," growled harry, resentfully. "and i feel free to say that i don't like it much. it is carrying the thing altogether too far. i have never told you that you must do this thing or you mustn't do that. i should have considered that i was beddling with something that was none of my misness--er--meddling with something that was none of my business." frank perceived that his roommate was quite heated, so he dropped the paper and said: "don't fly off the handle so quick, old man. i am speaking for your own good, and you should know it." "thank you!" sarcastically. "but i am in earnest." "really?" and rattleton elevated his eyebrows. "come now," said frank, "sit down and we will talk it over." "talk it over, eh? i don't know why we should talk over a matter that concerns me alone." "your dinner did not set well. i never saw you so touchy in all my life. you know i am your friend, old man, and there is no reason why you should show such a spirit toward me." "i don't like to be told what i must do and what i mustn't by anybody. that's all there is about it." harry did sit down, but he lighted a fresh cigarette. "well, i suppose you will have your own way, but i want to explain why i said what i did. you know we are out to beat the sophs in the boat race." "sure." "well, in order to do it every man of us must be in the pink of condition. you are not drinking, and old put doesn't know how much you are smoking. if he did he would call you down or drop you. it is pretty certain that gordon would take your place." "well, i suppose you are going to tell old put all about it? is that what you mean?" "not exactly. but you know i have as much interest in the makeup of our crew as old put, although he is the man who really has charge of us." "well?" "if i were to say so, you would be taken out and some one else would fill your place." "and would you do that?" "not unless forced to do so. you should know, harry, that i am ready to stick by you in anything--if i can." "if you can! i don't understand that--hang me, if i do! if i have a friend i am going to stick to him through anything, right or wrong!" "that's first rate and it is all right. if you get into any trouble, i fancy you will not find anybody who will stand by you any longer. but this matter is different. you are in training, and you are not supposed to smoke at all, but you get here in this room and puff away by the hour." "what harm does it do?" "a great deal." "get out! it doesn't make a dit of bifference." "that's what you think, but i know better. at fardale i had a chum who smoked cigarettes by the stack. he was a natural-born athlete, but he never seemed quite able to take the lead in anything. it was his wind. i talked to him, but he thought i didn't know. finally i induced him to leave off smoking entirely. he did it, though it was like taking his teeth. it was not long before he showed an improvement in his work. the improvement continued and he went up to the very top. he acknowledged that he could not have accomplished it if he had kept on with his cigarettes. "now, old man," continued frank, coming over and putting a hand on harry's shoulder in a friendly way, "i am interested in you and i want to see you stay on our crew. you must know that i am giving it to you straight." harry was silent, gazing down at the floor, while his cigarette was going out, still held between his fingers. "i am going to tell you something that you do not know," frank went on. "old put has been asking me to give gordon more of a show. he thinks gordon is a better man than you, but i know better. if you will leave cigarettes alone you are the man for the place. gordon has a beautiful back and splendid shoulders, but he lacks heart, or i am much mistaken. it takes nerve to pull an oar in a race. a man has got to keep at it for all there is in him till he drops--and he mustn't drop till the race is over. that's why i want you. i am confident that you will pull your arms out before you give up. but you won't have the wind for the race unless you quit cigarettes, and quit them immediately." harry was still silent, but his head was lower and he was biting his lips. the cigarette in his fingers had quite gone out. "come now, harry," came earnestly from frank. "just cut clear from the things. they never did any man any good, and they have taken the wind and nerve out of hundreds. you don't want me to keep you on the crew and lose the race by doing so. you don't want it said that i have been partial to you because you are my roommate and particular friend. that's what will be said if things go wrong. the fellows will declare i was prejudiced against gordon, and they will not be to blame unless you can prove yourself the best man. i have nothing against gordon, and i am bound to use him as white as i can. i have explained why i don't want him on the crew, and i have tried to make it clear why i'll have to let him come on at once, unless you drop cigarettes. how is it, my boy? what do you say?" harry got up and went into the bedroom. a moment later he came out with a big package of cigarettes in his hands. he opened the window and flung them as far as possible. "there!" he cried. "by the mumping joses--i mean the jumping moses! i'm done with 'em. i'm not going to smoke them any more!" "good boy!" laughed frank, his face full of satisfaction. "shake!" they clasped hands. rat-tat-tat! a knock at the door. "come in." the door opened and dismal jones, his face longer and sadder than usual, came slouching into the room. "hello, jones, old boy!" cried frank, cheerfully. "what is troubling you now? you look like a funeral." "i'm mad," said dismal in a spiritless way. "is that what ails you? i'd never suspected it from your appearance." "appearances are oftentimes deceitful," croaked jones. "whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." "well, sit down and tell us all about it," invited frank, offering a chair. "my boy, it must be that you are studying too hard. you have the outward appearance of a greasy grind." "what's that i just told you about appearances? you are too hasty in your judgments. the trouble with me this evening is that i have found out something." "i never supposed it would trouble you like this." "wait. you do not know what it is." "that's right. what is it?" frank was familiar with dismal's queer ways, and he knew it was not easy to tell when this son of a "shouting methodist" was jollying and when he was in earnest; but now he was convinced that jones was really serious, and he felt that there must be some cause for it. harry, strangely sobered and silent, sat listening. he could not understand jones, and he was on his guard, knowing how often the fellow turned into a farce what seemed a serious matter. dismal locked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. he cleared his throat and then said: "merry, what would you say if i were to tell everything i could find out about our crew to the sophs?" "i should say you were a confounded sneak!" "hum! i kinder thought you'd say something like that." "but you do not know too much about the crew." "i know something, and i could know more if i had a mind to. all i would have to do would be to play the spy a little." "well, i suppose that is right. what about it?" "somebody is playing the spy." "how do you know?" "i've got it straight enough, for the sophs know all about what our crew is doing. they are laughing over the oxford stroke and the english oars." "how do you know this?" "heard 'em." "when?" "to-night." "where?" "on the street. browning and a party were going down to morey's, and they were having a high old time with hartwick, who was explaining the advantages of the stroke and the oars our crew has adopted." "that's not proof that somebody has played the spy. it may have slipped out through the carelessness of some of our men." "it may. but i don't think so. i heard emery ask hartwick how he knew so much about us." "what did hartwick say?" frank eagerly asked. "he said he had a nice fresh flat who thought it a fine thing to play the spy and blab all he found out." "blay bluses--i mean blue blazes!" cried harry, banging his fist down on the table. "that's what makes me cot under the hollar! a man who would do a thing like that will steal a sheep! i'd like to have the pleasure of thumping him a few times--just a few!" merriwell was silent, a dark look on his face. "it will not be healthy for the spy if i catch him," he finally declared. "i'll make it pretty hot for him around here!" "which would be a highly commendable action," bowed dismal. "have you any idea who would do such a low-down thing?" asked harry. "sometimes we have ideas which we do not care to express." "that's right; but in a case like this--confidentially--to us, you know--" "well, if i say anything, it is to be strictly confidential." "sure!" cried frank and harry in a breath. "you both give me your word for it?" "we do." "if i knew, i would not hesitate to come out openly and accuse the fellow," said dismal; "but this is merely a case of suspicion, and i will tell you who i suspect." "go ahead." "well, there is a certain fellow who has not been above playing into the hands of the sophs in the past, and it is natural for me to suspect him. his name is--" the door opened, and roland ditson came in without knocking. chapter xix. who is the traitor? "hello, fellows!" cried ditson. "how are yer, jones! i am surprised to see you here. is it possible you have let up cramming long enough to make a call? why, i have even heard that you had your eye on some classical scholarship prize as soon as this. everybody who knows you says you're a regular hard-working old dig." "there are fools who know other people's business a great deal better than their own," said dismal stiffly. "that's right," nodded ditson, who made a great effort to be rakish in his appearance, but always appeared rather foxy instead. "but i tell you this matter of burning the midnight oil and grinding is not what it's cracked up to be. it makes a man old before his time, and it doesn't amount to much after he has been all through it. goodness knows we freshmen have to cram hard enough to get through! i am tired of it already. and then we have to live outside the pale, as it were. when we become sophs we'll be able to give up boarding houses and live in the dormitories. that's what i am anxious for." "it strikes me that you are very partial to sophs," said dismal, giving roll a piercing look. ditson was not fazed. "they're a rather clever gang of fellows," he said. "freshmen are very new, as a rule. of course there are exceptions, and--" "i suppose you consider yourself one?" "oh, i can't tell about that. but supposing i am; by the time i become a soph some of the newness will have worn off." "i am not particularly impressed with any freshman who seems to think so much of sophomores. you ought to stay with them all the time." "oh, i don't know. they have treated me rather well, and i have found the most of them easy people." "they seem to have found some freshman easy fruit. somebody has been blowing to them about our crew." "i know it," was ditson's surprising confession, "and that's why i dropped in here. i wanted to tell merriwell about it." jones gasped for breath. he was too surprised to speak for some minutes. ditson took out a package of cigarettes, offering them first to harry, who shook his head. "what?" cried roll, amazed. "you won't smoke?" "no." "what's that mean?" "i have left off," said harry, with an effort. "left off? oh, say! that's too good! you leave off!" a bit of color came to rattleton's face, and he gave ditson a look that was not exactly pleasant; but roll was too occupied with his merriment to observe it. frank was studying ditson. he watched the fellow's every movement and expression. roll knew it was useless to offer cigarettes to merriwell or jones, so he selected one from the package, kneaded it daintily, pulled a little tobacco from the ends, moistened the paper with his lips, and then lighted it with a wax match. "say, harry, old man, i pity you," he said, with a taunting laugh, looking at harry. "i've tried it. it's no use. you'll break over before two days are up--yes, before one day is up. it's no use." rattleton bit his lips. "why, you are dying for a whiff now!" chuckled ditson. "i know you are. i got along a whole day, but it was a day of the most intense torture." "there may be others with more stamina than you, ditson," snapped rattleton. "just because you couldn't leave off a bad habit, it's no sign that nobody can." "oh, i suppose not. but what's the use? don't get hot, old man. you ought to know my way by this time." "i do." "what is it that you came to tell me?" asked frank. "eh? oh, about the sophs. those fellows seem to know more about our crew than i do." "what do they know?" "why, they know our men are using english oars, have adopted a new stroke, and have done several other things. now, those are matters on which i was not informed myself." "how do you know the sophs know so much?" "i've just come from morey's. went in there with cressy. fine fellow, he is. while i was in there browning and his crowd wandered in. they were drinking ale and discussing the race. i heard what they were saying. couldn't help hearing, you know. they were talking about our crew and the new methods you had introduced. it was mighty interesting to me, as i didn't know about those new methods myself." "how innocent!" muttered jones. ditson elevated his eyebrows. "what's that?" he demanded. "why shouldn't i be innocent? i am not on the crew, and the men are training and practicing secretly. i have had no way of finding out what they were doing." "but some sneak has!" cried rattleton, fiercely, "and he's been and blowed all he found out!" "unless somebody on the crew has done the blowing," suggested roll, exhaling a great puff of smoke. "that is barely possible, you understand." "possible! no!" cried frank. "there's not a man on the crew who would do such a thing!" "oh, well, i suppose you know. but i understand there are two who are kept in form as substitutes. one of them thinks he should be on the crew. he is rather jealous of somebody who fills his place. he might be the one who has talked too much." "you don't mean--" "rattleton ought to be able to guess who i mean," craftily said ditson as he arose. "i'm not calling names, for i don't know anything certain. if i had proof--but i haven't. never mind. you ought to know enough to watch a certain fellow who thinks his place is filled by a person not his equal. he says there is favoritism in the matter. i rather think i have spoken plainly enough. wish you success, merry, old man. evening, fellows." ditson departed. our hero, rattleton and jones sat and looked at each other in grim silence for several minutes. "well?" frank broke the spell, looking keenly at jones as he spoke. "i dunno," mumbled dismal, falling into the manner of speaking that had been habitual with him from his childhood. "i dunno--hanged if i do!" "you thought you knew when you came in, my boy." "that's right; but i dunno but i was off my trolley. and still--" "still what?" "i don't like the man i suspected, but i never thought the fellow shrewd enough to play a double game." "perhaps it is because you do not like him that you suspected him." "oh, it may be--it may be. and i don't suppose that is a square deal. i didn't have absolute proof." "you were going to name him when ditson came in." "i was, but i will not call any names now. i propose to look into this matter somewhat. likely it's too late to prevent the traitor from completing the damage, but he can be exposed. it will be some satisfaction to see him held up to public scorn." "that is true, dismal, and i want you to do your best to find out who the man is. make a sure thing of it. get positive proof, if possible." "whoever he is his sin is sure to find him out." there were footsteps on the stairs and the sound of laughing voices. the door burst open and several freshmen came trooping in, as if they felt quite at home there. lucy little was at their head, and his face showed excitement. "i say, merriwell!" he cried, "are you out for a little sport to-night?" "that depends on what sort of sport it is." "'sh!" said little, mysteriously. "close the door, uncle." a fellow by the name of silas blossom, who was familiarly called "uncle," obeyed. little looked at rattleton and then stared hard at jones, who had the face of a parson. "i don't know about you," he said, "but i think you are all right. even if you have scruples i don't believe you will blow." "very kind!" grunted dismal. "the rest of the gang is all right," said little. "then give us your scheme," spluttered harry, whose curiosity was thoroughly aroused. "don't bush around the beat--i mean beat around the bush." "what do you fellows say to a turkey chase?" asked little. "a turkey chase?" "yes. out around west rock way. there are plenty of old farmers who have good fat turkeys out that way. it is a good cool night, and we can capture two turkeys without trouble. then we'll take 'em in here and have a roast. are you wid us?" "those who are not wid us are agin' us!" fiercely declared bandy robinson. "and that is dead right, me b'hoys," nodded arthur street, who was known at yale as easy street, on account of his free-and-easy way. merriwell hesitated. he was in for any kind of honest sport, but he did not quite fancy the idea of stealing turkeys. "why don't we buy our turkeys at the markets?" he asked. the other lads stared at him in astonishment. "buy them!" they shouted. "say, are you dafty, man? where would the fun come in? you know better than to propose such a thing." "stolen fruit is ever the sweetest," quoth uncle blossom. "it's not many fellows we would take into such a scheme, but you were just the man we wanted, merriwell. if we bought a turkey we wouldn't have any appetite for it. now, the run out into the country and back will give us an appetite. one fellow will have to stay here and get the fire ready, while the rest of us chase turks. come on, man--it's what you need to start your blood circulating." merriwell seemed to suddenly make up his mind. "i am with you," he said as he arose. "who stays and looks after the fire? we don't want anybody along that can't run." "well, i'm no sprinter," confessed dismal. "i'd like to go along, but i'm afraid i'd peg out. i'll have things ready when you show up. but what time will you be back?" frank looked at his watch and then made a mental calculation. "it will be about eleven," he said. "all right." "say, jones," said street, "just go down to billy's and get a few bottles of beer. we'll need it to wash the turk down." "and cigars," cried blossom. "don't forget cigars. what would a turkey feast be without a smoke afterward?" matters were soon arranged, and it was not long before five freshmen left mrs. harrington's "quiet house" for freshmen, and started along york street at a brisk, steady jog. merriwell took the lead, and the others came after him at regular distances. the night air was rather sharp, and there was a bright moon. along the streets of new haven the five freshmen ran, and those who observed them supposed they were some crew in training. merriwell set a moderate pace, for he knew it was likely they would need all their wind on the return. there was no telling what sort of a scrape they might get into. rattleton was behind, taking things as easy as possible. he filled his lungs with the crisp, clear air, and it made him feel like a young race horse, but he held himself in check. street actually loafed along, although he managed to keep his place. "if one of us is caught, he'll be like the gangplank of a steamer," called harry as they left the main part of the city and entered the suburbs. "how's that?" asked blossom. "pulled in," chirped rattleton. "don't stop to throw anything this way. keep right on." "they say browning was caught swiping turks in his freshman year," said lewis, "and it cost his old man a round sum to settle and keep the thing quiet, so bruce wouldn't be expelled. dad browning has got money to burn." "well, his son's a good match for him," merriwell tossed over his shoulder. "a good match for him! oh, say!" gasped robinson, exhibiting signs of sudden weakness. away they went, laughing and jesting, finally leaving the city behind and getting out into the country. up hill and down dale they steadily jogged, covering mile after mile in a rather surprising manner. at length merriwell called a halt, and they held a council of war. blossom said he knew where they were certain to find turkeys, and so they gave him the lead. he confessed that there was a chance of getting into trouble, as the owner of the turkeys had been robbed before, and he might be on the watch. that simply added zest to the adventure, and there was not one of the party who would have consented to look elsewhere for their turkeys. they finally came in sight of a farmhouse that sat on the side of a hill. near the house was a stable and sheds. a large orchard lay back of the sheds. "there," said blossom. "that is where old baldwin lives, and his turks are in one of those sheds." "crumping jickets--i mean jumping crickets!" exclaimed harry. "how bright the moon shines! if he's on the watch we can't get anywhere near those sheds without being seen." the boys began to realize that they were engaged in a decidedly perilous adventure. if one of them should be caught it would mean almost certain expulsion from college, besides a heavy fine if the case were carried to court. "we'll have to approach by way of the orchard," said frank. "does baldwin keep a dog?" "sure--a big half-blood bull." "that's nice. we are liable to find plenty of fun here. every man must provide himself with a stout and heavy club to use on that dog in case of emergency. that is important. the lights are out, and it looks as if the farmer and his family were sleeping soundly, but, as jones says, appearances are sometimes deceptive. we'll have to take our chances. three of us will go through the orchard. the other two must get near the house in front and be ready to create a diversion in case we are discovered. harry, you and bandy take the front. you are both good runners. if mr. baldwin and his dog get after us, attract his attention in some manner." "and get him after us?" "that's the idea." "jupiter! i wish i had brought a gun for that dog! bandy, you are liable to have to use those crooked legs of yours in a decidedly lively manner before the night is over." when everything was arranged harry and bandy advanced along the road, going forward slowly, while frank, blossom and little made a detour and came into the orchard. the hearts of the boys were in their throats, and still there was something about the adventure that filled them with the keenest delight. each one had secured a club, and they were ready to give the dog a warm reception if he came for them. little watched beneath a tree, while merriwell and blossom slipped up to one of the sheds which had a favorable look. in the meantime rattleton and robinson had got near the front of the house and were hiding in a ditch, waiting and listening. "i am surprised that merriwell should agree to take a hand in this," whispered harry. "he is a queer chap--has scruples about doing certain things. i thought he would object to hooking out a turk." "oh, such a thing as this isn't really stealing," protested robinson. "it is different." "in our minds, but not in the mind of farmer baldwin, by a long shot. if we're caught it will be called stealing." "oh, well, a fellow who won't do anything like this is too good for this world. he's got wings sprouting." "you know well enough that merriwell is no softie," returned harry, rather warmly. "he's proved that. any man has a right to his ideas, and if he thinks a thing wrong he's justified in refusing to have anything to do with it." "perhaps so; but merriwell is right on the limit now." "how?" "he will not drink, he does not smoke, and i never have heard him cuss." "does it make a fellow a man to drink and smoke and swear? i tell you you'll go a long distance before you find a fellow who is any more of a man than frank merriwell. i was dead lucky when i got him for a roommate." "you're stuck on him. i say he is all right, but he is on the limit. i believe the fellows would like him better if he would break over once in a while." "i doubt it. but it is awful still around here. i wonder where that dog can be? it would be a surprise if the fellows got away with the turks without making any noise at--" there was a sudden hubbub, a terrible squalling and squawking, the barking of a dog, and the report of a gun! chapter xx. a hot chase. "my stars!" gasped harry. "there's trouble, sure enough!" "i should remark!" palpitated robinson. "i'll bet a dollar one of the fellows is full of shot!" "and somebody is in danger of being full of teeth directly. come, this is our time to create a diversion." then harry let himself out. he whooped like a wild indian and pranced right up toward the house. robinson followed the good example, but they did not seem very successful in attracting attention to themselves. two dark figures were seen scudding through the orchard, and then a man came out of the house, slamming the door and shouting: "sick 'em, tige--sick the pesky rascals! chaw 'em up! don't let 'em git erway! take 'em, dorg!" the dog was doing his duty in the vicinity of one of the sheds, but his barking suddenly turned to howls of pain, and several blows were distinctly heard. despite the two yelling and dancing lads in the road, the old farmer made for the shed, and it was seen that he had a gun in his hands. "he's going to shoot somebody!" cried harry, wildly. "we must hake a tand--er--take a hand in this! come on!" with all the speed he could command rattleton dashed after the farmer. the barking of the dog had suddenly ceased, and a third dark figure was seen scudding through the orchard. "stop, you pesky thief!" yelled the farmer. "if you don't stop i'll shoot! i'll fire ye full of lead!" then he halted and raised his gun to his shoulder. he was quite unaware that harry was now quite close upon him. when rattleton saw the man raise the gun he swung back the hand that held the heavy stick. with all his strength he hurled the stick at the farmer. whiz! it sped through the air and struck the man fairly between the shoulders. at the same instant the gun spoke, but the farmer went down in a heap, and his aim was spoiled. "had to do it to save some one of the fellows from carrying off a load of buckshot," muttered rattleton, who was desperate. "i don't want to see anybody shot to-night." he did not stop running, but he dashed straight up to the man, snatched up the gun, and fled onward. "hey! hey!" cried the man, as he scrambled to his feet. "consarn you! drop that gun! bring it back!" "come get it!" invited harry, with a defiant laugh. the farmer started after the boy, who led him a merry chase across the fields and over the fences. harry kept just far enough ahead to lure the panting man on. "if i ever git my hands on ye you'll go to jail!" declared the farmer. "i'll learn you pesky rascals a lesson!" "teach--not learn, uncle," harry flung back. "you should be more careful about your grammar." "i believe you are one of them consarned student fellers." "you are a wonderful guesser." "if i can't ketch ye i'll report ye." when he had lead the man far enough so that he was sure the other fellows had plenty of start, harry tossed aside the gun, which was an old muzzle-loading, single-barreled affair. the panting farmer stopped and picked up the gun, then he stood and shook his fist at rattleton, who was speeding away like a deer. "oh, i'll report ye--i will, by jee!" he vowed over and over. in the meantime merriwell had had a most exciting adventure. he had found the turkey roost and had selected the biggest old gobbler of them all. but the gobbler was a hard customer and he showed fight, whereupon there was a general squawking and squalling. clinging to his capture, frank made a dash for the door. he tripped and fell, and it is certain that by falling he saved himself from carrying off a charge of shot, if not from death. he had tripped over a rope that connected with a spring gun, which was discharged, and some of the shot tore through his coat sleeve. then he heard the dog, and he knew he was in for a hot time. he gave the old gobbler's neck a fierce wring, then dropped the turkey just in time to meet the dog. the creature sprang for frank's throat, and the boy struck him with the club which he had brought along. the dog dropped to the ground, but immediately made another dash. frank was fortunate in getting in a lick that stretched the animal quivering on the ground. he could hear rattleton and robinson whooping wildly, but he knew no time was to be lost in getting away, so he caugh up the gobbler and ran. frank heard the farmer calling for him to stop, but, with mr. gobbler dangling on his back, he fled the faster. the gun spoke, but he was not touched, and he did not stop to look around, so he did not know how harry had saved him. three-quarters of an hour later the five fellows who had started out on the turkey chase met on the outskirts of new haven. they came up one at a time, rattleton being the last to appear. there was a general feeling of relief when it was found that all were there safe and sound. it was decided that they should go into the city one at a time, taking different routes. frank believed he could reach the house without being stopped, although it would be no very easy job. he was remarkably successful until he was on york street and close to mrs. harrington's. the street seemed clear, and he wondered where all the fellows could be, when of a sudden a tall form in dark clothes stepped right out before him. he gave a gasp, for at a glance he seemed to recognize one of the professors. "young man," sternly said a familiar voice, "what have you there?" "it's professor grant!" thought frank, aghast. the professor blocked his way. what could he do? quick as a flash he swung the gobbler around and struck his challenger a smashing blow with it, knocking him sprawling. then he took to his heels, still holding fast to his capture. in a moment he heard the sound of feet in pursuit, and he knew the outraged professor was after him. frank's heart was in his mouth, and he felt scared for the first time that night. he was certain it would mean expulsion to be caught. for all of the running he had done that night, he fled like a frightened deer, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. he had never dreamed that professor grant was a sprinter, but the man was running at great speed--seemed to be gaining. "stop, sir!" cried the pursuer. "i tell you to stop!" "not much!" thought frank. "i won't stop! if you catch me your wind is better than i think it is." he did not dare go into his house, so he dashed past, cut into another street, turned corner after corner, and still he found himself pursued. it seemed marvelous that professor grant could keep up such a pace. finally the pursuer called: "merriwell, is that you?" no answer. "i know you," declared the pursuer, and now frank perceived that that voice did not sound like professor grant. "you are a crackajack runner. i wanted to give you a try to see what you could do. i'll see you to-morrow. good-night." the pursuer gave up the chase. "as i live, i believe it was pierson, manager of the ball team!" muttered frank when he was sure it was no trick and he was no longer followed. "he looks something like professor grant, and he is a great mimic. that's just who it was." a short time later he was in his room, where a jovial party of freshmen was gathered. chapter xxi roast turkey. frank's appearance, with the turkey still in his possession, was hailed with shouts of delight. "we didn't know as you would get in," said jones. "i invited some more of the fellows up here, as you see, and we found out that some of the sophs seemed to know something unusual was going on." "that's right," nodded rattleton. "they were laying for us. two of them stopped me when i reached york street. they told me to give up what i had, but i didn't have anything to give up, so they let me go." then frank told of his adventure with a person who looked like professor grant. "that's it!" cried little. "that was their game! they were after our turkey." "but how did they know we were after turkey?" asked robinson. "they must have been told by somebody," said street. "and that means we have a tattler among us," declared burnham putnam--old put--looking keenly around. the boys looked at each other suspiciously, wondering if there was one of the number who would carry to the sophs. to frank's surprise he saw that walter gordon was there. jack diamond was also present. frank found an opportunity to get close to dismal and whisper in his ear: "great caesar, old man! why did you invite gordon here?" "i did not." "then how does he happen to be here? he didn't come without an invitation, i am sure of that." "he was in billy's when i asked put to come up. i knew you would like to have put here." "that's all right." "well, put asked gordon to come along before i could prevent it. of course i didn't have the crust to make any objection after that." "i should say not! it's all right, but you want to remember that the sophs found out something was going on. did gordon come right along with you?" "no. he said he'd have to go to his room, but he showed up a few minutes after we arrived here." "lots of mischief can be done in a few minutes. did he know just what was going on here?" "well, he knew somebody had gone out into the country to swipe something for a feast." "and it is pretty plain that the sophs became aware of the same fact. here is food for reflection, dismal." "you are right." the foragers told of their adventures in capturing the turkey, and there was a great deal of laughter over it. merriwell showed how near he came to getting shot, and it was universally agreed that he was remarkably lucky. harry told how he had bowled the old farmer over just as the man was about to shoot at frank, and then he convulsed them with laughter by relating the capture of the gun and the chase he had led the hayseed. robinson said he thought harry was crazy when he rushed after the farmer in the way he did. "i couldn't understand what sort of a game he was up to," said bandy, "and i didn't feel like following him into the jaws of the lion, so i held aloof. i saw him fling his club at the old duffer and saw it knock him down. then, when i was sure harry was all right, i legged it." "farmer baldwin's dog will have a sore head in the morning," smiled frank. "the last crack i gave him stretched him quivering on the ground. hope it didn't kill the brute." "hope it didn't?" shouted little. "i hope it did!" "but i don't want to pay for his old dog." "pay for it! are you dopy, daft, or what's the matter with you? why, that man had a spring gun set, and it would have filled you full of shot if you hadn't tripped!" "he had a right to set a spring gun in his own shed to protect his turkey roost from marauders." the boys stared at frank in amazement. "say, merriwell," said uncle blossom, gravely, "you're an enigma. great poker! the idea of calling us marauders!" "what else were we?" "boys, it is our duty to take him out and hold him under under the hose!" "gentlemen," said jack diamond, who was present, "you will have a real lively time if you try to do it. i fully agree with mr. merriwell that the farmer had a right to protect his property." "whe-e-ew!" whistled several lads, and then they all cried together: "goodness, how the wind blows!" the boys had come to understand in a measure diamond's chivalric nature and sentiments, and it did not seem strange that he should see something improper in stealing turkeys from a farmer; but it did appear rather remarkable that merriwell should maintain such an idea after he had taken a hand in the game. "it must be that you chaps intend to become parsons after you leave college," said walter gordon, rather derisively. "and merriwell would pay for the dog if he killed the beast!" exclaimed uncle blossom. "how about the turkey? i should have thought you'd paid for that." "i did." "what!" that word was a roar, and it seemed to leap from the lips of every lad in the room, with the exception of diamond and merriwell. the boys were all on their feet, and they stared at frank with bulging eyes, as if they beheld a great curiosity. merriwell simply smiled. he was quite cool and unruffled. "you--you paid--for--the--turkey!" gasped lucy little, as if it cost him a mighty effort to get the words out. "exactly," bowed frank. "how? when? where?" "i pinned a five-dollar bill to the roost before i laid violent hands on the old gobbler. baldwin will find it there in the morning." "water!" panted robinson as he flopped down on a chair. "i think i am going to faint!" "oh, think of the beautiful beers that v would have paid for!" sighed robinson, with a doleful shake of his head. "this is a disgrace on the famous class of 'umpty-eight!" shouted lewis little. "we can never wipe it out!" "i fear not," said easy street. "it is really awful!" "and to think merriwell should have done it. it would have served him right if that spring gun had filled him with shot!" "excuse these few tears!" exclaimed blossom, who had secretly opened a bottle of beer and saturated his handkerchief with the contents. he now proceeded to wring the handkerchief in a highly dramatic manner. "go ahead," laughed frank. "have all the sport you like over it, but i feel easy in my mind." some one proposed not to eat the turkey at all, but there was a dissenting shout at that. then the bird was taken down into the cellar by three of them and stripped of its feathers. a pan and necessary dishes had been borrowed of mrs. harrington, and there was a roaring hard-wood fire in the open grate. harry officiated as cook, and set about his duties in a manner that showed he was not a novice, while the other lads looked on with great interest, telling stories and cracking jokes. merriwell offered to bet robinson that woman was created before man, but bandy was shy, scenting a sell. however, frank kept at him, finally offering to let robinson himself decide. at length robinson "bit," and a small wager was made. "now," cried bandy, "go ahead and prove that woman was made before man. you can't do it." "that's dead easy," smiled frank. "i know you will readily acknowledge that eve was the first maid." "no, i'll be hanged if--" then robinson stopped short, for he saw the point, and the others were laughing heartily and applauding. "the first maid!" he muttered. "oh, thunder! what a soft thing i am! you have won, merriwell." the turkey began to give out a most delicious odor, and the boys snuffed the air with the keenest delight. how hungry they were! how jolly everything seemed! there was not one of the party who did not feel very grateful to think he was living that night. at last the turkey was done. harry pronounced it done, and it was certainly browned and basted in beautiful style. it was a monster, but there would be none too much for that famished crowd. frank and blossom assisted harry in serving. there were not enough plates for all, but that did not matter. they managed to get along all right. some were forced to drink their beer out of the bottle, but nobody murmured. the turkey was white and tender, and it was certainly very well cooked. it had a most delicious flavor. and how good the beer was with it! how those fellows jollied merriwell because he would not even taste the beer. and still they secretly admired him for it. he had the nerve to say no and stick to it, which they could not help admiring. when the turkey was all gone cigars were passed, and nearly every one "fired up." then harry and frank got out a banjo and mandolin and gave the party some lively music. it was long after two o'clock, but who cared for that? nobody thought of the hour. if mrs. harrington complained in the morning, she must be pacified with a peace offering. they sang "old man moses," "solomon levi," "bingo," and a dozen more. there were some fine voices among them. finally a quartet was formed, consisting of merriwell, rattleton, diamond and blossom. it positively was a treat to hear them sing "good-by, my little lady." "the boats are pushing from the shore, good-by, my little lady! with brawny arm and trusty oar, each man is up and ready; i see our colors dancing where sunlit waves are glancing; a fond adieu i'll say to you, my lady true and fair. "good-by, good-by, my lady sweet! good-by, my little lady! good-by, good-by, again we'll meet, so here's farewell, my lady!" oh, those old college songs! how they linger in the memory! how the sound of them in after years stirs the blood and quickens the pulse! and never can other songs seem half so beautiful as those! it was after two when the party broke up, but it was a night long to be remembered. chapter xxii. a surprise for frank. on the following morning merriwell arose with a headache. "the smoke was too much for me last night," he said. "it was thick enough to chop in this room." "and you don't know how i wanted to have a whiff with the fellows," said harry, dolefully. "it was awful to see them enjoying cigars and cigarettes and not touch one myself!" "but you didn't," smiled frank. "good boy! stick to that just as long as you wish to keep a place in athletics." "i don't know which is the worst, smoking or midnight suppers." "midnight suppers are bad things, and you will observe that i seldom indulge in them. if i was on one of the regular teams i could not indulge at all. i'll not have any part in another affair like that of last night till after the race. from now till it is over i am going to live right." "well, i'll do my best to stick with you. if you see me up to anything improper, just call me down." "agreed." there was no time for a cold bath before chapel, although frank would have given something to indulge in one. as it was, he dipped his head in cold water, opened the window wide, and filled his lungs with fresh air, then hustled into his clothes and rushed away, with the chapel bell clanging and his temples still throbbing. the whole forenoon was a drag, but he managed to get through the recitations fairly well. over and over he promised himself that he would not indulge in another midnight feast until the time came when such dissipation was not likely to do him any particular harm physically. at noon as he was crossing the campus he was astonished to see paul pierson, a junior and the manager of the regular ball team, stop and bow. unless it was pierson who had pursued him on the previous night, frank had never spoken a word to the fellow in his life. and this public recognition of a freshman on the campus by a man like pierson was almost unprecedented. "ah, mr. merriwell, i would like to speak with you," said pierson in a manner that was not exactly unfriendly. frank remembered that the fellow who chased him the night before had promised to see him again, but he had thought at the time that the man did not mean it. now he wondered what in the world pierson could want. "yes, sir," said merriwell, stopping and bowing respectfully. "i understand that you are something of a sprinter," said pierson as he surveyed the freshman critically. "a--ah--friend of mine told me so." "well, i don't know, but i believe i can run fairly well," replied frank, with an air of modesty. "my friend is a very good judge of runners, and he says you're all right. in doing so he settled a point in my mind. i have been watching your ball playing in practice this fall, and i have arrived at the conclusion that you have good stuff in you if you do not get the swelled head. young man, the swelled head is one of the worst things with which a youth can be afflicted. when he gets it for fair it is likely to be his ruin." pierson addressed frank as if he were a father speaking to a boy. frank felt that the junior was patronizing to a certain extent, but the fellow's manner of stopping him on the campus was so remarkable that it more than overbalanced his air of superiority. wondering what pierson could be driving at, frank kept silent and listened. "now, i have a fancy," said the baseball magnate, "that you are rather level headed. still, the best of them get it sometimes, and that is why i am warning you." pierson spoke deliberately, still looking hard at the freshman, who waited quietly. "he'll come to the point if he is given time," thought frank. "i have seen you pitch," said pierson, "and i have watched your delivery and your curves. you are very good. more than that, you bat properly and your judgment is excellent." he paused again, as if to note what impression this praise made upon the other. frank felt his cheeks grow warm, but his voice was perfectly steady as he said: "thank you, sir." "i did not know just what you would do when it came to running till my friend saw you run," pierson went on. "he says you are all right. now, if you will look out for yourself and keep yourself in condition, it is quite possible that you may be given a trial on the regular ball team in the spring." frank felt his heart give a great jump. on the regular team! why, he had not dreamed of getting there the very first season. was pierson giving him a jolly? "are you serious, sir?" he asked. "most certainly, mr. merriwell," answered the junior. "i can assure you that you stand an excellent chance of having a trial. what the result of the trial is will depend entirely upon yourself." "what position, mr. pierson?" "well, there is but one position that is not well filled. we've got men to burn for every other place. if you are tried at all, it will be in the box. heffiner is the only man we have, and he can't do all the work. there will come times when he will be out of condition." to pitch on the regular ball team! to be given an opportunity when the great heffiner proved out of condition! that was glory indeed. no wonder frank merriwell tingled with excitement in every part of his body; but it was a wonder that he appeared so cool and self contained. pierson was surprised by the freshman's manner, for he had expected frank to show excitement and delight. "what sort of a fellow is this?" he thought. "does he really understand me, or is he a little thick?" then he saw by frank's fine and highly sensitive face that he could not be thick, and he began to perceive that the freshman had nerve. that was one of the great requirements for a successful pitcher. "i have spoken of this to you, mr. merriwell, so you may be keeping yourself in condition through the winter, as you will then stand all the better show of making a favorable impression when you are given a trial." "thank you, sir." "if i were in your place i would not make any talk about it, for something may happen that you will not be given a trial, in which case it would be very humiliating if you had publicly stated that you were to have a show." "you may be sure i will say nothing about it, mr. pierson." "that is all. good-day, sir." "good-day, sir." pierson passed on, quite aware that a number of students were regarding him with the utmost amazement, plainly wondering that he should have stopped to talk with a freshman on the campus. walter gordon had seen the two speaking together, and he hastened to call the attention of some friends to it. "look there!" he cried. "as i live, merriwell is talking with pierson! what'll you bet the fellow's not making a try to get on the regular ball team? ha! ha! ha! he's got crust enough for it." "and i am not sure he hasn't the ability for it," said easy street. "oh, rats!" snapped walter. "he'd go to pieces in the first inning. he'll never make a pitcher in his life." "there are others," murmured lucy little. chapter xxiii. the yale spirit. frank went to his room with his head in a whirl. he had dreamed of working hard to secure a place on the freshman team, but he had not dreamed there was a possibility that he would be given a trial in the regular yale nine during his first year in college. merriwell knew well enough that phillips men were given the preference in everything at yale as a rule, for they had friends to pull them through, while the fellows who had been prepared by private tutors lacked such an advantage. but frank had likewise discovered that in most cases a man was judged fairly at yale, and he could become whatever he chose to make himself, in case he had the ability. the phillips man might have the advantage at the start, but he could not hold the advantage unless he proved himself worthy. if the unknown student had nerve and determination he could win his way for all of the wire pulling of the friends of some rival who was not so capable. frank had heard the cry which had been raised at that time that the old spirit of democracy was dying out at yale, and that great changes had taken place there. he had heard that yale was getting to be more like another college, where the swell set are strongly in evidence and the senior likely to be very exclusive, having but a small circle of speaking acquaintances. it was said that in the old days the yale junior or senior knew everybody worth knowing. but this had changed. the blue-blooded aristocrat had appeared at yale, and he had chosen his circle of acquaintances with great care. to all outward appearances, this man believed that outside his limited circle there was nobody at yale worth knowing. professor scotch, frank's guardian, had read this in certain newspaper articles relating to yale, and had expressed his regret that such should be the case. after coming to yale frank kept his eyes open to see to what extent such a state of affairs obtained. at first it had seemed that the newspapers were right, but he came to see that his position as freshman did not give him the proper opportunity to judge. in the course of time frank came to believe that the old spirit was still powerful at yale. there were a limited number of young gentlemen who plainly considered themselves superior beings, and who positively refused to make acquaintances outside a certain limit; but those men held no positions in athletics, were seldom of prominence in the societies, and were regarded as cads by the men most worth knowing. they were to be pitied, not envied. at yale the old democratic spirit still prevailed. the young men were drawn from different social conditions, and in their homes they kept to their own set; but they seemed to leave this aside, and they mingled and submerged their natural differences under that one broad generalization, "the yale man." and merriwell was to find that this extended even to their social life, their dances, their secret societies, where all who showed themselves to have the proper dispositions and qualifications were admitted without distinction of previous condition or rank in their own homes. each class associated with itself, it is true, the members making no close friendships with members of other classes, with the possible exception of the juniors and seniors, where class feeling did not seem to run so high. a man might know men of other classes, but he never took them for chums. the democratic spirit at yale came mainly from athletics, as frank soon discovered. every class had half a dozen teams--tennis, baseball, football, the crew and so on. everybody, even the "greasy" grinds, seemed interested in the something, and so one or more of these organization had some sort of a claim on everybody. besides this, there was the general work in the gymnasium, almost every member of every class appearing there at some time or other, taking exercise as a pastime or a necessity. the 'varsity athletic organization drew men from every class, not excepting the professional and graduate schools, and, counting the trials and everything, brought together hundreds of men. in athletics strength and skill win, regardless of money or family; so it happened that the poorest man in the university stood a show of becoming the lion and idol of the whole body of young men. compulsory chapel every morning brought together the entire college, and had its effect in making everybody acquainted with everybody else. a great fosterer of the democratic spirit was the old yale fence, over the departure of which "old grads" are forever shedding bitter tears. the student who had not known the old fence was inclined to smile wearily over the expressions of regret at its loss, but still the "old grad" continued to insist that the fence was one of the crowning beauties of yale, and that nothing can ever replace it. on the old fence men read the newspapers, crammed for recitation, gossiped, told stories, talked athletics, sung songs, flirted with passing girls, and got acquainted. oh, yes, it was a great fosterer of the democratic spirit. in the promotion of this spirit the drinking places at yale are important factors. at harvard the men drink in their clubs, the most of which are very expensive places, and in the boston cafés. the yale men drink at morey's, and traeger's, and billy's. traeger's, where from a score to fifty students may be seen any afternoon or evening, is furnished in exact imitation of german students' drinking places. in the back room is heavy furniture, quaint paintings, and woodwork and carvings. it had a sort of subdued cathedral light, which fell softly on the mugs which decorated the shelves and mantel. frank had proven that it was not necessary for a man to drink at yale in order to be esteemed as a good fellow. frank was a total abstainer, and his friends had found that nothing would induce him to drink or smoke. at first they ridiculed him, but they came to secretly admire him, and it is certain that his example was productive of no small amount of good. frank's acquaintances declared he had a mighty nerve, for he was able to travel with a crowd that drank and smoked, and still refrained from doing either. that was something difficult for them to understand. it was apparent to everybody that merriwell's popularity did not depend on his ability to absorb beer or his generosity in opening fizz. it came from his sterling qualities, his ability as an athlete, his natural magnetism, and his genial, sunny nature. although he was refined and gentlemanly, there was not the least suggestion of anything soft or effeminate about him. it is not strange that merriwell could scarcely believe it possible that paul pierson had been in earnest. such a thing seemed altogether too good to be true. "if it's a jolly, he'll not have the satisfaction of knowing that i spread it," frank decided. "mum is the word with me, and i'll keep right on working for a place with the freshmen. oh, if we can win the race at saltonstall!" frank knew that he stood well with old put, who was to manage the freshman team in the spring. if the freshman crew could defeat the sophs, put would have more confidence than ever in merriwell. frank was thinking these things over, when harry came in with a rush, slamming the door and tripping over a rug in his haste. "say! say! say!" he spluttered, staring at frank. "well, what is it?" "is it true?" "is what true?" "i heard paul pierson was seen talking to you on the campus." "well, what of that?" "then it is true?" "yes." "gracious! pierson was never known to thing a do--er--do a thing like that before!" "is that so?" "is it so! why, you know it is so! think of pierson--the great and only pierson--talking to a freshman on the campus in the middle of the day! wow!" "you are excited, harry. sit down and cool off." "i'll sit down, but you must tell me what he was saying to you." "must i?" "must you? i should say yes! i am dying to know what he could be saying to a freshman!" frank was troubled, for he saw his roommate's curiosity was aroused to the highest notch, and he knew it would be no easy thing to satisfy harry without telling the truth. "go ahead," urged rattleton. "what did pierson say to you?" "oh, he said a number of things," replied frank, awkwardly. harry lifted his eyebrows. "haven't a doubt of it," he returned; "but what are they?" frank hesitated, and a cloud came to his friend's face. "you see, it is a private matter," merriwell explained. "oh!" there was infinite sarcasm in that ejaculation. "you know i would tell you if i could, harry," said frank, rising; "but this is a matter which i--" "oh, you needn't trouble yourself!" rattleton cut in, sharply. "i'll live just as long and be just as happy." "now don't be angry, old man; that is foolish. you know i would tell you if i could do so without--" "oh, i don't know about that! you are getting so you have secrets lately, and you don't seem to trust me. say, if you think i am a sneak and a tattler, say so, for i want to know it. i don't care to room with any fellow who doesn't trust me." harry was angry, and frank felt very sorry. "old man," said merriwell, meeting rattleton's sullen glance with a frank, open look, "i do trust you, and you should know it. there is no fellow in college i would as soon room with. still, you should know there are some things a man cannot honorably tell even his chum." harry was silent. "perhaps there are some things about yourself or some friend that you would not care to tell me," frank went on. "i am not going to be offended at that. it is your right to tell what you like and keep what you like to yourself. a thing like that should not create feeling between us." "but this seems different." "does it? well, i will explain that i told pierson i would say nothing of the matter to anybody. i do not believe in lying. do you want me to break my word in this case?" "no!" cried harry. "you are all right again, frank! you are always right! don't you mind me when i get cranky. i'm a fundering thool--i mean a thundering fool! but i do hope pierson is not working a jolly on you." "he may have tried to work a jolly on me, but he is not succeeding," smiled frank, whose face had cleared. "and the quieter i keep the smaller will be the chance of success, if that is his little game." chapter xxiv. gordon expresses himself. at the first opportunity frank had a talk with burnham putnam, who had charge of the freshman crew. he told put all that had been learned about the traitor, and burn listened with interest and growing anger. "who do you think the traitor is?" he asked at last. "well, there is a doubt in my mind, and i do not want to accuse anybody." "we have conducted our work with great secrecy." "we have that." "and i have repeatedly cautioned the men about talking." "yes." "i have warned them that it might mean the ruin of our plans." "you have." "and still everything we have done seems to be known." "that's right." "the man who has spread this matter has the very best means for obtaining information, as he has made no mistake." "well, what do you think?" "the traitor may be the last man we would suspect. he must have some cause for playing crooked, though." "that is the way i regarded it." old put thought the matter over for a few moments. he finally said: "i don't want to do any man injustice, but the turn affairs have taken leads me to think it would be a good plan to drop our spare men entirely and put full dependence on a settled crew." frank was silent, and so putnam asked: "what do you think of that?" "i think it is a very good plan, and i approve of it." "then it is settled. they shall be dropped at once, although it seems that the mischief is done now." "there may be no mischief in it, for the sophs ridicule the innovations introduced, and they are surer than ever that they will have a soft thing of it. "they have been fooled several times this fall. i am sorry we shall not be able to spring our innovations as a surprise, but we may give them a warm time just the same." that day putnam informed the spare men that he did not think they would be needed any more in training, but asked them to keep in condition till after the race, in case anything might happen that they were wanted. gordon was enraged immediately, for he had held on and worked through everything with the belief that he would finally be given a place on the crew. "so i am dropped, am i?" he said, bitterly. "well, i rather think i understand how it comes about." putnam did not like this, and a dark look came to his rugged face. "what do you mean?" he demanded, sharply. "never mind," returned walter, with a toss of his head. "it's no use to talk it over, but i know a few things." he turned as if he would go away, but put put out a hand and stopped him, whirling him sharply about. "see here," said the sturdy manager of the freshman ball team and crew, "i want to know just what you mean, gordon." "oh, you do?" walter flung to the winds all hope of getting on the crew. he sneered in putnam's face. "yes, sir, i do! you talk as if you had not been treated right." "have i?" "i think you have, sir." "i know i have not!" putnam was angry, and his face betrayed it. "you must prove that, gordon!" "i can." "do so." "i may not prove it to your satisfaction, but i can prove it just as hard. you have told me that i am in fine form, and i know that you have said i have as fine back and shoulders as may be found in the whole college." "i did say that," calmly acknowledged old put. "well, that counts for something." "but it does not make you suitable for the crew. there is something more needed, as you should know. you must be able to row." "is there a man on the crew who pulls a prettier stroke than i? just answer me that, burn putnam?" "you do pull a pretty stroke, but i have been convinced that the men on the crew now will hold out, and it is not best to take you in place of any of them." "who convinced you? i know! it was merriwell! he is holding rattleton on the crew simply because they are chums, and you are letting him twist you around his finger! ha! ha! ha!" gordon's laugh was sarcastic and cutting and it brought a hot flush to the face of old put. "you are insolent, gordon!" he said. "this is an open insult!" "is it? well, i notice you do not deny that merriwell has held rattleton on the crew in my place." "i deny that he has held any one on the crew that is not fully capable of remaining there on his own merit." "that sounds first rate! oh, well, i don't care, anyway! your crew is bound to make a show of itself, and it will be beaten hands down by the sophs." "so that is the opinion you hold, is it?" "it is." "and i suppose you have held it all along?" "i have." "then i have made no mistake in dropping you from the crew. you have quite satisfied me on that point, gordon. no man is suitable to hold a place on any kind of a crew or team if he holds it in contempt and has no confidence in it. he will not work, and his feeling of contempt will communicate itself to others, thus demoralizing the whole lot of them. even if he kept his contempt to himself, he is not the man to work his heart out in the effort to win. he thinks it is no use to kill himself, and he will not make his best effort at any time. it is my policy to drop such a man, in case i find him out, and drop him hard. yes, i am quite satisfied, gordon." walter bit his tongue to keep back the fierce words which arose to his lips. he felt himself quivering with anger. "all right! all right!" he said, his voice unsteady. "i am glad you are satisfied! but wait till the race is over. rattleton's glory will be gone then. don't think that he will pull his heart out. a man who smokes as much as he does can't pull." "smokes! rattleton does not smoke at all. i observed him at the turkey roast. he absolutely refused to smoke." "because you were present; but i know for a fact that he smokes behind your back, and he smokes almost constantly." "i cannot believe it. merriwell would tell me." "would he? ha! ha! ha! you don't know frank merriwell yet, but you will find him out. that fellow will go to any extreme to injure me, and so it is not likely he would tell anything on his chum that would cause you to give me his place." "i am sure you do merriwell an injustice. he is a man who does not smoke himself, and he would not allow his roommate to injure himself smoking. however, i will find out about this." "do so; but i have found out about it already. i have certain means of obtaining information." "so have the sophs, and they have obtained a great deal," putnam shot at walter as he turned away. putnam collared merriwell at the first opportunity and demanded to know the truth about rattleton's smoking. "i know you will tell me the truth, merry," said burnham, "and it is important that you should." "some one has been telling you he is smoking?" "yes." "well, he is not smoking now. i had a talk with him and he swore off. he is not touching tobacco in any form, and i give you my word on that." "that's all i want," said putnam, quite satisfied. after this the freshman crew took to practicing nights, and it was said that they worked as no crew of freshies every worked before. one night they ran up against the regular 'varsity crew, and gave it a hot pull, but finally seemed to be beaten. the report of this brush spread abroad, and the men on the regular crew were rather complimentary toward the freshmen. they said the youngsters worked together in a most surprising way, and it was predicted that they would give their rivals a hard pull. the sophs were inclined to regard this as a jolly, and they continued confident of winning over the freshmen with the greatest ease. chapter xxv. the traitor discovered. "i say, merry," said rattleton, the day before the race was to come off, "you can't guess who gordon is chumming with lately." "i don't know as i can. who is it?" "ditson." "get out!" "that's on the level." "but ditson the same as suggested outright that gordon was the traitor who had told the sophs so much." "that is true, but gordon doesn't know it." "well, he ought to. what do you think ditson is doing?" "oh, he is working gordon, who has been drinking like a fish since old put dropped him." frank was troubled. he did not approve of ditson, and he feared that gordon had a weak nature, so that he could be easily influenced. walter had greatly taken to heart being dropped by putnam, and he seemed utterly reckless and careless about himself. if he did not look out, he was almost sure to get into trouble and find himself "rusticated" or sent home for good. merriwell could not help thinking it possible that gordon had been innocent and that a mistake had been made in dropping him, as it might discourage him so that he would go to the bad. this worried frank not a little. "i'll have to make ditson call a halt," he said to harry. "he must be told to let up on gordon." "now, that is dead right," nodded harry, who was inclined to be generous and kindly toward the fellow who might have filled his place on the freshman crew. "i tell you that ditson is a bad man, and i would not trust him as far as i can fling a cow by the tail." "i'll get after him at the first opportunity," promised frank. harry went out and had a talk with bandy robinson about the matter. robinson admitted that he did not have much use for either gordon or ditson, but he was inclined to think gordon the better fellow of the two. that night merriwell and rattleton retired early, but they were not allowed to go to sleep. barely were they in bed before there was a knock on the door, and they found robinson and one of the fellows who lived in the house were there. "say," said bandy, "ditson and gordon are down at billy's, and gordon has a great load on. i have told ditson to let him alone, but was advised to mind my own business. ditson is deliberately getting gordon stiff." "is that so?" cried frank as he made a jump for his clothes. "well, i think i will have a talk with mr. ditson." frank and harry dressed quickly, and away they went with robinson and his companion toward billy's. on arriving at billy's they were told that ditson and gordon were in the little corner behind the screen. gordon was opening champagne, and both fellows were pretty well intoxicated. harry slipped up behind the screen, stood on a chair, and peered over. as he did so he heard ditson say: "that's right, walter. merriwell rubbed dirt all over you. he is trying to become another king, like browning, but you can bet i don't lose any opportunity to throw him down." "throw him down! throw him down!" echoed gordon, thickly. "that's right; but you can't throw him down hard enough to keep him down." "i don't know about that," declared roll, with drunken sobriety. "if we were to work together, gordon, old man, we could hurt him. as it is, you've helped me out wonderfully in what i've done." "have i? how?" harry looked around and saw merriwell preparing to go into the corner behind the screen. then rattleton made a few violent gestures, which plainly told his roommate to refrain. frank looked astonished. what could harry be up to that he appeared so excited? he was motioning for frank to come forward cautiously and join him. now, merriwell did not believe in playing the eavesdropper on any one, but he fancied harry saw something he wished to show him, so he went forward lightly, placed another chair, got upon it, and looked over the screen. in the meantime ditson was saying: "yes, you've helped me. you know merriwell is coaching the freshman crew--or has been--for the race to-morrow. well, i don't let any chance go to get a jab at him." "i don't see what that has to do with my helping you," mumbled gordon, vainly trying to light a cigarette with a broken match on which no brimstone was left. "course yer don't," laughed ditson, who was almost as full as his companion. "this isn't the first time we have been out together, eh, old boy?" "no." "only we had to be quiet about it when you were on the crew--or when you thought you were on it." "that's right." "we have been pretty full once or twice." "i thought so when we got up the next morning." "well, you have told me lots of things about merriwell and what he was doing with the crew. you're a great talker when you're loaded." gordon stiffened up a bit and tried to give his companion a sober stare, but the effort was a ludicrous failure. "wazzyer mean?" he asked. "'fi told you anything it was in strictest confidence." "cert; but then, you know, anything to knife merriwell." gordon braced off, his hands on the table before him. ditson laughed and went on: "now, if we make a combine against him we can do him bad." "wazzyer mean?" gordon again demanded. "mean that you repeated anything i tol' you in confidence when i was full?" "not publicly," grinned ditson. "i may have used it to injure merriwell, but i was careful how i used it." walter thumped the table with his fist, growing angry suddenly. "you're a hanged two-faced fraud!" he huskily cried. "that's jusht what you are, ditson! somebody's been telling things to the sophs. they found out everything. it was you! and you pumped your points out of me when i was full." "that didn't hurt you," ditson hastened to declare. "it was entirely to hurt merriwell, and he is our common enemy." "don't care a continental if he is!" cried walter. "i don't like him, but you have hurt me. bet anything merriwell and old put thought i had blowed! i didn't have any confidence in merriwell's methods, but i didn't blow to the sophs! still i was to blame for lettin' you get me full and pump me. and the fellows think i'm a tattler! well, i'll be hanged if i don't even up with you by hammering the face off you right now!" walter stood up and attempted to grasp ditson's arm, but he was so full that he made a miscalculation and caught nothing but empty air. then he struck across the table at roll. "oh, you would hit me, would you!" grated ditson, who saw that his companion was much the drunker. "you would hammer my face! well, perhaps i'll do some hammering myself!" then he caught up an empty champagne bottle and swung it over his head as if to strike gordon. like a flash merriwell's hand darted down over the top of the screen and snatched the bottle from roll's grasp. a moment later frank went around the screen and confronted the two lads, still holding the bottle in his hand. "i saved you from having a cracked head that time, gordon," he said as he collared ditson. "and i have found out who the traitor is. i am glad you are not the man. as for this thing"--he gave ditson a shake that caused the fellow's teeth to click together--"he has shown to-night that he is a most contemptible cur! i hated to think him as dirty as he has shown himself to be." frank's face was full of unutterable disgust for ditson. other freshmen came crowding into the corner, and ditson saw himself regarded with scorn and contempt by everybody. he cowed like a whipped cur and whined: "i was simply fooling; it was all a jolly. i never did anything of the sort. i was simply trying to get gordon on the string by telling him so." "well, you got yourself on a string, and pretty well tangled up. gentlemen"--turning to the freshmen present--"here is the traitor who has been giving our secrets away to the sophs. both rattleton and myself heard him acknowledge it. take a good look at him, so you will know him in the future." "oh, we'll know him!" cried many voices. "it's a mistake--" roll began. "that's right," agreed frank. "the worst mistake you ever made. at last you have shown just what you are, and everybody is dead onto you. get out of this!" "tar and feather him!" shouted a voice. "let him go," advised merriwell. "he is covered with a coating of disgrace that will not come off as easily as tar and feathers." ditson sneaked away, the hisses of his classmates sounding in his ears. the look on his face as he rolled his eyes toward merriwell before leaving the room was malicious in the extreme. frank turned to walter, who did not seem to know what to do. "gordon, you have found that fellow out, which is a lucky thing for you," he said. "he would have ruined you. at the same time, i have found out that you had no hand in the sneaking work that has been going on of late. you were simply an unconscious and unwilling tool, and it did me good to see you resent it when you found out what ditson had been doing." walter tried to say something, but he choked and stammered. then he muttered something about having a drink all around, but frank assured him that he had taken quite enough. rattleton and robinson led the crowd away from the corner, and merriwell had a brief talk with gordon, then harry and frank took gordon out and did not leave him till he was safely in his room. as they were going away walter thickly said: "merriwell!" "what is it?" "i want to 'pologize." "what for?" "things i've said 'bout you." "i don't know about them." "'cause i've said 'em behind your back. sneakin' thing to do! merriwell, i'm 'shamed--i am, by thunder! i guess you're all right. don't b'lieve you ever done me dirt. is it all right, old man?" "yes, it's all right." "say, that makes me feel better. it does, by thunder! you're a good fellow, merriwell, and i'm--i'm a fool! i talk too much! drink too much, too. you don't talk and you don't drink. you're all right. good-night, merriwell." "good-night, gordon." when frank retired the second time that night it was with a feeling of intense relief, for the perplexing problem as to the identity of the traitor had been settled, and he felt that he had done gordon a good turn by getting him away from ditson. and ditson? well, he deserved to pass a wretched night, and he did. he felt that he was forever disgraced at yale, but he did not seem to consider it his own fault. he blamed merriwell for it all, and his heart was hot with almost murderous rage. over and over he swore that he would get square some way--any way. chapter xxvi. the race. the day for the race came at last--a sunny day, with the air clear and cold. just the right sort of a day for the best of work. everybody seemed bound for lake saltonstall. they were going out in carriages, hacks, coaches, on foot, by train, and in many other ways. the road to the lake was lined with people. the students were shouting, singing and blowing horns. one crowd of freshmen had a big banner, on which was lettered: "'umpty-eight, she is great, she will win sure as fate." evidently the sophomores had been informed about this banner in advance, for they carried one which declared: "'umpty-eight isn't in it, she'll be beaten in a minute." how they shouted and taunted each other! how they raced along the road! how sure everybody was that he could pick the winner! the scene at the lake was beautiful and inspiring, for the shore was lined with people and there were flags and bright colors everywhere. on the point there was a great mob, composed mostly of students, who were yelling and cheering and flaunting their flags. the boats on the lake were well filled and gay with colors. new haven swell society was fairly represented, and it certainly was an occasion to stir youthful blood. the freshman-sophomore-junior race came fourth on the list, and it was to be the event of the day. strangely enough, the juniors were not reckoned as dangerous by either freshmen or sophomores. between the last two classes was to come the real tug of war. in the boathouse the great bob collingwood, of the 'varsity crew, gave the freshmen some advice, and they listened to him with positive awe. he had heard of merriwell's attempt to introduce the english stroke, and he did not approve of it. after he had got through merriwell took his men aside into another part of the boathouse and warned them against thinking of anything collingwood had said. "he is all right when he is talking to men who use his style of oar and the regular american stroke, but you will be broke up sure as fate if you think of what he has said that disagrees with my instructions. it is too late now to make any change, and we must win or lose as we have practiced." "that's right," agreed every man. "we'll win," said rattleton, resolutely. they could hear the cheering as the other races took place, and at last it came their turn. how their hearts thumped! and it was merriwell that quieted their unsteady nerves with a few low, calm words, which seemed to give them the bracer which they needed before going into the race. 'umpty-eight yelled like a whole tribe of indians, wildly waving flags, hats and handkerchiefs, as the freshman boat shot out upon the lake, with merriwell at the stroke. they did not row in the buff, as the weather was too cold, but all wore thin white shirts, with "'umpty-eight" lettered in blue on the breast. old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns. there were a few expressions of approval. the novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff. then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their classes. the juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by collingwood. soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard: "are you ready?" dead silence. "go!" away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order. the juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be "overdone," as a jubilant sophomore spectator characterized it. the sophs along the shore and on the point were wild with delight. they danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. the juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the sophomores. the freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound. "whoop 'er up for 'umpty-seven!" howled the sophs. "whoop 'er up! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! this is a cinch!" "'umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute," sang the freshmen. "she is crawling on them!" "all she can do is crawl!" yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise. "'umpty-six is up to tricks!" shouted the juniors. "'umpty-six, they are bricks! whoop 'er up! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" the yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own--was beginning to gain. "that is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at saltonstall," declared a spectator. "every man seems to be a worker. there's no one shirking." "and look at the stroke oar," urged another. "that fellow is the winner! he is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over." this was true enough. the strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. at the stake the freshman crew passed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits. but that was not the end of the excitement. the speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead. and now the shouting for 'umpty-eight was heard on every side. the sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining. the nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look. the suspense was awful, the excitement was intense: then rattleton was heard talking: "well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck! i wonder how the sophs like the oxford stroke? oh, my! what guys we are making of them! it don't make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they're not in the race at all. poor sophs! why don't they get out and walk? they could get along faster." that seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead. they soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance. then rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy. how the freshmen spectators did cheer! "'umpty-eight! 'umpty-eight! whoop 'er up! 'rah! 'rah!' rah!" it was another great victory for the freshmen--and frank merriwell, and that night a great bonfire blazed on the campus and the students made merry. they blew horns, sang, cheered and had a high old time. the freshmen made the most noise, and they were very proud and aggressive. never had yale college freshmen seemed happier. "where is merriwell?" was the question that went around. a committee was sent to search for him, and they returned with him on their shoulders. he tried to get down, but he could not. uncle blossom climbed on a box and shouted: "three cheers for 'umpty-eight, the winners!" the cheers were given. easy street leaped on another box and yelled: "three cheers for frank merriwell, the winning oar!" it seemed that the freshmen were trying to split their throats. and not a few juniors joined with them, showing how much admiration merriwell had won outside his own class. walter gordon cheered with the others, but roland ditson stood at a distance, beating his heart out with rage and jealousy. he was all alone, for at yale not one man was left who cared to acknowledge ditson as a friend. chapter xxvii. a change of pitchers. "the game is lost!" "sure." "yale has not scored since the second inning." "that's right. she made one in the first and three in the second, and then comes four beautiful whitewashes. harvard hasn't missed a trick, and the score is eleven to four in her favor." "lewis, this is awful!" "right you are, jones. hear those harvard rooters whoop up! it gives me nervous prostration." the yale freshmen were playing the harvard freshmen on the grounds of the latter team, and quite a large delegation had come on from new haven to witness the game, which was the second of the series of three arranged between the freshmen teams of the two colleges. the first had been played at new haven, and the third was to be played on neutral ground. yale had won the first game by heavy batting, the final score being twelve to eleven. as the regular 'varsity nine had likewise won the first of their series with harvard, the "sons of eli" began to think they had a sure thing, and those who came on from new haven were dead sure in their minds that they would bring back the scalps of the harvard freshmen. they said over and over that there would be no need of a third game to settle the matter; yale would settle it in the second. walter gordon had pitched the whole of the first harvard game. he had been hammered for thirteen singles, two two-baggers, and a three-bagger, and still yale had pulled out, which was rather remarkable. but walter had managed to keep harvard's hits scattered, while yale bunched their hits in two innings, which was just enough to give them the winning score. it was said that frank merriwell was to be given a show in the second game, and a large number of yale men who were not freshmen had come on to see what he would do. pierson had been particularly anxious to see merriwell work, and he had taken a great deal of trouble to come on. the "great and only" bob collingwood, of the 'varsity crew, had accompanied pierson, and both were much disappointed, not to say disgusted, when old put put in gordon and kept him in the box, despite the fact that he was being freely batted. "what's the matter with putnam?" growled pierson. "has he got a grudge against merriwell, or does he intend to lose this game anyway?" "he's asleep," said collingwood, wearily. "he's stuck on gordon." "he must be thick if he can't see gordon is rapidly losing his nerve. why, the fellow is liable to go to pieces at any minute and let those willies run in a score that will be an absolute disgrace." "go down and talk to him, pierson." "not much! i am too well known to the harvard gang. they wouldn't do a thing to me--not a thing!" "then let's get out of here. it makes me sick to hear that harvard yell. i can't stand it, pierson." "wait. i want to see merriwell go into the box, if they will let him at all. that's what i came for." "but he can't save the game now. the yale crowd is not doing any batting. all harvard has to do is to hold them down, and they scarcely have touched coulter since the second inning." "that's right, but the fellow is easy, coll. if they ever should get onto him--" "how can they? they are not batters." pierson nodded. "that is true," he admitted. "they are weak with the stick. diamond is the only man who seems to know how to go after a ball properly. he is raw, but there is mighty good stuff in that fellow. if he sticks to baseball he will be on the regular team before he finishes his course." "i believe merriwell has shown up well as a batter in practice." "he certainly has." "well, i should think old put would use him for his hitting, if for nothing else. he is needed." "it seems to me that there is a nigger in the woodpile." "you think merriwell is held back for reasons not known?" "i do." "say, by jingoes! i am going down and talk to putnam. if he doesn't give merriwell a trial he's a chump." "hold on." "what for? if i wait it will be too late for merriwell to go in on the first of the seventh." "perhaps merriwell may stand on his dignity and refuse to go in at all at this late stage of the game." "he wouldn't be to blame if he did, for he can't win out." "something is up. hello! merriwell is getting out of his sweater! i believe putnam is going to send him out!" there was a great satisfaction in pierson's voice. at last it seemed that he would get a chance to see merriwell work. "somebody ought to go down and rap putnam on the coco with a big heavy club!" growled collingwood. "he should have made the change long ago. the harvard willies have been piling up something every inning." down on the visitors' bench merriwell was seen to peel off, while gordon was talking rather excitedly to burnham putnam. it seemed evident by his manner that he was speaking of something that did not please him very much. merriwell was pulled out of his sweater, and then somebody tossed him a practice ball. little danny griswold, the yale shortstop, put on a catcher's mitt and prepared to catch for frank. yale was making a last desperate struggle for a score in the sixth inning. with one man out and a man on first, a weak batter came up. if the batter tried to get a hit, it looked like a great opportunity for a double play by harvard. old put, who was in uniform, ran down to first, and sent in the coacher, whose place he took on the line. then he signaled the batter to take one, his signal being obeyed, and it proved to be a ball. put was a great coacher, and now he opened up in a lively way, with robinson rattling away over by third. put was not talking simply to rattle the pitcher; he was giving signals at the same time, and he signed for the man on first to go down on the next pitch, at the same time giving the batter the tip to make a fake swing at the ball to bother the catcher. this programme was carried out, and it worked, for the runner got second on a slide and a close decision. then the yale rooters opened their throats, and blue banners fluttered in a bunch over on the bleachers where the new haven gang was packed together. "yell, you suckers, yell!" cried dickson, harvard's first baseman. "it's the only chance you'll get." his words were drowned in the tumult and noise. up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators who sympathized with the boys from new haven. then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the heads of the yale freshmen so long. but the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close in again as dark as ever. in the meantime frank was warming up with the aid of danny griswold, and walter gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast. "gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a companion. "he doesn't know when he has enough." "well, we know we have had enough of him this game," said the other, sourly. "if we had played a rotten fielding game harvard would have a hundred now." "well, nearly that," grinned the first speaker. "gordon hasn't struck out a man." "and still he is sore because putnam is going to put merriwell in! i suppose that is natural, but--hi, there! look a' that! great scott! what sloppy work! did you see newton get caught playing off second? well, that gives me cramps! come on; he's the last man, and we'll have to go out." so, to the delight of the harvard crowd, yale was whitewashed again, and there seemed no show for the new haven boys to win. walter gordon remained on the bench, and frank walked down into the box. then came positive proof of merriwell's popularity, for the new haven spectators arose as one man, wildly waving hats and flags, and gave three cheers and a tiger for frank. "that's what kills him!" exclaimed pierson in disgust. "it is sure to rattle any green man." "that's right," yawned collingwood. "it's plain we have wasted our time in coming here to-day." "it looks that way from the road. why couldn't the blamed chumps keep still, so he could show what he is made of?" "it's ten to one he won't be able to find the plate for five minutes. i believe i can see him shaking from here." the harvard crowd had never heard of merriwell, and they regarded him with no little interest as he walked into the box. when the yale spectators were through cheering harvard took it up in a derisive way, and it certainly was enough to rattle any fellow with ordinary nerves. but frank did not seem to hear all the howling. he paid no attention to the cheers of his friends or the jeers of the other party. he seemed in no great hurry. he made sure that every man was in position, felt of the pitcher's plate with his foot, kicked aside a small pebble, and then took any amount of time in preparing to deliver. collingwood began to show some interest. he punched pierson in the ribs with his elbow and observed: "hanged if he acts as if he is badly rattled!" "that's so. he doesn't seem to be in a hurry," admitted paul. "he is using his head at the very start, for he is giving himself time to become cool and steady." "he has gibson, the best batter on the harvard team, facing him. gibson is bound to get a safe hit." "he is pretty sure to, and that is right." merriwell knew that nort gibson was the heaviest and surest batter on the harvard team, but he had been watching the fellow all through the game, trying to "get his alley." he had seen gibson light on a drop and smash it fiercely, and then he had seen him get a safe hit off a rise, while an outcurve did not fool him at all, as he would bang it if it came over the plate or let it alone when it went outside. frank's mind was made up, and he had resolved to give gibson everything in close to his fingers. then, if he did hit it, he was not liable to knock it very far. the first ball merriwell delivered looked like a pretty one, and gibson went after it. it was an inshoot, and the batter afterward declared it grazed his knuckles as it passed. "one strike!" called the umpire. "what's this! what's this!" exclaimed collingwood, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "what did he do, anyway?" "fooled the batter with a high inshoot," replied pierson. "well, he doesn't seem to be so very rattled after all." "can't tell yet. he did all right that time, but gibson has two more chances. if he gets a drop or an outcurve that is within reach, he will kill it." ben halliday was catching for yale. rattleton, the change catcher and first baseman, was laid off with a bad finger. he was rooting with the new haven gang. halliday returned the ball and signaled for a rise, but merriwell shook his head and took a position that meant that he wished to try the same thing over again. halliday accepted, and then frank sent the ball like a shot. this time it seemed a certain thing that frank had depended on a high straight ball, and gibson could not let it pass. he came near breaking his back trying to start the cover on the ball, but once more he fanned the air. "great jupiter!" gasped collingwood, who was now aroused. "what did he do then, pierson?" "fooled the fellow on the same thing exactly!" chuckled paul. "gibson wasn't looking for two in the same place." now the freshmen spectators from yale let themselves out. they couldn't wait for the third strike, but they cheered, blew horns and whistles, and waved flags and hats. merriwell had a trick of taking up lots of time in a busy way without pitching the ball while the excitement was too high, and his appearance seemed to indicate that he was totally deaf to all the tumult. "that's right, merry, old boy!" yelled an enthusiastic new haven lad. "trim his whiskers with them." "wind them around his neck, frank!" cried harry rattleton. "you can do it!" rattleton had the utmost confidence in his chum, and he had offered to bet that not one of the first three men up would get a safe hit off him. sport harris, who was always looking for a chance to risk something, promptly took harry up, and each placed a "sawbuck" in the hands of deacon dunning. "i am sorry for you, harris," laughed rattleton after gibson had missed the second time, "but he's going to use them all that way." "wait, my boy," returned sport, coolly. "i am inclined to think this man will get a hit yet." "i'll go you ten to five he doesn't." "done!" they had no time to put up the money, for merriwell was at work again, and they were eager to watch him. the very next ball was an outcurve, but it was beyond gibson's reach and he calmly let it pass. then followed a straight one that was on the level with the top of the batter's head, and gibson afterward expressed regret that he did not try it. the third one was low and close to gibson's knees. three balls had been called in succession, and the next one settled the matter, for it stood three to two. "has he gone to pieces?" anxiously asked collingwood. "i don't think so," answered pierson, "but he has wasted good opportunities trying to pull gibson. he is in a bad place now." "you have him in a hole, gibson," cried a voice. "the next one must be right over, and he can't put it there." "it looks as if you would win, rattleton," said harris in mild disgust. "merriwell is going to give the batter his base, and so, of course, he will not get a hit." harry was nettled, and quick as a flash returned: "four balls hits for a go--i mean goes for a hit in this case." harris laughed. "now i have you sure," he chuckled. "in your mind, sport, old boy." merriwell seemed to be examining the pitcher's plate, then he looked up like a flash, his eyes seeming to sparkle, and with wonderful quickness delivered the ball. "it's an outcurve," was the thought which flashed through gibson's mind as he saw the sphere had been started almost directly at him. if it was an outcurve it seemed certain to pass over the center of the plate, and it would not do to let it pass. it was speedy, and the batter was forced to make up his mind in a fraction of a second. he struck at it--and missed! "three strikes--batter out!" called the umpire, sharply. gibson dropped his stick in a dazed way, muttering: "great scott! it was a straight ball and close to my fingers!" he might have shouted the words and not been heard, for the yale rooters were getting in their work for fair. they gave one great roar of delight, and then came the college yell, followed by the freshman cheer. at last they were given an opportunity to use their lungs, after having been comparatively silent for several innings. "whoop 'er up for 'umpty-eight!" howled a fellow with a heavy voice. "what's the matter with 'umpty-eight?" "she's all right!" went up the hoarse roar. "what's the matter with merriwell?" "he's all right!" again came that roar. when the shouting had subsided, rattleton touched harris on the shoulder and laughingly asked: "do i win?" "not yet. there are two more coming." "but i win just as hard, my boy." "hope you do." the next harvard batter came up, determined to do something, although he was a trifle uncertain. he let the first one pass and heard a strike called, which did not please him much. the second one was a coaxer, and he let that ball go by. the umpire called a ball. the third was a high one, but it looked good, and he tried for it. it proved to be a rise, and he struck under it at least a foot. bob collingwood was growing enthusiastic. "that merriwell is full of tricks," he declared. "think how he secretly coached the freshman crew up on the oxford stroke last fall and won the race at saltonstall. if it hadn't been for a traitor nobody would have known what he was doing with the crew, for he wouldn't let them practice at the machines." "i have had my eye on him ever since he entered yale," confessed pierson. "i have seen that he is destined to come to the front." the batter seemed angry because he had been deceived so easily, and this gave frank satisfaction, for an angry man can be deceived much easier than one who keeps cool. merriwell held them close in on the batter, who made four fouls in succession, getting angrier each moment. by this time an outdrop was the thing to fool him, and it worked nicely. "three strikes and out!" called the umpire. frank had struck out two men, and the yale crowd could not cheer loud enough to express their delight. old put was delighted beyond measure, but he was keeping pretty still, for he knew what he was sure to hear if yale did not pull the game out some way. he knew everybody would be asking him why he did not put merriwell in the box before. lewis little was hugging himself with satisfaction, while dismal jones' long face actually wore something suggestive of a smile. rattleton felt like standing on his head and kicking up his heels with the delight he could not express. "oh, perhaps they will give frank a show after this!" he thought. "didn't i tell put, the blooming idiot? it took him a long time to get out of his trance." sport harris coolly puffed away at a black cigar, seemingly perfectly unconcerned, like a born gambler. he had black hair and a faint line of a mustache. he was rather handsome in a way, but he had a pronounced taste for loud neckties. the next batter to come up was nervous, as could be seen at a glance. he did not wish to strike out, but he was far too eager to hit the ball, and he went after a bad one at the very start, which led him to get a mild call down from the bench. then the fellow let a good one pass, which rattled him worse than ever. the next looked good and he swung at it. he hit it, and it went up into the air, dropping into merriwell's hands, who did not have to step out of his tracks to get it. yale had whitewashed harvard for the first time in that game. chapter xxviii. the game grows hotter. by the noise the yale crowd made one might have fancied the game was theirs beyond a doubt. "poor fellows!" said one languid harvardite to an equally languid companion. "it's the only chawnce they have had to cheer. do let them make a little noise." "yas," said his companion, "do. it isn't at all likely they will get another opportunity during this game." there were cheers for merriwell, but frank walked to the bench and put on his sweater as if utterly unconscious of the excitement he had created. his unconcerned manner won fresh admiration for him. old put congratulated frank as soon as the bench was reached. "that was great work, merriwell. keep it up! keep it up!" "that kind of work will not win the game as the score stands," returned frank. "some batting must be done, and there must be some score getting." "you are right, and you are the second man up this inning. see what you can do." "if i had known i came so soon i wouldn't have put on my sweater." "keep it on. you must not get chilly. we can't tell what may happen. harder games than this have been pulled out. they lead us but five scores." "blossom bats ahead of me, does he? well, he never got a hit when one was wanted in all his life; but he's got a trick that is just as good, if he will try to work it." "getting hit by the ball? he is clever at that. tell him to work the dodge this time if he can. get him onto first some way. we must have some scores, if we steal them." "i wish we might steal a few." "if i get first and blossom is ahead of me on second, let us try the double steal. i may be caught at second or he may be caught at third, and there is a bare possibility that we'll both make our bags. at any rate, but one of us is liable to be caught, and if it is blossom it will leave us scarcely any worse off than before. if it is myself, why, blossom will be on third, we'll have one man out, and stand a good show of scoring once at least." merriwell said this in a quiet manner, not at all as if he were trying to dictate, and putnam made no reply. however, he spoke to blossom, who was picking out his bat. "look here, uncle," he said, "i want you to get first base in some way. do you understand?--in some way. if you can't make a hit or get it on balls, get hit." blossom made a wry face. "coulter's got speed to burn," he said, "but i'll try to get hit if he gives me an in, even though it kills me." "that's what i want," returned old put, grimly. "never mind if it does kill you. we are after scores, and a life or two is of small consequence." "that's a pleasant way of looking at it," muttered blossom as he advanced to the plate. "here goes nothing!" the very first ball was an inshoot, and blossom pretended to dodge and slip. the ball took him in the side and keeled him over instantly. he was given a little water, whereupon he got up and trotted down to first, his hand clinging to his side, but grinning a bit in a sly way. there was a brief discussion about giving blossom a runner, but when one was chosen who could not run as well as he could himself, he suddenly found himself in condition to get along all right. merriwell took his place at the bat, having selected a bat that was a trifle over regulation length, if anything. frank saw a hole in right field, and he hoped to be able to place a hit right there. if he could do it, there was a chance for blossom to get around to third on a single. coulter knew nothing of merriwell's batting, so he was forced to experiment on the man. he tried a drop that almost hit the plate, but frank did not bite. then coulter sent over a high one, and still merriwell refused to swing, and two balls had been called. coulter had a trick of holding a man close on first, and so blossom had not obtained lead enough to attempt to steal second. frank felt that coulter would make an attempt to get the next one over the outside or inside corner of the plate, as it would not do to have three balls in succession called without a single strike. merriwell was right. coulter sent one over the inside corner, using a straight ball. still merriwell did not offer at it, for he could not have placed it in the right field if he had tried. "one strike!" called the umpire. although he seemed quite unconcerned, sport harris had been nettled when rattleton won the ten-dollar bet, and he now said: "i will go you even money, rattleton, that merriwell does not get a hit. if he goes down on four balls the bet is off." "i'll stand you," nodded harry, laughingly. "why, harris, i never dreamed you were such an easy mark! merriwell is bound to get a hit." "ha! ha!" mocked harris. "is that so? and he just let a good one pass without wiggling his bat!" "it wasn't where he wanted it." "and coulter will not give him one where he wants it." "coulter doesn't know anything about merriwell's batting, and so he is liable to make a break at any moment." this proved right, for coulter tried to fool frank with an outcurve on the next delivery. he started the ball exactly as he had the one before it, to all appearances as if he meant to send another straight one over the inside corner. he believed merriwell would bite at it, and he was right. but right there coulter received a shock, for merriwell leaned forward as he swung, assuming such a position that the ball must have hit him if it had been a straight one. it had a sharp, wide curve, and passed at least ten inches beyond the plate. passed? not much! merriwell hit it, and sent a "daisy cutter" down into right field, exactly where he wished to place it. down on the coach line near first little danny griswold had convulsions. he whooped like a wild indian. "spring, ye snails! tear up the dust, ye sons of eli! two--make it two, blos, old boy! why, this game is easy now! we've just got started! whoop! whoopee!" in going over second blossom tripped and fell heavily. when he scrambled to his feet he was somewhat dazed, and it was too late for him to try for third. he saw halliday down by third motioning wildly for him to get back and hold second, but there was such a roar of voices that he could not hear a word the coachers were saying. however, the signals were enough, and he got back. now the "sons of eli" were all on their feet, and they were making the air quiver. it was enough to inspire any man to do or die, and it is doubtful if there was not a man on the yale team who did not feel at that moment that he was willing to lay down his life, if necessary, to win that game. when the shouting had subsided in a measure, rattleton was heard to shout from his perch on the shoulders of a companion, to which position he had shinned in his excitement: "right here is where we trick our little do, gentlemen--er--i mean we do our little trick. ready to the air of 'oh, give us a drink, bartender.' let her go!" then the yale crowd broke into an original song, the words of which were: "oh, hammer it out, old eli, old eli, as you always have, you know; for it's sure that we're all behind you, behind you, and we will cheer you as you go. we're in the game to stay, my lads, my lads, we will win it easily, too; so give three cheers for old 'umpty-eight-- three cheers for the boys in blue! breka co ax, co ax, co ax! breka co ax, co ax, co ax! o--up! o--up! parabaloo-- yale! yale! yale! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! yale!" the enthusiasm which this created was immense, and the next man walked up to the plate filled with determination. however, old put was shrewd enough to know the man might be too eager, and so he gave the signal for him to take one anyway. coulter was decidedly nervous, as was apparent to everybody, and it seemed that there was a chance of getting him badly rattled. that was exactly what the yale crowd was doing its best to accomplish. merriwell crept away from first for a long lead, but it was not easy to get, as coulter drove him back with sharp throws each time. then blossom came near being caught napping off second, but was given "safe" on a close decision. suddenly coulter delivered, and the batter obeyed old put and did not offer, although it was right over the heart of the plate. "one strike!" was called. now came the time for the attempted double steal that frank had suggested. putnam decided to try it on, and he signaled for it. at the same time he signaled the batter to make a swing to bother the catcher, but not to touch the ball. frank pretended to cling close to first, but he was watching for coulter's slightest preliminary motion in the way of delivery. it came, and old put yelled from the coach line, where he had replaced griswold: "gear!" frank got a beautiful start, and blossom made a break for third. if blossom had secured a lead equal to merriwell's he would have made third easily. as it was, the catcher snapped the ball down with a short-arm throw, and blossom was caught by a foot. then it was harvard's turn, and the cambridge lads made the most of it. a great roar went up, and the crimson seemed to be fluttering everywhere. "har-vard! har-vard! har-vard! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! harvard!" one strike and one ball had been called on the batter, and merriwell was on second, with one man out. yale was still longing vainly for scores. it began to look as if they would still be held down, and coulter was regaining his confidence. frank was aware that something sensational must be done to keep coulter on the string. he longed for an opportunity to steal third, but knew he would receive a severe call down from old put if he failed. still he was ready to try if he found the opportunity. frank took all the lead he could secure, going up with the shortstop every time the second baseman played off to fill the right field gap. he was so lively on his feet that he could go back ahead of the baseman every time, and coulter gave up trying to catch him after two attempts. frank took all the ground he could, and seeing the next ball was an outdrop he legged it for third. "slide! slide! slide!" howled the astonished halliday, who was still on the coach line at third. frank obeyed, and he went over the ground as if he had been greased for the occasion. he made the steal with safety, having a second to spare. rattleton lost his breath yelling, and the entire yale crowd howled as one man. the excitement was at fever pitch. bob collingwood was gasping for breath, and he caught hold of paul pierson, shouting in his ear: "what do you think of that?" "think of it?" returned pierson. "it was a reckless piece of work, and merriwell would have got fits if he'd failed." "but he didn't fail." "no; that lets him out. he is working to rattle coulter, but he took desperate chances. i don't know but it's the only way to win this game." "of course it is." "merriwell is a wonderful runner. i found that out last fall, when i made up as professor grant and attempted to relieve him of a turkey he had captured somewhere out in the country. i blocked his road at the start, but he slugged me with the turk and then skipped. i got after him, and you know i can run some. thought i was going to run him down easily or make him drop the bird; but i didn't do either and he got away. oh, he is a sprinter, and it is plain he knows how to steal bases. i believe he is the best base runner on the freshman team, if he is not too reckless." "he is a dandy!" exclaimed collingwood. "i have thought the fellow was given too much credit, but i've changed my mind. pierson, i believe he is swift enough for the regular team. what do you think of it?" "i want to see more of his work before i express myself." merriwell's steal had indeed rattled coulter, who became so nervous that he sent the batter down to first on four balls. then, with the first ball delivered to the next man up, the fellow on first struck out for second. merriwell was playing off third, and pretended to make a break for home as the catcher made a short throw to the shortstop, who ran in behind coulter, took the ball and lined it back to the plate. but frank had whirled about and returned to third, so the play was wasted, and the runner reached second safely. then there was more yale enthusiasm, and coulter was so broken up that he gave little danny griswold a shoulder ball right over the heart of the plate. griswold "ate" high balls, as the harvard pitcher very well knew. he did not fail to make connection with this one, and drove it to deep left for two bags, bringing in two runs. chapter xxix. the end of the game. now the new haven crowd took their turn, and took it in earnest. rattleton stood upon the shoulders of a friend, and fell off upon the heads of the crowd as he was cheering. he didn't mind that, for he kept right on cheering. "merriwell, i believe you have broken the streak!" cried old put, with inexpressible satisfaction. "well, i sincerely hope so," returned frank. "i rather think we are all right now, but we've got a hard pull ahead of us. harvard is still five in the lead, you know." "if you can hold them down--" "i am going to do my best." "if you save this game the boys won't do a thing when we get back to new haven--not a thing!" the next batter flied out to shortstop, and griswold remained on second. now there was suspense, for yale had two men out. a sudden hush fell on the field, broken only by the voices of the two coachers. coulter had not recovered his nerve, and the next batter got a safe hit into right field, while danny griswold's short legs fairly twinkled as he scudded down to third and then tore up the dust in a mighty effort to get home on a single. every yale man was on his feet cheering again, and danny certainly covered ground in a remarkable manner. head first he went for the plate. the right fielder secured the ball and tried to stop danny at the plate by a long throw. the throw was all right, but griswold was making too much speed to be caught. the instant old put, who had returned to the coach line, saw that the fielder meant to throw home, he howled for the batter to keep right on for second. griswold scored safely, and the catcher lost little time in throwing to second. "slide!" howled a hundred voices. the runner obeyed, and he got in under the baseman, who had been forced to take a high throw. it is impossible to describe what followed. the most of the yale spectators acted as if they had gone crazy, and those in sympathy with harvard showed positive alarm. two or three men got around the captain of the harvard team and asked him to take out coulter. "put in peck!" they urged. "they've got coulter going, and he will lose the game right here if you do not change." at this the captain got angry and told them to get out. when he got ready to change he would do it without anybody's advice. coulter continued to pitch, and the next batter got first on an error by the shortstop. "the whole team is going to pieces!" laughed paul pierson. "i wouldn't be surprised to see old put's boys pull the game out in this inning, for all that two men are out." "if they do so, merriwell is the man who will deserve the credit," said collingwood. "that is dead right." "yes, it is right, for he restored confidence and started the work of rattling coulter." "paul," said the great man of the 'varsity crew, "that fellow is fast enough for the regular team." "you said so before." "and i say so again." now it became evident to everybody that coulter was in a pitiful state, for he could not find the plate at all, and the next man went down on four balls, filling the bases. but that was not the end of it. the next batter got four balls, and a score was forced in. then it was seen that peck, harvard's change pitcher, was warming up, and it became evident that the captain had decided to put him into the box. if the next yale man had not been altogether too eager to get a hit, there is no telling when the inning would have stopped. he sent a high-fly foul straight into the air, and the catcher succeeded in gathering it in. the inning closed with quite a change in the score, harvard having a lead of but three, where it had been seven in the lead at the end of the sixth. "i am afraid they will get on to merriwell this time," said sport harris, with a shake of his head. "hey!" squealed rattleton, who was quivering all over. "i'll give you a chance to even up with me. i'll bet you twenty that harvard doesn't score." "oh, well, i'll have to stand you, just for fun," murmured harris as he extracted a twenty-dollar bill from the roll it was said he always carried and handed it to deacon dunning. "shove up your dough, rattle." harry covered the money promptly, and then he laughed. "this cakes the take--i mean takes the cake! i never struck such an easy way of making money! i say, fellows, we'll open something after the game, and i'll pay for it with what i win off harris." "that will be nice," smiled harris; "but you may not be loaded with my money after the game." the very first batter up, got first on an error by the second baseman who let an easy one go through him. "the money is beginning to look my way as soon as this," said harris. "it is looking your way to bid you good-by," chuckled harry, not in the least disturbed or anxious. merriwell had a way of snapping his left foot out of the box for a throw to first, and it kept the runner hugging the bag all the time. frank also had another trick of holding the ball in his hand and appearing to give his trousers a hitch, upon which he would deliver the ball when neither runner nor batter was expecting him to do so, and yet his delivery was perfectly proper. he struck the next man out, and the batter to follow hit a weak one to third, who stopped the runner at second. two men were out, and still there was a man on first. now it looked dark for harvard that inning, and not a safe hit had been made off merriwell thus far. the harvard crowd was getting anxious. was it possible that merriwell would hold them down so they could not score, and yale would yet pull out by good work at the bat? the captain said a few words to the next batter before the man went up to the plate, and frank felt sure the fellow had been advised to take his time. having made up his mind to this, frank sent a swift straight one directly over, and, as he had expected, the batter let it pass, which caused the umpire to call a strike. still keeping the runner hugging first, frank seemed to start another ball in exactly the same manner. it was not a straight one, but it was a very slow drop, as the batter discovered after he had commenced to swing. finding he could not recover, the fellow went after the ball with a scooping movement, and then did not come within several inches of it, greatly to the delight of the yale crowd. "oh, merry has every blooming one of them on a string!" cried rattleton. "he thon't do a wing to 'em--i mean he won't do a thing to 'em." the yale men were singing songs of victory already, and the harvard crowd was doing its best to keep up the courage of its team by rooting hard. it was a most exciting game. "the hottest game i ever saw played by freshmen," commented collingwood. "it is a corker," confessed pierson. "we weren't looking for anything of the sort a short time ago." "i should say not. up to the time merriwell went in it looked as if harvard had a walkover." "gordon feels bad enough about it, that is plain. he is trying to appear cheerful on the bench, but--" "he can't stand it any longer; he's leaving." that was right. gordon had left the players' bench and was walking away. he tried to look pleased at the way things were going, but the attempt was a failure. "merriwell is the luckiest fellow alive," he thought. "if i had stayed in another inning the game might have changed. he is pitching good ball, but i'm hanged if i can understand why they do not hit him. it looks easy." neither could the harvard lads thoroughly understand it, although there were some who realized that merriwell was using his head, as well as speed and curves. and he did not use speed all the time. he had a fine change of pace, sandwiching in his slow balls at irregular intervals, but delivering them with what seemed to be exactly the same motion that he used on the speedy ones. the fourth batter up struck out, and again harvard was retired without a score, which caused the yale crowd to cheer so that some of the lads got almost black in the face. "well! well! well!" laughed rattleton, as deacon dunning passed over the money he had been holding. "this is like chicking perries--i mean picking cherries. all i have to do is to reach out and take what i want." "if the boys will capture the game i'll be perfectly satisfied to lose," declared harris, who did not tell the truth, however, for he was chagrined, although he showed not a sign of it. "how can we lose? how can we lose?" chuckled harry. "things are coming our way, as the country editor said when he was rotten-egged by the mob." it really seemed that yale was out for the game at last, for they kept up their work at the bat, although peck replaced coulter in the box for harvard. merriwell had his turn with the first batter up. one man was out, and there was a man on second. coulter had warned peck against giving merriwell an outcurve. at the same time, knowing frank had batted to right field before, the fielders played over toward right. "so you are on to that, are you?" thought frank. "well, it comes full easier for me to crack 'em into left field if i am given an inshoot." two strikes were called on him before he found anything that suited him. harris was on the point of betting rattleton odds that merriwell did not get a hit, when frank found what he was looking for and sent it sailing into left. it was not a rainbow, so it did not give the fielder time to get under it, although he made a sharp run for it. then it was that merriwell seemed to fly around the bases, while the man ahead of him came in and scored. at first the hit had looked like a two-bagger, but there seemed to be a chance of making three out of it as frank reached second, and the coachers sent him along. he reached third ahead of the ball, and then the yale crowd on the bleachers did their duty. "how do you harvard chaps like merriwell's style?" yelled a yale enthusiast as the cheering subsided. then there was more cheering, and the freshmen of 'umpty-eight were entirely happy. the man who followed frank promptly flied out to first, which quenched the enthusiasm of the yale gang somewhat and gave harvard's admirers an opportunity to make a noise. frank longed to get in his score, which would leave harvard with a lead of but one. he felt that he must get home some way. danny griswold came to the bat. "get me home some way, danny," urged frank. the little shortstop said not a word, but there was determination in his eyes. he grasped his stick firmly and prayed for one of his favorite high balls. but peck kept them low on danny, who took a strike, and then was pulled on a bad one. with two strikes on him and only one ball, the case looked desperate for danny. still he did not lose his nerve. he did not think he could not hit the ball, but he made himself believe that he was bound to hit it. to himself he kept saying: "i'll meet it next time--i'll meet it sure." he knew the folly of trying to kill the ball in such a case, and so when he did swing, his only attempt was to meet it squarely. in this he succeeded, and he sent it over the second baseman's head, but it fell short of the fielder. merriwell came home while griswold was going down to first. and now it needed but one score for yale to tie harvard. the man who followed griswold dashed all their hopes by hitting a weak one to short and forcing danny out at second. harvard cheered their men as they came in from the field. "we must make some scores this time, boys," said the harvard captain. "a margin of one will never do, with those fellows hitting anything and everything." "that's exactly what they are doing," said peck. "they are getting hits off balls they have no business to strike at." "oh, you are having your troubles," grinned a friend. "any one is bound to have when batters are picking them off the clouds or out of the dirt. it doesn't make much difference where they are." "this man merriwell can't hold us down as he has done," asserted dickson, harvard's first baseman. "i don't know; he is pretty cagey," admitted nort gibson. "i believe he is the best pitcher we'll strike this season," said another. "here, here, you fellows!" broke in the captain. "you are getting down-hearted, and that won't do. we've got this game and we are going to hold it; but we want to go in to clinch it right here." they didn't do much clinching, for although the first man up hit the ball, he got to first on an error by the third baseman, who fumbled in trying to pick it up. blossom was the third baseman, and he was confused by his awkwardness, expecting to get a call down. "steady, blos, old boy!" said frank, gently. "you are all right. the best of us do those things occasionally. it is nothing at all." these words relieved blossom's feelings and made him vow that he would not let another ball play chase around his feet. frank struck the next man out, and held the runner on first while he was doing it. the third man sent an easy pop-fly to blossom, who got hold of it and clung to it for dear life. then the runner got second on a passed ball, but he advanced no farther, for the following batter rolled a weak one down to frank, who gathered it in and threw the man out at first. in three innings not a safe hit had been made off merriwell, and he had struck out five men. no wonder his admirers cheered him wildly as he went to the bench. yale started in to make some scores. the very first man up got a hit and stole second. the next man went to the bat with the determination to slug the ball, but old put signaled for a sacrifice, as the man was a good bunt hitter. the sacrifice was tried, and it worked, for the man on second got third, although the batter was thrown out at first. "now we need a hit!" cried put. "it takes one to tie and two to win. a hit ties the game." rattleton offered to bet harris two to one that yale would win, but sport declined the offer. "it's our game fast enough," he said. "you are welcome to what you have won off me. i am satisfied." but the game was not won. amid the most intense excitement the next man fouled out. then peck seemed to gather himself to save the game for harvard. he got some queer quirks into his delivery, and, almost before the yale crowd could realize it, two strikes were called on the batter. the yale rooters tried to rattle peck, but they succeeded in rattling the batter instead, and, to their unutterable dismay and horror, he fanned at a third one, missed it, and-- "batter is out!" cried the umpire. then a great roar for harvard went up, and the dazed freshmen from new haven realized they were defeated after all. chapter xxx. rattleton is excited. "it wasn't merriwell's fault that the freshies didn't win," said bob collingwood to paul pierson as they were riding back to new haven on the train that night. "not a bit of it," agreed pierson. "i was expecting a great deal of merriwell, but i believe he is a better man than i thought he could be." "then you have arrived at the conclusion that he is fast enough for the regular team?" "i rather think he is." "will you give him a trial?" "we may. it is a bad thing for any freshman to get an exalted opinion of himself and his abilities, for it is likely to spoil him. i don't want to spoil merriwell--" "look here," interrupted collingwood, impulsively. "i am inclined to doubt if it is an easy thing to spoil that fellow. he hasn't put on airs since coming to yale, has he?" "no." "instead of that, he has lived rather simply--far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. he has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor." "that is one secret of merriwell's popularity. he hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living." "yet i have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he may live as swell as he likes while he is here. what do you think of that?" "it may be true," admitted pierson. "he is an original sort of chap--" "but they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in collingwood, swiftly. "he isn't living cheap for economy's sake. you know he doesn't drink." "yes. i have made inquiries about his habits." "still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz, for which he settles. and he is liberal in other ways." "he is an enigma in some ways." "i have heard a wild sort of story about him, but i don't take much stock in it. it is the invention of some fertile brain." "what is it?" "oh, a lot of trash about his having traveled all over the world, been captured by pirates and cannibals, fought gorillas and tigers, shot elephants and so forth. of course that's all rot." "of course. what does he say about it?" "oh, he simply laughs at the stories. if a fellow asks him point-blank if they are true he tells him not to let anybody string him. he seems to regard the whole business as a weak sort of joke that some fellow is trying to work." "without doubt that's what it is, for he's too young to have had such adventures. besides that, there's no fellow modest enough to deny it if he had had them." "of course there isn't." in this way that point was settled in their minds, for the time, at least. there was no band to welcome 'umpty-eight back to new haven. no crowd of cheering freshmen was at the station, and those who had gone on to cambridge to play and to see the game got off quietly--very quietly--and hurried to their rooms. merriwell was in his room ahead of rattleton. harry finally appeared, wearing a sad and doleful countenance. "what's the matter, old man?" asked frank as harry came in and flung his hat on the floor, after which he dropped upon a chair. "you do not seem to feel well." "i should think you would eel felegant--i mean feel elegant!" snapped harry, glaring at frank. "oh, what's the use to be all broken up over a little thing?" "wow! little thing!" whooped harry. "i'd like to know what you call a little thing--i would, by jee!" "you are excited, my boy. calm down somewhat." "oh, i am calm!" shouted harry as he jumped up and kicked the chair flying into a corner. "i am perfectly calm!" he roared, tearing up and down the room. "i never was calmer in all my life!" "you look it!" came in an amused manner from frank's lips. "you are so very calm that it is absolutely soothing and restful to the nerves to observe you!" harry stopped short before frank, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, thrust his head forward, and glared fiercely into merriwell's face. "there are times when it positively is a crime not to swear," he hoarsely said. "it seems to me that this is one of the times. if you will cuss a little it will relieve my feelings immensely." "why don't you swear?" laughed frank. "why don't i? poly hoker--no, holy poker! i have been swearing all the way from cambridge to new haven, and i have completely run out of profanity." "well, i think you have done enough for both of us." "oh, indeed! well, that is hard of me! i came in here expecting to find you breaking the furniture, and you are as calm and serene as a summer's morning. i tell you, frank, it is an awful shock! and you are the one who should do the most swearing. i can't understand you, hanged if i can!" "well, you know there is an old saw that says it is useless to cry over spilled milk--" "confound your old saws! crying and swearing are two different things. don't you ever cuss, frank?" "never." "well, i'd like to know how you can help it on an occasion like this! that is what gets me." "never having acquired the habit, it is very easy to get along without swearing, which is, beyond a doubt, the most foolish habit a man can get into." rattleton held up both hands, with a look of absolute horror on his face. "don't--don't preach now!" he protested. "i think the habit of swearing is a blessing sometimes--an absolute blessing. a man can relieve his feelings that way when he can't any other." "you don't seem to have succeeded in relieving your feelings much." "i don't? well, you should have seen me when i got aboard the train! i was at high pressure, and there was absolute danger of an explosion. i just had to open the safety valve and blow off. and i find you as calm as a clock! oh, frank, it is too much--too much!" and harry pretended to weep. "go it, old man," he smiled. "you will feel better pretty soon." "i don't know whether i will or not!" snapped harry. "it was a sheastly bame--i mean a beastly shame! that game was ours!" "not quite. it came very near being ours." "it was! why, you actually had it pulled out! you held those fellows down and never gave them a single safe hit! that was wonderful work!" "oh, i don't know. they are not such great batters." "gordon found them pretty fast. i tell you some of those fellows are batters--good ones, too." "well, they didn't happen to get onto my delivery." "happen! happen! happen! there was no happen about it. they couldn't get onto you. you had them at your mercy. it was wonderful pitching, and i can lick the gun of a son--er--son of a gun that says it wasn't!" "i had a chance to size every man up while gordon was pitching, and that gave me the advantage." "that makes me tired! of course you had time to size them up; but you couldn't have kept them without a hit if you hadn't been a dandy pitcher. your modesty is simply sickening sometimes!" then harry pranced up and down the room like am infuriated tiger, almost gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth. "if i didn't think i could pitch some i wouldn't try it." said frank, quietly. "but i am not fool enough to think i am the only one. there are others." "well, they are not freshmen, and i'll tell you that." "i don't know about that." "i do." "all right. have it as you like it." "and you batted like a fiend. twice at bat and two hits--a two-bagger and a three-bagger." "a single and a three-bagger, if you please." "well, what's the matter with that? whee jiz--mean jee whiz! could anybody ask for anything more? you got the three-bagger just when it was needed most, and you would have saved the game if you had come to the bat in the last inning." "you think so, but it is all guesswork. i might have struck out." "you might, but you wouldn't. oh, merry thunder! to think that a little single would have tied that game, and we couldn't get it! it actually makes me ill at the pit of my stomach!" the expression on harry's face seemed to indicate that he told the truth, for he certainly looked ill. "don't take it to heart so, my boy," said frank. "the poor chaps earned that game, and they ought to have it. we'll win the last one of the series, and that's all we want. do you want to bury poor old harvard?" "you can't bury her so deep that she won't crawl out, and you know that. those fellows are decidedly soon up at cambridge, and yale does well to get all she can from them. you can't tell what will happen next game. they have seen you, and they may have a surprise to spring on us. if we pulled this game off the whole thing would be settled now." "don't think for a moment that i underestimate harvard. she is yale's greatest rival and is bound to do us when she can. "we made a good bid for the game to-day, but it wasn't our luck to win, and so we may as well swallow our medicine and keep still." "it wasn't a case of luck at all," spluttered harry. "it was sheer bull-headedness, that's what it was! if put had put you in long before he did the game might have been saved." "he didn't like to pull gordon out, you see." "well, if he's running this team on sentiment, the sooner he quits the better it will be for the team." frank said nothing, but he could not help feeling that harry was right. managing a ball team is purely a matter of business, and if a manager is afraid to hurt anybody's feelings he is a poor man for the position. "why didn't he put you in in the first place?" asked harry. "i don't know. i suppose he had reasons." "oh, yes, he had reasons! and i rather think i know what they were. i am sure i do." "what were they?" "didn't you expect to pitch the game from the start to-day?" "yes, i did." "i thought so." harry nodded, as if fully satisfied that he understood the whole matter. "well," said frank, a bit sharply, "you have not explained yourself. i am curious to know why i was not put into the box at the start." "well, i am glad to see you show some emotion, if it is nothing more than curiosity. i had begun to think you would not show as much as that." "naturally i am curious." "do you know that paul pierson, manager of the 'varsity team, went on to see this game?" "yes." "why do you suppose he did so?" "oh, he is acquainted with several harvard fellows, and i presume he went to see them as much as to see the game." "he wasn't with any harvard fellows at the game." "well, what are you trying to get at?" "don't be in a hurry," said harry, who was now speaking with unusual calmness. "you regard old put as your friend?" "i always have." "but you think he didn't use you just right to-day?" "i will confess that i don't like to be used to fall back on with the hope that i may pull out a game somebody else has lost." harry nodded his satisfaction. "i knew you would feel that way, unless you had suddenly grown foolish. it's natural and it's right. there is no reason why you shouldn't be the regular pitcher for our team, but still gordon is regarded as the pitcher, while you are the change pitcher. frank, there is a nigger in the woodpile." "you will have to make yourself clearer than that." "putnam knew that pierson was going to be present at the game." "well?" "pierson didn't go on to see any harvard friends. he couldn't afford the time just at this season with all he has on his hands." "go on." "putnam knew pierson was not there to see any harvard men." "oh, take your time." harry grinned. he was speaking with such deliberation that he did not once twist his words or expressions about, as he often did when excited and in a hurry. "that's why you wasn't put in at the start-off," he declared. "what is why? you will have to make the whole matter plainer than you have so far. it is hazy." "putnam did not want pierson to see you pitch." "he didn't? why not?" "because pierson was there for that very purpose." "get out!" "i know what i am talking about. you have kept still about it, but pierson himself has let the cat out of the bag." "what cat?" "he has told--confidentially, you know--that he has thoughts of giving you a trial on the regular team. the parties he told repeated it--confidentially, you know--to others. it finally came to my ears. old put heard of it. now, while old put seems to be your friend, he doesn't want to lose you, and he had taken every precaution to keep you in the background. he has made gordon more prominent, and he has not let you do much pitching for pierson to see. he permitted you to go in to-day because he was afraid gordon would go all to pieces, and he knew what a howl would go up if he didn't do something." frank walked up and down the room. he did not permit himself to show any great amount of excitement, but there was a dark look on his handsome face that told he was aroused. harry saw that his roommate was stirred up at last. "as i have said," observed frank, halting and speaking grimly. "i have regarded burnham putnam as my friend; but if he has done as you claim for the reasons you give he has not shown himself to be very friendly. there is likely to be an understanding between us." rattleton nodded. "that's right," he said. "he may deny it, but i know i am not off my trolley. he didn't want piersan to see you work because he was afraid you would show up so well that pierson would nail you for the regular team." "and you think that is why i have been kept in the background so much since the season opened?" "i am dead sure of it." "putnam must have a grudge against me." "no, frank; but he has displayed selfishness in the matter. i believe he has considered you a better man than gordon all along, and he wanted you on the team to use in case he got into a tight corner. that's why he didn't want pierson to see you work. he didn't want to lose you. but he was forced to use you to-day, and you must have satisfied pierson that you know your business." "well, harry, you have thrown light on dark places. to-morrow i will have a little talk with put about this matter." "that's right," grinned harry; "and pierson is liable to have a little talk with you. you'll be on the regular team inside of a week." chapter xxxi. what ditson wanted. on the following day the great topic of conversation for the class of 'umpty-eight was the recent ball game. wherever the freshmen gathered they discussed the game and the work of gordon and merriwell. gordon was a free-and-easy sort of fellow, and he had his friends and admirers, some of whom were set in their belief that he was far superior to merriwell as a pitcher. roland ditson attempted to argue on two or three occasions in favor of gordon, but nobody paid attention to what he said, for it was known that he had tried by every possible means to injure merriwell and had been exposed in a contemptible piece of treachery, so that no one cared to be known as his friend and associate. whenever ditson would approach a group of lads and try to get in a few words he would be listened to in stony silence for some moments, and then the entire crowd would turn and walk away, without replying to his remarks or speaking to him at all. this would have driven a fellow less sensitive than ditson to abandon all hope of going through yale. of course it cut ditson, but he would grind his teeth and mutter: "merriwell is to blame for it all, curse him! i won't let him triumph! the time will come when i'll get square with him! i'll have to stay here in order to get square, and stay here i will, no matter how i am treated." since his duplicity had been made known and his classmates had turned against him ditson had taken to grinding in a fierce manner, and as a result he had made good progress in his studies. he was determined to stand ahead of merriwell in that line, at least, and it really seemed that he might succeed, unless frank gave more time to his studies and less to athletics. this was not easy for a fellow in merriwell's position and with his ardent love for all sorts of manly sports to do. he gave all the time he could to studies without becoming a greasy grind, but that was not as much as he would have liked. to ditson's disappointment and chagrin merriwell seemed quite unaware that his enemy stood ahead of him in his classes. frank seemed to have quite forgotten that such a person as roll ditson existed. ditson was an outcast. the fellow with whom he had roomed had left him shortly after his treachery was made public, and he was forced to room alone, as he could get no one to come in with him. roll did not mind this so much, however. he pretended that he was far more exclusive than the average freshman, and he tried to imitate the ways of the juniors and seniors, some of whom had swell apartments. ditson's parents were wealthy, and they furnished him with plenty of loose change, so that he could cut quite a dash. he had fancied that his money would buy plenty of friends for him. at first, before his real character was known, he had picked up quite a following, but he posed as a superior, which made him disliked by the very ones who helped him spend his money. he had hoped to be a leader at yale, but, to his dismay, he found that he did not cut much of a figure after all, and frank merriwell, a fellow who never drank or smoked, was far more popular. then it was that ditson conceived a plot to bring merriwell into ridicule and at the same time to get in with the enemies of the freshmen--the sophomores--himself. at last he had learned that at yale a man is not judged so much by the money he spends and the wealth of his parents as by his own manly qualities. but ditson was a sneak by nature, and he could not get over it. if he started out to accomplish anything in a square way, he was likely to fancy that it could be done with less trouble in a crooked manner, and his natural instinct would switch him off from the course he should have followed. he was not at all fond of walter gordon, but he liked him better than he did merriwell, and it was gall and wormwood for him when he heard how merriwell had replaced gordon in the box at cambridge and had pitched a marvelous game for three innings. "oh, it's just that fellow's luck!" roll muttered to himself. "he seems to be lucky in everything he does. the next thing i'll hear is that he is going to pitch on the 'varsity team." he little thought that this was true, but it proved to be. that very day he heard some sophomores talking on the campus, and he lingered near enough to catch their words. "is it actually true, parker, that pierson has publicly stated that merriwell is fast enough for the varsity nine?" asked tad horner. "that's what it is," nodded puss parker, "and i don't know but pierson is right. i am inclined to think so." "rot!" exclaimed evan hartwick, sharply. "i don't take stock in anything of the sort. merriwell may make a pitcher some day, but he is raw. why, he would get his eye batted out if he were to go up against harvard on the regular team." "oh, i don't know about that," said andy emery. "he is pretty smooth people. is there anybody knows pierson made such an observation concerning him?" "yes, there is," answered parker. "who knows it?" "i do." "did you hear him?" "i did." "that settles it." "yes, that settles it!" grated roland ditson as he walked away. "parker didn't lie, and pierson has intimated that merriwell may be given a trial on the varsity nine. if he is given a trial it will be his luck to succeed. he must not be given a trial. how can that be prevented?" then ditson set himself to devise some scheme to prevent frank from obtaining a trial on the regular nine. it was not an easy thing to think of a plan that would not involve himself in some way, and he felt that it must never be known that he had anything to do with such a plot. that night ditson might have been seen entering a certain saloon in new haven, calling one of the barkeepers aside, and holding a brief whispered conversation with him. "is professor kelley in?" asked roll. "he is, sir," replied the barkeeper. "do you wish to see him?" "well--ahem!--yes, if he is alone." "i think he is alone. i do not think any of his pupils are with him at present, sir." "will you be kind enough to see?" asked ditson. "this is a personal matter--something i want kept quiet." the barkeeper disappeared into a back room, was gone a few minutes, and then returned and said: "the professor is quite alone. will you go up, sir?" "y-e-s," said roll, glancing around, and then motioning for the barkeeper to lead the way. he was taken into a back room and shown a flight of stairs. "knock at the door at the head of the flight," instructed the barkeeper, and after giving the man some money ditson went up the stairs. "come in!" called a harsh voice when he knocked at the door. ditson found kelley sitting with his feet on a table, while he smoked a strong-smelling cigar. there were illustrated sporting papers on the table, crumpled and ragged. "well, young feller, watcher want?" demanded the man, withont removing his feet from the table or his hat from his head. ditson closed the door. he was very pale and somewhat agitated. "are we all alone?" he asked, choking a bit over the question. "dat's wot we are," nodded the professor. "is it a sure thing that our conversation cannot be overheard?" "dead sure." ditson hesitated. he seemed to find it difficult to express himself just as he desired. "speak right out, chummy," said kelley in a manner intended to be reassuring. "i rudder t'inks yer wants ter lick some cove, an' yer've come ter me ter put yer in shape ter do der job. well, you bet yer dough i'm der man ter do dat. how many lessons will yer have?" "it is not that at all," declared roll. "not dat?" cried kelley in surprise. "den wot do youse want?" "well, you see, it is like this--er, like this," faltered roland. "i--i've got an enemy." "well, ain't dat wot i said?" "but i don't want to fight him." "oh, i sees! yer wants some odder chap ter do de trick?" "yes, that is it. but i want them to more than lick him." "more dan lick him? w'y, yer don't want him killed, does yer?" "no," answered ditson, hoarsely; "but i want his right arm broken." "hey?" down came buster kelley's feet from the table, upon which his knuckles fell, and then he arose from the chair, standing in a crouching position, with his hands resting on the table, across which he glared at roland ditson. "hey?" he squawked. "just say dat ag'in, cully." roll was startled, and looked as if he longed to take to his heels and get away as quickly as possible; but he did not run, and he forced himself to say: "this is a case of business, professor. i will pay liberally to have the job done as i want it." "an' youse wants a bloke's arm bruck?" "yes." "well, dis is a quare deal! if yer wanted his head bruck it wouldn't s'prise me; but ter want his arm bruck--jee!" "i don't care if he gets a rap on the head at the same time, but i don't want him killed. i want his right arm broken, and that is the job i am ready to pay for." kelley straightened up somewhat, placed one hand on his hip, while the other rested on the table, crossed his legs, and regarded ditson steadily with a stare that made roll very nervous. "i might 'a' knowed yer didn't want ter fight him yerself," the professor finally said, and ditson did not fail to detect the contempt in his face and voice. "no, i do not," declared ditson, an angry flush coming to his face. "he is a scrapper, and i do not think i am his match in a brutal fight." "brutal is good! an' yer wants his arm bruck? don't propose to give him no show at all, eh?" "i don't care a continental what is done so long as he is fixed as i ask." "i s'pose ye're one of them stujent fellers?" "yes, i am a student." "an' t'other feller is a stujent?" "yes." "dem fellers is easy." "then you will do the job for me, will you?" "naw!" snorted kelley. "not on yer nacheral! wot d'yer take me fer? i don't do notting of dat kind. i've got a repertation to sustain, i has." ditson looked disappointed. "i am willing to pay well to have the job done," he sad. "well, yer can find somebody ter do it fer yer." "but i don't know where to find anybody, professor." kelley sat down, relighted his cigar, restored his feet to the table, picked up a paper, seemed about to resume reading, and then observed: "dis is no infermation bureau, but i s'pose i might put yer onter a cove dat'd do der trick fer yer if yuse come down heavy wid der stuff." "if you will i shall be ever so much obliged." "much erbliged don't but no whiskey. money talks, me boy." ditson reached into his pocket and produced some money. "i will give you five dollars to tell me of a man who will do the job for me," he said, pulling a five-dollar bill from the roll. "make it ten an' i goes yer," said kelley, promptly. "done. here is your money." ditson handed it over. "i'd oughter made it twenty," grumbled the pugilist. "dis business is outer my line entirely, an' i don't want ter be mixed up in it at all--see? i has a repertation ter sustain, an' it wouldn't do fer nobody ter know i ever hed anyt'ing ter do wid such a job as dis." "there is no danger that anybody will ever know it," declared ditson, impatiently. "i will not say anything about it." "well, yer wants ter see dat yer don't. if yer do, i'll hunt yer up meself, an' i won't do a t'ing ter youse--not a t'ing!" "save your threats and come to business. i am impatient to get away, as i do not care to be seen here by anybody who may drop in." "don't care ter be seen here! i like dat--nit! better men dan youse has been here, an' don't yer fergit dat!" "oh, i don't care who has been here! you have the money. now tell me where i can find the man i want." "d'yer know plug kirby?" "no." "well, he is der feller yer wants." "where can i find him?" "i'll give yer his address." kelley took a stub of a pencil out of his vest pocket and wrote with great labor on the margin of one of the papers. this writing he tore off and handed to ditson. then, without another word, he once more restored his feet to the top of the table and resumed reading as if there was no one in the room. ditson went out without a word. when he was gone kelley looked over the top of the paper toward the door and growled: "dat feller's no good! if he'd wanted ter fit der odder feller hisself i'd tole him how ter bruck der odder chap's wrist, but he ain't got der sand ter fight a baby. he makes me sad! i'd like ter t'ump him a soaker on de jaw meself." that evening frank went out to call on some friends. he was returning to his rooms between ten and eleven, when, as he came to a dark corner, a man suddenly stepped out and said: "give us a light, young feller." "i have none," said frank, attempting to pass. "den give us a match," demanded the man, blocking the road. "as i do not smoke i never carry matches." "well, den, i s'pose i'll have ter go wit'out er light, but--you'll take dat!" like a flash the man struck straight and hard at the youth's face. it was a wicked blow, delivered with marvelous swiftness, and must have knocked frank down if it had landed. but merriwell had suspected all along that it was not a light the man was after, and he had been on the watch for just such a move as was made. for all of the man's swiftness frank dodged, and the blow passed over his shoulder. when frank ducked he also struck out with his left, which he planted in the pit of the assailant's stomach. it was a heavy blow, and for a moment it rounded the man up. before the ruffian could recover he received a thump under the ear that made him see stars and sent him sprawling. but the man had a hard head, and he hastily got upon his feet, uttering fierce words. he expected to see the youth in full flight, and was astonished to perceive that frank had not taken to his heels. with a snarl of fury the wretch rushed at merriwell. frank dodged again and came up under the man's arm, giving him another heavy blow. then the man turned, and they sparred for a moment. "durned if youse ain't der liveliest kid i ever seen!" muttered the astonished ruffian. "youse kin fight!" "well, i can fight enough to take care of myself," returned the lad, with something like a laugh. smack! smack! smash! three blows in rapid succession caused the ruffian to reel and gasp. then for a few moments the fight was savage and swift. it did not last long. the ruffian had been drinking, and frank soon had the best of it. he ended the encounter by striking the man a regular knockout blow, and the fellow went down in a heap. when the ruffian recovered he was astonished to find frank had not departed, but was bending over him. "how do you feel?" the boy calmly inquired. "say, i'm all broke up!" was the feeble reply. "are youse der feller wot done me?" "i presume i am." "well, wot yer waitin' fer?" "to see how badly you are hurt. your head struck the stones with frightful force when you fell." "did it? well, it feels dat way! here's a lump as big as yer fist. but wot d'youse care?" "i didn't know but your skull was fractured." "wot difference did dat make?" "i didn't want you to remain here and suffer with a broken head." "didn't, eh? an' i tried ter do ye up widout givin' yer any warnin'! dis is der quarest deal i ever struck! i was tryin' ter knock yer stiff an' den break year arm." "break my arm?" "dat's wot i was here fer." frank was interested. "then you were here on purpose to meet me?" "sure, mike." "but why were you going to break my arm?" "'cause dat's wot i was paid fer, me boy." frank caught hold of the ruffian, who had arisen to a sitting posture and was holding onto his head. "paid for?" cried the boy, excitedly. "do you mean to tell me that you were paid to waylay me and break my arm?" "i didn't mean ter tell yer anyt'ing, but a feller wot kin fight like you kin an' den stay ter see if a chap wot tried ter do him was hurt--dat kind of a feller oughter be told." "then tell me--tell me all about it," urged merriwell. "dere ain't much ter tell. some sneak wanted yer arm broke, an' he came ter me ter do der job. he paid me twenty ter lay fer youse an' fix yer. i was hard up an' i took der job, dough i didn't like it much. den he put me onter yer, an' i follored yer ter der house where youse went dis evenin'. i watched till yer comes out, and den i skips roun' ter head yer off yere. i heads yer an' asks fer a light. youse knows der rest better dan wot i does." "well, this is decidedly interesting! so i have an enemy who wants my arm broken?" "yes, yer right arm." "that would fix me so i'd never pitch any more." "dat's wot's likely, if ye're a pitcher." "would you know the person who hired you if you were to see him again?" "sure." "did he give you his name?" "dat's wot he did." "ha! that's what i want! see here! tell me his name, or by the gods of war i will see that you are arrested and shoved for this night's work!" "an' you will let me off if i tells?" "yes." "swear it." "i swear it!" "you won't make a complaint agin' me?" "i will not." "well, den, yere's his card wot he give me.'" the ruffian fumbled in his pocket and took out a card, which he passed to frank, who eagerly grasped it. "here's a match, me boy," said the man. "i had a pocketful w'en i braced yer for one." he passed a match to frank, who hastily struck it on a stone and then held it so that he could read the name that was engraved on the card in his fingers. a cry of astonishment broke from merriwell's lips, and both card and match fell from his fingers to the ground. this is the name he had read upon the card: "mr. burnham putnam." chapter xxxii. ditson is trapped. "it don't make a dit of bifference, frank!" spluttered harry rattleton. "i don't care if you have got his card! that thug lied like blazes! putnam may be selfish--he may have other faults, but he never hired anybody to break your arm." "i cannot think he would do such a thing myself," said frank; "but this plug kirby, as he is called, seemed honest and in earnest. he stands ready to identify the fellow at any time." "then why not settle it by bringing him before putnam this very afternoon? that's the way to mix the fatter--i mean fix the matter." "it is a good idea, harry, and we will have to carry it out. i'll need your assistance." "you shall have it, old man." so frank and harry arranged to bring putnam and his accuser together that afternoon, it being the day after the assault on merriwell. frank was to look out for kirby while harry brought putnam along to the saloon over which buster kelley had rooms. frank and kirby were there in advance, and they sat down in a corner, where they were not likely to be observed by anybody who entered. kirby's face was cut and scarred where he had felt frank's hard fists, and the tough looked on the cool lad with genuine respect and admiration. "i wants yer ter understan' dat i'd never gone inter dat game if i hadn't been hard up an' in a bad way," he said, trying to apologize for himself. "t'ings have been runnin' agin' me, an' i've been on de rocks fer a long time, an' i didn't know how i was ter make a haul any easier dan by breakin' a kid's arm. it warn't no killin' matter nohow, an' so i took der job. i never s'pected i was ter run up agin' anyt'ing like wot you are. if i had, why, wild hosses wouldn't get me ter tried it." "my enemy knew enough not to meet me himself." "dat's right, an' now i want ter git square wid him fer steerin' me up agin' anyt'ing of der sort. wot yer goin' ter do wid him--break his neck?" "i have not decided what i shall do, but i shall not lay a hand on him." "yer won't?" "no." "well, i would if i was in your place. i'd t'ump der everlastin' stuffin' outer der bloke--dat's wot!" "if it is the man whose name is on the card that was given you i shall be sorry for him, for i have always believed him to be a white man." "an' yer'll be sorry?" "i will." "well, ye're der funniest cove wot i ever saw. arter ye hed knocked der wind outer me, ye stayed eround ter see dat i wasn't hurt too bad, w'en anybody else would 'a' kicked me inter der gutter an' left me. an' now youse say dat you'll be sorry fer der feller wot hired me ter do yer! i'd like ter know jes' how ye're put up." "i can't help being sorry to know that a fellow i have considered white and a friend is crooked and an enemy, if it is to prove that way." "say, young feller, i likes you, durn me ef i don't! if you ever has anyt'ing ye wants done, jes' come ter me, an' i'll do it if i kin, an' i won't charge yer nottin'." "thank you," smiled frank; "but i do not fancy i shall have anything in your line. while we are talking, though, let me give you some advice. turn over a new leaf and try to be on the level. you will find it the best policy in the long run." "i t'ink ye're right, an' i'm goin' ter try ter do it. i allus did hate ter work, but if i kin git any kind of a job i'm goin' ter try it once more. i don't know w'y it is, but jes' bein' wid youse makes me want ter do der square t'ing." frank might well have felt pleased that he exercised such an influence over a man like plug kirby. the door opened and rattleton came into the saloon, followed by old put and dismal jones. "come on, kirby," said frank, quietly. "here is the man we are waiting for." putnam had halted near the bar, a puzzled look on his face, and frank heard him say to harry: "what in the world did you drag me in here for, old man? you know i am not drinking anything now, and--" "as i told you," interrupted harry, grimly, "i brought you in to see a man. here he is." frank and the rough had come up behind putnam, who now turned, and, with still greater astonishment, cried: "what--merriwell? what in the world are you doing in this place?" "permit me to introduce you to mr. plug kirby--mr. burnham putnam. have you ever met the man before." old put drew back, staring at the ruffian in astonishment. "what in blazes is this?" he gasped. "is it a joke?" "no joke," returned frank, sternly. "it is a matter of business. mr. kirby, have you ever met mr. putnam before?" "naw!" cried the man. "dis ain't der cove wot come ter me ter do der job. dis is anodder feller." "you are sure?" demanded frank, with an expression of positive relief. "his name was on the card you gave me." "i don't care if it was, dis ain't der feller wot give der card ter me, not by a great big lot." "well, i am glad of that!" cried frank, and he grasped putnam's hand. "it is a great relief." "didn't i tell you!" almost shouted harry. "well, now, i want to know what all this is about," said old put, who was greatly puzzled. "i am all at sea." without hesitation frank explained how a person had hired plug kirby to break his arm and what the result had been; how the person who made the bargain had given a card on which putnam's name was engraved. frank took the card from his pocket and putnam said it was one of his regular visiting cards. "some fellow has been working on my name in order to hide his own identity!" cried put, who was greatly angered. "oh, i'd like to get hold of the skunk!" at this moment the door which led to the back room opened, and roland ditson, who had again visited buster kelley, came into the saloon. he started back when he saw the little group of students, but plug kirby saw his face and hoarsely exclaimed: "dere's der mug now! dat's der feller wot hired me an' give me der card! i'll swear ter dat!" seeing there was no way out of it, roll came forward. he was rather pale, but he succeeded in putting on a front. "hello, fellows!" he cried. "what are you doing in here?" merriwell had him by the collar in a twinkling. "looking for you," he said, "and we have found you! so you are the chap who hired this man to break my arm in order to fix me so i couldn't pitch any more! well, i declare i didn't think anything quite as low as that even of you!" ditson protested his innocence. he even called kirby a liar, and frank was forced to keep the ruffian from hammering him. he swore it was some kind of a plot to injure him, and he called on the boys to know if they would take the word of a wretch like kirby in preference to his. "oh, get out!" exclaimed putnam in disgust. "take my advice and leave yale at once. if you do not, i'll publish the whole story, and you will find yourself run out. go!" ditson sneaked away. chapter xxxiii. "play ball!'" before night merriwell received an appealing letter from ditson, in which the young scapegrace protested his sorrow and entreated frank to do what he could to keep the matter quiet, so he would not be forced to leave yale. ditson declared it would break his mother's heart if he failed to complete his course at yale. over and over he entreated forgiveness, telling how sorry he was that he had ever tried to injure merriwell in any way, and declaring that, if frank would forgive and forget, he would never cause him any further trouble. frank pondered over the letter so long, and with sach a serious look on his face, that harry asked him what he had struck. then merriwell read it to his roommate. "oh, what a snizerable meak--i mean miserable sneak, that fellow is!" exclaimed harry. "he goes into a dirty piece of business like this, and then he gets down and crawls--actually crawls!" "i have no doubt but his mother is proud of him," said frank. "he says he is an only son. it is his mother, not ditson, i am thinking about. i do not wish to cause her so much pain." "oh, come off! if a fellow is such a snake as ditson, he must get it from his parents on one side or the other. perhaps his mother is not so good." "i do not wish to think that of any fellow's mother. i much prefer to think that he takes all his bad qualities from the other side of the house. i remember my own mother--the dearest, gentlest, sweetest woman in all the world! how she loved me! how proud she was of me! all the better part of my nature i owe to her, god bless her!" frank spoke with deep feeling, and rattleton was touched and silenced. merriwell arose and walked the floor, and there was an expression of the utmost tenderness and adoration on his face--a look that brought something like a mist to harry's eyes. frank seemed to have forgotten his companion, and he gently murmured: "my angel mother!" that was too much for harry, and he coughed huskily, in an attempt to break the spell without being rude. frank immediately turned, and said: "i beg your pardon, old man. i forgot myself, for a moment." "oh, don't pard my begoner--that is, begon my pard--no, i mean peg my bardon! hang it all! i'm all twisted! i don't know what i am trying to say!" in confusion harry got up and went to look out of the window. "jeewhittaker! i'm glad merry don't get this way often!" he thought. "never knew him to do it before." after some moments frank declared: "i am going to try to hush this ditson matter up, harry." "you are?" "yes, for the sake of ditson's mother. i want you to help me. we'll go see putnam and jones. if they have told anybody, we'll see the others. i am the one who has the greatest cause for complaint, and if i am willing to drop it, i am sure putnam should be. come on, old man. let's not lose any time." "well, i suppose you are right," admitted harry, as he reached for his cap. "but there's not another person on top of the earth who could induce me to keep still in such a case. it is a second offense, too." so they went out together, and searched for putnam and jones. at first putnam was obstinate, and utterly refused to let ditson off; but frank took him aside, and talked earnestly to him for fifteen minutes, finally securing his promise to keep silent. it was not difficult to silence jones, and so the matter was hushed up for the time. nothing was said to ditson, who was left in suspense as to what course would be pursued. a day or two later came the very thing that had been anticipated and discussed, since the freshman game at cambridge. merriwell was selected as one of the pitchers on the 'varsity nine, and the freshmen lost him from their team. putnam came out frankly and confessed that he had feared something of the kind, all along, and frank was in no mood to kick over his past treatment, so nothing was said on that point. in the first game against a weaker team than harvard, merriwell was tried in the box and pitched a superb game, which yale won in a walk. big hugh heffiner, the regular pitcher, whose arm was in a bad way, complimented merriwell on his work, which he said was "simply great." of course frank felt well, as for him there was no sport he admired so much as baseball; but he remained the same old merriwell, and his freshmen comrades could not see the least change in his manner. the second game of the series with harvard came off within a week, but frank got cold in his arm, and he was not in the best possible condition to go into the box. this he told pierson, and as heffiner had almost entirely recovered, frank was left on the bench. the 'varsity team had another pitcher, who was known as dad hicks. he was a man about twenty-eight years old, and looked even older, hence the nickname of dad. this man was most erratic and could not be relied upon. sometimes he would do brilliant work, and at other time children could have batted him all over the lot. he was used only in desperate emergencies, and could not be counted on in a pinch. during the whole of the second game with harvard frank sat on the bench, ready to go into the box if called on. at first it looked as if he would have to go in, for the harvard boys fell upon heffiner and pounded him severely for two innings. then hugh braced up and pitched the game through to the end in brilliant style, yale winning by a score of ten to seven. heffiner, however, was forced to bathe his arm in witch hazel frequently, and as he went toward the box for the last time he said to frank with a rueful smile: "you'll have to get into shape to pitch the last game of the series with these chaps. my arm is the same as gone now, and i'll finish it this inning. we must win this game anyway, regardless of arms, so here goes." he could barely get the balls over the plate, but he used his head in a wonderful manner, and the slow ball proved a complete puzzle for harvard after they had been batting speed all through the game, so they got but one safe hit off heffiner that inning and no scores. there was a wild jubilee at yale that night. a bonfire was built on the campus, and the students blew horns, sang songs, cheered for "good old yale," and had a real lively time. one or two of the envious ones asked about merriwell--why he was not allowed to pitch. even hartwick, a sophomore who had disliked frank from the first, more than hinted that the freshman pitcher was being made sport of, and that he would not be allowed to go into the box when yale was playing a team of any consequence. jack diamond overheard the remark, and he promptly offered to bet hartwick any sum that merriwell would pitch the next game against harvard. diamond was a freshman, and so he received a calling down from hartwick, who told him he was altogether too new. but as hartwick strolled away, diamond quietly said: "i may be new, sir, but i back up any talk i make. there are others who do not, sir." hartwick made no reply. as the third and final game of the series was to be played on neutral ground, there had been some disagreement about the location, but springfield had finally been decided upon, and accepted by yale and harvard. frank did his best to keep his arm in good condition for that game, something which pierson approved. hicks was used as much as possible in all other games, but frank found it necessary to pull one or two off the coals for him. heffiner had indeed used his arm up in the grand struggle to win the second game from harvard--the game that it was absolutely necessary for yale to secure. he tended that arm as if it were a baby, but it had been strained severely and it came into shape very slowly. as soon as possible he tried to do a little throwing every day, but it was some time before he could get a ball more than ten or fifteen feet. it became generally known that merriwell would have to pitch at springfield, beyond a doubt, and the greatest anxiety was felt at yale. every man had confidence in heffiner, but it was believed by the majority that the freshman was still raw, and therefore was liable to make a wretched fizzle of it. heffiner did not think so. he coached merriwell almost every day, and his confidence in frank increased. "the boy is all right," was all he would say about it, but that did not satisfy the anxious ones. during the week before the deciding game was to come off heffiner's arm improved more rapidly than it had at any time before, and scores of men urged pierson to put old reliable, as hugh was sometimes called, into the box. a big crowd went up to springfield on the day of the great game, but the "sons of old eli" were far from confident, although they were determined to root for their team to the last gasp. the most disquieting rumors had been afloat concerning harvard. it was said her team was in a third better condition than at the opening of the season, when she took the first game from yale; and it could not be claimed with honesty that the yale team was apparently in any better shape. although she had won the second game of the series with harvard, her progress had not been satisfactory. a monster crowd had gathered to witness the deciding game. blue and crimson were the prevailing colors. on the bleachers at one side of the grandstand sat hundreds upon hundreds of harvard men, cheering all together and being answered by the hundreds of yale men on the other side of the grand stand. there were plenty of ladies and citizens present and the scene was inspiring. a band of music served to quicken the blood in the veins which were already throbbing. there was short preliminary practice, and then at exactly three o'clock the umpire walked down behind the home plate and called: "play ball!" chapter xxxiv. a hot finish. yale took the field, and as the boys in blue trotted out, the familiar yale yell broke from hundreds of throats. blue pennants were wildly fluttering, the band was playing a lively air, and for the moment it seemed as if the sympathy of the majority of the spectators was with yale. but when hinkley, harvard's great single hitter, who always headed the batting list, walked out with his pet "wagon tongue," a different sound swept over the multitude, and the air seemed filled with crimson pennants. merriwell went into the box, and the umpire broke open a pasteboard box, brought out a ball that was wrapped in tin foil, removed the covering, and tossed the snowy sphere to the freshman pitcher yale had so audaciously stacked up against harvard. frank looked the box over, examined the rubber plate, and seemed to make himself familiar with every inch of the ground in his vicinity. then he faced hinkley, and a moment later delivered the first ball. hinkley smashed it on the nose, and it was past merriwell in a second, skipping along the ground and passing over second base just beyond the baseman's reach, although he made a good run for it. the center fielder secured the ball and returned it to second, but hinkley had made a safe single off the very first ball delivered. harvard roared, while the yale crowd was silent. a great mob of freshmen was up from new haven to see the game and watch merriwell's work, and some of them immediately expressed disappointment and dismay. "here is where merriwell meets his waterloo," said sport harris. "he'll be batted out before the game is fairly begun." that was quite enough to arouse rattleton, who heard the remark. "i'll bet you ten dollars he isn't batted out at all,"' spluttered harry, fiercely. "here's my money, too!" "make it twenty-five and i will go you," drawled harris. "all right, i'll make it twenty-five." the money was staked. derry, also a heavy hitter, was second on harvard's list. derry had a bat that was as long and as large as the regulations would permit, and as heavy as lead; yet, despite the weight of the stick, the strapping vermonter handled it as if it were a feather. frank sent up a coaxer, but derry refused to be coaxed. the second ball was high, but derry cracked it for two bags, and hinkley got around to third. it began to seem as if merriwell would be batted out in the first inning, and the yale crowd looked weary and disgusted at the start. the next batter fouled out, however, and the next one sent a red-hot liner directly at merriwell. there was no time to get out of the way, so frank caught it, snapped the ball to third, found hinkley off the bag, and retired the side without a score. this termination of the first half of the inning was so swift and unexpected that it took some seconds for the spectators to realize what had happened. when they did, however, yale was wildly cheered. "what do you think about it now, harris?" demanded harry, exultantly. "i think merriwell saved his neck by a dead lucky catch," was the answer. "if he had missed that ball he would have been removed within five minutes." pierson, who was sitting on the bench, was looking doubtful, and he held a consultation with costigan, captain of the team, as soon as the latter came in from third base. costigan asked frank how he felt, and merriwell replied that he had never felt better in his life, so it was decided to let him see what he could do in the box the next inning. yedding, who was in the box for harvard, could not have been in better condition, and the first three yale men to face him went out in one-two-three order, making the first inning a whitewash for both sides. as merriwell went into the box the second time there were cries for heffiner, who was on the bench, ready to pitch if forced to do so, for all of the fact that it might ruin his arm forever, so far as ball playing was concerned. in trying to deceive the first man up merriwell gave him three balls in succession. then he was forced to put them over. he knew the batter would take one or two, and so he sent two straight, swift ones directly over, and two strikes were called. then came the critical moment, for the next ball pitched would settle the matter. frank sent in a rise and the batter struck at it, missed it, and was declared out, the ball having landed with a "plunk" in the hands of the catcher. the next batter got first on a single, but the third man sent an easy one to frank, who gathered it in, threw the runner out at second, and the second baseman sent the ball to first in time to retire the side on a double play. "you are all right, merriwell, old man," enthusiastically declared heffiner, as frank came in to the bench. "they haven't been able to score off you yet, and they won't be able to touch you at all after you get into gear." pierson was relieved, and costigan looked well satisfied. "now we must have some scores, boys," said the captain. but yedding showed that he was out for blood, for he allowed but one safe hit, and again retired yale without a score. surely it was a hot game, and excitement was running high. would harvard be able to score the next time? that was the question everybody was asking. yedding came to the bat in this inning, and merriwell struck him out with ease, while not another man got a safe hit, although one got first on the shortstop's error. the yale crowd cheered like indians when harvard was shut out for the third time, the freshmen seeming to yell louder than all the others. they originated a cry which was like this: "he is doing very well! who? why, merriwell!" merriwell was the first man up, and yedding did his best to get square by striking the freshman out. in this he was successful, much to his satisfaction. but no man got a hit, and the third inning ended as had the others, neither side having made a run. the fourth opened in breathless suspense, but it was quickly over, neither side getting a man beyond second. it did not seem possible that this thing could continue much longer, but the fifth inning brought the same result, although yale succeeded in getting a man to third with only one out. an attempt to sacrifice him home failed, and a double play was made, retiring the side. harvard opened the sixth by batting a ball straight at yale's shortstop, who played tag with it, chasing it around his feet long enough to allow the batter to reach first. it was not a hit, but an error for short. this seemed to break the yale team up somewhat. the runner tried for second on the first ball pitched, and yale's catcher overthrew, although he had plenty of time to catch the man. the runner kept on to third and got it on a slide. now harvard rejoiced. although he had not obtained a hit, the man had reached third on two errors, and there was every prospect of scoring. merriwell did not seem to lose his temper or his coolness. he took plenty of time to let everybody get quieted down, and then he quickly struck out the next man. the third man, however, managed to hit the ball fairly and knocked a fly into left field. it was gathered in easily, but the man on third held the bag till the fly was caught and made a desperate dash for home. the left fielder threw well, and the ball struck in the catcher's mitt. it did not stick, however, and the catcher lost the only opportunity to stop the score. harvard had scored at last! the harvard cheer rent the air, and crimson fluttered on all sides. frank struck out the next man, and then yale came to bat, resolved to do or die. but they did not do much. yedding was as good as ever, and the fielders gathered in anything that came their way. at the end of the eighth inning the score remained one to nothing in harvard's favor. it looked as if yale would receive a shut out, and that was something awful to contemplate. the "sons of old eli" were ready to do anything to win a score or two. in the first half of the ninth harvard went at it to make some more runs. one man got a hit, stole second, and went to third on an error that allowed the batter to reach first. sport harris had been disappointed when merriwell continued to remain in the box, but now he said: "he's rattled. here's where they kill him." but frank proved that he was not rattled. he tricked the man on third into getting off the bag and then threw him out in a way that brought a yell of delight from yale men. that fixed it so the next batter could not sacrifice with the object of letting the man on third home. then he got down to business, and harvard was whitewashed for the last time. "oh, if yale can score now!" muttered hundreds. the first man up flied out to center, and the next man was thrown out at first. that seemed to settle it. the spectators were making preparations to leave. the yale bat-tender, with his face long and doleful, was gathering up the sticks. what's that? the next man got a safe hit, a single that placed him on first. then frank merriwell was seen carefully selecting a bat. "oh, if he were a heavy hitter!" groaned many voices. yedding was confident--much too confident. he laughed in frank's face. he did not think it necessary to watch the man on first closely, and so that man found an opportunity to steal second. two strikes and two balls had been called. then yedding sent in a swift one to cut the inside corner. merriwell swung at it. crack! bat and ball met fairly, and away sailed the sphere over the head of the shortstop. "run!" that word was a roar. no need to tell frank to run. in a moment he was scudding down to first, while the left fielder was going back for the ball which had passed beyond his reach. frank kept on for second. there was so much noise he could not hear the coachers, but he saw the fielder had not secured the ball. he made third, and the excited coacher sent him home with a furious gesture. every man, woman and child was standing. it seemed as if every one was shouting and waving flags, hats, or handkerchiefs. it was a moment of such thrilling, nerve-tingling excitement as is seldom experienced. if merriwell reached home yale won; if he failed, the score was tied, for the man in advance had scored. the fielder had secured the ball, he drove it to the shortstop, and shortstop whirled and sent it whistling home. the catcher was ready to stop merriwell. "slide!" that word frank heard above all the commotion. he did slide. forward he scooted in a cloud of dust. the catcher got the ball and put it onto frank--an instant too late! a sudden silence. "safe home!" rang the voice of the umpire. then another roar, louder, wilder, full of unbounded joy! the yale cheer! the band drowned by all the uproar! the sight of sturdy lads in blue, delirious with delight, hugging a dust-covered youth, lifting him to their shoulders, and bearing him away in triumph. merriwell had won his own game, and his record was made. it was a glorious finish! "never saw anything better," declared harry. "frank, you are a wonder!" "he is that!" declared several others. "old yale can't get along without him." the end. andy at yale or the great quadrangle mystery by roy eliot stokes the world syndicate publishing co. cleveland, o. new york, n. y. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, mcmxiv, by sully and kleinteich printed in the united states of america by the commercial bookbinding co. cleveland, ohio ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents i. a horse-whipping ii. good samaritans iii. an unpleasant prospect iv. the picture show v. final days vi. the bonfire vii. link again viii. off for yale ix. on the campus x. missing money xi. "rough house" xii. a fierce tackle xiii. bargains xiv. dunk refuses xv. dunk goes out xvi. in bad xvii. andy's despair xviii. andy's resolve xix. link comes to college xx. queer disappearances xxi. a gridiron battle xxii. andy says 'no!' xxiii. reconciliation xxiv. link's visit xxv. the missing watch xxvi. the girls xxvii. jealousies xxviii. the book xxix. the accusation xxx. the letter xxxi. on the diamond xxxii. victory xxxiii. the trap xxxiv. caught xxxv. for the honor of yale ------------------------------------------------------------------------ andy at yale chapter i a horse-whipping "come on, andy, what are you hanging back for?" "oh, just to look at the view. it's great! why, you can see for twenty miles from here, right off to the mountains!" one lad stood by himself on the summit of a green hill, while, a little below, and in advance of him, were four others. "oh, come on!" cried one of the latter. "view! who wants to look at a view?" "but it's great, i tell you! i never appreciated it before!" exclaimed andy blair. "you can see----!" "oh, for the love of goodness! come on!" came in protest from the objecting speaker. "what do we care how far we can see? we're going to get something to eat!" "that's right! some of kelly's good old kidney stew!" "a little chicken for mine!" "i'm for a chop!" "beefsteak on the grill!" thus the lads, waiting for the one who had stopped to admire the fine view, chanted their desires in the way of food. "come on!" finally called one in disgust, and, with a half sigh of regret, andy walked on to join his mates. "what's getting into you lately?" demanded chet anderson, a bit petulantly. "you stand mooning around, you don't hear when you're spoken to, and you don't go in for half the fun you used to." "are you sick? or is it a--girl?" queried ben snow, laughing. "both the same!" observed frank newton, cynically. "listen to the old dinkbat!" exclaimed tom hatfield. "you'd think he knew all about the game! you never got a letter from a girl in your life, frank!" "i didn't, eh? that's all you know about it," and frank made an unsuccessful effort to punch his tormentor. "well, if we're going on to churchtown and have a bit of grub in kelly's, let's hoof it!" suggested chet. "you can eat; can't you, andy? haven't lost your appetite; have you, looking at that blooming view?" "no, indeed. but you fellows don't seem to realize that in another month we'll never see it again, unless we come back to milton for a visit." "that's right!" agreed ben snow. "this _is_ our last term at the old school! i'll be sorry to leave it, in a way, even though i do expect to go to college." "same here," came from tom. "what college are you going to, ben?" "hanged if i know! dad keeps dodging from one to another. he's had all the catalogs for the last month, studying over 'em like a fellow going up for his first exams. sometimes it's cornell, and then he switches to princeton. i'm for the last myself, but dad is going to foot the bills, so i s'pose i'll have to give in to him." "of course. where are you heading for, andy?" "oh, i'm not so sure, either. it's a sort of toss-up between yale and harvard, with a little leaning toward eli on my part. but i don't have to decide this week. come on, let's hoof it a little faster. i believe i'm getting hungry." "and yet you would stop to moon at a view!" burst out frank. "really, andy, i'm surprised at you!" "oh, cut it out, you old faker! you know that view from brad's hill can't be beat for miles around." "that's right!" chorused the others, and there seemed to have come over them all a more serious manner with the mention of the pending break-up of their pleasant relations. they had hardly realized it before. for a few minutes they walked on over the hills in silence. the green fields, with here and there patches of woodland, stretched out all around them. over in the distance nestled a little town, its white church, with the tall, slender spire, showing plainly. behind them, hidden by these same green hills over which they were tramping this beautiful day in early june, lay another town, now out of sight in a hollow. it was warrenville, on the outskirts of which was located the milton preparatory school the five lads attended. they were in their last year, would soon graduate, and then separate, to go to various colleges, or other institutions. school work had ended early this day on account of coming examinations, and the lads, who had been chums since their entrance at milton, had voted to go for a walk, and end up with an early supper at kelly's, a more or less celebrated place where the students congregated. this was at churchtown, about five miles from warrenville. the boys were to walk there and come back in the trolley. they had spent two years at the milton school, and had been friends for years before that, all of them living in the town of dunmore, in one of our middle states. there was much rejoicing among them when they found that all five who had played baseball and football together in dunmore, were to go to the same preparatory school. it meant that the pleasant relations were not to be severed. but now the shadow of parting had cast itself upon them, and had tempered their buoyant spirits. "yes, boys, it will soon be good-bye to old milton!" exclaimed chet, with a sigh. "i wonder if we'll get anybody like dr. morrison at any of the colleges we go to?" spoke ben. "you can't beat him--no matter where you go!" declared andy. "he's the best ever!" "that's right! he knows just how to take a fellow," commented tom. "remember the time i smuggled the puppy into the physiology class?" "i should say we did!" laughed andy. "and how he yelped when i pinched his tail that stuck out from under your coat," added ben. "say, it was great!" "i'll never forget how old pop swann looked up over the tops of his glasses," put in frank. "dr. morrison was mighty decent about it when he had me up on the carpet, too," added tom. "i thought sure i was in for a wigging--maybe a suspension, and i couldn't stand that, for dad had written me one warning letter. "but all prexy did was to look at me in that calm, withering, pitying way he has, and then say in that solemn voice of his: 'ah, hatfield, i presume you are going in for vivisection?' say, you could have floored me with a feather. that's the kind of a man dr. morrison is." "nobody else like him," commented andy, with a sigh. "oh, well, if any of us go to yale, or princeton, or harvard, i guess we'll find some decent profs. there," spoke ben. "they can't all be riggers." "sure not," said andy. "but those colleges will be a heap sight different from milton." "of course! what do you expect? this is a kindergarten compared to them!" exclaimed frank. "but it's a mighty nice kindergarten," commented tom. "it's like a school in our home town, almost." "i sure will be sorry to leave it," added andy. "but come on; we'll never get to kelly's at this rate." the sun was sinking behind the western hills in a bank of golden and purple clouds. two miles yet lay between the lads and their objective point--the odd little oyster and chop house so much frequented by the students of milton. it was an historic place, was kelly's; a beloved place where the lads foregathered to talk over their doings, their hopes, their fears, their joys and sorrows. it was an old-fashioned place, with little, dingy rooms, come upon unexpectedly; rooms just right for small parties of congenial souls--with tall, black settles, and tables roughened with many jack-knifed initials. "we can cut over to the road, and get there quicker," remarked andy, after a pause. "suppose we do it. i don't want to get back too late." "all right," agreed tom. "i want to write a couple of letters myself." "oh, ho! now who's got a girl?" demanded chet, suspiciously. "nobody, you amalgamated turnip. i'm going to write to dad, and settle this college business. might as well make a decision now as later, i reckon." "we'll have to sign soon, or it will be too late," spoke chet. "those big colleges aren't like the small prep. schools. they have waiting lists--at least for the good rooms in the campus halls. that's where i'd like to go if i went to yale--in lawrance hall, or some place like that, where i could look out over the campus, or the green." "there are some dandy rooms in front of lawrance hall where you can look out over the new haven green," put in ben. "i was there once, and how i did envy those fellows, lolling in their windows on their blue cushions, puffing on pipes and making believe study. it was great!" "making believe study!" exclaimed andy. "i guess they do study! you ought to see the stiff list of stuff on the catalog!" "you got one?" asked chet. "sure. i've been doping it out." "i thought you said you hadn't decided where to go yet," remarked frank. "well, i have," returned andy, quietly. "you have! when, for the love of tripe? you said a while ago--" "i know i did. but i've decided since then. i'm going to yale!" "you are? good for you!" cried tom, clapping his chum on the back with such energy that andy nearly toppled over. "that's the stuff! rah! rah! rah! yale! bulldog!" "here! cut it out!" ordered andy. "i'm not at yale yet, and they don't go around doing that sort of stuff unless maybe after a game. i was down there about a month ago, and say, there wasn't any of that 'rah-rah!' stuff on the campus at all. but of course i wasn't there long." "so that's where you went that time you slipped off," commented chet. "down at yale. and you've decided to sign for there?" "i have. it seemed to come to me as we walked down the hill. i've made my choice. i'm going to write to dad." they walked on silently for a few moments following andy's remarks. "'it was the king of france, he had ten thousand men. he marched them up the hill, and marched them down again!'" thus suddenly quoted chet in a sing-song voice, adding: "if we're going to get any grub at kelly's, it's up to us to march down this hill faster than we've been going, or we'll get left. that other crowd from milton will have all the good places." "come on then, fellows, hit her up!" exclaimed frank. "hep! hep! left! left!" and they started off at a good pace. they reached the country road that led more directly to churchtown, and swung off along this. the setting sun made a golden aurora that june day, the beams filtering through a haze of dust. the boys talked of many things, but chiefly of the coming parting--of the colleges they might attend. as they passed a farmhouse near the side of the road, and came into view of the barnyard, they saw two men standing beside a team of horses hitched to a heavy wagon. one was tall and heavily built, evidently the farmer-owner. the other was a young man, of about twenty-two years, his left arm in a sling. the boys would have passed on with only a momentary glance at the pair but for something that occurred as they came opposite. they saw the big man raise a horse-whip and lash savagely at the young man. the lash cracked like the shot of a revolver. "i'll teach you!" fairly roared the big man. "i'll teach you to soldier on me! playin' off, that's what you are, link bardon! playing off!" "i'm not playing off! my arm is injured. and don't you strike me again, mr. snad, or i'll----" "you will, eh?" burst out the other. "you'll threaten me, will you? well, i'll teach you! tryin' to pretend your arm is sprained so you won't have to work. i'll teach you! take that!" again the cruel whip came down with stinging force. the face of the young man, that had flamed with righteous anger, went pale. "take that, you lazy, good-for-nothing!" again the whip descended, and the young man put up his uninjured arm to defend himself. the farmer rained blow after blow on his hired man, driving him toward a fence. "fellows! i can't stand this!" exclaimed andy blair, with sudden energy. "that big brute is a coward! are you with me?" "we sure are!" came in an energetic chorus from the others. "then come on!" cried andy, and with a short run he cleared the fence and dashed up toward the farmer, who was still lashing away with the horse-whip. chapter ii good samaritans "here! quit that!" exclaimed andy, panting a bit from his exertion. "drop that whip!" the farmer wheeled around, for andy had come up behind him. surprise and anger showed plainly on the man's flushed face, and blazed from his blood-shot eyes. "wha--what!" he stammered in amazement. "i said quit it!" came in resolute tones from andy. "don't you hit him any more! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. using a whip! why don't you take some one your size, and use your hands if you have to. you're a coward!" "that's right!" chimed in chet anderson. "it's a blooming shame--that's what it is!" protested tom hatfield. "let's make a rough-house of him, fellows!" "what's that?" cried the farmer. "you threaten me, do you? get out of my barnyard before i treat you as i did him! get out, do you hear!" "no!" exclaimed andy. "we don't go until you promise to leave him alone," and he nodded at the shrinking youth. "say, i'll show you!" blustered the big farmer. "i'll thrash you young upstarts----" "oh no, you won't!" exclaimed tom, easily. and when big tom hatfield, left guard on the milton eleven, spoke in this tone trouble might always be looked for. "oh, no you won't, my friend! and, just to show you that you won't--there goes your whip!" with a quick motion tom pulled the lash from the man's hand, and sent it whirling over the fence into the road. "you--you!" blustered the farmer. he was too angry to be able to speak coherently. his hands were clenched and his little pig-like eyes roved from one to the other of the lads as though he were trying to decide upon which one to rush first. "take it easy, now," advised tom, his voice still low. "we're five to one, and we'll certainly tackle you, and tackle you hard, if you don't be nice. we're not afraid of you!" perhaps the angry man realized this. certainly he must have known that he would stand little chance in attacking five healthy, hearty youngsters, each of whom had the glow of clean-living on his cheeks, while their poise showed that they were used to active work, and ready for any emergency. "get out of this yard!" roared the farmer. "what right have you got interfering between me and my hired man, anyhow? what right, i'd like to know?" "the right of every lover of fair-play!" exclaimed andy. "do you think we'd stand quietly by and let you use a horse-whip on a young fellow that you ought to be able to handle with one hand? and he with his arm in a sling! to my way of thinking, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." the farmer growled out something unintelligible. "we ought to do you up good and brown!" exclaimed tom, his fists clenched. "he's only playing off on me--he ain't hurt a mite!" growled the farmer. "he's only fakin' on me." "i certainly am not," spoke the young fellow in firm but respectful terms. "i sprained my arm unloading your wagon, mr. snad, and i can't drive the team any more to-day. i put my handkerchief around it because the sprain hurt me so. i certainly can't work!" his voice faltered and he choked. his spirit seemed as much hurt as his body--perhaps more. "huh! can't work, eh? then get out!" snarled mr. snad. "i want no loafer around here! get out!" "i'm perfectly willing to go when you pay me what you owe me," said the helper, quietly. "owe you! i don't owe you nothin', you lazy lout!" snapped the farmer. "you certainly do. you owe me twelve dollars, and as soon as you pay me i'll get out, and be glad to go!" "twelve dollars! i'd like to see myself giving you that much money!" grumbled the farmer. "you ain't wuth but ten dollars at the most, an' i won't pay you that for you busted my mowin' machine, an' it'll take that t' pay for fixin' it." "that mowing machine was in bad order when you had me take it out," replied the young fellow, "and you know it. it was simply an accident that it broke, and not my fault in the least." "well, you'll pay for it, just the same," was the sneering reply. "now be off!" "not until i get my wages. you agreed to pay me twelve dollars a month, and board me. my month is up to-day, and i want my money. it's about all i have in the world; i need it." "you'll not get it out of me," and the farmer turned aside. evidently he had given up the idea of further chastising his hired man. the presence of andy and his chums was enough to deter him. "mr. snad, i demand my money!" exclaimed the young farm hand. "you'll not get it! leave my premises! clear off, all of you," and he glared at the schoolboys. "mr. snad, i'll go as soon as you give me my twelve dollars," persisted the youth, his voice trembling. "you'll get no twelve dollars out of me," snapped the man. "oh, yes, i think he will," spoke andy. "you'd better pay over that money, mr. snad." "eh? what's that your business?" "it's the business of everyone to see fair play," said andy. "and we're going to do it in this case," added tom, still in even tones. "are you? well, i'd like to know how?" sneered the farmer. "would you? then listen and you will hear, my friend," went on tom. "unless you pay this young man the money you owe him we will swear out a warrant against you, have you arrested, and use him as a witness against you." for a moment there was a deep silence; then the farmer burst out with: "have me arrested! me? what for?" "for assault and battery," answered tom. "we saw you assault this young man with a horse-whip, and, while it might take some time to have him sue you for his wages, it won't take us any time at all to get an officer here and have you taken to jail on a criminal charge. the matter of the wages may be a civil matter--the horse-whipping is criminal. "so, take your choice, mr. snad, if that's your name. pay this young man his twelve dollars, or we'll cause your arrest on this assault charge. now, my friend, it's up to you," and taking out his pocket knife tom began whittling a stick picked from the ground. andy and his chums looked admiringly at tom, who had thus found such an effective lever of persuasion. the angry farmer glanced from one to the other of the five lads. they gave him back look for look--unflinchingly. "and don't be too long about it, either," added tom, making the splinters fly. "we're due at kelly's for a little feed, and then we want to get back to milton. don't be too long, my friend, unless you want to spend the night in jail." the farmer gulped once or twice. the adam's apple in his throat went up and down. clearly he was struggling with himself. "i--i--you----" he began. "tut! tut!" chided tom. "you'd better go get the money. we can't wait all day." "i--er--i----" the farmer seemed at a loss for words. then, turning on his heel, he started toward the house. he was beaten. "i--i'll get it," he flung back over his shoulder. "and then i'll swear out warrants for your arrest. you're trespassers, that's what you are. i'll fix you!" "trespassers? oh, no," returned andy, sweetly. "we're only good samaritans. perhaps you may have read of them in a certain book. also we are acting as the attorneys for this gentleman, in collecting a debt due him. we are his counsel, and the law allows a man to have his counsel present at a hearing. i hardly think an action in trespass would lie against us, mr. snad; so don't put yourself out about it." "that's the stuff!" "good for you, andy!" "say, you got his number all right!" thus andy's chums called to him laughingly as the farmer went into the house. chapter iii an unpleasant prospect "say, i can't tell how much obliged to you i am," impulsively exclaimed the young fellow with his arm in a sling. "that--that----" "he's a brute, that's what he is!" broke out andy. "don't be afraid to call him one." "he sure is," came from tom. "i just wish he'd rough it up a bit. i wouldn't have asked anything better than to take and roll him around his own barnyard. talk about tackling a fellow on the gridiron--oh me! oh my!" "it was mighty nice of you boys to take my part," went on the young fellow. "i'm not feeling very well. he's worked me like a horse since i've been here, and that, on top of spraining my arm, sort of took the tucker out of me. then, when he came at me with the whip, just because i said i couldn't work any more----" "there, never mind. don't think about it," advised chet, seeing that the youth was greatly affected. "do you live around here?" asked andy. "well, i don't live much of anywhere," was the reply. "i'm a sort of jack-of-all-trades. my name is lincoln bardon--link, i'm generally called. i work mostly at farming, but i'll never work for amos snad again. he's too hard." "where are you going after you leave here?" asked frank newton. "oh, i've got a friend who works on a farm over in cherry hollow. i can go there and get a place. the farming season is on now, and there's lots of help wanted. but i sure am much obliged to you for helping me get my money. i've earned it and i need it. that mowing machine was broken when he had me take it out of the shed." "how'd he come to use the whip?" asked andy. "it was when i came back with the team, and said i couldn't work any more on account of my arm. he has a lot of work to do," explained link, "and he ought to keep two men. instead, he tries to get along with one, and works him like a slave. i'm glad i'm going to quit." "when i said my arm was hurt he didn't believe me. i insisted. one word led to another and he came at me with the lash. then you boys jumped in. i can't thank you enough." "that's all right," said tom. "we were glad to do it. i like a good scrap!" and to do him justice, he did--a good, clean, manly "scrap." "i wonder if he will bring that money?" remarked ben snow. "he's gone a long time." "oh, he keeps it hidden away in an old boot," replied link. "he'll have to dig it out. but don't let me detain you." "we like the fun," spoke andy. "we'll stick around for a while yet." and, while the boys are thus "sticking around," may i be permitted to introduce them more formally to you, and speak just a word about them? with their names i think you are already familiar. andy blair was a tall, good-looking lad, with light hair and snapping blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. yet, withal, they were merry eyes, and dancing with life. chet anderson was rather short and stocky, not to say fat; but if any of his friends mentioned such a thing chet was up in arms at once. chet, i might explain, was a contraction for chetfield; the lad being named for his grandfather. ben snow was always jolly. in spite of his name he was of a warm and impulsive nature, always ready to forgive an injury and continually seeking a chance to help someone. clever, full of life and usually looking on the bright side, ben was a humorous relief to his sometimes more sober comrades. quiet and studious was frank newton, a good scholar, always standing well in his class, and yet with his full share of fun and sport. he was a mainstay on the baseball team, where he had pitched many a game to victory. with the exception of tom hatfield you have now met the lads with whom the first part of this story is chiefly concerned. tom was one of the nicest fellows you could know. his parents were wealthy, but wealth had not spoiled tom. he was happy-go-lucky, of a generous, whole-souled nature, always jolly and happy, and yet with a temper that at times blazed out and amazed his friends. seldom was it directed against any of them; but when tom spoke quietly, with a sort of ring like the clang of steel in his voice, then was the time to look out. the five lads came from the same town, as has been said, and had been friends, more or less, all their lives. with their advent at milton their friendship was cemented with that seal which is never broken--school-comradeship. you boys know this. you men who may chance to read this book know it. how many of you, speaking of someone, has not at one time said: "why, he and i used to go to school together!" and is there anything in life better than this--an old school chum? it means so much. but there. i started to tell a story, and i find myself getting off on the side lines. to get back into the game: link bardon had hardly finished telling his good samaritan boy friends of his trouble with mr. snad, when the burly farmer reappeared. striding up to his hired man--his former employee--he thrust some crumpled bills into his hand, and growled: "now you get out of here as fast as you can. i've seen enough of you!" "and i may say the same thing!" retorted link. he was getting back his nerve. perhaps andy and his chums had contributed to this end. "huh! don't you go to gettin' fresh!" snapped mr. snad. "don't let him get your goat!" exclaimed tom, with a cheerful grin. "i've had enough of you young upstarts!" cried the farmer, turning fiercely on andy and his chums. "be off!" "wait until we see if link has his money all right," suggested andy. "he might ring in a counterfeit bill on you if you don't watch out." "bah!" sneered the farmer. link counted over his wages. they were all right. "now i'll get my things and go," he said, calmly. "and don't you ever come around askin' me for a job," warned his former employer. "i guess there isn't much danger," spoke tom, quietly. "come on, fellows. i'm hungry enough to eat two of kelly's steaks." they followed andy, who again lightly leaped the fence into the road. link went on toward the house to pack up his few belongings. he waved his hand toward the boys, and they waved back. they hardly expected to see him again, and certainly andy blair never dreamed of the strange part the young farmer would play in his coming life at yale. such odd tricks does fate play upon us. the milton lads swung on down the road in the direction of churchtown. it was early evening by now. "some doings!" commented chet as he slipped his arm into that of andy. "i should say!" exclaimed ben. "andy, you took the right action that time." "well, i just couldn't bear to see that chap, with his arm in a sling, being beaten up by that brute of a farmer," was the reply. "it got my dander up." "same here," spoke tom. "you'd never know it, from the way you acted," put in frank. "tom is always worst when he's quietest," remarked andy. "well, now for a good feed. let's cut through here, hop a car, and get to kelly's quicker." "go ahead, we're with you," announced chet, and soon the lads were in the "eating joint," as they called it. "broiled steak with french fried potatoes, adolph!" "yah!" "i want an omelet with green peppers!" "liver and bacon for mine!" "ham and eggs! plenty of gravy!" "yah!" "coffee with my order, adolph!" "yah!" "and say, i want some of those rolls with moon-seeds on top, adolph! don't forget!" "nein!" "and my coffee comes with my steak, not afterward. hoch der kaiser!" "shure!" "how's the soup, adolph?" "fine und hot!" "that's good! one on you, tom!" "bring me a plate!" "oh, say, adolph, make my order a chop instead of those ham and eggs." "yah!" "and, adolph." "yes, sir." "i want a glass of milk, with a squirt of vichy in it. don't forget." "nein, i vunt!" "and speed up, adolph, we're all in a hurry." "shure. you vos allvays in a hurry!" the german waiter scurried away. how he ever remembered it all is one of the mysteries that one day may be solved. but he never forgot, and never made a mistake. the boys were seated at a table in one of the small rooms of kelly's. they stretched out their legs and took their ease, for they felt they had earned a little relaxation. about them in other rooms, in small recesses made by the high-backed seats, were other students. there was a calling back and forth. "hello, spike!" "stick out your head, bender!" "over here, buster--here's room!" "there's bunk now!" you could not tell who was saying what or which, nor to whom, any more than i can. hence the rather disjointed style of the preceding. but you know what i mean, for you must have been there yourself. if not, i beg of you to get into some such place where "good fellows," in the truest sense of the word, meet together. for where they congregate it is always "good weather," no matter if it snows or hails, or even if the stormy winds do blow--do blow--do blow! but at last a measure of quietness settled down in kelly's, and the chatter of voices was succeeded by the clatter of knives and forks. then came a reaction--a time when one settled back on one's bench, the first tearing edge of the appetite dulled. it was at this time that tom hatfield, leaning over to andy, said: "and so you are going to yale?" "yes, i've made up my mind." "well, i congratulate you. it's a grand old place. wish i was with you." "say, andy!" piped up chet anderson, "if you go to yale you'll meet an old friend of yours there." "who, for the love of bacon?" "mortimer gaffington!" andy's knife fell to his plate with a clash that caused the other diners to look up hurriedly. "mortimer gaffington!" gasped our hero. "for cats' sake! that's so. i forgot he went to yale! oh, wow! well, it can't be helped. i've made my choice!" chapter iv the picture show andy's chums looked curiously at him. chet's chance remark had brought back to them the memory of the old enmity between andy blair and mortimer gaffington, the rich young "sport" of dunmore. it was an enmity that had happily been forgotten in the joy of life at milton. now it loomed up again. "that's right, that cad mort does hang out at new haven," remarked tom. "that is, he did. but maybe they've fired him," he added, hopefully. "no such luck," spoke andy, ruefully. "i had a letter from my sister only the other day, and she mentioned some row that mort had gotten into at yale. came within an ace of being taken out, but it was smoothed over. no, i'll have to rub up against him if i go there." "well, you don't need to have much to do with him," suggested frank. "and you can just make up your mind that i won't," spoke andy. "i'll steer clear of him from the minute i strike new haven. but don't let's talk about it. where's that waiter, anyhow? has he gone out to kill a fatted calf?" "here he comes," announced ben. "get a move on there, adolph!" "yah!" "and don't wait for my french fried potatoes to sprout, either," added chet. "yah, shure not!" "oh, look who's here!" exclaimed tom, nodding toward a newcomer. "shoot in over here, swipes!" he called to a tall lad, whose progress through the room was marked by friendly calls on many sides. he was a general favorite, harry morton by name, but seldom called anything but "swipes," from a habit he had of taking or "swiping" signs, and other mementoes of tradesmen about town; the said signs and insignia of business later adorning his room. "got space?" asked harry, as he paused at the little compartment which held our friends. "surest thing you know, swipes. shove over there, frank. are you trying to hog the whole bench?" "not when swipes is around," was the retort. "i'll leave that to him." "half-ton benches are a little out of my line," laughed the newcomer, as he found room at the table. "bring me a rarebit, adolph, and don't leave out the cheese." "no, sir, mr. morton! ho! ho! dot's a goot vun! a rarebit mitout der cheese! ach! dot is goot!" and the fat german waiter went off chuckling at the old joke. "what's the matter, andy, you look as if you'd had bad news from your best girl?" asked harry, clapping andy on the shoulder. "cheer up, the worst is yet to come." "you're right there!" exclaimed andy, heartily. "the worst _is_ yet to come. i'm going to yale----" "hurray! rah! rah! that's the stuff! but talk about the worst, i can't see it. i wish i were in your rubbers." "and that dub mortimer gaffington is there, too," went on andy. "that's the worst." "i don't quite get you," said harry, in puzzled tones. "is this gaffington one of the bulldog profs. who eats freshmen alive?" "no, he's a fellow from our town," explained andy, "and he and i are on the outs. we've been so for a long time. it was at a ball game some time ago. our town team was playing and i was catching. mort was pitching. he accused me of deliberately throwing away the game, and naturally i went back at him. we had a fight, and since then we haven't spoken. he's rich, and all that, but i don't like him; not because i beat him in a fair fight, either. well, he went to yale last year, and i was glad when he left town. now i'm sorry he's at yale, since i'm going there. i know he'll try to make it unpleasant for me." "oh, well, make the best of it," advised harry, philosophically. "he can't last for ever. here comes my eats! let's get busy." "so mort will be a sophomore when you get to new haven, will he?" asked frank of andy. "he will if he doesn't flunk, and i don't suppose he will. he's smart enough in a certain way. oh, well, what's the use of worrying? as harry says, here come the eats." adolph staggered in with a well-heaped tray containing harry's order, and he and his chums finished their meal talking the while. the evening wore on, more students dropping in to make merry in kelly's. a large group formed about the nucleus made by andy and his chums. these lads were seniors in the preparatory school, and, as such, were looked up to by those who had just started the course, or who were finishing their first year. in a way, milton was like a small college in some matters, notably in class distinction, though it was not carried to the extent it is in the big universities. "what are you fellows going to do?" asked harry, as he pushed back his chair. "i'm feeling pretty fit now. i haven't an enemy in the world at this moment," and he sighed in satisfaction. "that rarebit was sure a bird! are you fellows out for any fun?" "not to-night," replied andy. "i'm going to cut back and write some letters." "forget it," advised harry. "it's early, and too nice a night to go to bed. let's take in a show." "i've got some boning to do," returned frank, with a sigh. "and i ought to plug away at my latin," added chet, with another sigh. "say, but you fellows are the greasy grinds!" objected harry. "why don't you take a day off once in a while?" "it's easy enough for you, swipes; latin comes natural to you!" exclaimed tom. "but i have to plug away at it, and when i get through i know less than when i started." "and as for me," broke in chet, "i can read a page all right in the original, but when i come to translate i can make two pages of it in english, and have enough latin words left over to do half another one. no, swipes, it won't do; i've got to do some boning." "aw, forget it. come on to a show. there's a good movie in town this week. i'll blow you fellows. some vaudeville, too, take it from me. there's a pair who roll hoops until the stage looks like a barrel factory having a tango dance. come on. it's great!" "well, a movie wouldn't be so bad," admitted tom. "it doesn't last until midnight. what do you say, fellows?" "oh, i don't know," came from andy, uncertainly. "i'll go if you fellows will," remarked frank. "oh, well, then let's do it!" cried tom. "i guess we won't flunk to-morrow. we can burn a little midnight electricity. let 'er go!" and so they went to the moving picture show. it was like others of its kind, neither better nor worse, with vaudeville acts and songs interspersed between the reels. there was a good attendance, scores of the milton lads being there, as well as many persons from the town and surrounding hamlets. our friends found seats about the middle of the house. it was a sort of continuous performance, and as they entered a girl was singing a song on a well-lighted stage. andy glanced about as he took his seat, and met the gaze of link bardon. he nodded at him, and the young farmer nodded back. "who's that--a new fellow?" asked harry, who was next to andy. "not at school--no. he's a hired man we found being beaten up by an old codger of a farmer when we walked out this afternoon. we took his part and made the farmer trot spanish. i guess link is taking a day off with the wages we got for him," and he detailed the incident. the show went on. some of the students became boisterous, and there were hisses from the audience, and demands that the boys remain quiet. one lad, who did not train in the set of andy and his friends, insisted on joining in the chorus with one of the singers, and matters got to such a pass that the manager rang down the curtain and threatened to stop the performance unless the students behaved. finally some of the companions of the noisy one induced him to quiet down. following a long picture reel a girl came out to sing. she was pretty and vivacious, though her songs were commonplace enough. in one of the stage boxes were a number of young fellows, not from milton, and they began to ogle the singer, who did not seem averse to their attentions. she edged over to their box, and threw a rose to one of the occupants. gallantly enough he tossed back one he was wearing, but at that moment a companion in front of him had raised a lighted match to his cigarette. the hand of the young man throwing the rose to the singer struck the flaring match and sent it over the rail of the box straight at the flimsy skirts of the performer. in an instant the tulle had caught fire, and a fringe of flame shot upward. the singer ceased her song with a scream that brought the orchestra to a stop with a crashing chord, and the girl's cries of horror were echoed by the women in the audience. the girl started to run into the wings, but andy, springing from his seat on the aisle, made a leap for the brass rail behind the musicians. "stand still! stand still! don't go back there in the draft!" cried andy, as he jumped upon the stage over the head of the orchestra leader and began stripping off his coat. chapter v final days "fire! fire!" yelled some foolish ones in the audience. "keep still!" shouted tom hatfield, who well knew the danger of a panic in a hall with few exits. "keep still! play something!" he called to the orchestra leader, who was staring at andy, dazed at the flying leap of the lad over his head. "play any old tune!" it was this that saved the day. the leader tapped with his violin bow on the tin shade over his electric light and the dazed musicians came to attention. they began on the number the girl had been singing. it was like the irony of fate to hear the strains of a sentimental song when the poor girl was in danger of death. but the music quieted the audience. men and women sank back in their seats, watching with fear-widened eyes the actions of andy blair. and while tom had thus effectively stopped the incipient panic, andy had not been idle. working with feverish haste, he had wrapped his heavy coat about the girl, smothering the flames. she was sobbing and screaming by turns. "there! there!" cried andy. "keep quiet. i have the fire out. you're in no danger!" "oh--oh! but--but the fire----" "it's out, i tell you!" insisted andy. "it was only a little blaze!" he could see tiny tongues of flame where his coat did not quite reach, and with swift, quick pats of his bare hands he beat them out, burning himself slightly. he took good care not to let the flames shoot up, so that the frantic girl would inhale them. that meant death, and her escape had been narrow enough as it was. as andy held the coat closely about her he glanced over toward the box whence the match had come. he saw the horror-stricken young men looking at him and the girl in fascination, but they had not been quick to act. after all, it was an accident and the fault of no one in particular. the stage was now occupied by several other performers, and the frantic manager. but it was all over. andy patted out the last of the smouldering sparks. the girl was swaying and he looked up in time to see that she was going to faint. "look out!" he cried, and caught her in his arms. "back this way! carry her back here!" ordered the manager, motioning to the wings. "keep that music going!" he added to the orchestra leader. they carried the unfortunate little singer to a dressing room, and a doctor was summoned. one of the stage hands brought andy's coat to him. the garment was seared and scorched, and rank with the odor of smoke. "if you don't want to wear it i'll see mr. wallack, and get another for you," offered the man. "oh, this isn't so bad," said andy, slipping it on. "it's an old one, anyhow." he looked curiously about him. it was the first time he had been behind the scenes, though there was not as much to observe in this little theatre as in a larger one. beyond the dropped curtain he could hear the strains of the music and the murmur in the audience. the show had come to a sudden ending, and many were departing. as andy was leaving, to go back to his chums, the doctor came in hastily, and hurried to the room of the performer. "say, some little hero act, eh, andy?" exclaimed chet, as andy rejoined his friends. "forget it!" was the retort. "tom, here, had his wits about him." "all right, old man. but you never got down the field after a football punt any quicker than you hurdled that orchestra leader, and made a flying tackle of that singer!" exclaimed tom, admiringly. "my hat off to you, andy, old boy!" "same here!" cried chet. the young men in the box were talking to the manager, and the one who had knocked the lighted match on the stage came over to speak to andy, who was standing with his chums in the aisle near their seats. "thanks, very much, old man!" exclaimed the chap whose impulsive act had so nearly caused a tragedy. "it was mighty fine of you to do that. i had heart failure when i saw her on fire." "you couldn't help it," replied andy. "they ought not to allow smoking in places like this." "that's right. next time i throw a rose at a girl i'll look to see what's going to happen." the theatre was almost deserted by now. all that remained to tell of the accident was the smell of smoke, and a few bits of charred cloth on the stage. a man came out in front of the curtain. "miss fuller wants to see the young fellow who put out the fire," he announced. "that's you, andy!" cried his chums. "aw, i'm not going back there." "yes, she would like to see you. she wants to thank you," put in the stage manager. "come along." rather bashfully andy went back. he found the singer--a mere girl--propped up on a couch. her arms and hands were in bandages, but she did not seem to have been much burned. "i'm sorry i can't shake hands with you," she said, with a smile. she was pale, for the "make-up" had been washed from her face. "oh, that's all right," responded andy, a bit embarrassed. "it was awfully good and brave of you," she went on, with a catch in her voice. "i don't--i don't know how to thank you. i--i just couldn't seem to do anything for myself. it was--awful," and her voice broke. "oh, it might have been worse," spoke andy, and he knew that it wasn't just the thing to say. but, for the life of him, he could not fit proper words together. "i'm glad you're all right, miss fuller," he said. he had seen her name on the bills--mazie fuller. he wondered whether it was her right one, or a stage cognomen. at any rate, he decided from a casual glance, she was very pretty. "you must give me your address," the girl went on. "i want to pay for the coat you spoiled on my account." "oh, that's all right," and andy was conscious that he was blushing. "it isn't hurt a bit. i'll have to be going now." "oh, you must let me have your name and address," the girl went on. "oh, all right," and andy pulled out a card. "i'm at milton prep.," he added, thinking in a flash that he would not be there much longer. but then he did not want her to send him a new coat. "i'm afraid i'll have to ask you to leave now," said the doctor kindly. "she has had quite a shock, and i want her to be quiet." "sure," assented andy, rather glad, on the whole, that he could make his escape. one of his hands was blistered and he wanted to get back to his room and put on some cooling lotion. he would not admit this before miss fuller, for he did not want to cause her any more pain. the girl sank back on a couch as andy went out of the dressing room. but she smiled brightly at him, and murmured: "i'll see you again, some time." "sure," assented the lad. he wondered whether she would. then he rejoined his chums and they left the theatre. there was a little crowd in front, attracted by the rumor that an actress had been burned. as andy and his friends made their way through the throng to a car he heard someone call: "dat's de guy what saved her!" "you're becoming famous, andy, my boy!" whispered tom. "forget it," advised his chum. the boys reached their dormitory with a scant minute or so to spare before locking-up time, for the rules were rather strict at milton. there were hasty good-nights, promises to meet on the morrow, and then quiet settled down over the school. andy went to his room, and for a minute, before turning on the light, he stood at the window looking over the campus. many thoughts were surging through his brain. "it sure has been one full little day," he mused. "the scrap with the farmer, dousing the sparks on that girl, and--deciding on going to yale! "jove, though, but i'm glad i've made up my mind! yale! i wonder if i'll be worthy of it?" andy leaned against the window and looked out to where the moonlight made fantastic shadows through the big maples on the green. before his eyes came a picture of the elm-shaded quadrangle at yale, which once he had crossed, hardly dreaming then that he would ever go there. "yale! yale!" he whispered to himself. "what a lot it means! what a lot it might mean! what a lot it often doesn't signify. oh, if i can only make good there!" for some time andy had been vacillating between two colleges, but finally he had settled on yale. his parents had left him his choice, and now he had made it. "i must write to dad," he said. "he'll want to know." it was too late to do it now. they had not come back as early as they had intended. the bell for "lights out," clanged, and andy hastily prepared for bed. "only a few more days at old milton," he whispered to himself. "and then for yale!" the closing days of the term drew nearer. examinations were the order of the day, and many were the anxious hearts. there was less fun and more hard work. andy wrote home, detailing briefly his decision and telling of the affair of the theatre. for it got into the papers, and andy was made quite a hero. he wanted his parents to understand the true situation. a letter of thanks came from the theatre manager, and with it a pass, good for any time, for andy and his friends. in the letter it was said that miss fuller was in no danger, and had gone to the home of relatives to recover from the shock. andy was rather surprised when he received, one day, a fine mackinaw coat, of the latest style. with it was a note which said: "to replace the one you burned." there was no name signed, but he knew from whom it came. chapter vi the bonfire "this way, freshmen! this way!" "over here now! no let-outs!" "keep 'em together, blink! don't let any of 'em sneak away!" "wood! everybody bring wood!" "look out for that fellow! he's a grind! he'll try to skip!" "wood! everybody get wood!" the cries echoed and re-echoed over the campus at milton. it was the final night of the term. the examinations were over and done. some had fallen by the wayside, but andy and his chums were among those elected. they had passed, and they were to move on out of the preparatory school into the larger life of the colleges. and, as always was the case on an occasion of this kind, a celebration was to mark the closing of the school for the long summer vacation. the annual bonfire was to be kindled on the campus, and about it would circle those lads who were to leave the school, while their mates did them honor. thus it was that the cries rang out. "wood!" "more wood!" "most wood!" the town had been gleaned for inflammable material. the ash boxes of not even the oldest citizen were sacred on an occasion like this. for weeks the heap of wood had accumulated, until now there was a towering pile ready for the match. and still the cries echoed from the various quarters. "freshmen, get wood!" "on the job, freshmen!" more wood was brought, and yet more. the pile grew. "gee, this is fierce!" groaned a fat freshman, staggering along under the burden of two big boxes. "those fellows want too much. i'm going to quit!" "look out! don't let 'em hear you!" warned a companion. "they'll keep you carting it all night if you kick." "kick! (puff) kick! (puff) i ain't got wind enough to do any kickin'. i'm (puff) all (puff) in!" "oh, well, it's all in the game. we'll be out of this class next term, and we can watch the other fellows sweat! cut along!" "wood! wood over here!" "where's andy blair?" "i don't know. oh you swipes! what you got!" "all right! this'll make a flare, all right!" "oh, for the love of peter! look what swipes has!" harry, otherwise "swipes" morton, was convoying four laboring and perspiring freshmen who were carting over the campus a big box that had ones contained a piano. "oh, you swipes!" "where'd you crab that?" "say, ain't he the little peach, though!" "oh wow! what a lark!" "i guess this won't make some nifty little blaze, eh?" demanded harry. "eh, andy?" "sure thing! where'd you get it?" "over back of hanson's store. he used it for a coal box, but i made these boobs dump out the anthracite and cart it along. maybe i ain't some nifty little wood gatherer, eh?" "you sure are, swipes!" came the admiring retort from many voices. "wood!" "more wood!" still the pile grew apace. and with it grew the fun, the jollity, the excitement, the cries and the spirit of the school. dr. morrison, the head master, and his teachers, had wisely retired to their rooms. on such an occasion as this it is not wise on the part of discerning professors to see too much. there are matters to which one must shut one's eyes. and dr. morrison, from contact with many boys, was wise in his day and generation. for he knew it would be only honest, clean fun; and what matter if there was much noise and shouting? what matter if the fire blazed high? the boys never so far forgot themselves as to endanger the school buildings by their beacon, which was kindled well out on the big campus. what if numerous rules were cracked or broken? it only happened once a year. and what if ginger pop and sandwiches were surreptitiously introduced into the dormitories? that, too, need not be seen by the authorities. "wood! more wood!" "where's tom hatfield?" "yes, and chet anderson?" "over here boys!" "heads up!" "slap on swipes's piano box!" "oh, what a find!" you could not have told who was saying which or what. it was all one happy, unintelligible jumble. "light her up!" it was the signal for the kindling of the fire. a score of matches flared in the darkness of the june night. the straw and paper piled under the chaos of wood blazed with puffs of flame. the wood caught and the tongues of fire leaped high, bringing into bold relief the faces of the lads who joined hands and circled about the ruddy beacon. "hurray!" "that's the stuff!" "let her burn!" "say, that's a dandy, all right!" "biggest in years!" "well, we want to give the boys a good send-off!" "look at old swipes's piano box sizzle!" the shouting and excitement grew. the fire blazed higher and higher. the campus was bright with yellow gleams. "here's good-bye to old milton!" chanted andy. "that's right! good-bye to the old school!" echoed chet, and there was not much joy in his tones. "now, fellows, the old song. 'milton forever!'" called ben, and the melody burst forth. hardly was it finished than the silence that succeeded was broken by the strident tooting of an auto horn. "what's that?" cried andy. "who's coming here in a car?" "on the campus, too! it's against the rules!" cried chet. "it's some fresh fellow from town trying to butt in," someone called. "come on!" yelled andy. "we'll upset him, fellows! the nerve of him!" chapter vii link again there was a rush of the celebrating seniors toward the place where the disturbance arose. then others left the big bonfire to see the fun. an automobile horn tooted discordantly--defiantly, andy thought. "who has had the nerve to come in here, of all nights--on the one when we have our fire?" he thought. "it can't be any of the freshmen; they wouldn't dare." "what are you going to do?" asked ben in andy's ear, as he trotted beside his chum. "we'll upset his apple cart--that's the least we'll do, for one thing." "i should say yes!" chimed in chet. "surely!" they had now reached the spot where, from all appearances, was located the center of disturbance. a crowd of the freshmen, whose labors in gathering wood for the fire had now ceased, were gathered around a large touring car that, in defiance of all rules and customs, had been run to the very center of the school campus. "come down out of that!" "get away from here!" "you fellows have nerve!" "puncture their tires!" these are only a few of the cries and threats hurled at those in the auto--four young fellows who seemed anxious to make trouble not only for themselves, but for the school boys, whose celebration they had interrupted. the campus was a sort of sacred place. it stood in the midst of the school buildings and dormitories, and, though visitors were always welcome, there was a rule against vehicles crossing it, for the turf was the pride not only of the students, but the faculty as well. so it is no wonder that the sight of a heavy auto rolling over the lawn aroused the ire of all. "get out of the way there, you fellows, if you don't want to be run over!" snapped the youth at the steering wheel of the auto. "i'll smash through you in another minute!" "oh, you will, eh?" "isn't he the sassy little boy!" "yank him out of there!" the freshmen surrounding the auto thus reviled those in the car. the auto had come to a stop, but the engine was still running, free from the gears. now and then, as he saw an opening, the lad at the wheel would slip in his clutch and the car would advance a few feet. then more of the school boys would swarm about it, and progress would be impeded. "smash through 'em, old man!" advised one on the rear seat. "we don't want to stay here all night!" "that's right; run 'em down," advised his companion. "we're--we're--what are we, anyhow?" he asked, and it did not need a look at him to tell the cause of his condition. in fact, all in the auto were in a rather hilarious state, and the running of the car over the campus had been the result of a suggestion made after a too-long lingering in a certain road-house, where stronger stuff than ginger ale was dispensed. "we're all right--noshin matter us," declaimed one. "run 'em down, ole man!" "look out! i'm going through you!" cried the lad at the wheel. the freshmen in front of the car parted instinctively, but before the young chauffeur could put his threat into execution, andy and his chums had reached the machine. "get out of here!" cried andy, and, reaching up, he fairly pulled the steersman from his seat. the chap came down in a rush, nearly upsetting andy, who, however, managed to yank the lad to his feet. "pull 'em all out!" came the cry from tom, and a moment later he, with the aid of ben, chet and frank, had pulled from the car the other young men, who seemed too dazed to resist. "hop in that car, peterson," ordered andy, to a freshman who could operate an auto. "run it out to the street and leave it. then we'll rush these chaps out to it and chuck 'em in. we'll show 'em what it means to run over our campus." all this time andy had kept hold of the collar of the youth whom he had pulled from the car. then the latter turned about, and raised his fist. he had been taken so by surprise that he at first had seemed incapable of action. at this moment the big bonfire flared up brightly, and by its glare andy had a look at the face of the lad with whom he had clashed. the sight caused him suddenly to drop his hold and exclaim: "mortimer gaffington!" "huh! so it's you, is it, andy blair? what do you mean by acting this way?" demanded mortimer, the shock of whose rough handling had seemed to sober temporarily. "what do you mean? i demand an apology! that's what i do. ain't i 'titled to 'pology, fellers?" and he appealed to his chums. "sure you are. make the little beggar 'pologize!" leered one. "if he was at yale, now, we'd haze him good and proper." "yale!" cried tom hatfield. "yale fires out such fellows as you!" "mortimer gaffington!" gasped andy. "i rather wish this hadn't happened. or, rather i wish it had been anyone but he. i can see where this may lead." "you goin' 'pologize?" asked mortimer, trying to fix a stern gaze on andy. "apologize! certainly not!" cried andy, indignantly. "it is you fellows who ought to apologize. what would you do if some one ran an auto over yale campus?" "ho! ho! that's good. that's rich, that is!" laughed one who had been yanked out of his seat by tom hatfield. "that's a good joke, that is! an auto on yale campus! why we bulldogs would eat it up, that's what we'd do!" "well, that's what we'll do here!" cried chet, angered by the supercilious tone of the lad. "come on, boys; run 'em off spanish fashion!" it needed but this suggestion to further rouse the feelings of the milton lads, and in an instant several of them had grabbed each of the trespassers. andy stepped back from mortimer. because of the already strained relations between himself and this society "swell," he did not wish to take a part in the proceedings. "come on! run 'em off!" was the rallying cry. the auto had already been steered out on a road that circled the campus, and was soon in the street. then, heading their victims toward the old gateway that formed the chief entrance to the school the milton lads began running out the intruders. "you wait! i--i'll fix you for this,--andy blair!" threatened mortimer as he was rapidly propelled over the campus. "forget it!" advised chet. "rush 'em, fellows!" and rushed off mortimer and his companions were. they were fairly tossed into their auto, and then, with jeers and shouted advice not to repeat the trick, the school boys turned back to their fire. andy had lingered near the spot where he had hauled mortimer out of the auto. he was thinking of many things. he did not forget what had happened to the intruders. indeed it was nothing short of what they deserved, for they had deliberately tried to harass the school boys, and make a mockery of one of the oldest traditions of milton--one that held inviolate the beautiful campus. "only i wish it had been someone else than i who got hold of mort," mused andy. "he'll be sure to remember it when i get to yale, and he'll have it in for me. he can make a lot of trouble, too, i reckon. well, it can't be helped. they only got what was coming to 'em." with this thought andy consoled himself, but he had an uneasy feeling for all that. the students came trooping back, after having disposed of mortimer and his crowd. "you missed the best part of the fun," said chet to andy. "those fellows thought a cyclone struck them when we tossed 'em into the car. they don't know yet whether they're going or coming back," and he laughed, his mates joining in. "yes?" asked andy, non-committally. "what's up?" asked tom, curiously. "you don't act as though it had any flavor for you. what's the matter?" "oh, well--nothing," said andy. "come on, let's get back to the fire, and have a last song. then i'm going to pack. i want to leave on that early train in the morning." "same here. come on, boys. whoop her up once more for old milton, and then we'll say good-bye." "i know what ails andy," spoke tom in a low tone to frank, walking along arm in arm with him. "what?" "it's about that fellow gaffington. andy's sorry he had a run-in with him, and i don't blame andy. he had trouble before, and this will only add to it. and that gaffington is just mean enough, and small-spirited enough, to make trouble for andy down there at yale. he's a sport--but one of the tin-horn brand. i don't blame andy for wishing it had been someone else." "oh, well, here's hoping," said frank. "we all have our troubles." "but those fellows won't trouble us again to-night," declared chet, laughing. "they'll be glad to go home and get in bed." "did you know any of 'em, andy, except gaffington?" asked tom. "no, the others were strangers to me." "how do you reckon they got here, all the way from new haven?" "oh, they didn't come from yale," declared andy. "the university closed last week, you know. probably mort had some of his chums out to visit him in dunmore. that was his car. and he wanted to show 'em the sights, and let 'em see he could run all over little milton, so he brought 'em out here. it isn't such a run from dunmore, you know." "i reckon that's it," agreed tom. "well, they got more than they were looking for, that's one consolation. now boys, whoop her up for the last time." again they gathered about the blazing fire, and sang their farewell song. the annual celebration was drawing to a close. another group of lads would leave milton to go out into the world, mounting upward yet another step. from then on the ways of many who had been jolly good comrades together would diverge. some might cross again; others be as wide apart as the poles. the fire died down. the big piano box commandeered by "swipes" was but a heap of ashes. the fun was over. there were cheers for the departing senior lads, who, in turn, cheered the others who would take their places. then came tributes to the industrious freshmen. "good night! good night! good night!" was shouted on all sides. less and less brilliant grew the fire. now it was but a heap of glowing coals that would soon be gray, dead and cold ashes, typical in a way, of the passing of the senior boys. and yet, phoenix-like, from these same ashes would spring up a new fire--a fire in the hearts that would never die out. such are school friendships. of course there were forbidden little feasts in the various rooms to mark the close of the term--spreads to which monitors, janitors and professors discreetly closed their eyes. andy and his friends gathered in his apartment for a last chat. they were to journey to their home town on the morrow and then would soon separate for the long summer vacation. "well, it was a rare old celebration!" sighed tom, as he flopped on the bed. "it sure was!" agreed chet, with conviction. "i hope i have as much fun as this if i go to harvard." "same here, only i think i'll make mine princeton," added ben. "oh, but it's sort of hard to leave milton!" "right you are," came from andy, who was opening ginger ale and soda water. and, after a time, quiet settled down over the school, and dr. morrison and his colleagues breathed freely again. milton had stood steadfast through another assault of "bonfire night." the next morning there were confused goodbyes, multiplied promises to write, or to call, vows never to forget, and protestations of eternal friendship. there were arrangements made for camping, boating, tramping and other forms of vacation fun. there were dates made for assembling next year. there was a confused rushing to and fro, a looking up of the time of trains, hurried searches for missing baggage. and, after much excitement, andy and his chums found themselves in the same car bound for dunmore. they settled back in their seats with sighs of relief. "hear anything more of mort and his crowd?" asked tom of andy. "not a thing." "i did," spoke chet. "they were nearly arrested for making a row in town after we got through with 'em." "hum!" mused andy. "i s'pose mort will blame me for that, too. well, no use worrying until i have to." at churchtown, where the train stopped to give the boys at least a last remembrance of kelly's place, several passengers got on. among them was a young man who seemed familiar to andy and his chums. a second look confirmed it. "why, that's the bardon chap we took away from that farmer!" exclaimed frank. "that's right!" cried andy. "hello, link!" he called genially. "what you doing here?" "oh, how are you?" asked the farm lad. "glad to see you all again," and he nodded to each one in turn. he did not at all presume on his acquaintance with them, and was about to pass on, when andy said: "sit down. how's your arm?" "oh much better, thank you. i've been working steadily since you helped me." "that's good. where are you bound for now?" went on andy. "why, i'm going to look up an uncle of mine i haven't seen in years. i hear he has a big farm, and i thought i'd like to work for him." "where is it?" asked andy. "in a place called wickford, connecticut." "wickford!" exclaimed andy. "why that's near new haven, and yale--where i'm going this fall. maybe i'll see you there, link." "maybe," assented the young farmer, and then, declining andy's invitation to sit with the school lads, he passed on down the car aisle. chapter viii off for yale andy blair had signed for yale university. he had, as before noted, communicated to his father his desire to attend the new haven institution, and mr. blair, who had given his son a free hand in the matter, had acquiesced. milton was well known among the various preparatory schools, and her final examinations admitted to yale with few other formalities. so andy had no trouble on that score, save in a few minor matters, which were easily cleared up. he had matriculated, and all that remained was to select a room or dormitory. he had been studying over a yale catalog, and looking at the accompanying map which gave the location of the various buildings. "now the question is," said andy, talking it over with the folks at home, "the question is do i want to go to a private house and room, or had i better take a place in one of the halls. i rather like the idea of a hall room myself--wright for choice--but of course that might cost more than going to a private house." "if it's a question of cost, don't let that stand in the way," replied mr. blair, generously. "i'm not given to throwing money away, andy, my boy, and a college education isn't a cheap thing, no matter how you look at it. but it's worth all it costs, i believe, and i want you to have the best. "if you can get more into the real life of yale by having a room in wright hall, or in any of the college dormitories, why do so. there's something in being right on the ground, so to speak. you can absorb so much more." "good for you, dad!" cried andy. "you're a real sport. then i vote for a hall. i'll take a run down and see what i can arrange." "but wouldn't a private house be quieter?" suggested mrs. blair. "you know you'll have to do lots of studying, andy, and if you get in a big building with a lot of other students they may annoy you." "oh, i guess, mother," said bertha, andy's sister, "that he'll do his share of annoying, too." "come again, sis. get out your little hammer, and join the anvil chorus!" sarcastically commented andy. "no, but really," went on mrs. blair, "wouldn't a private house be quieter, andy?" "not much more so, i believe," spoke the prospective yale freshman. "when there's any excitement going on those in the private houses get as much of it as those in the college buildings. but, as a matter of fact, when there's nothing on--like a big game or some of the rushes--yale is as quiet as the average sunday school. "why, the day i was there i walked all around and nothing happened. the fellows came and went, and seemed very quiet, not to say meek. i walked over the campus, and i expected every minute some big brute of a sophomore would smash my hat down over my eyes, and give a 'rah! rah!' yell. but nothing like that happened. it was sort of disappointing." "well, you need quiet if you're going to study," went on mrs. blair. she had an idea that yale was a sort of higher-grade boarding school, it seemed. "then i'll decide on wright hall," remarked andy. "that is, if i can get in." then followed some correspondence which resulted in andy being informed that a room on the campus side of wright hall, and on the second floor, was available. the only trouble was that it was a double room, and andy would have to share it with another student. "hum!" he exclaimed when he had this information. "now i'm up against it once more. who can i get to go in with me? i don't want to take a total stranger, and yet i guess i'll have to." "you might advertise for a roommate?" suggested his mother. "i guess they don't do things that way at yale," spoke andy, with a smile. "why don't you wait until you get there, and maybe you'll find somebody in the same fix you are?" asked bertha. "i guess that is good advice," remarked andy. "i'll take a run down there some time before term opening, and maybe i can get some nice chap wished on me. if tom, or chet, or some of the milton lads, were coming to yale it would be all right." "didn't any of them pick out yale?" asked mr. blair. "not as far as i know." "oh, well, i guess you'll make out all right, son. a good roommate is a fine companion to have, so i hope you won't be disappointed. but there's no hurry." the long summer vacation was at hand. andy's people were to go to a lake resort, and soon after coming home from milton, andy, with his mother and sister, was installed in a comfortable cottage. mr. blair would come up over week-ends. chet anderson and tom hatfield were at a nearby resort, so andy knew he was in for a good summer of fun. and he was not disappointed. he and his chums spent much time on the water, living in their bathing suits for whole days at a time. but i will not weary you with a description of the various things they did. sufficient to say that the vacation was like a good many others andy had enjoyed, and expected to enjoy again. nothing in particular happened. the summer wore on. the dog-days came and there loomed in the distance the fall months. tom had called on andy one day, and they went out in the canoe together. "well, it will soon be study-grind again," remarked tom, as he sent the light boat under a fringe of bushes out of the sun. "yes, and i won't be sorry," spoke andy. "i'm anxious to see what life at yale is like. i've got to take a run down in a week or so, to fix up about my room. you haven't heard of anyone i know who is going to be a freshman there; do you?" "no, but i saw an old friend of yours the other day." "you did! who?" "remember that little actress you did the fireman-save-my-child act for this spring?" "miss fuller? sure i do. did you see her?" "i did." "where?" "oh, at a vaudeville theater. she remembered me, too." "did she ask for me?" "naturally. i told her you were going to yale, and she said she might see you there." "how?" "why, she's playing a couple of weeks early in october at poli's. you want to look her up." "i sure will. you saw the mackinaw she sent me?" "yes, it'll come in handy for yale. i wish i was with you, but i'm wished on to cornell--i yell!" "oh, well, we can't all go to the same place, but it sure would be fine if we could." then they began to talk of the old days at milton, until the shadows lengthened over the lake and it was time to paddle back to the cottage. andy took a run down to new haven the next week, and made his final arrangements. he was walking about the now deserted quadrangle, looking up at the window of the room he had selected in wright hall, when he was aware that a youth of his own age was doing the same thing. something seemed to attract andy to this stranger. there was a frank, open, ingenuous look in his face that andy liked. and there was that in the air and manner of the lad which told he came of no common stock. his clothing betokened the work of a fashionable tailor, though the garments were quiet, and just a shade off the most up-to-date mode. "are you a student here?" asked the stranger of andy. "no, but i expect to be. i'm going to start in." "so am i. chamber is my name--duncan chamber, though i'm always called dunk for short." "glad to know you. my name's blair--andy blair." they shook hands, and then followed the usual embarrassed pause. neither knew what to say next. finally duncan broke the silence by asking: "got your room yet?" "up there," and andy pointed to it. "gee! that's all right--a peach! i'm up a stump myself." "how so?" "well, i've about taken one in pierson hall, but it's a double one, and i've got to share it with a fellow i don't take much of a leaning to. he's a stranger to me. i like it better here, though. better view of the campus." andy took a sudden resolve. "i'm about in the same boat," he said. "that's a double room of mine up there in wright, and i haven't a chum yet. i don't know what to do. of course i'm a stranger to you, but if you'd like to share my joint----" "friend andy, say no more!" interrupted duncan. "lead me to thy apartment!" andy laughed. he was liking this youth more and more every minute. the room was inspected. andy was still the only one who had engaged it. "it suits me to a t if i suit you," exclaimed duncan. "what do you say, blair? shall we hitch it up?" "i'm willing." "shake!" they shook. thus was the pact made, a union of friends that was to have a strange effect on both. "now that's settled i'll call the pierson game off," said dunk, as we shall call him from now on. "i'm wished onto you, blair." "i'm glad of it!" the final arrangements were made, and thus andy had his new roommate. they went to dinner together, and planned to do all sorts of possible and impossible things when the term should open. andy returned to the summer cottage with the good news, and then began busy days for him. he replenished his stock of clothes and other possessions and selected his favorite bats and other sporting accessories with which to decorate his room. he had a big pennant enscribed with the name milton, and this was to drape one side wall. dunk chamber was from andover, and his school colors would flaunt themselves on the opposite side of the room. and then the day came. andy, spruce and trim in a new suit, had sent on his trunk, and, with his valise in hand, bade his parents and sister good-bye. the family was still at the summer cottage, which would not be closed for another month. then they would go back to dunmore. yale was calling to andy, and one hazy september morning he took the train that, by dint of making several changes, would land him in new haven. "and at yale!" murmured andy as the engine puffed away from the dingy station. "i'm off for yale at last!" chapter ix on the campus andy's train rolled into the new haven station shortly before dusk. on the way the new student had been surreptitiously "sizing up" certain other young men in the car with him, trying to decide whether or not they were yale students. one was, he had set that down as certain--a quiet, studious-looking lad, who seemed poring over a book and papers. then andy, making an excuse to get a drink of water, passed his seat and looked at the documents. they were a mass of bills which the young man evidently had for collection. "stung!" murmured andy. "but he sure did look like a yale senior." he was yet to learn that college men are not so different from ordinary mortals as certain sensational writers would have had him believe. there was the usual bustle and rush of alighting passengers. now indeed andy was sure that a crowd of students had come up on the train with him for, once out of the cars their exuberance manifested itself. there were greetings galore from one to another. renewals of past acquaintance came from every side. there were hearty clappings on the backs of scores and scores, and re-clappings in turn. youths were tumbling out here, there, everywhere, colliding with one another, bumping up against baggage trucks, running through the station, one or two stopping to snatch a hasty cup of coffee and some doughnuts from the depot restaurant. andy stood almost lost for the moment amid the excitement. it had come on suddenly. he had never dreamed there were so many yale men on the train. they gave no evidence of it until they had reached their own precincts. then, like a dog that hesitates to bark until he is within the confines of his own yard, they "cut loose." taxicab chauffeurs were bawling for customers. hackmen with ancient horses sent out their call of: "keb! keb! hack, sir! have a keb!" the motor bus of the hotel taft was being jammed with prosperous looking individuals. around the curve swept the clanging trolley cars. "i guess i'll walk," mused andy. "i want to get my mind straightened out." he managed to locate an expressman to whom he gave the check for his trunk, with directions where to send it. then, gripping his valise, which contained enough in the way of clothing and other accessories to see him through the night, in case his baggage was delayed, our hero started up state street. in the distance he could see, looming up, the lighted top stories of the hotel taft, and he knew that from those same stories one could look down on the buildings and campus at yale. it thrilled him as he had not been thrilled before on any of his visits to this great american university. he paid no attention to those about him. the sidewalks, damp with the hazy dew of the coming september night, were thronged with pedestrians. many of them were college students, as andy could tell by their talk. on he swung, breathing in deep of the air of dusk. he squared back his shoulders and raised his head, widening his nostrils to take in the air, as his eyes and ears absorbed the other impressions of the place. past the stores, the hotels, the moving picture places andy went, until he came to where chapel street cuts across state. at the corner a confectionery store thrust out its rounded doorway, and in the windows were signs of various fountain drinks. "a hot chocolate wouldn't be so bad," thought andy. "it's a bit chilly." he went in rather diffidently, wondering if some of the pretty girls lined up along the marble counter knew that he was a yale man. he heard a titter of laughter and grew red behind the ears, fearing it might be directed against him. but no one seemed to notice him, the girl who passed him out his check making change as nonchalantly as though he was but the veriest traveling man instead of a yale student. "very blasé, probably," thought andy, with a sense of resentment. he stood on the steps a moment as he came out, and then walked toward the green, with its great elm trees, now looming mistily in the september haze. three churches on temple street seemed to stand as a sort of guard in front of the college buildings that loomed behind them. three silent and closed churches they were. up chapel street walked andy, and he came to a stop on college street, opposite phelps gateway. through the gathering dusk he could make out the inscription over it: lux et veritas "that's it! that's what i came here for," he said. "light and truth! oh, but it's great! great!" he drew in a long breath, and stood for a moment contemplating the beautiful outlines of the college buildings. "oh, but i'm glad i'm here!" he whispered. other students were pouring through the classic gateway. andy crossed the street and joined them. already lights were beginning to glow in lawrance and farnam halls, where the sophomores had their rooms. andy could see some of them lolling on cushions in their window seats. yale blue cushions, they were. he passed in through the gateway, his footsteps clanging back to his ears, reflected by the arch overhead. he emerged onto the campus, and started across it toward wright hall, with its raised courtyard, and its curtained windows of blue. "i wonder if dunk is there yet?" thought andy. "hope he is. oh, it's yale at last! yale! yale!" he breathed in deep of the night air. he looked at the shadows of the electric lights of the campus filtering through the trees. he paused a moment. a confusion of sounds came to him. outside the quadrangle in which he stood he could hear the hum of the busy city--the clang of trolleys, the clatter of horses, the hoarse croak of auto horns. within the precincts of the college buildings he could hear the hum of voices. now and then came the tinkle of a piano or the vibration of a violin. then there were shouts. "oh, you, pop! stick out your head!" the call of one student to another. "i wonder if they'll ever call me?" mused andy. he started across the campus. coming toward him were several dark figures. andy met them under a light, and started back. before he had a chance to speak someone shouted at him: "there he is now! the freshest of the fresh! take off that hat!" it was mortimer gaffington. chapter x missing money for a moment andy stood there, not knowing what to do or say. it was so unexpected, and yet he knew he must meet mortimer at yale--meet and perhaps clash with the lad who was now a sophomore--the lad who had such good cause now to dislike andy. on his part the young "swell" leered into andy's face, then glanced sidelong at the youths who accompanied him. andy recognized them as the same who had been in the auto that night of the bonfire at milton. "that's he!" exclaimed mortimer; then to andy: "i didn't think i'd meet you quite so soon, blair! so you're here, eh?" "yes," answered andy. "put a 'sir' on that!" commanded one of the other lads. "yes--sir!" andy took his own time with the last word. he knew the rites and customs of yale, at least by hearsay, and was willing to abide by the unwritten laws that make a first-year man demean himself to the upperclassmen. it would not last long. "that's better," commented the third lad. "never forget your manners--er--what's your name?" "blair." "sir!" snapped the one who had first reminded andy of the lapse. "sir!" "you know him," put in mortimer. "the fellow who put us out of the auto, eh?" "oh, sure, i remember now. nervy little rat! it's a wonder i remember anything that happened that night. we were pretty well pickled. oh, land, yes!" he seemed proud of it. "take off that hat!" commanded mortimer. "don't forget you're a freshman here." "and a fresh freshman, too," added one of his chums. "take it off!" andy was perfectly willing to abide by this unwritten law also, and doffed his derby. he made a mental note that as soon as he could he would get a cap, or soft hat, such as he saw other students wearing. "the brute has some manners," commented one of the trio. "i'll teach him some more before i get through with him!" muttered mortimer. he, as well as his two companions, seemed to have been dining, "not wisely but too well." "anything more?" asked andy, good-naturedly. he knew that he must put up with insults, if need be, from mortimer; for he realized that, in a way, class distinction at yale is strong in its unwritten laws, and he wanted to do as the others did. it takes much nerve to vary from the customs and traditions of any country or place, more especially a big college. and andy knew his turn would come. he also knew that it was all done in good-natured fun, and really with the best intentions. for a first-year man is very likely to become what his name indicates--fresh--and there is need of toning down. besides, it is discipline that is good for the soul, and somewhat necessary. it makes for good in after life, in most cases, though of course there are some exceptions. hazing, after all, is designed, primarily, to bring out a candidate's character. a lad who will give way to his temper if made to take off his hat to one perhaps below him in social station, or if he sulks when tossed in a blanket--such a lad, in after life, is very apt to do the same thing when he has to knuckle under to a business rival, or to go into a passion when he receives the hard knocks of life. so, then, hazing, if not carried to extremes, has its uses in adversity, and andy had sense enough to realize this. so he was ready for what might come. he knew, also, that mortimer might, and probably would, be actuated by a mean spirit, and a desire for what he might think was revenge. but he was only one of a large number of college youths. andy was willing to take his chances. andy looked over toward wright hall, with its raised courtyard. lights were gleaming in the windows, and he fancied he could see his own room aglow. "i hope dunk is there," he thought. "shall we put him through the paces?" asked one of mortimer's companions suggestively, nodding at andy. "not to-night. we've got something else on," answered the society swell. "trot along, blair, and don't forget what we've told you. i'll see you again," he added, significantly. the trio had come to a stop some little distance from andy, and had stood with arms linked. now they were ready to proceed. on the various walks, that traversed the big campus in the quadrangle of yale, other students were hurrying to and fro, some going to their rooms, others coming from them. some were going towards their eating clubs or to the university dining hall. and andy was feeling hungry. "well, come on," urged mortimer to his companions. "i guess we've started this freshman on the right road. just see that you follow it, blair. i'll be watching you." "and i'll be watching you!" thought andy. and at that moment he was gazing intently at gaffington. as he looked, andy saw something fall from below the flap of the coat of one of the trio, and land softly on the pavement. it fell limp, making no noise. one of mortimer's companions, who, andy afterward learned, was leonard, or "len," scott, reached his hand into his pocket, and brought it out with a strange look on his face. "hello!" he exclaimed, blankly, "my wallet's gone!" "gone!" exclaimed the other, clarence boyle by name. "are you sure you had it?" "i sure did!" said len, feeling in various pockets. "just cashed a check, too!" "come on back to your room and have a look for it," suggested mortimer pulling his chum half-way around. "if it's gone i can lend you some. i'm flush to-night." "but i'm sure i had it," went on len. "i remember feeling it just as we came out of lawrance. i had about fifty dollars in it!" "whew!" whistled mortimer. "some little millionaire, you are, len. never mind, i can let you have twenty-five if you need it." andy knew that mortimer's father was reputed to be several times a millionaire. "but i don't like to lose that," went on len. "i guess i will go back and have a look in my shack. if i can't find it i'll stick up a notice." "you might have dropped it when we met that other bunch of freshmen and had the little argument with them about their hats," suggested clarence. "that's right," went on mortimer, still pulling on len's arm, as though to get him away from the spot. "maybe one of the freshmen frisked it off you," he added, looking at andy. by this time the trio had turned half-way around, evidently to go back to scott's room and look for the missing pocketbook. andy had a clear view of the object that had fallen from under the coat of one of them. "there is something," the freshman said, pointing to the object on the pavement. "i saw one of you drop it. perhaps it is the pocketbook." len wheeled and made a grab for it. "that's mine!" he cried. "it must have worked up out of my pocket and fallen. thanks!" he added, warmly, to andy. with a quick motion len opened his wallet. a strange look came over his face as he cried: "it's empty!" "empty!" gasped mortimer. "let's see!" he leaned forward, as did clarence, all three staring into the opened pocketbook. andy looked on curiously. "it was one of those freshmen!" declared mortimer, with conviction. "they must have slipped their hand up in your coat when we were frisking them, and taken out the money." "but how could they when i still had the pocketbook?" asked len, much puzzled. "they must have taken out the bills, and put the wallet back," went on mortimer, quickly. "they didn't get it all the way in your pocket and it tumbled out when you were standing here. lucky we noticed it or we wouldn't have known what happened. come on back. we'll find those freshmen." and, without another look at andy, they wheeled and hurried across the campus toward vanderbilt hall. "huh! that's queer!" mused andy, as he continued on his way toward wright. "i'm glad i saw that wallet when i did." chapter xi "rough house" "oh, you, dunk!" "stick out your noodle, chamber!" "where are you?" these were the cries that greeted andy as he entered the passage leading to his room in wright hall--the room he was to share with duncan chamber. down the hall he saw a group of lads who had evidently come to rouse andy's prospective chum. somehow, our hero felt a little hurt that he had to share his friend with others. but it was only momentarily. "open up there, dunk! open up!" thus came the appeal, and fists banged on the door. it was opened a crack, and the rattle of a chain was heard. "get on to the beggar!" "he must think we're a bunch of sophs!" "don't be afraid, dunky, we're only your sweethearts!" thus the three callers gibed him. "oh, it's you fellows, is it?" asked chamber, flinging wide the door, and letting out a flood of light. "i thought i was in for a hazing, so i was keeping things on the safe side. come on in. i'm just straightening up." the three tumbled into the room. andy followed, and at the sound of his footsteps coming to a pause outside the portal dunk peered out. "oh, hello, blair!" he greeted, cordially! "i thought you were never coming! put her there, old man! how are you?" he caught andy's hand in a firm pressure with a mighty slap, and hauled him inside. "fellows, here's my roommate!" went on dunk. "andy blair. i hope you'll like him as well as i do. blair, these are some luckless freshmen like ourselves. take 'em in the order of their beauty--bob hunter--never hit the bull's eye in his life; ted wilson--just ted, mostly; thad warburton--no end of a swell, and money to burn! shake!" they shook in turn, looking into each other's eyes with that quick appraising glance that means so much. andy liked all three. he hoped they would like him. "so this is your hangout, eh, dunk?" asked ted, when the little formality of introduction was over. "yes, andy had this picked out and kindly agreed to share it with me." "i sure was glad to!" said andy, heartily. "some swell little joint," commented thad warburton, looking around. "wait until we get her fixed up," advised dunk. "then we'll have something to show you! i haven't decided on a bed yet," he added to dick. "pick out the one you want." "i'm not particular. they all look alike to me." "yes, they're just the same. fed your face yet?" "no, but i'm hungry. thought i'd wait for you." "say, where is your eating joint?" asked thad. "i haven't picked out one yet," answered andy. "i was thinking of going to the hall----" "oh, that's no fun!" cried bob. "come with us. we have a swell place. run by one of our andover crowd. good grub and a nice bunch of fellows." "i'm willing," agreed andy. "we could try it for a while," assented dunk, "and if we didn't like it we could switch to the university hall. what do you say, andy?" "i'm with you. the sooner the quicker. i'm starved." "all right, then, we'll let the room go until after grub. i was going to stick up a few of my things, but they can wait. get your trunk, andy?" "did it come? i gave a man the check." "not yet. sounds like it now." there was a bumping and thumping out in the corridor, and an expressman came in with andy's baggage. it was stowed away in a corner and then the five lads prepared to set out for the "eating joint." "it's around on york street, not far from morey's," volunteered thad. "oh, yes, morey's!" exclaimed andy. "i've heard lots about that joint. i wish we could get in there." "no freshman need apply," quoted dunk, with a laugh. "that's for our betters. we'll get there some day." "oh, i say----" began ted, as they were about to go out. he looked at andy rather queerly. "what is it?" asked our hero, with a frank laugh. "am i togged up wrong?" "your--er--derby," said bob, obviously not liking to mention it. "oh, yes, that's right!" chimed in dunk. "hope you don't mind, andy, but a cap or a crusher would be in better form." andy noticed that the others had on soft hats. "sure," he said. "i was going to get one. i had a soft hat at milton, but it's all initialed, and covered with dates from down there. i don't suppose that would go here." "hardly," agreed dunk. "i've got an odd one, though. stick it on until you get yours," and he hauled a soft hat from under a pile of things on his dresser. andy hung up his offending derby and clapped the other on the back of his head. then the five sallied forth, locking the door behind them. their feet echoed on the stone flagging of the open courtyard as they headed out on the campus. past dwight hall, the home of the young men's christian association, they went, out into high street and through library to york. the thoroughfares were thronged with many students now, for it was the hour for supper. calls, cries, hails, gibes, comments and appeals were bandied back and forth. for it was the beginning of the term, and many of the new lads had not yet found themselves or their places. it was all pleasurable excitement and anticipation. huddled close together, talking rapidly of many things they had seen, or hoped to see--of the things they had done or expected to do, andy, dunk, and their chums walked on to the eating place. dunk informed andy, in a whisper, that his three friends had been at phillips academy, in andover, with him. "over here!" "this way!" "lots of room!" "shove in, hunter!" "there's wilson!" "dunk chamber, too! oh, you, dunk!" "oh! thad warburton, give us your eye!" it was a call to health, and several lads arose holding aloft foaming mugs of beer. for a moment andy's heart failed him. he did not drink, and he did not intend to, yet he realized that to refuse might be very embarrassing. yet he resolved on this course. there were more good-natured cries, and healths proposed, and then andy and his companions found room at the table. dunk introduced andy to several lads. "oh, you, dunk, your eyes on us!" several lads called to him, holding aloft their steins. dunk hesitated a moment and then, with a quick glance at andy, let his glass be filled. rising, he gave the pledge and drank. andy felt a tug at his heart strings. he was not a crank, nor a stickler for forms or reforms, yet he had made up his mind never to touch intoxicants. and it gave him a shock to find his roommate taking the stuff. "well, he's his own master," thought andy. "it's up to him!" and then, amid that gay scene--not at all riotous--there came to andy the memory of a half-forgotten lesson. "am i my brother's keeper?" andy wanted to close his mind to it, but that one question seemed to repeat itself over and over again to him. "have some beer?" the voice of a waiter was whispering to him. "no--not to-night," said andy, softly. and what a relief he felt. no one seemed to notice him, nor was his refusal looked upon as strange. then he noticed with a light heart that only a few of the lads, and the older ones at that, were taking the beverage. andy noticed, too, with more relief, that dunk only took one glass. the meal went on merrily, and then andy and dunk, refusing many invitations to come to the rooms of friends, or downtown to a show, went to their own room. "let's get it in shape," proposed dunk. "sure," agreed andy, and they set to work. each one had brought from home certain trophies--mementoes of school life--and these soon adorned the walls. then there were banners and pennants, sofa cushions--the gift of certain girls--and photographs galore. "well, i call this some nifty little joint!" exclaimed dunk, stepping back to admire the effect of the photograph of a pretty girl he had fastened on the wall. "it sure is," agreed andy, who was himself putting up a picture. "i say, who's that?" asked dunk, indicating it. "she's some little looker, if you don't mind me saying so." "my sister." "congrats! i'd like to meet her." "maybe--some day." "who's this--surely not your sister?" asked dunk, indicating another picture. "i seem to know her." "she's a vaudeville actress, miss fuller." "oh, ho! so that's the way the wind blows, is it? say, you are going some, andy." "nothing doing! i happened to save her from a fire----" "save her from a fire! worse and more of it. i must tell this to the boys!" "oh, it wasn't anything," and andy explained. "she sent me a mackinaw in place of my burned coat, and her picture was in the pocket. i kept it." "i should think you would. she's a peach, and clever, too, i understand. she's billed at poli's." "yes, i'm going to see her." "take me around, will you?" "sure, if you like." "i like all right. hark, someone's coming!" and dunk slipped to the door and put on the chain. "what's the matter?" asked andy. "oh, the sophs are around and may come in and make a rough house any minute." but the approaching footsteps did not prove to be those of vengeful sophomores. they were the three friends, bob, thad, and ted, who were soon admitted. as they were sitting about and talking there was a commotion out in the hall. the door, which dunk had neglected to chain after the admission of his friends, was suddenly burst open, and in came, with a rush, mortimer gaffington and several other sophomores. "rough house!" was their rallying cry. "rough house for the freshies!" "rough house!" chapter xii a fierce tackle andy and his chums were taken completely by surprise. the approach of mortimer and the other sophomores had been so silent that no warning had been given. immediately on gaining admittance to the room the intruders began tossing things about. they pulled open the drawers of the dresser, scattering the garments all over. they tore down pictures from the walls and ripped off the banners and pennants. "rough house!" they kept repeating. "rough house on the freshmen!" one of the sophomores pushed bob and ted over on andy's bed, together. then gaffington pulled from his pocket a handful of finely chopped paper of various colors--"confetti"--and scattered it in a shower over everyone and everything. "snow, snow! beautiful snow!" he declaimed. "shiver, freshmen!" a momentary pause ensued. andy and his chums were getting back their breaths. "well, why don't you shiver?" demanded mortimer. "that's snow--beautiful snow--all sorts of colored snow! shiver, i tell you! it's snowing! little eva in uncle tom's cabin--eliza crossing the ice! shiver now, you freshmen, shiver!" he was laughing in a silly sort of way. "that's right--shiver!" commanded some of mortimer's companions. "well, what are you waiting for?" jeered the society swell at andy. "why don't you shiver?" "i've forgotten how," said andy, calmly. "hang you, _shiver_!" and mortimer fairly howled out the word. he started toward andy, with raised arm and clenched fist. among the possessions disturbed by the intruders was andy's favorite baseball bat, which he had brought with him. instinctively, as he retreated a step, his fingers clutched it. he swung it around and held it in readiness. mortimer recoiled, and andy, seeing his advantage, cried: "get out of here! all of you. come on, fellows, put 'em out!" he raised the bat above his head, without the least intention in the world of using it, but the momentum swung it from his hand and it struck mortimer on the forehead. the lad who had led the "rough house" attack staggered for a moment, and then, blubbering, sank down in a heap on the floor. a sudden silence fell. in an instant andy had sunk down on his knees beside his enemy and was feeling his pulse and heart. there was only a slight bruise on the forehead. "you--you've killed him!" whimpered one of the sophomores. "nonsense!" exclaimed dunk. "he's only over-excited." this was putting it mildly. mortimer had been "celebrating," and had really fainted. "that was only a love tap," went on dunk. "chuck a little water in his face and he'll be all right." this was done and proved to be just what was needed. mortimer opened his eyes. "what--what happened?" he asked, weakly. "where--where am i?" "where you don't belong," replied dunk, sharply. "it's your move--get out!" "you--you struck me!" went on mortimer, accusingly to andy. "no, indeed, i did not! i thought you were coming for me, and so i raised the bat. it slipped." "i guess that's right, old man," said one of the sophomores, frankly. "i saw it. mort has been going it too heavily. we'll get him out of here. no offense, i hope," and he looked around the dismantled room. "this is the usual thing." "oh, all right," said dunk. "we're not kicking. i guess we held up our end." "you sure did," returned one of the sophomores, as he glanced at the wilted mortimer. "come on, fellows." andy, feeling easier now that he was sure mortimer was not badly hurt, looked at the other lads. two of them he recognized as the ones who had been with gaffington when the loss of the money was discovered. andy wondered whether it had been found, but he did not like to ask. "i--i'll get you for this! i'll fix you!" growled mortimer, as his chums led him out of the room. "you--you----" and he swayed unsteadily, gazing at andy. "oh, dry up and come on!" advised len scott. "we'll go downtown and have some fun." they withdrew and the dazed freshmen began helping andy and dunk straighten up the room. it took some time and it was late when they finished. then, thinking the day had been strenuous enough, andy and dunk declined invitations to go out, and got ready for bed. so ended andy's first day at yale. there was a hurried run to chapel next morning, and andy, who had to finish arranging his scarf on the way, found that he was not the only tag-ender. chapel was not over-popular. that len scott did not recover his lost money was made evident the next day, for there were several notices posted in various places offering a reward for the return of the bills. andy heard, indirectly, that len and mortimer made half-accusations against the freshmen they had "frisked" earlier in the evening, and had been soundly trounced for their impudence. andy told dunk of his connection in the affair and was advised to keep quiet, which andy thought wise to do. but the loss of the money did not seem to be of much permanent annoyance to len, for a few days later he was again spending royally. andy began now to settle down to his life at yale. he was duly established in his room with dunk, and it was the congregating place of many of their freshmen friends. andy and dunk continued to eat at the "joint" in york street, though our hero made up his mind that he would shift to university hall at the first opportunity. he hoped dunk would come with him, but that was rather doubtful. "i can try, anyhow," thought andy. our hero did not find the lessons and lectures easy. there was a spirit of hard work at yale as he very soon found out, and he had not as much leisure time as he had anticipated, which, perhaps, was a good thing for him. but andy wanted to do well, and he applied himself at first with such regularity that he was in danger of becoming known as a "dig." but he was just saved from that by the influence of dunk, who took matters a little easier. following the episode of the "rough house," andy did not see mortimer for several days, and when he did meet him the latter took no notice of our hero. "i'm just as pleased," andy thought. "only it looks as though he'd make more trouble." candidates for the football team had been called for, and, as andy had made good at milton, he decided to try for at least a place on the freshman team. so then, one crisp afternoon, in company with other candidates, all rather in fear and trembling, he hopped aboard a trolley to go out to yale field. dunk was with him, as were also bob, ted, and thad, who likewise had hopes. there was talk and laughter, and admiring and envying glances were cast at the big men--those who had played on the varsity team last year. they were like the lords of creation. the car stopped near the towering grandstands that hemmed in the gridiron, and andy swarmed with the others into the dressing rooms. "lively now!" snapped holwell, one of the coaches. "get out on the field, you fellows, and try tackling the dummy." a grotesque figure hung from a cross beam, and against this the candidates hurled themselves, endeavoring to clasp the elusive knees in a hard tackle. there were many failures, some of the lads missing the figure entirely and sliding along on their faces. andy did fairly well, but if he looked for words of praise he was disappointed. this practice went on for several days, and then came other gridiron work, falling on the ball, punting and drop kicking. andy was no star, but he managed to stand out among the others, and there was no lack of material that year. then came scrimmage practice, the tentative varsity eleven lining up against the scrub. with all his heart andy longed to get into this, but for days he sat on the bench and watched others being called before him. but he did not neglect practice on this account. then, one joyful afternoon he heard his name called by the coach. "get in there at right half and see what you can go," was snapped at him. "don't fuddle the signals--smash through--follow the interference, and keep your eyes on the ball. blake, give him the signals." the scrub quarter took him to one side and imparted a simple code used at practice. "now, scrub, take the ball," snapped the coach, "and see what you can do." there was a quick line-up. andy was trembling, but he managed to hold himself down. he looked over at the varsity. to his surprise mortimer was being tried at tackle. "ready!" shrilly called the scrub quarter. "signal--eighteen--forty-seven--shift--twenty-one--nineteen--" it was the signal for andy to take the ball through right tackle and guard. he received the pigskin and with lowered head and hunched shoulders shot forward. he saw a hole torn in the varsity line for him, and leaped through it. the opening was a good one, and the coach raved at the fatal softness of the first-team players. andy saw his chance and sprinted forward. but the next instant, after covering a few yards, he was fiercely tackled by mortimer, who threw him heavily. he fell on andy, and the breath seemed to leave our hero. his eyes saw black, and there was a ringing in his ears as of many bells. chapter xiii bargains "that's enough! get up off him! don't you know enough, gaffington, to tell when a man's down?" andy heard the sharp voice of the coach, holwell, but the tones seemed to come from a great distance. "water here!" "somebody's keeled over!" "it's that freshman, blair. plucky little imp, too!" "who tackled him?" "gaffington. took him a bit high and fell on him!" "oh, well, this is football; it isn't kindergarten beanbag." dimly andy heard these comments. he opened his eyes, only to close them again as he felt a dash of cold water in his face. "feel all right now?" it was the voice of the coach in his ears. andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. his ears rang, and he could not see clearly. there was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet. then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly: "this isn't playing the game! if i'm going to go over like this every time i'm tackled i'll never play for yale. brace up!" by sheer effort of will andy brought his staggering senses back. "i--i'm all right," he panted. "sort of a solar plexus knock, i guess." "that's the way to talk!" exclaimed the coach, grimly. "now then, fellows, hit it up. where's that ball? oh, you had it, did you, blair? that's right, whatever happens, keep the ball! get into the play now. varsity, tear up that scrub line! what's the matter with you, anyhow? you're letting 'em go right through you. smash 'em! smash 'em good and hard. all right now, blair?" "yes, sir." "get in the game then. scrub's ball. hurry up! signal!" sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. not a word of praise--always finding fault; and as for sympathy--you might as well have looked for it from an indian ready to use his scalping knife. and yet--that is what made the yale team what it was--a fighting machine. once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals. andy took his old place. he was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. he was terribly jarred, for mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice. andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. he could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. he looked over at mortimer, who grinned maliciously. andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. but there was no earthly use in speaking of it. rather would it do him more harm than good. this, then, was part of the "getting even" game that his enemy had marked out. "he won't get me again, though!" thought andy, fiercely. "if he does, it will be my own fault. wait until i get a chance at him!" it came sooner than he expected. the forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays. several times mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs. "what do you fellows mean?" cried holwell. "letting 'em go through you this way! get at 'em! break up their plays if you can! block their kicks. they'll think they're playing a kid team! i want 'em to work! smash 'em! kill 'em!" he was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet--a veritable little cyclone of a coach. "signal!" he cried sharply. it came from the varsity quarter, and andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that gaffington was to take the ball. "here's where i get him!" muttered andy, fiercely. there was a rush--a thud of bodies against bodies--gaspings of breaths, the cracking of muscles and sinews. andy felt himself in a maelstrom of pushing, striving, hauling and toppling flesh. then, in an instant, there came an opening, and he saw before him but one player--mortimer--with the ball. like a flash andy sprang forward and caught his man in a desperate embrace--a hard, clean tackle. andy put into it all his strength, intent only upon hurling his opponent to the turf with force enough to jar him insensible if possible. perhaps he should not have done so, you may say, but andy was only human. he was playing a fierce game, and he wanted his revenge. into mortimer's eyes came a look of fear, as he went down under the impact of andy. but there was this difference. mortimer's previous experience had taught him how to take a fall, and he came to no more hurt through andy's fierce tackle than from that of any other player, however much andy might have meant he should. our hero did not stop to think that he might have injured one of the varsity players so as to put him out of the game, and at a time when yale needed all the good men she could muster. and gaffington, in spite of his faults, was a good player. there was a thud as andy and mortimer struck the earth--a thud that told of breaths being driven from their bodies. then andy saw the ball jarred from his opponent's arms, and, in a flash he had let go and had rolled over on it. an instant later there was an animated pile of players on both lads, smothering their winded "downs!" "that'll do! get up!" snapped the coach. "what's the matter with you, gaffington, to let a freshman get you that way and put you out of the game? porter!" he shouted and a lad came running from the bench, pulling off his sweater as he ran, and tossing it to a companion. he had been called on to take gaffington's place, and the latter, angry and shamed-faced, walked to the side lines. as he went he gave andy a look, as much as to say: "you win this time; but the battle isn't over. i'll get you yet." as for andy, his revenge had been greater than he had hoped. he had put his enemy out of the game more effectively than if he had knocked the breath from him by a tremendous tackle. "good tackle, blair!" called the scrub captain to him, as the line-up formed again. "that's the way to go for 'em!" the coach said nothing, but to the varsity captain he whispered: "keep your eye on blair. if he keeps on, he may make a player yet. he's a little too wild, though. don't say anything that will give him a swelled head." the practice went on unrelentingly, and then the candidates were ordered back to the gymnasium on the run, to be followed by a shower and a brisk rub. glowing with health and vigor, and yet lame and sore from the hard tackle, andy went to his room, to find dunk chamber impatiently waiting for him. "oh, there you are, you old mud lark!" was the greeting. "i've been waiting for you. come on around to burke's and have some ale and a rarebit." "no thanks. i'm in training, you know." "that's so. been out on the field?" "yes. i wonder you don't go in for that." "too much like work. i might try for the crew or the nine. i'm afraid of spoiling my manly beauty by getting somebody's boot heel in the eye. by the way, you don't look particularly handsome. what has somebody been doing to you?" "nothing more than usual. it's all in the game." "then excuse me! are you coming to burke's? you can take sarsaparilla, you know. thad and his bunch are coming." "sure, i don't mind trailing along. got to get at a little of that infernal greek, though." "all right, i'll wait. the fellows will be along soon." and as andy did a little of necessary studying he could not help wondering where dunk would end. a fine young fellow, with plenty of money, and few responsibilities. yale--indeed any college--offered numberless temptations for such as he. "well, i can't help it," thought andy. "he's got to look out for himself." and again there seemed to come to him that whisper: "am i my brother's keeper?" surely dunk was a college brother. andy had scarcely finished wrestling with his homer when there came a series of loud and jolly hails: "oh, you dunk!" "stick out your top, blair!" "here come the boys!" exclaimed dunk. "now for some fun!" the three friends trooped in. "some little practice to-day, eh, blair?" remarked bob hunter. "and some little tackle gaffington gave you, too!" added thad. "yes, but andy got back at him good and proper, and put him out of the game," remarked ted. "it was a beaut!" "did you and mortimer have a run-in?" asked dunk quickly. "oh, no more than is usual in practice," replied andy, lightly. "he shook me up and i came back at him." "if that's football, give me a good old-fashioned fight!" laughed dunk. "well, if we're going to have some fun, come on." as they were leaving the room they were confronted by two other students. andy recognized one as isaac stein, more popularly known as ikey, a sophomore, and hashmi yatta, a japanese student of more than usual brilliancy. "oh boys, such a business!" exclaimed ikey. he was a jew, and not ashamed of it, often making himself the butt of the many expressions used against his race. on this account he was more than tolerated--he had many friends out of his own faith. "such a business!" he went on, using his hands, without which he used to say he could not talk. "well, what is it now?" asked dunk with good-humored patience. "neckties or silk shirts?" for ikey was working his way through college partly by acting as agent for various tradesmen, getting a commission on his sales. dunk was one of his best customers. "such a business!" went on ikey, mocking himself. "it is ornaments, gentlemans! beautiful ornaments from the flowery kingdom. such vawses--such vawses! is it not, my friend hashmi yatta?" and he appealed to the japanese. "of a surely they are beautiful," murmured the little yellow lad. "there is some very good cloisonne, some kisku, and one or two pieces in awaji-yaki. also there is some satsuma, if you would like it." "and the prices!" interrupted ikey. "such bargains! come, you shall see. it is a crime to take them!" "what's it all about?" asked dunk. "have you fellows been looting a crockery store?" "no, it is hashmi here," said the jew. "i don't know whether his imperial ancestors willed them to him, or sent them over as a gift, but they are wonderful. a whole packing case full, and he'll sell them dirt cheap." "what do we want of 'em?" asked andy. "want of 'em, you beggar? why they'll be swell ornaments for your room!" that was an appeal no freshman could resist. "what do you say?" asked dunk, weakly. "shall we take a look, andy?" "i don't mind." "you will never regret it!" vowed ikey. "it is wonderful. such bargains! it is a shame. i wonder hashmi can do it." "they are too many for me to keep," murmured the jap. "and so he will sell some," interrupted ikey, eagerly. "and pay you a commission for working them off, i suppose," spoke thad. ikey looked hurt. "believe me," he said, earnestly, "believe me, what little i get out of it is a shame, already. it is nothing. but i could not see the bargains missed. come, we will have a look at them. you will never regret it!" "you ought to be in business--not college," laughed dunk, as he slipped into a mackinaw. "come on, andy, let's go and get stuck good and proper." "stuck! oh, such a business!" gasped ikey, with upraised hands. "they are bargains, i tell you!" chapter xiv dunk refuses "this way, fellows! don't let anybody see us come in!" thus cautioned ikey as he led his "prospective victims," as dunk referred to himself and the others, through various back streets and alley ways. "why the caution?" andy wanted to know, stumbling over an unseen obstruction, and nearly falling. "hush!" whispered the jew. "i want you, my friends, to have the pick of the bargains first. after that the others may come in. if some of the seniors knew of these vawses there wouldn't be one left." "oh, well we mustn't let that happen!" laughed dunk. "i know i'm going to get stuck, but lead on, horatio. i'm game." "stuck, is it?" cried ikey, and he seemed hurt at the suggestion. "wait until you have seen, eh, hashmi?" "of a surely, yes. they are beautiful!" "and so cheap; are they not, hashmi?" "of a surely, yes." "where are you taking us, anyhow?" demanded thad. "i thought we were going to burke's." "so we are, later," said dunk. "i want to see some of this junk, though. our room does need a bit of decoration, eh, andy?" "yes, it can stand a few more things." "but where are we going, anyhow?" bob demanded. "this looks like a chop-suey joint." "hush!" cautioned ikey again. "some of the fellows may be around. there is a chinese restaurant upstairs." "and what's downstairs?" asked andy. "why, hashmi had to hire a vacant room to put the packing box in when it came from japan," explained ikey. "it was too big to take up to his joint. besides, it's filled with straw, you know, so the vawses couldn't smash. he's just got it in this vacant store temporarily. you fellows have the first whack at it." "well, let's get the whacking over with," suggested andy. "i had all i wanted at yale field this afternoon." they came to a low, dingy building, at the side of which ran a black alley. "in here--mind your steps!" warned ikey. they stumbled on, and then came to a halt behind the college salesman. he shot out a gleam of radiance from a pocket electric flashlight and opened a door. "hurry up!" he whispered, and as the others slipped in he closed and locked the portal. "are the shades down, hashmi?" he asked. "of a surely, yes." "then show the fellows what your ancestors sent you." there was the removal of boards from a big packing case that stood in the middle of a bare room. there was the rustle of straw, and then, in the gleam of the little electric flash the boys saw a confused jumble of japanese vases and other articles in porcelain, packed in the box. "there, how's that?" demanded ikey, triumphantly, as he picked one up. "wouldn't that look swell on your mantel, dunk?" "it might do to hold my tobacco." "tobacco! you heathen! why, that jar is to hold the ashes of your ancestors!" "haven't any ancestors that had ashes as far as i know," said dunk, imperturbably. "i can smoke enough cigar ashes to fill it, though." "hopeless--hopeless," murmured ikey. "but look--such a bargain, only seven dollars!" "holy mackerel!" cried andy. "seven dollars for a tobacco jar!" "it isn't a tobacco jar, i tell you!" cried ikey. "it's like the old egyptian tear vawses, only different. seven dollars--why it's worth fifteen if it's worth a cent. ain't it, hashmi?" "of a surely, yes," said the jap, with an inscrutable smile. "but he'll let you have it for just a little more than the wholesale price in japan, mind you--in japan!" cried ikey. "seven dollars. think of it!" "what about your commission?" asked thad, with a grin. "a mere nothing--i must live, you know," and ikey shrugged his shoulders. "do you want it, dunk? why don't you fellows pick out something? you'll wait until they're gone and be kicking yourselves. they're dirt cheap--bargains every one. look at that vawse!" and he held up another to view in the pencil of light from the flash torch. "it would do for crackers, i suppose," said andy, doubtfully. "crackers!" gasped ikey. "tell him what it is for, hashmi. i haven't the heart," and he pretended to weep. "this jar--he is for the holding of the petals of roses that were sent by your loved ones--the perfumes of eros," murmured the poetical japanese. "oh, for the love of tripe! hold me, i'm going to faint, gertie!" cried bob. "rose petals from your loved ones! oh, slush!" "it is true," and hashmi did not seem to resent being laughed at. "but it would do for crackers as well." "how much?" asked andy. "only five dollars--worth ten," whispered ikey. "well, it would look nice on my stand," said andy weakly. "i--i'll take it." "and i guess you may as well wish me onto that dead ancestor jar," added dunk. "i'm always getting stuck anyhow. seven plunks is getting off easy." "you will never regret it," murmured ikey. "where is that paper, hashmi? now don't you fellows let anyone else in on this game until i give the word. i'm taking care of my friends first, then the rest of the bunch. friends first, say i." "yes, if you're going to stick anybody, stick your friends first," laughed dunk. "they're the easiest. go ahead, now you fellows bite," and he looked at bob, thad and ted. "what's this--a handkerchief box?" asked ted, picking up one covered with black and gold lacquer. "handkerchief box! shades of koami!" cried ikey. "that, you dunce, is a box made to----oh, you tell him, hashmi, i haven't the heart." "no, he wants to figure out how much he's made on us," added andy. "that box--he is for the retaining of the messages from the departed," explained the japanese. "you mean it's a spiritualist cabinet?" demanded thad. "i say now, will it do the rapping trick?" "you misapprehend me," murmured hashmi. "i mean that you conserve in that the letters your ancestors may have written you. but of a courseness you might put in it your nose beautifiers if you wish, and perfume them." "nose beautifiers--he means handkerchiefs," explained ikey. "it's a bargain--only three dollars." "i'll take it," spoke thad. "i know a girl i can give it to. no objection to putting a powder puff in it; is there, hashmi?" "of a surely, no." more of the wares from the big box were displayed and the two other lads took something. then dunk insisted on having another look, and bought several "vawses," as ikey insisted on calling them. "they'll look swell in the room, eh, andy? he asked. "they sure will. i only hope there's no more rough house or you'll be out several dollars." "if those rusty sophs smash any of this stuff i'll go to the dean about it!" threatened dunk, well knowing, however, that he would not. "such bargains! such bargains!" whispered ikey, as he let them out of the side door, first glancing up and down the dark alley to make sure that no other college lads were lying in wait to demand their share of the precious stuff. the coast was clear and andy and his chums slipped out, carrying their purchases. "are you coming?" dunk asked of ikey. "no, i'll stay and help hashmi pack up the things. if you want any more let me know." "huh! you mean you'll stay and count up how much you've stuck us!" said dunk. "oh, well, it looks like nice stuff. but i've got enough for the present. i've overdrawn my allowance as it is." "well, we'll leave this junk in your room, andy, and then go out and have some fun," suggested thad. they piled their purchases on the beds in andy's and dunk's room in wright hall and then proceeded on to burke's place, an eating and drinking resort for many students. there was a crowd there when andy and his chums entered and they were noisily greeted. "oh, you dunk!" "over here! lots of room!" "waiter, five more cold steins!" "none for me!" said andy with a smile. "that's all right--he's trying for the team," someone said, in a low tone. "oh!" through the haze of the smoke of many pipes andy saw some of the football crowd. they were all taking "soft stuff," which he himself ordered. then began an evening of jollity and clean fun. it was rather rough, and of the nature of horseplay, of course, and perhaps some of the lads did forget themselves a little, but it was far from being an orgy. "i'm going to pull out soon," spoke andy to dunk, when an hour or so had passed. "oh, don't be in a rush. i'll be with you in a little while." "all right, i'll wait." again to andy had come the idea that he might, after all, prove a sort of "brother's keeper" to his chum. the fun grew faster and more furious, but there was a certain line that was never overstepped, and for this andy was glad. the door opened to admit another throng, and andy saw mortimer and several of his companions of the fast set. how gaffington kept up the pace and still managed to retain his place on the football team was a mystery to many. he had wonderful recuperative powers, though, and was well liked by a certain element. "hello, dunk!" he greeted andy's roommate. "you're looking pretty fit." "same to you--though you look as though you'd been having one." "so i have--rather strenuous practice to-day. oh, there's the fellow who did me up!" and he looked at andy and, to our hero's surprise, laughed. "it's all right, old man--no hard feelings," went on mortimer. "will you shake?" "sure!" exclaimed andy, eagerly. he was only too anxious not to have any enmity. "put her there! shake!" exclaimed the other. "you shook me and i shook you. no hard feelings, eh?" "of course not!" "that's all right then. fellows, i'll give you one--andy blair--a good tackier!" and mortimer raised his glass on high. "andy blair! oh, you andy! your eye on us!" and thus was andy pledged by his enemy. what did it mean? faster grew the fun. the room was choking blue with tobacco smoke, and andy wanted to get away. "come on, dunk," he said. "let's pull out. we've got some stiff recitations to-morrow." "all right, i'm willing." mortimer saw them start to leave, and coming over put his arm affectionately around dunk. "oh, you're not going!" he expostulated. "why, it's early yet and the fun's just starting. don't be a quitter!" dunk flushed. he was not used to being called that. "yes, stay and finish out," urged others. andy felt that it was a crisis. yet he could say nothing. dunk seemed undecided for a moment, and mortimer renewed his pleadings. "be a sport!" he cried. "have a good time while you're living--you're a long time dead!" there was a moment's hush. then dunk gently removed mortimer's arm and said: "no, i'm going back with blair. come on, andy." and they went out together. chapter xv dunk goes out "look at that!" "why, it's the same stuff!" "there's a rose jar like the one i bought for seven dollars marked two seventy-five!" "oh, the robber! why, there's a handkerchief box, bigger than the one he stuck me with, and it's only a dollar!" "say, let's rough-house ikey and that jap!" andy, dunk, and their three friends were standing in front of a japanese store, looking in the window, that held many articles associated with the flowery kingdom. price tags were on them, and the lads discovered that they had paid dearly for the ornaments they had so surreptitiously viewed in the semi-darkness, under the guidance of ikey stein. this was several days after they had purchased their bric-a-brac and meanwhile they had seen ikey and hashmi going about getting other students into their toils. "say, that was a plant, all right!" declared dunk. "i'm going to make ikey shell out." "and the jap, too!" added andy. "we sure were stuck!" for the articles in the window were identical, in many cases, with those they had bought, but the prices were much less. "i thought there was something fishy about it," commented thad. "never again do i buy a pig in a poke!" "i'll poke ikey when i catch him," said bob. "here he comes now," spoke ted, in a low voice. "don't seem to see him until he gets close, and then we'll grab him and make him shell out!" so the five remained looking steadfastly in the window until the unsuspecting ikey came close. then andy and dunk made a quick leap and caught him. "what--what is it?" asked the surprised student. "we merely want your advice on the purchase of some more art objects," said andy, grimly. "you're such an expert, you know." "some other time--some other time! i'm due at a lecture now!" pleaded ikey, squirming to get away. "the lecture can wait," said dunk. "look at that vawse for the holding of the rose petals from your loved one. see it there--now would you advise me to buy it? it's much cheaper than the one you and your beloved hashmi stuck me with." ikey looked at the faces of his captors. he saw only stern, unrelenting glares, and realized that his game had been discovered. "i--er--i----" he stammered. "come, what's your advice?" demanded dunk. "did i pay too much?" "i--er--perhaps you did," admitted ikey, slowly. "then fork over the balance." "and what about my cracker jar--for the ashes of dead ancestors?" asked andy. "was i stuck, too?" "oh, no, not at all. why, that is a very rare piece." "what about that one in the window?" demanded andy. "that's only rare to the tune of several dollars less than i paid." "oh, but you are mistaken!" ikey assured him. "it takes an expert to tell the difference. you can ask hashmi----" "hashmi be hanged!" cried dunk, giving the captured one a shake. a little crowd had gathered in the street to see the fun. "i--i'll give you whatever you think is right," promised ikey. "only let me go. i shall be late." "the late mr. stein," laughed andy. "what about the rare satsuma piece you wished onto me?" demanded ted. "and that cloisonne flower vawse that has a crack in it?" thad wanted to know. "that's because it's so old," whined ikey. "it is more valuable." "there's one in the window without a crack for three dollars less," was the retort. "oh, well, if you fellows are dissatisfied with your bargains----" "oh, we're not going to back down," said andy, "but we're not going to pay more than they're worth, either. it was a plant, and you know it. now you shell out all we paid above what the things are marked at in this window, and we'll call it square--that is, if you don't go around blabbing how you took us in." "all right! all right!" cried ikey. "i'll do it, only let me go!" "no; pay first! run him over to our rooms," suggested dunk. they were not far from the quadrangle, and catching hold of ikey they ran him around into high street and through the gateway beside chittenden hall to wright. there, up in andy's and dunk's room, ikey was made to disgorge his cash. but they were merciful to him and only took the difference in price. "now you tell us how it happened, and we'll let you go," promised andy. "it was all hashmi's fault," declared ikey. "i believed him when he said his brother in japan had sent him a box of fine vawses. hashmi said he didn't need 'em all, and i said maybe we could sell 'em. so i did." "that was all right; but why did you stick up the price?" asked andy. "a fellow has to make money," returned ikey, innocently enough, and dunk laughed. "all right," said andy's roommate. "don't do it again, that's all. who is hashmi's brother?" "one of 'em keeps that jap store where you were looking in the window," said ikey, edging out of the room, "and the other is in japan. he sent the stuff over to be sold in the regular way, but that sly hashmi fooled me. never again!" "and you passed it on to us," said andy with a laugh. "well, it's all in the game." "still, we've got the stuff," said ted. they had, but had they known it all they would have learned that, even at the lowered price they were paying dearly enough for the ornaments, and at that hashmi and ikey divided a goodly sum between them. the college days passed on. andy and dunk were settling down to the grind of study, making it as easy as they could for themselves, as did the other students. andy kept on with his football practice, and made progress. he was named as second substitute on the freshman team and did actually play through the fourth quarter in an important game, after it had been taken safely into the yale camp. but he was proud even to do that, and made a field goal that merited him considerable applause. mortimer had dropped out of the varsity team. there was good reason, for he would not train, and, though he could play brilliantly at times, he could not be depended on. "i don't care!" he boasted to his sporting crowd. "i can have some fun, now." several times he and his crowd had come around to ask dunk to go out with them, but dunk had refused, much to mortimer's chagrin. "oh, come on, be a good fellow!" he had urged. "no, i've got to do some boning." "oh, forget it!" but dunk would not, for which andy was glad. then came a period when dunk went to pieces in his recitations. he was warned by his professors and tried to make up for it by hard study. he was not naturally brilliant and certain lessons came hard to him. he grew discouraged and talked of withdrawing. andy did all he could for him, even to the neglect of his own standing, but it seemed to do no good. "what's the use of it all, anyhow?" demanded dunk. "i'll spend four mortal years here, and come out with a noddle full of musty old latin and greek, go to work in dad's new york office and forget it all in six months. i might as well start forgetting it now." "you've got the wrong idea," said andy. "well, maybe i have. hanged if i see how you do it!" "i don't do so well." "but you don't get floored as i do! i'm going to chuck it!" and he threw his horace across the room, shattering the japanese vase he had bought. "look out!" cried andy. "too late! i don't give a hang!" someone came along the hall. "what are you fellows up to?" asked a gay voice. "trying to break up housekeeping?" "it's gaffington!" murmured andy. "come on in!" invited dunk. "you fellows come on out!" retorted the newcomer. "there's a peach of a show at poli's. let's take it in and have supper at burke's afterward." dunk got up. "hanged if i don't!" he said, with a defiant look at andy. "that's the stuff! be a sport!" challenged mortimer. "coming along, blair?" "no." mortimer laughed. "go down among the dead ones!" he cried. "come on, dunk, we'll make a night of it!" and they went out together, leaving andy alone in the silent room. chapter xvi in bad the clock was ticking. to andy it sounded as loud as a timepiece in a tower. the rhythmic cadence seemed to fill the room. somewhere off in the distance a bell boomed out--a church bell. andy sat in a brown study, looking into the fireplace. a little blaze was going on the hearth, and the young student, gazing at the embers saw many pictures there. for some time andy sat without stirring. he had listened to the retreating footsteps of dunk and mortimer as the boys passed down the corridor, laughing. through wright hall there echoed other footsteps--coming and going--there was the sound of voices in talk and in gay repartee. students called one to the other, or in groups hurried here and there, intent on pleasure. andy sat there alone--thinking--thinking. a log in the fireplace broke with a suddenness that startled him. a shower of sparks flew up the chimney, and a little puff of smoke shot out into the room. andy roused himself. "oh, hang it all!" he exclaimed aloud. "why should i care? let him go with that crowd--with mort and his bunch if he likes. what difference does it make to me?" he stood up, his arm on the mantel where had rested the japanese vase purchased so mysteriously. now only the fragments of it were there. a comparison between that shattered vase and what might be the shattered friendship between himself and his roommate came to andy, but he resolutely thrust it aside. "what difference does it make to me?" he asked himself. "let him go his own way, and i'll go mine." he crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. on the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. it was a cooler place than the room. andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again: "why should i care what he does?" then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing "adestes fideles." he stood listening--entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air. and there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked: "am i my brother's keeper?" andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. it was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. it was very still and quiet in the little room. all wright hall was very still and quiet now. "i--i guess i'll have to care--after all," whispered andy. footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment andy had a wild hope that it might be dunk returning. but as he listened he knew it was not his chum. someone knocked on the door. "come!" called andy sharply. it could be none of his friends, he knew. a messenger entered with a note, and, observing an unfamiliar handwriting, andy wondered from whom it could be. he ripped it open and uttered an exclamation. he read: "dear mr. blair: "i am doing a little engagement at poli's. won't you drop around and see me? i promise not to compel you to play the fireman. "sincerely yours, "mazie fuller." "jove!" murmured andy. "i forgot all about her." "any answer?" asked the messenger. "no." the boy started out. "oh, yes. wait a minute." andy scribbled an acceptance. "here," he said, and handed the boy a quarter. "t'anks!" exclaimed the urchin. then with a roguish glance he added: "gee, but you college guys is great!" "hop along!" commanded andy briefly. should he go, after all? he had said he would and yet---- "oh, hang it! i guess i'd better go!" he said aloud, just as though he had not intended to all along. he turned up the light and began throwing about a pile of neckties. he tried first one and then another. none seemed to satisfy him, and when he did get the hue that suited him it would not allow itself to be properly tied. "oh, rats!" andy exclaimed. "why should i care?" why indeed? it is one of the mysteries. "vanity of vanities" and the rest of it. as he entered poli's andy was aware that something unusual was going on. the ushers were grinning with good-natured tolerance, but there was rather an anxious look on the faces of some of the women in the audience. some of their male escorts appeared resentful. andy had been obliged to purchase a box seat, as there were no vacant ones in the body of the house. as he sank into his chair, rather back, for the box was well filled, he saw a college classmate. "what's up?" he asked, the curtain then being down to allow of a change of scene. "oh, gaffington and his crowd are joshing some of the acts." "any row?" "no, everybody takes it good-naturedly. bunch of our fellows here to-night." "show any good?" "pretty fair. some of the things are punk. there's a good number coming--mazie fuller--she's got a new act. and bodkins--you know the tramp juggler--the one who does things with cigar boxes--he's coming on next. he's a scream." "yes, i know him. he's all right." the curtain went up and from the wings came miss fuller. she had prospered in vaudeville, it seemed, for she had on a richer costume than the one she wore when she had been so nearly burned to death. she was well received, and while singing her first number she looked about the house. presently she caught the eyes of andy--he had leaned forward in the box, perhaps purposely. miss fuller smiled at him, and at once a chorus of cries arose from the students in the different parts of the theater. up to then, since andy's entrance, there had been no commotion. now it broke out again. "oh, get on to that!" "the lad with the dreamy eyes!" "oh, you andy blair!" andy sank back blushing, but miss fuller took it in good part. her act went on, and was well received. she did not again look at andy, possibly fearing to embarrass him. and then, as she retired after her last number--a veritable whirlwind song--there came a thunder of applause, mingled with shrill whistles, to compel an encore. andy was aware of a disturbance in the front of the house. it was where a number of the students were seated, and andy had a glimpse of dunk chamber. beside him was gaffington. dunk had arisen and was swaying unsteadily on his feet. "sit down!" "keep him quiet!" "put him out!" "call the manager!" "make him sit down!" andy began to feel uneasy. he could see the unhappy condition of his roommate and those with him. the worst he feared had come to pass. swaying, but still managing not to step on anyone, dunk made his way to the aisle, and then, getting close to the box where andy sat, climbed over the rail. the manager motioned to an usher not to interfere. probably he thought it was the best means of producing quiet. "here i am, andy," announced dunk gravely. "so i see," spoke andy, his face blazing at the notice he was receiving. "sit down and keep quiet. there's a good act coming." "hush!" exclaimed a number of voices as the curtain slid up, to give place to "bustling bodkins," the tramp juggler. the actor came out in his usual ragged make-up, and proceeded to do things with a pile of empty cigar boxes--really a clever trick. dunk watched him with curious gravity for a while and then started to climb over the footlights on to the stage. "no, you don't, dunk!" cried andy, firmly, and despite his chum's protests he hauled him back. then he took dunk firmly by the arm and marched him out of a side entrance of the show-house. chapter xvii andy's despair "pretty bad; was i, andy?" "yes." "whew! what a headache! any ice water left?" "i'll get some." "never mind. what's there'll do." it was morning--there always is a "morning after." perhaps it is a good thing, for it is nature's protest against violations of her code of health. dunk drank deep of the water andy handed him. "that's better," he said, with a sigh. "guess i won't get up just yet." "going to cut out chapel?" "i should say yes! my head is splitting now and to go there and hear that old organ booming out hymns would snap it off my neck. no chapel for me!" "you know what it means." "well, i can't be in much worse than i am. i'll straighten up after a bit. no lectures to-day." "you're going the pace," observed andy. it was not said with that false admiration which so often keeps a man on the wrong road from sheer bravado. andy was rather white, and his lips trembled. "it does seem so," admitted dunk, gloomily enough. "any more water there?" he asked, presently. "i'll get some," offered andy, and he soon returned with a pitcher in which ice tinkled. "that sounds good," murmured his roommate. "was i very bad last night?" "oh, so-so." "made a confounded idiot of myself, i suppose?" and he glanced sharply at andy over the top of the glass. "oh, well, we all do at times." "i haven't seen you do it yet." "you will if you room with me long enough, dunk." "yes, but not in the way i mean." "oh, well, i'm no moralist; but i hope you never will see me that way. understand, i'm not preaching, but----" "i know. you don't care for it." "that's it." "i wish i didn't. but you don't understand." "maybe not," said andy slowly. "i'm not judging you in the least." "i know, old man. how'd you get me home?" "oh, you were tractable enough. i got a taxi." "i'll settle with you later. i don't seem to have any cash left." "forget it. i can lend you some." "i may need it, andy. hang gaffington and his crowd anyhow! i'm not going out with them again." andy made no reply. he had been much pained and hurt by the episode in the theater. public attention had been attracted to him by dunk's conduct; but, more than this, andy remembered a startled and surprised look in the eyes of miss fuller, who came out on the stage when dunk interrupted the tramp act. "if only i could have had a chance to explain," thought andy. but there had been no time. he had helped to take dunk away. when this samaritan act was over the theater had closed, and andy did not think it wise to look up miss fuller at her hotel. "i'll see her again," he consoled himself. the chapel bell boomed out, and andy started for the door. "what a head!" grumbled dunk again. "i say, andy, what's good when a fellow makes an infernal idiot of himself?" "in your case a little bromo might help." "got any?" "no, but i can get you some." "oh, don't bother. when you come back, maybe----" "i'll get it," said andy, shortly. he was late for chapel when he had succeeded in administering a dose of the quieting medicine to dunk, and this did not add to the pleasures of the occasion. however, there was no help for it. somehow the miserable day following the miserable night ended, and andy was again back in the room with dunk. the latter was feeling quite "chipper" again. "oh, well, it's a pretty good old world after all," dunk said. "i think i can eat a little now. never again for me, andy! do you hear that?" "i sure do, old man." "and that goes. put her there!" they shook hands. it meant more to andy than he would admit. he had gone, that afternoon, to the theater, where miss fuller was on for a matinee, and, sending back his card, with some flowers, had been graciously received. he managed to make her understand, without saying too much. "i'm so glad it wasn't--you!" she said, with a warm pressure of her hand. "i'm glad too," laughed andy. "no sir--never again!" said dunk that evening, as he got out his books. "you hear me, andy--never again!" "that's the way to talk!" it was hard work at yale. no college is intended for children, and the new haven university in particular has a high aim for its students. andy "buckled down," and was doing well. his standing in class, while not among the highest, was satisfactory, and he was in line for a place on the freshman eleven. how he did practice! no slave worked harder or took more abuse from the coaches. andy was glad of one thing--that gaffington was out of it. there were others, though, who tackled andy hard in the scrimmages, but he rather liked it, for there was no vindictiveness back of it. as for mortimer, he and his crowd went on their sporting way, doing just enough college work not to fall under the displeasure of the dean or other officials. but it was a "close shave" at times. dunk seemed to stick to his resolution. he, too, was studying hard, and for several nights after the theater escapade did not go out evenings. andy was rejoicing, and then, just when his hopes were highest, they were suddenly dashed. there had been a period of hard work, and it was followed by a football disaster. yale met washington and jefferson, and while part of the bulldog's poor form might be ascribed to a muddy field, it was not all that. there was fumbling and ragged playing, and yale had not been able to score. nor was it any consolation that the other team had not either. several times their players had menaced yale's goal line, and only by supreme efforts was a touchdown avoided. as it stood it was practically a defeat for yale, and everybody, from the varsity members to the digs, were as blue as the cushions in the dormitory window seats. andy and dunk sat in their room, thankful that it was saturday night, with late chapel and no lessons on the morrow. "rotten, isn't it, andy?" said dunk. "oh, it might be worse. the season is only just opening. we'll beat harvard and princeton all right." "jove! if we don't!" dunk looked alarmed. "oh, we will!" asserted andy. dunk seemed nervous. he was pacing up and down the room. finally, stopping in front of andy he said: "come on out. let's go to a show--or something. let's go down to burke's place and see the fellows. i want to get rid of this blue feeling." "all right, i'll go," said andy, hesitating only a moment. they were just going out together when there came the sound of footsteps and laughter down the corridor. andy started as he recognized the voice of gaffington. "oh dunk! are you there?" was called, gleefully. "yes, i'm here," was the answer, and it sounded to andy as though his chum was glad to hear that voice. "come out and have some fun. bully show at the hyperion. no end of sport. come on!" mortimer, with clarence boyle and len scott, came around the corner of the corridor, arm in arm. "oh, you and blair off scouting?" asked gaffington, pausing before the two. "we were going out--yes," admitted dunk. "we'll make a party of it then. fall in, blair!" andy rather objected to the patronizing tone of mortimer, but he did not feel like resenting it then. should he go? dunk glanced at his chum somewhat in doubt. "will you come, andy?" he asked, hesitatingly. "yes--i guess so." "we'll make a night of it!" cried len. "not for mine," laughed andy. "i'm in training, you know." "well, we'll keep dunk then. come on." they set out together, andy with many misgivings in his heart. noisy and stirring was the welcome they received at burke's. it was the usual story. the night wore on, and dunk's good resolutions slipped away gradually. "come on, andy, be a sport!" he said, raising his glass. andy smiled and shook his head. then a bitter feeling came into his heart--a feeling mingled with despair. "hang it all!" he murmured to himself. "i'm going to quit. i'll let him go the pace as he wants to. i'm done with him!" chapter xviii andy's resolve "come on back!" "don't be a quitter!" "it's early yet!" "the fun hasn't started!" these cries greeted andy as he rose to leave burke's place. his eyes smarted from the smoke of many pipes, and his ears rang with the echoes of college songs. his heart ached too, as he saw dunk in the midst of the gay and festive throng surrounding gaffington and his wealthy chums. "i've got to turn in--training, you know," explained andy with a smile. it was the one and almost only excuse that would be accepted. two or three more of the athletic set dropped out with him. "goin', andy?" asked dunk, standing rather unsteadily at a table. "yes. coming?" asked andy pausing, and hoping, with all his heart, that dunk would come. "not on your life! there's too much fun here. have a good time when you're living, say i. you're an awful long time dead! here you are, waiter!" and dunk beckoned to the man. andy paused a moment--and only for a moment. then he hardened his heart and turned to go. "leave the door open," dunk called after him. "i'll be home in th' mornin'." and then the crowd burst out into the refrain: "he won't be home until morning, he won't be home until morning." over and over again rang the miserable chant that has bolstered up so many a man who, otherwise, would stop before it was too late. andy breathed deep of the cool night air as he got outside. the streets were quiet and deserted, save for those who had come out with him, and who went their various ways. as andy turned down a side street he could still hear, coming faintly to him through the quiet night the strains of: "we won't go home until morning." "poor old dunk!" mused andy. "i hate to quit him, but i've got to. i'm not going to be looking after him all the while. it's too much work. besides, he won't stay decent permanently." he was angry and hurt that all his roommate's good resolutions should thus easily be cast to the winds. "i'm just going to quit!" exclaimed andy fiercely. "i've done all i could. besides, it isn't my affair anyhow. i'll get another room--one by myself. oh, hang it all, anyhow!" moody, angry, rather dissatisfied with himself, wholly dissatisfied with dunk, andy stumbled on. as he turned out of chapel into high street he saw before him two men who were talking earnestly. andy could not help hearing what they said. "is the case hopeless?" one asked. "oh, no, i wouldn't say that." "yet he's promised time and again to reform, and every time he slips back again." "yes, i know. he isn't the only one at the mission who does that." andy guessed they were church workers. "don't you get tired?" asked the questioner. "oh, yes, often. but then i get rested." "but this chap seems such a bad case." "they're all bad, more or less. i don't mind that." "and you're going to try again?" "i sure am. he's worth saving." andy felt as though some one had dealt him a blow. "worth saving!" yes, that was it. he saw a light. the two men passed on. andy hesitated. "worth saving!" it seemed as though some one had shouted the words at him. "worth saving!" andy's heart was beating tumultuously. his head and pulses throbbed. his ears rang. he stood still on the sidewalk, near the gateway beside chittenden hall. his room was a little way beyond. it would be easy to go there and go to bed, and andy was very tired. he had played a hard game of football that day. it was so easy to go to his room, and leave dunk to look after himself. what was the use? and yet---- "he is worth saving!" andy struggled with himself. again he seemed to hear that voice whispering: "am i my brother's keeper?" andy turned resolutely away from the college buildings. he set his face again down high street, and swung out into chapel. "i'll go get him," he said, simply. "he's worth saving. maybe i can't do it--but--i'll try!" chapter xix link comes to college with hesitating steps andy pushed open the door of burke's place and entered. at first he could make out little through the haze of tobacco smoke, and his return was not noticed. most of the college boys were in the rear room, and the noise of their jollity floated out to andy. "i wonder if dunk is still there?" he murmured. he learned a moment later, for he heard some one call: "stand up, dunk! your eye on us!" "he's in there--and i've got to save him!" andy groaned. then, with clenched teeth and a firm step he went into the rear room, among that crowd of roistering students. andy's reappearance was the signal for a burst of good-natured jibing, mingled with cries of approval. "here he comes back!" "i knew he couldn't stay away!" "who said he was a quitter?" from among the many glasses offered andy selected a goblet of ginger ale. he looked about the tables, and saw dunk at one, regarding him with a rather uncertain eye. "there he is!" cried andy's roommate, waving his hand. "that's him. my old college chum! i'm his protector! i always look after him. i say," and he turned to the youth beside him, "i say, what is it i protect my old college from anyhow? hanged if i haven't forgotten. what is it i save him from?" "from himself, i guess," was the answer. "you're all right, dunk!" "come on, dunk," said andy good naturedly. "i'm going to the room. coming?" instantly there was a storm of protest. "of course he's not coming!" "it's early yet!" "don't you go, dunk!" mortimer gaffington, fixing an insolent and supercilious stare on andy, said: "don't mind him, dunk. you're not tied to him, remember. the little-brother-come-in-out-of-the-wet game doesn't go at yale. every man stands on his own feet. eh, dunk?" "that's right." "you're not going to leave your loving friends and go home so early; are you, dunk?" "course not. can't leave my friends. but andy's my friend, too; ain't you, andy?" "i hope so, dunk," andy replied, gravely. somebody interrupted with a song, and there was much laughter. mortimer alone seemed to be the sinister influence at work, and he hovered near dunk as if to counteract the good intentions of andy. "here you are, waiter!" cried dunk. "everybody have something--ginger ale, soda water, pop, anything they like. cigars, too." he pulled out a bill--a yellow-back--and andy saw mortimer take it from his shaking fingers. "don't be so foolish!" exclaimed the sophomore. "you don't want to spend all that. here, i'll hand out a fiver and keep this for you until morning. you can settle with me later," and gaffington slipped the big bill into his own pocket, and produced one of his own--of smaller denomination. "that's good," murmured dunk. "you're my friend and protector--same as i'm andy's protector. we're all protectors. come on, fellows, another song!" andy was beginning to wonder how he would get his chum home. it was getting very late and to enter wright hall at an unseemly hour meant trouble. "come on, dunk--let's light out," said andy again, making his way to his roommate's side. "no, you don't!" "that game won't go!" "let dunk alone, he can look out for himself." laughing and expostulating, the others got between andy and his friend. it was all in good-natured fun, for most of the boys, beyond perhaps smoking a little more than was good for them, were not at all reckless. but the spirit of the night seemed to have laid hold of all. "come on, dunk," appealed andy. "he's going to stay!" declared mortimer, thrusting himself between andy and dunk, and sticking out his chin in aggressive fashion. "i tell you he's going to stay! we don't want any of your goody-goody methods here, blair!" andy ignored the affront. "are you coming, dunk?" he repeated softly. dunk raised his head and flashed a look at his roommate. something in dunk's better nature must have awakened. and yet he was all good nature, so it is difficult to speak of the "better" side. the trouble was that he was too good-natured. yet at that instant he must have had an understanding of what andy's plan was--to save him from himself. "you want me to come with you?" he asked slowly. "yes, dunk." "then i'm coming." mortimer put his arm around dunk and whispered in his ear. "you don't want to go," he insisted. "yes, he does," said andy, firmly. for a moment he and the other youth faced each other. it was a struggle of wills for the mastery of a character, and andy won--at least the first "round." "i'm going with my friend," said dunk firmly, and despite further protests he went out with his arm over andy's shoulder. there were cries and appeals to remain, but dunk heeded them not. "i'm going to quit," he announced. "had enough fun for to-night." out in the clear, cool air andy breathed free again. "shall i get a cab?" he asked. "there must be one somewhere around." "certainly not," answered dunk. "i--i can walk, i guess." they reached wright hall, neither speaking much on the way. andy was glad--and sorry. sorry that dunk had allowed his resolution to be broken, but glad that he had been able to stop his friend in time. "thanks, old man," said dunk, briefly, as they reached their room. "you've done more than you know." "that's all right," replied andy, in a low voice. dunk went to chapel with andy the next morning, but he was rather silent during the day, and he flunked miserably in several recitations on the days following. truth to tell he was in no condition to put his mind seriously on lessons, but he tried hard. andy, coming in from football practice one afternoon, found dunk standing in the middle of the apartment staring curiously at a yellow-backed ten-dollar bill he was holding in both of his hands. "what's the matter?" asked andy. "a windfall?" "no, gaffington just sent it in to me. said it was one he took the other night when i flashed it at burke's." "oh, yes, i remember," spoke andy. "you were getting too generous." "i know that part of it--gaffington meant all right. but i don't understand this." "what?" asked andy. "why, this is a ten-spot, and i'm sure i had a twenty that night. however, i may be mistaken--i guess i couldn't see straight. but i was sure it was a twenty. don't say anything about it, though--probably i was wrong. it was decent of gaffington not to let me lose it all." and dunk thrust the ten dollar bill into his pocket. it was several days after this when andy, crossing the quadrangle, saw a familiar figure raking up the leaves on the campus. "what in the world is he doing here--if that's him?" he asked himself. "and yet it does look like him." he came closer. the young fellow raking up the leaves turned, and andy exclaimed: "link bardon! what in the world are you doing here?" "oh, i've come to college!" replied the young farm hand, smiling. "how do you do, mr. blair?" "come to college, eh?" laughed andy. "what course are you taking?" "i expect to get the degree b. w.--bachelor of work," was the rejoinder. "i'm sort of assistant janitor here now." "is that so! how did it happen?" "well, you know the last time i saw you i was on my way to see if i could locate an uncle of mine, just outside of new haven. i didn't, for he'd moved away. then i got some odd bits of work to do, and finally, coming to town with a young fellow, who, like myself was out of work, i heard of this place, applied for it and got it. i like it." "well, i'm glad you are here," said andy. "if i can help you in any way let me know." "i will, mr. blair. you did help a lot before," and he went on raking leaves, while andy, musing on the strange turns of luck and chance, hurried on to his lecture. chapter xx queer disappearances "come in!" cried andy as a knock sounded. "i'm not going out, i don't care who it is!" exclaimed dunk, fidgeting in his chair. "i've just _got_ to get this confounded greek." "same here," said andy. the door was pushed open and a shock of dark, curly hair was thrust in. "like to look at some swell neckties!" a voice asked. "oh, come in, you blooming old haberdasher!" cried andy with a laugh, and ikey stein, with a bundle under his arm, slid in. "fine business!" he exclaimed. "give me a chance to make a little money, gentlemen; i need it!" "no more of that japanese 'vawse' business!" warned dunk. "i won't stand for it." "no, these are genuine bargains," declared the student who was working his way through college. "i'll show you. i got 'em from a friend of mine, who's selling out. i can make a little something on them, and you'll get swell scarfs at less than you'd pay for them in a store." "let's see," suggested andy, rather glad of the diversion and of the chance to stop studying, for he had been "boning" hard. "but i don't want any satsuma pattern, nor yet a cloisonne," he added. "say, forget that," begged ikey. "that jap took me in, as well as he did you fellows." "well, if anybody can take _you_ in, ikey, he's a good one!" laughed dunk. "oh, don't mind me!" exclaimed the merchant-student. "you can't hurt my feelings. i'm used to it. and i'm not ashamed of my nature, either. my ancestors were all merchants, and they had to drive hard bargains to live. i don't exactly do that, you understand, but i guess it's in my blood. i'm not ashamed that i'm a jew!" "and we're not ashamed of you, either!" cried andy, heartily. "same here," added dunk. "trot out your ties, ikey." in spite of the fact that he sometimes insisted on the students buying things they did not really need, ikey was a general favorite in the college. "there's a fine one!" he exclaimed, holding up a hideous red and green scarf. "only a dollar--worth two." "wouldn't have it if you paid me for it!" cried andy. "show me something that a fellow could wear without hearing it yell a block away." "oh, you want something chaste and quiet," suggested ikey. "i have the very thing. there!" holding it up. "that is a mere whisper!" "it's a pretty loud whisper," commented dunk, "but at that it isn't so bad. i'll take it, if you don't want it, andy." "you're welcome to it. i want something in a golden brown." "here you are!" exclaimed ikey, sorting over his stock. he succeeded in selling andy and dunk two scarfs each, and tried to get them to take more, but they were firm. then the merchant-student departed to other rooms. "it's a queer way to get along," commented andy, when he had finished admiring his purchases. "yes, but i give him credit for it," went on dunk. "he meets with a lot of discouragement, and some of the fellows are positively rude to him, but he's always the same--good-natured and willing to put up with it. he's working hard for his education." "harder than you and i," commented andy. "i wonder if we'd do it?" "i'd hate to have it thrust on me. but i do give stein credit." "yes, only for that japanese vase business." "oh, well, i believe that oily jap did put one over on him." "possibly. oh, rats! here come some of the fellows!" the sound of footsteps was heard in the corridor. andy glanced at dunk. if it should prove to be mortimer gaffington, who, of late had tried in vain to get dunk to go out with him, what was to be done? andy caught his breath sharply. but it proved to be a needless alarm, for bob hunter, ted wilson and thad warburton came in with noisy greetings. "look at the digs!" "boning away on a night like this!" "'come into the garden, maud!' chuck that, you fellows, and let's go downtown. what's the matter with a picture show?" it was thad who asked this, but bob, with a wry face, put his hand in his pocket and drew out seven cents. "it doesn't look much like a picture show for me to-night," he said. "oh, i'll stake you!" exclaimed ted. "come on." "shall we?" asked dunk doubtfully of andy. "might as well, i guess," was the answer. andy was glad it had not been gaffington, and he realized that it might be better to take this chance now of getting dunk out, before the rich youth and his fast companions came along, as they might later in the evening. he knew that with bob, ted and thad, there would be no long session at burke's. "i haven't done my greek," objected dunk, hesitatingly. "oh, well, i'll set the alarm clock, and we'll get up an hour earlier in the morning and floor it," suggested andy. "burning the candle at both ends!" protested dunk, with a sigh. "ain't i terrible? but lead me to it!" as they went out of wright hall, andy looked across the campus and saw gaffington, and some of his boon companions, approaching. "just in time," he murmured. when gaffington saw dunk in charge of his friends he and the others turned aside. "that's when i got ahead of him!" exulted our hero. they spent a pleasant evening, and andy and dunk were back in their room at a reasonable hour. "i declare!" exclaimed dunk, "i feel pretty fresh yet. i think i'll have another go at that greek. we won't have to get up with the chickens then." "i'm with you," agreed andy, and they did more studying than they had done in some time. "well, i'm through," yawned dunk, flinging his book on the table. "now i'm going to hit the hay." the next day dunk was complimented on his recitation. "oh, i tell you it pays to bone a bit!" andy cried, clapping dunk on the back as they came out. "that's right," agreed the other. in the days that followed andy watched dunk closely. and, to our hero's delight, gaffington seemed to be losing his influence. several times dunk refused to go out with him--refused good-naturedly enough, but steadfastly. andy tried to get dunk interested in football, and did to a certain extent. dunk went out to the practice, and andy tried to get him to go into training. "no, it's too late," was the answer. "next year, maybe. but i like to see you fellows rub your noses in the dirt. go to it, andy!" link bardon seemed to find his employment at yale congenial. andy met him several times and had some little talk with him. the young farmer said he hoped to get permanent employment at the college, his present position being only for a limited time. andy had received letters from some of his former chums at milton. among them were missives from ben snow and chet anderson. chet wrote from harvard, where he had gone, that he would see andy at the yale-harvard game, while from ben, who had gone to princeton, came a similar message, making an appointment for a good old-fashioned talk at the annual clash of the bulldog and tiger. "i'll be glad to see them again," said andy. it was about two weeks after the arrival of link bardon at yale that some little disturbance was occasioned throughout the college, when an announcement was made at chapel one morning. it was from the dean, and stated that a number of articles had been reported as missing from the rooms of various students. "you are requested to keep your doors locked when you are out of your rooms," the announcement concluded. there was a buzz of excitement as the students filed out. "what does it mean?" "who lost anything?" "i have," said one. "my new sapphire cuff buttons were swiped." "i lost a ring," added another. "and a diamond scarf pin i left on my dresser walked off--or someone walked off with it," spoke a third. there were several other mysterious losses mentioned. "how did it happen?" asked andy of a fellow student who had said a few dollars had been taken from his dresser. "hanged if i know," was the answer. "i left the money in my room, and when i came back it was gone." "was the room locked?" "it sure was." "did any of the monitors or janitors see anyone go in?" "not that i know of; but of course it could happen. there are a lot of new men working around here, anyhow." andy thought of link, and hoped that the farmer lad would not be suspected on account of being a stranger. but as the days went on the number of mysterious thefts grew. every dormitory in the quadrangle had been visited, but the buildings outside the hollow square seemed immune. chapter xxi a gridiron battle harvard was about to meet yale in the annual football game between the freshman teams. the streets were filled with pretty girls, and more pretty girls, with "sporty" chaps in mackinaws, in raglans--with all sorts of hats atop of their heads, and some without hats at all. there had been the last secret final practice on yale field the day before. that night the harvard team and its followers had arrived, putting up at hotel taft. andy, in common with other candidates for the team, was sitting quietly in his room, for holwell, the coach, had forbidden any liveliness the night before the game. and andy had a chance to play. true, it was but a bare chance, but it was worth saving. he had played brilliantly on the scrub team for some time, and had been named as a possible substitute. if several backs ahead of him were knocked out, or slumped at the last moment, andy would go in. and, without in the least wishing misfortune to a fellow student, how andy did wish he could play! there came a knock at the door--a timid, hesitating sort of knock. "oh, hang it! if that's ikey, trying to sell me a blue sweater, i'll throw him down stairs!" growled andy. he was nervous. "come in!" called dunk, laughing. "is andy blair----oh, hello, there you are, old man!" cried a voice and chet anderson thrust his head into the room. "well, you old rosebud!" yelled andy, leaping out of the easy chair with such energy that the bit of furniture slid almost into the big fireplace. "where'd you blow in from?" "i came with the harvard bunch. i told you i'd see you here." "i know, but i didn't expect to see you until the game. you're not going to play?" "no--worse luck! wish i was. hear you may be picked." "there's a chance, that's all." "oh, well, we'll lick you anyhow!" "yes, you will, you old tomcat!" and the two clasped hands warmly, and looked deep into each other's eyes. "oh!" exclaimed andy. "i forgot. chet, this is my chum, duncan chamber--dunk for short. dunk--chet anderson. i went to milton with him." the two shook hands, and chet sat down, he and andy at once exchanging a fund of talk, with dunk now and then getting in a word. "did you come on with the team?" asked andy. "yes, and it's some little team, too, let me tell you!" "glad to hear it!" laughed andy. "yale doesn't like to punch a bag of mush!" "oh, you won't find any mush in harvard. say, have you heard from ben?" "yes, saw him at the princeton game." "how was he?" "fine and dandy." "that's good. then he likes it down there?" "yes. he's going in for baseball. hopes to pitch on the freshman team, but i don't know." "you didn't play against the tiger?" "no, there wasn't any need of me. yale had it all her own way." "she won't to-morrow." "wait and see." thus they talked until chet, knowing that andy must want to get rest, in preparation for the gridiron battle, took his leave, promising to see his friend again. the stands were a mass of color--blue like the sky on one side of yale field, and red like a sunset on the other. the cheering cohorts, under the leadership of the various cheer leaders, boomed out their voices of defiance. out trotted the yale team and substitutes, of whom andy was one. instantly the blue of the sky seemed to multiply itself as a roar shook the sloping seats--the seats that ran down to the edge of green field, marked off in lines of white. "come on now, lively!" yelled the coaches, hardly making their voices heard above the frantic cheers. the players lined up and went through some rapid passes and kicking. andy and the other substitutes took their places on the bench, enveloped in blankets and their blue sweaters. then a roar and a smudge of crimson, that flashed out from the other side of the field, told of the approach of the harvard team. "harvard! harvard! harvard!" it was an acclaim of welcome. andy watched yale's opponents go through their snappy practice. "they're big and beefy," he murmured, "but we can do 'em. we've got to! yale has got to win!" the captains consulted, the coin was flipped, and harvard was to kick off. the teams gathered in a knot at either end of the field for a last consultation. then the new ball was put in the center of the field. andy found difficulty in getting his breath, and he noticed that the other players beside him had the same trouble. the whistle shrilled out, and the harvard back, running, sent the yellow pigskin sailing well down the field. a wild yell greeted his performance. one of the yale players caught it and his interference formed before him. but he had not run it back ten yards before he was tackled. now would come the first line-up, and it would be seen how yale could buck the crimson. "signal!" andy could hear their quarterback yell, and then the rest was swallowed up in a hum of excitement in the songs and cheers with which the students sought to urge on the defenders of the blue. there was a vicious plunge into the line, but the gain was small. "they's holding us!" murmured blake, at andy's side. "oh, it's early yet," answered andy. he wondered why his hands pained him, and, looking at them found that he had been clenching them until the nails had made deep impressions in his palms. again came a plunging, smashing attack at harvard's line, and a groan from the yale substitutes followed. the yale back had been thrown for a loss. "we've got to kick now," murmured andy, and the signal came. then it was the yale ends showed their fleetness and they nailed the harvard man before he had gained much. an exchange of punts followed, both teams having good kickers that year. then came more line smashing, in which yale gained a little. it was a fiercely fought game, so fierce that before five minutes of play harvard had to take one man out, and yale lost two, from injuries that could not be patched up on the field. "i've got a chance! i've got a chance!" exulted andy. but it was not rejoicing at the other fellows' misfortunes. unless you have played football you can not understand andy's real feelings. the first quarter ended with neither side making a score, and there was a consultation on both teams during the little breathing spell. "we've got to do more line plunging," thought andy, and he was right, for yale began that sort of a game when the whistle blew again. the wisdom of it was apparent, for at once the ball began to go down toward harvard's goal, once yale got possession of the pigskin after an exchange of kicks. "that's the way! that's the way!" yelled andy. "touchdown! touchdown!" this was being yelled all over the yale stands. but it was not to be. after some magnificent playing, and bucking that tore the harvard line apart again and again, time for the half was called, yale having the ball on harvard's eight-yard line. another play might have taken it over. but both teams had been forced to call on more substitutes, and harvard lost her best punter. yale suffered, too, in the withdrawal of michaels, a star end. the third quarter had not been long under way when, following a scrimmage, a knot of yale players gathered about a prostrate figure. "who is it? who is it?" was asked on all sides. "brooks--right half!" was the despondent answer. "this cooks our goose!" "blair--blair!" cried the coach. "get in there! rip 'em up!" a mist swam before andy's eyes. some one fairly pulled him from the bench, and his sweater was ripped off him, one sleeve tearing out. but what did it matter--he had a chance to play! "we've got to buck their line!" the freshman captain whispered in his ear. "they're weak there, and we dare not kick too much. our ends can't get down fast enough. i'm going to send you through for all you're worth." "all right!" gasped andy. his mouth was dry--his throat parched. "steady there! steady!" warned the coach. "ready, yale?" asked the referee. "yes!" again the whistle blew. yale had the ball, and on the first play andy was sent bucking the line with it. he hit it hard, and felt himself being pushed and pulled through. some one seemed in his way, and then a body gave suddenly and limply, and he lurched forward. "first down!" he heard some one yell. he had gained the required distance. yale would not have to kick. panting, trembling, with a wild, eager rage to again get into the fight, andy waited for the signal. a forward pass was to be tried. he was glad he was not to buck the line again. the pass was not completed, and the ball was brought back. again came a play--a double pass that netted a little. yale was slowly gaining. but now harvard took a brace and held for downs so that yale had to kick. then the crimson took her turn at rushing the ball down the field by a series of desperate plunges. yale's goal was in danger when the saving whistle for the third quarter shrilled out. "fellows, we've got to get 'em now or never!" cried the yale captain, fiercely. "break your necks--but get a touchdown!" once more the line-up. andy's ears were ringing. he could scarcely hear the signals for the cheering from the stands. he was called upon to smash through the line, and did manage to make a small gain. but it was not enough. it was the second down. the other back was called on, and went through after good interference, making the necessary gain. "we've got 'em on the run!" exulted yale. the blue team was within striking distance of the harvard goal. the signal came for a kick in an attempt to send the ball over the crossbar. how it happened no one could say. it was one of the fumbles that so often occur in a football game--fumbles that spell victory for one team and defeat for another. the yale full-back reached out his hands for the pigskin, caught it and--dropped it. there was a rush of men toward him, and some one's foot kicked the ball. it rolled toward andy. in a flash he had it tucked under his arm, and started in a wild dash for the harvard goal line. "get him! get that man!" "smear him!" "interference! interference! get after him!" "it's blair! andy blair!" "yale's ball!" "go on, you beggar! run! run!" "touchdown! touchdown!" there was a wild riot of yells. with his ears ringing as with the jangle of a thousand bells, with his lungs nearly bursting, and his eyes scarcely seeing, andy ran on. he had ten yards to go--thirty feet--and between him and the goal was the harvard full-back--a big youth. andy heard stamping feet behind him. they were those of friends and foes, but no friends could help him now. straight at the harvard back he ran--panting, desperate. the crimson player crouched, waiting for him. andy dodged. he was midway between the side lines. he circled. the harvard back turned and raced after him, intent on driving him out of bounds. that was what andy did not want, but he did want to wind his opponent. again andy circled and dodged. the other followed his every move. then andy came straight at him again, with outstretched hand to ward him off. there was a clash of bodies, and andy felt himself encircled in a fatal embrace. he hurled himself forward, for he could see the goal line beneath his feet. over he went, bearing the harvard player backward, and, when they fell with a crash, andy reached out, his arms over his head, and planted the ball beyond the goal line. he had made the winning touchdown! chapter xxii andy says "no!" men were thumping each other on the back. some had smashed their hats over other persons' heads. others had broken their canes from much exuberant pounding on the floors of the stands. everyone was yelling. on one side there was a forest of blue flags waving up and down, sideways, around in circles. pretty girls were clinging to their escorts and laughing hysterically. the escorts themselves scarcely noticed the said pretty girls, for they were gazing down on the field--the field about which were scattered eleven players in blue, and eleven in dull red, all motionless now, amazed or joyful, according to their color, over the feat of andy blair. on the harvard stands there was glumness. the red banners slumped in nerveless hands. it had come as a shock. they had been so sure that yale could not score--what matter if the crimson could not herself--if she could keep the mighty bulldog from biting a hole in her goal line? but it was not to be. yale had won. there was no time to play more. yale had won--somewhat by a fluke, it is true, but she had won nevertheless. flukes count in football--fumbles sometimes make the game--for the other fellow. "oh, you andy blair!" "it's a touchdown!" "yale wins!" "yale! yale! yale!" some one started the "boola" song, and it was roared out mightily. then came the locomotive cheer. slowly andy got up from behind the harvard goal line. the other player who had tackled him, but too late, himself arose. his face was white and drawn, not from any physical pain, though the fall of himself and andy had not been gentle. it was from the sting of defeat. "well--well," he faltered, gulping hard. "you got by me, old man!" "i--i had to," gasped andy, for neither had his breath yet. the other players came crowding up. "it'll be the dickens of a job to kick a goal from there with that wind," spoke the yale captain. "but we'll try it." the whistle ending the game had blown, but time was allowed for a try at kicking the ball over the crossbar. a hush fell over the assemblage while the ball was taken out and the player stretched out to hold it for the kicker. the referee stood with upraised hand, to indicate when the ball started to rise--the signal that the harvard players might rush from behind their goal in an attempt, seldom successful, to block the kick. the hand fell. there was a dull boom. the ball rose and sailed toward the posts as the harvard team rushed out. and then fate again favored yale, for a little puff of wind carried the spheroid just inside the posts and over the bar. the goal had been kicked, adding to yale's points. she had won. once more the cheers broke forth, and andy's team-mates surrounded him. they slapped him on the back; they called him all sorts of harsh-sounding but endearing names; they jostled him to and fro. "come on, now!" cried the yale captain. "a cheer for harvard! no better players in the world! altogether, boys!" it was a ringing tribute. and then the vanquished, tasting the bitterness of defeat, sent forth their acclaim of the lads who had bested them. andy found himself in the midst of a mad throng, of which his own mates formed but a small part, for the field was now overflowing with the spectators who had rushed down from the stands. some one pushed a way through and grabbed andy by the hand. "you did it, old man! you did it!" a frantic voice exclaimed. "i give you credit for it, andy!" andy found himself confronting chet. "i told you we'd win," answered andy, with a laugh. "yes, but you never said you were going to do it yourself," spoke chet, ruefully. "come on, fellows, up with him!" called the quarterback, and before andy could stop them they had lifted him to their shoulders, while behind the students had formed themselves into a queue to do the serpentine dance. cheer after cheer was given, and then the team passed into the dressing rooms, and into comparative quiet. comparative quiet only, for the players were babbling among themselves, living the game over again. "and to think that a substitute did it, after we've thought ourselves the whole show all season," groaned one of the regulars. "oh, well, it was just an accident," said andy, modestly. "a mighty lucky accident for yale, my friend!" exclaimed holwell. "may there be more of such accidents!" back in the gymnasium, later, after a refreshing shower, andy managed to get away from the admiring crowd, and finding chet took him to his room. dunk was there before them. "this is a great and noble occasion!" he cried, as andy came in. "i'm proud of you, my boy! proud! put her there!" andy sent his hand into that of his roommate with a resounding whack. "we've got to celebrate!" cried dunk. "the freshman football season is over. you break training. you've got to celebrate!" "i don't mind--in a mild sort of way," laughed andy. "oh, strictly proper--strictly proper!" agreed dunk. "i think i'd better be getting back," remarked chet. "no, stay and see the fun," insisted dunk, and chet agreed to do so. there came a rush of feet along the corridor, and some one whistled "see the conquering hero comes!" "there are some of the fellows now!" cried dunk. "oh! this is great. we must make this a noteworthy occasion. we must celebrate properly!" he was getting quite excited, and andy began to worry somewhat, for he did not want his roommate to celebrate in the wrong way, and there was some danger lest he might. "where is he?" "lead me to him!" "oh, you andy blair!" bob, ted and thad came bursting into the room, which would not hold many more. "shake!" was the general command, and andy's arm ached from the pump-handle process. "what are you going to do?" asked ted. "we're going to eat!" cried dunk. "this is on me--a little supper by ourselves at burke's." "count us in on that!" cried some one out in the corridor, and mortimer gaffington and some of his cronies shoved their way into the room. "we want to have a share in the blow-out! congratulations, old man!" and he pumped andy's arm. "oh, what a night we'll have!" cried clarence boyle. "the wildest and stormiest ever!" added len scott. "yale's night!" "got to go easy, though!" cautioned dunk. "oh, fudge on you and being easy!" laughed mortimer. "this thing has to be done good and proper. come on, let's go out. we'll smear this old town with a mixture of red and blue." "that makes purple," laughed dunk. "no matter!" cried mortimer. "come on." andy could not very well refuse and a little later he found himself with some of the other football players, at a table in burke's place. the air was blue with smoke--veritable yale air. there was laughter, talk, and the clatter of glasses on every side. the evening wore on, with the singing of songs, the telling of stories and the playing of the game all over again. it was such a night as occurs but seldom. andy noticed that dunk was slipping back into his old habits. and, as the celebration went on this became more and more noticeable. finally, after a rollicking song, dunk arose from his place near andy and cried: "fellows--your eyes on me. i'm going to propose a toast to the best one among us." "name your man!" dunk was thus challenged. "i'll name him in a minute," he went on, raising his glass on high. "he's the best friend i've got. i give you--andy blair!" "andy blair!" was roared out. "stand up, andy!" he arose, a glass of ginger ale in his hand. "we're goin' drink your health!" said dunk. "thank you!" said andy. "then fill up your glass!" "it is filled, dunk. can't you see?" "that's no stuff to drink a health in. here, waiter, some real ale for mr. blair." "no--no," said andy quickly. "i don't drink anything stronger than soft stuff--you know it, dunk." for a moment there was a silence in the room. andy felt himself growing pale. "you--you won't drink with me?" asked dunk slowly. "i'd like to--but i can't--i don't touch it." "he's a quitter!" cried mortimer, angrily, from the other side of the table. "a rank quitter! he won't drink his own toast!" "won't you drink with me, andy?" asked dunk, in sorrowful tones. "in soft stuff--yes." "no, in the real stuff!" "i can't!" "then, by cæsar, you are a quitter, and here's where you and i part company!" dunk crashed his glass down on the table in front of andy, and staggered away from his side. chapter xxiii reconciliation seldom had anything like that occurred before, and, for the moment every student in the room remained motionless, breathing hard and wondering what would come next. andy, who had been pale, now was flushed. it was an insult; but how could he resent it? there seemed no way. if dunk wanted to break off their friendship that was his affair, but he might have done it more quietly. probably all in the room, save perhaps mortimer gaffington, realized this. as for that youth, he smiled insultingly at andy and murmured to dunk, who was now passing to another table: "that's the way to act. be a sport!" it was clear that if andy dropped dunk, mortimer stood ready to take him up. "don't mind him, old chap. dunk isn't just himself to-night," murmured thad in andy's ear. "he'll see differently in the morning." "he'll have to see a good bit differently to see me," spoke andy stiffly. "i can't pass that up." "try," urged thad. "you don't know what it may mean to dunk." andy did not reply. some one started a song and under cover of it andy slipped out, chet following. "too bad, old man," consoled andy's harvard friend. "is he often as bad as that?" "not of late. it's getting in with that gaffington crowd that starts him off. i guess he and i are done now." "i suppose so. but it's too bad." "yes." andy walked on in silence for a time, and then said: "come on up to the room and have a chat. i won't see you for some time now. not till christmas vacation." "that's right. but i've got to get back to cambridge. i'll go down and get a train, i guess. come on to the station with me. the walk will do you good." the two chums strolled through the lighted streets, which were much more lively than usual on account of the celebration of the football victory. but andy and chet paid little heed to the bustle and confusion about them. when andy got back to his room, after bidding chet good-bye, dunk had not come in. andy lay awake some time waiting for him, wondering what he would say when he did come in. but finally he dozed off, and awaking in the morning, from fitful slumbers, he saw the other bed empty. dunk had not come home. "well, if he's going to quit me i guess it can't be helped," remarked andy. "and i guess i'd better give up this room, and let him get some one else in. it wouldn't be pleasant for me to stay here if he pulled out. i'd remember too much. yes, i'll look for another room." he went to chapel, feeling very little in the mood for it, but somehow the peaceful calm of the sunday service eased his troubled mind. he looked about for dunk, but did not see him. perhaps it was just as well. after chapel andy went back to his room, and debated with himself what was best to be done. he was in the midst of this self-communion when there was a knock on the door, and to andy's call of "shove in!" there followed the shock of curly hair that belonged to nobody but ikey stein. "oh, dear!" groaned andy in spirit. "that bargainer, at this, of all times." "hello, andy," greeted ikey. "are you busy?" "too busy to buy neckties." "forget it! do you think i'd come to you now on such a business!" there was a new side to the character of ikey--a side andy had never before seen. there was a quiet air of authority about him, a gentle air that contrasted strangely with his usual carefree and easy manners that he assumed when he wanted to sell his goods. "sit down," invited andy, shoving a pile of books and papers off a chair. "thanks. nice day, isn't it?" "yes," answered andy slowly, wondering what was the object of the call. "nice day for a walk." "yes." "ever go for a walk?" "sure. lots of times." "going to-day?" "i don't know. are you?" "oh, i didn't mean with me. i've got a date, anyhow. say, look here, blair, if you don't mind me getting personal. if you were to take a walk out toward east rock park you might meet a friend of yours." "a friend?" "yes." "you mean----" "now look here!" exclaimed ikey, and his manner was serious. "you may order me out of your room, and all that, but i'm going to speak what's in my mind. i want you to make up with dunk!" "make up with him--after what he did to me!" "that's all right--i know. but i'm sure he'll meet you more than half-way." "well, he'll have to." "now, don't take that view of it," urged the kindly jew. "say, let me tell you something, will you?" "fire away," and andy walked over and stood looking out of the window across the campus. "it's only a little story," went on ikey, "and not much of a one at that. when i was in prep school i had a friend--a very dear friend. "he was what you call a sport, too, in a way, and how he ever took up with me i never could understand. i hadn't any money--i had to work like the dickens to get along. all my people are dead, and i was then, as i am now, practically alone in the world. but this fellow, who came of a good family, took me up, and we formed a real friendship. "i think i did him good in a way, and i know he did me, for i used to have bitter feelings against the rich and he did a lot to show me that i was wrong. this friend went in a fast set and one day i spoke to him about it. i said he was throwing away his talents. "well, he was touchy--he'd been out late the night before--and he resented what i said. we had a quarrel--our first one--and he went out saying he never wanted to see me again. i had a chance to make up with him later, but i was too proud. so was he, i guess. anyhow, when i put my pride in my pocket and went after him, a little later, it was too late." "too late--how?" asked andy, for ikey had come to a stop and there was a break in his voice. "he went out in an auto with his fast crowd; there was an upset, and my friend was killed." andy turned sharply. there were tears in the other's eyes, and his face was twitching. "i--i always felt," said ikey, softly, "that perhaps if i hadn't been so proud and hard that--maybe--maybe he'd be alive to-day." there was silence in the room, broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock. "thanks," said andy, softly, after a pause. "i--i guess i understand what you mean, stein." he held out his hand, which was warmly clasped. "then you will go for a walk--maybe?" asked ikey, eagerly. "i--i think i will," spoke andy, softly. "i don't understand it; but i'll go." "you--you'll find him there," went on ikey. "i sent him out to--meet you!" and before andy could say anything more the peacemaker had left the apartment. for several minutes andy stood still. he looked about the room--a room suggestive in many ways of the presence and character of dunk. there was even on the mantel a fragment of the japanese vase he had broken that time. "i'll go to him," spoke andy, softly. he went out on the campus, not heeding many calls from friends to join them. when they noted his manner they, wisely, did not press the matter. perhaps they guessed. andy walked out whitney avenue to east rock road and turned into the park. "i wonder where i'll find him?" he mused, as he gazed around. "queer that ikey should put up a game like this." walking on a little way, andy saw a solitary figure under a tree. he knew who it was. the other saw him coming, but did not stir. presently they were within speaking distance. andy paused a moment and then, holding out his hand, said softly: "dunk!" the figure looked up, and a little smile crept over the moody face. "andy!" cried dunk, stepping forward. the next moment their hands had met in a clasp such as they never had felt before. they looked into each other's eyes, and there was much meaning in the glance. "andy--andy--can you--forgive me?" "of course, dunk; i understand." "all right, old man. that is the last time. never again! never again!" and dunk meant it. chapter xxiv link's visit busy days followed. after the football game, the quarrel of dunk and andy, and their reconciliation, brought about so effectively by ikey stein, little of moment happened except the varsity football games, which andy followed with devoted interest, hoping that by the next term he would be chosen for a place on the team. the students settled down to hard work, with the closing of the outdoor sporting season, and there were days of hard study. yale is no place for weak students, and andy soon found that he must "toe the mark" in more senses than one. he had to give his days and some of his nights to "grinding." for some time andy did not understand how ikey had brought about the meeting of dunk and himself--at least, he did not know how the peacemaker had induced dunk to go to the park. but one day the latter explained. following the dramatic scene in burke's, dunk had gone out. not wishing to face andy he had stayed at a hotel all night. in the morning, while he was remorseful and nearly ill, ikey, the faithful, had sought him out, having in some way heard of the quarrel. ikey was not given to frequenting burke's, but he had his own way of ferreting out news. to dunk he had gone, then, and had told much the same story he had related to andy, giving it a different twist. and he had so worked on dunk's feelings, picturing how terribly andy must feel, that finally dunk had consented to go to the park. "well, i'm glad i did, old man!" said dunk, clapping andy on the back. "and so am i. i'm only wondering whether ikey faked that 'sob story' or not." "what of it? it certainly did the business, all right." "it sure did." dunk and andy were better friends than ever, and, to the relief of andy, mortimer and his crowd ceased coming to the room in wright hall, and taking dunk off with them. occasionally andy's chum would go off with a rather "sporty" crowd, and sometimes andy went also. but dunk held himself well in hand, for which andy was very glad. "it's all your doing, old man!" said dunk, gratefully. "nonsense!" exclaimed andy, but his heart glowed nevertheless. the quiet and rather calm atmosphere of college life was rudely broken when one night, following a mild celebration over the victory of the basketball team, several robberies were discovered. a number of rooms in the college buildings had been entered, and various articles of jewelry and some money had been taken. freshmen were mainly the ones who sustained the losses, though no class was exempt. "this is getting serious!" exclaimed dunk, as he and andy talked the matter over. "we'd better get a new lock put on our door." "i'm willing, though i haven't got much that would tempt anyone." "i haven't either, only this," and he pulled out a handsome gold watch. "i'm so blamed careless about it that most of the time i forget to carry it." "well, let's put on a lock, then. the one we have doesn't catch half the time." "no, it's been busted too many times by the raiding sophs. i'll buy another first time i'm down town." but the matter slipped dunk's mind, and andy did not again think of it. the thefts created no little excitement, and it was said that a private detective agency had been engaged by the faculty. of the truth of this no one could vouch. another warning was given by the dean, and students were urged to see to the fastening of their doors, not only for their own protection, but in order not to put temptation in the way of servants. andy came in from a late lecture one afternoon, to find open the door of his room he had left locked, as he thought. at first he supposed dunk was within, but entering the apartment he saw link bardon there. the helper arose as andy came in and said, rather embarrassedly: "mr. blair, i'm in trouble." "trouble!" exclaimed andy. "what kind?" "well, i need money. you see i've got a sick sister and the other day she wrote to me, saying she'd have to have some money to buy an expensive medicine. i sent it to her. she said her husband would get his pay this week, and she'd send it back to me. now she writes that he is sick, and can't earn anything, so she can't pay me back. "i was counting on that money, for my wages aren't due for several days, and i have to pay my board. i don't like to ask my landlady to wait, and i thought maybe----" "of course i'll let you have some!" exclaimed andy quickly. "how much do you need?" "oh, about seven dollars." "better have ten. you can pay me back when you like," said andy as he extended the bill. "i don't know how to thank you!" exclaimed link, gratefully. "then don't try," advised andy, with a smile. chapter xxv the missing watch andy was "boning" on his german, with which he had had considerable difficulty. the dusk was settling down that early december day, and he was thinking of lighting a lamp to continue work on his books, when he heard a familiar step, and a whistle down the corridor. then a voice broke into a college refrain. "dunk!" murmured andy. "it sounds good to hear him, and to know that there's not much more danger of our getting on the outs. he sure was worth saving--that is, what little i did toward it. he did the most himself, i fancy." "hello, old top, hard at it?" greeted dunk, as he entered. "have to be," replied andy. "you've no idea how tough this german is." "oh, haven't i? didn't i flunk in it the other day? and on something i ought to have known as well as i do my first reader lesson? it's no cinch--this being at yale. wonder if i've got time to slip down town before we feed our faces?" and he began fumbling for his watch. "what's on?" asked andy, rather idly. then, as he saw dunk giving his shoes a hasty rub, and delving among a confused mass of ties in a drawer, andy added: "the witness need not answer. it's a skirt." "a which?" asked dunk in pretended ignorance. "a lady. i didn't know you knew any here, dunk!" "huh! think you've got the preserves all to yourself, eh? well, i'll show you that you haven't." "who is she?" asked andy. "friend of a friend of mine. i think i'll take a chance and go down just for a little while. save some grub for me. i won't be long. may make a date for to-night. want to fill in?" "if there's room." "sure, we'll make room, and i'll get you a girl. some of us are going to the hyperion. nice little play there," and dunk went on "dolling up," until he was at least partly satisfied with himself. dunk was about to leave when a messenger came to announce that he was wanted on the 'phone in the public booth in dwight hall, where the y. m. c. a. of yale has headquarters. "i guess that's her now," said dunk, as he hurried out. "i told her to call up," and he rushed down the corridor. andy heard him call back: "i say, old man, look out for my watch, will you? i must have left it somewhere around there." "the old fusser," murmured andy, as he rose from the easy chair. "when dunk goes in for anything he forgets everything else. he'd leave his head if it wasn't fastened on, or if i didn't remind him of it," and andy felt quite a righteous glow as he began to look about for the valuable timepiece belonging to his roommate. "he must have it on him," went on andy, as a hasty search about the room did not reveal it. "probably he's stuck it in his trousers' pocket with his keys and loose change. he oughtn't to have a good watch the way he uses it. well, it isn't here--that's sure." andy, a little later, turned on the electric light, but no glow followed the snapping of the button. "current off again--or else it's burned out," he murmured. a look in the hall outside showed him other lamps gleaming and he knew that his own light must be at fault. "guess i'll go get another bulb," he remarked. when he returned with the new one he was aware that some one was in the darkened room. "that you, dunk?" he asked. "no," answered a voice he recognized as that of ikey stein. "i saw you going down the hall and guessed what you were after, so i took the liberty of coming in and waiting. i've got some real bargains." "nothing doing, ikey," laughed andy, as he screwed the lamp in the socket and lighted up the room. "got all the ties i need for my whole course in yale." "it isn't ties," said ikey, and his voice was so serious that andy wondered at it. "it's handkerchiefs," went on the student-salesman. "andy, i'm in bad. i bought a big stock of these things, and i've got to sell 'em to get my money out of 'em. i thought i would have plenty of time, but i owe a bill that's due now, and the man wants his money. so i've got to sell these handkerchiefs quicker than i expected. i need the cash, so i'll let 'em go for just what i paid for 'em. i don't care if i don't make a cent." "let's see 'em," suggested andy. the talk sounded familiar. it was "bargain" patter, but an inspection of the handkerchiefs showed andy that they were worth what was asked for them. and, as it happened, he was in need of some. he bought two dozen, and suggested to ikey several other students in wright hall on whom he might call. "thanks," said the salesman, as he departed after a lengthy visit in andy's room. "i won't forget what you've done for me, blair. i'm having a hard time, and some people try to make it all the harder. they think, because i'm a jew, that i have no feelings--that i like to be laughed at, and made to think that all i care about is money. wait! some day i'll show 'em!" and his black eyes flashed. andy felt really sorry for him. certainly ikey did not work his way through college on any easy path. "i'm only too glad to do this for you," said the purchaser. he could not forget what a service ikey had rendered to him and dunk, bringing them together when they were on the verge of taking paths that might never converge. "well, i'll see if i can't find some other easy mark like you," laughed ikey as he went down the hall. andy was about to go to the "eating joint" alone when dunk came in whistling gaily. "ah, ha! methinks thou hast had a pleasant meeting!" andy "spouted." "right--oh!" exclaimed his roommate. "it's all right for to-night, too. i've got a peach for you." "light or dark?" asked andy, critically. "dark! say, but you're getting mighty particular, though, for a young fellow." "the same to you. where do we meet 'em, and where do we go?" "i've got it all fixed. hyperion. come on, let's get through grub, i want to dress." he began searching hurriedly through his pockets, a puzzled look coming over his face. "where in the world----" he began. "oh, i know, i left it here." "what?" "my watch. i called to you about it when i went out to the telephone, and----" "it isn't here. i looked." "what!" "fact! unless you stuck it in something." "no, i left it right on my dresser, on a pile of clean handkerchiefs--hello, where'd these come from?" and he looked at the ones andy had bought of ikey. "oh, another bargain from our mutual friend," and andy mentioned the price. "that is a bargain, all right. i must get some. but look here, where's my watch?" "i'm sure i don't know. did you leave it here?" "i certainly did. i remember now, i put it on the pile of handkerchiefs just before i went to last lecture. then i came in here, to go out to keep my date, and i didn't have it. i was going to slip it in my pocket when i was called to the 'phone. look here, here's the impression of it in the handkerchiefs," and dunk pointed to a round depression in the pile of soft linen squares. it was just the shape of a watch. "it was there," said dunk slowly, looking at andy. "and now it's gone," finished his roommate. then he remembered several things, and his start of surprise made dunk look at his chum in a strange way. "what's the matter?" asked dunk. "i'll tell you in a minute," said andy. "i want to think a bit." chapter xxvi the girls "well?" asked dunk, after a pause, during which andy had sat staring at the fireplace. a blaze had been kindled there, but it had died down, and now there was only a mere flicker. "are you sure you left your watch on that pile of handkerchiefs?" asked andy, slowly. "dead sure. i remember it because i thought at the time that i was a chump to treat that ticker the way i did, and i made up my mind i'd get a good chain for it and have my watch pocket lined with chamois leather. that's what made me think of it--the softness of the handkerchiefs. why, andy, you can see the imprint of it plainly enough." "yes, i guess you're right." "and it's gone." "right again." "were you in the room all the time i was out?" "most all the while. i went to get a new electric lamp for the one that had burned out." "was anyone here besides you?" andy hesitated. then he answered: "yes, two persons." "who?" "ikey stein----" "that----" andy held up a warning hand. "don't call any names," he advised. "ikey did you and me a good service. we mustn't forget that." "all right, i won't. who else was in here?" "link bardon." "who's he?" "that farmer lad i was telling you about--the one we fellows saved from a beating." "oh, yes. i remember." "he's working here now. he came in to borrow some money. i found him here when i came back--our door was open." "by jove! that lock! i meant to get it fixed. well, i can see what happened. the quadrangle mystery deepens, and i'm elected. the beggar got my watch!" dunk started out. "where are you going?" asked andy. "to telephone for a locksmith. i'm going to have our door fixed. don't laugh--the old saying--'lock the stable after the horse is stolen.' i know it." "wait a minute," suggested andy. "while you're at it hadn't you better give notice of the robbery?" "i suppose so. but what good will it do? none of the fellows have gotten back anything that's been taken. but i sure am sorry to lose that watch." "so am i," spoke andy. "look here, dunk, there are two persons who might have taken it--no, three." "how three?" "counting me." "oh, piffle. but i suppose if i made a row it would look bad for ikey and your friend link." "it sure would. i think maybe you'd better not make a row." "you mean sit down and let 'em walk off with my watch without saying a word?" "oh, no. report the loss, of course. but don't mention any names." "well, i wouldn't like to mention ikey--for the honor of yale, and all that, you know." "i agree with you. and, for certain reasons, i wouldn't like you to mention link. i don't know about him, but i believe he's as honest as can be. of course he was in need of money, and if your watch lay in plain sight there'd be a big temptation. but i'd hate to think it." "so would i, after what you've told me about him. i won't think it, until, at least, we get more information. it was my fault for leaving it around that way. it's too bad! dad will sure be sorry to hear it's gone. i'm going to keep mum about it--maybe it will turn up." "i hope so," returned andy. "i hardly believe link would take it, yet you never can tell." "anyhow, we'll get a new lock put on, and i'll report my watch," said dunk. "then we'll forget all about it and have some fun. come on, i'm hungry. it isn't so much the money value of the thing, as the associations. hang it all--what a queer world this is. oh, but you should see the girls, andy!" "i'm counting on it!" when they came back, after a hasty session at the "eating joint," there was a note for each of them tucked under the door, which they had managed to lock pending the attaching of the new mechanism. "from gaffington," announced dunk, ripping his open. "he's giving a blow-out to-night. wants me to come." "same here," announced andy, reading his, and then glancing anxiously at his roommate. "i'm not going," said dunk, wadding up the missive and tossing it into the waste-paper basket. "neither am i," said andy, doing the same. they began to "doll up," which, being interpreted, means to attire oneself in one's best raiment, including the newest tie, the stiffest collar and the most uncomfortable shirt, to say nothing of patent leather shoes a size too small. "whew!" panted andy, as he adjusted his scarf for the fourth or fifth time, "these bargains of ikey's aren't what they're cracked up to be." "i should say not. i don't believe they're real silk." "maybe not. they say the japs can make something that looks like it, but which isn't any more silk than a shoestring." "i believe you. maybe ikey has been dabbling in some more of hashmi's stuff." "i wouldn't wonder. say, it's a queer way for a fellow to get through college, isn't it?" "it sure is. yet he's a decent sort of chap. only for that affair of the vases." "oh, he made restitution in that case." they went on dressing, with hurried glances at the clock now and then to make sure they would not be late. from out in the raised court came a hail: "oh, you, dunk!" "stick out your noddle, blair!" "come on down!" "that's thad and his crowd," announced andy. "let 'em holler," advised dunk. "i'm not going with them." "oh, you dunk!" "go on away!" called dunk, shouting out of the window. "oh, for the love of mush!" "look at him!" "girls, all right!" "come on up and rough-house 'em!" these cries greeted the appearance out of the window of the upper part of dunk's body, attired in a gaudy waistcoat. "is that door locked, andy?" gasped dunk, hurriedly pulling in his head. "yes." "slip the bolt then. they'll make no end of a row if they get in!" andy slipped it, and only in time, for there came a rush of bodies against the portal, and insistent demands from thad and his crowd to be admitted. failing in that they besought andy and dunk to come out. "nothing doing! we've got dates!" announced andy, and this was accepted as final. they were just about to leave, quiet having been restored, when there came a knock. "who is it?" asked dunk, suspiciously. "gaffington," was the unexpected answer. "are you fellows coming to my blow-out." dunk looked at andy and paused. following the affair in burke's, where gaffington had incited dunk against andy, the rich youth from andy's town had had little to say to him. he seemed to take it for granted that his condition that night was enough of an apology without any other, and treated andy exactly as though nothing had occurred. "well?" asked gaffington, impatiently. "sorry, old man," said dunk, "but we both have previous engagements." "oh, indeed!" sneered mortimer, and they could hear him muttering to himself as he walked away. then the two chums sallied forth. on the way dunk reported the loss of his watch, to the discomfiture of the dean, who seemed much disturbed by the successive robberies. "something must be done!" he exclaimed, pacing up and down the room. dunk also left word at the college maintenance office about the door that would not lock, and got the promise that it would be seen to. "and now for the girls!" exclaimed andy. "do i know them?" "no, but you soon will." andy was much pleased with the two young ladies to whom dunk introduced him later. it appeared that one was a distant relative of dunk's mother, and the two were visiting friends in new haven. dunk's "cousin," as he called her, had sent him a card, asking him to call, and he had made arrangements to bring andy and spend the evening at the theatre. thither they went, happy and laughing, and to the no small envy of a number of college lads, the said lads making unmistakable signals to dunk and andy, between the acts, that they wanted to be introduced later. but andy and dunk ignored their chums. chapter xxvii jealousies "well, how did you like 'em?" demanded dunk. "do you mean both--or one?" asked andy. "huh, you ought to know what i mean?" "or--_who_, i suppose," and andy smiled. he and his chum had come back to their room after taking home the girls with whom they had spent the evening at the theatre. there had followed a little supper, and the affair ended most enjoyably. that is, it seemed to, but there was an undernote of irritation in dunk's voice and he regarded andy with rather a strange look as they sat in the room preparatory to going to bed. "what did you and she find to talk about so much?" asked dunk, suspiciously. "i brought kittie martin around for you." "so i imagined." "yet nearly all the time you kept talking to alice jordan. didn't you like miss martin?" "sure. she's a fine girl. but miss jordan and i found we knew the same people back home, where i come from, and naturally she wanted to hear about them." "huh! well, the next time i get you a girl i'll make sure the one i bring along doesn't come from the same part of the country you do." "why?" asked andy, innocently enough. "why? good land, man! do you think i want the girl i pick out monopolized by you?" "i didn't monopolize her." "it was the next thing to it." "look here, dunk, you're not mad, are you?" "no, you old pickle; but i'm the next thing to it." "why, i couldn't help it, dunk. she talked to me." "bah! the same old story that adam rung the changes on when eve handed him the apple. oh, forget it! i suppose i oughtn't to have mentioned it, but when i was all primed for a nice cozy talk to have you butting in every now and then with something about the girls and boys back in oshkosh----" "it was dunmore," interrupted andy. "well, dunmore then. it's the same thing. i'll do--more to you if you do it again." "i tell you she kept asking me questions, and what could i do but answer," replied andy. "you might have changed the subject. kittie didn't like it for a cent." "she didn't?" "no. i saw her looking at you and alice in a queer way several times." "she did?" "she did. so did katy!" mocked dunk, and his voice was rather snappish. "well, i didn't intend anything," said andy. "gee, but when i try to do the polite thing i get in dutch, as the saying is. i guess i wasn't cut out for a lady's man." "oh, you're all right," dunk assured his chum, "only you want to hunt on your own grounds. keep off my preserves." "all right, i will after this. just give me the high sign when you see me transgressing again." "there isn't likely to be any 'again,' andy. they're going home to-morrow." "i've got her address, anyhow," laughed andy. "whose?" asked dunk, suspiciously. "kittie martin's. she's the one you picked out for me; isn't she?" "yes, and i wish you'd stick to her!" and with this dunk tumbled into bed and did not talk further. andy put out the light with a thoughtful air, and did not try to carry on the conversation. it was as near to a quarrel as the roommates had come since the affair of burke's. but matters were smoothed over, at least for a time, when, next day, came notes from the girls saying they had decided to prolong their visit in new haven. "good!" cried dunk. "we can take them out some more." and this time andy was careful not to pay too much attention to miss alice jordan, though, truth to tell, he liked her better than he did kittie martin. and it is betraying no secret to confess that alice seemed to like andy very much. the boys hired a carriage and took the girls for a drive one day, going to the beautiful hill country west of the new yale field. as they were going slowly along they met a taxicab coming in the opposite direction. when it drew near andy was somewhat surprised to find it contained miss mazie fuller, the actress. she laughed and bowed, waving her hand to andy. "who was that?" asked dunk, who had been too busy talking to alice to notice the occupant of the taxi. "miss fuller," answered andy. "oh, your little actress. yes." andy blushed and miss martin, who sat beside the youth, rather drew away, while alice gave him a queer, quick look. "an actress?" murmured miss martin. "she looks young--a mere girl." "that's all she is," said andy, eagerly. too eagerly, in fact. he rather overdid it. "tell 'em how you saved her life," suggested dunk, laughing. "forget it," returned andy, with another blush. "i'm tired of being a hero." "oh, i heard about that," said miss jordan. "there was something in the papers about it. she's real pretty, isn't she?" and again she looked queerly at andy. "oh, yes," he admitted, taking warning now. "say, tell me, shall we go over that cross road?" "to change the subject," observed miss martin, with a little laugh, and a sidewise glance at andy. he was beginning to find that jealousy was not alone confined to dunk. the ride came to an end at last and andy wondered just how he stood with dunk and the girls. "hang it all!" he mused, "i seem to get in dutch all along the line." the girls left new haven, having been given a little farewell supper by dunk and andy. the two boys had hard work to resist the many self-invited guests among their chums. several days later there came some letters to dunk and andy. one, to the latter, was from miss fuller, the actress, telling andy that she expected to be in new haven again, and asking andy to call on her. "you are going it!" said dunk, when andy told of this missive, and also mentioned receiving one from miss martin, thanking him for the entertainment he and dunk had given to her and her chum. "you sure are going it, andy! two strings to your bow, all right." "never you mind me," retorted andy. "i'm not on your side of the fence _this_ time." there was the sound of running feet in the corridor, and someone rushed past the room, the door of which was open. "did you see anyone pass?" cried frank carr, who roomed a few apartments away from andy and dunk. "did someone run past here just now?" "we didn't see nor hear anyone," answered dunk. "why?" "because just as i was coming upstairs i saw someone run out of my room. i thought of the quadrangle robberies at once, and took a look in. one of my books, and the silver vase i won in the tennis match, were gone. the thief came down this way!" chapter xxviii the book andy and dunk, who had jumped up and come to the door of their room on hearing frank's explanation, stood looking at him for a second, rather startled by his news. then andy, realizing that this might be a chance to discover who had been carrying on the mysterious quadrangle robberies, exclaimed: "come on down this way! the hall ends just around the corner and there's no way out. it's a blind alley, and if the fellow went down here we sure have him!" "good for you!" cried dunk. "wait until we get something to tackle him with in case he fights." "that's so," said andy. "here, i'll take our poker, and you can have the fire tongs, dunk." from a brass stand near the fireplace andy caught up the articles he mentioned. "where's something for me?" asked frank. "here, take the shovel," spoke dunk passing it over. "say, what sort of a fellow was it you saw run out of your room?" "i didn't have much chance to notice, he went so like a flash." "was it--er--one of our fellows--i mean a college man--did he look like that?" asked andy. he was conscious of the fact that he had rather stammered over this. truth to tell, he feared lest link might have yielded to temptation. since the episode of dunk's watch andy had been doing some hard thinking. "well, the fellow did look like a college chap," admitted frank, "but of course it couldn't be. no yale man would be guilty of a thing like that." "of course not!" agreed dunk. "but say, if we're going to make a capture we'd better get busy. are you sure there's no way out from this corridor, andy?" "sure not. it ends blank. the fellow is surely trapped." they hurried out into the corridor, and started down it, armed with the fire irons. though they had talked rather loudly, and were under considerable excitement, no attention had been attracted to them. most of the rooms on that floor were not occupied just then, and if there were students in the others they did not come out to see what was taking place. "say, it would be great if we could capture the thief!" said dunk. "yes, and end the quadrangle mystery," added andy. "i don't care so much about ending the mystery as i do about getting back my tennis cup and the book," spoke frank. "what sort of a book was it?" andy inquired. "a reference work on inorganic chemistry," answered frank. "cost me ten plunks, too. i can't afford to lose it for i need it in my work." "some book!" murmured andy, as the three hastened on. they tried door after door as they passed, but most of them were locked. one or two opened to disclose students dressing or shaving, and to the rather indignant inquiries as to what was wanted, dunk would exclaim hastily: "oh, we are looking for a fellow--that's all." "hazing?" sometimes would be inquired. "sort of," dunk would answer. "no use telling 'em what it is until we've got something to show," he added to his companions. they agreed with him. they had now reached the turn of corridor where a short passage, making an l, branched off. so far they had seen no trace of the thief. "there's a big closet, or storeroom, at the end," explained andy. "the fellow may be hiding in there." an examination of the few rooms remaining on this short turn of the passage did not disclose the youth they sought. all of the doors were locked. "he may be hiding in one of them," suggested dunk. "if he is all we'll have to do will be to wait down at the other end, if we don't find him in the store room," spoke andy. "he'll have to come out some time, and it's too high up for him to jump." "it's queer we didn't hear him run past our room," remarked dunk. "he had on rubber shoes--that's why," explained frank. "he went out of my room like a shadow. at first i didn't realize what it was, but when i found my stuff had vanished i woke up." "rubber shoes, eh?" said andy. "he's an up-to-date burglar all right." "well, let's try the storeroom," suggested dunk, as they neared it. they were rather nervous, in spite of the fact that their forces outnumbered the enemy three to one. with shovel, tongs and poker held in readiness, they advanced. the door of the big closet was closed, and, just as andy was about to put his hand on the knob, the portal swung open, and out stepped--mortimer gaffington. "why--er--why--you--you----!" stammered andy. "did you--have you----?" this was what dunk tried to say. "is he in there?" frank wanted to know. mortimer looked coolly at the three. "i say," he drawled, "what's up? are you looking for a rat?" "no, the quadrangle thief!" exclaimed andy. "he went in frank's room and took his book and silver cup, and lit out. came down here and we're after him! have you seen him?" "no," replied mortimer, slowly. "i came up here to get charley taylor's mushroom bat. he said he stuck it in here when the season was over, and he told me i could have it if i could fish it out. i had the dickens of a time in there, pawing over a lot of old stuff." "did you get the bat?" asked dunk. "no. i don't believe it's there. if it is i'd have to haul everything out to get at it. i'm going to give it up." as he spoke he threw open the closet door. an electric light was burning inside, and there was revealed to the eyes of andy and his chums a confused mass of material. most of it was of a sporting character, and belonged to the students on that floor, they using the store room for the accumulation that could not be crowded into their own apartments. "a regular junk heap," commented frank. "but where the mischief did that fellow go who was in my room?" "it _is_ sort of queer," admitted andy, as he looked down. without intending to do so he noticed that mortimer did not wear rubber-soled shoes, but had on a heavy pair that would have made noise enough down the corridor had he hurried along the passage. "maybe you dreamed it," suggested mortimer. "i didn't see anything of anyone coming down here, and i was in that closet some time, rummaging away." "must have been pretty warm in there--with the door closed," suggested dunk. "it was hot. the door swung shut when i was away back in a corner trying to fish out that bat, and i didn't want to climb back and open it. well, i guess i'll go clean up. i'm all dust." truth to tell, he was rather disheveled, his clothes being spotted in several places with dust and cobwebs, while his face and hands were also soiled. "well, i guess he fooled us," commented andy. "i can't understand it, though. we came down this hall right after him, and there's no stairway going up or down from this end. how could he give us the slip?" "easily enough," said mortimer. "he could have slid into some empty room, locked the door on the inside and waited until you fellows rushed past. then he could come out and go down the stairs behind you without you seeing him." "that's what he did then, all right," decided dunk. "we might as well give it up. report your loss, frank." "yes, i will. whew! another quadrangle robbery to add to the list. i wonder when this thing will stop?" no one could answer him. mortimer switched off the light in the store room, remarking that he'd have another look for the bat later. then he accompanied andy and the others on their way back down the corridor. gaffington departed to his own dormitory, while frank went to report to the dean, and andy and dunk turned into their room. "well, what do you think of it?" asked andy. "i don't know," responded his roommate. "mortimer's explanation seems to cover it." "all the same we'll leave our door open, on the chance that the thief may still be hiding in some empty room, and will try to sneak out," suggested andy. "sure, that's good enough." but, though they watched for some time, no one came down the corridor past their room but the regular students. and so the theft of the book and silver cup passed into history with the other mysteries. further search was made, and the private detective agency, that had been engaged by the dean, sent some active men scouting around, but nothing came of it. the christmas vacation was at hand and andy went home to spend it in dunmore. chet, ben and his other school chums were on hand, and as andy remarked concerning the occasion, "a jolly time was had by all." chet and ben were with andy most of the time, and when andy told of the doings at yale, chet responded with an account of the fun at harvard, while ben related the doings of the jersey tiger. andy's second term at yale began early in the new year, and he arrived in new haven during a driving snow storm. he went at once to his room, where he found a note from dunk, who had come in shortly before. "come over to the eating joint," the missive read, and andy, stowing away his bag, headed for the place. "over in here!" "shove in, plenty of room!" "oh, you, andy blair!" "happy new year!" thus was he greeted and thus he greeted in turn. then, amid laughter and talk, and the rattle of knives and forks, acquaintanceship and friendship were renewed. andy was beginning to feel like a seasoned yale man now. the studies of the second term were of increasing difficulty, and andy and dunk found they had to buckle down to steady work. but they had counted on this. still they found time for fun and jollity and spent many a pleasant evening in company with their other friends. once or twice mortimer and his cronies tried to get dunk to spend the night with them, but he refused; or, if he did go, he took andy with him, and the two always came home early, and with clear heads. "they're a pair of quitters!" said len scott, in disgust, after one occasion of this kind. "what do you want to bother with 'em for, mort?" "that's what i say," added clarence boyle. "oh, well, i may have my reasons," returned mortimer, loftily. "dunk would be a good sort if he wasn't tied fast to andy. i can't get along with him, though." "me either," added len. "he's too goody-goody." which was somewhat unjust to andy. the winter slowly wore on. now and then there would be another of the mysterious robberies, and on nearly every occasion the article taken was of considerable value--jewelry, sporting trophies or expensive books. there was suspicion of many persons, but not enough to warrant an arrest. one day hal pulter, who roomed in wright hall, near dunk and andy, reported that an expensive reference book had been taken from his room. the usual experience followed, with no result. then, about a week later, as andy was walking past the small building at high and elm streets, where the university press had its quarters, he came up behind mortimer gaffington, who seemed to be studying a book. andy wondered somewhat at mortimer's application, particularly as it was snowing at the time. this enabled andy to come close up behind gaffington without the latter being aware of it, and, looking over the shoulder of the youth, andy saw on the fly-leaf of the volume a peculiar ink blot. at once a flash of recollection came to andy. well did he know that ink blot, for he had made it himself. "why, that's pulter's book!" he exclaimed, speaking aloud involuntarily. "where did you get it?" mortimer turned quickly and faced andy. "what's that?" he asked, sharply. "i say that's pulter's book," andy went on. "how do you know?" asked mortimer. "why, by that big ink blot. i made it. pulter was in our room with the book just before it was stolen, and my fountain pen leaked on it. that sure is pulter's book. where did you get it? that's the one he made such a fuss about!" chapter xxix the accusation "pulter's book, eh?" murmured mortimer, slowly, as he turned it about, looking on the front and back blank pages. "it sure is," went on andy, eagerly. "i'd know that ink blot anywhere. pulter let out a howl like an indian when my pen leaked on his book. the blot looks like a chinese laundryman turned upside down." "that's right," agreed mortimer. "queer, isn't it?" "yes," went on andy, his curiosity growing. "where did you get it?" "found it," spoke the rich lad, quickly. "i went out to the new yale field to see how the stadium was coming on, and i saw this under a clump of bushes. i knew it was a valuable book, so i brought it back with me. it hasn't got pulter's name in it, though." "no," went on andy. "his name was on the other front leaf. that was worse blotted with the ink than this one, and he tore it out. but i'm sure that's pulter's book." "very likely," admitted mortimer, coolly. "i'll take it to him. i'm glad i found it. going my way?" "yes," and andy walked beside the lad from his home town, thinking of many things. mortimer went into wright hall, but pulter was not in. "i'll leave the book for him," mortimer said to andy, "and you can call his attention to it. if it isn't his let me know, and i'll post a notice saying that i've found it." "all right," agreed our hero. "but i know it's pulter's." he was telling dunk about the incident, when his roommate came in a little later, and they were discussing the queer coincidence, when pulter came bursting in. "oh, i say!" he cried. "i've got my book back! what do you know about that? it was on my table, and----" he stopped and looked queerly at andy and dunk, who were smiling. "what's the joke?" demanded pulter. "did you fellows----" "gaffington found it," said andy. "sit down and i'll explain," which he did. "well, that is a queer go!" exclaimed pulter. "how in the world did my book get out to yale field? it isn't so queer that gaffington would find it, for i understand he goes out there a lot, on walks. but how did my book get there?" "probably whoever took it found they couldn't get much by pawning or selling it, and threw it away," suggested dunk. "looks that way," agreed andy. "but it sure is a queer game all around." they discussed it from many standpoints. pulter was very glad to get his book back, for he was not a wealthy lad, and the cost of a new volume meant more to him than it would to others. "well, andy, how do you size it up?" asked dunk, when pulter had gone back to his apartment and andy and his chum sat in their cozy room before a crackling fire. "how do you mean?" asked andy, to gain time. "why, about gaffington having that book. didn't it look sort of fishy to you?" "it did in a way, yes. but his explanation was very natural. it all _might_ have happened that way." "oh, yes, of course. but do _you_ believe it?" "i don't know why i shouldn't. gaffington's folks have no end of money, you know. he wouldn't be guilty of taking a book. if he did want to crib something he'd go in for something big." "well, some of these quadrangle robberies have been big enough. there's my watch, for instance." "what! you don't mean you believe gaffington is the quadrangle thief!" exclaimed andy, in surprise. "i don't believe it, exactly, no. if he's rich, as you say, certainly he wouldn't run the risk for the comparatively few dollars he could get out of the thefts. but i will admit that this book business did make me suspicious." "oh, forget it," advised andy, with a laugh. "i don't like gaffington, and i never did, but i don't believe that of him." "oh, well, i dare say i'm wrong. it was only a theory." "i would like to know who's doing all this business, though," went on andy. "it's probably some of the hired help they have around here," suggested dunk. "they can't investigate the character of all the men and women employed in the kitchens, the dormitories and around the grounds." "no, that's right. i only hope my friend link doesn't fall under suspicion." for a week or so after this, matters went on quietly at yale. there were no further thefts and the authorities had begun to hope there would be no more. they had about given up the hope of solving the mystery of those already committed. then came a sensation. some very valuable books were taken one night from chittenden hall--rare volumes worth considerable money. the next morning there was much excitement when the fact became known. "now something will be done!" predicted andy. "well, what can they do that hasn't already been done?" asked dunk. "they may make a search of every fellow's room. i wish they'd come here. maybe they'd find that my watch, after all, has hidden itself away somewhere instead of being taken." "they're welcome if they want to look here," said andy. "but i don't believe they'll do that. they'll probably get a real detective now." and that was what the dean did. he disliked very much to call in the public police, but the loss of the rare books was too serious a theft to pass over with the hiring of a private detective. just what was done was not disclosed, but it leaked out that a close watch was being kept on all the employees at yale, and suspicion, it was said, had narrowed down to one or two. one day link called on andy to pay back the money he had borrowed. "there's no hurry," said andy. "i don't need it." "oh, i want to pay it back," said the young farmer. "i have plenty of cash now," and he exhibited quite a roll of bills. "been drawing your salary?" asked andy, with a laugh. "no, this is a little windfall that came to me," was the answer. "a windfall? did someone die and leave you a fortune?" "no, not exactly. it came to me in a curious way. i got it through the mail, and there wasn't a word of explanation with it. just the bill folded in a letter. a hundred-dollar bill, it was, but i had it changed." "do you mean someone sent you a hundred dollars, and you don't know who it's from?" asked andy, in surprise. "that's right!" exclaimed link, with a laugh. "i wish i did know, for i'd write and thank whoever it was. it surely came in handy." "why, it's very strange," spoke andy, slowly. "could you tell by the postmark where the letter came from?" "it was from new york, but i haven't a friend there that i know of." "well, i'm glad you've got it. take care of it, link." "i intend to. i can lend you some now, if you need it, mr. blair." "thank you, i have enough at present." andy watched his protege walk across the campus, and near the middle observed him stopped by a stranger. link appeared surprised, and started back. there was a quick movement, and the young farmer was seized by the other. "that's queer!" exclaimed andy. "i wonder what's up? link may be in trouble. maybe that fellow's trying to rob him." the quadrangle was almost deserted at the time. andy hurried down and ran over to where link was standing. the student caught the gleam of something on the wrist of his friend. it was a steel handcuff! "what--what's up, link?" andy gasped. "why, mr. blair--i don't know. this man--he says he's a detective, and----" "so i am a detective, and i don't want any of your funny work!" was the snappish retort. "there's my badge," and it was flashed from under the armhole of the man's vest, being fastened to his suspenders, where most plain-clothes men carry their official emblem. "a detective!" gasped andy. "what's the matter? why do you want link bardon?" "we want him because he's accused of being the quadrangle thief!" was the unexpected answer. "stand aside now, i'm going to take him to the station house!" chapter xxx the letter andy could scarcely understand it. surely, he thought, there must be some mistake. he was glad there was not a crowd of students about to witness the humiliation of link--a humiliation none the less acute if the charge was groundless. "wait a minute--hold on!" exclaimed andy, sharply, and there was something in his voice that caused the detective to pause. "well, what is it?" the officer growled. "i haven't any time to waste." "do you really want him on a robbery charge?" asked andy. "i do--if his name is link bardon," was the cool answer. "i guess he won't attempt to deny it. i've been on his trail for some time." "that's my name, sure enough--i have no reason to deny it," said link, who had turned pale. his eyes had traces of tears in them. after all, he was not much older than andy and he was a gentle sort of youth, unused to the rough ways of the world. "i thought i was right," the detective went on. "i've been watching for you. now the question is--are you coming along quietly, or shall i have any trouble?" "i won't give you any trouble--certainly not," protested link. "but this is all a mistake! i haven't taken a thing! you know i wouldn't steal, don't you, mr. blair?" "i certainly believe it, link, and i'll do all i can to help you. what are you going to do with him?" he asked the detective. "lock him up--what do you suppose?" "but can't he get out on bail?" "oh, it could be arranged. i have nothing to do with that. i'm just supposed to get him--and i've got him!" "but i--i haven't done anything!" insisted link. "that's what they all say," sneered the detective. "come along!" "do--do i have to go with him?" asked link, turning to andy in appeal. "i'm afraid so," was the answer. "but i'll go with you and try to get bail. don't worry, link. it's all a mistake. you'll soon be free." "don't be too sure of that," warned the officer. "i've been searching your room, young man, and i guess you know what i found there." "you certainly found in my room only the things that belonged to me!" exclaimed link, indignantly. "did i? what do you call this?" and the detective took from his pocket a small book. andy recognized it at once as one of the valuable ones taken from chittenden hall. "you--you found that in my room?" cried link, aghast. "i sure did. in your room on crown street. now maybe you won't be so high and mighty." "if you found that in my room, someone else put it there!" declared link. "i certainly never did." "well, i won't say that couldn't happen," spoke the officer coolly, "but if you think i planted it there to frame up some evidence against you, you've got another guess coming. i took your landlady into the room with me, to have a witness, and she saw me pull this book out from the bottom of a closet." "i never put it there!" protested link. "you can tell that to the judge," went on the officer. "how about all the money you've been sporting around to-day, too?" link started. andy, too, saw how dangerous this evidence might be. "i've had some money--certainly," admitted link. "where'd you get it?" link hesitated. he realized that the story would sound peculiar. "it was sent to me," he answered. "who sent it?" "i don't know. it came in the mail without a word of explanation." the detective laughed. "i thought you'd have some such yarn as that," he said. "they all do. i guess you'll have to come with me. i'm sorry," he went on in a more gentle tone. "i'm only doing my duty. i've been working on the quadrangle case for some time, and i think i've landed my man. but it isn't as much fun as you might think. i'll only say that i believe i have the goods on you, and i'll warn you that anything you say now may be used against you. so you'd better keep still. come along." "must i go?" asked link again of andy. "i'm afraid so. but i'll have you out on bail as soon as i can. don't worry, link." andy learned from the detective before what judge link would be arraigned and then, as the young farmer lad was led away in disgrace, andy started back to his room. "i've got to get dunk to help me in this," he reasoned. "to go on bail you have to own property, or else put up the cash, and i can't do that. maybe dunk can suggest a way." andy was glad it was so dark that no one could see link being taken away by the officer. "how did that book get in link's room?" mused andy. "that sure will tell against him. but i know he didn't steal it. some other janitor or helper who could get into chittenden may have taken it, and then got afraid and dumped it in link's closet. a lot of college employees live on crown street. i must get link a lawyer and tell him that." andy found dunk in the room, and excitedly broke the news to him. "whew! you don't say so!" cried dunk. "your friend link arrested! what do you know about that? and the book in his room!" "somebody else put it there," suggested andy. "possibly. but that money-in-a-letter story sounds sort of fishy." "that _is_ a weak point," andy admitted. "but we'll have to consider all that later. the question is: how can we get link out on bail? got any money?" dunk pulled out his pocketbook and made a hurried survey. "about thirty plunks," he said. "i've got twenty-five," said andy. "link has nearly a hundred himself." "that won't be enough," said dunk. "this is a grand larceny charge and the bail will be five hundred dollars anyhow. now i'll tell you the best thing to do." "what?" "hire a good lawyer. we've got money enough, with what link has, to pay a good retaining fee. let the lawyer worry about the bail. those fellows always have ways of getting it." "i believe you're right," agreed andy. "we can put up fifty dollars for a retainer to the lawyer." "i'll telegraph for more from home to-night," said dunk. "andy, we'll see this thing through." "it's mighty good of you, dunk." "nonsense! why shouldn't i help out your friend?" "do you think he's guilty?" "i wouldn't want to say. certainly i hope he isn't; but i'd like to get my watch back." "well, let's go get a lawyer," suggested andy. a sporty senior, whom dunk knew, and who had more than once been in little troubles that required the services of a legal man, gave them the address of a good one. they were fortunate in finding him in his office, though it was rather late, and he agreed to take the case, and said he thought bail could be had. andy and dunk made a hasty supper and then, letting their studies go, hurried to the police court, where, occasionally, night sessions were held. link was brought out before the judge, having first had a conference with the lawyer dunk and andy had engaged. the charge was formally made. "we plead not guilty," answered the lawyer, "and i ask that my client be admitted to bail." "hum!" mused the judge. "the specific charge only mentions one book, of the value of two hundred dollars, but i understand there are other charges to follow. i will fix bail at one thousand dollars, the prisoner to stand committed until a bond is signed." andy and dunk gasped at the mention of a thousand dollars, but the lawyer only smiled quietly. "i have a bondsman here, your honor," he said. a man, looking like an italian, came forward, but he proved to have the necessary property, and signed the bond. then link was allowed to go, being held, however, to answer to a higher court for the charge against him. "now if you'll come to my office," suggested the lawyer, "we'll plan out this case." "oh, i can't thank you two enough!" gasped link, when he was free of the police station. "it was awful back there in the cell." "forget it," advised dunk, with a laugh. "you'll never go back there again." the consultation with the lawyer took some time, and when it was over link started for his room. he was cheered by the prospect that the case against him was very slight. "unless they get other evidence," specified the lawyer. "they can't!" cried link, proudly. andy and dunk went back to their room, to do some necessary studying. on their way they stopped in the yale branch postoffice. there was a letter from home for andy, and when he had read it he uttered such an exclamation that dunk asked: "any bad news?" "yes, but not for me," replied andy. "this is from my mother. she writes that mr. gaffington--that's mortimer's father--has failed in business and lost all his money. this occurred some time ago, but the family has been keeping it quiet. the gaffingtons aren't rich at all, and mortimer will probably have to leave yale." "too bad," said dunk, and then he started off, leaving andy to read the letter again. chapter xxxi on the diamond andy blair stood in the middle of his room, carefully examining a bat he had taken from a closet containing, among other possessions, his sporting things. the bat was a favorite he had used while at milton, and he was considering having it sand-papered and oiled. or, rather, he was considering doing the work himself, for he would not trust his choicest stick to the hands of another. "yes, she'll look a little better for a bit of attention, i think," said andy, half aloud. "though i don't know as i can bat any better with it." he gave two or three preliminary swings in the air, when the door suddenly opened, a head was thrust in and andy gave it a glancing blow. "wow! what's that for?" the newcomer gasped. "a nice way to receive company, andy! where'd you learn that?" "i beg your pardon, bob, old man!" exclaimed andy, as he recognized hunter, dunk's friend. "i was just getting out my bat to see how it felt and----" "i can tell you how it felt," interrupted bob, with emphasis. "it felt hard! better put up a sign outside your door--'beware of the bat.'" "and have the fellows think this is a zoological museum," laughed andy. "i will not. but, bob, i'm very sorry you got in the way of my stick. does it hurt? want any witch hazel or anything like that?" "oh, no, it isn't so worse. good thing i wear my hair long or i might have a headache. but say--where's dunk?" "he was with me a little while ago. we stopped in the postoffice, and i thought he came on here. but he didn't. have you seen him?" "no, but i want to. gaffington and his crowd are going to have another blow-out to-night, and i wanted to make sure dunk wouldn't fall by the wayside." "that's so. glad you told me. i'll do all i can. but say, he and i have had a strenuous time to-day." "what's up?" asked bob. "i've been so blamed busy getting primed for a quiz that i haven't had time to eat." "it's about the robberies--the quadrangle thefts," explained andy. "they arrested link bardon." "what! your farmer friend?" "yes. dunk and i bailed him out." "good for you! now i suppose the thefts will stop." "not necessarily," returned andy, quickly. "link wasn't the thief." "he wasn't? then why did they pinch him? of course i don't know anything about it, and if he's your friend, why, of course, you have a right to stick up for him." "oh, it isn't that so much," explained andy. "i don't know him very well; but i'm sure he isn't guilty of the thefts. there are some queer circumstances about them, but i'm sure they can all be explained." "well, it's your funeral--not mine," said bob, with a shrug of his shoulders. "i wonder where dunk is. i think i'll go hunt him up." "all right, bring him back here when you come," urged andy. "yes, and i suppose you'll stand ready to greet us with a club--you cheerful reception committee!" laughed bob. "well, i'll see you later." andy sat down, placing his bat across his knees. "so gaffington is going to give another spread, eh?" he mused. "that's queer--on top of the news mother sends in her letter. what did i do with it?" he found it after looking through a mass of papers in his pockets, and read it again. following its receipt at the college branch postoffice andy had imparted the news to dunk. then the latter, meeting a friend, had walked off with him, while andy came on to his room. on reaching his apartment, dunk not having come in, andy found a notice from the freshman athletic committee, stating that baseball practice would soon start in the indoor cage. andy was an enthusiastic player, and had made a good record at milton. as a freshman he was not eligible for the yale varsity nine, but he could play on his class team, and he was glad the chance had come to him. andy was thinking of many things as he sat there in the room, now and then swinging his bat. but he was careful not to let it go too close to the door, in case other visitors might chance in. "a whole lot of things have happened since morning," said andy to himself. "that sure was a strenuous time over poor link. i wonder what he'll do? probably the college will fire him from his job. i guess i'll have to see what i can do to get him another. but that won't be easy when it becomes known that he's out on bail on a theft charge. "then there's that news about mortimer. and to think that he's known all along that he might have to leave yale, yet he's been going on and living as if his father's millions were in a safe deposit box. i wonder----by jove!" exclaimed andy, leaping up. "i never thought of that. why not? if he needs money----" his train of thought was interrupted by a knock on his door, which had swung shut as bob hunter went out. "come in!" invited andy, and he started as mortimer gaffington slid in. andy gave him a quick glance, but either mortimer was a good actor, or he did not feel his father's loss of money, providing the news mrs. blair had sent her son was correct. "hello, andy," greeted gaffington, as he slumped into an easy chair. "where's dunk?" "i don't know. bob hunter was just in looking for him. make yourself at home--he may be in soon." in spite of his dislike of gaffington, and his fear lest he influence dunk for evil, andy could do no less than play the part of host. "thanks, i will stay for a while," answered mortimer. "been looking for thieves again?" he asked, noting the bat in andy's hand. he referred to the time when andy and his two friends had sought an intruder down the corridor, and had only found mortimer delving in a storeroom. "no, not this time," laughed andy. "but the freshman team is going to get together, so i thought i'd get out my fishing tackle, so to speak." "i see. i guess the varsity indoor practice will start soon. say, what's this i hear about someone being arrested for the quadrangle thefts?" "it's true enough," replied andy, looking sharply at his visitor. "link bardon was arrested, and dunk and i got him bailed out." "you did!" cried mortimer, almost jumping from the chair. "why, was there anything strange in that?" asked andy, in surprise. "i should think so!" exclaimed mortimer, sharply. "here the whole college has been upset by a lot of robberies, and your own roommate loses a valuable watch. then, as soon as the thief is arrested, you fellows go on his bail! strange? well, i should say so!" "i didn't say we went on his bond," spoke andy, quietly. "dunk and i only got him a lawyer who arranged for it. but i don't believe link is guilty." "well, that's a matter of opinion," said mortimer, and there was anger in his voice. "of course, though, if he's your friend you do right to stick up for him." "yes," agreed andy, "he is my friend. and it's at a time like this that he needs friends." "oh, well," said mortimer, with a shrug of his shoulders, "let's forget it. i wonder what's keeping dunk?" "anything i can do?" asked andy, wishing mortimer would leave before dunk came in. he did not want his chum taken to burke's for a "won't be home until morning" affair if he could help it. "no, i want to see dunk on a personal matter," said the caller. "guess i won't wait any longer, though," and he arose to go out. just as he reached the door dunk came in whistling. "anything on?" andy heard mortimer ask quickly. "no. why?" "can i see you a moment outside?" "sure. i'll be back in a minute, andy," said dunk. "i met bill hagan just as i left the postoffice and he wanted me to look at a bull pup he wants to sell." dunk and mortimer walked down the hall. andy was a little anxious as to what might develop, but he need have had no fears. dunk returned presently, looking rather grave. "did he want you to go to his blow-out?" asked andy, with the privilege of a roommate. "yes, but i'm not going. he wanted some money. said he was dead broke." "and yet he's going to blow in a lot. did you give it to him?" "what else could i do? when a fellow's down and out that's just the time he needs help." "that's right," agreed andy, thinking of link. "but did mortimer say anything about his father's losses?" "not a thing. just said he was temporarily broke, and asked for a loan. i couldn't refuse." "no, i suppose not. but you must be strapped after putting up for link. i know i am. i'm going to telegraph home." "you needn't. i got a check in the mail to-night and i cashed it. i can lend you some if you want it." "well, i may call on you. but say, it's queer about mortimer, isn't it?" "yes, but we don't know all the ins and outs of it yet. maybe that rumor about his folks losing all they had isn't true." "maybe. i'll write home and find out. say, but i'm tired!" "so am i! i'm going to stay in to-night." so it came about that neither dunk nor andy went to the little affair mortimer gave on borrowed money. it was "quite some affair," too, as bob hunter reported later, having heard stories about it, and one or two participants were suspended as a result of their performances after the spread. after the rather exciting time concerning link's arrest matters at yale, as regards the happenings with which this chronicle concerns itself, quieted down. link's case would not come up for trial for some time. meanwhile he was allowed his liberty on bail. he was, of course, discharged from his position. "but i've got another job," he said to andy, a day or so later. "that lawyer is a good sort. he helped me. i'm just going to stick here until i prove that i didn't have a hand in those robberies." "that's the way to talk!" cried andy. "you didn't hear where the hundred dollars came from, did you?" "no, and i can see that my explanation of how i got it isn't going to be believed in court. but it's true, just the same." "then the truth will come out--some time," said andy, firmly. "in the meanwhile, if i can do anything, let me know." "thank you." the months passed. spring was faintly heralded in milder weather, by the return of the birds, and the presence of little buds on the leafless trees. somewhat to the disappointment of andy there were no more quadrangle robberies. that is, andy was disappointed to a certain extent. for if the thefts had still kept up after the discharge of link, it would at least show that someone besides the young farmer was guilty. as it was, it made his case appear all the worse. "but i'm not going to believe it!" exclaimed andy. "link is not guilty!" "go to it, old man!" cried dunk. "i'm with you to the end." indoor baseball practice was held in the cage on elm street, back of the gymnasium, and andy was picked to catch for the freshman nine. dunk, to his delight, was first choice for pitcher. then came intense longings to get out on the real diamond. the chance came sooner than was expected, for there was an early spring. the ground was still a little soft and damp, but it could be played on, and soon crowds of students began pouring out to yale field to watch the practice and the games between the class nines, or the varsity and the scrubs. "come on now, dunk, sting 'em in!" "fool him, boy, fool him!" "make him give you a nice one!" "watch his glass arm break!" these cries greeted dunk, who was pitching for the freshmen against a scrub nine one afternoon. it was a few days before the game with the princeton freshmen--the first game of the season, and the yale freshman coaches were anxious to get their nine into good shape. "ah! there he goes!" came a yell, as the scrub batter hit the ball dunk pitched in to andy. but the ball went straight back into the hands of dunk, who stopped it, hot liner though it was, and the batter was out--retiring the side. chapter xxxii victory mortimer gaffington stayed on at yale. how he did it andy and dunk, who alone seemed to know of his father's failure, could not tell. andy's mother confirmed her first news about mr. gaffington's losses. yet mortimer stayed at college. afterward it developed that he was in dire straits, and only by much ingenuity did he manage to raise enough to keep up appearances. he borrowed right and left, taking from one to satisfy the demands of another--an endless chain sort of arrangement that was bound to break sooner or later. but mortimer had managed to make a number of new friends in the "fast" set and these were not careful to remind him of the loans he solicited. then, also, these youths had plenty of money. on them mortimer preyed. he gave a number of suppers which were the talk of the college, but he was wise enough to keep them within certain bounds so that he was not called to account. but he was walking over thin ice, and none knew it better than himself. but there was a fatal fascination in it. several times he came to dunk to invite him to attend some of the midnight affairs, but dunk declined, and andy was very glad. dunk said mortimer had several times asked for loans, but had met with refusals. "i'm not going to give him any more," said dunk. "he's had enough of my cash now." "hasn't he paid any back?" asked andy. "some, yes, and the next time he wants more than at first. i'm done." "i should think so," remarked andy. "he's played you long enough." "oh, mortimer isn't such a bad sort when you get to know him," went on dunk, easily. "i rather like him, but i can see that it isn't doing anyone any good to be in his crowd. that's why i cut it out. i came here to make something of myself--i owe it to dad, who's putting up the cash, and i'm not going to disappoint him. then, too, you old scout, i suppose you wouldn't let me go sporting around the way i used to." "not much!" laughed andy, but there was an undernote of seriousness in his words. there was nothing new in link's case. it was still hanging fire in the courts. and there were no more robberies. it was somewhat of a puzzle to andy that they should cease with the arrest of link, whom he could not believe guilty. dunk's watch had not been recovered, nor had any more of the valuable books, one of which was found by the detective in link's room, been discovered. how it got in the closet of the young farmer, unless he put it there, the lawyer whom andy and dunk had hired said he could not understand. "i've had my man interview the boarding mistress at the house in crown street," the lawyer told the boys, "and she says no one went to link's room, but himself, the day the book was found. but i haven't given up yet." it was the night before the yale-princeton freshman baseball game, which was to take place at yale field. andy and dunk were in their room, talking over the possibilities, and perfecting their code of signals. "it looks as though it would be good weather," observed andy, getting up and going to the window. "nice and clear outside." "if it only keeps so," returned dunk. "hope we have a good crowd." someone knocked on the door. "come!" called andy and dunk together. the two chums looked at each other curiously. ikey stein entered, his face all smiles. "such bargains!" he began. "socks or neckties?" asked andy, looking for a book to throw at the intruder. "socks--silk ones, and such colors! look!" and from various pockets he pulled pairs of half hose. they fell about the room, giving it a decidedly rainbow effect. "oh, for the love of tomatoes!" cried dunk. "have you been raiding a paint store?" "these are all the latest shades--the fashion just over from paris!" exclaimed ikey, indignantly. "i bought a fellow's stock out and i can let you have these for a quarter a pair. they're worth fifty in any store." "take 'em away!" begged andy. "they hurt my eyes. i won't be able to play ball to-morrow." "you ought to buy some--look, i have some dark blue ones," urged ikey, holding them up. "these are very--chaste!" "those aren't so bad," conceded dunk, tolerantly. "take 'em for twenty cents," said the student salesman, suddenly. "i need the money!" "tell you what i'll do," spoke andy. "if we win the game to-morrow i'll buy a dollar's worth, provided you let us alone now." "it's a bargain!" cried ikey, gathering up the scattered socks. "and i'll do the same," promised dunk, whereupon the salesman departed for other rooms. "queer chap, isn't he?" remarked dunk, after a pause that followed ikey's departure. "yes, but do you know, i rather like him," said andy, with a quick look at his chum. "there's one thing that a fellow gets into the habit of when he comes to yale--or, for that matter, to any good college, i suppose." "what's that?" asked dunk, his mind quickly snapping to some of the not very good habits he had fallen into. "it's learning how to take the measure of a fellow," went on andy, "i mean his measure in the right way--not according to the standards we are used to." "quite philosophical; aren't you?" laughed dunk, as he picked up a book, and leafed it. "well, that's another habit you get into here," said andy, with a smile. "but you know what i mean, don't you dunk?" "well, i suppose you mean that you get tolerant of persons--fellows and so on--that you have a natural dislike for otherwise; is that it?" "partly. you learn to appreciate a fellow for what he is really worth--not because his dad can write a check in any number of figures, and not turn a hair. it's _worth_ that counts at yale, and not cash." "you're right there, andy. i think i've learned that, too. take some of the fellows here--we needn't mention any names--their popularity, such as it is, depends on how much they can spend, or how many spreads they can give in the course of the year. and the worst of it is, that their popularity would go out like a candle in a tornado, once they lost their money." "exactly," agreed dunk. "they get so to depending on the power of their cash they think its all that counts." "and another bad thing about that," continued andy, "is that those fellows, if they wanted to, could make a reputation on something else besides their cash. now there's one chap here--no names, of course--but he's a fine musician, and he could make the glee club, and the dramatic association too, if he liked. but he's just to confounded lazy. he'd rather draw a check, give an order for a spread, and let it go at that. "of course the fellows like to go to the blow-outs, and--come home with a headache. this fellow thinks he gets a lot of fun out of it, but it's dollars to some of these socks ikey sells, that he'd have a heap more fun, and make a lot more permanent friends, if he'd get out and take part in something that was worth while. "now you take our friend ikey. i don't imagine it's any great fun for him to be going around selling things the way he does--he has to, i understand it. and yet at that, he has a better time of it than maybe you or i do--and we don't exactly have to worry where our next allowance check is coming from." "right, andy old man. jove! you'd better have taken up the divinity school. i'm thinking. you're a regular preacher." "i don't feel a bit like preaching though, dunk old boy. in fact i'd a heap sight rather turn in and snooze. but, do you know i'm so nervous over this game that i'm afraid i'll lie awake and toss until morning, and then i won't be much more use than a wet dishrag, as far as my nerve is concerned." "i feel pretty nearly the same as you do, andy. let's sit up a while and talk. i s'pose, though, if we ever make the varsity we'll laugh at the way we're acting now." "oh, i don't know," spoke andy musingly. "some of these varsity fellows have as bad a case of nerves before a big game as we have now, before our little freshman one." "it isn't such a little one!" and dunk bridled up. "the winning of this game from princeton means as much to our class, and to yale, in a way, as though the varsity took a contest. it all counts--for the honor of the old college. how are you feeling, anyhow?" "pretty fit. i'm only afraid, though, that i'll make some horrible break in front of the crowd--muff a foul, or let one of your fast ones get by me with the bases full," concluded andy. "if you do," exclaimed dunk, with a falsetto tone calculated to impress the hearer that a petulant girl was speaking--"if you do i'll never speak to you again--so there!" and he pretended to toss back a refractory lock of hair. andy laughed, and pitched a book at his chum, which volume dunk successfully dodged. "well, i wouldn't want that to happen," said the catcher. "and that reminds me. there's a rip in my glove, and i've got to sew it." "can you sew?" "oh, a bit," answered andy. "i'm strictly an amateur though, mind you. i don't do it for pay, so if you've got any buttons that need welding to your trousers don't ask me to do it." "never!" exclaimed dunk. "i've found a better way than that." "what is it--the bachelor's friend--or every man his own tailor? fasten a button on with a pair of gas-pliers so that you have to take the trousers apart when you want to get it off?" "something like that, yes," laughed dunk, "only simpler. look here!" he pulled up the back of his vest and showed andy where a suspender button was missing. in its place dunk had taken a horseshoe nail, pushed it through a fold of the trousers, and had caught the loop of the braces over the nail. "isn't that some classy little contrivance?" he asked, proudly. "not that i take any credit to myself, though. far be it! i got the idea out of the comic supplement. but it works all right, and the beauty of it is that you can use the nail over and over again. it is practically indestructible. "so you see if you are wearing the nail all day, to lectures and so on, and if you have to put on your glad rags at night to go see a girl, or anything like that, and find a button missing, you simply remove the nail from your day-pants and attach it to your night ones. same suspenders--same nail. it beats the bachelor's friend all to pieces." "i should imagine so," laughed andy. "i'll have to lay in a stock of those nails myself. the way tailors sew buttons on trousers nowadays is a scandal. they don't last a week." "there's one trouble, though," went on dunk, and he carefully examined his simple suspender attachment as if in fear of losing it. "with the increasing number of autos, and the decrease in horses, there is bound to be a corresponding decrease in horseshoe nails. that's a principle of economics which i am going to bring to the attention of professor shandy. he likes to lecture on such cute little topics as that. he might call it 'bachelor's future depends on the ratio of increase of automobiles.'" "i see!" exclaimed andy with a chuckle. "just as darwin, or one of those evolutionists proved that the clover crop depended on old maids." "how do you make that out?" asked dunk. "i guess you've forgotten your evolution. don't you remember? darwin found that certain kinds of clover depended for growth and fertilization on humble bees, which alone can spread the pollen. humble bees can't exist in a region where there are many field mice, for the mice eat the honey, nests and even the humble bees themselves. "now, of course you know that the more cats there are in a neighborhood the less field mice there are, so if you find a place where cats are plentiful you'll find plenty of humble bees which aren't killed off by the mice, since the mice are killed off by the cats. so darwin proved that the clover crop, in a certain section, was in direct proportion to the number of cats." "but what about old maids?" "oh, i believe it was huxley who went darwin one better, come to think of it. huxley said it was well known that the more old maids there were the more cats there were. so in a district well supplied with old maids there'd be plenty of cats, and in consequence plenty of clover." "say, are you crazy, or am i?" asked dunk, with a wondering look at his friend. "this thing is getting me woozy! what did we start to talk about, anyhow?" "horseshoe nails." "and now we're at old maids. good-night! come on out and walk about a bit. the fresh air will do us good, and maybe we'll sleep." "i'll go you!" exclaimed andy. "let's go get some chocolate. i'm hungry and there isn't a bit of grub left," and he looked in the box where he usually kept some biscuits. they went out together, passing across the quadrangle, in which scores of students were flitting to and fro, under the elms, and in and out of the shadows of the electric lights. dunk was saying something over to himself in a low voice. "what is that--a baseball litany?" asked andy, with a laugh. "no, i was trying to get that straight what you said about the supply of old maids in a community depending on the number of clover blossoms." "it's the other way around--but cut it out. you'll be droning away at that all night--like a tune that gets in your head and can't get out. where'll we go?" "oh, cut down chapel street. let's take in the gay white way for a change. we may meet some of the fellows." "but no staying out late!" andy warned his chum. "i guess not! i want to be as fit as a fiddle in the morning." "for we're going to chew up princeton in the morning!" chanted andy to the tune of a well-known ballad. "i hope so," murmured dunk. "look, there goes ikey," and as he spoke he pointed to a scurrying figure that shot across the street and into a shop devoted to the auctioning of furnishing goods. "what's he up to, i wonder?" spoke andy. "oh, this is how he lays in his stock of goods that he sticks us with. he watches his chance, and buys up a lot, and then works them off on us." "well, i give him credit for it," spoke andy, musingly. "he works hard, and he's making good. i understand he's in line for one of the best scholarships." "then he'll get it!" affirmed dunk. "i never knew a fellow yet, like ikey, who didn't get what he set out after. i declare! it makes me ashamed, sometimes, to think of all the advantages we have, and that we don't do any better. and you take a fellow like him, who has to work for every dollar he gets--doesn't belong to any of the clubs--doesn't have any of the sports--has to study at all hours to get time to sell his stuff--and he'll pull down a prize, and we chaps----" "oh, can that stuff!" interrupted andy. "we're worse than a couple of old women to-night. let's be foolish for once, and we'll feel better for it. this game is sure getting our goats." "i believe you. well, if you want a chance to be foolish, here comes the crowd to stand in with." down the street marched a body of yale students, arm in arm, singing and chanting some of the latest songs, and now and then breaking into whistling. "gaffington's bunch," murmured andy. "yes, but he isn't with 'em," added dunk. "slip in here until they get past," and dunk pulled his chum by the arm as they came opposite a dark hallway. but it was too late. some of the sporty students had seen the two, and made a rush for them. "come on, andy!" "oh, you, dunk! grab him, fellows!" immediately the two were surrounded by a gay and laughing throng. "bring 'em along!" "down to the rathskeller!" "we'll make a night of it!" "and we won't go home until morning!" thus the gay and festive lads chanted, meanwhile circling about andy and dunk, who sought in vain to break through. passersby went on their way, smiling indulgently at the antics of the students. "fetch 'em along!" commanded the leader of the "sports." "come on!" came the orders, and andy and dunk were dragged off toward a certain resort. "no, we can't go--really!" protested dunk, holding back. "we just came out for a glass of soda," insisted andy, "and we've got to get right back!" "oh, yes! that's all right." "soda!" "listen to him!" "regular little goody-goody boys!" "they were trying to sneak off by themselves and have a good time by their lonesomes!" and thus the various laughing and disbelieving comments came, one after another. "bring 'em along with us, and we'll show 'em how to enjoy life!" someone called. "gaffington will meet us at paddy's!" dunk flashed andy a signal. it would not do, he knew, to spend this night--of all nights--the one before an important game--with this crowd of fun-loving lads. they must get away. "look here, fellows!" expostulated andy, "we really can't come, you know!" "that's right," chimed in dunk. "let us off this time and maybe to-morrow night----" "there may never be a to-morrow night!" chanted one of the tormentors. "live while you can, and enjoy yourself. you're a long time dead. to-morrow is no man's time. the present alone is ours. who said that, fellows? did i make that up or not? it's blamed good, anyhow. let's see, what was it? the present----" "oh, dry up! you talk too much!" protested one of his companions, with a laugh. "what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow?" demanded another of andy and dunk, who were making more strenuous efforts to get away. "don't you love us any more?" "sure, better than ever," laughed andy. "but you know dunk and i have to pitch and catch in the princeton freshman game to-morrow, and we----" "say no more! i forgot about that," exclaimed the leader. "they can't be burning the midnight incandescents. let 'em go, fellows. and may we have the honor and pleasure of your company to-morrow night?" he asked, with an elaborate bow. "if we win--yes," said dunk. "it's a bargain, then. come on, boys, we're late now," and they started off. andy and dunk, glad of their escape, flitted around a corner, to be out of sight. a moment later, however, they heard renewed cries and laughter from the throng they had just left. "now what's up?" asked dunk. "are they after us again?" "listen!" murmured andy, looking for a place in which to hide. then they heard shouts like these: "that's the idea!" "come on down to the taft!" "we'll give the princeton bunch a cheer that will put the kibosh on them for to-morrow." "no, don't go down there," cautioned cooler heads. "we'll only get into a row. come on to the rathskeller!" "no, the taft!" "the rathskeller!" thus the dispute went on, until those who were opposed to disturbing the princeton players had their way, and the crowd moved out of hearing. "thank our lucky stars!" murmured dunk. "let's get our chocolate and get back to our room." "i'm with you," said andy. "oh, by the way, isn't there one of your friends on the princeton team?" asked dunk, as he and andy were sipping their chocolate in a drugstore, on a quiet street. "yes, ben snow. he's with the crowd at the taft." "did you see him?" "for a little while this evening." "i reckon he thinks his nine is going to win." "naturally," laughed andy. "the same as we do. but don't let's talk about it until to-morrow. i've gotten over some of my fit of nerves, and i want to lose it for good." "same here. that little run-in did us good." the two chums were back again in their room, and andy brought out his catching glove, which he proceeded to mend. quiet was settling down over the quadrangle and in the dormitories about the big, elm-shaded square. light after light in the rooms of the students went out. in the distant city streets the hum of traffic grew less and less. it was quiet in the room where dunk and andy sat. now and then, from some room would come the tinkle of a piano, or the hum of some soft-voiced chorus. "what was that you said about horseshoe nails and bees?" asked dunk, drowsily, from his corner of the much be-cushioned sofa. "forget it," advised andy, sleepily. "i'm going to turn in. i'm in just the mood to drowse off now, and i don't want to get roused up." "same here, andy. say, but i wish it were to-morrow!" "so do i, old man!" the room grew more quiet. only the night wind sighed through the opened window, fluttering the blue curtains. andy and dunk were asleep. the day of the ball game came, as all days do--if you wait long enough. there was a good crowd on the benches and in the grandstand when andy and his mates came out for practice. of course it was not like a varsity championship contest, but the princeton nine had brought along some "rooters" and there were songs and cheers from the rival colleges. "play ball!" called the umpire, and andy took his place behind the rubber, while dunk went to the mound. the two chums felt not a little nervous, for this was their first real college contest, and the result meant much for them. "here's where the tiger eats the bulldog!" cried a voice andy recognized as that of ben snow. ben had come on with the princeton delegation the night before, and had renewed acquaintance with andy. they had spent some time together, ben and the players stopping at the hotel taft. there was a laugh at ben's remark, and the princeton cheer broke forth as dunk delivered his first ball. then the game was on. "wow! that was a hot one!" "and he fanned the air!" "feed 'em another one like that, dunk, and you'll have 'em eating out of your hand and begging for more!" joyous shouts and cheers greeted dunk's first ball, for the princeton batter had missed it cleanly, though he swung at it with all his force. "good work!" andy signaled to his chum, as he sent the ball back. then, stooping and pawing in the dirt, andy gave the sign for a high out. he thought he had detected indications that the batter would be more easily deceived by such a delivery. dunk, glancing about to see that all his supporting players were in position, shook his head in opposition to andy's signal. then he signed that he would shoot an in-curve. andy had his doubts as to the wisdom of this, but it was too late to change for dunk was winding up for his delivery. a moment later he sent in the ball with vicious force. andy had put out his hands to gather it into his big mitt, but it was not to be. with a resounding thud the bat met the ball squarely and sent it over center field in a graceful ascending curve that bid fair to carry it far. "oh, what a pretty one!" "right on the nose!" "didn't he swat it! go on, you beggar! run! run!" "make it a home run!" the crowd of princeton adherents had leaped to their feet, and were cheering like mad. "go on, old man!" "take another base. he can't get it!" "go to third!" "come on home!" the centerfielder had been obliged to run back after the far-knocked ball. it was seen that he could not possibly get under it, but he might field it home in time to save a score. the runner, going wildly, looked to get a signal from the coach. he received it, in a hasty gesture, telling him to stay at third. he stayed, panting from his speed, while the princeton lads kept up their cheering. "now will you feed us some more of those hot cross buns?" cried a wag to dunk. "make him eat out of the bean trough!" "he's got a glass arm!" "swat it, kelly! a home run and we'll score two!" this was cried to the next man up. dunk looked at andy and shrugged his shoulders. his guessing had not been productive of much good to yale, for the first man had gotten just the kind of a ball he wanted. dunk made up his mind to be more wary. "play for the runner," andy signaled to his chum, meaning to make an effort to kill off the run, and not try to get the batsman out in case of a hit. "all right," dunk signaled back. "ball one!" howled the umpire, after the first delivery. "that's the way! make him give you a nice one." "take your time! wait for what you want!" this was the advice given the batter. and evidently the man at the plate got the sort of ball he wanted, for he struck at and hit the next one--hit it cleanly and fairly, and it sailed out toward left field. "get it!" cried the yale captain. the fielder was right under it--certainly it looked as though he could not miss. the batsman was speeding for first, while the man on third was coming home, and the crowd was yelling wildly. andy had thrown off his mask, and was waiting at home for the ball, to kill off the player speeding in from third. "here's where we make a double play!" he exulted, for the man going to first had stumbled slightly, and was out of his stride. it looked as though it could be done. but alas for the hopes of yale! the fielder got the ball fairly in his hands, but whether he was nervous, or whether the ball had such speed that it tore through, was not apparent. at any rate, he muffed the fly. "good-night!" "that settles it!" "go on, ranter! go on, cooney!" coaches, the captain, princeton players and the crowd of tiger sympathizers were wildly calling to the two runners. and indeed they were coming on. andy groaned. he could not help it. dunk threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. the fielder, with a gulp and a gone feeling at the pit of his stomach, picked up the muffed ball, and threw it to second. it was the only play left. and the batsman, who had started to make his two-bagger, went back to first. but the run had come in. "that's the way we do it!" "come on, fellows, the 'orange and black' song!" "no, the new one! 'watch the tiger claw the bulldog!'" the cheer leaders were trying to decide on something with which to celebrate the drawing of "first blood." the grandstands were a riot of waving yellow and black, while, on the other side, the blue banners dropped most disconsolately. but it was not for long. "come on, boys!" cried the plucky yale captain. "that's only one run. we only need three out and we'll show 'em what we can do! every man on the job! lively! play ball!" dunk received the horsehide from the second baseman, and began to wind up for his next delivery. he narrowly watched the man on first, and once nearly caught him napping. several times dunk threw to the initial sack, in order to get the nerve of the runner. then he suddenly stung in one to the man at the plate. "strike--one!" yelled the umpire. the batter gave a sign of protest, but he thought better of any verbal comment. "that's the way!" cried the yale captain. "two more like that, and he's down!" dunk did it, though the man struck one foul which andy muffed, much to his chagrin. "give 'em the boola song!" called a yale cheer leader, and it was rousingly sung. this seemed to make the yale players have more confidence, and they were on their mettle. but, though they did their best, princeton scored two more runs, and, with this lead against her, yale came to the bat. "steady all!" counseled the captain. "we're going to win, boys." but it did not seem so, when the first inning ended with no score for yale. princeton's pitcher was proving his power, and he was well supported. man after man--some of them yale's best hitters--went down before his arm. the situation looked desperate. in spite of the frantic cheering of the yale freshmen, it seemed as if her players could not take the necessary brace. "fellows, come here!" yelled the captain, when it came time for andy and his chums to take the field after a vain attempt to score. "we've got to do something. dunk, i want you to strike out a couple of men for a change!" "i--i'll do it!" cried the pitcher. then dunk pulled himself together, and the tiger's lead was cut down. once the game was a tie yale's chances seemed to brighten, and when she got a lead of one run in the eighth her cohorts went wild, the stand blossoming forth into a waving mass of blue. this good feeling was further added to when princeton was shut out without a run in the beginning of the ninth, and as andy, dunk and the other yale players came in, having won the game, they received an ovation for their victory. ikey stein, sitting in the grandstand near an elderly gentleman, yelled, shouted and stamped his feet at the yale victory. "you seem wonderfully exercised about it, my young friend," remarked the elderly gentleman. "did you have a large wager up on this game?" "no, sir, but now i can sell two dollars worth of socks," replied ikey, hurrying off to get dunk and andy to redeem their promises. "hum, very strange college customs these days--very strange," murmured the elderly gentleman, shaking his head. chapter xxxiii the trap joyous was the crowd of yale players as they trooped off the field. the freshmen had opened their season well by defeating princeton, and the wearers of the orange and black gave their victors a hearty cheer, which was repaid in kind. "it's good to be on the winning side," exulted andy, as he walked along with dunk. "it sure is, old man." someone touched andy on the shoulder. he looked around to see ikey holding out a package. one in the other hand was offered to dunk. "the socks," spoke the student salesman, simply. "say, give us time to get into our clothes!" demanded andy. "do you think we carry cash in our uniforms?" "i didn't want you to forget," said ikey, with a grin. "there is another fellow taking up my business now, and i've got to hustle if i want the trade. going to your room?" "sure." "i'll go on ahead and wait for you," said ikey. "i need the money." "say, you're the limit! you're as bad as a sheriff with an attachment," complained dunk. but he could not help laughing at the other's persistence. andy and dunk were a little late getting back to wright hill, and when they entered their room they found a note on the table. it was from ikey, and read: "i found your door open, and waited a while, but i just heard of a bargain lot of suspenders i can buy, so i went off to see about them. i will be back with the socks in a little while." "he found our door open!" exclaimed dunk. "didn't we lock it?" "we sure did!" declared andy. "i wonder----" he paused, and looked at his chum wonderingly. then they both began a hasty search among their possessions. the same thought had come to each. "did you have my amethyst cuff buttons?" asked andy of dunk, who was rummaging among his effects. "i did not. why?" "they're gone!" "another robbery! say, we've got to report this right away, and let link's lawyer know!" dunk cried. "this may clear him!" they paused, trying to map out a line of procedure, when a messenger came in to say that either dunk or andy was wanted on the telephone in a hurry. "you go," suggested andy. "as long as either of us will answer i'll stay here and take another look for my buttons. but i'm sure i left them in my collar box, and they aren't there now." dunk hurried off, while andy conducted a careful but ineffectual search. "it was link's lawyer," dunk reported when he came back. "his case comes up to-morrow, and he wants to know if we have any evidence that will help to prove link innocent." "not an awful lot," said andy, ruefully, "unless this latest robbery is. we'd better go see that lawyer. did he say anything about the mysterious hundred dollars link got by mail?" "he mentioned it. there's no explanation of it yet, and he says it will look queer if it comes out, and if that's the only explanation link can give." "why need it come out?" "oh, it seems that link showed the bills to several helpers around college, and some of them have been subpoenaed to testify. the detective will be sure to bring it out. then there's that story about the book found in link's room." "hello!--" exclaimed andy, looking around the apartment in order to collect his thoughts. "there's another note someone left for us. it must have been knocked off the table." he picked it up off the floor. it was addressed to him, and proved to be from charley taylor. it read: "dear andy. i watched you play to-day. you did well. i've got a peach of a mushroom bat that i don't want, for i'm going in for rowing instead of baseball this season. i left the bat in the storeroom on your corridor when i moved out of wright hall. you can have it if you like. i gave it to mortimer gaffington once, but he said he never could find it. i don't believe he cared much about it, anyhow. take it and good luck." "by jinks!" cried andy, as he read the missive and passed it to dunk. "do you remember that time mortimer was hunting for charley's bat in the closet?" "i should say i did! that was the time we were looking for the thief who took frank carr's silver cup and his book." "sure. well, i'm just going to have a look for that bat now. maybe i'll have better luck than mortimer did." "go ahead. i'll stay here in case ikey comes in with the socks. no use having him bother us. might as well pay him so he'll quit running in." "sure. well, i'm going to rummage for the bat," and andy, thinking of many things, went down the corridor to the large closet that was used as a store room by the students. it was more filled than before with many things, and andy had some difficulty in locating the bat. finally he found it away down in a corner, under an old football suit, and drew it out. as he did so something fell to the closet floor with a clang of metal. "i wonder what that was?" mused andy. "it sounded like----" he did not finish the thought, but made his way to the far end of the closet. it was dark there, but, groping around, his fingers touched something hard, round, smooth and cold. with trembling hand andy drew it out, and when the single electric light in the center of the storeroom fell upon it andy uttered a cry of surprise. "frank's silver cup!" he cried. "the thief hid it in there! i wonder if the book's here, too?" he made a hasty but unsuccessful search and then, with the bat and cup, he hurried to the room where dunk awaited him. "what's up?" demanded dunk, as andy fairly burst into the room. "lots! look here!" "frank carr's silver cup! where'd you get it?" "in the closet where mortimer gaffington hid it!" "mortimer gaffington?" gasped dunk. "you mean----" "i mean that i'm sure now of what i've suspected for some time--that mortimer is the quadrangle thief!" "you don't say so! how do you figure it out?" "just think and you'll see it for yourself," went on andy. "when we had the chase after the thief down this corridor that time, the trail seemed to lead right to this closet, didn't it?" "sure," agreed dunk. "and who did we find in there?" "why, mort, of course. but he said he was looking for charley taylor's bat." "well, he may have been, but that was only an excuse. mortimer didn't want that bat, but he was almost caught and he did want a place to hide the stuff. the book he could slip in his pocket, but he couldn't do that with the cup. so he threw it back in a corner, and it's been there ever since. probably he was afraid to come for it." "andy, i believe you're right!" cried dunk. "but one thing more--did you find a pair of rubber shoes? you know frank said the fellow that went out of his room in such a hurry wore rubber shoes." "i forgot about that. i'll have another look." "i'll go with you. ikey was here and i paid him for your socks and mine. so we can lock up." "and be sure you do lock," warned andy. "i don't want to lose any more stuff. say, mortimer must have my sleeve links, all right." "all wrong, you mean. and my watch, too! i wonder if we're on the verge of a discovery?" "it looks so," said andy, grimly. quickly and silently they went to the storeroom. they were not disturbed, for there were several class dinners on that night, and most of the occupants of wright hall were out. andy and dunk intended going later. they rummaged in the closet and, when about to give up, not having found what they sought, andy unearthed a pair of rubbers. "these might be what the fellow wore," said dunk, as he looked at them. "he could easily have slipped them off. see if there are any marks inside." andy looked and uttered a startled cry. for there, on the inner canvas of the rubber, printed in ink, were the initials "m. g." "they're his, all right!" spoke andy, in a low tone. "then he's the quadrangle thief," went on dunk. "come on back to our room, and we'll talk this over. something's has got to be done." "that's right," agreed andy. "but what?" "we must set a trap," suggested dunk. "a trap?" "yes, do something to catch this mean thief--mortimer or whoever he is--in the act." "hadn't we better tell the dean--or someone." "no," said dunk, after thinking over the matter. "let's see if we can't do this on our own hook. then if we make a mistake we won't be laughed at." "but when can we do it?" andy asked. "this very night. it couldn't happen better. nearly all the fellows will be out of wright hall in a little while. we're booked to go, and mortimer knows it, for i was making arrangements with bert foley about our seats, and mortimer was standing near me. he came to borrow ten dollars, but i didn't let him have it. so he will be sure to figure that we'll be out to-night." "but how do you know he'll come to our room?" "i don't know it. i've got to take a chance there. but we can hide down in the lower corridor, and watch to see if he comes in this dormitory. if he does, knowing that 'most all the fellows are out, it will look suspicious. we can watch for him to go out and then tackle him. if he has the goods on him the jig is up." "well, i guess that is a good plan," agreed andy. "i hate to have to do it, but we owe it to ourselves, to the college and to poor link to discover this thief. i only hope it doesn't prove to be mortimer, but it looks very bad for him." "we can go farther than that," went on dunk. "we can leave some marked money on our table, leave our door open and see what happens." "it sounds sort of mean," spoke andy, doubtfully; "but i suppose if we have to have a trap that would be the best way to do it." "then let's get busy," suggested dunk. "he may not come to-night after all. we may have to watch for several nights. meanwhile we'd better telephone the lawyer that we're on a new lead." this was done, and the man in charge of link's case agreed to see andy and dunk early the next day to learn what success they had. then the trap was laid. the two who were doing this, not so much to prove mortimer guilty as to free link and others upon whom suspicion had fallen, went about their work. as dunk had surmised, wright hall was almost deserted. they found a hiding place in the lower corridor where they could see whoever came in. their own door they left ajar, with a light burning. on the table where they had been put, as if dropped by accident, were a couple of marked bills. "if he takes those, we'll have him with the goods," said dunk, grimly. then he and andy began their vigil. chapter xxxiv caught the silence got on the nerves of andy and dunk. it was very quiet in wright hall, but outside they could hear the calls of students, one to the other. occasionally someone would come up on the raised courtyard of the dormitory and shout loudly for some chum. but there were no answers. nearly all the freshmen were at an annual affair. the hall was all but deserted. "who do you think it will be?" asked dunk in a whisper, after a long quiet period. "why, mortimer, of course," answered andy. "do you have suspicions of anybody else?" "well, i don't know," was the hesitating answer. "everything points to him," went on andy. "he's in need of money, and has been for some time, though we didn't know it. as soon as i heard that news about his father losing all his fortune, and the possibility that mortimer might have to leave yale, i said to myself that he was the most likely one to have been doing this quadrangle thieving. "but i really hated to think it, for it seems an awful thing to have a yale man guilty of anything like that." "it sure is," agreed dunk. "what are we going to do if we catch him?" "time enough to think of that after we get him," said andy, grimly. "no, there isn't," insisted dunk. "look here, old man, this is a serious matter. it means a whole lot, not only to mortimer, but to us. we don't want to make a mistake." "we won't," said andy. "we'll get him right, whether it's mortimer, or someone else. but i can't see how it could be anybody else. everything points to him. it's very plain to me." "you don't quite get me," went on dunk, trying to get into a more comfortable position in their small hiding place. "i'll admit that we may get the thief, and i'm willing to admit, for the sake of argument, that it may be mortimer--in fact, i'm pretty sure, now, that it is he. but look what it's going to mean to yale. this thing will have to come out--it will probably get into the papers, and how will it look to have a yale man held up as a thief. it doesn't make any difference to say that he isn't a representative yale man--it's the name of the university that's going to suffer as much as is mortimer." "that's so--i didn't think of that," admitted andy, rather ruefully. "shall we call it off?" "no, it's too late to do that now. but we must consider what we ought to do once we capture the thief." "what do you suggest?" asked andy, after a pause. "i hardly know. let's puzzle over it a bit." again there fell a silence between them--a silence fraught with much meaning. they could hear revelry in other college rooms, and the call of lads on the campus. from farther off came the roar and hum of the city. it reminded andy of the night he had first come to new haven. how many things had happened in that time. he would soon be a sophomore now--no more a callow freshman. "do you know," spoke dunk, in a low voice, as he again changed his position, seeking ease. "i had an idea that ikey might turn out to be the guilty one." "so did i," admitted andy. "that was after your watch was missing, and i found he had been in the room while i was out. but, for that matter, link was in there, too. it was a sort of toss-up between the two. poor link, it's been mighty unpleasant for him, to be accused wrongly. i wonder how that valuable book got in his room?" "the quadrangle thief put it there, of course." "and there's that case of pulter's book--found out near yale field," went on andy. "i suppose mortimer had that, too." "very likely, though it seems queer that he'd stoop so low as to take books." "he could pawn 'em, i suppose, same as he did the other things he took," andy continued. "the way he used to borrow money from me and some of the other fellows was a caution!" exclaimed dunk. "seems as though he'd have enough to worry along on without stealing." "he spent a lot, though," said andy. "he was used to high living and i suppose when he found the money wasn't coming from his father any more he had to get it the best way he could." "or the worst," commented dunk, grimly. "i know he never paid me back all he got, and the same way with a lot of the fellows. but if he's coming i wish he'd show up. i don't wish him any bad luck, and i'd give a whole lot, even now, if it would prove to be someone else besides mortimer. but i'm getting tired of waiting here." "so am i," said andy, with a yawn. again there was a silence, while they kept their strange vigil. then, far down the lower corridor, there sounded footsteps. "he--he's coming!" whispered andy in a tense voice. "yes," assented dunk. but it was a false alarm. as the footsteps came nearer the waiting lads saw one of the janitors on his rounds. he did not see them, and passed on. andy was doing some hard thinking. the suggestion made by dunk that the capture of the thief would be more of a black spot for yale than the fact of the robberies taking place was bearing fruit. "but what can we do?" andy asked himself. "we've got to stop these thefts if we can, and the only way is to catch the fellow who's doing it." they had been in their hiding place nearly an hour, and were getting exceedingly weary. dunk shifted about, as did andy, and it was on the tip of the latter's tongue to suggest that they give up their plan for the night when they heard a distant door opened cautiously. "listen!" whispered andy. "all right," assented his chum. "i hope it amounts to something." with strained ears they listened. now they heard steps coming along the corridor. curious, shuffling steps they were, not hard, honest heel-and-toe steps--rather those of someone treading softly, as on soles of rubber. "it's him all right this time!" whispered andy in dunk's ear. "i guess so--yes. shall we follow him?" "yes. take off your shoes." silently they removed them, and waited. the steps were nearer now, and a long shadow was thrown athwart the place where andy and dunk were hiding. they could not recognize it, however. the shadow came nearer, flickering curiously as the swaying of an electric lamp threw it in black relief on the corridor floor. then a figure came past the recess where the two lads were concealed. they hardly breathed, and, peering out they beheld mortimer gaffington stealing into wright hall. it was only what they had expected to see, but, nevertheless, it gave them both a shock. mortimer moved on. they could see now why he could walk so silently. he had on rubbers over his shoes. the same trick used by the thief who had entered frank's room. mortimer looked all around. he stood in a listening attitude for a moment, and then, as if satisfied that the coast was clear, started up the stairs toward the corridor from which opened the room of andy and dunk. the two waited until he was out of sight, and then followed, making no more noise than the thief himself. they timed their movements by his. when he advanced they went forward, and when he stopped to listen, they stopped also. it was like some game--a very grim sort of game, though. there was only a dim light in the upper corridor, and, coming to a halt where the shadows were deepest, andy and dunk watched. they saw mortimer stop before a student's door, try it and then came the faint tinkle of a bunch of keys. "skeletons," whispered dunk. andy nodded in assent. the manipulation of the lock by means of a false key seemed to come easy to mortimer. in a moment he was inside the room. what he did there andy and dunk could not see, but he remained but a few minutes, and came out, softly closing the door after him. "i wonder what he got?" whispered dunk. "we'll soon know," was andy's answer. mortimer went softly down the corridor. he did not try every door, but only went in certain rooms, and these, the two watchers noticed, were those where well-to-do students lived. mortimer made four or five visits, and then moved towards the apartment of andy and dunk. "it's our turn now," whispered the latter. silently they turned a corner, just in time to see mortimer enter their room. "now we've got him!" exulted andy. "not yet; we've got to nab him," whispered dunk. "oh, andy, this is fierce! to think that we're spying on a yale man! to think that a yale man should turn out to be a common thief! it makes me sick!" "same here," sighed andy. "but the only way to stop suspicion from falling on others is to get mortimer with the goods. we've got to save link, too." "that's right," assented dunk. "he isn't a yale man, but he's a heap better than the kind in there." he nodded his head in the direction of their room, where mortimer now was. they had left a light burning, and could see, as its beams were cut off now and then, that the intruder was moving about in their apartment. "come on, let's get him--and have it over with," suggested dunk. "no, we've got to get the goods on him," said andy. "well, hasn't he got plenty of stolen goods--those from the other fellows' rooms?" "i know. but if we went in on him now he'd bluff it off--say he came in to borrow a book--or money maybe." "but we could search him." "you can't search a fellow for coming to borrow something," declared andy. "come on, let's go where we can look in." silently they stole forward until they were opposite their door. from it they had a good view of mortimer. just at that moment they saw him reach for the bills on the table and, with a quick motion, pocket them. then the thief started toward a bureau. "come on!" whispered andy, hoarsely. "we've got to get him now, dunk!" with beating hearts the two sped silently but swiftly into the room. they fairly leaped for mortimer, who turned like a flash, glaring at them. fear was in his startled eyes--fear and shame. then in an instant he determined to face it out. "we--we've got you!" cried dunk, exultantly. "got me? i don't know what you mean?" said mortimer, trying to speak easily. but his voice broke--his tones were hoarse, and andy noticed that his hands were trembling. mortimer edged over toward the door. "i came in to get a book," he faltered, "but i----" "grab him, dunk!" commanded andy, and the two threw themselves upon the intruder. chapter xxxv for the honor of yale "what does this mean? you fellows sure have your nerve with you! let me go, or i'll----" mortimer stormed and raved, struggling to get loose from the grip of andy and dunk. "i'll make you fellows sweat for this!" he cried "i'll fix you! i--i'll----" "you'd better keep quiet, if you know what's best for you," panted andy. "we hate this business as much as you ever can, gaffington! don't let the whole college know about it. keep quiet, for the honor of yale whose name you've disgraced. keep quiet, for we've got the goods on you and the jig is up!" it was a tense moment, and andy might well be pardoned for speaking a bit theatrically. truth to tell he hardly knew what he was saying. "yes, take it easy, gaffington," advised dunk. "we don't want to make a holiday of this affair; but you're at the end of your rope and the sooner you know it the better. we've caught you. take it easy and we'll be as easy as we can." "caught me! what do you mean?" asked the unfortunate lad excitedly. "can't i come to your room to borrow a book without being jumped on as if i----" "exactly! as though you were the thief that you are!" said andy, bitterly. "what does this mean?" with a quick motion, letting go of one of mortimer's wrists, andy reached into the other's pocket and pulled out the bills. "they're marked with our initials," he said, and his voice was sad, rather than triumphant. "we left them there to see if you'd take them." the production of the bills took all the fight out of mortimer gaffington. he ceased his struggling and sank limply into a chair which dunk pushed forward for him. there followed a moment of silence--a silence that neither andy or dunk ever forgot. the quadrangle thief moistened his dry lips once or twice and then said hoarsely: "well, what are you going to do about it?" "that's the question," spoke andy, wearily. "what _are_ we going to do about it?" "are you going to deny it?" asked dunk. "before you answer, think what it means. an innocent man is under charges for these thefts." mortimer did not answer for a moment. when he did speak it was to say: "no, i'm going to deny nothing. you have caught me. i own up. what are you going to do about it?" "that's just it," said dunk. "we don't know what to do about it." silently mortimer began taking from his pockets several pieces of jewelry, evidently the things he had stolen from the rooms of other students. "that's all i have," he said, bitterly. andy and dunk looked at him a moment without speaking and then andy asked: "why did you do it, mortimer?" "why? i guess you know as well as i do. everything is gone--dad's whole fortune wiped out. we haven't a dollar, and i had to leave yale. we kept it quiet as long as we could. i didn't want to leave. i couldn't bear to! "oh, call it what you like--foolish pride perhaps, but i wanted to stay here and finish as i'd begun--with the best of the spenders. that's what i've been--a spender. i couldn't be otherwise--i was brought up that way. so, when i found i couldn't get any money any other way i began stealing. i'm not looking for sympathy--i'm telling the plain truth. i took your watch, dunk. i took those books. i smuggled one into link bardon's room, hoping he'd be suspected. there's no use in saying i'm sorry. you wouldn't believe me. it's all up. you've got me right!" he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. andy and dunk felt the lumps rising in their throats. they had to fight back the tears from their eyes. never before had they taken part in such a grim tragedy--never again did they want to. "you--you admit all the quadrangle thefts?" faltered andy. "every one," was the low answer. "i took carr's book and silver cup--i hid them in the closet that day you fellows caught me. i took pulter's book, too. i was desperate--i'd take anything. i just had to have the money. i took the money len thought he lost that night in the campus. well, this is the end." "yes, it's the end," said dunk, softly, "but not for us. we've got to think of yale." there was a footstep outside the door. the three started up in some alarm. they were not ready yet for disclosures. "beg pardon," said a calm voice, "but i could not help hearing what was said. perhaps i can help you." andy swung open the door wider, and saw, standing in the hall, a man he recognized as one taking a post-graduate course in the medical school. he was nathan conklin, and had taken a room in the freshman dormitory because no other was available just at that time. "do you want some advice?" asked conklin. he was a pleasant chap, considerably older than andy or dunk. and he seemed to know life. "i guess that's just what we do want," said andy. "we are up against it. we have caught--er----" "you needn't explain," said conklin. "the less said on such occasions the better. i happened to be passing and i could not help hearing. what i didn't hear i guessed. now i'm going to say a few words. "boys, yale is bigger than any of us--better than any of us. we've got to consider the honor of yale above everything else." andy and dunk nodded. mortimer sat with his face buried in his hands. "now then," went on conklin, "for the honor of yale, and not to save the reputation of anybody, we must hush up this scandal. it must go no farther than this room. gaffington, are you willing to leave yale?" "i suppose i'll have to," mortimer answered, without looking up. "yes, you would have to go if this came out, and it's better that you should go without it becoming known. now then, are you willing to make restitution?" "i can't. i haven't a dollar in the world." "let that go," said dunk, quickly. "we fellows will see to that. i guess those that have missed things won't insist on getting them back; they'll do that much for the honor of yale." "about this other man who is under charges, are you willing to give testimony--in private to the judge--that will result in freeing him?" asked conklin. "yes," whispered mortimer. "then that's all that's necessary," went on the medical student. "i'll go see the dean. you'd better come with me, gaffington. i'll take charge of this case." "thank heaven!" said andy, with a sigh of relief. "it was getting too much for me." with bowed head mortimer gaffington followed the medical student from the room. what transpired at the interview with the dean neither dunk nor andy ever learned. nor did they ask. it was better not to know too much. but mortimer left yale, and the honor of the college was untarnished, at least by anything that became known of his actions. he slipped away quietly, it being given out that his family was going abroad. and the gaffingtons did leave dunmore, going no one knew whither. a certain secret meeting was held, when without a name being mentioned, it was explained by andy, dunk and conklin that the quadrangle thief had been discovered. it was stated that those who had suffered losses would be reimbursed by private subscription, but the idea was rejected unanimously. how mortimer worked, and how he accomplished the various robberies, without being detected, remained a mystery. no one cared to go into it, for it was too delicate a subject. the charge against link was dismissed after a certain interview the dean had with the county prosecutor, and link was given his old place back. "but if it had come to a trial," he said to andy, when he was told that the thief (no name being mentioned) had confessed, "if i had been tried i could have told where that mysterious hundred dollars came from." "where?" asked andy interestedly. "from that farmer you saved me from. he got religion lately, and felt remorse for my injured arm. so he sent me the hundred dollars for my doctor's bill and other expenses." "and never said a word about it?" asked dunk. "not a word. but he died the other day, and the truth came out. a fellow i know in the town wrote me about it. so i could have proved that i didn't get the money by stealing." "it wasn't necessary," said andy. "so everything is explained now." andy's first year at yale was nearing its close. the season was to wind up with a series of affairs and with several ball games, including one for the freshman team. of course dunk and andy played. i wish i could say that yale won, but truth compels me to state that princeton "trimmed" her. "and we'll do it again!" exulted ben snow, as he greeted andy after the contest. "i don't know about that!" was the answer. then andy hurried off to where a certain pretty girl waited for him. no, i'm not going to mention her name. you wouldn't know her, anyhow. "well," remarked andy, as he and dunk were packing up to go home for the summer holidays, "college is a great place." "especially yale." "oh, i don't know. of course i think there's no place like yale, but there are others." and so andy and dunk packed up and prepared to start for home, agreeing to room together again during their sophomore year, and until they had completed their college course. they had locked their trunks, and their valises where ready. when came a knock on their door, and a voice said: "such bargains! never before have i had such neckties and silk socks! fellows, let me show you----" "get out, you shylock!" laughed andy, locking the portal. "we've only got money enough for our railroad fare!" and ikey stein departed, looking for other bargain victims. "come on," suggested dunk, "let's take a walk over the campus and say good-bye to the fellows." "i'm with you," agreed andy. and arm in arm they departed. the end high school, lake mary, fl. html version by al haines. the courage of the commonplace by mary raymond shipman andrews the girl and her chaperon had been deposited early in the desirable second-story window in durfee, looking down on the tree. brant was a senior and a "bones" man, and so had a leading part to play in the afternoon's drama. he must get the girl and the chaperon off his hands, and be at his business. this was "tap day." it is perhaps well to explain what "tap day" means; there are people who have not been at yale or had sons or sweethearts there. in new haven, on the last thursday of may, toward five in the afternoon, one becomes aware that the sea of boys which ripples always over the little city has condensed into a river flowing into the campus. there the flood divides and re-divides; the junior class is separating and gathering from all directions into a solid mass about the nucleus of a large, low-hanging oak tree inside the college fence in front of durfee hall. the three senior societies of yale, skull and bones, scroll and key, and wolf's head, choose to-day fifteen members each from the junior class, the fifteen members of the outgoing senior class making the choice. each senior is allotted his man of the juniors, and must find him in the crowd at the tree and tap him on the shoulder and give him the order to go to his room. followed by his sponsor he obeys and what happens at the room no one but the men of the society know. with shining face the lad comes back later and is slapped on the shoulder and told, "good work, old man," cordially and whole-heartedly by every friend and acquaintance--by lads who have "made" every honor possible, by lads who have "made" nothing, just as heartily. for that is the spirit of yale. only juniors room in durfee hall. on tap day an outsider is lucky who has a friend there, for a window is a proscenium box for the play--the play which is a tragedy to all but forty-five of the three hundred and odd juniors. the windows of every story of the gray stone facade are crowded with a deeply interested audience; grizzled heads of old graduates mix with flowery hats of women; every one is watching every detail, every arrival. in front of the hall is a drive, and room for perhaps a dozen carriages next the fence--the famous fence of yale--which rails the campus round. just inside it, at the north-east corner, rises the tree. people stand up in the carriages, women and men; the fence is loaded with people, often standing, too, to see that tree. all over the campus surges a crowd; students of the other classes, seniors who last year stood in the compact gathering at the tree and left it sore-hearted, not having been "taken"; sophomores who will stand there next year, who already are hoping for and dreading their tap day; little freshmen, each one sure that he, at least, will be of the elect; and again the iron-gray heads, the interested faces of old yale men, and the gay spring hats like bouquets of flowers. it is, perhaps, the most critical single day of the four years' course at the university. it shows to the world whether or no a boy, after three years of college life, has in the eyes of the student body "made good." it is a crucial test, a heart-rending test for a boy of twenty years. the girl sitting in the window of durfee understood thoroughly the character and the chances of the day. the seniors at the tree wear derby hats; the juniors none at all; it is easier by this sign to distinguish the classmen, and to keep track of the tapping. the girl knew of what society was each black-hatted man who twisted through the bareheaded throng; in that sea of tense faces she recognized many; she could find a familiar head almost anywhere in the mass and tell as much as an outsider might what hope was hovering over it. she came of yale people; brant, her brother, would graduate this year; she was staying at the house of a yale professor; she was in the atmosphere. there, near the edge of the pack, was bob floyd, captain of the crew, a fair, square face with quiet blue eyes, whose tranquil gaze was characteristic. to-day it was not tranquil; it flashed anxiously here and there, and the girl smiled. she knew as certainly as if the fifteen seniors had told her that floyd would be "tapped for bones." the crew captain and the foot-ball captain are almost inevitably taken for skull and bones. yet five years before jack emmett, captain of the crew, had not been taken; only two years back bert connolly, captain of the foot-ball team, had not been taken. the girl, watching the big chap's unconscious face, knew well what was in his mind. "what chance have i against all these bully fellows," he was saying to himself in his soul, "even if i do happen to be crew captain? connolly was a mutt--couldn't take him--but jack emmett--there wasn't any reason to be seen for that. and it's just muscles i've got--i'm not clever--i don't hit it off with the crowd--i've done nothing for yale, but just for the crew. why the dickens should they take me?" but the girl knew. the great height and refined, supercilious face of another boy towered near--lionel arnold, a born litterateur, and an artist--he looked more confident than most. it seemed to the girl he felt sure of being taken; sure that his name and position and, more than all, his developed, finished personality must count as much as that. and the girl knew that in the direct, unsophisticated judgments of the judges these things did not count at all. so she gunned over the swarm which gathered to the oak tree as bees to a hive, able to tell often what was to happen. even to her young eyes all these anxious, upturned faces, watching silently with throbbing pulses for this first vital decision of their lives, was a stirring sight. "i can't bear it for the ones who aren't taken," she cried out, and the chaperon did not smile. "i know," she said. "each year i think i'll never come again--it's too heart-rending. it means so much to them, and only forty-five can go away happy. numbers are just broken-hearted. i don't like it--it's brutal." "yes, but it's an incentive to the under-classmen--it holds them to the mark and gives them ambition, doesn't it?" the girl argued doubtfully. the older woman agreed. "i suppose on the whole it's a good institution. and it's wonderful what wisdom the boys show. of course, they make mistakes, but on the whole they pick the best men astonishingly. so many times they hit the ones who come to be distinguished." "but so many times they don't," the girl followed her words. her father and brant were bones men--why was the girl arguing against senior societies? "so many, mrs. anderson. uncle ted's friend, the president of hardrington college, was in yale in the ' 's and made no senior society; judge marston of the supreme court dined with us the other night--he didn't make anything; dr. hamlin, who is certainly one of the great physicians of the country, wasn't taken. i know a lot more. and look at some who've made things. look at my cousin, gus vanderpool--he made keys twenty years ago and has never done a thing since. and that fat mr. hough, who's so rich and dull--he's bones." "you've got statistics at your fingers' ends, haven't you?" said mrs. anderson. "anybody might think you had a brother among the juniors who you weren't hopeful about." she looked at the girl curiously. then: "they must be about all there," she spoke, leaning out. "a full fifty feet square of dear frightened laddies. there's brant, coming across the campus. he looks as if he was going to make some one president. i suppose he feels so. there's johnny mclean. i hope he'll be taken--he's the nicest boy in the whole junior class--but i'm afraid. he hasn't done anything in particular." with that, a thrill caught the most callous of the hundreds of spectators; a stillness fixed the shifting crowd; from the tower of battell chapel, close by, the college bell clanged the stroke of five; before it stopped striking the first two juniors would be tapped. the dominating, unhurried note rang, echoed, and began to die away as they saw brant's hand fall on bob floyd's shoulder. the crew captain whirled and leaped, unseeing, through the crowd. a great shout rose; all over the campus the people surged like a wind-driven wave toward the two rushing figures, and everywhere some one cried, "floyd has gone bones!" and the exciting business had begun. one looks at the smooth faces of boys of twenty and wonders what the sculptor life is going to make of them. those who have known his work know what sharp tools are in his kit; they know the tragic possibilities as well as the happy ones of those inevitable strokes; they shrink a bit as they look at the smooth faces of the boys and realize how that clay must be moulded in the workshop--how the strong lines which ought to be there some day must come from the cutting of pain and the grinding of care and the push and weight of responsibility. yet there is service and love, too, and happiness and the slippery bright blade of success in the kit of life the sculptor; so they stand and watch, a bit pitifully but hopefully, as the work begins, and cannot guide the chisel but a little way, yet would not, if they could, stop it, for the finished job is going to be, they trust, a man, and only the sculptor life can make such. the boy called johnny mclean glanced up at the window in durfee; he met the girl's eyes, and the girl smiled back and made a gay motion with her hand as if to say, "keep up your pluck; you'll be taken." and wished she felt sure of it. for, as mrs. anderson had said, he had done nothing in particular. his marks were good, he was a fair athlete; good at rowing, good at track work; he had "heeled" the news for a year, but had not made the board. a gift of music, which bubbled without effort, had put him on the glee club. yet that had come to him; it was not a thing he had done; boys are critical of such distinctions. it is said that skull and bones aims at setting its seal above all else on character. this boy had sailed buoyantly from term to term delighted with the honors which came to his friends, friends with the men who carried off honors, with the best and strongest men in his class, yet never quite arriving for himself. as the bright, anxious young face looked up at the window where the women sat, the older one thought she could read the future in it, and she sighed. it was a face which attracted, broad-browed, clear-eyed, and honest, but not a strong face--yet. john mclean had only made beginnings; he had accomplished nothing. mrs. anderson, out of an older experience, sighed, because she had seen just such winning, lovable boys before, and had seen them grow into saddened, unsuccessful men. yet he was full of possibility; the girl was hoping against hope that brant and the fourteen other seniors of skull and bones would see it so and take him on that promise. she was not pretending to herself that anything but johnny mclean's fate in it was the point of this tap day to her. she was very young, only twenty also, but there was a maturity in her to which the boy made an appeal. she felt a strength which others missed; she wanted him to find it; she wanted passionately to see him take his place where she felt he belonged, with the men who counted. the play was in full action. grave and responsible seniors worked swiftly here and there through the tight mass, searching each one his man; every two or three minutes a man was found and felt that thrilling touch and heard the order, "go to your room." each time there was a shout of applause; each time the campus rushed in a wave. and still the three hundred stood packed, waiting--thinning a little, but so little. about thirty had been taken now, and the black senior hats were visibly fewer, but the upturned boy faces seemed exactly the same. only they grew more anxious minute by minute; minute by minute they turned more nervously this way and that as the seniors worked through the mass. and as another and another crashed from among them blind and solemn and happy with his guardian senior close after, the ones who were left seemed to drop into deeper quiet. and now there were only two black hats in the throng; the girl looking down saw john mclean standing stiffly, his gray eyes fixed, his face pale and set; at that moment the two seniors found their men together. it was all over. he had not been taken. slowly the two hundred and fifty odd men who had not been good enough dispersed, pluckily laughing and talking together--all of them, it is safe to say, with heavy hearts; for tap day counts as much as that at yale. john mclean swung across the diagonal of the campus toward welch hall where he lived. he saw the girl and her chaperon come out of durfee; and he lingered to meet them. two days ago he had met the girl here with brant, and she had stopped and shaken hands. it seemed to him it would help if that should happen today. she might say a word; anything at all to show that she was friends all the same with a fellow who wasn't good enough. he longed for that. with a sick chaos of pain pounding at what seemed to be his lungs he met her. mrs. anderson was between them, putting out a quick hand; the boy hardly saw her as he took it. he saw the girl, and the girl did not look at him. with her head up and her brown eyes fixed on phelps gate-way she hurried along--and did not look at him. he could not believe it--that girl--the girl. but she was gone; she had not looked at him. like a shot animal he suddenly began to run. he got to his rooms; they were empty; baby thomas, his "wife," known as archibald babington thomas on the catalogue, but not elsewhere, had been taken for scroll and key; he was off with the others who were worth while. this boy went into his tiny bedroom and threw himself down with his face in his pillow and lay still. men and women learn--sometimes--as they grow older, how to shut the doors against disappointments so that only the vital ones cut through, but at twenty all doors are open; the iron had come into his soul, and the girl had given it a twist which had taken his last ounce of courage. he lay still a long time, enduring--all he could manage at first. it might have been an hour later that he got up and went to his desk and sat down in the fading light, his hands deep in his trousers pockets; his athletic young figure dropped together listlessly; his eyes staring at the desk where had worked away so many cheerful hours. pictures hung around it; there was a group taken last summer of girls and boys at his home in the country, the girl was in it--he did not look at her. his father's portrait stood on the desk, and a painting of his long-dead mother. he thought to himself hotly that it was good she was dead rather than see him shamed. for the wound was throbbing with a fever, and the boy had not got to a sense of proportion; his future seemed blackened. his father's picture stabbed him; he was a "bones" man--all of his family--his grandfather, and the older brothers who had graduated four and six years ago--all of them. except himself. the girl had thought it such a disgrace that she would not look at him! then he grew angry. it wasn't decent, to hit a man when he was down. a woman ought to be gentle--if his mother had been alive--but then he was glad she wasn't. with that a sob shook him--startled him. angrily he stood up and glared about the place. this wouldn't do; he must pull himself together. he walked up and down the little living room, bright with boys' belongings, with fraternity shields and flags and fencing foils and paddles and pictures; he walked up and down and he whistled "dunderbeck," which somehow was in his head. then he was singing it: "oh dunderbeck, oh dunderbeck, how could you be so mean as even to have thought of such a terrible machine! for bob-tailed rats and pussy-cats shall never more be seen; they'll all be ground to sausage-meat in dunderbeck's machine." there are times when camembert cheese is a steadying thing to think of--or golf balls. "dunderbeck" answered for john mclean. it appeared difficult to sing, however--he harked back to whistling. then the clear piping broke suddenly. he bit his lower lip and went and sat down before the desk again and turned on the electric reading-lamp. now he had given in long enough; now he must face the situation; now was the time to find if there was any backbone in him to "buck up." to fool those chaps by amounting to something. there was good stuff in this boy that he applied this caustic and not a salve. his buoyant lightheartedness whispered that the fellows made mistakes; that he was only one of many good chaps left; that dick harding had a pull and jim stanton had an older brother--excuses came. but the boy checked them. "that's not the point; i didn't make it; i didn't deserve it; i've been easy on myself; i've got to change; so some day my people won't be ashamed of me--maybe." slowly, painfully, he fought his way to a tentative self-respect. he might not ever be anything big, a power as his father was, but he could be a hard worker, he could make a place. a few days before a famous speaker had given an address on an ethical subject at yale. a sentence of it came to the boy's struggling mind. "the courage of the commonplace is greater than the courage of the crisis," the orator had said. that was his chance--"the courage of the commonplace." no fireworks for him, perhaps, ever, but, by jove, work and will could do a lot, and he could prove himself worthy. "i'm not through yet, but ginger," he said out loud. "i can do my best anyhow and i'll show if i'm not fit"--the energetic tone trailed off--he was only a boy of twenty--"not fit to be looked at," he finished brokenly. it came to him in a vague, comforting way that probably the best game a man could play with his life would be to use it as a tool to do work with; to keep it at its brightest, cleanest, most efficient for the sake of the work. this boy, of no phenomenal sort, had one marked quality--when he had made a decision he acted on it. tonight through the soreness of a bitter disappointment he put his finger on the highest note of his character and resolved. all unknown to himself it was a crisis. it was long past dinner-time, but he dashed out now and got food, and when baby thomas came in he found his room-mate sleepy, but quite himself; quite steady in his congratulations as well as normal in his abuse for "keeping a decent white man awake to this hour." three years later the boy graduated from the boston "tech." as his class poured from huntington hall, he saw his father waiting for him. he noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a wonderful head--a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared and cut down to the marrow of brains and force--a man to be seen in any crowd. with that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him. the boy had graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father's eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing. "i didn't know you were coming, sir. that's mighty nice of you," he said, as they walked down boylston street together, and his father waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone. "i wouldn't have liked to miss it, johnny," he said. "i don't remember that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have to-day." with a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away, looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere. his father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he said anything as intimate to any of his sons. they knew that the cold manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected to see the depths uncovered. but here he was, talking of what he felt, of character, and honor and effort. "i've appreciated what you've been doing," the even voice went on. "i talk little about personal affairs. but i'm not uninterested; i watch. i was anxious about you. you were a more uncertain quantity than ted and harry. your first three years at yale were not satisfactory. i was afraid you lacked manliness. then came--a disappointment. it was a blow to us--to family pride. i watched you more closely, and i saw before that year ended that you were taking your medicine rightly. i wanted to tell you of my contentment, but being slow of speech i--couldn't. so"--the iron face broke for a second into a whimsical grin--"so i offered you a motor. and you wouldn't take it. i knew, though you didn't explain, that you feared it would interfere with your studies. i was right?" johnny nodded. "yes. and your last year at college was--was all i could wish. i see now that you needed a blow in the face to wake you up--and you got it. and you waked." the great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "i have had"--he hesitated--"i have had always a feeling of responsibility to your mother for you--more than for the others. you were so young when she died that you seem more her child. i was afraid i had not treated you well--that it was my fault if you failed." the boy made a gesture--he could not very well speak. his father went on: "so when you refused the motor, when you went into engineer's camp that first summer instead of going abroad, i was pleased. your course here has been a satisfaction, without a drawback--keener, certainly, because i am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, how well you were doing, how much you were giving up to do it, how much power you were gaining by that long sacrifice. i've respected you through these years of commonplace, and i've known how much more courage it meant in a pleasure-loving lad such as you than it would have meant in a serious person such as i am--such as ted and harry are, to an extent, also." the older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son such a shining face as the boy had never seen. "that boyish failure isn't wiped out, johnny, for i shall remember it as the corner-stone of your career, already built over with an honorable record. you've made good. i congratulate you and i honor you." the boy never knew how he got home. he knocked his shins badly on a quite visible railing and it was out of the question to say a single word. but if he staggered it was with an overload of happiness, and if he was speechless and blind the stricken faculties were paralyzed with joy. his father walked beside him and they understood each other. he reeled up the streets contented. that night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his father turned and ordered fresh champagne opened. "we must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent of the oriel mine," he said. johnny looked at him surprised, and then at the others, and the faces were bright with the same look of something which they knew and he did not. "what's up?" asked johnny. "who's the superintendent of the oriel mine? why do we drink to him? what are you all grinning about, anyway?" the cork flew up to the ceiling, and the butler poured gold bubbles into the glasses, all but his own. "can't i drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked johnny, and moved his glass and glanced up at mullins. but his father was beaming at mullins in a most unusual way and johnny got no wine. with that ted, the oldest brother, pushed back his chair and stood and lifted his glass. "we'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to johnny, "to the gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent of the oriel mine, mr. john archer mclean," and they stood and drank the toast. johnny, more or less dizzy, more or less scarlet, crammed his hands in his pockets and started and turned redder, and brought out interrogations in the nervous english which is acquired at our great institutions of learning. "gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. and "is this a merry jape?" and "why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow what's up your sleeve?" while the family sipped champagne and regarded him. "now, if i've squirmed for you enough, i wish you'd explain--father, tell me!" the boy begged. and the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness, interrupting freely. it seemed that the president of the big mine needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and the latest ideas had written to the head of the mining department in the school of technology to ask if he would give him the name of the ablest man in the graduating class--a man to be relied on for character as much as brains, he specified, for the rough army of miners needed a general at their head almost more than a scientist. was there such a combination to be found, he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four, such as would be graduating from the "tech"? if possible, he wanted a very young man--he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the athletic tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the unmade reputation which would look for its making to hard work in the mine. the letter was produced and read to the shamefaced johnny. "gosh!" he remarked at intervals and remarked practically nothing else. there was no need. they were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the boy who had been a failure three years ago. on the urgent insistence of every one he made a speech. he got to his six-feet-two slowly, and his hands went into his trousers pockets as usual. "holy mackerel," he began--"i don't call it decent to knock the wind out of a man and then hold him up for remarks. they all said in college that i talked the darnedest hash in the class, anyway. but you will have it, will you? i haven't got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except that i'll be blamed if i see how this is true. of course i'm keen for it--keen! i should say i was! and what makes me keenest, i believe, is that i know it's satisfactory to henry mclean." he turned his bright face to his father. "any little plugging i've done seems like thirty cents compared to that. you're all peaches to take such an interest, and i thank you a lot. me, the superintendent of the oriel mine! holy mackerel!" gasped johnny, and sat down. the proportion of fighting in the battle of life outweighs the "beer and skittles"; as does the interest. johnny mclean found interest in masses, in the drab-and-dun village on the prairie. he found pleasure, too, and as far as he could reach he tried to share it; buoyancy and generosity were born in him; strenuousness he had painfully acquired, and like most converts was a fanatic about it. he was splendidly fit; he was the best and last output of the best institution in the country; he went at his work like a joyful locomotive. yet more goes to explain what he was and what he did. he developed a faculty for leading men. the cold bath of failure, the fire of success had tempered the young steel of him to an excellent quality; bright and sharp, it cut cobwebs in the oriel mine where cobwebs had been thickening for months. the boy, normal enough, quite unphenomenal, was growing strong by virtue of his one strong quality: he did what he resolved to do. for such a character to make a vital decision rightly is a career. on the night of the tap day which had so shaken him, he had struck the key-note. he had resolved to use his life as if it were a tool in his hand to do work, and he had so used it. the habit of bigness, once caught, possesses one as quickly as the habit of drink; johnny mclean was as unhampered by the net of smallnesses which tangle most of us as a hermit; the freedom gave him a power which was fast making a marked man of him. there was dissatisfaction among the miners; a strike was probable; the popularity of the new superintendent warded it off from month to month, which counted unto him for righteousness in the mind of the president, of which johnny himself was unaware. yet the cobwebs grew; there was an element not reached by, resentful of, the atmosphere of johnny's friendliness--"terence o'hara's gang." by the old road of music he had found his way to the hearts of many. there were good voices among the thousand odd workmen, and johnny mclean could not well live without music. he heard dennis mulligan's lovely baritone and jack dennison's rolling bass, as they sang at work in the dim tunnels of the coal-mine, and it seemed quite simple to him that they and he and others should meet when work hours were over and do some singing. soon it was a club--then a big club; it kept men out of saloons, which johnny was glad of, but had not planned. a small kindliness seems often to be watered and fertilized by magic. johnny's music-club grew to be a spell to quiet wild beasts. yet terence o'hara and his gang had a strong hold; there was storm in the air and the distant thunder was heard almost continually. johnny, as he swung up the main street of the flat little town, the brick school-house and the two churches at one end, many saloons en route, and the gray rock dump and the chimneys and shaft-towers of the mine at the other, carried a ribbon of brightness through the sordid place. women came to the doors to smile at the handsome young gentleman who took his hat off as if they were ladies; children ran by his side, and he knocked their caps over their eyes and talked nonsense to them, and swung on whistling. but at night, alone in his room, he was serious. how to keep the men patient; how to use his influence with them; how to advise the president--for young as he was he had to do this because of the hold he had gained on the situation; what concessions were wise--the young face fell into grave lines as he sat, hands deep in his pockets as usual, and considered these questions. already the sculptor life was chiselling away the easy curves with the tool of responsibility. he thought of other things sometimes as he sat before the wood fire in his old morris chair. his college desk was in the corner by the window, and around it hung photographs ordered much as they had been in new haven. the portrait of his father on the desk, the painting of his mother, and above them, among the boys' faces, the group of boys and girls of whom she was one, the girl whom he had not forgotten. he had not seen her since that tap day. she had written him soon after--an invitation for a week-end at her mother's camp in the woods. but he would not go. he sat in the big chair staring at the fire, this small room in the west, and thought about it. no, he could not have gone to her house party--how could he? he had thought, poor lunatic, that there was an unspoken word between them; that she was different to him from what she was to the others. then she had failed him at the moment of need. he would not be taken back half-way, with the crowd. he could not. so he had civilly ignored the hand which had held out several times, in several ways. hurt and proud, yet without conceit, he believed that she kept him at a distance, and would not risk coming too near, and so stayed altogether away. it happens at times that a big, attractive, self-possessed man is secretly as shy, as fanciful, as the shyest girl--if he cares. once and again indeed the idea flashed into the mind of johnny mclean--that perhaps she had been so sorry that she did not dare look at him. but he flung that aside with a savage half-thought. "what rot! it's probable that i was important enough for that, isn't it? you fool!" and about then he was likely to get up with a spring and attack a new book on pillar and shaft versus the block system of mining coal. the busy days went on, and the work grew more absorbing, the atmosphere more charged with an electricity which foretold tempest. the president knew that the personality of the young superintendent almost alone held the electricity in solution that for months he and his little musical club and his large popularity had kept off the strike. till at last a day came in early may. we sit at the ends of the earth and sew on buttons and play cards while fate wipes from existence the thing dearest to us. johnny's father that afternoon mounted his new saddle-horse and rode through the afternoon lights and shadows of spring. the girl, who had not forgotten, either, went to a luncheon and the theatre after. and it was not till next morning that brant, her brother, called to her, as she went upstairs after breakfast, in a voice which brought her running back. he had a paper in his hand, and he held it to her. "what is it, brant? something bad?" "yes," he said, breathing fast. "awful. it's going to make you feel badly, for you liked him--poor old johnny mclean." "johnny mclean?" she repeated. brant went on. "yesterday--a mine accident. he went down after the entombed men. not a chance." brant's mouth worked. "he died--like a hero--you know." the girl stared. "died? is johnny mclean dead?" she did fall down, or cry out, but then brant knew. swiftly he came up and put his big, brotherly arm around her. "wait, my dear," he said. "there's a ray of hope. not really hope, you know--it was certain death he went to--but yet they haven't found--they don't know, absolutely, that he's dead." five minutes later the girl was locked in her room with the paper. his name was in large letters in the head-lines. she read the account over many times, with painstaking effort to understand that this meant johnny mclean. that he was down there now, while she breathed pure air. many times she read it, dazed. suddenly she flashed to the window and threw it open and beat on the stone sill and dragged her hands across it. then in a turn she felt this to be worse than useless and dropped on her knees and found out what prayer is. she read the paper again, then, and faced things. it was the oft-repeated, incredible story of men so accustomed to danger that they throw away their lives in sheer carelessness. a fire down in the third level, five hundred feet underground; delay in putting it out; shifting of responsibility of one to another, mistakes and stupidity; then the sudden discovering that they were all but cut off; the panic and the crowding for the shaft, and scenes of terror and selfishness and heroism down in the darkness and smothering smoke. the newspaper story told how mclean, the young superintendent, had come running down the street, bare-headed, with his light, great pace of an athlete. how, just as he got there, the cage of six men, which had gone to the third level, had been drawn up after vague, wild signalling, filled with six corpses. how, when the crowd had seen that he meant to go down, a storm of appeal had broken that he should not throw his life away; how the very women whose husbands and sons were below had clung to him. then the paper told of how he had turned at the mouth of the shaft--the girl could see him standing there tall and broad, with the light on his boyish blond head. he had snatched a paper from his pocket and waved it at arm's-length so that everyone could see. the map of the mine. gallery , on the second level, where the men now below had been working, was close to gallery , entered from the other shaft a quarter of a mile away. the two galleries did not communicate, but only six feet of earth divided them. the men might chop through to and reach the other shaft and be saved. but the men did not know it. he explained shortly that he must get to them and tell them. he would go to the second level and with an oxygen helmet would reach possible air before he was caught. quickly, with an unhesitating decision, he talked, and his buoyancy put courage in to the stricken crowd. with that a woman's voice lifted. "don't go--don't ye go, darlin'," it screamed. "'tis no frinds down there. 'tis terence o'hara and his gang--'tis the strike-makers. don't be throwin' away your sweet young life for thim." the boy laughed. "that's all right. terence has a right to his chance." he went on rapidly. "i want five volunteers--quick. a one-man chance isn't enough to take help. quick--five." and twenty men pushed to the boy to follow him into hell. swiftly he picked five; they put on the heavy oxygen helmets; there was a deep silence as the six stepped into the cage and mclean rang the bell that signaled the engineer to let them down. that was all. they were the last rescuers to go down, and the cage had been drawn up empty. that was all, the newspaper said. the girl read it. all! and his father racing across the continent, to stand with the shawled women at the head of the shaft. and she, in the far-off city, going though the motions of living. the papers told of the crowds gathering, of the red cross, of the experts come to consider the situation, of the line of patient women, with shawls over their heads, waiting always, there at the first gray light, there when night fell; the girl, gasping at her window, would have given years of her life to have stood with those women. the second day she read that they had closed the mouth of the shaft; it was considered that the one chance for life below lay in smothering the flames. when the girl read that, a madness came on her. the shawled women felt that same madness; if the inspectors and the company officials had insisted they could not have kept the mine closed long--the people would have opened it by force; it was felt unendurable to seal their men below; the shaft was unsealed in twenty-four hours. but the smoke came out, and then the watchers realized that a wall of flame was worse than a wall of planks and sand, and the shaft was closed again. for days there was no news; then the first fruitless descent; then men went down and brought up heavy shapes rolled in canvas and bore them to the women; and "each morning the red cross president, lifting the curtain of the car where he slept, would see at first light the still rows of those muffled figures waiting in the hopeless daybreak." not yet had the body of the young superintendent been found; yet one might not hope because of that. but when one afternoon the head-lines of the papers blazed with a huge "rescued," she could not read it, and she knew that she had hoped. it was true. eighteen men had been brought up alive, and johnny mclean was one. johnny mclean carried out senseless, with an arm broken, with a gash in his forehead done by a falling beam as he crawled to hail the rescuers--but johnny mclean alive. he was very ill, yet the girl had not a minute's doubt that he would get well. and while he lay unconscious, the papers of the country rang with the story of what he had done, and his father sitting by his bed read it, through unashamed tears, but johnny took no interest. breathing satisfied him pretty well for a while. there is no need to tell over what the papers told--how he had taken the leadership of the demoralized band; how when he found them cut off from the escape which he had planned he had set them to work building a barrier across a passage where the air was fresher; how behind this barrier they had lived for six days, by the faith and courage of johnny mclean. how he had kept them busy playing games, telling stories; had taught them music and put heart into them to sing glees, down in their tomb; how he had stood guard over the pitiful supply of water which dripped from the rock walls, and found ways of saving every drop and made each man take his turn; how when tom steele went mad and tried to break out of the barrier on the fifth day, it was mclean who fought him and kept him from the act which would have let in the black damp to kill all of them; how it was the fall in the slippery darkness of that struggle which had broken his arm. the eighteen told the story, but by bit, as the men grew strong enough to talk, and the record rounded out, of life and reason saved by a boy who had risen out of the gray of commonplace into the red light of heroism. the men who came out of that burial spoke afterward of mclean as of an inspired being. at all events the strike question was settled in that week below, and johnny mclean held the ringleaders now in the hollow of his hand. terence o'hara opened his eyes and delivered a dictum two hours after he was carried home. "tell thim byes," he growled in weak jerks, "that if any wan of thim says shtrike till that mclean child drops the hat, they'll fight--o'hara." day after day, while the country was in an uproar of enthusiasm, johnny lay unconscious, breathing, and doing no more. and large engineering affairs were allowed to go and rack and ruin while henry mclean watched his son. on a hot morning such as comes in may, a veteran fly of the year before buzzed about the dim window of the sick-room and banged against the half-closed shutters. half-conscious of the sound the boy's father read near it, when another sound made his pulse jump. "chase him out," came from the bed in a weak, cheerful voice. "don't want any more things shut up for a spell." an hour later the older man stood over the boy. "do you know your next job, johnny?" he said. "you've got to get well in three weeks. your triennial in new haven is then." "holy--mackerel!" exploded the feeble tones. "all right, henry, i'll do it." * * * somewhere in the last days of june, new england is at its loveliest and it is commencement time at yale. under the tall elms stretch the shady streets, alive eternally with the ever-new youth of ever-coming hundreds of boys. but at commencement the pleasant, drowsy ways take on an astonishing character; it is as if the little city had gone joyfully mad. hordes of men of all ages, in startling clothes, appear in all quarters. under phelps gate-way one meets pirates with long hair, with ear-rings, with red sashes; crossing the campus comes a band of highlanders, in front of the new haven house are stray dutchmen and japanese and punchinellos and other flotsam not expected in a decorous town; down college street a group of men in gowns of white swing away through the dappled shadows. the atmosphere is enchanted; it is full of greetings and reunions and new beginnings and of old friendship; with the every-day clothes the boys of old have shed responsibilities and dignities and are once more irresponsibly the boys of old. from california and florida, even from china and france, they come swarming into the puritan place, while in and out through the light-hearted kaleidoscopic crowd hurry slim youngsters in floating black gown and scholar's cap--the text of all this celebration, the graduating class. because of them it is commencement, it is they who step now over the threshold and carry yale's honor in their young hands into the world. but small attention do they get, the graduating class, at commencement. the classic note of their grave youthfulness is drowned in the joyful uproar; in the clamor of a thousand greetings one does not listen to these voices which say farewell. from the nucleus of these busy, black-clad young fellows, the folds of their gowns billowing about light, strong figures, the stern lines of the oxford cap graciously at odds with the fresh modelling of their faces--down from these lads in black, the largest class of all, taper the classes,--fewer, grayer, as the date is older, till a placard on a tree in the campus tells that the class of ' , it may be, has its head-quarters at such a place; a handful of men with white hair are lunching together--and that is a reunion. in the afternoon of commencement day there is a base-ball game at yale field. to that the returning classes go in costume, mostly marching out afoot, each with its band of music, through the gay, dusty street, by the side of the gay, dusty street, by the side of the gay, crowded trolley-cars loaded to the last inch of the last step with a holiday crowd, good-natured, sympathetic, full of humor as an american crowd is always. the men march laughing, talking, nodding to friends in the cars, in the motors, in the carriages which fly past them; the bands play; the houses are faced with people come to see the show. the amphitheatre of yale field is packed with more than ten thousand. the seniors are there with their mothers and fathers, their pretty little sisters and their proud little brothers--the flower of the country. one looks about and sees everywhere high-bred faces, strong faces, open-eyed, drinking in this extraordinary scene. for there is nothing just like it elsewhere. across the field where hundreds of automobiles and carriages are drawn close--beyond that is a gate-way, and through this, at three o'clock or so, comes pouring a rainbow. a gigantic, light-filled, motion-swept rainbow of men. the first rays of vivid color resolve into a hundred japanese geishas; they come dancing, waving paper umbrellas down yale field; on their heels press dutch kiddie, wooden-shod, in scarlet and white, with wigs of peroxide hair. then sailors, some of them twirling oars--the famous victorious crew of fifteen years back; with these march a dozen lads from fourteen to eight, the sons of the class, sailor-clad too; up from their midst as they reach the centre of the field drifts a flight of blue balloons of all sizes. then come the men of twenty years ago stately in white gowns and mortar-boards; then the triennials, with a class boy of two years, costumed in miniature and trundled in a go-cart by a nervous father. the highlanders stalk by to the skirl of bagpipes with their contingent of tall boys, the coming sons of alma mater. the thirty-five-year graduates, eighty strong, the men who are handling the nation, wear a unanimous sudden growth of rolling gray beard. class after class they come, till over a thousand men have marched out to the music of bands, down yale field and past the great circle of the seats, and have settled in brilliant masses of color on the "bleachers." then from across the field rise men's voices singing. they sing the college songs which their fathers sang, which their sons and great-grandsons will sing. the rhythm rolls forward steadily in all those deep voices: "nor time nor change can aught avail," the words come, "to break the friendships formed at yale." there is many a breath caught in the crowded multitude to hear the men sing that. then the game--and yale wins. the classes pour on the field in a stormy sea of color, and dance quadrilles, and form long lines hand in hand which sway and cross and play fantastically in a dizzying, tremendous jubilation which fills all of yale field. the people standing up to go cannot go, but stay and watch them, these thousand children of many ages, this marvellous show of light-heartedness and loyalty. till at last the costumes drift together in platoons and disappear slowly; and the crowd thins and the last and most stirring act of the commencement-day drama is at hand. it has come to be an institution that after the game the old graduates should go, class by class, to the house of the president of yale, to renew allegiance. it has come to be an institution that he, standing on the steps of his house, should make a short speech to each class. the rainbow of men, sweeping gloriously down the city streets with their bands, dissolves into a whirlwind at the sight of that well-known, slight, dignified figure on the doorstep of the modest house--this is a thing which one who has seen it does not forget; the three-minute speeches, each apt to its audience, each pointed with a dart straight to the heart of class pride and sentiment, these are a marvel. few men living could come out of a such a test creditably; only this master of men and of boys could do it as he does. for each class goes away confident that the president at least shares its conviction that it is the best class ever graduated. life might well be worth living, it would seem, to a man who should hear every year hundreds of men's voices thundering his name as these men behind the class banners. six weeks after the disaster of the oriel mine it was commencement day in new haven and johnny mclean, his broken arm in a sling, a square of adhesive plaster on his forehead, was back for his triennial. he was mightily astonished at the greeting he got. classmates came up to him and shook his hand and said half a sentence and stopped, with an arm around his shoulder; people treated him in a remarkable way, as if he had done something unheard of. it gratified him, after a fashion, yet it more than half annoyed him. he mentioned over and over again in protest that he had done nothing which "every one of you fellows wouldn't have done just the same," but they laughed at that and stood staring in a most embarrassing way. "gosh, johnny mclean," tim erwin remarked finally, "wake up and hear the birdies sing. do you mean to tell me you don't know you're the hero of the whole blamed nation?" and johnny mclean turned scarlet and replied that he didn't think it so particularly funny to guy a man who had attended strictly to his business, and walked off. while erwin and the others regarded him astounded. "well, if that isn't too much!" gasped tim. "he actually doesn't know!" "he's likely to find out before we get through," neddy haines, of denver, jerked out nasally and they laughed as if at a secret known together. so johnny pursued his way through the two or three days before commencement, absorbed in meeting friends, embarrassed at times by their manner, but taking obstinately the modest place in the class which he had filled in college. it did not enter his mind that anything he had done could alter his standing with the "fellows." moreover, he did not spend time considering that. so he was one of two hundred buster browns who marched to yale field in white russian blouses with shiny blue belts, in sailor hats with blue ribbons, and when the triennials rushed tempestuously down trumbull street in the tracks of the gray-beards of thirty-five years before, johnny found himself carried forward so that he stood close to the iron fence which guards the little yard from the street. there is always an afternoon tea at the president's house after the game, to let people see the classes make their call on the head of the university. the house was full of people; the yard was filled with gay dresses and men gathered to see the parade. on the high stone steps under the arch of the doorway stood the president and close by him the white, light figure of a little girl, her black hair tied with a big blue bow. clustered in the shadow behind them were other figures. johnny mclean saw the little maid and then his gaze was riveted on the president. it surely was good to see him again; this man who knew how to make them all swear by him. "what will he have to say to us," johnny wondered. "something that will please the whole bunch, i'll bet. he always hits it." "men of the class of --," the president began, in his deep, characteristic intonations, "i know that there is only one name you want to hear me speak; only one thought in all the minds of your class." a hoarse murmur which a second's growth would have made into a wild shout started in the throats of the massed men behind the class banner. the president held up his hand. "wait a minute. we want that cheer; we'll have it; but i've got a word first. a great speaker who talked to you boys in your college course said a thing that came to my mind to-day. 'the courage of the commonplace,' he said, 'is greater than the courage of the crisis.'" again that throaty, threatening growl, and again the president's hand went up--the boys were hard to hold. "i see a man among you whose life has added a line to that saying, who has shown to the world that it is the courage of the commonplace which trains for the courage of the crisis. and that's all i've got to say, for the nation is saying the rest--except three times three for the glory of the class of --, the newest name on the honor roll of yale, mclean of the oriel mine." it is probably a dizzying thing to be snatched into the seventh heaven. johnny mclean standing, scarlet, stunned, his eyes glued on the iron fence between him and the president, knew nothing except a whirling of his brain and an earnest prayer that he might not make a fool of himself. with that, even as the thunder of voices began, he felt himself lifted, swung to men's shoulders, carried forward. and there he sat in his foolish buster brown costume, with his broken arm in its sling, with the white patch on his forehead, above his roaring classmates. there he sat perspiring and ashamed, and faced the head of the university, who, it must be said, appeared not to miss the humor of the situation, for he laughed consumedly. and still they cheered and still his name rang again and again. johnny, hot and squirming under the merry presidential eye, wondered if they were going to cheer all night. and suddenly everything--class-mates, president, roaring voices--died away. there was just one thing on earth. in the doorway, in the group behind the president, a girl stood with her head against the wall and cried as if her heart would break. cried frankly, openly, mopping away tears with a whole-hearted pocket-handkerchief, and cried more to mop away. as if there were no afternoon tea, no mob of yale men in the streets, no world full of people who might, if they pleased, see those tears and understand. the girl. herself. crying. in a flash, by the light of the happiness that was overwhelming, he found this other happiness. he understood. the mad idea which had come back and back to him out there in the west, which he had put down firmly, the idea that she had cared too much and not too little on that tap day four years ago--that idea was true. she did care. she cared still. he knew it without a doubt. he sat on the men's shoulders in his ridiculous clothes, and the heavens opened. then the tumult and the shouting died and they let the hero down, and to the rapid succession of strong emotions came as a relief another emotion--enthusiasm. they were cheering the president, on the point of bursting themselves into fragments to do it, it seemed. there were two hundred men behind the class banner, and each one was converting what was convertible of his being into noise. johnny mclean turned to with a will and thundered into the volume of tone which sounded over and over the two short syllables of a name which to a yale man's idea fits a cheer better than most. the president stood quiet, under the heaped-up honors of a brilliant career, smiling and steady under that delirious music of his own name rising, winged with men's hearts, to the skies. then the band was playing again and they were marching off down the street together, this wonderful class that knew how to turn earth into heaven for a fellow who hadn't done much of a stunt anyhow, this grand, glorious, big-hearted lot of chaps who would have done much more in his place, every soul of them--so johnny mclean's thoughts leaped in time with his steps as they marched away. and once or twice a terror seized him--for he was weak yet from his illness--that he was going to make "a fool of himself." he remembered how the girl had cried; he thought of the way the boys had loaded him with honor and affection; he heard the president's voice speaking those impossible words about him--about him--and he would have given a large sum of money at one or two junctures to bolt and get behind a locked door alone where he might cry as the girl had. but the unsentimental hilarity all around saved him and brought him through without a stain on his behavior. only he could not bolt--he could not get a moment to himself for love or money. it was for love he wanted it. he must find her--he could not wait now. but he had to wait. he had to go into the country to dinner with them all and be lionized and made speeches at, and made fun of, and treated as the darling child and the pride and joy and--what was harder to bear--as the hero and the great man of the class. all the time growing madder with restlessness, for who could tell if she might not be leaving town! a remnant of the class ahead crossed them--and there was brant, her brother. diplomacy was not for johnny mclean--he was much too anxious. "brant, look here," and he drew him into a comparative corner. "where is she?" brant did not pretend not to understand, but he grinned. "at the andersons', of course." "now?" "yes, i think so." "fellows," said johnny mclean, "i'm sorry, but i've got to sneak. i'm going back to town." sentences and scraps of sentences came flying at him from all over. "hold him down"--"chain him up"--"going--tommy-rot--can't go!" "you'll be game for the roundup at eleven--you've got to be." "our darling boy--he's got to be," and more language. "all right for eleven," johnny agreed. "i'll be at head-quarters then--but i'm going now," and he went. he found her in a garden, which is the best place to make love. each place is the best. and in some mystical manner all the doubt and unhappiness which had been gone over in labored volumes of thoughts by each alone, melted to nothing, at two or three broken sentences. there seemed to be nothing to say, for everything was said in a wordless, clear mode of understanding, which lovers and saints know. there was little plot to it, yet there was no lack of interest. in fact so light-footed were the swift moments in the rose-scented dark garden that johnny mclean forgot, as others have forgotten before him, that time was. he forgot that magnificent lot of fellows, his classmates; there was not a circumstance outside of the shadowy garden which he did not whole-heartedly forget. till a shock brought him to. the town was alive with bands and cheers and shouts and marching; the distinct noises rose and fell and fused and separated, but kept their distance. when one body of sound, which unnoticed by the lovers had been growing less vague, more compact, broke all at once into loud proximity--men marching, men shouting, men singing. the two, hand tight in hand, started, looked at each other, listened--and then a name came in a dozen sonorous voices, as they used to shout it in college days, across the berkeley oval. "mclean! mclean!" they called. "oh, johnny mclean!" and "come out there, oh, johnny mclean!" that was baby thomas. "by jove, they've trapped me," he said, smiling in the dark and holding the hand tighter as the swinging steps stopped in front of the house of the garden. "brant must have told." "they've certainly found you," the girl said. her arms, lifted slowly, went about his neck swiftly. "you're mine--but you're theirs to-night. i haven't a right to so much of you even. you're theirs. go." and she held him. but in a second she had pushed him away. "go," she said. "you're theirs, bless every one of them." she was standing alone in the dark, sweet garden and there was a roar in the street which meant that he had opened the door and they had seen him. and with that there were shouts of "put him up"--"carry him"--"carry the boy," and laughter and shouting and then again the measured tread of many men retreating down the street, and men's voices singing together. the girl in the dark garden stood laughing, crying, and listened. "mother of men!"-- the deep voices sang-- "mother of men grown strong in giving-- honor to him thy light have led; rich in the toil of thousands living, proud of the deeds of thousands dead! we who have felt thy power, and known thee, we in whose lives thy lights avail, high, in our hearts enshrined, enthrone thee, mother of men, old yale!" the whirligig of time [illustration: "'james did it! james has made a touchdown'"] the whirligig of time by wayland wells williams _with a frontispiece by j. henry_ "_and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges._"--twelfth night. new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, , by_ frederick a. stokes company _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages._ contents part i chapter i unwritten papers ii aunts iii not colonial; georgian iv puppy dogs, and a psychological fact v babes in the wood vi arcadia and yankeedom vii omne ignotum viii livy and victor hugo ix a long cheer for wimbourne x rumblings xi aunt selina's beaux yeux xii an act of god xiii sardou xiv un-anglo-saxon xv chiefly cardiac xvi the saddest tale part ii i can love be controlled by advice? ii congreve iii not triassic, certainly, but nearly as old iv wild horses and champagne v a schÖne seele on pisgah vi a long chapter. but then, love is long vii a very short chapter, in one sense viii one thing and another ix labyrinths x mr. and mrs. alfred lammle xi hesitancies and tears xii a rod of iron xiii red flame xiv a potter's vessel xv the tide turns xvi reinstatement of a schÖne seele the whirligig of time part i chapter i unwritten papers two o'clock struck by the tall clock on the stairs, and young harry wimbourne, lying wide awake in his darkened bedroom, reflected that he had never heard that clock strike two before, except in the afternoon. to his ears the two strokes had a curious and unfamiliar sound; he waited expectantly for more to follow, but none did, and the tones of the second stroke died slowly away in a rather uncanny fashion through the silent house. for the house was silent now; the strange and terrifying series of sounds, issuing from the direction of his mother's room, that had first awakened him, had ceased some time ago. there had been much scurrying to and fro, much opening and shutting of doors, mingled not infrequently with the sound of voices; voices subdued and yet strained, talking so low and so hurriedly that no complete sentences could be caught, though harry was occasionally able to distinguish the tones of his father, or the nurse, or the doctor. once he detected the phrase "hot water"; and even that seemed to give a slight tinge of familiarity and sanity to the other noises. but then had come those other sounds that froze the very blood in his veins, and made him lie stiff and stark in his bed, perspiring in every pore, in an agony of ignorance and terror. it was all so inexplicable; his mother--! a strange voice would not have affected him so. but all that had stopped after a while, and everything had quieted down to the stillness that had prevailed for an hour or more when the clock struck two. the stillness was in its way even more wearing than the noises had been, for it gave one the impression that more was to follow. "wait, wait, wait," it seemed to harry to say; "the worst is not nearly over yet; more will happen before the night is out; wait, wait!" and the slow tick of the clock on the stairs, faintly heard through the closed door, took up the burden "wait! wait!" and harry waited. the passage of time seemed to him both cruelly slow and cruelly fast; each minute dragged along like an hour, and yet when the hour struck it seemed to him to have passed off in the space of a minute. sleep was impossible. for the fiftieth time he turned over in his bed, trying to find a position that would prove so comfortable as to ensure drowsiness; yet as he did so he felt convinced that he could not sleep until something definite, something final, even if unpleasant, should end the suspense of the silence. he looked across the short space of darkness that separated his bed from that of his elder brother james, and envied him his power of sleeping through anything. but a short sudden change in the dim outline of the other bed told him that his brother was not asleep. harry felt the other's gaze trying to pierce the darkness, even as his own. he half turned, with a sharp and nervous motion, to show that he was awake, and for some minutes both boys lay silently gazing toward each other, each wondering how much the other had heard. at length james broke the silence. "it's come," he said. "yes, it has," answered harry. "how long have you been awake?" he added, feeling he must ascertain how much james knew before committing himself any further. "oh, hours," said james. "since before--" "yes." so james had heard all, thought harry. it was just like him to be awake all that time and never give a sign. it scarcely occurred to him that james might be as shy as himself in reference to the events of the night. it must not for a moment be supposed that either of these boys was ignorant of the nature of what was taking place in their mother's room. harry was ten at the time, and james was within hinting distance of his twelfth birthday. so that when their father, a few days before, had solemnly informed them that they might expect the arrival of a little brother or sister before long, and that they must be most careful not to disturb their mother in any way, etc., etc., no childish superstition picturing the newcomer flying through the window or floating down a stream on a cabbage leaf or, more prosaically, being introduced in the doctor's black bag, ever entered their heads. when the trained nurse appeared, a day or two later, they did not need to be told why she was there. they accepted the situation, tried to make as little noise as possible, and struck up a great friendship with miss garver, who at first had ample leisure to regale them with tales of her hospital experiences; among which, she was sorry to observe, accounts of advanced cases of delirium tremens were easily the favorites. for a long time the two boys lay awake without exchanging any more conversation worth mentioning. they heard the clock strike three, and after that they may have slept. at any rate, the first thing they were aware of was the door of their room being opened by a softly rustling figure which they at once recognized as that of the trained nurse. she crossed the room and methodically lit the gas; then she turned and stood at the foot of harry's bed, resting her hands lightly on the footboard. both the boys noticed immediately how white her face was and how grave its expression. "are you both awake, boys?" she asked. they both said they were, and miss garver, after pausing a moment, as if to choose her words, said: "then get up and put on something, and come into your mother's room with me." without a word they rose and stumbled into their dressing gowns and slippers. when they were ready miss garver led the way to the door, and there turned toward them, with her hand on the knob. "your mother is very ill, boys. we are afraid--this may be the last time you will see her." dazed and silent they followed her into the hall. the bedroom into which they then went was a large room at the front of the house, high of ceiling, generous of window space, and furnished for the most part with old mahogany furniture. it was a beautiful old room when the sun was pouring in through the great windows, and it was quite as beautiful, in a solemn sort of way, now, when it was dimly illuminated by one low-burning gas jet and one or two shaded candles. a low fire was burning in the grate, and its dying flames fitfully shone on soft-colored chintz coverings and glowing mahogany surfaces, giving to the room an air of drowsy and delicious peace. and in the middle of it all, on a great mahogany four-poster bed, curtained, after the fashion of a hundred years ago, edith wimbourne lay dying. she, poor lady, white and unconscious on her great bed, cared as little for the setting of the scene in which she was playing the chief part as dying people generally do; but we, who look on the scene with detached and appreciative eyes, may perhaps venture the opinion that, if a choice of deaths be vouchsafed us, we would as lief as not die in a four-poster bed, surrounded by those we love best, and with a flickering fire casting changing and fantastic shadows on the familiar walls and ceiling. beside the dying lady on the bed, there were three other people in the bedroom when miss garver led harry and james into it. the doctor, whom they both knew and liked well, sat at the head of the bed. in a large armchair near the fire sat the boys' father, and somewhere in the background hovered another trained nurse, sprung out of nowhere. the presence of these figures seemed, in some intangible way, to make death an actual fact, instead of a mere possibility; if they had not been there, the boys might merely have been going to pay their mother a visit when she was ill. now they both realized, with horribly sinking hearts, that they were going to see her for the last time. the doctor looked up inquiringly as miss garver brought the two boys into the room and led them over toward the bed. the father did not even turn his head as they came in. they stood by the bedside and gazed in silence at the pale sleeping face on the pillow. a faint odor of chloroform hung about the bed. the doctor stood up and leaned over to listen to the action of the dying woman's heart. after he had finished he drew back a little from the bedside. "you may kiss her, if you like," he said softly. the boys leaned down in turn and silently touched the calm lips. it was almost more than harry could stand. "oh, must this be the last time?" he heard himself shrieking. but no one paid any attention to him, and he suddenly realized that he had not spoken the words aloud. he looked at james' face, calm though drawn, and the sight reassured him. he wondered if james was suffering as much as himself, and thought he probably was. he wondered if his face showed as little as james'. the doctor and miss garver were whispering together. "shall i take them away now?" she asked. "not yet," was the answer; "there is just a chance that--" he did not finish, but miss garver must have understood, for she nodded and quietly drew the boys away. they walked off toward the fireplace, and their father, without moving his head, stretched out a hand in their direction. silently they sat down by him, one on each arm of his chair, and he slipped an arm about the waist of each. so they started on the last period of waiting for what they all knew must come; what they prayed might come soon and at the same time longed to postpone as long as possible. the doctor had resumed his seat at the bedside, and now kept his fingers almost constantly on the patient's wrist. the two nurses sat down a little way off, to be ready in case--the emergency was not formulated. these three people were all present for professional reasons, so we may assume that most of their meditations were of a professional nature. but even so, they felt beneath their professional calm the mingled sadness and sweetness and solemnity that accompanies the sight of death, be it never so familiar. and we may easily guess the feelings of the two boys as they awaited the departure of the person they loved most on earth; nothing but the feeling of suspense kept them from giving away completely. the person in the room whom the scene might have been expected to affect most was, in point of fact, the one who felt it least, and that was the shortly to be bereaved husband, hilary wimbourne. "poor edith," he mused, "poor edith. what a wife she has been to me, to be sure! i was fond of her, too. not as fond as i might have been, of course ... still, when i think that i shall never again see her face behind the coffee things at the breakfast table it gives me a pang, a distinct pang ... by the bye, i don't suppose she remembered, before all this came on, to send that sheffield urn to be replated ... but it's all so beautiful--the fire, the draped bed, the waiting figures, the whole atmosphere! just what she would have chosen to die in; all peace and naturalness. everything seems to say 'good-by, edith; congratulations, edith; well out of it all,' only much more beautifully. there is a dirge--how does it go?-- oh, no more, no more; too late sighs are spent; the burning tapers of a life as chaste as fate, pure as are unwritten papers, are burnt out-- "that comes somewhere near it; 'a life as chaste as fate'--not a bad description of edith ... 'pure as are unwritten papers'--who but an elizabethan would have dared to cast that line just like that? let's see; ford, was it, or shirley?... if only some one were singing that now, behind the scenes, out by the bathroom door, say, everything would be quite perfect. 'unwritten papers'--ah, well, people have no business to be as pure as edith was--and live. but what is to become of my home without her? what will become of the boys? good heavens, what am i going to do with the boys? good little souls--how quiet they are! it all hits them a great deal harder than it does me, i know. it won't be so bad when they're old enough to go off to school, but till then ... i must ask cecilia's advice; she'll have some ideas, and by the way, i wonder if cecilia thought to see about that sheraton sideboard for me?" and so on, and so on. hilary wimbourne's meditations never went very far without rounding up at a sheraton sideboard or an old sheffield urn or a nice bit of chienlung or a new idea for a pleached alley. let us not judge him. he was that sort of person. these reflections, and the complete outward silence in which they took place, were at last interrupted by a slight stirring of the sick woman on the bed. for the last time in her mortal life--and for very nearly the first, for the matter of that--edith wimbourne was to assume the center of her family stage. her husband and sons heard her sigh and stir slightly as she lay, and then the doctor and miss garver appeared to be busy over her for a few moments. probably they made shift to force a stimulant between her teeth, for in a moment or two she opened her eyes to the extent of seeing what was about her. almost the first sight that greeted them was that of her two sons sitting on the arms of their father's chair, and as she saw them she smiled faintly. the nurse glanced inquiringly toward the doctor, who nodded, and she went over and touched harry lightly on the shoulder. "come over and speak to your mother," she whispered, and harry walked to her side. very gently he took the hand that lay motionless on the bed and held it in his. he could not have uttered a word for the life of him. either the reviving action of the stimulant or the feeling of the warm blood pulsing through his young hand, or perhaps both, lent a little strength to the dying woman. she smiled again, and ever so slight a flush appeared on her wasted cheeks. "harry, dear harry," she whispered gently, and the boy leaned down to catch the words. "i am going to leave you, dear, and i am sorry. i know i should be very proud of you, if i could live ... be a good boy, harry, and don't forget your mother." she closed her eyes again, exhausted with the effort of speaking. dazed and motionless harry remained where he stood until the nurse led him gently away to make room for james. james stood for some moments as his brother had done, with his hand clasped in that of his mother. presently she opened her eyes once more, and gazed gravely for a moment or two at the face of her first-born, as though gathering her little remaining strength for what she had to say to him. "listen, dear," she said at last, and james bent down. "i'm going to die, james. try not to be too sorry about it. it is all for the best ... dearest, there is something i want you to do for me; you know how i have always trusted you, and depended on you--well, perhaps you don't know, but i have ... james, i want you to look out for harry. he needs it now, and he will need it a great deal more later. you will see what i mean, as you grow up. he is not made like you; he will need some one to look after him. can you promise me that you will do this?" "yes," whispered james. his mother sighed gently, as though with relief. "now kiss me, dear," she said, and then, almost inaudibly, "it is good to leave some one i can trust." then she closed her eyes, for the last time. james never repeated those words of his mother to any human being, as long as he lived, not even to harry. it would be too much to say that they were never absent from his thoughts, for in truth he thought but seldom of them, after the first few days. but in some compelling though intangible way he realized, as he stood there by his mother's death-bed, that he had accepted a trust from which nothing but death would release him. the doctor returned to the side of the dying woman. swiftly and quietly miss garver placed a hand on the shoulder of each of the two boys and led them from the room. edith wimbourne slept, and her sleep slowly passed into death. the man in the chair never moved. chapter ii aunts till miss garver had seen harry and james tucked away in their beds again and had put out the light and left their room, both the boys maintained the same outward composure that they had shown throughout the experiences of the night. but once left alone in the quiet of their darkened bedroom, no further ordeal ahead of them to inspire restraint--for they knew perfectly well by this time that their mother must be dead--they gave way entirely to their natural grief and spent what they both remembered afterward as the wretchedest night of their lives. it was scarcely better when miss garver woke them in the morning, though sleep had so completely erased all recollection of the night before that harry, lazily sitting up and rubbing his eyes, asked what time it was in the most natural voice in the world. "about ten o'clock," was the reply. "ten o'clock! why, we're an hour late for school already." "you are not going to school to-day," answered miss garver, gently, and she hated to say it, knowing that the remark would immediately set them remembering. when she turned toward them again she saw that it had, indeed. "listen," she told them, as gently as she could, "i want you both to get dressed now as quickly as possible and then go down and eat your breakfast. after that i am going to take you both down town. there is a good deal to be done. so hurry up." "why are you going to take us down town?" asked james. "to get some clothes." "but i don't understand," he began again, and then he did. he started dressing, mechanically, and had half completed his toilet before he noticed his brother, who was kneeling despairingly by his bed, with his face buried in the pillow. "come on, harry," he said gently; "i'm nearly ready." "no," moaned harry. "yes. it's got to be done, you know." "oh, go away and leave me alone." james bent his head down close to that of his brother. "you feel better when you're doing something," he said softly. harry, at length persuaded, arose and began to dress, and before long he began to feel that james was right. doing something did not remove the pain, or even ease it, but it made you notice it less. it was even better during breakfast. both the boys ate steadily and fairly copiously, though their enjoyment, if there was any, of what was customarily their pleasantest meal, was wholly subconscious. there was honey on the table, and harry, without realizing what he was doing, helped himself to it for a second time. he mechanically pushed the pot back toward james, who also partook. almost simultaneously their teeth closed on honey and muffin, and at the same time their eyes met. for two or three seconds they gazed shamefacedly at each other, and then stopped eating. harry left the table and stood in front of the window, looking out over the wide lawn. "oh, mother, mother," he cried within himself; "to think i should be eating honey and muffin, now, so soon, and enjoying it! oh, forgive me, forgive me!" when the first shock of self-contempt had passed off, the boys wandered into the library, in search of their father. they discovered him, seated at his desk as they had expected, but it was with a sharp shock of surprise that they perceived that he was interviewing the cook. both were more or less disgusted at the discovery, but they felt nevertheless, in a vague but reassuring way, that this partly justified the honey episode. the interview closed almost as soon as they entered, and their father called them over to him. "you have both been very good," he said, taking a hand of each of them; "this has all been very hard for you, i know." he paused, and then, seeing signs of tears on their faces, he went on somewhat hurriedly: "you must go down town with miss garver now; she has very kindly offered to get you what you will need for the funeral. aunt cecilia will take you to new york after that, i expect, and will fit you out more fully. the funeral will be to-morrow at three o'clock, and you will be on hand for that. i don't know whether any one told you; the baby died--the one that was born last night. it was a little girl; she only lived a few minutes. she will be buried with your mother. there will be a lot of people coming up to-day and to-morrow for the funeral; uncle james and aunt cecilia and various others, and as there is a good deal to arrange you must try to be a help and not a hindrance, and make yourselves useful if you can. now run along with miss garver and--oh, one more thing. i should advise you not to ask to see your mother again. you can, of course, if you want to, but i rather think you will not be sorry if you don't. you see, you probably have a good many years in which you will have to live on her memory, and i think it will be better if your last recollection of her is as she was when she was alive, not when she was dead ... and if you want to drive down to the station after lunch to meet uncle james and aunt cecilia on the two-fifty, you can. you'd better do that; it's a good thing to give yourself plenty of occupation. that's all--good-by." then they went off in search of black clothes, and somewhat to their surprise they noticed that miss garver had returned to her companionable self of the preceding days; it was almost as if their mother had not died, except that she was gravely cheerful now, instead of cheerfully cheerful, as before. before long the boys noticed that almost every one they had to do with adopted the attitude taken by miss garver. lunch, to be sure, was a rather terrible meal, for then they were alone with their father, and he, though he refrained from further allusion to the loss that hung over them all, was silent and preoccupied. but uncle james and aunt cecilia, when met at the station by their nephews, spoke and acted much as usual, and neither of them noticed that aunt cecilia's gentle eyes filled with tears as she kissed them. they had always loved aunt cecilia best of all their aunts, though she was not their real aunt, being the wife of their father's younger brother. of their uncle james the boys were both a little afraid, and never felt they understood him. he was much like their father, both in behavior and appearance--though he was clean-shaven and their father wore a beard and mustache--but he was much more unapproachable. he had an uncomfortable way of suddenly joining in a conversation with an apparently irrelevant remark, at which everybody would generally remain silent for a moment and then laugh, while he sat with grave and unchanged countenance. the boys had once spoken to their father of their uncle's apparent lack of sympathy; harry had complained that uncle james never seemed to "have any feelings." "well," replied their father, "he is a better lawyer than i am," and the boys never saw any sense in that reply till they remembered it years afterward, and even then they never could decide whether it was meant as an explanation or a corollary. later in the afternoon aunt selina arrived. there was always something magnificent and aloof about aunt selina; she had the air of having been transplanted out of a glorious past into a frivolous and inferior present, and being far too well-bred to comment on its inferiority, however keenly she was aware of it. she was the half-sister of hilary wimbourne, and much older than he, being the child of a first marriage of his father. harry and james were on the front steps to greet her as she drove up in state. her very manner of stepping out of the carriage and ascending the steps where she gravely bent and kissed each of her nephews with the same greeting--"how do you do, my dear james," "how do you do, my dear harry,"--was not so much a tribute to the gravity of this particular occasion as a typical instance of aunt selina's way of doing things. though only of average height, she generally gave the impression of being tall by the erect way in which she habitually carried her head, and by the straightness and spareness of her whole figure. her skirts always nobly swept the floor beside and behind her, in a day when other women's skirts hung limply about their ankles. both harry and james looked upon her with an awe which was only slightly modified by affection. but both boys' views of aunt selina underwent expansion within the next twenty-four hours, and they were to learn the interesting lesson that a warm and impulsive heart may be hidden within a forbidding exterior. aunt selina entered the home of the wimbournes with her customary quiet ceremony, and gravely greeted such of her relatives as were present, after which every one else in the room instinctively "stood around," waiting for her to make the first move. kind and gentle aunt cecilia, who was a daughter of one of new york's oldest and proudest and richest families, was no one in particular while aunt selina was in the room. miss wimbourne immediately proceeded to her bedroom, to repair the ravages of travel, and when she came down again she found the drawing-room deserted except for james, who was standing in front of a window and gazing out into the twilight. she went over and stood by him, also looking over the darkening lawn. "i am very glad to get this chance to see you, james," she said presently, in her subdued, measured tones, "even though the occasion for my being here is such a sad one. it is not often i get a chance to see any of my nephews and nieces." james mumbled an inarticulate monosyllable or two in reply, without turning his head. aunt selina had interrupted what was a bad half-hour for james. she turned and looked at him, and the look of dumb suffering on his face struck into the very roots of her heart. she stooped suddenly and put her arms about him, kissing his cheek with a warmth that was entirely new to james. "i know how it feels," she whispered; "i've been through it all, not once, but again and again, and i know just how bad it is. dear boy, how i wish i could bear it for you." she sat down on a little settee that stood in front of the window, still holding one of james' hands in hers, and the boy, after the first shock of astonishment had passed, sank down on his knees in front of her and buried his head in her lap. so he remained for some minutes, sobbing almost contentedly; it was sweet to find consolation in this unexpected quarter. presently he raised his miserable eyes to hers. "it's harry, too--partly--" he said, and could go no further. "yes, i know that too," said his aunt. "you mean that you have to bear up on harry's account--" "yes!" "because you are older and stronger than he, and you know he would suffer more if you let him see how much you suffer. so you go about with the pain burning your very heart out, because all the time something in his face makes it impossible for you to breathe a word more of it than you can help. and so every one gets the idea you are more hard-hearted than he," she went on passionately, letting her voice sink to a whisper, "and are not capable of as much feeling as he. but you don't care what people think; you don't know or care about anything except oh! if you only might go somewhere and shriek it all out to somebody, anybody! and after a lifetime of that sort of thing self-repression becomes second nature to you, so that you can't say a thing you think or feel, and you become the sort of living mummy that i am, with your soul dead and embalmed years ago, while your body, your worthless, useless body, goes on living and living. you have begun it early, my poor james!" she stopped, quite as much astounded at her own outburst as james. the boy no longer cried, for astonishment had driven away his tears, but stared thoughtfully out of the window. he had not caught the full meaning of all that his aunt had said, but he knew that he was receiving a most important confidence from the most unexpected possible quarter, which was exactly in tune with his own mood. the good lady herself was for a few moments literally too bewildered to utter a word. "good heavens!" ran her astonished thoughts, "do you know what you have done, selina wimbourne? you have made more of a fool of yourself in the last five minutes than you have done in all the years since you were a girl! god grant it may do him no harm." to james she said aloud, as soon as she could control her voice: "i am a foolish and indiscreet old woman, james--" "no, you're not," interrupts the boy with sudden spirit. "well, i've said a great deal more than i ought, at any rate. i don't want you to get any false impression from what i have told you. i want to explain to you that all the suffering i have undergone from--in the way i have told you--has not hurt me, but has rather benefited me. you see, there are two kinds of human suffering. one is forced upon you from the outside. you can't prevent that kind, you just have to go through with it. it never is as bad as you think it is going to be, i find. the other kind you make for yourself, by doing the wrong thing when you know you ought to be doing the right thing. that is the really bad kind of suffering, and you can always prevent it by doing the thing you know is right." "you mean," said james thoughtfully, "that it would have been even worse for you if you had squealed, when you knew--when you knew you ought not to!" "exactly. it's simply a question of the lesser of two evils. doing the pleasant but wrong thing hurts more in the end than doing the disagreeable but right thing." "i see. but suppose you can't tell which is the right thing and which the wrong one?" "ah, there you've put your finger on a real difficulty. you just have to think it all over and decide as best you can, and then, if it turns out wrong, you're not so much to blame. then, your suffering is of the kind that you can't help. no one can do any better than what he thinks is right at the time.... now get up, dear, i hear people coming." "well, thank you, aunt selina. what you have told me helps, an awful lot. really!" "i am glad, my dear," replied miss wimbourne, and when people entered the room a second or two later no one suspected the sudden bond of sympathy that had sprung up between the specimens of crabbed age and youth they found there. "cecilia, what's going to become of those two boys?" inquired miss wimbourne later in the evening, finding herself for the moment alone with her sister-in-law. "i've been asking myself that question pretty steadily for the last twelve hours," answered mrs. james. "i wish _i_ could take them," she added, impulsively. "hardly, i suppose." if any of the remarks made in this conversation seem abrupt or inconsequent, it must be remembered that these two ladies understood each other pretty thoroughly without having to polish off or even finish their sentences, or even to make them consecutive. "unfortunately," went on mrs. james, after a brief pause, "the whole thing depends entirely upon hilary." "the very last person--" "exactly. yet what can one do?" "it seems quite clear to me," said aunt selina, choosing her words carefully and slowly, "that hilary will inevitably choose the one course which is most to be avoided. hilary will want them to go on living here alone with him; preserve the _status quo_ as far as possible. what do you think?" "i am almost sure of it. but...." "but if any of us have the slightest feeling for those boys ... until they are both safely away at school, at any rate, and he won't send them away for a year or two yet, at any rate." "harry not for three, i should say.... that is, _i_ shouldn't." silence for a moment, then aunt selina: "well, can you think of any one that could be got to come here?" mrs. james fluttered for a moment, as though preparing for a delicate and difficult advance. "i wonder," she said, "that is, the thought struck me to-day--if you--if _you_ could ever--" "hilary and i," observed aunt selina in calm, clear impersonal tones that once for all disposed of the suggestion; "hilary and i do not get on. that way, i mean. at a distance--" the sentence was completed by a gesture that somehow managed to convey an impression of understanding and amity at a distance. mrs. james' subdued "oh!" of comprehension, or rather of resignation, bid fair for a while to close the interview. but presently aunt selina, with the air of one accepting a sword offered with hilt toward her, asked, or rather observed, as though it was not a question at all, but a statement: "what do you think of agatha fraile?" "well," replied mrs. james with something of a burnt-child air; "i like her. though i hardly know her, of course. i should say she would be willing, too. though of course one can't tell.... they are not well off, i believe.... she is very good, no doubt...." "hm," said aunt selina serenely, aware that there was a conversational ditch to be taken, and determined to make her interlocutrix give her a lead. this aunt cecilia bravely did with: "you mean--how much does she know about--?" "about hilary, yes." "i rather think, myself, she must have found out through edith.... i don't see how she could have failed to know. do you?" "i can't say, i'm sure. edith had rather curious ideas, though she was one of the best women that ever lived. however, that is not the main point for consideration now. what i want to know is, can you think of anything better?" "n-no," replied mrs. james slowly. "i even think it would be the best possible arrangement, if--oh dear, to think it should come to this--those poor boys!" "yes, i know," said aunt selina, briskly. "now, that being decided, some one has got to put it to hilary. hilary will do nothing alone. she comes to-morrow morning, does she not? i think it should be settled, one way or the other, before she goes. now who is to approach hilary?" "i don't know," faltered mrs. james, rather bewildered by the other's swiftness of reasoning. "well, i do. james is the only human being i know who has, or ever had, any influence on hilary. now one of us has got to talk to james, and i rather think, cecilia, that i could do it more successfully than you. for the first time, that is.... of course, afterward, you...." "yes, of course," murmurs mrs. james. "very well, then; i will see james the first thing in the morning. i don't say it will come to anything, but there is a great deal to be gone through before she is even approached. we must do _something_. living here alone, with their father...." "out of the question, of course." the conversation having, as it were, completed one lap of its course and arrived again at its starting point, might have perambulated gently along till bedtime, had it not been abruptly interrupted by the entrance of james, junior, come to say good-night. * * * * * a few days after the funeral, after they had gone to bed of an evening, harry through the darkness apostrophized his brother thus: "i tell you, james, aunt selina is all right; did you know it?" "oh," was the reply, "she gave you five dollars, too, did she?" "yes, but that's not what i mean. she's given me five dollars plenty of times before this." "well, what do you mean, then?" "well, she found me in the garden one morning.... tuesday, i guess--" tuesday had been the day of the funeral--"and i had been crying a good deal, and i suppose she knew it. at any rate, she took me by the hand and talked to me for a while...." "what did she say to you?" this question was not prompted by vulgar curiosity; james knew that his brother wished to be pumped. "oh, she didn't _say_ much. she was just awfully nice, that's all.... she told me--well, she said, for one thing, that i cried too much. only she didn't say it like that. she said that going about and crying wasn't much of a way of showing you were sorry. she said that if--well, if you really _missed_ a person, the least you could do was not to go about making a pest of yourself, even if you couldn't really do anything to help." "oh." "she said that the last thing that would please mama herself was to think that all she had taught me came to no more than ... well, than crying. then she said.... i don't think i'll tell you that, though." "well, don't, if you don't want to." "she told me that, in a way, she realized i must feel it--about mama--more than any one else, because i had been more with her lately than any one else--more dependent on her, she said, ..." "yes, i see." "and that while it was harder on me, it put a greater responsibility on me, because, you see--oh, i can't explain it all! but she was about right, i guess." "she told me something of the same kind ... not exactly like that, i mean, but--well, the same sort of thing. it helped, too. it's funny, to think of her understanding better than any one else--aunt selina!" "yes, isn't it? well, you really never can tell about people." with which mature reflection harry turned over and went to sleep. but his brother lay awake for some time thinking over what he had just heard, and as he thought, his respect for his aunt grew. not only could she sound the depths of his own woe and give him comfort for it, but she could light on the one thing that would be likely to help harry in his own peculiar need, and show it to him with ready and fearless tact. and what she had told harry was practically the very opposite of what she had told him. "i wish i could be like aunt selina," he thought. chapter iii not colonial; georgian harry and james lived in the city of new haven in a big house surrounded by spacious grounds. the house itself was an old and stately one; the local papers, when they had occasion to mention it, usually referred to it as the wimbourne "mansion." the boys' dislike of this word dated from an early age, when their father informed them that it was a loathsome expression, which people who "really knew" never used under any circumstances. he himself, if he had had occasion to describe it, would have spoken of it as a "place." the house was built in the first decade of the nineteenth century. it was put up by hilary wimbourne's great-grandfather james, first of the name, the founder of the family fortunes. he came to new haven as a penniless apprentice to a carriage-maker after the conclusion of the revolutionary wars left him without other occupation, and within ten years after his arrival he became one of the two or three most prominent lawyers in the place. his understanding of his early trade he turned to good account by investing a large portion of his earnings as a lawyer in the carriage factory in which he originally served, and which with the benefit of his money and business acumen, became the most profitable of its kind in the town. he bought a farm in what were then the extreme outskirts of the city and built the spacious, foursquare, comfortable-looking house in which the wimbournes with whom we have to deal still lived, nearly one hundred years later. the house stood in a commanding position above an up-town avenue. it was painted white with green trimmings, and had a front portico of tall doric columns reaching up to the top of the house. people habitually referred to its style of architecture as "colonial." "post-colonial," or "late american georgian" would have come much nearer the mark, but these distinctions are as naught to the great and glorious body of new england's inhabitants, to whom everything with pillars is and always will be "colonial." the house was in truth a fine example of its style, and had been surprisingly little spoiled by the generations of wimbournes that had lived and died in it, but the unity of its general effect was marred by the addition of two wings reaching out from its sides, erected by hilary wimbourne's father in the fifties and showing all the peculiarities of that glorious but architecturally weak period. friends of the family often expressed sympathy and sorrow at the anachronism the house was thus made to offer, but hilary soon became somewhat impatient of these. in fact, he never listened to an expression of regret on the subject without breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the wings had been built when they were, and not ten or twenty or thirty years later, when architectural indiscretion ran to extremes only vaguely hinted at in the forties and fifties. "besides," he would explain to those who showed interest in the matter, "those wings are not always going to look as badly as they do now. our eyes will always look on them as unpleasantly different from the old house, but the eyes of a hundred years hence will see in them nothing more than a quaint and agreeable variety. after all, the two styles are but two different aspects of neo-classicism, one a little more remote from its original model than the other. history has proved what i say; think how the sensitive must have shuddered in the fifteenth century when they saw a lot of perpendicular gothic slammed down by the side of pure early english! it must have looked like the very devil to them." only very few people heard this theory carried back to its logical conclusion, however. hilary would see and recognize the drowning expression that came over their faces, and as soon as he knew that he was beyond their depth he stopped, for he made it a rule never to talk above people's heads. consequently he seldom got beyond the "neo-classicism" point. as far as the interior was concerned, the atmosphere of the old days had been almost perfectly preserved. every wall-paper, every decoration had, by some lucky succession of chances, been as nearly as possible duplicated when it became necessary to replace or restore, and the hand of the seventies and eighties left almost no trace of its equally ruthless destructive and constructive powers. so that at the time of which we write the house was furnished almost completely in the style of the late georgian period, for what his ancestors omitted to leave him the faultless taste of hilary supplied. the house faced westward and toward the principal street of the neighborhood; the ground fell gently away from it on all sides, but most steeply toward the west. carriage drives led up to the house from the two corners formed by the main thoroughfare and the two intersecting streets which bounded the property. a tar footpath followed the curve of each driveway, so that between the street and the front door of the house there stretched an unbroken expanse of green lawn. in their early youth harry and james both wondered why no footpath ran directly up the middle of the front lawn, as was the case with most of the other front lawns of their acquaintance, and they considered it monstrously inconvenient that they were obliged to "go way round by the corners" when they wished to reach the house from without. at length, however, the brilliant thought occurred to them that as they always approached the house either from the north or the south, and never from the unbroken block to the west, they could not well have used a central walk if they had had it. such was the setting in which the early lives of these two boys took place, and, taking one thing with another, their lot could probably not have been bettered. the first ten years of their lives had the divine monotony of perfect happiness and harmony, in which no more momentous events than the measles, a change of school, or summer trips to the coast of maine or, more rarely, to europe, ever occurred. they were brought up, from their earliest years, under the direct but never too obtrusive eye of their mother, and as we have already heard aunt selina describe her as "one of the best women that ever lived," we should be guilty of something akin to painting the rose if we ventured on any further encomiums of her character on our own account. their relation with their father was hardly less ideal, though they saw much less of him and were, at bottom, less deeply attached to him than to their mother. hilary was fond of his boys, and was capable of entering into their youthful moods with a sort of intimate aloofness that the boys found very winning. not infrequently he would suddenly swoop down on them in their happy but humdrum occupations and carry them off to a baseball game or perhaps to new york for the day to spend a few hours of bliss in the aquarium or the zoo, in less time than it frequently took their mother to decide what overcoats they should wear to school. this dashing _insouciance_ secretly captivated their mother as much as it did them, and though by this time she had given up showing the delight it caused her, she was never more pleased than when hilary would so take them off. hilary also read to them occasionally, and his reading was another source of secret admiration to their mother. he never read them anything but what his wife would have described, and rightly, too, as "far beyond them"; such things as spenser, shakespeare, sheridan, or milton, even; and he always read with such a mock-serious air as sir henry irving used in the scene where charles i recites poetry to his children. his wife on such occasions, though perfectly content with her rôle of henrietta maria, would reflect that if _she_ tried to read such things to them they would be fidgeting and walking about the room and longing for her to stop, instead of sitting spellbound, as they did when he read, on the arms of his chair and breathlessly following each word of the text. with another parent and with other children such reading would have proved utterly sterile, but from it the boys managed to absorb a good deal of pleasure and the germs of literary appreciation as well, and the words of many a great passage in many a great author became dear to them long before they were able to grasp their full meaning. results of their literary sessions would crop out in the family intercourse in sundry curious ways. one instance may serve to illustrate this. the family were sitting about together one day after lunch; edith wimbourne had a pile of household mending before her. "i declare," she said, "these tablecloths have simply rotted away from lying in that dark closet; they would have lasted much better if they had been used a little." "she let concealment," said hilary from behind a magazine, "like a worm i' the bud, feed--what did concealment feed on, james?" "feed on her damask--" "tablecloth!" shouts harry, brilliantly but indiscreetly. "oh, shut up," retorts his brother, peevishly, as who would not, at having the words snatched from his mouth? "you needn't be so smart, i was going to say that anyway." "the heck you were!" "yes, i was." "you were not! you were going to say 'cheek'; i saw you start to say it." "oh, shut up! can't any one be bright but you?" "that's all right; you were going to say it. wasn't he, father?" asks harry, with the air of one appealing to the supreme authority. "what?" hilary had long since returned to his magazine. "say 'cheek.' wasn't he going to?" "who?" "james, of course." "i trust not. it seems to me that it is one of the slang words your mother has requested you not to use." "wha--what is?" "cheek." not much of a joke, certainly, but hilary, looking with impenetrable gravity over his glasses at his son, when he really knows perfectly well what harry is talking about, is funny. at any rate harry stops to laugh, and the quarrel is a failure. edith could have stopped the quarrel by simply enjoining peace, but she could not have done it without resort to parental authority. one day james, ordinarily phlegmatic and self-controlled, ran through the house in a great state of dishevelment and distress in search of his mother, holding aloft a bloody finger and weeping hot tears of woe. "where's mama?" he inquired breathlessly, ending up in the library and finding his father alone there. "out, i think. what's the matter?" "oh, nothing.... a kid licked me.... i wanted something for this finger." "well, go upstairs and get that large brown bottle on my wash-stand, and we'll see what we can do about it." hilary, taking a page out of his own boyhood, guessed that no mere cut finger could have reduced james to such an abject pass. he suspected that his son, who, unlike harry, was almost morbidly sensitive to appearances and almost never gave way to demonstrations of grief, had augmented the disgrace of being thrashed by allowing himself to be reduced to a state of tears in the presence of his fellows. some such occurrence only could account for this precipitate rout. one or two further inquiries confirmed this conjecture, and he then prepared to apply, if possible, a balm to his son's mental wound as well as the physical one. "there," said he, giving a final pull to an unprofessional-looking bandage, composed of an entirely un-antiseptic handkerchief, "that will stay till your mother comes in. now go and get me that green book on the third shelf and i'll read to you for a while, if you want." the green book happened to be no less notable a work than "paradise lost," and hilary, turning to the last pages of the twelfth book, read of the expulsion of our sinning forbears from eden. he read milton rather well, almost as well, in fact, as he secretly thought he did, and james, though incapable at first of listening attentively or understanding much of anything, was gradually soothed by the solemn music of the lines; by the time his father reached the closing passage he was listening with wide open ears. they, looking back, all the eastern side beheld of paradise, so late their happy seat, waved over by that flaming brand; the gate with dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; the world was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, and providence their guide. they, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, through eden took their solitary way. hilary kept the book open on his knee for a moment after he had finished, and he noticed with interest that james leaned forward with aroused attention to read over the passage again. "some natural tears--wiped them soon--the world was all before them--" the words sank in on james' mind as his father knew they would, and suggested the thought that the world need not be irrevocably lost through one indiscretion. let no one gain from these somewhat extended accounts of hilary's dealings with his sons an impression to the effect that the boys found a more sympathetic friend in their father than in their mother. as a matter of fact, the exact contrary was true. like all perfect art, hilary's successful passages with them bore no trace of the means by which they were brought about, and consequently they did not feel that their father's attitude toward them was inspired by anything like the warm and undisguised affection which pervaded their mother's. nor, indeed, was it. james, even in these early days, showed signs of having inherited a fair share of his father's inborn tact in his dealings with his brother. the fraternal relation is always an interesting one to observe, because of its extreme elasticity, combining, as it does, apparently unlimited possibilities for love, hate and indifference. who ever saw two pairs of brothers that seemed to regard each other with exactly the same feelings? harry and james certainly did not hate each other, but on the other hand they did not love each other with that passionate devotion that is supposed to characterize the ideal brothers of fancy. nor could they truthfully be called wholly indifferent to each other; their mutual attitude lay somewhere between indifference and the castor-and-pollux-like devotion that the older and less attractive of their relatives constantly tried to instil in their youthful bosoms. they were never bored by each other. james always felt for harry's superior quickness in all intellectual matters an admiration which he would have died sooner than give full expression to, and harry, though he frequently scouted his brother's opinions in all matters, had a profound respect for james' clearness and maturity of judgment. but what, more than anything else, kept them on good terms with each other and always, at the last moment, prevented serious ructions, was a way that james had at times of viewing their relation in a detached and impersonal light, and acting accordingly. on such occasions he appeared to be two people; first, the james that was harry's brother and contemporary, less than two years older than he and subject to the same desires and weakness, and, secondly, the james who stood as judge over their differences and distributed justice to them both with a fair and impartial hand. for instance, there was the episode of the neckties. a distant relative, a cousin of their mother's, who does not really come into the story at all, took occasion of expressing her approval of their existence by sending them two neckties, one purple and one green, with the direction that they should decide between them which was to have which. james, by the right of primogeniture that prevails among most families of children, was given the first choice, and picked out the purple one. harry quietly took the other, but though there was no open dissatisfaction expressed, it soon became evident to james that his brother was tremendously disappointed. during the rest of the day, as he went about his business and pleasure, vague but disturbing recollections flitted through james' mind of harry's being particularly anxious to possess a purple tie, of having been half promised one, indeed, by the very relative from whom these blessings came; circumstances which, from the wording of the letter which accompanied the gift, obviously constituted no legal claim on the tie, but were nevertheless enough to appeal to james' sense of moral, or "ultimate" justice. the next morning james, according to custom, approaching the completion of his dressing some time before harry, remarked in a casual tone: "oh, you can have that purple tie, if you want. i'd just as lief take the green one." harry, who had taken the attitude of being willing to suffer to the point of death before making a complaint in the matter, would not allow this. in the brief conversational intervals that the spirited wielding of a sponge, and subsequently of a towel, allowed, he disclaimed any predilection for ties of any particular color, or of any particular kind of tie, or for any particular color in general. clothes were a matter of complete indifference for him; he had never been able to understand why people spent their time in raving inanely over this or that particular manner of robing themselves. as for colors, he could scarcely bother to tell one from the other; the prism presented to him a field in which it was impossible to make any choice. if, however, in his weaker moments, he had ever felt a passing fancy for one color over and above another, that color was undoubtedly green. and so on, and so forth. james made no further observation on the subject, but when he reached the necktie stage in his dressing, he quietly put on the green tie, and harry, like the roman senators of old, subsequently flashed in the purple. james preferred the purple tie, but he let harry have it because harry felt more keenly on the subject than he. "if"--so ran the substance of his reasoning--"if i give way in this matter, about which i do not particularly care, one way or the other, there will be a better chance of my getting what i want some other time, when the issue is a really vital one. by sacrificing a penny now, i gain a pound in the future." such clearness of sight was beyond james' years, and, but for the real sense of justice that accompanied it might have made him an opportunist. james would never in the last resort, have used his reasoning powers to cheat harry, who, though his brother, was, when all was said and done, his best friend. chapter iv puppy dogs, and a psychological fact the story of the life of any person begins with the moment of his birth and ends with the last breath that leaves his body. the complete account of the inward and outward experiences that go to make up any one individual life would, if properly told, be the most fascinating story in the world, for there never lived a person who did not carry about within himself the materials for a great and complete novel. such stories have never yet been written, and probably never will be, partly because they would be too long and partly because the thing would be so confoundedly hard to do. so as to make it interesting, that is. we have chosen to begin this account of the lives, or rather, a section of the lives, of harry and james at the death of their mother because that was their first great outward experience. it influenced their inward lives even more fundamentally. it lifted their thoughts, their whole outlook on life, from what, for want of a better expression, might be called the level of youthful development and sent them branching and soaring into new and strange regions. one of the most important outward changes that edith wimbourne's death caused in the life of her household was the substitution, as far as such a thing could be, of her younger sister, agatha fraile, in her place. such was, in a word, the ultimate fruit of the conversation between aunt selina and aunt cecilia that occurred a chapter or two ago. james wimbourne was approached and convinced, and in his turn approached and convinced his brother hilary, who, in his turn, came back to his half-sister selina and persuaded her to approach and convince that lady in question on his behalf. aunt selina was perfectly willing to do this, though she had not counted on it. "miss fraile," she said, on the first occasion for speech that presented itself; "my brother hilary has asked me to put a proposition to you on his behalf. what would you say to coming here and living with him as his housekeeper and having an eye on those two boys, until--well, say till it is time for them to go off to a boarding-school?" this direct manner of approach was perhaps the one best calculated to win miss fraile, who after a very little parley, assented to the proposition. she was a very young and fragile-looking woman, having but lately passed her thirtieth birthday, but she was in reality quite as able to take care of herself as the next person, if not, indeed, a great deal more so. she was the very antithesis, as the boys presently discovered, of aunt selina, being all smiles and cordiality on the outside and about as hard as tempered steel when you got a little below the surface, in spite of her smiles, and in spite, moreover, of her really unusual and perfectly sincere piety. "i think," went on aunt selina rather magnificently, after the main point had been gained, "that in the matter of the stipend there will be no difficulty at all. you will find my brother entirely liberal in such matters." here she named a sum, miss fraile instantly decided that it would not do, and proceeded after her own fashion to the work of raising her opponent's bid. "how very good of him," she murmured, letting her eyes fall to the carpet. "all of our family have unfortunately been obliged to devote so much thought and attention to money matters since our dear father's death left us so badly off. let me see.... i suppose my duties here would take up very nearly all my time, would they not?" "i do not know.... i daresay...." "exactly; one has to look so far ahead in all these matters, does one not? i mean, that looking after this great house and those two dear boys and hilary himself would not leave me much time for anything like music lessons, would it? perhaps you did not know that i gave music lessons at home?... money is such a bother--! i suppose i should scarcely have time to practise here myself, with one thing and another--household affairs do pile up so, do they not?--without thinking of lessons or anything of that sort; yet i daresay i should somehow be able to ... to make it up, that is, if--" "how much more would you need?" asked aunt selina bluntly. miss fraile named a sum half as large again as the one previously mentioned, but aunt selina, stifling a gasp, clinched the matter there. after the funeral miss fraile returned to her home in semi-rural pennsylvania "to collect my traps" as she brightly put it, and a week or so later came back to new haven and settled down in her new position. the boys on the whole liked their aunt agatha, though even their exuberant boyish natures occasionally found her cheerfulness a little oppressive, and she certainly did very well for them and for their father. she ordered the meals, saw to the housework, arranged the flowers, dusted the bric-à-brac with her own hands, did most of the mending and presided at the head of the table at meals, fairly radiating peace and cheer. hilary was a little appalled, to be sure, when she would burst on him on his returning to the house of an evening with a pair of warmed slippers in her hand and a musical little peal of laughter on her lips, but he did not have to see much of her, and besides, he so thoroughly approved of her. "it is like living with mary and martha rolled into one," he told his brother a month or two after her arrival; "with a little of job and the archangel gabriel thrown in, flavored with a spice of st. elizabeth of hungary--that bread woman, you know--and just a dash of st. francis of assisi. she has covered the lawn knee-deep with bread crumbs for the sparrows, and when she is not busy with her church work, which she almost always is, she goes about kissing strange children on the head and asking them if they say their prayers regularly. they all seem to like her, too; that's the funny part of it. the boys are entirely happy with her, and she is splendid for them. in short, i am entertaining an angel, though not unawares--oh, no, certainly not unawares." the two boys were thrown on each other's society much more constantly than formerly, especially as, during the first weeks, at any rate, they had small heart for the games of their schoolmates. james especially, during these days of retirement, observed his brother with a newly-awakened interest, and in the light, of course, of his mother's last words to him. he had always thought of harry as more irresponsible and light-headed than himself, but it had never occurred to him that he could give him any help against his impulsiveness beyond the customary fraternal criticism and banter. now he began to see that his position of elder brother, combined with his superior balance and poise of character, gave him a considerable influence over harry, and he began to feel at times an actual sense of responsibility very different from the attitude of tolerant and half-amused superiority with which he had previously regarded harry's vagaries. at such times he would drop his ridicule or blame, whichever it happened to be, and would become silent and embarrassed, feeling that he should be helping harry instead of merely laying stress on his shortcomings, and yet not having the first idea of how to go to work about it. one day they were returning to the house after a walk through a somewhat slummy and hoodlum-infested neighborhood and came upon a group of boys tormenting a small, dirty, yellow mongrel puppy after the humorous manner of their kind. they were not actually cruel to the dog, but they were certainly not giving it a good time, and harry's tender heart was stirred to its core. without a word or a second thought he rushed into the middle of the gang, extracted the puppy and ran off with it to a place of safety. the thing was done in the modern rather than in the romantic style; he did not strike out at boys twice as big as himself--there were none there, in the first place, and in any case he had no desire for a fight--nor did he indulge in a lengthy tirade against cruelty to animals; he simply grabbed the dog and ran. the "micks" followed him at first, but he could run faster than they and none of them cared much about a puppy, one way or the other. james, meanwhile, had run off a different way, and when presently he came upon his brother again he was walking leisurely along clasping the puppy in a close embrace. "you certainly are a young fool," said james, half amused and half irritated; "what did you want to get mixed up in a street row like that for? darned lucky you didn't get your head smashed." harry thought it needless to reply to this, as the facts spoke for themselves, and merely walked on, hugging and kissing his prize. then suddenly the situation dawned on james in its new light, and he walked on, silent as harry himself and far more perplexed. harry's fundamental motive was a good one, no doubt, but he realized what disproportionate trouble the reckless following up of harry's good motives might bring him into. this time he had luckily escaped scot free, but the next time he would very likely get mixed up in a street fight, and would be lucky if he were able to walk home. and all about so little--the dog was not really suffering; being a slum dog it had probably thrived on teasing and mistreatment since before its eyes were open. and the worst part of the situation was that he was so helpless in making harry see the thing in its true light. at any rate, he reflected, his first attitude was of no avail. calling harry a fool, he knew, would not convince him of his foolishness; it would more likely have the effect of making him think he was more right than ever. as he walked silently on, beside his brother, harry's shortcomings seemed to dwindle and his own to increase. "let's have a look at the beast," he said presently in an altered tone, stopping and taking the puppy from harry's arms. "he's not such a bad puppy, after all. wonder how old he is." he sat down on a nearby curbstone and balancing the puppy on his knee apostrophized him further: "well, it was poor pupsy-wupsy; did the naughty boys throw stones at it? that was a dirty shame, it was!" james put the puppy down in the gutter and encouraged playfulness. for a few minutes the two boys watched its somewhat reluctant antics; then james asked: "what are you going to do with it, anyway?" "take it home, i suppose." "what'll you do with it there? keep him in the house?" "no. that is, i suppose father wouldn't hear of it." "i suppose not a puppy...! there are three dogs in the house anyway." "what about the stable, then?" "i don't know. there's thomas." thomas was the coachman, who made no secret of his dislike for dogs "under the horses' hoofs." "yes," said harry, "and spark, too. spark would try to bite him, i'm afraid." "what are you going to do with him, then?" "i don't know; what shall we?" "it's for you to say--he's your dog." "do you think," said harry, lowering his voice and gazing furtively around, "do you think it would be all right just to leave him here?" james laughed, inwardly. then a bright idea struck him. grasping the puppy in one hand he walked across the street to a small and dirty front yard in which a small and dirty child of four or five was sitting playing. "hullo, kid," said james breezily, "do you want a puppy dog? here you are, then. he's a very valuable dog, so be careful of him. mind you don't pull his tail now, or he'll bite." james walked off well pleased with the turn of events, which left harry relieved and satisfied and the dog honorably disposed of. as for harry, he was profoundly grateful. he would have liked to give some expression to his gratitude, but the words would not come, and he walked on for some time without speaking. but he was determined to give some sign of what he felt. "thank you, james," he said at length in a low voice, and blushed to the roots of his hair. "what? oh, that's all right." james' surprise was no affectation; the matter had really passed from his mind. but he gave to harry's words the full meaning that the speaker placed in them. they made him feel suddenly ashamed of himself; what had harry done that was wrong? what had he done but what was right and praiseworthy, when you came to look at it? should he not be ashamed himself of not having run in and rescued the dog before harry? and yet, most of the things that harry did worked out wrong, somehow, even when they were prompted by the best of motives. "poor harry," thought james, "he's always getting into scrapes, and yet i suppose, if everything were known, people would see that he was twice as good as i am, at bottom. i would never have thought of saving that dog; harry thinks out such funny things to do.... i can generally do the right thing, if it's put directly up to me, but harry goes out and searches for the right thing to do; i guess that's what it amounts to. only, i wish he didn't have to search in such strange places." as james settled down into his position of mentor to his brother he found out a curious thing; he was fonder of harry than formerly. the old sense of unconscious, taking-it-for-granted companionship gradually became infused with positive affection which, for the reason that it found little if any outward expression in the daily round of work and play, escaped the notice of everybody except james himself. "do you think that doing something for a person would ever make you fonder of that person?" he once asked of his father when they were alone together. "i mean--i should think, that is, that it would work out the other way, so that the person you did the thing for would be fonder of you." "it's a well known psychological fact," replied his father; "i've often noticed it. if you merely stop a person in the street and ask him the way, or what time it is, you can see his expression change from one of indifference, or even dislike, to interest and cordiality. and if you ever feel that a man, an acquaintance, doesn't like you, ask him to do you some slight service, and he'll admire you intensely from that moment on. and conversely, if you want to make a man your enemy, the best way of going about it is to do something for him.--why, what made you think of it?" "thomas," replied james promptly, being prepared for the question. "he was cross as two sticks the other day when we wanted to build forts in the haymow, but after i asked him to help me put the chain on my bicycle," etc., etc. but james was disturbed by his father's development of the theory. what if his "helping out" harry should have the effect of making him hate him, james, the very effect of all others he desired to avoid? he resolved to keep his new-found feeling to himself, and give his brother's resentment no foothold; but he could not entirely live it down, for all that. unconsciously he found fault less with him, unconsciously he would take his part in squabbles with the servants or with his father; and as he noticed no change in harry's conduct toward him he congratulated himself on his powers of concealment. but he need have had no worries on the score of harry's resenting his protection. to harry, james had always appeared to partake somewhat of the nature of a divinity; if not apollo or jupiter, out and out, he was at least hercules, say, or theseus. and though, in the very nature of things in general and the fraternal relation in particular, he was obliged outwardly to deny james' superiority in everything and more especially the right to boss younger brothers, he was acutely, almost pathetically, sensitive to james' demeanor toward him and was entirely ready to respond to any increase in good feeling, if james would lead the way. james, with all his insight and quickness of perception, failed to count upon the fact that harry would be as slow in making a parade of his feelings as he himself, and was a little surprised that harry made so slight a demonstration of sorrow when, about a year after their mother's death, james was sent off to school. harry, indeed, sought to cover his secret conviction that he would really miss his brother very much by repeated harpings upon the blessings that james' presence had ever kept from him, and now, the obstacle being removed, would shower copiously on his deserving, but hitherto officially unrecognized, head. now he would get the first go at all dishes at table, now he would always sit on the box beside thomas and drive, now people would see whether he could not be on time for breakfast without his brother's assistance, and so forth. james smiled tolerantly at all such talk; he knew that it did not amount to much, though even he failed to realize quite how little. when the fatal morning came the brothers parted with complete cordiality and every outward expression of mutual contempt. "be very careful about putting on your clothes in the morning, kid," said james as the train that was to take him off rolled into the station. "you put on your undershirt first, remember, then your shirt and coat. don't go putting your undershirt over your coat; people might laugh." "all right, you dear thoughtful boy, i'll try to remember, but i shall be pretty busy hoping that those other kids'll lick the tar out of you, for the first time in your innocent life. you're a good boy at heart, james; all you need is to have the nonsense knocked out of you!" james' first letter to his brother from school, written some ten days after his departure, is still extant, and may be quoted in full as a document in the story. st. barnabas' school. october . dear harry: i meant to have written you before, but i have been so busy that there was no time. this certainly is a fine place, and i like it a lot already. there are new boys this term, which is fewer than usual, but they say we are an unusually good crowd. we say so, at any rate! there was a big rough-house in our corridor saturday night. a lot of the old boys came down and turned the new fellows after lights were out, and also made them run the gauntlet down the hall, standing at the sides and swatting them with belts and things as they went by. that was much worse than the turning, which did not amount to much. i got turned five times, and brush, the fellow that rooms with me, six times. that was not much. there was one chap that got turned times that one night. that was hawley. they call him 'stink' hawley already, because he is so dirty looking. they say he has not washed his face since he came. gosh, i wonder what you will be called when you get here! "what a filthy lie!" shrieked harry when he reached this, making up in vehemence what he lacked in coherence. his alleged aversion to the wash-basin was a standing joke in the family, and any reference to it invariably brought a rise. "gracious, dear," murmured aunt agatha, and smiled. "let's hear," said his father, suspending judgment. (the scene took place at the breakfast table.) harry read the letter aloud up to the point in question, and was relieved to observe an exculpatory smile on his father's lips when he stopped. "i admit there is an implication in that last remark," said hilary, "that might prove irritating. however, that's no excuse for making a menagerie of yourself. what else does james say?" harry read on: there always is a big rough-house the first two or three saturday nights every year, and after that they keep pretty quiet. they say the masters let them do what they like, almost, those first nights, because they behave better afterwards and it keeps the new boys from being too fresh. that's what i'll be doing to you, you see, next year! i have been playing football every day, and am trying for the fourth team. do you remember roswell banks, that boy we saw up at northeast? he is going to make the first team this year, probably. they say he tackles better than any one else here. kid leffingwell also plays a peach of a game, but he won't make the first this year. he is too light, but he has got lots of nerve. i must stop now, so good-night. your affectionate brother, james. the present writer has no quarrel with any one who is unable to detect in this letter symptoms of any particularly keen brotherly affection. it is his private opinion, however, that such exist there. he thinks, _imprimis_, that james, strange as it may appear, laid himself out to be more agreeable in that letter than he would if he had written it, say, a year previously. it is longer and fuller than james' letters usually were. and--though this may be drawing the point too fine--he thinks that the exclamation point after "that's what i'll be doing to you next year" would not have been put in under the old régime. an exclamation point does so much toward toning down and softening a disagreeable remark! and for the manner of signature, of course james might have signed himself like that to harry at any time of his life. yet the writer, even at the risk of being called super-sensitive, will not ignore the fact that most of james' letters to his brother previous to this date are signed, more casually, "yours affect'ly," or "ever yours," or simply "good-by,--james," and though he realizes that at best the point is not an all-important one, he feels he can do no better than give the reader all the information he has at his command, be it never so trifling, and let him draw conclusions for himself. chapter v babes in the wood one saturday morning about a year after james went away to school harry bounded downstairs for breakfast to find his father just leaving the dining room. "hello, father," he said, jumping up and kissing him as usual. "you don't stay in the office this afternoon, do you, father? why don't you take bugs and me to the game? or you can take us for a ride in the car, if you like; we'll meet you downtown for lunch, so as to save time." (bugs was for the moment harry's _fidus achates_; a sort of vice-james.) "you will not, i fear," returned hilary briefly. "i'm going out of town for the day." "what, not in the car?" "in the car." "_all_ day?" "all day. leaving now, as soon as ever the car comes round, and not getting back till late--perhaps not to-night." "dash," remarked harry. "i wish you'd go by train; graves told me he'd give me a lesson in running the machine the next free saturday." "sorry. next week, perhaps." "where are you going, anyway, father?" "my business." "going to take graves?" "no." "what, all alone? you'll be lonely. why don't you take aunt agatha?" "no, i shan't be lonely and i'm not going to take aunt agatha. i'll tell you what i am going to do, however; i'm going to send you away to school, and that next term. you have a pretty glib tongue in your head, harry my boy, and i think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will be even better able to appreciate it than i am." but harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke. he became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with his preparations for departure. "yes, i'll have a talk with hodgman about the exams.... there's the car, at last--i must run. where did i put those water rights, anyway? oh.... yes, i think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this term.... take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if i can arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail, progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat--no, the dark one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?--and a triumphal exit in a motor car. harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and admiration. hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled along in his scarlet chariot--they ran a great deal to bright red paint in those early days, if you'll remember--and people would run to catch a glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next meal. but it occurred to harry that he would complete the picture very nicely, sitting there at his father's side. he wished fervently that he could ever make his father remember that saturday was saturday. this parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial things and inscribed indelibly on harry's memory by the fact that it was the last he ever had with his father. the day passed like any other day and at its close the household went to bed as usual, boding no ill. toward midnight the telephone rang and aunt agatha arose and answered it. the voice at the other end introduced itself as police headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this was mr. wimbourne's house. yet, it was. headquarters then expressed a desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls speaking? aunt agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would have been called frigid, that this was miss fraile. headquarters appeared duly impressed; at least he seemed to have difficulty in finding words in which to continue. aunt agatha's crisp inquiry of what was it, please? at last moved him to admit there had been an accident. yes, to mr. wimbourne. the automobile did it; ran into a telegraph pole down near port chester. pretty bad smash-up; couldn't say just how bad.... was mr. wimbourne badly hurt? well, yes, pretty badly; the machine--was mr. wimbourne killed? well, yes, he was, if you put it that way. his body would arrive sometime next morning.... this was the sort of occasion on which aunt agatha shone as a perfect model of efficiency. she spent an hour or more telegraphing and telephoning, prayed extensively, returned to her bed and slept soundly till seven. then she arose and gave directions to the servants. it was breakfast time before she remembered that she had yet to tell harry. then, as he appeared so cheerfully and ignorantly at the breakfast table, aunt agatha's heart failed her. her presence of mind also left her; she blurted out a few words to the effect that his father had had a bad accident, wished she had let him eat his breakfast in ignorance, hoped despairingly that he would guess the truth from her perturbation. but even this was denied her; he asked a great many questions and refused to eat till she made him, but gave no sign of suspecting anything beyond what she told him. she saw that the suspense of waiting for his father's return would tell on him more than the worst certainty, but still she could not bring herself to break the truth to him. when at last she nerved herself to do it, it was too late. "come here and sit down by me, harry," she said gently, but harry, who was standing at one of the front windows, listlessly replied: "wait, there's something coming up the street." "just a minute, dear, i want to talk to you," said aunt agatha, going over and trying to push him gently away from the window. but harry's attention was caught and he refused to move. "i thought it might be father. do you think it's father, aunt agatha? it moves so slowly i can't see.... yes, it's turning in at the gate. what sort of a thing is it, anyway?..." the next moment his own eyes answered the question, and with a little cry he toppled backward into her arms. james' reception of the news was characteristically different. his behavior was generally referred to by the family as "wonderful." he certainly was very calm throughout. he was informed of his father's death on the sunday morning by the headmaster of his school, to whom aunt agatha had telegraphed the night before. "i suppose i'd better go home," was his first comment. "i suppose you had," replied the schoolmaster, and he was rather at a loss for what to say next. he had certainly expected more of a demonstration than this. "somebody had better go with you. whom would you like to have go?" james hesitated and blushed. "do you suppose marston would come?" he said at last, in a low voice. marston, a long-legged sixth former, was james' idol at present; to ask him to do something for one was like calling the very gods down from olympus. "i am sure he would," said the headmaster, who understood, perfectly. "i will send for him now and ask him." so marston accompanied james on his dreary homeward journey, though his presence was not in the least necessary, and james sat covertly gazing at him in mute adoration all the way. his thoughts were actually less on his father's death during this journey than on the wonderful, incredible fact that anything like a mere family death could throw him into intimate intercourse with marston for a whole day. but of course he gave no sign of this, and marston, like a real god, seemed entirely unconscious of the immensity of the blessing he was conferring. he spent the night at the wimbournes', behaving himself in his really rather trying position with the greatest ease and seemliness, and even submitted with a becoming grace to the kiss which aunt cecilia impulsively placed on his brow when she bade him farewell next morning. "you're a dear good boy," she said softly, as she did it; "thank you, again and again, for what you've done." james, who was a witness to this episode, nearly sank through the floor with shame. that a relative of his should kiss--actually, _kiss_ marston--! he felt like throwing himself on the ground and imploring marston's pardon, dedicating himself to his service for life as an expiation. yet marston only blushed and laughed a little and said he had done nothing, and bade good-by to james with unimpaired cordiality. aunt cecilia had been the first of the relatives to arrive on the spot after hilary's death, and she remained commander-in-chief of the relief forces throughout. but her command was not a complete or unquestioned one. among the relatives that assembled at the wimbourne house on that sunday and monday for hilary's funeral was one with whom the story has hitherto had no dealings, but who was a very important force in the family, for all that. this was lady fletcher, hilary's younger sister, by all odds the handsomest and most naturally gifted of her generation. she was the wife of an english army officer, sir giles fletcher, who, having won his major-generalship and a k.c.b. by distinguished service with kitchener in the soudan, and being physically incapacitated by that campaign for further service in the tropics, was now, with the able assistance of his wife, devoting his declining years to politics. lady fletcher, by the discreet exercise of her social qualities, had succeeded in making herself in the five years since her husband had entered parliament, one of the most important political hostesses in london. at the time of hilary's death she was paying one of her flying autumn visits to the country of her birth, in which her headquarters was always her brother james' house in new york. she and james had gone up to new haven on the sunday afternoon in a leisurely fashion several hours in the wake of aunt cecilia, who had rushed off, without so much as packing a bag, the moment she received miss fraile's telegram that morning. miriam--that was her christian name--always felt that she and her brother james understood one another better than any other members of the family, and it was her private opinion that they between them possessed more of the rare gift of common sense than all the other wimbournes put together, with their wives and husbands thrown in. during the short two-hour journey from new york to new haven neither she nor her brother appeared so overcome by sorrow over their recent loss that they were not able to discuss the newly created situation pretty satisfactorily, or, to "be practical" as lady fletcher was fond of putting it. "you aren't going to smoke, james?" she asked, as her brother, shortly after the train had started, exhibited preparatory signs of a restlessness which she knew would culminate in an apologetic exit to the smoking car. "please don't; i can't, on the train, and the thought of your doing it would make me miserable." she stopped for a moment, reflecting that there was perhaps that in the air which ought to make her miserable anyway; then went on, with a significantly lowered voice. "beside, i want to talk to you; we may not get another chance...." "well?" said james at length. "don't be irritating, james; you know what i mean, perfectly. can't you turn your chair around a little nearer? i don't want to shout.... tell me, first, who are to be the guardians? now don't say you don't know, because you do." "i do, as a matter of fact. you and i, jointly. that's the one thing i do know, for sure." "i felt sure it would be that, somehow.... why me, i wonder? and if me at all, why you? however, it might have been worse, of course." "yes, i think he was right, on the whole." so perfect was the unspoken understanding between these two that, if a third person had interrupted at this moment and asked, point blank, what they were talking about, both would have replied, without a moment's hesitation, "selina," though her name had not passed their lips. "well, what's to be done?" lady fletcher exhibited, to james' trained eye, preliminary symptoms of a "practical" seizure. "can't tell anything for certain, till we see the will. i shall see raynham in the morning." "yes, but haven't you any idea ..." "oh, none! you were not a witness, were you?... if that's any comfort to you." "thanks, i have no expectations." this was uttered in lady fletcher's best snubbing tone, impossible to describe. "please be practical, james. what is going to become of those two boys?" "well, there are several possibilities. first, there's their aunt...." "oh, the fraile woman? i've never met her. isn't she ... well, a trifle...." "oh, quite. she's a leading candidate for the position of first american saint. but there'd be no point in keeping on with her, with james away at school and harry ready to go." "oh, really? i didn't realize." "no," continued james, raising his eyes to his sister's and smiling slightly, "what it will come to will be that i shall have six children instead of four. or rather, seven instead of five." "oh, really?" this in a changed tone from the lady. "yes, hasn't she told you? april." "no." the practical mood seemed to have undergone a setback; there was something new in that monosyllable, irritation, a twinge of pain, perhaps. an outside observer might have thought this was due to miriam's having been left out of her sister-in-law's confidence, but james knew better. he felt sorry for his sister; he knew that her childlessness was the one blight on her career. "i don't see why you should do it, james." this after a long interval of silent thought on the part of miriam, and passive observation of the rushing autumn landscape on the part of james. "i don't see why, when i'm equally responsible. it isn't a question of money, so much--i suppose that will be left all right?" "oh, undoubtedly. though i don't know just how." "it's more than that; it's the responsibility, the bother. there's no use in saying that one more, or two more, don't matter, for they do; and there's no use in saying that they would both be away at school, for, though that would make a difference, of course, you never can tell what is going to turn up. no matter what did happen, it would always fall on you--and cecilia." "that's all very true, perhaps, but--" "and remember this; it's not as if you didn't have four--five already, and i none." "what _are_ you driving at, miriam?" "don't you see? i want to take one, or both of them, myself." "whee-ew." this was not, strictly speaking, an observation, but rather a sort of vocalized whistle, the larynx helping out the lips. "you do rush things so, miriam! aside from the consideration of whether it would be advisable or not, do you realize what opposition there'd be?" "why? what, i mean, that could not be properly overcome? you are one guardian, i the other; i take one boy, you the other. what is there strange about such a course? or i could take both together." "i should be against james leaving the country, myself. he is safely started in his school; doing well there; striking his _milieu_. why disturb him?" "well, harry, then. what sort of a child is he, james? i haven't seen either of them for three years, but as i remember it, i liked james best. rather the manly type, isn't he? not but what the other seemed a nice enough child...." "harry? oh, he'll have the brains of his generation, without doubt. yes, i'm not surprised at your liking james best. there are plenty of people who find harry the more attractive, however. he's got winning ways. but--are you serious about this, miriam?" "serious? certainly!" "well, what's the point? do we want to make an englishman out of the boy? and do you want to separate them? wouldn't that smack a little of--well, of babes in the wood? cruel uncles and things, you know?" "i don't think so. we wouldn't want to do that, of course. it wouldn't be for always, anyway. but even if he went to an english public school, which i should prefer to an american one, particularly for that type ... they would always have vacations. you are here, and i am there, and we would keep running across pretty frequently. besides," here lady fletcher again changed her tone, and generally gave the impression of preparing to start another maneuver; "besides, there's another element in it--giles. he's devoted to children. he would come as near being a father to the boy, if he liked him, as any one could. and--do you realize what that might mean for him--for harry?" miriam stopped, significantly, and looked her brother straight in the eye for a moment. "the rumbold property is very large, and giles will certainly come into it before long...." "i see," said james, slowly nodding his head; "i see. though i wouldn't sacrifice anything definite to that chance. beside, what about the carson family?" "oh, yes, i'm not saying there's any certainty; it's just one of the things to be counted on.... leaving harry out of consideration for the moment, it would be a wonderful thing for giles. i can't think of anything giles would rather have; it would be like giving him a son. and if you knew how wild english people of a certain class and type are about children--! giles has never got on well with the carson children, for some reason." "that's all very fine, miriam, but we mustn't leave harry out of consideration, since it's him we're the guardians of, and not giles--at least, i am.... i'm inclined to think there is something in what you say, though i should be definitely against making an englishman of him--you understand that?" lady fletcher nodded, and her brother continued: "it would certainly have an admirably broadening influence, if all went right. and i'm not sure but what you're right about english public schools. even for american boys. but--" here he smiled quizzically at his sister--"did you ever hear of a person called selina wimbourne?" lady fletcher laughed. "you've hit it this time, i fancy! honestly, james--" the practical mood was now in complete abeyance--"though i've knocked around a good deal with swells and terrifying people and all that, i have never been so cowed by the mere presence of any individual as i have been by my sister selina. did it ever occur to you, james, that selina runs this family--well, as the engineer runs this train?" "something very like it--yes." "at any rate, i have a premonition in the present instance that as selina jumps the tree will fall ... fancy selina jumping out of a tree! it will have to be most carefully put to her--if it is put." "if it is put--exactly. we must see how things lie before doing anything.--what, already?" this to a negro porter, who was exhibiting willingness to be of service. "we must look alive--the next stop's new haven. mind you don't say anything too soon, now; easy does it." "yes, of course.--no, bridgeport, isn't it?--what, don't we, any more?... but you are on my side, in the main, aren't you?" "conditionally, yes--that is, if all parties seem agreeable. the one thing i won't stand for is--well, babes in the wood business." "james, what do you think of my taking harry off to england with me?" said aunt miriam to her elder nephew a day or two later. "i think it would be fine," was his reply, and then after a pause: "for how long, though?" this was going nearer to the heart of the matter than the lady cared to penetrate, so she merely answered: "oh, one can't tell; a few months; perhaps more, if he wants to stay." seeing that he swallowed this without apparent effort, she went on: "what should you say to his going to school in england, when he is able, for a time?" james' expression underwent no change, but he only answered stiffly, "i think he had better come to st. barnabas, when he is able," and his aunt let the matter drop there. it was in aunt cecilia, and not aunt selina, that lady fletcher found the most formidable opposition. miss wimbourne, indeed, quite took to the idea when her half-sister, very carefully and with not a little concealed trepidation, suggested it to her. she took it, as miriam more vividly put it to her brother, "like milk." "that is not a bad plan, miriam, not a bad plan at all," she said in the quiet voice that could be so firm when it wanted. "i can see why there are good reasons why neither of the boys should live in new haven. for the present, you know. james will be at school, and will spend his vacations with james' family, and harry will be with you until he is ready to do the same. i do not see but what it is a very good arrangement. i am perfectly willing to do my part in taking care of them, but i am not nearly so useful in that way as either you or james." but not so with mrs. james. her husband first spoke to her of the scheme before breakfast on the monday morning, and she took immediate and articulate exception to it. the plan was forced, dangerous, artificial, cruel, unnecessary, short-sighted; in fact, it wouldn't do at all. there was no telling what miriam would do with him, once he was over there, and no telling when she would let him come back to what had been, what ought to be, and what, if she (mrs. james) had any say in the matter, was going to be his home. it would make her extremely unhappy to think of that child spending his vacations--or his whole time for that matter--with any one but his uncle and natural guardian ("miriam is his guardian, too," james attempted to say, but no attention was paid to him), his aunt and his young cousins. as for all that business about giles fletcher, it was perfect nonsense. before she would give an instant's consideration to such--to such an absurdity, she (mrs. james) would give the boy every scrap of money she had, or was ever going to have, outright, and would end the matter then and there. (this would have been a really appalling threat, if it was meant seriously, for cecilia was due to inherit millions.) as for sending him to an english public school, she thought it would be the cruelest, most unfeeling, most ridiculous thing possible, seeing harry was what he was. if it had been james, now--! but the gods fought on miriam's side. cecilia went into the library during the latter part of the morning and discovered young james alone there. she found him uncommunicative and solemn, which, in the nature of things, was only to be expected; and he took her completely by surprise by asking after a few moments, in the most ordinary tone: "who is marcelline lefèbre, aunt cecilia?" mrs. james stifled a gasp, and waited before replying till she was sure of her voice. "why? how did you ever hear of her?" she said. "oh, in this. there's a lot more about it to-day. she was badly hurt, wasn't she?" mrs. james looked up and saw the newspaper lying open on the desk in front of which james was sitting. "oh, yes.... an actress, i think." "yes," said james, "it says that here." the words and tone clearly implied that james expected her to tell him something he did not know already, but she parried. "had you ever heard of her before?" "no, never. that's just the funny part of it. why should we never have heard of a person father knew well enough to take out to ride? did you ever know her?" "no; merely heard of her. oh, it's not to be wondered at; he had lots of acquaintances, of course." this was definite enough to indicate that she had told him all she intended to, and both were silent for a while. but presently a new thought occurred to her and she began again: "tell me, james, does harry know anything about mme. lefèbre?" "not that i know of; not unless he heard of her ... before." "well, i think it would be a good plan if you didn't mention her name to him, or talk about her in his presence." "all right. why, though--particularly?" "never mind about that. at least," she caught herself up, realizing, perhaps, that this was treating him too much _en enfant_; "at least, i think it would be just as well for him not to know anything about her. it might worry him. particularly in his present state. there is no reason why he should see the papers, or hear anything." "i see," said james, quietly, staring out of the window. he saw far too well, poor boy, was aunt cecilia's thought. but the conversation started her off on a new line of thought in regard to harry. harry was so different from james; if he once smelled a rat he would go nosing about till he found him, even if he undermined the foundations of his own happiness in so doing. and harry was the kind that smelled rats.... inevitably her thoughts wandered around to lady fletcher's scheme, and beheld it in a new light. there was a certain amount of common sense in the plan, so viewed; there would certainly be fewer rats in london than anywhere in this country. and after all, what was the danger in his going to england? miriam would not eat him, neither would giles; miriam must really be fond of him if she wanted to take him--miriam would hardly do anything against her own inclination, she reflected, a little bitterly. she presented her changed front to her husband that evening, and the upshot of it all was that harry was to go to england. the whole family adjourned to new york after the funeral, and steamship plans and sailings were in the air. james went with them; it was decided that he was not to return to school till harry sailed with his aunt. harry himself took most kindly to the scheme; seemed, indeed, to prefer it to st. barnabas. he flaunted his superior fortune in the face of his brother, making comparisons between the british isles and st. barnabas, greatly to the detriment of the latter. "oh, yes, i'll write to you," he said airily during one of these conversations; "that is, if i can find a minute to do it in. of course i shall be pretty busy, with pantomimes, and theaters, and parties, and--and the zoo, and all that." "fudge," said james calmly; "you'll be homesick as a cat before you've been there a week." "then when i get tired of that i may go to school--if i feel like it. aunt miriam says she knows of one that would just do. not eton or rugby, or anything like that; a school for younger boys. this one is in a beautiful big house, aunt miriam says, with lots of grounds and things about. park, you know, like windsor. and deer in it. and the house was built in the reign of charles the first." "bet you don't even know when that was. what's the use in having that kind of place for a school, anyway?" "st. barnabas," replied harry with hauteur, "was built in the reign of queen victoria." "queen nothing! gosh, if you talk rot like this now, what'll you be when you've been over there a while?" "then i may go to eton, or one of those places, later." this was merely to bring a rise; harry had no idea of completing his education anywhere but at st. barnabas'. "yes, a fine time you'd have there! a fine time you'd have with those kids. lords, dukes, and things. gosh, wouldn't you be sick of them, and oh, but they'd be sick of you!" "oh, i don't know," said harry; "good fellows, lords. some of them, that is. i might be made one myself, in time, who knows?" "yes, you might, mightn't you?" james was laughing now. "nothing more likely, i should think. lord harry, earl harry!" harry replied in kind, and hostilities ensued. this was all more or less as it should be, and the mutual attitude was maintained up to the actual moment of sailing--after it, indeed, for when harry last saw his brother he was standing on the very end of the dock and shouting "give my love to the earls!" and similar pleasantries to the small head that protruded itself out of the great black moving wall above him; above him now, and now not so much above, but some distance off, and presently not a great black wall at all, but the side of a perfectly articulate ship, way out in the river. uncle james and his wife, also their eldest child, ruth, a girl of nine or thereabouts, all came down to the dock with james to see the travelers off, and as they arrived hours and hours, as miriam put it, before there was any question of sailing, there was a good deal of standing about in saloons and on decks and talking about nothing in particular, pending the moment when gongs would be rung and people begin to talk jocularly about getting left and having to climb down with the pilot. they all went down to see the staterooms, which adjoined each other and were pronounced satisfactory. aunt cecilia said she was glad harry could have his window open at night without a draught blowing on him, and aunt miriam remarked that it was nice to have the ship all to one's self, practically, which was so different from coming over, and uncle james added that when he crossed on the _persia_ in ' as a mere kid, there were only fifteen people in the first cabin and none of them ever appeared in the dining room after the first day except himself and the captain. after this, conversation rather lagged and there was a general adjournment to the deck. a few passengers, accompanied by their stay-at-home friends and relations, wandered about the halls and stairways, saying that autumn voyages were not always so bad and that you never could tell about the ocean, at any season; which amounted to admitting that they probably would be seasick, though they hoped not. our friends, the wimbournes, had little to say on even this all-absorbing topic, for harry, who had crossed once before, had proved himself a qualmless sailor, and aunt miriam had crossed so often that she had got all over that sort of thing, years ago. uncle james was presently despatched to see what mischief those boys were getting that child into, and the two ladies wandered into the main lounge and sat down. "anything more different than the appearance of a steamship saloon while the ship is in dock from what it looks like when she is careering round at sea can hardly be imagined," murmured lady fletcher, pleasantly, with no intention of being comprehended or replied to. mrs. james' polite and conscientious rejoinder of "what was that, miriam?"--she had not, of course, been listening--piqued the other lady ever so slightly. it was not real annoyance, merely the rather tired feeling that comes over one when a companion sounds a note out of one's own mood. "oh, nothing; merely what a difference it makes, being out on the open sea." "yes, doesn't it?... harry will--" "harry will what?" "nothing." mrs. james blushed a little. she was going to say, "harry will have to be looked out for, or he will go climbing over places where he shouldn't and fall overboard," or something to that effect, but she decided not to, fearing that her sister-in-law would think her fussy. lady fletcher accepted the omission, and went on to talk of the next thing that came into her mind, which was business. there were some lackawanna shares, it appeared, part of harry's property, the dividends on which james was going to pay regularly to the london banker for defraying harry's expenses, and james might have forgotten to do something, or else not to do something, in connection with these. lady fletcher wandered on to american railroad stock, making several remarks which, in the absence of brothers, with their satirical smiles, remained unchallenged. poor aunt cecilia, who could neither keep on nor off her sister-in-law's line of thought, unluckily broke in on the union pacific with the malapropos remark: "miriam, harry has got to be made to wear woolen stockings in the winter, no matter what he says ..." lady fletcher was amused. "i declare, cecilia," she said, "you think i am no more capable of taking care of that boy than of ruling a state!" but mrs. james did not smile in reply; the remark came too near to describing her actual state of mind. "well, miriam, with four children of one's own, one may be expected to learn a thing or two; it isn't all as easy as it seems. beside, i am fond of the boy; i suppose i may be excused for that ..." "i can certainly excuse it; i am fond of him myself." lady fletcher was trying to conceal her irritation. perhaps the suavity of her tone was a little overdone; at any rate, it only served to make mrs. james' face a little rosier and her voice a little harder as she replied: "i suppose you think, miriam, that because i have four children of my own to fuss over, i might be expected to let the others alone, and i daresay you're right; but all that i know is, my heart isn't made that way. i have noticed you during these last weeks, and i am sure that you have felt as i say. but if you think that because i have four of my own to love, and therefore have less to give to those two motherless boys, you are mistaken. the more you have to love, the more you love each one of them, separately--not the less, as you might know if you had children of your own ..." she stopped, unable to say any more. her words were much more cruel than she intended them to be; that is, they fell much more cruelly than she meant them to on lady fletcher's ears. she had no idea, of course, of the deep though vain yearning for offspring of her own that filled her sister-in-law's bosom; miriam could not possibly have expressed this, the deepest and most tragic thing in her life, to cecilia. she was made that way. the more poignantly she felt what she had missed, the more determinedly she concealed every trace of her feeling from the outside world. so it was now. every ounce of feeling in her flared for a moment into hate; the hate of the childless woman for the mother. the flame fell after a second or two, of course, and she was able to reply, unsmilingly and coldly: "i think that harry will be as well treated by me as you could wish, cecilia." mother love, nothing else, was responsible for all the hardness and bitterness in her tone. but mrs. james knew nothing of this; she only felt the hardness and bitterness and judged the speaker accordingly. that was all. the quarrel, if such it could be called, died down as quickly as it had flared up, for it was impossible for these two well-bred ladies to fall out and fight like fishwives. lady fletcher's last remark made further discussion of the subject, or any other subject, for the time being, impossible, and after a minute the two rose by tacit consent and went out to find the others. by the time they found them they were both as calm and self-possessed as usual. when, after a little more standing around, the gongs were rung and the time for farewell actually arrived, lady fletcher kissed her nephew and niece with neither more nor less than her usual cordiality, and mrs. james was exactly as affectionate in her farewells to harry as might have been expected. the two ladies also embraced each other with no sign of ill-feeling. lady fletcher's good-humor was unabated in quantity, if just a little strained in quality. "now comes the most amusing part of sailing," she said, "which is, watching other people cry. don't tell me people don't love to cry better than anything else in the world; if not, why do they come down here? you might think that every one of them was being torn away from his home and country for life!" "the time when i always want to cry most," contributed uncle james, "is on landing. everything is so disagreeable then, after the ease and comfort of the voyage." that was the general tone of the parting. even aunt cecilia smiled appreciatively and gave no sign of underlying emotion. but as she watched the great steamer glide slowly out of her slip her thoughts ran in such channels as these: "miriam is a brilliant woman; she has made a great lady of herself, and is going to be a still greater one. she has money, position, wit, beauty and youth. the greatest people come gladly to her house; small people scheme and plot to get invitations there. yet what is it all worth, when the greatest blessing of all, the blessing of children, is denied her? and the terrible part of it is, she is so utterly unconscious of what she has missed; her whole heart is eaten up with those worldly and unsatisfactory things. poor miriam, i pity her as it is, but how i could pity her if it were all a little different!" and the thoughts of lady fletcher, as she stood on the deck and watched the shores slip away from her, were somewhat as follows: "i always thought cecilia was one of the best of women, until this hour. i don't mind her being a great heiress, i don't mind her never being able to forget that she was a van lorn, i don't mind her subconscious attitude of having married beneath her when she married james--whose ancestors were governing colonies when hers were keeping a grocery store on lower manhattan island--! but when it comes to her boasting about having children, and flaunting them in my face because i haven't got any, i think i am about justified in saying that she shows a mean and ignoble nature. i have seen all i want to of cecilia, for some time to come!" chapter vi arcadia and yankeedom we have given a more or less detailed account of the misunderstanding just described because of the fact that the mental relation it inaugurated was responsible, more than any one other thing, for the separation of harry and james wimbourne for a period of nearly seven years. no one, not even lady fletcher herself, had any idea that this would come to pass at the time harry left the country. one thing led on to another; harry was put in a preparatory school for two or three terms soon after his arrival in england; he was so happy there and the climate and the school life agreed with him so well that it seemed the most natural thing, a year or so later, to send him up to harrow with some of his youthful contemporaries, with whom he had formed some close friendships. this was done, be it understood, in accordance with harry's own wish. there was an atmosphere, a quality, a historical feeling about the english schools that after a short time exerted a strong influence on harry's adolescent imagination, and made st. barnabas seem flat and unprofitable in comparison. it would not have been so with many boys, but it was with harry. of course james was a strong magnet in the other direction, but not quite strong enough to pull him against all the forces contending on the english side. there was a distinct heart-interest there; within a year after harry's arrival in the country, the majority of his friends were english boys. how many vice-jameses were needed to offset the pull of one james we don't know, but we do know that there were enough. james at first objected strenuously to the change in plans, but harry countered the objection with the proposal that james should leave st. barnabas and go up to harrow with his brother. this was considered on the american side as such an inexplicable attitude that further argument was abandoned and the matter of harry's schooling given up as a bad job. the one valid objection to harrow was that if harry was to become an american citizen, the place to educate him was in america. sir giles saw this, and gave the objection its full value. "if i were to consult my own inclination alone," he said to harry when they were talking the matter over, "i should undoubtedly want to make an englishman out of you. i think you would make a pretty good englishman, harry. you could go to oxford, and then make your career here. parliament, you know, or the diplomatic. but there seems to be some feeling against such a course. they want you to be an american. they seem to think that your having been born and bred an american makes some difference. fancy!" "fancy!" echoed harry, as capable as any one of falling in with the spirit of what lady fletcher called sir giles' "arising-out-of-that-reply" manner. "and i won't say they are wholly wrong. the question is, can we make a good american of you over here in england? by the time you have gone through harrow, won't you be an englishman of the most confirmed type? won't you disappoint everybody and slip from there into oxford, as it were, automatically?" "i am of the opinion," replied harry judicially, "that the honorable member's fears on that score are ungrounded. you see, uncle g.," he went on, dropping his parliamentary manner, "i shall go back to america to go to college, anyway. i couldn't possibly go anywhere except to yale. we've gone to yale, you see, for three generations already." "i thought, when you came over here, that you couldn't possibly go to school anywhere except at st. barnabas. it seems to me i remember something of that kind." "this is quite different," said harry firmly, "quite different. i was brought up in yale, practically. i'm sure i could never be happy anywhere but there. besides, i don't want to become an englishman. that's all rot." "well," said his uncle, "if that's the case, we'll risk it. and--" he unconsciously quoted his wife on a former occasion--"there are always the vacations." but that is just where the honorable member proved himself mistaken. the vacations weren't there, after all. and that was where the mutual misunderstanding between the two ladies came in. we don't mean to say that this was wholly responsible for the uninterrupted separation. other things came into it; coincidence, mere fortuitous circumstances. plans were made, on both sides of the atlantic, but they were always interrupted, for some reason or another. james and cecilia would write cheerfully about coming over next summer and bringing young james and one or two of their own children with them. that would be from about october to january. then, along in the winter, it would appear that their plans for the summer were not settled, after all. ruth was not well enough to travel this year, or james could not leave his work and cecilia could not leave him. or, on the other hand, aunt miriam would talk breezily at times of taking giles over and showing him the country--giles had never been to america except to marry his wife--and taking harry too, of course; or she would casually suggest running over with him for a fortnight at christmas. but harry's summer vacation was so short, only eight weeks, and there were visits to be made in september; the kind of visits that implied enormous shooting parties and full particulars in the _morning post_. and when christmas drew near either giles or miriam would develop a bad bronchial cough and have to be packed off to sicily. it is odd how things like that will crop up when two women are fully determined to have nothing to do with each other. and the boys themselves, could they not go over alone and stay with their relations, at least as soon as they were old enough to make the voyage unaccompanied? james wanted to do something of that kind very much at times; wanted to far more than harry, who thought that he would have enough of america later on and was meanwhile anxious to get as much out of the continent of europe as possible. one reason why james never did anything of the sort was that he was afraid; actually a little afraid to go over, unsupported, and find out what they had made of harry. james' thoughts were apt to run in fixed channels; after he had been a year or two at st. barnabas, the idea that there was another school in the country, fit for harry to attend, or in any other country, never entered his head. harry's decision in favor of harrow, and particularly harry's lighthearted suggestion that he should come over and go to harrow with him, filled his soul with consternation. he, james, leave st. barnabas for harrow!... and to the receptive mind the mere fact that aunt cecilia was at this time his closest friend and confidante will explain much. she never made derogatory remarks to him about his aunt miriam, nor did she reveal to him, any more than to any one else, the antagonism of feeling that existed between them; but in some subtle, unfelt way she imparted her own attitude to him, which was, in a word, keep away. she herself would have said, if any one asked her point blank, that she had given harry up. she never approved of his staying over to be educated; she would have had him back, away from miriam and europe (aunt cecilia wasted no love on that continent) inside two months, if she could have had her own way. but her opinion was worth nothing; she was not the boy's guardian! there was a time, two or three years after his arrival in england, when harry was consumed by a desire to see his brother again, if only for a few weeks. he told his uncle giles about it--he soon fell into the habit of confiding in him sooner than in his aunt--and uncle giles sympathized readily with his wish, and promised to run over to america with him the next summer. but when, a few days before the date of their sailing, harry came home from school, his uncle met him in the library with a grave face and told him that he had been called upon to stand for his party in a by-election early in september, and could not possibly leave the country before that. afterward there would be no time. "it is quite a compliment to me," explained sir giles; "they want me to go in for them at west bolton because it is a doubtful and important borough, and they think i can win it over to the conservatives if any one can. whereas blackmoor is sure, no matter who runs. it pleases me in a way, of course, but i hate it for breaking up our trip." "oh, dear, i did want to see james," said harry, leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, and burying his face in his hands to hide his tears of disappointment. "poor boy, it is hard on you," said sir giles, and impulsively drew harry to him and clasped him against his broad bosom. "do you remember the man in the play, that always voted at his party's call and never thought of thinking for himself at all? that's me, and it makes me feel foolish at times, i can tell you. but if you want so much to see james, why can't he be brought over here?" "i don't know," said harry, "i wish he would come, but i'm sure he won't. i don't know what's the matter, but i'm certain that if i am to see him, it will have to be i that makes the journey. i've felt that for some time." "well, what about your going over alone? i could see you off at liverpool, and they would meet you at new york." but that would not do, either. harry had counted so much on having his uncle with him and showing him all the interesting things in america that his uncle's defalcation took all the zest out of the trip for him. so he remained in england and helped sir giles win the by-election, which interested him very much. lady fletcher was right when she prophesied that sir giles would become fond of harry. he was just such a boy as sir giles would have given his parliamentary career, his k. c. b., and his whole fortune to have for his own son. the two got on famously together. sir giles liked to have harry with him during all his vacations, and visits during summer holidays--visits, that is, on which harry could not be included--were almost completely given up, as far as sir giles was concerned. they spent blissful days with each other on the golf links, or fishing in a scotch stream, or exploring the filthiest and most fascinating corners of some continental town, while aunt miriam, gently satirical, though secretly delighted, went her own smart and fashionable way, joining them at intervals. no one was prouder or more pleased than harry when--a year or two after he came into the rumbold property, curiously enough--sir giles was given a g. c. b. and a baronetcy by his grateful party; or when, in the conservative landslide that followed the boer war, he rose to real live ministerial rank, and had to go through a second election by his borough and became a "right honorable." the fly in the ointment was that he saw less of his uncle than formerly. the fletchers moved from their smart but restricted quarters in mayfair to an enormous place in belgrave square, "so as to be near the house," as aunt miriam plausibly but rather unconvincingly put it, and sir giles seemed to be always either at the house or the colonial office--have we said that he became secretary for the colonies? however, harry was treated as though he were a son of the house, and was given _carte blanche_ in the matter of asking school friends to stay with him when he came home. this permission also applied to rumbold abbey, the estate in herefordshire that formed the chief part of the aforementioned property. there was no abbey, but there was a late stuart house of huge proportions; also parks and woods and streams that offered unlimited opportunities for the destruction of innocent fauna, of which harry and a number of his contemporary harrovians soon learned to take advantage. on the whole, harry led an extremely joyous and entertaining life during the days of his exile. at school he fared no less well than at home; he was never a leader among his fellows, but he was good enough at sports to win their respect and attractive enough in his personality to make many friends. the natural flexibility of his temperament enabled him to fit in fairly easily with the hard-and-fast ways of english school life. he accepted all its conventions and convictions, and never realized, as long as he remained in england, that they were in any way different from those of the schools of his own country. he soon got to dress and to talk like an englishman, though he never went to extremes in what he loved to irritate his schoolfellows by calling the "english accent." while not exactly handsome, he became, as he reached man's estate, extremely agreeable to look upon. he had a clear pink complexion and dark hair, always a striking and pleasing combination, and he was tall and slim and moved with the stiff gracefulness that is the special characteristic of the british male aristocracy. in general, people liked him, and he liked other people. his vacations, as has been said, were usually spent with sir giles either in the british isles or on the continent, but there was one easter holiday--the second he spent in england--when he was, to quote a phrase of aunt miriam's, thrown on the parish. the fletchers were booked to spend the holiday in a mediterranean cruise on the yacht of a nautical duke, who was so nautical and so much of a duke that to be asked to cruise with him was not merely an engagement; it was an experience. in any case, there could be no question of taking harry, and lady fletcher was in perplexity about what to do with him till sir giles suggested, "why don't we send him to mildred?" so to mildred harry went, and spent an important, if not a wildly exciting, month. mildred was sir giles' only sister, lady archibald carson. she lived in a little house in the surrey hills, and though the land that went with it was restricted, it was fertile and its mistress went in as heavily as her means would allow for herbaceous borders and rock gardens and japanese effects. her two children, both girls, lived there with her. her husband, lord archibald, was also, in a sense, living with her, but the verdant domesticity of the surrey hills had no charm for him and he spent practically all of his time in london and other busy haunts of men, or even more busy haunts of women. he was a younger son of a long line of marquises who for their combination of breeding and profligacy probably had no match in the british peerage. within five years of his marriage he had with the greatest casualness in the world run through his own patrimony and all he could lay his hands on of his wife's. having bullied and wheedled all that he could out of her he now consistently let her alone and depended for his income on what he could bully and wheedle out of his brother, the eleventh marquis, who was known as a greater rake than lord archibald merely because he had greater facilities for rakishness at his command. lady archibald was a tall, light-haired, pale-eyed woman with a tired face and a gentle manner. she had no interests in life beyond her children and her garden, but she had a kind heart and welcomed harry cordially on his arrival at the little house in surrey. he had seen her once before at the fletchers' in london, but he had never seen her children. it was, therefore, with a rather keen sense of curiosity that he walked through the house into the garden, where he was told that beatrice and jane were to be found. he saw them across the croquet lawn immediately, and he underwent a mild shock of disappointment on seeing, as he could, at a glance, that they were just as long of limb, just as straight of hair and just as angular in build as most english girls of their age. the elder girl rose from her seat and sauntered slowly across the lawn, followed by her sister. she stared coolly at harry as she walked toward him, but said nothing, even when she was quite near. he met her gaze with perfect self-possession, and suddenly realized that she was waiting to see if he would make the first move. he instantly determined not to do so, it being her place, after all, to speak first; so he stood still and stared calmly back at her for a few seconds, till finally the girl, with a sudden fleeting smile, held out her hand and greeted him. "you're harry wimbourne, aren't you?" she said, cordially enough. "this is my sister jane. we are very glad to see you; we've heard such a lot about you. come over here and tell us about america." in that meeting, in her rather rude little aggression and harry's reception of it, was started a friendship. she deliberately tested harry and found that he came up to the mark. he did not fidget, he did not blush, he did not stammer; he simply returned her stare, waiting for her to find her manners. nothing he could have done would have pleased her better; she decided she would like him, then and there. harry on his side found her conversation, even in the first hour of their acquaintance, stimulating and agreeable, and like nothing that he had experienced before in any young girl of thirteen, english or american. "you needn't be afraid that we shall ask foolish questions about america," beatrice went on. "we know the indians don't run wild in the streets of new york, and all that sort of thing. we even know what part of the country new haven is in; we looked it up on the map. it's quite near new york, isn't it?" "yes," said harry, "you're quite right; it is. but how do you pronounce the name of the state it is in? can you tell me that?" "connecticut," replied the girl, readily enough; but she sounded the second _c_, after the manner of most english people. harry explained her mistake to her, and she took the correction smiling, quite without pique or resentment. "now go on and tell us something about the country. something really important, you know; something we don't know already." "well," said harry, "there seems to be more room there; that's about the most important difference. except in the largest cities, and there there seems to be less, and that's why they make the buildings so high. and nearly all the houses, except in the middle of the towns, are made of wood." he went on at some length, the two girls listening attentively. at last beatrice interrupted with the question: "which do you think you like best, on the whole, england or america?" "oh, america of course; but only because it's my own country. i can imagine liking england best, if one happened to be born here. some things are nicer here, and some are nicer there." "what do you like best in england?" "well, the old things. cathedrals and castles. also afternoon tea, which we don't bother about much over there. and the gardens." "and what do you like best about america?" "trolley cars, and soda water fountains, and such things. and the climate. and the way people act. there's so much less--less formality over there; less bothering about little things, you know." "yes, yes, i know exactly. silly little things, that don't matter one way or the other. i know i should like that about america." "i think you would like america, anyway," said harry, looking judicially at his interlocutrix. "you seem to be a free and easy sort of person." "well, i wouldn't like trolley cars," interrupted jane with firmness, "they go too fast. i don't like to go fast. it musses my hair, and the dust gets into my eyes." "shut up, silly," said her sister; "you've never ridden in one." "no, but i know what it is to go fast, and i don't like it. i don't think i should care much for america." "well," said harry, laughing, "we won't make you go there. or if you do go there, we won't make you ride on the trolley cars. you can ride in hacks all the time; they go slow enough for any one." beatrice's first impression of harry underwent no disillusionment as the days went on. she seemed to find in him a companion after her own heart. he had plenty of ideas of his own, and he was entirely willing to act on hers; he never affected to despise them as a girl's notions, nor did he ever object to her sharing in his amusements because of her misfortune of sex. they climbed trees and crawled through the underbrush on their stomachs together with as much zest and _abandon_ as if there were no such things as frocks and stockings in the world. harry had never known this kind of companionship with a girl before, and was delighted with her. "oh, dash, there goes my garter," she exclaimed one day as they were walking through a country lane together. she had got rather to make a point of such matters, to over-emphasize their possible embarrassment, simply in order to see how beautifully he acted. "well, tie it up or something," said he, sauntering on a few steps. beatrice did what was necessary and ran on and caught up with him. "i never could see why a garter shouldn't be as freely talked about as any other article of clothing," said she. "all that sort of modesty is such rot; people have legs, and legs have to have stockings to cover them, and stockings have to have garters to keep them up. and women have legs, just as much as men; there's not a doubt of that. perhaps that's news to you, though?" "no, i knew that." "you really, honestly aren't shocked at what i'm saying?" asked the girl, scanning his face intently. "not in the least; why should i be? you're not telling me anything shocking." beatrice drew a long breath of pure enjoyment. "it _is_ a comfort to meet a person like you once in a while," she said. "tell me, are women such fools about their legs in america as they are here?" "yes, quite," said harry fervently; "if not actually worse. that's one thing that we don't seem to have learned any better about. it always makes me tired." the two saw each other, infrequently but fairly regularly, throughout harry's stay in england. they never corresponded, both admitting that they were bad letter writers, but when they met they were always able to pick up their friendship exactly where they had left it. when sir giles came into the rumbold property there was naturally a corresponding change in the circumstances of lady archibald and her daughters. every penny of the property, which came to sir giles through the death of a maternal uncle, was entailed and inalienable from his possession; but he was able to alleviate her condition by giving her a large yearly allowance out of his income; and it was pointed out that such an arrangement would have the advantage of keeping the money safe from her husband. lady archibald took a small house in south street and spent the winter and spring months there, and in the due course of time beatrice was brought out into society. her undoubted beauty, which was of the dark and haughty type, and her excellent dancing were enough to make her a social success. this was a tremendous comfort to her mother, who was never obliged to worry about her at dances or scheme for invitations at desirable houses, and could confine her maternal anxiety to merely hoping that beatrice would make a better match than she herself had. but beatrice hated the whole proceeding, heartily and unaffectedly. "the dancing men all bore me," she once said to harry; "and i bore all the others. almost all men are dull; at any rate, they appear at their dullest and worst in society, and the few interesting ones don't want to be bored by a chit like me, and i can't say that i blame them. as for the women--when they get into london society they cease to be women at all; they become fiends incarnate." "i hope that success is not embittering your youthful heart," said harry, smiling. "not success, but just being in what they are pleased to call society; that will make me bitter if i have much more of it. i don't know why it is; people are nice naturally--most of them, that is. of course some people are born brutes, like--well, like my father; but most of them are nice at bottom. but somehow london makes beasts of them all. if i am ever prime minister--" "which, after all, is improbable." "well, if i am, the first thing i shall do will be simply to abolish london. we shall have just the same population, but it will be all rural. we shall all live in arcadian simplicity, and while we may not be perfect, at least we shan't all be the scheming, selfish, merciless brutes that london makes of us." "and pending the passage of that bill you want to live in arcadian simplicity alone. i see. i quite like the idea myself. i should love to found arcadia with you somewhere in rural england, when i have time. where shall we have it? i should say devonshire, shouldn't you? clotted cream, you know, and country lanes. it will be like marie antoinette's hamlet at versailles, only not nearly so silly. we will pay other people to milk the cows and make the butter, and do all the dirty work, and just sit around ourselves and be perfectly charming. no one will be admitted without passing a rigid examination in character, and that will be the only necessary qualification. arcadia, limited, we'll call it; it sounds like a gilbert and sullivan opera, doesn't it?" "whom shall we have in it? uncle giles--he could pass all right, couldn't he?" "oh, heavens, yes, _magna cum_. and aunt miriam--perhaps. she would need some cramming before she went up. what about your mother?" "i'm afraid mama could never get in," answered beatrice, smiling rather sadly. "i've talked to her before about such things and she never answers, but just looks at me with that sad tolerant smile of hers that seems to say 'arcadian simplicity is all very well, but you'll find the best way to get it is through a husband with ten thousand a year or so.' and the dreadful part of it is that she's right, to a certain extent." although in matter of years beatrice was a few weeks harry's junior, she was at this time twice as old as he, for all practical purposes. she was an honored guest at lady fletcher's big dinners--almost the only ones that did not bore her to death--into which harry would be smuggled at the last minute to fill up a vacant place, or else calmly omitted from altogether. nevertheless, he was her greatest comfort all through her first season; nothing but his jovial optimism, which saw the worst but found it no more than amusing, kept the iron from entering into her soul. such an occasional conversation as the above-quoted would put sanity into her world and fortify her for days against the commonplaces of dancing men and the jealous looks of less attractive maidens. and how she would pine for him during the intervals! how she would long for the arrival of the next vacation or mid-term exeat that would bring him up to town! there was a freshness, a wholesomeness about his way of looking at things that was soothing to her as a breath of country air. it is not surprising, then, that beatrice began to dread the nearing date of harry's departure for america and college more than any one else, even sir giles himself, to whom harry had become by this time almost as dear as a son. poor uncle giles, though he wanted harry to stay in the country more than any other earthly thing, made it a point of honor never to dissuade the boy from his original project of returning to his own country when he was ready to go to college and becoming an american again. beatrice, however, was bound by no such restriction and complained bitterly of his desertion. "what is the point of your going back to some silly american college?" she would ask. "it isn't as if you didn't have the best universities in the world right here, under your very nose. why aren't oxford and cambridge good enough for you, i should like to know? they were good enough for milton and thackeray and isaac newton and a few other more or less prominent people." "very true," replied harry with perfect good-humor. "the only thing is, those people didn't happen to be yankees. i am, you know. it's been a habit in our family for two hundred years or more, and it doesn't do to break up old family traditions. must be a yankee, whatever happens." "but that doesn't mean that you have to go to a yankee college, necessarily," argued beatrice. "you won't learn nearly as much there as you would at oxford. you are as far along in your studies now as the second year men at yale; i heard uncle giles say so himself." "yes, i know, that's very true. i can't argue about it; you've got all the arguments on your side. i just know that there's only one possible place on earth where i can go to college, and that is yale. better not talk about it any more, if it makes you peevish." "well, we won't. i'll tell you one thing, though; we have got to start a correspondence. you can spare a few ideas from your yankees, i hope. i shall simply die on the wooden pavements if i can't at least hear from you occasionally." "certainly; i should like nothing better. i'll even go so far as to be the first to write, if you like, and that's a perfectly tremendous concession, as i'm the worst letter writer that ever lived." so there the matter was left. harry left harrow for good at easter, and spent one last golden month in london, seeing beatrice almost every day and being an unalloyed joy and comfort to his uncle and aunt. in may he took a short trip through spain with sir giles; it was a country neither of them had visited before, and they had planned a trip there for years. uncle giles worked double time for a fortnight in order to be able to leave with a clear conscience, but he found the reward well worth the labor. they parted at madrid, the plan being for harry to sail for new york from gibraltar, arriving in time to take his final examinations in new haven in june. there were tears in sir giles' kind blue eyes as he bade harry good-by, and harry saw them and knew why they were there. suddenly he felt his own fill. "i don't want to go very much, uncle giles," he said in a low voice. "now that it comes to the point, i don't like it much. you've all been so wonderful to me.... it's not a question of what i want to do, though. it's just what's got to be done." "yes," said his uncle; "i know. you're quite right about it. it's the only thing to do. but perhaps you won't mind my saying i'm glad, in a way, that you find it hard?" "thank you; that helps, too. there's more that comes into it, though; more than what we have talked over together so often.... i mean--" "james?" "yes," said harry, "that's it." they clasped hands again and went their separate ways; sir giles to the train that was to take him north to paris and home, and harry to the train that was to take him south to gibraltar and home. chapter vii omne ignotum "bless us, how the boy has grown!" cried aunt cecilia, and kissed him all over again. "you'll find your aunt very much changed, i expect," said uncle james, clasping his hand and smiling, quite in his old style. "not a particle, thank heaven," said harry, understanding perfectly; "nor you either. nor the u. s. customs service, either. can't i just make them a present of all my luggage and run along? except that i have some toledo work and stuff for you and aunt c." "hush, don't say that out loud; they'll charge you extra duty for it," replied uncle james. "oh, was there e'er a yankee breast which did not feel the moral beauty of making worldly interest subordinate to sense of duty?" misquoted harry. "bother the duty. tell me how you all are. how are ruth and oswald and lucy and jack and timothy and the baby? all about eight feet high, i suppose? and james, where is he?" "james is in new haven," said aunt cecilia; "he has an examination early to-morrow morning and could not get away till after that. he'll be here to-morrow in time for lunch." it was all very easy and cordial. harry was in high spirits over returning to his native land, and was genuinely pleased that both his uncle and aunt should take the trouble to come down to the dock to meet his steamer. they, on their side, were most agreeably impressed by him; agreeably disappointed with him, we almost said. it was a relief, as well as a pleasure, to find him, so unchanged and unaffected at heart, though he looked and talked like an englishman. mrs. james sat on a packing case and watched him with unadulterated pleasure as he tended to the examination of his luggage. the art of his bond street tailor served to accentuate rather than hide the slim, sinewy, businesslike beauty of his limbs, brought into play as he bent down to lift a trunk tray or tug at a strap. though all that was nothing, of course, to the joy of the discovery that he was unspoiled in character. "it's turned out all right," she thought and smiled to herself. "i don't know whether it's chiefly to his credit or theirs, but it has come out all right, anyway. i wish the boat had not arrived in the evening, so that i could have brought the children to see him, the first thing. they'll have plenty of time, though; and how they'll love him! and how pleased james will be!" she meant young james, who was now putting the finishing touches on his sophomore year at yale. james was never very far from her mind when her thoughts ran to her own children--which was most of the time. she always thought of him now more as her own eldest child than as her husband's nephew. and harry's thoughts, beneath all his chatter to his uncle and aunt and his transactions with the customs officials, were also on james. all the way across the atlantic, on the long dull voyage from gibraltar--there are not many passengers traveling westward in june--they continually ran on that one subject--james, james, james. what would he be like now? would he be the old james, or changed, somehow--strangely, disappointingly, unacceptably? harry hoped not; hoped it with his whole heart, in which there was nothing but humility and affection when he thought of what his brother had been to him in the old days. he was so little able to speak what he felt about james that he was embarrassed and over-silent about him. that was why he was so debonair with the customs officials; that was why he asked after each of his young cousins by name before he mentioned his brother. "every single article of clothing i own was bought abroad," he was telling the customs inspector; "so you can just go ahead and do your worst--that suit cost eight guineas--yes, i know it's too much; i told them so at the time, but they wouldn't listen.... no, that thing with the feathers is not a woman's hat; it's a tyrolean hat, that the men climb mountains in. i'm going to give it to my uncle james--that man there sitting on the woman's trunk that she wants to get into--to wear to his office, which is on the thirty-fifth floor.... yes, i have worn it myself, but don't tell him.... that gold cigarette case is for my brother, who smokes when he's not playing football, and it cost six pound fifteen, which is dirt cheap, i say. i'd keep it myself, except that it's so cheap that i can't afford not to give it away...." and james, what was he feeling, if he was feeling anything, in regard to his brother at this time, and why have we said nothing about him during these seven years? the truth is, his life had been chiefly distinguished by the blessed uneventfulness that comes of outward happiness and a good understanding with the world. if you can draw a mental picture for yourself of a boy of perfect physique and untarnished mind, gradually attaining the physical and mental development of manhood in comradeship with a hundred or more others in a like position, dedicating the use of each gift as it came to him not to his own aggrandizement but to the glory of god and the service of other men, recognizing his superiority in certain fields with the same humility with which he beheld his inferiority in others, equally willing to give help where he was strong and take help where he was weak, and possessed by the fundamental conviction that other people were just as good as he if not a little bit better, you may get some idea of james during the years of his brother's absence. he was not brilliant, he was not handsome, but there was a splendid normality about him, both in appearance and in character, that inspired confidence and affection among his teachers, his relatives, and friends of his own age. "he has a good mind and body, and there is no nonsense about him," was the substance of the opinion of the first-named group. "he is a good boy and a nice boy, and i'm glad he is one of the family," said the second. "he is captain of the football team," said the third group, and to one who knows anything about american boarding schools this last will tell everything. if any one is inclined to blame james for his allowing the atlantic ocean to separate him and brother so completely for those seven years it may interest him to know that james was quite of the same opinion. as he sat in the train that took him from new haven to new york on the morning after harry's landing, he wondered how the long separation could have come about. on the whole, after a careful review of the business, he was inclined to blame himself; not over-severely, but definitely, nevertheless. he had been timid, indifferent and, above all, lazy. looking back over his attitude of the last seven years, he was inclined to be scornful and a little amused. what had he to fear about harry? weren't uncle giles and aunt miriam good people, who could be trusted to bring him up right? what was there to fear, even, in his becoming an englishman? and anyway, even if he had feared the worst, ought he not to have taken the trouble to go over and see with his own eyes? it had probably turned out all right, for harry had returned at last with every intention of living in america for the rest of his life; but if he had been spoiled or altered for the worse in any way, he, james, must take his share of the blame for it. there could be no doubt of that. the root of the matter was, we suspect, that james had been somewhat lacking in initiative. thoroughly normal people customarily are; it is at once their strength and their weakness. a splendid normality, such as we have described james as enjoying, is a serviceable thing in life, but it is apt to degenerate, if not sufficiently stimulated by misfortune and opposition, into commonplaceness and sterile conservatism. but let us do james justice; he at least saw his fault and blamed himself for it. he was devoured with curiosity to see what harry was like; almost as much so as harry in regard to him. james had plenty of friends, but only one brother, when all was said and done. as the train rushed nearer the consummation of his curiosity, he felt the old feeling of timidity and suspicion sweep over him; but that, as he shook it off, only increased his curiosity; gave it edge. _omne ignotum pro magnifico est_; every one knows that, even if he never heard of virgil, and it is especially true of such natures as james'. each little wave of fear and suspicion that swept over him made him a little more restless and unhappy, though he smiled at himself for feeling so. it was a relief when the train pulled into the grand central station and he could grip his bag and start on the short walk to the house of his uncle, which was situated in the refined and expensive confines of murray hill. any one who knows anything about the world will be able to guess pretty closely the nature of the brothers' meeting. harry was sitting in the front room upstairs when his cousin ruth, who was at the window, announced: "here he comes, harry." in a perfect frenzy of pleasure, embarrassment, affection and curiosity, the boy made a dash for the stairs and greeted his brother at the front door with the demonstrative words: "hello, james!" to which james, who for the last few minutes had been obliged to restrain himself from throwing his bag into the gutter and breaking into a run, replied: "well, harry, how's the boy?" then they walked upstairs together and began talking rather fast about the voyage, examinations, aunt miriam, spain, the yale baseball team,--anything but what was in their hearts. "well, you came back without being made an earl, after all, it seems," said james a little later at lunch. "no, but i came back a sub-freshman, which is the next best thing. there's no telling what i might have been if i'd stayed, though. everybody was so frightfully keen on my staying over there and going to oxford, especially beatrice--beatrice carson, you know; i've written you about her? she would have made me an earl in a minute, if she could, to make me stay. none of it did any good, though. i would be a yankee." "how do you think you'll like being a yankee again?" asked james. "you certainly don't look much like one at present." "no? that'll come, i dare say. my heart's in the right place. though that doesn't prevent the americans from seeming strange, at first. did you notice that woman in the chemist's shop this morning, aunt c.? she was chewing gum all the time she waited on you, and she never said 'thank you' or 'ma'am' once." "they all are that way," said aunt cecilia with a gentle sigh. "i don't expect anything else." "oh, the bloated aristocrat!" said james. "it is an earl, after all. only don't blame the poor girl for not calling you 'my lord.' she couldn't be expected to know; they don't have many of them over here." "i don't mean that she was rude," said harry; "she didn't give that impression, somehow. it was just the way she did things; a sort of casualness. the americans are a funny people!" "oh, lord!" groaned james; "hear the prominent foreigner talk. what do you think of america, my lord? how do you like new york? what do you think of our climate? to think that that's the thing i used to spank when he was naughty!" "that's all very well," retorted harry, with warmth; "wait till you get out of this blessed country for a while yourself, and see how other people act, and then perhaps you'll see that there are differences. you may even be able to see that they are not all in our favor. and as for smacking--spanking, if you feel inclined to renew that quaint old custom now, i'm ready for you. any time you want!" "oh, very well," growled james; "after lunch." "yes, and in central park, please," observed uncle james; "not in the house; i can't afford it. you are right, though, harry, about the americans being a funny people. if you enter the legal profession, or if you go into public life, you'll be more and more struck by the fact as time goes on. but there's one thing to remember; it doesn't do to tell them so. they can't bear to hear it. we have proof of that immediately before us; you announce your opinion here, _coram familia_, as it were, and what is the result? contempt and loathing on the part of the great american public, represented by james, and a duel to follow--in central park, remember; in central park." "i wonder if that milk of magnesia has come yet," murmured aunt cecilia, who had not gone beyond the beginning of the conversation; and further hostilities--friendly ones, even--were forgotten in the general laugh that followed. of course james, who conformed to the american type of college boy as closely as any one could and retain his individuality, was greatly struck during the first few days by his brother's anglicisms, which showed themselves at that time rather in his appearance and speech than in his point of view. for example, james was indulging one day in a lengthy plaint against the hardness of one of his instructors, as the result of which he would probably, to use his own expression, "drop an hour"; that is, lose an hour's work for the year and be put back one-sixtieth of his work for his degree. harry listened attentively enough to the narrative, but his sole comment when james finished was the single word "tiresome." the word was ill chosen for james' peace of mind. if such expressions were the result of english training he could not but think the less of english training. the summer passed off pleasantly enough, the boys living with their uncle and aunt at bar harbor. harry saw much less of james than he had expected, for he was away much of the time, visiting classmates and school friends whom harry did not know. he was obliged, too, to return to yale soon after the first of september for football practise. harry spent most of his time playing fairly happily about with his young cousins and other people of his own age. the most interesting feature of the summer to him was a visit to aunt selina at her summer place in vermont. this was the ancestral, ante-revolution farm of the wimbournes, much rebuilt and enlarged and presented to miss wimbourne for her life on the death of her late father. here aunt selina was wont to gather during the summer months a heterogeneous crowd of friends, and it was a source of wonder and admiration to the other members of the family that she was able to attract such a large number of what she referred to as "amusing people." with these harry was quite at ease, his english training having accustomed him to associating with older and cleverer people than himself, and it gave aunt selina quite a thrill of pleasure to see a boy of eighteen partaking in the staid amusements of his elders and meeting them on their own ground, and to think that the boy was her own nephew. she became at length so much taken with him that a bright idea occurred to her. "harry," said she one day; "what do you think of my going to live in new haven?" "i think it's a fine idea," said harry. "but where?" "why, in the old house, of course. that is, if you and james, or your guardians, are willing to rent it to me. it has stood empty ever since you left it, and i presume there is no immediate prospect of your occupying it yourselves for some time." "as half owner of the establishment," said harry courteously, "i offer you the full use of it for as long a time as you wish, free of charge." "that's sweet of you, but it's not business. i should insist on paying rent." "well, aunt selina, you're used to having your own way, so i presume you will. but what makes you want to come and live in new haven, all of a sudden? i thought you could never bear the place." "i had a great many friends there in the old days, and should like to see something of them again. besides, it will be nice to be in the same town with you and james." like most people, she put the real reason last. if harry failed to realize from its position that it was the real reason, he learned it unmistakably enough from what followed. the conversation wandered to a discussion of changes in the town since aunt selina had lived there. she supposed that everybody had dinner at night there now, though she remembered the time when it was impossible to reconcile servants to the custom. she herself would have it late, except on sundays. sunday never did seem like sunday to her without dinner in the middle of the day and supper in the evening. "well," said harry, "i hope you'll ask james and me to a sunday dinner occasionally." "good gracious, yes! every sunday, and supper too. that will be a regular custom; and i want you both to feel at liberty to come up for a meal at any time. any time, without even telephoning beforehand. and bring your friends; there will always be enough to eat. how stupid of me to forget that. of course i want you, as often as you'll come." "we accept," said harry, "unconditionally. we shall be glad enough to have a decent meal once in a while, after the food we shall get in college. james says he even gets tired of the training table, which is a great admission, for he loves everything connected with football. even when we were kids, i remember, he used to love to drink barley water with his meals; nasty stuff--they used to make me drink it in england." harry rattled on purposely about the first thing that came into his head, for he noticed his aunt seemed slightly embarrassed. she was going to new haven to take care of james and himself, and naturally she did not care to divulge the real reason to him. well, she was a dear old thing, certainly; he remembered how she had acted on his mother's death. he was suddenly sorry that he had seen nothing of her for the last seven years, and sorry that he had written her so irregularly during his absence. it was pleasant to think that he would have a chance to make up for it in the future. chapter viii livy and victor hugo on a certain wednesday evening late in september harry stood on a certain street-corner in the city of new haven. surging about him were a thousand or so youths of his own age or a little older, most of them engaged in making noises expressive of the pleasures of reunion. it was a merry and turbulent scene. tall, important-looking seniors, wearing white sweaters with large blue y's on their chests, moved through the crowd with a worried air, apparently trying to organize something that had no idea whatever of being organized. they were ineffectual, but oh, so splendid! harry, who had almost no friends of his own there to talk to, watched them with undisguised admiration. he reflected that james would be one of their number a year hence, and wondered if by any chance he himself would be one three years from now. just as he dismissed the probability as negligible, a sort of order became felt among those who stood immediately about him. men stopped talking and appeared to be listening to something which harry could not hear. then they all began shouting a strange, unmeaning succession of syllables in concert; harry recognized this as a cheer and lustily joined in with it. at the end came a number; repeated three times; a number which no one present had ever before heard bellowed forth from three or four hundred brazen young throats; a number that had a strange and unfamiliar sound, even to those who shouted it, and caused the upperclassmen to break into a derisive jeer. a new class had officially started its career, and harry was part of it. no one flushed more hotly than he at the jeer of the upperclassmen; no one jeered back with greater spirit when the sophomores cheered for their own class. no one took part more joyfully in the long and varied program of events that filled out the rest of the evening. the parade through the streets of the town was to him a joyous bacchanal, and the wrestling matches on the campus a splendid orgy. after these were over even more enjoyable things happened, for james, with two or three fellow-juniors--magnificent, olympian beings!--took him in tow and escorted him safe and unmolested through the turbulent region of york street, where freshmen, who had nothing save honor to fight for, were pressed into organized hostility against sophomores, who didn't even have that. "well, what did you think of it all?" asked james later. "oh, ripping," said harry, "i never thought it would be anything like this. we never really saw anything of the real life of the college when we lived in town here, did we?" "not much. it all seems pretty strange to you now, i suppose, but you'll soon get onto the ropes and feel at home. what sort of a schedule did you get?" "oh, fairly rotten. they all seem to be eight-thirties. here, you can see," producing a paper. "that's not so bad," pronounced james, approvingly. "nothing on wednesday or saturday afternoons, so that you can get to ball games and things, and nothing any afternoon till five, so that you'll have plenty of time for track work." "oh, yes, track work; i'd forgotten that." "well, you don't want to forget it; you want to go right out and hire a locker and get to work, to-morrow, if possible. if track's the best thing for you to go out for, that is, and i guess it is, all right. you're too light for football, and you don't know anything about baseball, and you haven't got a crew build." "what is a crew build?" asked harry. "well, if you put it that way, i don't know that i can tell you. it's a mysterious thing; i've been trying to find out myself for several years. i don't see why i haven't got a fairly good crew build myself, but they always tell me i haven't, when i suggest going out for it. however, you haven't got one, that's easy. so you'll just have to stick to track." "yes," said harry soberly, "i suppose i shall." harry was what is commonly known as a good mixer, and made acquaintances among his classmates rapidly enough to suit even the nice taste of james. in general, however, they remained acquaintances and never became friends. it was not that they were not nice, most of them; "ripping fellows, all of them," harry described them to his brother. they were, in fact, too nice; those who lived near him were all of the best preparatory school type, the kind that invariably leads the class during freshman year. harry found them conventional, quite as much so as the english type, though in a different way. intercourse with them failed to give him stimulus; he found himself always more or less talking down to them, and intellectual stimulus was what harry needed above all things among his friends. there were exceptions, however. the most brilliant was that of jack trotwood, probably the last man with whom harry might have been expected to strike up a friendship. harry first saw him in a latin class, one of the first of the term. trotwood sat in the same row as harry, two or three seats away from him--the acquaintance was not even of the type that alphabetical propinquity is responsible for. on the day in question he dropped a fountain pen, and spent some moments in burrowing ineffectually under seats in search of it. the fugitive chattel at length turned up directly under harry's chair, and as he leaned over to restore it to its owner he noticed something about his face that appealed to him at once. he never could tell what it was; the flush that bending over had brought to it, the embarrassment, the dismay at having made a fuss in public, the smile, containing just the right mixture of cordiality and formality, yet undeniably sweet withal, with which he thanked him; perhaps it was any or all of these things. at any rate after class, on his way back toward york street, harry found himself hurrying to catch up with trotwood, who was walking a few paces ahead of him. trotwood turned as he came up, and smiled again. "that was sort of a stinking lesson, wasn't it?" he asked. "yes," said harry, "wasn't it, though?" "i should say! boned for two hours on it last night before i could make anything out of it. gee, but this livy's dull, isn't he?" "yes, awfully dull. do you use a trot?" "no, i haven't yet, but i'm going to, after last night. i can't put so much time on one lesson. do you?" "well, yes. that is, i shall. do you like latin?" "lord, no, not when it's like this stuff. i only took it because it comes easier to me than most other things. do you like it?" "not much. not much good at it, either.... well, i live here--" "oh, do you? so do i. where are you?" "fourth floor, back. come up, some time." "thanks, i will. so long." "so long." so started a friendship, one of the sincerest and firmest that either ever enjoyed. and yet, as harry pointed out afterward, it was founded on insincerity and falsehood. harry's whole part in this first conversation was no more than a tissue of lies. he was extremely fond of latin, and was so good at it that his entire preparation for his recitations consisted in looking up a few unfamiliar words beforehand; he could always fit the sentences together when he was called upon to construe. it had never occurred to him to use a translation. he was rather fond of livy, whose flowing and complicated style appealed to him. he gave a false answer to every question merely for the pleasure of agreeing with trotwood, whom he liked already without knowing why. the two got into the habit of doing their latin lesson together regularly, three times a week. trotwood did not buy a trot, after all; he found harry quite as good. "my, but you're a shark," he said in undisguised admiration one evening, as harry brought order and clarity into a difficult passage. "you certainly didn't learn to do that in this country. you're english, anyway, aren't you?" "lord, no; yankee. born in new haven. i have lived over there for some years, though." "go to school there?" "yes; harrow." "gosh." trotwood stared at him for a few moments in dazed silence. he stood on the brink of a world that he knew no more of than balboa did of the pacific. "what sort of a place is it?" "oh, wonderful." "you played cricket, i suppose, and--and those things?" "rugby football, yes," said harry, smiling. "and you liked it, didn't you?" "oh, rather! only--" "only what?" "oh, nothing. i did like it. it's a wonderful place." "only it's different from what you're doing now?" said trotwood, with a burst of insight. "is that what you mean?" "yes." "i see; i see," said trotwood, and then he kept still. there was something so comforting, so sympathetic and understanding about his silence that harry was inspired to confide in him. "the truth is, i'm beginning to doubt whether i ought to have gone to an english school. i'm not sure but what it would have been better for me to go to school and college in the same country, whatever it was. you see, after spending five or six years in learning to value certain things, it's rather a wrench to come here and find the values all distorted." "i see," said trotwood again. he wasn't sure that he did see at all, but he felt that unquestioning sympathy was his cue. "it's not merely the different kinds of games," went on harry; "it's not that they make so much more of athletics, or rather of the public side of athletics, than they do over there, though that comes into it a lot. it's what people do and think about and talk about and--and are, in short. last year, i remember, the men i went with, the sixth formers, used to read the papers a lot and follow the debates in parliament and talk about such things a lot, even among themselves. some of them used to write greek and latin verse just for fun--wonderfully good, too, some of it. and here--well, how many men in our class, how many men in the whole college do you suppose could write ten lines of greek or latin verse without making a mess of it?" "not too many, i'm afraid." "then there's debating. we used to have pretty good house debates ourselves at school. i used to look forward to them, i remember, from month to month, as one of the most interesting things that happened. but of course they were nothing to a thing like the oxford union. you've heard of that, i suppose? lord, i wish some of these people here could see one of those meetings! it would be an eye-opener." "but we have debating here," said trotwood, doubtfully. "yes, but what kind of debating? a few grinds getting up and talking about the interstate commerce commission, or some rotten, technical, dry subject, because they think it will give them good practise in public speaking. everybody hates it like poison, and they're right, too, for it's all dull, dead; started on the wrong idea. the best men in the class won't go out for it. i wouldn't myself, now that i know what it's like; but i thought of doing it in the summer, and spoke to my brother about it. he didn't say anything against it, because he didn't dare; people are always writing to the _news_ and saying what a fine thing debating is. but he let me see pretty clearly that he didn't think much of debating and didn't want me to go out for it, because it didn't get you anywhere in college; _simply wasn't done_. he'd rather see me take a third place in one track meet and never do another thing in college than to be the captain of the debating team." "did he tell you that?" "lord, no; he wouldn't dare. no one would; technically, debating is supposed to be a fine thing. but it doesn't get you anywhere near a senior society, so there's an end to it.... but perhaps i'd better not get started on that." "no, i should think not! heavens, a junior fraternity is about the height of my ambition!" harry smiled at his friend and went on: "you see it's this way, trotty; you are a sensible person, and look at them in the right way. you play about with your mandolin clubs and various other little things because you like them, like a good dutiful boy. when the time comes, you'll be very glad to take a senior society, if it's offered you. if it isn't, you won't care." "but i will, though. i don't believe i have much chance, but i know i shall be disappointed if i don't make one, just the same." "for about twenty-four hours, yes. don't interrupt me, trotty; this isn't flattery, it's argument. you are a sensible person, as i have said; and don't let such considerations worry you. there are lots of other sensible persons in the class, too. josh traill, for one, and manxome, and john fisher and shep mcgee; they're all sensible people, and don't worry or think much about senior societies, though i suppose they all have a good chance to make one eventually, if any one has. but that isn't true of all the class. there is a large and important section of it that now, in the first term of freshman year, is thinking and talking nothing except about who will go to a junior fraternity next year, or a senior society two years hence. it's the one subject of conversation that seriously competes with professional baseball and college football, which is all you hear otherwise." "oh, no, harry, you're hard on us. there's automobiles. and guns. and theaters. but why should you mind if a lot of geesers do talk about societies?" "well, it makes me sick, that's all. and when i say sick, i use the word in its british, or most vivid sense. it makes me sick, after england and after harrow, to see a lot of what ought to be the best fellows in the class spending their waking hours in wondering about such rubbishy things.--do you happen to be aware of an ornament of our class called junius neville legrand?" "golden locks and blue eyes? yes, i know him. acts rather well, they say." "yes; he's the kind i mean. at any rate, i seem to be in his good graces just at present. all sweetness and light; can't be too particular about telling me how good i am at french, and that sort of thing. in fact, he went so far to-day as to suggest that we might go over the french lesson together, and he's coming here presently to do it." "but what's the matter with poor junius? i thought he was as decent as such a painfully good-looking person could be." "i'm not denying he's attractive. but if you'll stay for the french lesson i think i can show you what i'm talking about." "but i don't take french." "no, dear boy; you won't have to know french to see what i'm going to show you. your rôle will consist of lying on the window-seat and being occupied with day before yesterday's _news_. now listen; i have an idea that the beautiful junius has recently made the discovery that i am the brother of james wimbourne, of the junior class, pillar of the yale football team and more than likely to go bones, or anything he wants, next may. hence this access of cordiality to poor little me, the obscure freshman. i'm going to find out that, first." "but there's no need of finding out that," said trotwood naïvely. "i told him so myself, the other day." "a week ago tuesday, to be exact," said harry reflectively. "i remember he slobbered all over me at the french class wednesday, though he didn't have anything to say to me on monday. wasn't that about it?" "yes," admitted trotwood. "well, it proves what i was saying, but i'm sorry you did it, for it spoils my little game with the beautiful junius. the french lesson will be a dull one, i fear. i rather think i shall have to end by being rude to junius, to keep him from making an infernal little pest of himself." but the french lesson was not as dull as harry feared, for the ingratiating junius played into harry's hands and incidentally proved himself not so good an actor off the stage as on. his behavior for the first ten or fifteen minutes was all that could be desired; he sat in harry's morris chair and waved a cigarette and put his host and trotwood at their ease with the grace and charm of a george iv. at length he and harry settled down to their "notre dame de paris," and for a while all went well. then of a sudden junius became strangely silent and preoccupied. "'then they made him sit down on--' oh, lord, what's a _brancard bariolé_?" said harry. "you look up _brancard_, junius, and i'll look up the other.... oh, yes; speckled. no; motley--that's probably nearer; it depends on what _brancard_ means. what does it mean, anyway? come on, junius, do you mean to say you haven't found it yet? what's the matter?" "i was looking up _asseoir_," said junius, who had been staring straight in front of him. "sit, of course; you knew that. i translated that, anyway. i'll look up _brancard_." harry's glance, as he turned again to his dictionary, fell upon a letter lying on his desk, waiting to be mailed. it was addressed in harry's own legible hand to lieut.-gen. sir giles fletcher, m. p. etc., belgrave square, london, s. w., england. it immediately occurred to him that this was the probable cause of his classmate's preoccupation, and the joy of the chase burned anew in his breast. "what _are_ you staring at, junius?" he asked a minute later, with, well simulated unconsciousness. "nothing," replied junius, returning to his book and blushing. that was bad already, as harry pointed out later; it would have been so easy, for a person who really knew, to pass it off with some such remark as "i was overcome by the address on that letter. my, but what swells you do correspond with," etc. but the unfortunate junius could not even be consistent to the rôle of affected ignorance that he had assumed. "i see you know sir giles fletcher," he said after a while. "i saw that envelope on the table; i couldn't help seeing the address. is he a friend of yours?" "yes," said harry; "my uncle." "oh. well, i heard a good deal about him last summer from some relations of his ... connections, anyway; the marquis of moville ... and his family. we had a shooting-lodge in scotland, and he had a moor near ours. he came over and shot with us once, and said ours was the best moor in perthshire. his brother came too; lord archibald carson. he's the one that's connected with your uncle, isn't he?" "yes. married his sister." "the marquis is rather a decent fellow," continued junius languidly. "do you know him?" "no," said harry calmly; "no decent person does. nor lord archibald, either. they're the worst pair of rounders in england. my uncle doesn't even speak to them in the street." "oh." junius' face was a study, but harry was sitting so that he could not see it, and had to be contented with trotwood's subsequent account of it. there was silence for a few moments, during which harry waited with perfect certainty for junius' next remark. "well, of course we didn't know them _well_, at all. they just came and shot with us once. that's nothing, in scotland." victor hugo was resumed after this and the translation finished without further incident. the beautiful junius, however, needed no urging to "stick around" afterward, and sat for an hour or more smoking cigarettes and chatting pleasantly about his acquaintance, carefully culled from the new york social register and the british peerage. "well, trotty," said harry after the incubus had departed, dropping a perfect shower of invitations to new york, newport, palm beach, the adirondacks and the scottish moors; "what about it? is the beautiful junius, friend of dukes and scion of crusaders, an obnoxious, unhealthy little vermin, or isn't he?" "i suppose he is. my, but he was fun, though! but he's going to make the dramatic association after christmas, for all that." "oh, yes. he'll make whatever he sets out to make, straight through. nobody here will ever see through him. he doesn't often give himself away as he did to-night, of course. he talks up to each person on what he thinks they'll like; to josh traill, for instance, he'll talk about football, and to an æsthetic type, like morton miniver, on japanese prints and maeterlinck's plays; and to you on the glee and mandolin clubs.... he has already, hasn't he? don't attempt to deny it; your blush betrays you! that's the way his type gets on here; talk to the right people, and don't talk to any one else, and in addition do a little acting or whatever you can, and it'll go hard if you don't make a senior society before you're through.... he's clever, too; he'll make it, all right. you see, he only gave himself away to me because he talked on a subject where breeding counts, as well as knowledge.... it was rash of him to try the duke and duchess stuff; he'd much better have stuck to track, or something safe." "see here, harry," said trotwood, rising to go, "i grant you that junius has given himself away and that he's a repulsive little beast, and all the rest of it, but don't you think that you are taking the incident just a little too seriously? it's an obnoxious type, all right, but it's a common one. there are bound to be a few juniuses in every bunch of three or four hundred fellows wherever you take them; oxford, or anywhere else. why bother about them? let them blather on; they won't hurt you, as long as you know them for what they are. and if junius, or one of his kind, gets too aggressive and unpleasant, all you have to do is reach out your foot and stamp on him. but don't let him worry you!" "how wise, how uplifting, how browningesque!" breathed harry in satirical admiration. trotty winced slightly and made for the door. "don't be a fool," harry added, running after his retreating friend and grabbing him. "you're dead right about all that, of course, as you always are when you take the trouble to use your bean. there's just one thing, though, when all is said and done, that irritates me. junius at yale ends by making his senior society, in spite of all. junius at oxford doesn't! do you know why? because there aren't any senior societies there!" chapter ix a long cheer for wimbourne harry did eventually bestir himself to the extent of hiring a locker in the track house and going out and "exercising," as he called it, three or four afternoons a week. he enjoyed it, but he obviously did not take it very seriously. he was neither good enough nor enthusiastic enough to attract the attention of the coach and captain, and it was something of a surprise to all concerned when he took a first place in the low hurdles in the fall meet and became entitled to wear his class numerals. "fine work," said the captain, a small and insignificant-looking senior, who could pole vault to incredible heights without apparent effort. "macgrath tells me you haven't come within two seconds of your time to-day in practise." "no," said harry; "i've been working more at the jumps." "well, you'd better stick to the hurdles from now on. we're weakest there. you practise and train regularly this year and next year you'll probably be the best man on the hurdles we have. except popham, of course. but we never can depend on popham for a meet; he's always on pro, or something." that evening after dinner harry strolled into trotwood's room. "say, you're the hell of a fine hurdler, you are," growled the latter, from the depths of a morris chair. harry was somewhat taken aback till his friend suddenly clutched at his hand and began swinging it up and down like a pump handle. then he realized that objurgation was merely trotwood's gentle method of expressing pleasure and affection. delight shone in his face; not delight in his triumph but in the thought that it meant something to trotwood and that he understood trotwood's peculiar way of showing it. "that's all right, trotty dear," he said. "never mind about giving me back my hand; i shall have no further use for it." "i suppose you think you're quite a man now, don't you?" continued trotwood in the same vein. "just because you won a damned race against people that can't run anyway." "sweet as the evening dew upon the fields of enna fall thy words, o sage," said harry. "you're really quite a wonderful person at bottom, aren't you, trotty? how did you know that the last thing i'd want was to be slathered over with congratulations by you? good lord, you ought to have heard junius legrand on the subject!" "never mind about legrand. speaking seriously, it's a great thing for you, harry. i don't suppose you realize that, bar that unspeakable rounder popham, you're the coming man in the hurdles from now on? why, you've got your y absolutely cinched for next year, with him going on the way he does!" "so it seems," said harry dryly. "i seem to have heard the name of popham before. suppose we talk about something else.... look, trotty; will you room with me next year?" "yes," answered trotwood, blushing deeply, and continued, after a pause: "i've wanted to arrange that for some time, but i thought you'd better be the one to mention the subject first." "why?" "oh, i don't know; i thought if i asked you, you'd accept out of plain good nature, for fear of throwing me down, and i didn't want that." "well, as it happened, i was determined to let the first advances come from you, for very much the same reason. until just now, when i was so afraid you'd room with some one else that i couldn't wait another minute. i've lost all sense of maidenliness, you see." "maidenliness be hanged. you don't have to be maidenly when you've won your numerals at track." that was on a saturday. james had been out of town with the football team and did not return till late that evening. the next day he and harry walked out to their old home together for their regular sunday dinner with aunt selina. on the way they discussed at length the fine points of the game of the day before, in which james had played right half with great distinction. presently he inquired: "by the way, how about the fall meet yesterday? how did you come out?" "oh, fairly well. i only entered in the low hurdles, but i came out all right." "all right?" "yes--first." "what? do you mean to say that you got first place in the hurdles?" "substantially that, yes." "good lord. i hadn't heard a thing. went straight to bed when i got home last night and only got up this morning in time for chapel. why, it's the best ever, harry! you get your numerals. you must be about the first man in your class to do that. what was your time?" "pretty rotten. twenty-five two." "not so bad. gee, but that's fine for you, child!" "i'm glad you're pleased, james." "it isn't merely the getting of your numerals in the fall meet, either. it means that you'll be one of the main gazabes in the track world from now on, if you work. there's no one here that can make better time than you in the hurdles, bar popham, who makes such a fool of himself they can't use him, mostly." "oh, damn," said harry softly and slowly. "what's the matter? forgotten something?" "no. i can't forget something, that's the trouble." "well, what _is_ biting you?" "only that if i hear the name of popham much more, i believe i shall go mad on the spot." "oh, don't take it so hard as that. most likely you'll be able to beat him out anyway, if you make progress, and he's likely to drink himself out of college anyway before--" "shut up, james, for heaven's sake!" there was real anger in harry's tone, and james turned and looked at him with surprise. "you're as bad as every one else--worse! don't _you_ know me better than to suppose that all my chances of happiness in college, in this world, in the next, depend on popham's drinking himself to death? do you think it's pleasant for me to know that every one considers my--my success, i suppose you'd call it, dependent on whether that rounder stays off probation or not? you make me sick, james." james remained silent a moment. "no offense meant," he said gently. "i'm sure i'm sorry if--" "oh, rot!" harry disclaimed offense by slipping his hand through his brother's arm. "only you don't seem to _see_, james. that's what bothers me." "well, no; i'm afraid i don't. it will be a great thing for you if you get your y next year. do you think it's low of me to wish that popham, who is no good anyway, should get out of your way?" "no; the wish is kindly meant, of course.... but this idea that my whole worldly happiness is tied up with popham takes the pleasure out of it all, somehow. i don't give a continental whether i get my y or not, now." "oh, come on. don't be morbid." "no. i've a good mind not to go out for track any more." james made no answer to this, and the two walked on in silence till they had reached the house. as they walked up the front steps james said: "you must tell aunt selina all about this. she'll be awfully glad to hear about it." "including popham," said harry in a low voice. james made no reply to this, for it scarcely called for a reply, but his lips were ever so slightly compressed as he walked through the front door. during the idle months that followed harry used his spare time for efforts in another and wholly different direction--a literary one. he became what is known in the parlance of the college as a "_lit._ heeler"; that is, he contributed regularly to the _yale literary magazine_. for the most part his contributions were accepted, and in the course of a few months his literary reputation in his class equaled his athletic fame. his verses, written chiefly in the calverly vein, were equally sought for by both the _lit._ and the _record_, the humorous publication, and his prose, which generally took the form of short stories with a great deal of very pithy, rapid-fire dialogue in them, was looked upon favorably even by the reverend dons whose duty it was to review the undergraduates' monthly offerings to the muses. "has a cinder track been laid to the top of parnassus?" wrote one who rather prided himself on his quaint and whimsical fancy. "do poets hurdle and sprint where once they painfully climbed? do the joyous nine now stand at the top holding a measuring tape and wet sponges, instead of laurel wreaths, as of old? assuredly we shall have to answer in the affirmative after reading the story 'quest and question' which appeared in the last issue of the _lit._, for not only is the writer of this, the best and brightest offering of the month, a mere freshman, but a freshman who, it seems, has distinguished himself so far for physical rather than mental agility. the 'question' about mr. wimbourne appears, indeed, to be whether the fleetness of his metrical feet can equal that of his material ones," etc. all this amused harry, who, it is to be feared, sometimes laughed at rather than with his reviewers; and it gave him something to think about outside of his studies and his classmates, both of which palled upon him heavily at times. but he was irritated from time to time by the way in which even literary recreation was looked upon, by the undergraduate body. a casual and kindly remark of a classmate, "hullo, i see you're ahead in the _lit._ competition," would often throw him into a state of restless depression from which only the soothing presence of trotwood could reclaim him. "isn't it awful, trotty," he once complained; "euterpe (she's the lyric muse, you know), has deserted me. i haven't been able to write a line for a month. of course the loss to the world of letters is almost irreparable, but that's not the worst of it. you see, if i can't write, i shan't do well in the _lit._ competition, and if i don't do well i shan't make the chairmanship, and if i don't make the chairmanship in the competition, i shan't make a senior society, and wouldn't that be terrible, trotty?" "cheer up, old cow; you probably won't make one anyway," suggested trotty reassuringly, and harry laughed. * * * * * the football game with harvard was played in new haven that year, and harry took aunt selina to it. aunt selina had never seen james play, and was anxious to go on that account, though she had not been to a game for many years, and even the last one she had seen was baseball. "you must explain the fine points of the game to me, my dear," she told him as they drove grandly out to the field in her victoria. "you see, i have not been to a game since the seventies, and i daresay the rules have changed somewhat since then. i used to take a great interest in it, but i've forgotten all about it, now." they were obliged to abandon the victoria at some distance from the stands, rather to aunt selina's consternation, for she had secretly supposed that they would watch the play from the carriage, as of old. she was consequently somewhat bewildered when, after fifteen or twenty minutes of such shoving and shouldering as she had never experienced, she found herself in a vast amphitheater which forty thousand people were trying to convert into pandemonium, with very fair success. as they wormed their way along the sidelines toward their seats, a deafening roar suddenly burst from the stands on the other side of the field, which caused aunt selina to clutch her nephew's arm in affright. "harry, what _is_ it?" she asked. "_what_ are they making that frightful noise about?" "that's the harvard cheer," replied harry calmly. "you'll hear the yale people answering with theirs in just a minute." the yale people did answer, but it would be too much to say that aunt selina heard. she was vaguely conscious of going up some steps and being propelled past a line of people to what harry told her were their seats, though she could see nothing but a narrow bit of board. nevertheless she sat down, and tried to accustom her ears and eyes to chaos; just such a chaos, she thought, as satan fell into, only larger and noisier. "here we are," harry was saying cheerfully, "just in time, too. the teams will be coming on in a minute or two. what splendid seats james has got us, bang on the forty yard line. why, we're practically in the cheering section! do you know the yale cheer, aunt selina? you must cheer too, you know; it's expected of you.... here comes the yale team...." aunt selina lost the rest, as chaos broke forth with redoubled vigor. she saw a group of blue-sweatered figures run diagonally across the field, and thought the game had begun. "which is james?" she asked feverishly, feeling chaos work its way into her own bosom. "do you think he'll win, harry? oh, i do hope he'll win!" when the team lined up for its short preliminary practise harry pointed james out to her in his place at right halfback. "i see," she said, gazing intently through her field glasses, "he's one of those three little ones at the back. does that mean that he'll be the one to kick the ball? i'd rather he kicked it than be in the middle of all that tearing about. poor boy, how pale he looks!" "he won't look pale long," said harry grimly. aunt selina by this time felt every drop of sporting blood in her course through her veins. "which is the pitcher, harry?" she inquired knowingly, and was not in the least abashed when her nephew informed her that there was no pitcher in football. "well, well," said she indulgently, "isn't there really? things do change so; i can't pretend to keep up with them. i remember there used to be a pitcher in my time, and loring ainsworth used to be it." just then the teams set to in deadly earnest, and conversation died. in bewildered silence aunt selina watched the twenty-two players as they ran madly and inexplicably up and down the field, pursued by the fiendish yells of the spectators, and wondered if in truth, she were dead and this--well, purgatory. she made no attempt to understand anything that was going on down on the field, or even to watch it. she turned her attention to harry; he seemed to be the most familiar and explicable object in sight, though she wondered why he should leap to his feet from time to time shouting such nonsense as "block it, you ass!" or "nail him, sammy, nail him!" or "first down! yay-y-y!" presently she became aware of a growing intensity in the excitement. the players seemed to be moving gradually down toward one end of the field, and short periods of breathless silence in the audience punctuated the shouts. she heard cries of "touchdown! touchdown!" emanate from all directions, but they meant nothing to her. the players moved further and further away, till they were all huddled into one little corner of the field. every time they tumbled over together in that awful human scrap-heap she shut her eyes, and did not open them again till she was sure it was all right. finally, after one of those painful moments, there was a relapse of chaos, fifty times more severe than any of the previous attacks. women, as well as men, shrieked like maniacs, and threw things into the air. trumpets bellowed and rattles rattled; somewhere in the background was a sound of a brass band, of an organized cheer. hats and straw mats flew through the air in swarms. "what is it?" shrieked aunt selina. "who won? who won?" "it's a touchdown!" harry shouted in her ear. "for yale! it counts five!" (it did, then.) "and james did it! james has made a touchdown!" and in a moment aunt selina had the unusual pleasure of hearing her own name shouted in concert by ten or fifteen thousand people at the top of their voices. "--rah rah rah wimbourne! wimbourne! wimbourne!" shouted the crowd, at the end of the long yale cheer, and they went on shouting it, nine times; then another long cheer, and nine more wimbournes, and so on. it was a great moment. is it to be wondered that aunt selina, who did not know a touchdown from a nose-guard, shrieked with the others and wept like a baby? is it strange that harry, to whom the event meant more than to any other person among the forty thousand, should have forgotten himself in the expression of his natural joy; should have forgotten where and what and who he was, everything but the one absorbing fact that james had made a touchdown? we think not, and we have reason to believe that every man jack out of the forty thousand would have agreed with us. one did, we know. she thought it was the most natural thing in the world, though it did set her coughing and disarranged her hat and veil beyond all hope of recovery without the assistance of a mirror, not to mention a comb and hairbrush. and harry needn't apologize any more, for she wouldn't hear of it; and the way she had behaved herself, in the first excruciating moment, was a perfect disgrace. so they were quits on that matter, and might she introduce mr. carruthers? mr. wimbourne. was harry surprised that she knew who he was? well, she would explain, and also tell him who she was herself, if she could ever get the hair out of her mouth and eyes. for it must be explained that harry, in his transports of exultation, had behaved in a very unseemly manner toward his next-door neighbor on the right hand. aunt selina, who sat on his left, had sunk, exhausted with joy and excitement, to her seat as soon as she was told that james had made a touchdown, and harry, whose feelings were of a nature that demanded immediate physical expression, had unconsciously relieved them on the person of his other neighbor, who still remained standing; never noticing who or what she was, even that she happened to be a young and attractive woman. harry never could remember what he had done in those hectic seconds that immediately preceded his awareness of her existence; according to her own subsequent account he had slapped her violently several times on the back, put his arm around her, shaken her by the scruff of her neck and shouted inarticulate and impossible things in her ear. the interval of hair-recovery was tactfully designed to give harry a moment's grace in which to recall, if possible, his neighbor's identity; she was perfectly able to tell who she was with the hair in her mouth and eyes, proof of which was that she had been talking in that condition for the past few minutes. harry was grateful for the intermission. "why of course i know you!" he exclaimed, as soon as the dying away of the last nine wimbournes made conversation feasible. "it was stupid of me not to remember before. do you remember; dancing school?.... it must have been ten years ago, though; and you _have_ changed!" "yes, i suppose i have changed--thank heaven!" the exclamation given with a smile through a now unimpeachably neat veil, seemed in some subtle, curious way to vindicate harry, to emphasize his innocence in failing to recognize her. "i know what i looked like then, all long black legs and stringy yellow hair--" "not stringy," said harry, recognizing his cue; "silky. i remember the long black--the stockings, too. and lots of white fluffy stuff in between; lace, and all that.... and we used to dance a good deal together, because we were the two youngest there, and you were so nice about it, too, when you wanted to dance with the older boys. but how did you know me? haven't i changed, too?" "oh, yes; but not so much. boys don't. beside, i knew your aunt by sight...." "i'm sorry, i forgot," said harry. "aunt selina, do you know miss elliston? and mr. carruthers, my aunt." "madge elliston," corrected the girl, smiling, "you know my mother, i think, miss wimbourne." "indeed i do, my dear; i am delighted to meet her daughter," said aunt selina, who had had time to recover her customary _grande dame_ air, "i knew her when she was margaret seymour; we used to be great friends." and so forth, through the brief but blessed respite that follows a touchdown. there is no need to quote the conversation in full, for it degenerated immediately into the polite and commonplace. if we could give you a picture of madge elliston during it, if we could do justice to the sweetness and deference of her manner toward aunt selina, her occasional smile, and the easy way she managed to bring both harry and mr. carruthers into the conversation, that would be a different thing. the next kick-off brought it to an end, and all parties concerned turned their attention once more to the field. harry attempted to explain some of the rudiments of the game to aunt selina, who confessed that her recollections of the rules of the seventies were not of material assistance to her enjoyment. and so passed the first half. "do you know, i believe i know exactly what you're thinking of?" was the next thing harry heard from his right. it was between the halves; miss elliston was in an intermission of mr. carruthers, and harry was listening in silence to "fair harvard," which was being rendered across the field. "do you?" he replied. "well, i'll tell you if you're right." "you were thinking of 'forty years on.'" the smile died from harry's face, and he paused a moment before replying, almost gruffly: "yes, i was, as a matter of fact. how did you guess it?" "oh, i know all about you, you see." she stopped, and her silence seemed to harry to mean "i'm sorry if i've hurt you; but i wish you'd go on and talk to me, and not be absurd." so he threw off his pique and went on: "i don't know how you know about my going to harrow, nor how you know anything about 'forty years on,' and i don't care much; but i put it to you, as man to man, isn't it a song that's worth thinking about?" "it is! there never was such a song." "not even 'fair harvard'?" "no." "not even 'bright college years,' to which you will shortly be treated?" "not even that." they exchanged smiles, and harry continued, with pleasure in his voice: "well, it is a relief to hear some one say that, in a place where 'for god, for country, and for yale' is considered the greatest line in the whole range of english poetry. but of course i'm a heretic." "you like being a heretic?" the question took him by surprise; it was out of keeping, both in substance and in the way it was asked, with miss elliston's behavior up to this point. he gathered his wits and replied: "oh, yes; who doesn't? is there any satisfaction like that of knowing that every one else is wrong and you alone are right?" "i suppose not! that's the main danger of heresy, don't you think? subjective, not objective. being burned at the stake doesn't matter, much; it's good for one rather than otherwise. but thinking differently from other people merely for the pleasure of being different, and above them--there's danger in that, isn't there?" "then there is no such thing as honest heresy?" "that was not what i said." this remark, spoken gently and with a quizzical little smile, had none of the sharpness that cold type seems to give it. adopting something of her manner, harry pursued: "but i am not an honest heretic?" "i didn't say that, either." again the smile, which seemed to be directed as much toward herself as toward him, softened the words. "and aren't you rather trespassing on female methods of argument?" "i don't understand." "applying abstract remarks to one's own case; that's what women are conventionally supposed to do. but don't let's get metaphysical. what i want to say is that, though i think 'forty years on' is incomparably finer, as a song, than 'bright college years,' i wouldn't have it changed if i could. the 'for god, for country, and for yale' part, i mean; and 'the earth is green or white with snow,'--a woefully under-appreciated line.... there is something priceless, to me, in the thought of a great crowd of men, young and old, getting up and bellowing things like that together, never doubting but that it's the greatest poetry ever written. that's worth a great deal more, to me, than good poetry.... they're all such dears, too; the absurdity never hurts them a bit!" "by george," said harry slowly, "you're right. i never thought of that before. it is rather a priceless thought." "yes, isn't it? it's the full seriousness of it that makes it so good. 'for god, for country, and for yale'--it's no anti-climax to them; it's the way they really feel. it's absurd, it's ridiculous. but i love it, for some reason." "that's it. you make me see it all differently.... you mean, i suppose, that if we could start from the beginning with a clean slate, we would choose 'forty years on,' or something like it, every time. but now that we've got the other, and they sing it like that, it seems just as good, in its way ... so that we wouldn't like to change it...." he wanted to add something like "what an extraordinary young person you must be, to talk of such things to me, a stranger, under such conventional circumstances," but a simultaneous recurrence of mr. carruthers and the game prevented him. it is doubtful if he would have dared, anyway. he spoke no more to her that day, except to say good-by and ask if he might call. nor did he think much more of her. we would not give a false impression on this point; he was really much more interested in the game than in miss elliston, and after the second half was fairly started scarcely gave her another thought. but in the moment that intervened between the end of their conversation and the absorbing scurry of the kick-off it did occur to him that madge elliston had grown up into an unusual girl, a girl whom he would like to know better. their short conversation had been as different from the ordinary run of football game civilities between young men and maidens as champagne from water. harry liked girls well enough, and got on well with them, but in general they bored him. he had never met one, except beatrice carson, with whom he was able to conduct anything approaching an intellectual give-and-take, and even beatrice was no more than an able follower in his lead. madge elliston was a bird of a very different feather; she had undeniably led him during every moment of their conversation. it was a new sensation; he wondered if it would always be like that, in future conversations. but football was uppermost in his mind for the remainder of that day, at least. he was proud and pleased beyond all expression about james, and longed to grasp his hand in congratulation. but he had to go all the way home with aunt selina after the game was over, and when at last he reached berkeley oval he met james hurrying away somewhere and could give him only the briefest and vaguest expressions of pleasure. on returning to york street he learned that the team was to have a banquet that evening, in the course of which they would elect their captain for the next year. it occurred to him that it would be nice if james were elected, and it gave him pleasure to hear trotwood and others say that his chance was as good as any one's. he stayed up to hear the result of the election, which when it came was disappointing. james had missed the honor, less, apparently, because he was not good enough, than because some one else was considered even better. harry was sorry, though he lost no sleep over it. when he saw james next morning, he spoke first of what was uppermost in his heart. "james," he said impulsively, seizing his brother's hand and hanging on to it as he spoke; "i want to say a whole lot more about yesterday. i don't mind saying you're the greatest thing that ever came down the pike, and i'm proud to own you!" and more in the same vein, which james received with smiling protests and remarks of a self-depreciatory nature. but when harry ended up "and i'm sorry as heck about the captaincy," his manner changed. "oh, that's all right," he said. his face became grave, his whole attitude seemed to add: "and we won't talk any more about that, please; it's a sore subject." harry's easy flow of talk stopped short, and a new feeling filled his mind. "good heavens, james cares, actually cares about the confounded thing," he thought, and dropped his brother's hand. chapter x rumblings "please, sir, could you give me any dope for the _news_ about your coming back to coach the football team?" asked a timid voice from the doorway. "no, heeler, no; i've already said i wouldn't give anything about that till i made up my mind, and i haven't yet." thus james, more petulantly than was his wont, from his chair below the green-shaded lamp. the heeler, obviously a freshman, blinked disappointedly through the half-gloom for a few seconds and then moved to go. "wait a bit," said james, his good-humor restored; "i'm sorry, heeler. but when i tell you that you're the thirteenth person that has come in at that door since seven o'clock, and that i've got a hundred pages of economics to read for to-morrow, perhaps you'll understand why i'm a little snappy about being interrupted." "that's all right," murmured the heeler vaguely. he was used to being snapped at by prominent seniors, but he was not used to being apologized to by them, and was not sure how he liked it. "i tell you what i'll do, though," went on james. "i'll give you a locker notice that ought to have been put in long ago. here." he reached for the heeler's notebook and wrote in it: "all senior members of the football squad are requested to remove their clothes from their lockers as the space will be wanted for spring practice." "there, that'll put you fifty words to the good, anyway," he said brightly, and the heeler went his way in peace. james had conducted himself most creditably during his college course, and in the course of a few months would graduate if not exactly in a blaze of glory, at least in a very comfortable radiance. his standard of values had been a simple but satisfactory one; first, football; second, curriculum; third, other things. any number of the steadier and worthier portion of the college world make this their creed, and find it works out extremely well. in the case of james, at least, such a standard gave a sane and well-balanced view of life. he took football with the most deathly seriousness, it is true, but only in its season, and its season, owing to the rigors of the new england climate, lasts hardly more than two months out of the twelve. during that time james practically hibernated when not actually on the football field, lived mainly on boiled rice and barley water, indulged in no amusements or vices, went about thoughtful and preoccupied, scarcely spoke even to his most intimate friends, studied only just enough to keep his stand above the danger mark and slept, as harry rather vividly put it, "anywhere from thirty to forty hours out of the twenty-four." out of the football season he was cheerful, cordial, loved the society of his fellows, smoked, drank in moderation, went to the theater, played cards, ate every kind of food he could lay his hands on and studied with a very faithful and intelligent interest. his classmates admired him during the football season, and loved him the rest of the year. generally speaking, he conformed closely to his type; but his type was one of the best the college evolved. after the _news_ heeler left him on the evening in question he read economics uninterruptedly for about half an hour; then he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. the case was the gold one that harry had brought him from europe. he thought of harry as he lay back in his chair after lighting the cigarette, and it is not too much to say that the thought of him impaired the pleasure of the first few puffs. harry was, indeed, the chief, the only cloud on the horizon. it was too bad; he had begun so well. no one could have desired a more brilliant freshman year for him, what with his track work and his literary success and the excellent stand he maintained in his studies. and yet now, at about the middle of his sophomore year, he seemed to be going in any direction but that of fulfilling the promise of his first year. james could see for himself, and he had heard things.... perhaps, after all, though, it was merely that he had begun too well; that his promise was fulfilled before it was fairly given. many men graduated from college high in the esteem of their classmates without having distinguished themselves as much as harry had in one year. perhaps he was really going on exactly as well as before, only people were just beginning to find out that he was only an american boy of nineteen, not apollo and hermes rolled into one. that was what james hoped; but it occurred to him that if such had been the case the idea would have come to him as a certainty, not as a hope. harry himself sauntered into the room before the cigarette was smoked out. well, his outward appearance had not suffered, at any rate, was james' first thought. the slimness of his figure was unimpaired; his features retained their clear-cut lines of youth and innocence; his complexion shone with the glow of health, nothing else. "give me a cigarette, and hurry up about it, too," were his first words. "i've just been under a severe mental strain.... it will probably be the last one for many moons, too, if i start in training to-morrow, like a good little boy." "oh, of course; you've been to the call for track candidates," replied his brother, handing over the desired commodities. "well, was it a good meeting?" "inspiring. don't you see what a glow of enthusiasm i'm in? first dimmock got up and opened his mouth. 'fellows,' he said, 'i'm darned glad to see you all here to-night, but i wish there were more of you. i see fewer men out than usual, and we need more than ever this year, and i'll tell you why. we want to do better in the intercollegiates. we think we are strong enough for the dual meets, but we want to make a better show in the intercollegiates. but we've got plenty of good material here, and with that we ought to get together and work hard and show lots of the old yale spirit, for we'll need it all in the intercollegiates.' "well, dimmock is a good soul, if he has got a face like a boiled cod, and we cheered and clapped and patted him on the back. then macgrath took the floor. he said he thought we were going to have a good year, for there was plenty of material in sight, though he was sorry to see so few there to-night. he hoped we weren't forgetting what the yale spirit was, because we particularly wanted to do well in the intercollegiates. he spoke of the new cinder track and the lengthening of the two-twenty yard straight-away, and ended with a hope that we would all get together and do yale credit in the intercollegiates. "then mccullen, who as perhaps you know, is manager, got up. as he is a particular friend of yours i won't try to give an exact account of what he said. his main points, however, were the fewness of the candidates present, the probable wealth of good material in hand, the new cinder track and the desirability of doing well in the intercollegiates. lastly, a man called hodgman, or hodgson, or something, who was captain back in the eighties somewhere, was introduced. he spoke first of the new cinder track and straight-away, from which he lightly and gracefully went on to congratulating the team on having so much good material this year--though he saw fewer there to-night than he had expected. he closed with a touching peroration in which he intimated that the track team had in general come off well in regard to harvard and princeton, and what was wanted now was a little better showing against the other universities in the intercollegiates.... oh, it was a glorious meeting!" james fully appreciated the humor of this narrative, as the sympathetic twinkle in his eye betrayed, but he merely observed after harry had finished: "well, that's true; they ought to do better in the intercollegiates. there's a good deal of feeling about it among the graduates, too, i believe." "oh, it's _true_ enough." harry, who felt the heat of the room, opened the window and lay down at full length on the window-seat, directly in the draught. "i'd take the word of those four noble, strapping, true-hearted men for it any day in the year. only--only--oh, heck! why should i have to sit up and listen to those boobs spend an hour in telling me that one thing? and what the devil do i care about it anyway, if it's the truest thing that ever happened?" "well, i care about it, though i'm no good at track and not a member of the team," commented james. "perhaps if you were on it you wouldn't care quite so much.--well, i'll train and i'll practise regularly, not because i want yale to win the intercollegiates, but because i think it's good for me. it is good for the figure, and i'd rather have my muscles hard than soft." "well, it comes to the same thing, if you keep to it, and don't go gassing to the track people about your reasons." "i shall go gassing to every human being i've a mind to.--and i'll tell you one thing there's going to be trouble about, if they try to use coercion, or the yale spirit gag. that's about the easter vacation; there's some talk of making the track people stay here and train. i have other plans for easter." "what are they?--for heaven's sake, shut that window! what a fool you are, lying in a draught like that, with the track season beginning." "james, you are every bit as bad as any of them, at heart," said harry, shutting the window. "you wouldn't give a continental if i caught pneumonia and died in frightful agony, except for its cutting the university of a possible place in the intercollegiates.--why, i'm going down to the trotwoods' place in north carolina. trotty's going to have a large and brilliant house-party. beatrice is going; he met her in new york not long ago and took a great shine to her." for beatrice, in the company of aunt miriam, was paying a visit to the country of her dreams. "what?" said james, pricking up his ears. "beatrice going? why hasn't trotty asked me?" "didn't dare, i suppose," said harry indifferently. "i'll make him, though, if you like. that's the way the king's visits are arranged; he says he'd like to visit some distinguished subject, and a third party tells the distinguished subject, who asks the king, who accepts. it's complicated, but it gets there in the end." james did not seem particularly interested in points of etiquette in royal households. "what do you make out of this business of the carsons?" he asked. "what business?" "hadn't you heard? aunt c. told me about it when i was there last sunday. beatrice's mother has made up her mind to sue for a divorce, and beatrice has quarreled with her about it." "good lord! no, i hadn't heard a thing. i knew what the father was, of course.... has anything in particular happened?" "apparently, yes. aunt c. can tell you more exactly than i. beatrice has confided the whole thing to her--they're thick as thieves already; she gets on better with her than with aunt miriam, even. it seems that the husband, lord archibald, is on to the fact that his wife has had a good deal of money to spend lately; uncle giles having given her a lot since he got that--" "yes, i know. go on." "well, that's about the whole thing. he's been bullying her, making her give it up to him ... and one thing and another, till she got desperate, and decided to try for a complete divorce. there's plenty of ground, even for english law ... but beatrice's idea is that there's no need. of course, it will mean a lot of scandal. she says that if she had been there to deal with him there would have been no talk about it, and that, at worst, a separation would have been all that was necessary." "poor lady archie! she has had a tough time; i shall be glad to see her well out of it. a divorce--! well, she has more sense than i gave her credit for." "it seems to me that beatrice is quite right," said james, a trifle stiffly. "i should have thought that a divorce was the thing most to be avoided. it's not like an american divorce.... i understand her point very well." harry did not reply to this; he simply growled--made a curious sound in the bottom of his throat. it amounted to a polite way of saying "nonsense!" apparently james accepted the implied rebuke, for he said no more on the subject. his brother also was silent for some time and gazed thoughtfully out on the lights of the campus. "i've got troubles of my own, james," he said presently. "have you heard anything about last night yet?" "last night? no; what?" "well, you've heard of junius legrand, in our class?" "the actress? yes." "well, he's become rather a power in the class; not only he is making straight for the dramat. presidency, but he's more or less the center of a certain clique; the social register, monogrammed cigarettes, champagne-every-night and abroad-every-summer type; the worst of it, that is. well, i had a dreadful scene with him last night. i got a thrill and called him names, and he didn't like it." "what happened?" "there was a whole bunch of us sitting round at mory's, and i was talking partly in french, as i usually do when--when mildly excited, and referred to him as a 'petite ordure.' of course that isn't a pretty thing to call a person, even in french, and i probably shouldn't have said it if i hadn't been drinking. i meant it all, though, and was willing to stand by it, so when he got mad i called him other and worse things, in english. he wasn't tight, but he was pretty furious by that time, and there'd have been a free fight if people hadn't held us apart." "that's pretty poor, harry," said james gravely, after a moment's consideration. "i don't mean your hating legrand--though you needn't have actually come to quarreling with him. but your being tight and he not puts you in the wrong right off.--what's all this about your drinking, anyway?" "i don't, so you could notice it.... that was the first time i ever got carried beyond myself, except about once--or twice. i'm not fond of the stuff; i only drink when i want to be cheered up." "that's bad, too; it's much worse to drink when you're in bad spirits than when you're in good," said james, with a wisdom beyond his experience. "after i've drunk, the good spirits are in me," retorted harry, with rather savage humor. "it's no joking matter. harry, will you cut it out entirely, if i ask you to?" "you'll have to do some tall asking, i'm afraid.--i don't like you much when you preach, james. i came here for sympathy, not sermons." "you won't get me to sympathize with your making a beast of yourself." "james, you know perfectly well you were tight as a tick at the football banquet in boston last fall." "i'm no paragon, i admit." "you say that as if you thought you were, and expected me to say so. no, you're right--you're not. there!" james' humor suddenly changed. his grave face relaxed into a smile, he rose from his chair and wandered to the end of the room and back to the window-seat. "all right, we'll leave it at that; i'm not." he stood for a moment hands in pockets, smiling down at his brother. "it's nice to find one point we can agree on, anyway.... i won't bother you. after all, i suppose there's not much danger." "no ... i don't think i should ever really get to like the stuff." but harry did not smile and fall in with his brother's mood; he had too much on his mind still. "i haven't told you the most disagreeable part of it," he went on. "something happened to-day that made me sorry i had made a fool of myself. shep mcgee came to me to-day and said that he'd heard about our little _coup de théâtre_, and that he was sorry, but being one of junius' particular friends he couldn't be friendly with me any more unless i apologized. i was sorry, because i've always liked shep and got on very well with him." "what did you say?" "oh, of course i was pretty peeved, and i messed it up still further. i told him i was glad he'd spoken, because henceforth my acquaintance would not be recruited conspicuously from junius' special friends. i said that, strange as it might seem, i felt myself able to hand him, shep, over to junius' complete possession without a tear. i added that i thought he would find it safer in the future to choose his friends exclusively from the cause of christ, and suggested that he might try to convert junius to the same august organization...." some explanation may be necessary to show why this remark outraged james' feelings to the extent it did. the organization to which harry referred was dwight hall, the college home of the y. m. c. a., bible study classes, city and foreign mission work, in all of which branches of religious and semi-religious activity many of the worthiest undergraduates interest themselves. james particularly admired the organization and those who worked in it; he would have gone in for some department of its work himself had he possessed the qualities of a religious leader. most of his best friends were dwight hall workers; the senior society to which he belonged was notorious for taking many of them into its fold yearly--so much so, indeed, that it has become a popular myth that an underground passage exists between dwight hall and the society hall. consequently, harry's contemptuous epithet, together with the tone in which he uttered it was quite enough to shock and pain james very much. but what put him out even more was the thought that harry had said this to shep mcgee. the latter was one of the most respected men in harry's class, and james had happened to take a particular fancy to him. he rather wondered at mcgee's making a friend of such a person as legrand, but he did not stop to think about that now. "harry," said he in a sharp, dry voice, "i think that's the rottenest remark i ever heard you or any one else make--if you used that expression to mcgee." "i did." "i never thought you were capable of saying such a rotten thing, and i don't mind your knowing what i think of it. are you going to apologize to mcgee?" "no." "well, i shall. if i can't apologize on your behalf, at least i can apologize for being your brother! what the devil do you mean by saying such a thing, in cold blood, to such a man? if you don't believe in the work yourself, can't you let other people believe in it? what do you believe in, anyway? do you call yourself a christian? do you call yourself a gentleman? do you flatter yourself that mcgee isn't a hundred times a better man than you are?" "rumblings from the underground passage." this remark, given with a cold, hard little smile, in which there was no geniality, no humor, even of a mistaken nature, amounted to a direct insult. any reference made to a yale man about his senior society by an outsider, be it a brother or any one else, is looked upon as a breach of etiquette--was at that time, at any rate. harry's remark was worse than that; it was a rather cowardly thrust, for he was insulting a thing that james, by reason of the secrecy to which he was bound, could not defend. james did not reply; he simply grabbed up a hat and flung himself out of the room. harry listened to his footsteps retreating down the stairs with a sinking heart; all his anger, all his resentment ebbed with them, and by the time they had died away there was nothing left but hopeless, repentant wretchedness. in the last twenty-four hours he had made a public disgrace of himself, he had fallen out with one of his best friends, and he had wounded the feelings of the last person on earth he wanted to hurt. and all because of his asinine convictions, because he thought his ideals were a little higher than other men's, his honesty a little more impeccable than theirs. he got up and left the room, cursing himself for a fool, cursing the fate that had brought him to this pass, cursing dwight hall, the senior societies, the university that harbored them, the school, the country that had put ideas into his head. but chiefest of all he cursed junius legrand.... but that did not do any good. the next morning he wrote and posted a note of apology to james:-- dear james--i am sorry about last night--really, i am. i will try not to make such an ass of myself again. harry. the same evening he received an answer, also through the mail. it was simply a post-card bearing the words: all right. james. its curt, businesslike goodwill and the promptness of its arrival comforted him somewhat. he wisely determined to keep away from his brother for the present and let time exert what healing effect it could. when they did meet again, after some ten days' interval, no reference was made to the episode. james was cordial, very cordial. far, far too cordial.... "trotty," said harry mournfully that evening; "i don't think you'd better room with me again next year. you can't afford to, trotty. i'm a pariah, an outcast. half the decent people in the class don't speak to me any more. you simply can't afford to know me. it'll ruin your chances." "i wish you'd shut up," said trotwood. "i'm trying to study." "i mean it, trotty. don't pretend you don't hear, or understand. i'm giving you warning." "rot," said trotty, beginning to blush. "damned, infernal rot." harry sighed. "you're a good soul, trotty. but it's true. you'll be known as the only man in the class that speaks to me, if you keep it up." "will you shut up, you infernal idiot?" "no. i tell you, i'm going straight to the devil." trotty rose from his chair and went to where harry stood. he gently pushed him back to the wall, and pinning him to it looked him straight in the eyes. harry was surprised to see that his face was set and serious. "now," said trotwood, "i'm going to talk about this business this once, and if you ever mention the subject again i'll break your damned head open. i'm going to room with you next year. i'm going to room with you the year after that, if you'll have me. if we ever split up, it'll have to be because you're tired of me--not afraid i'm tired of you, but actually tired of me. you're not going to the devil. if you do, i don't give a damn. what does friendship mean, anyway? answer me that, damn you!--damn you!--damn you--" his voice failed, but his eyes still spoke. "all right, trotty, we won't say any more about it, if you feel like that." harry smiled as he spoke the words, but he felt more like crying. chapter xi aunt selina's beaux yeux as harry had anticipated, an issue arose between himself and the powers in the track world concerning the easter vacation. the edict went forth that members of the 'varsity squad were to remain in new haven, in strict training, through the holidays, and it was assumed that he was to be of their number. none of the powers asked him what he was going to do, and he did not think it worth while to inform them of his plans. one day, about a week before the vacation began, he did mention the subject casually to judy dimmock, the captain, as they walked in from practice together. dimmock's consternation, as harry said afterward, was pitiful to see. "but do you think you can get macgrath's permission?" he asked, stupefied. "why in the world should i bother about asking macgrath's permission?" answered harry. "of course he wouldn't give it to me." "do you mean to say that you're going without it?" "of course i'm going without it." dimmock was bewildered rather than irritated, though harry's course of action defied his authority quite as much as the coach's. "you'll have to be dropped from the squad, then, i'm afraid." "so i supposed." "harry, do you mean to say this work means no more to you than that?" stammered dimmock, all his convictions seething in his brain. "haven't you got any more respect for your college and traditions than that? don't you see what good discipline it is to buckle down to work and keep at it, whether you like it or not?" harry waited a moment before replying, wondering how he could silence dimmock without angering him. "that would all sound very well, if it were the dean and not the track captain that said it," he ventured. "i'm afraid i don't understand you, harry." there was such a complete absence of anger in the other's tone that harry felt a momentary outburst of sympathy for this honest, good-tempered creature. "i'm sorry, judy," he said. "the fact is, you take track deadly seriously, and i don't. that's all there is to it. so we're bound to disagree." so harry went to the north carolina mountains and shot quail and rode horseback and played bridge and carried on generally with james and beatrice and trotty and eight or ten others of his age. when he returned to new haven he went out to the track field and jumped and ran about as before, but nobody paid any attention to him. nor was he asked to rejoin the training table. "it'll do him good to let his heels cool for a while," observed dimmock to macgrath. "that's all very well, but you'd better not let them cool too long, if you want to get a place in the hurdles with harvard," granted the coach. "i was afraid all along we'd have to take him on again," said the other. "he gets better and better on the track all the time, and queerer and queerer every other way. i don't trust him." "he's a second popham," said macgrath. about a week before the harvard meet dimmock approached the second popham and with very commendable absence of anything like false pride asked him if he would please put himself under macgrath's orders for the next few days and run in the meet. harry graciously consented. he hurdled abominably badly for a week, showing neither form nor speed; then he hurdled against harvard and beat their best men by a safe margin. he won a first place, and his y. but that did not make him any more popular in the track world. later in the spring beatrice came on for a visit, anxious to see the university that harry had preferred to oxford. she and lady fletcher stayed with aunt selina; presently aunt miriam went on and left beatrice alone there. she and aunt selina struck up one of those unaccountable intimacies that occasionally arise between people of widely different ages. "i do like your relations," she once told harry; "i like your country and your university and your friends well enough, but i like your people even better. i like your uncle james, though i'm scared to death of him, and aunt cecilia of course is a dear; but i like aunt selina best. i never saw such a person! i didn't know you had her type in america. she makes aunt miriam look like a vulgar, blatant little upstart!" "i know," said harry, laughing. "did you tell aunt miriam that?" "something to that effect, yes. she laughed, and said that she had always felt that way in her presence, too.--there's more about aunt selina than that, though; there's something wonderfully human about her, at bottom. i have an idea she could get nearer to me, if she wanted to, than almost any one else, just because her true self is so rare and remote." both harry and james saw a good deal of beatrice during her visit. harry was supposed to be in training again, and it was his interesting custom to dine discreetly at the training table at six o'clock and then dash out to his aunt's and eat another and much more sumptuous meal at seven. james was scandalized when he heard of this proceeding, but he carefully refrained from saying anything to harry about it; he merely smiled non-committally when harry, with a desire of drawing him out, rather flauntingly referred to it. "a few weeks ago he would have cursed me out," he thought; "lectured me up and down about it. now he won't say anything because he's afraid it would bring on another scrap." the thought made him feel lonely and miserable. james was greatly taken with beatrice; that was quite clear from the first. he was attracted by her beauty, and still more by her apparent indifference to it. he found her more frank and sensible than american girls, whose débutante conventionalities and mannerisms bored and irritated him. he could not conceive of beatrice "guying" or "kidding him along" on slight acquaintance, as most of his american friends did, or of beatrice openly dazzling him with her beauty, or using her prerogative of sex by making him "stand around" before other people. one evening after dinner beatrice, accompanied by both the brothers, was walking down one drive and up the other, as the family were in the habit of doing on warm spring evenings. "are you both prepared to hear something funny?" she asked. "fire away," they answered, and she continued: "well, i'm probably going to come back here next winter and live with aunt selina!" harry gave a long whistle. "this from you! are you actually going to turn yankee, too?" "i'm going to give the yankees a chance, at any rate! you see, there are reasons why life for me wouldn't be particularly pleasant at home next year.... i'm going back with aunt miriam after commencement, as we had planned, to try to patch it up with mama, and then, if all parties are agreeable, as i'm pretty sure they will be, i shall come back in the autumn. the idea is for me to keep house for aunt selina and be her companion generally. i shall receive a stipend for my valuable services, so that i shall have the comfortable feeling of earning something. aunt miriam thinks it's a fine plan. what do you think about it?" "i think it's simply top-hole, to use the expression of your native land. but won't you find new haven a trifle dull, after london, and all that?" "i rather think i shall, but in a different way. i shall be quite busy, and i thought i'd go to some lectures and things in the university and learn something.--why don't you say something, james?" "i think it's a wonderful idea." james had been thinking so hard he had forgotten to speak. did he perhaps regret his lately-made decision not to come back and coach the football team, but to take advantage of a business opening in the middle west? at any rate, he was startled to observe what a leap his heart gave when beatrice said she was coming back. was it possible, he asked himself, that he was really going to care for this girl, with her dark brown eyes and her aloof, aristocratic, unchallenging ways?... but he was undeniably glad she was coming back, and found occasion to tell her so more fully another time, when they were alone. "i'm particularly glad," he added, "on harry's account. he needs some one to keep an eye on him; do you think you can do it?" "i've done that for some years," said beatrice, smiling. "i've been more of a brother to him than you have, really. why on earth did you never come over and see him all that time, james?" "heaven knows.... i was lazy; i got in a rut. i wish i had, now." "why, nothing's going wrong, i hope?" "oh, damnably!--i beg your pardon. when he first came back he did certain things that used to get on my nerves, and i, like a fool, let it go on that way, thinking that he was all wrong and i was all right. it's only lately that i've come to see better ... and now, when he particularly needs some steadying influence, i can't give it to him. you see, he gets on other people's nerves, too; he and his ideas--" "ideas?" "yes; fool notions he got about the way things are done in england--" "isn't that a trifle hard?" "oh, the ideas may be all right, but not the way he applies them.... at any rate, they, or something else, are playing the deuce with his college course. he's getting in dutch, all around--" "in dutch," murmured beatrice. "oh, i do like that!" but james did not notice the interruption. "and while i see all this going on i have to stand aside and let it go on, because when i say anything it doesn't do any good, but only irritates him and makes him worse." "i see. well, i'm always willing to do what i can for harry, but i'm afraid i haven't any real influence over him, either." "oh, yes, you have. he has the greatest respect for you." "not nearly as much as you think." her usually calm expression was clouded; she seemed disturbed about something. why did james feel a momentary sinking of the heart when he noticed the seriousness of her face and manner? it was nothing, though; gone again in a second. beatrice continued, in a more optimistic tone: "but i honestly don't think, james, that there's much to worry about. i don't mean that he mayn't get into scrapes, but i don't think that there's anything seriously wrong.... i have always had the greatest faith in him--not only in his intellect, but in his character. so has uncle g.; he expects great things of him, says he has just that combination of intellect and balance that results in statues in public places." "the genius in the family is all confined to him; i'm glad you realize that!" james could not help being a little rasped by her harping on the good qualities of his brother, nor could he help showing it a little. he immediately felt rather ashamed of himself, however, for beatrice replied, in a gently startled tone: "why, james, how bitter! you don't expect me to fling bouquets at your very face, surely! i throw them at you when i'm talking to harry!" "you must throw a good lot of them, then, for you see him alone often enough," was the somewhat gruff reply. beatrice must have considered it rather a foolish remark, for she paid no attention to it. harry's attitude toward her decision, as expressed in his next _tête-à-tête_ with her, was rather different from that of his brother. "beatrice," said he, "of course i'm pleased as punch about your coming here next year, both on my own account and on aunt selina's, and all that sort of thing; but i hope you won't think it rude of me if i ask why on earth you're doing it. of course, i know there are family unpleasantnesses, and that you aren't particularly interested in london balls, but that doesn't explain to me why, when you really do occupy an enviable position over there, get asked everywhere worth going, in season and out, and all that, you should choose to be the paid companion of an old woman in a small new england town. and i don't believe it's aunt selina's _beaux yeux_!" "no!" said beatrice, laughing; "i don't believe it's quite all that, either!" "what will people think about it over there?" went on harry. "what'll your mother say?" "i'm afraid mama will be perfectly delighted, even if she doesn't say so," replied beatrice, serious again. "the truth is, harry, poor mama and i don't gee very well, somehow.... jane is a great comfort to her--a perfect daughter--she came out this year, you know." "is she as much of a social success as you?" asked harry with that frankness that was characteristic of their relation. "much more so--in a way. she uses her gifts to much more effect." "she's not nearly as good-looking as you," persisted harry. it was a remark thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of their comradeship, the kind of remark, expressive of a plain truth, nothing more, that they prided themselves on making and taking between themselves without the least affectation or self-consciousness. yet beatrice simply could not keep pleasure from sounding in her voice as she replied: "well, no; i suppose not. it's the only thing in which i have the better of her, though. i'm very--" she began her reply in the old spirit, but could not keep it up. she had started to say, "i'm very glad you think that," then stopped herself, then wished she had gone on. it would have been perfectly consistent with their old "man-to-man" attitude, if she could have said it in the right way! harry noticed her halting, and looked up at her quickly. he saw that she was blushing. "good heavens!" he thought; "i hope beatrice doesn't think i'm paying her compliments!" the incident was slight, but it brought a new and disturbing element into their relation. indeed, in that one little moment they ceased to remain boy and girl in their attitude toward one another, and became man and woman. they met often enough on the old terms of frankness and intimacy, but sex interest and suspicion always lurked in the background, ready to burst out and break up things at any moment. the spring wore on; commencement arrived; james was graduated. aunt miriam, the james wimbournes and numerous youthful james wimbournes came to stay with aunt selina and see him graduate. beatrice was also there and harry was of course on hand. he took little part in the graduation festivities and amused himself chiefly by showing his two eldest male cousins, oswald and jack, the sights of the university and incidentally making them look forward with a healthy dread to the day when as freshmen first they would come to yale. "this is the swimming-pool," he would tell them; "it doesn't look very big now, does it? perhaps not! but it _seems_ pretty big, i can tell you, when the sophomores dump you in there, in the pitch dark, and tell you it's half a mile to shore and you've got to swim! and you have to scramble out as best you can. _they_ won't help you!" "they don't do that to _every_ freshman, though, do they?" hopefully inquired oswald, a nice, plump, yellow-haired, wide-eyed youth of fourteen or so, the image of his mother. "yes, muffins, indeed they do, every one, whether they can swim or not," replied harry seriously. (oswald was called muffins because he was considered by his playmates to look like one. this reason usually did not satisfy older people, but after all, they did not know him as well as those of his own age, and had no kick coming, at all.) "i say, harry, it's awfully decent of you to tell us all these things beforehand, so that we shall be warned when the time comes!" this from jack, who was twelve and dark and looked like his father. "harold wimbourne, what on earth have you been telling those children about yale college?" was aunt cecilia's indignant comment on his powers of fiction. "neither of them slept a wink last night, for thinking about what the sophomores would do to them; and jack asked me quite seriously if he thought his father would mind much if he went to harvard instead, because he didn't think he could ever swim well enough to live through his freshman year! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" harry laughed unfeelingly, and refused to abate one jot of the horrors of hazing. he even wished it were all true, that these innocent and happy boys might have to go through with it all, that some one would ever be miserable in college beside himself. he scarcely spoke to james during the last few days, though james remained cordial and cheery enough toward him. but he was unnaturally cordial and forbearing, and that drove harry into despair, especially as there was copious reason why james, under normal conditions, should be neither cordial nor forbearing. harry had, a fortnight or so before commencement, just after training was broken up, taken part in one of those engagements with the forces of law and order with which undergraduates are wont to relieve the monotony of their humdrum existence. first there had been strong drink, and plenty of it, after which came a period of vague but delightful irresponsibility, culminating in much broken glass, a clash with policemen and two or three arrests. harry had escaped this latter ignominy, but as his name enjoyed equal publicity with those of the more unfortunate revelers, it did him little good. nothing could possibly be less to the liking of such a person as james, as harry realized perfectly at the time. he participated in the affair neither because he liked strong drink nor because he disliked policemen, but chiefly with a sort of desperate desire to force james' hand, to make his brother take him severely to task and end their mutual coolness in one rousing scene of recrimination and forgiveness. but no such thing happened; james did not make the slightest reference to the business! harry also remained silent on the subject, at first because of his amazement, then out of obstinacy, and finally because he was genuinely hurt. if james preferred that they should be strangers to each other, strangers they should be. meanwhile james remained silent, of course, not because he did not take enough interest in his brother, but because he took too much. he refrained from mentioning the row because he was afraid that a discussion of it would merely bring on another quarrel, which he wished of all things to avoid. so the two brothers bade good-by to each other for the summer in misunderstanding and mistrust, though their outward behavior was cordial and brotherly enough. james, who was starting almost immediately for the west, smiled as he shook the hand of his brother, who was going abroad for the holidays and said, "well, so long; look out for yourself and don't take any wooden money." harry, also smiling, replied in the same vein; but the smile died on his lips and the words turned to gall in his mouth as he thought what a bitter travesty this was of former partings, when their gaiety was either natural or intended to hide the sorrow of parting, and not, as now, wholly forced and affected to conceal the relief that each could not but feel in being far from the other. chapter xii an act of god it was five o'clock in the afternoon and five degrees above zero. it was also very windy, which made it seem colder to everybody except the thermometer; and as the thermometer alone exhibited signs of being able to stand a temperature of twenty or thirty or even forty degrees colder without suffering disagreeable consequences, that seemed rather unfair. for the wind, which was blowing not in hysterical gusts but in the calm, relentless, all-day-and-all-night, forty-to sixty-mile gale that you only get west of the great lakes, _did_ make it colder; there was no doubt about that. else why did every one keep out of it as much as possible; walk on the protected side of the street, seek shelter in doorways while waiting for trolley cars, and so forth? of course the wind made you colder; so much colder that when you were sheltered from it, if only for a moment, you felt comparatively warm, though it was still five degrees above zero. unless, that is, you happened to be standing over one of those grated openings in the sidewalk that belched forth their welcome though inexplicable gusts of warm air into the outer world; if you could get a place over one of those--gee, but you were the lucky guy! that was the way you phrased it, at any rate, if you happened to be twelve years old and a newsboy with an income of--well, say thirty dollars a year, if that sounds sufficiently insufficient to provide anything approaching decent clothes, decent food and a decent place to live. if not, make it as little as you like. the point is that the annual income of a certain ten-year-old newsboy, by name of stodger mcclintock, was preeminently, magnificently insufficient to provide any of those commodities. as a consequence of which, stodger was cold. as another consequence of which stodger, the gay, the debonair, the unemotional, the anything but tearfully inclined, was very nearly in tears. people do actually suffer from the cold occasionally, even in this effete and over-protected age, and stodger was suffering. the volcanic opening was all very well, but he could not stay there long. and the prospects for the night were bad, and bad even for supper.... there were tears in james' eyes also as he hurried along from work, but they were entirely due to the wind. as soon as he perceived stodger, however, who dashed out at him with the customary "here's yer paper, mister!" at an unexpected place in the side street instead of at the corner as per custom, he realized that his (stodger's) tears were not entirely due to the wind. "well, stodger! what are you doing down here?" he cried cheerfully. "trine t' git woim." stodger's diction at best was imperfect and it was now further impeded by a certain nasal fluency, the joint result of the cold and contemplation of domestic imperfections. but james understood, perfectly well. "well, stodger, it is cold, i'll have to grant you that!" he rejoined, and instituted fumbling operations into the pocket where he kept his loose silver. "give me a _star_ and a _sun_ and a _mercury_, too, will you? this is no time for economy; the announcement of the all-american football team is out to-night. give me one of every paper you have!" pecuniary transaction ensued, parallel with conversation. "and how do _you_ like this weather, stodger?" "me? oh, _i_ don't mind." "don't you? well, i do, i'm afraid. this is just a little too cold for my pleasure. but then i'm not a husk, like you." "well--" there was concession in stodger's voice--"it's loike this. some guys minds it, 'n' then they don't like t' unbutton their coats 'n' fork out a penny fer a paper. 'n' that makes bum bizniss. see?" print is miserably inadequate to give an idea of stodger's consonants. "i see. stodger, did you ever hear of an act of god?" "huh?" "well, never mind. a cold snap like this is an act of god. some natural cataclysm, something that can't be prevented or even foreseen. well, sir, opposed as i am to indiscriminate giving, i'm going to break a rule this time. all bets are off when an act of god comes along. here's half a dollar. can you get something to eat and keep yourself warm over night with that?" "sure i kin." stodger grinned broadly for a second or two; then his face clouded. "aw, naw. not off you. i couldn't take that off you." he meant that only fools gave away money, and he did not want to put james in that category. "why not?" james' smile, his unruffled good-humor, had their effect. surely a god that smiled and looked like that could not be quite a fool, even if he gave away money. "now stop your guff; take the cash and cut along. so long!... that was my trolley, dash it; you and your confounded scruples have made me miss my car, stodger!... well, let's take a look at the all-american football team. stoddard of harvard, brown of the army, steele of michigan...." he ran his eye down the list till interrupted by a sharp exclamation from his friend. "gee, but he's a bum choice!" "who?" "steele." "steele? oh, i'm not so sure. he's death on running back punts...." "aw, he _is_ not! i tell yer, he couldn't hang onto a punt if 'twas handed to him on flypaper by a dago in a dress suit, let alone run with it! my ole gran'mudder c'n run better'n him, any day!" domestic troubles being for the nonce in abeyance stodger was in a mood to let his tongue run free on a favorite topic. "well, we'll have to put your grandmother in at all-america left half next year." stodger knew as well as anybody when he was being laughed at, and held his peace. "i didn't know you were such a football fan, stodger." "aw, yes. i'm some fan." this without enthusiasm, in the bored tone in which one agrees to the statement of a self-evident fact. "well, i wonder. stodger, do you think you could recognize any all-america player if you saw him on the street, in ordinary togs?" "sure i could." "how many years back?" "t'ree years ... oh, more; four, five years, mebbe!" "well, i'm afraid you lose, stodger!" "aw, gwawn! try me an' see!" "you've lost already, i tell you. you've been talking to an all-america player for the last ten minutes and never knew it!" "aw, wotcha trine t' hand me! run along 'n' tell it to the cop on the corner! tell it to me gran'mudder, if you like; _she_'ll believe yer! you can't slip one like that on _me_, i tell yer!" stodger's contempt was magnificent, but he rather marred the effect of it by adding suspiciously "wotcheer?" which amounted to a confession that he might be wrong, after all. "two years ago. take a good look now, stodger; see if you can't recognize me." james turned so that the sunset glow fell more strongly on his face. stodger looked with all his eyes, but remained unconvinced. "line, er back?" he inquired. "back." "i gotcha now! wimboine! wimboine! right half! yale!" but experience had taught him that such dreams usually fade, and he went on, disappointed: "aw, naw. can't slip _that_ on me. you're not that wimboine. you look a little bit like him, but you're not _that_ wimboine. brudder, p'raps. _you're_ no football player." "why not?" "too thin. _you_ c'd never tear through the line th' way _that_ feller did." "oh, rot; we'll end this, here and now." james fumbled at length beneath his fur coat and produced the end of a watch-chain on which dangled a little gold football with his name, that of his college and the date of his achievement on it. stodger, convinced, simply stared. it was as though jupiter had stepped right down from olympus. james, with a smile at his consternation, resumed his paper for the last minute or two before his car arrived. "say, mister! mister wimboine! you got my tail twisted that time, all right! i'm a goat, i'm a simp, i'm a boob! you got my number! call me wotch like!" "all right, stodger, i will." james spoke and smiled through his reading. he had almost ceased to think of stodger, who was more entertaining when incredulous, and was reading merely to kill time till his car arrived. stodger's tongue was still wagging:-- "say, dey was a guy useter live down chicago called schmidt--slugger schmidt, that was a cracker jack--middle-weight--ever hear of him? i knew him, oncet ... he had a little practise bout wid riley th' other night--you know, hurrican riley?--and laid him out in t'ree roun's.... say, mister, there goes yer car! that's the poik street car went!" "what? oh, did it? never mind; i'm going to walk." james was off; off almost before the words were out of his mouth, and stodger, struck by the sudden curtness of his tone was afraid he had outraged the feelings of the god. mister wimboine had clearly been deeply displeased about something, and stodger was sure it must have been something more than the all-america football team. of course stodger was not really responsible for james' displeasure and his sudden determination to walk the three miles that lay between him and his club and dinner, any more than was the composition of the all-america football team. it was something much more serious; something that made bodily exercise imperative lest cerebration around and around one little particular point should make him dizzy. for it was a very small thing that cerebration was busy on, even if it did represent a great deal to james; only a tiny paragraph at the bottom of the first page of one of the evening papers. the single headline had first caught his eye:--"rates heartache at $ , ," and then with unbelieving eyes he read on: "new haven, conn., dec. . myrtle mowbray, a manicure living in this city, has filed a suit of breach of promise of marriage for $ , in the superior court here against harold wimbourne, a student in yale university. mr. wimbourne is a member of an old and prominent new haven family. he is a senior in the academic department." a sort of mental and emotional nausea overcame james as the meaning of those lines sank into his brain. the vulgar, degrading cynicism of the headline! breach of promise, scandal, newspaper publicity--that was the sort of thing that happened to other people, not to one's self. such things simply did not occur in families one knew, much less in families by the name of wimbourne. james had always thought of that name as apart, aloof from such things, exempt from all undesirable publicity. his family pride was none the less strong for being so unconscious, so dormant; now that it was outraged it flamed forth in a scorching blaze. so loathing gave way to anger, and anger lasted a full mile and a half. it would have lasted longer if it had been concentrated on one person or thing, instead of directed against several persons, several things, several sets of circumstances, the order of things in general. for james was not angry at harry alone; even he realized that before the mile and a half were up. he was angry at him at first, but that soon passed off somewhat; his anger seemed even to be seeking other objects, unconsciously--the mowbray woman, uncle james, himself, yale university, the whole nature of man. but cerebration had a chance to get in a good deal of its fell work during those three miles. as he swung open the front door of the club and passed into the main lobby, with its teeming confusion of electric lights and bellboys, he was conscious of nothing but a quiet, deep, corroding disgust that seemed to be as old as all time. it seemed as if he had known of this disgrace for years; had almost had time to outlive it, in fact. his first impulse was to go into the bar and annex himself to one of the cheerful groups that would be congregating there at this hour, and turn his mind to something else. but almost immediately he remembered that practically every one there would also have read the evening paper, and he shuddered at the thought of their pitying glances. automatically following his daily custom he cheeked his coat and hat at the cloak room and collected his mail from his post-box. then he went straight to the one room in the club where he thought he was likely to be alone; a small reading-room usually popular in the afternoon but deserted by early evening. he found it empty, as he had expected. with a sigh of relief he turned out all the electric lights and threw himself on a couch in front of the open wood fire--a graceful though unnecessary compliment on the part of the club management to meteorological conditions. but unluckily his glance fell on the unopened letters he still held in his hand, and immediately his trouble was on him again. one of them he recognized as coming from his uncle james and the other, bearing the post-mark of new haven, was from beatrice. with a slight groan of combined resignation and disgust he tore open his uncle's letter and read it by the flickering light of the fire. dear james: your young brother has made more of a mess of it than we hoped would be the case. the mowbray woman has brought suit for $ , , and is likely to get it, or a good part of it, according to raynham, whom i saw about the business yesterday. she has letters and a spoken promise in the presence of witnesses. we have nothing except the knowledge that harry was drunk when he wrote the letters and drunk when he spoke the words, which is not much comfort. still, raynham thinks she can be made to settle out of court, especially if we take our time. we have got to show her first that the world will not come to an end because a wimbourne has been mixed up with a woman--which it won't. it will be a matter, raynham thinks, of $ , at least; probably more. what is going to become of the boy? have you any influence over him? if not, who has? it is about time somebody exerted some on him, other than bad. he has much to fight against. "your aunt sends her love. your affect. uncle, james wimbourne. in spite of his fatigue and his disgust, james smiled as he finished the letter. it was so characteristic of uncle james; the most conventional sentences, the ones that seemed to mean least, really meant the most. "your aunt sends her love"; only a person who knew uncle james could appreciate the consciously suppressed humor of that phrase. as if aunt cecilia were not in such a vortex of conflicting emotions over the affair that such a conventional message would not be as far from her as bagdad! "he has much to fight against"; harry had much to fight against; uncle james knew what, and he knew that james also knew. connotative meanings like these more than atoned for the unflinching frankness of certain other phrases. on the whole, james felt better for having read the letter, and opened beatrice's with a lighter heart. dear james; (he read) jack trotwood has just been here and told me that that unspeakable woman is actually going to sue harry for breach of promise. i tried to get him to tell more, but he said that that was all he had been able to get out of harry. it's too awful! you can imagine what a time i've been through, seeing him at least once a week and not being able to say a word about the whole business. i've had to depend on jack trotwood for all my information, and naturally he hasn't wanted to say much. do you mean to say harry hasn't written you all this term? i cannot understand it at all. aunt selina seems quite cut up about it, and wishes you were here. 'tell james to come,' she said when i told her i would write you. i must confess, though, that i don't see what good you could do--now. of course, terrible as this suit is, it does relieve things in one way, at least. once we're quite sure it's merely money she's after, it doesn't seem quite so bad. i even think it is better now than it was early in the autumn, when we thought he was actually fond of her. there is no other news to give you; as you can imagine, we have not been thinking of much else. poor harry, how sorry i am for him! how much i wish i could help him, and how little i can do! as ever yours, beatrice. this letter was less comforting than the other. beatrice's words seemed to james to carry a veiled reproach with them; to implicate him much more closely in harry's disgrace than he had as yet thought of implicating himself. "i don't see what good you could do--now;" "better now than it was in the early autumn--" such sentences could not but have their sting for the sensitive mind, and james was sensitive when harry was concerned, and even more so when beatrice was. had he been negligent in regard to harry? oh, yes, he was perfectly willing to admit that he had, now that he came to think it over, though he would rather have had anybody other than beatrice point out the fact to him--and that, doubtless, was because a comment from beatrice would have twice the force of the same comment uttered by any one else. he had never really put himself out for harry in any way, since the days when england seemed too far for him to venture to discover what the years were making of him. in the critical period of his senior and harry's sophomore year he had shown himself entirely incapable of giving the friendship and sympathy and guidance that were needed. jack trotwood, and not he himself, had been harry's best friend, in every sense of the phrase, for three years and more. and after graduation, he had come to minneapolis. then this degrading affair with the manicure. james had heard of that first through beatrice, for harry's letters, which had arrived at regular, though rather long, intervals, had ceased abruptly in september, at the beginning of the college year. that had been almost a relief to james. harry's letters had been calculated to widen rather than bridge the gulf between them. they had been amusing and always cleverly written. a letter written on the previous tap day, dated conspicuously "thursday, may , p.m." (two hours after harry had failed to receive an election to any senior society) had been a perfect masterpiece of omission. it ran pleasantly along on the weather, the outward appearance of the university, sundry little incidents of no importance or interest, the economic condition of the country--everything except tap day, himself, anything that would interest james. this letter had irritated james beyond all expression, yet at the same time he admired it for what it was worth, and hated himself for admiring it. and so, as he was obliged to learn from other sources of harry's missing a senior society, so he was dependent on others for all his information _in re_ myrtle mowbray. in october beatrice had written him that harry had been seen much in the society of the woman, who conducted her business in connection with a barber shop situated conveniently for the patronage of the student body. jack trotwood had also written, somewhat timidly, to the same effect, evidently much perplexed about where his truest duty to harry lay. apparently there had been motor parties to neighboring country inns, more or less conspicuous carryings-on in restaurants about town, and so forth. such tidings became more and more acute for a month, and then ceased. there was reason for hoping that the nonsense was all over. then the thunderbolt of to-day. james had not really been much worried, before to-day. he had caught a glimpse of "the mowbray woman," as he always thought of her, one day in the previous june, while in new haven for commencement. he had been strolling along chapel street with a group of classmates, and one of them called his attention to a female form emerging from a shop door, giving in a discreet undertone a brief explanation of her celebrity, ending with a vivid word of commendation--"some fluff." james looked, and saw a pretty face. it had been but a fraction of a second, and the face was turned away from him; but it was enough to leave quite a lasting impression on his mind--an impression that had not been without its effect on his reception of the news of harry's infatuation. a pretty face! well, when all was said and done, harry had not been the first man of his acquaintance to become enamored of a pretty face--and get over it. he did not approve of the alleged infatuation; the thought of it gave him considerable uneasiness. but, helped out by the impression, his optimistic temperament had battled with the uneasiness and in the end overcome it; prevented it, certainly, from growing into anything like anxiety, anything that would necessitate drastic and disturbing measures, such as pulling up stakes, for instance, and hurrying new haven-ward.... oh, how loathsomely lazy and indifferent he had been, now that he looked back on it all! a pretty face! the memory of it was still sharply out-lined on the back of james' brain and drove introspection and self-recrimination into momentary abeyance. a clear, slightly olive complexion, rising to a faint pink on the cheeks--artificial? not as he remembered it; there was no suggestion of the chorus-girl--sharply-drawn eyebrows and dark hair. above, a hat of some sort; below, a suit, preferably of dark blue serge. the impression had been recurrent in james' mind during these past months; not soon after it was received, in the summer; since then. there was something irritating and tantalizing about this circumstance; it was as though the impression had been strengthened by a second view. where had he seen that face again, if at all? yes, he had seen it, somewhere; he was almost certain of it. he was absolutely certain of it; he could remember everything--except the time and place. which after all were important adjuncts to definite recollection--! no, he would not laugh himself out of it; he was sure. he would remember all about it some time when he least expected it. he left it at that, and listlessly lay at full length watching the fire and allowing his thoughts to wander from the all-absorbing topic and its octopus-like ramifications. the fire was fascinating to watch; he loved open fires and wished they would have one in this room every evening. it would be almost like a home to come back to, after work. it was particularly pleasant to watch, like this, in an otherwise dark room, as it cast its intermittent flare on the walls and furniture. it brought out the rich warm tones in the brown leather of the chairs and the oak of the wainscot, and picked out small particles of gilt here and there in the ceiling decoration, and set them twinkling back in a cheerful, drowsy way. from the dim outside world beyond the open door came occasional sounds of club life; the distant clatter of crockery, the swish of a passing elevator, a voice finding fault with a club servant. james listened to them at first, in a half-amused, idle sort of way; then gradually they faded from his consciousness and he was aware of nothing but the fire and its flickering yellow light. he watched the fire intently, absorbedly, with the lazy concentration with which a tired brain often fastens itself on some physical object, as though to crowd out other thoughts clamoring for admittance. the fire was beginning to burn low now, with flames that never rose more than a few inches above the logs. every few moments a small quantity of half-burnt wood dropped off and fell to the glowing bed of coals beneath, and the flames broke out afresh in the place it fell from. james watched this process with a growing sense of expectancy; he seemed to be always waiting, waiting for the next fall; yet when the next fall came he was still waiting.... was it only the fall of the coals that he was waiting for? it must be something else, something that had nothing to do with the fire at all; something much more important; something that he longed not to have come, yet, and at the same time wished were over.... he seemed now not to be lying at full length, but sitting on the broad arm of a chair. the fire-light's glow fell no longer on leather and oak, but on old flowered chintz and mahogany.... now he was sitting no longer; he was bending over--bending low over something white; turning his ear so as to catch certain words that some one was uttering in a whisper; words that were indelibly burnt on his brain; words that were as inseparable from his being as life.... then in an instant the room, the fire, everything vanished; and in their place, filling his whole consciousness--that face! he knew it perfectly now, exactly when, where, all about it; no room for mistake or doubt any more! he started upright on the couch; his whole world seemed suddenly illumined by a blinding flash of light. in another instant he was aware that somebody had turned on the electric light, and of a face staring quizzically into his. he heard a voice. "hello, you all alone in here, wimbourne? you must be fond of the dark!--what are you looking so all-fired pleased about, i wonder?" "oh--laffan! how are you?... nothing much; i just thought of something, that's all." "congratulations on your thoughts. i'm looking for some one to dine with; i suppose you've eaten? it's late--" "whew--nearly eight! no, i've not eaten; shall we go up together?" they started to leave the room, but james stopped abruptly in the doorway, suddenly practical, master of himself, of the whole situation. "i say, laffan, you're a lawyer, aren't you?" "i attempt to be." "well, i want to consult you, professionally, if you'll let me. consider me a client! now, what i want to know is this; suppose a--" "oh, rot, man--not on an empty stomach! come along upstairs; you can tell me all about it while you eat!" chapter xiii sardou about a week later james went to the head of his firm, the classmate's father who had offered him his position, and asked for a few days' leave of absence. "why didn't you go to smith?" said his employer, naming the head of the department in which james was working. "i didn't think he'd let me off without your leave, sir." "hm.... you must go, must you?" "i'm afraid i must. indeed, i'm bound to say, sir, that i shall go, leave or no leave." "hm. well, you can go; but if you take more than half a week it'll have to come off your annual vacation." "thank you, sir, i shan't need more than that," said james and the interview was closed. no word was spoken of the reason for james' departure. jonathan mcclellan, founder and owner of the mcclellan automobile company, knew a thing or two beside how to run an automobile business. he also read the papers. that was on a thursday. in the course of the evening james conducted an interview with his friend laffan and at midnight or thereabouts he took train for chicago. he proceeded next day to new york, and thence, on saturday, to new haven, arriving there early in the afternoon. he went straight from the station to the law offices of messrs. raynham and rummidge and remained there upwards of half an hour. every sign of satisfaction was visible on his face as he emerged, but raynham, who escorted him to the outer door, seemed not nearly so well pleased. "i wish you'd change your mind, even now, and leave it to us," he said, just loud enough for the stenographer in the outer office not to hear. "plain enough sailing, now," replied james, smiling encouragingly. "i don't think you need to worry." "well, if you get into trouble, don't lose your head or your temper, or try to bluff. just say you'll leave the rest to your lawyers, and get out!" james proceeded up chapel street in excellent spirits. a light snow was falling, melting on the pavements but covering the grassy expanse of the green with a soft white blanket, and bringing each gaunt black branch of the elm trees into strong relief. james walked on the green side of the street, so as to avoid the greetings of possible acquaintances, and kept his eyes on the broad square. he noticed that some elm trees had been clipped and others felled since he had last been in town; he was sorry to see them go and wished the authorities could find some way of preserving them better.... he walked unhesitatingly into the shop and, disregarding the obsequious gestures of the line of barbers, went straight to the very end, where he knew he would find her, with her glass-topped table and her instruments and her disgusting little basin.... she was there, but a broad black back obtruded itself in front of her. "one moment," she said, looking up and smiling. james retreated a few steps to a row of chairs placed there for the use of the expectant. he sat down, and cursed himself for a fool. what business had he here? why hadn't he left it all to raynham, like a sensible person? he knew he would mess it all now, in spite of everything; he remembered stories of commanders who had been ousted out of impregnable positions by the mere confident attitude of their opponents. it was her appearance, her manner, her faultless smile, that unnerved him. it was, as he mentally phrased it to himself, because she looked "so damned refined." never had he dreamed it would be as bad as this. the black back shuffled inchoately out of his vision; his moment had come. he walked forward. "you are miss mowbray, are you not?" he asked, speaking slowly and steadying his voice with difficulty. "yes?" "my name is wimbourne. i think you know my brother.... i would like to talk to you, if i might. when will you be at liberty?" "why shouldn't we talk right here?" she said cheerfully. "if you'll sit down there.... you had better let me tend to your nails--they need it." "very well." james sat down. he felt his courage returning; her self-possession stimulated him. not one shadow of a change of expression had passed over her face when he told her he was harry's brother; her manner remained the perfection of professional cordiality. well, if she could show nerve, he could, too. she filled her bowl with warm water and arranged her instruments with perfect composure. when she was ready james surrendered his right hand. "miss mowbray," he began at length, "as i understand the matter, you are suing my brother for breach of promise. is that right?" "it is." "well, i'm sorry. it's a bad business. bad for you as well as for him, because you can't possibly win. now, miss mowbray, i will be frank with you. you are not going to get that forty thousand dollars--your suit will not even get into court. i know that, but i don't want to have to go into the reasons why. i don't want scenes, i hate them; i want to make this interview as easy and as short as possible, so i will open it with an offer. i will give you five hundred dollars if you will agree to withdraw your suit and clear out of town, within a week. do you accept?" "i do not." her smile was more than cordial now, there was pity in it. "why do you suppose i took the trouble to sue for forty thousand dollars, if i would be content with five hundred, mr. wimbourne?" "oh, must we go into arguments? why can't you simply take my word for it that your suit is impossible, and close with me? five hundred dollars--think what it means! it would pay all your costs and leave you enough to start in with somewhere else." "the sum is just eighty times too small." "you won't, then? think it over a little! i'll leave the offer open for five minutes; you needn't answer definitely till then." james was thoroughly sure of himself and at ease now; he smiled to himself with a certain grim pleasure at his little touch of melodrama, reminiscent of--what? sardou? a common trick, of course, but never without its effect. he ceased thinking about it, and watched the clock. presently he was aware that his companion, always busy with her scraping and cleaning and rubbing, was speaking in a low, calm voice. "no, mr. wimbourne, i am not quite the fool you take me for, i'm afraid. you may not know it, but your brother has treated me very badly. he deserves to be punished. a man cannot make a fool of a woman, as he has of me, and get off scot free. there is such a thing as law and justice for those that are abused, and i have been abused. i should be very silly now if i did not go on and take all that is coming to me. i shall only be taking my right, mr. wimbourne; remember that. fun is all very well if it is innocent fun; but when it hurts other people it has to be paid for." "the five minutes are up," said james; "but i will willingly extend the time if there is any chance of your reconsidering. what do you think?" no answer. james watched her calm face, with its pleasing and well-chiseled features, enlivened now by only the merest suggestion of a smile that was not really there, but still seemed latent, ready for instant use if called upon. about the mouth hung a shade of impatience, of obstinacy; anything else? no, assuredly no, search as he would. she was extraordinary! "oh, dear," he said with a gentle sigh, "you will go in for all the unpleasantness, i'm afraid.... miss mowbray, you have no right to sue my brother for breach of promise. you have been acting under false pretenses to him from the first. you were married to a man called edward jennings, in the city of minneapolis, on the rd of last september." "you have proofs, no doubt?" the tone was sharp and defiant, the smile scornful and satirical, but she did blench--no doubt of it. james' heart leaped within him. "oh, yes--lots, right here in my breast pocket. tiresome things, but lawyers love them. if you will release my right hand for a moment--" he chose to smile ingratiatingly at her, and it gave him a little thrill of revenge to observe how obviously forced her answering smile was. she was not proof against her own weapons. but his triumph faded almost immediately, and pity took its place. poor thing, what a ridiculous game she had been playing! how could it possibly succeed? could she not have known that some one who knew of her marriage would be sure to turn up at the wrong moment and spoil the whole affair? she looked so small, so defenseless, so crumpled as she sat there, waiting for him to produce his proofs; surely she was never made for this sort of a career! then her smiles of a little while ago came back to him, and he reflected that perhaps she was, after all. "first, here is a little history of your career. you were born in minneapolis, june , -. at the age of sixteen you went to new york city, where you entered the theatrical profession. for some years you were on the vaudeville stage, playing occasionally in new york, but mostly on the road. your stage name was rosa montagu. you left the profession about three years ago, and have been engaged in this place as manicure for a little less than two years. you resumed the name of myrtle mowbray, which as far as i can make out is your own, on leaving the stage, but you were married, last september, under your stage name. here is a copy of your marriage lines, sworn to by the minneapolis license bureau. here is a photograph of you as rosa montagu...." "suppose you let me finish manicuring your hands, mr. wimbourne." james replaced the papers in his pocket and his hand on the glass-topped table, and professional duties were resumed. they continued in silence for some time; neither party really had much to say now. it occurred to james that even now she might be trying to take him in by her indifference, to "bluff" him; but a careful study of her face dispelled the idea. he admired her nerve now no less than before. "are you satisfied, miss mowbray?" he asked at length. "no. i'm beaten, though." james liked the reply immensely; liked, also, the manner in which it was given--hardly betraying anything more than good-humored disgust. "when can i see you again to-day or to-morrow?" he asked again after a short pause. "there will be papers to sign, and that sort of thing." "is it possible that mr. raynham sent you out without a written statement for me to sign in your pocket?" she rejoined, looking fearlessly up at him. "no--that is--yes, he did." of course he had not, but james was already planning a little _coup_ of his own not included in mr. raynham's arrangements. "well, could you come back here this evening? toward ten? we close then, on saturdays." "very well." both were silent for some time. at last, when the manicuring was almost completed, james said with a sudden burst of friendly curiosity: "honestly, miss mowbray, why did you do it? get married to him first, i mean." she looked coldly up at him. "i really don't see why i should answer that question, mr. wimbourne." "of course not. there's not the slightest reason why you should answer it, if you don't want to." she was not proof against his candor or his smile. she smiled back, in spite of herself, without rancor or affectation. "i have an idea that you are quite an unusual young man, mr. wimbourne. you are, without doubt, the worst enemy i have in the world, and yet you give me the impression of being a friend. i think i like you better than your brother." james made no reply to this, but only reddened slightly, and she went on: "i married him because i lacked the courage not to. i was afraid to burn my bridges behind me. he had been wanting me to for a long time, and at the last he became very impatient.... it was the only way i could keep him, and i dared not let him go. things had not been going well here.... so i went back and married him, on condition that it was to be kept an absolute secret. i was determined to come out here and try my luck for one more year.... of course i was very sorry that i did it, this fall. but i determined to go through with ... the business, for there was a big prize at stake." "and you never knew he had a brother in minneapolis?" "no--he simply told me he had an elder brother in the west. i had no suspicion of anything; it seemed perfectly safe. how did you find out, anyway, if i may ask?" "i happened to see you--perhaps a minute after you were married, coming out of the marriage license office, with a man. compromising! you had been pointed out to me before, here, so i knew what you looked like. but what made you so keen to go through with--with the business? you don't look like that kind, somehow...." she gave the last finishing touch to his hand and started to gather up her belongings before replying. "you don't know what it is not to have plenty of money, mr. wimbourne, or you would not ask that question. you don't know what it is to watch other people sailing by in sixty horsepower limousines and realize that you would look every bit as well there as any of them, and better than most, and to realize, above all, that you could make so much more out of your wealth than most of them. i am under no delusions about myself; i know perfectly well that i'm not a manicure type. i have brains, i have good looks, i have social possibilities. only, i happened to be born without money or social position, and the handicap is too great.... well, it's all up now. there's no hope for anything better now." the tone in which she spoke these words was so perfectly quiet and resigned, so utterly lacking in vulgar desire to advertise her woes, that james felt deeply moved. he could not think of anything to say to reassure or encourage her. presently he blurted out, desperately: "you've got a good husband in edward jennings, anyway. he's a good chap, according to all accounts...." she smiled, deprecatorily. "he's a nice boy. but he'll never make any money." james made up an excuse to consult mr. raynham again, and after that walked the snow-covered streets till dinner time. his first impulse was to look up harry, but he discarded the idea; he would not see him, aunt selina, any one, till his task was done, every detail completed. he dined alone in an obscure restaurant and with some difficulty succeeded in frittering away the time till ten o'clock, at which hour he returned to the barber shop on chapel street. he proceeded at once to business, taking out two papers which he gave to miss mowbray to sign. she read and signed without comment. when she had finished he said: "would you mind delivering this for me?" and handed her an unsealed envelope bearing the simple superscription "mr. edward jennings." miss mowbray fingered the envelope indecisively a moment; then she opened it and took out the contents. she rose from her seat and glanced apprehensively at james. "i can't--we--thank you, but i simply can't accept this," she whispered. "nobody asked you to do anything, except deliver the letter," replied james cheerfully. "i'd like to know what business you have opening other people's letters, anyway. it isn't nice.--wedding present, you know," he went on, with a change of voice; "i'm rather hoping to have the honor of giving you your first. please try to make him accept it from me, won't you? good-by!" he shook her hand quickly and was actually off before she had time to offer another word of objection. he made his way straight across the snowy street to harry's rooms in vanderbilt hall. there was no answer to his knock, but the door yielded to a turn of the knob--how like harry to leave it unlocked! the room was dark and empty, but he went in and found the embers of a fire dying on the hearth. he threw off his hat and overcoat, struck a light and looked about for materials with which to rebuild the fire. in a few minutes the logs were blazing merrily before him. he turned out the gas, drew up an armchair and sat down in front of the fire to wait for harry. chapter xiv un-anglo-saxon he came in before long, stamping the snow from his boots. in the second or two that passed before he spoke, james saw that though he looked haggard and depressed, there was no trace of weakness of dissipation about his eyes or mouth. nor did he slink; he blundered in with the impetuosity of a schoolboy for whom the world has no terrors. for which, though he was shocked to see how badly he looked, james was profoundly thankful. he was aware of harry's eyes trying to pierce the half-gloom; there was a touch of pathos, to james, in his momentary bewilderment. "hullo, harry," he said gently. "james!" the immediate, unconscious look of delight that came over harry's face--even though it faded to something else within the second--pleased james more than anything had pleased him yet. harry was glad to see him; that mattered much more than his almost instant recovery of his self-possession, his continuing, in the manner of the harry of two years ago, the harry of the previous commencement: "whatever are you doing here now, james?" "i've got good news for you, harry," he replied, rising and taking hold of the other's hand. "the mowbray woman has withdrawn her suit. it's all right; she's signed things, and you have no more to fear from her." he dropped harry's hand and moved off a step, as though to give him a chance to take in the news. there was something rather fine in the simplicity, the humility, even of his manner as he did this, that did not escape harry. he was deeply moved; self-possession and all it implied fell from him again. "james, have you done this? what has happened? tell me all about it! you haven't paid her all that money, james--don't tell me you've done that!" "no, of course i haven't--there was no need for it. she was married out in minneapolis last september, and i happened to get onto the fact--that's all. she had no business to be suing at all." "and you--" "i came here and told her so, to-day." james sat down again where he had been sitting, as though to close the incident. harry stood and gasped; he tried to speak but could not; his eyes filled with tears. then he dropped at james' feet, clasping his knees in the manner of a suppliant of old. he buried his face in james' lap and gave a few deep sobs of joy and relief. the anglo-saxon race being what it is, a good deal of courage is needed to go on with the relation of what occurred next. however, there is no help for it; history is history, and we can only tell it as it actually occurred, regardless of whether the undemonstrative are outraged or not. after harry had thrown himself at his feet james took his brother's head gently between his hands, and then, with the greatest simplicity and naturalness in the world, bent forward and kissed it. "poor old thing," he said softly; "you have been having sort of a hard time of it, haven't you?" * * * * * "i wish you would tell me, james," said harry somewhat later, as they sat gazing into the fire, james in the armchair and harry on the floor, leaning back against james' legs, "i wish you would tell me just how you found out about her being married, and all about it. it seems so incredible--both that she should have been married and that you, of all people, should have been on the spot to discover it." "well, i just saw her, coming out of the marriage office with a man; that was all there was to it. i thought she probably wouldn't have been there unless she had just been married to him, so i had the register looked up, and there she was. she was under the name of rosa montagu--that gave us some trouble at first, because of course i didn't know that was her stage name. i put a fellow called laffan, a young lawyer, onto the business, and he messed about with the register and the detective bureau and communicated with raynham till he wormed it all out. finally he got hold of a photograph of rosa montagu and showed it to me, and after that it was easy enough--of course, it was a most god-given chance that i stumbled on her just at that compromising moment. she really wasn't as foolish as she sounds; she hadn't lived in minneapolis for years and knew almost nobody there except her young man. it was a long chance, what with using her stage name and all, that any one would ever find her out." "yes. but i don't quite see--you say she was married in september?" "yes--the third." "well, if you knew she was married then, i don't quite see why you didn't make use of your knowledge before. when i was playing round with her, i mean--of course i, like the brazen idiot i was, didn't write you, but you must have heard--" "oh, yes. well, it was a very funny thing. i didn't remember about having seen her in that place till months afterward; not till the night i heard about the breach of promise business. you see, it was only the barest, vaguest glimpse, there in the city hall; she didn't even see me and i didn't even remember where i had seen her face before, then. i scarcely thought about it at all, at the time; i was in a great hurry to get to a hearing before some commission or other, and the thing went bang out of my mind. then, when i read of the breach of promise, it all came back, in one flash! funny!" "yes. it's the kind of humor that appeals to me, i can tell you." "the man, jennings, curiously enough, happened to be in mcclellan's for a while, once, in the counting department. he left there to become a clerk in some bank. we worked up his end too, a little.... "harry, i wish you'd tell me one thing," went on james, after a pause. "anything i can, james." "why on earth, when you found you were getting in deep with that woman, didn't you call on me to do something? you couldn't be so far gone as to think that i wouldn't--" "oh, couldn't i? you have no idea of what depths of idiocy i can descend to, if i want.--i don't know--at the time, the more i wanted help the less i could talk of it to any one, and you least of all. the person that gave me the most comfort was trotty, and he never once mentioned the subject to me, except when i introduced it myself! yet even so, all through that time, it was you that i really wanted.--look here, james, if you don't believe me, see what i've been carrying around with me all this time, as a sort of talisman!" he took his wallet from his pocket and after a short search produced an old and dirty postal card bearing on its face the blurred but still readable legend "all right. james." he handed it to his brother. "gosh," said james, when he had read it, "do you mean to say you've kept that old thing ever since?" "ever since the day i got it. there was something about it that was comforting and optimistic and--well, like you; and i used to take it out and look at it occasionally when i got particularly down in the mouth. and i used to persuade myself, after a while, that it all would come out right, in the end; that somehow james would make it all right--you see how the prophecy has come true!... and the extraordinary part of it is that even while i thought that way about you, i simply couldn't break the ice and tell you about it all. i don't know why--i just couldn't!" "i know," said james; "i know the feeling." "isn't it incredible, james, that what seemed perfectly natural and reasonable--inevitable, even--a few weeks, or days, or even an hour ago, should appear so utterly asinine now!... pride, vainglory and hypocrisy--all of them, and a lot more! sometimes i can't believe it possible for one person to assemble in himself all the vices that i do." "well, you don't, either," said james seriously. "that's one thing i want to clear up. harry, don't you see that the blame for all this lies with me just as much as with you--more than with you--entirely with me?--" "no, i don't," began harry stoutly, but james continued: "and that the real reason you didn't call on me was because i had steadily shut myself away from you? oh, harry, i've behaved like the devil during the last three years! it's just as you say; a course of action you never even question at one time, a little later seems so silly, so criminally silly, that you can't believe you seriously thought of following it!... i know perfectly well that a lot of the things i thought were horribly important a few years ago really aren't worth the paper they're printed on. the perspective changes so, even with these two years--less than two years--out of college! good lord, if a man is really the right sort, if he has a good, warm-hearted nature at the bottom of him, thinks good thoughts, does nice things, uses to the best of his judgment what gifts and talents providence is pleased to give him, what in heaven's name does it matter whether he manages the crew or goes bones, in the end?... i've been a fool, harry. i've set the greatest value on the most worthless things; i've worshiped stone gods; i've let things irritate me that no sane man has any business to be irritated by. worst of all, i've let these silly, worthless things come between you and me and spoil--well, one of the best things that ever came into my life!... all this estrangement business has been mainly my fault. i'm older, and have had more experience, and, i always thought, more common sense--though i haven't really--and i was the one that ought to have kept things straight. harry, i'm sorry for it all!" harry was more moved than he would have liked to show by this confession. he was still enough of an undergraduate to be much impressed by his brother's casual mention of his senior society--the first time since he had been tapped the name had ever passed james' lips in his presence. "it's a pleasure to hear you talk, james," he said, "but i hope you won't misunderstand me when i say that there's not one word of truth in all you've said--the last part of it, i mean. it's only convinced me more thoroughly of my own fault. before, there might have been a shadow of doubt in my mind about my being entirely to blame. now there is absolutely none.--funny, that a person you like blaming himself should really be blaming you! it always seems that way, somehow...." "james," he went on, a little later; "it makes you feel as if you were getting on, doesn't it?" "how? in years?" "yes! i don't know about you, but i feel as old as methusaleh to-night, and a whole lot wiser! and i must say i rather enjoy it!" "yes," said james reflectively, "it does seem a good deal that way." "there are lots of questions you haven't asked me yet, james," continued harry, after another interval. "are there? well, tell me what they are and i'll ask them, if you're so crazy to answer them." "the first is, what on earth could you ever have seen in that woman?" "there was no need to ask that question," replied james, laughing; "not after i saw her to-day, at any rate." "she was so damned refined," sighed harry. james laughed again at the coincidence of harry's hitting on the very words of his own mental description of her. "i was most horribly depressed, and she looked so kind and sympathetic, and was, too, when i got to telling her my woes.... and she never used a particle of rouge, or anything of that kind.... once i kissed her, and after that she managed, in that diabolical refined manner of hers, to convince me that she wouldn't have any more of that sort of thing without marriage. that made me respect her all the more, of course, as she knew it would. at one time, for a whole week, i should say, i was perfectly willing to marry her, whenever she wanted, and i didn't care whom i said it to, either.... do you know, james, she would have been in for the devil of a time if i had gone on and pressed her to? i wonder what little plans she had for making me cease to care for her and back out at the right time.... there was no need for that, though; one day she called me 'kid,' and things like that before people, and i began to see." "that was part of her little plan, of course," said james. "well, well--i shouldn't wonder if it was! you always were a clever child, james!..." "what are some more of the things i've got to ask?" inquired the clever child after a brief silence. "what? oh--yes! why don't you ask me to cut out the lick?" (he meant, abstain from alcoholic beverages.) "well, do you want me to?" "well, yes, i think i do, rather!" "well, will you?" "well--yes!" both laughed, and then harry went on: "it strikes me that we are both talking a prodigious lot of nonsense, james. we've been making a regular scene, in fact--" "i rather like scenes, myself," interrupted james, just for the pleasure of their being how he had expressed exactly the opposite opinion to some one else a few hours before. "and no doubt we shall be heartily ashamed when we look back on it all in the cold gray light of to-morrow morning. one always is." "i don't know," objected james, serious again, "i don't think that i shall be sorry for anything i've said or done." "well, as a matter of strict truth, i don't know that i shall either. i suppose one needn't necessarily be making a fool of oneself just because it's twelve o'clock at night; that is--oh, you know what i mean--!" so they sat and talked on far into the night, loath to break up the enjoyment of the rediscovery of each other. they both seemed to bask in a sort of wonderful clarity and peace--do you know these rare times when life loses its complexity and uncertainty and becomes for the moment wholly sane and enjoyable and inspiring? when a person is actually able to live, if only for a little time, entirely in his better self, without being troubled by even a recollection of his worser? that was, substantially, the condition of those two boys as they sat there, at first talking, then thinking, and at last, as drowsiness slowly asserted itself over them, simply sitting. "well," said james at last; "unless you intend taking permanent possession of my legs, i suppose we'd better go to bed. am i sleeping here, somewhere?" "yes," said harry; "in my bed; i shall sleep on the sofa," and he forthwith embarked on a search for extra sheets and blankets. they both slept uninterruptedly till nearly ten, at which hour they sallied forth in search of breakfast. during the night the snow had changed to rain, which still fell out of a leaden sky, turning the earth's white covering to dirty gray and clogging the gutters with slush. everything looked sordid, prosaic, ugly, especially chapel street, which they crossed on their way to the nearest "dog"; especially the "dog" itself as they approached it, with its yellow electric lights still shining out of its windows. it was an unattractive world. "well, how does it look this morning?" james asked, studying his brother's face. harry shuffled along several steps through the slush before he answered: "just the same, james, and i for one, don't mind saying so." then they looked at each other and smiled slightly. chapter xv chiefly cardiac life appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity and variety. things change with the return of daylight, even if they do not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. harry was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of cordial relations with the world. exile has its palliations; he had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he had lived. but that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right with the whole world--he even looked forward to astonishing people with the thoroughness of his conservatism. and he would have to make all the first advances. thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but they might be said to bother him. at least, they were there. as for james, he had thought so much about harry during the last ten days that it is easy to understand why, the affair harry having been satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things. james' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. the papers bearing the label of "harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked "beatrice." outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of his mental powers, beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his thoughts for over a year and a half. for six days in the week, between the hours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind; but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of being unaffectedly glad to see him! it would probably be too much to say that james had been in love with her during that time, but james was not the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair of the heart. often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his day-dreams--or still oftener, his night-dreams--he had calmly put to himself, for open mental debate, the question "am i really in love with her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily. on the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer must be in the affirmative. yet even now he could not be sure. he might be only cherishing an agreeable memory. he had not seen her since the previous june, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw her again. he was anxious to see her!--not that mere friendship would not account for that, of course. harry had to attend sunday chapel, and it was arranged that james should not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. harry himself would turn up at dinner-time--aunt selina, it will be remembered, had dinner in the middle of the day on sundays. harry was naturally anxious to have all news-breaking over before he came, and james--well, on the whole james was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on himself. he found aunt selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church for this sunday. beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious metal--"though i am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you were in town," as aunt selina told james. aunt selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old régime might have learned that the committee of public safety had decided not to chop off her husband's head. it was agreeable news, but it was nothing to make one forget oneself. her manner of saying "this is splendid news, james; i am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of the wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of the wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. james advised her that harry would talk much more freely and relations in general would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the subject till he introduced it himself. aunt selina calmly agreed. she had great faith in james' judgment. after an hour's chat with his aunt james exhibited visible signs of restlessness. half-past twelve; it was time beatrice returned. he rose from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. soon he saw her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path. there was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy ascent to the house. her manner rather suggested a daughter of the crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent contempt. as he beheld her distant figure turn in at the gate and plod unflinchingly up the walk a curious sensation came over james. he suddenly found himself wanting to wreak an immediate and violent vengeance on the elements that dared to make things so unpleasant for her, and that almost immediately passed into an intense desire to seize upon that small figure and clasp it to him, sheltering her from the rain, the wind, the slush, every evil in this world that could ever befall her.... in that moment he felt all the beauty of man's first love. all the worries of doubt and introspection fell from him; he felt the full glow of love shining in his heart like a star, giving significance, sanctity, even, to those moments of wondering, fearing, hoping, doubting that had filled so many months. he was in love with her!... he came into the realization of the fact in a spirit of humility and prayer, like a worshiper entering a temple. of course he gave no outward sign of all this. he merely said, as soon as he could trust himself to be articulate, in a perfectly ordinary tone of voice: "there's beatrice, now. she's walking." "yes," answered his aunt; "i tried to make her stay at home, but she would go." then after a moment she gently added, as though in answer to james' unspoken reproach: "i would have let her take the carriage, but of course i could not ask thomas to go out in such weather." james entirely failed to see why not. he would willingly have condemned thomas and the horses to perpetual driving through something much more disagreeable than rain and slush if it could have saved beatrice one particle of her present discomfort. but being, in fact as well as in appearance, a daughter of crusaders, and consequently well used to climatic rigors in the country from which her ancestors had marched to meet the paynim foe, beatrice was really not suffering nearly as much as james' lover-like anxiety supposed her to be. she had thick boots, a mackintosh, an umbrella and a thick tweed skirt to protect her from the weather, and could have walked miles without so much as wetting her feet. if she had got wet, she certainly would have changed her garments immediately on reaching home, and even if she had not changed then she probably would not have caught cold, having a strong constitution. nevertheless james stood at the window and silently worried about her, and his first words as he met her at the front door were expressive of this mood. "beatrice!" he cried eagerly, as he threw the door open, "i do hope you're not wet through!" she had not seen him standing at the window, so his appearance at the door was consequently a complete surprise to her, and the expression that came over her face as she saw him was one of pure pleasure. james' heart leaped within him at her unaccustomed smile, and then fell again as he saw it change to an expression of ever so slight and well-restrained surprise, not at his being there, but at the manner and words of his greeting. he realized in a second that he had allowed his tongue to betray his heart. beatrice paid no immediate attention to the remark, and her welcoming words "james, of all people in the world!" gave no sign of anything more than a friendly pleasure. she was entirely at her ease. james found himself running on, quite easily: "yes--just got a day or two off and came on to say howdy-do to you all. got to start back this afternoon, worse luck. how well you're looking!" by this time they were practically in the library, in the restraining presence of aunt selina, and beatrice had no more chance to introduce the topic clamoring for discussion in the minds of both than the question "you've seen harry?" uttered in an undertone as they went through the door, allowed her. church, the weather and the unexpected pleasure of james' arrival were politely discussed for a few moments, and then aunt selina withdrew to prepare for dinner. "james," beatrice burst out, "tell me about harry. i know you've come on about that; tell me all about it! has anything been done? can anything be done?" "it can," said james, smiling at her impetuosity. "like-wise, it has. in fact, it's all over!" "what do you mean?... have you paid her off?" "no; she withdrew of her own accord." "james, don't be irritating! tell me about it. you've done something, i know you have!" "well--possibly!" he smiled tantalizingly at her--so like a man! "what?" "well, i'll tell you--on one condition." "what's that?" "that you'll promise not to thank me when you've found out!" james considered this rather a masterly piece of deceptive strategy, more than making up for his indiscretion at the front door. beatrice dropped her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth, with an expression half humorous, half contemptuous. "go ahead," said she. james went ahead and told her the whole affair at some length. his position during this narrative was a not unenviable one; it is not often that one gets a chance to recount to one's lady-love a story in which one is so obviously the hero. nor did he lose anything by being the narrator of his own prowess; his omissions spoke louder in his favor than the most laudatory comments of a third person could have. "so, he is free!" she said at last, when she had cross-questioned the whole thing out of him. "he is free again!..." what was there about these words that seemed to blast james' feeling of triumph, to chill the very marrow in his bones? was it only the words; was it not rather the extraordinary intensity of the pleasure on her face; a pleasure which did not fade with her smile, but lived on in the dreamy expression of the eyes, gazing sightlessly out of the window?... she spoke again in a moment or two, asking a question about some detail in the case, and the feeling left him again. he answered her question with perfect composure. such hysterical vapors must be incidental to love, he supposed. he was not troubled about it at all, unless, very vaguely, by the fleeting memory of a similar experience, occurring--oh, a long time ago. nothing to worry about. he did not say much after he had completed his narrative. he was content simply to sit and look at her, drinking in her smiles, her comments, her little ejaculations of pleasure and answering her stray questions about the great affair. the joy of discovery was not yet even tinged with the thirst for possession. it was enough to watch her as she talked and laughed and moved about; to watch her, the living original, and think how much more glorious she was than the most vivid of his recollections of her. oh, how wonderful she was! presently he was aware of her making remarks laudatory of himself, and primed his ears to listen. "but how clever it was of you, james," she was saying, "to work out the whole thing, just from that one little glimpse--and so quickly, too! of course it was just a heaven-sent chance, your seeing her at that moment, but i can see how much more there was to it than that. what a frightfully clever person you are, james--a regular detective! you really must give up making motor cars and be another sherlock holmes!" all this fell very pleasantly on his ears, though he could have wished, if he had taken the time to, that she could have employed some other adjective than "clever." but there was no time for such minor considerations. just at that moment they heard the rattle of the front door latch, and beatrice, knowing that none but harry ever entered the house without first ringing, jumped from her chair and started towards the hall, the words "there he is now!" glowing on her lips.... and then the universe crumbled about james' ears. had his father's early readings extended into the minor elizabethan drama, he might have remembered the words of beaumont-- this earth of mine doth tremble, and i feel a stark affrighted motion in my blood and applied them quite aptly to his present state. for a moment the earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and caught hold of the back of a chair. then, while beatrice went out to meet harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live through such a moment. beatrice was in love with harry--that was the long and the short of it. there was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... he wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while ago, when he caught sight of beatrice.... whether or not harry was on similar terms with beatrice he could not say. he rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of time till he would be. he was not a witness of the actual moment of meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was harry's initial remark: "well, beatrice, have you heard the good news? james has made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate--nor needed to. the character of the remark--flippant to the verge of good taste!--might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made as little impression on him as it did on beatrice. harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result of his embarrassment. so, also, was the expression which he wore when he came into the room with beatrice a moment later--a very unusual look, due to a very unusual cause. beatrice had, in fact, all but given herself away to him. he followed her into the room embarrassed and flustered. it was incomparably the worst of the series of strained moments in his intercourse with beatrice, and it gave point and coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... once in the library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for conversation among the three for the next few moments. the others appeared conversationally extinct; beatrice--he hardly dared look toward her--trying to recover her composure; james preternaturally grave and silent, for some unknown reason. the atmosphere seemed surcharged with an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. he felt like a schoolboy among grown-ups. presently aunt selina returned and dinner was announced. * * * * * poor james--he had won paradise only to lose it the next instant! no one could have guessed anything from his behavior--he was not the sort of person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really lived very hard during the meal that followed. his state of mind was at first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into certainty--he must not betray himself or beatrice; he must go on exactly as if nothing unusual had occurred. it never paid to make a fool of oneself, and--this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to him from the wreck of his happiness--he had not, that he knew of, given himself away. that was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a blessing that he had got wind of beatrice's true feelings before he had the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! now, he told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the most unthinkable ass that ever walked god's earth--and it would all come out right! by the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing of it. beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes, brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could never be his. she was harry's. these two were intended for each other all along, made for each other. could he not have seen that in the beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? could he not have seen that their childish companionship, dating from harry's english days, their being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to lead to love? well--thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable support--he had hurt no one but himself. he had only to put beatrice resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. she was harry's; was that not the next best thing to her being his?--better, even? no longer ago than last night he had convinced himself that harry was, when all was said and done, a better man than he was. was it not perfectly just that the prize should go to him? the thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. unselfishness is a great stimulus. once he saw that he could do something definite toward the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what sacrifice to himself. his righteousness supported him not only through the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in the house--up, indeed, to the very moment of parting. james' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to new york, whence he would take a night train to chicago and arrive in minneapolis early tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. it was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. as it was plodding up the slushy drive, james, overcoated and hatted, stood on the porch ready to get into it. harry, who was to go to the station with him, was "having a word" with aunt selina--or, more exactly, being had a word with by her--in the hall. beatrice, by some fiendish chance, determined to do the same by james. "james," she said, "i want you to know how perfectly splendid i think it was of you--all this about harry, i mean. you may say it was no more than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless. thank you, james, and good-by." it really was rather awful. it amounted to his being rewarded and dismissed like a faithful servant. and her tacit, unconscious assumption of her right to thank people for favors conferred upon harry--that was turning the knife in the wound. of course she could have no idea of the pain she was giving, and james shook her hand and said good-by trying to give no sign of the pain he felt. all the comfortable stability of his logic faded from him as she spoke those words. all the way to the station, sitting by harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if, by the exercise of tact and patience, beatrice could possibly be brought to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on harry's neck and beg him to let him have her--for surely, surely harry could not be as fond of her as he! oh, was it going to be as hard as this right along?... "james," said harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something i've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.--i'm pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's rather a chaotic mess. well, occasionally out of it there emerges a thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives a certain coherence to the other things...." "yes?" said james, wondering what was to follow. "well, it seems to me that one of those things is--you and me. since last night, i mean ... james, i don't know how you feel about it, but since then i've had a sense of nearness to you, such as i've never begun to have with any other human being--such as doesn't occur often in one lifetime, i imagine ... i really think very highly of you, james!" he broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the response did not come. but he need not have worried; james was merely choosing his words; every nerve in him was thrilling in answer to harry's advance. he returned the smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "you've hit it exactly; i should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... you're unique, harry!" "that's it--unique," said harry, joining in with his mood. "you've mastered the art of uniquity, james." "and what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that way--really. even during these last few years. with me, i mean." "with me, too. james"--he stood still and looked his brother full in the face--"do you know, such a relation as ours is one of the few positive good things that makes life worth while? if we were both struck dead as we stand here, life would have been well worth living--just for this!" "yes, that's true," said james slowly; "that's perfectly true." "and one thing more--for heaven's sake, james, don't let's either of us mess up this thing in the future, if we can help it! it may be broken up by outside causes--well and good; we can't prevent that; but can't we have the sense not to let silly, conventional things come between us? let's not be afraid, above all, of plain talk--at any rate, you need never be afraid to say anything to me. i may be narrow and obstinate to other people, but i don't think i could ever be so to you again. i'd take anything from you, james, anything!--" he smiled at the unintentional double meaning of his words, adding, "and there's nothing i wouldn't give you, either." it would not be too much to say that james was literally inspired by harry's words. they seemed to bring out every vestige of what was good and noble and unselfish in his nature, lifting him high above his everyday, weak, commonplace self--such as he had shown it in the cab, for instance--making life as clear, as sensible, as inspiring as it had seemed last night. his "sacrifice" now appeared nothing; he scarcely thought of it at all, but its nature, when it did appear in the back of his brain, was that of an obvious, pleasant, easy duty; a service that was a joy, a denial that was a self-gratification. "all right, i'll remember. and if i telegraph you to dye your face pea-green, i shall expect you to do it!" he spoke with a lightness of spirit wholly unfeigned. then he continued, somewhat more seriously: "i'll tell you what it is; each of us has got to behave so well that it'll be the fault of the other if we do fall out. there's a poem father used to read that says something of the kind; something about there being none but you--'there is none, oh, none but you--'" "'that from me estrange your sight,'" finished harry. "i remember--campion, i think." "that's it--that from me estrange your sight. it's funny how those things come back sometimes...." the train pulled noisily in at that moment and made further discussion impossible, but enough had been said to start the same thoughts running in the minds of both and give them both the feeling, as they clasped hands in parting, that the future had the blessing of the past. chapter xvi the saddest tale with the beginning of the next term harry embarked on the task of setting himself right with the world. he found it on the whole easier than he had expected. he had only to make a few formal apologies, as in the cases of shep mcgee and junius legrand, and let it become generally known that he had definitely given up drinking, et cetera, to make the cohorts of the commonplace glad to receive him in their ranks once more. reinstatement in the social life of new haven followed quite easily--almost as a matter of course, for he had not actively offended any members of what might be described as the entertaining classes. the female element, practically all of whom knew him, or at least of him, through his family connection, had evolved a mythical but interesting conception of him as "rather a fast young man"; and that, alas! served to endear him to their hearts rather than otherwise. so the last months of his college course passed in a sort of sunset haze of enjoyment, marred only by one thing, indecision as to his subsequent career. his friends were inclined to look rather askance at this; one or two, in a tactful way, pointed out to him the danger of "drifting." in reality there was small danger of this; although his inherited income would make him independent of his own efforts for livelihood during the rest of his natural life, harry would never "drift" very far. his brain was too active, his ambition too lively, his sense of the seriousness of life too deep to allow that. he could never be content doing nothing. he wanted, in turn, to do very nearly everything; the professions of lawyer, doctor, "business man," engineer, clergyman, soldier, sailor--tinker and tailor, even were considered and rejected in turn. "it's not that i don't want to do all these things," he explained to trotty, who sometimes showed impatience at his vagueness; "the trouble is that i can't do any of them. i'm not fitted for them--i'm not worthy of them, if you like to put it that way. if i were a conscienceless wretch, now, it would be different!" one sunday afternoon in june, rather saddened by the feeling of his apparent uselessness in the world, he went to call on madge elliston. "well, what are you going to do this summer?" she began. "that seems to be the one topic of conversation at this time of year." "this summer? oh, i'm going to walk, with the rest of my class, in the more mountainous portions of europe. at present i am under engagement to walk through the hilly parts of england, scotland and wales, the black forest, the alps, the tyrol, the dolomites and some of the cooler portions of the apennines; but the cévennes and the caucasus are still open, if you care to engage them.... in between times i expect to roister, shamelessly, in some of the livelier resorts of the continent. that's all quite simple; what i'm worrying about is what i'm going to do next winter." "why don't you write, if i may be pardoned for asking so obvious a question?" asked madge. "one simple but sufficient reason--i haven't got anything to write about," answered harry, smiling. "that's what everybody asks, and the answer is always the same. this prevalent belief in my literary ability is flattering, but unfortunately it's wholly unfounded." "i shouldn't say so. i've read most of what you've written in college, and it seems to me extremely clever." "clever--that's just it! nothing more! the awful truth is, there's nothing more in me. i have rather a high regard for literature, you see, and on that very account i'm less willing to inflict myself on it. i wouldn't care, though, if there was anything else i appeared to be cut out for. if i felt that i could sweep crossings better than other people, i assure you i would go into the profession with the greatest cheerfulness!" madge laughed. "i know very much how you feel--i've been going through much the same thing myself, though you might not have guessed it. only as it happens i have received a call for something very like the profession you speak of." "crossing-sweeping?" "the next thing to it--teaching in a dame's school in town--miss snellgrove's. i think it's rather a pretty idea, don't you? society flower, withered and faint with gaiety, seeking refreshment in the cloistral, the academic!--you don't approve?" "woman's sphere is the home," said harry doubtfully. "not when the home is a two-by-four box; you couldn't call that a sphere, could you? of course," she went on, more seriously, "of course the real, immediate reason why i'm doing it is financial. these are times of--well, stringency.... not but what we could scrape along; but it seems rather absurd to be earning nothing when one could just as well be earning something, doesn't it? and the only alternative is playing about eternally with college boys younger than myself." "yes, i think you're very sensible, if that's the case. not that it is, of course; you'll find plenty of people coming back to the graduate and professional schools to console you. also my brother james at week-ends, if that's any comfort to you!" "james? is he in this part of the country?" "yes, in new york. he's going to be in mcclellan's branch there next winter--assistant manager, or something of the sort--something important and successful sounding. we are all very much set up over it. and it's so near that he can come up for sunday quite regularly, if he wants.--it does give me quite a solemn and humble feeling, though, to think that you have found a profession before me." "oh, yes; teaching at miss snellgrove's is more than a profession--it's a career!--i refuse to believe, though," she continued with a change of manner, "that you have not found your profession already, even though you may not care to adopt it yet. for after all, you know, you have the creative ability. every one says that. all that's wanting in you, as you say, is having something to write about, and nothing but time and development will bring that. meanwhile i think it's very nice and high-minded of you not to go ahead and write nothing, with great ease and fluency! that's what most people in your position do." "thank you; that's very encouraging," said harry. he looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and continued: "has it ever occurred to you, madge, that you are quite a remarkable young woman?" "heavens yes, hundreds of times!" "that's a denial, i suppose. however, it's true. look at the way you've just been talking to me!... you have what i've come to admire very much during the past few months--perfect balance of viewpoint. you have what one might call a sense of ultimacy--is there such a word? it's like a number of children, each playing about in his own little backyard, surrounded by a high fence that he can't see over, suspecting the existence of a lot of other backyards, with children in them wondering what lay beyond in just the same way. then occasionally there is born a happy being to whom is given the privilege of looking down on the whole lot of them from the church steeple, and being able to see each backyard in its exact relation to all the other backyards. that's you.... it's a rare gift!" madge was at first amused by this elaborate compliment, but she ended by being rather touched by it. "it's very nice of you to say that," she replied after a moment, "no matter how little foundation there may be for it. it proves one thing, at any rate--i have no monopoly of the quality of ultimacy! you wouldn't be able to think i was ultimate, would you, unless you were a wee bit ultimate yourself? and that goes to prove what i said about your attitude toward your profession." "i'm afraid you can't make me believe in my own ultimacy, no matter how hard you try," said harry. "in fact i pursue the rival study of propinquity--the art of never seeing beyond one's own nose!" "well, you must at least let me believe in the ultimacy of your finding your profession," insisted madge. but harry only shook his head. commencement arrived at last, and aunt cecilia, attended by a representative delegation of her progeny, flopped down upon aunt selina, prepared to do as much by harry as she had by his brother two years earlier. aunt cecilia belonged to the important class of american women who regard a graduation as a family event second in importance only to a wedding or a funeral, ranking slightly higher than a "coming out." the occasion was a particularly joyous one to her because of harry's being able to celebrate it in a full blaze of righteousness and truth, and because of the consequent opportunities for motherly fluttering. "dear harry," she said, as she kissed, him on his arrival; "i am so glad to be here to see you graduate, and so glad that--that everything has gone so splendidly. it is so much, much nicer--that is, it is _so_ nice to think that--" "yes, dear; you mean, isn't it nice that i'm respectable again," said harry, with a flippancy made gentle by the sight of her kind blue eyes. "i am respectable now, you know, so you needn't be afraid to talk about it. we can all be respectable together; you're respectable, and i'm respectable, and ruth is respectable and lucy is respectable, and aunt selina is respectable--we hope; how about that, aunt selina?--and altogether we're an eminently respectable family. all except beatrice, that is, who is far, far too nobly born, being related, in fact, to a marquis. no one in the peerage, aunt c. dear, likes to be called respectable--it's considered insulting. no one, that is, above the rank of baron; the barons are now all reformed brewers, who get their peerages by being so respectable that people forget all about the brewing, and that is english democracy, and isn't it a splendid thing, dear? when you marry ruth to an english peer, you must be sure to have him a baron, because none of the others are respectable." "harry, what nonsense you do talk!" said his aunt. "before these girls--!" "i imagine these girls know harry by this time," remarked aunt selina. "if they don't, it's time they did. you're a hundred times more innocent than they, cecilia, and always will be." "exactly always what i tell mama," put in ruth, the eldest of aunt cecilia's brood. "besides, what harry said is all quite true, i'm sure. except about me; i shan't marry a foreigner at all, but if i do, i certainly shan't marry a brewer. mama is far too rich for me to take anything less than a duke." this was literally, almost painfully true. a succession of deaths in aunt cecilia's family, accompanied by a scarcity of male heirs, had placed her in possession of almost untold wealth--"more than i bargained for when i took you," as uncle james jocularly put it, for the pleasure of seeing her bridle and blush. aunt c. was one of the richest women in the country, but it never changed her a particle. not all her wealth, not all her social prominence, not all the refining influences that several generations' enjoyment of these brings, could ever make her even appear to be anything but the simple, warm-hearted, motherly creature she was. harry, realizing all this as well as any one, exerted himself to make aunt c. glad she had made the effort to come to see him graduate, and he manfully escorted her and the girls to the play, the baccalaureate service, his class-day exercises, the baseball game and various other entertainments, where, as ruth rather aptly put it, "we can sit around and watch somebody else do something." he also did his full duty by his cousin, and danced away a long and perspiring evening with her at the senior promenade. he found ruth very good company, in spite of her active tongue, or rather, perhaps, because of it. the final wednesday, pregnant with fate, arrived at length, and after an immense deal of watching other people receive degrees, some earned and some accorded by the pure generosity of the university, harry became entitled to write the magic initials "b.a." after his name. being one of the leaders of his class in point of scholarship, he was one of the twenty or so who mounted the platform and received the diplomas for the rest. this was too much for aunt cecilia, who occupied a prominent place in the front row of the balcony. "oh, dear," she sighed, wiping away a furtive tear, "there he goes, and no mother to see him do it! no one to be proud of him! and the brightest of all the family--i shall never live to see a son of mine do as well, never, never!" "i'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine of chances is in your favor. you have four boys--four chances to aunt--what was her name?--aunt edith's two. harry's not so fearfully bright, anyway--only sixteenth out of three hundred." "my dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being so nice to you all this week!" "yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously. "though i don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to me than i've been to him!" harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. he was impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor; the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of materialism. the same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of all the commencement ceremonies. the great renaissance dining hall filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong, ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old bachelor, all of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for her--all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of harry, always ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt it. it was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on terms of equal footing--all graduates together. at one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers of the university, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the recipients of the honorary degrees. after the meal was over, certain of these were called upon to speak. harry thought he had never heard such speeches. the men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's service and in the work of the world; one was a cabinet minister, another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. the ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of yale, given in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong emphasis on the theme of service. one got from them the idea that yale men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over, were born to serve humanity. the mission of yale in this scheme was one of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house, developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of themselves. one revered and loved yale, of course, for what she had given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and affection for what he had become. but one was never to forget where yale stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was not an end in herself, but a means--one of many other means--to an infinitely greater end. only by considering her in her place in the vast order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true greatness. the impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller yale but of a larger world. harry had never considered the relation between universe and university in this illuminating light. he suddenly realized that his idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge and the home of sport. he had mistaken the side-shows for the main exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the whole of which they were but small parts. in a flash he looked back and realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against college institutions and traditions. who was he that he should criticize them? what had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? he had recovered from that first foolishness, to be sure, and thank heaven for that slight evidence of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and watch the days slide by? had he ever made the slightest attempt toward serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in their proper relations to each other? had he succeeded in learning a single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? was it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of golden youth? suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his eyes. it would be absurd to shed them. he shifted his position and lit a cigarette. he inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wandered into introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. gradually, however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. those years were not wholly wasted--he had learned something in them. he was ahead of where he was when he entered college, if only a little. the thought of james occurred to him; james would be an inspiration in the future as he had been a help in the past. no, there was yet hope for him, though he must be very careful how he acted in the future. he had been a fool, but he hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. he would try hard, at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant, unbiased and humble--above all, humble. he glanced up at the speaker's table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud were in fact the humblest. the last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. the men on the floor of the hall stood up to sing before departing. harry, looking at his watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see aunt cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at once if he were to catch them. he laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had never before listened. mother of men, grown strong in giving honor to them thy lights have led, sang the men. yes, thought harry, there was plenty of honor to give. would that he might ever be one of those to whom such honor was due, but that was not to be thought of. it was enough for him to be one of those who were led by those lights. yes, that was the first step, steadfastly to follow the light that the grave mother held above and before him; to keep his eyes constantly on it, never looking down or behind. rich in the toil of thousands living, proud of the deeds of thousands dead, deeds, deeds! that was what counted; any one could see visions and dream dreams; the veriest fool could mean well. oh, might a merciful heaven help him to convert into deeds the lofty ideals that now surged within his brain!--what a ripping song that was, and how well it sounded to hear a thousand men singing it together! he forgot aunt cecilia for a moment, and checked his pace near the door to hear the last verse. spirit of youth, alive, unchanging, under whose feet the years are cast, heir to an ageless empire, ranging over the future and the past-- half blinded with tears he staggered out into the empty vestibule and steadied himself for a second against a pillar. he never had realized before how much it all meant to him, how he loved what he was leaving. and yet--"spirit of youth, alive, unchanging"--he had never quite caught the full meaning of those words. they now seemed, in a way, to soften the pain of parting, to give him comfort and strength with which to face the years. surely growing old would not be so bad if one could think of the spirit of youth as still there, alive, unchanging, spreading joy and hope through the world! and then, sweet and sudden as a breeze at sundown came the thought to him that here lay his life's work, his own little mission in the world: in using his intelligence and his power of interpretation, the only gifts he could discover himself as possessing, to guide and assist those who happened to come a little after him in the long procession of human life--in becoming, in short, a teacher. a sudden feeling of calmness and surety took possession of him; he was able to consider himself and his place in the world with a more complete detachment than he had ever before attained. he found himself able, for the moment, to rate his powers and limitations exactly as an unprejudiced observer might have done. within him he suddenly, unmistakably felt those qualities of priest and prophet which, combined with that of the scholar, make up the ideal teacher. "spirit of youth," he whispered, "to you i dedicate myself, such as i am, and my life, such as it may be." he stood still for a moment and listened as the great chorus behind the closed door brought the song to a finish, ending on a note both solemn and exalted. for a second or two there was silence, and then there burst forth the sound of the yale cheer. the contrast between the last notes of the song and the brazen bellow of that cheer, hallowed by the memories of a hundred close-fought fields, struck harry as both dramatic and comic, and caused a corresponding change in his own mood. "spirit of youth, alive, unchanging!" he quoted again, laughing. then he hurried off to say good-by to his aunt. part ii chapter i can love be controlled by advice? madge elliston lived alone with her mother in a small house on an unpretentious but socially unimpeachable side street, just off one of the main avenues. their means, as madge has already intimated, were modest--"modest," as the young lady sprightly put it, "to the point of prudishness." joseph elliston, her father, had been a brilliant and promising young professor when her mother married him, with, as people said, a career before him. if by career they meant affluence, they were wholly right in saying it was all before him. but though the two married on his prospects, they could not fairly have been said to have made an unwise venture. nothing but death had kept joseph elliston from becoming a popular and respected teacher, a foremost authority on economics, the author of standard works on that subject, and the possessor of a comfortable income. but he had died when madge, his only child, was five years old, leaving his small and sorrowing family barely enough to live on. the straitened circumstances in which the sad event threw mrs. elliston and her daughter were somewhat relieved by the generosity of the only sister of the widow, eliza scharndorst, herself a widow and the possessor of a large fortune. she was extremely fond of madge, who always got on beautifully with her "aunt tizzy"--an infantile corruption allowed to survive into maturity--having more in common with her, if the truth must be known, than with her mother. she was a festive soul, much given to entertaining, and she was not long in discovering that the assistance of her niece was a distinct asset in making her home attractive to guests. it is not to be wondered at that madge's occasional services in the way of decorating a dinner table or brightening up an otherwise stodgy reception would redound to her material benefit as well as to her spiritual welfare. such good things as trips to bermuda, occasional new frocks and instruction under the best music masters, came her way so frequently that by the time we next meet her, nearly five years after our last sight of her, madge was a far better dowered young woman, socially speaking, than the penniless orphaned daughter of a college professor could normally hope to be. for when we next see her miss elliston is--and in no mere figurative sense--holding the center of the stage. a real stage in a real theater, under the full blaze of real footlights, and if no real audience sits on the other side of those footlights, it is no great matter, for a very real audience will sit there soon enough. on friday night, to be exact, and this is tuesday. to be even more exact, it is the first formal, dress rehearsal of an amateur performance of "the beggar's opera" (immortal work!) organized primarily for charitable purposes by a number of prominent citizens, among them mrs. rudolph scharndorst, and secondarily, if we are to give any weight to the opinion of those present at the rehearsal, for the purpose of giving scope to the talents of mrs. rudolph scharndorst's niece. for madge is cast for the part of polly peachum, heroine of the piece. and if there was originally the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of such an assignment, it has vanished into thin air before now. for madge is lovely--! it is not merely a matter of voice; there never was any doubt but that she had the best voice available for the part. what the scattered few in the dark auditorium are busy admiring now is the extraordinary charm, grace, actual beauty, even, of the girl performing before them. the more so because it is all so unattended; no one thought that she would give that effect on the stage. of a type usually described as "attractive," slight and rather short, with hair sandy rather than golden, and a face distinguished only by a nice pair of blue eyes and a particularly ingratiating smile, madge could not fairly be expected to turn herself into a vision of commanding beauty and charm with the slight external aids of paint and powder and a position behind a row of strong lights. the only unimpressed and indifferent person in the theater was the coach. that was quite as it should be, of course; coaches must not exhibit bursts of enthusiasm, like common people. yet it is perhaps worth mentioning that the coach in question made none of his frequent interruptions during the first few moments of polly's presence on the stage, but sat silently biting his pencil and frowning in the back row of the theater till after she had finished her second song. "one moment!" he cried, running down the aisle. "i'm going to change that song." he exchanged a few whispered remarks with the leader of the orchestra, who had charge of the musical side of the production. "all right--never mind now--go on with the act ... no, don't cross there, mrs. peachum; stay where you are, and miss elliston! what are the last words of the second line of that song?" "'mothers obey.'" "all right--let's have 'em. i didn't get them that time. go on, please." the act continued, and admiration grew apace. when at length the act reached its close there was a faint but spontaneous outburst of applause from the almost empty theater. "well, what do you think of madge?" asked mrs. scharndorst, waylaying the coach on his progress down the aisle. "oh, she'll do! there's a lot there to improve, though.--strike for the second act--drinking scene!" this last uttered in a shout as he rushed on down to the stage. not very fulsome praise, to be sure, but mrs. scharndorst knows her man, and is satisfied. indeed, she respects him the more for not being fulsome. so do the other members of the cast and chorus; at least, if they do respect him, it cannot be for the enthusiasm of his approval. his demeanor, as he stands there on a chair in the orchestra pit, shouting directions to his minions, is not indicative of very profound satisfaction with the progress of the rehearsal. "thompson! if you're going to use your spot on polly's entrance, for heaven's sake keep it on her face and not on her feet! i didn't see a thing but her shoes then ... no, you there, that table way down front--so, and oh, mrs. smith! is that tilman's idea of a costume for an old woman, middle class?... i thought so ... no, i'm afraid not! that train might be quite suitable for a duchess, but it won't do for a robber's wife. you see miss banks about it, will you please?... mr. barnaby! i want to get you and miss elliston to go through the business of that pretty polly song once again--you're both as stiff as pokers still.... no, just the motions. no, stand on both feet and keep your chest out while you're singing your part, and when she comes in, 'fondly, fondly,' you half turn round, so--so that when she falls back on your arm she'll have a chance to show more than her chin to the audience.... no, i think i'll have you wait till the encore before you kiss her--it looks flat if you do it too often, and by the bye, mr. barnaby, will you make an appointment with mrs. adams for to-morrow to get up a dance for that prison scene--'how happy could i be with either'.... four o'clock--all right.... what song?" this last is in answer to an inquiry from miss elliston. "oh, of course--'can love be controlled by advice'.... come down here and we'll talk it over. careful, step in the middle of that chair and you'll be all right ... there!" and miss elliston and the great man sit down companionably in the places belonging respectively to the oboe and the trombone, just as though they had been friends from earliest youth. if there is one thing we despise, it is transparent roguishness on the part of an author. let us hasten to admit, then, that the coach is none other than our friend harry; a harry not changed a particle, really, from his undergraduate days, though a harry, to be sure, in whom the passage of five years has effected certain important developments. such, for instance, as having become able to coach an amateur production of a musical show. these will be described and accounted for, all in good time. the story cannot be everywhere at once. "about that song ... i know nothing about music, of course, but it struck me to-night that that was rather a good tune--one of the best in the show.... it may have been the singing, of course." "not a bit of it--it's a ripping tune!--let's see what the trombone part for it looks like.... there isn't any--just those little thingumbobs. oh, the accompaniment is all on the strings, of course; i forgot." "well, what i want to get at is, do you think gay's words are up to it?" "nowhere near. i'd much rather sing some of yours, if that's what you're getting at.... they're not quite _jeune fille_, either; i just discovered that to-day." "there's a great deal in this show that isn't. we've cut most of it, but there's a good bit left, only no one who hasn't studied the period can spot it.... you needn't tell any one that.--well, let's see about some words. 'can love be controlled by advice, will cupid our mothers obey'--we'll keep that, i think ..." he produced a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled rapidly on it. in a minute or two he had evolved the following stanzas, retaining the first four lines of gay's original song: can love be controlled by advice? will cupid our mothers obey? though my heart were as frozen as ice at his flame 'twould have melted away. now love is enthroned in my heart all your threats and entreaties are in vain; his power defies all your art, and chiding but adds to my pain. ah, mother! if ever in youth your heart by love's anguish was wrung; if ever you thrilled with its truth too sweet to be spoken or sung; if ever you've longed for life's best, nor reckoned the issue thereof; if heart ever beat in your breast have pity on me--for i love! "there!" said he, handing it to the prima donna; "see what you think of that." "oh ... much better! there'll be much more fun in singing it." "it isn't much in the way of poetry," explained harry, "but it gives a certain dramatic interest to the song, which is the main thing. you can change anything you want in it, of course; i daresay some of those words are quite unsingable on the notes of the song." "no--i think they'll be all right. thank you very much; it was hard to make anything out of the other words. also, i shall be able to tell mama that you've cut out some of gay's naughty words and put in some innocent ones of your own instead. she's been just a little worried lately, i think; she seems to have an idea that 'the beggar's opera' isn't quite a nice play for a young lady to act in!" "well, one can hardly blame her...." this sentence trailed off into inaudibility as harry turned to give his attention to some one else coming up with a question at the moment. perhaps miss elliston did not even hear the beginning of the sentence; it is easier to believe that she did not, in view of what followed. certainly every extenuating circumstance is needed, on both sides, to help account for the fact that so trivial conversation as that which just took place should have led directly to unpleasantness and indirectly to consequences of a far-reaching kind. it is easier to comprehend, also, if one remembers that miss elliston's thoughts when she was left alone by harry occupying the position of the trombone, remained on, or at any rate quite near, the point at which the conversation broke off, whereas harry's had flown far from it. so that when, after an interval of a few minutes, harry's voice again became articulate to her in the single isolated sentence "given her something to say to her old frump of a mother," addressed to the leader of the orchestra, she at first misconstrued his meaning, interpreting his remark not as he meant it, as referring to her stage mother, mrs. peachum, but as referring to quieting the puritanical scruples of her own mother, mrs. elliston. the whole affair hung on an incredibly slender thread of coincidence. if harry had not unconsciously raised his voice somewhat on that one phrase, if he had not happened to use the word "frump," which might conceivably be twisted into applying to either mother, miss elliston would never, even for a moment, have been tempted to attribute the baser meaning to his words. as it was the thought did not remain in her head above five seconds, at the outside; she knew harry better than to believe seriously that he would say such a thing. but by another unfortunate chance harry happened to be looking her way during those few seconds, and marked her angry flush and the instantaneous glance of indignation and contempt that she shot toward him. he saw her flush die down and her expression soften again, but the natural quickness that had made him realize her state of mind was not long in giving him an explanation of it. all might yet have been well had not harry's sense of humor played him false. as usually happened at these evening rehearsals he escorted miss elliston home, her house lying on the way to his. in the course of the walk an unhappy impulse made him refer to the little incident, which had struck him as merely humorous. "by the way," said he "your sense of filial duty almost led you astray to-night, didn't it?" "filial duty?" "yes--you thought i was making remarks about your mother to-night when i was talking to cosgrove about mrs. peachum and that song...." "oh, that--!" any one who knew her might have expected miss elliston to laugh and continue with something like "yes, i know; wasn't it ridiculous of me?" since she really knew perfectly well that harry was talking about mrs. peachum. that she did not is due partly to the fatigue incident to rehearsing a leading part in an opera in addition to teaching school from nine till one every day, and partly to the eternally inexplicable depths of the feminine nature. she had been very much ashamed of herself for having even for a moment done that injustice to harry, and she wished intensely that the affair might be buried in the deepest oblivion. harry's opening of the subject, consequently, seemed to her tactless and a trifle brutal. she had done penance all the evening for her after all very trifling mistake; why should he insist upon humiliating her this way?... obviously she was very tired! "yes," went on harry, "don't expect me to believe that you were angry on behalf of mrs. peachum!" "no. i suppose i had a right to be angry on behalf of my own mother, if i wanted to, though." "but i wasn't talking about your mother--you know that!" "oh, weren't you?" "well, do you think so?" "how should i know? i was only eavesdropping, of course, i have no right to think anything about it." "madge, don't be silly." "well?" "do you really, honestly think that i am guilty of having spoken slightingly of your mother? just answer me that, yes or no." "as i say, i have no right to any opinion on the subject. i only heard something not intended--" "oh, the--" the remainder of this exclamation was fortunately lost in the collar of harry's greatcoat. "you had better give me back that song--i presume you won't want to sing it now." "why not? art is above all personal feelings." it was mere wilfulness that led her to utter this cynical remark. what she really wanted to say was "of course i want to sing it, and i know you meant mrs. peachum," but somehow the other answer was given before she knew it. "madge, you may not know it, but you are positively insulting." "oh, harry--! who began being insulting? not that i mind your insulting me...." "oh. that's the way it is, is it? i see." they were now standing talking at the foot of madge's front steps. harry continued, very quietly: "now perhaps you'd better give me back that song." "i don't see the necessity." "i'll be damned if you shall sing it now!" his voice remained low, but passion sounded in it as unmistakably as if he had shouted. the remark was, in fact, made in an uncontrollable burst of anger, necessitating the severing of all diplomatic relations. "just as you like, of course." madge's tone, cold, expressionless, hopelessly polite, is equivalent to the granting of a demanded passport. "here it is. good-night." "good-night." so they parted, in a white heat of anger. but being both fairly sensible people, in the main, beside being the kind of people whose anger however violently it may burn at first, does not last long, they realized before sleep closed their eyes that night that the quarrel would not last over another day. morning brought to harry, at any rate, a complete return of sanity, and before breakfast he sat down and wrote the following note: dear madge: i send back the song merely as a token of the abjectness of my submission--i don't suppose you will want to sing it now. i can't tell you how sorry i am about my behavior last night; i can only ask you to attribute as much, of it as possible to the fatigue of business and forgive the rest! harry. which he enclosed in an envelope with the words of the song and sent to madge by a messenger boy. madge received it while she was at breakfast. she went out and told the boy to wait for an answer, and went back and finished her breakfast before writing a reply. her face was noticeably grave as she ate, and it became even graver when at last she sat down at her desk and started to put pen to paper. she wrote three pages of note-paper, read them, and tore them up. she then wrote a page and a half, taking more time over them than over the three. this she also tore up. then she sat inactive at her desk for several minutes, and at last, seeing that she was due at her school in a few minutes, she took up another sheet of paper and wrote: "all right--my fault entirely. m. e.," and sent it off by the boy. when harry saw her at the rehearsal that evening she greeted him exactly as if nothing had happened. she had rather less to say to him than was customary during rehearsals, but harry was so busy and preoccupied he did not notice that. he did notice that she sang the original words to the disputed song, which, as he told himself, was just what he expected. for the next two days he was fairly buried in responsibility and detail and hardly conscious of any feeling whatever beyond an intense desire to have the performance over. it was not until this desire was partially fulfilled, the curtain actually risen on the friday night and the performance well under way, that he was able to sit back and draw a free breath. the moment came when, having seen that all was well behind the scenes, he dropped into the back of the box occupied by aunt selina and one or two chosen friends to watch the progress of the play from the front. then, for the first time, he was able to look at it more from the point of view of a spectator than that of a creator. now that his work was completed and must stand or fall on its own merit, he could watch from a wholly detached position. on the whole, he rather enjoyed the sensation. it occurred to him, for instance, as quite a new thought, that the excellent make-up of the stolid mr. dawson in the part of peachum very largely counteracted his vocal "dulness"; and that mrs. smith as mrs. peachum, in spite of the innumerable sillinesses and bad tricks that had been his despair for weeks, was making an extremely good impression upon the audience. then madge made her entrance, and he saw at a glance, as he had never seen it before, just how good madge was. she had a certain way of carrying her head, a certain sureness in adjusting her movements to her speech, a certain judgment in projecting her voice that went straight to the spot. madge was a born actress, that was all there was to it; she ought to have made the stage her profession. he smiled inwardly as he thought how many people would make that remark after this performance. then his amusement gave place to a sudden and strange resentment against the very idea of madge's going on the stage; a resentment he made no effort either to understand or account for.... the strings in the orchestra quavered a few languorous notes and madge started her song "can love be controlled by advice." her voice was a singularly sweet one, of no great volume and yet possessed of a certain carrying quality. the excellence of her instruction, combined with her own good taste, had brought it to a state of what, for that voice, might be called perfection. she also had the good sense never to sing anything too big for her. but though her voice might not be suited to wagner or strauss it was far better suited to certain simpler things than a larger voice might have been, and the song she was singing now was one of these. probably no more happy combination could be effected between singer and song than that of madge and the slow, plaintive, seventeenth-century melody of "grim king of the ghosts," which gay had the good sense to incorporate into his masterpiece. to say that the audience was spellbound by her rendering of the song would be to stretch a point. it sat, for the most part, silently attentive, enjoying it very much and thinking that it would give her a good round of applause and an encore at the end. harry, standing in the obscurity of the back part of aunt selina's box, was of very much the same mind. for about half of the song, that is. for near the end of the first verse he suddenly realized that madge was singing not gay's words, but his own. it was absurd, of course, but at that realization the whole world seemed suddenly to change. the floor beneath his feet became clouds, the theater a corner of paradise, the people in it choirs of marvelous ethereal beings, mrs. peachum (alias smith) a ministrant seraph, madge's voice the music of the spheres, and madge herself, from being an unusually nice girl of his acquaintance, became.... what nonsense! he told himself; the idea of getting so worked up at hearing his own words sung on a stage!--you fool, replied another voice within him, you know perfectly well that that's not it at all.--don't tell me, replied the other harry, the sensible one; such things don't happen, except in books; they don't happen to real people--me, for instance.--why not? obstinately inquired the other; why not you, as well as any one else?--well, i can't stop to argue about it now, the practical harry answered; i've got to go out and see that people are ready for their cues. he went out, and found everything running perfectly smoothly. people were standing waiting for their entrances minutes ahead of time, the electricians were at their posts, the make-up people had finished their work, the scene-shifters and property men had put everything in readiness for setting the next scene; no one even asked him a question. he flitted about for a few moments on imaginary errands, asking various people if all was going well; but the real question that he kept asking himself all the time was is this it? is this it? "i don't know!" he said at last, loudly and petulantly, and several people turned to see whom he was reproving now. when he got back to the box he found madge still singing the last verse of her song. he wondered how many times she had had to repeat it, and hoped cosgrove was living up to his agreement not to give more than one encore to each song. in reality this was her first encore; his hectic trip behind the scenes had occupied a much shorter time than he supposed. madge was making a most exquisite piece of work of her little appeal to maternal sympathy; she was actually taking the second verse sitting down, leaning forward with her arms on a table in an attitude of conversational pleading. he had not told her to do that; it was so hard to make effective that he would not have dared to suggest it. when she reached the line, "if heart ever beat in your breast" she suddenly rose, slightly threw back her arms and head, and sang the words on a wholly new note of restrained passion, beautifully dramatic and suggestive. the house burst into applause, but harry was seized with a fit of unholy mirth at the irony of the situation--madge, perfectly indifferent, singing those words, while he, their author, consumed with an all-devouring flame, stood stifling his passion in a dark corner. an insane desire seized him to run out to the middle of the stage and shout at the top of his voice "have pity on me, for i love!" it would be true then. he supposed, however, that people might think it peculiar. from then on, as long as madge held the stage, he stood rooted to the spot, unable to lift his eyes from her. presently her lover came in, and they started the lovely duet, "pretty polly, say." at the end of the encore, according to harry's instructions, barnaby leaned over and kissed his polly on the mouth. a sudden and intense dislike for mr. barnaby at that moment overcame harry.... the act ended; the house went wild again; the curtain flopped up and down with no apparent intention of ever stopping; ushers rushed down the aisles with great beribboned bunches of flowers. this gave harry an idea; as soon as the second act was safely under way he rushed out to the nearest florist's shop and commandeered all the american beauty roses in the place, to be delivered to miss elliston with his card at the end of the next act. as he was going out of the shop he stopped to look at some peculiar little pink and white flowers in a vase near the door. "what are those?" he asked. "bleeding hearts," said the florist's clerk. "just up from florida; very hard to get at this time of year." harry stood still, thinking. if he sent those--would she know--of course she would, answered the practical harry immediately; she would not only know but would call him a fool for his pains.--oh, shut up! retorted the other. "i'll have these then, instead of the roses, please," he said aloud. "all of them, and don't forget the card." they did not meet till after the performance was over. he caught sight of her making a sort of triumphal progress through the back of the stage, on her way to the dressing rooms, and deliberately placed himself in her path. she was looking rather surprisingly solemn, he noticed. her face lighted up, however, when she saw him. she smiled, at least. "well, what did _you_ think of it?" she asked. "i think the performance was very creditable," he answered. "to say what i think of you would be compromising." she laughed and went on without making any reply. he could not see her face, but something gave him the impression that her smile did not last very long after she had turned away from him. he walked home alone through the crisp march night, breathing deeply and trying to reduce his teeming brain to a state of order and clarity. the walk from the theater home was not sufficient for this; he walked far beyond his house and all the way back again before he could think clearly enough. at last he raised his eyes to the comfortable stars and spoke a few words aloud in a low, calm voice. "i really think," he said, "that this is it. i really do think so ... but i must be very careful," he added, to himself; "_very_ careful. i must take no chances--this time. both on madge's account and on mine." "no," he added after a moment; "not on my account. on madge's." chapter ii congreve little had happened to mark the greater part of the time that had elapsed since harry's graduation. for three years he had studied hard for his doctor's degree, and during the fourth year he had been set to teaching english literature to freshmen, which task, on the whole, he accomplished with marked success. but during the fifth year, the year in which we next see him, he was not teaching freshmen, though he was still living in new haven, and working, according to his own accounts, like a galley slave. the events which led up to this state of things form a matter of some moment in his career. these began with the production, during his fourth year out of college, of a play of his by the college dramatic association. or, to be more exact, it really began some months before that, when harry, leaving a theater one evening after witnessing a poor play, had remarked to his companion of the moment: "i actually believe that i could write a better play than that." to which the friend made the obvious answer, "why don't you, then?" "i will," replied harry, and he did. it was his first venture in that field of composition. in all his literary activities he had never before, to borrow his own phrase, committed dramaturgy. to the very fact that his maiden effort came so late harry was wont, in later years, to attribute a large measure of his success. his idea was that if he had begun earlier his first results would have been so excruciatingly bad as to discourage him from sustained effort in that direction. however this may be, the play was judged the best of those submitted in a competition organized by the dramatic association, and was produced by it during the following winter with a very fair amount of success. nobody could fairly have called it a remarkable play, but neither could any one have been justified in calling it a bad one. its theme was, apart from its setting, singularly characteristic of the subsequent style of its author and may be said to have struck the tragi-comic note that sounded through all his later work. it concerned the experiences of a struggling young english author, poor, but of gentle birth, who is first seen inveighing against the snobbery, coldness and indifference shown toward him by people of wealth and position, and later, after coming unexpectedly into a peerage and a large fortune, is horrified to find himself forced into displaying the very qualities which he had so fiercely condemned in others. the machinery of the play was somewhat artificial, but the characterization and dramatic interest were skilfully worked out. the dialogue was everywhere delightful and the contrast afforded between the conscientious, introspective sincerity of the young author and the gaily unscrupulous casuistry of his wife was a forecast, if not actually an early example, of his best work. harry was never blind to the faults of the play, but he remained convinced that it was good in the main, and, what was more important, retained his interest in dramatic composition. he worked hard during the following spring and summer and at length evolved another play, which he called "chances" and believed was a great improvement upon his first work. early in august he sent the play to a new york manager to whom he had obtained an introduction and after a week or two made an appointment with him. the secret trepidation with which he first entered the office of the great, the redoubtable leo bachmann was largely allayed by the appearance of the manager. he was a large flabby man, with scant stringy hair and a not unpleasant smile. he sat heavily back in an office chair and puffed continually at a much-chewed cigar, the ashes of which fell unnoticed and collected in the furrows of his waistcoat. he spoke in a soft thick voice, with a strong german accent. harry did not see anything particularly terrifying about him. "ah, yes, mr. vimbourne," said the manager when harry had made himself known. "you have sent me a play, yes? ah, here it is.... unfortunately i have not had time to read it; i am very, very busy just now, but my man jennings has read it and tells me it is very nice. very nice, indeed ..." he puffed in ruminative silence for a few seconds. "could you come back next week, say friday, mr. vimbourne? and we will talk it over. i am sorry to trouble you, but you see i am so very, very busy...." harry made another appointment and left, not wholly dissatisfied. he returned, ten days afterward, to his second interview, which was an almost exact replica of the first. he allowed himself to be put off another ten days, but when he returned for the third time and was greeted by precisely the same soft words he was irritated and hardly able to conceal the fact. "ah, yes, your play," said the manager, as though he had just heard of it for the first time. "jennings was speaking to me of it only the other night. i am sorry to say i have not read it yet." he took the manuscript from a pile on his desk and turned over the leaves. "i am sorry--very sorry--i have so little time...." "i don't believe you, mr. bachmann," said harry. "ah?" said the manager, without the slightest apparent interest. "why not, mr. vimbourne?" "well, you turned straight to the best scene in it just now, for one thing.... beside, you wouldn't keep me hanging on this way if you didn't see something in it, and if you see anything in it of course you've read it. and i don't mind telling you, mr. bachmann, that isn't my idea of business." mr. bachmann's next remark was so unexpected that harry nearly swooned in his chair. "i read it the day after it came," he said softly. "then why on earth didn't you say so in the first place?" stammered harry. the manager made no reply for some moments, but sat silently puffing and turning over the pages of harry's manuscript. "i like to know people," he murmured at last, very gently and with apparent irrelevance. harry, however, saw the bearing of the remark and suddenly felt extraordinarily small. he had been rather proud of his little burst of spirit and independence; he now saw that leo bachmann had drawn it from him with the ease and certainty of touch with which a musician produces a note from a flute. he wondered, abjectly, how many other self-satisfied young authors had sat where he sat and been played upon by that great puffing mass of pulp. bachmann was the next to speak. "i like your play very much, mr. vimbourne," he said. "it is very nice--some things in it not so good, but on the whole, it is very nice. i think i vill try to produce it, mr. vimbourne, but not yet--not till i see how my september plays go. i shall keep yours in reserve, and then, later, we may try it. about the first of november, when the fifth avenue crowd comes back to town...." he smiled slightly. "they are the people that vill vant to see it. not harlem. not brooklyn. the four hundred. even so," he continued, ruminatively, "even so, i shall not make on it." this seemed to harry a good opening for a proposition he had been longing to make since the very first but had never quite dared. "if you want me to put anything up on it, mr. bachmann, why--i...." "no," said mr. bachmann gently; "i never do that, i produce my own plays, for my own reasons. i vill pay you a sum, down. and a small royalty, perhaps--after the hundredth performance." harry looked up and smiled, and the manager smiled back at him. his smile grew quite broad, almost a laugh, in fact. then he rose from his chair--the first time harry had seen him out of it--and clasped harry's hand between his two large plump ones. "i think we shall get on very well, mr. vimbourne," he said. "very well, indeed. i vill let you know when rehearsals begin. and you must write more--a great deal more. but--vait till after the rehearsals!" "yes, i think i understand you," said harry, laughing. "i'll wait. and i'll come to the rehearsals, too!" in october the rehearsals actually started, and harry began to see what he told mr. bachmann he thought he understood. day after day he sat in the dark draughty theater and watched the people on the stage slash and cut and change his carefully constructed dialogue without offering a word of remonstrance. at first the pleasure of seeing his own work take tangible form, on a real professional stage and by the agency of real professional actors more than made up for the loss. then as the rehearsals went on, he perceived that there was a very real reason for every cut and change, and that the play benefited tremendously thereby. he began to see how acting accomplishes a great deal of what he had always considered the office of dialogue. a dialogue of five speeches, to take a concrete example, on the probable reasons why a certain person did not arrive when he was expected was made unnecessary by one of the characters crossing the stage and looking out of a window at just the right moment and with just the right facial expression. harry made no secret of his conviction that his play improved immensely under the care of bachmann and his people. his attitude was that they knew everything about play-producing and he knew nothing, and that the extraordinary thing was that he had been able to provide them with any dramatic material whatever. he joked about it with the actors and managers, when occasion offered, as callously as if he had been a third person, and rather surprised himself by the light-heartedness he displayed. whether this was entirely genuine, whether it did not contain elements of a pose, a desire to appear as a man of the theatrical world, a fear of falling into all the usual errors of youthful playwrights, he did not at first ask himself. one day, about a week before the opening night, he received a jolt that made him look upon himself and his calling in rather a new light. this came through an unexpected agent--none other, indeed, than a woman of the cast, and not the player of the principal female part at that, but a lesser light, bertha bensel by name, a plain but pleasant little person of uncertain age. harry was lunching alone with her and carrying on in what had become his customary style when talking of his play. "you know," he was saying, "i thought at one time i had written a play, but i haven't, i've written a moving picture show. everybody is writing movies these days, even those that try to write anything else, which just shows. i'm going regularly into the movie business, after this. seriously. and i intend to write the real kind of movies, the kind that don't bother about the characters at all, but just dramatize scenery. i shall call things by their proper names, too. let's see--a devonshire parsonage is beloved and wooed by a scotch moor, but turns him down for a louis onze château with a le nôtre garden. she discovers, just in time, that his intentions are not honorable, and is rescued by a montana prairie, who happens along just at the right moment. the situation is still awkward, however, because the parsonage finds that her prairie has a wife living, a new york gambling hell, whom he hates but who won't release him. so the parsonage refuses his disinterested offers and starts life for herself. after various adventures with a south carolina plantation, an indian ocean trawler, an argentine pampas and the scala theater at milan, the poor parsonage ends up in a london sweat shop, to which she is at last discovered by the scotch moor, who had been looking for her all these years. embrace. passed by the national board of censors." miss bensel smiled, but did not seem to see much humor in this foolery. that was due, thought harry, to the fatigue of her long morning's work, and he determined not to bother her with any more nonsense. the silence which he allowed to ensue, however, was broken by an unexpected remark from his _vis-à-vis_, who said with a dispassionate air: "i think, mr. wimbourne, you stand in a great danger." "danger?" "yes, that is, i hope you do. if not, i'm very much disappointed in you." "thank you so much, but just how?" "you're in danger of getting to take your art as lightly as you talk about it. then you'll be lost, for good. it's a real danger. i've seen the thing happen before, to people of as much talent as you, or nearly so." harry looked at her in blank astonishment, and she went on: "if you go on talking that way about your profession, you'll get to think that way and finally _be_ that way. all roses and champagne--nothing worth while. you may go on writing plays, but they'll get sillier and sillier, even if they get more and more popular. so your life will pass away in frivolity and popularity.... that's not your place in the world, mr. wimbourne. you've got talent--perhaps more. you know that? this play, now. i say nothing about the dialogue, because good dialogue is not so rare--though yours is the best i've seen for some time--but how about the rest of it, the story, the ideas? it's good stuff--you know it is." harry leaned back in his chair and tapped the table meditatively with a spoon. he had the lack of self-consciousness that enables a person to take blame exactly in the spirit in which it is given, with no alloying mixture of embarrassment or resentment. "yes," he said after a while, "i suppose you're right about it. i have a certain responsibility.... i suppose the stuff is good, when all is said and done--though i don't dare to think it can be." miss bensel leaned forward with her elbows on the table and allowed her face to relax into a smile, a curious little smile that did not part her lips but drew down the corners of her mouth. "that's it--i thought that probably was it! you're so modest you're afraid to take yourself seriously. well, that's a pretty good fault; i think on the whole it's better than taking yourself too seriously. but don't do it, even so. take it from me, my dear boy, you can't accomplish anything worth while in this world, _anything_, whatever it is, unless you take your work seriously--at bottom." harry did a good deal of serious thinking on the subject during the rest of the day, and the more he thought about it the more convinced he became that miss bensel was right. he thought of dickens' famous utterance on the subject of being flippant about one's life's work; he thought of the example of congreve. congreve, there was an appropriate warning! congreve, whose life was a duel between the painstaking artist and the polished man-about-town, who never would speak other than lightly of his best work, whose boast and whose shame it was deliberately to stifle the fires of his own genius. was he, harry, guilty of something like the pose of congreve? he thought of his attitude of exaggerated _camaraderie_ with the actors and managers, of his attitude toward his own work; he realized that frivolity had become not merely a pose, but a habit. was he not, in such doings, following in the steps of congreve--the man who insisted that the work that made him famous had been written for the sole purpose of whiling away the tedium of convalescence after an illness? as he watched his own play being enacted before his eyes that afternoon he realized that his work was, in the main, good, and that he had known it all along. he had felt it while he was writing it; bachmann's astonishingly prompt (as he had since learned it to be) acceptance of it had given conclusive proof of it. if anything further was needed, he had it in the enthusiasm with which the actors played it and spoke of it. somehow, by some incredible chance, the divine gift had fallen upon him. to belittle that gift, to fail to devote his best efforts to making the most of it, would be to shirk his life's duty. the third act, upon which most of the work of the afternoon was done, drew to its close. it had been immensely shortened by cuts; harry was not sorry, though he missed some of what he had thought the best lines in the play. then the heroine made her final exit, and harry suddenly realized she had done so without her and the hero's having delivered two little speeches that ought to have come just before; speeches on which he had spent much care and labor. those two lines had, in fact, contained the whole gist of the play, or at any rate driven home its thesis in a particularly striking way. the point of the play was that living was simply a system of chances, and these speeches made clear the distinction between the wrong kind of chancing, the careless, risking-all kind, whose final result was always ruin, and the sober, intelligent, prayerful kind, as shown in the lives of those who, after careful consideration of all the chances that may affect them, do what they decide is best and await the result with the calmness of a mohammedan fatalist. harry suddenly became imbued with the profound conviction that those two speeches were absolutely necessary to the understanding of his play. he hastily read over the last half of the act in his typewritten copy, and failed to see how any spectator could catch the true meaning of the work without them. well, here was a chance to show how seriously he could take his art! the whole affair took on a new and strange momentousness; he stood at this instant, he told himself, at the very turning-point of his artistic career. he would not take the wrong road, cost him what it might; he would not be found wanting. bachmann was in the theater, sitting in the back row of the orchestra, as was his custom. harry determined to go straight to him and ask him to put those lines in again. as he walked up the aisle he thought feverishly of the tremendous import of this interview. bachmann would refuse at first, he knew that well enough. bachmann would not easily be convinced by the opinion of an inexperienced scribbler. but harry was determined not to be beaten; he was prepared to fight, prepared to make a scene, if necessary; prepared to sacrifice the production of his play, if it came to that. he could see bachmann's slow smile as he reminded him of practical considerations. "your contract?" "damn the contract," harry would reply. "ha, ha! i've got the whip hand of you there, mr. bachmann! i can afford to break all the contracts i want!" "and your career?" retorted bachmann, with a sneer, but turning ever so slightly pale. "ho! my career! what the devil do i care for my career! i choose to write for all time, not for my own! i...." "vell, mr. vimbourne," bachmann, the live, fleshly bachmann, was saying in a startlingly mild and everyday tone of voice, "what can i do for you?" "oh ... i just wanted to speak to you about this last scene," said harry, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "they've cut out two lines just before miss cleves' exit that i think ought to be kept." "let's see." harry handed him the manuscript and anxiously watched him as he glanced rapidly over the pages. "they're pretty important lines, really. they explain a lot; i'm afraid people won't understand...." he could feel his voice weakening and his knees trembling, but his determination remained. "burchard!" bachmann bellowed, in the general direction of the stage. "yes!" "what about those two speeches before miss cleves' exit?" there was a short and rather flurried silence from the stage, after which the voice of burchard again emerged: "miss cleves said she couldn't make her exit on that line." "where is she? tell her to come back and try it." the battle was won without a shot being fired. harry, almost literally knocked flat by the surprise and relief of the moment, sank into the nearest seat. bachmann got up and lumbered off toward the stage; harry leaned his head against the back of his chair and gave himself over to an outburst of internal mirth, at his own expense. he raised his eyes again to the stage. curiously enough, the first person his glance fell on was miss bensel, with her trim little figure and humorously plain face. it seemed to him she was smiling out at him, with a mocking little smile that drew down the corners of her mouth. * * * * * everybody knows what happened to the play "chances"; its history is a page of the american stage. much has been said and written about it; it has been called a landmark, a stepping-stone, a first ditch, a guiding light, a moral victory, a glorious failure, a promising defeat and various similar things so often that people are tired of the very name of it. what actually happened to it can be told in a few words; it was well received, but not largely attended. it was withdrawn near the end of its fourth week. the critics were unanimous in praising it. its dialogue was hailed as the ideal dialogue of contemporary comedy. the characterization, the humor of the lines, the universality of the theme, its wonderfully logical and convincing development all received their due meed of praise. it was compared to the comedies of clyde fitch, of oscar wilde, of sheridan, and of congreve--yes, actually congreve! harry smiled when he read that, and renewed his resolution never to let the comparison apply in a personal way. but to be seriously compared to congreve, not congreve the man but congreve the author--! the thought made him fairly dizzy. but what took the eye of the critics, the best and soberest of them, that is, more than anything else was the mixture of the humorous and serious shown in the choice of the theme and its development. "to treat the element of humor," wrote one critic, "not as a colored glass through which to look at all life, as in farce, nor as a refreshing contrast to its serious side, as in the 'comic relief' of a host of plays from the elizabethans down to the present day, but as part and parcel of the very essence of life itself, co-existent with its solemnity, inseparable from its difficulty, companion and friend to its unsolvable mystery; to put people in such a mood that they can laugh at the greatest things in their own lives, neither bitterly nor to give themselves dutch courage, but for the pure, life giving, illuminating exaltation of laughing--this, we take it, is the whole essence and mission of comedy. and this--we say it boldly and in no spirit of empty flattery--is the type of comedy shown in mr. wimbourne's play." it is not hard to see how such words should bring joy to the heart of harry and smiles of admiration and respect to the faces of his friends, from leo bachmann right up to aunt selina. but they did not bring people to the theater. for the first three performances the attendance was satisfactory; then it began steadily to fall off and by the end of the first week it became merely a question of how long it could survive. leo bachmann was, curiously enough, the least affected of all the theater crowd by the poor success of the work. he viewed the discouraging box office reports with an untroubled smile, and cheerfully began rehearsals for a new play. "never you mind, my boy," he told harry, "i knew i should not make money off your play. i told you so in the beginning. never you mind! that is not your fault. it's just the way things go. i have only one word to say to you, and that is--write!" even in his discouragement harry could not help feeling that mr. bachmann was strangely calm and cheerful. within a week from the end of the play's run a curious thing happened. a visiting english dramatist and critic, a confirmed self-advertiser, but a writer and thinker of unquestioned brilliancy, and a wit, withal, of international reputation, was greatly struck by the play and wrote an unsolicited letter about it which appeared in the pages of a leading daily. "no more striking proof," wrote this self-appointed defender of harry, "could be offered of the consanguinal intellectual stupidity of the anglo-saxon race than i received at a performance of mr. harold wimbourne's play 'chances' at the ---- theater last night. for the first time during my stay in this country as i looked over the almost empty stalls and realized that this, incomparably the best play running in new york, was also the worst attended, i could have fancied myself actually in my own country. "what are the lessons or qualities in mr. wimbourne's play which the american people cannot stomach? i suppose, when all is said and done, he has committed the unpardonable offense of giving them a little of their own medicine. he has rammed down their throats some few corollaries of the calvinistic doctrines for which the ancestors of the very people who stay away from his play sailed an uncharted sea, conquered a wilderness, and spilt their blood to champion against a usurping power. the pilgrim fathers founded the united states of america in order to publish the greatness of god and the littleness of man. their descendants either ignore or condemn one of their number because he does not extol the greatness of man and the littleness of god. because mr. wimbourne ventures to show, in a very mild--if very artistic and compelling way--how slight a hold man has on the moving force of life, god, the universe, a group of atoms--whatever you choose to call the world--he becomes a pariah. he has escaped easily after his first offense, but it will go hard with the anglo-saxon character if he is not stoned in the streets after the next one. america is a great and rich country; what does it care about religion or philosophy or art or any of that poppycock? serious and devout thinking simply _are not done_; it has become as great a solecism to mention the name of the deity in society--except as the hero of a humorous story--as to talk about kant or hegel. americans have lost interest in that sort of stuff; they do not need it. why, now that they have become physically strong, should they bother about the unsubstantial kind of strength known as moral to which they were forced to resort when they were physically weak? why, having become mountain lions, should they continue to practise what upheld them when they were fieldmice? "of course i should not have made such a point in favor of a play if it were not, technically and artistically speaking, a very good play. the truth when it is badly spoken hardly merits more attention than if it were not spoken at all. but 'chances' is as beautifully constructed as it was conceived; it is a play that i should be proud to have written myself. its technical perfections have already been praised, even by that class of people least calculated to appreciate them; i mean the critics. i will, therefore, mention but one small example, which i believe, in the presence of so many greater beauties, has been overlooked; namely, the short dialogue near the end of the first act in which frances, in perhaps half a page of conversation with the man to whom she is then engaged, realizes that her engagement is empty, that she has no heart for the man, that a new way of looking at love has transcended her life;--realizes all this, and betrays it to the audience without in the smallest degree giving herself away to the man with whom she is talking or saying a word in violation of the probability of their conversation. such a feat in dramaturgy is, perhaps, appreciable only to those who have tried to write plays themselves. still, whom does that not include? "but i do not expect americans to appreciate artistic perfection any more than i expect englishmen to. the shame, the disgrace to americans in not appreciating this play lies in the fact that it is fundamentally american; american in its characters, in its setting, and above all in its motive principles, which are the principles to which america owes its very existence." such opinions, appearing over a famous signature, could not but revive interest and talk about its subject, and the play experienced a slight boom during the last few days of its existence. its run, indeed, would have been extended but for the fact that bachmann had made all the arrangements for its successor and advertised the date of its appearance. altogether the incident tended to show that if the play was a failure it was at least a dynamic failure, indicative of future success. harry was as little elated by the praise of the foreigner as he was cast down by the condemnation of his countrymen. his demeanor all along, ever since the day of his interview with miss bensel, had been characterized by an observant calmness. he dissuaded as many of his relations and friends as he could from being present at the first performance of the play and ignored those who insisted on being there. he himself occupied an obscure seat in the gallery and listened with the greatest attention to the comments of those about him. he thereby began to form an idea of what the general public thought of his work; knowledge which, as he himself realized, would be of inestimable value if he could put it to use in his next play. a letter harry wrote to his uncle giles just after the play was taken off expresses his state of mind at this time. "'chances' has gone by the board," he wrote; "that splendid american institution, the tired business man, would have none of it, and it has ceased to be drama and has become merely literature. but i have learned a lot during its brief existence, and this knowledge i shall, please god, make use of if i ever write another play. which is a mere figure of speech, as i have started one already. "i have learned the point of view of the tired business man. that was what i wanted to know from the very first--not what the critics thought. they could do no more than say it was good, and i knew that already. and what the t. b. m. said was substantially, that my play was nice enough, but that it had no _punch_. i don't know whether you recognize that expression or not; it is one of those vivid american slang words that english people are so fascinated by. people thought the play wasn't interesting enough, and that is the simple truth about it. therefore it wasn't a good play. for my idea is that to be really good a play must hold the stage, at least at the time it is written. and if we are ever going to build up such a thing as the 'american drama' our critics are continually bellowing about, we've got to begin with our foundations. we can't create a full-fledged literary drama and then go to work and make the people like it; we've got to begin with what the people like and build up our drama on that. that's the way all the great 'dramas' of history have grown up--the greek, the french, the spanish and the elizabethan; and it is interesting to notice that the drama that came nearest to being the product of a mere literary class, the french, is the weakest of the lot and is standing the test of time worst of them all. "i may never write a more successful play than 'chances'; i may never get another play on the stage at all. but one thing i am sure of; i shall never offer another play to the public without being convinced that it is a better stage play than 'chances.'" of course that a mere boy, fresh from college, with no practical experience of the stage whatever, should get a play produced at all was an unusual and highly gratifying thing. harry became quite a lion that autumn, in a small way. he remained in new york till after the play was taken off, living with the james wimbournes, and was the guest of honor at one or two of aunt cecilia's rather dull but eminently important dinners. he became the object of the attention of reporters, and also of that section of metropolitan _literati_ who live in duplex apartments and wear strings of pearls in their hair and can always tell schubert from schumann. he was especially delighted with these, and determined some day to write a play or a novel portraying the inner side of their painstaking spirituality. he saw a good deal of james during those weeks; more than he had seen of him since their college days. james had been rather sparing of his week-end visits to new haven since moving to new york; harry noticed that. he was sorry, for he now found james a great help and stimulus. he discovered that a walk or a motor ride with james between the hours of five and seven would obliterate the effects of the caviar-est of luncheons and the pinkest of teas and give him strength with which to face evenings in the company of people who appeared unable even to perspire anything less exalted than pure pierian fluid. "well, it's nice to meet some one who doesn't smell of russian cigarettes," he observed one day as he took his place in the long, low, slightly wicked-looking machine in which james whiled away most of his leisure moments. "do you know, sometimes i actually rush into the nursery at aunt cecilia's and kiss the youngest and bread-and-butteryest child there, just to get the parnassian odors out of my lungs. next to a rather slobby child, though, i prefer the society of an ex-all-american quarter-back." "half," said james. "oh, were you? well, you don't smell of anything æsthetic-er than the camphor balls you put that coat away for the summer in.... james, if you go round another corner at eighty miles an hour i shall leap out and telephone for a policeman!" "oh, that's all right. they all know me, anyway. they know i don't take risks." "hm.... well, it's all over for me next week, thank heaven. i'm going back to aunt selina and sunday night suppers, and i _shall_ be glad!" "well, i will say," said james slowly and carefully, with the air of one determined to do the most meticulous justice, "that you have kept your head through it all pretty well." "oh, it's not hard, when you come right to it," said harry, laughing. "of course there are moments when i wonder if i'm not really greater than shakespeare. and it does seem funny to realize that the rising genius, the person people are all talking about, and poor little me are the same. but then i remember what a failure my play was, and shrivel into the poor graduate student.... after i've written a successful play, though, i won't answer for myself. and after i've written 'hamlet,' as i mean to some day, i shall be simply unbearable. you won't own me then." "watch-chain round your neck?" suggested james. "oh, worse than that--diamond bracelets! and corsets--if necessary. i saw a man wearing both the other day, i really did." "a man?" "well, an actor. that's the sort of thing they run to now-a-days. long hair and general sloppiness are quite out of date--among the really ultra ones, that is." "well," said james, "i give you permission to be as ultra as you like, after you've written 'hamlet.'" "that helps, of course. i daresay i'm lacking in proper seriousness, but it seems to me that if the choice were offered me, right now, between being the author of 'hamlet' and being also an ultra, and not writing 'hamlet' and staying as i am, i would choose the latter. i don't know what my point of view may be at some future time, but that's what it is now, or at least i think it is. and after all, nobody can get nearer the truth than saying what he thinks his point of view at any given moment is, can he, james?" chapter iii not triassic, certainly, but nearly as old to return again to the events attendant on the "beggar's opera." harry slept late the morning after the performance, and when he awoke it was with a mind rested and vacant except for an intangible conviction that something pleasant had happened. he yawned and stretched delectably, and in a leisurely sort of way set about discovering just what it was. "let's see, now, what can it be?" he argued pleasantly. "oh, yes, the 'beggar's opera.' it's all over, thank heaven, and it went off creditably well. the wigs arrived in time and the prison set didn't fall over, and nobody lost a cue--so you could notice it." he lay back for a moment to give full rein to the enjoyment of these reflections. "there was something else, though." his mind languidly returned to the pursuit, as a dog crosses a room stretching at every step. "i'm sure there was something else...." "oh, yes, of course," he said at last; "i remember now. madge elliston." if, say, ten seconds sufficed for enjoyment of the recollection of the "beggar's opera," how long should you say would be necessary for the absorption of the truth contained in those two words? a lifetime? an honest answer; we won't undertake to say it's not the right one. harry, at least, seemed to be of that opinion. "after all, though, it would be rather absurd to spend a whole lifetime in bed," he observed, after devoting twenty minutes to the subject. then he jumped out of bed and pulled up the shade. vague flittings of poetry and song buzzed through his brain. one little phrase in particular kept humming behind his ears; a scrap from a song he had heard madge herself sing often enough:--"what shall i do to show how much i love her?" the thing rather annoyed him by its insistence. he stood by the open window and inhaled a few deep breaths of the quickening march air. "what shall i do to show how much i love her!" sang the air as it rushed up his nose and became breath and out again and became carbon dioxide. "i really don't know, i'm sure," he answered, impatiently breaking off and starting on some exercises he performed on mornings when he felt particularly energetic and there was time. their rhythm was fascinating; he found he could do them in two different ways:--what shall--i do--to show--how much--i love her, or, what shall i--do to show--how much i--? "oh, hang it!" he suddenly lost all interest in them. with one impatient, dramatic movement he tore off the upper half of his pajamas, ripping off three buttons as he did so. with another slightly more complicated but even more dramatic, he extricated himself from the lower half, breaking the string in the process. "ts! ts! more work for somebody!" he said, making the sound in the roof of his mouth indicative of reproof. he kicked the damaged garments lightly onto the bed and sauntered into the adjoining bathroom. he turned on the water in the bathtub and stood watching it a moment as it gushed out in its noisy enthusiasm. "whatshallidotoshowhowmuchiloveher?" it inquired uncouthly. "oh, do stop bothering me," said harry, turning disgustedly away; "i've got to shave." he lathered his face and took the razor in his right hand, while with his left he delicately lifted the end of his nose, so as to make a taut surface of his upper lip. it was a trick he had much admired in barbers. "somehow it's not so effective when you do it to yourself," he said regretfully, watching the effect in the mirror. it helped his shaving, however, and shaving helped his thinking. he was able to think quite clearly and seriously, in fact, in spite of the roaring of the water nearby. "i suppose i might keep away from her for a while," he said presently. that really seemed a good idea; the more he thought of it the better he liked it. "i'll go down and stay with trotty," he said as he scraped the last strip of lather off his face, remembering how fervently trotty, recovering from a severe illness on the trotwood estate in north carolina, had begged him to come down and cheer his solitude. "and i won't come back until i know," he continued. "one must be sure. absolutely." he plunged into his bath and the stimulus of the cold water set his brain working faster. "i'll start this very morning. let's see; i've missed the ten-thirty, but i can catch the twelve-three, if i look alive, and get the three-fifty from new york.... no, on second thoughts, i'd better have lunch and pack comfortably and start this afternoon. that'll be better; it never does to be in too much of a hurry!" it never did; he became even more convinced of that when he remembered at breakfast the many post-mortem arrangements to be made in connection with the "beggar's opera." however, he spent an active afternoon in completing what he could of these and delegating the remainder to subordinates, with the calm explanation that he was called away on business, and started for southern climes the next morning. as soon as he had telegraphed trotty and was actually on his way he became inclined to fear he had not done the right thing. it was so confoundedly quiet down there; he would have nothing to do but think about her. he should have plunged himself into some all-absorbing activity; he should have traveled or taken a nine-till-five clerkship or gone to new york for a while. this suspicion continued through his journey and even survived, though in a mangled form, trotty's enthusiastic welcome of him. but after he had passed a few days among those pine-clad solitudes he began to see that he had done the wisest possible thing. trotty was required to be out-of-doors practically the whole time, and the two drove endless miles in a dogcart through the quickening oaks and pines, or lay on fragrant carpets of needles, content with mere sensuous enjoyment of the wind and sun, sky and landscape. somehow these things brought calm and conviction to the heart of harry. they seemed to rest and purge his soul from the fatigues of the past months; the anxiety and effort of the autumn before, the pangs of composition that had marked the winter, the hurry and worry to which these had given place during the last few weeks, and to give coherence and sanctity to the tremendous discovery of that friday night. he could not tell why it was that the sight of a flock of feathery clouds scurrying across a blue sky or the sound of warm wind among pine needles should work this change in him, but it was so. "you're quite right," they seemed to say; "perfectly right. the thing has come, and it's not distracting or disturbing or frightening, as you feared it might be; it's just simple and great and unspeakably sweet. and you were quite right to come to us to find out about it; you can learn among us a great deal better than in all that hectic scrambling up north. so lay aside every thought and worry and ambition and open your whole heart and soul to us while we tell you how to take this, the greatest thing that ever was, is, or shall be!" trotty was also a source of comfort to him; trotty had lost nothing of his former singular faculty of always rubbing him the right way. not that either of them made any open or covert allusion to harry's state of mind, for they did not, but there was something particularly reassuring, something strangely in tune with the great natural forces about them in his silent presence. for they would drive or read or simply lie about together for hours without speaking, after the manner of certain types of people who become very intimate with each other. whether these silences were to trotty merely the intimate silences of yore or whether they had taken on for him also something of the character that colored them for harry is not particularly clear; it is probable that he guessed something, but no more. as much might be gathered, at least, from the one occasion upon which their conversation even touched on anything vital. this occurred on the eve of harry's departure. for of course he had to leave some time. the birds and trees and sky were all very well for a while, but after three weeks the thought forced itself into his mind that any more time spent among them would smack of laziness if not of cowardice. "trotty," said he, "i'm going north on the twelve-fifty to-morrow." "oh," replied trotty. "bad news?" "no." "in love?" "yep." "oh." a silence of some length ensued. "carson?" asked trotty at last. "no, no--elliston." "oh.... well, here's luck." "thanks. i need it." in this matter-of-fact, almost coarse form was cast the most intimate conversation the two ever had together. * * * * * harry determined to "have it out," as he mentally expressed it, with madge as soon as possible, and went to call on her the very first evening after his return. as he walked in the front door he caught sight of her ahead of him crossing the hall with a sheaf of papers under her arm, and immediately his heart began thumping in a way that fairly shocked him. her appearance was so wonderfully everyday, so utterly at variance with the way his silly heart had been going on about her these weeks! he felt as if he had been intending to propose to an archangel who happened to be also a duchess. "hello! this is an unexpected pleasure! i thought you were away shooting things." her manner was friendly enough; she was obviously glad, as well as surprised, to see him. he murmured something explanatory, which apparently satisfied her, for she went on: "i'm glad you're back, anyway, because you're just in time to help me with my arithmetic papers. come along in." he sat down almost in despair, with the idea of merely making an evening call and postponing more important matters to a time when he should be better inured to the effects of her presence. but as he sat and watched her as she talked to him and looked over her arithmetic papers he felt his courage gradually return. her physical presence was simply irresistible, distant and difficult of approach as she seemed. "do tell all about north carolina," said madge; "it's a delightful state, isn't it?" "oh, delightful." "so i understand. my idea of it is a fashionable place where people go to recover from something, but i suppose there's more to it than that. the only other thing i know about it is geological; a remnant of physical geography, ages ago. i seem to remember something about triassic.... what is your north carolina like, fashionable or triassic?" "not triassic, certainly." "no, i suppose not. it's very nice triassic, though; coal, and all sorts of lovely things, as i remember it. you must have been fashionable. asheville, and that sort of thing." "not at all. i was helping trotty to recover from something." "oh, really? what?" "pneumonia. also pleurisy." "indeed! i didn't know anything about that; i thought you went simply to shoot things. so jack trotwood has had pleural pneumonia, has he? that's a horrid combination; poor uncle rudolph scharndorst died of it. you often do if you have it hard enough and are old enough, or drink enough...." "well, trotty doesn't," said harry; "so he didn't." "my dear man, neither did uncle rudolph," rejoined miss elliston. "that wasn't what i meant; he just had it so hard he died of it--that was all.--how is he getting on?" "couldn't say, i'm sure." "i mean trotty, of course! poor uncle rudolph!" "very well, indeed.--madge!" he went on, gathering courage for a break, "i didn't come here to-night to talk about uncle rudolph!" miss elliston raised her eyebrows ever so little and went on, with unabated cheerfulness: "we were talking about jack trotwood, i thought. however, here's this arithmetic; you can help me with that. do you know anything about percentage? it's not so hard, when you really put your mind to it. given the principal and interest, to find the rate--that's easy enough. useful, too; if you know how much a person has a year all you have to do is to find what it's invested in and look it up on the financial page, and you can tell just what their capital is! it's quite simple!" "oh, yes, perfectly simple." "let's see--florrie vicars; did you ever hear of any one whose name was really florrie before?... florrie gets a c--she generally does. that isn't on a scale of a b c, it stands for 'correct.' did you ever hear of anything so delightfully victorian? that's the way we do things at miss snellgrove's.... sadie jones--wouldn't you know that a girl called sadie jones who wrote like that--look at those sevens--would have frizzy yellow hair and sticky-out front teeth?" "yes, indeed, without any doubt." "well, as a matter of fact she has straight black hair and a pure grecian profile and is altogether the most beautiful creature you ever saw!... marjorie hamlin--she never could add two and two straight.... jennie fairbanks...." harry realized more sharply than before that ordinary conversational paths would not lead where he wanted to go; he must break through the hedge and he must break with courage and determination. "madge!" he burst out again, "i didn't come here to talk about little girls' arithmetic papers, either! i am here to-night to declare a state of--" he stopped, unable, when the moment came, to treat the matter with even that amount of lightness. he had been over-confident! "of what?" asked madge, looking up from her arithmetic and smiling brightly yet distantly at him. there was just a chance that she might shame him back into mere conversation, even at this late moment. "you know, perfectly well!" he sprang from his chair and took a step or two toward her. the thing was done now. a minute ago they had been occupied in trivial chatter; now they were launched on the momentous topic. "madge, don't pretend not to understand, at any rate!" he was by her side on the sofa now. "i used to think that when i was--when i was in love i should be able to joke and laugh about it as i have about every earthly thing in life. i thought that if love couldn't be turned into a joke it wasn't worth having. but it isn't that way, at all!... oh, madge, madge, don't you see how it is with me?" "dear harry, indeed i do!" said madge impulsively, feeling a great wave of pity and unhappiness swell in her bosom. "indeed i do!" "then don't you think that you could ever ... madge, until you tell me you could possibly--feel that way--toward me, it's hell, that's what it is, hell!" "indeed it is, harry; that's just what it is!" "then you think you can't--love me?" "no--god forgive me, i can't!" he sat still for a moment, looking quietly at her from his sad brown eyes in a way she thought would break her heart. "i was afraid so," he said at last; "i suppose i really knew it, all along. it's been my fault." "oh, harry," she burst out, "if you only knew how much i wanted to! if you only knew how terrible it is to see you sit there and say that, and not be able to say yes! i like you so much, and you are such a dear altogether, and you're so wonderful about this--oh, why, why, in heaven's name, can't i love you?" "but madge, surely you must be mistaken! how can you talk that way and not have--the real feeling? madge, you must be in love with me, only you don't know it!" "that's just what i've said to myself, time after time--i've lain awake whole nights telling myself that. but it isn't so, it isn't! i can't deceive myself into thinking so and i won't deceive you.... i just--can't--love you, because i'm not good enough! oh, it is so terrible!..." her voice suddenly failed; she sank to her knees on the floor and buried her head among the cushions of the sofa in an uncontrollable fit of weeping. for a moment harry was overcome by a desire to seize that grief-stricken little figure in his arms and kiss away her ridiculous tears. a second thought, however, showed the fruitlessness of that; small comfort to his arms if their souls could not embrace! instead he quietly arose from his seat and shut the door, which seemed the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances. he then walked over to the piano and stood leaning on it, head on hands, thoughtfully and silently watching the diminishing sobs of madge. when these at last reached the vanishing point their author turned suddenly. harry continued to stare quietly back at her for a second or two and then slowly and solemnly winked his right eye. madge emitted a strange sound between a laugh and a sob, turned her face away again and plied her handkerchief briskly. "here i am, of course," she said presently, "thinking of nothing but indulging my own silly feelings, as usual. and you, poor harry, who really are capable of feeling, just stand there like patience on a monument.... harry, why don't you swear at me, kick me? do something to make it easier for me?..." she picked herself up, walked over toward the piano and laid her hands on its smooth black surface in a caressing sort of way. the piano had been given to her by her aunt tizzy and she loved it very much, but she did not think of it at all now. "harry," she began again, "harry, dear, i'll tell you what we'll do--i'll marry you, if you like, anyway.... i'll make you a lovely wife; i'll do anything in the wide world to be a comfort to you, just to show you how much i would love to love you if i could...." harry, still looking gravely at her, shook his head slowly. "it would never do, madge," he said; "never in the world. we must wait until we can start fair. you see that?" she nodded. "i suppose i do--from your point of view." "no--from _our_ point of view." "well, yes.... it is just a little bit hard, though, that the first offer of marriage i ever made should be turned down." harry laughed, loudly and suddenly. "that's right!" he said; "that's _you_! not that self-denunciatory thing of a minute ago. don't ever be self-denunciatory again, please. just remember there's nothing in the world that can possibly be your fault, and _then_ you'll be all right!... now then, we can talk. i suppose," he went on, with a change of tone, "you like me quite well, just as much as ever, and all that; only when it comes to the question of whether you could ever be happy for one instant without me you are forced to admit that you could. is that it?" madge nodded her head. "that's just about it. for a long time--oh, but what's the use in _that_...?" "no, go ahead." "well, one or two people have been in love with me before--or thought they were, and though that disturbed me at times, it never amounted to much. in fact i thought the whole thing rather fun, as i remember it--heaven forgive me for it! but then you came along and after a while--several months ago--it became borne in on me that you were going to--to act the same way, and i immediately realized that it was going to be much, _much_ more serious than the others. and i--well, i had a cobblestone for a heart, and knew it. so i tried my best to keep you off the scent, in every way i could, knowing what a crash there would be if it came to _that_.... but i never knew what i missed till to-night, when you showed me what a magnificent creature a person really in love is, and what a loathsome, detestable, contemptible creature--" "come, come, remember my instructions," interpolated harry. "--a person incapable of love is. and it just knocked me flat for the moment." "i see," said harry thoughtfully; "i see." "i suppose," continued madge, "it would have been easier all around if i didn't like you so much. i could conceive of marriage without love, if the person was thoroughly nice and i was quite sure there was no chance of my loving any one else, just because it's nicer to be rich than poor, but with you--no!... and on the other hand, i daresay i _might_ have come nearer falling in love with you if you hadn't been--such a notoriously good match ... you never realized that, perhaps?... i just couldn't bear the thought of giving _you_ anything but the real thing, if i gave you anything--that's what it comes to!" "madge, what i don't see is how you can go on talking that way and feeling that way and not be in love with me! not much, of course, but just a teeny bit!... don't you really think your conscience is making--well, making a fool of you?" "no, no, harry--please! i can't explain it, but i really am quite, _quite_ sure! no one could be gladder than i if it were otherwise!" "one person could, i fancy. well, the thing to do now is to decide what's to be done to make you love me.... for that is the next thing, you know," he went on, in reply to an inarticulate expression of dissent from madge. "you don't suppose i'm going to leave this house to-night and never think of you again, do you? you don't suppose i'm ever going to give up loving you and trying to make you love me, as long as we two shall live and after?" "i thought," murmured madge, apparently to her handkerchief. the rest was almost inaudible, but harry succeeded in catching the phrase "some nice girl." "oh, rot!!" he exclaimed vociferously. then he sank down on the piano bench, rested his elbows on the keyboard cover and burst into paroxysms of laughter. the idea of his leaving madge and going out in search of "some nice girl"! madge, still leaning on the edge of the piano, watched him with some apprehension, occasionally smothering a reluctant smile in her handkerchief. "excuse me, madge," he said at last, wiping his eyes, "but that's probably the funniest remark ever made!... a large, shapeless person, with yellow hair and a knitted shawl ... a sort of german type, who'd take the most wonderful care of my socks ... with a large, soft kiss, like ... like a hot cross bun!..." he was off again. "hush, harry, don't be absurd! hush, you'll wake mama! harry, you're impossible!" madge herself was laughing at the portrait, for all that. it was some minutes before either of them could return to the subject in hand. "oh, you'll love me all right, in time!" that laugh had cleared the atmosphere tremendously; it seemed much easier to talk freely and sensibly now. "of course you don't think so now, and that's quite as it should be; but time makes one look at things differently." "no, no, you mustn't count on that. if i don't now, i can't ever possibly! really--" "what, not love me? impossible! look at me!" he became serious and went on: "madge, granting that you don't care a hang for me now, can you look into your inmost heart and say you're perfectly sure you never, never could get to care for me, some time in the dim future of years?" "i--don't know," replied madge inconclusively. "there you are--you know perfectly well you can't! however, i don't intend to bother you about that now. what i want to suggest now is that we had better be apart for a while, now that we know how things stand between us--not see anything of each other for a long time. that's the best way. that's how i fell in love with you--how i became sure about it, at any rate. that was why i went to north carolina, of course." madge thought seriously for a moment or two. what he said seemed reasonable. if he did go entirely out of her head after a few months' absence, he would be out of it for good and all, and there was the end of it. whereas, in the unlikely event of his _not_ going out of her head, but going into her heart, she would be much surer of herself than if under the continual stimulus and charm of his presence. "well," she said at length. "but how will you arrange it?" "i shall simply go away--to-morrow. abroad. you'll be here?" "yes." "what do you do this summer?" "i'm not sure--that is, i had thought of going to bar harbor, with the gilsons--as governess. they have a dear little girl." harry made a gesture of impatience. "i suppose that's as good as anything. if you'll be happy?" "oh, perfectly. i should enjoy that, actually, more than anything else. mama'll be with aunt tizzy. i think i'll do it, now. i'd rather be doing something." "well, we'll meet here, then, at the end of the summer, in september. i suppose we'd better not write. unless, that is, you see light before the time is up. then you're to let me know--that's part of the bargain. just wire to my bankers the single word, 'elliston.' i'll know." "on one condition--that you do the same if you change your mind the other way!" "madge, what idiocy!" "no, no; you must agree. why shouldn't you be given a chance of changing your mind, as well as i?" "very well; it's probably the easiest bargain any one ever made.... well, that's all, i think." they both paused, wondering what was to come next. the matter did seem to be fairly well covered. he made as if to go. "oh, one thing--your work!" madge apparently was suffering a slight relapse of self-denunciation. "how absolutely like me, i never thought of that!" "i can work abroad as well as here. i can work anywhere better than here--you must see that." "i suppose so." she fixed her eyes on the carpet. a hundred thousand things were teeming in her brain, clamoring to be said, but she turned them all down as "absurd" and contented herself at last with: "you sail immediately, then?" "saturday, i expect. to the mediterranean. i shall leave town to-morrow, though; you won't be bothered by me again!" "you must give yourself plenty of time to pack. be sure--" she checked herself, apparently embarrassed. "be sure what?" "nothing--none of my business." "yes, please! my dying request!" "well, i was going to tell you to be sure to take plenty of warm things for the voyage. men are so silly about such things!" as with madge a minute ago, all sorts of things shouted to be done and said in his brain, but he shut the door firmly on all of them and replied quietly, "all right, i will," and started toward the door. she could not let it go at that, after all. before the door had swung to behind him she had rushed up and caught it. "oh, harry!" she exclaimed; "if it does--if it should come off, wouldn't it be simply--nirvana, and that sort of thing?" "madge," replied harry solemnly from the doorstep, "it will make nirvana look like the black hole of calcutta!" if there rose in her mind one pang of remorse for her behavior that evening, one suggestion of a desire to rush out on the doorstep and fling herself into his arms and tell him what a fool she was, it was reduced to subjection before she had closed the door and entirely smothered by the time she reached the parlor again. "no," she told herself quite firmly as she rearranged the tumbled sofa cushions, "that would never do--that was part of the bargain." just what was part of the bargain or exactly what the bargain was she did not bother to specify. "no, i must wait," she continued, trying the locks of the windows; "i must wait, a long time, a long, _long_ time. till next september, in fact. one always has to wait to find out; nothing but time can show. and of course one must be _sure_"--she turned out the gas--"first. _perfectly_ sure--beyond all manner of doubt and question. both on my own account"--she reached up with considerable effort and turned out the hall light--"and harry's." "no," she amended as she felt with her foot for the first step of the dark staircase; "not on my account. on harry's." chapter iv wild horses and champagne james wimbourne always had the reputation of being an exceptionally strong-willed person. none of his friends would have been in the least surprised to see him come so triumphantly through the first real test that life offered him, if they had known anything about it. not one of them did know anything about it; no human being ever vaguely surmised that he renounced--the word is a big one but the act was worthy of it--beatrice in favor of his brother. beatrice may have suspected it at first, but her suspicion, if it existed at all, died an easy and natural death. harry suspected it least of all, which was just what james wanted. the one reason why the renunciation did not turn out entirely as james intended was one over which he had no control, namely, the simple fact that harry was never in love with beatrice. but as a matter of fact one must look deeper into james' character to discover how it was that, long before the completion of the four years that the story has recently skipped, james was able to think of beatrice without even a flutter of the heart. deeply imbedded in his nature there lay a motive force to which his will power, as other people knew it, was merely the servant. this may perhaps be most safely described as james' attitude toward harry. it is not easy to describe it. it does not do to lay stress upon the elements of brotherly affection, desire to protect, unselfishness and so forth, which made it up; those things all appear to smack of priggishness and cant and are at variance with the spontaneity of the thing we are talking about. one might perhaps refer to it as an ineradicable conviction in the soul of james that harry was always to be thought of first. very few people are capable of entertaining such a feeling. very few are worthy of it. james had just the sort of nature in which it is most likely to occur. the germans have an apt phrase for this type of nature--_schöne seele_. james had a _schöne seele_. he had his tastes and feelings, of course, like any one else, but the good always came naturally to him; the bad was abnormal. and this was why he found it possible and even--after a certain time--easy to erase from his brain the image of beatrice, and set up in its place a vision of harry and beatrice coming into a mutual realization of each other. well, it couldn't have been much of a love in the first place if it wasn't stronger than brotherly affection, does some one suggest? some one, we fancy, who is thoroughly familiar with the poems of the late robert browning and entertains a _penchant_ for the paolo and francesca brand of love. well, possibly. we confess to our own moments of paolomania; every healthy person has them. but we would call the attention of the aforesaid some one to the stern fact that love in the united states of america in the twentieth century is of necessity a different thing from love in--rimini, we were going to say, but rimini is a real place, with a railroad station and hotel omnibusses, so let us change it to paolo-and-francescadom. also that he may have fostered his cult of paoloism rather at the expense of his study of the _schöne seele_. and we would also suggest, meeting him on his own ground, that there is no evidence of paolo ever having got along very well with giovanni. for if he had, of course, that whole beautiful story might have been spoilt. then, of course, james' remoteness from beatrice made it easier for him. love is primarily a matter of geography, anyway. with the result that finally, when the month of june arrived and with it the offer of the new york position, the danger implied in new york's proximity to new haven and beatrice was not enough to deter james from closing with it. he accepted the offer, as we know, and took up his duties in new york in september. he took stodger mcclintock with him. stodger by this time simply belonged to james, as far as the emancipation proclamation and other legal technicalities permit of one person belonging to another. he had already obtained for him a job as office boy in mcclellan's and now proposed to take him east and educate him, with the eventual idea of turning him into a chauffeur. stodger seemed delighted with the prospect. "only," he objected, "please, i'll have to ask me grand-mudder!" "oh, of course," said james gravely. "you couldn't go without her consent. i'll have a talk with her myself, if you like." stodger seemed to think that would not be necessary. it ended by james taking a small apartment and installing stodger as chore boy under the command of an eagle-eyed swedish woman, where he could divide his time between cleaning shoes and attending high school. october arrived; it was ten months since james had seen beatrice and he decided it was now time to see her again, to make the sight of her and harry together chase the last shreds of regret from his mind. so he wrote to aunt selina announcing that he would spend his next free saturday night in new haven. it happened that aunt selina had fixed upon that night to have some people to dinner. when she learned that james would be one of the number that idea vanished in smoke and from its ashes, phoenix-like, arose the conception of making it a real occasion; not dinner, nor people-to-dinner, but frankly, out-and-out, a dinner, like that. she arranged to have eighteen, and sent out invitations accordingly. james did not see beatrice until nearly dinner-time on the saturday night. he came downstairs at five minutes or so before the hour and discovered harry standing before the drawing-room fireplace with aunt selina placidly sitting on a sofa and beatrice flying about giving a finishing touch here and there. there was no strain or uneasiness about the meeting; his "hello, beatrice," received by her almost on the wing as she passed on some slight preprandial mission, was a model of cordial familiarity. and if she had not been too preoccupied to let the meeting be in the least awkward, harry, gaily chattering from the chimney-piece, would have been enough to prevent it anyway. "well, here we all are," harry was saying, "and nobody here to entertain. of course if we had all happened to be a minute or two late there would have been a crowd of people waiting for us. we won't complain, though; being too early is the one great social sin. yes, aunt selina dear, i know people didn't think so in the hayes administration ... beatrice, do stop pecking at those roses; they look very well indeed. you make me feel as if my hair wasn't properly brushed, or my shirt-front spotted. this suspense is telling on me; why doesn't somebody come?" somebody did come almost immediately. aunt selina arose and stood in state in front of the fireplace to receive, and she made james stand with her, as though as a reward for returning to the eastern half of the country. he looked extremely well standing there. there was not one of the guests that came up and shook his hand that did not mentally congratulate the house of wimbourne upon its present head. in some ways, indeed, one might say that those few minutes formed the very apex of james' life, the point toward which his whole past appeared to rise and his future to descend from. there are such moments in men's careers; moments to which one can point and say, would that chance and my own nature had permitted me to stay there for the rest of my natural days! surely there can be no harm in a soul remaining static if the level at which it remains is sufficiently high. here was james, for example, not merely rich, good-looking, clever rather than otherwise, beloved of his fellow men, but with a very palpable balance on the side of good in his character. why could not fate leave him stranded on that high point for the rest of his life, radiating goodness and happiness to every one who came near him? _schöne seelen_ are rare enough in this world anyway; what a pity it is that they should not always be allowed to shine to the greatest possible advantage! what a pity it is that so many of them are overwhelmed with shadows too deep for their struggling rays to pierce; shadows so thick that the poor little flames are accounted lucky if they can manage to burn on invisibly in the darkness, illuminating nothing but their own frail substance, content merely to live! the thought, indeed, would be intolerable were it not for certain other considerations; as for example, that the purest flames burn clearest in the darkness, or that a candle at midnight is worth more than an arc-light at noonday. having successfully survived the first meeting, james found himself performing the duties of the evening with astonishing ease. he devoted himself chiefly to his right-hand neighbor, who for some reason was always referred to as "little" mrs. farnsworth. he was not conscious of the slightest feeling of strain in his conversation; he got on so well and so easily that he perhaps failed to realize that his was a real effort, made with the undoubted though unconscious purpose of keeping his mind off other things. if he had not succeeded so well, it might have been better. certainly he would have been spared the let-down that he subsequently realized was inevitable. it came about halfway through dinner, in a general conversation which started with an account by james of stodger's grandmother. he had made rather a good thing of this. "of course i never force his hand," he was explaining; "i never ask him out and out what her name is and where she lives; i try to give the impression of believing in her as profoundly as himself. but it's most amusing to see how cleverly he dodges the questions i do ask. when we were about to come east, for instance, i asked him how his grandmother dared to trust him so far away without seeing me or knowing anything about me. he replied that she was satisfied with the description he gave her of me. 'but stodger,' i said, 'doesn't she want to see with her own eyes?' 'she's my _grand_mother, not my mother,' he answered, which really covered the matter pretty well." "but he's never shown you either her or a letter from her?" asked mrs. farnsworth. "of course not--how could he? oh, i must say i admire him for it! you see, i found him living practically in the gutter, sleeping heaven knows where and eating heaven knows what; but through it all he hung onto this grandmother business as his one last tie with the world of respectability and good clothes and enough to eat. i think i never saw a person get so much out of a mere idea." "it shows imagination, certainly," murmured mrs. farnsworth appreciatively, but her remark was drowned in the question of her right-hand neighbor, who had been listening to james' narrative and joined in with: "have you ever succeeded in getting any idea of what the old lady is like? i should think the boy's mental picture of a grandmother might form a key to his whole character." "no," replied james; "i've never asked him anything very definite. i must find out something more about her some time." "what would the ideal grandmother be like, i wonder?" queried mrs. farnsworth. "yours or mine, for example? mine would be a dear old soul with a white cap and curls, whom i should always go to visit over thanksgiving and eat too much pumpkin pie." "yes, i think that comes pretty near my ideal, too," said james; "provided she didn't want to kiss me too often and had no other bad habits." "how idyllic!" said mrs. farnsworth's other neighbor. "arcadians, both of you. i confess to something much more sophisticated; something living in town, say, with a box at the opera. mrs. harriman, it's your turn." "oh, leave me out!" answered mrs. harriman, a woman who still, at forty, gave the impression of being too young for her husband. "you see, i have a grandmother still living." "so have i," irrepressibly retorted her neighbor, whose name was nesmith; "two of them, in fact, and neither is anything like my ideal! you can feel quite at your ease." "well, if i had to choose, i think i would have one more like yours, mr. nesmith; only very old and dignified, something of the dowager type, who would tell delightful stories of paris under louis philippe and rome under the popes, and possibly write some rather indiscreet memoirs. something definitely connecting my own time with hers, you know." "oh, i say, no fair!" interrupted james in unthoughtful high spirits. "no fair stealing somebody else's grandmother! you've described miss carson's grandmother, mrs. harriman, unless i'm greatly mistaken. beatrice, isn't mrs. harriman's ideal grandmother suspiciously like old lady moville?" beatrice, who was sitting two places down the table from mrs. harriman, had heard the description; the grandmother conversation had, in fact, absorbed the attention of very nearly half the table. "very like, i admit; but mrs. harriman is quite welcome to her.... she is not exactly my ideal of a grandmother...!" she turned directly toward james and made the last remark straight at him with a sort of deprecating smile of comprehension. it was as though she said: "i say that to _you_ because i know you'll understand!" it did not amount to much; it was one of the fleeting signs of mutual comprehension that friends will frequently exchange in the presence of acquaintances. but unfortunately the remark and the way it was given were extremely ill-timed as far as james was concerned. the effect they caused in him may perhaps be best likened to one of those sudden fits of faintness that overcome people convalescing from a long illness; the sort of thing where you are all right one minute and gasping and calling for brandy the next, and the stronger you feel beforehand the harder the faintness seizes you when it comes. if james had been on the watch for such occurrences, the incident would not have had half the effect on him that it did. as it was, however, beatrice's little speech and glance stirred into momentary activity much of the feeling that he had been striving all these months to keep down. it was not really much; it did not actually undo the work of those ten months. james was really convalescent. but the suddenness of the thing overcame him for the moment and gave him a feeling approaching that of actual physical faintness. he saw a glass of champagne standing at his side and involuntarily reached toward it. no one noticed him much. mrs. farnsworth was chattering easily with mr. nesmith; conversation had resumed its normal course. possibly the knowledge that james had touched on a rather doubtful topic, beatrice's father's family, gave conversation a slight added impetus; certainly if anybody noticed james' embarrassment they assumed that his slight indiscretion amply accounted for it. at any rate, when his embarrassment led him so far as not only to reach for his left-hand neighbor's glass of champagne instead of his own but to tip it over in the process, the said left-hand neighbor, who happened to be madge elliston, attributed his action to that reason and acted accordingly. with a tact that would have seemed overdone if it had not been so prompt and sufficient, she immediately assumed that it had been she who had knocked the glass over. "oh, i am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "i _am_ such an awkward idiot; i hope it didn't go all over you, james?... no, my dress is all right; apparently nothing but the tablecloth has suffered," and so forth, and so forth, to an accompaniment of gentle swabbings and shifting of table utensils. "oh, madge?" said james vaguely. "that's all right--i mean, it's my fault, entirely...." he joined in the rescue work with grateful fervor, and in a moment a servant came up and did something efficient with a napkin. madge chattered on. "i never do get through a party without doing something silly! i'm glad it's nothing worse than this; i generally count that dinner as lost when i don't drop a hairpin into my food. i used to be quite embarrassed about it, but i've got so now that i eat shamelessly on, right down to the hairpin. i wonder if your aunt saw? no--or rather, she did, and is far too polite to show it. she just won't ask me again, that's all!" "she will if i have any influence with her," said james; "and i don't mind saying, between you and me and the gatepost, that i have a good deal! only you must sing to us after dinner. you will, won't you?" "my dear james, i don't suppose wild horses--" "oh, come now, you must!" "i was going to say, wild horses couldn't stop me from singing, if i'm asked! did you ever know me to refrain from singing, loudly and clearly, whenever i received the slightest encouragement?" "i can't say--i haven't been here enough. i'm pretty sure, though, that there are no wild horses here to-night." "i'm not so sure...." she took a rapid glance around the table. "yes, there are at least two wild horses right here in this room. see if you can guess who they are." "oh, this is getting beyond me!" "guess!" said madge, inexorably. "well ... professor dodd?" "right. now the other." "oh--old george harriman." "no. you're on the wrong track; it isn't the unmusical people that keep me from singing; it's those who make me feel silly and _de trop_, somehow, when i'm doing it." "i can't guess," said james after a pause. "well, it's beatrice carson!" "no, not beatrice! why, she's very fond of music!" "it's not that, as i tried to explain. she is such a wonderful, olympian sort of person, so beautiful, so well-bred, so good, and tremendously wise and capable--you've heard about the work she's doing here in the working girls' league?" "something, yes." "well, it's perfectly extraordinary; they say she's been able to reach people no one else has ever been able to do anything with. altogether, the thought of her listening to me makes me feel like a first-class fool when i stand up and warble, and even more so when i think of the time and money i waste on learning to do a little bit better something that isn't worth doing at all!" "but you teach school," objected james. "that's sound constructive work." "that," replied miss elliston, "is not for eleemosynary reasons." "but you do it very well." "no, you're mistaken there, and beside, i hate teaching school; i simply _loathe_ it! whereas ... let me tell you a secret. this singing business, this getting up in a drawing-room and opening my mouth and compelling people's attention, even for a moment--seeing people gradually stop talking and thinking about something else and wishing i'd stop, and at last just listening, listening with all their ears and minds to me, plain, stupid, vapid little me--well, i just love it! it's meat and drink to me. whenever i receive an invitation to dinner i want to write back, yes, if you'll let me sing afterward!" "really," said james thoughtfully, "that's the way it is with you, is it?" "i'm afraid so! you won't give me away though, will you, james?" "oh, no danger! and i'll promise you another thing--wild horses shan't have a chance when i'm around! not one chance! ever!" he was flattered by her confidence, of course, as well as grateful for her tact. she had not only dragged him out of the water where he was floundering on to the dry land, but had gone so far as to haul him up an agreeable eminence before leaving him. conversation shifted again at that point and james turned again to mrs. farnsworth. he got on very well with her from his eminence; so well that they remained conversationally united for the rest of dinner. in the course of their talk he thought of another thing that made him even happier; something he had not had a chance to realize before. madge thought his momentary embarrassment had been due to having broached the doubtful topic of the carson family. she had no inkling of his feeling for beatrice; the freedom of her references to beatrice was proof positive of that. and if she did not suspect, probably no one else did! his secret was as safe as it had ever been. the full joy of this realization began to spread itself through him about the time when fingerbowls came into use and aunt selina was gathering eyes preparatory to starting an exodus. just as they all rose he chanced to catch madge's eye and, unable to withhold some expression of his relief, smiled and said softly: "thank you, madge!" "what?" she asked, not understanding. "champagne," said james. "oh, nonsense!" as she started to walk doorward she turned her face directly toward his and gave him a deprecatory little smile of understanding, exactly like the one beatrice had thrown him a short time ago. the coincidence at first rather took him aback. he was conscious, as the men rearranged themselves for coffee and cigars, of a feeling of loss, almost of desecration; the sort of feeling one might experience on seeing somebody else wear one's mother's wedding gown. nobody but beatrice had any real business to smile like that--to him, at least. then it occurred to him that that was all nonsense; either it was all on or all off between him and beatrice. after all, madge's smile was just about as good to look at as beatrice's, if one made allowance against the latter's unusual beauty. madge was not unattractive in her way, either.... madge sang, of course. james enjoyed her singing very much, the more so for what she had told him at dinner. during her performance an inspiration came to him which he presently made an opportunity to impart to her. "look here," he asked; "have you ever sung for beatrice's working girls?" "no," answered she in some surprise. "why?" "why not?" "i've never been asked, for one thing!" "would you, if you were? i'd like to suggest it to beatrice, at any rate." "that's all very well for me, but what about the poor working girls?" "i should say that any working girl that didn't want to hear you sing didn't deserve to be helped. i may suggest it to her, then?" "certainly, if you like. i don't really imagine that she'll have any use for it, though." "we'll see." he dismissed the subject with a smile. it pleased him to be quite brief and businesslike. as the party broke up and the guests dispersed he was busy, in a half-conscious sort of way, constructing a vision of him and his whole future life on this scheme; irretrievably blighted in his own career he would devote himself to doing helpful little services for people he liked, without thought of other reward than the satisfaction of performing them. sustained by this vision he embarked quite fearlessly and efficiently on a _tête-à-tête_ with beatrice before going to bed that night. he made the suggestion to her that he had told madge he would make, and was pleased to find that beatrice welcomed it warmly. once in bed, with the light turned out and absolute quiet reigning throughout the house, of course disturbing things did force their way into his brain. it was bound to be that way, of course; had it not been that way for the past ten months? fears, pains, doubts, memories, regrets--all passed in their accustomed procession before his mind's eye, gradually growing dimmer and fewer as drowsiness came on and at last dwindling to occasional mental pictures, as of a characteristic gesture, a look, a smile. a humorous little smile, for instance, suggestive of mutual understanding.... jove, that was a funny thing! he sat up in bed, shaking off his sleepiness and subjecting his mental vision to the test of conscious reason. that was madge's smile that he had just seen, not beatrice's; it was all there, the different position, the eyes, the hair and everything; all complete and unmistakable. well, it was strange what a heavy dinner could do to a man--that, and a glass of champagne! chapter v a schÖne seele on pisgah more than four years have elapsed before we see james wimbourne again. time has dealt easily with him, as far as appearances are concerned. no periods of searching care have imprinted their lines upon his face; no rending sorrow has dimmed the sweetness of its expression. no one could even be tempted to say that he had begun to grow stout. and if his face is a trifle thinner and more firmly molded than of old, if he has a more settled manner of sinking back in to a club chair, if he takes rather more time to get through the evening newspaper, or if, after the manner of many ex-athletes, he is inclined to become fidgety and bilious unless he has exactly the proper amount of physical exercise--well, who ever reaches his late twenties without showing similar preliminary symptoms of age; not so much the first stages of the process of ageing as indications of what the process will be like when it begins in earnest? the process in which we now find james engaged is mental rather than senescent, but you would hardly guess it to look at him. he is sitting on a rock on the top of a hill at sunset, smoking a cigarette and patently enjoying it. one leg is thrown easily over the other, his body is bent slightly forward; one hand rests on the rock by his side and the other, when not employed in propelling the cigarette to and from his mouth, lies quietly on his lap. he is very quiet; james is not the sort of person to make many unnecessary motions; he picks out a comfortable position and usually remains in it until it is time to do something else. he would do this even if he were not gazing at an absorbingly lovely view over the roofs of bar harbor, frenchman's bay and the tumbled hills of the maine coast, and even if the mental process were not such an absorbing one as a review of his relation with madge elliston,--a sort of indexing of the steps by which it had developed from the vaguest of acquaintanceships into its present state. it had really begun, he reflected, on the evening of that dinner. before that madge had been merely one of the group of chattery young women that he had danced with and was polite to and secretly rather afraid of; one of the genus débutante. after that she merged from her genus and, almost without going through the intermediate stages of species and variety, became an individual. at first he had deliberately fostered and encouraged the thought of madge, for obvious reasons. it was clearly profitable to do anything that would help weed out the thought of beatrice. it would be fruitless even to try to enumerate the stages by which from that point on beatrice faded from his heart and that of madge took her place; to a far larger place, as he now realized, than beatrice had ever occupied there. it appeared to him now, as he looked back on the whole process, that beatrice herself was responsible for a large part of it, beatrice and her working girls' league. that had all grown quite logically out of that first evening and his inspiration about having madge sing to the working girls. beatrice adopted the suggestion, and the result was so successful that on the saturday a month or two afterward, when james made his next visit to new haven, madge was engaged to sing to them for a second time. he accompanied beatrice to that meeting and from that evening dated his acquaintance with the working girls' league and social work in general. madge sang for the most part old english songs, things the girls could understand, and they followed them all with the most unaffected interest and pleasure. james was surprised to see several of them actually wipe tears from their eyes when she sang the plaintive ditty "a young country maid up to london had strayed," and during one intermission he was conscious of certain inarticulate sounds coming from the audience, of which the only intelligible part was the word "husband" uttered in beseeching accents again and again. "they want her to sing 'oh, for a husband,'" explained beatrice to james. "she sang that the last time and they all went crazy about it." madge complied with a really very spirited rendering of the old song, and the girls applauded with an enthusiasm that rather touched james. there was something appealing to him in the unaffected way in which these poor shop and factory drudges, physically half-starved and mentally wholly starved, responded to the slightest efforts to give them pleasure. he felt himself suddenly warming toward the movement. "tell me something about this place," he found a chance to say to madge later on, when the gathering had broken up, and even before she replied he reflected that he had had ample opportunity to ask beatrice that. "oh, _i'm_ not the person to ask--i've only just come into it.... it was started simply as a working girls' club, i believe; a place more especially for the homeless ones to come to after work hours and meet each other and spend a little time in cheerful surroundings before going back to their hall bedrooms.... now it's become more than that; they have entertainments and dances and classes of various kinds, and we're trying to raise money enough to build them a lodging house." "you've become one of them then, have you?" "oh, yes, i'm one of those that have been drawn in. the thing has flourished amazingly lately, both among the helpers and the helped. the purpose of the league is entirely secular--i suppose that's what made it go so well. the churches don't seem--they don't get a chance at many people, do they?... this is aimed to help the very lowest class of workers; all unmarried wage-earners are eligible, regardless of age or race or religion.... poor things, they are so glad to have their bodies and minds cared for and their souls left alone! the souls follow easily enough, we find, just as shaw says--you've read 'major barbara'?" "i don't think i have," replied james. "well, that shows what the league is trying to do better than i can.... it's had its results, too. the thing has been running about a year, and already the number of arrests for certain kinds of offenses has fallen off over fifty per cent. keeping them off the streets alone is enough to make us feel proud and satisfied...." "i should think so," said james, blushing hotly. he had never heard a young woman make such a remark before, and was at a loss how to take it. but there was something at once fearless and modest in the way madge made it that not only put him at his ease but set him thinking. "good lord, why can't we live in a world where every one talks like that?" he suddenly asked himself. madge went on to give him a fuller account of the purposes and methods of the league, outlining some of its difficulties and indicating, as far as she knew it, the path of its future development. she paid him the compliment of asking him several questions, and he was displeased to find that he had either to bluff answers for them or confess ignorance. "i wish i could do something of this sort," he said presently, in a musing sort of way. "why don't you? there's plenty of chance in new york, i should say." "oh, new york, yes. i hadn't thought of that. i don't know what use i could be, though." "no difficulty about that, i should think. what about athletics? you'd work among boys, i presume?" "yes, i suppose so." somehow the prospect did not attract him particularly. then he thought of stodger; of what stodger's evenings would have been but for him. what did he do to illuminate stodger's evenings under actual conditions, now that he come to think of it? "you'll find there are plenty of things you can do for them. practically every one who knows anything at all can conduct an evening class. even i--i have a class in hat trimming! one of the few subjects i can truthfully say i have practical knowledge in." thus the germ of the desire for social service was sowed in him. it thrived pretty steadily during the winter that followed. he got himself introduced to the proper people and almost before he knew it he found himself volunteering in gymnasium work and pledged to give occasional evening talks on athletic subjects. the organization in which he worked was, he found to his satisfaction, like madge's--madge's, you observe, not beatrice's--working girls' league, designed to help the very lowest classes of wage-earners. it had its clubrooms on the lower east side and set itself up as a rival attraction to the saloon-haunting gangs of that interesting neighborhood, and since it dealt with the roughest section of the population it did not hesitate to employ means that other organizations would have hesitated to sanction. beer and tobacco were sold on the place; billiards and card games were freely encouraged, though there was a rule against playing anything for money; but the chief interest of the place was athletic. herein lay a problem, for it was found that in the hands of the descendants of nihilists and pillars of the mano negra such respectable sports as boxing and wrestling were prone to degenerate into bloody duels. it was in this matter that james first made himself felt. happening into the building at an unaccustomed hour one afternoon, he became aware of strange noises issuing from an upper floor, and dashing up to the gymnasium discovered two brawny young italians apparently trying to brain each other with indian clubs. in a storm of righteous and unaffected wrath he rushed into the fray, separated the combatants and treated them to such a torrent of obloquy as they had never heard even among their own associates. too astonished and fascinated to reply, they allowed themselves to be hustled from the room by james and literally kicked down the stairs and out of the building without so much as getting into their clothes, running several blocks in their gymnasium costumes. they aroused no particular attention, for at that time even the east side was becoming accustomed to the sight of scantily clad youths using the streets as a cinder track, but it was more than an hour before, timid and peaceful, the offenders ventured to slip back into the clubhouse and their trousers. from that day on james practically ran the delancy street club. it never became a very large or famous organization, partly for the reason that it was purposely kept rather small, but it did much good in its own quiet way. it soon became the chief extra-business interest in james' life; it effectually drove the last vestiges of what he learned to refer to mentally as "that foolishness" from his head; his nights became full of sleep and empty of visions. and by the spring of the next year he found himself slipping into an intermittent but perfectly easy friendship with madge elliston, founded, naturally enough, on their common interest in social matters. he fell into the habit of running up to new haven for week-ends, and into the habit of seeing madge on those saturday evenings. he liked talking to her about social problems; he soon caught up with her in the matter of knowledge and experience, and it was from a comfortingly similar viewpoint that they were able to discuss such matters as methods of handling evening classes, the moral effects of workmen's compensation and the great and growing problem of dance halls and all that it involves. they both found much to help and instruct them in each other's views; the mere dissimilarities of the state laws under which they worked furnished ample material for discussion, and their friendship was always tightened by the fact that they were, so to speak, marching abreast, running up against successive phases of their work at about the same time. it need cause no surprise that such a relation should have remained practically static for a period of three years or more. each of them had much to think of beside social work. james had eight or nine hours' work per day and all the absorbing interests of metropolitan life to keep him from spending overmuch time over it. and madge, as we know, was already an extremely busy young woman. for a long time their common interest hardly amounted to more than an absorbing topic of conversation during their meetings. the stages by which it became the agent of something greater were quite imperceptible. there was just one exterior fact that served as a landmark in the progress of his feeling. some months before--shortly after harry had so unexpectedly gone abroad--madge had started a series of saturday night dances for her working girls--that was at the time when the dance craze was spreading among all classes of society--and she asked james to help her give some exhibitions of new dances, to get the thing well launched. james rather hesitated in accepting this invitation. "i'll do it, of course, if you really want me to," he said; "but i don't see why you want to drag me all the way up here for that. why don't you ask somebody in town?" "that's just the point," replied madge; "i shall want you to give a little individual instruction to the girls, if you will, and i think it would be just as well if the person who did that had no chance of meeting the girls about town, in other capacities...! beside, you happen to dance rather better than any one i know up here." "oh, nonsense!" said james. "i'll come," he added in the next breath. it was from just about the time of those dances, james thought, that the personal element in his relation to madge began to overbalance the intellectual. he had had his moments of being rather attracted by her, of course--the episode of aunt selina's dinner was a fair example--but such moments had been mere sparks, soulless little heralds of the flame that now began to burn brightly and warmly. hitherto he had primarily been interested in her; now he began definitely to like her. and then, before long, something more. it is interesting to compare the processes by which the two brothers fell in love with the same woman. harry's experience might be likened to a blinding but illuminating flash of lightning; james' to the gentle but permeating effect of sunrise. both were held at first by the purely intellectual side of madge's character, but by different aspects of it. harry was primarily attracted to her by her active wit; this had at first repelled james, made him somewhat afraid of her, until he discovered the more solid qualities of her mind. both at last fell in love with her as a person, not as a member of the female sex nor as a thinking machine. both passions were founded upon solid rock; neither could be uprooted without violent and far-reaching results. how beautifully it had all worked out in the end, james reflected; how wisely the progress of things was ordained! how fortunate it was that his first futile passion for beatrice had not been allowed to develop and bear ill-conceived fruit! now that he almost went so far as to despise himself for that passion as unworthy both of himself and of her. what had he fallen in love with there? a lip, a cheek, a pair of eyes, a noble poise of a head, a thing to win and kiss and at last squeeze in his arms--nothing more! he had set her up as the image of a false, fleshly ideal, an empty victorian husk of an ideal, a sentimental, boyish, calfish vision of womanhood. how paltry that image looked when compared to that newer one combining the attributes of friend, comrade, fellow-worker, kin of his mind and spirit! his first image had done injustice to its material counterpart, to be sure; beatrice had turned out to be far different from the alluring but empty creature he had pictured her. she was a being with a will, ideas, powers, purposes of her own. well, all the better--for harry! how admirably suited she was to harry! what a pair they would make, with their two keen minds, their active ambitions, their fine, dynamic personalities! the thought furnished almost as pleasing a mental picture as that of his union with a small blue-eyed person at this very moment covered by the sloping gray roof he had already taken pains to pick out from the ranks of its fellows.... the contemplation of material things brought a slight diminution of pleasure. when one came down to solid facts, things were not going quite so well as could be desired. harry was at this moment kiting unconcernedly about the continent of europe and his match with beatrice seemed, as far as james could make out, as much in the air as ever. also, his own actual relation with madge was not entirely satisfactory. that was due chiefly to sordid facts, no doubt; he could not expect to have the freedom of meeting and speech he naturally desired with a governess in a friend's house. still, in the two or three conversations he had been able to arrange with her during the past three weeks he had been conscious of an unfamiliar spirit of elusiveness. once, he remembered, she had gone so far as to bring the subject of conversation round to impersonal things with something little short of rudeness, just as he was getting started on something that particularly interested him, too.... plenty of time for that, though; it would never do to hurry things. he arose from his rock and stretched himself, lifting his arms high above his head in the cool evening air with a sense of strength and ease. there was nothing to worry about; things were fundamentally all right; ends would meet and issues right themselves, all in due time. it was time, or very nearly time, for aunt selina's evening meal, so he started off at a brisk pace down the hill, whistling softly and cheerfully to himself. he thought of aunt selina, how pleased she would be with it all, when she knew. good old soul! he remembered how pointedly she had asked him to spend his month's vacation with her when she told him she had taken a house at bar harbor for the summer; could it be that she suspected anything? perhaps she had, perhaps not; it had all worked in very conveniently with madge being at gilsons', at any rate. let her and every one else suspect what they wished; it did not matter much. nothing did matter much, when you came to that, except that small person in white linen and lawn who had flouted him when he had last seen her and whom he would show what was what, he promised himself, on the next favorable opportunity.... "thank god for madge," he breathed softly to himself as he walked on and the peace of the evening descended more deeply around him; "oh, thank god for madge!" chapter vi a long chapter. but then, love is long aunt selina was almost the only person with whom harry spoke during the interval between his last interview with madge and his departure for foreign parts. he was living in the old house now, so he could not very well avoid seeing her. at the last moment, with his overcoat on and his hat in his hand, he sought out his aunt, and found her in a small room on the ground floor known as the morning-room, going over her accounts. "good-by, aunt selina," he said. "i'm going to sail for europe on the first steamer i can get, so i shan't see you for some time." aunt selina calmly took off her glasses, laid them beside her pen on the desk and paused before replying. "good-by, my dear," she said at length; "i'm sure i hope you'll enjoy yourself. brown shipley, i suppose?" "yes," said harry. he was a little disconcerted; aunt selina played the game almost too well. then as he stood unconsequently before her, he was seized by a sudden desire to confide in her. "do you know why i'm going, aunt selina?" he asked. "no, my dear." "well, why do you _think_?" "i prefer not to guess, if that is what you mean. you may tell me, if you wish." "madge elliston," mumbled harry. aunt selina stared immovably at her bank book for a moment; then she got up and faced her nephew. "there is a streak of horse sense in the wimbourne blood that has been the saving of all of us," she said. "i'm glad to see it come out in you. good-by, my dear." she kissed him on the cheek. "how do--how would you like it?" he asked, still hesitating, uncertain as to her meaning. "nothing better. i wish you the best of luck. and i think you're doing the wisest possible thing." "i'm glad you do." he looked at her gratefully. "did you suspect anything?" "not a thing." "then i don't believe any one does.... good-by, aunt selina." "you've done me a great honor. good-by, dear." they kissed again and he went out, feeling greatly strengthened and encouraged. as he drove down to the station he determined to go to a hotel in new york and keep out of the way of the james wimbournes and all other possible confidants. the interview with aunt selina had been so perfect that he could not bear the thought of risking anti-climaxes to it. suddenly he remembered that certain cunard and white star boats sailed to the mediterranean from boston. he could go directly there and wait for a steamer in perfect security. so he took the next train to boston and that very afternoon engaged passage to gibraltar on a steamer sailing two days later. the interval he spent chiefly in laying up a great store of books on spain and portugal, which countries he planned to visit _in extenso_. the dull, wet voyage he found enchanting when brightened up by the glowing pages of lope de vega, calderon, "don quixote," "the lusiads," "the bible in spain," and lea's "history of the inquisition," a galaxy further enhanced by the businesslike promises of guide books and numerous works on hispanic architecture and painting. he landed at gibraltar with something almost approaching regret at the thought that land traveling would allow him less time for reading. in leisurely fashion he strolled through southern spain and portugal, presently reaching santiago de compostela. it had been his intention, when this part of the trip was finished, to go to biarritz and from there work on through the towns of southern france, but a traveling englishman told him that he ought on no account to miss seeing the cathedral of gerona. so he changed his plans and proceeded eastward. when he reached gerona he called himself a fool for having so nearly missed it, but after a week or ten days among the huge dark churches of catalonia he suddenly sickened of sight-seeing and that very night caught a through express from barcelona to paris. harry had never known paris well enough to care for it particularly, but just now there was something rather attractive to him in its late june gaiety. he arrived there just at the time of the grand prix, and as he strolled, lonely and unnoticed, through the brilliant longchamps crowd he felt his heart unaccountably warming to these well-groomed children of the world. he had been outside the realm of social intercourse so long that he felt a sudden desire for converse with smart, cheerful, people of their type. his desire was not difficult of fulfilment, as nothing but seven hours' traveling lay between him and a welcoming belgrave square. the next day he crossed the channel and took his uncle and aunt completely by surprise. they were delighted to see him and were unaffectedly disappointed at having to leave him almost immediately for a dinner in downing street. "but we're going to see a lot of you while you're here, dear boy," said aunt miriam, "if we have to break every engagement on our list. it isn't every day that i have a nephew turn into a successful playwright! what about a dinner, now? giles, have you anything on for a week from monday?" "the truth is," observed sir giles to his nephew, "you've become a lion, and a lion is a lion even if he is in the family. poor harry, i feel for you!" "that'll do, g. it's good for the boy." "there's small danger of my being a lion in london, anyway," said harry. "oh, i don't know," ruminated uncle giles: "adoration of success is the great british vice, you know." "monday the fourth, then, giles," said his wife. "hooray, the national holiday!" retorted the irrepressible baronet. "i say, we'll have the room decorated with american flags and set off fireworks in the square afterward. we might make a real day of it, if you like, and go to tea at the american embassy!" "no, i don't think we'll do that," answered aunt miriam, closing her lips rather firmly. harry had a short talk alone with his aunt that night after she came back from the evening's business. "come in and help me take off my tiara," she said, leading the way into her bedroom. "i rather want to talk to you. do you know, dear boy, i fancy something's come over you lately, you're changed, somehow. is it only your success? what brought you over here, in the first place?" "spanish churches," answered harry promptly. he had at one time half decided to confide in aunt miriam, but he definitely gave up the idea now. she was too sympathetic, by half. "do you know barcelona and batalha? there's nothing like them." "no, i've never been to spain. they say there are fleas, and the beds are not reliable. i also understand that other arrangements are somewhat primitive." "oh, not always," replied harry, smiling. "still, i don't think i do quite see you in spain, aunt miriam." then he kissed her good night quite affectionately. he could be very fond of her, from a short distance. as he strolled down bond street next morning harry sighted an old school acquaintance; a man whom he had known as plain tommy erskine, but whom a succession of timely deaths, as he now vaguely remembered, had brought into the direct line of an earldom. harry wondered if he would remember him; they had not met since their harrow days. the other's somewhat glassy stare relaxed quickly enough, however, when he saw who it was. "well, harry! jolly old harry!" he said in a tone of easy cordiality, as though he had not seen harry perhaps for a week. "i say, turn around and toddle down to truefitt's again with me, will you? fellah puts stinking stuff on my hair three times a week; never do to miss a time, wot? well, jolly old harry; wherever have you been all these yahs? didn't go up to oxford, did you?" "no," said harry, "i went home, to america, and i've stayed there ever since. i'm a thorough yankee again now; you won't know me. but tommy, what's all this rot about you being a viscount or something?" "oh, bilge! such a bilgy name, too--clairloch--like a fellah with phlegm in his throat, wot? never call me that, though; call me tommy, and i'll call you wiggers, just like jolly old times, wot?" harry felt himself warming to this over-mannered, over-dressed, over-exercised dandy who was such a simple and affectionate creature beneath his immaculate cutaway, and rather hoped he might see something of him during his stay in london. "do you ever ride these days, tommy?" he asked presently. "that is, would you ride with me some day, if i can scratch up an animal?" "oh, rather. every morning, before brekker. only i'll mount you. lots of bosses, all eating their silly heads off. oh, rot!" he went on, as harry demurred; "rot, wiggers, of course i shall mount you. no trouble 't all. pleasure. you come to england, i mount you. i go to america, you mount me. turn about, you know." "i'm afraid not, as we haven't got any saddle horses at present," answered harry. "you can drive with aunt selina in the victoria, though, if you like," he added, smiling at the thought. "wot? wot's that? delighted, i'm shaw," said tommy, vaguely scenting an invitation. "oh, i say, wiggers, speaking of aunts, wotever became of that jolly cousin of yaws? carson gell--oldest--sister married ned twombly--you know." (for jane had fulfilled her mission in life by marrying the heir to a thoroughly satisfactory peerage.) "she's not my cousin," said harry, "but she's still living in america, keeping house for my aunt--the one i mentioned just now--and doing lots of other things. settlement work, and such. she and my aunt are thick as thieves." "i say, how rum. fancy, gell like that--good looks, and all that--trotting off to do slum work in a foreign country. wot's the matter with london? lots of slums here. can't und'stand it, 't all. never could und'stand it. rum." "oh, no one ever understands beatrice," said harry. "her friends have given up trying. well, tommy, i think i won't go into truefitt's with you. see you to-morrow morning?" "righto--achilles statue--seven-thirty sharp." "righto," answered harry, and laughed to think how well he said it. that was the beginning of a long month of gaiety for harry, a month of theaters and operas, of morning rides in the row, of endless chains of introductions, of showering invitations, of balls, dinners, parties of all kinds, of lazy week-ends in the surrey hills or beside the thames, of sitting, on one occasion at least, enthroned at aunt miriam's right hand and gazing down a long table of people who were not only all asked there to meet him but had actually jumped at the invitation; of tasting, in short, the first fruits of success among the most congenial possible surroundings. and as his relish outlasted the season he saw no reason for not accepting an invitation to a yachting party over cowes week and another to one of tommy's ancestral seats in rosshire over the twelfth; the more so as uncle giles and aunt miriam decamped for marienbad early in august. so he became in turn one of the white-flanneled army of pleasure-seekers of the south and one of the brown-tweeded cohorts of the north. his month in tommydom ran into five, into six, into seven weeks almost before he knew it; it threatened shortly to become two months. and then, instantaneously, the revulsion seized him, even as it had seized him in june at manresa. it happened one morning when the whole party were in the butts. harry was ordinarily a tolerable shot, but to-day he shot execrably. after he had missed every bird in the first drive he cursed softly and broke his shooting-stick; after he had missed every bird in the second he silently handed his gun to his loader and walked down to his host, who had the next butt to his. "good-by, tommy," he said, holding out his hand. "i'm going." "oh, don't do that," said tommy. "birds flying rotten high to-day." "it's not that. i'm going home." "righto. see you at tea time, then." "no, you won't see me again. i'm going to catch the three-eighteen for glasgow, if i can make it. sail from liverpool saturday." tommy's face, like his mind, became a blank, but he lived up to the traditions of his race and class. "well, so long, old thing," he said, shaking harry's hand. "call on me if i can ever be any use. you'll find the motor down at the crossroads, and do look alive and get off before the next drive, there's a dear, or birds won't fly within a mile of the first butt." harry reached liverpool next day and succeeded in getting a berth on a steamer sailing the day after. he landed in new york late one afternoon and took a night train for bar harbor, arriving there next morning. he telegraphed ahead the hour of his arrival, and james and beatrice met him at the dock. they both seemed glad to see him, and he supposed he was glad to see them, but he found it strangely difficult to carry on conversation with them as they all drove up to the house together. aunt selina kissed harry affectionately and wholly refrained, he could not help noticing, from anything like knowing smiles or sly little asides. aunt selina could always be depended on. the gilsons were new haven people whom harry had always known, though never very well. he rather liked mrs. gilson, who was a plump, chirpy, festive little person, but as he drove over the two miles that lay between her house and aunt selina's he prayed with all his might that both she and her husband might be from home that afternoon. half his prayer was granted, but not the most important half. mr. gilson was away, but mrs. gilson, not content with being merely in, came bounding to the door to meet him and was whirling him down a broad green lawn to the tennis court before he knew which end he was standing on. "i do so want you to meet my cousin dorothy fitzgerald," she said. "such a sweet girl, and it's so hard to get hold of men in bar harbor--you've no idea! she plays such a good game of tennis. i'm so glad to see you've got tennis shoes on--we were just trying to get up a four when you came. and how was your trip--do tell me all about it! spain? oh, i've always longed so to go to spain! young mrs. dimmock is here too--you know her? and a mr. mclean--i'll introduce you. portugal, too? oh, how delightful; i do so want to hear all about portugal. we've just got a new tennis net--i do hope it will work properly...." she buzzed pleasantly along by his side, neither asking nor requiring attention. harry's glance wandered back to the house; he caught a glimpse of two little figures bent over a table on a verandah; madge and that confounded child, of course. "where is your little girl?" he asked. "oh, lily--she's having her french lesson, i suppose. we find it works better that way, to leave the morning free for golf and bathing and use this first stupid part of the afternoon for lessons. she's doing so well, too, with dear madge elliston...." "i want to see lily before i go," said harry firmly; "i don't think i have ever made her acquaintance. madge elliston, too," he added, trying to make this seem like a polite afterthought. "oh, yes, indeed; i'll tell them both to come down to the court after the lesson," replied his hostess. by this time they were at the tennis court and introductions flew fast. tennis ensued immediately and continued, quietly but absorbingly, through set after set till the afternoon was well-nigh gone. presently they stopped playing and sat about sipping soft drinks, it seemed, for hours, and still madge did not show up. at length he found himself being dragged into a single with miss fitzgerald. he played violently and nobly for a time, but when at last madge with her small charge joined the group at the side of the court it was more than flesh or blood could stand. he left miss fitzgerald to serve into the backstop and walked across the court to where madge stood. "how do you do?" he said, holding out his perspiring hand. "how do you do?" she answered, politely shaking it. it was the flattest meeting imaginable; nothing could have been more unlike the vision he had formed of it. lily was introduced and he stood making commonplace remarks to both of them until he became aware that he had been rude to miss fitzgerald. he went off to make his apologies to her, and found her willing to receive them and also to discontinue their game. but if he hoped that general conversation would give him a chance for a private word with madge he was bound to be disappointed. mrs. gilson had other plans. "oh, mr. wimbourne, we're all going off on a picnic and we do so want you to join us! you will, won't you? mrs. dimmock knows such a sweet place on the somesville road, and we're going to start right away. i'm not at all sure there's enough to eat, but that doesn't matter on a picnic, does it? especially an evening picnic, when no one can see just how little there is! i do think it's so nice to get up things just on the spur of the moment like this, don't you? so much nicer than planning it all out ahead and then having it rain. let's see, two, four, six--we shall all be able to pile in somehow...." "but i'm afraid i shall have to change," objected harry. "i don't quite see how i can manage." "we shall see the moon rise over mcfarland," observed young mrs. dimmock in a rapt manner, as though that immediately solved the problem. harry was at first determined not to go on any account; then he gathered that madge was to be included in the expedition, and straightway became amenable. a picnic, an evening picnic, would surely give him the best possible opportunity.... the plan as at last perfected was that harry should be driven home where he would change and pick up james and beatrice, if possible, and with them drive out in the wimbournes' buckboard to the hallowed spot on the somesville road in plenty of time to see the moon rise over mcfarland. this was substantially what occurred, except that beatrice elected to remain at home with aunt selina. james and harry took the buckboard and drove alone to the meeting place. they found the others already there and busy preparing supper. a fire crackled pleasantly; the smell of frying bacon was in the air. harry, refreshed by a bath and the prospect of presently taking madge off into some shadowy thicket, was in higher spirits than he had been all day. he bustled and chattered about with mrs. gilson and mrs. dimmock and joined heartily with them in lamenting that the clouds were going to cheat them of the much-advertised moonrise. he engaged in spirited toasting races with miss fitzgerald and sardine-opening contests with members of the strong-wristed sex. he vied with mrs. gilson herself in imparting a festive air to the occasion. then suddenly he realized that madge was not there. he had been vaguely aware of something lacking even before he overheard something about "headache" and "poor little lily," from which it became clear to him that madge's professional duties had again dealt him a felling blow. he made some excuse about gathering firewood and darted off in a bee-line to the place where the horses were tethered. he caught sight of james on the way and dragged him out of the others' hearing. "james!" he whispered hoarsely, "you'll have to get home as you can. i'm going to take the buckboard--now--right off! something very pressing--tell you about it later. say i've got a stomach ache or something." he jumped into the buckboard and started off at a fast clip. the night air rushing by him fanned his fevered senses and before the village was reached he was calm and deliberate. he drove straight to the gilsons' house, tied his horse at the hitching-post, rang the front doorbell and asked for miss elliston. he allowed her to come all the way down the stairs before he said anything. half curious, half amused she watched him as he stood waiting for her. "nothing the matter with that kid?" he inquired at last. she shook her head. "come with me then." without a word he turned and walked off through a french window which he held open for her. as she passed him she glanced at his set face and gave a slight choking sound. he supposed he was rather amusing. no matter, though; let her laugh if she wanted. he led her across the lawn to the tennis court where they had met this afternoon and beyond it, until at last they reached a small boathouse with a dock beside it. to this was moored a canoe. he had seen that canoe this afternoon and it had recurred to him on his drive. he stooped and unfastened the painter and then held out his hand. "get in there," he commanded. she hesitated. "it's not safe, really--" "get in," he repeated almost roughly. she settled herself in the bow and he took his place at the other end. with a few vigorous strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe skimming out over the dark, mysterious water. the night was close and heavy and gave the impression of being warm; it was in fact as warm as a bar harbor night at the end of august can respectably be. the sky was thickly overcast, but the moon which had so shamelessly failed to keep the evening's engagements shed a dim radiance through the clouds, as though generously lending them credit for having shut in a little daylight after the normal time for its departure. not a breeze stirred; the surface of the water was still, though not with the glassy stillness of an inland lake. low, oily swells moved shudderingly about; when they reached the shore they broke, not with the splashy cheerfulness of fair weather ripples, but gurgling and sighing among the rocks, obviously yearning for the days when they would have a chance to show what they really could do in the breaking business. the whole effect was at once infinitely calm and infinitely suggestive. neither of the occupants of the canoe spoke. harry paddled firmly along and madge watched him with a sort of fascination. at length her eyes became accustomed to the light and she was able to distinguish the grim, unchanging expression of his features and his eyes gazing neither at her nor away from her but simply through her. his face, together with the deathly calm of the night, worked a strange influence over her; it became more and more acute; she felt she must either scream or die of laughing.... "well, harry?" "well, madge?" his answer seemed less barren as she thought it over; there had been just enough emphasis on the last word to put the next step up to her. the moment had come. she drew a deep breath. "the answer," she said, "is in the affirmative." the next thing madge was aware of was harry paddling with all his might for the shore. "what are you doing?" she asked. "going to get out of this confounded thing," he replied. when they reached the dock he got out, helped her out and tied the canoe with great care. then he gathered her to him and kissed her several times with great firmness and precision. "you really are quite a nice young woman," he remarked; "even if you did propose to me." "harold wimbourne! i never!" "you said, 'well, harry.' i should like to know what that is if it isn't a proposal." they turned and started up the steps toward the house. madge seemed to require a good deal of helping up those steps. when they reached the top she swung toward him with a laugh. "what is it now?" he asked. "nothing ... only that it should have happened in a canoe. you, of all people!" they walked slowly across the tennis court and sat down in one of the chairs scattered along its western side. here they remained for a long time in conversation typical of people in their position, punctuated by long and interesting silences. "suppose you tell me all about it," suggested harry. "well, now that it's all done with, i suppose i was merely trying to be on the safe side, all along. i know, at least, that i had rather a miserable time after you left. all the spring. then i came up here and it seemed to get worse, somehow. it was early in june, and everything was very strange and desolate and cold, and i cried through the entire first night, without stopping a moment!" "yes," said harry thoughtfully, "i should think you might have gathered from that that all was not quite as it should be." "yes. well, next morning i decided i couldn't let that sort of thing go on. so i took hold of myself and determined never to discuss the subject with myself, at all. and i really succeeded pretty well, considering. whenever the idea of you occurred to me in spite of myself, i immediately went and did something else very hard. i've been a perfect angel in the house ever since then, and i don't mind saying it was rather brave of me!" "you really knew then, months ago? beyond all doubt or question?" "i shouldn't wonder." "then why in the world didn't you telegraph me?" "as if i would!" exclaimed miss elliston with an indignant sniff. "that was the arrangement, you know." "oh, good gracious, hear the man! what a coarse, masculine mind you have, my ownest! you call yourself an interpreter of human character, but what do you really know of the maiden of bashful twenty-six? nothing!" "well, well, my dear," said harry easily, "have it your own way. i daresay it all turned out much better so. i was able to do up the spanish churches thoroughly, and i had a lovely time in england. just fancy, of all the hundreds of people i met there i can't think of a single one, from beginning to end, who said i had a coarse masculine mind." "brute," murmured miss elliston, apparently to harry's back collar button. * * * * * "i suppose," she observed, jumping up a little later, "that you were really right in the beginning. that first evening, you know." "oh, i'm quite sure of it. how?" "when you said i couldn't talk that way to you without being in love with you. i expect i really was, though the time hadn't come for admitting it, even to myself. in fact, i was so passionately in love with you that i couldn't bear to talk about it or even think about it, for fear of some mistake. if i kept it all to myself, you see, no harm could ever have been done." "how sane," murmured harry. "how incontrovertibly logical." "yes. you see," explained miss elliston primly, "no girl--no really nice girl, that is, can ever bring herself to face the question of whether she is in love with a man until he has declared himself." "consequently, it's every girl's--every nice girl's--business to bring him to the point as soon as possible. any one could see that." "and for that very reason she must keep him off the business just as long as she can. when you realize that, you see exactly why i acted as i did that night and why i worked like a trojan to keep you from proposing. i failed, of course, at last--i hadn't had much experience. i've improved since...." she wriggled uncomfortably. "you acted rather beautifully that night, i will say for you. you made it almost easy." "hm. you seemed perfectly sure that night, though, that you were very far from being in love with me. you even offered to marry me, as i remember it, as an act of pure friendship. i don't see quite why you couldn't respectably admit that you were in love with me then, since in spite of your best efforts i had broken through to the point. how about that?" "it was all too sudden, silly. i couldn't bring myself round to that point of view in a minute. i had to have time. oh, my dear young man," she continued, resuming her primmest manner, "how little, how singularly little do you know of that beautiful mystery, a woman's heart." "a woman's what?" "heart." "oh, yes, to be sure. as i understand it, the only mystery is whether it exists or not." "how can you say that?" cried madge with sudden passion, grasping at him almost roughly. "i didn't," replied harry. "no, dear, excuse me, of course you didn't. only i have to make a fool of myself every now and then...." * * * * * "but, oh, my dearest," she whispered presently with another change of mood, "if you knew what a time i've been through, really, since you've been gone! if you knew how i've lain awake at night fearing that it wouldn't turn out all right, that something would happen, that i'd lose you after all! i've scanned the lists of arrivals and departures in the papers; i've listened till i thought my ears would crack when other people talked about you. the very sound of your name was enough to make me weep with delight, like that frump of a girl in the poem, when you gave her a smile.... you see, i haven't been brave _all_ the time. there were moments.... do you know that backbone feeling?" "i think so," said harry. "you mean the one that starts very suddenly at the back of your neck and shoots all the way down?" "yes, and at the same time you feel as if your stomach and lungs had changed places, though that's not so important. i don't see why people talk about loving with their hearts; the real feeling is always in the spine. well, no amount of bravery could keep that from taking me by surprise sometimes, and even when i was brave it would often leave me with a suspicion that i had been very silly and weak to trust to luck to bring everything to a happy ending. but i never could bring myself to send word to you. i was determined to give you every chance of changing your mind; i knew you would come back at last, if you cared enough.... and if anything had happened, or if you had decided not to come back--well, i always had something to fall back on. the memory of that one evening, and the thought that i had been given the chance of loving you and had lived up to my love to the best of my ability...." "that doesn't seem very much now, does it?" suggested harry. "no. oh, to think how it's come out--beyond all my wildest dreams!... i never thought it would be quite as nice as this, did you?" "never. the truth has really done itself proud, for once." "the truth--fancy, this is the truth! this!... oh, nonsense, it can't be! we aren't _really_ here, you know. this is simply an unusually vivid subconscious affair--you know--the kind that generally follows one of the backbone attacks. it will pass off presently. it will, you know, even if it is what we call reality.... for the life of me, i don't really know whether it is or not!--harry, did it ever occur to you that people are always marveling that dreams are so like life without ever considering the converse--that life is really very much like a dream?" "a few have--a very few. a great play has been written round that very thing--_la vida es sueño_--life is a dream. we'll read it together sometime.--heavens, i never realized what it really meant till now! do you know what this seems like to me? it seems like the kind of scene i have always wanted to write but never quite dared--simply letting myself go, without bothering about action or probability or motivation but just laying it on with a trowel, as thick as i could. all that, transmuted into terms of reality--or what we call reality! heavens, it makes me dizzy!" * * * * * "see here, harold wimbourne," said madge, suddenly jumping up again; "it seems to me you've been talking a great deal about love and very little about marriage. what i want to know is, when are you going to marry me?" "oh, the tiresome woman! well, when should you say?" "to-morrow morning, preferably. if that won't do, about next tuesday. no, of course i've got heaps of things to do first. how about the middle of october?" "i was just thinking," said harry seriously. "you see, my dear, i'm at present working on a play. technically speaking. only, owing to the vaporous scruples of a certain young person i haven't been able to put in any work on it for several months. bachmann has been very decent. he has practically promised to put it on in january, if it's any good at all. that means having it ready before christmas, and i shall have to work like the very devil to do that. i work so confoundedly slowly, you see. then there'll be all the bother of rehearsals, lasting up to the first night, which i suppose would be about the end of january. i should like to have up till then clear, but i should think by about the middle of february--say the fifteenth...." "oh, indeed," replied miss elliston, "you should say about the fifteenth, should you? i'm sorry, very sorry indeed, but as it happens i have another engagement for the fifteenth--several of them. possibly i could arrange something for next june, though, or a year from next january; possibly not. better let the matter drop, perhaps; sorry to have disturbed--" "when will you marry me?" interrupted harry, doing something that entirely destroyed the dignity of miss elliston's pose. "next week--to-morrow--to-night? i daresay we could wake up a parson...." "sorry, dear, but i've arranged to be married on the fifteenth of february, and no other date will do. you're hurting my left shoulder-blade cruelly, but i suppose it's all right. that's better.... oh, harry, i do want you to work like the very devil on this play! don't think about marriage, or me, or anything that will hinder you. because, dearest, i have a feeling that it's going to be rather a good one. a perfect rip-snorter, to descend to the vulgar parlance." "yes," said harry, "i have a feeling that it is, too." * * * * * the sound of carriage wheels crunching along the gravel drive floated down and brought them back with a start to the consideration of actualities. they both sat silently wondering for a moment. "what about mrs. gilson?" suggested madge. "might as well," replied harry. "all right. you'll have to do it, though." "very well, then. come along." they rose and stood for a moment among the scattered chairs, both thinking of their absurd meeting on that spot this very afternoon, and then turned and started slowly up toward the house. when they had nearly reached the verandah steps harry stopped and turned toward madge. "well, the whole world is changed for us two, isn't it?" "it is." "nothing will ever be quite the same again, but always better, somehow. even indifferent things. and nothing can ever spoil this one evening?" "nothing?" "not all the powers of heaven or earth or hell? we have a sort of blanket insurance against the whole universe?" "exactly," said madge. "we're future-proof." "that's it, future-proof. i'll wait here on the porch. no fitzgerald, mind." he did not have to wait long. madge found mrs. gilson in the hall, as it happened, with miss fitzgerald receding bedward up the stairs and far too tired to pay any attention to madge's gentle "mr. wimbourne is here and would like to see you, mrs. gilson." so the good lady was led out into the dark porch and as she stood blinking in the shaft of light falling out through the doorway harry appeared in the blackness and began speaking. "i do hope you'll excuse my being so rude and leaving your party, mrs. gilson. there was a real reason for it. you see madge and i"--taking her hand--"have come to an understanding. we're engaged." mrs. gilson stood blinking harder than ever for one bewildered moment, and then the floodgates of speech were opened. "oh, my _dear_, how _wonderful_! madge, my dearest madge, let me kiss you! whoever could have _dreamed_--harry--you don't mind my calling you harry, do you?--you must let me kiss you too! it's all so wonderful, and so unexpected, and i can't help thinking that if your dear mother--oh, madge, you double-dyed creature, how long has this been going on and i never knew a thing? we all thought--your brother was so tactful and gave us to understand that you had acute indigestion or something, left over from the voyage, and we all quite understood, though i did think there might be something afoot when i saw your buckboard at the door. and i haven't heard a thing about spain and portugal, not a _thing_, though goodness knows there's no time to think of that now and you must let me give a dinner for you both at the earliest possible moment. when is it to be announced? i do hope before labor day because there's never a man to be had on the island after that...." and so on. at last harry made the lateness of the hour an excuse for breaking away and went round to the front door to get his buckboard. madge had to go with him, though she had no particular interest in the buckboard. "she's a good woman," said harry as he fumbled with the halter. "though--whoa there, you silly beast; you're liable to choke to death if you do that." "the rein's caught over the shaft," explained madge. "it makes her uncomfortable. though what, dear?" "that's the trace, and it's him, anyway. oh, nothing. only i never was so awfully keen on slobbering." "she's a dear, really. if you knew what an angel she's been to me all summer! what makes her look round in that wild-eyed way?" from harry's answer, "he's tired, that's all," we may assume that this question referred to the horse, though her next remark went on without intermission: "i don't want you to go away to-night thinking--" "i like slobbering," asserted harry. "always did.... now if that's all, dear, perhaps i'd better make tracks." the last ceremonies of parting had been performed and he was in the buckboard. "just a moment, while i kiss your horse's nose. it doesn't do to neglect these little formalities.... i'm glad you like slobbering, dear, because your horse has done it all over my shoulder ... no, don't get out. it had to go in the wash anyway. he's a sweet horse; what is his name?" "dick, i think. oh, no--kruger. yes, he's that old." "because, dear," went on madge, with her hand on the front wheel; "there's one thing one mustn't forget. there was--mr. gilson, you know." "good lord," said harry, struck by the thought. "yes, and what's more, there still is!" "a true model for us?" "yes. after all, we have no monopoly, you know." "good lord, think of it! millions of others!" "it gives one a certain faith in the human race, doesn't it?" "for heaven's sake, madge, don't be ultimate any more to-night! you make me dizzy--how do you suppose i'm going to drive between those white stones? do you want me to be in love with the whole world?" and madge's reply "yes, dear, just that," was drowned in the clatter of his wheels. chapter vii a very short chapter, in one sense the next day it rained. harry shut himself up in his room and wrote violently all the morning, less in the hope of accomplishing valuable work than in the desire to keep his mind off the one absorbing topic. it proved to be of little use. at lunch time he threw all that he had written into the fireplace and resolved to tell the immediate members of his family. it worked out very well. after lunch he arranged with james to take a walk in the rain. beatrice, it appeared, would be occupied at a bridge party all the afternoon. there remained aunt selina--the easiest, by all odds. just before starting out with james he walked into the living room, rustling in his raincoat, and found her alone by the fire. "it's all right, aunt selina." he felt himself grinning like a monkey, but couldn't seem to stop himself. but aunt selina herself could do nothing but laugh. presently she rose from her seat and embraced her nephew. "that top button has come off," she said. "i'm afraid you'll get your neck wet." then they looked at each other and laughed again. there was really nothing more to be said. james' feet sounded on the stairs above. "i shan't be home for dinner," said harry, starting toward the door. "and you might tell beatrice," he added. he walked with james for three hours or more. it may have been the calming influence of exercise or it may have been the comforting effect that james' society generally had on him; at any rate, when the time came he found himself able to say what he had to without any of the embarrassment he had expected. he chose the moment when they had all but reached the crossroad that would take him off to the gilsons'. "james," he said, breaking a long silence, "i've got something rather important to tell you. i'm engaged." "to whom?" "madge elliston." "when?" "last night. that was it." they now stood facing each other, at the crossroads. james did not speak for a moment, and harry scanned his face through the dusk. its expression was one of bewilderment, harry thought. strange, that james should be more embarrassed than he! but that was the way it went. "harry! see here, harry--" "yes, james!" "i ..." he stopped and then slowly raised his hand. "i congratulate you." "thanks, awfully. it does sort of take one's breath away, doesn't it?... i'm going there now. why don't you come too? no? well, i may be rather late, so leave the door on the latch. i'll walk home." and he walked off down the crossroad. * * * * * james knew, perfectly well, the moment harry said he had something to tell him. his subsequent questions were prompted more by a desire to make the situation between them legally clear, as it were, than by real need of information. his first dominant impulse was to explain the situation to harry and show him, frankly and convincingly, the utter impossibility of his engagement. the very words formed themselves in his mind:--"see here, harry, you can't possibly marry madge elliston, because i'm in love with her myself--have been for years, before you ever thought of her!" he drew a long breath and actually started in on his speech. but the words would not come. as he looked at his brother standing happy and ignorant before him he realized in an instant that, come what might, he would never be able to utter those words. there was nothing left to do but mumble his congratulations. as he lifted his hand to that of his brother the thought occurred to him that he might easily raise it higher and put harry out of his way, once and for all. he knew that he could, with his bare hands, do him to death on the spot; knee on chest, fingers on throat--he knew the place. that was perhaps preferable to the other; kinder, certainly, but equally impossible. it was not even a temptation. as he walked off he reflected that he had just come through one of the great crises of his whole life, and yet how commonplace, how utterly flat had been its outward guise! he had always vaguely wondered how people acted at such times; now the chance had come to him and he had shown less feeling than he would have at missing a trolley car. in him, at this present moment, were surging some of the most terrific passions that ever swayed human beings--love, jealousy, disappointment, hate of the order of things--and he could not find a physical vent for one of them! not only that, but he never would be able to; he saw that clearly enough; people of his time and class and type never could. this was what civilization had brought men to! what was the use? what was the meaning of all civilization, all progress, all human development? here he was, as perfect a physical specimen as his age produced, unable to do more than grit his teeth in the face of the most intolerable emotions known to mankind, under pain of suffering a debasement even more intolerable. some people did give way to their passions, but that was only because they were less able to think clearly than he. they always regretted it in the end; they always suffered more that way; his knowledge of the world had taught him nothing if it had not taught him that. just in order to prove to himself how ineffectual physical expression of his mental state was he tore a rail off the top of a nearby fence--he had wandered far out into the country again--and, raising it above his shoulders, brought it down with all his strength upon a rock. the rail happened to be a strong one and did not break, and the force of the blow made his hands smart. he took a certain fierce joy in the pain and repeated the blow two or three times, but long before his body tired with the exertion his soul sickened of the business. he threw the rail lightly over the fence and wandered hopelessly on into the hills. after the first shock of surprise and disappointment had passed his feelings boiled down to a slow scorching hate of destiny. the thought of god occurred to him, among other things, and he laughed. why did people ever take it into their heads to deny the existence of god? of course there was a god; nothing but a divine will could possibly have arranged that he should be thwarted in an honest love--not merely once, mind you, but twice--by the one person in the world whom he could not oppose. such things were beyond the realm of chance or reason. during one part of his wanderings he laughed aloud, several separate times, at the monumental humor of it all. a man such as he was, in the full pride of his youth and strength, strong in body, strong in mind, strong in will and character, twitched hither and yon by the lightest whimsical breath of an all-powerful divinity--it was supremely funny, in its coarse, horrible way. "oh, yes, it's a good joke, god," he said aloud once or twice; "it's a damned good joke." it is significant that he thought very little of madge now. he experienced none of the sudden sharp twinges of memory that he had known on a former occasion. at that time, as he now realized, only one side of his nature had been stirred, and that a rather silly, unimportant side. now his whole being, or at least all that was best and strongest in his being, was affected. he had loved beatrice only with his eyes and his imagination. he loved madge with the full strength of his heart and soul and mind. and heart, soul and mind being cheated of their right, united in an alliance of hate and revenge against the fate that had cheated them. * * * * * he did not return to the house for dinner, and aunt selina supposed he had gone with harry to the gilsons'. he walked most of the night and when at last he reached home he found the door locked. harry, of course, not finding him downstairs, had thought he had gone to bed and had locked everything. so he lay down in a cot hammock to await the coming of a hopeless day. he got some sleep; he did not see that dawn, after all. awakened shortly after seven by a housemaid opening doors and windows, he slipped unobserved up to his room, undressed and took a cold bath. he supposed nothing would ever keep him from taking a cold bath before breakfast; nothing, that is, except lack of cold water. strange, that cold water could effect what love, jealousy and company could not. he glanced out of the window. the weather had changed during the night and the day was clear and windy and snapping, a true forerunner of autumn. the sun and wind between them were whipping the sea into all sorts of shades of blue and purple, rimming it with a line of white along the blue coast of maine over to the left. there was cold water enough for any one, enough to drown all the wretched souls ever born into a world of pain. how strange it was to think of how many unwilling souls that sea drowned every year, and yet had not taken him, who was so eminently willing! he could not deliberately seek death for himself, but he would be delighted to die by accident. no such luck, though; the fate, god, destiny, whatever you chose to call it, that had brought him twice into the same corner of terrestrial hell would see to that.... as he was rubbing himself dry his eye fell on his reflection in a full-length mirror and almost involuntarily stopped there. he still had the pure greek build of his college days, he noticed; the legs, the loins, the chest, the arms, the shoulders all showed the perfect combination of strength and freedom. he had not even the faults of over-development; his neck was not thick like a prize-fighter's nor did his calves bulge like those of many great athletes. and his head matched the rest of him, within and without. and all this perfection was brought to naught by the vagrant whim of a cynical power! a new wave of hate and rebellion, stronger than any he had yet felt, swept over him. moved by a sudden impulse he threw aside his towel and advanced a step or two toward the mirror, raising his hands after the manner of a libation-pourer of old. "i swear to you," he muttered between clenched teeth to the reflection that faced him; "i swear to you that nothing in me shall ever rest until i have got even with the thing, god, devil or blind chance, that has brought me to this pass. it may come early or it may come late, but somehow, some day! i swear it." there was something eminently satisfying in the juxtaposition of his nakedness of body to the stark intensity of his passion and the elemental fervor of his agnosticism. for james was now a thorough agnostic; turned into one overnight from a "good" episcopalian--he had been confirmed way back in his school days--he realized his position and fairly reveled in the hopelessness and magnificence and bravery of it all. for it takes considerable bravery to become an agnostic, especially when you have a simple religious nature. james was in a state where the thought of being eternally damned gave him nothing but a savage joy. it was all very wicked, of course, but strong natures have a way of turning wicked when it becomes impossible for them to be good. there are some things that not even a _schöne seele_ can put up with. * * * * * having thus taken pact with himself he experienced a sense of relief and became almost cheerful. he had breakfast alone with harry--both ladies customarily preferring to take that intimate meal in their own rooms--and talked with him quite normally about various matters, chiefly golf. he became almost garrulous in explaining his theories concerning the proper use of the niblick. harry was going to play golf that morning with madge. he looked extremely fresh and attractive in his suit of tweed knickers; james did not blame madge in the least for falling in love with his brother rather than him. nor was he in the least inclined to find fault with harry for falling in love with madge. only ... but what was the use in going over all that again? he walked briskly down to the town after breakfast and engaged a berth on the new york express for that night. living in immediate propinquity to the happy lovers would of course be intolerable. then he walked back to the house. it was rather a long walk; the house stood on a height at some distance back of the town. a feeling of lassitude overcame him before he reached home; the exertions of last night were beginning to tell on him. oh, the horror of last night! the memory of it was almost more oppressive than the dreadful thing itself. he supposed he ought to go up and begin to pack, but he did not feel like it. instead he wandered out on the verandah to lie in the sun and watch the sea for a while. he came at last to a hexagonal tower-like extension of the verandah built over an abutment of rock falling sharply away on all sides except that toward the house. there was a drop of perhaps twenty-five feet from the broad railing of this extension to the ground below. harry, who knew the house from his early days, had dubbed its peak-roofed excrescence the chamber up a tower to the east that elaine guarded the sacred shield of lancelot in; it was sometimes more briefly referred to as elaine. it was a pleasant place to sit, but very windy on a day like this, and james was rather surprised to discover beatrice sitting in one angle of the railing gazing silently out over the sea. "hullo," he said, listlessly sinking into a chair. "you've heard, i suppose?" "yes, i've heard." "fine, isn't it?" "oh, splendid." "i'm going to new york to-night," said james after a moment. "i'm going home next month," said beatrice. neither spoke for a while and then it began to dawn on them both that those two carelessly spoken sentences had much more to them than their face-value. they both had the uneasy sensation of being forced into a "situation." "what for?" asked james at last. "for good." "but why?" he persisted, knowing perfectly well why, at bottom. "you ought not to have to ask that," she replied. "you, of all people.--why are you going away to-night?" she added, turning toward him with sudden passion. james' first impulse was to make a sharp reply, his second was to get up and walk away, and then his glance fell upon her face.... oh, was there no end to mortal misery? "i'm sorry, beatrice," he said wretchedly; "i'm sorry--i didn't mean to hurt you." "oh, it's all right," she answered in his own tone of voice. then for a long time neither of them moved nor spoke. the situation was on them now in full force, and it was a sufficiently terrific one, for actual life; one which under other circumstances they would both have made every effort to break up. yet neither of them thought of struggling against it now--there was so much else to struggle against. great misfortunes inoculate people to small embarrassments; no one in the throes of angina pectoris has much time to bother about a cold in the head. then, as their silence wore on, they began to be conscious of a certain sense of companionship. "i suppose it's pretty bad?" ventured james at last, on a note of tentative understanding. "i suppose it is...." an idea occurred to james. "at least you're better off than i am, though. you can try to do something about it. you see how my hands are tied. you can fight against it, if you want. that's something." beatrice gazed immovably out over the sea. "you can't fight against destiny," she said at last. james pricked up his ears; his whole being became suddenly alert. couldn't one? had he not dedicated his whole future to that very thing? "i'm not so sure of that," he answered slowly. "have you ever tried?" "i've tried for seven years." well, that was something. he became curious; seven years' experience in the art of destiny-fighting would surely contain knowledge that would be valuable to a novice like himself. and in the manner of getting this he became almost diabolically clever. guessing that all direct inquiries in the matter would merely flatten themselves against the stone wall of her reticence he determined to approach her through the avenue of her pride. "i find it hard to believe that," he remarked; "i haven't seen the slightest indication of such a thing." "no, of course not. how should you? i haven't advertised it, like a prize fight!" "i don't mean that; i mean that i haven't ever discovered anything in your character to make me believe you were--that sort of person. that sort of thing takes more than strength of character and intellect; it takes passion, capacity for feeling. and i shouldn't have said there was much of that in you. you have always seemed to me--well, rather aloof from such things. cold, almost--i don't mean in the sense of being ill-natured, but...." james was perfectly right; it is a curious trait of human character, that sensitiveness on the point of capacity for feeling. people who will sincerely disclaim any pretensions to strength of mind, body or character will flare into indignant protest when their strength of heart is assailed. it was so with beatrice now. "cold?" she interrupted with a slight laugh. "me--cold?... yes, i suppose i might seem so. i daresay i appear to be a perfect human icicle...." she laughed again, and then turned directly toward james. "see here, james, it's more than likely that we shall never see each other again after to-day, isn't it?" "i suppose not, if you intend to go--" "the first moment i can. consequently it doesn't matter particularly what i say to you now or what you think of me afterward. i should just like to give you an idea of what these years have been to me. it may amuse you to know that the pursuit of your brother has been the one guiding passion of my life since i was eighteen. i was in love with him before he left england and i've wanted him from that time on--wanted him with all the strength of my soul and body! wanted him every living moment of the day and night!... can you conceive of what that means for a woman? a woman, who can't speak, can't act, can't make the slightest advance, can't give the least glimmering of her feeling?--not only because the world doesn't approve but because her game's all up if the man gets a suspicion that she's after him.... i suppose i knew it was hopeless from the start, though i couldn't bring myself to admit it. at any rate, as soon as the chance came i made up my mind to come over here and just sit around in his way and wait--the only thing a woman can do under the circumstances...." "i never--i didn't realize quite all that," stammered james. "though i knew--i guessed about the other.... you mean you deliberately came to america--" "with that sole purpose." "and you--you...." he fairly gasped. "i wormed my way into a place in your family with that one end in view, if that's what you mean. and i've remained here with that one end in view ever since." "and all your work--the league--" "i had to do something, in the meanwhile--no, that's not true either; that was another means to the same end. intended to be." she smiled with the same quiet intensity of bitterness that had struck james before. "but what about you and aunt selina? i always thought--" the smile faded. "aunt selina might lie dead at my feet, for all i should care," she answered with another sudden burst of passion. "oh, no, not quite that. i suppose i like her as well as i can _like_ any one. but that's the way it is, comparatively." "yes. i know that feeling," said james meditatively. "so you see how it is with me. i'm glad, in a way, that it's all up now. any end--even the worst--is better than waiting--that hopeless, desperate waiting. yet i never could bring myself to give up till i heard--what i heard yesterday. i've expected it, really, for some time; i've watched, i've seen. oh, that horrible watching--waiting--listening! that's all over, at least...." she had sunk into a chair near the edge of the verandah and sat with her elbows on the broad rail, gazing with sightless eyes over the variegated expanse of the sea. the midday sun fell full upon her unprotected face and even james at that moment could not help thinking how few complexions could bear that fierce light as hers did. she was, indeed, perhaps more beautiful at that moment than he had ever seen her before. her expression of quiet hopeless grief was admirably suited to the high-bred cast of her features; she would have made a beautiful model for a zenobia or a classisized type of _pietà_. beauty is never more willing to come to us than when we want it least. it had its effect on james, though he did not realize it. he came over and sat down on the rail, where he could look directly down at her. "beatrice," he said, "i don't mind saying i think it was rather magnificent of you." she looked up at him a moment and then out to sea again. "well, i must say i don't. i'm not proud of it. if i had been man enough to go my own way and not let it interfere with my life in the very least, that might have been magnificent. but this.... it was simply weak. i always knew there was no hope, you know." "no, that's not the way to look at it. you devoted your whole life to that single purpose.... after all, you did as much as it was possible to do, you know. you went about it in the very best way--you were right when you said the worst thing you could do was to let him see." "i'm not so sure. no, i don't know about that. sometimes i think that if i had been brave enough simply to go to him and say, 'i love you; here i am, take me; i'll devote my life to making a good wife for you,' it would have been much better. but i wasn't brave enough for that." "no," insisted james; "that wasn't why you didn't do it. you knew harry. it might have worked with some men, but not with him. can't you see him screwing himself to be polite and saying, 'thank you very much, beatrice, but i don't think i could make you a good enough husband, so i'm afraid it won't do'?... no, you picked out the best way to get at him and made that your one purpose in life, and i admire you for it. it wasn't your fault it didn't succeed; it was just--just the damned, relentless way of things...." "what are you going to do now?" he asked after a pause. "after you get home, i mean?" "i don't know. work, i suppose, at something." "what--slums?" "oh, i suppose so.--no, i'd rather do something harder, like stenography--something with a lot of dull, grinding routine. that's the best way." "a stenographer!" "or a matron in a home.--why not? i must do something. i won't live with mama, that's flat." "you think you must go home, do you?" "you wouldn't expect me to stay here and--?" "no, but couldn't you find something to do here as well as there?" "yes, but why? i suppose i want to go home, things being as they are. if i've got to live somewhere, i'd rather live among my own people. i didn't come here because i liked america best...." "but are you sure you don't like america best now? you can't have lived here all these years without letting the place have its effect on you, however little you may have thought about it. why, your very speech shows it! and what about your friends--haven't you got as many on this side as the other? you've practically admitted it.... and do you realize what construction is sure to be put on your leaving just now...?" "what are you driving at?" she looked quickly up at him, curious in spite of herself to discover the trend of his arguments, in themselves scarcely worth answering. he did not reply for a moment, but stared gravely back at her, and when he spoke again it was from a different angle. "beatrice, why have you been telling me all these things...?" he knew what he was going to do now, what he was striving toward with the whole strength of his newly-forged determination. and if at the back of his brain there struggled a crowd of lost images--ghosts of ideals which at this time yesterday had been the unquestioned rulers of his life--stretching out their tenuous arms to him, giving their last faint calls for help before taking their last backward plunge into oblivion, he only went on the faster so as to drown their voices in his own. "beatrice, why did you think of confiding in me? why did you pick out this particular time? you never have before; you're not the sort of person that makes confidences. it wasn't because you were going away; that was no real reason at all.... beatrice, don't you see? don't you see the bond that lies between us two? don't you see what's going to happen to us both?" "no--i don't know what you're talking about. james, don't be absurd!" she rose to her feet as if to break away, but she stood looking at his face, fascinated and possibly a little frightened by the onward rush of his words. james rose too and stood over her. "beatrice, we've both had a damned dirty trick played on us, the same trick at the same time. are you going to take it lying down--spread yourself out to receive another blow, or are you going to stand up and make a fight--assert your independence--prove the existence of your own soul? i'm not, whatever happens! i'm going to make a fight, and i want you to make it with me. beatrice, marry me! now--to-day--this instant! don't you see that's the only thing to do?..." "no! james, stop! you don't know what you're saying!" she broke away from him, asserting her strength for the moment against even his impetuous onrush. "james, you're mad, stark mad! haven't you lived long enough to know that you always regret words spoken like that? try to act like a sensible human being, if you can't be one!" that was all very well, but why did she weaken it by adding "i won't listen to any more such talk," which admitted the possibility that there might be more such talk very soon? and if she was determined not to listen, why did she not simply walk away and into the house? james did not put these questions to himself in this form, but the substance of their meaning worked its way through his excitement and lent him courage for an attack from a new quarter. he dropped his impetuosity and became very quiet and keen. "you ask me to act like a sensible person; very well, i will. let's look at things from a practical point of view. there's no love's young dream stuff about this thing, at all. we've lost that; it's been cut out of both our lives, forever. all there is left for us to do is to pick up the pieces and try to make something of ourselves, as we are. how can we possibly do that better than by marrying? don't you see the value of a comradeship founded on the sympathy there must be between us?" he stopped for a moment and stood calmly watching her. no need now to use violence against those despairing voices in the background of his thoughts; they had been hushed by the strength of a determination no longer hot with the joy of self-discovery but taking on already something of the chill irrevocability of age. he watched beatrice almost with amusement; he knew so well what futile struggles were going on within her. he had no more doubt of the outcome now than he had of his own determination. "it all sounds very well, james," she answered at last, "but it won't do. i couldn't do it. marriage...." "well?" "marriage is an ideal, you know, as well as--as a contract. i can't--i won't have one without the other." "you are very particular. people as unpopular with chance as we are can't afford to be particular." "it would be false to--to--oh, i don't know how to put it! to the best in life." "has the best in life been true to you?" "you are so bitter!" "hasn't one the right to be, sometimes? god--fate--what you call ideals--have their responsibilities, even to us. what claim have all those things got on us now?" "i choose to follow them still!" "then you are weak--simply weak!--you act as if i were proposing something actually wicked. it's not wicked at all; it's simply a practical benefit. marriage without love might be wicked if there were any chance left of combining it with love; but now--! it's simply picking up pieces, making the best of things--straight commonsense...." she might still have had her way against him, as long as he continued to base his appeal on commonsense. but he changed his tactics again, this time as a matter of impulse. he had been slowly walking toward her in the course of his argument and now stood close by her, talking straight down into her eyes, till suddenly her mere physical nearness put an end to speech and thought alike. something of her old physical attraction for him, which had been much stronger than in the case of madge, returned to him with a force for the moment irresistible. there was something about her wide eyes, her parted lips, her bosom slightly heaving with the effort of argument.... he put his hand on her shoulder and slowly yet irresistibly drew her to him. he bent his head till their lips touched. so they stood for neither knew how long. seconds flew by like years, or was it years like seconds? sense of time was as completely lost as in sleep; indeed, their condition was very much like that of sleep. they had both become suddenly, acutely tired of life and had found at least temporary rest and refreshment. neither of them was bothered by worries over the inevitable awakening; neither of them even thought of it, yet. as for beatrice, she was for the moment bowled over by the discovery that some one cared for her enough to clasp her to his bosom and kiss her. what had she wanted all these years, except to be loved? a wave of mingled self-pity and self-contempt swept over her. she felt suddenly weak; her knees trembled; what did that matter, though, when james was there to hold her up? she needed strength above all things, and james was strong above all things. tears smarted in her eyes and streamed unheeded down her cheeks. "i was so lonely," she whispered at last, raising her welling eyes to him. "i have been alone so long ... so long...." "james," she began again after a while, "life is so horrible, isn't it?" "it is. ghastly." "oh, it _is_ good to find some one else who thinks so!" "yes, i know." "anything is good--_anything_--that makes it easier to forget, isn't it?" "yes. and we're going to try to forget together." presently the moment came when they had to break apart, and they did it a little awkwardly, not caring to look at each other very closely. they sat down on the rail, side by side but not touching, and for some time remained silently busy regaining old levels and making new adjustments. there was considerable to adjust, certainly. at last james looked at his watch and announced that it was nearly lunch time. "when shall we get married?" he inquired, brusk and businesslike. it may have been only his tone that beatrice involuntarily shuddered at. she told herself it was, and then reviled herself for shuddering. it was better to be prosaic and practical. "oh, as soon as possible.... now--any time you say." "yes, but when? when shall we tell people?" "oh, not just yet...." she objected, almost automatically. "why not? why not right now--before the other?" "you think...?" "yes--every moment counts." he meant that the sooner the thing came out the better were their chances of concealment, and she understood him. yes, that was the way to look at things, she reflected; might as well do it well, if it was to be done at all. she warmed up to his point of view so quickly that when his next question came she was able to go him one better. "and the other--the wedding? in about a fortnight, should you say?" "oh, no, not for a month, at least. at the very least. it must be in england, you see." "in england?" "yes, that's the way it would be...." if we were really in love with each other, of course she meant. he looked at her with new admiration. they made a few more arrangements. their talk was pervaded now with a sense of efficiency and despatch. if they could not call reasons by their real names they could call steamships and railroads by theirs, and did. in a few minutes they had everything planned out. a maid appeared and announced lunch. they nodded her away and sat silent for a moment longer. it seemed as if something more ought to be said; the interview was too momentous to be allowed to end with an announcement of a meal. the sun beat down on them from the zenith with the full unsubtle light of noonday, prosaically enough, but the wind, blowing as hard as ever, whistled unceasingly around their exposed tower and provided a sort of counter-dose of eerieness and suggestiveness; it gave them the sense of being rather magnificently aloof from the rest of the world. the sun showed them plainly enough that they were on a summer-cottage verandah, but the wind somehow managed to suggest that they were really in a much more romantic place. probably this dual atmosphere had its effect on them; it would need something of the sort, at any rate, to make james stand up and say aloud, in broad daylight: "beatrice, don't you feel a sort of inspiration in fighting against something you can't see?" "yes, james," she answered slowly; "i believe i do--now." "something we can neither see nor understand, but know is wrong and can only protest against with the whole strength of our souls? blindly, unflinchingly?" "yes." "inevitably?" "yes." "even if uselessly?" "yes." her eyes met his squarely enough; there was no sign of flinching in them. "i'm glad you understand. for that's going to be our life, you know." "yes, james; that shall be our life." they got up and took each other's hands for a moment, as though to seal their compact, looking each other steadfastly in the eyes meanwhile. they did not kiss again. chapter viii one thing and another seldom have we longed for anything so much as for the pen of a fielding or a thackeray to come to our aid at the present moment and, by means of just such a delightful detached essay as occurs from time to time in "tom jones" or "the virginians," impart a feeling of the intermission that at this point appears in our story. there is nothing like a digression on human frailty or the condition of footmen in the reign of king george the second to lift the mind of a reader off any particular moment of a story and, by throwing a few useful hints into the discourse, prepare him ever so gently to be set down at last at the exact point where he is to take it up again. that is making an art of skipping, indeed. we admire it intensely, but realize how impossible it is in this case. not only is such a thing frankly outside our power, but the prejudice of the times is set against it, so our only course is to confess our weakness and plod along as best we may. why on earth every human being who ever knew him should not have known of his engagement as soon as it occurred--or long before, for that matter--harry could never discover. that they did not, in most cases, was due partly to reasons which could have been best explained by james and partly to the fact that the person who is most careless of concealment in such matters is very often the one who is least suspected. and then so many men had been after madge! so that when the great news burst upon the world at the dinner that mrs. gilson could not decently be prevented from giving, the surprise, in the words of ninety-nine per cent. of their well-meaning friends, was as great as the pleasure. that occurred about a week after james' sudden departure from bar harbor, a phenomenon amply accounted for by business. trouble in the balkans--there always was trouble in the balkans--had resulted, it appeared, in orders; and orders demanded james' presence at his post. this from beatrice, with impregnable casualness. beatrice was really rather magnificent, these days. when she received her invitation to mrs. gilson's dinner she vowed that nothing should take her there, but the next moment she knew she would go; that nothing should keep her from going. obviously the first guiding principle of destiny-fighting was to go on exactly as if nothing had happened. about a week after the dinner harry received a note from his brother in new york saying that he was engaged to beatrice; that the wedding was to take place in london in october and that he hoped harry would go over with him and act as his best man. "i refrained from mentioning it before," added james, "because i did not want to take the wind out of your sails. we are also enabled by waiting to reap the benefit of your experience; i refer to the gilsons. we are taking no risks; it will appear in the papers on wednesday the sixteenth, with beatrice in bar harbor and me in new york. beatrice sails the following saturday." that was all very well, if a little hard. james and beatrice were both undemonstrative, businesslike souls; the arrangement was quite characteristic. beatrice in due time sailed for home, and james followed her some three weeks afterward. harry went with him, returning immediately after the wedding by the fastest ship he could get; he was out of the country just eighteen days, all told. the voyage over was an uneventful one; the ship was nearly empty and harry worked hard at his new play. he had rather looked forward to enjoying this last week of unmarried companionship with his brother, but somehow they did not seem to have more than usual to say to each other when they were together. rather less, in fact. "you're looking low, seems to me," said harry after they had paced the wet deck in silence for nearly half of a certain evening. "i've been rather low, lately." "what--too much work?" "oh, i don't know. it's nothing." "not seasick, are you?" "i hope not." both gave a slight snort expressive of amusement. this was occasioned by the fact that aunt cecilia had offered james the use of her yacht--or rather the largest and most sumptuous of her yachts--for his wedding trip, and he and beatrice were going to cruise for two months in the mediterranean. as for the time--well, he was simply taking it, defying mcclellan's to fire him if they dared. "it's funny, isn't it, our getting engaged at the same time," harry went on after a moment. it was the first reference he had made to the coincidence. "oh, yes," said james, "it's one of the funniest things i can remember." "and the funniest part of it is that neither of us seems to have suspected about the other. at least i didn't." "oh, neither did i; not a thing." "and practically nobody else did either, apparently." "no. it might have been just the other way round, for all anybody knew--you and beatrice, and madge and me." harry could not but take away from that conversation and from the whole voyage a vague feeling of disappointment. since he heard of james' engagement he had entertained an elusive conviction that love coming into their lives at so nearly the same time should somehow make a difference for the better between them. when he tried to put this idea into words, however, he found his mind mechanically running to such phrases as "deeper sympathy" and "fuller understanding," all of which he dismissed as sentimental cant. it was easy to reassure himself on all grounds of reason and commonsense; james and he were in no need of fuller understandings. and yet, especially after the above conversation, he could not but be struck by a certain inapproachability in his brother which for some reason he could not construe as natural undemonstrativeness. the wedding took place in an atmosphere of unconstrained formality. harry was not able to get a boat until two days after it, and he could not resist the temptation of writing madge all about it that very night, though he knew the letter could hardly reach her before he did:-- "it was quite a small wedding, chiefly because, as far as i can make out, there are only some thirty-odd dukes in the kingdom. it occurred at the odd hour of : , but that didn't seem to prevent any one from enjoying the food, and more especially the drink, that was handed around afterward at lady archie's. lord moville, beatrice's uncle, was there and seemed greatly taken with james. after he had got outside about a quart of champagne he amused himself by feeling james' biceps and thumping him on the chest and saying that with a fortnight's training he'd back him for anything he wanted against the somerset cockerel, or some one of the sort, most of which left james rather cold, though he bore it smiling. his youngest daughter (lord m.'s), a child of about eighteen, apparently the only living person who has any control over him, was quite frank about it. 'fido's drunk again,' she announced pleasantly to all who might hear. 'oh, so's ned,' said jane twombly, beatrice's sister; 'there's no use trying to help it at weddings, i find!' just then lady archie came running up in despair. 'oh, sibyl,' she said, 'do try to do something with your father. he's been threatening to take off his coat because he says the room's too hot, and now he wants old lady mulford to kiss him!' and off darts sibyl into the dining-room where her father and ned twombly stand arm in arm waving glasses of champagne and shouting 'john peel' at the top of their lungs. 'fido!' she shouted, running straight up to him, 'put down that glass directly and come home! instantly! do you hear? you're disgracing us! the next time i take you out to a wedding you'll know it!' 'oh, sib,' pleaded the noble marquis, 'don't be too hard on us! only drinkin' bride's health--must drink bride's health--not good manners not to. sib shall drink with us; here's a glass, sib--for his view, view hallo! would awaken the dead--' 'fido, do you know what you're doing? you're ruining your season's hunting! gout-stool and seidlitz powders all the winter for you, if you don't go easy!' but still fido refused to obey till at last the dauntless child went up and whispered something in his ear, after which he calmed down and presently followed her out of the house, gently as a lamb. 'she threatened to tell her mother about the woman in wimbledon,' explained jane to me. 'of course every one knows all there is to know about her, including aunt susan, but he hasn't found that out yet, and it gives sib rather a strangle-hold on him. good idea, isn't it? marjorie--ned's sister, you know--has promised to work the same trick for me with ned, when the time comes.' i hope i am not more straight-laced than my neighbors, but do you know, the whole atmosphere struck me as just a teeny-weeny bit decadent...." after he reached home harry saw that it would be quite useless, what with madge and other diverting influences, to try to finish his play in new haven, so he repaired to the solitudes of the berkshires for the remainder of the autumn. he occupied two rooms in an almost empty inn in stockbridge, working and living for two months on a strict régime. it was his habit to work from nine till half-past one. he spent most of the afternoon in exercise and the evening in more writing; not the calm, well-balanced writing of the morning, but in feverish and untrammeled scribbling. each morning he had to write over all that he had done the night before, but he found it well worth while, discovering that reason and inspiration kept separate office hours. meanwhile madge, though freed from the trammels of miss snellgrove, was very busy at home with her trousseau and other matters. she was supremely happy these days; happy even in harry's absence, because she could feel that he was doing better work than he could with her near, and that provided just the element of self-sacrifice that every woman--every woman that is worth anything--yearns to infuse into her love. she had ample opportunity of trying her hand at writing love letters, but, to tell the truth, she was never very good at it. neither was harry, for that matter; possibly because he was now putting every ounce of creative power in him into something the result of which justified the effort much better.... but suppose we allow some of the letters to speak for themselves. dear inamorato: (wrote madge one day in november) "i'm not at all sure that that word exists; it looks so odd in the masculine and just shows how the male sex more or less spoils everything it touches. however! i've been hemming towels all day and am ready to drop, but after i finish with them there will be only the pillow cases to attend to before i am done. by the bye, what do you suppose arrived to-day? _four_ (heavily underscored) most _exquisite_ (same business) linen sheets, beautifully hemstitched and marked and from who ("good heavens, and the woman taught school!" exclaimed harry) do you think? miss snellgrove! wasn't it sweet of her? that makes ten in all. everybody has been lovely and we shall do very well for linen, but clothes are much more difficult. in them, you see, i have to please not only myself but mama and aunt tizzy as well. i went shopping with both of them yesterday, and they were possessed to make me order an evening gown of black satin with yellow trimmings which was something like a gown aunt tizzy had fascinated people in during the early eighties. it wasn't such a bad idea, but unfortunately it would have made me resemble a rather undersized wasp. we compromised at last on a blue silk that's going to have a watteau pleat and will fall in nice little straight folds and make me look about seven feet high. aunt tizzy is too perfectly dear and keeps telling me not to scrimp, but her idea of not scrimping is to spend simply _millions_ and always go ahead and get the very best in the _extravagantest_ way, and my conscience rebels. i hope to pick up some things at the january sales in new york; if you are there seeing about your play at that time we can be together, can't we? i still have to get a suit and an afternoon gown and various other things the nature of which i do not care to specify! i run over and look in on aunt selina every time i get a chance. she is _so_ dear and uncomplaining about being left alone and keeps saying that having me in the house will be as good as having beatrice, which is absurd, though sweet. heavens, how i tremble when i think of trying to fill her shoes! i must stop now, dearest, so good-night. ever your own, madge. o o o o o o those o's stand for osculations. do you know how hard it is to kiss in a small space? like tying a bow-knot with too short a piece of ribbon." for heaven's sake, my good woman (wrote harry in reply), don't write me another letter like that! how do you think i feel when, fairly thirsting for fire and inspiration and that sort of thing, i tear open an envelope from you and find it contains an unusually chatty woman's column? how do you suppose poor old d. alghieri would have written his paradiso if beatrice had held forth on the subject of linen sheets, and do you or do you not suppose it would have improved petrarch's sonnets if laura had treated him to a disquisition on the ins and outs of the prices of evening gowns? remember your responsibility! if you continue to deny me inspiration my play will fail and you will live in disgrace and misery in the basement of a harlem tenement in an eternal smell of cabbages and a well-justified fear of cockroaches, with one cracked looking-glass to see your face in and dinner served up in a pudding basin! the c. of my b. (that was his somewhat flippant abbreviation of child of my brain) "is coming along well enough, considering. the woman is shaping quite well. what was the name you suggested for her the last time i saw you? if it was hermione, i'm afraid it won't do, because every one in the theater, from bachmann down to the call-boy, will call it hermy-one, and i shall have to correct them all, which will be a bad start. i call her mamie for the present, because i know i can't keep it. what would be the worst possible name, do you think? hannah? florrie? mae? keren-happuch and glwadwys also have their points. please forgive me for being (a) short-tempered; (b) tedious. i was going to tear up what i have written, only i decided it would not be quite fair, as you have a right to know just how dreadful i can be, in case you want to change your mind about february.--what a discreetly euphemistic phrase!--it has grown fearfully cold here, and we had the first skating of the winter to-day. i got hold of some skates and went out and, fired by the example of two or three people here who skate rather well, i swore i would do a -turn or die in the attempt. the latter alternative occurred. i am writing this on the mantelpiece. farewell. write early and write often, and write altman catalogues if you must, but not if you are interested in the uplift of drahmah. give my best to grandmama, and consider yourself embraced. io el rey. madge's reply to this missive was telegraphic in form and brief in substance. it read simply "sorry. laura." "i would have signed it beatrice," she explained in her next letter, "only i was afraid you might think it was from your sister-in-law beatrice, and there's nothing for _her_ to be sorry about." another letter of harry's, written a few weeks later, shows him in a different mood: querida de mis ojos--you don't know spanish but you ought to gather what that means without great effort--i have weighty news for you. i dashed down to new york on the spur of the moment day before yesterday and showed the first draught of my completed ms to leo. my dear, he said it would do! you don't know what that means, of course; no one could. you all think i have simply to write and say 'here, play this,' and it is played. you know nothing of how it hurts to put ideas on paper, nothing of the dead weight of responsibility, the loneliness, the self-distrust, the hate of one's own work that the creative brain has to struggle against. consequently, my dearest, you will just have to take it on trust from me that an interview such as i had yesterday with bachmann is nothing less than a rebirth. he even advised me not to try to change or improve it much, saying that what changes were needed could best be put in at rehearsals, and i think he's dead right. so i shall do no more than put the third act in shape before i hand the thing over to him and dash home for the holidays. atmosphere of yule logs, holly berry and mistletoe! i really am absurdly happy. you see, it isn't merely success, or a premonition of success (for the first night is still to come); it's in a way a justification of my whole life. if this thing is as good as i think it is, it will amount to a sort of written permit from headquarters to love you, to go on thinking as i do think about certain things and to regard myself--well, it's hard to put into words, but as a dynamic force, rather than as a lucky fool that stumbled across one rather good thing. not that i shouldn't do all three anyway, to be sure!--and every kind friend will say he knew i would 'make good'; that there never was any doubt my 'coming into my own,' and all the rest. oh, lord, if people only knew! but thank heaven they don't! i am becoming obscure and rhapsodic. i seem to 'see' things to-night, like tilburina in the play. i see strange and distorted conceptions of myself, for one thing; endless and bewildering publicity. oh, what a comfort it is to think that no matter what i may be to other people, to you i shall always be simply the same stupid, bungling, untidy harry! i love you with an intensity that beggars the power of human expression. i did a bracket this afternoon. madge never received a letter from him that pleased her more. she was fully alive to its chaotic immaturity, and she smiled at the way he unconsciously appeared to shove his love for her into second place. but there was that about it that convinced her of his greatness as nothing had yet done. it seemed to her that when he spoke of the loneliness of genius and in his prophetic touch at the end about the different ways in which people would regard him he spoke with the true voice of a seer. it all made her feel very humble and solemn. to think that harry, her harry, that tall thin thing with the pink cheeks and dark brown hair and the restless black eyes, should be one of the great men of his day, perhaps one of the great ones of all time! keats--harry was already older than keats when he died, but she thought he had much the same temperament; congreve--she knew how he loved congreve; marlowe--she had often compared his golden idealism to that of marlowe; shakespeare...? no, no--of course not! she knew perfectly well he was no shakespeare.... still, why not, in time?... and anyway, marlowe, congreve, keats--wimbourne! so she dreamed on, till the future, which hitherto she had seen as merely smiling toward her, seemed to rise and with solemn face beckon her to a new height, a place hard to reach and difficult to hold, but one whose very base seemed more exalted than anything she had yet known.... now madge was, on the whole, a very fairly modern type of young woman. her outlook on the world was based on darwin, and she held firmly to such eugenic principles as seemed to flow directly from the doctrine of evolution. she had long since declared war to the death on disease, filth and vice, to which she added a lesser foe generally known as "suppression of facts," and she had done a certain amount of real work in helping those less fortunate than herself to the acquisition of health, cleanliness, virtue and "knowledge." she thought that women would get the vote some day, though they weren't ready for it yet, and hadn't joined the antis because there was no use in being a drag on the wheels of progress, even if you didn't feel like helping. she believed in the "social regeneration" of woman. it was quite clear to her that in the early years of the twentieth century women were beginning--and only just beginning--to take their place beside men in the active work of saving the race; "why, you had only to look at jane addams and florence nightingale to see--" et cetera. and yet, and yet.... it was at least as fine a thing to become mrs. harold wimbourne and devote a lifetime to ministering to one of the great creative geniuses of the time as to be a heavy gun on her own account, was what she meant, of course. but that wasn't quite enough. suppose, for the sake of argument, that harry were not one of the great creative geniuses of the age; suppose there were no question of congreve, keats, wimbourne and so forth; suppose being his wife meant being plain mrs. harold wimbourne and nothing more--what then? "well, i suppose i'd still rather be plain mrs. h. w., if you will have it!" she retorted petulantly to her relentless self. but she soon became glad she had brought herself to the point of admitting it, for, the issue definitely settled, her mind became unaccountably peaceful.... * * * * * new year's was scarcely over when rehearsals began, and harry was in for another period of lounging in shrouded orchestra chairs and watching other people air their ideas, or lack of ideas, on the child of his brain. his lounging was now, however, quite freely punctuated by interruptions and not infrequently by scramblings over the footlights to illustrate a fine point. this rather bored the actors; harry had become almost uncomfortably acute in matter of stage technique. but they had to admit that his suggestions were never foolish or unnecessary. in due time came the first night. it is no part of our purpose to describe "pastures new" or its success in this place. if--which is improbable--you have to refresh your mind on it, you have only to ask one of your journalistic friends--don't pretend that you haven't at least one friend on a newspaper--to show you the files of his sheet. there you will see it all, in what scholars call primary sources:--"new yorkers roar with delight at feminist satire," and all the rest of it, like as not on the front page. harry hated its being called a satire; that was such a cheap and easy way of getting out of it. for when all was over, when people had cried with laughing at its whimsical humor, poked each other with delight at its satirical touches--oh yes, there were plenty of them--quoted its really brilliant dialogue, sat enthralled by its swift and compelling action--for harry had made good his promise that this play should have "punch"--when they had done all these things to their heart's content, still not a person saw the play who did not come away from it more fully convinced than ever he had been of--well, of what you had only to look at jane addams and florence nightingale to see. for there were really great moments in the play; moments when no one even thought of laughing, though one was almost always made to laugh the moment after. that was harry's way, that was his power, to "hit 'em hard and then make 'em laugh just as they begin to feel smarty in the eyes," as burchard the stage manager not unaptly put it. "pastures new" ran for six months in new york alone, and no one laughed harder or less rancorously at it than the "feminists" themselves--or all of them that were worth anything. of course both harry and madge were tired to death by the time the wedding became imminent, and the final preparations were made in what might be called broad impressionistic strokes. madge had at first intended to have a small informal reception in her own house, but aunt tizzy had been so disappointed that she had at last consented to let it be at her aunt's and attain the dimensions of a perfect tomasha--the phrase is her own--if it wanted to. why not? aunt tizzy's house could hold it. "besides, my dear," argued harry, "it's only once in a lifetime, after all. if you marry again as a widow you'll only have a silly little wedding, without a veil and no bridesmaids, and if we're divorced you won't have any wedding at all, worth mentioning. much better do it up brown when you have the chance." "what about music?" asked harry as the two stood in final consultation with the organist on the night of the rehearsal. "i've always wondered why people had such perfectly rotten music at weddings, but i begin to see now. still, if we _could_ have something other than lohengrin and mendelssohn i think i could face marriage with a little better heart. what about it, dear?" madge groaned. "oh, anything! the star-spangled banner, if you want!" "i think i can arrange it," said the organist smiling, and he played the march from "tannhäuser" and the march from "athalie," which he always played when people asked for something unusual, and the effect was considered very pleasing and original. altogether it was the prettiest wedding any one had seen in years, according to the testimony of those who attended the reception--which did become a perfect tomasha. but as tomasha-goers are notoriously biased their testimony probably wasn't legal and no respectable judge would have accepted it as evidence. the only legal thing about the whole affair was the ceremony, which was fully as much so as if it had been before a magistrate, which madge swore it should be if she ever had to go through it again and regretted bitterly it hadn't been this time.... well, perhaps, when she looked about her and saw how unaffectedly happy her mother and aunt tizzy and the bridesmaids and all the other good people were, she didn't regret it quite so much. "though it is rather absurd, getting married to please other people, isn't it?" she remarked as they drove off at last, leaving the tomasha-goers to carouse as long as aunt tizzy could make them. "i think i'd do almost anything to please aunt tizzy," said harry. "now that it's all over, that is. get married again, even.... after all," he added suddenly, shamelessly going back on all his professions of the last few days; "after all, you know, it _was_ rather a good wedding!" which shows that he was just as biased as any one, at bottom! chapter ix labyrinths how many people should you say could be packed into a three-hundred foot barkantine-rigged steam yacht, capable of fourteen knots under steam alone, for a night in late june, presumably hot, anchored in a noisy estuary off long island sound without making them all wish they had never been born? we ourselves should hate to have to answer the question offhand. so did aunt cecilia, whom it concerned more closely than any one else, and she did not have to answer it offhand at all, having all the available statistics within reach. in fact, she had spent the best part of one hot new york june morning over it already, sitting in her darkened front drawing-room because it was the coolest room in the house, amid ghost-like furniture whose drab slip-covers concealed nothing less than real louis quinze. on her lap--or what uncle james said if she didn't look out wouldn't be her lap very long--she held a magazine and over the magazine an expensive piece of letter-paper, on one leaf of which was a list of names and on the other a plan drawn in wobbly and unarchitectural lines--obviously a memory sketch of the sleeping accommodations of the _halcyone_. near what even in the sketch was undoubtedly the largest and most comfortable of the _halcyone's_ cabins she had written in firm unmistakable letters the word "me," and opposite two other rooms she had inscribed in only slightly less bold characters the initials "h. and m." and "j. and b." so far so good; why not go on thus as long as the list or the cabins held and consider the problem solved? it wasn't as simple as that, it seemed. some of the people hadn't been asked, or might be asked only if there was room enough, and the boys might bring in people at the last moment; it was very confusing. and not even the extent of the sleeping accommodations was as constant as might have been desired. it was ridiculous, of course, but even after all these years she could not be quite sure whether there were two little single rooms down by the galley skylight or only one. she was practically sure there were two, but suppose she were mistaken? and then, if it came to that, the boys and almost as many friends as they cared to bring might sleep on the smoking-room sofas.... "no ... no, i'm not sure how wise that would be," she mused, certain things she had seen and been told of boat-race celebrations straying into her mind. "the smoking-room cushions have only just been covered...." a ring at the doorbell. she glanced up at a pierglass (also louis quinze) opposite her and strained her eyes at its mosquito-netting covered surface. her hair was far from what she could have wished; she hoped it would be no one she would have to see. oh, beatrice. "howdy do, dear," said aunt cecilia, relieved. "i was just thinking of you. i'm trying to plan out about the boat-race; it's less than a week off now." beatrice sank languidly down on the other end of aunt cecilia's sofa. she was much hotter and more fatigued than aunt cecilia, but no one would have guessed it to look at her. her clothes lay coolly and caressingly on her; not a hair seemed out of place. "you see," went on the other, "it's rather difficult to arrange, on account of there being so many unmarried people--just the lyles and the macgraths and george grainger for us older ones and the rest all muffins' and jack's friends. i think we shall work out all right, though, with two rooms at the griswold and the smoking-room to overflow into. i'm tired of bothering about it. tell me about yourself." "nothing much," answered beatrice. "i much prefer hearing about you. by the way--about the races. i just dropped in to tell you about tommy clairloch. he's coming. you did tell me to ask him, didn't you?" "yes ... oh, yes, of course. i had forgotten about lord clairloch for the moment. i thought he was going west the middle of the month." "he was, but he didn't. tommy's rather a fool." tommy, it may be mentioned, was in the process of improving himself by making a trip around the world, going westward. he had left home in april and so far upper montclair was his farthest point west. as beatrice said, tommy was rather a fool. "oh, not a bit ... only.... by the bye, dear, do you happen to remember whether there are one or two rooms down that little hall by the galley?" "two, as i remember it. but don't bother about tommy. really, aunt cecilia, don't. he needn't come at all--i'll tell him he can't." "of course he must come.... that's it--i'll put him in the other little single room and tell the boys that they and any one else they ask from now on must go to the griswold or sleep in the smoking-room. i'm glad to have it settled." aunt cecilia beamed as one does when a difficult problem is solved. it occurred to her that beatrice might beam back at her just a tiny bit, if only in mock sympathy. especially as it was her guest.... but beatrice remained just as casual as before, sitting easily but immovably in her corner of the sofa with her parasol lying lightly in her slim gloved hands. aunt cecilia noticed those hands rather especially; it seemed scarcely human to keep one's gloves on in the house on a day like this! characteristically, she gave her thought outlet in words. "do take off your gloves and things, dear, and make yourself comfortable! such a day! new york in june is frightful--eighty-eight yesterday, and heaven knows what it will be to-day. you'll stay to lunch, won't you?" "thanks, perhaps i will," replied beatrice listlessly. "i never have stayed in town so late in june," ran on aunt cecilia, "but i thought i wouldn't open the tarrytown house this spring--it's only for six weeks and it is so much extra trouble.... i shall take the yacht and the boys directly on up to bar harbor afterward; we should love to have you come with us, if you feel like leaving james--you're looking so fagged. you must both come and pay us a long visit later on, though i suppose with harry and madge in the berkshires you'll be running up there quite often for week-ends...." beatrice stirred a little. "thanks, aunt cecilia, but i don't mind the heat especially. if james can bear it, i can, i suppose. i expect to stay here most of the summer." she was perfectly courteous, and yet it suddenly occurred to aunt cecilia that perhaps she wouldn't be quite so free in showering invitations on beatrice and james for a while. there was that about her, as she sat there.... languid, that was the word; there had been a certain languor, not due to hot weather, in beatrice's reception of most of her favors, now that she came to think of it. there had been that wedding trip in the _halcyone_, to begin with. both she and james had shown a due amount of gratitude, but neither, when you came right down to it, had given any particular evidence of having enjoyed it. everything was as it should be, no doubt, but--one didn't lend yachts without expecting to have them enjoyed! "that trip cost me over five thousand dollars," she had remarked to her husband shortly after the return of the bridal pair. "of course i don't grudge it, but five thousand dollars is a good deal of money, and i'd rather have subscribed it to the organized charities than feel i was spending it to give those two something they didn't want!" aunt cecilia gazed anxiously at beatrice for a moment, memories of this sort floating vaguely through her mind. she scented trouble, somewhere. the next minute she thought she had diagnosed it. "you're bored, dear, that's the long and the short of it, and i think i know what's the matter. i'm not sure that i didn't feel a little that way myself, at the very first. but i soon got over it. my dear, there's nothing in the world like a baby to drive away boredom...." beatrice tapped with the end of her parasol on what in winter would have been a pink and gray texture from aubusson's storied looms but was now simply a parquet flooring. but she did not blush, not in the slightest degree. "yes," she answered, a trifle wearily, "i daresay you're right. sometimes i think i would like to have a baby. it doesn't seem to come, though.... after all, it's rather early to bother, isn't it?" "oh, i don't want you to _bother_--! only--" she was just a little taken aback. this barren agreement, this lack of natural shyness, of blushes! it was unprecedented in her experience. "only what, aunt cecilia?" "only--it's a sure cure for being bored. but beatrice, there must be others, while you're waiting. what about your studies, your work? you haven't done much of that since you came home from abroad, have you? it's too late to begin anything this summer, of course, but next autumn i should think you'd like to take it up again, especially as you don't care so much for society, and i'm sure i don't blame you for that...." she beamed momentarily on her niece, who this time smiled back ever so slightly in return. "after all, it's nice to be of some use in the world, isn't it?" why not have left it there, on that secure impregnable pinnacle? why weaken her position by giving voice to that silly unprovoked fancy that had hung about the back of her mind since the beginning of the interview, or very near it? we can't explain, unless the sudden suspicion that beatrice had smiled less with than at her, and the sight of her sitting there so beautiful and aloof, so well-bredly acquiescent and so emotionally intangible, exercised an ignoble influence over her. there is a sort of silent acquiescence that is very irritating.... and after all, was the impulse so ignoble? a word of warning of the most affectionate kind, prompted by the keenest sympathy--surely it was wholly beatrice's fault if anything went wrong! "more than that, my dear, there's a certain danger in being too idle--a danger i'm sure you're as free from as any one could be, but you know what the psalm says!" (or was it original with isaac watts? however!) "of course marriage isn't so easy, especially in the first year, and especially if there are no children--what with the husband away at work all day and tired to death and like as not cross as a bear when he comes home in the evening--i know!--a young wife can't be blamed for feeling a little out of sorts sometimes. and then along comes another man...." here beatrice, to use a sporting expression, froze. from that moment it ceased to be question of two women talking together and became a matter of aunt cecilia apostrophizing a statue; a modern conception, say, of artemis. marble itself could not be more unresponsive than beatrice when people tried to "get at her." it was not rudeness, it was not coldness, it was not even primarily self-consciousness; it was the natural inability to speak of matters deeply concerning oneself which people of aunt cecilia's temperament can never fully understand. "of course other men have things to offer that husbands have not, especially if they are free in the daytime and are nice and good-natured and sympathetic, and often a young wife may be deceived into valuing these things more than the love of her husband. they are all at their best on the surface, while her husband's best is all below it. and that, i think, is the way most married unhappinesses begin; not in unfaithfulness or in jealousy or in loss of love, but merely in idleness. i've seen it happen so often, dear, that you must be able to understand why i never like to see a young wife with too little to do...." for aunt cecilia was personal, you see, to a degree. did she imagine she was making things any easier, beatrice asked herself with a little burst of humorous contempt, by her generalities and her third persons and her "young wives"? if she had been perfectly frank, if she had come out and said, "beatrice, if you don't look out you'll be falling in love with tommy clairloch," there was a possibility that beatrice could have answered her, even confided in her; at least put things on a conversational footing. but as for talking about her own case in this degrading disguise, dramatizing herself as a "young wife"--! she remained silent long enough to make it obvious that her silence was her real reply. then she said "yes, indeed, perfectly," and aunt cecilia rather tardily became aware of her niece's metamorphosis into the modern artemis. she made a flurried attempt to give her own remarks, retrospectively, something of the artemis quality; to place a pedestal, as it were, on which to take her own stand as a modern conception of pallas athene. "i hope, my dear, you don't think i mean anything...." "not at all," said beatrice kindly but firmly. "and now if you don't mind, aunt cecilia, i think i'll go up and get ready for luncheon." but aunt cecilia was afraid she had gone too far. * * * * * a week later came the gathering of the clans at new london for the yale-harvard boat-race. aunt cecilia had not been to a race in years. races, you see, were not in a class with graduations; they were optional, works of supererogation. but this year, in addition to one of the largest yachts extant and money that fairly groaned to be put into circulation, she had two boys in college, and altogether it seemed worth while "making an effort." and the effort once made there was a certain pleasure in doing the thing really well, in taking one's place as one of the great yale families of the country. so on the afternoon before the race the _halcyone_ was anchored in a conspicuous place in the harbor, where she loomed large and majestic among the smaller craft, and a tremendous blue flag with a white y on it was hoisted between two of the masts. people from the shore looked for her name with field glasses and pointed her out to each other as "the wimbourne yacht" with a note of awe in their voices. "it's like being on the _victory_ at trafalgar, as far as conspicuousness goes," said harry on his arrival. "or rather," he added magnificently, "like being on cleopatra's galley at actium." "absit omen," remarked uncle james, and the others laughed, but his wife paid no attention to him. she was not above a little thrill of pride and pleasure herself. muffins and jack and their friends were much in evidence; the party was primarily for the "young people." they kept mostly to themselves, dancing and singing and making personal remarks together, always detaching themselves with a polite attentive quirk of the head when an older person addressed them. nice children, all of them. muffins and jack were of the right sort, emphatically, and their friends were obviously--not too obviously, but just obviously enough--chosen with nice discriminating taste. jack especially gave one the impression of having a fine appreciation of people and things; that of muffins was based on rather broad athletic lines. muffins played football. ruth, the brains of the family, was not present; we forget whether she was running a summer camp for cash girls or exploring the headwaters of the yukon; it was something modern and expensive. ruth was not extensively missed by her brothers. they all dined hilariously together on the yacht and repaired to the griswold afterward to dance and revel through the evening. all, that is, except beatrice and james; they did not arrive till well on in the evening, james having been unable to leave town till his day's work was over. the launch with uncle james in it went to the station to meet them and brought them directly back to the yacht to get settled and tidied up; they could go on over to the griswold for a bit, if they weren't too tired. "how about it?" inquired james as he stood peering at his watch in the dim light on deck. "oh, just as you like," said beatrice. "well, i don't care. say something." beatrice was rather tired.... well, perhaps it was better that way; they would have another chance to see all they wanted to-morrow night. this from uncle james, who thought he would drop over there and relieve aunt cecilia, who had been chaperoning since dinner. his head disappeared over the ship's side. james walked silently off to unpack. beatrice sank into a wicker armchair and dropped her head on her hands.... it seemed as if scarcely a moment had passed when she became aware of the launch again coming up alongside and voices floating up from it--aunt cecilia and lord clairloch. salutations ensued, avuncular and friendly. aunt cecilia was tired, but very cheerful. she buzzed off presently to see about something and lord clairloch dropped down by beatrice. tommy was very cheerful also, apparently much impressed by what he had seen at the griswold. "i say, a jolly bean-feast, that! never saw such dancin' or drinkin' in my life, and i've lived a bit! they keep 'em apart, too--that's the best of it; no trouble about takin' a gell, provided she don't go to the bar, which ain't likely.... jove, we've got nothing like it in england! rippin' looking lot of gells, rippin' fellahs, rippin' good songs, too. all seem to enjoy 'emselves so much!--i say, these yankees can teach us a thing or two about havin' a good time--wot?" beatrice listened with a growing sense of amusement. tommy always refreshed her when he was in a mood like this; he kept his youth so wonderfully, in spite of all his super-sophistication; he was such a boy still. tommy never seemed to mind being hot or tired; tommy was always ready for anything; tommy was not the sort that came home at six o'clock and sank into the evening paper without a word--she stopped that line of thought and asked a question. "why did you leave it all, tommy, if it amused you so?" "oh, had enough of it--been there since dinner. beside, i heard you'd come. thought i'd buzz over and see how you were gettin' on. have a horrid journey?" beatrice nodded. "hot?" "no, not especially." they were silent a moment. tommy opened his mouth to ask a question and shut it again. and then, walking like a ghost across their silence, appeared the figure of james, stalking aimlessly down the deck. he nodded briefly to tommy and walked off again. the effect, in view of the turn of their conversation, of tommy's unasked question, was almost that of a spectral apparition. the half-light of the deck, james' silence and the noiseless tread of his rubber-soled shoes had in themselves an uncanny quality. presently tommy whistled softly, as though to break the spell. "whew! i say, is he often like that?" beatrice laughed. tommy _was_ refreshing! "lately, yes. do you know," she added, "he only spoke twice on the way up here--once to ask me if i was ready to have dinner, and once what i wanted for dinner?" her tone was one of suppressed amusement, caught from tommy; but before her remark was fairly finished something rather like a note of alarm rang through her. why had she said that? it wasn't so frightfully amusing, come to think of it. her pleasure, she saw in a flash, came not from the remark itself but from her anticipation of seeing tommy respond to it.... that was rather serious, wasn't it? just how serious, she wondered? joy in seeing another man respond to a disparaging remark about her husband--that was what it came to! for the first time in her life she had the sensation of reveling in a stolen joy. for of course tommy did respond, beautifully--too beautifully. "oh, i say! really, now! that _is_ a trifle strong, wot?" and so on. he was doing exactly what she had meant him to, and there was a separate pleasure in that--a zest of power! heavens! for the first time she began to feel a trifle nervous about tommy. was aunt cecilia right? had all her careful euphemisms about young wives some basis of justification as applied to her own case? she and tommy.... well, she and tommy?... half an hour ago she could have placed them perfectly; now her sight was a trifle blurred. there was not time to think it all out now, anyway; another boatload of people from the shore was even now crowding up the gangway; to-morrow she would go into the matter thoroughly with herself and put things, whatever they might be, on a definite business footing. to-night, even, if she did not sleep.... everybody was back, it appeared, and things shortly became festive. there were drinks and sandwiches and entertaining reminiscences of the evening from the young people, lasting till bedtime. thought was out of the question. once undressed and in bed, to be sure, there was better opportunity. she slipped comfortably down between the sheets; what a blessing that the night was not too hot, after all! aunt cecilia had said ... what was it that aunt cecilia had said? something about a young wife--a young wife ought to have something to do. of course. these were linen sheets, by the way, and the very finest linen, at that. aunt cecilia did know how to do things.... what was it? something more, she fancied, about valuing something more than something else. tommy clairloch was the first thing, she was sure of that. aunt cecilia had not said it, but she had meant it.... she was going to sleep, after all; what a blessing!... what was that other thing? it was hard to think when one was so comfortable. oh, yes, she had it now--the love of a husband! whose husband? the young wife's, to be sure. and who was the young wife? she herself, obviously. but--the thought flared up like a strong lamp through the thickening fog of her brain--_her_ husband did not love her! she and james were not like ordinary young wives and husbands.... how silly of her not to have seen that before! that changed everything, of course. aunt cecilia was on a wrong track altogether; her--what was the word?--her premises were false. that threw out her whole argument--everything--including that about tommy. gradually the sudden illumination of that thought faded in the evergrowing shadow of sleep. now only vague wisps of ideas floated through her mind; even those were but pale reflections of that one truth; aunt cecilia was mistaken.... aunt cecilia was wrong.... it was all right about tommy.... tommy was all right.... aunt cecilia ... was wrong.... psychologists tell us that ideas make most impression on the mind when they are introduced into it during that indefinite period between sleeping and waking; they then become incorporated directly with our subconscious selves without having to pass through the usual tortuous channels of consciousness and reason. and the sub-consciousness, as every one knows, is a most intimate and important place; once an idea is firmly grounded there it has become substantially a part of our being, so far as we can tell from our incomplete knowledge of our own ideal existence. we are not sure that a single introduction of this sort can give an idea a good social standing in the realm of sub-consciousness; probably not. but it can help; it can give it at least a nodding acquaintance there. certain it is, at any rate, that when beatrice awoke next morning it was with a mind at least somewhat more willing than previously to take for granted, as part of the natural order of things, the fact of the inherent wrongness of aunt cecilia and its corollary, the innate rightness of tommy. (possibly this corollary would not have appeared so inevitable if the matter had all been threshed out in reason; they are rather lax about logic and such things in sub-consciousness, making a good introduction the one criterion of acceptance.) with the net material result that beatrice was less inclined than ever to be nervous about aunt cecilia and also less inclined than ever to be nervous about tommy. the day began in an atmosphere of not unpleasant indolence. breakfast was late and was followed by the best cigarette of the day on deck--beatrice's smoking was the secret admiration and envy of all the female half of the younger section. a cool breeze ruffled the harbor and gathered in a flock of clouds from the sound that left only just enough sunlight to bring out the brilliant colors of the little flags all the yachts had strung up between their mastheads and down again to bowsprit and stern. it was rather pleasant to sit and watch these and other things; the continual small traffic of the harbor, the occasional arrivals of more slim white yachts. presently harry and madge and beatrice and tommy and one or two others made a short excursion to the shore, for no other apparent reason than to join the procession of smartly dressed people that for one day in the year convert the quiet town of new london into one of the gayest-looking places on earth. tommy was much in evidence here, fairly crowing with delight over each new thing that pleased him. it was all harry could do to keep him from swathing himself in blue; tommy had become an enthusiastic yalensian. he had spent a week-end with harry in new haven during the spring; he had driven with aunt selina in the victoria, he had been shown the university and had met a number of pretty gells and rippin' fellahs; what business was it of wiggers if he wanted to wave a blue flag? wiggers ought to feel jolly complimented, instead of makin' a row! "you'd say just the same about harvard, if you went there--the people are just as nice," said harry. "besides, harvard will probably win. you may buy us each a blue feather, if you like, and call it square at that." beatrice smiled, but she thought harry a little hard. "never mind, tommy," said she; "you can sit by me at the race this afternoon and we'll both scream our lungs out, if we want." that was substantially what happened. luncheon on the yacht--an enormous "standing" affair, with lots of extra people--was followed by a general exodus to the observation trains. tommy had never seen an observation train before and was full of curiosity. they didn't have them at henley. it was all jolly different from henley, wasn't it, though? as they walked through the railroad yards to their car he was inclined to think it wasn't as good fun as henley. one missed the punts, and all that. once seated in the car, however, with an unobstructed view of the river, it was a little better, and by the time the crews had rowed up to the starting-point he had almost come round to the american point of view. it might not be so jolly as henley, quite, but jove! one could see! tommy sat on beatrice's left; on her right was mr. macgrath and beyond him again was aunt cecilia. the others were scattered through the train in similar mixed groups. beatrice thought it a good idea to split up that way.... she began to have an idea she was going to enjoy this race. so she did, too, more than she had enjoyed anything in--oh, months! she couldn't remember much about it afterward, though she did remember who won, which is more than we do. she had a recollection, to begin with, of tommy joining in lustily in every yale cheer and of mr. macgrath trying not to thump aunt cecilia on the back at an important moment and thumping herself instead. he apologized very nicely. presently tommy committed the same offense against her and neglected to apologize entirely, but she didn't mind in the least. (that was the sort of race it was.) perhaps there lurked in the back of her brain a certain sense of joy in the omission.... she herself became infected with tommy-mania before long. and the spectacle was an exhilarating one, under any circumstances. the noble sweep of the river, the keen blue of the water and sky, the green of the hills, the brilliant double row of yachts and the general atmosphere of hilarity were enough to make one glad to be alive. and then the excitement of the race itself, the sense of participation the motion of the train gave one, the almost painful fascination of watching those two little sets of automatons, the involuntary, electric response from the crowd when one or the other of them pulled a little into the lead, the thrill of bursting out from behind some temporary obstruction and seeing them down there, quite near now, entering the last half-mile with one's own crew just a little, ever so little, ahead! from which moment it seemed both a second and an age to the finish, that terrific, heart-raising finish, with its riot of waving colors and its pandemonium of toots from the water and cries from the land.... on the whole, we suppose yale must have won that race. for after all, it isn't quite so pleasant when the other crew wins, no matter how close the race was and no matter how good a loser one happens to be. tommy was as good a loser as you could easily find, but not even he could have been as cheerful as all that on the ride back if his crew had lost. indeed, cheerful was rather a weak word with which to describe tommy by this time. beatrice, doing her best to calm him down, became aware, from glances shot at him from various--mostly feminine--directions, that some people would have characterized his condition by a much sharper and shorter word. involuntarily, almost against her will, beatrice indignantly repelled their accusation. what nonsense! they didn't know tommy; he was naturally like this. though there had been champagne at lunch, of course.... rather an interesting experience, that ride back to town. the enforced inactivity gave one a chance to think, in the intervals of tugging at tommy's coat tails. why should she be enjoying herself so ridiculously? whole-souled enjoyment was not a thing she had been accustomed to during the last few years, at any rate since.... yes, she had enjoyed herself more this afternoon than at any time since she had been married; but what of it? she attached no blame to james; it was not james' fault; nothing was anybody's fault. she was taking a little, a very little fun where she found it, that was all. the train pulled up in the yards and thought was discontinued. it was resumed a few minutes later, however, as they sat in the launch, waiting for the rest of their party to join them. she happened to be sitting just opposite to aunt cecilia, on whom her eyes idly rested. aunt cecilia! what about aunt cecilia? she was wrong, of course! she did not understand; she was wrong! tommy was all right.... so sub-consciousness got in its little work, till conscious reason sallied forth and routed it. oh, why, beatrice asked herself, with a mental motion as of throwing off an entangling substance, why all this nonsensical worrying about a danger that did not exist? what danger was there of her--making a fool of herself over tommy when.... she did not follow that thought out; it was better to leave those "when" clauses hanging in the air, when possible. but tommy! poor, good-natured, simple, ineffective tommy! she resolved to think no longer, but to give herself entirely over to what slight pleasure the moment had to offer she dressed and dined in good spirits, with a sense of anticipation almost childlike in its innocence. after dinner there was a general exodus to the griswold. from the moment she stepped on to the hotel dock, surrounded by its crowd of cheerfully bobbing launches, she became infected with the prevailing spirit of gaiety. tommy was right; americans did know how to enjoy themselves! they made their way up the lawn toward the big brilliant hotel. they reached the door of the ballroom and stopped a moment. in this interval beatrice became aware of james at her elbow. "you'd better dance with me first," he said. they danced two or three times around the room in complete silence. beatrice did not in the least mind dancing with james, indeed she rather enjoyed it, he danced so well. but why address her in that sepulchral tone; why make his invitation sound like a threat; why not at least put up a pretense of making duty a pleasure? she was conscious of a slight rise of irritation; if james was going to be a skeleton at this feast.... she was relieved when he handed her over to one of the other men. but james had no intention of being a skeleton. he went back to bed before any of the others, alleging a headache. beatrice learned this indirectly, through harry, and felt rather disappointed. she would have preferred to have him remain and enjoy himself; she did not bother to explain why. but he was apparently determined that nothing should make him enjoy himself. james was rather irritating, sometimes. she said as much, to harry, who assented, frowning slightly. she saw a chance to get in some of the small work of destiny-fighting. "he's not been at all natural lately," she said; "i've been quite worried about him. i wish you'd watch him and tell me what to do about it. i feel rather to blame for it, naturally." "oh, i wouldn't worry," said harry. "working in the city in summer is hard on any one, of course." "i'm afraid it's more than that, and i want your help. you understand james better than i do, i think." "no, you're wrong there. i don't understand james at all. no one really understands any one else, as a matter of fact. we think we do, but we don't. the very simplest nature is a regular cretan labyrinth." "but a wife ought to be the theseus of her husband's labyrinth, that's the point." "perhaps you're right. here's hoping you don't find a minotaur in the middle!" she didn't worry much about it, however. tommy cut in soon afterward, and they didn't talk about james or labyrinths either. tommy had not danced with her before that evening. she was going to say something about that, but decided not to. it was too jolly dancing to talk, really. tommy danced very well--quite as well as james. they danced the contemporary american dances for some time and then they broke into an old-fashioned whirling english waltz; the dance they had both been brought up on. it brought memories to the minds of both; they felt old times and places creeping back on them. "do you remember the last time we did this?" asked tommy presently. "at the dimchurches', the winter before i came here." "didn't last long, though. you were the prettiest gell there." "i suppose i was.--and you were just tommy erskine then, and awfully ineligible!" what an absurd remark to make! if she was going to let her tongue run away with her like that, she had better keep her mouth shut. they danced on in silence for some time, rested in the cool of a verandah and then danced again. the room was already beginning to empty somewhat, making dancing more of a pleasure than ever. they danced on till they were tired and then sat out again. "we might take a stroll about," suggested tommy presently. they walked down the steps and out on the lawn. presently they came near the windows of the bar, which was on the ground floor of the hotel, and stopped to look in for a moment. it was a lively scene. the room--a great white bare place--was filled with men laughing and shouting and slapping each other on the shoulder and bellowing college songs, all in a thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. they were also drinking, and beatrice noticed that when they had drained their glasses they invariably threw them carelessly on the floor, adding a new sound to the din and fairly paving the room with broken glass. many of them were mildly intoxicated, but none were actually drunk; the whole sounded the note of celebration in the ballroom strengthened and masculinized. it had its effect on beatrice; it was a pleasure to think that one lived in a world where people could enjoy themselves thoroughly and uproariously and without becoming bestial about it. "it's really very jolly, isn't it?" she said at last. "oh, rippin'," assented tommy. "perhaps you'd rather go in there now?" "no, no. don't know the fellahs--i should feel out of it. wiggers was right.--besides, i'd rather stay with you." beatrice wondered if she had intended to make tommy say that. they wandered off through the hotel grounds and saw other couples doing the same. doing rather more, in fact. after some search they found an empty bench and sat down. tommy's education had been in many ways a narrow one, but it had equipped him perfectly for making use of such situations as the present. he turned about on the bench, leaning one arm on its back and facing beatrice's profile squarely. "jove!" he said reminiscently. "haven't done that since oxford." "what?" "that." he waved his head in the direction of the well populated shadows. "oh," answered beatrice carelessly. the profound lack of interest in her tone had its effect. "i did it to you once, by jove! remember?" "no. you never did, tommy; you know that perfectly well." "well, i will now, then!" he did. the next moment he rather wished he had not, beatrice's slow smile of contemptuous tolerance made him feel like such a child. "tommy, it's only you, of course, so it really doesn't matter, but if you try to do that again i shall punish you." her power over him was as comforting to her as it was disconcerting to him. for a moment; after that she felt a pang of irritation. the idea of a married woman being kissed by a man not her husband was in itself rather revolting, and the thought that she was that married woman stung. as if that was not enough, the thought came to her that she could have stopped tommy at any moment and had not. had she not, in fact, secretly--even to herself--intended that he should do that very thing when they first sat down? she had used her power for contemptible ends. the thought that after all it was only poor ineffectual tommy only increased her sense of degradation. all her pleasure had fled. "come along, tommy," she said, rising; "it's time to go home." it was indeed late--long after twelve. the launch, as she remembered it, was to make its last trip back to the yacht at half-past; they would be just in time. tommy walked the length of the dock two or three times calling "halcyone! halcyone!" but there was no response from the already dwindling throng of launches. they sat down to wait, both moody and silent. from the very first beatrice suspected that they had been left. it was the natural sequence of the preceding episode; that was the way things happened. her sense of disillusionment and irritation increased. the dancing had stopped, but the drinking continued; people were wandering or lying about the lawn in disgusting states of intoxication. what had been a joyous bacchanal had degenerated into a horrid saturnalia. once, as they walked down to see if the launch had arrived, a man stumbled by them with a lewd remark. beatrice remained on the verandah and made tommy go down alone after that. his mournful "halcyone!" floated up like the cry of a soul from acheron. by one o'clock or so it became obvious to everybody that they had been forgotten, and beatrice instructed tommy to hire any boat he could get to take them to the yacht. he had a long interview with the chief nautical employee of the hotel, who promised to see what he could do. that appeared to be singularly little. at last, with altered views of the american way of running things, beatrice went down herself and talked to him. he would do what he could, but.... it was two o'clock; the dock was deserted. beatrice knew he would do nothing and bethought herself of the two rooms in the hotel that aunt cecilia had engaged. her impression was that they were not being used to-night; their party was smaller than it had been the night before. she went to the hotel office and asked if there were some rooms engaged for mrs. james wimbourne and if they were already occupied. after some research it appeared that there were and they weren't. well, beatrice and tommy would take them. the night clerk was interested. he understood the situation perfectly and refrained from commenting upon their lack of baggage. so beatrice was shown into one room and tommy into the other, the two parting with a brief good night in the corridor. the first thing beatrice noticed about the room was that there was a communicating door between it and tommy's room. she saw that there was a bolt on her side, however, and made sure that it was shut. then she rang for a chambermaid and asked for a nightgown and toothbrush. chapter x mr. and mrs. alfred lammle it was generally looked upon as rather a good joke. aunt cecilia, of course, was prolific of apologies; the launch had made so many trips, and every one thought beatrice and lord clairloch had gone at another time; there had been no general gathering afterward, they had all gone to bed as soon as they reached the yacht, and james, as beatrice knew, had gone to bed early with a headache; how clever it was of beatrice to have thought of those two rooms and wasn't it lucky they had been engaged, after all, and so forth. but most of the others were inclined to be facetious. breakfast, thanks to their efforts, was quite a merry meal. for the two most nearly concerned the situation was almost devoid of embarrassment. they arrived at the yacht shortly after eight in a launch they had ordered the night before at the hotel, and repaired to their respective rooms without even being seen in their evening clothes. by the time breakfast was over beatrice had quite recovered from her irritation at tommy and had even almost ceased to blame herself for the events of the previous night. the party broke up after lunch, the yacht proceeding to bar harbor and the guests going their various ways. beatrice and james went directly back to new york. james was very silent in the train, as silent as he had been on the way up, but beatrice was less inclined to find fault with him for that than before. as she looked at him quietly reading in the chair opposite her it even occurred to her that his silence was preferable to tommy's companionable chirpings, even at their best. and with tommy at his worst, as he had been last night, there was no comparison. oh, yes, she was thoroughly tired of tommy! dinner in their apartment passed off almost as quietly as the journey, yet quite pleasantly, in beatrice's opinion. the night was cool, and a refreshing breeze blew in from the harbor. after the maid had left the room and they sat over their coffee and cigarettes, james spoke. "about last night," he began, and stopped. "yes?" said beatrice encouragingly. "i thought at first i wouldn't mention it, and then i decided it would be rather cowardly not to ... i want to say that--" "that what?" "that i have no objections." "to what?" her bewilderment was not feigned. "to last night! i don't want you to think i'm jealous, or unsympathetic, or anything like that.... you are at liberty to do what you please--to get pleasure where you can find it. i understand." "you don't understand at all!" her manner was still one of bewilderment, though possibly other feelings were beginning to enter. "i understand, and shall understand in the future. i shan't mention the matter again. only one thing more--whenever our--our bargain interferes too much, you can end it. i shan't offer any opposition." she sat frozen in her chair, making no sign that she had understood, so he explained in an almost gentle tone of voice: "i mean you can divorce me, you know." "divorce!" "oh, very well, just as you like. of course our marriage ceases to be such from now on...." so unprepared, so at peace with herself and the world had she been that it was only now that she fully comprehended his meaning. james was accusing her, making the great accusation ... james thought that she.... of course, not being the kind of a woman who dissolves in tears at that accusation, her first dominant emotion was one of anger; an anger sharper than any she had ever felt; an anger she would have thought to be impossible to her, after all these months of lassitude, all these years of chastening. she rose from her chair and made a step toward the door; her impulse being to walk out of the room, out of the house, out of james' life, without a word. not a word of self-defense; some charges are too vile to merit reply! then commonsense flared up, conquering anger and pride. no, she must not give way to her pride; she must act like a sensible being. after all, james was her husband, he had some right to accuse if he thought proper; the falseness of his accusation did not take away his right of explanation; he should be made to see. slowly she turned and went back to her place. she sat down squarely facing james with both hands on the table in front of her, and prepared to talk like a lawyer presenting a case. james was watching her quietly, interested, perhaps ever so slightly amused, but not in the least moved. "james, as i understand it, you think that i--that tommy and i...." "yes?" "well, you've made a great mistake, that's all. you've condemned me without a hearing. you've assumed that i was guilty--" "oh, for heaven's sake, let's not talk about being guilty or innocent or wronging each other or being faithful to each other! those things have no meaning for us. i'm not blaming you--i've tried to explain that to the best of my ability!" "very well, then, let us say you have made a mistake in facts." "what do you mean by that?" "i mean--what should i mean? that tommy and i are not lovers." "well, what then?" "what then--?" "yes, what of it? i never said you were, did i? suppose you're not, then; if you're glad, i'm glad, if you're sorry, i'm sorry. it doesn't alter our position." "james, you don't understand!" "what?" "when you spoke before you thought that i was--that i had sinned.--i do consider it a sin; perhaps you'll allow me to call it so if it pleases me." "certainly." he smiled. "well, you were wrong. i haven't." "all right; i was wrong. you haven't." "very well, then!" "very well what?" "james!" "i'm sorry.--but what are you driving at? i wasn't accusing you, you know; i was simply telling you you were free, which you knew before, and offering you more freedom if you wanted it. why this outburst of virtue?" "james, you are rather brutal!" "i'm sorry if i seem so; i don't mean to be." he shifted his position slightly and went on quite gently with another smile: "beatrice, if you have successfully met a temptation--or what you look upon as a temptation--i'm sure i'm very glad. after all, we are friends, and what pleases my friend pleases me, other things being equal. but does that pleasing fact in itself alter things between us when, from my own selfish point of view, i don't care in the least whether you overcame the temptation or not? and does it, i ask you, alter facts? does it make you any less fond of tommy than you are; does it make you as fond of me as you are of him?" "oh, james! you understand so little--" "whatever i may understand or not understand i know that you spent all of last evening and practically all yesterday and a great part of the evening before with tommy, and that you gave no particular evidence of being bored ... beatrice, you were happy with him, happy as a child, the happiest person in the whole crowd, and you showed it, too! do you mean to say that you've ever, at any time in your life, been as happy in my society as all that! no! deny it if you can!" "james, you are jealous!" the discovery came to her like an inspiration, sending a thrill through her. she did not stop to analyze it now, but when she came to think it over later she realized that there was something in that thrill quite distinct from the satisfaction of finding a good reply to james' really rather searching (though of course quite unfounded) charges. "there's a good deal of the cave-man left in you, james, argue as you may. do you think any one but a jealous man could talk as you are talking now? 'deny it if you can'--what do you care whether i deny it or not, according to what you just said? oh, james, how are you living up to your part of the bargain?" her tone was free from rancor or spite, and her words had their effect. james was not beyond appreciating the justice in what she said. he left his chair and raised his hand to his forehead with a gesture of bewilderment. "oh, lord, i suppose you're right," he muttered, and began pacing the room. so they remained in silence for some time, she sitting quietly in her chair as before and he walking aimlessly up and down, desperately trying to adjust himself to this new fact. it is strange how people will give themselves away when they begin talking; he had been so sure of himself in his thoughts; he had gone over such matters so satisfactorily in his own head! beatrice understood his plight and respected it; it was not for her, after these last few days, to minimize the trials of self-discovery.... the maid popped in at the pantry door and popped out again. "all right, mary, you can take the things," said beatrice, and led the way into the living room. there was no air of finality in this move, but the slight domestic incident at least had the effect of putting a check on introspection and restoring things to a more normal footing. once in the living room--it was a large high room, built as a studio and reaching up two stories--they were both much more at ease; they began to feel capable of resuming negotiations, when the time arrived, like two normal sensible beings. james threw himself on a couch; beatrice moved about the room, opening a window here, turning up a light there, arranging a vase of flowers somewhere else. at last, deeming the time ripe, she stopped in one of her noiseless trips and spoke down at her husband. "james, do you realize that you alone, of all the people on the yacht, had the remotest suspicion? you remember how they all joked about it?" oh, the danger of putting things into words! beatrice's voice was as gentle as she could make it; there was even a note of casual amusement in it, but in some intangible way, merely by reopening the subject vocally, beatrice laid herself open to attack. james' lip curled; he could no more keep it from doing so than keep his hair from curling. "you must remember, however, that they were not fully acquainted with the circumstances...." beatrice turned away in despair, not angry at james, but realizing the inevitability of his reply as well as he himself. she sat down in an armchair and leaned her head against the back of it; she wished it might not be necessary ever to rise from that chair again. the blind hopelessness of their situation lay heavy on them both. james spoke next. "beatrice, will you tell me what it's all about? why are we squabbling this way? how can we find out--what on earth are we going to do about it all?" "i've no more idea than you, james." "every time we get talking we always fall back on our bargain, as if that was the one reliable thing in the whole universe. always our bargain, our bargain! beatrice, what in heaven's name is our bargain?" "marriage, i take it." "you know it's more than that--less than that--not that, anyway! at first it was all quite clear to me; we were two people whose lives had been broken and we were going to try to mend them as best we might. and as it seemed we could do that better together than alone we determined to marry. our marriage was to be a perfectly loose, free arrangement, and we were to stick to its terms only as long as we could profit by doing so. we were to part without ill feeling and with perfect understanding. and now, at the first shred of evidence--no, not even evidence, suspicion--that you want to break away we start quarreling like a pair of cats, and i become a monster of jealousy, like any comic husband in a play...." beatrice's heart sank again at those words; there was no mistaking the bitterness in them. that heightened a fear she had felt when james had answered her about the people on the yacht; james was still smarting with the discovery of his jealousy, and the trouble was that the smart was so sharp that he might not forgive her for having made him feel it. she felt the taste of her little triumph turn to ashes in her mouth. "no, james, no!" she interrupted hurriedly. "you weren't, really. that was all nonsense--we both saw that...." "no, it's true--i was jealous. jealous! and for what? and what's more, i still am. i can't help it. when i think of tommy, and the boat-race, and all that. oh, lord, the idiocy of it!" "i don't particularly mind your being jealous, james, if that's any comfort to you." "no! why on earth should you? you're living up to your part of the bargain, and i'm not--that's what it comes to. oh, it's all my fault, every bit of it--no doubt of that!" his words gave beatrice a new sensation, not so much a sinking as a steeling of the heart. his self-accusation was all very well, but if it also involved trampling on her--! and she did begin to feel trampled upon; much more so now than when he had directly accused her.... that was odd! was it possible that she would rather be vilified than ignored, even by james? meanwhile james was ranting on--it had not occurred to her that it was ranting before, but it did now:--"there's something about the mere institution of marriage, i suppose, that makes me feel this way; the old idea of possession or something.... you were right about the cave-man! it's something stronger than me--i can't help it; but if it's going on like this every time you--every time you speak to another man, it'll make a delightful thing out of our married life, won't it? this free and easy bargain of ours, this sensible arrangement! why, it's a thousand times harder than an ordinary marriage, just because i have nothing to hold you with!... "beatrice, we're caught in something. trapped! don't you feel it? something you can't see, can't understand, only feel gradually pressing in on you, paralyzing you, smothering you! there's no use blaming each other for it; we're both wound up in it equally; it's something far stronger than either of us. a pair of blind mice in a trap!..." he flung himself across the room to an open window and stood there, resting his elbows on the sill and gazing out over the twinkling lights of the city. beatrice sat immovable in her chair, but her bosom was heaving with the memory of certain things he had said. another revulsion of feeling mastered her; she no longer thought of him as ranting; she felt his words too strongly for that. a pair of blind mice in a trap--yes, yes, she felt all that, but that was not what had stirred her so. what was that he had said about having nothing to hold her with?... she watched him as he stood there trying to cool his tortured mind in the evening air. he was tremendously worked up; she wondered if he could stand this sort of thing physically; she remembered how ill he had been looking lately.... she watched him with a new anxiety, half expecting to see him topple over backward at any moment, overcome by the strain. then she could help him; her mind conjured up a vision of herself running into the dining room for some whisky and back to him with the glass in her hand; "here, drink this," and her hand under his head.... it was wicked of her to wish anything of the kind, of course; but if she could only be of some use to him! if he would but think of turning to her for help in getting out of his trap! he would not find his fellow-mouse cold or unsympathetic. she could not overcome her desire to find out if any such idea was in his mind. she went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder. "james--" "no, not now, please; i want to think." and his shoulder remained a piece of tweed under her hand; he did not even bother to shake her off. she sat down again to wait. when at last he left the window it was to sit down by a lamp and take up a book. that was not a bad sign, in itself, as long as he made his reading an interlude and not an ending. but as she sat watching him it became more and more evident that he regarded their interview as closed. and so they sat stolidly for some time, james determined that nothing should lead him into another humiliating exhibition of feeling and beatrice determined that whatever happened she would make him stop ignoring her. and though she was at first merely hurt by his indifference she presently began to feel her determination strengthened by something else, something which, starting as hardly more than natural feminine pique shortly grew into irritation, then into anger of a slow-burning type and lastly, as her eyes tired of seeing him sit there so unaffectedly absorbed in his reading, into something for the moment approaching active dislike. we all know what hell hath no fury like, and beatrice, as she fed her mind on the thought of how often he had insulted and repelled and above all ignored her that evening, began to consider herself very much in the light of a woman scorned. "is that all, james?" she ventured at length. he put down his book and looked up with the manner of one making a great effort to be reasonable. "what do you want, beatrice?" beatrice would have given a good deal to be able to say that what she really wanted was that he should take her to him as he had that day at bar harbor and never once since, but as she could not she made a substitute answer. "we can't leave things as they are, can we?" "why not? haven't we said too much already?" "too much for peace, but not enough for satisfaction. we can't leave things hanging in the air this way." "very well, then, if you insist. how shall we begin?" "well, suppose we begin with our bargain--see what its terms are and whether we can live up to them and whether it's for our benefit to do so." "all right. what do you consider the terms of our bargain to be?" they were both talking in the measured tones of people determined to keep control over themselves at all costs. they looked at each other warily, as though guarding against being maneuvered into a betrayal of temper or feeling. "well, in the first place, i assume that we want to present a good front to the world. bold and united. we want to prevent people from knowing...." "certainly." "and if we give the impression of being happy together we've gone a good way toward that end." "yes, that's logical." "well--?" "what?" "it's your turn now, isn't it?" "oh, no; you've begun so well you'd better go on." "well, i've only got one more idea on the subject, and that is just tentative--a sort of suggestion." she sat down on the sofa by him and strove to make her manner a little more intimate without becoming mawkish or intrusive. "it has occurred to me that we haven't given that impression very much in the past, and i think the reason for that may be that we--well, that we don't work together enough. does it ever occur to you, james, that we don't understand each other very well? not nearly as much as we might, i sometimes think, without--without having to pretend anything. we know each other so slightly! sometimes it gives me the oddest feeling, to think i am married to you, who are stranger to me than almost any of my friends...." she feared the phrasing of that thought was a little unfortunate, and broke off suddenly with: "but perhaps i'm boring you?" "no, no--i'm very much interested. how do you think we ought to go about it?" "it's difficult to say, of course. how do you think? i should suggest, for one thing, that we should be less shy with each other--less afraid of each other. especially about things that concern us. even if it is hard to talk about such things, i think we ought to. we should be more frank with each other, james." "as we have been this evening, for example?" the cynical note rang in his voice, the note she most dreaded. "no, i didn't mean that, necessarily. i don't mind saying, though, that i think even our talking to-night has been a good thing. it has cleared the air, you know. see where we are now!" "yes, and it's cleared you too. but what about me?" "i don't understand." "oh, you've come out of it all right! you've behaved yourself, vindicated yourself, done nothing you didn't expect to, nothing you have reason to be ashamed of afterward. i have! i haven't been able to open my mouth without making a fool of myself in one way or another...." "only because you're overtired, james...." "i've said things i never thought myself capable of saying, and i've found i thought things that no decent man should think. it was an interesting experience." "james, my dear, don't be so bitter! i'm not blaming you. i can forget all that!" she laid her hand on his knee and the action, together with the quality of her voice, had a visible effect on him. he paused a moment and looked at her curiously. when he spoke again it was without bitterness. "that's awfully decent of you, beatrice, but the trouble is i can't forget. those things stay in the memory, and they're not desirable companions. and as talking, the kind of frank talking you suggest, seems to bring them out in spite of me, i think perhaps we'd better not have much of that kind of talk. it seems to me that the less we talk the better we shall get on." beatrice was silent a moment in her turn. she had not brought him quite to where she wanted him, but she had brought him nearer than he had been before. she resolved to let things stay as they were. "very well, james," she said, leaning back by his side; "we won't talk if you don't want to. about those things, that is. there are plenty of other things we can talk about. and let's go to places more together and do things more together. i see no reason why we shouldn't get on very well together. after all, i do enjoy being with you, when you're in a good mood, more than with any one else i know--that i could be with--" "then why--oh, lord!" he stopped himself and sank forward in despair with his head on his hands. "well, go on and say it." "no, no." "yes. it's better that way." "i was going to say, why did you appear to enjoy yourself with tommy so much more than--oh, it's no use, beatrice! i can't help it--it's beyond me!" "oh, james!" "yes, that's just it! it's the devil in me!" "when that was all over, james!" "all over! then there was something!... oh, good _lord_! we can't go through it all over again!" "james, i meant that you were all over feeling that--" "yes, yes, i know you did, and i thought you meant the other and said that, and of course i had no right to because of what we are, and so forth, over and over again! round and round and round, like a mouse in a trap! caught again!..." he got up and walked across the room once or twice, steadying himself with one last great effort. in a moment he stopped dead in front of her. "see here, beatrice!" "yes?" "it can't happen again, do you see? it's got to stop right here and now! i can't stand it--call it weak of me if you like, but i can't. it'll drive me stark mad. we are not going to talk about these things again, do you see?" "what sort of things?" "anything! anything that can possibly bring these things into my head and make a human fiend of me. and you're not to tempt me to talk of them, either. do you promise?" "i promise anything that's reasonable--anything that will help you. but do you intend to let this--this weakness end everything--spoil our whole life?" "spoil! what on earth is there to spoil? we've got on well enough up to now, haven't we? well, we'll go back to where we were, where we were this morning! and we'll stay there, please god, as long as we two shall live! you're free, absolutely free, from now on! i shan't question anything you may care to do from this moment, i promise you!" she remained silent a moment, awed in spite of herself by the fervency of his words. she was cruelly disappointed in him. she had made so many attempts, she had humbled herself so often, she had suffered his rebuffs so many times and she had brought him at one time in spite of himself so near to a happier state of things that his one-minded insistence on his own humiliation seemed to her indescribably petty and selfish. his jealousy, his vile, rudimentary dog-in-the-manger jealousy; that was what he couldn't get over; that was what he could not forgive her for! what a small thing that was to resent, in view of what she herself had so steadfastly refrained from resenting!... however, since he wished it, there was nothing more to be done. she could be as cold and unemotional as he, if it came to the test. "then you definitely give up every effort toward a better understanding?" "yes!" "and you prefer, once for all, to be strangers rather than friends?" "strangers don't squabble!" "very well, then, james," she said with a quiet smile, "strangers let it be. i daresay it's better so, after all. i shouldn't wonder if you found me quite as good and thorough a stranger, from now on, as you could desire. it was foolish of me to talk to you as i did." "no, no--don't get blaming yourself. it's such a cheap form of satisfaction." she stood looking at him a moment with coldly glittering eyes. "it's quite true," she repeated; "i was a fool. i was a fool to imagine that you and i could have anything in common. ever. well, nothing can very well put us farther apart than we are now. there's a certain comfort in that, perhaps." "there is." "at last we agree. husbands and wives should always agree. good-night, james." "good-night," he watched her as she glided from the room, so slim and beautiful and disdainful. perhaps a shadow of regret for her passed across his mind, a thought of what a woman, what a wife, even, she might have been under other circumstances; but it did not go far into him. things were as they were; he had long since given up bothering about them, trying only to think and feel as little as possible. he took up his book again and read far into the night. chapter xi hesitancies and tears thomas mackintosh drummond erskine, by courtesy known as viscount clairloch, was not a remarkably complicated person. his life was governed by a few broad and well-tried principles which he found, as many had found before him, covered practically all the contingencies he was called upon to deal with. one wanted things, and if possible, one got them. that was the first and great commandment of nature, and the second was akin to it; one did nothing contrary to a thing generally known as decency. this was a little more complicated, for though decency was a natural thing--one always wanted to be decent, other things being equal--it had a rather difficult technique which had to be mastered by a long slow process. if any one had asked tommy how this technique was best obtained he would undoubtedly have answered, by a course of six years at either eton, harrow or winchester, followed by three years at one of half a dozen colleges he could name at oxford or cambridge. occasionally, of course--though not often--the paths of desire and decency diverged, and this divergence was sometimes provocative of unpleasantness. treated sensibly, however, the problem could always be brought to an easy and simple solution. tommy found that in such a case it was always possible to do one of two things; persuade oneself either that the desire was compatible with decency or that it did not exist at all. either of those simple feats of dialectic accomplished, everything worked out quite beautifully. it is a splendid thing to have been educated at harrow and christchurch. ever since he arrived in america it had been evident to tommy that he wanted beatrice. he did not want her with quite the absorbing intensity that would make him one of the great lovers of history--harrow and christchurch decreed that one should go fairly easy on wanting a married woman--but still he wanted her, for him, very much indeed. up to the night of the boat-race everything had gone swimmingly. then, indeed, he had received a setback; a setback which came very near making him abandon further pursuit and proceed forthwith to those portions of america which lie to the west of upper montclair. if aunt cecilia had not casually invited him to accompany the yacht on its trip round cape cod he might have started the very next morning. but he went to bar harbor, and before he left there it had become plain to him that he could probably have what he had so long desired. everything had favored him. aunt cecilia had made it pleasant for him for a while, and when the time came when aunt cecilia might be expected to become tired of making it pleasant for him others came forward who were more than willing to do as much. tommy was a desirable as well as an agreeable guest; he looked well in the papers. with the result that he was still playing about bar harbor at the end of july, at which time beatrice, looking quite lovely and wan and heat-fagged, came, unattended by her husband, to be the chief ornament of aunt cecilia's spacious halls. and how beatrice had changed since he last saw her! she was as little the cold-eyed, contemptuous artemis of that night in new london as she was the fresh-cheeked débutante of his early knowledge; and she was infinitely more attractive, he thought, than either of them. she had a new way of looking up at him when he came to greet her; she was willing to pass long hours in his sole company; she depended on him for amusement, she relied on him in various little ways; and more important, she soon succeeded in making him forget his fear of her. for the first time in his knowledge of her he had the feeling of being fully as strong as she, fully as self-controlled, as firm-willed. this was in reality but another symptom of her power over him, but he never recognized it as such. appetite, as we know, increases with eating, and every sign of favor that came his way fanned the almost extinguished flame of tommy's desire into renewed warmth and vigor. before many weeks it had grown into something warmer and more vigorous than anything he had ever experienced, till at last his gentle bosom became the battlefield of the dreaded armageddon between desire and decency. it wasn't really dreaded, in his case, because he was not the sort of person who is capable of living very far ahead of the present moment, and perhaps, in view of the strength of both the contending forces, the term armageddon may be an exaggeration; but it was the most serious internal conflict that the good-natured viscount (by courtesy) ever knew. but the struggle, though painful, was short-lived. after going to bed for five evenings in succession fearing that care would drive sleep from his pillow that night, and sleeping soundly from midnight till eight-thirty, the illuminating thought came to him that, owing to the truly heaven-made laws of the country in which he then was, the conflict practically did not exist. in america people divorced; no foolish stigma was attached to the process, as at home; it was easy, it was respectable, it was done! he blessed his stars; what a marvelous stroke of luck that beatrice had married an american and not an englishman! he thought of the years of carking secrecy through which such things are dragged in england, and contrasted it with the neat despatch of the yankee system. a few weeks of legal formalities, tiresome, of course, but trivial in view of the object, and then--a triumphant return to native shores, closing in a long vista of years with beatrice at his side as lady clairloch and eventually as lady strathalmond! sweet ultimate union of desire and decency! he gave thanks to heaven in his fervent, simple-souled way. nothing remained save to persuade beatrice to take the crucial step. well, there would be little trouble about that, judging by the way things were going.... as for beatrice, she was at first much too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to think much about tommy one way or the other. that last month in new york had been a horribly enervating one, both meteorologically and domestically speaking. scarcely had she been able to bring herself to face the impossibility of winning her husband's affection when the hot weather came on, the crushing heat of july, that burned every ounce of a desire to live out of one and made the whole world as great a desert as one's own home.... it was james who had suggested her going to aunt cecilia's--"because he didn't want me to die on his hands," beatrice idly reflected, as she lay at last in a hammock on the broad verandah, luxuriating in the sea breeze that made a light wrap necessary. then tommy came back to the wimbournes' to stay, and a regular daily routine was begun. beatrice remained in her room all the morning, while tommy played golf. they met at lunch and strolled or drove or watched people play tennis together in the afternoon. after dinner beatrice generally ensconced herself with rugs on the verandah while tommy buzzed about fetching footstools or cushions or talked to her or simply sat by her side. after a while she found that tommy was quite good company, if you didn't take him seriously. tommy--she supposed this was the real foundation of her liking for him--was her countryman. he knew things, he understood things, he looked at things as she had been brought up to look at them. tommy, to take a small instance, never stifled a smile when she used such words as caliber or schedule, pronouncing them in the english way--the proper way, when all was said and done, for was not england the home and source of the english language? a few days later, as returning health quickened her perceptions, she realized that another thing that made tommy agreeable was the fact that he strove honestly to please her. a pleasant change, at least!... she was well enough to be bitter again, it seemed. not only was tommy attentive in such matters as rugs and cushions, but he made definite efforts to fit his speech and his moods to her. he found that she liked to talk about england and he was at some pains to read up information about current events there, a thing he had not bothered much about since his departure from home. she had only to ask a leading question about a friend at home and he would gossip for a whole evening about their mutual acquaintance. presently she began to discover--or fancy she discovered--hitherto unsounded depths--or what were, comparatively speaking, depths--in tommy's character. "i say, how jolly the stars are to-night," he observed as he took his place by her one evening. "never see the stars, somehow, but i think of tigers. ever since i went to india. went off on a tiger hunt, you know, out in the wilds somewhere, and we had to sleep out on a sort of grassy place with a fire in the middle of us, you know, to keep the beasties off. well, i'd never seen a tiger, outside of the zoo, and i had 'em on the brain. i had a dream about meeting one, and it got so bad that i woke up at last with a shout, thinkin' a tiger was standin' just over me with his two dev'lish old eyes staring down into mine! then i saw it was only two bright stars, rather close together. but i never can see stars now without thinkin' of tiger's eyes, though i met a tiger quite close on soon after that and his eyes weren't like that, at all.... "rather sad, isn't it?" he added after a moment. "sad? why?" "well, other people have something better than an old beast's blinkers to compare stars to. women's eyes, you know, and all that." there was something in the way he said this that made beatrice reply "oh, rot, tommy!" even as she laughed. but his mood entertained her. "tommy," she went on, "i believe you'd try, even so, to say something about my eyes and stars if i let you! though anything less like stars couldn't well be imagined.... honestly now, tommy, do my eyes look more like stars or tiger's eyes?" "well," answered tommy with laborious truthfulness, "i suppose they really _look_ more like tiger's eyes. but they make me _think_ of stars," he added, with a perfect burst of romance and poetry. "and stars make you think of tiger's eyes! oh, my poor tommy!" "well, they're dev'lish good-lookin'--you ought to feel jolly complimented!" he wanted to go on and say something about her acting like a tiger, but did not feel quite up to it, at such short notice. but they laughed companionably together. yes, tommy really amused her. there was much to like in the simplicity and kindliness of his nature; harry had not been proof against it. and there was no harm in him. beatrice could imagine no more innocuous pleasure than talking with tommy, even if the conversation ran to eyes--her eyes. she was not bothered this time by any nervous reflections on what fields of amusement were suited to the innocent ramblings of a young wife. and if she was inclined to emphasize the pleasant part of her intercourse and minimize its danger--if indeed there was any--the reason was not far to seek. even if things went to the last resort, what of it? what had she to lose--now? nothing. not one earthly thing. she was free to glean where she could. james would be glad--as glad as any one. though of course it had not come to that yet.... it was at about this time, however, that tommy determined it should come to that. just that. and though he was not one to rush matters, he decided that the sooner it came the better. he learned that james was to come up for a fortnight at the end of august--james' vacation had for some reason dwindled to that length of time--and he desired, in some obscure way, to have it decided before james was actually in the house. but the way had to be paved for the great suggestion and tommy was not perceptibly quicker at paving than at other intellectual pursuits. one evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least give an indication of the state of his own heart. with almost devilish craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the conversation round to the desired point. "i say, beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary place. "yes, tommy?" "how long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about here?" "oh, as long as you want, i suppose. she hasn't told me she was tired of you." "yes, but ..." "but what?" "i've been here a goodish while, you know. first the boat-race, then the cruise up here, then most of july and now most of august.... stiffish, wot?... don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...." oh, but it was hard! why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and say, "why do you want to leave, tommy?" or something like that? she seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged desperately on. "not that i _want_ to go, you know. jolly pleasant here, and all that--rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...." he felt himself perspiring profusely. "beatrice, do you know _why_ i don't want to go?" he burst forth. beatrice remained silent, lightly tapping the stone balustrade with her foot. when she spoke it was with perfect self-possession. "you're not going to be tiresome again, are you, tommy?" "yes!" said tommy fervently. again she paused. "are you really fond of me, tommy?" she asked unexpectedly. "oh, lord, yes!" "how fond?" "oh ... frightf'ly!... what do you mean, how fond? you know! do you want me to throw myself into the sea?... i would," he added in a low voice. "i didn't mean how much, exactly, but in what way? what do you mean by it all?" "what's the use of asking me? you know!" "no, i don't think i do.... are you fond enough of me to desire everything for my good?" "yes!" "even at the sacrifice of yourself?" "yes!" "well, don't you think it's for my ultimate good as a married woman that you shouldn't try to make love to me?" "what the--beatrice, don't torment me!" "i don't want to, but you must see how impossible it is, tommy. you can't go on talking this way to me." "why not?" "why, because i'm _married_, obviously! such things are--well, they simply aren't done!" tommy waited a moment. "do you mean to say, beatrice...." "what?" "can you truthfully tell me that you--that you aren't fond of me too? just a little?" "certainly!" "rot! utter, senseless rot! you know it isn't so!--" "hush, tommy! people will hear." "let 'em hear, then. beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. of course you knew, of course you cared. why've you sat talking with me here, night after night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice--nicer 'n you ever were before? why did you ever let me get to this point?--don't pretend you couldn't help it, either!" he paused a moment. "why did you let me kiss you that night?" that shaft hit. she lost her head a little, and fell back on an old feminine ruse. "oh, tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with a little flurried break in her voice. tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "why not?" but he was not the kind who can give the proper answer at such moments. he was much more affected by beatrice's evident perturbation than beatrice was by his home truth, and was much slower in recovering. "i'm sorry, beatrice," he went on again after a short silence, "but i--well, dash it all, i _care_, you know!" "you mustn't, tommy." "but what if i jolly well can't help myself? after all, you know, you must give a fellah a chance. of course, i want you to be happy, and i'd do anything i could to make you so, but--well, there it is! i'm _fond_ of you, beatrice!" she could smile quite calmly at him now, and did so. "very well, tommy, you're fond of me. suppose we leave it there for the present.--and now i think i shall go in. it's getting chilly out here." evidently it had not quite come to _that_ with her. nor did it, for all tommy could do, before james' arrival a few days later. aunt selina came with him; she had elected to spend the summer at her vermont house, and found it, as she explained to her hostess, "too warm. the interior, you know." with which she closed her lips and gave the impression of charitably refraining from, richly deserved censure of the interior's shortcomings. aunt cecilia nodded with the most perfect understanding, and said she supposed it must have been warm in new york also. james allowed that it had. aunt selina said she had read in the paper that august was likely to be as hot as july there. beatrice, just in order to be on the safe side, said that she felt like rather a brute. tommy, with a vague idea of vindicating her, remarked that some days had been jolly warm in bar harbor, too. aunt cecilia, politely reproachful, said that he had no idea what an american summer could be, and that anyway, the nights had been cool. tommy said oh yes, rather. inwardly he was chafing. he felt his case lamentably weakened by the presence of james. he had not bargained for an abduction from under the husband's very nose. the thought of what he would have to go through now made him feel quite uncomfortable and even a little, just a little, suspicious that the case of decency had not been decisively settled. still, there was nothing to do but stay and go through with it. but james, if he had but known it, was in reality his most powerful ally. continued residence in sweltering new york had not tended to soften james, either in his attitude to the world in general or in his feeling toward his wife in particular. he now adopted a policy of outward affection. "when others were present he lost no opportunity of elaborately fetching and carrying for beatrice, of making plans for her benefit, of rejoicing in her returning health. as she evinced a fondness for the evening air he made it a rule to sit with her on the verandah every night after dinner. tommy could not very well oust him from this pleasant duty, and writhed beneath his calm exterior every time he watched them go out together." he need not have worried, however. the contrast of james' warmth in public to his wholly genuine coldness in private, together with the change from tommy's sympathetic chatter to james' deathly silence on these evening sojourns had a much more potent effect on beatrice than anything tommy could have accomplished actively. james literally seemed to freeze the blood in beatrice's veins. she became subject to fits of shivering, she required twice as many wraps as before; she began going to bed much earlier than previously. ten o'clock now invariably found her in her room. one evening james was suddenly called upon to go out to dinner with aunt cecilia and fill an empty place at a friend's table, and tommy took his place on the verandah. tommy knew that this would be his best chance, possibly his last. the stars burned brightly in a clear warm sky, but there was no talk of tiger's eyes now. there was no talk at all for a long time; the pleasure of sheer propinquity was too great. beatrice fairly luxuriated. she wondered why tommy's silence affected her so differently from that of james.... "beatrice," began tommy, but she switched him off. "no, please don't try to talk now, tommy, there's a dear." they were silent again. the night stretched hugely before and above them; it was very still. a little night-breeze arose and touched their cheeks, but its message was only peace. land and sea alike slept; not a sound reached them save the occasional clatter of distant wheels. only the sky was awake, with its hundreds of winking eyes. oh, these stars! beatrice knew them so well. antares, glowing like a dying coal, sank and fell below the hills, leaving the bright clusters of sagittarius in dominion over the southern heavens. fomalhaut rose in the southeast, shining with a dull chaotic luster, now green, now red. fomalhaut, she remembered, was the southernmost of all the great stars visible in northern lands; its reign was the shortest of them all. and yet who could tell what might happen before that star finally fell from sight in the autumn?... "beatrice!" at length began tommy again, and this time she could not stop him. "beatrice, we can't go on like this. we can't do it, i say, we can't! don't you feel it?... that husband of yours.... oh, beatrice, i _can't_ stand by and watch it any longer!" he caught hold of her hand and clasped it between his. it remained limp there, press it as he would.... then he saw that she was crying. he flung himself on his knees beside her, covering her hand with kisses. there was no conflict in him now, only a raging thirst for consummation. harrow and christchurch were thrown to the winds. "beatrice," he whispered, "come away with me out of this damned place--away from the whole damned lot of them--frozen, church-going rotters! let _me_ take care of you! i understand, beatrice, i know how it is! only come with me! leave it all to me--no trouble, no worry, everything all right! _he'll_ be glad enough to free you--trust him! oh, dear beatrice...." he bent close over her, uttering all sort of impassioned foolishnesses. he kissed her, too, not once, but again and again, and with things he scarcely knew for kisses, so unlike were they to the lightly given and taken pledges of other days. and beatrice was limp in his arms, as little able to stop him as to stop her tears. "beatrice, we must go on _always_ like this! we _can't_ go back now, we can't let things go on as they were! come away with me, beatrice, to-night, now...." beatrice thought how, only a year ago, not far from this very place, some one had used almost those very words to her, and the thought made her weep afresh. but her tears were not all tears of misery. at last she dried her eyes and pushed him gently away. "no, no more, tommy--dear tommy, you must stop. really, tommy! i don't know how i could let you go on this way--i seem to be so weak and silly these days.... i must take hold of myself...." "but, beatrice--" "no, tommy--not any more now. i know, i know, dear, but it can't go on any more. now," she added with a momentary relapse of weakness. then she pulled herself together again. "you must be perfectly quiet and good, now, tommy, if you stay here. i've got to have a chance to get over this before we go in. it's very important--there's a lot at stake. just sit there and don't speak a word. you can help me that way." they sat quietly together for some time. at last beatrice rose. "i think i'll go," she said. "i shall be all right now." "but we can't leave it like this!" protested tommy. "beatrice, you can't go up there now...." "can't i? i'm going, though." "no, you've got to give me an answer, beatrice!" she turned to him for a moment before walking off. "i can't tell you anything now, tommy. i don't know. do you see? i honestly don't know. you'll have to wait." the hall seemed rather dark as they came into it; the others must have gone to bed. they locked doors and turned out lights and walked upstairs in the dark. they parted at the top with a whispered good-night, almost conspiratorial in effect, beatrice found james still dressed and sitting under a droplight, reading. he put down his book as she entered and looked at his watch, which lay on the table by him. "after half-past twelve," he said. "quite a pleasant evening." beatrice made no observation. "the air has done you good," he went on. "we shall soon see the roses in your cheeks again." "if you have anything to say, james, perhaps you'd better go ahead and say it." "i? oh, dear no! any words of mine would be quite superfluous. the situation is complete as it is." beatrice merely waited. she knew she would not wait in vain, nor did she. "only, after this perhaps you'll save yourself the trouble of making up elaborate denials. you and your tommy!..." he got up and started walking up and down the room with slow, measured steps. to beatrice, still sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, the fall of his feet on the carpeted floor sounded like the inexorable tick of fate for once made audible to human ears. the greatest things hung in the balance at this moment; his next words would decide both their destinies for the rest of their mortal life. she thought she knew what they would be, but if there were to sound in them the faintest echo of a regret for older and better times she was ready, even at this last moment, to throw her whole being into an effort to help restore them. tommy's passionate whisper still echoed in her ears, tommy's kisses were scarcely cold upon her cheeks, but tommy was not in her heart. at last james spoke. at the first sound of his voice beatrice knew. "i shall receive a telegram calling me back to town to-morrow, in time for me to catch the evening train...." she was so occupied with the ultimate meaning of his words that their immediate meaning escaped her. she raised her eyes in question. "you're going away to-morrow? why?" "yes. i prefer not to remain here and watch it going on under my very eyes. it's a silly prejudice, no doubt, but you must pardon it...." he continued his pacing, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. occasionally he uttered a few sentences in the same cold, lifeless tone. "it's all over now, at any rate. i had hoped we might be able to tide these things over through these first years, till we got old enough to stop caring about them, but i was wrong. you can't govern things like that.... i always had a theory that any two sensible people could get along together in marriage, even though they didn't care much about each other, if they made up their minds to take a reasonable point of view; but i was wrong there too. marriage is a bigger thing than i thought. i was wrong all around.... "just a year--not even that. i should have said it could go longer than that, even at the worst.... "it's all in the blood, i suppose--rotten, decadent blood, in both of you. i don't blame you, especially. your father's daughter--i might have known. i suppose i oughtn't to blame your father much more--it's the curse of your whole civilization. only it's hard to confine one's anger to civilizations in such cases.... "the strange part about you is that you gave no sign of it whatever beforehand. i had no suspicion, at all. i don't think any one could have told.... "there's just one thing i should like to suggest. i don't know whether it will be comprehensible to you, but i have a certain respect for my family name and a sort of desire to spare the members of the family as much as possible. so that, although you're perfectly free to act exactly as you wish, i should appreciate it if you--if you could suspend operations as long as you remain under my uncle's roof. though it's just as you like, of course. "i shall be in new york. you can let me know your plans there when you are ready. i suppose you'll want to sue, in which case it can't be done in new york state; you'll have to establish a residence somewhere else. or if you prefer to have me sue, all right. that would save time, of course.... let me know what you decide. "well, we might as well go to bed, i suppose. it will be the last time...." beatrice watched him as he took off his coat and waistcoat and threw them over a chair and then attacked his collar and tie. then she arose from where she sat and addressed him. "i don't suppose there's any use in my saying anything. we might get quarreling again, and naturally you wouldn't believe me, anyway. i agree with you that it's impossible for us to live together any longer. but i can't forbear from telling you, james, that you've done me a great wrong. you've said things ... oh, you've said things so wrong to-night that it seems as if god himself--if there is a god--would speak from heaven and show you how wrong you are! but there's no use in mere human beings saying anything at a time like this.... "you've been a very wicked man to-night, james. may god forgive you for it." she turned away with an air of finality and started to prepare for bed. she hung up her evening wrap in the closet and walked over to her bureau. she took off what jewelry she wore and put it carefully away, and then she seemed to hesitate. she stood looking at her reflection in the mirror a moment, but found no inspiration there. she walked inconclusively across the room and then back. finally she stopped near james, with her back toward him. "it seems an absurd thing to ask," she said, "but would you mind? as you say, it's the last time...." "certainly," said james. chapter xii a rod of iron it is all very well to be suddenly called back to town by telegram on important business, but suppose the business is wholly fictitious--what are you going to do with yourself when you get there? especially if you have your own reasons for not wanting business to know that you have returned before the appointed time, and consequently are shy about appearing in clubs and places where it would be likely to get wind of your presence? and if, moreover, your apartment has been closed and all the servants sent off on a holiday? that is a fair example of the mean way sordid detail has of encroaching on the big things of life and destroying what little pleasure we might take in their dramatic value. when he arrived in new york james had the chastened, exalted feeling of one who has just passed a great and disagreeable crisis and got through with it, on the whole, very tolerably well. what he wanted most was to return to the routine of his old life and, so far as was possible, drown the nightmare recollection in a flood of work. instead of which he found idleness and domestic inconvenience staring him in the face. he also saw that he was going to be lonely. he walked through the dark and empty rooms of his apartment and reflected what a difference even the mute presence of a servant would make. he longed whole-heartedly for stodger--for stodger since we last saw him has been promoted into manhood by nature and into full-fledged chauffeurhood--with the official appellation of mcclintock, if you please--by james. with stodger, who still retained jurisdiction over his suits and shoes, james was accustomed, when they were alone together, to throw off his role of employer and embark on technical heart-to-heart talks on differential gears and multiple-disc clutches and kindred intimate subjects. but stodger was tasting the joys of leave of absence on full pay, james knew not where. he sought at first to beguile the hours with reading. he selected a number of works he had always meant to read but never quite got around to: a novel or two of dickens, one of thackeray, one of meredith, "the origin of species," carlyle's "french revolution," "the principles of political economy" and "tristram shandy." steadily his eyes sickened of print; by the time he came to mill his brain refused to absorb and visions of the very things he wished most to be free from hovered obstinately over the pages. "tristram shandy" was even more unbearable; he conceived an insane dislike for those interminable, ineffectual old people and their terrestrial-minded creator. at last he flung the book into the fireplace and strode despairingly out into the streets. oh, beatrice--would she never send him word, put things definitely in motion, in no matter what direction? oh, this confounded brain of his; would it never stop trying to re-picture old scenes, revive dead feelings, animate unborn regrets? what had he done but what he should have done, what he could not help doing, what it had been written that he should do since the first moment when thoughts above those of a beast were put into man's brain? oh, the curse of a brain that would not live up to its own laws, but continually kept flashing those visions of outworn things across his eyes--not his two innocent physical eyes, which saw nothing but what was put before them, but that redoubtable, inescapable, ungovernable inward sight which, as he remembered some poet had said, was "the bliss of solitude." the bliss of solitude--how like a driveling ass of a poet!... the next day he gave up and went back to his office as usual, saying that he had returned from his vacation a few days ahead of time in order to transact some business that had come up unexpectedly. just what the business was he did not explain; he was now the head of mcclellan's new york branch and did not have to explain things. so the hours between nine and five ceased to be an intolerable burden, and the hours from five till bedtime could be whiled away at the club in discussing the baseball returns. he could always find some one who was willing to talk about professional baseball. he remembered how he had once similarly talked golf with harry.... that left only the night hours to be accounted for, and sleep accounted for most of them, of course. sometimes. at other times sleep refused to come and nothing stood between him and the inmost thoughts of his brain, or worse, the thoughts that he did not think, never would think, as long as a brain and a will remained to him.... such times he would always end by turning on the light and reading. they gave him a feeling like that of which he had spoken to beatrice about being caught in a trap, deepened and intensified; a feeling to be avoided at any price. at last he heard, not indeed from beatrice, but from aunt selina. "beatrice arrives new york noon thursday; for heaven's sake do something," she telegraphed. james knew what that meant, and thanked aunt selina from the bottom of his heart. no scandal--nothing that would reflect on the family name! so beatrice had determined not to accede to his last request; she was bent on rushing madly into her tommy's arms, perhaps at the very station itself? oh, no, nothing of _that_ sort, if you please; he would be at the station himself to see to it. it was extraordinary how much getting back to work had benefited him. he was no longer subject to the dreadful fits of depression that had made his idleness a torment. only keep going, only have something to occupy hands and mind during every waking hour, and all would yet be well. beatrice and all that she implied had only to be kept out of his mind to be rendered innocuous; all that was needed to keep her out was a little will power, and he had plenty of that. as for the sleeping hours--well, he had come to have rather a dread of the night time. no doubt some simple medical remedy, however, would put that all right--sulphonal, or something of the sort. he would consult a doctor. no unprescribed drugs for him--no careless overdose, or anything of that sort, no indeed! the time had yet to come when james wimbourne could not keep pace with the strong ones of the earth and walk with head erect under all the burdens that a malicious fate might heap upon him. in such a vein as this ran his thoughts as he walked from his apartment to the station that thursday morning. it was a cool day in early september; a fresh easterly breeze blew in from the sound bringing with it the first hint of autumn and seeming to infuse fresh blood into his veins. as he walked down madison avenue even the familiar sounds of the city, the clanging of the trolley cars, the tooting of motor horns, the rumbling of drays, even the clatter of steam drills or rivet machines seemed like outward manifestations of the life he felt surging anew within him. was it not indeed something very like a new life that was to begin for him to-day, this very morning? not the kind of new life of which the poets babbled, no youthful dream, but something far solider and nobler, a mature reconstruction, a courageous gathering together, or rather regathering--that made it all the finer--of the fragments of an outworn existence. that was what human life was, a succession of repatchings and rebuildings. he who rebuilt with the greatest promptness and courage and ingenuity was the best liver. viewed in this broad and health-bringing light the last months of his life appeared less of a failure than he had been wont to think. he became able to look back on this year of destiny-fighting as, if not actually successful, better than successful, since it led on to better things and gave him a chance to show his mettle, his power of reconstruction. he had made a mistake, no doubt; but he was willing to recognize it as such and do his best to rectify it. beatrice and he were not cut out for team-mates in the business of destiny-fighting; it had become evident that they could both get on better alone. well, at last they had come to the point of parting; to the point, he hoped, of being able to part like fellow-soldiers whose company is disbanded, in friendship and good humor, without recrimination or any of that detestable god-forgive-you business.... he wished the newsboys would not shout so loud; their shrill uncanny shrieks interrupted his line of thought, in spite of himself. it didn't matter if they were calling extras; he never bought extras. or was it only a regular edition? they might be announcing the trump of doom for all one could understand. it was too bad that beatrice had not arrived at anything like his own state of sanity and calmness. this business of eloping--oh, it was so ludicrous, so amateurish! that was not the way to live. he hoped he might be able to make her see this. it would be easier, of course, if tommy were not at the station; one could not tell what arrangements a woman in her condition might make. but he did not fear tommy; there would be no scene. a few firm words from him and they would see things in their proper light. he pictured himself and beatrice repairing sanely and amicably to a lawyer's office together;--"please tell us the quickest and easiest way to be divorced...." as he approached forty-second street the traffic grew heavier and noisier. he could not think properly now; watching for a chance to traverse the frequent cross streets took most of his attention. and those newsboys--! why on earth should those newspaper fellows send out papers marked "late afternoon edition" at half-past eleven in the morning? oh, it was an extra, was it? a fire on the east side, no doubt, two people injured--he knew the sort of thing. if those newspaper fellows would have the sense only to get out an extra when something _really_ important had happened somebody might occasionally buy them. seeing that he had plenty of time he walked slowly round to the forty-second street entrance instead of going in the side way. he observed the great piles of building and rebuilding that were going on in the neighborhood, and compared the reconstruction of the quarter to his own case. he wondered why they delayed in making the park avenue connecting bridge--such an integral part of the scheme. if _he_ had shilly-shallied like that, a nice mess he would have made of his life! he gazed up at the great new front of the station and bumped into a stentorian newsboy. everywhere those confounded newsboys--! he was actually in the station before he had any suspicion. there was about the usual number of people in the great waiting-room, but there seemed to be more hurrying than usual. he saw one or two people dart across the space, and observed that they did not disappear into the train gates.... had he or had he not caught the word "wreck" on one of those flaunting headlines in the street? he turned off suddenly to a news stand and bought a paper. there it all was, in black and white--or rather red and white. red letters, five inches high. train , the maine special, had run through an open switch and turned turtle somewhere near stamford. fifteen reported killed, others injured. no names given. the maine special. beatrice's train. he knew that he must devote all his efforts at this juncture to keep himself from thinking. until he knew, that was. he did not even allow himself to name the thoughts he was afraid of giving birth to. anxiety, hope, fear, premonition, horror, satisfaction, pity--he must put them all away from him. there was no telling what future horrors he might be led into if he gave way ever so little to any one of them. the one thing to do now was to _find out_. this was not so easy. he went first to the bulletin board where the arrivals of trains were announced, and found a small and anxious-eyed crowd gazing at the few uninforming statements marked in white chalk. there was nothing to be learned from them. he spoke to an official, who was equally reticent, and spoke vaguely of a relief train. "do you mean to say there's no way of finding out the names of those killed before the relief train comes in?" he asked. "we can't tell you what we don't know!" replied the man, already too inured to such questions to show feeling of any sort. he then directed james to the office of the railroad press agent, on the eighth floor. james started to ask another question, but was interrupted by a young woman who hurried up to the official. she held a little girl of seven or eight by the hand, and the eyes of both were streaming with tears. the sight struck james as odd in that cold, impersonal, schedule-run place, and he swerved as he walked off to look at them. he turned again abruptly and went his way, stifling an involuntary rise of a feeling which might have been very like envy, if he had allowed himself to think about it.... and no one else had even noticed the two. he found no one in the press office except a few newspaper reporters who sat about on tables with their hats balanced on the backs of their heads. they eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. an inner door opened and a young man in his shirtsleeves, a stenographer, entered the room bearing a number of typewritten flimsies. the reporters pounced upon these and rushed away in search of telephones. james asked the young man if he could see mr. barker, the agent. the young man said mr. barker was busy, and asked james what paper he represented. james said none. on what business, then, did james want to see mr. barker? to learn the fate of some one on the maine special. a friend? a wife. the stenographer dropped his lower jaw, but said nothing. he immediately opened the inner door and led james up to an older man who sat dictating to a young woman at a typewriter. he was plump and clean-shaven and very neat about the collar and tie; james did not realize that this was the agent until the younger man told him so. "my dear sir," replied mr. barker to james' question, "i know absolutely no more about it than you do. if i did, i'd tell you. the boys have been hammering away at me for the past hour, and i've given 'em every word that's come in. these two names are all i've got so far." he handed james a flimsy. james' eye fell upon the names of two men, both described as traveling salesmen. he went back to the outer office and sat down to think. it was, of course, extremely improbable that beatrice had been killed. there had been, say, two hundred people on the train, of whom fifteen were known to have died--something like seven and a half per cent. two of these were accounted for; that left thirteen. he wondered how long it would be before those thirteen names came in. the room began to fill up again; the reporters returned and new recruits constantly swelled their number. from their talk james gathered why there was such a dearth of detailed news. the wreck occurring during the waking hours of the day had been learned, as far as the mere fact of its occurrence was concerned, and published within half an hour after it had happened. it naturally took longer than this to do even the first work of clearing the wreckage and the compiling of the lists of dead and injured would require even more time. with the results that interested friends and relations, learning of the wreck but none of its particulars, were rushing pell-mell to headquarters to get the first news. one young man described in vivid terms certain things he had just witnessed down in the concourse. "best sob stuff in months," was his one comment. just then one of their number, a slightly older man and evidently a leader among them, emerged from the inner office. "what about it, wilkins?" they greeted him in chorus. "slip it, wilkins, slip it over! give us the dope! any more stiffs yet? come on, out with it--no beats on this story, you know...." harpies! the outer door opened and two women burst into the room. the first of them, a tall, stout, good-featured jewess, clothed in deep mourning, was wildly gasping and beating her hands on her breast. "can any of you tell me about a young man called lindenbaum?" she asked between her sobs. "lindenbaum--a young man--on car fifty-six he was! has anything been heard of him--anything?" the reporters promptly told her that nothing had. she sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands and burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. the younger woman, evidently her daughter, stood by trying to comfort her. at length the other raised her veil and wearily wiped her eyes. james studied her face; her sunken eyes no less than her black clothes gave evidence of an older sorrow. moved by a sudden impulse he went over and spoke to her, telling her that her son was in all probability safe and basing his assurance on the calm mathematical grounds of his own reasoning. the woman did not understand much of what he said, but the quiet tones of his voice seemed to comfort her. she rose and started to go. "thank you," she said to james, "you're a nice boy.--oh, i do hope god will spare him to me--only nineteen, he is, and the only man i have left, all i have left...." sob stuff! scarcely had the door closed behind her when a business man of about forty-five, prosperous, well-dressed and unemotional-looking, came in and asked if the name of his daughter was on the list of the dead. some one said it was not. "thank god," said the man in a weak voice. he raised his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and fell over backward in a dead faint. when he came to he had to be told that the names of only three of the dead were as yet known. these were the first of a long series of scenes such as james would not have thought possible off the stage. he had never seen people mastered by an overwhelming anxiety before; it was interesting to learn that they acted in such cases much as they were generally supposed to. anxiety, he reflected, was perhaps the most intolerable emotion known to man. yet as he sat there calmly waiting for the arrival of the relief train he could have wished that he might have tasted the full horror of it.... no, that was mere hysteria, of course. but there was something holy about such a feeling; it was like a sort of cleansing, a purifying by fire.... was it that his soul was not worthy of such a purifying? oh, hysterics again! but the purifying of others went on before his eyes as he sat trying not to think or feel and reading the bulletins as they came out from the inner office. grotesquely unimportant, those bulletins, or so they must seem to those concerned for the fate of friends! "general traffic manager albert s. holden learned by telegram of the accident to train near stamford this morning and immediately hurried to stamford by special train. mr. holden will conduct an investigation into the causes of the accident in conjunction with coroner francis x. willis of stamford." "one young woman among the injured was identified as miss fannie schmidt of brooklyn. she was taken to the stamford hospital suffering from contusions." "patrick f. mcguire, the engineer of train which ran through an open switch near stamford this morning, has been in the employ of the company for many years. he was severely cut about the face and head. he has been engineer of the maine special since the rd of last may, prior to which he had worked as engineer on train . he began his service in the company in as fireman on the naugatuck division...." "vice-president henry t. blomberg gave out in new haven this morning the following statement concerning the accident at stamford...." "whew!" exclaimed a reporter, issuing suddenly from a telephone booth near james, "this is _some_ story, believe me!" he took off his hat and wiped his forehead. he was a young man and looked somewhat more like a human being than the others. "oh, you'd call this harrowing, would you?" said james. "well," said the other apologetically, "i've only been on the job a few months and this human interest stuff sort of gets me. this is the first big one of the kind i've been on. i guess there's enough human interest here to-day for any one, though!" "there doesn't seem to be enough to inconvenience you," observed james. "not you, so much, but--" with a wave toward the reporters' table--"those--the others." the young man laughed slightly. "oh, you can stand pretty near anything after you've been on the job for a while! you see, when you're on the news end of a thing like this you don't have time to get worked up. when you're hot foot after every bit of stuff you can get, and have to hustle to the telephone to send it in the same minute, so's not to get beaten on it, you don't bother about whether people have hysterics or not. you simply can't--you haven't got time! that's why these fellows all seem so calm--it's _business_ to them, you see. they're not really hard-hearted, or anything like that. gosh, it's lucky for me, though, that i'm here on business, if i have to be here at all!" "you mean you're glad you don't know any one on the train?" "oh, lord yes, that--but i'm glad i have something to keep me busy, as long as i'm here. if i were just standing round, watching, say--gosh, i wouldn't answer for what i'd do! i'd probably have hysterics myself, just from seeing the others!" this gave james something more to think about. he saw now that he had misjudged the reporters; even these harpies gave him something to envy. if one was going to feel indifferent at a time like this it would be well to feel at least an honest professional indifference.... but that was not all. had not this young man admitted that the mere sight of such suffering would have stirred him to the depths if he did not have his business to think of, and that without being personally concerned in the accident? while he himself, with every reason to suffer every anxiety in this crucial moment, was quite the calmest person in the room, able to lecture a hysterical mother on the doctrine of chances! was he dead to all human feeling? there was a moment of calm in the room, which was broken by the entrance of a tall blonde young man--a college undergraduate, to all appearances. "can any of you tell me if car was on the maine special?" he asked the reporters. no one had heard of car . research among the bulletins failed to reveal any mention of it. "what's the name of the person you're interested in?" asked some one. "we might be able to tell you something." "oh, it wasn't any _person_," the young man explained; "it was my dog i was looking for. i've found he was shipped on car . a water spaniel, he was. i don't suppose you've heard anything?" a moment of silence followed this announcement, and then one of the reporters began to laugh. there was nothing funny about it, of course, except the contrast. they all knew it was by the merest accident that fannie schmidt's contusions had been flashed over the wires rather than the fate of the water spaniel. the youth flushed to the roots of his yellow hair. "oh, yes, it's very funny, of course," he said, and stalked out of the room. but there shone another light in his eyes than the gleam of anger. "say, there's copy in that," observed one reporter, and straightway they were all busy writing. james had smiled with the others, but his merriment was short-lived. this indeed was the finishing stroke. that young fellow actually was more concerned about his dog.... the relief train was due to arrive at : , and shortly before that hour there was a general adjournment to the concourse. a crowd had already gathered before the gate through which the survivors would presently file. james looked at the waiting people and shuddered slightly. he preferred not to wait there. passing by a news stand he bought the latest extra. it was curious to see the contents of those press agent flimsies transcribed on the flaring columns as the livest news obtainable. well, all that would be changed shortly.... his own name caught his eye; a paragraph was devoted to telling how he had waited in the station, and why. "mr. wimbourne was entirely calm and self-contained," the item ended. calm and self-contained. and those people took it for a virtue!... the gates were opened to allow the friends of passengers on the ill-fated train to pass through to the platform. the reporters were unusually silent as james walked by. james knew what their silence meant, and writhed under it. the platform was dark and chilly. like a tomb, almost.... the idea was suggestive, but his heart was stone against it. the thought of seeing beatrice walking up the platform in a moment was enough to check any possible indulgence of feeling. that was the way such things always had been rewarded, with him. he could not remember having entertained one such emotional impulse in the past that had not led him into fresh misery. he had waited nearly two hours and there was absolutely no indication as to whether beatrice had suffered or not. he had telephoned several times to his flat, to which the servants had lately returned, and to his office and had learned that no word had been received at either place. that meant nothing. five names of people killed had been received when he left the press office, and hers was not among them. but the number of dead was said to be larger than was at first expected; it would probably reach into the twenties. part of one pullman, it appeared, had been entirely destroyed by fire, and several people were believed to have perished in it. there was no telling, of course, till the train came in. the chances were still overwhelmingly in favor of beatrice's safety, of course.... one torment had been spared him: tommy had not turned up. there would be no scene; he would not have to look on while his wife and her lover, maddened by the pangs of separation and suspense, rushed into each other's arms.... ah, no; he would not deceive himself. his relief at tommy's absence was really due to the fact that he had been spared the sight of some one genuinely and whole-heartedly anxious about beatrice's fate. the train crawled noiselessly into the station. james posted himself near the inner end of the platform, so as to be sure not to miss her. soon groups began to file by of people laughing and crying and embracing each other, as unconscious to appearances as children. how many happy reunions, how many quarrels and misunderstandings mended forever by an hour or two of intense suffering!... no, that was a foolish thought, of course. presently he saw her, or rather a hat which he recognized as hers, moving up the platform. he braced himself and walked forward with lowered eyes, trying to think of something felicitous to say. he dared not look up till she was quite near. at last he raised a hand toward her, opened his mouth to speak, and found himself staring into the face of a perfectly strange woman. the mischance unnerved him. he lost control of himself and darted aimlessly to and fro through the crowd for a few moments, like a rabbit. then he rushed back to the gate and stood there watching till the last passenger had left the platform and white shrouded things on wheels began to appear. he saw a uniformed official and addressed him, asking where he could find a complete list of the dead and injured. the man silently handed him a paper. james ran his eyes feverishly down the list of names. there it was--wim--no, no, wilson. her name was not there. he raised his eyes questioningly to the official. "no, that list is not complete," said the man. he led james away to one or two other uniformed officials, and then to a man who was not in uniform. at length it was arranged; james was to take the first train for stamford. some one gave him a pass. but before he went he telegraphed to bar harbor. it was necessary to have conclusive proof that beatrice was on the train. as he recrossed the concourse, now converted into a happy hunting ground for the reporters, he caught sight of mrs. lindenbaum, the anxious mother. she was alone, but the expression on her face left no doubt as to how the day had turned out for her. he stopped and spoke to her: "your son is all right, is he?" "yes!" she turned toward him a face fairly transfigured with joy. "he wasn't hurt at all--just scratched a little by broken glass. he and my daughter have just gone to telephone to some people.... what do you think--he was the first one in his car to break open a window and let the smoke out! he reached up with his umbrella and smashed it open--that was how he got out. and he dragged out three people who were unconscious...." she stopped and laughed. "you must excuse me--i'm foolish!" "not at all," replied james. "i'm so glad--" he started to move on, but the woman stopped him, suddenly remembering. "but what about--i do hope--" she began. "no," said james quietly. "i'm sorry to say my news is bad." he had little doubt now as to the verdict, but bad--! was it? oh, was it? * * * * * it was early evening before he returned. his expedition had been painful in the extreme, but wholly without definite results. there had been one or two charred fragments of clothing that might or might not have been.... it was too horrible to think much about. he knew for certain no more than when he started out, but conviction was only increased, for all that. what was there left to imagine but what that heap of cinders suggested? there was just one other chance, one bare possibility; beatrice might not have left bar harbor, at any rate not on that train. the answer to his telegram would settle that. he found the yellow envelope awaiting him on the hall table. he lifted it slowly and paused a moment before opening it, wondering if he could trust himself to hope or feel anything in this final instant of uncertainty. anything! any human feeling to break this shell of indifference.... no use. something in his brain refused to work. he tore open the envelope. "beatrice left last night on the seven o'clock ferry; nothing more known. please wire latest news," he read. well, that settled it, at any rate. he knew what the facts were; now he had only to bring himself face to face with them. yet still he found himself dodging the issue, letting his thoughts wander into obscure by-paths. his brain was strangely lethargic, his heart more so, if possible, than in the station this morning. it was not that he felt bitter or cruel; he explained the situation to the maid, as she served him his dinner, with great tact and consideration, and afterward arranged certain matters of detail with all his usual care and foresight. it was only when he looked into himself that he met darkness. uncle james, who was in town on business, dropped in during the evening. james told him the results of his labors and watched the first hopefulness of his uncle's face freeze gradually into conviction. "i see, i see," said uncle james at last. "there's nothing more to be done, then? any use i can be, in any way--" "thank you," replied james gravely, "there's nothing more to be done." uncle james rose to go and then hesitated. "well, there it is," he said; "it's just got to be faced, i suppose. a major sorrow--the great blow of a lifetime. not many of us are called upon to bear such great things, james. i never have been, and never shall, now. we feel less sharply as we grow older.... it's a great sorrow, a great trial--but i can't help feeling, somehow, that it's also a great chance.... but i'm only harrowing you--i'm sorry." he turned and went out without another word. presently james wandered into the bedroom that had once been hers. he turned on all the lights as if in the hope that illuminating the places she had been familiar with would bring the memory of her more sharply to his mind. yes, it all seemed very natural; he would not say but what it made death less terrible. the fact that her chair was in its accustomed place before her dressing table did somehow make it easier to remember the events of that afternoon. he sat down before the dressing table. there was little on it to bring an intimate recollection of her to his mind; most of her small possessions she had naturally taken away with her to bar harbor. he opened a drawer and discovered nothing but a small box of hairpins. he took them out and handled them gently for a moment. hairpins! even so, they brought her back more vividly than anything had yet done--the soft dark hair sweeping back from the forehead, the lovely arch of her nose, and all the rest of it.... he supposed she ought to seem aloof and unapproachable, now that she was dead, but it was not so at all. he remembered her only as feminine and appealing. she certainly had been very beautiful. and of all that beauty there remained only--hairpins. the fact of human mortality pressed suddenly down on him. some time, a few days or a few decades hence, he would cease to exist, even as beatrice, and nothing would remain of him but--not hairpins, indeed, but hardly anything more substantial. a society pin, a little gold football, a few papers bearing his signatures in mcclellan's files.... poor beatrice! a feeling touched his heart at last; one of pity. poor beatrice! fate had treated her harshly, far beneath her deserts. she had sinned.... had she? it was not for him to settle that; she had been human, even as he. she had been frail; leave it at that. the strongest of us are weak at times. only most of us are given a chance to regain our strength, pull ourselves together after a fall, make something out of ourselves at last. this opportunity had been denied beatrice. surely it was hard that she should be cut off thus in the depth of her frailty, at the lowest ebb of all that was good in her. the weakest deserved better than that. so he sat meditating on the tragedy of her life as he might, in an idle mood, have brooded over the story of a lovely and unhappy queen of long ago, some appealing, wistful figure of the past with whom he had nothing in common but mortality. the sense of his own detachment from the story of his wife's life struck him at last and roused him to fresh pity. he went into his dressing room and fetched the photograph of her that he had thought it advisable to keep on his bureau. he stood it up on her dressing table and sat down again to study it. poor beatrice! it was pathetic that she, so young, so beautiful, so lonely, should be unmourned, since his feeling could not properly be described as mourning.... "poor beatrice," he murmured, "is pity all i can feel for you?" a bell sounded somewhere, the front door bell. he scarcely noticed it. no, there was one person to mourn her, of course--tommy. the thought of him sent a sudden shudder through him. tommy! he wondered if he could bring himself to be decent to tommy in case he should turn up.... just like him, the nauseous little brute! no, that thought was unworthy of him. what particular grudge had he against tommy? hitherto he had not even taken the trouble to despise tommy, and surely there was no point in beginning now. no, he must be decent to tommy, if the occasion should arise. but that tommy should be chief mourner! poor beatrice!... presently he roused himself with a slight start. he did not wish to grudge his wife what slight homage he could pay her, but he felt that he had perhaps gone far enough. one felt what one could; harping over things was merely morbid. he rose and quietly left the room. the lights in the hall seemed dim and low. a gentle glow shone through the living room door. that was odd; he thought he remembered turning out the light in the room before he left it. then he became aware of a sentence or two being spoken in a low voice in that room, and the next moment one of the servants walked out of the door and into the hall. he brushed past her, wondering who could have arrived at this time of night. at the door he stopped, strained his eyes to pierce the half-gloom and became aware of a figure standing before him, a silent, black-robed figure, full of a strange portent.... aunt selina. chapter xiii red flame "james, is it true--what she just told me?" her voice was full of anxiety and horror, but in some curious way she still managed to be the self-possessed aunt selina of old. even in that moment james found time to admire her. "yes, aunt selina, i'm afraid it's true." "is there no hope, no chance--" "none, that i can see." "then ... oh!" she gave way at that, seeming to crumple where she stood. james helped her to a sofa and silently went into the dining room and mixed some whisky and water. aunt selina stared when he offered it to her, and then took it without a word. how like aunt selina again! a fool would have raised objections. james almost smiled. "how do you happen to be here, aunt selina?" he asked after a few moments, less in the desire of knowing than in the hope of diverting her. "you didn't come from bar harbor to-day?" "from boston." "boston?" "i took the boat to boston last night. i learned of the accident there. i supposed she was safe--the papers said nothing." "yes, i know. but--but how did you happen to leave bar harbor at all?" "i was going to meet her here." "her?" "beatrice." "i don't understand." "no, and oh, my poor boy, i've got to make you!" she said this quietly, almost prayerfully, with the air of a person laboring under a weighty mission. james had no reply to offer and walked off feeling curiously uncomfortable. there was a long silence. "come over here and sit down, james; i want to talk to you," said aunt selina at last. she spoke in her natural tone of voice; there was no more of the priestess about her. there was that about her, however, that made him obey. "james, i've got to tell you a few things about beatrice. some things i don't believe you know. do you mind?" "no," said james slowly, "i don't know that i do." "well, in the first place, i suppose you thought she was in love with that englishman?" james nodded. "well, she wasn't--not one particle. whatever else may or may not be true, that is. she despised him." james froze, paused as though deciding whether or not to discuss the matter and then said gently: "i have my own ideas about that, aunt selina." she nodded briefly, almost briskly. it was the most effective reply she could have made. the more businesslike the words the greater the impression on james, always, in any matter. aunt selina understood perfectly. she let her effect sink in and waited calmly for him to demand proof. this he did at last, going to the very heart of the subject. "then perhaps, aunt selina, you can account for certain things...." "no, i shall only tell you what i know. you must do your own accounting." she paused a moment and then went on: "you've heard nothing since you left bar harbor, i suppose?" "nothing." "beatrice was quite ill for a time after you left. for days she lay in bed unable to move, but there seemed to be nothing specific the matter with her. we called in the doctor and he said the same old thing--rest and fresh air. he knew considerably less what was the matter with her than any one else in the house, which is saying a good deal. "lord clairloch left the day after you did. beatrice saw him once, that evening, and sent him away. the next day he went, saying vaguely that he had to go back to new york. "james, of course i knew. i couldn't live in the house with the two people i cared most for in the world and not see things, not _feel_ things. the only wonder is that nobody else guessed. it seemed incredible to me, who was so keenly alive to the whole business. time and time again when cecilia opened her mouth to speak to me i thought she was going to talk about that, and then she would speak about some unimportant subject, and i blessed her for her denseness. and how i thanked heaven that that sharp-nosed little minx ruth wasn't there! she'd have smelt the whole thing out in no time. "gradually beatrice mended. her color came back and she seemed stronger. at last one evening--only tuesday it was; think of it!--she came down to dinner with a peculiar sort of glitter in her eyes. she told us that she felt able to travel and was going to new york the next day. she had engaged her accommodations and everything. of course i knew what that meant.... "knowledge can be a terrible thing, james. for days it had preyed on me, and now when the moment for action came i was almost too weak to respond. oh, how i was tempted to sit back and say nothing and let things take their course!... but i simply couldn't fall back in the end, i simply couldn't. after bedtime that evening i went to the door of her room and knocked. "i found her in the midst of packing. i told her i had something to say to her and would wait till she was ready. she said she was listening. "'beatrice,' said i, 'i've always tried to mind my own business above all things, but i'm going to break my rule now. i'm fond of you, beatrice; if i offend you remember that. i simply can't watch you throw your life away without raising a finger to stop you.' "she didn't flare up, she didn't even ask me how i knew; she only gave a sort of groan and said: 'oh, but aunt selina, i haven't any life to throw away! it's all been burned and frozen out of me; there's nothing left but a shell, and that won't last long! can't you let me pass the little that remains in peace? that's all i ask for--i gave up happiness long ago. it won't last long! it can hurt no one!' "'you have an immortal soul,' said i; 'you can hurt that.' "she sat looking at the floor for a while and then said imploringly: 'don't ask me to go back to james, aunt selina, for that's the one thing i can't do.' 'i shan't ask you to do anything,' i told her, but i knew perfectly well that i was prepared to go down on my knees before her, when the time came.... "but it hadn't come yet--there was a great deal to be done first. what i did was to tell her something about my own life, in the hope that it might throw a new light on her situation. i told her things that i've never told to a human being and never expected to tell another.... "james, i think i ought to tell you the whole thing, as i told it to her. it may help you to understand ... certain things you must understand. do you mind?" she paused, less for the purpose of obtaining his consent than in order to gain a perfect control over her voice and manner. taking james' silence as acquiescence she folded her hands in her lap and went on in a low quiet voice: "i haven't had much of a life, according to most ways of thinking. all i ever knew of life, as i suppose you know it, was concentrated into a few months. not that i didn't have a good time during my girlhood and youth. my mother died when i was a baby, but my stepmother took as good care of me as if i had been her own child, and i loved her almost like my own mother. i've often thought, though, that if my mother had lived things might have turned out differently. stepmothers are never quite the same thing. "well, i grew up and flew about with the college boys in the usual way. i never cared a rap for any of them, beyond the bedtime raptures that girls go through. i was able to manage them all pretty easily; i see now that i was too attractive to them. i had a great deal of what in those days was referred to as 'animation,' which is another way of saying that i was an active, strong-willed, selfish little savage. i was willing to play with the college men, but i always said that when i fell in love it would be with a _real_ man. i laughed when i said it, but i meant it. "presently there came a change. father died, and when i came out of mourning the college men i knew best had graduated and the others seemed too young and silly for me even to play with. it was at about this time, when i was adjusting myself to new conditions and casting about for something to occupy my mind that i came to know milton leffert." james stirred slightly. aunt selina smiled. "yes, you've heard of him, of course. it gives one a curious feeling, doesn't it, to learn that dead people, or people who are as good as dead, have had their lives? i know, i know ... i think you'd have liked milton leffert. he was very quiet and not at all striking in appearance, but he was strong and there was no nonsense about him. he was more than ten years older than i. i had known him only slightly before that time. then after father's death he began coming to see me a good deal and we fell into the habit of walking and driving together. i always liked him. i loved talking with him; he was the first man i ever talked much with on serious subjects. he stimulated me, and i enjoyed being with him. only, it never occurred to me that he could be the real man. "you've often heard of women refusing men because of their poverty. well, the chief thing that prejudiced me against milton leffert was his wealth. he happened to possess a large fortune made and left to him by his father, and he didn't do much except take care of it, together with that of his sister jane. he was president of the one concern his father had not sold out before he died, but that was the sort of thing that ran itself; he didn't spend an hour a day at it. that wasn't much of a career, according to the way i thought at that time, and when he first began asking me to marry him i laughed outright. "'you can't know me very well, milton,' i said, 'if you suppose i could be content with a ready-made man. i like you very much, but you're not the husband for me.' "'what do you mean by a ready-made man?' he asked, looking at me out of his quiet gray eyes. "'i should say it was sufficiently obvious,' i said. 'there's nothing the matter with you, and i hate to hurt you, but--well, you're not dynamic.' "i stopped to see how he would take that. he was silent for a while, then at last he said: 'i don't think that's a very good reason for refusing a man.' "i laughed; the grave way he said it was so characteristic of him. 'oh, milton,' i said, 'i really think that's the only reason in the world to make me refuse a man. i don't much believe i shall ever marry, but if i do it will be to a man that i can help win his fight in the world; somebody with whom i can march side by side through life, whom i alone can help and encourage and inspire! he's got to be the kind that will start at the bottom and work his way up to the top, and who couldn't do it without me! that's not you, milton. you have no fight to make--your father made it for you. you start in at the top, the wrong end. of course there are still higher summits you could aim for, but you never will, milton. you're not that kind; you'll hold on to what you have, and no more. i'm not blaming you; you were made that way. and there must be a great many people like you in the world. and i _like_ you none the less. only i can't marry you.' "'but i don't see what difference all this would make,' he said, 'if you only loved me.' "'my dear man,' said i, 'don't you see that it's only that sort of a man who could make me love him? if you had it in you, i suppose i should love you. you don't suppose i could love you without that, do you? i'm afraid you don't understand me very well, milton!' "'i'm learning all the time,' he answered, and that was the nearest thing to a witty or humorous remark that i ever heard him make. "'then again,' i went on, 'our ages are too far apart. even if you were the sort i mean, we shouldn't be starting even. the fight would be half won when i came in, and that would never do. i shouldn't feel as if i were part of your life. a marriage like that wouldn't be a marriage, it would be a sweet little middle-aged idyll!' "he flushed at that. 'a man can't change his age, selina; you have no right to taunt me with that.' "'i didn't mean to taunt you--i only wanted to explain,' said i. 'and the last thing in the world i want to do is to hurt you.' "'but that's the only thing a man can't change,' he went on after a moment, paying no attention to my apology. after another pause he added: 'i shan't give you up, mind,' and when we talked again it was of other things. "i went on seeing him as before, though not quite so often. then presently i went away on some long visits and did not see him for several months. when i came back i noticed that his manner was more animated than before, and that somehow he looked younger. i remember being quite pleased.--he was thirty-four at the time, and i not quite twenty-three. "it was perfectly evident, even to me, that he was working to win me. i saw it, but i did not pay any attention to it; when i thought about it at all it was with a sort of amusement. one day he came to me apparently very much pleased about something. "'congratulate me, selina,' he said; 'i've just got my appointment.' "'appointment?' said i. i truthfully had no idea what he was talking about. "'yes,' he went on, 'i begin work on the board next week.' "'what board?' "'why, the tax board--the city tax board. surely you knew?' "then i laughed--i remember it so distinctly. 'good gracious, milton,' i said, 'i thought it must be the cabinet of the united states, at the very least!' then i saw his face, and knew that i had hurt him. "'it's splendid, of course,' i added. 'i do congratulate you, indeed, most heartily. only--only milton, you were so serious!' "i laughed again. he stared at me and after a moment laughed himself, a little. i suppose that laugh was the greatest effort he had made yet. i know i liked him better at that moment than ever before. if he had let it go at that who knows what might have happened? "but he changed again after a few seconds; he scowled and became more serious than ever. 'no!' he said angrily, 'why should i laugh with you over the most serious thing in my life? why should you want to make me? first you blame me for not making anything of myself, and now, when i am trying my best to do it, you laugh at me for being serious! of course i'm serious about my work--i shan't pretend to be anything else.' "of course that was all wrong, too. every one admires a man who can laugh a little about his work. but i felt a sort of hopelessness in trying to explain it to him; i was afraid he would never really understand. so instead i drew him out on the new work he had taken up and tried to make him talk about the plans he had in mind, of which the tax board was only the first step. he seemed rather shy about talking of the future. "'it's a case for actions, not words,' he said. 'i don't want to give you the impression that i'm only a talker. you'll see, in time, what you've made of me,' and he smiled at me in a way that rather went to my heart. "'milton,' i said, 'i'm more than glad if i can be of help to you, in any way, but i should be deceiving you if i let you think there's any hope--any more hope, even, than there was.' "but that was the kind of talk he understood best. 'selina,' he said, 'don't you bother about caring for me. the time hasn't come for that yet. i'm not even ready for it myself--there's a lot to be done first. the time will come, at last; i'm sure of it. a woman can't have such a power over a man as you have over me without coming to have some feeling for him in the end, if it's only pride in her own handiwork. but even if it never should come, do you think i could regret what i've done, what i'm going to do? you've made a man of me, selina. that stands, no matter what happens!' "of course that sort of thing can't help but make an impression on a woman, and it had its effect on me. it made me a little nervous; it was like raising a frankenstein. i began to wonder if i should come to be swallowed up in this new life i had unwillingly created. once or twice i caught myself wondering how it would feel to be the wife of milton leffert.... "but about that time my stepmother began talking to me about it and trying to persuade me to marry him, and that had the effect of making me like the thought less. somehow she made it seem almost like a duty, and if there was one thing i couldn't abide it was the idea of marrying from a sense of duty. then other things came into my life and for a time i ceased to think of him almost entirely. "we went abroad for several months, my stepmother and the two boys and i. hilary had been seriously ill, and we thought the change would do him good. and as he had a good deal of study to make up--he was fourteen at the time--my stepmother engaged a young man to go with us and tutor him and be a companion to the boys generally. "you might almost guess the rest. i saw my stepmother wince when he met us at the steamer--we had engaged him by letter and had no idea what he looked like. i suppose it had never occurred to her before that there might be danger in placing me in daily companionship with a man of about my own age. it certainly occurred to her then. "james, i know i can't make it sound plausible to you, but even now i don't wonder i fell in love with him. i don't suppose a more attractive man was ever born. he was thin and brown and had a pure aquiline profile--but it's no use describing him. think of the most attractive person you ever knew and make him ten times more so and perhaps you'll get some idea. "he was quite poor--that also took my fancy. he was trying to earn money enough to put himself through law school. those who knew him said he was a brilliant student and that a great career lay before him, and i believed it. he certainly was as bright and keen as they make 'em, and very witty and amusing. occasionally harry reminds me of him, and that makes me worry about harry.... of course i was tremendously taken with his mental qualities, and i had all sorts of romantic notions about helping him to make a great place for himself in the world, and all the rest of it. but as a matter of fact what drew me to him chiefly was simple animal attraction. it wasn't wrong and it wasn't unnatural, but--well, it was unfortunate. "even my stepmother felt it. i don't know how long it was before she knew what was going on, but she never made any effort to stop it. like a sensible woman she kept her mouth shut and determined to let things take their course. but she never talked to me any more about milton leffert, and as a matter of fact i know she would have been perfectly willing that i should marry adrian. yes, that was his first name. i shan't tell you his last, because he's still alive. "i remember telling myself when i first saw him that such an absurdly handsome person could not have much to him, but he appeared better and better as time went on. he was thoughtful and tactful and knew how to efface himself. he was splendid with the boys; hilary in particular took a tremendous fancy to him and would do anything he said. he was the greatest influence in hilary's life up to that time, and i really think the best. he was an extraordinary person. by the end of the first month i suspected he was the real man. by the end of the second i was convinced of it, and by the end of the third i would willingly have placed my head under his foot any time he gave the word. by the end of the sixth month i wouldn't have touched him with my foot--i'm sure of it. but there never was any sixth month. "in the month of june we were on the lake of como. there happened to be a full moon. como in the moonlight is not the safest place in the world for young people, under any circumstances. in our case it was sure to lead to something. "we had strolled up to a terrace high above the lake and stood for a long time leaning over the balustrade drinking in the beauty of the scene. for a long time we said nothing, and apparently the same thought struck us both--that it was all too beautiful to be true. at any rate after a time adrian sighed and said: 'oh, this damnable moonlight!' "'why?'i asked. "'because it makes everything seem so unreal--the lake, the mountains, the nightingales, everything. it's like a poem by lamartine. but i don't mind that--i like lamartine. the trouble is it makes you seem unreal too. oh, i know that you're where you are and are flesh and blood and that if i pinched you you'd probably scream and all that--' "'no, i shouldn't,' said i. 'i wouldn't be real if i did.' "he sighed. 'that shows it,' he said; 'that proves exactly what i say. you're not really living this; your soul isn't really here. i'm not really in your life. i'm just a pretty little episode, a stage property, a part of the lake and the moonlight, a part of every summer vacation!' "'if you're not really in my life,' said i, 'doesn't it occur to you that it's because of your unreality, not mine?' "'you admit that i'm not real to you, then?' "'no,' said i, 'but it would be your own fault if you weren't.' "'what about that man in new haven, is he real?' he asked suddenly. i only flushed, and he went on: 'that's it--he's the real man in your life. you're willing to play about with me in the summertime, but when the winter comes you'll go straight back and marry him. i'm all right for the moonlight, but you want him in the cold gray light of the dawn! he's the old and new testaments to you, and i'm only--a poem by lamartine! and with me--oh, lord!' he buried his face in his hands. "i don't know whether it was pure accident or whether he somehow guessed part of the truth. at any rate it roused me. i was very sure that what he said was not true, or at least i was very anxious that it should not be true, which often comes to the same thing. i argued with him for some time, and when words failed there were other things. but he did not seem entirely convinced. "after a while, as we sat there, hilary appeared with a telegram that had just arrived for me. i saw that it was a cable message and thought it was probably from milton leffert, as he had said that he might possibly come abroad on business during the summer and would look me up if he did. and somehow the thought of milton leffert at that moment filled me with the most intense disgust.... "'now,' i said when hilary had gone, 'i'm tired of arguing; here may be a chance to prove myself by actions. open this telegram, and tell me if it's from milton leffert!' "he looked at me in a dazed sort of way. 'open it!' i repeated, stamping my foot. i was drunk with love and moonlight and i imagine i must have acted like a fury. i know i felt like one. "he opened the telegram and read it, gravely and silently. "'is it or is it not from milton leffert?' "'yes. he--' "'that's all i want to know--don't say another word! do you hear? never tell me another word about that telegram as long as you live! and now destroy it--here--before my eyes! i'm going to put milton leffert out of my life forever, here and now! go on, destroy it!' "adrian hesitated. he seemed almost frightened. 'but--' he began. "'adrian!' i turned toward him with the moonlight beating full down on me. i was not so bad-looking in those days; i daresay i was not bad-looking at all as i stood there in the moonlight. at least i know that woman never used her beauty more consciously than i did in that moment. "'adrian, look at me! do you love me?' "he allowed that he did. "'then do what i say. destroy that telegram and never mention it or that man's name to me again!' "a change came over him. he hesitated no longer; he became forceful and determined. "'very well,' he cried, 'if you're not mine now you will be! here's good-by to milton leffert!' "he took some matches from his pocket and lit the end of the paper. when it was burning brightly he dropped it over the edge of the terrace and it floated out into the space beneath. we stood together and watched it as it fell, burning red in the moonlight.... "then for some weeks we were happy. adrian seemed particularly so; he had had his gloomy moods before that but now they passed away entirely. and if there was a cloud of suspicion that i had done wrong in my own mind i was so happy in seeing adrian's joy that i paid no attention to it. "only one thing struck me as odd; he would not let me tell my stepmother. he gave a number of reasons for it; it would make his position with us uncomfortable; he could not be a tutor and a lover at the same time; he was writing to his relatives and wanted to wait till they knew; we must wait till we were absolutely sure of ourselves, and so forth. one of these reasons might have convinced me, but his giving so many of them made me suspect, even as i obeyed him, that none of them was the real one. i wondered what it could be. i found out, soon enough. "we left italy and worked slowly northward. several weeks after the scene on the terrace we reached paris. there we met a number of our american friends, some of whom had just arrived from home. one day my stepmother and i were sitting talking with one of these--elizabeth haldane it was--and in the course of the conversation she happened to say: 'very sad, isn't it, about poor milton leffert?' "'what is sad?' asked my stepmother. "'why, haven't you heard?' said elizabeth. 'he died a short time before we left. brain fever or something of the sort--from overwork, they said. he was planning to run for the state legislature this fall.' i saw her glancing round; she couldn't keep her eyes off me. but i sat still as a stone.... "as soon as i could i took adrian off alone. "'adrian,' i said, 'the time has come when you've got to tell me what was in that telegram.' "'never,' said he, smiling. 'i promised, you know,' "'i release you from your promise.' "'even so, i can't tell you.' "'adrian,' said i, looking him full in the face, 'milton leffert is dead.' "'i'm sorry to hear it,' said he. "i blazed up at that. 'stop lying to me,' i cried, 'and tell me what was in that telegram!' "he confessed at last that it was from jane leffert saying that her brother was dangerously ill and asking me to come to him if possible or at least send some message. i knew well enough what it must have been, but i wanted to wring it from his lips.... "'well, have you nothing to say to me?' he asked. "i didn't answer for some time--i couldn't. to tell the truth i hadn't been thinking of him. at last i turned on him. 'you contemptible creature,' i managed to say. "'why?' he whined. 'you've no right to call me names. you made me do it. if you're sorry now it's your own fault.' "'i was to blame,' i answered. 'heaven forbid that i should try to excuse my own fault. but do you think that lets you out? suppose the positions had been reversed; suppose you had been ill and milton with me. do you imagine he would have let me remain in ignorance while you lay dying and in need of me, no matter what i told him to do or not to do? are you so weak and mean that you can't conceive of any one being strong and good?' "'it was because i loved you so much that i did it,' he said. "'oh, adrian,' i told him, 'if you really loved me, why did you let me do a thing you knew i'd live to regret? if you really loved me, what had you to fear but that?' "'you might have saved his life,' he answered. "oh, james, the anguish of hearing those words from his lips! the man i did not love telling me i might have saved the life of the man i did! for now that it was too late i knew well enough who it was that i loved. in one flash i saw the two men as they were, one strong, quiet, unselfish, the other selfish, cowardly, mean-spirited. now i saw why he had not wanted me to tell my stepmother of our engagement. he wanted to cover up his own part in the affair in case anything unpleasant happened when i heard of milton's death. "i told my stepmother everything as soon as i could and she behaved splendidly. she sent adrian away and i never saw him again. and as i announced my intention of going home on the next steamer she decided it was best to give up the rest of her trip and take the boys along back with me. so we all went, that same week. "people wondered, when we arrived so long ahead of time, and came pretty near to guessing the whole truth. but i didn't care. the one thing i wanted in the world was to see milton's sister, his one surviving relative. "'jane leffert,' i wrote her, 'if you can bear to look on the woman who killed your brother, let her come and tell you she's sorry.' she was a good woman and understood. the next day i went to her house. she took me upstairs and showed me his room, the bed where he had died. i never said a word all the time. then, as she was really a very remarkable woman, she handed me an old brooch of her mother's containing a miniature of him painted when he was four years old, and told me it was mine to keep. then for the first time i broke down and cried.... "if it hadn't been for jane leffert i think i should have gone mad. she never tried to hide the truth from me. she admitted, when i asked her, that milton had, to all intents and purposes, worked himself to death for me, and that the doctor had said the one hope for him lay in his seeing me or hearing i was coming to him. but never a word of blame or reproach did she give me, never a hint of a feeling of it. she knew how easy it is to make mistakes in life, she knew how hard it is to atone for them. she it was who gave me the blessed thought that it was worth while to go on living as part of my atonement, and that if i put into my life the things i had learned from him i might even, to a certain extent, make milton live on in me. "so instead of taking poison or becoming a carmelite nun i went on living at home as before, stimulated and inspired by that idea. it was hard at first, but somehow the harder things were the greater the satisfaction i took in life. by the time i had lightened the remaining years of my stepmother's life and nursed jane leffert through her last illness i became content with my lot and, in a way, happy. i never asked for happiness nor wanted it again on earth, but it came, at last. there is something purifying about loving a dead person very much. the chief danger is in its making one morbid, but as i was always a thoroughly practical person with a strong natural taste for life it did me nothing but good. but i don't prescribe it for any one who can get anything better.... "one thing in particular helped me to keep my mind on earth and remind me of the far-reaching effects of wrong-doing. i have said that hilary, your father, was extremely fond of adrian. well, somehow he got the idea into his head that i had thrown him over because of his poverty, and he never forgave me for it. till his dying day he believed that i really loved adrian most but was afraid to marry him. over and over again i told him the truth, taking a sort of fierce pleasure in being able to tell any one that i had never loved any one but milton leffert. "'then why did you let adrian make love to you?' hilary would answer, 'and why did you make him burn that telegram? i know, i heard you as i walked down the path.' nothing i could say ever made him understand. and the hardest part of it was that i couldn't exactly blame him for not being convinced. "taking him at that impressionable time of life the thing had a tremendous effect on him. the idea grew into him that no human feeling could stand the test of hard facts; that that was the way love worked out in real life. from that time on his mind steadily developed and his soul steadily dwindled. he became practical, brilliant, worldly wise, heartless. we grew gradually more and more estranged; you seldom heard him mention my name, i suppose? that's why you never heard before what i've been telling you, or at least the whole truth of it.... and so, as he consciously modeled certain of his mannerisms after those of adrian he unconsciously grew more and more like him in character; and i had the satisfaction of watching the change and realizing that it was due, in part at least, to me. and the thought of how i unwillingly hurt him has made me all the more anxious to make reparation by being of service to his two boys. perhaps you can imagine some of the things i've feared for them...." * * * * * here aunt selina broke off, choked by a sudden gust of emotion. james said nothing, but sat staring straight in front of him. presently his aunt, steadying her voice to its accustomed pitch, went on: "well, james, i told this to beatrice, much as i've told it to you, though not at so great length, and i could see it made an impression on her. she came over and sat down by me and took my hand without speaking. "'you lived through all that?' she said at last, 'and you never told any one?' "'why should i have told?' i answered. 'there was no one to tell. i've only told you because i thought it might have some bearing on your own case.' "she caught her breath, gave a sort of little sigh. and that sigh said, as plainly as words, 'dear me, i was so interested in your story i almost forgot i must get ready to go to new york to-morrow.' it was a setback; i saw i had overestimated the effect i had made. but i set my teeth and went on, determined not to give her up yet. "'beatrice,' i said, 'i haven't told you all this for the pleasure of telling it nor to amuse you. i've told it to you because i wanted to show you how such a course of action as you're about to take works out in real life. there is a strange madness that comes over women sometimes, especially over strong women; a sort of obsession that makes them think they are too good for the men they love. i know it, i've felt it--i've suffered under it, if ever woman did! it may seem irresistible while it lasts, but oh, the remorse that comes afterward! beatrice, how many times do you suppose i've lived over each snubbing speech i made to milton leffert? how often do you suppose my laugh at him when he told me about the tax board has rung through my ears? those are the memories that stab the soul, beatrice; don't let there be any such in your life!' "she didn't answer, but sat staring at the floor. "'beatrice,' i went on, 'there's no mortal suffering like discovering you've done wrong when it's too late. it's the curse of strong-willed people. it all seems so simple to us at first; it's so easy for us to force our wills on other people, to rule others and be free ourselves. then something happens, the true vision comes, and it's too late! beatrice, i've caught you in time--it's not too late for you yet. do you know where you stand now, beatrice? you're at the point where i was when i told adrian to burn that telegram!' "still she said nothing, and the sight of her sitting there so beautiful and cold drove me almost wild. 'oh, beatrice,' i burst out, losing the last bit of my self-control, 'don't tell me i've got to live through it all again with you! don't go and repeat my mistake before my very eyes, with my example before yours! it was hard enough to live through it once myself, but what will it be when i sit helplessly by and watch the people i love best go through it all! i can't bear it, i can't, i can't! it takes all the meaning out of my own life!...' "she was moved by my display of feeling, but not by my words. she said nothing for a time, but took my hand again and began stroking it gently, as if to quiet me. i said nothing more--i couldn't speak. at last she said, in a calm, gentle tone of voice, as if she were explaining something to a child:-- "'aunt selina, i don't think you quite understand about my marriage with james. it isn't like other marriages, exactly.' "'it seems to me enough that it is a marriage,' i answered. 'though i haven't spoken of that side of it, of course.' "'oh, you won't understand!' she said. "'beatrice,' said i, 'i couldn't understand if you kept telling me about it till to-morrow morning. no one ever will understand you, except your creator--you might as well make up your mind to it. i don't doubt you've had many wrong things done to you. the point is, you're about to do one. don't do it.' "always back to the same old point, and nothing gained! i had the feeling of having fired my last shot and missed. i shut my eyes and leaned my head back and tried to think of some new way of putting it to her, but as a matter of fact i knew i had said all i had to say. and then, just as i was giving her up for lost, i heard her speaking again. "'aunt selina,' she said, 'you have made me think of one thing.' "'what's that, my dear?' i asked. "'well, i don't doubt but what i have done wrong things already, without suspecting it. oh, yes, i've been too sure of myself!' "'it's possible, my dear,' said i, 'but you haven't done anything that you can't still make up for, if you want.' "'i think i know what you mean,' she said slowly; 'you mean i could go and tell him so. tell him i had done wrong and was sorry--for i did sin, not in deed, but still in thought.... i never told him that, of course....' then she shivered. 'oh, but aunt selina, i can't do it, i can't! if you only knew how i've tried already, how i've humiliated myself!' "'that never did any one any harm,' i told her. "'and then,' she went on, 'even if i did do it, he'd never take me back--not on any terms! he'd only cast me away again--that's what would happen, you know! what would there be for me then but--tommy?' "well, i knew i'd won a great point in making her even consider it. "'several things,' i answered, taking no pains to conceal my delight. 'in the first place, it's by no means certain that he will refuse you. but if he does--well, you'll never lack a home or a friend while i'm alive, my dear! and don't you go and pretend that i'm not more to you than that brainless, chinless, sniveling, driveling little fool of an englishman, for i won't believe it!' "she laughed at that and for a moment we both laughed together. then it suddenly occurred to me that i couldn't do better than leave it at that, let that laugh end our talk. "'good night, my dear,' i said, kissing her. 'the time has come now when you've got to make up your mind for yourself. i've done all i can for you.' and with that i left her. "but, oh, james, it wasn't as simple as all that! it was all very well to tell her that and go to bed, but if you knew what agonies of doubt and suspense i went through during the night, fearing, hoping, wondering, praying! those things are so much more complicated in real life than they are when you read them or see them acted. what should have happened was that i should have one grand scene with her and make her promise at the end to do as i wanted. and i did my best, i went as far as it was in me to go, and knew no more of the result than before i began! and we parted laughing--laughing, from that talk! "but almost the worst part of it was next morning when we met downstairs after breakfast, with the family about. i could scarcely say good morning to her, and i never dared catch her eye. and all the time that one great subject was burning in our minds. and we couldn't talk of it again, either; we couldn't have if we'd been alone together in a desert! you can't go on having scenes with people. "at last, after lunch, i was alone on the verandah with her, and managed to screw myself up to asking her whether she was going to new york or not. "'yes, i'm going,' she answered. "'what do you mean by that?' i asked. "'oh, i don't know what i mean!' she said desperately. i knew she was as badly off as i was, or worse, and after that i simply couldn't say another word to her. "but i saw her alone once again, just before she started. she kissed me good-by and smiled and whispered: 'don't worry, aunt selina--it's all right,' and then the others came. just that--nothing more! "i didn't know what to think--what i dared to think. one moment i rushed and telegraphed you, because i was afraid she was going to the englishman, after all. the next minute i was hurrying to catch the night boat to boston, because i thought she was going to you and that i might have to deal with you. i wanted to be with her in any case. oh, i was so mad with the uncertainty and suspense i didn't know what i did or what i thought! but the impression i took away finally from her last words to me were that she was going to you.... but i never knew, james, _i never knew_! and now i never shall!..." chapter xiv a potter's vessel by a great effort aunt selina had kept a firm control over herself throughout her narrative, but now, the immediate need of composure being removed, she gave way completely to her natural grief. james, whose attitude toward her had been somewhat as toward a divine visitation, an emissary of nemesis, suddenly found he had to deal with an old woman suffering under an overwhelming sorrow. this put an end for the present to the possibility of expanding on the nemesis suggestion. he fetched her some more whisky, reflecting that it must be not unpleasant to have reached the age where grief wore itself out even partially in physical symptoms, to which physical alleviations could be applied. for the first time he found himself considering aunt selina as an old woman. he could not help remarking, however, that even in age and even in grief aunt selina was rather magnificent. there was about her tears a sophoclean, almost a niobesque quality. it struck him that she must have been extremely good-looking in her youth. of course aunt selina, even in that extremity, knew enough to refrain from pointing a moral already sufficiently obvious. she said little after finishing her account, and that little was expressive only of her immediate sense of loss. "oh, james," she moaned, "i had always thought my life went out in a little puff of red flame forty years ago and more, but it seemed to me that if i could use my experience to mend her life i should be well repaid for everything. and now...." they sat silent for the most part, both laboring under the terrific hopelessness of the situation, which certainty and uncertainty, together with the impossibility of action, combined to make intolerable. for a while each found a certain comfort in the other's mute presence, but at last even that wore off. "well, my dear, you don't want to be bothered by a hysterical old woman at this time," said aunt selina finally, and james obediently telephoned, for a taxi. nemesis must be met, sooner or later.... only once, as they sat side by side in the dark cab, did aunt selina give utterance to the one idea that animated her thoughts of the future. "well, i've lost my own life and i've lost her, and now you're the only thing i have left. oh, james, for heaven's sake don't let me lose you!" "no, aunt selina, no," he replied, laying his hand on hers and speaking with a promptness and a fervor that surprised himself. "one thing," she began just before they drew up at the hotel. "yes?" "one thing i've learned in all these years is that there's nothing so bad that it isn't better to face it than dodge it. nothing!" "yes," said james. "thank you, aunt selina." he walked back to his apartment with a feeling as of straightening his shoulders. his aunt's words rang in his brain. there was need of courage, he saw that. well, he had never lacked that and would not be found wanting in it now. not even--the thought flashed on him as he opened his front door--not even if the kind of courage that was now needed implied humiliation. he entered his home with the consciousness of having made a good start. he walked straight into the bedroom. "well, i've done you an injustice," he said aloud. "i misjudged you. i'm sorry." "oh, you didn't give her credit for being capable of loving you, did you?" rang a mocking voice in his brain. a palpable hit for nemesis. "oh, you know what i _mean_," he answered petulantly. he thought it was unworthy of her to quibble thus, particularly when he was voluntarily assuming that beatrice had started from bar harbor--well, with the right idea. he had a right to doubt there, which he was willing to waive. "i'm sorry," he repeated, "truly sorry. isn't that enough?" his eyes fell on the photograph of beatrice which still stood on the dressing table. he turned quickly away again. "not by a long shot," said nemesis, or words to that effect. no, somehow it wasn't. he realized it himself; even feeling that didn't give him the sense of repletion and calm that he sought. he paced the room for some time in silent anxiety. "i really don't know what to do," he admitted at last. "suppose"--he was appealing to beatrice now--"suppose you tell me what." he glanced involuntarily at the photograph. its unchanging half-smile informed him that all help must now come from himself. a sudden access of rage at that photograph seized him. "don't you laugh at me, when i'm trying my best!" he cried. the picture smiled on. in a burst of fury james picked up the frame and hurled it with all his strength into the mirror. there was a crash and a shower of broken glass, amid which the picture bounded lazily back and fell to the floor, face downward. james stood and stared at it, and as he stared a curious revulsion came over him. he stooped slowly down, unaccountably hoping with all his soul that the photograph was not hurt. he scarcely dared to turn it over.... the glass was smashed to atoms, but the picture itself was unhurt. no, there was a cut across the face. "oh, i've hurt her, i've hurt beatrice!" he whispered. nemesis said something that made him sink into a chair and gaze before him with horror. cinders, ashes, black coals, some of them still glowing--oh, the mere sight of them then had been unbearable! and now, in view of what he had learned.... he could not face the thought. yet it was true: if it had not been for him beatrice would still be alive. whether she took that train intending to go to him or to tommy it did not matter; she would not have taken it at all if he had behaved as he should. he turned his attention back to the picture, gently and carefully smoothing out the cut, as though in the hope that reparation to her effigy would make it easier to face the thought of having compassed her destruction. somehow it did no such thing.... * * * * * of course what nemesis wanted was a confession that he loved the woman whose death he was morally responsible for. james realized that himself, almost from the first, but it was not in his nature to admit easily that such an unreasonable change of feeling was possible to him. long hours of struggle followed, hours of endless pacing, of fruitless internal argument, of blind resistance to the one hope, as he in the bottom of his soul knew it was, of his salvation. resistance, brave, exhilarating, hopeless, futile, ignoble resistance to whatever happened to him contrary to the dictates of his own will--it was as inevitable to him as feeling itself. from time to time he thought of tommy, and this, if he did but know it, was the best symptom he could have shown. for though at first he thought of him with little more than his usual contempt, envy soon began to creep in, then frank jealousy and at last a blind hatred that made him clench his hands and wish, as he had seldom wished anything, that tommy's throat was between them. in fact he ended by hating tommy quite as though he were his equal. he never stopped to consider that this change was no less revolutionary than the one he was fighting. the hopeless hours dragged on. a sense of physical fatigue grew on him; every muscle in him ached. his brain also staggered under the long strain; it hammered and rang. certain scraps of sentences he had heard during the day buzzed through it with a curious insistence, taking advantage of his weakened state to torment him. a great chance, a great chance--uncle james' parting words to him. sorrow was a great chance--for some. for aunt selina, yes; for beatrice, yes; or uncle james, frozen and unresponsive as he appeared, yes. but not for him. oh, no, he must admit it, he was not even worthy to suffer greatly. he was not really suffering now, he supposed; he was merely very tired. otherwise those words, a great chance, a great chance, would not keep pounding through his head like the sound of loud wheels.... railroad wheels. then what was it that aunt selina had said about finding out something too late? oh, yes, people found out they loved other people when it was too late. especially strong people. he was strong.... could it be that _he_ was going to discover something too late--_that_? it was too late for something already, but surely not for that! just think--aunt selina had found out too late, and beatrice had found out too late, and now.... yes, if it was horrible it must be true. it was he who was too late. he understood about aunt selina, all she must have felt. and beatrice too; he saw now how strong and noble and warm-hearted she had been, and how she must have suffered. especially that. and now he had found out it was too late to tell her so! "we can't tell you what we don't know," the man in the station had said that morning. words spoken mechanically and without thought, but containing the very essence of human tragedy. while there was yet time he had had no knowledge, not the slightest glimmering.... "oh, beatrice!" he groaned, "if i had only been able to hope! just a little hope, even at that last minute on the platform! that would be something to be thankful for!" and then in the anguish of his remorse all his fatigue and uncertainty suddenly fell from him. nothing remained but the thought of her, strong, generous, brave, humble, all that he had professed to admire--dead! and he, false, mean, cowardly, cold-hearted, alive. and the idea of never being able to tell her that at last he understood became so intolerable, so cruel, so contrary to all that was good in life, so blindly unthinkable, that.... well, in a word, it simply ceased to be. such a life as had been hers could not fade into nothingness, such a heart as hers could not fail to understand, be she dead or alive. "god," he whispered, clutching with all his strength at the hope the word now contained, "god, make her understand! i recant, i repent, i believe--anything! forgive me if you can or punish me as you will, only let her live, let her know...." then, as the crowning torment, came hope. after all, he knew nothing; he only supposed. nothing was certain; only probable. something might have happened; he dared not think what or how, but it was possible, conceivable, at least, that beatrice was not on that train when it was wrecked. beatrice might still be alive!... the anguish of the fall back into probability was sharper than anything he had yet known, but every time he found himself struggling painfully up again toward that small spark of light. he fell on his knees beside the bed--her bed--and tried to pray. nothing came to his lips but the words he had so long disdained to say, uttered now with a fierce sweet jubilation: "beatrice, i love you. i never did before, but i do now--at least i think i do! i never knew, i never understood, but i do now! beatrice, i do love you, i do, i do! beatrice...." but apparently they satisfied the power that has charge of such matters, for even as he stammered the words that saved him a blessed drowsiness stole over him and before long he slept as he knelt. it was morning when he awoke. chapter xv the tide turns a gray morning, wet and close, whose very atmosphere was death to hope. james did hope, nevertheless, with all the refreshed energy of his being. hope came as soon as he started to wake up, before he began to feel the cramps in his limbs, before he had time to rub his eyes and wonder what had happened. a hot bath, and then breakfast. physical alleviations; he was humiliated to realize they did make a difference, even to him. he shuddered at the thought of how he had patronizingly envied aunt selina for being helped by them last night, much as he shuddered at the remembrance of having once dared to pity beatrice.... but the present was also with him, and the present was even harder to face than the past. hope sprang eternal, but so did certainty. one might have thought that they would have neutralized each other's effects and left a blank, but as a matter of fact they only doubled each other's torments. the moment breakfast was over james started off for the station to set one or the other at rest. he went straight to the press room, which was only just open; he had to wait for the agent to arrive. when he came he was able to tell james nothing new, but he conducted him to a departmental manager. he was no more satisfactory, but he undertook to make every possible inquiry. leaving james in an outer office he called various people to him, got into telephonic communication with others and ended by calling up stamford and then boston. but james could guess the result from his face the moment he reentered the room. "nothing?" he asked. "nothing. but don't give up yet." james walked slowly down the corridor toward the elevator. it was a long corridor, dark and empty; james could not see the end of it when he started. the sound of his feet echoed hollowly along the dim walls. altogether it was rather an eerie place, not at all suggestive of a modern office building. much more, it seemed to james as he walked on, like life.... a blind alley, the end of which was in shadow, where one must walk alone and in almost total darkness. a place where one's footsteps echo with painful exactness--one must walk carefully lest the sound of their irregularity should ring evilly in one's ears and pierce unharmoniously into those mysterious chambers alongside, perhaps even into other corridors, other people's corridors.... he roused himself from his reverie with a jerk, but his mood remained on him, translated into a larger meaning. he was alive; no matter what had happened to beatrice, he was still alive, with a living person's duties and responsibilities--and chances. beatrice, even though cut off in the bloom of her youth, had succeeded in making a person of herself, justifying her existence, supplying a guiding light to some of those who walked in greater darkness than herself. he had not as yet done that. well, he must. he would. beatrice's gift to him should not be wasted. in a flash he felt his strength and his manhood return to him. he looked into the future with a humble yet unflinching gaze; hope and certainty had lost their terrors for him. if beatrice had died, he would thank god that it had been given him to know her and do his best to translate her spirit into earthly terms. if by any impossible chance she still lived--well, he could do nothing to make himself worthy of such happiness, but he would do his best. he walked out of the elevator into the concourse, the huge unchanging concourse where so much had happened yesterday. it was comparatively empty at this moment, only a few figures waiting patiently before train gates. one of these caught his eye; it took on a bafflingly familiar appearance. he moved curiously nearer to it.... tommy! at last, at last, at last he was going to feel that throat between his fingers, get a chance to exterminate that--that--he sprang forward like a wildcat. he stopped before he had taken two steps, with a feeling of impotence, hopelessness. who was he, who under the sun was he to teach tommy anything? tommy--why, tommy had loved beatrice, not after it was too late, but before! beatrice had preferred tommy to him. tommy was a better man than he was; he took a morbid joy in thinking how much better. it was conceivable that tommy might know something. perhaps he had even come to this very spot to meet beatrice.... well, he would not blame her or offer objections, if it were so. he would accept such a judgment gladly, as a small price for knowing she was alive. he hurried across the concourse. "tommy, can you tell me anything about beatrice?" james' voice was so matter-of-fact, so strikingly unfitted to a situation, that tommy was rather irritated. he flushed. "no, of course not. why should i?" "i only thought--seeing you here--" "no." the tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness, wholly un-tommylike. there was an odd moment of silence, which tommy ended by breaking out: "why the devil do you have to come here and crow over me? why can't you let me clear out in peace?" james was so penitent for having hurt tommy that he did not at first notice the implication in his words. "i'm sorry--i meant nothing! i've been out of my head with anxiety.... i only thought she might have gone somewhere else to meet you--it was my last hope...." "_what?_" tommy cocked his eyebrows incredulously, with a sort of fierceness. "hope of what?" "why, that beatrice was still alive." "still alive? what on earth--! what makes you think she isn't?" "do you mean to say--" again the two stared at each other in a strained silence. then tommy produced a crumpled yellow envelope from his pocket and handed it to james. "i got this yesterday morning--that's all i know. i haven't been able to destroy the damned thing...." james took it and opened it. a telegram:-- it's all off, tommy. please go away and forgive me if you can. beatrice. he looked at the date at the top. boston, : a. m. boston! the maine special did not go into boston; beatrice had left it before--before.... "tommy," he said faintly, "tommy, i--" his head swam; he felt himself reeling. "all right, old top, all right; easy does it." he felt tommy's arm about him and heard tommy's voice in his ears, the voice of the good-hearted tommy of old. suddenly the idea of a disappointed lover calling his fainting though successful rival old top and telling him that easy did it struck him as wildly and irresistibly humorous. he laughed, and the sound of his laugh acted like a stimulant. he bit his lip hard. "all right now--i'll go up and get into a taxi. you see," he began explanatorily to tommy as he walked beside him, "i thought--i thought--" "i see," supplied tommy companionably, "you thought she was in the accident, of course. beastly thing, that accident; no wonder it knocked you up. knocked me up a bit myself when i heard of it, although i knew she couldn't be in it. easy up the steps--righto! everything turned out all right in the end, though, didn't it? pretty hefty steps, wot? pretty hefty place altogether--nothing like it in london...." a cab puffed up beside them. james turned with his hand on the door. an unaccountable wave of affection, respect, even, for tommy surged through him. "tommy, you're going away now, i take it?" "yes--chicago." (he pronounced it _shickago_. that was nothing; when he arrived in the country he had pronounced it with the ch sound. in a few more weeks he would get it correctly; you couldn't expect too much at a time from tommy.) "well, tommy, see here--" "yes?" "it may sound silly to you, but--come and see us some time!" "righto. not now, though--got to see the country--train leaves in two minutes. see america first, wot? good-by!" and he was off. james sank back into the cab, admiring the other's tact. a thoughtless, brutal proposal; of course he ought never to have made it. it was not in him, though, to deny tommy any sign of the overwhelming love for the whole world that filled him. when he reached his apartment his physical strength was restored, but mentally he seemed paralyzed. there was much to be done, but he had no idea how to go about it. a bright thought struck him; he called up aunt selina. he laughed foolishly into the transmitter; heaven knows how he made her understand at last. the two babbled incoherently at one another for a moment and abruptly rang off, without saying good-by.... another bright idea--uncle james. he was more definite, but james had little idea of what he said. he caught something about a comparatively simple matter.... uncle j. undertook to do everything, whatever it was. a satisfactory person. after that james sat down in an armchair and for a long time remained there, reduced to an inarticulate pulp of joy. an hour or two later beatrice's telegram arrived. it was dated from an obscure place in the white mountains. "quite safe and well; only just heard of the accident," it read. just ten words. but quite enough! to think of her telegraphing _him_!... immediately he became strong and efficient again. he rushed back to the station, dashed off a telegram and caught up a time table. confound the trains--nothing till eight-fifteen! * * * * * when she left bar harbor, beatrice had no very clear idea of what she was going to do. of one thing she was fairly sure; she was not going to tommy. where aunt cecilia's tentative suggestions concerning the dangers besetting a young wife had failed, aunt selina's uncompromising realism had gone straight to the point. her eyes were opened; she saw what pitfalls infatuation and pique and obstinacy might lead her into. she was willing to admit that the thing she had planned to do would be equivalent to throwing away her last hold on life--all she read into the word life. no, she would not go to tommy. not directly, anyway.... ah, there was the rub. suppose her imagined scene of confession and appeal turned into one of mutual recrimination and resentment--the old sort. what was more likely, in view of her past experience? were things so radically changed now that either she or james would be able to understand the other better than before? with the best intentions in the world she could not help rubbing him the wrong way, and she feared the anger and hopelessness that it was his power to inspire in her. with tommy at hand, in the same town, could she trust herself to resist the temptation of throwing herself into his ready arms? it was all very well for aunt selina to say that she was worth more to beatrice than tommy; beatrice was quite convinced of it, in the calm light of reason. but in the hour of failure, with her pride and her woman's desire for protection and love worked up to white heat, would she still be convinced of it? could she dare entrust her whole chance of future happiness to the strength of her reason in the moment of its greatest trial? thoughts like these mingled with the rattle of the train in a sleepless night. in the morning one thing emerged into clarity; she must wait till tommy was out of the way. if her determination to try to regain james was worth anything, she must give it every possible chance for success. her hopes for a happy issue out of her dreadful labyrinth were not so good that she could afford to take one unnecessary risk. well, if she wasn't going to new york she would have to get off the train, obviously. so she alighted outside boston early in the morning, took a local into town and telegraphed tommy. then, as she wandered aimlessly through the station her eye fell on a framed time-table in which occurred the name of a small white mountain resort of which she had lately heard; a place described to her as remote and quiet and possessed of one fairly good hotel. she noticed that a train was due to leave for there in an hour's time. in a moment her decision was made; she would go up there and wait for tommy to get safely out of the way, carefully plan out her course of action and--she scarcely dared express the thought, even mentally--give herself a little time to enjoy her newly-awakened love before putting it to the final test. she arrived in the evening, took a room in the hotel and went to bed almost immediately, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks. about the middle of the next morning the boston papers arrived. until then she had no notion that the train she had traveled by had been wrecked. she telegraphed immediately to aunt cecilia and then, after some thought, to james. it seemed the thing to do, everything being considered. she wondered if he knew she was safe, how he would take the news, if he had been much disturbed by uncertainty. she was inclined to fear that her escape had not done her cause any particular good.... his reply arrived surprisingly soon: "stay where you are, am coming." she was touched. apparently the turn of events had had a favorable effect on him; if he cared enough now to come up and see her the opportunity for putting her plea to him must be fairly propitious. there was a fair chance that if she acted wisely all would turn out well. but oh, she must be careful! she knew he must arrive by the morning train and arose betimes so as to be on hand. she was in some doubt about breakfast, whether to get it early or wait for him. either way might be better or worse; it all depended on the outcome of their meeting. she ended by deciding to wait; she would let him breakfast alone if--if. small interest she would have in breakfast in that event. she was downstairs long before the train was due to arrive. the weather had cleared during the night and the morning was sunny and cool, a true autumn day. she tried waiting on the verandah, but the wind was so sharp that she soon returned to the warm lobby. she could watch the road equally well from the front windows; there was a long open ascent from the station. at last she saw the hotel wagon appear round a curve. there was only one passenger in it. he, of course. she could recognize the set of his head and shoulders even at that distance. she hoped he had a warm enough overcoat. the wagon reached the steepest part of the incline, and he was out, walking briskly along beside it. before it, very soon; he went so much faster. how like james, and how unnecessary! he the only passenger, and what were horses made for, anyway? still perhaps it was better, if he were not warmly dressed.... the ascent grew steeper before him and his pace visibly decreased. but the wagon merely crawled, far behind him! he was a furious walker. that hill was enough to phase any one.... presently the sight of him plodding painfully up toward her while she waited calmly at the top grew perfectly intolerable. she could bear it no longer; hatless and coatless she rushed out of the hotel and down the road toward him. after a while he raised his face and their eyes met. nearer and nearer they came, gazing fixedly into each other's eyes and discovering new things there, new lives, new worlds.... they did not even kiss. she, looking beyond him, saw the driver of the station wagon peering up at them, and he caught sight over her shoulder of the staring windows of the hotel. they stopped with some embarrassment and immediately began walking up together. "it's nice to see you, james; did you have a good journey?" "yes, very, thanks. you comfortable here?" on they walked, in silence. gradually their embarrassment left them and gave place to a sort of awe. something was going to happen, something great and wonderful; they no longer doubted it nor felt any fear. but--all in good time! it must be coming soon, though, to judge by the way it kept pressing down on them. good time? heavens, there never was any time but the present moment, never would be any.... "beatrice," said james, staring hard at the ground in front of him, "i know now how wicked i've been. do you think you can ever forgive me?" "why, james," said beatrice gently, "dear james, there's nothing to forgive." then he looked up and saw there were tears on her cheeks.... yes, right there in the open road! chapter xvi reinstatement of a schÖne seele the sunlight of a golden october afternoon poured down on a little brick terrace running along one side of the farmhouse in the berkshires harry had bought and reformed into a summer house. it was not the principal open-air extension of the place; the official verandah was on the other side, commanding a wide view to the east and south. this was just a little private terrace, designed especially for use on afternoons like the present, when for the moment autumn went back on all its promises and in a moment of carelessness poured over a dying landscape the breath of may. the only view to be had from it was up a grassy slope to the west, on the summit of which, according to all standards except those of the new england farmer of one hundred years ago, the house ought to have been built. not that either madge or harry cared particularly. they were fond of pointing out that tom ball, or west stockbridge mountain, or whatever it was, shut out the view to the west anyway, and that they were lucky enough to find a farmhouse with any view from it at all. on the terrace sat james and beatrice, who were spending a week-end with their relatives. madge was with them. presumably there was current in her mind a polite fiction that she was entertaining her guests, but she did not take her duties of hostess-ship too seriously. it was not even necessary to keep up a conversation; they all got along far too well together for that. they simply sat and enjoyed the fleeting sunshine, making pleasant and unnecessary remarks whenever they felt moved to do so. probably they also thought, from time to time. of the general extraordinariness of things, and so forth. if they all spent a little time in admiring the adroitness with which the hands of fate had shuffled them, with the absent member of the pack, into their present satisfactory positions, we should not be at all surprised. but of course none of them made any allusion to it. harry suddenly burst through the glass door leading from the house and flopped into a chair. his appearance was informal. the others turned toward him with curious nostrils. "i know, i know," he sighed. "the only thing is for us all to smoke. you too, beatrice. because if you don't you'll smell me, and if you smell me i'll have to go up and wash, and if i go up and wash now i shall miss this last hour of sunshine and that will make you all very, very unhappy." "i am smoking," said beatrice calmly, "because i want to, and for no other reason." "and i," observed madge, "because harry doesn't want me to." "if you want to know what i've been doing since lunch," said harry, disregarding the insult, "i don't mind telling you that i've mended a wire fence, covered the asparagus bed, conducted several successful bonfires and filled all the grease-cups on the ford. i have also turned--" "yes," said james, "we've guessed that." "and now only a few trifles such as feeding fowls and swine--or as madge prefers to put it, chickabiddies and piggywigs--stand between me and a well-deserved repose. heavens! i don't see how farmers can keep such late hours. harker, i believe, frequently stays up till nearly nine. i feel as if it ought to be midnight now; nothing but the thought of the piggywigs keeps me out of bed." "can't harker feed the piggywigs?" inquired beatrice. "oh, yes," said madge, "just as he can do all the other things harry does a great deal better than he. but it keeps him busy and happy, so we let him go on." "just as if you didn't cry every night to feed your old pigs!" retorted her husband. madge laughed. "yes, i am rather a fool about the poor things, even if they aren't so attractive as they were in june. you should have seen them, so pink and tiny and sweet, standing up on their hind legs and wiggling their noses at you! no one could help wanting to feed them, they were so helpless and confident of receiving a shower of manna from above. i know just how the almighty felt when he fed the israelites." "better manna than manners," murmured harry, and for a while there was a profound silence. "what about a stroll before tea?" presently suggested the happy farmer. "i should like to," said james. "we'll have to make it short, though." "very well. what about the others--the fair swine-herd?" "i think not," answered the person referred to, smiling up at him. "i took quite a long walk before lunch, you know." "oh, yes," said harry, blushing for no apparent reason. "beatrice?" beatrice preferred to stay with madge. "you see," said harry when the two had gone a little way; "you see, the fact is, madge--hm. madge--" "you mean," said james, smiling, "there is hope of a new generation of our illustrious house?" "yes! i only learned this morning. if it's a boy we're going to call it james, and if it's a girl we're going to call it jaqueline." "i wonder," mused james, "how many times you have named it since you first heard." "there have been several suggestions," admitted harry, laughing. "i really think it will end by that, though." "jaqueline--quite a pretty name. much prettier than james--i rather hope it will be a girl." "yes, i do too," said harry. and both knew that they would not have troubled to express that wish if they had not really hoped the direct opposite.... they walked slowly up the hill and presently turned and stopped to admire the view that the foolish prudence of a dead farmer had prevented them from enjoying from the house. it was a very lovely view, with its tumbled stretches of hills and fields and occasional sheets of blue water bathed in the mellow light of the sun that hung low over the dark mountain wall to the west. possibly it was its sheer beauty, or the impression it gave of distance from human strife and sordidness, or perhaps the subject last mentioned imparted to their thoughts and impulse away from the trivial and familiar; at any rate when harry next spoke his words fell neither on james' ears nor his own with the sound of fatuity that they might have held at another time. "james," he said, "we're getting on, aren't we? i don't mean in years, though that's a most extraordinary feeling in itself, but in--in life, in the business of living. if you ask me what i mean by that high-sounding phrase i can only say it's something like coming out of every experience a little better qualified to meet whatever new experience lies in store for you. of course we've heard about life being a game and all that facile rot ever since we were old enough to speak, but it's quite different when you come to _feel_ it. it's a sensation all by itself, isn't it?" james drew a deep breath. "yes, it is quite by itself," he agreed. "and i'm glad to be able to say that at last i have some idea of what the actual feeling is like. it was atrophied long enough in me, heaven knows! it's still very slight, very timid and tentative; just a sort of glimmering at times--" "that's all it ever is," said harry. "just an occasional glimmering. the true feeling, that is. if it's anything more, it isn't really that at all, but just a sort of stuckupness, an idea that i am equal to the worst life can do to me! i know people that seem to have that attitude--insufferable! only life is pretty apt to punish them by giving them a great deal more than they bargained for." james was silent a moment, as with a sort of confessional silence. but he knew harry would not understand its confessional quality, so he said quietly: "that's exactly what happened to me, of course." "oh, rot! did you think i meant you?" "no, but it's true, for all that. thank heaven i have been permitted to live through it!... the truth is, i suppose, i was too successful early in life. in school, in college and afterward it was always the same--i found myself able to do certain things with an ease that surprised and delighted people--no one more than myself. for they weren't things that mattered especially, you see; they were showy, spectacular things that appealed to the public eye, like playing football. i was a good physical specimen, not through any effort or merit of my own, but simply through a natural gift, and a very poor and hollow gift it is, as i've found out. i don't think people quite realize the problem that a man of the athletic type has to face if he's going to make anything out of himself but an athlete. from early boyhood he's conscious of physical superiority; he knows perfectly well that in the last resort he can knock the other fellow down and stamp on him, and that gives him a certain feeling of repose and self-sufficiency that's very pernicious. it usually passes for strength of character, but it's nothing in the world but faith in bone and muscle. and people do worship physical strength so! it's small wonder a man gets his head turned.... good lord, the ideas i used to have about myself! why, in college, if any one had made me say what, in the bottom of my heart, i thought was the greatest possible thing for a man of my years to be, i should have said being a great football player in a great university. that is, i wouldn't have said it, because that would have been like bragging, and it isn't done to brag: but that would have been my secret thought. "and then, if the man has any brains or any capacity for feeling, he runs up against some of the big forces of life, and he finds his physical strength no more use to him than a broken reed. it's quite a shock! i've been more severely tried than most people are, i imagine, but heaven knows i needed it! everything had gone my way before that; i literally never knew what it was to have to put up a fight against something i recognized as stronger than i and likely to beat me in the end. well, i'm grateful enough for it now. thank heaven for it! thank heaven for letting me fight and find out my weakness and come through it somehow, instead of remaining a mere mountain of beef all my days!" both stood silent for a moment after james had ended this confession, less because they felt embarrassment in the presence of the feeling that lay behind it than because for a short time the past lay on them too heavily for words. after a few seconds they moved as though by a common impulse and walked slowly along the grassy crest of the ridge, and harry began again. "what you say sounds very well coming from you, james, but i have reason to believe that very little, if any of it, is true. it was my privilege to know you during the years you speak of, and i seem to remember you as something more than a mountain of beef. don't be absurd, james!" he paused a moment and then went on more seriously: "no, james; if there was ever any danger of any of us suffering from cock-sureness it's i, at this moment. do you realize how ridiculously happy i've been for the last year or so? this success of mine--oh, i've worked, but it's been absurdly easy, for all that--and madge, and everything--it seems sometimes as if there was something strange and sinister about it. it simply can't be good for any one to be so happy! it worries me." "well, as long as it does, you needn't," said james. "oh, i see! that makes it quite simple, of course!" "what i mean," elucidated james, "is that, if you feel that way about it, it's probable that you really deserve what happiness you have. after all, you know, you have paid for some. you have had your times; i don't mind admitting that there have been moments when you weren't quite the archangel which of course you are at present!" harry laughed. "the prophet jeremiah once said something about its being good for a man that he should bear the yoke in his youth. if that is equivalent to saying that the earlier a man has his bad times the better, it may be that i got off more easily by having them in college than if they'd held off till later. one does learn certain things easier if one learns them early. but that doesn't mean that your youth has passed without your feeling the yoke, or that your youth has passed yet. you're still in the jeremiah class! one would hardly say that at thirty--you're not much over thirty, are you?" "a few weeks under, i believe." "i'm sorry!--well, at thirty there are surely years of youth ahead of you, which you, having borne your yoke, may look forward to without fear and with every prospect of enjoying to the fullest extent. whereas i--well, there's even more time for me to bear yokes in, if necessary. i don't much believe that jeremiah has done with me yet, somehow!" "you're not afraid of the future, though, are you?" asked james after a pause. "oh, no--that would never do. i feel about it as.... one can't say these things without sounding cocksure and insufferable!" "you mean you'll do your best under the circumstances?" "yes, or make a good try at it! and then.... of course i can't be as happy as i am without having a good deal at stake; i've given hostages to fortune--that's francis bacon, not me. and if fortune should look upon those hostages with a covetous eye--if anything, for instance, should happen to madge in what's coming, why, there are still plenty of things that the worst fortune can't spoil!... well, you know." "yes," said james; "i know." "in fact, there are certain things in the past so dear to me that perhaps, if it came to the point, it would be almost a joy to pay heavily for them. but that's only the way i feel about it now, of course. it's easy enough to be brave when there's no danger." "yes," said james, "but i think you're right in the main. after all, the past is one's own--inalienably, forever! while the future is any man's.... "of course you know," he went on after a pause, "that my past would have been nothing at all to me without you. it sounds funny, but it's true." "funny is the word," said harry. "but perfectly true. i should never have come through--all this business if it hadn't been for you." "look here, james, you're not going to thank me for saving your soul, are you? that would be a little forced!" "my dear man, i'm not thanking you, i'm telling you! you were the one good thing i held on to; i was false and wicked in about every way i could be, but i did always try, in a sort of blind and blundering way, to be true to you. you've been--unconsciously if you will have it so--the best influence of my life, and i thought it might be well to tell you, that's all." "well, i won't pretend i'm not glad to hear it," said harry soberly. "it is rather remarkable when you come to think of it," he went on after a moment, "how our lives have been bound up together. it's rather unusual with brothers, i imagine. generally they see a good deal too much of each other during their early years and when they grow up they settle down into an acquaintanceship of a more or less cordial nature. but with us it's been different. being apart during those early years, i suppose, made it necessary for us to rediscover each other when we grew up...." "yes," said james, "and the process of rediscovering had some rather lively passages in it, if i remember right." "it did! but it was a good thing; it gave us a new interest in each other. one reason why people are commonly so much more enthusiastic about their friends than about their relations is because their relations are an accident, but their friends are a credit to them. it just shows what a selfish thing human nature is, i suppose." "i see; a new way of being a credit to ourselves. well, most of it's on my side, i imagine." harry turned gravely toward his brother. "it seems to me, james, you suffer under a tendency to overestimate my virtues. you mustn't, you know; it's extremely bad for me. i should say, if questioned closely, that that was your one fault--if one expects a kindred tendency to shield me from things i ought not to be shielded from." "oh, rot, man!" "you needn't talk--you do. i've felt it, all along, though you've done your job so well that for the most part i never knew what you'd saved me from." "well.... i might go so far as to say that when i've put you before myself i generally find i'm all right, and when i put myself first i generally find i'm all wrong. but as i've been all wrong most of the time, it doesn't signify much!" "hm. you put it so that i can't insist very hard. it's there, though, for all that. funny thing. i don't believe it's a bit usual between friends, really, especially between brothers. whatever started you on it? it must have been more or less conscious." for a moment james thought of telling him. they had lived so long since then; it would be amusing for them to trace together the effects of that one little guiding idea. but he thought of the years ahead, and they seemed to call out to him with warning voices, voices full of a tale of tasks unfinished and the need of a vigilance sharper than before. so he only laughed a little and said: "oh, it's you that are exaggerating now! you mustn't get ideas about it; it's no more than you'd do for me, or any one for any one else he cares about. but little as it is, don't grudge it to me, for though it may not have done you much good, it's been the saving of me...." * * * * * so they walked and talked as the sun sank low and the night fell gently from a cloudless sky. to madge and beatrice, seeing them silhouetted against that final blaze of glory in the west, they seemed almost as one figure. frank merriwell's return to yale by burt l. standish author of "frank merriwell's schooldays," "frank merriwell's trip west," "frank merriwell's chums," "frank merriwell's foes," "frank merriwell down south," etc. philadelphia. david mckay, publisher, - south washington square. copyright, and by street & smith frank merriwell's return to yale [illustration: "the door opened and in walked frank merriwell."] frank merriwell's return to yale. chapter i. greetings on the campus. "ah, there, merriwell!" frank merriwell was crossing the campus at good old yale, and this cry, in a familiar voice, sounded from durfee hall. he turned his eyes toward the favorite dormitory, and seated at an open window on the ground floor he saw his classmate, jones, he of the famous nickname, "dismal." "hello, dismal," called frank, "aren't you going to come out and shake hands with a fellow?" "i would if it wasn't for the shower," responded jones, whose usually solemn face was graver than ever. "shower?" repeated frank, looking up in surprise at the perfectly clear sky. "i see that you've just arrived, so that you probably haven't noticed it," said dismal, coming out of his window to avoid going around through the hall. he came slowly across the grass plot that lay between him and frank and held out his hand, saying: "how are you, frank? i'm glad to see you." frank, who had just come from the railway station, had a gripsack in each hand. he set them down upon the grass and shook dismal's hand warmly. "there it goes!" exclaimed dismal, with something like animation, "the shower's begun again." frank's brows wrinkled in perplexity. "i don't see any signs of a shower," he said. "that's because you haven't been here all the morning," returned jones, solemnly. "i've been sitting there in my window for fully three hours watching it; it's been a perfect rain of gripsacks on the campus. every fellow that comes along stops to shake hands with everybody he meets, and every time he stops, down goes his gripsacks." frank laughed. "you're the same old cheerful joker, dismal," he said. "but you're beginning early. if you keep up this sort of thing you'll actually get caught laughing before the end of the junior year." there was a faint shadow of a smile on dismal's face as he responded: "well, anyhow, frank, i'm glad to see all the fellows come trooping back. are you glad to get here yourself?" "why, of course i am." "had a good time during the vacation?" "i always have a good time," said frank. "don't you?" "oh, yes, in my way. to tell the truth, i spent most of the summer dreading the day when i should have to come back to the confounded old books, and lectures and examinations; but i got here yesterday, and now i'm dreading the time i shall have to go away again." "then i see that you're sure to enjoy yourself during the junior year," said frank, stooping to pick up his gripsacks. "when i've got my room in order i'll come around and go to luncheon with you." "do!" replied dismal. "i'll go back to my window seat and watch the shower. hello! there comes browning, and he's loaded down with gripsacks, too. my, but there'll be a perfect torrent!" big bruce browning came up with friendly words of greeting, and as dismal had predicted, he set down his gripsacks in order to get his hands free. "it's getting worse and worse!" remarked dismal, as if worried about it, "for here comes rattleton and diamond from one direction and harold page from another." the last named students were on their way, just as frank had been, to their respective rooms, and each carried more or less baggage, except diamond, who, being something of an aristocrat, had sent all his traps to his room on a wagon. seeing frank standing near durfee, they all turned toward him, and in a moment there was a lively exchange of greetings and small talk. four of these students, merriwell himself, jack diamond, bruce browning and harry rattleton, had not been long separated, to be sure, but after a sporting trip which they had undertaken across the continent, it was like meeting after a long absence to find themselves together again at yale. it was the beginning of a new college year, and members of all classes were trooping back to begin their work. while these juniors were discussing all manner of things that interest students, such as the prospects of the football eleven, the make-up of next year's crew, and the coming elections into secret societies, members of other classes were scattered about the campus chatting in much the same way. among those who appeared upon the famous quadrangle were many who belonged to the incoming freshman class. it was easy to recognize them, for, as rattleton observed: "you can tell a freshman with the naked eye." they were either proceeding in a fearful hurry, as if they thought they were in danger of getting in late to an examination, or they were standing in awkward idleness looking at the strange buildings and evidently not knowing which way to turn and dreading to ask anybody a question. the juniors smiled indulgently as a group of three or four candidates for the freshman class passed them. the newcomers were discussing an examination from which they had just come, telling each other how they had answered certain questions and wondering if they would get marked high enough to pass. "i can sympathize with them," remarked diamond. "i know just the kind of shivers they're suffering from." "what jolly good subjects those fellows would be for a quiet hazing," remarked page. "you mustn't forget," said frank, "that we're juniors now, and therefore out of it so far as hazing is concerned." "that's right," added browning, "the freshies are nothing to us; they're far beneath us." "except in one sense," said frank. "the sophomores, you know, will get even for the hazing we gave them, by taking it out of the freshies, and so it becomes our duty, in a way, to take care of the freshmen and see that they get fair treatment." speaking of this it may be well to explain that in all colleges the juniors take this attitude toward the freshmen. as a rule the freshman receives the attention of a junior with a great deal of gratitude, but also as a rule he does not find that it amounts to very much. the junior is ever ready to give him a good deal of solid advice, and a great deal more ready to get the freshman to do errands for him, and all manner of odd jobs that the freshman is quite sure to do, until, as the boys say, he tumbles to the fact that after all the junior is really making game of him. "speaking of hazing, though," said page, suddenly, "i've got a new room." "have you? where is it?" asked rattleton. "it's up high street a way, in one of the oldest houses in new haven." "good room?" asked browning. "capital! i've got to do some grinding this year and the room will suit me exactly for that, but there'll be hours when the books can be forgotten, and then you fellows'll find that the room is a corker for cards or any sort of jollification." "i don't see what that's got to do with hazing," remarked merriwell. "you said that the hazing reminded you of it." "yes, i'll tell you why, or rather i'll show you. there's something about that room that would be perfectly immense if we were sophomores now. come down and see it, will you?" "better wait a week," said browning, picking up his bags, "i'm busy now." "how extraordinary!" remarked dismal jones. "if the faculty should hear that browning was busy they'd give him a warning!" browning frowned in mock anger and frank, putting on an expression quite as solemn as dismal's own, and laying his hand on dismal's shoulder, said: "the fact is, boys, jones has become ambitious. he knows that the election of class-day officers is only a little more than a year away, and he's getting himself into training for one of the positions." "oh, go on, it isn't so!" exclaimed dismal. "that's just his modesty," continued frank, "for of course he doesn't want to push himself forward, but he's quietly waiting for his friends to recognize his great ability, and as we're his friends we just want to boom him from now on, and i take this occasion of nominating dismal jones, esquire, as class wit." rattleton burst into guffaws of laughter, while the others smiled. "the idea is humorous enough to elect him!" said diamond. "well, if he's going to be a candidate," added browning, "we must put the campaign through in proper fashion. we must organize a dismal jones club and have an emblem. "i move that we all wear crape upon our left arm and mourning bands upon our hats until the election." "great scott!" howled rattleton, "the time for mourning will be after jones is elected." jones listened to this joking with stolid good humor; never a smile lingered on his face, but his solemn eyes showed no resentment. "it's all right," he remarked when they gave him a chance to speak, "you fellows think you've got me on a long string, but i'd like to bet that if i should run for a class office, i wouldn't be last in the race! "of course," he added, hastily, "i haven't really any insane notion of doing such a thing." the students laughed again, picked up their gripsacks and prepared to separate. "say!" called page, eagerly, "what about coming down to see my room?" "oh, we've got a whole year ahead of us," growled browning. "i'll run down in the course of an hour or two," said frank. "i don't think there's anything to do at my room, and i'll be glad to learn the way to yours. what's the number?" page told him, and frank exclaimed: "why! some of the professors live there, don't they?" "pretty much the whole house," responded page, "is let out to students and instructors; i believe prof. babbitt has his room there----" "babbitt!" interrupted rattleton; "he's the most unpardonable crank in the whole faculty." "well, i shall let him alone, and i've no doubt that he will let me alone," returned page. "he's a good deal of a hermit, i'm told, and i don't think that his being in the same house will make a particle of difference to me. anyhow, there's the room and i want you fellows to see it." "i'll be down in a little while," said frank, and the others also promised to come in the course of a day or two. chapter ii. imprisoned in a chimney. frank found that there was nothing whatever in his room to demand his attention, and so, after he had unpacked his grips and put away their contents, he went down high street to call on page. the house in which page had taken a room was made of stone. its walls were very thick, the ceilings low, and everything about it made it seem like a relic of the last century. this is indeed what it was. in former days it had been the residence of one of the wealthiest men in new haven, but that was long ago; for years it had been used wholly as a lodging house. page's room was on the second floor. it was very large and cheerful. three windows looked out on the street and in each of them was a broad seat provided with heavy cushions. on the opposite side of the room there were two old-fashioned benches built against the wall. between the ends of these benches and right in the middle of that side of the room was one of the ancient chimneys of the house. it came out three or four feet into the room and gave the place an antique and interesting appearance. page had hung a lot of ornaments in the way of fencing foils, boxing gloves, baseball bats, and other materials used by students, upon this chimney. after frank had taken a general look around the room he said: "it's a nice old den, page, and i think the chimney there is the best part of it. what a pity that there isn't a fireplace. there ought to be, and it strikes me that there was at one time." saying this, he knelt down before the chimney and examined the stones of which it was made. these had been painted white. frank thought he could see a line that indicated what had once been an opening. page watched him in silence. "there certainly was a fireplace here at one time," said frank, rising, "and if i were in your place i'd have the stones cut away so that you can use it again. an open wood fire there would look immense in winter." "that's a good scheme, frank," responded page, "and it was that chimney that led me to speak of the room. i didn't know it when i hired the place, but since i've got in i've discovered that--well, i'll show you." with this he stooped over by the chimney, put his hand upon what appeared to be a little projection from one of the stones, turned it, and opened a door. within the door there was revealed an old-fashioned fireplace, deep and high. all it needed was andirons and poker to make it complete. "well, that's funny!" exclaimed frank. "isn't it?" returned page. "i got on to the thing wholly by accident. when i was hanging up some of the things there i stumbled and caught hold of that little projection for support. "the thing turned in my hand, and the first thing i knew the door was open. it opened a little hard, showing that the thing hadn't been used for a long time." "didn't the owner of the house speak of it?" "i don't think he knows anything about it." "have you told him?" "not much!" "why not?" "well, because it just struck me that such a place as this was a kind of a secret worth keeping. you can see for yourself that it was the evident intention of the person who set up this door that it should be a secret. the hinges are perfectly concealed, and it has been fitted in and the edges painted in such a way that only the closest inspection would give a fellow a suspicion that there was any opening there." at this moment there was a knock, and browning came in. "i thought you were coming next week?" exclaimed page. "well, i found i'd nothing better to do than run down here. what's that you're looking at?" the boys explained the matter to him, and in his slow way he admitted that if they were sophomores it would be quite possible to utilize this secret door in the course of hazing freshmen. "as we're not in the hazing business now," he said, "i can't see any use for the place, page, except for you to hide in when your creditors call." "huh!" retorted page, "it's my habit to keep my bills paid." "it'll make you unpopular if the fellows know that." "i was telling page," said merriwell, "that if i had the room i'd take down that door entirely, get some andirons and burn a log of wood on a winter evening." "that's a good scheme," returned browning, "but if i should do anything of that kind i should never get a stroke of work done here; this room was never meant to study in, but it's an ideal loafing place." with this he threw himself upon one of the window seats and looked out. the others took places on the other windows and for a few minutes their conversation turned upon college topics. then browning, who was a little restless, as most students are immediately after a vacation, said he would have to be going. page urged him to wait, but he shook his head. "by the way," he said, with his hand upon the door, "i've got some news." "well?" said both the others together. "i regret to say it isn't pleasant news, but it may be important to you two; it certainly is to me." "spring it!" exclaimed page. "cut the preface!" said merriwell. "babbitt has announced an examination for juniors in mathematics." "what!" merriwell and page were so surprised that they sat down suddenly. browning remained standing by the door. "it's a fact," he said. "but what can that mean?" asked merriwell. "we had our regular examination last spring." "i know we did, but babbitt's going to have another just the same." "where did you learn it?" "on the bulletin board, of course. the notice was put up not more than an hour ago." "when is it to be?" "three days from now." page looked blankly at merriwell. "i never was any good at mathematics," he said, "and after a summer without a thought of it i don't believe i could do an ordinary sum in multiplication." "well," responded frank, doubtfully, "it can't be that the examination will have any serious consequences for us fellows if we passed last spring." "there's no telling how serious babbitt may make it," said browning. "the notice on the bulletin board, of course, doesn't give any explanation, but i met frost, the fellow who graduated a couple of years ago, you know, with high honors in mathematics, and who was made instructor in one of the lower departments of that course. "i knew frost quite well when he was a student, so i asked him if he knew anything about this." "what did he say?" "he smiled a little queerly and answered that professor babbitt had his own ideas." "in other words, frost wouldn't tell?" "oh, no, that's not it; frost is a member of the faculty now, you see, and of course he has to speak very respectfully of the older men. "i got a very distinct idea that frost regarded babbitt's examination as all nonsense, but he did explain to me what babbitt's idea about it is." "that's what we want to know." "it's just this way," said browning, sitting down. "it seems our class is enlarged by the addition of quite a number of men who have graduated from or studied at other colleges. "they have applied for admission into the junior class, and there's got to be an examination for them, of course; in fact, the examination for such candidates is going on now." "that's quite a usual thing," remarked merriwell. "yes, certainly, but babbitt has declared that the examination of last spring was very unsatisfactory. he says men can't go ahead in mathematics unless what they have done before is thoroughly learned, and he proposes to find out just what sort of talent there is in our class before he begins a year's work." "he'll find out what i can't do!" groaned page. "probably he knows that already," said merriwell. "that's the substance of it, anyway," added browning. "babbitt's idea is to strike an average as to what the class can do and proceed from that." "then i shouldn't think," said merriwell, "that the examination should have any terrors for us." "you'd think," exclaimed page, "that merriwell looked at an examination as he would a plunge in the surf, just a little dip for the fun of it, and it's all over. it won't be so with me." "don't worry," responded frank, "you've got three days in which to cram." "and that's just what i'll do, i'm thinking." page dropped his chin upon his hands and looked gloomily at the floor. "i'm sorry to give you unpleasant news," said browning, rising, "but i told you i thought it was important. so long." with this he went out. "oh, well," said page, after a moment, "i'm not going to be knocked out by that! i'll just go into the examination and do as well as i can and take chances; that's what the rest of us have got to do." "that's the best way to look at it," frank answered, "and i don't think i shall bother my head with cramming for it. "if i were you, page, i'd go down to some of those second-hand stores on the street and see if you can't pick up a pair of old-fashioned andirons. you don't want to get new ones, you know, for a place like this, they wouldn't seem appropriate." "that's so," page answered, with a queer smile, "i believe i'll adopt your suggestion at once. how would you place them?" "why, just as they are placed in every other fireplace," frank answered, "one on each side; that is, if the old chimney will draw." "perhaps it won't," said page. "i hadn't thought of that," continued frank. "it may be that the place was closed up because the chimney was defective. let's see if we can find out." so saying, he knelt and entered the fireplace. once inside it was easy to stand upright, for the chimney was broad, and as he looked up he could see that it ran with a slight incline clear to the roof. "there's nothing to prevent a fire from being built here," he said, with his eyes turned upward. "such a chimney as this would draw like a furnace." page made no response. "i declare," merriwell added, "it makes me wish that winter had come so that i could see a roaring old blaze of logs here. doesn't that strike you about right?" as page made no response, he turned to look at his classmate, and then discovered that the secret door to the fireplace had been closed. with his eyes turned upward and seeing the little patch of light at the top of the chimney he had not noticed that the light from the room had been shut off. "hello, there!" he called, feeling along the wall to find the door. "i'm no freshman." there was no sound from page's room. frank found a match in his pocket and struck it. from inside it was easy enough to distinguish the outlines of the secret door that concealed the fireplace. it was not possible, however, to discover any way by which it might be opened. the latch was the kind used on doors, but strong, and with no knob on the inside. frank pushed against the door with some force. it did not yield in the least degree. "seems to me," he thought, "that page has a queer idea of fun to lock me in like this. i've a good mind to kick the door down." he thought a moment before deciding to do this, and reflected that it would hardly be a good-natured way of treating the joke. if page meant to have some fun with him by making him a prisoner, the joke would be all the more successful if merriwell should get mad about it and break open the secret door. "i think," thought frank, "that i'll get even with page for this in a way that will surprise him." his match went out just then and he began to feel in the darkness of the stones that made the chimney. they were untrimmed stones, so that the interior surface was very irregular. just above his hand, but within reach, was an iron bar crossing the chimney; it was put there to bind the walls. frank drew himself upon this and then, being in the narrow part of the chimney, was able to work his way upward by clinging with hands and feet to the rough edges of the stones. it was slow progress, but not difficult, and sure. the only question would be whether the opening at the top of the chimney would be large enough to permit of his crawling through. he had got about halfway up when he halted in his journey. he had heard voices, and he recognized both of them. he knew that he was on the level of the room above page's, and he realized that the sounds of talking came to him distinctly because there was a fireplace there that connected with this same chimney. the voices he heard were those of prof. babbitt and instructor frost. "the fact is, frost," babbitt was saying, "i'm aiming this examination at certain men in the class, and i've no hesitation in saying so. there's that fellow, merriwell, for example; i'd like to force him to do more studying." chapter iii. turning the tables. "this is growing very interesting," thought frank, bracing his knees against the stones of the chimney so that he could hold his position easily. "why, i thought that merriwell ranked high, professor?" said frost. "he's no fool," growled babbitt, "and if he would study hard i presume he might lead the class in scholarship, but as it is, he spends most of his time in athletics and skylarking." "oh, not quite so bad as that!" "yes, it is. he's naturally bright, and by a very little attention to his lessons he's able to get marks that enable him to pass along with fair standing, while most of his time is given to anything but work. it isn't right that anybody should get through yale so easily; it's bad for the rest of the students." "i have an idea," said frost, quietly, "that merriwell's example isn't regarded as a bad one by other members of the faculty." "ah, you're just as bad as the students themselves in your fondness for that scamp!" exclaimed babbitt. "he seems to fascinate everybody he meets except me." "yes, i think you're an exception." "i believe you are trying to be sarcastic, frost, but it doesn't make any difference; my mind is set on making an example of merriwell so that the other fellows in his class who follow his lead will be frightened into studying harder." "do you then mean that this examination is aimed directly at merriwell?" "not quite so strong as that. there are others, of course, but he's a natural leader, and i don't at all fancy the easy way he takes things, and then bobs up at examinations with enough knowledge to work out his papers." "i should think," suggested frost, "that that was all the professors could require of a student." "that's because you're young!" snapped babbitt. "you ought to forget that you've been a student----" "excuse me, professor, but i think just the contrary. it seems to me that the more an instructor remembers of his student days the better he will be able to get along with his classes." "all right, then, you stick to your theory, and i'll stick to mine. meantime, look at this paper; that's what i asked you to call for." "is this the examination paper that you're going to set before merriwell's class?" "yes." there was then a silence of some minutes during which probably mr. frost was studying the examination paper. at last he remarked: "well, i've looked it through." "what do you think of it?" asked babbitt. "do you want my honest opinion?" "of course i do! why else should i get you up here?" after a slight pause mr. frost said: "it seems to me that the examination is very one-sided." "eh?" "why, it is all aimed at a certain line of work, and doesn't cover anything like all the work done in the course of the year." "well, i have my reason for that!" "i supposed so." "i know that fellow merriwell's weakness; i know just where he's likely to be faulty, and if he can pass that paper he'll do better than i think he can." "why, prof. babbitt," exclaimed frost in an indignant tone, "it looks as if you were purposely trying to trip merriwell so as to get him disciplined, or dropped!" "the faculty can do with him what it likes," remarked babbitt, crossly, "when i've handed in the marks on this paper." "i must say it doesn't seem to me to be fair," said frost. "i don't care for any opinion of that kind," retorted babbitt. "then i don't see why you asked me for any at all." "well, well," and babbitt seemed to be struggling with his temper, "you and i won't dispute about it. you've got your work and i've got mine. i asked you about this paper because i thought you'd sympathize with me in my design." "i can't sympathize with you in it, prof. babbitt, and i wish if you're going to give an examination that you would give one of the usual kind, including in the questions, problems that cover the entire year's work, and so get an idea----" "the idea i want to get will come from the answers to these questions, frost." "then i suppose i couldn't persuade you to make up another paper?" "no, sir; i'm going to take this to the printer at once, and by to-morrow morning the copies will all be here in my room, where i shall keep them until the hour for the examination." "i'm sorry you told me about it," said frost. "why?" "because i think well of merriwell and the others----" "i suppose you'd like to warn them of what's coming." "prof. babbitt!" frost spoke in a loud tone; he was evidently very angry. "oh, well," exclaimed babbitt, "don't fly in a rage at that suggestion; of course i know that you won't betray any secrets of the faculty. i simply said that i supposed you'd like to warn that rascal, merriwell." "you've no right to think even as much as that!" returned frost, "but you may be very sure that whatever i wish to do i shall not expose the questions on that paper. good-day, sir." "good-day," said babbitt, and immediately afterward there was a slamming of a door. then frank heard the professor grumbling to himself, but what he said could not be made out. a little later there was the sound of a door opening and closing again. prof. babbitt had doubtless started to the printer's with the examination paper. frank then resumed his trip up the chimney. he had heard no sound from page's room, and he was just as determined as before to turn the joke upon his classmate. as he passed the level of prof. babbitt's room he saw that the fireplace of the chimney had been closed in the same way as in page's room, but in this case the door was not a secret one, and at the moment it stood partly open. this was what enabled him to hear so plainly the conversation between the instructors. when he came to the chimney top he squeezed through without much difficulty, and dropped out upon the roof. the next question was as to getting down to the street, but to an athlete like frank, there was little difficulty in that problem. new haven is often called the city of elms. there were a number of these and other trees growing about, and one of them extended its branches toward the roof of this house in such a way that frank could grasp it. he took hold of it with the idea of climbing along to the trunk of the tree, and then shinning down, but the branch bent under his weight until his feet were not more than ten feet from the ground. accordingly frank let go and came down with nothing more than a bit of a jar. he had landed in the yard beside the house, from which he saw that an alley led between buildings to an adjoining street. his hands and clothes were grimy with soot. "if i should go through high street this way," he thought, "and should meet page, he'd have the laugh on me in earnest. i'll just skip out the other way, get into my room and clean up and then give him a surprise party." accordingly frank hastened through the alley and so to his room. he met nobody on the way with whom he was acquainted, and as soon as he was in his room he washed his hands and face thoroughly and changed his clothes. "so, then," he thought in the midst of this operation, "prof. babbitt wants to make an example of me, does he, and he knows my weak points, eh?" "luckily, i know my own weak points, too, so far as mathematics is concerned, and in the next three days it strikes me that i can do a bit of grinding that will enable me to give the professor a surprise party. if my guess is right as to the kind of examples that will be put on that paper, i shouldn't wonder if i could give the other fellows a lift, too." meantime, harold page, having made his friend a prisoner in the fireplace, had gone from his room for the purpose of finding some other fellow whom he might bring back to share in the fun of frank's discomfort. as his room was at some little distance from the campus, he did not expect to find anybody on the street near it, so he started on a run in the direction of the college, for it was not his intention to keep frank a prisoner more than a few minutes. he had not gone very far before he met a classmate, whose name was mortimer ford. ford was not a very popular fellow, although it could not be said that anybody had anything special against him. he was acquainted with frank and the particular crowd that chummed with him, and sometimes took part in their doings, but on the whole he was rather outside the circle in which frank had been a leader from the start. if page had had his wish, he would have met rattleton, or browning, or diamond, or some of the others more closely associated with merriwell, for he knew that they would enjoy the trick with better humor than anybody else. when he saw ford his first impulse was to go and look up somebody else, but ford called out to him: "hello, page, how long have you been back?" "oh, i came back a week ago," page answered, "and engaged a room, got it in order, and then went away again. i came back for good this morning." "glad to see you," and ford shook hands. "what are you hurrying for?" "oh, nothing much," responded page, awkwardly. "i didn't know but you were trying to run away from that examination that old babbitt has got up," said ford. "say! that is a nasty blow, isn't it?" "it will bother a good many of us, i reckon." they were standing on the sidewalk, and while they were talking page was keeping his eyes out for some other friend. there were no other students in sight, and he began to feel a little ashamed of the small trick he had played on frank. "i guess i'll go and let him out," he thought, "ford will do as well as anybody else to see the fun." so he said aloud: "come down to my room a minute, ford; i've got something to show you." "i wish it was a case of beer," remarked ford, falling in with him and walking along, "or perhaps it's something better than that?" "it's nothing to drink, but it's something better than that, just the same." "tell you what i wish it was." "what?" "babbitt's examination paper." "great scott! why don't you wish you owned the earth?" "i do." "you might as well wish that as to think of getting hold of babbitt's paper. there isn't a secret society in yale, you know, that is closer than an examination paper. there's hardly a case on record where one has been got in advance." "oh, i know it," said ford, in a mournful tone; "of course it's hopeless to think of getting hold of the paper, and i hadn't any idea of trying to, but that's the only thing that's worrying me just now, and so i spoke of it." "merriwell doesn't seem to think the thing's going to be very serious," said page. "he wouldn't think anything was serious," answered ford. just as they were entering the house where page had his room, prof. babbitt came out. they had seen instructor frost go out and turn in another direction a moment before. the students touched their hats to the professor, wished him good-morning, and passed in. prof. babbitt grumbled a surly reply, and turned away toward the college. page wondered as he went upstairs whether frank had kicked down the secret door to the chimney. "it would be just like him," he thought. "confound him! i wouldn't much blame him if he did!" the minute he came into the room he glanced at the chimney. "it's all right," he said to himself, and he felt a little triumphant. "it isn't often a fellow can catch merriwell, and although it's a small kind of a trick, it will be something to speak of hereafter." "well, this is a snug sort of place," remarked ford, looking around the room. "the ceiling is a little low, but the window seats are broad and you've got soft cushions. i don't see anything the matter with this; where's your bedroom?" "over there," responded page, pointing to a door. "what do you think of this?" and he pointed to the chimney. "it takes up some room," was ford's comment; "but you've got plenty of that to spare." "you know what it is, don't you?" asked page. "a chimney, i suppose?" "exactly, and it follows that it's hollow." "i suppose so, unless it's been filled up." "it hasn't been filled up," said page. "when they put modern heating into the house they closed up the fireplace that was here, and i had some notion of opening it again, but i've decided not to." he spoke now in a loud tone of voice, hoping that merriwell would hear him. "why not open the fireplace?" asked ford. "because i've got a pet that i want to keep there." "a pet?" "yes. it's just the place for it----" "what is it, a big dog?" "no, though it's big enough." "queer place to keep a pet," remarked ford. "how can you get him in there?" "why, he's in there already." "what! now?" "certainly." "i don't hear anything." page was on the broad grin, and ford crossed the room out of curiosity. he struck his hand smartly on the chimney, whereat page exclaimed: "i wouldn't do that, you might frighten him." "but what in the mischief have you got there?" "i'll show you in a minute. now, then, old boy, want to see the light? does you want to come out for a little time?" page spoke soothingly as if he were addressing a small cat. "shall i let him come out?" he went on, mockingly; "shall i let him have a little taste of fresh air and sunlight, poor thing?" he listened as he spoke for some sign of merriwell and it bothered him a little that he got no reply. ford looked on in wonder. "don't be so long about it!" he exclaimed. "open up the thing if there's any way to do it, and let's see what you've got." "all right, then; don't be frightened if he should run out suddenly," answered page. he put his hand on the knob of the secret door, and threw it open; then he stepped back, smiling broadly. "there isn't anything there!" exclaimed ford. "what!" and page got down on his knees and thrust his head into the fireplace. of course he realized in an instant what had happened. he knew that merriwell must have climbed out at the top. "great scott!" he thought, "if frank should know that i brought a fellow up here to see the foolishness, how he would turn the laugh on me." "has the thing, whatever it is, vanished?" asked ford. "gone completely!" answered page in a tone of disappointment. "he must have flown out of the top of the chimney." ford got down, too, and looked up. "why, yes," he said, "if it was a bird, of course it would get out that way. you ought to have known better than to put a bird in such a place. what was it, a parrot?" "no, not exactly," said page. "i guess i won't say what it was until i've made some search for it." at this moment there was a knock at the door. page, still on his hands and knees, answered "come in." the door opened and in walked frank merriwell. chapter iv. ready for the test. page got up looking very sheepish. he expected that frank would begin to turn the laugh on him. nothing of that kind happened, for the first moment ford and frank were speaking together. they had not met since the close of the last term, and they shook hands in a friendly way, and made polite inquiries about each other's vacations. "what have you got here?" asked frank, then, stepping toward the fireplace with a queer look at page. the latter had not the nerve to answer. "i suppose it used to be a fireplace," said ford. "it looked when i came into the room just as if there was no opening into the chimney at all, but this door fits very closely." "were you trying to use the chimney as a telescope when i came in?" asked frank. "i saw you were both on your knees, looking up." "no," replied ford, "page had something in there, he won't say what it was, some kind of a pet, i believe, and it has flown out." "no wonder," remarked frank, dryly; "it would be a pretty poor kind of a pet that wouldn't fly out of a place like that." "if it was an unusual kind of a bird," suggested ford, "why don't you give notice of it to the police? it sometimes happens that they recover missing pets." "oh, i guess i won't say anything about it," responded page, blushing furiously. frank could not control his laughter, so he threw himself into a window seat, and looked out, having his back to the other two. "what are you laughing at, anyway?" asked ford. "oh, at my thoughts!" chuckled frank. "i think page ought to offer a thousand dollars or so reward for his missing pet." "you hold your tongue, merriwell," said page, "and some time or other i'll make it right with you." "are you two fellows putting up some kind of a job on me?" exclaimed ford, suspiciously. "oh, no, on my honor!" exclaimed frank, quickly. "i was just thinking of a little joke that you don't know anything about." "aren't you going to spring the joke?" "no, i'm going to keep it to myself." page looked immensely relieved, while ford, after a doubtful glance at both of them, turned his attention again to the chimney. he pushed the secret door back into place and then opened it again. "mighty funny idea, isn't it?" he said, half to himself. "certainly, nobody would ever believe that that fireplace could be opened without a pickax." "i supposed it was solid," responded page, "and got at the secret entirely by accident." "opens easy, doesn't it?" ford kept opening and shutting the door. "if this was in the olden times," he said, "when men had to hide from enemies, what a racket it would be to shut one's self in here and then climb out through the chimney." frank turned his back again to conceal his chuckle, while page answered that he thought it would be a good scheme. then he added: "i think i'll take the door down and make a fireplace of it." "and not get your bird back?" "no. hang the bird!" "well, of course, that's for you to say. as for myself, i'm going to get over to my room and look up mathematics for a while." "i shouldn't think you'd need to," said frank. "oh, a man grows rusty after three months away from the books, you know," answered ford, "and an examination always makes me nervous, anyway. so long." with this he left the room. "say, merriwell," said page, the moment the door was closed, "i don't know whether to feel obliged to you, or be as mad as a hornet." "i don't see any reason for either feeling." "well, i am obliged to you for not turning the laugh on me when you had the chance to, and i ought to be mad for your getting out in the way you did." "what should you have shut me in there for," asked frank, "if you did not expect me to use my wits?" "i just did it on impulse," page answered, "and had no intention, anyway, of keeping you there more than a few minutes." "it's all right, page, i didn't mind it a little bit. i went straight out." "i see you did." "now, see here, page," said frank, seriously, "i want to ask a favor of you." "granted." "keep that door closed during the next few days." "what, the door to the fireplace?" "h'm! h'm!" "why, yes, i'll do that, but why? i shouldn't have it open more than a minute or two at a time to show the fellows." "don't do that." "not show it to the fellows?" "not to anybody." "i said i'd grant your favor and so i will, but what in the world is on your mind?" "i'll tell you," said frank, with a little pause, "after the examination." "babbitt's examination?" "yes." "all right i suppose you've got some first-class trick you want to tell, and you haven't got time to get it in shape until the examination is over, is that it?" "that's asking too much, page. i'll tell you all about it later; meantime, it is a fact that men like you and me have got to put in some pretty hard licks if we want to pass that examination." "oh, thunder and mars!" groaned page, "i've made up my mind not to think of it. it's impossible for me to cram up on a whole year's work in three days." "it might not be necessary to." "how else can a fellow stand a chance of passing?" "well, suppose we should study just one part of the subject, and let the rest of it go?" "and then there might not be a single question on that subject, frank." "yes, and again they might all be on that subject." "it isn't likely." "but it might be so, page." "do you mean to say, frank, that you'd recommend a fellow to take a kind of gambling chance like that on an examination paper?" "well, not as a general thing, but seriously i do think it would be a good scheme this time. you see, babbitt is springing this examination unexpectedly, and everybody knows that he's got queer ideas. now i think it would be quite like him to center the whole examination on one topic." "why should he do that?" "well," answered frank, slowly, "with the idea, perhaps, of catching the fellows by surprise." "he don't need to take all that pains for me," said page, dismally; "he could floor me if his examination was made on the simplest things. if i was like ford, now----" "oh, ford doesn't need to worry, of course. he led the class in mathematics last year, didn't he?" "yes, and the year before, too. the idea of his being worried about the examination is all nonsense." "i know it is," said frank, "except that he's got his ambition up to keep at the lead; that's a natural ambition and decent, and i suppose he'll do a lot of grinding to get ready for the exam." "i'd grind, too, if i thought there'd be any use in it." "i believe there will, page, and if you don't mind following my lead, i'll tell you what subject to grind on." "do you mean to say that you're going to cram up on just one part of it?" "exactly, and what's more, if you'll agree to it, i'll come over here with my books and we'll grind together. we'll get browning, rattleton and diamond, and one or two others in our crowd, and do the job together." "it's a bully idea!" exclaimed page, "if it would only work. gee! but wouldn't it be just great if we should happen to hit on the topic that old babbitt has chosen and every one of us write a perfect paper?" "i can't think of anything that would suit me better," frank answered. "then let's try for it. it's just a chance, but i'm with you, merriwell." "all right, then, and you'll remember you're to say nothing about that fireplace, and you're not to open it until after the examination!" "i'll remember, but you won't forget to tell me what it all means?" "i'll let you into the whole business after babbitt has examined the papers." it was not a very difficult matter for frank to persuade his closest friends to join him in preparing for the examination by studying hard on one particular topic. they were so in the habit of following his lead that although they all regarded the effort in the same way that page did, that is, a gamble, they were willing to take the chances if merriwell was. frank was almost perfectly certain that it was not a gambling chance, because he remembered well enough how he had been faulty in that topic at the spring examination, and if babbitt was going to try to trip him, that was the subject surely that he would select for his purpose. three days was none too long for the boys to refresh their memories on the subject and prepare themselves well on this one topic. they started in in the middle of the afternoon and worked together under frank's direction until dinner time. he proved to be as hard a task master as babbitt himself could have been. the boys were not exactly surprised at that, for it was natural for frank to do with all his might whatever he undertook, but they joked him a good deal while at dinner about turning professor. "that's all right," frank answered, "you can have your joke. if we come out on this as i expect to, you'll be glad enough that you adopted my plan." "i must say i rather enjoy it," said diamond, frankly. "studying by one's self is dull work, but when there are half a dozen or so grinding away, somehow the time passes more quickly." in the same way they worked until late that night, and began again early the next morning. diamond offered the use of his room as a meeting place, and puss parker, who had been let into the scheme, suggested that they come to his room, too. frank said no. "we began in page's room," was the way he put it, "and we might as well work it out there." "his room is so far out of the way!" grumbled browning. "a little walk won't hurt you any," responded frank. "i'd much rather keep at it there, for i'm used to the room." so it was agreed that the grinding should continue at page's, and it did until the day of the examination. they had other duties to perform, of course, during these days, but the regular work of the college had not entirely begun, so that most of their time could be put in to preparing for their examination. they allowed none of the other students to interrupt them, and for that matter, most members of the junior class were grinding in much the same fashion. they had only one caller during the entire period. this was ford, but he did not find them at work. they were just returning to the room from dinner on the evening before the examination, when they met ford leaving the house. "ah, page, i was just up to see you." "sorry i wasn't in," page responded. "what was it, something special?" "oh, no," answered ford, a little doubtfully, with a glance at the others in the party; "let it go until some other time." "if it isn't important, then," said page, "i wish you would, for we fellows are----" "sporting your oak, are you?" "that's it exactly. we're trying to get up on mathematics and so we don't admit any callers." "all right, then," said ford, "i'm doing much the same at my own room. good luck to you." frank did not keep the boys at work late that evening. they had pretty well covered all the ground that he had chosen, and he believed that they would be better able for the test the next morning, so at ten o'clock he ordered them to their rooms, and they obeyed as readily as if they were a crew training under their captain for a race. at nine o'clock the next morning all the junior class assembled in one of the big rooms of osborn hall. prof. babbitt was there ahead of them with a number of assistants to look out for keeping the students in order and to prevent any possible attempt at cheating. the students found their places by means of slips of paper on the top of each desk. merriwell was a little amused to notice that he was placed far from the friends with whom he usually associated. "i wonder if babbitt thinks i would cheat?" he thought. there was a bundle neatly done up in brown paper on the professor's desk at the head of the room. he stood near it until all the students were in their places, each with a pad of blank paper before him, and a number of sharpened pencils. then the professor broke the string with which the bundle was tied, and calling up his assistants, handed them several papers each to distribute. they were the papers from the printer containing the fatal questions. chapter v. one of the missing papers. three or four minutes passed while the assistants were distributing some papers. then one of them approached the professor and said: "i need two more for my section, sir." "well," said the professor, looking around the room, "if you're short two, somebody must have two to spare." nobody said anything. "which of you," asked the professor of his assistants, "has two more papers than necessary." no one answered. prof. babbitt looked very savage. "i counted that bundle of papers just as soon as it came from the printers," he said, sharply, "and there was just the number called for. the printers never make a mistake, and i'm sure they haven't this time." still there was silence in the room. "gentlemen," said the professor, this time addressing the students, "see if any of you have an extra paper accidentally stuck to the one on your desk; there must be two spare papers here somewhere in the room." every student took up his paper, felt of it, shook it, but without result; the room was certainly two papers short, and two students sat, therefore, with nothing to do. the professor frowned. "i'm certain," he exclaimed, "that i made no miscount. mr. jackson," turning to one of the assistants, "count the students here." mr. jackson counted and found that there were one hundred and forty-six. "that's it," said prof. babbitt, "and i had one hundred and forty-six papers. this is very extraordinary." he glared savagely about the room, his glance resting longest upon the desk where merriwell sat. frank was already busily engaged in working out the first problem. most of the other students had already gone to work, but some of them were idly watching to see what the professor was going to do, and hoping that he would postpone the whole examination. this may have been in his mind; but if so, he thought better of it. "we shall have to go on," he said, presently. "i will write out two papers for those who are short." he did so, and in the course of a few minutes all the students were at work. frank could not help but smile when, after a rapid glance at the problems on the paper, he saw that he had hit exactly the subject chosen by the professor to floor him. the questions were all confined to the one topic which he and his friends had been studying on. "now, unless they lose their heads," he thought, "they'll all write a perfect paper." he had previously warned them not to be in a hurry during the examination. according to the custom at yale a written examination of this kind lasts for three hours, that is, three hours is the longest time during which any student is allowed to work at the problems. if he has not finished in that time, he has to stop. if, however, he should get through the paper in less time, he has the right to withdraw from the room. "now boys," frank had said, "if you find that you can work all the problems take them slowly, so that you make sure that you get them right, and then, if you get through before the time is up, hang around a while. "it might cause the professor to think queer things if he should see us get up after an hour and a half or so and walk out; he would wonder how we did it, and of course we don't want to let him suspect that we crammed on one topic." the boys understood the wisdom of this advice, and frank's only anxiety now was lest rattleton or page should get excited at the ease of the paper and write too hurriedly. the others he knew would be cool. believing that the professor would watch him more narrowly than anybody else, he made a good deal of pretense at being puzzled over his problems, and worked each one out separately on a piece of paper before transferring the problem on the paper which was to be passed in as his examination. there was nothing very unusual in this method, for most of the other students did much the same thing. the only point about it is that it was unnecessary in this case for frank to do it at all, because the problems were so familiar that he could have worked each one out at the first trial. early in the examination ford, who had a seat in the back part of the room, raised his hand. prof. babbitt saw him and nodded. the raising of the hand implied that ford wanted to ask a question. he was a favorite with prof. babbitt naturally, and so the professor gave him leave to go up to the desk and make his inquiry. ford walked down the aisle with an examination paper in his hand, and as he passed frank's desk his hand struck a little pile of blank papers that happened to be lying on the very edge, and knocked it to the floor. he stooped quickly, saying: "excuse me," in a low voice, and replaced the papers. prof. babbitt, of course, was looking that way at the moment. "you would do your work just as well, merriwell," he exclaimed, sharply, "if you didn't spread it all over your desk. your examples won't work out any easier for taking up the whole room with them." frank colored; it was unusual and extremely unpleasant to be rebuked in this way before the entire class. he had not realized that he had left his blank papers so carelessly but even at that, he knew that the rebuke was not deserved. "the professor has just as good reason," he reflected angrily, "to scold ford for being careless." there was nothing to say about it, but it made frank bitter, and all the more determined to make his paper so correct that the professor could not help giving it a perfect mark. he pushed his loose papers together in a pile squarely in the middle of the desk and resumed his work. no one heard what ford asked the professor; it was some question concerning the paper, and when the professor answered it, it was in a tone of surprise. "i should hardly think that the question was necessary," he said, "though of course i don't blame you for wanting to be careful about it." ford muttered that he wanted to be sure that the problem was correctly printed on the paper, and when the professor told him that it was, he bowed and returned to his desk. few of the students paid any attention to this matter, and those who did promptly concluded that ford was so anxious to lead the class that he got nervous and had therefore asked some question that any child could have understood. the incident was soon forgotten, and for an hour or two the students worked away at their papers in silence. the only thing that troubled frank was that he could have completed the entire paper within an hour if he had tried. as it was, he had worked out every problem except the last on his loose sheets of paper, and transferred most of them to his regular examination paper by the end of two hours. he was greatly relieved to notice that none of his best friends had left the room. a few students had gone out, probably because they were utterly unable to answer the questions. for the sake of killing time, frank had already written out the last problem on loose paper twice, and he was now at the bottom of his pile with one sheet of blank paper left. he glanced at the clock; almost an hour to spare. he finished his regular paper up to the last problem, and then, drawing the one remaining blank sheet toward him, began again to work that out. again and again he had seen prof. babbitt looking sharply at him, and more than once the professor had walked by his desk in the course of his strolling around the room. twenty minutes passed, and frank believed that it could be of no use to waste time longer, so he crumpled up the loose sheet on which he had been working in his left hand, and started to work out the problem on his regular examination paper. just then prof. babbitt turned up from around the corner of another desk, brought his hand down upon frank's left hand, and held it there. "now, then, merriwell," he exclaimed in a thundering voice, "i've got you. this will mean your expulsion from yale, sir, and nothing short of it." frank had looked up with a start of surprise at first; now he drew back and looked the professor in the eye, defiantly. "don't you say anything to me, sir," exclaimed the professor, sharply. "i hadn't thought of saying anything," responded frank, in a dignified way. "keep quiet, sir! what have you got in your hand?" "my pencils." "you're impudent, sir; i mean, of course, your other hand." frank's face turned first pale, and then red, and then pale again; all the students and assistants in the room were looking at him. he knew that the professor suspected him of some low trick, and it cut him deep to think that he should be accused in this public way. "i've got a piece of blank paper there," he said, slowly, "on which i have been working out the last problem." "oh, indeed," returned the professor, sarcastically. "a piece of blank paper, eh? you're quite sure it was a piece of blank paper?" "it was until i began to figure on it." "oh, you're quite sure of that?" "i am, sir." "and i can tell you, and i'll make an example of you to the whole class in so doing, that when you thought to conceal that paper by crumpling it up in your hand, i caught sight of the under side of it." frank made no response. he had not the slightest idea what the professor was driving at. "i tell you, i saw what it was in an instant," added the professor. "very well, sir," said frank, rather sharply, "i've nothing to say." "oh, you haven't! very well, then, what's that?" the professor pointed to the printed examination paper which lay on the desk in plain sight. "i don't intend to be treated like a schoolboy, sir," exclaimed frank, starting to rise, and making an effort to draw his hand away from the professor's. "if you have any accusation to make against me, you can lay it before the faculty, but i will not sit here to be browbeaten and insulted in this fashion." he drew his hand away, but in so doing made no effort to keep his grip on the paper that he had used for figuring. the professor snatched the paper as it was falling, smoothed it out, and held it up before the entire class. "you see, young gentlemen," he cried, "merriwell has been doing his examples on the back of one of the stolen examination papers." frank fairly gasped when he saw that this was the fact. when the professor had announced that the two papers were missing, he had looked with the utmost care all through his desk to see whether one of the missing papers had somehow got laid down there, and was certain that only one had been given to him; yet here was one of the papers, and he had been unconsciously working out an example on the back of it. "we shall lay this matter before the faculty at once," said prof. babbitt, sternly; "and meantime, merriwell, you may leave the room." chapter vi. the professor's case. frank held his head high as he walked out of the room. there was a flush upon his face, but nothing there or in his manner to indicate his real feelings. they were in truth very much confused. he was simply bewildered at the discovery of one of the examination papers on his desk. how it got there he could not imagine. his heart burned with rage at the way in which prof. babbitt accused him in the presence of all the class, and he felt, too, how hopeless it would be to clear himself in the face of this damaging evidence. expulsion would follow, unless there could be some explanation of the matter. frank knew that he could explain nothing, and the thought of the disgrace that awaited him was very hard to bear. with it all, however, there was a consciousness of absolute innocence that gave him strength to leave the room much as if nothing had happened. "my best friends will know that i am not guilty of any such conduct," he reflected, "and the rest of them may think as they like." at the outside door of the hall, he paused, in doubt as to what he should do next. knowing that babbitt, already disliking him, would insist on his expulsion, frank was inclined to go straight to his room and pack up his belongings. the event had made everything about the college extremely distasteful to him, but it was only for a moment, and then he realized how sad he would feel at having to go away from good old yale forever. "it won't do," he said to himself, emphatically. "i must make some kind of effort to clear myself; there's no hope of persuading babbitt that i'm innocent, but there must be members of the faculty who would believe me, and it would not be right to go away without trying to show them that i've been straight in this. if i should leave without making the hardest kind of a defense, everybody would be justified in believing me guilty." with this thought in mind, frank debated for a moment whether it would not be well to go straight to the office of the dean and tell him all he could about it. "that won't do," he concluded, "because prof. babbitt will report the matter to the dean at once, and if i should go there first, it would look as if i were trying to get an advantage by assuming frankness. no, the only thing to do is to go over to the room and wait there until i'm summoned; that will come soon enough, but i wish the summons were here now." frank's wish was gratified. he had just come to a decision as to what he should do, and was going down the steps of the hall when one of the instructors who had acted as an assistant at the examination came hurrying after him. "merriwell, wait a moment," he said. frank turned and touched his hat. the instructor looked worried, and his voice trembled a little as, laying his hand on frank's shoulder, he said: "merriwell, prof. babbitt has sent me to tell you to report at the dean's office as soon as the examination is over." "very well," frank responded, "i'll be there." "i hope," added the instructor, hesitatingly, as he looked earnestly into frank's eyes "that there's an explanation of this thing, merriwell." "so do i," frank responded, "but what it is, is more than i can tell now." the instructor sighed and returned to the examining room. frank saw several students approaching whom he knew and, not caring to have any conversation with them, he started away at a rapid pace. there was a full half hour to pass before the examination would come to an end. he put it in by walking about the city at such a distance from the college buildings that he was not likely to meet any acquaintances. it was a dreary walk, for all the time he suffered the thought of disgrace as well as the maddening perplexity that accompanied the discovery of the examination paper on his desk. "one might almost think," he reflected, "that babbitt had put up this job on me for the sake of squeezing me out of college, but i don't think babbitt is mean enough for that. the paper probably got there by some confounded accident. i certainly cannot account for it on any other theory." just as the city clocks were striking noon, frank entered the campus and proceeded to the dean's office. the dean gave him an inquiring glance as he entered. "prof. babbitt told me to report here at this hour," said frank, quietly. "ah!" returned the dean, "prof. babbitt is conducting an examination, i believe, which should be over at this time; doubtless he will be here in a moment. sit down, merriwell." frank took a chair in a corner of the room, and waited, while the dean kept at work at his usual affairs. fully a quarter of an hour passed before prof. babbitt came in. when he did so, he had his arms full of examination papers, and he was accompanied by a man whose face was vaguely familiar to frank, but whom he did not know by name. it was a resident of new haven whom he had seen on the street from time to time during his college career. babbitt gave frank a scowling glance and remarked: "ah! i see that with your customary nerve you're here. we will settle this matter, therefore, without delay." the dean laid down his pen and looked up in surprise. "what is the matter, prof. babbitt?" he asked. "i am compelled, dean," returned the professor, "to accuse merriwell of cheating in an examination. i hardly need say that i should not make the charge unless i had ample proof to sustain it." the dean looked over his glasses at frank in a way that showed that he was not only shocked, but vastly surprised; then he gave an inquiring glance at the man who had come in with prof. babbitt. "excuse me, dean," said the professor, "this is mr. james harding. i thought that you were acquainted with him." "i have not met mr. harding before," responded the dean, "although his face is familiar." "i'm glad to make your acquaintance, sir," said harding. the dean rose and both shook hands. then the dean hesitated a moment and said: "won't it be as well, prof. babbitt, to postpone the inquiry as to merriwell until----" "no, excuse me," interrupted the professor, "i've brought mr. harding here for a purpose. he can tell you something that has a bearing upon merriwell's case." "oh, very well. step this way, merriwell." the dean sat down, and frank advanced to a place in front of his desk. babbitt's mouth was open to talk, but the dean ignoring him, turned to frank. "this is a very grave charge to be laid against a student, merriwell," he said, "and i can't tell you how it grieves me that you should be suspected. "we have all had a high opinion of your honor. i will add frankly that i hope you can clear yourself." "thank you," responded frank, huskily. "i'll try to, for i'm absolutely innocent, but i'm afraid there's nothing else that i can say in my defense." "that can hardly be possible," responded the dean. "what are the circumstances, professor?" "why, the case is as plain as day!" exclaimed babbitt, quickly. "this examination was set as a test for the class, a special test, i may say, and on the strength of it i expected to require certain students, like merriwell and his particular friends, to go over a portion of last year's work. "i knew from the examination of last spring just where they were weak, and i drew up this paper in such a way that the students themselves would be readily convinced of their weakness and so be the more willing to study." the dean nodded to show that he understood. "now, then," continued the professor, "i had the papers printed by the college printer in the usual way, with just enough copies to go around. "i counted the papers when they were delivered at my room by the printer, and found them to be one hundred and forty-six in all. i tied the papers up in a parcel and left them in my room until this morning, when i took the parcel to osborn hall. there i opened the bundle and when the papers were distributed, it proved that two were missing." prof. babbitt paused, as if expecting the dean to make some comment. he did not do so, but looked straight ahead, and so the professor went on. "i must say that i instantly had my suspicions of merriwell, for during the past three days he has been frequently at the house where i have my room. "i kept my eyes on him during the entire examination, and i could easily see that he was not conducting himself as usual. he used up a great deal of paper and was evidently nervous. "at length i took a position back of his desk, where i could watch what he was doing without being observed. presently i saw him work out the last problem on the examination paper, and work it out correctly, too. "then, as he crumpled up the paper on which he had been figuring, i caught a glimpse of the other side of it. i pounced upon his hand and discovered that he had been figuring upon the back of one of the missing question sheets." the professor's voice had a triumphant ring when he came to the end of his little speech. there was evidently no doubt in his mind that what he had discovered would be sufficient proof to the dean of frank's crookedness. the dean pursed up his lips and looked absently up at the ceiling for a moment, and then turned to frank. "if i understand the professor correctly," he said, slowly, "you had two of the question papers on your desk instead of one?" "yes, sir," frank responded. "how did the second one get there, merriwell?" "i don't know, sir." prof. babbitt snorted contemptuously. frank flushed and glanced at him angrily, but held his tongue. "didn't the professor make any inquiries when he discovered that two papers were missing?" asked the dean. "yes, i did----" "let merriwell answer, please." "he did," said frank, "and i examined my desk, as i thought, thoroughly, to see if an extra paper had been placed there by mistake. i found none and went to work without any further thought on the matter. i worked out the problem on the back of the question paper without knowing what it was until the professor pounced on me." "and is that all you can say about it?" "everything, sir." the dean turned to prof. babbitt and said: "i can't deny that the discovery of a paper under such circumstances is very suggestive, but i take it for granted that you have some explanation of your own to offer as to how merriwell got possession of it?" "indeed i have, and that is just why i brought mr. harding here," replied babbitt. "tell the dean what you saw, mr. harding." "i suppose," said harding, "that it was simply some harmless prank of students at first, for we who live in new haven are quite accustomed to such things, don't you know." "i don't think i do," replied the dean, sharply, "for i haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." "come right to the point, mr. harding!" added babbitt. "well, sir, i live in the house next to the one occupied by prof. babbitt and some of the students. "one day i was astonished, as i happened to be looking out of my window, to see a young man climb out of the big chimney at the top of prof. babbitt's house. "he went around on the roof for a moment, looking for some way to get down, and at last caught the limb of a tree which bent under his weight until he could drop safely to the ground. "then he hurried away through an alley that led to another street. there was no doubt that he was trying to escape observation." "had you ever seen this student before?" asked the dean. "many times, though i never knew his name until now----" "i was the student," interrupted frank, quietly. "the impudence of that confession," exclaimed prof. babbitt, hotly, "is enough to drive a man crazy! the great chimney in that house, dean, hasn't been used for many years, and the fireplaces have been boarded up, but an athlete like merriwell could go up and down easily and you can see how he could effect an entrance by going into the fireplace of the room under mine, which is occupied by one of his friends, and so climbing up through the chimney to my room----" "may i ask a question?" interposed frank. "certainly," responded the dean. "mr. harding," said frank, "what day was it when you saw me climb out of the chimney on the roof?" harding was silent a moment, and then said: "i hadn't given the matter any thought until a few moments ago, when prof. babbitt met me and remarked that he was in great trouble because a student had somehow entered his room and stolen a paper. "i then told him what i had seen and he asked me to come here and tell the same thing to you. i think that this thing occurred on tuesday." "are you quite sure?" asked frank. mr. harding took some envelopes from his pocket and looked them over. "yes," he said, "i had an important letter come a few minutes after that, and i see by the postmark here that it was delivered on tuesday. i am certain that it was tuesday." "i only wish to say," said frank, turning to the dean, "that it was on tuesday that prof. babbitt took his question paper to the printer. the printed examination papers could not have been delivered before wednesday at the earliest." chapter vii. a forced confession. there was a sarcastic smile on the dean's face as he turned to prof. babbitt and asked: "that doesn't seem to justify your charge, does it?" "why--why----" stammered the professor. "at first blush perhaps it doesn't, but, don't you see, it shows that he had found the way to my room, and the fact that he was idling away his time in page's room beneath ever since, is proof enough that he was waiting his chance to go up again. "i'm sure he got the paper, for i have taken a glance at the answers given by him and his particular crew of friends, and i find that every one of them passed perfect papers, and, without cheating, not more than one of them could have answered more than one problem." "you see, merriwell," said the dean, "the circumstances point very unhappily----" "i know they do, sir," said frank, "and i feel miserable about it, but there's an explanation of how i and my friends have passed perfect papers, that i'm perfectly willing to state." "do so, then." frank thereupon related page's joke just as it happened. he told all about the conversation he had overheard between babbitt and instructor frost, and then described how he had got his friends together and led them in studying up the subject. "it may be that you call that cheating," he concluded, "but you must understand that none of us knew what problems the professor was to put upon the paper. "we only knew the general subject which he had chosen for the examination, and we set to work to make ourselves solid on that subject, and it seems that we did so." "why, yes," responded the dean, with a queer smile. "i must say that if your story is correct, the professor has nothing to complain of. he wanted to compel you to work up on points that you were weak on, and it seems you did so. "of course it was a very unusual thing for you to get the warning as to what the subject of the examination was to be, but if the professor himself gave the warning----" "who would have dreamed," exclaimed babbitt, "that a rascally student was listening in the chimney!" "tut! tut!" exclaimed the dean, "don't use harsh language, professor. i don't think the situation justifies it. according to merriwell's story, he was in the chimney without any idea of listening to you, and i think any of us who can remember our student days will admit that if we had been in the same position we would have done substantially what he did." prof. babbitt bit his lip. it was not at all pleasant for him to find that frank had a friend in the dean, who, next to the president, is the highest official in the college. "all this," he muttered, "doesn't explain the fact that two examination papers were missing!" "true," answered the dean, "and we shall have to think that over. merriwell, will you step into the next room for a short time, please?" frank obeyed, and he felt certain that he read in the dean's eyes perfect belief in his story. "it'll come out right somehow," he thought, as he closed the door upon the dean, babbitt and mr. harding. he could hear their voices in earnest conversation for fully a quarter of an hour. they were doubtless discussing the discovery of the extra paper upon merriwell's desk, and frank wondered what conclusion they would come to about it. meantime, another event was taking place that led to a solution of the mystery. one by one the students finished their work on the examination papers and left the hall; few of them went away from the door; the most gathered there talking excitedly about the accusation against merriwell. there were some who professed to believe that merriwell had been up to a sharp trick, and had actually stolen the question paper, but the great majority indignantly denied it. there are many students who would have no scruples against cheating at an examination, but few would think of descending so low as to commit theft for the purpose. frank's friends were in the majority, and very loud in their assertions as to his honorable conduct. among the first to leave the room after frank's exit was dismal jones; he stood around with his hands in his pockets saying nothing, but looking from one to the other with a very worried expression upon his solemn face. among the last to leave was mortimer ford. he walked through the group with a jaunty air, as if confident that he had come out of the examination in good order, and started for his room. jones tried to speak to him, but ford simply said: "ah, there, dismal, i hope you didn't get plucked," and continued on. dismal scowled savagely and stood for a moment looking at ford's retreating form, and then he turned about, and catching diamond by the sleeve, said: "see here, jack! i want to speak to you for a minute." "what's the matter?" returned diamond, feeling a little impatient and provoked, for his mind was full of frank's trouble, and he could not think of talking of anything else. "it's about merriwell," whispered jones, "and i want you and rattleton and browning and page to come here." he withdrew to one side, and diamond, with a mystified expression, touched rattleton on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow. "what's up, dismal?" said rattleton. "get the other fellows," replied jones. the others were soon drawn from the group of excited students, and then dismal said: "i've got the key to this whole thing, and if you fellows will help turn it, we'll get merriwell out of this scrape in less than no time." the boys were too astonished to reply, and dismal went on: "yesterday," he said, "a fellow came to me and after a lot of hemming and hawing and beating about the bush, told me that he could put me onto a way to pass babbitt's examination perfectly; he also said that i could give the same tip to my friends. "i'm not letting any tips on examinations go by, you can bet on that, and so i made him tell me what the racket was. he said he had got hold of two copies of babbitt's paper." "who was it?" exclaimed the boys, eagerly. "wait a minute," said jones. "he said the printer accidentally struck off more than was necessary, and he got the copies in that way." "what way?" "oh, i don't know, i didn't ask particularly, because"--dismal hesitated a moment--"because, well, i'm not putting up a front for being a preacher, or a goody-goody boy, but i didn't quite fancy taking part in a cheat like that, and i told him so. "besides that, i couldn't see any reasons why he should give this favor to me: he and i have never been chummy, and i don't believe that he got them from the printer, either." "well, well, who was it?" demanded rattleton, excitedly. "ford." "ford, of all men!" "yes, he was the fellow." "it's just as merriwell says," said page. "ford is crazy to lead the class, and he will take any means for getting a paper." "how is it going to help merriwell?" asked rattleton. "you fellows must get after ford," responded jones, "and make him own up. do you remember how he passed down the aisle and asked babbitt a question?" "yes." "and don't you remember merriwell's papers were knocked off his desk?" "i saw that something had happened," responded diamond, "but i sat too far away----" "well, the papers were on the floor," responded jones, "and i'd like to bet a dollar to a button that ford tucked in that extra examination paper when he picked the papers up." the boys looked seriously at one another a moment, and then two or three said together: "let's call on ford!" away they went at once, and in a few minutes were at ford's door. "come in," he said, when they knocked. one of them tried the door, but found that it was locked. "wait a minute," called ford, and they heard him crossing the room. rattleton heard the scratching of a match at the same moment. something seemed to go wrong with the key, for ford fumbled at the lock for a moment before he opened the door. "hello!" he said in a tone of surprise. "come right in." rattleton dashed past the others, and ran to the fireplace. there was no excuse for a fire in september, but a tiny blaze was there, nevertheless. rattleton put his hand upon it instantly, to beat the flame out, and stood up with a partially burned and charred fragment of paper in his hand. "what are you trying to do?" demanded ford, indignantly. "dock the loor--i mean lock the door," cried rattleton, excitedly, to browning. the latter immediately closed the door, turned the key, and stood with his back to it. "we'll settle this thing in a hurry," continued rattleton, shaking the charred paper aloft; "this is a part of babbitt's examination paper." "well, what of it?" asked ford, angrily; "why shouldn't a man burn up a piece of paper that he's got no further use for?" "because you left the paper you've been at work on with your answers in the examination room!" retorted rattleton, "and this is an extra sheet. it shows what became of the two sheets that babbitt missed." ford looked from one to another of the students and broke into a laugh. "well," he said, "i don't feel called upon to make any explanation to you fellows, but as i understand it, your particular friend, merriwell, will have a good deal to explain." "by all that's good," exclaimed diamond; wrathfully, "you'll do the explaining for him." "me?" "yes, you, you skulking hound! you had those two papers; here's dismal jones, to whom you confessed to having got hold of them. you wanted dismal to take one, hoping that he would give it away to frank and the rest of us, so that if any exposure came we'd be mixed up in it. i know your sly trick!" ford had turned very pale. he sank into a chair, shut his teeth together, and muttered: "you're doing a good deal of guesswork; but if you're trying to pick a row go right along; i'm not afraid of you." "we're not here to pick a row, ford," said page; "i'm beginning to see through the whole thing. "you're about the only one, except merriwell, who knew how the chimney in my room communicated with babbitt's, and i remember you were coming away from my room at one time when we were coming from dinner. you had been up there then to steal the papers. you managed to work one of them off on merriwell's desk to-day. rattleton there has got a part of the other." "well, see here," said ford. "what does it all mean? ever since there were colleges, students have done their best to get ahead of the faculty, and if i've succeeded, what's the harm? it isn't hurting you fellows, and no student ever tells on another." he said this with a haughty air, as if to imply that they would be beneath contempt if they should report his doings to the faculty. "we're not going to do any tell-taleing--i mean tale-telling," blustered rattleton. "we're here to make you do that." "what do you mean?" "i tell you," said browning, slowly, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes, "i'm not above telling tales in a case like this, and if you don't go straight to the dean and tell him the truth, i'll go and lay the matter before him, and what's more, master ford, i'll give you such a thumping that you'll carry the marks as long as you live." browning spoke quietly, but there was a businesslike ring in his tone that ford could not misunderstand. the others were very quiet, and they looked at ford, awaiting his answer. "you take a mighty high attitude," he muttered. "shut up," muttered browning, savagely. "i for one won't hear any argument about it; you've got to do what we say, or take the consequences. and to make certain of those consequences, i'm going to give you a licking now!" browning pulled off his coat, threw it upon the floor, and advanced upon ford. the others stood aside, their eyes glistening, and their fists fairly itching to take a share in ford's punishment. as to the latter, he retreated to a corner, and placed a chair between himself and browning. "hold on," he said, huskily. "you've got the best of me because there are so many of you----" "i propose to lick you alone!" interrupted browning. "all the same," suggested dismal jones, slowly, "when browning gets through with him, i think the rest of us will take a turn one at a time." ford was thoroughly frightened. "i give it up," he stammered. "you force me to it i'll do what you say, and i guess my standing in the class is good enough, as i never have done anything before this----" "never been caught at it," interrupted diamond, sarcastically. "don't waste any talk," said browning; "he's going with us to the dean's office now; merriwell is probably there at this minute trying to make babbitt believe in a student's honor." saying this, browning put on his coat and unlocked the door; then he turned to ford. "come along," he said. trembling like a leaf, ford crossed the room, picked up his hat from the table, and went out into the hall. the other students followed closely after. as he came to the stairway ford made a leap. in his excitement he probably hoped that he might be able to run away from these angry fellows, and possibly escape making the confession that they wished him to make. with an angry laugh they all leaped after him and caught him as he was two steps down the stairs. the result was that the whole pack of them went tumbling down the flight and landed with many a bruise in a heap at the bottom. when they got up browning had his strong hand clinched in ford's collar until the miserable rascal was almost choking. in this way he was fairly pushed across the campus, to the great astonishment of all the students who happened to be there at the time. he was marched straight up to the dean's office, where the students entered without knocking. the dean was still talking with babbitt and mr. harding. frank, in the adjoining room, wondered what all the commotion was about. the dean wondered, too, and said sharply: "gentlemen, gentlemen, what does this mean?" "it means, sir," said browning, respectfully, "that an infamous outrage has been attempted, by which an honorable student is made to suffer. ford will explain." ford did explain with many cringing appeals for mercy, and with many protests against the violence with which the students had treated him. the dean listened with growing indignation, while even babbitt was stirred to anger against his favorite student. the upshot of the matter was that babbitt withdrew his charges against frank, and even went so far as to make a sort of apology for having suspected him. ford's case went before the whole faculty at its meeting that evening, with the result that he was suspended for one year. "i never was so relieved in my life, merriwell," said the dean, as he shook frank's hand, "for if it had been proven that you had done this thing, i am afraid i should have lost all faith in students, but----" and there was a sly twinkle in his eye. "i think we shall have to recommend that prof. babbitt stuff his chimney with bricks and mortar, or else move to a new room." "he needn't fear that i shall invade the chimney again," responded frank; "i'm only too glad that the matter has turned out so that there is no doubt about me. "well," said the dean, thoughtfully, "you ought to learn some kind of a lesson out of the experience, i suppose. let's take it for granted, merriwell, that you'll give your mathematics a little more attention this year." frank, smiling, assured the dean that he would do so, and there the matter ended. at a later time page asked frank why it was that he had insisted on the fireplace being kept secret until after the examination. "because," said frank, "i had got a tip there that was too valuable to lose. if you had shown the opening to everybody, it struck me that perhaps babbitt would hear you. with his suspicious nature, he might conclude at once that we had good papers because, somehow, we got into his room and found the questions. "as it happened, you see, the showing of the fireplace resulted in even worse than i feared. it gave ford his opportunity, and one of the reasons why i insisted on studying in your room was to prevent any such thing by having your room occupied all the time. "that scheme failed, because ford watched his chance and got in while we were at dinner." "i'll have my door fitted with a combination time-lock!" exclaimed page; "he could have unlocked it as it is now with a button hook." "you'd certainly better put on a better lock if you think of keeping pets in the chim----" "oh, come off, frank! i thought i'd heard the last of that." frank laughed pleasantly, but from that time on he never mentioned the subject. "it's just as well," he said. "i think we are lucky to get out of the affair so easily." "right you are," answered browning. and then, after a pause, he continued: "got a letter this morning. important news." "of what?" asked several. "about the intercollegiate games to come off in new york. friend of mine at princeton says they are bound to beat us." "not on your life!" came in a chorus; and on the moment the affair of the examination papers was forgotten and all of the boys were talking about the contests to come off and wondering who of the yale students would take part. chapter viii. picking out a team. "one, two, drop!" at the word there was a sudden thud as four bodies fell to the ground. immediately afterward there was a creaking and a sound of straining as the four prostrate men pulled with all their might at a rope. then there were long breaths and grunts, and presently one of the four exclaimed: "i say, merriwell, i didn't suppose you were going to say 'drop' until you had counted three!" "you had no business to suppose any such thing," responded frank, seriously, and yet with a smile; "the man who gives the word in a tug of war sometimes doesn't count at all, and you've got to get used to falling at one word only." "it will be a pistol shot in new york, won't it?" "that isn't decided on. you didn't get the rope under your knee when you fell, taylor." "i know," responded the one addressed, "and that was because the word 'drop' came before i was ready for it." "look out for it next time, then. that will do for the present." at this word the four young men stood up and looked at merriwell to await his next command. they were in the gymnasium at yale. a corner of the main exercise hall had been set apart for them and screened so that their work could not be seen or interrupted by other students. four short pieces of wood had been nailed to the floor at intervals of about five feet. at each of these blocks or cleats a student stood with his hand upon a rope that was tied to a post a few feet distant from the nearest cleat. these four were stripped to the thinnest of athletic costumes, but frank, who stood by directing their work, was in his usual street clothes. he was training the four to represent the college in a tug of war that was to be one feature of some intercollegiate games to take place early in the following month. the contests were to consist of all kinds of indoor exercises, as the season for outdoor sports had come to an end. there was to be leaping, wrestling, trapeze and horizontal bar work, maneuvers on the giant swings, fencing and so on. the entries for these events were not limited to any one class; freshmen could contest as well as seniors, and as a matter of fact many ambitious fellows in the freshman class were in training for the big event. every day the wrestlers got together in the gymnasium and varied their work at the machines by wrestling with each other. the leapers, too, made daily efforts to jump a little higher or a little farther than they had the day before, while those who made specialties of tricks upon the bar and trapeze spent hours every day in perfecting themselves in their feats. the students talked of little else when they met on the campus, or in one another's rooms of an evening. four colleges were to be represented in the meet, namely: yale, harvard, cornell and princeton. the contests were to take place on neutral ground, and for this purpose the big seventh regiment armory in new york city had been engaged. the college year had hardly begun before arrangements for this athletic meeting were under way. as is usual in such matters, where the whole college is concerned, the management was given to a committee of upper classmen. there were three on this committee, jack rowland, and bed hill from the senior class, and frank from the junior. it was not frank's intention to take any active part in the contests, although he was well known throughout the college as a first-class, all-round athlete. it seemed to him better that the contests against the other colleges should be made by those who were specialists in one line or another. he talked this matter over with his particular friends shortly after the term began. "it won't seem quite right to see you out of it," protested rattleton, "for when we had our sporting trip across the continent you were always coming in at the last minute to pull victory out of defeat, no matter whether we were jumping, running, playing ball or horse racing." "that's another story," frank replied. "when we were sporting it across the continent there were only nine of us, and we were not all yale students at that. here there are several hundred healthy men to choose from. "i don't think there's much doubt that out of all the students now in college there is some one who could beat me at any one thing i might undertake to do, from wrestling to trapeze work." "but," said diamond, "if you should go into training for any one event, i think you'd come out on top." "and that's what i don't care to do!" retorted merriwell. "i'd rather be an all-round man than be able to do just one thing; i shouldn't know which to choose if i were to start in training." "but we may lose a cup in some branch of sport if you don't go in." "oh, no, i think not. besides that, there's going to be one event in which i can take a kind of share, and where perhaps i can be as useful to yale as if i were contesting." "what's that?" "the tug of war." "is there going to be a tug of war?" "yes, siree!" "who's going to be on the team?" "will it be on cleats or on the level floor?" "will it be on the ground?" these and many other questions of a similar kind were asked so rapidly that frank had no chance for a reply. at length he explained that the team had not been chosen, and that anybody might be a candidate. "the managing committee," he said, "has asked me to take charge of the training, and we're going to have trials in a corner of the gymnasium every afternoon. as soon as the team is made up, we shall get down to daily practice." it was perfectly natural that the tug of war should arouse more interest throughout the college than any of the other events. of course it was important that one or another student should be in training to meet the best wrestler or jumper from the other colleges, but the tug of war was an event in which the whole college was represented. there is never anything like a team event to arouse the enthusiasm of students. a tug of war team consists of but four men, to be sure, but at that they are supposed to be, and generally are, the strongest men in the college, and so students of all classes looked to them for holding up the glory of the college. there was another thing that made the tug of war team especially interesting at this time. for two or three years princeton had been very successful in the tug of war, whether pulling against other colleges of against outside athletic organizations. it had happened that three very strong men in a certain class had gone onto the team in their freshman year and had stayed there ever since. that was greatly to the advantage of the princeton team, for with three men on it who were perfectly used to each other, and who had had a great deal of experience, the team was not only powerful, but it made every other team afraid of it. there is a great deal more in this than those who are not athletes imagine. a team that has the reputation of always winning is apt to strike terror to the hearts of its opponents and rattle them so that they cannot do their best. princeton naturally was very proud of its tug of war team and perfectly confident of carrying off the prize for that event. this was understood not only at yale, but at harvard and cornell, and at each of these three colleges there was a determination to "down" princeton if possible. so it happened that when the managing committee at yale announced that they would examine candidates for the tug of war team, there was so much interest in it that a perfect mob of students gathered at the gymnasium eager for a place upon the rope. rowland and hill, the senior members of the committee, were inclined to dismiss the whole crowd and then quietly pick out four men according to their own judgment, but merriwell opposed this policy. "there may be perfect giants concealed in that crowd," he said, "and if there's only one, we want to discover him. give them all a trial." "but it would take weeks," exclaimed hill, "to arrange those men in teams and make them pull against each other until we could sift out the best four!" "i don't think we need to have them pull against each other to find out what they're worth," frank responded. "what other way is there?" asked rowland. "i have an idea that i can sift that crowd in a week." "well, then, you'd better try it." so it was agreed that frank should undertake to examine the candidates for the team, and to superintend its training. his plan for examining the applicants caused a good deal of amusement at first, but it proved to be remarkably effective as well as a great time saver. in a tug of war, as in many other sports, it is not only brute strength that tells, but quickness and skill. frank believed a good deal more in the head work of tugging than he did in solid muscle. "if a man can't drop right every time," he declared, "he isn't fit for the team. if he can drop right, he's got the making of a tugger." to test this he had a rope fastened securely to a post, and the candidates in squads of four took hold of this rope and dropped half a dozen times at frank's command. he gave brief explanations of what was necessary for them to do, to each squad before giving the word; then he watched the men go down, showing them where they had been in error and had them try again. it took no more than half a dozen minutes for as many trials and then another squad was brought on. in this way he easily tested from thirty to forty men an hour, and so in the course of three days had given every candidate for the team a chance. after that it was an easy matter for him to strike off the list fully three-quarters of the candidates; that left from twenty to thirty who might still be useful. these men he tried in groups of four also, but continually shifted the men from one group to another so as to find out which of them worked together to the best advantage. at length, after ten days of patient examination in this way, he had rowland and hill come behind the screen and watch the efforts of six men who had been selected as the best team workers in the whole college. the matter was discussed very frankly, not only by the members of the committee, but by the candidates themselves, for everybody was anxious that the best possible team should be selected and nobody would have been offended if he had been left off. it was decided at last that bruce browning should be the anchor of the team. he had been frank's choice almost from the start, for he was heavy and cool, and from past experience frank knew that bruce could be quick if it was necessary. it is the anchor in a tug-of-war who does the head work for the team. "i'd rather have a good anchor and three weak men," said frank, emphatically, "than three giants on the rope directed by an anchor who is either excitable or slow." everybody agreed that bruce was just the man for the yale anchor, and after a good many trials taylor, of the senior class, and jackson, of the sophomore, were assigned places on the rope; that left one vacancy. merriwell recommended that the other three men who had stood the test so far be trained equally, so that two at least could rank as substitutes in case of sickness or other difficulty. the committee and the members of the team suggested that frank himself should take the vacant place on the rope. "everybody knows you've got the muscle and the head, and with you and bruce on the rope, we'll have as perfect a team as possible." frank hesitated a little before accepting this suggestion, but he finally yielded, for without conceit he felt that he could be more useful than the others, and he had a natural eagerness to take an active part in the contest. nevertheless, he continued to direct the training of the team, using rattleton as a substitute on the rope while he stood by and gave orders. in this way he got the men so that they could fall at the word and fall right, and when this had been gained he took rattleton's place and gave over the direction of the movements of the team to the anchor. after that there was a good deal of practice in pulling at voluntary teams from among the students. it proved that there were no four students in the college who could stay on the cleats half a minute against the team that frank had selected and trained; so practice teams were made up of five, six, and sometimes eight men. the dead weight of eight men proved to be a little too much for the regular team, although the latter was never pulled off the cleats. all in all the yale students were greatly satisfied with their tug of war team, and as the time for the intercollegiate contests approached their confidence grew. they believed that they would be able to get away with princeton, and it did not seem to strike them at all that the other colleges were in it. chapter ix. hunting for a freshman. the contests were to take place on a wednesday evening. on the monday previous all the yale athletes went to new york. special permission from the faculty had to be obtained for this absence from the college, but there was no difficulty in getting that, as there is hardly a professor at yale who does not have a strong interest in athletic events. as new haven is but two hours' ride from new york, it might have been possible for the students to attend to all their duties on the wednesday, and still get to new york in time for the events, but that would never do for the contestants. nobody knows better than men who train how easy it is for an athlete to get thrown out of order by a change in diet and air. the finer the training the greater care there has to be. therefore, the managing committee for yale felt that it was absolutely necessary to give the contestants at least two whole days in new york city, in order to get used to the slight change that would result in their leaving familiar quarters in new haven. students who were not contestants in the intercollegiate sports were not allowed to leave new haven so early, and so it was a comparatively small party that went with frank and the other members of the committee to rooms that had been engaged for them in the murray hill hotel. it would probably have amused an outsider if he could have known the great care taken to prevent those students from being harmed by illness or anything else. they were grown men and able to take care of themselves ordinarily, but from the time they went into training they were like so many children in charge of a nurse. they were informed as to just what they could eat and what they must let alone. not one of them was permitted to smoke, and every one of them was required to do just so many hours of exercise of some kind every day. while they remained in new haven it was no very difficult matter to see to it that every one of the contestants obeyed the regulations of the managing committee. in new york it was not quite so easy, for the members of the committee were a good deal occupied in discussing arrangements with the committees from other colleges who were quartered at different hotels. when it happened that all the committee had to be away from the murray hill at the same time, the oversight of the yale crew was left to browning, who was the most experienced athlete among them. there was not much for him to do, for each one of the contestants had a programme of exercise laid out for him. there was to be just so much walking, and at certain hours, and the rest of the time, except for meals, was to be put in in resting. it was understood that as often as possible the entire crowd should walk together, and this they did on the first evening after their arrival. they went up fifth avenue to central park, and walked rapidly for fully an hour among its winding paths; then they returned to their hotel, had baths, and went early to bed. during the next day, tuesday, the contestants were left pretty much to themselves, as the members of the committee were away most of the time. after one of the meetings with the committees from other colleges, the yale managers, finding that a number of things had to be done, divided up the work and separated. three or four hours later rowland and frank met on the way to the hotel where their companions were staying. they reported to each other what they had done, and then fell as usual into discussing the prospects for victory. "i saw the cornell tug of war team out for a run," said rowland. "ah! what do they look like?" frank responded, without much show of interest. "beef!" said rowland. "not dangerous, then, eh?" "why, no, i presume not. they look as if they could carry you fellows around on one hand, but it seemed to me they were clumsy in their running." "i don't fear them," said frank; "i'd heard from some other fellows that cornell was counting on weight more than anything else, and as you know, i take more stock in head work." "there's this to think of, though," remarked rowland, "if a beefy team gets the fall on you by the fraction of a second, you simply can't stand it. that's the time when dead weight will tell." "the cornell beefeaters won't get the drop on yale," returned frank, quietly. "no, i guess not, and for that matter, so far as i can hear, there seems to be no doubt in anybody's mind that the real contest will be between yale and princeton." "have you seen the harvard men?" asked frank. "no, but we know all about them, don't we?" "i think so. they're a game lot, but i don't think they can stand against us. the fact is, rowland, i'm thinking more of the other events than of the tug of war just now." "so? i would have supposed you would be capable of thinking of nothing else." frank shook his head. "the tug of war doesn't worry me a little bit," he said, "but as one of the managers i should feel pretty badly if we fell down on everything else." "oh, we're not going to fall down; there are two or three events, you know, in which we are almost certain to win. the high leap, for example----" "that's just what i've been thinking of," interrupted frank. "why, are you afraid of higgins?" higgins was a member of the freshman class who had shown most unusual power in jumping, and had easily beaten all the other yale students who had tried for that event. "i hear that cornell has a man named stover," said frank, "who thinks he can beat everybody at the high jump." "yes, i've heard of him, too," rowland responded, "but what of it? higgins has broken the record in private practice----" "that doesn't make it certain that he will do as well at the armory." "no; but he's in good condition, isn't he?" "first rate." "then i wouldn't worry about him." "i'm not worrying exactly, and in any case, if our fellows do their best and we get beaten, there's nothing to complain of." at this point in their conversation the two arrived at the murray hill hotel. they went at once to the suite of rooms that had been engaged for the athletes, and found most of the contestants reading or dozing. a few were out for a walk. all the students asked eager questions as to the final arrangements and so on. after several questions had been asked and answered, rowland remarked: "there'll be hard times in princeton this winter if the orange doesn't get most of the cups." "are the princeton men offering odds?" asked browning. "not quite so strong as that, but they're putting up loads of money." "is the betting any heavier than usual?" asked frank. "perhaps not," rowland answered, "but if not i must have come across the betting crowd. it seemed as if they had begged and borrowed every dollar they could lay hold of and had brought it here to put up on the different events." "how is the betting going?" asked browning. "i didn't pay very much attention to it, but it seemed to be about even as between princeton and yale on the tug of war, and on some of the other events the princeton men were asking for odds rather than giving them. "what impressed me most was that it looked as if it was the princeton crowd that had the most money." "why," asked frank, in a surprised tone, "it wasn't the princeton contestants who were doing the betting, was it?" "no, but some of the students." "that's queer." "why?" "here it is tuesday afternoon and the princeton fellows who are going to see the contests are not due before to-morrow afternoon. it doesn't seem to me probable that the princeton faculty would let the general run of students come up here at this time any more than the yale faculty would allow our men to come." "can't help that," said rowland, "there's a raft of princeton men in town going around with orange ribbons in their buttonholes and hunting for chances to bet money against yale, harvard and cornell." frank made no response, but remained for a moment in thought, while the others continued to talk about the betting. presently frank asked where higgins and mellor were. mellor was another freshman athlete. he was a giant in stature, and one of the best wrestlers that had ever been seen at yale. there was a good deal of confidence that he would win the cup for wrestling, for from all that could be learned of the wrestlers representing the other colleges, there was no one who could compare with him in strength, and his skill seemed to be all that would be needed. "they're taking in the town," answered browning. "what!" exclaimed frank, aghast. "oh, not in any improper sense," said browning. "they're just out for a walk, and i didn't see any objection to their taking it in such a way that they could see some of the principal streets." "no, that's all right," responded frank, in a tone of relief; "when are they due back?" "in about half an hour." more than half an hour passed, and neither higgins nor mellor had shown up at that time. rowland and hill were away on some other business concerned with the management. frank was getting anxious. he could not have said exactly why, for so far as mellor and higgins were concerned, he had a good deal of respect for them, but he was fearful of accidents, as if they were little children unable to care for themselves. he did not betray his anxiety to browning or the others, but remarked after a time that he had another errand to do, and went away, leaving instructions that no contestant should leave the hotel until his return. then he went down to madison square and stood for a moment looking doubtfully at the several hotels in that vicinity. he knew that the princeton athletes had had rooms engaged at the fifth avenue, but this thought was not in his mind at the moment. "the hoffman house," he was thinking, "is one of the most celebrated hotels in new york, and a place to which all strangers like to go." as it was the time of year when days are short, it was already dark as night, although it was yet some time before the usual evening dinner hour. frank strolled across to the hoffman house, and went in at the main entrance. a number of men were in the lobby, but apparently there were no students among them. he went slowly past group after group, and turned at length to the barroom. this place was famous at that time for its remarkable collection of valuable paintings and statuary; it was often referred to jocosely as the "art gallery." every stranger in new york regarded it as one of the most interesting sights of the town. it was pretty well filled with customers when frank entered, but everything was quiet and orderly. at the farther side of the room, and partly concealed by the bar, which took up the very middle, was a group of young men just on the point of leaving by the door that opens upon twenty-fifth street. "too bad you've got to hurry," one of them remarked in a pleasant voice. "i'm overdue at the hotel already," said another, "and must get back before they become anxious about me." frank could not see the speaker, but he recognized the voice as that of higgins. "he has no business in here, confound him!" thought frank, angrily. "no one but a freshman would go into a barroom even out of curiosity, at such a time as this." he crossed the room, intending to speak to higgins and walk back to the hotel with him, and give him some earnest advice on the way. higgins was a little in advance of the group as they went out, and so frank did not catch up with him before they were all out upon the sidewalk. he noticed that all the men who had been speaking with higgins wore orange ribbons in their buttonholes, but it struck him, too, that somehow they did not look like students. he had no time to reflect upon this doubt, for just as he stepped out upon the dark street he saw one of the crowd pretend to stumble and fall rather heavily against higgins. "i beg pardon," this man said, quickly. "it's all right," higgins responded, as he staggered to the curb under the force of the shove. at that instant frank saw another in the crowd making a movement which showed that he was going to trip higgins and cause him to fall. the attempt was not made, for acting instantly upon his impulse, frank leaped from the doorway and caught the fellow a terrible blow upon the side of the face. it sent him reeling halfway across the street before he finally lost his balance and fell full length. the attack was so unexpected and sudden that most of the others in the group did not stir for a second. there was one exception to this. it was a man who had edged forward in order to make sure of tripping higgins if the first man should fail, and he was so intent upon accomplishing this that he did not stop when frank's form shot past him to attack the other. therefore when frank wheeled about to defend himself in case the others should fall upon him, he saw this man just in the act of giving higgins a violent kick upon the shins. it was all happening so quickly that at this instant higgins had just made his reply to the apology of the man who had shoved him, and was only beginning to regain his balance. the kick in the shins did the business for him. he fell upon his hands and knees, and just then frank struck out again. he was never so thoroughly aroused in his life, and his blows fell like rain upon the princeton man's face and chest. the latter would have suffered a square knockdown if he had not been standing so that he fell against his comrades. the others, recovering a little from their first astonishment, made a feeble effort to close in on frank, but it would have taken more than them to stop him then. he beat them off vigorously, striking without mercy at any one who came within reach. "cheese it, there's a cop!" exclaimed one of the party suddenly, and they all took to their heels. higgins by this time had got up and was supporting himself against a lamp-post. "can you walk?" asked frank, quickly. "i guess so," responded higgins, so surprised that he could hardly speak. frank took him by the arm and marched him back to the barroom, through which they went to the lobby, and then out by the ladies' entrance upon twenty-sixth street. the scrimmage had taken place so quickly and quietly that it had attracted no attention within the barroom, and as frank and higgins were not followed, it seemed probable that the cry of alarm about a policeman coming was false. chapter x. the finding of mellor. "now, higgins," said frank, rather sharply, as they were well out on twenty-sixth street, "what have you been up to?" "why," answered higgins, hesitatingly, for he had not yet half recovered from the surprise of the event, "nothing but swapping boasts with those princeton fellows and refusing to drink with them." "it's small business for a yale student to boast of what he can do," exclaimed frank, in disgust. higgins bit his lip and said nothing; although he was a freshman of but few months' standing, he had already learned that in athletic matters the word of a manager is law, and that a student in training would no sooner dispute his manager or trainer than a soldier would dispute an officer. "and did you refuse their drinks?" demanded frank in the same sharp tone. "on my honor, merriwell, i did. do you suppose i would take such risks just previous to----" "don't talk to me about risks," frank interrupted; "here it is only the day before the contests, and you're not back at the hotel at the time you're ordered to be." "i know that," higgins responded humbly, "and i'm sorry for it, but i didn't realize how the time was going by after i got in with those fellows. they're very pleasant chaps, and i must say that i can't understand for the life of me why it was you sailed into them so." frank was too irritated to explain for a moment. it was very seldom that he spoke as sharply as this to a comrade, and he would not have done so on this occasion if he had not been so anxious for the success of yale in every possible event. as they walked along he noticed that higgins was perfectly steady, and although there was a slight flush on his face, there was no sign that he had been drinking. the flush undoubtedly was due to mortification and excitement. "see here, higgins," said frank, at length, in a quieter tone, "don't you know that those princeton students, as you call them, were trying to disable you?" "i never dreamed of such a thing." "it's a fact." "how do you know, merriwell?" "i saw the attempt made, and for that matter you got kicked in the shins and tumbled over, didn't you?" "yes, but i supposed that was an accident of the scrimmage." "it was nothing of the kind; it was a put-up job, and if i hadn't sailed in it might have lamed you so that you couldn't jump. that was what they were after." "whew!" exclaimed higgins. "i think i'm a good yale man, if i am a freshman, and i hate princeton and all the rest of them, but, on my honor, merriwell, i didn't think that a student of any college would resort to such a low-down trick." "i don't believe it, either," said frank. "well, that----" "what made you think those fellows were students?" "why, they said they were; they gave the year of their class, which made them out to be seniors. they had big wads of money that they wanted to bet, and they got into conversation with me by asking what odds would put up on myself in the high jump." frank grunted to express his disgust, and asked: "did they talk like students?" "i thought so." "i don't believe they were," said frank, "for there was something in their manner that didn't make them seem like students, and besides that, i can't believe any more than you that princeton men would try to win out in these contests by deliberately disabling any of our fellows. "of course, i can understand how, in an exciting match like a game of football, a man's temper might get the best of him, but to try to lame a fellow in cold blood hours before the beginning of the event is a little too much for me to think of when it comes to a student, whether he's from princeton, harvard or anywhere else." "then, who were these fellows?" asked higgins. "they may be new york gamblers, for all i know," frank answered, "but in any case i think they are men not connected with princeton in any way, who are trying to make sure of their bets by disabling the leading contestants in the other colleges." "then but for you i suppose i might have been seriously lamed?" "i don't know, higgins; i'm taking no credit for what i did, but i hope you see that you made a grave mistake in not coming back to the murray hill on time." "i do, and will look out that such a thing doesn't happen again." "where's mellor?" asked frank, suddenly. "i don't know." "didn't he start out with you?" "yes, but we didn't keep together long." "where did he go?" "we separated at the corner of thirty-second street and broadway. i was for going down broadway, but he said that he wanted to see something of the tenderloin district." "the tenderloin!" exclaimed frank, with a groan. instinctively he hurried his steps. "hasn't mellor turned up yet?" asked higgins, hurrying along with him. "no, and unless he's more careful than you were there's no telling what mischief he may have got into." higgins looked as penitent as if he had been guilty of a serious crime. the flush on his face had entirely gone now, and he was quite pale. "see here," exclaimed frank, cheerfully, "you've had your scolding, so now brace up and forget it. if you feel the slightest soreness from that kick, give yourself a good rubbing when you get to the hotel, and go to bed." "aren't you coming?" asked higgins, for frank had stopped short. "no." "what shall i say to the fellows?" "nothing; or you might tell them that i met you and ordered you to the hotel; if they ask for me, you don't know where i am, and that's all there is to it." higgins nodded and went on obediently to the murray hill. frank, boiling with indignation and sore with anxiety, set off toward the corner of thirty-second street and broadway. he had no foolish idea that he would find mellor there, but as that was the last place where he had been seen, it seemed to be the most sensible point from which to begin a search for him. when he arrived at the corner he looked about a moment and then entered a hotel, and going to the telephone closet, rang up the murray hill and asked for browning. "bruce," he said, when he heard a familiar hello in the receiver at his ear, "has mellor returned?" "no, but higgins has." "all right. good-by." "hold on, frank." "well?" "are you coming back soon?" "i don't know." "rowland and hill expect you to take a run with us up the avenue this evening." "i'll be there if i can." "what are you up to, anyway?" "that's my business, old fellow; say nothing about it, but if i don't turn up, go ahead with your run without me." with this frank hung up the receiver without giving bruce any further chance to ask questions. his object in not explaining what he was about was to prevent any of the contestants from worrying. he was pretty sure that higgins would not speak of his own adventure, and he did not care to have even cool-headed browning suspect that there was anything so serious in the wind as a deliberate plot to disable yale athletes. it seemed to frank as if he had never been in so serious a situation. there had been times in his travels when one adventure or another had brought him in danger of his life, but at such times his mind was usually easy; now he was oppressed by responsibility and anxiety for others. the credit of yale depended upon the good showing at the intercollegiate games; whether they won or lost was not so much of consequence as that the yale crowd should do their best. as one of the managers, frank felt responsible for the good condition of every man in the party. he set out down sixth avenue looking to right and left and glancing in at the door of every saloon he passed. near the juncture of sixth avenue and broadway are a number of places where gamblers resort, and it was in one of these that frank half suspected and feared to find mellor. business was lively in all these places at this hour. men of all conditions were at the bar discussing all manner of sporting events. once in a while, as frank made his way through the crowded barrooms, he overheard some remark about the coming college games, but it did not seem as if the professional sports took very much interest in them, and nothing occurred to give him any clew as to mellor's whereabouts. he continued on down the avenue, running through every place he came across, until he got as far as twenty-third street. there he paused, feeling rather discouraged. it is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack to hunt for a man in new york. farther down the avenue there were other saloons, but he had already passed out of the district most frequented by gamblers. he had no other theory on which to pursue his search, and it seemed to him that it might be better to return to the hotel and let mellor turn up or not, as it might happen. a public telephone sign caught his eye across the way, and he again went over and rang up the murray hill. this time it was rowland that he asked for, and when rowland was at the 'phone frank told him briefly that he was on the hunt for mellor. "don't mention it to anybody," frank added, quickly. "have you any idea what's become of him?" asked rowland. "mighty little," answered frank. "but if he hasn't returned to the hotel yet i'll make another short trip before i give it up." mellor had not returned, and the conversation with rowland was not continued. frank retraced his steps up the avenue, but this time he did not make so careful a search as he had before; he simply glanced in at various doors and passed on. at length he turned in at thirtieth street, intending to call at a drinking resort on broadway, which was known to be popular with gamblers. he had taken but a few steps when a sound of laughter attracted him and he paused suddenly. it came from his right hand. he noticed that he was standing near the side door of a saloon which he thought he had thoroughly investigated on his downward trip. he remembered then that he had not looked in at any of the so-called private rooms at the back. this laughter evidently came from such a room, and he was quite certain that he distinguished mellor's voice. he waited a moment until the laughter ceased and then he heard this in thick accents: "shet 'em up 'gain! i c'n rasshle any man 'n nighted shtatesh, drunk er shober." it was mellor's voice, and frank's heart sank like lead. for one miserable instant he was in doubt as to what he had better do. his disgust and anger were so great that he felt like leaving mellor to his fate, for it would serve the freshman right to let him continue filling himself up and so lose all chance of making a decent appearance in the contests of the following evening. then it occurred to frank that after all there might be some little hope that mellor could pull himself together sufficiently to make a good effort. in any event he was a yale student, and as such frank felt bound to look after him; so after the slightest hesitation he entered the side door of the saloon and opened a door leading into the small room from which had come the laughter and the sound of mellor's voice. he saw the big freshman with a silly smile on his face seated at a table, holding an empty glass unsteadily in his hand, and trying to talk with three companions, each of whom wore a rosette of orange-colored ribbon upon the lapel of his coat. none of the three had been in the crowd with higgins, so far as frank could remember their faces. they did not look up when frank entered, for they supposed, as mellor himself did, that the bartender was coming in to get an order. "fill 'em up!" said mellor, stupidly, rapping his glass upon the table. "letsh have 'nother round." his eyes were bleary, and although he glanced at frank he failed to recognize him. the latter stood still for a second or two to control his indignation; before he spoke the bartender entered with a bottle of champagne, the cork of which was already drawn. "i suppose it's the same, gents?" he said, in a businesslike tone. "shame old shampaggeny water," returned mellor, holding his glass upside down. one of the men at the table reached over and righted mellor's glass, which the waiter promptly proceeded to fill. "here'sh ter good ol' yale!" stammered mellor, bringing the glass to his lips with the aid of the man who had helped him to hold it steady. frank could remain quiet no longer. he reached over the table, and with a sweep of his arm knocked the glass from mellor's hand and sent it flying against the wall, where it broke in a hundred pieces. chapter xi. a reporter's influence. the wine spattered in the face of the man who was helping mellor. the latter looked up in stupid wrath, and then it dawned on him suddenly that the interruption came from his manager. he gasped, hiccoughed, sat back in his chair and tried to rise. meanwhile the other two fellows with the orange rosettes had sprung to their feet, and were trying to push frank from the room. in this the waiter joined them, and, for a moment, therefore, merriwell had his hands full. they were lively hands, though, and in much less time than it takes to narrate it he had struck out right and left and landed stinging blows upon the faces of two of his antagonists. the bartender, who was a heavy fellow, who had probably had plenty of experience in dealing with tough customers, set down the bottle of wine and attacked frank with great fury. he made the mistake of supposing that he could hustle the intruder out by mere force, and in so doing he put up both hands to catch frank by the shoulders. this gave the athletic student a better opportunity than he could have asked for. in quick succession the bartender got two blows, one full upon the mouth, and the other on his neck. he went down on the floor with a thump, and catching at the table for support, overturned it. the bottle of wine fell upon him and drenched him. the others, who had staggered back under the force of frank's first blows, now tried to push their way out. the room was a very small one, and there was but one door. it was evident that they were not there for fighting, and had no wish to defend their drunken companion, no matter what frank's object in making the attack had been. as frank's only anxiety was in getting mellor away, he did not attempt to stop the others from going out. the rumpus attracted the attention of everybody in the main room of the saloon, and by the time the bartender had been sent to the floor a dozen or so others, most of them customers of the place, came crowding up to see what was the matter. "letsh not fight, mer'well," said mellor, with a tremendous attempt at dignity. "letsh not get mixed up in a row." he, too, tried to walk out, but the way was now barred with other bartenders who had come to the relief of their comrade. they might have fallen upon frank and beaten him badly, for they far outnumbered him, if it hadn't been that at that moment a policeman took a hand in the affair. he had been passing the side door of the saloon at the very moment when frank struck the glass from mellor's hand. he had entered at the first sound of a ruction, and had been in time to get a glimpse of frank as he struck the bartender to the floor. there was a lot of excitement and confusion for a moment, during which frank stood with his fists still clinched and his jaws shut hard together, waiting for the next turn. everybody connected with the saloon denounced him as an intruder, and the one who had made all the trouble. frank thought hastily of explaining the real situation, but he refrained from doing so, as that would surely make the whole thing public, and he did not want any such disgrace to be attached to yale's part in the intercollegiate games. so when the policeman roughly put him under arrest he submitted quietly and went to the station house. a couple of bartenders followed, dragging the almost helpless mellor with them. yale's champion wrestler at that moment was too far gone to realize fully what was taking place. he staggered along between the bartenders, protesting that there had been a "mishundershtanding," that he was a gentleman, and that as soon as the matter had been explained he would return to the saloon and "set 'em up" for everybody. frank walked in silence, feeling extreme humiliation, not for his arrest, but for the disgrace that a yale athlete was bringing upon his college. when they stood before the sergeant in the station, the policeman told briefly how he had heard a row in progress in the saloon and had got there in time to see frank doing all the fighting. the sergeant looked at the bartenders, and one of them said: "this man," pointing to mellor, "was entertaining a party of friends in the back room when the other chap came in, and without saying a word tried to clean the place out. everything was peaceable and quiet until he came in." the sergeant took up a pen, and looking at frank, asked: "what is your name?" "frank merriwell," was the quiet response. "huh!" grunted the sergeant, as he wrote the name, "i thought from your looks you would say jones of nowhere. what is your residence?" "new haven." "have you got anything to say for yourself?" "not at present." the sergeant looked surprised, and hesitated a moment before he asked a number of other questions. they were such questions as are always put to prisoners concerning their age, their reasons for being in the city, and their own account of what had happened. frank gave his age, but to the other questions refused to reply. accordingly the sergeant ordered both him and mellor to be searched, and after a vain attempt to get any information out of mellor, both were locked up. a considerable crowd had collected in the main room of the station house during this, and frank remained quietly in his cell until he felt certain that all the curiosity seekers had gone out. then he called to a doorman and asked if he might speak to the sergeant or the captain. it took a little persuasion to get permission to do this, but frank got it finally, and was taken upstairs again. the main room of the station was then deserted by all except the doorman and the sergeant. the latter looked at the young prisoner inquiringly. "i'd like to send for somebody," he said, "and will pay liberally for a messenger. you've got my money, and therefore know that i can pay any decent charge." "yes," said the sergeant, "you're well heeled. who do you want to see?" frank thereupon gave the name of a supreme court judge. the sergeant's eyes opened wide. "what do you want of him?" he asked. "he'll come down here in a hurry," frank answered, "if he knows that i'm locked up." the sergeant sat back in his chair and thought a moment. it was perfectly plain to him that frank was not intoxicated, and his whole manner was that of a gentleman. the sergeant was probably wondering whether the name merriwell might not be a false one, and whether this prisoner might not be the son of the judge mentioned. while he was wondering what he had better do about it, a young man entered the station with a businesslike air, and stepping up to the big desk, said: "good-evening, sergeant, anything going on?" then he caught sight of merriwell, and exclaimed: "great scott, merriwell, what are you doing here?" "i'm a prisoner, mr. matthews," frank responded. the young man stared at frank for just an instant, and then turning to the sergeant, said: "anybody in the captain's room?" "no," was the reply. "come in here," said matthews, taking frank by the arm and walking him across the room. when they were in the captain's room, matthews shut the door, motioned to a chair, and sat down opposite frank. "now, then," he said, "what's got into yale?" "mr. matthews," frank responded, "i hate to say that i'm sorry to see you, but a newspaper man is the last man in this whole world that i would care to tell this story to." "well, but see here, merriwell," responded matthews, earnestly, "a newspaper man isn't a born fiend, you know; i'm not likely to forget that i'm a graduate of yale, and i certainly am not going to hurry off with an item to my paper that will bring you into any disgrace. "yale graduates are getting to think a good deal of you, merriwell, and i brought you in here to see if there might not be some way to help you, not to get a sensational item." "i beg your pardon, mr. matthews," said frank, "but i had an idea that when a man became a reporter he could think of nothing but news and things to write about." "that's business," said matthews, "sure enough, but i'm an old yale man, at least i'm older than you, but i graduated only a couple of years ago, you know, so sing your song and let's see if there isn't something i can do." thereupon frank told the reporter all about his difficulty. he explained how mellor was hopelessly drunk in a cell, and how he had got arrested while making an attempt to get mellor away from his companions. "by jove!" said matthews, under his breath at last, "i don't blame you for doing what you did, merriwell, but perhaps it would have been better if you had avoided a row and simply induced mellor to go out with you." "i don't think i lose my head very often," frank responded, "but i must confess i did then. it was just maddening to see him soaking there with three scoundrels who had undoubtedly set out to get him filled up. anyhow, there's no use regretting what i did, for here i am, and next to having yale win in the contest to-morrow night, i'd rather keep this thing from becoming public." "i can fix that easily enough," said matthews, confidently. "the sergeant doesn't know that you're a yale man, and even if he should, i'll prime all the other reporters who cover this district at night, and get them to say nothing about it. you needn't worry on that score, merriwell, the only thing to do is to get you and mellor away from the station house." frank then told how he had wanted to send for the judge referred to. "he's known me since i was born," he explained, "and was an intimate friend of my father. there's no doubt that he would believe me, and i suppose his word would go with the police." "yes, it would, but it's a long way to his house, and he may not be at home. the captain will be in in two or three minutes, and we'll see if i haven't got influence with him." in less time than matthews had supposed, the captain came in. to frank's great astonishment, the reporter easily persuaded the captain to release the two students. it is not very often that a police captain has an opportunity to do a favor to a newspaper man, and when a chance does occur, he's quick to take it, for the reporters of new york newspapers can make or unmake a policeman's reputation. the only thing in the way of letting the students go was the fact that the bartenders in the saloon where the fight occurred had made a charge against frank. that was quickly fixed by the captain, who went himself to the saloon and suggested that the charge be withdrawn. of course the suggestion of the captain was enough. the bartenders were glad to withdraw the charge if he advised it. therefore frank had not been a prisoner half an hour before he and mellor, accompanied by matthews, were rolling across the city in a closed cab on their way to the murray hill. when they arrived there they used a good deal of caution about going in, for mellor was quite as stupid as he had been at first, and both matthews and merriwell were anxious to prevent anybody from becoming aware of his condition. they got him into the turkish bath there without observation, and gave an attendant a liberal fee to look after him for the night. chapter xii. on their guard. the other yale men were out for their evening run when frank was at last ready to join them. he did not try to follow them, for he had been so disturbed by the excitement of his adventure with the police, that he thought it best to rest; so when the students returned they found frank in bed, and no one disturbed him. next morning early he got rowland and hill together and explained the whole affair to them. they were indignant, mad and disgusted all together. "we'll send mellor back to new haven on the first train!" exclaimed hill. "it would serve him right," added rowland, "if the faculty should hear of this and expel him." "the faculty mustn't hear of it," said frank, decisively. "the thing i've worked for most in all of this is to prevent any sort of disgrace, and if mellor can be put into condition for making a wrestle, it'll be better for all of us that he should go into the contest." "he'll never be able to last a single round," groaned hill. "if he should go down at the first catch," said rowland, "everybody would suspect that he was out of condition, and then what would come of it?" "well, perhaps he isn't so badly off as you think," suggested frank. "he may be able to put up a good front. let's go down and see how he is." the suggestion was adopted at once, and the three went down to the turkish baths. the assistants who had been feed to look after mellor said that the student was asleep on a couch. frank and the others went to the sleeping room and stood by the couch looking at mellor in silence for a full minute. as he had been very carefully rubbed and thoroughly steamed the night before, and as he had been sleeping for many hours, he looked now quite as well as usual. the three managers looked at each other and nodded. they understood each other; it was better that mellor should be allowed to appear in the wrestling match that night, even though he was almost surely doomed to defeat. they were about to withdraw when the wrestler opened his eyes. "hello, boys," he said, suddenly, and he sat up. "how are you feeling?" asked merriwell. "bully!" replied mellor, with emphasis. then his face flushed and he looked down at the floor. "i guess you remember what has happened," remarked hill, contemptuously. "yes, i do," responded mellor. "what do you think of yourself?" asked rowland. "you're a fine man to carry yale's banner to victory, aren't you!" demanded hill, savagely. "hold on, fellows," interrupted frank; "there's no use in rubbing it in. how did it happen, mellor?" "oh, it's just my confounded foolishness," mellor replied, with a groan; "i wanted to see a little bit of city life, but i had no idea of drinking. i had heard of a place where all sorts of toughs resorted, and i went in there simply to look on." "better have stayed in the hotel," muttered hill. "go on," said merriwell. "well, there was quite a crowd there, and among them were two or three princeton students." "how do you know?" "why, i saw the orange colors that they wore, and i heard them offering bets on princeton to other men who were standing around." "did you speak to them?" "not until they spoke to me." "how did that happen?" "why, one of them caught my eye, looked at me sharply, and then asked politely if my name wasn't mellor, and if i didn't belong to yale. i felt kind of flattered at being recognized----" "it made you think you were a great man, didn't it?" exclaimed hill "oh, keep still!" said frank. "let him tell his story; this is important to all of us." mellor ground his teeth and exclaimed: "you can't make me feel any worse about this than i feel already." "we don't want you to make any confession, mellor," said frank, gently; "that isn't what we're after, for, unfortunately, i know only too well what you'd have to confess to. "the point we want to get at is, what these princeton men said, for i'm inclined to think that there's something of a conspiracy on foot to down yale and the other colleges by unfair means." mellor looked a little puzzled, but answered: "after i had admitted who i was, the fellow who spoke to me asked how i felt about the wrestling match. i told him i was all ready to meet princeton's best man, and then he asked if i was betting any money on it. i shook my head, and he said 'that's right.'" "what followed?" "oh, there were a number of polite remarks, and the crowd got around; the princeton men suggested that it would be pleasanter if we were by ourselves, and i felt that they were right. "they were so decent about it that i had no hesitation in going into a back room with them. there they asked if i was taking anything." "did you say you were taking everything that came your way?" asked hill. "no, i didn't. i told them i was in training, and could take nothing but bass' ale." "huh!" grunted hill. "did they set up a bottle?" asked rowland. "yes. it was about the dinner hour, at which time i was allowed to take ale, and i thought that it would do no harm; of course it was wrong--i admit it now, but at the time i thought a single glass of ale wouldn't hurt me, and it would be more polite to these chaps to go through the form of drinking with them. so they had a bottle of champagne, and i drank ale." mellor hesitated. "you seem to have had your head about you," remarked frank. "how did you happen to get to drinking champagne?" "i don't know," he answered, gloomily; "the ale seemed to make me half drowsy, whereas usually i don't feel any effect from it at all, and i guess i thought that a drop of wine would brace me up." "i see it all!" exclaimed frank. the others looked at him inquiringly. "knockout drops!" he said. "by jove! i bet you're right!" exclaimed rowland. "it was anything to get the yale champion fuddled and they knew well enough that he wouldn't take more than one glass of ale, so unless i'm greatly mistaken they drugged his ale and got him completely unbalanced." "it's a monstrous outrage!" cried rowland. hill looked contemptuous and said nothing. merriwell turned to mellor with the remark: "lie still a while longer and get breakfast when you want it. i'll see you in your room later, and if you think you're going to be fit, we'll have you in the contest to-night just the same." "great scott!" cried mellor, "you wouldn't bar me out of that, would you?" "we were thinking of it," said hill. "you'll have to pull yourself together, mellor," said frank, seriously, "for unless you can make a good showing we don't any of us want you to appear." mellor bowed his head upon his hands, and the others left him. as soon as they were out of hearing hill said: "perhaps it's nothing better than could be expected of a freshman, but anyhow, we've got to bring this matter to the attention of the princeton managers at once." the others agreed, and they went to the fifth avenue hotel, where they found the princeton managers at breakfast. the case was not explained to the princeton men in full, but enough was said to make them certain that yale had reason to suspect a trick on the part of men wearing princeton colors. the indignation of the princeton managers was too great for expression; one of them was so hot-headed that he wanted a row at once with merriwell for seeming to suggest that princeton men could be capable of such treacherous conduct. frank hastened to assure him that no yale man thought such a thing possible. "we think some rascals are playing off under princeton's colors," he said. the princeton managers were sure that this must be the case, for no students had accompanied them to the city excepting those who were to take part in the contests. they declared their intention of keeping their eyes open for men wearing the princeton rosettes, and promised to do everything possible to have such men arrested, if any charge could be brought against them. so there the matter had to rest. there was no doubt that the princeton men were in earnest, and that they would do what they could, but that did not seem to promise very much. the scoundrels who were anxious to make money by betting on princeton could not be arrested for simply wearing an orange rosette, and there was no way of preventing further trouble, therefore, except for yale men to hang together and take the greatest care not to put themselves in the way of strangers. it was agreed by frank and his companions that nothing should be said to the contestants about the matter, for fear that they might get nervous, and so be unfitted for doing their best in the evening's games. the day passed, therefore, very quietly for the yale athletes. they went in a body to a gymnasium and had two or three hours' practice, and in the afternoon they had a walk through central park. mellor appeared to be quite himself, except that he was silent, and that he looked solemn. the other students supposed that this was due to his anxiety about the wrestling match, and no questions were asked, although there were a few good-natured jokes about his nervousness. he took all the jokes quietly, and made no retort. nothing happened during the day to give the yale managers any new anxiety. they kept their eyes open all the time for a sight of the bogus princeton men, but failed to see them. when at last evening came, and they went up to the seventh regiment armory for the great contest, they felt that with the possible exception of mellor, everything was in as good condition as could be hoped for yale victories. chapter xiii. the wrestler. there was an immense crowd in the seventh regiment armory that evening. nearly everybody present was a friend of one or another of the colleges represented in the contests, and excitement ran high. the seating had been arranged so that yale students and their friends occupied a solid tier of seats upon the side of the hall near the center. directly across the hall, in a similar tier, were the students and friends of harvard. on the same side with yale was the cornell crowd, and directly opposite them the princeton crowd. the rest of the spectators sat as near their favorite college as they could, with the result that long before any of the games began, the building fairly roared with college cries mingled together, each crowd trying to outdo the others. it seemed as if there would be no lungs or voices left to cheer the athletes, but if any one had such a fear it must have been because he was not acquainted with students' voices. an excited yale or harvard man can give the college cry somehow when he would be unable to conduct a conversation above a whisper. the very middle of the hall was left vacant. all the contests were to take place there, and, therefore, in full view of all the spectators. the athletes had their dressing-rooms at the ends and sides of the building, and there were so many of them that each college had a number of rooms for itself. the yale managers took their men up to the armory about half an hour before the call for the first event. dressing-rooms had been picked out in advance, and the men belonging to the tug-of-war were put into one room by themselves. the yale crowd in the audience cheered frantically when they recognized their companions marching across the floor to their dressing-rooms. shortly after that the princeton men came in, and then there was a wild howling from the other side of the room. so it went on, and so it continued all through the evening, for there was hardly a moment when there was not something going on to arouse the enthusiasm of one college or another, and if by any accident there was a hitch in the proceedings, there was plenty of excited students in each faction to stand in front of the tiers of seats and lead their comrades in cheering on general principles. as there were many events, and many entries in each one, the programme was put through rapidly, and as often as possible, two or more events were being contested at the same time. the object sought for by each college was to gain as many victories, or in other words, first places, as possible, but in some events, like wrestling and fencing, where only two men could contest at a time, it was necessary to have two or three and sometimes four bouts in the same event. this was not the case in such a sport as leaping, for there all the men could compete at the same time, and one set of trials decided the matter. in wrestling it was necessary to draw lots to decide which colleges should compete first. then lots were to be cast to decide which college the winner of the first bout should wrestle with, and so on. each wrestling bout consisted of three rounds, with a short rest between each two. as three rounds at wrestling is likely to tire any but the very strongest man, the next bout was set down a full half hour later on the programme in order to give the winner time to rest. it was the same with the tugs of war. one tug was put upon the programme early in order that the winners of it might have time to recover their breath and be in condition to meet the next comers. it would be an impossible task to describe all the many events that succeeded each other rapidly that evening. every one had its interest and importance, although in the audience at large, as it had been at yale, the tug of war was watched for with the greatest anxiety and excitement. there may be space, however, to indicate the outcome of one or two minor events in which frank and his companions were especially interested. the first thing on the programme consisted of the contests in high jumping and the first bout in wrestling. the jumpers went through their work at one end of the floor, while the wrestlers struggled at the other. the drawing of lots resulted in putting mellor of yale against grant of cornell for the first try. the yale managers almost groaned aloud at this piece of ill luck. if there was anybody among the wrestlers representing the other colleges that they feared, it was this same grant. he was fully as large and muscular as mellor, and had easily downed everybody who had met him in his own college. with mellor in good condition the yale men would have believed that the chances were at least even for his victory; as it was, those who understood the case were certain that the yale freshman would be turned down quickly. of course the managers said nothing openly after the lots were drawn, but they exchanged views in private just before mellor went out to begin his work. "tough luck," remarked frank, between set teeth. "i wish we had sent him back to new haven," grumbled hill. "it's a confounded shame," exclaimed rowland, "that mellor couldn't have had a chance to meet sherman of harvard first. he could probably throw sherman even if he were still half full, and that would give him some kind of a standing, but now he'll go out there and get turned down so dead easy that everybody will laugh at yale, and the rest of our fellows will get rattled." "i don't think the rest of us will get rattled," said frank, "and perhaps mellor won't be such an easy victim as you think." "let us hope that he gets at least one fall," muttered hill. there was no time for further talk about the matter, and they went out to the main hall to see the event. at the upper end of the floor higgins was taking his first leap, but the managers paid little attention to him. they hoped he would win, but they were confident that whatever happened he would make a good showing, and they could not take their eyes from their champion wrestler. mellor was still looking as solemn as if he were at a funeral. his face was rather pale, and he sat in a chair at one side perfectly motionless until the call came to enter the ring. grant of cornell, on the other hand, was laughing and chatting with his managers, and his face was pink with health. at the call he bounded from the chair and pranced into the ring nimbly, and as the yale managers looked him over they felt worse than ever. mellor got up slowly and walked, as if he dreaded the ordeal, out to meet his adversary. "that's right, mellor," whispered frank, as the wrestler passed, "take it easy and don't get excited." mellor gave frank a grateful look. it was the only encouraging word he had received from his managers since his foolish scrape. he shook hands with grant, and then stepped quickly back to his position. it was a catch-as-catch-can match, and for an instant the two big fellows stood warily watching each other before they advanced. meantime yale and cornell were setting up a chorus of howls to encourage their respective champions. the two got together with a sudden jump that surprised everybody. it was expected that grant would take the offensive, but it seemed that mellor decided upon the same policy, for the floor fairly shook when they met and began a mighty struggle. frank's eyes glowed, and his heart seemed to rise to his throat as he watched the muscles stand out on mellor's arms and back. "there's big stuff in that fellow," he said, half aloud. "if he only had staying power," retorted hill, in disgust, "but he's wasted all that in his jag." the words were hardly out of hill's mouth before there was a heavy thud, as the two wrestlers went down; then such a roar went up as the building had not yet heard, for yale's man was on top. mellor rose quickly and ran to his dressing-room, followed by his managers, who overwhelmed him with compliments. he said nothing, but stood up to be rubbed and taken care of. "you took him completely by surprise that time, mellor," said frank. "now the next time he'll be on his guard for that, and you'll have to pursue different tactics." mellor nodded. he did not appear to be suffering from loss of breath or any sort of exhaustion, so the managers left him with his trainer to see how the jumping was getting on. they arrived upon the floor just as another terrific chorus of yale cries went up. higgins had cleared the bar after every other contestant had failed. it was a grand start for yale. one first place had been gained, and with mellor's success it looked as if another was certain. the floor was quickly cleared of the posts that had been set up for the jumpers, and the harvard and cornell tug of war teams came on for the first pull. in this, as in the wrestling, the order of the trials had been decided by lot. leaving the tug of war for the moment, we will glance at mellor's further work as a wrestler. while harvard and cornell were getting into position for their tug, he went out again to the floor for his second set-to with grant. as frank had predicted, grant was wary this time; he waited for mellor to take the offensive, and the latter was slow in doing so. they got together at last, and for a few seconds each struggled vainly to overcome the other. then they stood still, and those who were giving their especial attention to them felt the greatest excitement because the men were evidently tremendously in earnest, and very evenly matched. after a good deal of dancing about the ring, and many a vain attempt to bring on a fall, grant got in a sudden trip that brought mellor to his knees. then, exerting all his weight and force, grant crowded the yale man down until his side was on the floor. no fall could be counted until mellor's shoulders were both squarely on the floor, and, therefore, grant was crowding with all his might to prevent his antagonist from turning on his face. when a wrestler lies over on his stomach with his arms outstretched, it is almost impossible to turn him. it looked as if mellor were trying to get into this position, for then grant would be compelled to stand off and give him a chance to spring up. grant, of course, was trying to do just the reverse, for having mellor so nearly down, he did not care to give him a chance to get on his feet again. just how it was done it was hard to see, but suddenly mellor seemed to rise as if he were on a trap that rose by the force of a concealed spring. with a wonderfully quick movement he broke his hold and got a new one, and before anybody realized what his attempt meant, he had turned his antagonist over and brought grant's shoulders squarely down upon the floor. then the building shook with howls. yale had won the first bout in wrestling, and at the same instant harvard had beaten the cornell tug of war team. the yale managers were happy. it seemed now as if mellor were certain of carrying off the cup for wrestling. according to the fall of lots he was to tackle sherman of harvard next. sherman was a comparatively slender, but very wiry fellow. he was considerably under mellor's weight, and as the latter had shown unusual skill it was thought that the harvard man would prove an easy victim. so he did in the first round. mellor downed him almost as easily as he had turned down grant, but as it proved that was the end of the yale freshman's staying power. he had put all his force into the two set-tos with grant and the first with sherman; when it came to the second set-to with the latter there was a long, exciting struggle, which ended in mellor's going under. he showed his exhaustion plainly after that, and his limbs quivered when he went out for the third set-to. he struggled well, and really made a good showing, but the harvard man downed him at last, and with that defeat yale's chances for coming out ahead in the general tournament were badly damaged. nevertheless frank and the other managers felt that mellor had made so good a showing that nobody would suspect that he had disobeyed regulations and unfitted himself for making the contest. chapter xiv. a trick. as might be expected, there was a big chorus of shouting when the yale and harvard teams came out for their trial in the tug of war. matters had been running rather evenly between the four colleges; each had gained at least one first place, and there was no reason for the friends of any college to be discouraged about the general result. the harvard men seemed to be as fresh after their victory over cornell as if they had not exerted themselves. they appeared to have about the same weight as the yale crew, and were made up in much the same way; a particularly heavy man as anchor, and three lighter but evidently very muscular fellows upon the rope. it had been decided that the fall should be at a pistol shot. as there are several ways of conducting a tug of war, it will be well to explain that in intercollegiate games, when held indoors, the contestants always brace themselves upon cleats. the rope which they hold lies loose upon the floor between the two teams. at a point midway between the two sets of cleats there is a chalk mark on the floor. a ribbon is tied around the rope at the point where it crosses this mark. when the men have fallen it is their object to pull the rope away from their opponents, and so bring that ribbon further and further toward their cleats. in a closely contested match it sometimes happens that the position of the ribbon will not vary more than two or three inches during the entire tug. the time is taken, and at the end of four minutes the victory is awarded to whichever team has the ribbon upon its side of the chalk mark. in this pull with harvard, frank's training proved to be of the greatest value. he had laid the greatest stress upon the fall. when the pistol shot came the yale team dropped like one man to the general eye. it seemed as if the harvard team dropped at exactly the same instant, but when the excited spectators looked at the ribbon on the rope, they saw that it was fully six inches upon the yale side of the chalk mark. after the fall there was a silent moment of hard tugging upon each part, but the ribbon did not budge. meantime bruce was manipulating the rope that ran around his belt, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the harvard anchor opposite. "how is it, bruce?" whispered frank. "we've got 'em," muttered bruce, in reply. frank said nothing, for in the course of training he and bruce had discussed this matter so many times that frank knew well what policy the anchor would pursue. it is often said that a miss is as good as a mile, and in the case of a tug of war an inch is certainly as good as a yard. it might have been possible for the yale team by constant tugging and by occasional surprises to get the ribbon much farther over to their side, but that was not the policy that had been decided on. if the team should win, there was princeton still to be pulled, and every ounce of strength would be needed then; so, having the advantage of harvard, the boys simply held to the rope, using only enough strength to keep what they had gained. it cost them a good deal of effort to keep it. about a minute had passed since the fall, when the harvard anchor suddenly gave his men the word, and leaned far back upon the floor. it was a mighty tug. slowly but apparently surely the ribbon moved toward the harvard cleats. bruce caught the end of the rope in a knot, and muttered: "hold hard!" the boys did hold hard, but in spite of that the rope gradually slipped through their hands. "it can't last long," whispered bruce, "keep cool." a few seconds of such mighty tugging was indeed all that any team could stand, and presently the harvard men rested, having gained three or four inches. to many of the spectators it seemed now as if the ribbon was even with the chalk mark, and the harvard crew were setting tip wild cries of triumph. the yale team, however, had been lying low. bruce and his men had simply resisted the harvard tug like so much dead weight, and the instant that the yale anchor saw that the harvard team had come to rest lie exclaimed: "pull!" then the yale team gripped the rope and strained at it in earnest. their effort came like a yank, and in less than three seconds all the space that had been lost in harvard's long tug was recovered. so the contest went on to the end. harvard frequently made desperate efforts to get the ribbon on its side of the line, and each time the yale team had to lose a little ground, but each time they made a complete recovery, and at the end of four minutes the victory was with the blue. the harvard team got out of sight as quickly as possible, while the yale men went to their dressing-room, followed by the wild cheering of their friends. for the next few minutes the yale spectators paid little attention to what was going on on the floor. they busied themselves in cheering each member of their team. puss parker led the cheering. he stood in front of the yale tier and shouted: "what's the matter with browning?" an immense chorus responded: "he's all right." "nine cheers for browning," demanded parker, and then the rah-rahs came rattling forth like volleys from a battery. then parker asked what was the matter with merriwell, and so on until the others in the team had been complimented in the same way. frank was well pleased, but the complete victory was not yet won, and besides that, as manager, he had a keenness in all the other contests. so as soon as he could do so he returned to the main room and watched what was going on. the other members of the team, with the exception of bruce, also returned. the anchor, with his usual indolence, preferred to remain in his dressing-room and rest, although, to tell the truth, he did not feel the slightest fatigue. frank found nothing to be dissatisfied with, although victories for yale were not piling up as well as he could have wished. all the yale athletes had made a good showing, and there was no blame to be cast upon anybody for losing, with the possible exception of the unhappy mellor, but there proved to be good men in the other colleges, and one by one events were decided with a first place now to cornell, now to harvard, now to princeton, and so also to yale. the longer the evening grew the closer the contest seemed, and at half-past ten, when nearly all the events had been decided, it was still a matter of doubt as to which college would carry away the trophy. the tug of war between princeton and yale was set last on the programme, not because it was thought that it would settle everything, but because it was the event that created the most general interest. a good many unfinished bouts in other sports were being rapidly worked off. as it drew near to eleven o'clock harvard and cornell gradually lost their grip upon their chance for first place, and at last, when it was time for the great tug, it proved that princeton and yale scored exactly the same number of points. therefore the result of the tug would decide whether yale or princeton should carry away the tournament trophy. the thing could not have gone better for the spectators at large, but it made the students representing the two leading colleges excited and nervous. the moment the last unfinished bout was decided, frank hurried to the dressing-room, followed by the other members of the team and the managers. he halted at the door with a great start of fear. bruce lay across the threshold, his right wrist in his left hand, and glaring across the room savagely, while his jaws were shut hard together. "for heaven's sake, bruce! what's the matter?" asked frank. "i've sprained my wrist," he muttered, "and by the feeling i guess i've sprained my ankle, too!" "how did it happen?" "a dirty trick, frank, and the scoundrel who did it is somewhere in the room. i managed to get here at the door so as to grab him if he should run out, and also to prevent you from taking the same fall i did." the other members of the team and the managers were now at the spot. "be careful when you go in," said bruce. "the floor has been soaped or greased just in front of those lockers there, and it won't do for any one else to get such a fall as i've had." chapter xv. off the cleats. "did you say the fellow was still in the room?" asked frank, in a low voice. "yes, i was sitting near the door with my head down when i heard a rustling noise back of me. i supposed i was all alone, and turned about to see who had come in. i caught sight of a fellow dodging behind that middle row of lockers." "who was he?" "i don't know. never saw him before. i thought he was a thief who was going through our clothes for watches and pocketbooks, so i made a jump and went for him. right at the corner of the lockers my foot slipped and i went down full length. i could have helped myself from being hurt even at that if it hadn't been that the floor was so thoroughly greased that my hand slipped, and my whole weight came down on my right wrist. the pain was fearful for a moment, and it don't feel very good yet. i saw that it was a trick." "didn't the fellow get out?" "no. i was bound that he should be caught somehow, and as there was too much howling outside to make myself heard, i couldn't call for help. i dragged myself to the door here, and if he had made any attempt to get by i'd have held him if it killed me." "he may have got out of a window." "i think not, or i should have heard him." "we'll find out about this," said rowland, emphatically, "but meanwhile the call is on for the tug of war with princeton. can you----" the question was not completed, for browning, with a wry face, held up his right arm. his wrist was swollen to almost twice its usual size. "i couldn't pull a baby," he said, regretfully. the fellows looked blue, and hill groaned dismally. "rowland," said frank, in a quick, decisive tone, "go back into the hall and tell the committee of arrangements that our anchor is disabled, and that we shall have to have five minutes to get our substitute in order." "who in thunder can you substitute?" asked hill "rattleton." "but he never trained as anchor." "i'll put him on the rope." "who will be anchor, then?" "i will." "you!" "why not?" "you're too light, merriwell." frank shrugged his shoulders "if you can think of anybody else in the college," he said, "who is better qualified than i am to meet this emergency, bring him along." "no, no!" exclaimed the others in chorus, "you're the man, frank. this is your event, and the team may win out with you after all." "it isn't a question of winning out now," he responded, "but of taking our part in the tournament. go on, rowland, and when you've spoken to the committee, call for rattleton, and have him come here in a hurry." rowland went away, and then frank stepped over and lifted browning into a chair. "one of you fellows," he said, "find somebody to get a physician. there must be a hundred of them in the audience." there were several other students not connected with the team about the door at this time, and two or three of them started away at once. "now, then, hill," said frank, quietly, "let's see what we can do about this rascal that has tried to disable us." hill nodded and stepped into the room. "the rest of you fellows," said frank, "stay at the door and don't let anybody out." "look out for the greased spot," said bruce, warningly. hill and frank went into the middle of the room, where there was a double line of lockers extending nearly its whole length. there were two windows at the end, one of which was down slightly at the top, the other was closed. they looked up at it, and then at each other. "he hasn't gone out," said frank, confidently, in a low tone. "try all the lockers." they started down, one on each side, opening first the doors of closets in which they and their companions had placed their clothes. nothing had been disturbed there. as they went they found nothing but empty lockers, but presently frank came to one the door of which he could not open. the handle was simply a knob, and the door was held fast by a yale lock. he looked at it a moment, then, drawing back, gave the door a terrific kick squarely upon the lock. the thin wood broke at once, and another kick splintered it from top to bottom. at that instant a man dashed out, tried to push frank aside and make for the door. frank recognized him at once as one of the men he had seen with higgins at the hoffman house. "no, you don't!" he exclaimed hotly, catching the fellow by the arm and giving him a smashing blow on the side of the head. hearing the rumpus, hill came running around the corner just in time to meet the two as they were staggering along. he promptly gave the scoundrel a rattling series of blows that dropped him to the floor half stunned. "come in here," called frank, and the other students came crowding into the room. "let's kick him to death!" exclaimed one, excitedly. the students were so angry that they might have put this suggestion into execution if frank had not called a halt. "find a cord," he said, "and bind this fellow hand and foot; then we'll notify the committee of arrangements and go on with the tug of war." a cord was quickly found, and the man was tied so thoroughly that there was no possibility that he could escape. then, while frank and the others were getting ready for the tug, hill looked up the committee of arrangements and explained the situation. it may be said in passing that the matter aroused a great deal of indignation on all sides, and that an investigation was made, which resulted in showing that the man frank had captured was a common gambler, and that there were several others who had put up a great deal of money on princeton, and then taken every means they possibly could to bring about princeton's victory. he could do this only by disabling princeton's adversaries. it was found that attempts had been made to injure both harvard and cornell men as well as those from yale. two or three of the gambler's confederates were found in the hall and put under arrest, and the next morning they were taken to police court on a charge of malicious mischief, for which they were severely punished. as it was perfectly certain that no princeton man had any hand in the matter, or any knowledge of it other than had been given to the managers by the yale team, nothing was said about it at the time, for everybody was anxious that the tug of war between yale and princeton should be pulled on its merits. the master of ceremonies announced that an accident had happened to yale's anchor, and that merriwell would take his place, with rattleton as substitute on the rope. there was a good deal of dismay at this in the yale ranks, for although everybody had confidence in frank, all knew that a change in the make-up of a team at the last moment is likely to be disastrous. nevertheless, merriwell was greeted with a big cheer when he went out to the floor and wound the end of the rope around his belt. he put rattleton on the farther end of the line, and moved taylor up to his own old position. there was then a breathless moment, while both sides waited for the pistol shot. when it came, the eight men went down at the same instant. it was evident that the princeton team had observed the success of yale men in dropping, and had determined not to let them get an advantage in that way. the ribbon stood exactly at the chalk mark, and the first few seconds of violent pulling failed to budge it more than a hair's breadth in either direction. the great audience stood up and cheered as they had not done since the evening began. it was a delight to see two teams of strong young men so evenly matched in strength and skill. on the yale side there was fear in spite of the enthusiastic cheering that merriwell's weight would be against them in the end, and not a few called attention to the fact that the yale team had already pulled once, while princeton was perfectly fresh. these things were thought of, too, on the princeton side, and that made the wearers of the orange more confident. as in the former pull, there was a short period of rest after the first tug. the anchors eyed each other warily, and the men lay on the rope, crossing their legs over it, and waiting for the signal to tug again. frank saw the princeton anchor whispering to the man in front of him. "if that's a command to pull," he thought, "it's given too openly, and it's probably a dodge to throw us off our guard." it seemed to be so, for the princeton men gave one sudden yank at the rope, and then lay still. the yank did not stir the ribbon, and it did not call out any answering pulls from the yale men. many of the spectators wondered at this, and began to set up shouts to merriwell to order a pull. he remained perfectly quiet, paying no attention to the shouts around him, apparently not hearing them. in fact, he was not more than half conscious that there was anybody in the room except the three men directly in front of him and the four adversaries on the opposite team. a full minute passed, during which there was some pulling by each side, and still the ribbon remained squarely over the chalk mark. the spectators left their seats, so great was their excitement, and in spite of the efforts of the policemen who were stationed in the hall, crowded down upon the floor until they were within a few feet of the opposing teams. old men in the crowd who had graduated from college before frank and his companions were born, were quite as excited as the younger men. "don't let it be a draw, merriwell," shouted one white-whiskered man, waving his hat frantically. "princeton! princeton!" came in a big chorus from the other side of the room, as the princeton team lay closer to the floor and pulled at the rope with might and main. the muscles of their arms and shoulders stood out like whipcords and the perspiration started from their brows. they were doing their best, to say the least, to prevent a draw. it was a splendid tug; the ribbon at last began to move. it took its course slowly and by little starts and halts toward the princeton side. the palms of the yale men fairly burned as the cord slipped by. it was not much, but as before, an inch at the end of four minutes would be as good as a yard. frank's face was set in an expression of intense determination, and the perspiration stood out upon his brow, too, although he was exerting little force. inch by inch he was paying out the rope from his belt, a thing that had to be done in order to prevent his crew from being pulled to their feet. frank was waiting his opportunity; it came as he had foreseen, just at the instant when the princeton men had exerted all the force of which they were capable. he knew when this minute had arrived, not by any expression upon their faces, but by the fact that the princeton anchor hastily caught his end of the rope in a knot in order to hold the advantage that had been gained. then frank said in a tone that could not have been heard by any of the spectators: "now, boys!" on that instant the three yale men who had been lying almost on their backs, sat up, made a quick grab at the rope a few inches in front of where they had been holding it before, and then strained back suddenly, and with all the force that they could muster. the princeton anchor, who had supposed that the yale men were exhausted also, was taken completely by surprise. he had knotted his rope and could not pay it out as the opposing tug came; the result was that while there was yet a full minute to spare, the princeton team stood up suddenly, pulled squarely off the cleats by the victorious sons of yale. the shouting changed on the instant; there had been a wild, triumphant howling on the princeton side because the ribbon had gone fully fifteen inches beyond the chalk mark. now it traveled so rapidly toward the yale side that there was no measuring the distance; that did not matter anyway, for when a team is pulled squarely off the cleats, the tug is done. frank, therefore, had the double satisfaction of seeing his college win the general trophy and of meeting successfully a serious emergency that had occurred in the special sport which he had undertaken to manage. it was a great evening for yale, and one that all men who were students in the college at that time will never forget. "i tell you, i wouldn't have missed it for a good deal," said rattleton, when they were on their way to yale, the day following. "it's too bad browning was hurt," answered frank. "it's not serious," said the big fellow. "it will soon be all right, so the doctor says." and this proved to be true. inside of ten days his wrist was as well as ever. "another contest is on hand," said rattleton, one morning to frank. "do you know we are up for admission to the pi gamma society?" "yes," answered frank. "we'll catch it hot soon--when they initiate us." "oh, i reckon we can stand it," came from frank, with a quiet smile. he did not dream of all that was in store for them. chapter xvi. black marks. there were about twenty students in a room that would comfortably hold six; four of them, looking very solemn, were arranged along one side of the room with their backs to the wall; the others were seated on such chairs as there were or upon the floor. the study table in the middle of the room had been cleared of books, and a covering of newspapers had been put on top of it. the air was thick with smoke from pipes, cigars and cigarettes. the four who stood with their backs against the wall were not adding anything to the fumes; they were the only ones present who were not smoking. every window was down and the transom was closed. it is the theory among students that the smoker can stand a thick atmosphere, but that if one is not smoking it soon becomes very disagreeable to him. one would have said that this theory was correct if he had taken but a glance into the room, for the four solemn persons looked far from well, while the others were evidently enjoying themselves to the utmost. each one of the others had something in his hand besides his pipe or cigar; two or three had brooms, some horsewhips, some baseball bats, some canes, others umbrellas, and so on. the one who was apparently the leader had an iron poker. "who is the next neophyte who wishes to become acquainted with the mysteries of pi gamma?" he asked. "it's merriwell's turn next," answered one of the others. "very well, then, fetch him in." at the mention of merriwell's name the four solemn students against the wall glanced at each other. "hi, there! hi, there!" called several voices. "no talking to each other!" all the other students turned furiously upon the solemn four and glared fiercely. one of the four opened his lips as if to say something, then thought better of it, and shut them again. "if you want to make a link in the mystic chain of the pi gamma," exclaimed the leader, sternly, "you'd better keep your mouth shut!" the student thus addressed looked as if he was aching to say that he had not said anything, but his eyes simply wavered and otherwise he remained perfectly still. "i guess they'll behave themselves," declared the leader. "go out and bring in merriwell." frank was about to take his first step in the long and trying initiation into the secret society known as the pi gamma. these are the two greek letters standing for p and g, respectively. what they mean is known only to the members of the order, but the society is generally known by an abbreviation of its initials. in this way, with the characteristic humor of college students, the order of pi gamma is generally known as the "pig." so, too, members of the order are sometimes referred to as "pigs." no one is supposed to take any offense at this, for, on the contrary, it is a mark of honor to be a member of the order, and if a man can say after he has graduated that he belonged to the "pig," he makes it known that his social standing was very high. no one can become a member of this society until he has reached the junior year; then students are elected from the junior class by the members of the senior class in blocks of five. the initiation of each block of five covers a period of one week. the juniors elected at the same time with frank were harry rattleton, jack diamond, bartley hodge, and john henderson. it was these four who formed the quartet of silent students with their backs to the wall. they had received their notification of election on the evening before, and with it certain instructions. from that moment until the end of the initiation the neophyte was forbidden to laugh, or to speak aloud unless addressed by a "pig" in good standing or a member of the faculty. if he was spoken to by one of his companions, not a member of the order, the neophyte was not to answer. he was to attend strictly to all his college duties, and whenever he set foot upon the campus, he was to run at full speed and not stop running until he had left the college grounds. he was to do without question anything commanded of him by any member of the pi gamma during the week. in frank's case this last rule had been put to the test at once by commanding him to go to a well-known store in the city and buy one match and one toothpick and bring the articles to the student who asked for them. frank had complied promptly. he went into this thing, as he did into everything, in a good-natured but businesslike way. he knew that it was the custom for students to be put in embarrassing situations during the initiation, and he made up his mind to stand his share of it without grumbling. besides the rules already noted, each of the neophytes was told to write an essay upon a given subject and have it ready for reading on the following evening when the senior members of the society would meet the neophytes in baker's room. baker was the president of the "pig," and it was he who held the poker during the deliberations. the neophytes had assembled promptly, and then had been conducted to the room of a senior named rowe, from which they were called one by one to read their essays. frank's turn had come last, because there was so much respect for his nerve that the students wanted to give him a particularly hard test, and they believed it would be more effective if they made him wait until toward the end of the evening. accordingly, rattleton and the others had been through with their essay reading before frank was summoned. a couple of seniors went out after baker gave the order, and presently returned with merriwell. the latter looked as unconcerned as if he were attending an ordinary recitation. he coughed a little as he entered the smoky room, and then said, "good-evening, gentlemen," in his pleasantest tone. "ah, ah! put down one black mark," exclaimed baker, severely. frank looked surprised. he had been told when notified of his election that black marks would be entered against the name of every candidate for every disobedience of the rules, and that if a neophyte got as many as ten black marks he would not be permitted to become a member. "the neophyte has evidently forgotten the rule about speaking aloud," remarked baker. every one of the seniors present took out a little memorandum and made a mark against merriwell's name. frank had really forgotten the rule for the moment, and his lips parted to say, "beg pardon," or something of that kind, when it occurred to him that that would bring him another black mark. in fact, the instant his mouth opened, out came the memorandum books, but he shut his lips hard together, and the books went back into the students' pockets. "we will begin with a little music," remarked baker. "neophyte rattleton, come forward." rattleton at once stepped up and stood in front of frank. their eyes met, but each kept his face steady. "neophyte merriwell," continued baker, placing his hand upon rattleton's shoulder, "this is a bass viol. this is your bow," and he handed him an umbrella. "we want you to play mendelssohn's wedding march." frank took the umbrella and looked from rattleton to baker in amazement. "play, neophyte," thundered baker. frank was not certain whether he caught the idea or not, but after a little further hesitation, he took rattleton by the shoulder and moved the umbrella back and forth across that young man's stomach two or three times. "we don't hear any music!" bawled the seniors in chorus. "give him a black mark, then!" commanded baker. out came the memorandum books, and down went another black mark against frank's name. "whew!" he thought, "this won't do! i must be slow or stupid; if i don't catch on pretty soon i'll get more black marks against me than i can stand." "give us something that we can hear!" roared the seniors. the three juniors who had been through it and who were still standing with their backs against the wall, were having a particularly hard time of it just now. their lips were twitching with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. frank caught rattleton again by the shoulder and again sawed the umbrella back and forth across his stomach, at the same time grunting in a wheezy way to imitate the sounds of a bass fiddle. "you're out of tune!" cried one of the seniors. "play louder!" shouted another. "he's playing on the open strings all the time!" exclaimed a third. "make him move his fingers, won't you?" frank caught this idea at once, and, throwing his left arm around rattleton's shoulders, he moved his fingers up and down on rattleton's chest as if he were touching the strings of an instrument. meantime he kept up his grunting and humming as loud as he knew how. the seniors roared with merriment. rattleton was shaking with laughter, and the three solemn juniors against the wall looked as if they would explode. frank was perspiring in the effort to do the thing as ridiculously as he knew how, and yet keep his face straight. "oh, but look here!" cried baker, suddenly, "this won't do!" he took out his memorandum book, and all the students followed suit. frank stopped fiddling. "keep on until i tell you to stop!" cried baker. "that's a black mark, anyway." in despair of ever doing anything right, frank began to saw away again for dear life. "i call your attention," shouted baker, above the uproar, "to the fact that this neophyte is making loud sounds with his voice." "that must be a black mark, then!" declared the other seniors, taking out their books. frank wanted to protest that he had been told to make a noise, and that he could not very well obey one rule without breaking the other, but he thought it best to keep quiet. he learned later that the complaint against his making a loud noise was made for the very purpose of causing him to protest, for that would have brought another black mark against him. as he kept his mouth firmly closed the seniors failed to catch him there, but they put a black mark down nevertheless, so that within the first five minutes of his initiation frank had had four points scored against him. chapter xvii. the test of nerve. frank felt really worried about it, although it did seem to him that the marking was absurdly unfair. "these fellows haven't any reason to complain of a professor's marking of examination papers," he thought, "if this is the way they treat a fellow student." "it's nearly time for the test of nerve," remarked baker, "and we'd better have the essay read before this neophyte gets so many black marks that his case will be hopeless. get up on that table, merriwell." frank started to climb up on the table, but as soon as his knee was upon it a half dozen of the seniors yanked the table from under him and he fell to the floor. there was a great roar of laughter at this, but merriwell kept his face straight and did not so much as grunt. "no black mark that time!" he thought. "i told you to get on the table!" roared baker. frank obeyed this time by making a sudden jump that brought him squarely upon the center of the table before it could possibly be yanked from under him. there was a roar of applause at this, and the students gathered around to listen to the essay. frank took his manuscript from his pocket. "what was the subject you were told to write on?" asked baker. frank looked at the paper and read: "why is a hen?" the four other juniors exchanged winks; each one of them had been told to write upon the same topic. just then there was a knock at the door, and, after a moment, bruce browning was admitted. browning was already a member of the order, although he was a classmate of frank's. he had become so by being dropped at the end of his freshman year, as already related in this series of stories. when that happens a popular student keeps up his society relations with his former classmates, so that bruce, although he was a junior in the standing of scholarship, was a senior when it came to society matters. the fact that he was still a classmate of merriwell's had led him to decide that he would take no part in the initiation. the students, therefore, were surprised to see him enter. "i thought you weren't to be here!" exclaimed baker. "i wasn't," browning answered, "but i've got something important to say to you." he spoke in such a serious tone that baker at once went over to him, and after a few whispered words they shut themselves into baker's bedroom, which adjoined the study. "you remember miller?" asked browning. "you mean the tough customer that sells cigars?" "yes." "i do remember him; what of him?" "he's got a grudge against merriwell. i think frank at some time or other interfered in some dirty work he was up to, and so he's laying for frank." "well, what of it?" "he's heard that frank has been elected to the 'pig,' and he declares that he'll take advantage of the initiation to raise hob with him." "huh!" "i thought i ought to let you know about it." "well, yes, but i don't see what miller can do." "nor i, either, but it'll be just as well to be on your guard, you know." "all right, and we'll try and look out for it." "how's merriwell getting on?" asked browning. baker grinned. "he's standing it like a man," was the reply, "just as we supposed he would, but he'll get black marks enough to sink a ship before the night's over." browning chuckled. "i'll bet he takes those black marks seriously," he said. "well, why shouldn't he?" returned baker. "it's the last time we'll get the chance to roast a good fellow like merriwell, and we're going to make it hot for him, i tell you." "go ahead, he'll stand it," said bruce. having delivered his message of warning, bruce left the room. then baker returned and ordered frank to begin his essay. "speak up loud and clear," he said, "for when you're told to talk, we expect you to talk." frank unfolded his manuscript and began to read: "the problem of the hen is one of the most interesting subjects in ornithology." "hi! hi! hi!" yelled the seniors, rapping the floor with their clubs, umbrellas, brooms and so on. "it seems to me very appropriate," continued frank, reading from his paper, "that this subject should be discussed by a 'pig'----" this word was a signal for the most terrific uproar that the room had yet witnessed. all the seniors made a dash at frank with their clubs, brooms, umbrellas and so forth, raised in the air. they brought them down in great whacks upon the table; he stood as still as a statue. if he had attempted to dodge he would certainly have been hit. "the idea of a neophyte using that word!" they cried. "give him a black mark!" accordingly, the memorandum books came out and down went another black mark. it then flashed upon frank that it must be a rule of this order that no neophyte should refer to it as the "pig," and unhappily in his essay he had done so a dozen times or more. he quickly decided to pretend to read, but really to speak offhand and so avoid using the troublesome word, but there came another knock at the door. this time it was prof. adler, whose room was in the building, and who called to protest against so much noise. "you see what it is, professor," said baker, throwing the door wide open. "you were once a 'pig' yourself, i believe." "yes, i was," the professor answered, trying hard to repress a smile as he looked at merriwell and the four solemn juniors, "but really it's getting late, gentlemen, and i think you ought to take your initiation elsewhere." "well, perhaps we have gone far enough at this stage," said baker. "at any rate, professor, we won't trouble you any more to-night." "i hope you won't," said the good-humored professor, "for i should hate to report you." with that he went away, and the next stage in the initiation began immediately. each of the five neophytes was blindfolded with a towel tied around his head; his hands were then bound behind his back, and a long cord attached to them; then they were sternly ordered to remember the rule of obedience. "if you obey you'll come to no harm," said baker, earnestly, "but the slightest act of disobedience may run you into serious trouble." when the blindfolding and binding had been completed the neophytes were taken out to the campus and so to the street; there three or four seniors went with each neophyte in different directions about the city. the seniors kept hold of the rope and walked several yards behind the neophyte, telling him when to turn to the right or the left. in this way frank was made to pass close to moving wagons, and to go to the very edge of embankments where if he had taken another step he would have had an unpleasant fall. for more than an hour he was kept moving about in this way, completely baffling the efforts of the seniors to rattle him. he did everything they told him promptly, and never a word escaped his lips. he had made up his mind that come what would he would not get another black mark. at last as he was crossing a street he was told to halt. he did so, feeling under his feet at the moment the rail of a street car track. then his "mentors," as his companions were called, gathered around him, threw the loose end of the rope over his shoulders and told him to stay where he was. "remember, neophyte," said one of them, slowly, "the command is to stand still, no matter what happens." frank made no response, but it was evident that he understood them. a moment later the mentors went away, where, or how far, frank could only guess. it was late in the evening, and the street was very still, but somewhere in the distance frank could hear the rumbling of a car; it drew nearer and nearer, and at length he could hear the buzzing of the trolley wire. it seemed directly over his head. "i see what this is," he thought; "they have put me between the double tracks of the line so that i'll think that a car is going to run me down. "of course, these fellows are not going to injure me, and so if i stand perfectly still the car will pass close beside me. if i should move i might get run over. i can imagine that some fellows might be completely unnerved by this test." the rumbling of the car became louder and louder; then there was a single clang of a bell and it stopped a short distance away; some passenger evidently was getting out. the bell rang again, and the car started. the motorman kept up a loud clanging of his footbell as he approached frank; the latter, remembering his instructions, stood perfectly still, confident that the car would rush past him without touching him. suddenly, just as the car was upon him, frank was pushed violently and fell face forward in front of it! chapter xviii. frank wants more. the car was going at full speed when frank fell. on the instant the motorman reversed the current and applied the brake hard, but although the wheels immediately began to turn in the other direction, it was impossible to check the advance of the car completely. it slid for a few yards along the rails, sending up a shower of sparks, and pushing frank's body along ahead of it. frank's first impression was, when he felt the push, that it was a part of the initiation. the mind acts with marvelous quickness under such circumstances, and what he thought was that, instead of being placed beside the car tracks, he was really directly upon them and thus in the way of the car, and that this push had been given him at the very last minute in order to knock him out of the way. it was but the fraction of a second, of course, before he realized his mistake, for he received a severe blow from the car platform. knowing then that this was either a mistake in the initiation, or something not on the programme, and that at all events he was in serious danger, he made the most desperate effort to help himself. naturally this was no easy matter, for his hands were tied behind his back and his eyes were blindfolded. the knots had not been tied with the greatest skill, but the line was a stout one and in the short time he had to make the effort, frank could not release his hands. he was more than half stunned by the collision, but he kept his wits sufficiently to roll over and over in front of the moving car, trying the best he could to kick himself out of its way. meantime the car was rapping him repeatedly. it was all over in a second or two, but the time seemed terribly long to the neophyte. he was only half conscious of what happened, but he knew that the noise of the wheels upon the rails had ceased, and that he was picked up in strong arms and carried somewhere; then his brain whirled and everything became a blank. that was the way the event seemed to frank. the way it appeared to his mentors was this: following the usual custom of such initiations, they had stood frank close to the car tracks, but not so close that the passing car would have so much as brushed him. such events were not so uncommon in new haven as to make them dangerous when conducted in the ordinary way. motormen get used to the pranks of students and accordingly send their cars past blindfolded figures at full speed, oftentimes clanging the footbell furiously in order to help out the joke by alarming the neophyte as much as possible. sometimes a motorman who is new to the business gets so disturbed at the sight of the blindfolded figure near the rail that he stops the car just short of him. in any event no trouble had arisen before this from this feature of "pig" initiation. having left frank beside the track, as we have stated, the mentors withdrew and stood in the shadow of a big elm from where they could see the result of the test without being observed by the motorman or anybody else in the vicinity. they were watching the affair with great interest, although pretty well convinced that merriwell's nerve was so strong that he would stand the test without trouble. they were disappointed when the car stopped to let off a passenger, but were satisfied when it proceeded again and rapidly gained full speed. then they were amazed to see a figure dart rapidly out from the shadow of another tree not far away and make straight toward the neophyte. they wondered at it, but were not alarmed, for their first impression was that it was some man who was unfamiliar with students' doings, and who believed that the blindfolded figure was in real danger. they rather expected, therefore, to see this stranger catch merriwell up and drag him aside. their horror may be better imagined than described when they saw the stranger push merriwell in front of the car and then leap across the tracks just missing the car himself, and disappear. the alarmed and indignant seniors dashed from their hiding place and ran with all possible speed to merriwell's assistance. they came up to him just as the car stopped sliding forward, and began to move back under the force of the reversed current. the excited motorman was jabbering curses upon the foolish conduct of students generally, and altogether too busy with his apparatus and too rattled to get down from the platform. the conductor and the few passengers in the car, disturbed by the slight collision, were moving toward the platform to see what was the matter. rowe, who was in charge of the party of seniors, immediately picked frank up and carried him toward the sidewalk. "get a move on, boys!" he exclaimed, under his breath. "we must get merriwell out of sight as quick as possible." "shan't i go for a doctor, dick?" asked one of them. "yes," answered rowe, hurriedly; "bring him to my room, but keep mum." one of the seniors sped away down the street, another took hold of frank with rowe to help carry him, while the last member of the party fell in behind his companions, determined if they were followed to beat off pursuers. this action on the part of the seniors might seem rather peculiar to those who are not wholly familiar with secret society matters. they did not stop to discuss it, for each one of them knew in a flash just what must be done. secret societies at yale are very powerful organizations. in past years there were some efforts to disband them and prevent the students from organizing them. all these efforts failed; the more the faculty tried to suppress the greek letter orders, the more firmly the students clung to them, until at last the faculty had to let the societies alone. the students knew, however, that there were plenty of men in the government of the college who would be glad of any excuse to suppress the societies and no better excuse could be found than the fact that a student had been injured in the course of an initiation. therefore, when frank was knocked in front of the car, rowe and his companions knew that it would not do at all to let the accident become a matter of public knowledge. so, before the people on the car half realized what had happened, they had carried frank across the street, got over a fence into the grounds surrounding a private house, and were rushing along toward a thick clump of shrubbery. when they were concealed in this they paused for an instant to get their breath and make a hasty examination of the neophyte. by that time frank was wholly unconscious. there was a red spot upon his forehead, his clothing was torn and his hands were bleeding a little from scratches. the wounds and bruises would not have disturbed the seniors particularly, but frank's unconsciousness gave them genuine alarm. "we must keep moving!" exclaimed rowe. "let me take my turn at carrying, then," said the one who had been acting as rear guard. this was done. they proceeded across the lawn, climbed another fence into a garden and, having crossed this, came to another street. they were now fairly safe from pursuit by the passengers on the trolley car, who, as a matter of fact, gave the matter no further thought when they were told by the motorman that the affair was a lot of students' nonsense. as it was now very late in the evening the streets were almost deserted and by acting cautiously the seniors succeeded in getting frank to rowe's room without interference. there they laid him upon a bed and hastened to apply restoratives as well as they knew how. "it would be simply awful if it should prove that he was dead!" exclaimed rowe, with a groan. "he isn't dead," said one of the others; "we'll fetch him around----" at this moment the student who had gone for a doctor burst into the room bringing the physician with him. the doctor laid a case of instruments upon the table as he passed and bent over the bed where frank lay. at that moment frank opened his eyes and, seeing a strange face above him, said in a surprised tone: "hello, what do you want?" "humph!" muttered the doctor, "i thought i was going to have a fine chance to set broken limbs or do some other clever job in surgery. i guess you've cut me out of an operation, young man." "hey?" said frank, trying to sit up. his bones ached and he gave up the attempt. "what's the matter, anyway?" he asked. "how do you feel, merriwell?" asked rowe, anxiously. "kind of sore," returned the neophyte. "i should think i'd been in a football scrimmage. oh!" his eyes brightened as he remembered what had happened to him. "something went wrong with the----" he began, intending to say "with the initiation," when he caught sight of the doctor's face. seeing that a stranger was present and remembering his instructions to keep the initiation a secret, frank hesitated an instant and then said: "machinery." "yes," answered rowe, understanding the point, "the machinery broke down, but it wasn't our fault." "i took that for granted," frank remarked. "how did the car get along?" the seniors laughed. this question showed them better than anything else could that frank was not dangerously injured. "the car seemed to stand it pretty well," rowe answered. "how is he, doctor?" "well," answered the physician, who had been making an examination, "i don't see any evidence of broken bones, and what is more surprising still, the young man's brain doesn't seem to have suffered under the strain to which you have subjected him." "i can stand more than that!" muttered frank. "there's nothing for me to do here," said the doctor. "i should advise him to go to bed and lie still for the rest of the night. if he feels badly in the morning you can send for me." with this the doctor took himself off. frank then slowly sat up. "there are some aches about me," he said, with a wry grimace, "but i suppose the more i talk of them the more black marks i'll get." "oh, hang the black marks!" exclaimed rowe. "there's been initiation enough for you, old fellow, and there isn't a doubt that when the matter is explained to the rest of the 'pigs,' that you'll be excused from any further test." "no, siree!" exclaimed frank, emphatically. "eh, what's that?" "if you think," responded frank, "that i'm going to do the baby act and crawl out of the rest of the circus you're mistaken." "but----" "there's no 'but' about it! i've been through worse things than this and if you fellows don't put the initiation through just as if nothing had happened, i'll be hanged if i'll join the society." chapter xix. the leap into the river. "that's the right kind of talk anyway!" said rowe, "and it's just what we might have expected from you, but really, merriwell, this was the last thing on the programme for to-night, and even if that scoundrel hadn't pushed you in front of the car we should have made you go to bed at this time." "well, i'm bound to obey you in any case," said frank, "but speaking of that, am i at liberty to talk?" "of course, for you're in the presence of members of the pi gamma in good standing." rowe grinned when he said this, for he thought of the black-mark nonsense and realized that frank took it in earnest. he added: "out of consideration for this accident, merriwell, i shall ask the president to score off the black marks already entered against you and let you begin with a clean record." "well, i can't object to that," said frank, "for i must say it struck me that some of those marks were chucked on rather harshly." "you'd better not make any criticisms of the way this society is run," declared rowe, sternly. "that's so; i take that all back, but what i wanted to say was that it seemed to me as if somebody had interfered with the game." "that was it exactly, merriwell, and it was something that we shall have to take a hand in before long." "how did it happen?" the others told frank what they had seen. he listened thoughtfully and remarked: "some fellow evidently had a grudge against me." "it looks that way," responded rowe. "who do you suppose it could be?" before frank could answer there was a knock at the door and baker hurried in. "ah!" he said, in a tone of relief, "i see you've got through all right. there was something i meant to tell you, rowe, and i forgot all about it." "what was it?" asked rowe. "why," answered baker, "browning came in, you remember, just before we started in on merriwell's essay?" "yes. i wondered what he wanted." "well, he came in to say how he had heard that miller, the cigar dealer, had it in for frank, and that we'd better look out lest miller take advantage of the initiation to put up some dirty job. of course i meant to tell you about it before you took the neophyte to the street, but prof. adler's interruption drove it clean out of my mind. i didn't think of it until i was half through with rattleton, who was the neophyte in my party. "i see you've got through to-night all right, but it'll be just as well to look out----" baker stopped, for there was something in the expression of the faces before him that aroused his curiosity. "what's the matter?" he asked, suddenly. they told him and he listened with growing indignation. "it must have been miller!" he exclaimed, at last. "didn't any of you fellows recognize him?" now that miller's name was mentioned the students thought that they did recognize him, but they could not be sure of it. "we must find out about it!" said baker, earnestly. "this thing has not only endangered a student's life, but it has put all secret societies at yale in danger of their existence. "if frank had been seriously hurt the faculty would surely hear of it and nothing would convince them that we weren't to blame for it. miller must be prevented from doing anything of this kind again." "probably he won't try it again," frank remarked, "for if he saw how successful his trick was, he must be convinced at this minute that i was maimed for life, if not killed." "merriwell insists on going on with the initiation," said rowe, "and i have told him that, under the circumstances, we would erase all the black marks against him." "that's right," responded baker, solemnly. "i think we'd better go on with the initiation just as usual, and meantime some of us will look up miller and see what we can do about him." "i rather wish," suggested frank, "that you could wait on that until the initiation is over, so that i can take a hand in it." "it won't do to lose any time," returned baker. "you go to bed, merriwell, for you'll probably find that you need rest; the rest of us will go and have an interview with miller." as frank was bound to obey, he made no further objection to this plan, and accordingly went to his room. baker and rowe and the others proceeded to the little shop where miller did a cigar business. they found it closed. usually it was open until after midnight. by patient inquiry they learned where miller lived and they went there. miller was not at home. the students rather wished that they could report the matter to the police, but that would have brought the pi gamma affairs into public notice and so they decided not to do so. it might be said right here that during the rest of the week of initiation they made vain efforts to get track of miller. he had disappeared. an assistant was in charge of the shop, who pretended to be very much mystified at his employer's absence. whether he was telling the truth or not could not be proved. the main fact was clear; miller had played his trick so successfully on frank that he was afraid of the consequences and was keeping out of sight. frank was a little lame on the following day, but not sufficiently so to be kept from going about as usual. the initiation, therefore, proceeded during the week according to regular custom. during the daytime frank attended lectures and recitations with regularity, and as he afterward said, did rather more studying than at any other week during his college career. every evening there was a meeting of the "pigs" in the room of some senior member, where exercises of a more or less ridiculous nature, similar to those already described, were had. usually, too, there was an excursion upon the street, but in these instances the neophyte was not blindfolded. frank had had to do numberless small errands, and one evening was devoted almost wholly to sending him from house to house to ask for a piece of cake or a slice of bread. his mentors always stood near to see that he followed out the instructions literally, and in every case he complied. rattleton and diamond suffered more from the experiences of these evenings than they had on the occasion when their nerves were tested by being driven blindfolded through the streets. diamond lost his temper several times and flatly refused to go on with the initiation, whereupon the seniors would give him a host of black marks. he took the black marks as seriously as frank did, and always became very penitent. "i suppose i can do what other fellows have had to do," he grumbled, "but i can't see any sense in such tomfoolery." then the seniors would discuss the matter gravely, and decide that as diamond was a well-meaning fellow, they would let the black marks go this time, so that he could start over with a clean score. before the week was over frank began to see through the black-mark farce, and he realized that it was a part of the scheme to make a neophyte get as many black marks against himself as possible, and then as a special favor allow him to start over again; nevertheless, he continued to obey instructions as carefully as possible. the most trying experience he had in this line was when the seniors arranged matters with several young ladies who were acquaintances of frank's, so that they should meet him one after another, speak to him, and try to engage him in conversation. on each of these occasions a senior member of the order happened to be near, and frank was compelled to put his hand to his lips and shake his head at every pretty girl who spoke to him. some of the girls understood the situation, and others were mystified. the result was, therefore, that as every one of them appeared to be indignant and offended, frank accumulated a lot of trouble which it took him several calls later to overcome in the way of making apologies and explanations. he never complained, however, and at last the final night of the initiation arrived. up to this time not one of the neophytes had been near the society's rooms. these were known to be on the top floor of a high building not far from the college. no student not a member was ever admitted to them, and what there was there was one of the mysteries of the society. on this evening frank and the other neophytes were again blindfolded and dressed in long gowns that had hoods attached to them. the hood was pulled over the neophyte's face. his hands were then bound behind his back, and half a dozen mentors accompanied him on his trip. on this occasion each of the mentors had a long horsewhip. they walked at some distance from him and guided him in the way he should go by touching his face on either side with the end of the whip; when frank felt the lash brush his right cheek he turned to the right, and _vice versa_. the mentors, as before, left him alone sometimes for half an hour at a stretch. on each of these occasions he had no idea where he was or what was being done. as a matter of fact, warned by their previous experience, the mentors kept within sight, but no effort was made to do frank an injury. the object of the long waits was to try the neophyte's nerves as much as possible, so that he should be in proper condition for the final test. the most trying of these consisted of the jumping from the bridge. after having been driven this way and that until his head was completely turned, frank knew that he was approaching the railroad tracks, for he heard the sounds of passing engines. presently two of the members stepped beside him in order to prevent him from stumbling, for he was now upon the sleepers themselves. they walked beside him thus for some distance until at length the neophyte knew that he was on a bridge; he remembered the place then, or thought he did. several railroads that pass through new haven enter the street by crossing the quinnepiac river on a drawbridge. frank was certain that he was on this bridge, and for that matter his guess was a correct one. the students conducted him to the middle of the bridge, and after halting him, told him to move forward very cautiously by shuffling his feet along on the boards. he did so, and presently was aware that his toes were projecting over the edge of the bridge; that meant that the draw was open. just below him he could hear the gurgling of the water as it flowed past the piles. he stood there in silence for a few minutes, and then another party approached, bringing with them rattleton, diamond, henderson and hodge. the five neophytes were then together. a whispered consultation took place among the seniors. apparently they were trying to prevent the neophytes from hearing them, but as a matter of fact the neophytes heard every word, which was exactly what the seniors intended. the discussion was as to whether the tide had risen far enough, whether the ropes were all right and would hold, and whether any of the neophytes were too nervous to risk the plunge. of course the waiting neophytes understood it all. they realized that they would be ordered to jump into the water. it was not a pleasant thought. there was not one of the juniors who would not have relished a dive if he had had his eyes open and had been dressed for the occasion, but it is quite another thing to stand bound and blindfolded above a rushing current and leap out into the darkness. at last it was decided that rattleton should go over first. the seniors talked in low tones and acted generally as if they were greatly excited by the seriousness of the occasion. even frank, who was perfectly cool through it all, wondered if everything was so arranged that no accident could occur, and he felt a little sorry for rattleton, who was so excitable that the sudden shock of jumping and landing in the water might produce unpleasant results. with it all the seniors were very slow in their procedure and every minute of suspense made it harder for the waiting neophytes. at last baker, in a low tone, reminded rattleton of his promise to obey orders, and then told him to jump. frank, of course, could not see a thing, but he heard a little grating sound as rattleton's feet left the planks. an instant later there was a loud splash in the water. "pull him in quick!" exclaimed the voice of rowe, "we don't want him to catch cold. hurry it up!" "there, he's coming to the surface!" said another voice. this remark was followed instantly by a loud coughing and sniffing. "poor harry's got his mouth full of water," thought frank. "i'll look out for that when i go over." with a great bustling about and a lot of excited exclamations the seniors pulled rattleton up and started him off as fast as he could go toward the college. chapter xx. the last stage. it was diamond's turn next, and he went off the edge as promptly as rattleton had. the same sort of action followed his jump, and frank was surprised that diamond appeared to have swallowed as much water as harry had. "i should have thought diamond would keep his mouth closed," thought frank. hodge's turn came next, and he, too, left the bridge promptly. henderson weakened when the command came to him. instead of jumping he drew back with a little gasp. "jump, neophyte!" exclaimed baker, in a low but stern voice. "it's too late for you to hope for any special consideration now. what others have done you must do, too!" "great scott!" muttered henderson. frank heard his steps wavering upon the planks, and then, with a little quivering cry, the frightened neophyte jumped over. the splash that followed his jump was very loud, and it was followed by a lot more of splashing. "thunder and mars!" cried baker, "the rope's broken." "do you suppose he can swim?" inquired the voice of rowe, anxiously. "how can he with his hands tied?" "then he'll drown." "we mustn't let him!" "did one of you bring along that boat hook that i told you to bring?" "yes, here it is." "catch it into his clothes before he floats too far." "whew! how fast the tide runs!" "have you got him?" "yes. no! the hook's got loose." "try again, then, quick!" "good lord! suppose he's become unconscious from fear, there'd be no saving him then." frank ached to have his bandage removed and his hands unbound so that he could go to the help of his companion. "when it comes my turn to conduct an initiation i'll bet i'll fix things so that there won't be any such accident as this," he thought. "it's outrageous to put an unoffending fellow like henderson through this sort of trial and then let a slip occur." it was a great temptation to frank then to forcibly release his hands and jump into the water after henderson, but he reflected that after all there were plenty of seniors present who had courage and who knew the water well. he decided that it was best to leave the matter in their hands, but he listened anxiously for some sound of henderson's voice to assure him that all was well. he did not hear henderson's voice, but he did hear a great many more exclamations of anxiety and doubt as the seniors seemed at last to get the big hook securely fastened in the neophyte's clothing. then there was a lot of tugging and hauling, and after a time the sound of retreating footsteps. "i guess henderson will come out of it all right," thought frank, "for it seems that he can walk." "it's nearly time to close the draw," said baker, hastily. "now, neophyte merriwell, it's your turn. remember your instructions, and when i give the word, jump." frank shrugged his shoulders. it was a slight action, but the seniors could see it, for a big electric lamp upon one of the bridge pillars lighted the scene brilliantly. it was very evident that merriwell's nerve had not been shaken. "be ready to pull him out at once, boys, and don't let the rope slip this time!" said baker. "one--two----" baker spoke very slowly, and although he appeared to be perfectly unmoved, frank's heart nevertheless was beating fast he wondered how far he would fall before he struck the water. he dreaded the chill that would come upon him suddenly, but he had no fear of the result, and he was fully determined that he would do his share in this as promptly and boldly as any man who had ever been initiated. "three!" said baker. "jump!" frank leaped at once, far out from the bridge. he had his lips tightly closed, and he held his breath to avoid taking in a lot of water. to his immense surprise he did not touch the water at all. he could not have fallen two feet before he was caught in strong arms and lifted back to the bridge. nevertheless he heard a loud splash and a voice saying: "pull him out at once." "oh, come off, rowe!" exclaimed baker, in a loud tone of voice, "have you forgotten that there's nobody to follow merriwell?" "yes, that's so," was the reply, "i'd clean forgotten that." "well, i'll be hanged!" exclaimed frank, "if this isn't a worse shock than jumping into the river itself. was that the way you treated the rest of them?" "give him a black mark for talking," said baker, with a hearty laugh. frank said "humph!" but nothing else as the students hurried him across the bridge back to land. he was immensely amused by the experience, and on the way to the society rooms he thought it all out, and came to a conclusion on the matter that was very nearly correct. at high tide the water in the quinnepiac river comes almost to a level with the bridge. the boys always arrange their initiations in such a way that the bridge test shall take place at high tide, and they choose an hour when no trains are due to pass. then a small fee persuades the bridge keeper to open the draw. a big, flat-bottomed boat is procured and made fast to the bridge just in front of the open edge. half a dozen of the students get into this boat; some of them receive the leaping neophyte in their arms and clap their hands over his mouth so that he shall not cry out. at the same time other students topple a big log into the water so as to make a splash. the rest of the farce is carried on as described, with the result of making the waiting neophytes believe that their companion has had a cold plunge into the river. time was when the students made the neophytes really jump into the water, but it was found that many a student whose nerve was supposed to be perfectly good, suffered such a shock from sudden contact with the water that he became seriously ill, so that test was modified in the manner described. the last stage of the initiation that can be described was one of the most ridiculous. frank was still blindfolded and bound. he was led, he knew not where, but at last halted within a doorway. there his hands were untied and he was told to kneel. he did so, and found that he was at the foot of a flight of stairs. "you are now going to ascend," said baker, solemnly, "to the mystic regions of pi gamma. it is becoming that a neophyte should enter there in a modest attitude, therefore you will go on your hands and knees until commanded to rise. proceed." frank immediately began to climb the steps upon his hands and knees. the moment he began to move his ears were fairly deafened with a hideous uproar. it seemed as if a tribe of demons had been let loose around him. there was an infernal clatter, made, as he afterward learned, by beating upon tin pans and shaking large squares of sheet iron. there was a chorus of savage yells and shrieking. the air was foul with the odor of firecrackers that were exploded close to his ears. every kind of barbaric noise that student ingenuity can invent was brought into play. "by the bones of cæsar!" thought frank. "if i hadn't been pretty well seasoned by adventures before this, i believe i should be scared." as it was, far from being scared, he shook with laughter as he slowly and patiently climbed up the stairs. it seemed as if they would never end. it was a winding stairway, and went from the ground clear to the top of the high building. later he learned that this was a back stairway built expressly for the students, whose society rooms were in the top of the building. it seemed to him as if he had climbed higher than the top of the washington monument when at last he found no steps in front of him, and the diabolical racket ceased as suddenly as it had begun. he was told to rise, and he did so with a sigh of relief. he was then led two or three paces and ordered to sit down. he did so, and felt that he was in something like a swing. there were chains at each side of him, holding the seat. he was told to grasp these chains tightly, and hang on, lest he be dropped the entire distance to the ground. "that would be a pretty long fall," thought frank, who at the moment really believed that there was a well beneath him that extended clear to the bottom of the building; so he gripped the chains and heard the voice of baker crying: "all ready, send him up." "i'd like to know how much farther up i can go," thought frank. he heard the creaking of a windlass and knew that he was rising. as he went up his seat swung back and forth a little, making him feel all the more how important it was that he should hang on securely. this journey was as long, and in one sense as trying as the climb upstairs had been. there was no noise in connection with it, except the constant creaking of the windlass. blindfolded as he was, it really seemed as if he had been hauled up at least a hundred feet when at last the creaking ceased and he was lifted from his seat. then he was laid upon an inclined plane, feet downward. it seemed steep, too, and when his fingers accidentally touched the little rail at the side he noticed that it was well greased. he did not need to be told then what was to happen, for he knew that he would be sent whizzing down this plane to land--somewhere. "is the tank all ready?" asked somebody, who was holding frank by the shoulders and thus keeping him from sliding down. "yes," came a muffled voice that seemed far, far below. "let him go!" the hands on frank's shoulders were released, and he promptly began to rush down the plane. in less than a second his feet had come in contact with a mattress, and as the force of his fall brought him to an upright position, a glass of water was flung into his face. at the same instant the bandage was torn from his eyes, the hood raised, and he found himself standing in a well-lighted room surrounded by a group of laughing and interested seniors. he turned with an expression of the utmost amazement to the plane down which he had slid. he saw that the distance up which he had been slowly raised by the windlass was less than ten feet. chapter xxi. making things interesting for miller. "it's funny," remarked frank, with a smile, "how far a man seems to be going when his eyes are shut." there was a chorus of laughter at this, in which rattleton and the other neophytes, who were present, joined. order was quickly restored by baker, the president, who announced that there was yet one more step in the initiation to be taken. what this step was cannot be described here. it must be remembered that the order of pi gamma is a secret society, and every member of it is sworn to keep its secrets sacredly. among the things that they are not allowed to tell are the very tests which have already been narrated, but such secrets are really common property in new haven. so much of the initiations are conducted upon the public streets and in a public manner that there has been no violation of the rules of the order in telling of frank merriwell's experience. what followed in the rooms of the society, however, must be omitted out of respect to the serious character of the proceedings and the fact that the members of the order regard them all as of considerable importance. it is proper to say that no further tests were required of the candidates; they had passed their week's ordeal successfully, and the other proceedings were conducted with their eyes open. the end of it all was conducted with vociferous cheering on the part of the old members of pi gamma, and each of the new members came in for a lot of hearty handshaking and congratulations. then the whole affair wound up with a supper in the society's largest room. at this there were not only the seniors who had initiated the first block of juniors, but also a number of graduates who had paid a visit to new haven for the sole purpose of taking some part in an initiation ceremony. two or three college instructors, who had been members during their student days, were present, and no one there appeared to enjoy the occasion more than did prof. adler, the one who had warned the boys that they must conduct their initiation more quietly as long as it took place in a college room. on such an occasion as that the students and professors are pretty much on the same terms. the professors, to be sure, are addressed by their titles, and spoken to respectfully, but there is none of the restraint of the classroom, and no fear whatever that any of the professors present will report unpleasant things to other members of the faculty. the supper was a good one, and naturally enough it was thoroughly enjoyed by the new members, the more so as a part of their trial during the week of initiation was the fact that they had been compelled to limit their eating to the plainest articles of food. all pies and cakes had been forbidden, and in fact nothing that could be called a luxury was allowed to pass their lips. those who smoked had been deprived of that habit also. now the seniors who had been the most severe in compelling an obedience to these rules fairly overloaded their new associates with attention. they made a point of heaping the junior's plates with more good things than they could possibly eat, and a plentiful supply of cigars and tobacco was placed before them. after the eating was finished speeches were in order. pres. baker called upon one after another of the older members, and eventually each one of the new members had to make remarks. prof. adler spoke briefly but with undoubted sincerity of the pleasure it gave him to be associated with the students' society in this way, declaring it as his belief that they were helpful to the college and that it was a mistake to try to suppress them. this from a member of the faculty was especially interesting to the boys, and it brought out thunders of applause. the younger members got through their speeches very well, being greeted with loud cheers whether they said anything of consequence or not. as was to be expected, rattleton twisted his words hind side forward a good many times, and at last sat down, blushing and feeling that he had never made such a fool of himself. the older members apparently thought differently, for they applauded long and heartily until the abashed student had to rise and bow. frank spoke easily and quietly. he made no attempt at oratorical effects, but declared that he felt it an honor to be a member of pi gamma, and assured them that he should look forward to the time when he could get even for the miseries he had endured for a week in inflicting the same tortures upon another fellow. this was the spirit that the members appreciated best, and of course they cheered tremendously. the most effective part of frank's speech, however, and the one that created the greatest interest, was not applauded at all. "perhaps you don't all know it," he said, "but some of you will remember that there was an incident connected with my initiation that was not on the programme." the room became very quiet. all the seniors had been informed of miller's attempt to do frank an injury, and the only ones there who did not know it were the graduates and a few members of the faculty. "i think my friends know me well enough," frank continued, "to believe me when i say that i haven't the slightest desire to be revenged upon the man who put me in such danger of my life. it was a low-down, dastardly trick and the work of a coward." there was a low murmur of assent at this. "a man who would do such a thing as that," frank went on, "is really unworthy the contempt of a yale student and so from one standpoint it might be well enough to let the matter drop. "on the other hand, we are bound to consider the possibility of such a thing happening again. if the man who did the trick escapes without any sort of punishment, he may attempt it again, or he may boast of it to some companion as cowardly and mean as himself, and the result may be that at some future time a student may be treated in a similar way and not have the luck to come out of it as well as i did." frank paused a moment, for the deathly silence with which his hearers listened was a little embarrassing. "i have said that i didn't care for revenge," he said, in a moment, "but now that i am a full-fledged member of pi gamma, i feel that i have a right to look at it as an offense against the society rather than against me as an individual." "right!" exclaimed one of the seniors, in a low tone. others nodded approval. "i think it would be dignified and proper," frank continued, "for the society to take some kind of action on the matter, and if it is allowable i should like to make a suggestion." "go ahead," said baker, promptly; "there is no member from whom a suggestion on this matter would be more fitting. what do you think we should do?" "i'm not thinking," frank answered, "of passing any vote to do one thing or another, but it strikes me that in a perfectly harmless way we can take the law into our own hands a bit and fix miller, for there's no doubt that he was the guilty one, so that he will never molest a student again as long as he lives. "you see," and he smiled good-humoredly, "i'm fresh from my experience with the tortures of pi gamma." all the listeners smiled broadly. "it is one thing," he added, "to endure these tortures with a feeling that you are in the hands of your friends, but quite another, i should think, to go through such an ordeal with a feeling that the fiends and demons surrounding you are hostile. "i can tell you frankly that for my own part, during the worst parts of the initiation, i felt always that you were friends of mine and that i was perfectly safe to trust myself in your hands no matter what extravagant things you seemed to be doing. "i think that if miller should be put through some such proceeding it would--well, it would likely tear what little nerve he has into tatters." frank hesitated a moment and then sat down. the room was perfectly still while the members of the order looked at one another doubtfully. "i don't quite see," remarked baker, presently, "how the society of pi gamma can put a man who is not a student through an initiation." "oh, i didn't mean to suggest that," responded frank, hastily, but without rising. "i was only thinking that the society has such means for terrifying a man that it ought to be easy for us to devise a plan for giving miller a good scare." "yes, that's the scheme!" exclaimed rowe, earnestly. "i wouldn't favor putting him through anything like the farce with which we treat neophytes, but it does seem to me that we might give him a dose in earnest somehow." other members gave their assent to this suggestion and then somebody asked: "but what can you do about it if you can't find miller?" "that's a damper!" responded rowe, gloomily. "i understand that he's skipped." "he's come back," said another senior. "so?" all eyes were turned upon the speaker. "i saw him in his shop on my way to the rooms this evening," said the senior. "then he's got over his scare. probably he may have heard that merriwell wasn't seriously injured and so thinks the thing's blown over." "we'll show him the contrary!" growled baker. "but how shall we do it?" after a moment of thought baker rose and said: "i think as merriwell has suggested that it is just as well that the society should not pass any vote on this matter, but with your permission i'll appoint a committee to take the matter in charge. "they can meet after the ceremonies of this evening are over and decide what to do about it. it is probably too late to undertake anything to-night." "miller keeps open until after midnight," somebody suggested. "yes, but it's after midnight now and we don't want to act without being thoroughly prepared. unless there is some objection i will appoint the five new members with rowe and myself to act as a committee to consider this matter and take such steps as we think best." there was no objection to this and so the matter was considered settled, but the interest of the students in it was so great that they had little desire to talk of other matters, and before long the meeting adjourned for the night and the members of the committee assembled in one of the smaller rooms to lay plans for miller's punishment. chapter xxii. miller's nerves. there is no need to give an account of the long discussion held by the committee; what they did in the matter is of more importance. a good many wild plans were suggested; hot-headed rattleton was in favor of severe measures that would have given miller pain if they had not produced serious injuries. jack diamond, too, who had lost his temper more than once in the course of his initiation, argued in favor of giving miller a punishment something like a flogging at the stake. frank resolutely sat down on all propositions of this kind. "i don't care to have any hand in it," he said, "if it comes to taking this man when he's only one against a good many and giving him a drubbing. if that was the question i'd tackle him single-handed and give him a chance to defend himself. "what we want to do is to give him an experience that he won't forget as soon as he might a licking." it took some argument for frank to bring his loyal friends around to his view of the case, and they were not fully satisfied until he himself had mapped out a plan that promised good sport and success. in accordance with this plan frank did not leave his room on the following day. there were lectures and recitations to be attended to, but he cut them and did not even show his face at the window. meantime the other fellows were busy in making preparations for the serious work of the night. most of these preparations were done in one of the rooms of the society, but a little took place elsewhere; for example baker and diamond arranged to meet as if by accident in front of miller's cigar store. they chose an hour when miller was certain to be behind the counter. he was there, and after the two students had said good-morning, as if they had just met for the first time during the day, baker remarked, in a loud voice: "i got up so late this morning that i had to run to lectures after breakfast without a smoke and i haven't had time for one since. i guess i'll burn a cigar. will you join me?" "thanks," responded diamond, in the same tone, "i will." accordingly they entered the store and baker called for cigars. miller set a couple of boxes on the counter while the students made their selection. "i never smoked this brand," remarked baker, "but it looks pretty good." "it'll do if it will burn," responded diamond, biting off the end and turning to the alcohol lamp for a light. "how's merriwell getting on?" asked baker, as he handed out a bill for miller to change. diamond's back was toward the cigar dealer, but he was facing a mirror, and in it could keep careful watch of miller's face. meantime, baker was studying miller also. the cigar dealer's face was very grave, and if any one not interested in the matter that was weighing upon the students' minds had been present, he would probably have noticed nothing. both students, however, were convinced that miller was greatly interested in the question and anxious for the answer. diamond drew a long breath. "he's in a mighty bad way," he said. "why!" exclaimed baker in surprise, "i thought the doctor reported that he was doing very well?" "you forget," said diamond, "that the doctor always said that he was doing very well under the circumstances." "oh! and i suppose that under the circumstances meant that the situation was very serious, eh?" "serious! why, man alive, you don't seem to realize that merriwell narrowly escaped death outright!" "huh! i hadn't thought it was as bad as that." "well it was!" continued diamond, and it seemed to take him a long while to get his cigar lighted, while baker was slowly counting his change. miller was fussing with the cigar boxes with his head bent down. "if merriwell's muscles hadn't been as tough as steel," continued diamond, "he would have croaked before this." "oh, no! oh, no!" returned baker, as if incredulous. "i'm sure you're exaggerating the matter, diamond, on account of your interest in your friend." "exaggerate nothing!" retorted diamond, indignantly. "i guess i've spent hours enough with merriwell to know his condition." "and you say he's worse this morning?" "decidedly! the critical stage in his trouble has come on and the doctor has cleared the students out of his room. that was why i was out for a walk instead of watching by his bedside. i'm going back there now, for i can't bear the thought of being so far away." "well, it would be simply awful," remarked baker, with long breath, "if he should----" "why don't you say die and have it out!" blurted diamond. "that's what he's in danger of, poor chap." "well, if he should die," added baker, "there ought to be a lot of trouble for the chap who pushed him in front of the car." "ah! if we only knew who that was!" said diamond. "i suppose that will always be a mystery," said baker, and with this both left the shop. "the miserable scoundrel!" exclaimed diamond, under his breath, as soon as they were well outside. "there isn't any doubt that he was the fellow that did it." "of course there isn't," responded baker, "but what makes you so emphatic in saying so now?" "why this! if miller had had a spark of manhood in him he would have made some inquiry about merriwell while we were talking about him. the very fact that he kept his mouth shut showed that he was afraid to speak for fear of giving himself away." "oh, he's the one, sure enough," baker declared, "and i don't think there's any doubt that we've given him a good bit of fright for a starter. now if he doesn't skip the town----" "rattleton and the others will look out for that," interrupted diamond. at that moment they saw hodge idling in a doorway across the street and they knew that rattleton must be loafing in a similar way in some other spot. these two had been detailed to keep watch of miller, dog his footsteps wherever he went, and if he made any attempt to leave town, keep him back by force if necessary. miller did not attempt to leave town. probably he was too cautious to do so, for that might have been the means of bringing suspicion upon him. baker and diamond in his shop had declared that the attack on merriwell would probably remain a mystery; therefore it is likely that miller reasoned that it would be safer for him to stay where he was as if he were entirely ignorant of the whole matter. although rattleton and hodge kept their watch on him faithfully throughout the day, no other of the students interested in the case went near him until early in the evening. then rowe and henderson dropped in. rowe went in first and bought a box of pipe tobacco. while he was waiting for his change henderson came in with a very gloomy face. he nodded silently to rowe, laid a coin on the counter and asked for a cigar. "why! henderson," exclaimed rowe, jocosely, "what's gone wrong with you? has the faculty suspended you, or is it simply stomach ache?" "oh! don't joke about it!" responded henderson, dismally. "joke about what?" "haven't you heard?" asked henderson, in the same melancholy tone. "heard what?" "about merriwell." "no. that is, nothing since morning. has he----" "yes. he's gone!" the two students looked at each other as if in great consternation. rowe drew a long breath and remarked: "great scott! that's awful." henderson sighed too, and both went out together without another word. then they got around the nearest corner and burst into a perfect fit of laughter. "say! but he looked as if he'd seen a ghost," chuckled henderson. "gee whiz!" returned rowe, "but he was blue. how will he look to-night, eh?" "i'm just burning up to have the fun begin," answered henderson, "and we shall have to wait until midnight." "yes, later than that if he shuts up at the usual late hour, but perhaps he'll start home earlier." "i shouldn't wonder," remarked henderson, "if this should work on his nerves through the evening and cause him to try to skip the town." "we shan't lose him," returned rowe, in a satisfied tone, "and the only thing we've got to do now is to kill time until the hour comes for business. let's play billiards." accordingly they went to a billiard hall and knocked the balls around until they were tired of walking about the tables. for the others interested, as well as those, the time passed slowly. a number of students, including merriwell, who were to take part in this affair, assembled at the society rooms about the middle of the evening, thinking that possibly miller might take fright and shut up his shop earlier, but the hours passed and miller still stuck to his counter. hodge and rattleton, who, now that it was dark, stood nearer to the cigar store, could see that miller was growing nervous as the time passed. he paced restlessly up and down back of his counter and occasionally shifted the position of boxes and did other things to indicate that he was suffering from extreme anxiety. when customers came in he greeted them gruffly and had little to say, whereas his usual custom was to talk freely. after eleven o'clock, when the store happened to be free from customers for a moment, the boys saw him empty his cash drawer into his pockets and also take what money there was in his safe and stow that in his clothes, too. from that time on he put whatever money came in into his pockets instead of into the drawer. they judged from this that he had made up his mind that he must leave town, and that he was taking all the money that he could lay his hands on with him. finally, a little before midnight, he seemed to feel that he could stand the strain no longer, and prepared to shut up the shop. he turned the lights down hastily, as if he feared that some customer might enter and detain him longer. he went out, locked the door behind him, and started rapidly toward his lodgings. he lived at some distance from his shop, and had to pass through a long, quiet street to get there. even in the daytime few persons were usually stirring upon this street, and at this hour it was entirely deserted. miller went along part of the time with his head down, and part of the time turning his eyes in every direction. he was just approaching an intersection with another street when two figures in long, black robes with hoods drawn over their heads seemed to rise from the ground in front of him. as a matter of fact, they had simply stepped from behind a tree, but miller's mind was in no condition to take things as they were. he gasped with fright the minute he saw them, stopped short and then tried to run back. the figures leaped after him, and clutched him by the arms, while one clapped a hand over his mouth. "it'll be safer for you," said one of them, sternly, "to make no resistance, for if you do you'll be beaten to a pulp in less than no time." miller chattered with fear. in spite of this threat he might have tried to break away, but he saw other figures apparently rising from the ground. he was quickly surrounded by not less than a dozen, all in black cloaks and hoods. he could not see the faces of any of them clearly. chapter xxiii. tried by the "pigs." if miller had not been guilty of the assault upon frank, he might possibly have had faith that no yale student would do him a serious injury, though that is doubtful, for he had the idea which many ignorant people hold that students are nothing short of young barbarians when they get to playing pranks. as it was, he was fully convinced that he was in for the most horrible tortures, even if he were permitted to escape with his life. he was in such an agony of fear that if he could have done so he would have disregarded the threats of the leader and yelled at the top of his lungs, but his very fear prevented this, to say nothing of the fact that one of the students kept his hand ready to close over miller's mouth. the cigar dealer was so paralyzed with terror that he could only chatter. a few disjointed words came out which seemed to be to the effect that he hadn't done it purposely. if the students had needed any further proof that he was the guilty party, this would have settled it. they were sufficiently satisfied, however, before they began their operations, and this partial admission merely stimulated them to more active work. the dozen or so who had come out in hoods to capture the man, surrounded him and walked him rapidly toward the building in which the pi gamma had its rooms. in so doing they passed more than one person on the streets, but no more than a little curious attention was paid to them. whoever saw them supposed that some process in a secret society initiation was going on, and if they caught sight of the unhooded figure in the middle of the group, they undoubtedly supposed that it was a neophyte. miller longed undoubtedly to cry for help whenever the party met anybody, but with a student clinging to each arm and hands raised to choke his voice, he dared not so much as whisper. so at length he was brought without interruption to the back entrance of the building, where he was hustled into the doorway and blindfolded. there, strangely enough, he found his tongue for a moment. "you fellers let me alone, or you'll all go to jail for it," he muttered. a chorus of hoarse, long-drawn "ahs!" was the answer to this. the outer door was closed then, and miller was told to kneel. "i won't do it!" he protested. "i'm not going to have my head struck off with an ax----" "kneel, you scoundrel!" cried the voice of baker, who was the leader of the party. they did not wait for him to kneel, but pushed him to his knees. he found himself as the neophytes did, at the bottom of a stairway; then they told him to mount, and prodded him in the back and legs to make him start on. miller started, for he could not help himself. his journey upward then was like that described in the case of frank during his initiation. what he felt cannot be described, for miller, so far as is known, never told anybody about it. he arrived at the top of the long, winding flight of stairs in a state of almost complete collapse. the noise had been more deafening and hideous than ever had been endured by any neophyte. the whole force of the pi gamma were out to make the thing a success, and every kind of racket that ingenuity could devise was added to the usual programme. when at last miller found that there were no other steps ahead of him to be climbed, he stumbled forward, face downward, and lay upon the floor gasping and groaning. the noise suddenly ceased, for baker had held up his hand and the students who understood the programme obeyed his silent command immediately. "the mystic gates have been passed," remarked baker, in a solemn tone. "it is understood that the person who has thus entered within the circle of pi gamma is not a member and that he has been permitted to come here simply that he may defend his own life. "we will, therefore, proceed to try him at once. set the prisoner on his feet." a couple of students lifted miller up, and obeying another sign from baker, took the bandage from his eyes. miller looked around then with a stare of fright and surprise. the hooded figures had disappeared and in their places were students dressed just as he was accustomed to seeing them. the room was a large one, but what it contained besides the students he was too frightened to notice. his knees were shaking and his lips quivered, although in the presence of these rather familiar faces he tried to pull himself together and look cool. "miller," said baker, sternly, standing squarely in front of him, "you are in a very serious situation, and it is necessary for your safety that you should have as good control of yourself as possible. we intend to give you every chance for your life." "i ain't done nothing!" muttered miller. "that will be found out later," was the stern reply; "meantime you're in no condition to defend yourself. we'll give you a bracer so that you may be able to understand what goes on and take part in it the best way you know how." with this baker nodded to a senior, who immediately came forward with a glass filled with some kind of liquor. "drink this," said baker. he held it out to miller, who took it with a trembling hand. "you're going to poison me," he stammered. "in the presence of all these witnesses?" returned baker, sharply. "hardly. the stuff will not harm you; if you don't drink it you'll be worse off." miller still hesitated. he looked doubtfully at the liquor, smelled of it and then stared helplessly at the faces around him. baker raised his hand. at the signal every student seized a club of some kind and got in a circle around miller, holding the clubs up. "we don't want any nonsense about this," said baker then. "you can either drink that dose now or the clubs will fall." the instant he had spoken every student brought his club down hard upon the floor close to miller's feet. the man fairly danced in an agony of fear, and a part of the liquor fell from the glass. "drink!" thundered baker. the cigar dealer then put the glass to his lips and poured it down with one gulp. baker nodded in a satisfied way. "now put him in the prisoner's chair!" he said. two of the students then led miller trembling and more than half convinced that he had taken deadly poison, to the swing in which the neophytes had been drawn up to the ceiling. miller was seated in the chains and told to grip the chain and then the windlass was worked, and he was raised three or four feet from the floor. the students grouped themselves in front of him, seated on chairs; baker alone remained standing. it seemed to miller then as if everybody moved very slowly. he thought he could count a hundred between every two words that were uttered. before many minutes had passed it seemed to him as if he had been a year in this place. this sensation on his part was due to the liquor he had drunk. it was a harmless preparation of hasheesh, a well-known indian drug that, taken in sufficient quantities, is poisonous, but in small doses produces simply a half dream-like effect upon the mind that causes the time to seem intolerably long. it is a dangerous drug to fool with, but the preparation of it in this instance had been made by a senior who was the best student in college in the department of chemistry. he knew just how to put it together so that the effect on miller's brain would not endure for more than two hours and would leave him entirely uninjured. as he expressed it: "it won't do him half as much harm as an ordinary jag, and he'll remember everything that occurs during the time that he's drugged, and everything that's done will impress him most seriously." taking his fear and the influence of the drug together, therefore, miller was in very ripe condition for the trial that then took place. it was really very brief, for knowing that the time was passing slowly to the victim, the students hurried through the proceeding in order to get more quickly to the climax. "miller," said baker, sternly, "you are accused of pushing frank merriwell in front of a moving car. what have you to say for yourself?" "i--i--i----" stammered miller, very slowly. "if you're going to tell the truth," interrupted baker, "you can take less time about it. we know the facts, for you were seen by four of us and recognized. we should have let the matter pass if it hadn't resulted fatally." "i didn't go for to do any real harm," answered miller, the perspiration breaking out upon his face. "but you admit that you did do it?" "i just thought i'd give him a scare." "very well, gentlemen," said baker, calmly, "what's your verdict?" "guilty!" thundered the students in chorus. miller trembled so that the chains to which he was clinging rattled. "see here," he said, feebly, "i don't see how it could be fatal, for i heard that frank merriwell was seen around on the streets day before yesterday." "then you doubt, do you, that your cowardly trick has proved fatal?" "how could it," asked miller, "if he was going around just as usual? i think this is some infernal trick of you students----" "you'd better speak respectfully." "well," stammered miller, "i don't want to cause no offense, but you told me i could defend myself, and i ain't going to believe that frank merriwell was seriously hurt. i'm sorry for it if he was, and i won't do it again." "take him down and let him see the body of his victim!" said baker, in a solemn tone. miller started so when he heard this that he almost fell out of the chain loop. the windlass creaked, and he was set down on the floor. baker's command had set his fears going afresh, and he trembled so that he could hardly stand upright. a couple of students caught him by the arms and pushed rather than led him to one of the small rooms of the order. a door was opened and miller was forced inside. he gave a loud gasp when he entered, fell upon his knees, and beat his hands helplessly upon the floor. chapter xxiv. humperdink to the rescue. what miller saw was this: a room lighted by one solitary candle and rendered more gloomy by heavy curtains hanging before the windows; a cot bed was in the middle, and upon it was a body all covered over with the exception of the face, and the face above it was that of frank merriwell. it need hardly be said here that frank was as much alive at that moment as he had ever been in his life, but his face had been covered with chalk so as to resemble that of a dead man. miller was thoroughly convinced that frank was dead, and he was not too frightened to realize that he had admitted having been the cause of it. "oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" he groaned. "i never meant that it should be as bad as this!" "it isn't a question of what you shall do," remarked baker, sternly. the other students had come into the room and now stood around, looking on solemnly. not one of them so much as winked at another for fear that the spectacle would lose some of its force upon the mind of the frightened victim. "the point is," continued baker, "that you are not in a position to do anything; the question is, what shall we do?" "he ought to have his head chopped off where he is!" muttered bruce browning, gruffly. miller started and edged away from the spot where he was kneeling. "no!" exclaimed baker, sternly; "that would be too easy; i should rather think that it would be better to boil him in a vat!" "or might burn him alive out on the marshes!" said another. "i think a good straight forward hanging is the best thing for him!" muttered jack diamond. "oh, for heaven's sake, gentlemen!" groaned miller, "don't let it be to-night. give me a chance to make up for this!" "how can you make up for it?" retorted baker. "do you know any way of restoring a dead person to life?" "no, i don't, but i never would have gone to do it if i'd supposed that it would be serious, so help me, i never would!" "i don't think that that makes any difference." at this moment there was a stir in the room back of the students. baker turned inquiringly. one of the students who had really been present all the time now pretended to be coming in from the outside in a hurry. "prof. humperdink," said this student, "is on the way, and will be here in a minute or two." "ah!" responded baker, in a tone of relief, "perhaps then that may make things better, for, of course, while we are bound to punish this man miller, we want merriwell restored to life if such a thing can be done." "humperdink can do it if anybody can!" said rowe. "do you mean to say, gentlemen," gasped miller, "that there's a chance that merriwell may be restored?" "we can't tell until humperdink comes," responded baker, solemnly. "haven't you ever heard of humperdink?" "i don't think he buys his cigars at my store," responded miller. "no, he probably doesn't," responded baker, significantly. "humperdink doesn't indulge in ordinary tobacco; he smokes the root of snake plants found in the wilds of africa. one whiff of it for an ordinary man is fatal." miller stared in a way that showed he believed every word. he was not in a condition to doubt anything that was told to him. that is one of the effects of hasheesh, but even without the drug it is more than likely that he would have believed everything said to him on this occasion. "humperdink," continued baker, "knows all the mysteries of nature. he has experimented with all poisons, and eats them as readily as the rest of us do ordinary food. in the old days he would have been called a magician. really he's a very great scientist, and if there's any possible hope for merriwell he'll know it. ah! here he is." at the moment when miller had been taken into the room where merriwell lay apparently dead, another student had slipped into the dressing-room of the little theatre, which was a part of the society's quarters, and had put on a long gown, white wig and beard, and concealed his eyes with dark glasses. he now came tottering feebly across the room toward the students. "what have ye here?" he asked in a high, cracked voice. "one of the students has died, professor," responded baker, in a tone of deep respect, "and the circumstances were so peculiar----" "dead, eh?" returned the "professor," stopping short in his walk, "then i can't do anything for him." he turned about as if he would go away. "oh! don't give it up!" screamed miller, "come in and give him something to bring him back to life; do it, i beg you, for my sake!" "your sake," sneered the "professor," "you are not worth the turn of a thumb!" "oh, but you don't know how much depends on it!" cried miller. "i don't know!" fairly shouted the professor. "i know everything! i know that you caused that young man's death; i know that you pushed him in front of a moving car; i know that you didn't mean to kill him, but that you would be glad to do so if you could do it safely; i know that you're a cold-hearted wretch!" miller again beat his hands upon the floor helplessly. "yes! yes!" he groaned, "i'm all that, but i don't want him to die! do save him if you can, professor." "it's this way, professor," said baker, quietly. "this man groveling on the floor is not worth the turn of a thumb, but the rest of us are very fond of merriwell, and would like to have him restored to life if such a thing can be done. "do it for our sakes, and the sake of science, professor." "well," grumbled the "professor," after hesitating a moment, "for the sake of science i'll take a look at him. the rest of you clear out." he turned slowly into the dark room, while the rest of the students withdrew, taking miller with them; then a long ten minutes passed. meantime, acting according to their former programme, the students in the main room discussed various plans for the punishment of miller. the victim of their fearful proceeding squatted on the floor, rocking his body back and forth, moaning and wringing his hands. at last "prof." humperdink appeared in the doorway and started slowly across the room. miller jumped to his feet, ran to him, and caught him by his robe. "tell me," he cried, frantically, "will he recover?" "bah! don't touch me!" returned the "professor," giving the cigar dealer a vigorous kick. miller fell over on his side, while the "professor" went slowly out of the room. "why don't you ask him," said browning, anxiously turning to baker, "has he succeeded or failed?" "he must have failed," responded baker, sadly, "or he would have said something about it. we'll take the prisoner in there again and decide what to do with him." by this time miller was a complete wreck. he could not possibly stand upon his feet, and students picked him up to carry him to the darkened room. just then the door of that room opened again, and frank appeared in the doorway. he had rubbed some of the chalk off his face so that he appeared more natural than before, but he leaned against the doorpost as if weak. "well, fellows," he said, feebly, "what's the matter?" the students set up a great shout, ran to merriwell, grasping his hand and congratulating him warmly. frank appeared to be dazed by the proceeding. "what's the matter, anyway?" he asked. "what am i here for in this condition?" "you've been dead!" shouted the students, in chorus. "dead, is it?" "yes, and prof. humperdink has restored you to life." frank looked as if he did not believe it. "this is some joke," he said. "joke? why, we thought you were going to tell us what happened in the other world." "i'm not going to tell anything until i understand this!" he retorted. "hello, there's miller." during this miller had been half lying in a chair where the students had dropped him at sight of frank. he was staring in speechless astonishment at the figure in the doorway. the probability is that he was still so frightened that he believed that frank had not really come back to life, but that it was his ghost that was speaking. "what's miller doing in the pi gamma rooms!" exclaimed frank, starting toward him. "he's the fellow that pushed me under the car! did you bring him up here for me to give him a thrashing?" this was said in such a perfectly natural tone, and frank appeared to be so much in earnest, that miller was restored to a good deal of his ordinary condition. he jumped up from the chair, and tried to make for the door; of course, he was caught before he could get out. then while he was held there, baker pretended to explain to frank that death had taken place and that humperdink had restored him by some secret scientific process. "we had miller here," he concluded, "so that we might punish him for causing your death." frank listened very gravely. "well," he said, "the main thing is that i'm alive again. as for you, miller, you deserve to be hanged just as much as if you had succeeded in what you tried to do, but i'm so much alive again that i'm inclined to beg the boys to let you off." "oh, don't let them hurt me, mr. merriwell!" groaned miller. "on my life i didn't mean to do you any harm, and i'll never do anything wrong again as long as i live." "i think it's safe enough to take his word for that," said frank, turning to the others. they looked a little doubtful, but baker answered for them. "well, merriwell is the most interested party, and what he says ought to go. you may get out, miller, but remember if there is ever any sign of you attempting dirty work with a student again, we'll be after you, and next time we won't give you any chance for a trial, either." "i'll behave myself for the future, i will, so help me!" stammered miller, as he made for the open door. after he had been seen well out of the building the students indulged in an uproarious laugh at the success of their plan, and all declared that it was a much better way of getting even with the cigar dealer than any of the plans suggested by the other students. they had another supper on the spot to celebrate the event, and they were not surprised a day or two later to learn that miller had disposed of his cigar business and left new haven forever. chapter xxv. frank has a visitor. after the affair with miller matters went along quietly for some time with frank. he turned to his studies with a will, paying particular attention to mathematics, so that no complaint might be made against him by prof. babbitt. one day he was deep in a problem in geometry when there came a loud rap on the door. "come in." the door opened, and in walked ben halliday. frank looked up in surprise. "hello! hally," he called. "hello! merriwell," said the other, a trifle stiffly. "what's the matter, old man? you are not usually in the habit of knocking in that manner. usually you walk in without being invited." "perhaps i have been a little too free in that respect," said ben, significantly. "free! not at all. you know any of my friends are welcome here at any time. this is liberty hall." "that sounds all right, merriwell," said ben, remaining standing; "but, if you mean it, why should you say i am too fresh and take too many liberties?" "i say so? why, i never said anything of the sort has any fellow reported me as saying that?" "i heard it." frank came to his feet instantly. "heard me say so?" he cried. "is that what you mean, hally?" "no; i mean that i have heard you did say so." merriwell advanced and placed his hands on the shoulders of his visitor, looking straight into ben's eyes. "halliday," he said, slowly, "have i ever been anything but a friend to you?" ben moved uneasily, and then answered: "i do not know that you have." "did you ever know me to say anything behind the back of either friend or foe that i did not dare say to his face?" "no." "did you ever know me to lie?" "no." "then you will believe me, i think, when i tell you i did not say you were too fresh and took too many liberties. some chap has been trying to make you my enemy. i have seen of late that you acted strangely but did not know why. now i understand it. but i am surprised that you could believe such a thing of me." halliday was confused. "well," he falteringly said, "you see it's this way: i knew you hated to throw up your grip on the football team and drop out entirely, and somebody said you were jealous of me because i did such good work against the indians. you know my run in that game was compared with your famous run in the princeton game last season. and you have not been just like yourself lately. sometimes you have not looked at me when we met." "is that so?" asked frank, in surprise. "i didn't know it. must be my mind is on my studies too much. and still i made a dead flunk the day after the carlisle game. there had been so many reports that the indians had a new trick that was sure to enable them to win, and, knowing as i did what bulldogs they are to play, i was all nerved up with anxiety. couldn't seem to keep my mind on my studies for a week before the game, and it grew worse and worse the nearer the time came. after it was over, i found i might as well have taken part in the game." "that's just it!" cried halliday, quickly. "that's why i dropped around to see you." "eh? what do you mean?" "why don't you get back on the team?" "get back? what are you driving at? you're doing good work. "i don't want to crowd you out." "you wouldn't. they need you as full-back." "you played that position in the game with the indians." "but i am not to play it again. i am quarter-back now." "is that right?" cried frank, in surprise. "your position has been changed? how did that happen?" "quigg is out of it for the season. you know he was hurt in the last game. doctor says he must not play any more this year. i have been shoved into his place in a hurry." "what's that for?" "forrest did it. a new man is going to be tried at full-back--rob marline. forrest is desperate. he says the team is broken all to pieces, and stands a poor show with either harvard or princeton. this will be a dismal season for old yale." frank turned pale and seemed to stagger a bit, as if he had been struck. it was a shock for him to know that yale was in danger. he had supposed she was all right and everything was running well. "we did not make the showing against the indians that we should have made, although we beat them," halliday went on. "but for my lucky run, we might have been beaten." "i didn't know----" began frank, falteringly. ben made a fierce gesture. "what's the matter with you merriwell?" he savagely cried. "didn't know? you should know! you are the fellow of us all who should know. you have changed, and it has not been for the better. i tell you we stand a slim show with harvard and princeton, and you are needed just as you were needed at the tug of war. that being the case, you have no right to shut yourself up here in your room and plug away, seeming to take no interest in anything but your studies and recitations. you have been the most popular man in college, but your popularity is on the wane. i'll tell you why, if you want to know." frank was still whiter, if possible. was this halliday talking to him in such a manner--halliday, who had ever seemed to stand in awe of him? it was plain enough that ben was giving him a "call down," but what shook merry the most was the fact that he began to feel that it was merited. "i should like to know," he said, slowly. ben could not tell what effect his words might have on frank, but he was reckless, and he did not care. "you can punch my head, if you want to," he said, "but i am going to talk plain. don't seem to be anybody else who dares to talk to you. they kick and growl and say things behind your back, but they don't come right at you with what they want to say. they are saying that you are afraid to play on the eleven this year." frank stiffened up. "afraid?" he said, hoarsely. "yes." "how can they say that? have i ever shown fear?" "they do say it," came doggedly from halliday. "they say you made a lucky run in the princeton game last year, and you know it was a case of dead cold luck. it gave you a great rep., and you are afraid of taking a fall down if you play this season. that's exactly what they are saying, and," added ben, for himself, "i'll be hanged if it doesn't look that way from the road!" frank bit his lip and stood staring at halliday. he showed no anger, but it was plain that he was astonished. up to that moment he had not realized he stood in a position where he could not withdraw from football, baseball, or anything else in that line of his own desire without being regarded as cowardly. now he saw it plainly enough. halliday had been doubtful as to the manner in which frank would take his plain talk, but he was determined to tell merry what was being said, and he would not have hesitated had he felt certain it would produce a fight. but frank saw ben was speaking the truth, and, instead of being angry, he experienced a sensation of gratitude. still he was determined to know all about it. "how long have they been making this kind of talk, old fellow?" he asked. "ever since it was known for sure that you had decided not to try out for the eleven this fall." "and this is the first i have heard of it!" "they didn't talk so much at first," explained ben. "it wasn't known then but your place could be filled easily." "you were put in my place." "yes, but i should have been placed elsewhere if you had come on." "and they think that would have strengthened the team?" "of course it would! i tell you the fellows have a reason to growl when they see yale putting out a weak eleven while the best man in college refuses to get into gear and give a lift." "what sort of man is this marline?" "a good runner and a pretty punter." "sand?" "guess so." "then what's his weak point?" "temper." "quick tempered?" "like a flash of powder. loses his head. forrest says he may lose any of the big games for us by getting mad at a critical point, but still he is the best man we have." frank walked over to his window and looked out, his back toward halliday. ben stood watching him with no small anxiety. now it was over, and he had relieved his feelings by speaking out plainly, ben wondered at his own boldness. he had been flushed with excitement, but he felt himself growing pale and cold. "lord, what a crust!" he thought. three minutes passed this way, and then frank whirled around with startling suddenness. "do you practice to-day?" he asked. "yes." "i'll come out to the park." "what for?" "don't know yet. i'll look on, anyway." "shall i tell forrest?" "no, you needn't say anything about it." "all right." halliday was well pleased with the result, for he felt sure merry was aroused. "how do i know i am wanted on the eleven?" frank asked. "it's all made up now, and----" "heard forrest say he'd rather have you for full-back than marline." "well, i'll come out and see you practice." so ben left. at one time he had been envious of merriwell, but now, like others, he realized that merry was too good timber to be lost from the eleven. halliday overcame his selfishness, and, for the interest of old yale, desired to see merry back on the team. besides that, ben was not pleased to be changed from full-back to quarter-back and have a fellow like marline given the position he had played very well thus far that season. he felt that he had much rather be put off the eleven entirely to give room for frank. after ben left, frank attempted to return to his studies, but he could not fix his mind upon them. he went down to recitation in a dazed condition, and made a flunk, much to the surprise of those who knew he had turned into a "greasy grind" of late. frank's mind was uneasy, and it wandered constantly. the knowledge that he had been regarded as cowardly in declining to go on the eleven was gall and wormwood to him. he was glad halliday had come to him and let him know how matters stood, and surely no one could have closer at heart the welfare of yale in all directions. he began to understand that he had won a position in athletics from which he could not voluntarily withdraw without being misunderstood and maligned. that afternoon halliday came around for frank, and found him with his sweater and rough clothes on, ready to leave his room. "i was afraid you would forget," said ben, in a confused way. "little danger of that!" muttered frank. "i haven't been able to remember anything else but what you said to me this forenoon." "hope you didn't lay it up against me, merry." "don't take me for a fool, old fellow!" came rather sharply from frank. they left the college grounds and took a trolley car out to the park. forrest and the team were there ahead of them. a hundred spectators were watching the men catch punts. bob cook was there. he was not coaching; he was standing at one side by himself, watching the men, something like a disconsolate look on his face. this was not like him; it was significant. as they entered the gate, halliday touched merriwell's arm, quickly saying: "there he goes!" "who?" asked frank. "marline. he's getting out to take some punts." frank knew marline by sight, but he had never given the fellow much attention. now he deliberately sized him up. he saw a well-built, healthy-looking lad, who carried himself gracefully, almost arrogantly. there was more than a suggestion of conscious superiority in marline's manner. punk!--a strong leg sent a twisting ball sailing toward marline. he ran under it with an air of confidence, and caught it easily, gracefully. "i take it he is one of the fellows who show up well in practice, at least," said frank. chapter xxvi. significant movements. the appearance of frank on the ground soon attracted attention. of late there had been much talk about merriwell and there was not a college man interested in football who had not expressed an opinion concerning his ability or his withdrawal from the sport. early in the season walter gordan had made a try for the eleven, but had soon been turned down. sport harris could not have been induced to play football, but he took much interest in the team, as he wished to know how to place his "dough" on the great games. harris and gordon were watching the men at practice, but the latter saw merriwell as soon as he entered the park. "well, hang me!" he muttered, staring. "what's the matter?" asked sport. "look there--with halliday!" "yes, i see--why, it's merriwell!" "sure." "what's he out here for?" "don't ask me!" "thought he was out of it. hasn't seemed to take any interest in the eleven this season." "perhaps he thinks he's stayed away till it is so late he'll not be asked to come on the team. he couldn't keep away any longer." "well, he's needed on the eleven, and that is a fact. he has disgusted his friends by pulling out of the game." gordan laughed. "he seems to think he can retire on the laurels he has won." "well, he never made a bigger mistake in his life," said harris. "yale doesn't have any use for shirks. if he thinks he can retire because he made a great run in the princeton game last fall, he is mistaken." "he is retiring on his reputation as a globe-trotter," sneered walter. "you know he has been all over the world. i expect to hear any day that he has discovered the north pole during some of his extensive travels, but has forgotten to say anything about it." "you think he hasn't traveled as much as has been reported?" "oh, he may have been over the pond, but that's nothing. willis paulding has been over several times, and so have a score of fellows i know. but the yarns about shooting panthers in south america, gorillas in africa, and other fierce and terrible beasts in other countries are altogether too steep to go down my throat." "how about the trophies he has to show for it?" "bah! his uncle left him money to burn, and he has a way of squeezing any amount of it out of his guardian, prof. scotch. if he calls for a thousand dollars, he gets it right away. with money like that i could buy a lot of old weapons, queer pottery, fake idols, brass lamps, skins of wild animals, and so forth, and make a big bluff that i had gathered them all over the world. i don't say much about him, but, between you and i, that fellow makes me awfully weary." harris grinned a bit. "can't get over it, can you?" he said. "can't get over what?" "the fact that he beat you out at both baseball and football last year. he got onto the 'varsity nine and the eleven. you tried for both, and got onto neither." "oh, i don't care about those things," protested gordan. "it was by chance that he got onto the nine, and you know it. if yale hadn't been hard up for pitchers, he would not have been given a trial." "that's all right, but you had the same opportunity and you got left." "oh, well, rub it in!" snapped gordan. "merriwell has beat you at a few things, or the stories they tell are lies." it was harris' turn to get red in the face. "who has been telling anything? has merriwell been blowing around?" "i don't know about that, but it is said that your harvard friend, harlow, proved to be a card sharp--and you introduced him to a lot of fellows here. merriwell got into a game and caught him cheating. if the stories are straight, merriwell could have made it hot for you. he let up on you." "lies!" snarled harris, his face growing dark, while he pulled away at his short mustache. "it must be merriwell has been telling these things. oh, i'd like to punch his head!" "yes, but you don't dare try it any more than i do," grinned gordan. "you know he can lick you and not half try." "oh, he's a fighter, and i don't pretend to be that; but he may find me dangerous. i have been keeping still for some time, but i'm simply waiting, that's all." "the fellows say he was dead easy with hartwick, but that evan would not let up on merriwell." "well, hartwick was forced to leave college, anyway, and i'd like to make frank merriwell do the same thing." "wish you might. it would give some of the rest of us a show." "if he's played on the eleven this fall, i should have been forced to put my money on yale. now we've got a weak team, and i have put up something on harvard as soon as this. i am getting all the bets i can before it is generally known that yale is weak." "what if merriwell should be taken on?" "there is no danger of it, and he couldn't play the whole game, anyway. as full-back, however, he would have strengthened yale's weakest point. it is remarkable, but we haven't a man besides merriwell this season who is fully qualified to play the position." "what's the matter with the new man?" "marline?" "yes." "he's a grand-stand player. all he cares about is to do something pretty to win the admiration of the ladies. he will work for marline, and not for the team. mark what i say. the team was weak enough when it went against the indians, but it is weaker still with halliday at quarter and marline at full. harvard is better than she was last season, when we beat her by a fluke, and she will walk right over our team. put your money on harvard, gordan, and you will win everything." "hello!" exclaimed walter, suddenly. "what's up now?" "cook is talking with merriwell, that's all." "that means something." "get out! cook is coach, but he isn't running the team." "i tell you it means something! see--cook calls forrest. now the captain of the eleven is coming over. see that! they are talking together. i tell you that means something, harris!" gordan was excited, and he seemed to impart his excitement to his companion. with the greatest eagerness they watched the little group. perhaps the trio spent ten minutes talking, and then there was a move that added to the excitement of gordan and harris. "what's merriwell going to do?" asked sport, catching his breath. "do!" exclaimed walter, in deep disgust. "can't you see? he's going to practice!" "practice? great scott! that means----" "that means that he is sure to play on the eleven!" gordan and harris were not the only ones interested in merriwell's movements. tom thornton, who had once been an enemy to frank, and was now very friendly toward rob marline, the new man, who was expected to play full-back, was watching cook, forrest and merriwell. in catching a ball, marline ran past thornton, who asked: "what's up over there, rob? why are those fellows talking with their heads together?" "i don't know," was the answer. "maybe merriwell wants to get onto the eleven." "if he wants to, he'll do it." "he can't. positions all taken." "somebody'll be fired." "'twon't be me." "don't be so sure of that," thought tom, but he did not speak the words aloud. after a little merriwell was seen preparing to practice. halliday was at it already. happening to be near ben, thornton heard him observe to a player: "i've done the job for yale this time. got merriwell back. they will have to thank me for that." "got him back?" said the other. "why, how is that? where will he play?" "full-back, of course." "but marline." "marline will be given a chance to rest." thornton nodded. "knew it!" he muttered. "rob is a good fellow, and this isn't a square deal. he won't be given a show. merriwell is all right as a player, but he has no right to refuse to play and then come on after things are fixed and knock some other chap out. i'll tell rob." so, at the first opportunity, thornton told marline what he had heard halliday say. marline was from south carolina, and he was proud as lucifer. in fact, his manner of always speaking of south carolina as the "one" state in the union was often little short of exasperating. he was haughty and overbearing, proud of his birth, inclined to boast, and utterly blind to his own shortcomings. no one questioned marline's courage. he came from a family noted for courage and daring. his great-grandfather was a patriot officer of revolutionary times, and his father had won a commission in the confederate army in the war of the rebellion. the blood of fighters and heroes ran in marline's veins. for all that, there was no one at yale who could make himself more offensive than the boy from south carolina. he had a way of sneering at everybody and everything outside his native state, and when he set out to call anybody down, the most withering and biting sarcasm flowed from his tongue. marline was smart intellectually, but whimsical and set in his notions and beliefs. once let him express an opinion and he would not confess himself in the wrong even when absolute proof lay before him. instead, he was pretty sure to want to fight the fellow who offered the proof. as an orator the youth from south carolina had no superior in college. he was strong in argument, and it was through him that yale had succeeded in wresting from harvard the honors in the annual debate. with the professors he stood unusually well, as he was regarded as a brilliant scholar, and he had never been known to take part in any of the students' carousals. marline's face grew dark as he listened to halliday. "they can't drop me without playing me at all," he said, harshly. "can't! guess you don't know walt forrest. he wouldn't hesitate a second if he thought he could improve the team. he doesn't allow his feelings to interfere at all with the discharge of what he thinks is his duty." "if they try to kick me out, there'll be a hot time, sah!" flashed the boy from south carolina. "i'll show somebody that i'm not to be used like i am a dog!" "don't blame you," nodded tom. "it is a dirty trick." marline was rattled. three times he tried to catch a punted ball, and three times he dropped it, something remarkable for him to do--something that made the boys stare at him in surprise. in the meantime, merriwell was on the gridiron, and he was taking all kinds of twisters with his old-time confidence and skill. three balls were in use, and, after a time, it happened that, in running under two of them sent into the air at the same time, marline and merriwell collided. frank struck rob in such a manner that he was thrown to the ground, but he flopped over, sat up, and took the ball that belonged to him, laughing in a good-natured way. marline paid no attention to the ball he had started after, but stood looking down at frank, his face utterly bloodless and his eyes gleaming. "sah," he said, after a few seconds, as frank was getting up--"sah, you ran into me!" "believe i did, old man," laughed merriwell. "no harm done, i hope. didn't upset you, and you did me. i'm all right." "but you ran into me, sah!" "couldn't help it, you know," declared frank, with unfailing good nature. "accidents will happen." "accidents, sah, may often be avoided." "it is difficult to avoid them on the gridiron." "you may apologize, sah." marline was standing there, his arms folded, his dark eyes looking daggers at merriwell. his pose was graceful, and he really looked handsome, for all of his arrogant bearing. frank whistled his surprise. "apologize?" he said, slowly. "do you really mean that?" "i certainly do, sah." when rob marline addressed anybody as "sah" in that manner it was a warning. the word was one seldom used by him since coming to yale. to a great extent he had adopted the manners of the north, and had suppressed any little peculiarities of speech that might indicate his southern blood. now, however, he felt that he was a south carolinian, and the dignified and haughty "sah" of the south suited his mood. frank paused a moment, looking straight into the eyes of the hot-blooded youth who had demanded an apology. he seemed in doubt, but quickly made up his mind. "i never heard of an apology on the football field," he said; "but, as you seem to think me to blame for this little accident, i ask your pardon. i trust that is satisfactory." to this marline made no answer, but with a contemptuous movement of his body, turned about and stepped away. a few of the players near at hand had seen and heard everything. all were astonished. to them it seemed that marline had cowed merriwell, and a feeling of disdain for the latter mingled with their astonishment. "that beats the band!" said one to another. "is this the same merriwell we have thought such a lion?" "it's plain," said the other, "that the fellows who have been claiming he really has less nerve than is generally supposed were right. he is afraid of marline--i can see that. marline comes from a fighting family, and he would challenge merriwell to meet him in a genuine duel. merriwell can scrap, but he has no relish for swords or pistols. he has been cowed by the fellow from south carolina." chapter xxvii. halliday is puzzled. two teams were made up, and a short game was played, while the coachers kept at the men like relentless slave drivers. the appearance of frank on the field had seemed to awaken bob cook. he opened up on everybody, and the men seemed to find it inspiring to have him scold them. during the first half merriwell played full-back on the eleven that was pitted against the regular 'varsity team. he went into the game as if it was of the utmost importance. once he went through the center of the opposing team, and once he went around the left end. had he been well backed up, the regular eleven would have found difficulty in securing two touchdowns, one of which was made by marline. on the last half, much to his disgust, marline was taken off the regular eleven and placed at full-back on the other team, while merriwell was given his place. then the 'varsity eleven seemed to have new life, and the men played like so many tigers. the "irregulars" could do nothing with them. merriwell kicked a goal from the field, besides making one of his surprising and bewildering runs. marline played desperately, but he gave up in disgust before the end, realizing he could not make a good showing under such conditions. in his bosom his heart was heavy and bitter. "if i am pulled off the team without having a show, somebody shall suffer!" he vowed. the practice game over, the men pulled on their coats and started for the two trolley cars which were waiting at the entrance to the park. halliday got a seat beside frank on one of the cars. "you're right in it, old man!" said ben, enthusiastically. "why, you worked as if you were in training!" frank smiled. "i suppose i forgot the possibility of making myself lame. til feel it to-morrow." "never mind. you showed everybody that you are as good as ever. marline will get walking papers." merriwell's face suddenly became sober. "i don't know as that will be using him square, hally," he said, in a low tone of voice. "i presume he has been told he should play half-back on the eleven." "told nothing!" snorted ben. "forrest don't tell us fellows we can play anywhere, and there's not a man but knows he's likely to be dropped any time. he told marline to come and practice, and i'll go my last dollar that is all." "still marline has every reason to suppose he'll be given a show in some sort of a game." "huah! if he supposes too much, he'll get left." "i don't like to crowd anybody. you know that, hally." "you are too careful about crowding somebody. you are forever preaching that any fellow must fight his way through this world, but you never fight unless forced to do so. by the way, how could you apologize to that overbearing cur?" "well," said frank, deliberately, "i permitted my good judgment to govern my action." "good judgment be hanged! why, he was insulting!" "a trifle overbearing, perhaps, but it's natural with him. you know he comes from south carolina." "what of that? is he any better for that reason?" "not in the least, but it is probable that he has been brought up to think so. and it is certain that he has sand. he can't be driven into his boots, and i'll bet on it. south carolina produces tigers, and marline is one of them, or i have taken his measure wrong." halliday looked at frank in doubt and astonishment. "is it possible you are afraid of robert marline, merriwell?" he asked. "no," was the calm reply; "but i think you will remember that i had a little trouble with one hot-blooded southerner since entering college. the southern aristocrat seldom fights with his fists, but he is none the less ready to fight. i am willing to confess that i do not care to become involved in a duel with pistols or swords. can't afford to take the chances of being found out and expelled, even though honor should be satisfied without the death of either concerned. i have been hot-headed in my day, but i'm trying to hold myself down. i'd rather apologize for the accident to marline than to have him challenge me to a duel. that's the whole of it, and----" "what will the fellows think?" "let them think what they like!" exclaimed frank, flushing. "a person who is forever considering what some one will think if he does this, that or the other is forever miserable and uneasy." "but they'll say marline cowed you." "let them." "they'll say it is proof you have not the courage every one has thought." "let them." ben looked hard at frank, and then slowly observed: "thought i understood you, merriwell, but i'm blowed if i do!" chapter xxviii. frank's visitors. despite himself, frank was somewhat disturbed by what had taken place that afternoon. he knew halliday was right in saying it would be believed he had apologized to marline through fear of the proud southerner. merriwell was no more than human; he did not fancy being thought a coward. who does? had it been simply one or two persons who thought him afraid of the lad from south carolina he would not have minded, but for nearly every one in college to think so--well, that was different. and the peculiar combination of circumstances made the situation more trying than otherwise it could have been. frank could not help feeling some sympathy for marline, for all of the fellow's natural arrogance and overbearing manner. it was easy for merriwell to imagine himself in marline's position. "it would cut me," he thought. "i might hold my temper, but it would cut me to have any fellow step in and shove me out without letting me have a show to see what i might do." sentiment demanded that marline should be given an opportunity to play full-back on the yale team; but sentiment should not enter into college sports, and no one knew that better than frank merriwell. the football or baseball team that is run on sentiment can never be a winner. yet it seemed to merry that, under any circumstances, he would be placed in a false position before every one. he had refused to take an interest in football, and had held aloof till the very day that it was known halliday had been changed from full-back to quarter-back and marline had been given ben's former position. then merry had suddenly appeared on the scene and seemed to oust the new man before the latter had a show to prove his capability. to frank this seemed a cowardly thing to do, and nothing but the knowledge that the eleven was weak and really needed him could have induced him to go on the field. he did not want to fight marline, and he was determined not to fight marline if he could avoid it. still he realized that his enemies would say he feared the lad from south carolina, and his friends might believe it was true. "well," thought frank, after meditating on the situation, "it will not be the first time i have been thought a coward. i can stand it. if forrest says he needs me i shall play for the love of dear old yale. rather than have yale lose through my failure to do everything in my power, i'd be branded a coward for life!" this settled in his mind, he went to bed that night and slept peacefully, quite unaware that at morey's a gay party had gathered about rob marline, who was "opening things" and vowing publicly that he would drive frank merriwell off the gridiron forever. in case frank showed a determination to get into the game again, marline swore he would never give him a moment of peace till they met face to face on the "field of honor." "i come of fighting stock, gentlemen," said rob, his face flushed, his legs unsteady, his tongue unloosed, and a glass of "velvet" held aloft. "my grandfather killed his man, and my father has been concerned in more than one affair of honor. i am an expert with the sword, and i can shoot as well as the mountaineers of my native state--the fairest spot on the american continent merriwell will not have a chance with me if we ever do meet. with the blades, gentlemen, i'll run him through in less than thirty seconds; with pistols i'll lodge a ball in his heart at the first fire. but he'll never dare to meet me. the way he took water to-day proved that. he will crawl like a whipped dog." if marline had not been drinking freely he would not have said so much. the wine was in his head, and he was not responsible. but he meant every word he spoke, and he did not require "dutch courage" in order to back up his talk. in the morning frank awoke refreshed by a good night's sleep, took a cool dip, scrubbed down hastily, got into his clothes in a hurry, and was away to chapel, looking as fresh and rosy as a healthy youth should. merriwell took such care of himself that he was in perfect condition. he had not given up physical exercise, although he had thought of keeping out of football that season. every day he spent a certain amount of time in the gym, and not a minute of that time was wasted. under no circumstances did merriwell believe in radical dieting. at the same time he believed in common sense, and he knew a fellow could do himself no more harm than by overloading his stomach. the gourmand makes himself heavy of body, and dull of brain. frank had quite forgotten the unpleasant occurrence of the previous afternoon, and he dipped into his studies after the earnest manner that had marked him of late. on returning from recitation in the middle of the forenoon, he found visitors in his room. they had been admitted by "honest john," the colored porter. "lor' bress yeh!" grinned the white-headed old darky, showing his teeth in a broad grin--"lor' bress yeh, mistah merriwell! nebber see no purtier gal in all mah bawn days!" "girl!" cried frank, astonished. "lor' bress yeh, yes! purty's a picter, mistah merriwell." "girl in my room?" "yes, sah." "you let her in, john?" "yes, sah; but dar's a lady wif her, sah." "oh, ha!" "yes, sah--got a face dat'll stop a trolley car, sah. looks like it war cut out of wood, sah, an' mighty hard wood at dat. de gal smile, but de ole woman nebber smile at all." frank looked puzzled, and honest john began to look troubled. "hope ah ain't done no harm, sah?" he faltered. "de ladies said dey knowed yeh, sah, an' dey war yeh friends." "but i do not know of any friends in new haven who would come to my room." john showed alarm. "lor', sah! hope dis ain't no scrape, sah! mebbe yeh don't want teh see 'em? i'll jes' go an' 'splain yeh ain' heah--i'll say yeh been called away sudden by de deff ob yeh grandmam." "never mind, john. my grandmothers died years ago, and my visitors may be aware of the fact. i'll see them myself, although i don't care to be bothered by visitors at this time of the day." "hope it's all right, sah," said john. "yo' boys hab to be careful, sah. if yo' git too wild----" but frank was hurrying to his room, regardless of the darky's words. honest john followed. he listened outside the door after frank entered. he heard a girlish cry of delight, and an exclamation of pleasure from merriwell. "lor' sakes!" he chuckled, holding one crooked hand over his mouth, as he stood crouching at the door. "suah dat don' soun' lek trubble! yo' am all right, john. jes' yo' watch fo' mistah merriwell when he come out, an' yeh'll get a tip fer lettin' de ladies in. hey--what am dat?" he held his ear close to the door and listened again. then the crooked black hand was pressed still closer over his mouth, and his whole body shook with emotion as he tiptoed away. "lordy! lordy!" he exploded, when he considered himself at a safe distance. "i know dat soun' any time ah heah it. smack! smack! dat war kissin'! heuh! a-he-uh! a-he-uh! if mistah merriwell don' make dat tip a whole dollah, dis coon ain't took his size an' suckumfrence!" chapter xxix. an unwilling promise. when frank stepped into his room he was astonished to find himself face to face with his old-time sweetheart, inza burrage, and her aunt, miss abigail gale. inza hurried toward him, uttering a joyous cry, and an exclamation of surprise and delight escaped his lips. in a moment, regardless of the presence of her aunt, the girl flung her arms about frank's neck and kissed him. miss gale's hard face did not soften, but she turned her back toward them, and pretended to be greatly interested in a strange crooked dagger, having a point smeared with some green substance, the dagger being locked in a case with a heavy glass door. upon the glass of the case was pasted a slip of paper bearing these words: "the snake knife of the pampas." "inza!" exclaimed frank, as if somewhat in doubt. "inza--here?" "yes!" she cried. "isn't it a surprise? i knew i would surprise you, frank." "a surprise indeed! why, you didn't let me know you were coming." "no." "how does it happen?" "aunt abby knows some friends in new haven, and she wished to visit them while she was in the east, so she asked me to come with her. you may be sure i was ready enough to come, and, as father is getting along very well, we were able to leave him." "then your father--he is improved?" "a great deal since getting back to america. he raced all over europe looking for health, but continued to get worse till he returned home. now he says he believes this the healthiest country on the face of the earth." "and he is right. if a person is not strong enough to endure the rigors of our northern climate, there is the perfect climate of california. but i don't suppose you came here to talk climate." frank said this with a laugh, and they advanced, hand-in-hand, toward miss gale, who had turned her attention from the queer knife to some still queerer images and ornaments that adorned the mantel. "aunty says you'll be a museum manager if you keep on," laughed inza. "says she never saw so many queer things." "goodness, no!" exclaimed miss gale, severely, turning to look at frank over the rims of her spectacles. "i hope you ain't a crank, mr. merriwell." "i trust not, miss gale," smiled frank, with extended hand, which abigail rather awkwardly accepted, but shook with a heartiness that was expressive of her esteem for merry. "what be some of these horrid-looking things?" asked the spinster. "what be they good for?" "some of them are mementoes, and some of them are simply for the purpose of decoration. those little images, those odd vases, the pottery on that shelf--i gathered those things as ornaments." "do tell! i want to know if that ain't just like some folks! them things are so hombly i'd want to hide 'em or put 'em all in the fire if i had 'em in my house. some real pretty chromo pictures would look so much better in place of them. if you want vases, why you can get pretty glass ones almost anywhere from fifteen to thirty cents each, and land knows they'd look better than them things! then there's that great stuffed tiger. goodness! it scared me awful when i saw it standing there in the corner of the room. i thought it was living, and was shooing at it when inza ran over and put her hand right on it. whatever in the world can induce you to have such a thing in your room?" "at first i found it difficult to induce aunt abby to remain in this room," laughed inza. "she wanted to go outside and wait for you. i am afraid she has obtained an unfavorable impression of you by coming here." "i sincerely trust not," said frank, who had worked hard when he first met miss gale in santa barbara to win her good esteem, a task at which he had been most successful. "i should regret it very much if i thought such was the case." miss abigail's hard face did not soften, but she immediately said: "i suppose we all must have some weak point, and it seems to be mr. merriwell's weakness to gather such hideous truck. i'm sure he's a gentleman, and i think just as much of him as i ever did." frank bowed gracefully and expressed his thanks. "can't help looking at the stuff," said the spinster, readjusting her spectacles and turning her back squarely on frank and inza. "i like to see what crazy notions they do get up." she appeared to be very busy examining the collection of bric-a-brac and curiosities. frank and inza looked at each other a moment, and then their hands met. he drew her to a seat on the sofa. for some time they chatted of various matters that interested them alone, miss gale being strangely taken up with the trinkets in the meantime. "is this the way she usually chaperones you, inza?" asked frank, after a while, smiling. "goodness, no!" replied the girl. "if you were any one but frank merriwell she would be sitting stiff and straight on a chair, never taking her eyes off us for a moment. but you--she thinks you are the finest young man in the world. you have completely won her withered old heart, frank. you should hear her praise you to papa." "i'm lucky to have such a champion. has your father given over the hope of marrying you off to some rich man?" "i don't know about that. he hasn't mentioned it of late. i think his ill luck has discouraged him." "two years after this will take me through college, and then----" "and then----" his hand found hers once more, and the look that he gave her she could not misunderstand. her eyes drooped, and the warm color surged into her cheeks. to frank it seemed that inza grew more handsome each time he saw her. certainly she was destined to become a strikingly attractive woman. after a little their conversation drifted onto the subject of college sports, and inza suddenly said: "i am so glad you are not playing football this season, frank." "glad?" questioned frank, surprised. "why?" "oh, just because--because--i am." this was unlike inza. she had ever taken a great interest in manly sports and games, and, in the old days at fardale, her smiles and encouraging words had fired him with enthusiasm to do his best in many a contest. "i don't think i understand you," he said, slowly. "you used to be glad for quite the other reason." "but--but it's different now." "how?" "oh, i can't tell; but it is." "well, inza, i have not played football this season, but i am thinking of playing in the two principal games--the ones with harvard and princeton." inza appeared startled. "don't do it, frank--don't play football this year!" she exclaimed. "promise me that you will not." "oh, i can't do that, inza. yale is not as strong as she should be this fall, and, if i can do anything to help her win, i feel that i must." inza secured both his hands, leaned toward him, and looked straight into his eyes, as she deliberately asked: "if i didn't want you to play, would you do so?" frank's position was rather unpleasant, and he showed confusion. "if there was a reason why you did not want me to play----" "there is." "tell it to me." "not now--sometime. but i want you to promise me that you will not go on the field this season. will you promise?" in her dark eyes there was a command, as well as an entreaty. he felt that he could not resist her if he looked into those eyes, and he turned his head away. instantly inza sprang up. "i think we had better go, aunt abby," she exclaimed. frank was on his feet instantly. "now, inza," he exclaimed, "i know you are angry. it seems to me that you are unreasonable. if you would tell me why you don't want me to play, i--i----" "it is very plain that i have been mistaken in you," she said, severely. "i thought of you when my father was trying to force me into marriage with an englishman with a title--and i ran away from the englishman. perhaps, if i had known you would refuse me such a little thing as this--perhaps i might have married that odious old englishman out of spite!" her eyes flashed, and she stamped her small foot. she was right; he felt it. she had done much for him, and truly he might please her in this matter. marline could play full-back all right, and it was no more than fair that marline should have a chance. he had not intended to play football, but halliday had tried to drag him into it. "don't be angry, inza," he said. "let's talk it over. perhaps i will promise." "i have talked enough," she said, without relenting. "if you care for me as i fancied you did, you will promise without another word." one more moment of hesitation, and then frank said: "that settles it--i promise." "you will not play football this season?" "no." "you are a dear, good boy!" then she suddenly kissed him again. chapter xxx. "false to his colors." as the hour to start for the park that afternoon approached halliday came hurrying into merriwell's room, and found frank digging away at his greek again. "hey, there!" cried ben. "have you forgotten, old man?" "hello!" said frank, looking up with an uncertain smile. "forgotten what?" "practice." "no." "but you're not ready." "no." "forrest wants us there on the dot. come, frank, get into your old suit, and we'll make a rush for the car." frank put down his book, saying: "i'm not going, ben." "hey?" cried halliday, staggering. "come again." "i'm not going." "not? come off! what are you giving us? don't try any funny business with me, merry!" "there is no funny business about this. i have decided not to go." "you can't afford to miss an afternoon if you are going to get in shape for the same with the cambridge fellows." "i am not going to try to get into shape." that was another staggerer for halliday. he gasped for breath and stared at merriwell. "not going to try?" he slowly repeated. "why--why, it can't be that----" "yes it can, hally; i'm out of it. i have decided to stick to my studies and let football alone." ben groped for a chair, upon which he weakly dropped. "is this a dream?" he muttered; "or did my ears deceive me? it can't be that i heard aright!" "there is no joking about this," said frank, getting up and standing before his visitor. "i have decided at last, and my mind is made up." ben was silent, but he stared and stared and stared at frank. he seemed trying to comprehend it. "i wouldn't have believed it," he muttered--"i won't believe it now! it isn't frank merriwell! he wouldn't do a thing like that. he has a mind of his own, and he does not change his mind with every change of the wind." frank flushed painfully, but said: "only fools never change their minds, hally. men of reason and good sense are forced to change their minds occasionally." as soon as he seemed able to comprehend it fully, ben got up and approached merriwell. "look here, merry," he said, entreatingly, "don't be a fool! i'm going to talk plain with you! by jove! somebody should talk plain to you! i don't care if you kick me out of your room! if you whiffle around again you'll be the butt of ridicule for everybody. you'll never again have any standing in yale. man, you are throwing away your reputation! can't you see it?" frank paled somewhat, but a firm look settled about his mouth, and he was unmoved. "surely, i have a mind of my own, and i have a right to do as i please in this matter," he said, his voice cold and steady. "i am my own master." "yes," confessed ben, desperately, "but you must listen to reason. i haven't an idea why you have whiffled around again, but i do know it will ruin your reputation. word has gone out that you will play full-back in the harvard game. forrest has the same as stated that he should put you in at the start, with marline as substitute. now think--think what it will mean if you again withdraw! cæsar's ghost! merry, you will be a dead duck in athletics and sports. you will be regarded with contempt." "can't help it." holiday's desperation increased. "think of marline." "i have." "they'll say he cowed you--say you backed down because you feared him." "it will not be true." "but it will go, all the same." "can't help it." "you must have a reason for this new move." "my studies." "that's the old reason. there must be another." "perhaps." "will you tell me what it is?" "no." "and do you want me to go out to the park without you?" "you will have to go without me, for i am not going." "and i have been bragging about getting him back on the eleven!" muttered ben. "they'll jolly me to death, and i shall be so ashamed that i'll want to crawl into some sort of a hole." "i am sorry about that, hally," said frank. "believe me, i care more about it than about anything else." "you do not mind the ruin of your own reputation?" "i scarcely think my reputation will be damaged so badly." "but it will--it will! if you were sure it would, wouldn't you go along with me?" "no!" that was like the blow of a hammer, and it took the last bit of hope from halliday's heart. "i think more of my word of honor than anything else," said frank, grimly. "if i always stand by that, i'll risk my reputation." "they'll say he is a traitor to yale," muttered ben, as if frank could not hear. "they'll say he refused to do his duty--refused to fight for the honor of old eli. they'll say he is false to his colors." frank winced somewhat. he could not help it, for he was touched on a tender spot. "no fellow can have the interest of old eli more at heart than i," he declared. "but i think the importance of playing me full-back on the eleven is overestimated. there are several fellows who are able to play the position. marline did excellent work in practice yesterday, and i believe he will show up finely in a game. i won't crowd him out--that's all. it's no use to talk to me." he sat down and picked up his book. halliday stood looking at frank, his face showing wrath and disgust, then turned and left the room. as he passed out frank heard him mutter: "false to his colors!" chapter xxxi. frank is miserable. frank was expecting a call from forrest. it came. the captain of the eleven brought yates and parker with him. he did not beat about the bush, but immediately asked frank why he had not come out to practice. with equal directness, merriwell told him he had finally decided for good and all that he could not play football that season. parker looked dismayed; yates looked disgusted. forrest did not give up. "you can't refuse," he said. "we need you, and you must play." but frank was determined, and persuasion proved of no avail. he firmly refused to think of playing. "come away!" exclaimed yates, with a sneer. "it's no use to talk to him. i did think he was all right, but this settled his case in my mind." frank bit his lip, and all the color left his face, while his eyes gleamed dangerously. "mr. yates," he said, "you are in my room, and i cannot lift a hand here. any time you see fit to insult me outside i'll do my best to resent it." "bah!" cried yates. "if you haven't the courage to face marline, you'll never stand up to me. i have discovered that you are a big stiff! you're a case of bluff!" merriwell quivered, and his hands were clinched till his finger nails cut into the palms of his hands. it was plain that he was making a battle to restrain himself. "mr. yates," he said, hoarsely, "you and i have had our troubles before, and, if i remember correctly, you did not come off with flying colors. it is plain you delight in this opportunity for retaliation, but i warn you to take care. there is a limit, and you may overstep it. if you do----" "what then?" "you'll find you have made a big mistake." "bah!" duncan yates was withering in his scorn. with a contemptuous gesture he turned toward the door. it seemed that merriwell was on the point of leaping after him, but frank still managed to hold himself in restraint. puss parker seemed grieved. "it's too bad!" he said, shaking his head. "i wouldn't have believed it. you are done for here, merriwell." "that's right," nodded forrest. "you can never recover after this. it's the greatest mistake of your life, man." "come!" cried yates from the door, which he was holding open. "you are foolish to waste further breath on him." then all three went out, not one of them saying good-by. when they were gone frank felt like tearing up and down the room and slamming things about, but he did nothing of the sort. he believed in controlling his emotions, and so he stood quite still till the first fierce anger had left him. then came regret and doubt. he was sorry he had shown himself on the football field, and he regretted that he had given inza his promise not to play the game. but it was too late for regret. he could not quell his doubts. he was not certain he had done right, and that was enough to make him wretched. that night frank was the most miserable fellow in yale. it did not seem any fault of his that had brought him into such a wretched predicament, and yet he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. he could not study, he could do nothing but think. sometimes he was determined to go to inza and ask her to release him from his promise, and then he would think how his enemies would say he had been driven into it. then came another thought. if he were to come out now and offer to fill a place on the eleven, would he be accepted? he had fallen so in the esteem of forrest that it was quite likely the captain would refuse to take him on the team. he tried to devise some way of setting himself aright, but could think of none. had any one told him two days before that he could be so utterly miserable, he would have laughed at them. only a short time before this turn in events he had been the best known and most popular student in the college. his fame had spread all over new haven and gone abroad to other college places. he was regarded with awe as a great traveler and a wonderful athlete. now--well, it was different now! finding he could not rest, study or think of anything but his wretched position, frank went out for a walk. he tried to tire himself out physically, so that weariness of body would force his mind to rest. miles he tramped, far out into the country. he drove along like one walking on a wager, paying no attention to the frosty air which nipped his nose and ears. it was eleven o'clock when frank was passing morey's on his way to south middle. in front of the place he paused. he remembered the many jolly times he had enjoyed in there. he remembered when he was the chief one of any little circle that might gather in that famous resort. now he felt like an outcast--an outsider. three students came out. they did not see him, and they were chatting and laughing merrily. he watched them as they strolled away, his heart growing heavier and heavier. "anderson, cobb and nash," he muttered. "they're always jolly--never seem to have any troubles. they drink and sport too much to stand high in their classes, but they will get through college all right, and every one will call them first-class fellows. isn't that better than to be valedictorian and a hermit? i was getting along all right, although i was not showing up brilliantly in greek. i'd have scrubbed through and held my position on the football team if i had tried. it's plain i made a big mistake." it seemed plainer and plainer the more he thought about it, but he could see no way of turning back now and taking the path he had abandoned. he had burned his bridges, and he must go forward. a great curiosity seized him. he knew well enough a party of students would be gathered in morey's little back room, and he longed to know how he would be received among them. "i'm going in there," he muttered. "haven't been around for a long time. here i go!" in he went. he was known the moment he appeared. straight for the famous back room he made his way, and he was immediately admitted, his face being his passport. he was right in thinking a party was gathered there. at least a dozen fellows were sitting about drinking ale. they were not laughing or talking loudly, but as frank entered the room, he distinctly heard his name spoken by one of them. chapter xxxii. "the marble heart." "hello, fellows!" called merriwell, attempting to be cheerful. "thought i'd drop in." there was a sudden silence. all turned to look at him. two of them sat with their half-lifted glasses suspended. then somebody muttered: "speak of the devil----" frank was embarrassed. there had been a time when his appearance at morey's was greeted with a shout of welcome. the silence was freezing. marline was not there. frank felt relieved when he discovered this, and still, for the first time in his life it seemed that there was a cowardly sensation in his heart. he knew he was not a coward, but the position in which he stood at that moment made him feel like one. the silence was maddening. his soul revolted against such a reception. for the first time in his life he fancied he understood what it was to be regarded with universal contempt. and the injustice of it was what cut him to the heart. a little more and the limit would be reached. he would go forth ready to fight, and he knew that his first blow would be aimed at rob marline. thoughts like these flashed through his head in a moment, then he advanced into the room with old-time grace. "a jolly party you have here," he said. "i'm glad to see you making merry. drink up--drink up, everybody, and have a round with me." charlie creighton was there, and frank was sure he had a stanch friend in charlie. the fellows fell to speaking together in low tones, casting sidelong glances toward frank. none of them seemed eager or ready to accept his invitation. they seemed to draw a barrier about him, as if they intended to shut him out. frank felt it--saw it plainly. he was quick to understand the situation, but he was not satisfied. "they shall be put to the test," he mentally vowed. "i'll find out who are my friends and who are my enemies." then, one by one, he asked them what they would have to drink. some had excuses, some flatly declined to take anything at all. some showed their partly emptied glasses, and some said they had quite enough. frank's face grew hard and cold as he progressed and met with nothing but refusals. he was coming to putnam, stubbs and creighton. surely they would not refuse to drink with him! putnam saw he was to be asked in a moment. he hastily dashed off half a glass of ale and got up, remarking that he must be going. "hold on a moment, old man," said frank. "i am going to have a lemon-seltzer. have a drink with me." "excuse me," mumbled "old put." "i don't care for anything more." "but you will have one drink with me?" urged frank. "no," said putnam, shortly, "i've had enough." then he sauntered toward the door. merriwell bit his lips and turned on stubbs. "you'll have something, bink?" he said, huskily. "no, thanks," said the little fellow. "i'm going, too." he followed putnam. creighton was merriwell's last resort. as old readers know, he had been a guest at charlie's home in philadelphia. "come, creighton, you surely will not decline to take something with me, old fellow?" charlie hesitated, flushed to the roots of his hair, looked at frank and at the others, then got up quickly, saying: "you'll have to excuse me, too, merriwell." with that he bolted out of the room, and all the others followed, leaving frank there alone. for some moments the stunned and astonished lad stood as if turned to stone, staring with distended eyes toward the door by which they had passed out. his hands were clinched, his nostrils dilated, his head thrown back and his attitude that of a warrior wounded to the heart, but still unconquered in spirit. he was aroused by a touch on the arm, and the smooth, almost sneering voice of a waiter asked: "what will you drink, sir?" frank lifted one hand to his head and seemed to awaken from a dream. he looked at the waiter doubtfully, as if he did not understand the question that was put to him, then, after a bit, said: "thank you, i never drink." the corners of the waiter's mouth curled upward in the faintest smile--a smile in which pity and scorn seemed to mingle. that aroused all the fury in frank merriwell's heart, and, with his eyes blazing, he half-lifted his fist as if he would strike the man in the face. then he as quickly dropped his hand at his side, shivering as if he had been touched by a sudden chill. the waiter had shrunk away with merriwell's menacing movement, but when he saw there was no danger, he softly said: "i beg your pardon--i thought you were going to drink, as you asked the others to have something with you." how the words cut and stung! it was as if the man had struck him across the face with a whip. he fell back, half-lifting his hand, and his chin quivered. "i did ask them!" he hoarsely whispered--"and they refused! not one of them but would have considered it a high honor to have me ask them a month ago! and i have come to this!" his words were incoherent, but his face told the story of his wounded pride. he remembered how many times he had been welcomed with a shout in that little room where the famous tables hung upon the wall. he remembered how his admirers had gathered about him, eager to listen to every word he might speak, and roar with laughter at his stories and jests. he remembered the songs, the speeches, all the jolly times in that room. little had he dreamed the time would come when the very ones he had counted as his warm friends would refuse to drink with him there and turn their backs on him in disdain. nothing could have hurt him more than that. his pride was cut to the core, and his spirit was shaken as it had never been before. his first thought was that he would find a way to get even with them all. then he realized how great a task that would be. he saw himself scorned and ostracized by the whole college, and, for a fleeting moment, he thought of leaving new haven forever that very night. his brain began to whirl. the waiter was standing there, looking at him in a manner that seemed rather insolent. "what do you want?" he snapped. "i beg your pardon," returned the waiter; "what do you want?" "whiskey!" cried frank merriwell--"bring me whiskey, waiter, and bring it quick!" chapter xxxiii. "for the honor of old yale." the order was filled, the whiskey was brought. it was placed on the table at which frank sat. he stared at it in surprise. "what's that?" he asked. "why, sir, it's the whiskey you ordered," answered the waiter. "whiskey?" said merriwell, in a dazed way. "did i order that?" "yes, sir." he paid for it. later, when a gay party dropped in, he was sitting at that table, with the untasted whiskey before him. he sat there staring and scowling at the table, but paid no attention to any one. the expression on his face made him look like anything but his old jolly self. no one spoke to him. newcomers drank, joked, laughed and went out. still he sat there, scowling and staring at the table. the report spread that merriwell had been cut by his old friends. curious ones strolled in and ordered a drink just to get a look at him. he seemed quite unaware of this. never in his life had frank tasted whiskey, but for one moment he had weakened and thought of easing the blow to his pride by resorting to the stuff. merriwell was human, but still that weakness lasted no more than a moment. then he came to himself, and he was ashamed to think that he had contemplated such a course. it seemed cowardly. "they say i am a coward," he thought; "but i am not a coward enough for that." for more than an hour he sat there at the table. finally he seemed to come out of the stupor that had seized upon him. "waiter," he called. his voice was calm and natural, the scowl had vanished from his face, and he was himself once more. "waiter, you may remove this whiskey and bring me a lemon-seltzer. i don't care for this stuff." when this order was filled, he calmly drank the lemon-seltzer, paid for it, rose to his feet, pulled on his gloves, and left morey's with an air of combined nonchalance and dignity. he was his own master once more. he had been insulted by fellows he formerly believed friends, but he was still frank merriwell. he felt within himself that he was a man and the equal of the best of them. some day they should be ashamed when they remembered their act. he felt confident that day would come. that night he slept as peacefully as a child, and arose in the morning refreshed and undisturbed. he would not permit his mind to dwell on what had happened, but resolutely set himself at his studies. those who had thought merriwell, having once been so popular, would be crushed, soon found out their mistake. he was calm, quiet, and dignified. he did not seek the society of his fellows, but seemed the same old merriwell to those who came to him. he was perfect in his recitations. he attended the gym., as usual, taking his daily exercise. he paid not the least attention to sneering words and scornful looks. frank's bitterest enemies were dissatisfied. they had fancied he would be utterly broken by his downfall, and they could not understand his dignity and disregard for public opinion. those who had reluctantly turned against him were impressed by his strength of spirit and dignity. he carried about him an air of manliness that won their admiration, despite themselves. but every one had not turned against him. bruce browning was stanch and true, although he fiercely berated merriwell for his course. harry rattleton tried to remain unchanged, and never a word of reproach did he utter, no matter what he thought. jack diamond did not say anything, but it was because he could not trust himself to speak. in his heart he felt like punching frank and whipping his enemies and traducers; but he knew enough to let merry alone. halliday held aloof. he was thoroughly disgusted with merriwell. at first he said as much, and then he became silent and would say nothing at all. so the days went by. frank called on inza, but did not mention what had happened. he had thought of telling her everything, and then he decided that it would do no good, and he would tell her nothing. it was too late for him to change his course, and it could do no good to talk it over. he preferred not to think about it. the football team continued to practice and get ready for the great game at cambridge. it was said that harvard had the strongest eleven put on the field by her in five years. her games with the higher teams had shown she was "out for blood." there was doubt and uncertainty in the yale camp. ott, marline's substitute, was not satisfactory. those who understood the situation best said that an injury to marline early in the game would ruin yale's prospects. the anxiety increased as the day of the game approached. some claimed the eleven had not been properly trained, others asserted they had been overtrained. from frank merriwell's manner one could not have suspected he had ever taken the slightest interest in football. he did not seem to know anything of the general gossip. it was the night before the game. merry had been studying. he was alone in his room. at last, feeling exhausted, he flung open the window and looked out. it was a perfect night, cold, clear and light. the sky was filled with stars. from across the campus came the sound of a rollicking song. directly beneath frank's window was a group of students who were excitedly discussing something. their words attracted merriwell's attention. "it's settled," said the voice of paul pierson. "yale will not be in the game for a minute. what can a team do without a first-class full-back?" "isn't there a chance that marline's ankle will be all right in time for the game?" asked another of the group. "not a chance," positively asserted pierson. "the doctor says he'll not step on it for three days, at least. it is a bad sprain." "such beastly luck!" growled randy robinson. "now if merriwell----" "don't speak of that fellow," exclaimed two or three. "he is the only hope for yale," declared pierson. "ott isn't in it for a minute. frank merriwell must be appealed to for the honor of old yale." "who'll appeal to him?" "i will, if they'll give me authority. i know he will play when he understands the situation." merriwell drew in his head and closed the window. his face was pale. up and down the floor he walked. "for the honor of old yale!" he muttered. then he suddenly cried: "for the honor of old yale i will do anything!" then came a knock on his door. chapter xxxiv. a sensation on the field. the day of the great football game between harvard and yale had arrived. the hour approached. jarvis field was ready for the great struggle. the white marks of the gridiron were regularly and beautifully made. the sun shone down from a clear sky. there was no breeze, but the air was crisp, for all of the sunshine. at either side the stands were filled; hundreds upon hundreds were standing; hundreds upon hundreds were coming. a better day for the game could not have been ordered, and spectators were turning out in force. harvard students were there in a body. they flaunted the crimson and sung their songs of glee. their faces were radiant, and they were confident of victory. yale had sent her representatives by hundreds. they wore the blue, they waved the blue, they cheered for the blue. everywhere the blue and the crimson could be seen. everybody was partisan; everybody had a favorite. back of the dark mass of human beings, beyond the limit of the field, were the trees and the great buildings with their many windows, upon which the sunshine glinted coldly. policemen kept back the standing mass of spectators, or those in the rear would have pressed those in advance forward upon the field. a few of those in the rear had obtained boxes or stools, upon which they were standing in order to look over the heads of those before them. a wagon was covered with spectators; they were standing on the spokes of the wheels. the excitement and the eager anticipation was most intense. it betrayed itself on every face. not far from the point where the mass of yale blue was thickest two lads were talking. one wore the blue, the other wore the crimson. the first was sport harris, and the other was rolf harlow, who had been forced to leave harvard after being exposed as a crooked gambler. "every dollar is up," said harlow, gleefully. "we are in to win a good pile on this game if what you say is right." "what i have told you is straight." "marline can't play?" "no." "ott is a poor man?" "sure." "and there is no chance that frank merriwell will be run in?" "bah!" exclaimed harris, disdainfully. "merriwell is a dead duck at yale. he'll never count in anything more. he is an outcast now. what do you think?--he's universally rated as a coward." "oh, say!" exclaimed harlow; "that's too much! you don't expect me to believe that about frank merriwell?" "believe it or not, it's true." "i don't understand how it could come about, for you and i know there is not a drop of cowardly blood in merriwell. confound him! if there had been, some things that have happened would not have taken place." "circumstances have conspired to put him where he is, and he'll never dig out. he has a few enemies who will take care to keep him down, now he is down." "well, i'm glad he's not on the team. we'll make a fat thing out of this, old man." "yes, i gave you every dollar i could raise, so you must know i am dead sure harvard will win. if, by any fluke, yale should happen to pull off this game i shall be busted." "same here." "in that case, we'd have to stand in together and catch some suckers. we've done it before." "and been exposed in it by that cursed merriwell! oh, i'd like to get a good rap at that fellow! he has spoiled a number of good, soft things for me since we first met." "you can't hate him more than i do." "i don't know about that; but he has been a lucky devil. i'm glad he's not going to play for yale to-day." "he couldn't win the game alone." "no, but it would be yale's luck to win if merriwell played. he has been a mascot for yale in almost everything." harris believed this, for he remembered how many times frank merriwell had been the instrument by which yale had snatched victory from apparent, certain defeat. suddenly a band struck up, and out upon the field came the harvard eleven on the trot. what a cheer went up--what a wild roar of greeting! for the moment it seemed that the crimson was everywhere. the band hammered away, and the blood was leaping in the veins of the thousands of spectators. harvard immediately took a bit of preliminary practice. "they are the boys to polish yale off this year!" laughed harlow. "it's going to be a snap for harvard." "i believe it," grinned harris. "we'll have money to burn after this game." suddenly another kind of a cheer rent the air, and now the blue was waving everywhere. onto the field came the yale eleven at a sharp trot. harris and harlowe laughed and nudged each other with their elbows. "see the little lambs!" chuckled the sport. "coming to the slaughter!" grinned rolf. "too bad!" "it's a shame!" "i feel for them." "i expect to feel for that money. where's ott?" "why, he's right over--over there--where the dickens is ott?" "can't you see him?" "can't seem to, but he must be there. yes, there he is with the group out to the right." "those are the substitutes. why is he with them?" harris stared, quite as much puzzled as harlow, for he had understood that ott was to be put in as full-back for yale at the very start. "it must be--it can't be--it can't be marline is going to try it!" "you said he couldn't step on his foot." "he can't." "then he isn't in it." "of course not." "who is?" "you tell!" then, all at once, harlowe caught harris by the shoulder, and, pointing toward the field, almost screamed in his ear: "ten thousand furies! look there--look there, you blunderer! see him--see that tall, straight fellow?" "where?--who?" "where? who? right there, with the yale captain--with forrest! by all the living fiends, it is----" "frank merriwell!" gasped harris. "yes, and he is going to play full-back for yale! he'll hoodoo harvard! yale will win this game!" chapter xxxv. stopping a touchdown. frank merriwell was there. his appearance was a surprise to nearly all the yale crowd; it created a sensation. "merriwell has been taken in to fill marline's place!" was the excited statement that went around. "it's a foolish move," declared scores. "he has not been practicing with the team. he's not in condition." they did not know frank merriwell thoroughly, for he kept himself in condition constantly. at first his appearance seemed to create doubt and uncertainty among the spectators who were interested in yale. gradually, however, enthusiasm grew. it was remembered how he had carried the ball right through princeton's center in the game the year before, making the most remarkable run ever known on a football field. yale had felt her chance was a desperate one; surely it could not be any worse. perhaps it might be bettered by the placing of merriwell at full-back. it was a desperate resort, but who could say the result would not justify the move? forrest was talking to merriwell, having drawn frank aside. they were in earnest conversation. a little negro boy came on the field. how he escaped the vigilance of the officers was a mystery, but he reached the group of substitutes. "heah!" he called, flourishing something in his hand: "heah am suffin' to mistah merriwell. where am he?" it was a folded scrap of paper. one of the substitutes took it and told the boy to "chase himself." "i's done got mah pay fo' bringin' it," he chuckled, as he scudded off. the note reached merriwell when he had finished talking with forrest. he took it in surprise, and then opened it hastily. a gasp came from his lips when he saw the writing. "from inza!" he whispered. this is what he read: "dear frank: did not receive your letter till this morning. too late then to answer. had left new haven for boston before i read it. you asked me to release you from your promise not to play football. no, i will not! you must not play! if you do, i'll never speak to you again! i know yale will win if you play! you must not play! hastily, "inza." "line up!" the game was about to begin! frank tore the note into many pieces, and those pieces he tossed aside. his face was stern and determined. "it's for old yale--dear old yale!" he muttered. "she has no right to ask so much of me without giving me a reason for it. i must play--i will play!" out to positions went the two teams. they lined up for business, and a great hush came over the mighty jam of spectators. yale had the first kick-off, and merriwell balanced himself for it. pung!--away sailed the ball clean through harvard's goal posts, causing the uninitiated to tremble, as it was an exquisite exhibition of kicking. but this kick really gave yale no advantage, for the rule gives the ball to the opponents on such a play. harvard's full-back sent it spinning back into the center of the field. it looked like another kick by merriwell, but, instead of that, yale tried mills, the right-half, who could make only two yards against harvard's heavy forwards. the game was on in all its fury, and the excitement was intense. kick followed kick in quick succession, but that style of play did not seem to gain anything worth gaining for either side. yale got the ball and tried the revolving wedge on harvard. they could not make a big gain, for the cambridge lads were like a stone wall. again and again was this style of play tried, till harvard got the ball on downs. then came harvard's turn to see what she could do, and the first attempt was a try at the tandem play, made famous by pennsylvania. yale seemed ready enough for that, and the way she cut through and broke harvard's line showed immediately that the tandem was not likely to prove very effective. then harvard called on benjamin, her right-half, and a moment later the rush line did a fine piece of work, opening yale's center and letting the little fellow through. benjamin had the speed of the wind. he also had the ball. away he went with it, and there was a clear field before him. harvard admirers roared from all over the field. the crimson flaunted everywhere. it looked like a sure touchdown for harvard. every yale spectator held his breath in racking suspense. benjamin was flying over the ground. it seemed that his feet scarcely touched the turf. where is yale now? what chance has she to stop the little fellow with wings on his feet? three seconds of suspense seemed like three hours of torture. it was awful! a yale man was after little benjamin--was gaining! could he stop the little fellow in time? it must be a tackle from behind, if at all, and the slightest slip would bring failure. behind them came all the others on the run, strung out raggedly. benjamin would make it--he was sure to make it. his pursuer could not reach him in time. then it seemed that the yale man had springs in his legs, for he sailed over the ground like a frightened rabbit. he closed in on benjamin and flung himself headlong at the little fellow. down slipped the tackler's hands, down from the hips to the knees, to the ankles. down went benjamin with a hard thump, stopped within three yards of yale's line. twenty men piled upon tackler and tackled. deep down beneath that mass was frank merriwell, his hands clinging like hooks to benjamin's ankles. he had stopped what seemed to be a sure touchdown for harvard at that early stage of the game. chapter xxxvi. won back. beside inza burrage, in a splendid position to watch the game, sat a pretty girl with fluffy hair. she wore harvard's colors, and seemed greatly excited. "there he is!" she exclaimed, at various stages of the game--"there is jack! see him, inza!" "yes," said inza, "i see him." but her eyes were not on the one meant by her companion. she was watching frank merriwell, and she bit her lip as she watched. she had seen him receive her note, she had seen him read it, tear it in pieces, cast the pieces aside. "he will play!" she muttered. "he will break his promise to me!" her companion heard her words. "you said merriwell would not go into the game," she cried. "yes, i said so, but i was wrong. he gave me his promise not to play, and last night he sent me a letter asking to be released from that pledge. the note i sent to him a short time ago was a reminder of his promise, and a refusal to release him." "yet he will play?" "he is going into the game." "then it can't be that he thinks as much of you as you supposed." "he does not. this has settled that point." "i'm afraid harvard will not win, inza. jack says frank merriwell has been harvard's hoodoo in everything. he was sure harvard would obtain this game if merriwell did not play. you said he did not mean to play, but i wanted you to ask him not to do so." "i did ask him, something i should not have done had we not been such friends, paula, although i was curious to know how much influence i had over him. oh, i think he is the meanest fellow! i shall hate him now!" inza's eyes were flashing and her face flushed. she was intensely angry, and she showed it. paula benjamin was startled. "oh, you musn't be too hard on him!" she said. "you know how much jack loves harvard, and how crazy he is for harvard to beat yale in this game. i was almost as crazy myself, and that is why i wanted you to ask mr. merriwell not to play." "i shall never trust him again," whispered inza, hoarsely--"never! he has broken his promise to me." "it is certain he loves yale as dearly as jack loves harvard. he may think it is his duty to break his word for the sake of yale." "i don't care! i don't care! i do hope harvard will beat!" with breathless interest the two girls watched the game. they were nerved to a point of intense excitement. they saw harvard stand like a stone wall against yale's repeated assaults. it was a battle of gladiators. then came harvard's tiger-like assault upon yale's center, and jack benjamin went through with the ball. the great crowd of spectators rose as one person, seething with excitement, as benjamin flew toward yale's line. "hurrah!" cried the sister of the little fellow. "that is jack--my brother jack! he'll make a touchdown! they can't catch him--they can't stop him!" "wait a bit!" palpitated inza burrage, who was clinging convulsively to paula's arm. "look--look there! frank is after him! see them run! frank is gaining!" "he can't catch jack--my brother jack! i know he can't do it! jack has the start! hurrah! hurrah!" "he will catch him! he's gaining! see--see him again! he is getting nearer--nearer! now--now----oh-o-o-oh!" frank merriwell had flung himself at the harvard man and pulled him down. then the other players piled upon them. "i knew it!" cried inza, with a hysterical laugh. "i knew he could not get away from frank!" "oh, the brute!" sobbed paula--"the brute to throw my brother like that! jack was right! frank merriwell will keep harvard from winning! i hate him!" "yes," fluttered inza, "he will do it if it is in his power. oh, he is a wonderful player! but he thinks more of his old college than he does of me! i'll never speak to him again!" paula sat down and cried, while inza did her best to comfort her friend. soon the game was on again, as fierce as ever. yale fought desperately, driving harvard back a little, but it seemed that harvard had the superior team. all the fighting was on yale's territory. at last, as the first half drew to a close, harvard's left half-back went around yale's end, and the most masterly interference prevented yale from stopping him. he crossed the line and made a touchdown. then harvard's full-back had time enough to kick a goal, and the first half ended with harvard triumphant. "har-vard! har-vard! harvard! rah-rah-rah! rah-rah-rah! rah-rah-rah! harvard!" it was a sense of wild rejoicing. crimson fluttered all over the great throng. where was the blue? "yale isn't in the game for a minute," said some who were supposed to be experts. "the yale fellows found they were butting against a stone wall every time they tried a rush. this is harvard's year." ralph harlow was beaming with triumph. "it's going to be an easy thing for our money, harris," he chuckled. "yale can't do anything with harvard to-day." "that's the way it looks," admitted harris; "but the game is not over." "the game will run the same way till, it is over. yale's rushers could do nothing with harvard's line. frank merriwell is the only man who has distinguished himself for yale, and he could do nothing but delay the inevitable for a short time." "that was the only real good opportunity merriwell has had," said sport. "he showed what he could do then. you remember his run through princeton's line last year?" "that's all right. yale can't break an opening to let him through harvard's line this year." "i hope not, but i shan't feel sure of it till the game is over." the harvard crowd cheered and sang songs till they were hoarse. they hugged each other, tooted horns and indulged in wild antics to give vent to the exuberance of their feelings. the sons of old eli who had come up from new haven to see the game were dolefully silent. they had seen yale fling herself upon harvard time after time and rebound as a ball rebounds from a solid wall, and their hearts were weak within them. paula benjamin was almost crazy with joy. she laughed and cried by turns. "oh, the dear fellows!" she exclaimed. "i could hug every one of them!" inza burrage said nothing, but upon her face there was a look of unspeakable disappointment and dismay. in her heart she was crying: "will yale let them beat? will frank be beaten? if he is, i am sure i'll never speak to him again!" soon the men formed for the beginning of the second half. harvard went into the game on the jump, and yale was forced to resort to defense play. it seemed that there was no stopping the crimson in its onward march to victory. foot by foot and inch by inch yale was beaten back till the ball was on the twenty-yard line. then halliday revived hope in a measure by taking it back to the center of the field, where he was downed with such violence that he was picked up quite unconscious, and another man had to be put in his place, while he was carried from the field, limp and covered with dirt and glory. it seemed that halliday's desperate do-or-die break gave yale courage and hope. for some time she held harvard at the center of the field, not allowing a gain of a foot. then old eli got the ball and rushed it into harvard's territory. what a glorious fight it was! now every yale man in the crowd was on his feet cheering like mad. those cheers seemed to make fiends of the defenders of the blue. they played, every man of 'em, as if they were in battle and ready to sacrifice their lives without a moment of hesitation. they were irresistible. harvard's stone wall was broken at last. merriwell was in the thick of it. four times he advanced the ball. others took turns, and, at last, the ball was on harvard's twenty-five-yard line. then there was a hush, for it suddenly became plain that merriwell would try to kick a goal from the field. it was a desperate expedient. yale feared to lose the ball and have it carried back to the center in a minute. such a loss would be fatal, and forrest knew it frank had been given the signal to kick. "he can't do it!" cried scores. then they thought of the beautiful kick he had made at the very beginning of the game and were silent. frank advanced to the proper position, exactly the right blade of grass. there he poised himself. cross fiddled with the ball between his legs. the suspense became intense. suddenly the ball was snapped and passed back. punk--frank kicked it. away it sailed. he did it before those harvard tigers could down him. it was a glorious kick. through the goal posts and over the bar it sailed. then the yale yell was heard. but the game was not over. harvard had secured a touchdown and a goal. yale had secured a goal. it seemed that she had feared utter defeat, else she would have fought for the touchdown. the harvard crowd remained confident. they crowed, for they said yale had displayed her own lack of confidence by kicking a goal from the field. the time was growing short, and there seemed little chance for yale to do anything more. harvard men laughed and said harvard would obtain another touchdown and goal before the end. little time was lost in putting the ball into play again. harvard immediately started out with rushes. now, to the astonishment of all, yale was the stone wall. soon the ball went to yale. mills took it around harvard's end for fifteen yards. powell bucked the center with it and gained some ground. harvard men began to get anxious. things had changed since the first half. harvard was on the defensive now. what had caused the change no one could tell. back and still back the harvard line was forced. would yale try to secure another goal from the field? that was the question. paula benjamin was almost crying. "it's frank merriwell!" she said. "jack said he would hoodoo harvard, and he has!" "it is frank!" thought inza. "he has put life into the yale men. he has given them confidence somehow. he must win now--he will!" the ball was getting dangerously near harvard's line. the cambridge men fought to hold it during the last few minutes of the game. then, with a sudden movement, a man was sent through harvard's center, although an around-the-end play had been anticipated. it was a tricky move, and took harvard by surprise. like a shot that man went through harvard's line. he ran with wonderful speed, with interferers on either side and a bit in advance. it was frank making a last desperate effort for a touchdown! one by one the interferers were flung aside till he was alone, hugging the ball, running as if for his life. three men came down on him while he had fifteen yards to go. they flung themselves on him like famished wolves. they thought to crush him to the ground. then ten thousand people gasped with astonishment, scarcely able to believe what they saw. it did not seem that merriwell slackened speed much, and he still went forward, carrying those three men on his back and shoulders. they tried to drag him down, and others tried to reach him. they could not break him to the ground, and, with them all on his back he carried the ball over the line. then he fell, and the ball was beneath him. it was a touchdown for yale! besides that, it was the most wonderful touchdown ever made on a football field. a mighty roar went up from the spectators when they realized what had happened. never before had they witnessed anything like that. they knew the man who made the play had won fame. to-morrow his picture would be in every boston and new york newspaper. oh, how the yale men shrieked, and screamed, and roared! they were like human beings gone mad. they were crazed with their admiration for the man who had done that trick. they longed to take him in their arms, to bear him on their shoulders, to do him every honor. gloriously had frank merriwell won back his lost prestige! let a man breathe a slur against him now and there would be a hundred ready to knock that man down. when the mass untangled merriwell was seen lifted to his feet. he stood up, wavering a bit, supported by forrest, who had an arm around frank's body. then frank pushed forrest off. time was precious, and his soul was strong. hasty preparations were made, and, for all of what he had just passed through, merriwell kicked a goal. three seconds later the game was over, and yale had won. then all merriwell's admirers rushed upon the field to surround him, to fight for a look at him, and to roar their delight. "rah for yale!" "three cheers for frank merriwell!" "they can't down old eli!" so the cries rang on. it was truly a scene never to be forgotten. but at that moment frank did not think of the game. he was wondering what inza would say. would she forgive him for what he had done? "oh, i hope she does," was his thought. "if she doesn't----" and he could think no further. chapter xxxvii. inza begins to understand. "how did the game come out?" asked miss abigail gale, inza's aunt, as the two girls returned to paula's home, which was a handsome house in an aristocratic portion of the back bay. miss gale was knitting. for all of her luxurious surroundings, she was plainly dressed, and she was practicing economy by knitting herself some winter stockings. reputed to be comfortably rich, miss gale was "close-handed" and thrifty. "yale won, of course!" cried inza, who had not recovered from her enthusiasm. "oh, aunt abby, you should have seen it!" "no, no!" exclaimed the spinster, shaking her head. "you would have gone crazy over it!" "it's brutal. i have no sympathy with such brutal games. i didn't want to see it, and i stayed away." "but it was such a splendid spectacle. twenty-two young gladiators, clad in the armor of the football field, flinging themselves upon each other, struggling like trojans, swaying, straining, striving, going down all together, getting up, and---- "land!" cried miss abigail, holding up both hands. "it must have been awful! it makes my blood run cold! don't tell me any more!" "at first harvard rushed yale down the field. yale could not hold them back. it was easy for harvard. jack got the ball--jack benjamin. he went through yale's line. the coast was cleared. he made a touchdown. he ran like a deer. how his legs did fly!" "good!" cried miss abigail, getting excited and dropping her knitting--"good for jack!" "but a yale man was after him, and the yale man could run. the crowd was wild with excitement. jack tore up the earth. the yale man tore up the earth----" "he couldn't catch jack!" exclaimed the spinster. "it wasn't any use for him to try." "he did catch him--jumped at him--caught his ankles--pulled him down!" "you don't say! he'd ought to be walloped!" "then the others came up, and they all piled on jack and frank." "frank? frank who?" "why, frank merriwell, of course." "was he the one that caught jack?" "yes." "i might have known it. no use for jack to try to run away from frank. he couldn't do that. but i thought frank wasn't going to play?" "he broke his promise to me--he did play." "do tell! i'm surprised!" "so was i. he stopped jack, but harvard scored in the first half, and yale didn't get a thing. then came the other half. yale went at harvard with new life. frank seemed to give it to them. he rushed the ball down the field. harvard couldn't hold him." "of course not." "he got the ball close down to harvard's line. then he kicked a goal." "hurrah!" cried miss abigail, with an astonishing burst of enthusiasm. "go on, inza." "the ball was put into play again. again yale got it and rushed it down through harvard's line. harvard made a furious struggle to hold it back. frank got it at last--he broke through--they couldn't stop him. then--then, with three harvard men on his back, he carried the ball over the line for a touchdown, kicked a goal, and won the game." miss abigail was palpitating with excitement. "goodness me!" she gurgled. "and frank did all that? i didn't see him do it, either! goodness me! it must have been grand--it must have been! what a fool i was to stay at home!" inza laughed, and then became sober, suddenly. "yale won," she said, "but i'll never speak to him again." "him? who?" "frank." "won't speak to frank merriwell?" "no." "why not?" "he broke his promise to me. harvard would have won if he hadn't. look at paula! she is heartbroken! it was mean of frank--just as mean as it could be!" "it was mean," said paula, "and frank merriwell ought to be ashamed. i think he must be an awfully cheap fellow to do anything like that." miss abigail's face grew hard as iron. "now, you hold right on, paula benjamin!" she said, severely. "don't you talk about him! your mother and me was schoolmates, but i won't stay in this house to hear frank merriwell traduced! i know him, and he's a fine young man." "he may be," reluctantly admitted paula, seeing miss gale was thoroughly aroused; "but it seems to me that a fine young man should keep a pledge." "you don't know his circumstances. there must have been a good reason why he broke his pledge." "i presume he was called on to play when mr. marline injured his ankle." inza looked at paula quickly. "mr. marline?" she said. "i think frank spoke of him. who is he?" "he was to play full-back for yale, but he sprained his ankle, and so he could not play." "do you know him?" "i have been introduced to him. jack knows him very well. we met him when we were south two years ago." "how do you know he sprained his ankle?" "jack heard of it last night." "then word must have been sent from new haven. did it come through a traitor or a spy?" paula flushed, and then said: "through neither. mr. marline expected to see us after the game, and he sent word that he could not very well, as he had sprained his ankle and might not be able to come on. i saw him with the yale boys, though. he was on crutches." "i begin to understand frank's position," thought inza. "he was forced into the game. well, i have said i'd never speak to him again, and i shall keep my word. i don't care if it breaks my heart! i know he thinks more of his old college than he does of me." jack benjamin came home bruised in body and crushed in spirit. paula met him at the door, and drew him into the sitting-room, where inza and miss gale were. "it's too bad, jack!" cried his sister, her sympathetic heart wrung by the look of pain on his face. "i think it is just awfully mean that harvard didn't win!" "harvard would have won if it hadn't been for that fellow, frank merriwell!" growled benjamin. "i said he'd hoodoo us, and i was right. we can't down yale at any game he is in. it's no use to try. why, we out-classed yale all around to-day, and still he won the game for them. that's what i call infernal luck!" inza repressed her elation, but something like a grim smile came to miss abigail's hard face. "if marline hadn't hurt his ankle, we'd been all right," declared jack, as he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, looking down at the floor. "rob is a good man, they say, but he could not have done the things merriwell did. why, hang it!" he suddenly cried, getting on his feet, sinking his hands deep in his pockets, and stamping around the room, "that fellow actually carried woodbury, stanton and glim on his back for more than fifteen yards! they couldn't pull or crush him down. i wouldn't believe it possible if i hadn't seen it. he's a terror!" inza's eyes sparkled. paula followed jack and took his arm. "i hate him!" she cried. "i saw him pull you down, the big, strong ruffian!" "yes," nodded jack, "and a pretty tackle it was. he didn't pile upon me like a wooden man, but his hands went down to my ankles and flipped me in a second. if he'd bungled the least bit, i'd made a touchdown. oh, he is a terror!" "but i hate him!" persisted paula. "i was so sure you would make a touchdown. what right had he to grasp you that way and throw you so hard?" "that's the game, sister mine. any yale man would have done it--if they could." "i don't care! why was he playing?" "that's right!" cried jack, turning to inza. "i thought he wasn't in the game this season? i thought he gave you his promise not to play?" inza flushed with shame and embarrassment. "he did," she confessed. jack whistled. "and broke his promise--i see! it can't be that he thinks much of his word." it seemed for an instant that inza would defend him, but she did not. for the first time frank had broken a promise to her, and she felt it keenly. she turned away. miss gale looked grim, but remained silent. she knew herself, and realized she might say too much, if she spoke at all. it was an hour or so before jack could cool down, so stirred up was he by the result of the game. finally, he went upstairs to take a bath. before dinner there was a ring at the bell, and a servant brought in a card, which she gave to jack, who was enjoying his first smoke of weeks, now that the game was over. "hello!" he cried. "rob marline! i didn't expect him." "rob marline!" exclaimed paula, in no little confusion. "gracious! i must be looking like a fright! come up to my room with me, inza, and see that i am presentable." so the girls ran up to paula's room, and jack directed that marline be brought directly to the smoking-room. "i want to look my best when mr. marline comes," said paula, when they were in her boudoir. "i am sure my hair looks bad, and i must be a perfect fright." inza laughed. "it seems to me you are very particular about mr. marline." "i am," confessed paula, busying herself before the mirror. "you know, he is jack's particular friend." "oh, he's jack's particular friend!" the manner in which inza said that brought a warm flush to paula's cheeks, and she endeavored to hide her confusion, but in vain. "i've discovered your secret, dear!" cried inza, with her arm about her friend's waist. "now i know why you take such an interest in robert marline." "nonsense! i like him, because--because----" "just because you do." "no; because he is jack's friend." "now, don't try to deceive me, paula!" cried inza, holding up one finger. "you can't do it. you would like rob marline just as much if your brother was not in it." "oh, it's no use to talk to you," fluttered paula. "you are one of the girls who will have your own way." "no, not always. i did not have my way to-day. frank merriwell played football. but, paula, i think i am beginning to understand more fully just why you were so anxious mr. merriwell should not play on the yale eleven. he was mr. marline's natural rival for the position of full-back. if frank merriwell played, rob marline could not. i'm sure i am right. you did not tell me the entire truth, but i have found it out." paula was more than ever confused, but she could not deny inza's charge. "if i told you that," she confessed, with sudden frankness, "i feared you would not try to induce mr. merriwell not to play. now, don't be angry with me, inza! i know it was rob's--i mean mr. marline's ambition to play full-back on the yale team, and i wanted him to do so. that's all. perhaps i ought to have told you in the first place. do forgive me, dear!" it was not in inza's heart to be unforgiving, and so the girls hugged each other, kissed and assisted each other in getting ready to go down and meet the visitor. they found jack and marline in the library. the yale lad arose with difficulty. his crutches were lying on the floor beside the chair on which he sat. paula blushed prettily as she shook hands with marline, and then she presented inza. thirty minutes later, while they were chatting, there was another ring at the bell, and the servant brought a card to inza. "gentleman wishes to see you, miss." inza looked at the card, turned pale, and then, her voice quivering a bit, said: "tell mr. merriwell i will not see him!" chapter xxxviii. a blow for frank. "eh? what's that?" exclaimed miss abigail, who entered the library just in time to catch inza's words. "frank merriwell has had the impudence to call here to see me--as soon as this!" flared inza, her face flaming. "eh?" exclaimed miss abigail, once more. "impudence?" "yes--insolence! after he did not keep his promise to me!" rob marline was greatly interested, although he pretended not to notice what was going on. "oh, well, dear," said the spinster, "you must not blame him." "but i do!" "you do not know the circumstances." "i know he broke his promise, and i know i'll never speak to him again as long as i live--never!" "you think so now, but----" "i shall think so always." "don't be foolish, child! mr. merriwell is a splendid young man, and you----" "i will not see him! that is all." then inza again instructed the servant to tell mr. merriwell that she would not see him. "if you won't see him, i will," said miss abigail. "is he in the parlor? i'll go to him." "now, aunt!" cried inza, catching her arm, "you need not try to fix anything up. he broke his promise to me, and i said i'd never speak to him again. i meant it! he may just stay away, for i don't want to see him. tell him so for me." "all right, i will, but i'm going to tell him you're all fluttered, and don't know what you're talking about." so miss gale went to see frank in the parlor, while inza remained in the library. paula was not hard-hearted, for all that she had declared she hated frank merriwell, and, when she saw inza was in earnest about not seeing frank, she drew her aside, and said: "perhaps you had better see him. i don't want to be the cause of a misunderstanding between you." "don't let that worry you," said inza, with affected lightness. "i don't want anything to do with a fellow who cares so little for me that he will break a pledge the way mr. merriwell did." "but--but he was loyal to his colors and his college." "which shows he thinks more of his old college than he does of me. i have said i'd never speak to him again, and you shall see that i can keep my word." paula was distressed, for she began to think herself responsible for the misunderstanding between frank and inza. she knew inza well enough, however, to realize it was useless to attempt to reason with her when her mind was set on anything. the more one tried to reason, the more set she became. rob marline had taken in all that passed, although he pretended to be interested in jack benjamin's talk about the football game. marline felt elated, for he saw merriwell had done something to turn against him this pretty girl, who was paula's friend. at first glance, this yale student from south carolina had been strongly impressed by inza's appearance, and there was something about her spirit and her manners that impressed him more and more. "if i could cut merriwell out with her!" he thought. "ah! that would be a rich revenge! but paula might object! never mind; i've given paula no particular reason to think i am stuck on her. if she is stuck on me, it's not my fault. there is no reason why i should not try to catch on with miss burrage." he compared inza and paula, and he saw that the former was far the handsomer girl. she had a strikingly attractive face with large dark eyes, red lips and perfect teeth, while the color that came and went in her cheeks told the tale of perfect health. he could see that she was destined to become the kind of a young lady who always creates a sensation when she enters a drawing-room and causes men to turn and look after her on the street. the more marline thought it over, the firmer became his determination to do his best to win inza from frank merriwell. he laughed to himself when he thought what a revenge that would be upon the fellow he hated. "what are you laughing at?" cried benjamin, somewhat offended. "i tell you harvard would have won in a walk if it hadn't been for that fellow merriwell." "beg pardon," said marline, quickly. "did i laugh? excuse me. still, i think you overestimate merriwell." "not a bit of it. he's the best man on the yale eleven. besides that, he is one of the best baseball pitchers who ever twirled a ball. he has done more for yale sports and athletics than any one man ever did before in the same length of time." "he had the opportunities to-day," said marline. "that's how he happened to do so much." "he made the opportunities," declared benjamin. "what kind of an opportunity was it when three of our men piled upon him and he carried them more than fifteen yards? that was something wonderful!" "don't speak so loud, jack," cautioned paula. "he is in the parlor, and he might hear you." "well, i'm sure i'm not saying anything that could offend him." "it might give him the swelled head," put in marline. inza turned on him like a flash. "it is evident you do not know him very well, mr. marline," she said, severely. "frank merriwell never gets the swelled head." marline was somewhat embarrassed, but, with the utmost suavity, he bowed to her, smoothly saying: "it is possible i do not know him very well, as you say; but i am sure almost any fellow might be in danger of getting a touch of swelled head had he done the things mr. merriwell did to-day." he said this so gracefully that inza's threatened anger was averted, and she fell to chatting with him, much to his satisfaction. they were standing close together, talking earnestly, marline supporting himself by leaning on the back of a chair, when frank left the parlor, saying to miss gale that he must hasten to catch a train back to new haven. the library door opened into the hall, and frank saw inza chatting with rob marline in a manner that seemed very friendly and familiar. the sight gave him a start, and the hot blood rushed to his cheeks. inza knew frank had seen them, but she did not turn to look at him. she began to laugh in her most bewitching manner, as if amused very much at something marline had said, and leaned a little nearer her companion. frank seemed dazed. the sight of rob marline in that house chatting thus with inza seemed a revelation to him. all at once, he fancied he understood the situation--fancied he knew why inza had not wished him to play on the yale football team. "we shall be in new haven the last of the week, mr. merriwell," said miss abigail. "she'll get over it by that time, and we'll call. it's nothing but a foolish whim." she spoke the words just loud enough for frank to hear, but he did not seem to understand. like one in a dream, he took his cap from the rack and turned toward the door. "good-day, mr. merriwell," called the old maid. "eh? oh! good-day!" frank paused at the door and looked back; then he spoke, loudly enough to be heard in the library: "i shall be pleased to see you at any time, miss gale, but, if you call on me, perhaps it would be well not to bring a certain person with you. it might be embarrassing and unpleasant. good-day." bounding down the steps, frank walked swiftly away. there was a hard, set look on his face, which had grown singularly pale. "yes," he muttered, "i understand it all now. she would not tell me why she did not wish me to play on the eleven, but i know now. somewhere she has met rob marline, and she is stuck on him. he wanted to play full-back for yale, and she aided him all she could by inducing me to promise that i would not play. i see through the whole game! she was playing me for a fool! i did not think that of her, but it is as clear as crystal." and marline had cut him out with inza! he felt sure of that. "well," he grated, "i have been easy with that fellow. now we are enemies to the bitter end! let him look out for me!" chapter xxxix. the homeward journey. "what's the matter with merriwell?" asked lewis little, speaking to a group of jolly lads who were on the train that bore the yale football team out of boston on its way to new haven. "he's grouchy." "is he?" cried paul pierson. "well, he ought to be ashamed of himself! why, he's the hero of the day! all the papers will have his picture to-morrow. i saw at least five persons snapping him with cameras on the field. grouchy, is he? well, confound him! he has no right to get a grouch on." "not a bit of it!" cried charlie creighton. "what's the matter with him? where is he?" "he's sitting back in the end of the car, looking fierce enough to eat anybody." creighton, pierson and several others sprang to their feet and looked for frank. they saw him. he was staring out of the window in a blank manner, although he did not seem to notice anything the train passed. he was paying no attention to the gang of shouting, singing, laughing students, who filled the smoker and were perched on the backs of the seats and crowded into the aisles. "hey, merry!" shouted creighton. "shake it, old man--shake it! come up here! get into the game!" frank looked around, shook his head, and then looked out of the window again. "well, hang him!" growled charlie. "any one would think he had played with harvard, instead of winning the game for yale! what can be the matter with him?" no one seemed to know. creighton went down and talked to frank, but could get no satisfaction out of him. as soon as he was let alone again, merriwell fell to gazing out of the window, seeming quite unaware of the shouts and songs of the jolly lads in the car. when strangers crowded into the car to get a look at the man who had won the game for yale, having heard he was on the train, he still continued to gaze out of the window, and it was not apparent that he heard any of their remarks. "tell you what," said creighton, as he returned to pierson and the others of the little group, "merriwell is sore." "sore?" cried tom thornton, "he can't be any sorer than i am! why, i was jumped on, kicked, rammed into the earth, and annihilated more than twenty times during that game. a little more of it would have made a regular jellyfish out of me. i'll be sore for a month, but i believe in being jolly at the same time." then he broke forth into a song of victory, in which every one in that car seemed to join, judging by the manner in which the chorus was roared forth. "boom-to-de-ay, boom-ta-de-ay, boom-to, de-boom-ta, de-boom-ta-de-ay; we won to-day, we won to-day, we won, oh, we won, oh, we won to-day." any one who has not heard a great crowd of college lads singing this chorus cannot conceive the volume of sound it seems to produce. when they all "bear down together" on the "boom-ta," the explosive sound is like a staggering blow from the shoulder. but even this song of victory did not seem to arouse frank in the least. he remained silent and grim, being so much unlike his usual self that all who knew him were filled with astonishment. "i did not mean that he was sore of body," said creighton. "i think he is chewing an old rag." "what do you mean by that?" "well, you know, we all gave him the marble heart when we thought he had decided not to play football because he was afraid for certain reasons. i think he is sore over that, and i don't know that i blame him. i swear, fellows, we did use him shabby!" "that's it," nodded pierson; "that's just it. and he is proud and sensitive. he would not show he cared a continental before the game, but, now he was the means of saving the day for yale, i fancy he is chewing over it a little." "never thought of that," said bink stubbs. "bet you're right, fellows. we'll have to get down on our hulks to him to make it all right. i'm ready to say i'm ashamed of myself, and ask him to forget it." the others expressed themselves as equally willing, and so it came about that frank was much surprised to have them come to him, one after another, and confess they had used him shabbily. he was ready enough to shake hands with them all, while he assured them he did not hold the least hardness. they saw he was in earnest, they were satisfied he was willing and ready to forget they had ever treated him with contempt, and yet he did not cheer up, which was something they could not understand. "better let him alone," advised creighton, after a little. "it may be something we don't know anything about, that he is chewing. anyway, he's not himself." bruce browning, big and lazy ever, was one of the group. he had been keeping still, but now he observed: "that's right, let him alone. i've traveled with him, and i never saw him this way before. i tell you he is dangerous, and somebody may get hurt." "keep away from the window, my love and my dove-- keep away from the window, don't you hear! come round some other night, for there's gwine to be a fight, and there'll be razzers a-flyn' through the air." thus sang bink stubbs. "look at harris!" laughed thornton, nudging the fellow nearest him. "don't he look sour? they say he got hit to-day." "got hit?" "yes." "what with?" "a roll." "a roll of what?" "bank notes." "you mean he has been betting?" "sure." "but you don't mean he bet on harvard?" "i understand he put his last cent on harvard, and went broke. he was fortunate enough to have a return ticket to new haven, so he didn't have to borrow money to get back on." harris was sitting in a seat, looking sulky and disgusted, fiercely trying to chew the end of his short black mustache. his hat was pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem to take much interest in what was going on in the car. stubbs and creighton got a crowd together to jolly harris, and they descended on him in a body. "hello, old man!" cried charlie, gayly. "is it straight that you won three hundred on yale to-day?" "i heard it was five hundred," chirped bink stubbs, "what a pull to make! congratulations, old man!" "you'll have to ball the crowd when we get to new haven, sport," said lewis little. "you can afford to open fizz." harris smiled in a sickly way, and tried to say something, but paul pierson got him by the hand and gave him a shaking up that literally took away his breath. "good boy!" cried paul. "i'm glad you stuck by old eli! but did you have the nerve to bet every cent you had that yale would take that game? my, my! you are a nervy fellow, sport, old chap. you were the only man who had all that confidence." "sport never goes back on old yale," laughed little. "he knew the chance of yale's winning looked slim, but still he backed her up. that's what makes him look so cheerful now." "you would have felt bad if you had bet your money on harvard, now wouldn't you?" cried thornton. "oh, yes, i certainly should," gasped harris, who was suffering tortures. "what a jolly time we'll have drinking fizz on you, old man!" exclaimed bink stubbs. "i feel as if i might get away with about four quarts." "oh, we'll make a hole in your winnings!" laughed pierson. "i am so dry this minute that my neck squeaks." "so are we all!" shouted the others. harris could not repress a groan. he wondered if they were fooling with him, but they seemed so much in earnest that he could not tell. perhaps they really thought he had won a big roll on yale. he couldn't tell them he had bet on harvard. what could he do? he was forced to pretend that he was delighted, but over and over he promised himself that he would give them the slip, even if he had to leap from the train while it was running at full speed. pay for fizz! why, he didn't have enough left to pay for a glass of plain beer! chapter xl. rejoicing at yale. harris found his opportunity to slip away when the train drew into the station at new haven. a band of music was on hand to meet the returning conquerors. a wild mob of screaming, cheering, horn-tooting students was there. it was evening, and the yale lads had come down to the station with torches, prepared to give the eleven such a reception as no other football team had ever met. when the train drew into the station, the band was hammering away at a blood-stirring tune. when the train stopped, the great crowd of young men and boys presented a perfect sea of upturned faces beneath the flaring light of the torches. blue was everywhere. it was yale's great day, and all new haven wore the color. the train stopped. then there was a fierce swaying and surging of the crowd, a flutter of flags, followed by a mighty cheer that was like a savage yell of joy over the downfall of a defeated and slain enemy. how they shouted for yale! how they swayed and surged! how like lunatics they were! the sound of the band was drowned, and not a strain of music could be heard. the musicians continued to play, but they might have saved their breath. the crowd knew well enough that the eleven would be on the smoker. that was the car in which the victors could disport themselves as hilariously as they pleased. the smoker began to discharge its passengers. paul pierson was the first to get off, and he was followed closely by a stream of yale men. the general cheering had died down, but almost every man who stepped from the train was greeted in some peculiar manner. "what's the matter with yale?" howled a voice. then a thousand throats seemed to roar back: "she's all right! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! yale!" bruce browning appeared. "hey, brownie!" cried some one on the platform. "how's your corns?" "sore," answered the big fellow. "strained 'em cheering for yale." bink stubbs came forth riding astride puss parker's shoulders. somewhere on the train he had captured a silk hat that was much too large for him, and it had dropped down over his head to his ears, which were lopped forward by the weight of it. in the hatband was stuck the short staff of a small flag. bink had a horn, and he blew a hoarse blast the moment he was outside the car. "where'd you get that horn?" called a voice. "this horn's nothing," returned the little fellow. "i've had about twenty horns besides this, and still my neck is dry." four fellows came off the car, carrying a fifth. they held their caps in their hands, and were as mournful and sad-appearing as possible. the one who was carried had a big white placard on his breast. on the card were these words: "i bet a dime on harvard, and dropped dead after the game!" it was not an easy thing to carry him down the steps, but the mournful-appearing bearers succeeded in doing the trick. dismal jones came forth from the car. he was holding a handkerchief to his eyes and pretending to weep. this brought a shout of delight, and some one yelled back: "weep for poor old harvard. she needs it." then capt. forrest of the eleven appeared. a mighty roar went up the moment he was seen. it was a great shout of admiration and welcome. it brought a hot flush of satisfaction to his cheeks, and he stood bowing and smiling on the platform. "what's the matter with forrest?" shrieked a voice, when the noise lulled somewhat. "he's a lulu!" shrieked another voice. "he's all right--he is!" roared the crowd. then they cheered for him in the regular manner. each player was received with an ovation as he came out of the car, and they must have felt themselves well repaid for their weeks of hard training and practice. frank merriwell was nearly the last one to show himself. the crowd had been waiting for him. what a shout went up! the torches flared, and it seemed that the very stars quivered with the volume of sound. "merriwell! merriwell! merriwell!" roared the vast throng. roar! roar! roar! it seemed that they would never stop. it was an ovation that might have pleased a monarch. frank would have been less than human had he not thrilled with satisfaction as he heard them cheering him thus. he took off his cap and bowed again and again. he tried to descend from the steps and mingle with the throng, but some of them held him back. they seemed to want him up there where they could look at him. it was some time before the cheering subsided. at last, somebody began to shout: "speech! speech! speech!" frank shook his head, but it was useless. they were determined he should say something. he saw he could not escape, so he held up one hand. silence fell on the great crowd beneath the torchlights. then frank spoke--a single sentence: "every man of us did his level best for dear old yale!" that was enough. they went mad again, and again they roared till they were hoarse. they cheered for yale, they cheered for forrest, they cheered for merriwell. of everything for which they cheered, merriwell created the greatest enthusiasm. then he was lifted from the steps and carried away on the shoulders of his admirers, while the mob swarmed after him. the band got out and formed to head the parade of triumph. the crowd of students fell in behind. the band struck up, and away they went, with the yale eleven close behind them. great crowds had turned out to witness the spectacle, knowing the students meant to give their victorious team a rousing reception. all along the line the spectators cheered and waved hats, flags and handkerchiefs. a committee had raised a fund for fireworks, and roman candles began to pop up balls of fire, while rockets went whizzing into the air from the head of the procession. no one interfered with the rejoicing students. it was their night, and the city fathers remained in the background and permitted them to have a glorious time. some of the business places were prepared for their appearance with illuminated windows. all new haven seemed delighted. this year every one had seemed to expect harvard would "wipe up the gridiron" with yale, and this victory was so unexpected that it set the people wild with delight. all along the line the students sang and cheered. now and then the band could be heard pounding away industriously. in this manner they marched to the college grounds. as they drew near the college, browning suddenly descended on the trombone player and captured his horn. that was a signal for a general rush upon the band by the boys, and, within three minutes, every instrument was in the hands of a yale student. some of the boys could play on the instruments they captured, and some could simply make a noise. "attention!" roared browning, who seemed to have awakened from the lethargy that had been on him so long, and was once more a leader in a genuine racket. "we will play the 'star-spangled banner.' all ready! let her rip!" they played! such a wild medley of sounds never was heard before. puss parker had a cornet, and he was playing the air of the "star spangled banner," while browning was putting in the variations with the trombone. but the others played anything they could think of and some things they could not think of! "john brown's body," "yankee doodle," "marching through georgia," "suwanee river," and "hail columbia," were some of the tunes that mingled in that medley. those who could not play anything at all added to the hideous din by making the captured horns bleat forth horrible sounds. bink stubbs had secured the bass drumstick, and the way he hammered the big drum was a caution. he did his best to break in the head--and finally succeeded! in this manner the rejoicing students marched right in upon the campus, regardless of policemen, professors, rules or regulations. chapter xli. a contrast in enemies. it was a wild night on the yale campus. even the worst old "grind" in the college came out and looked on while the hilarious students made merry, even if he did not join in the riotous proceedings. a bonfire was built. once there had been rules prohibiting such fires, but of what use were rules now! boxes, barrels, lumber, fencing, almost anything that would make a blaze was brought in and heaped up there. it was done in a rush in a manner that showed all preparations had been made in advance, although the combustible material had not been piled up till the time arrived when the fire was required. around the great fire the students with the instruments belonging to the band marched and tooted and sang. bink stubbs had knocked in one end of the bass drum, but he continued to hammer away on the other end, apparently doing his best to break that in also. bruce browning "tore off" music and other sounds with the trombone, while puss parker astounded those who knew him best by his skill with the cornet, for he really could play at some tunes. about twenty fellows tied handkerchiefs over their faces, turned their coats, and attempted to rush the band and capture the instruments. then there was war, and the real owners of the instruments looked on in horror, wondering what would become of the horns. the police were called upon to regain the instruments for the proper owners. a dozen of them attempted to do the trick, but they were not permitted to come onto the campus. there were rumors of a rush. it was reported that the freshmen were coming out with canes. but the freshmen were not fools, and they knew it was a bad time to bring about a cane rush. they mingled with the rejoicing crowd, but sported no canes. some of the band instruments were ruined in the struggle, but a cheap band had been engaged, and the instruments were of poor grade, so the boys did not mind their destruction, although all felt that somebody would have to settle the bill for damages. some one placed danny griswold on a box and yelled for a speech. danny never made a speech in his life, but he felt elated, and he started in to say something. the moment he opened his mouth everybody cheered. when they stopped cheering, danny started again. "this is----" not another word was heard. again they cheered, drowning his voice. he waited for them to stop. they stopped. "this is----" "'rah! 'rah! 'rah! whooper up! whooper up! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" danny waited again. now he felt that he wanted to make a speech. he was determined to make a speech. "this is----" he couldn't get beyond "is," and he was growing disgusted. he longed for a fireman's hose and good head of water. as they began to cheer all at once, they stopped all together. once more danny tried it: "this is----" it was no use. the mere sound of his voice seemed to arouse them to the wildest enthusiasm. he shook his fist at them. "go to thunder!" he screamed, getting black in the face. but they laughed and cheered so he could not hear the sound of his own voice. some fellows found frank and carried him around and around the fire. they tried to induce him to get on the box in danny's place, and say something, but he was too shrewd to try that, even if he had wished to do so. sport harris, holding aloof, his heart sour with disappointment and disgust, saw a fellow swinging himself along on crutches, but refraining from taking any part in the celebration. "it's marline," thought sport. "he must be somewhat sore himself." then he approached and spoke to the unlucky student, who had lost the opportunity to play full-back when he sprained his ankle. "hello, marline!" called harris. "why aren't you whooping her up with the others?" marline looked at him in doubt, and then remembered that harris and merriwell had never been good friends. "why should i celebrate?" he asked, sourly. "yale won." "yes, and i sat where i could see the fellow who filled my place secure the opportunities to win, which must have been mine had i played." "it was hard luck for you to be knocked out in such a manner." "hard luck! it was beastly! but it was worse luck to have that fellow, merriwell, run into the game and get all the opportunities to cover himself with glory." "well, he got 'em, and he improved 'em." "any fellow fit for the position could have done the same thing." "think so?" "i know it." "how about carrying three men on his back the way merriwell did?" "that was nothing." "everybody seems to think it was a great trick." "it was nothing, i tell you. those harvard chumps tackled him in the most foolish manner possible. not one of them tried to get low down on him, but all piled upon his back." "still, it seems that three of them ought to have crushed him into the ground." "not if he had any back at all. you could have stood up under it." "thanks!" said harris, dryly. "i don't care to try." "i know i could." "but merriwell carried them right along on his back." "what of it?" "wasn't that something? he scarcely seemed to slacken his speed in the least, for all of their weight." "rot! they came upon him from behind, and when they leaped on him they hurled him forward still faster than he was going, if anything." "it's a wonder they didn't hurl him forward on his face." "wonder--nothing! are you stuck on that fellow?" "well, i should say not! i have no reason to admire him." "nor i! i despise him, and i am willing he should know it. wait till my ankle gets well." "what will you do then?" "i am making no talk about what i'll do," said marline, lowering his voice and hissing forth the words; "but frank merriwell had better steer clear of me." "he is a bad man to have for an enemy," said harris, "i know, for he is my enemy." "how does he happen to be your enemy?" asked marline. "you are not in athletics. what made him your enemy?" harris hesitated, and then said: "some time ago he wrongfully accused me of cheating at cards. i have hated him ever since." a sudden change came over marline. he remembered now. he had heard something about it at the time, but it had slipped his mind. he remembered that he had heard from a reliable source that merriwell had exposed harris in a crooked game. involuntarily, marline drew away from harris. the lad from south carolina had very high ideas of honor, and he could feel nothing but contempt for a card sharp. sometimes he played cards himself, but he would have died rather than do a crooked or dishonorable thing. a moment before, he had seemed to feel a bond between himself and sport, as they were both enemies to merriwell, but now there was a feeling of repulsion. no matter what rob marline's faults might be, and he had many of them, there was not a dishonest streak in him. harris seemed to see the change come over the other, and regretted that he had told the truth, for he knew marline was "encumbered" by a fine sense of honor. he tried to set himself right by fiercely declaring he had been unjustly accused by merriwell. "that's what makes me hate the fellow so," he said. "he has injured me by leading some fellows to think i was crooked, and that is the worst injury he could do anybody." "i agree with you on that point," nodded marline. "some time i'll square it up with him," grated harris. "we both hate him, and i see no reason why we shouldn't pull together." marline hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "no," he said, "i'll not make a compact with any one against him. i hate him, and i am willing he should know it. i'll meet him face to face and man to man, and i'll make him crawl, or i'll fix him so he won't play football for a long time to come!" chapter xlii. a challenge accepted. the day after the great game the boston and new york morning papers gave columns to a full report of the contest. all the evening papers of the day before had contained reports, but on the following morning the story was told more fully and accurately. not a morning paper appeared in either city that did not contain frank merriwell's picture. it made little difference if some of the pictures were poor, frank's name was beneath each and every one of them. the papers gave him glaring headlines. he was called "the yale trojan," "the sensation of the season," "the boy of iron," and many other complimentary things. all yale was reading the papers, and frank was more than ever the topic of conversation, for his fellow-students began to realize that he had played an even more important part in the game than was at first thought possible by those who had not witnessed it. if frank had smoked or drank he would not have found it necessary to buy a cigar or a drink for weeks to come. scores of fellows would have considered it a great honor to buy smokes and drinks for him. but merriwell neither smoked nor drank. he had never indulged in tobacco or liquor. who knows how much that was responsible for his wonderful strength, nerve and wind? at the fence a group gathered early and read and discussed the newspaper reports. rob marline seemed to be the only man who did not have a paper. "what's the matter with you, old man?" asked tom thornton. "you are looking as blue as if we had lost yesterday." "i'm feeling grouchy," confessed marline. "ankle?" "has something to do with it." "too bad! it was tough to be knocked out just before the game, but you can feel satisfied that your place was filled by a good man." marline seemed to turn yellow. "that is it, sah--that's just it!" he exclaimed, "look at all the stuff in the papers about him! and i might have had the opportunities he had if i had played." "perhaps not." "why not?" "the change might have made considerable difference in the play. you know as well as i, no two men will play just the same under the same circumstances. they may attempt similar plays, but they do not carry them out in precisely the same manner." "i don't like the way you use that word 'attempt,' sah!" said marline, flaming up a bit. "it seems like an insinuation that i might have failed in the attempt, while merriwell succeeded." "you are altogether too suspicious and sensitive, marline. i did not hint anything of the sort, although even you cannot be sure you would have succeeded as well as merriwell. indeed, what he did in that game was phenomenal." "rot, sah!" "i believe you are jealous of him, marline. if you are, take my advice, and conceal it, or the boys will jolly you to death." rob marline drew himself up with as much haughtiness as possible, considering his lame ankle. "sah," he said, hissing the words through his white teeth, "the boys had better be careful. i am in no condition to be jollied on that point, sah." had any other fellow at yale taken such a stand, it would have produced shouts of laughter. as it was, not a fellow of the group grinned, and burn putnam observed: "if you don't want to be jollied, you'd better keep still about merriwell. all the fellows will be onto you if you keep it up." rob flashed old put a cutting look, and then haughtily returned: "my tongue is my own, sah!" "all right," grunted burn. "use it as you please. you'll find i've given you a straight tip." "i presume, sah, a man has a right to criticise the playing of any fellow on the eleven?" "sure; but it doesn't come very well from you, as you and merriwell were rivals." "we were not rivals, if you please. he was substituted to fill my place after i was injured. but for this ankle, he would not have been on the team." "but that he refused to play football this season, you would not have been on the team," put in bandy robinson. "oh, i see all you fellows are standing up for him and are down on me!" fiercely cried marline. "i don't care if you are. i think frank merriwell is----" "is what, sir?" it was merriwell himself, who had approached the group without being noticed by any of them. he now stepped forward promptly and faced marline. rob turned pale, and his eyes gleamed. for some moments he did not speak, but he did not quail in the least before merriwell's steady gaze. at last, gaining control of his voice, he sneered: "so you were listening. well, there is an old saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves." "so you call me an eavesdropper?" "you heard what was not meant for your ears." "because i happened to be coming here to join this party. you were talking loudly and in public. there was no reason why i should not have heard, and i did so in anything but a sneaking manner. your insinuation that i eavesdropped is an insult." "what are you going to do about it, sah?" "demand satisfaction!" shouted back frank, who was aroused to such a pitch that he was ready to quarrel with his rival on the slightest provocation. marline grinned sarcastically. "very well, sah," he said, something like exultation in his voice. "i am ready to give you all the satisfaction you want, sah, as soon as my ankle will permit." "you will fight me?" "with pleasure, sah." "all right; it's settled. i'll agree to give you a pair of nice black eyes." "no, you won't, sah." "eh? you won't be able to stop me." "only ruffians and prize fighters use their fists." "eh? what do you mean?" "i mean business, sah!" shot back the boy from south carolina, drawing himself up, with the aid of his crutch. "you have seen fit, mr. merriwell, to consider yourself insulted by me, and you have demanded satisfaction. you shall have it, sah--all you want! we will fight, but not with our fists. i am the challenged party, and i name swords as the weapons!" marline's words produced a sensation. of all who heard them, frank merriwell seemed the least startled or surprised. danny griswold near fell off the fence. all the boys looked at each other, and then stared at the boy from south carolina, as if seeking to discover if he could be in earnest. he was in deadly earnest; there could be no doubt of it. his face was pale, and his eyes gleamed. the fighting blood of the marlines was aroused. then the other lads of the group remembered the record made by the marlines, the famous fighters of south carolina. they remembered that rob marline's ancestors were duelists before him, and every one of them on record had killed his man! with such an example in his own family, and with certain notions of the proper course for a man to defend his honor, it was certain marline meant business when he named swords as the weapons. but such a meeting could not take place. it was unlawful. besides that, dueling was not popular in the north, and it was not believed that a man showed cowardice if he refused to consider the challenge of an enemy. what would merriwell do? he could not accept marline's proposal, and still it would not be easy for him to back down, after demanding satisfaction. he was in a trying position, and the boys wondered how he would get out of it. "mr. marline," said frank, and his voice was perfectly calm and cool, "you must be aware that such a thing as you propose is utterly impossible." "i am not aware of anything of the sort, sah." "then i will tell you so now." "that means you are afraid--you dare not meet me face to face and man to man! you show the white feather!" "it means nothing of the sort." "you can't get out of it, sah." "i am a northerner, and i do not believe in personal encounters with deadly weapons, after the rules of the code duello." "a northerner!" flung back marline, with a curl of his lips and a proud toss of his head. "well, i am a southerner, and we do believe in the code duello. it is the only way for a man to satisfy his honor." "it is evident that is a point on which we cannot agree." "then, you are going to back down--you will play the coward?" "you are making your language very strong and offensive. will you be good enough to remember you are on crutches, which makes it impossible for me to strike you now?" "no man ever struck a marline without spilling his blood for the blow! it is a good thing for you, sah, that i am on crutches." "if you were not crippled, you could not use the language you have within the past few moments, without getting my fist between the eyes." marline sucked in his breath with a hissing sound through his teeth. "never mind my condition, sah--hit me! nothing would give me greater satisfaction, sah!" "it is impossible. you will not be crippled long." "i shall recover as swiftly as possible. you may be sure of that, sah!" "there will be time enough to settle this little affair between us then." "but the preliminaries can be arranged in advance, mr. merriwell. my representative will call on any friend you may name, sah." it was plain enough to all that marline intended to force a duel or compel merriwell to back down squarely. "if i decline to name a friend--if i decline to meet you in a regular duel----" "i shall brand you as a pusillanimous cur, sah!" frank's face paled a bit, but still his eyes met marline's steadily. "you seem to forget you are not in the south," he calmly said. "if you were on your own soil, you might be justified in pushing this thing as you are, for that is the not entirely obsolete custom among southern gentlemen. but you are in the north, where duelists are criminals who have not even the sympathy of the public in general. under such circumstances, you have no right to try to force such an encounter with me." "you demanded satisfaction, sah, and i named the weapons. i know nothing of your northern ideas, and i care less. i do know that a man of honor in your position would name a representative and have this affair settled properly." "you have raised a point of honor on which we cannot agree, that is all." "then you refuse to meet me? you take water? ha! ha! ha! i swear i did think you were a coward all along! a short time ago all yale said you were a coward, but now, because you made two or three lucky plays in the football game, all yale is praising you to the skies. well, sah, i will show them the kind of a man you are! i will show them that you challenged me, and then dared not meet me. i will brand you as the coward you are, sah! it will give me great satisfaction, i assure you." "look here, marline," broke in burn putnam, "you are carrying this thing beyond the limit. merriwell has explained to you his position and made it clear that such a meeting as you propose is utterly impossible." "that's right, that's right!" chorused the others. "mr. merriwell knew me at the beginning," said the boy from the south, unrelentingly. "he knew i did not take any stock in fist-fighting--that i made no pretensions of being what you call a scrapper. yet he demanded satisfaction of me for what he chose to consider an insult. that gave me the chance to name the weapons, and i named them. it seems that he sought to take an unfair advantage of me, thinking to force me into a fist-fight, about which he knew i knew nothing, and, having the advantage of me thus, give me a drubbing. it was a brutal attempt to take advantage of me, but he was check-mated. now, under the circumstances, i have a right to push this matter as far as possible, and i will do it! he'll meet me in a regular duel, or i will take great trouble to brand him as a craven." "you'll get yourself into a very bad scrape, marline," said thornton. "sympathy will not be with you." "bah! what do i care! i can stand alone! i am a marline!" "besides that," continued tom, "there is another point to be considered." rob made a gesture of disdain, but thornton hastened on: "suppose you two would fight a duel and one of you should be seriously wounded, what then? why, an investigation would follow, and the truth would come out that would mean expulsion for you both--it would mean disgrace." "bah!" cried marline, once more. "i presumed i was dealing with a man of honor, and that every person here was a man of honor. in such a case, if one of us should be wounded, he would keep his lips closed, even if he were dying. not a word of the truth would he disclose, and no amount of investigation would discover the truth. the victor would be safe." "that is much easier to talk about than it would be to put in practice. i, for one, am against anything of the sort." "you do not count, sah." "don't, eh? well, we'll see about that! frank merriwell can't meet you, and that settles it. if you try to force him, i'll report the whole matter to the faculty, and the chances are about ten to one that you will be fired from college. there, mr. marline, you have it straight from the shoulder, and i trust you are satisfied." thornton was astonished with himself for taking such a stand, as he was, as a rule, a good follower, but no leader. he had a way of thinking of things after others put them into execution, but now he was the one to take the lead. marline made a gesture of scorn. "yes, sah, i am satisfied," he said; "i am satisfied that mr. merriwell is a coward. he was looking for a loophole to crawl through, and you have provided him with that loophole. he should feel very grateful to you, sah!" "marline," said frank, sharply, "you can make a mistake by heaping this on too thick! i can't stand everything, and you'd better drop it." "yes, drop it, marline!" cried some of the others. "oh, i'll drop it for the present," said rob, with deep significance--"for the present, you understand. but i am not done with mr. merriwell. my ankle will be all right in a short time, and then----" he paused, giving frank a stare of hatred. then, without another word, he turned and swung himself away, aided by his crutches. all felt sure that the affair was not ended. chapter xliii. an unpleasant situation. "great scott!" gurgled old put, staring after marline. "but he is a regular fire eater!" "he's a bad man--a blamed bad man!" fluttered danny griswold. "that's right," nodded lewis little. "he really wants to fight with swords, i believe." "of course, he does," nodded andy emery, who had not said a word during all the talk between merriwell and marline. "jack diamond was another fellow just like him when he first came to yale." "so he was," said putnam. "and it seems to me i have heard that merriwell met him." frank smiled a bit. "we had a little go," he said. "he put up a fierce fight, too, for a fellow that knew nothing about the science." "oh, everybody knows about that!" said put. "it was the other affair i was speaking of. didn't he force you into a duel with swords?" "that affair was not very serious," said frank, evasively. "but i know it took place. he was a fire eater, and he had just such ideas of honor as marline holds. thought it a disgrace to fight with fists, and all that. you couldn't get out of meeting him in a regular duel, and you did so. i've heard the fellows talking it over. let's see, who got the best of it?" "it was interrupted before the end," said frank. "the sophs came down on us, and we thought them the faculty. everybody took to his heels." "and diamond would have been captured if it hadn't been for merriwell, who stayed behind to help him out," put in thornton. "the duel was never finished." "don't try it again, merry," cried danny griswold. "the next one wouldn't come out as well as that." "but what am i going to do?" asked frank. "this fellow marline will not let up on me." "don't pay any attention to him," advised little. "that's right, ignore him," said the others. "that will be a hard thing to do. i am no bully, as you all know, but i cannot ignore a man who tries to ride me." "better do that than get into a fight with deadly weapons, and be killed," said put. "or kill him," added griswold. "never mind if he does try to brand you as a coward," advised emery. "he can't make the brand stick. you are known too well here." frank flushed a bit. "i don't know about that," he asserted. "it was only a few days ago that almost everybody here seemed to think me a coward because i declined to play football. they would be thinking so now if i had not played through absolute necessity." "but what you did in that game has settled it so no man can call you a coward hereafter, and have his words carry any weight," said putnam. "i believe you can afford to ignore rob marline. he is sore now because he was unable to play in the game, and because you put up such a game. he'll get over that after a time, and it's quite likely he'll be ashamed of himself for making such a fuss. he's not much good, anyway." "right there is where i think you make a big mistake," said frank. "marline has been underestimated by many persons. he has sand, and plenty of it. he is not responsible for his peculiar notions as to the proper manner for a man to settle an affair of honor, for he was born and brought up where such settlements are generally made with pistols." "well, you can't fight him in the manner he has named, and that's all there is to it. nobody will blame you for not meeting him. let him go it till he cools off." "perhaps he will be cool by the time his ankle gets well," said griswold. others came along and joined the crowd, and the talk turned to football. everybody seemed to want to shake hands with frank, and his arm was worked up and down till it ached. he was congratulated on every hand. sport harris stood at a distance and saw all this, while his face wore a sour, hateful sneer. "it makes me sick to see them slobbering over him!" he muttered. "he'll swell up and burst with conceit now. hang him! he beat me out of my last dollar yesterday, and now i'll have to take some of my clothes down to 'uncle' and raise the wind on them. ain't got even enough for a beer this morning, and my account is full at morey's. this is what i call hard luck! wonder how harlow feels this morning?" rolf harlow had formerly been a harvard man, and he was an inveterate gambler. through him harris had placed all his money on the harvard eleven. sport had tipped harlow to the condition of the team, and the apparent fact that harvard was sure to win, on which tip rolf had hastened to stake everything on the cambridge boys. at the close of the game harris got away from harlow as quickly as possible, finding him anything but agreeable as a companion. harris knew marline hated merriwell, and he felt sure the boy from the south had nerve and courage, but, to his wonderment and disgust, rob would not enter into any sort of a compact against frank. "together, we might be able to do up merriwell," thought harris. "the only man i ever, found who had the nerve to stick by me against merriwell was hartwicke, and he was forced to leave college. i'll get the best of the fellow some day." later on, sport heard something of the encounter between merriwell and marline that morning. he listened eagerly to this, and he was seized by a few thoughts. what did he care about marline? if merriwell could be led into a genuine duel with the lad from south carolina, it might result in the expulsion of both from yale, either if neither should be seriously injured. if merriwell should be injured, all the better. if he wounded marline, the whole story might come out on investigation, and that would put him in a bad box. anyway, a duel between the two might bring about merriwell's downfall. harris set about stirring the matter up. he reported that marline had driven merriwell "into his boots." there were a few fellows who "took some stock" in sport, and through them he worked to spread the story. harris was industrious, and before another night all sorts of tales concerning the encounter between the rivals were in circulation. harry rattleton, frank's old-time chum, heard some of the reports, and he lost no time in telling frank just what was being said. merriwell smiled grimly, and said nothing. "what are you going to do about it?" asked harry, excitedly. "nothing," said frank. "what's that?" shouted rattleton. "if you don't do anything, lots of the fellows will think the stories are true." "let them." "i wouldn't stand it! i'd hunch somebody's ped--i mean, punch somebody's head." "the fellows who heard it all know if marline drove me into my boots." "all right!" said rattleton. "if you don't do anything about it, i shall. i'm going to find out who started the yarns, and then i'm going to punch him!" and rattleton went forth in search of some one to punch. and he was not the only one, as we shall see. within three days marline was able to get around, with the aid of a cane. his ankle was improving swiftly, and he expected it would be nearly as well as ever in less than a week. marline had a following. there were some rattle-brained young fellows in the college who looked on him with admiration, as it was known he came from a fighting family, and was just as ready to face a foe on "the field of honor" as any of his ancestors had been before him. marline considered himself a "careful drinker," for he took about a certain number of drinks each day, seldom allowing himself to indulge in more than his allowance. he always took whiskey. beer and ale he called "slops." such stuff was well enough to boys and dutchmen, but "whiskey was the stuff for a man." rob did not know he was forming one of the worst habits a man can acquire--that of "drinking moderately." the moderate drinker becomes the steady drinker, and, in time, he gets his system into such a condition that he cannot get along without his regular allowance of "stuff." the moment he tries to cut down that allowance, he feels miserable and "out of sorts." then he "throws in" a lot of it to brace up on. perhaps it is some time before he realizes what a hold drink has on him, and, when he does realize it, in almost every case it is too late to break off the habit. gradually he increases his "allowance," and thus the moderate drinker becomes a slave to liquor, and a drunkard. the only "safe way" to handle liquor is not to handle it at all. marline had a father with plenty of money, and he was provided with more than a liberal allowance while at college. he had money to spend, and now, knowing the value of popularity, he began to spend it with unusual liberality. as a result, there was a crowd of fellows who clung to him closely in order to get as many drinks as possible out of him. although frank did not drink, he often went around with fellows who did. he had a strong mind, and it was not difficult for him to resist temptation. thus it came about that merriwell and marline sometimes saw each other in morey's or treager's, two well-known students' resorts. at first, they seemed to avoid each other. then marline got the idea that merriwell was afraid of him, and he took to flinging out scornful insinuations and staring at frank contemptuously. it was difficult for merriwell to restrain his passions, for never had he known a fellow who could anger him like marline, but he held onto himself with a close hand. jack diamond heard of the affair between frank and the boy from south carolina. although jack was from the south, he knew merriwell as well as anybody at yale, and his knowledge told him frank was in the right. it galled diamond to think that anybody could sneer at merriwell, and not be called to account. he did not say much at first, but, after a time, he began to feel that he had stood it about as long as possible. "look here, merry!" he exclaimed, as he stalked into merriwell's room one evening; "how long are you going to stand this?" frank had been studying, but he flung down his book immediately. "stand what?" he asked, smiling. "why, the insolence of this fellow from south carolina. i heard him in morey's last evening when he made that sneering remark about you, and it has been galling me all day. i expected you would jump him on the spot, but you never moved an eyelash." "what did you think i'd do?" "punch him, confound it!" "how can i?" "how can you? with your fist, of course." "but i can't do it, you know. he has acknowledged publicly that he is no fighter with his fists, and i'd seem like a bully if i hit him." "oh, rot!" exploded jack. "think i'd let any fellow insult me and then rub it in without giving him a thump on the jaw? not much!" "your ideas on that point seem to have changed since you came to yale. you will remember you did not believe in fighting with fists when you came here." "that's right," nodded jack. "i thought gentlemen never fought in such a manner, but i have found out that even gentlemen are occasionally forced to do so." "marline holds just the same ideas as you held. i demanded satisfaction of him, and he said he'd give it to me, with swords." "he's a chump! what he really needs is a good drubbing, and you ought to give it to him." "and be called a bully. they would say it was a cowardly thing to do. really, jack, i'm in a confounded nasty place!" "i believe you are," admitted diamond, slowly. "but you must do something." "suggest something." "fight him with the weapons he named!" cried the virginian, hotly. "you can do it, and i know you can get the best of him. i haven't forgotten our little duel. not much! why, merriwell, you disarmed me twice! you can do the same trick with him." "perhaps not." "i know you can. if you disarm him twice, you can call him a bungler, and refuse to continue the duel. do it, merry!" excitedly urged jack. "i'll stand by you--i'll be your second." "thank you, old man; but aren't you afraid of getting into serious trouble? if the faculty----" "hang the faculty! we'll have to take chances. you can't stand his insults, merry, and you'll have to fight him with the weapons he has named. that's the only thing you can do." "you may be right," said frank, slowly. "i am getting sick of the way the thing is going, but i don't want to make a fool of myself." "you won't; but you'll make a monkey of rob marline, and i'll bet on it. why, merry, you are wonderfully clever with the foils, and you have nerves of iron." "still, there might be a slip, you know." "are you afraid he'll do you up?" "not that," said frank, "although i know he might. i'll tell you the truth. i hate marline, and i might do him up. a sword is a nasty weapon. what if i should run him through?" "i never saw the time yet when you were not your own master. i don't think there is any danger that you will kill marline, but you pink him, just so he would remember you. he wouldn't blow. he's from the south. he wouldn't blow if you pinked him for keeps." "i think you are right about that. well, jack, there's no telling what i may be driven into. if i have to meet him in a duel, i shall call on you to act as my second." "you may depend on me. i'll serve you with great satisfaction. call him out, merry--call him out!" chapter xliv. students' rackets. inza burrage came back to new haven with miss gale. frank discovered she was there by seeing her on the street. he started to join her and speak, but she entered a store, and he lost her. that evening he started out to call on her, resolved to have a talk with her and come to a complete understanding, if she would see him. he knew where miss gale was stopping, and he made his way to the house by a roundabout course, thinking over what he would say in case inza consented to see him. as he approached the house he saw some one ascending the steps. the person going up the steps carried a cane. frank halted abruptly. "marline!" he whispered. it was his rival. rob rang the bell and was admitted to the house. frank turned about and walked swiftly away. "that settles it!" he grated. "i don't want to see her now, for i am sure she was playing double with me. she is stuck on rob marline. it's all right! it's all right! i'll have to take diamond's advice. marline shall have all the satisfaction he desires." on his way back to his room he met browning, diamond, rattleton and several other fellows, who were starting out for a jolly time. they were singing, "here's to good old yale," and he immediately joined in with them, his beautiful baritone adding to the melody which floated out on the crisp evening air. "hurrah!" cried rattleton. "it's merry! come on, old man, and we'll have some sport." to the surprise of all, merriwell joined them, without asking where they were going. he seemed ready enough for any kind of sport, and his laughter rang the loudest and merriest of them all. he was overflowing with jokes and witty sayings, so that the boys began to say to each other that he was like the frank merriwell of old. they made the rounds of the "places." nearly all of them drank beer, but, although frank seemed in a reckless mood, not a drop of beer or liquor touched his lips. he seemed to enjoy the sport as much as any of them, and still he remained sober. in fact, frank was a leader in wild pranks that night. before the evening was over, the boys got two policemen after them, and were forced to run to escape arrest. rattleton was somewhat slower than the others in starting, and he soon found one of the policemen was close upon him. "stop!" cried the officer. "go to thunder!" flung back harry. "stop, i tell yer!" "save your wind! you can't catch me in a thousand years." "can't?" whiz--something flew through the air. it struck harry between the shoulders, knocking him forward on his hands and knees. then the officer pounced upon him, picking up his stick, which he had flung at the boy. "oh, i've got yer!" grated the policeman. "i'll teach yer to be tearin' down an' shiftin' round people's signs! i saw yer when yer pulled down the sign in front of the chinese laundry, and the charge'll be larceny. we're goin' to fix some of you frisky students." the police had been sore ever since their ineffectual attempt to get upon the campus and arrest the students who were parading with the horns captured from the band. word had gone the rounds among the students that the "cops" were watching for an opportunity to retaliate. evidently this policeman fancied his opportunity had come. larceny! harry realized the full meaning of the charge, and he knew it would go hard with him if he were convicted. thoughts of making a desperate effort to slip out of his coat, and leave it in the officer's clutch, flashed through his head; but the blow of the club had knocked the wind out of him, and, just then, he did not have the strength to make the effort. where were the others? had they all escaped? had they abandoned him? "git up!" ordered the policeman, releasing his grip on harry a bit, in order to change his hold. swish! thump! bump! a dark body came out of the shadows and struck the policeman with the force of a catapult. the officer was hurled through the air, his hold on harry being broken. he struck the stone paving heavily. a hand fastened on rattleton's collar, a strong arm jerked him to his feet, a familiar voice hissed in his ear: "run!" it was merriwell! harry's heart leaped as he realized that. frank had not deserted him. frank never deserted a friend. rattleton was somewhat dazed, but merriwell's hand directed him, and away they sped. they heard the policeman behind them, heard him shout breathlessly for them to stop, but they had no thought of obeying. into a narrow space between two buildings plunged frank, telling harry to follow. merriwell came to a gate, but he seemed to see it, for all of the intense darkness. "over here!" he called to harry. they heard the policeman plunge in behind them. over the gate they scrambled, not daring to pause long enough to find the way it was fastened. out into a back yard they dashed, hearing the officer run into the gate and grunt as he was flung backward. there was a high fence around the yard, and it seemed that they might be in a trap. frank felt for a clothesline and found it. he seemed to see in the dark. "over the fence, harry--over the fence!" he whispered. "come on!" "in a moment." "what are you doing?" "lowering this line, so it will just catch mr. officer under the chin. get over the fence." rattleton obeyed. he found a place where he could scramble to the top of the fence, and there he sat, calling to frank: "come on--hurry!" the policeman came out into the yard. it seemed that merriwell had been waiting for him. frank started to run, and the officer started after him. "i have yer now!" grated the policeman. frank led him directly toward the clothesline. just before the line was reached, frank seemed to stumble and nearly fall. he did it in order to duck under the line. a triumphant exclamation broke from the officer. it was cut short by another sort of exclamation. the clothesline caught him under the chin. it snapped his head backward and his heels forward. he went down flat on his back with a terrible thump, and there he lay. with a triumphant laugh, frank shinned up the fence and perched on the top beside rattleton. the officer was sitting up. he had seen more stars and fireworks than it had ever been his fortune to behold before. "ta, ta, old chappie!" tauntingly called merriwell. "we'll see you some other evening." "stop--stop right where you are!" ordered the policeman, in a bewildered way, looking around for the speaker. "you can't get away. it's no use for you to try." "you're twisted, old man," laughed frank. "good-night, and pleasant dreams! we certainly had you on a string to-night. ha! ha! ha!" then the boys dropped down from the fence into the next yard, made their way to the street, and hastened toward morey's. "christopher? what a racket!" laughed rattleton. "why, i haven't been in anything like this since i was a freshman." "it's good for a fellow once in a while," said frank. "it stirs up his blood." "but i was in a hard place when you came to my rescue, merry. the cop had me pinched, and he said the charge would be larceny. i thought i was in for it." "i wasn't going to leave anybody to be locked up." "you never do, merry; you always stick. it does me good to see you out on a time like this, for you have not been like yourself in weeks. now you seem like the old frank merriwell." they reached morey's safely. entering, they discovered nearly all the others of their party there ahead of them. and rob marline was there, drinking whiskey. as soon as frank and harry appeared, the others of the party surrounded them, asking about their adventures. bruce browning was wiping the perspiration from his flushed face, while he growled: "haven't done anything like that for a long time. it was awful! wouldn't done it then if it hadn't been to escape arrest. cæsar's ghost! think of being arrested." "i was arrested!" said rattleton. "what?" cried the others. "come again!" "a cop pinched me." "no? how did you get away?" "merriwell came to my rescue. he didn't desert me, if the rest of you did. he saw the cop nail me, and he sent his buttons flying by running into him. that gave me a chance to skip. i tell you, it took nerve to tackle a cop like that." rob marline laughed sarcastically, but did not say anything. rattleton flushed with anger, but merriwell did not seem to notice it. harry went on with his story, telling of their adventures, and the party shouted with laughter when he related the clothesline incident. the fellows were gathering about merriwell, and marline found that he was being deserted, which added to his bitterness. he saw the boys listening to the story of merriwell's attack on the officer and the trick with the clothesline, and the soul of the boy from the south was filled with bitterness. "he's cutting ice with the gang again," thought marline. "that must be stopped." but how could he stop it? he thought of calling to those who had been with him before merriwell came in, and asking them to have another drink. then it seemed that he would humiliate himself by doing so, for he would cause everybody to notice how he had been abandoned. so he ordered another drink for himself, and drank it sullenly. every time the boys laughed marline grated his teeth. things had not gone right with him that night, and he was in an ugly mood. he had called to see inza burrage, and had attempted to make himself "solid" with her. in the course of his conversation he had made some disparaging remark about frank merriwell. that remark was like a spark of fire in a keg of powder. in a moment inza flared up and exploded. she told him frank merriwell was a gentleman. she told him frank merriwell was too much of a man of honor to malign an enemy behind his back. she showed deep scorn and contempt, and marline left the house crestfallen and raging with anger. he had been touched on a tender spot. to have any one insinuate that frank merriwell was more honorable than he, was like stabbing him to the heart. the whiskey made marline desperate. little did he know that the boy he hated was in a most reckless mood. had he known it, he would not have cared. there was not a drop of cowardly blood in marline's body. he longed for an encounter with merriwell. at length, when he could stand it no longer, he arose to his feet. some one was complimenting merriwell on his nerve. marline had not tasted the last glass of whiskey brought him. he took it in his hand, made two steps toward frank, and flung the stuff full into merry's face! "if mr. merriwell has so much nerve, let him resent that!" rang out the hoarse voice of the boy from south carolina. "we'll see how much nerve he has!" frank took out a handkerchief and slowly wiped the liquid from his face. he was very pale, and his eyes gleamed with a glare that his best friends had never seen in them before. but he laughed, and those who knew him best shuddered at that laugh. "mr. marline," he said, his voice calm and modulated, "will you be kind enough to name your friend?" marline looked around. sport harris was at his side in a moment. "i'll serve you!" sport eagerly whispered. marline felt that almost any one was preferable to harris, but he saw the others had drawn away. harris seemed to be the only one with nerve enough to stand by him. he felt forced to accept sport. "mr. harris is my man," he said. frank bowed gracefully. "mr. diamond will wait on him." a gleam of exultation came into marline's face, for he felt that he had driven merriwell to the wall at last. frank and jack immediately withdrew from morey's, and, later, the virginian sought harris in his room. frank awaited diamond's return. he came back in about an hour "to-morrow, at sunrise," he said. chapter xlv. the duel. "are you ready, gentlemen?" the sun was just peeping over the horizon. beyond the city limits, near a strip of timber far down the sound, five persons had met. two of them were frank merriwell and robert marline, who were to fight a deadly duel there that beautiful morning. two more were their seconds, jack diamond and sport harris. the fifth was a young collegian named morton, who was studying medicine and surgery. he had brought along a case of instruments, although he was not certain this was to be a duel in deadly earnest. merriwell and marline, despite the fact that the morning air was keen and cold, had stripped off their coats and vests and were in their shirt sleeves. now they stood facing each other, weapons in hand. frank's face was calm and confident, as if he had not the least doubt concerning the outcome of the affair. his nerves were under admirable control. he was a trifle paler than usual. marline, on the other hand, was flushed and nervous. he had taken several drinks of whiskey to brace him, and merriwell's calm confidence was something he could not understand. at that moment, frank seemed like the duelist and marline like the novice. the sun shot a single lance of light across the world, and then diamond, who had been chosen to give the signal, spoke the word that set the rivals at each other. clash! clash! clash! the bright blades clanged sharply on the morning air. the sunshine glittered coldly on their polished lengths. at first the work was of a very scientific order, for each man seemed feeling of the other to discover just how much skill he possessed. marline was more than ever astonished, for he had scarcely fancied frank could be an expert with such a weapon. now, however, he saw by the manner in which frank handled himself, by his every move, that he was a skillful swordsman. the boy from the south attempted to force the fighting. the whiskey went to his head, and he fought savagely, his teeth set and his eyes gleaming. deadly determination was in his every move. the seconds and the surgeon watched breathlessly. suddenly there was a cry. by a twisting movement of his wrist, frank had disarmed his enemy, sending marline's blade spinning into the air. the sword fell with a clang on the frozen ground at rob's feet, and he instantly snatched it up. then he came at frank with the fury of one driven mad. merriwell was forced to give ground before the fierce onslaught of his enemy. he knew well enough that marline was exceedingly dangerous, for he had flung discretion to the winds and was exposing himself in all ways by his fierce desire to get at frank. merriwell did not wish to wound marline, but hoped to humble him. however, it began to look as if frank would be forced to do his best in self-defense. he had remarkable control of himself, and watched his chance. it came in a short time, and again he twisted the sword from marline's hand. marline fell back before merriwell's half-lifted sword. "kill me!" he passionately cried. "kill me now, or i'll kill you!" merriwell lowered his blade. in a moment marline sprang to the spot where his sword had fallen, caught it up, and turned on frank again. "on guard!" he shouted. like a whirlwind, he came at merriwell. clash! clash! clash! it was a terrific battle now. the young surgeon was excited and frightened. "it must be stopped!" he cried. "marline is determined to kill him! we must stop it!" snap!--frank merriwell's blade broke within a foot of the hilt! with a hoarse shout of victorious fury, marline thrust straight at frank's breast! merriwell succeeded in foiling the thrust with the part of his weapon that remained in his hand, but marline's sword passed through frank's shirt sleeve at the shoulder. the seconds and the surgeon had started forward to interfere, but, with a gasping curse, marline flung his sword on the ground and covered his eyes with his hands, his whole body quivering. diamond caught up the weapon the southerner had flung down, muttering: "there's no telling what he may try to do next. i'll keep this out of his reach." but marline had no thought of resuming the duel. when he lowered his hand from his face, his shame was betrayed. "mr. merriwell," he said, his voice quivering, "i wish to apologize to you." all were astonished. "for what?" asked frank, calmly. "you have shown yourself more honorable than i," said marline, although every word cut him like the stroke of a knife. "twice you disarmed me and took no advantage of it. but when my turn came, my hatred for you was so great i lost my head. i tried to kill you. i offer a humble apology, and say what i never expected to say to any living being--you have shown yourself more honorable than i." that was enough to touch frank, and all the past was forgotten in a moment. with an impulse of generosity, he held out his hand. "take it!" he cried. "let's call the past buried." marline shook his head. "i can't!" he exclaimed. "i can't be a hypocrite. you have shown yourself the more honorable, merriwell, but i hate you still. i shall try to forget it, but, with my disposition, it will not be easy. if i conquer myself, some day, perhaps, i'll accept your hand--if you care to offer it then." "when the time comes," said frank, "my hand will be open to you." then the dueling party broke up. when frank reached his room, he found a letter from inza awaiting him. this is what he read: "dear frank: i have been a foolish girl, and i am ashamed. i can't say more this way, but will explain everything when i see you. please come to me. come as soon as possible. "inza." frank's heart gave a great bound as he read this communication. he could not go to see inza at once, but he sent word that he would call that evening. when he arrived, he found inza awaiting him alone, the girl's aunt having wisely withdrawn. "oh, frank--i--i----" she began, and then she could not go on, for he caught her in his arms and gave her a tight squeeze. "don't let's talk about it," he said, cheerily. "i guess it was all a mistake." "i had no right to bind you down, frank," said inza, softly. "it has been a lesson to me. you know what is best, always, and after this you shall have your own way in everything." "are you quite sure of that?" he said, softly, looking into her clear eyes, which immediately dropped. "then, i'm going to have my way now." and a kiss followed, which seemed to be a complete forgiveness all around. then she told him of marline, and he understood something of what had led to the duel. but he did not tell inza of that terrible encounter, and the girl did not learn of it until some time later. chapter xlvi. a students' confab. the days passed, and frank turned again to his studies. he was anxious to prove to the professors that he could learn his lessons, as well as play football. to be sure, he did not give up his sports entirely, nor his recreation at the gym. as the days slipped by, many of the students became more or less interested in a big, burly freshman, who went by the name of hock mason. mason had proved himself a regular bruiser on more than one occasion, and he was such a thoroughly "bad man," that some of the boys grew afraid of him. one night there was a crowd gathered in frank's room, and it was not long before the conversation turned upon the "bad man," who was hardly known to our hero. "he's a terror!" it was plain halliday thought so. the manner in which he uttered the words showed that he was fully satisfied on that point. "is he scientific?" asked merriwell. "no; but he is a bulldog," answered halliday. "and a brute!" exclaimed harry rattleton. "that's right," nodded danny griswold. "look at my eye. i hadn't an idea that he thought of hitting me till he let me have it. knocked me flat. felt as if i'd been kicked by a mule." "what did you do to cause him to strike you?" asked frank. "nothing. just looked at him." "if he keeps this up," grunted bruce browning, who was stretched on the couch, puffing away at a cigarette, "his career at yale will be short." "that's right!" cried jack diamond, showing his teeth. "some one will kill him. if he struck me, i'd shoot him in a minute--in a minute!" diamond meant it. there was hot blood in his veins. frank's example had taught him to control his fiery temper to a certain extent, but there were times when it would blaze forth and get the best of him for all of anything he could do. "it's a pity some fellow can't get at him and lick the stuffing out of him," said bandy robinson. "that's what he needs." "well, who is there that can do it?" cried griswold. "he's a perfect giant, over six feet tall, and must weigh nearly two hundred pounds, though there's not an ounce of fat on him. he's all bone and muscle. he strikes a regular prize-fighter blow, and he can't be hurt. i tell you, he is a good man to let alone." "that's right," agreed halliday. "i saw him do up those coppers the other night, four of them, and they all had their clubs out." "did they hit him?" asked merriwell. "hit him! well, i should guess yes. they cracked him eight or ten times over the head and shoulders." "somebody said it didn't have any effect on him," observed "uncle" blossom, who was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. "not a bit more than it would if they had hammered a block of wood," declared halliday. "it made me sick the first time they cracked him on the head, and it sounded exactly as if they struck a piece of hard wood. i expected it would lay him out stiff." "but he kept on his feet?" "he never staggered! cut his scalp open in three places, and he bled frightfully, but that only seemed to make him worse." "very interesting," commented frank, his eyes sparkling. "it would be an honor to subdue such a fellow as that." "honor?" cried halliday and griswold. "it would be a miracle!" "if he lives, he'll become a prize fighter," said blossom. "he has their brutal instincts, and still he seems to have some brains." "that's what makes him such a bad man--his brains," cried halliday. "he fights with his head, as well as with his hands." "i must say, you interest me greatly in this freshman," said merriwell. "what did you call his name--mason?" "yes, hock mason. you've seen him. he's that big, red-headed bruiser, who----" "yes, i've seen him," nodded frank. "i know him by sight." "it's a wonder he hasn't jumped on you yet. you must have attracted his notice, for you are the most popular man in college." "oh, he'll get at merry in time," grinned griswold. "all he is waiting for is the opportunity." frank laughed. "i don't know as i care about having any trouble with this freshman bully," he confessed. "i should say not!" cried the others. "but i shall not run to get out of his way." "you'd better." "perhaps some of you are aware that i can put up a good, stiff fight myself." "yes, but you can't lick a fellow you can't hurt." "there is no man living that can't be hurt--if you find out his tender spot. if i were forced into trouble with this hock mason, i should try to find how i could hurt him." "while you were finding it, merry, he would kill you." frank laughed again, showing not the least annoyance. "you think so, and you may be right. as i said before, i don't know as i care to have any trouble with him; but, at the same time, i am not going to run away from him. i never saw a genuine bully yet that was not a squealer when he knew he had met his master, and i'll wager something mr. hock mason can be cowed, for all of his famous fight with the policemen." "if you'd seen that fight, you might have a different opinion," put in halliday. "all he had was his bare fists, and he knocked those four cops out. why, when he struck one of them fairly, the man went down like a stricken ox, and lay quivering on the ground. he knocked out two of them, and then he grabbed the others by the collars. both let him have it with their clubs, but he just thumped their heads together and dropped them. they were knocked out, and i wondered if their heads were cracked. that made him a king among the freshmen. they're so scared of him that they shiver when he looks at them. i don't believe there is a freshman who likes him, but they pretend to, and they got him to his room after the fight, washed him up, plastered up his head, and then went forth and swore they knew nothing about the affair. the cops couldn't spot their man when they tried, for mason came out the next morning looking as if nothing had happened. he wears his hair long, and he's had it clipped away around the wounds on his head, plastered the cuts up, and then combed his hair over the plasters. i tell you, he is a bad man!" "every bad man meets his match some day," said frank. "mason's match is not to be found in yale." "perhaps not." "he's bound to be cock of the walk." "and are freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors going to allow this brutal bully to walk on their necks?" "what else can they do?" "kill him!" cried jack diamond, fiercely--"kill him, by the eternal gods! he can't walk on my neck! if he tried it, i'd kill him, though i hung for it!" "i don't think it is necessary to kill him," smiled frank. "there's always some way of subduing a bully. that way must be discovered, and he must be subdued." "we'll owe you a vote of thanks if you discover it and do the job," said griswold. "well, you are liable to owe merriwell a vote of thanks, then," grunted browning. "i've traveled all over with him, and i never saw him take water for anything that stood on legs. there are a few bad men out west, but they didn't faze him." "merry is all right," said halliday. "he's a corker, and athlete, and is built of pure sand, but he'd have to be built of iron to go up against a big ruffian like this mason. about the only way to subdue that fellow is to kill him, as diamond suggests." "he is growing more and more insolent and aggressive every day," said griswold. "if something isn't done to check him, he and his crowd of followers will run over us. they are all getting insolent, and we have received notice that they'll appear in a body to-night with tall hats and canes. mason will lead them, and they don't think we'll dare tackle them." "we'll rush them, if we're killed!" cried diamond, springing to his feet and wildly pacing up and down the floor. "are you in it, fellows? hark--what's that? they're out now! they're singing! it's a challenge! oh, there'll be a hot time around here to-night!" chapter xlvii. diamond strikes a blow. forty freshmen, with tall hats and canes, commanded by the giant, hock mason, were singing, "that bully." in the most belligerent manner possible, they shouted the line: "we're lookin' for that bully, and he must be found." behind them were more freshmen without silk hats and canes, but prepared to take a hand in the scrimmage, if the juniors tried a rush. the freshmen had grown bold and saucy. hock mason bullied them, and they were afraid of him, but they knew the juniors were afraid of him, too. they sang and shouted. they marched up and down with mason leading. they began to express their fears that the juniors would not dare try a rush. the juniors saw the freshmen were out in force, and they were not hasty about making an assault. they seemed to lack a leader. they kept gathering, but held aloof. the freshmen grew bolder and bolder. they invaded the campus. the juniors were gathered at their fence. it was plain the freshmen meant to rush them, and attempt to take the fence. the juniors prepared to struggle to the bitter end. on came the freshmen. the others were outnumbered. it looked as if many of them were afraid, and were keeping out of the _mêlée_ that must come. the freshmen marched past the line along the fence. they were insulting. they turned and marched back. then, at a signal from their giant leader, they attempted to sweep the juniors from the fence, and take it by storm. there was a charge, a clash, and the battle was on. but it afterward developed that the juniors were far more crafty than the freshmen thought. they had not concentrated their entire force at the fence, but their main body were keeping out of sight and waiting for the onset to begin, knowing the freshmen were in a mood to try something desperate and unusual. the moment the freshmen made a rush for the fence, the second body of their antagonists came with a wild charge. frank merriwell led them! in a moment such a battle was taking place there at the fence as had not been witnessed since the old days at yale--the good old fighting days. almost immediately the freshmen were on the defensive, doing their best to retain their hats and canes. frank singled out hock mason, believing the best course was to engage his entire attention without delay. he was urging the freshmen on, and no one seemed to stand before him. with all the nerve he could command, putting all his strength and skill into the effort, merriwell went at mason. he came upon the fellow like a tornado. frank did not try slugging tactics, but he caught mason's cane with both hands, and, giving it a twist and a whirl, snapped the big freshman into the air and fairly flung him over his shoulder, tearing away the cane. it is possible that never before in all his life had hock mason been handled in such a summary manner. he struck the ground with a thump, bewildered beyond measure by what had happened, for he had not dreamed any man at yale could handle him that way, even if he were taken by surprise. but mason was not hurt in the least, and he was furious. laughing triumphantly, frank merriwell spun the cane into the air and caught it with the skill of a baton-thrower when it came down. roaring like an enraged lion, hock mason scrambled to his feet. somebody gave merriwell a push from behind, nearly throwing him down, and mason struck him behind the ear. it was one of the giant freshman's sledge-hammer blows, and frank dropped like a log. "cuss ye!" snarled the bully. "i'll fix ye!" the brute in his nature was aroused, and he kicked the fallen lad in the ribs with his toe. "shame! shame!" cried a score of voices. bruce browning, with a roar of rage, tried to reach the brutal fellow, but jack diamond was quicker. jack had torn a heavy cane from a freshman, and now he wielded it, butt foremost, with all the strength he could command. whack! the blow might have been heard anywhere on the campus. it fell just where the furious virginian had intended it should--across the side of mason's head and behind his ear! the fellow who had stood on his feet before the blows of the policemen's clubs now fell as if he had been shot, pitching headlong over frank merriwell. frank sat up, still grasping the cane he had captured from the bully. jack caught his hand and pulled him to his feet. hock mason lay at full length on the ground, gasping for breath. "he's dying!" cried somebody, horrified. the rush was over, freshmen and juniors stopped struggling in a moment, and all gathered around the spot where the giant lay. his heavy rasping breathing was terrifying. "he is dying, diamond!" whispered browning, in jack's ear. "i don't care!" returned the virginian, passionately. "but think--think what that means!" "i don't care!" repeated jack. "he struck frank--kicked him when he was down! you know, browning--you know how merriwell stood by me on our trip when all the rest of you turned against me, because i was out of sorts. you know how he stood by me when i raved at him. another fellow would have told me to go to the old nick. i haven't forgotten those things. i am ready to do anything for him!" "but if it should happen that you have killed this freshman----" "what then?" "it will go hard with you. a little while ago, in merriwell's room, you were saying you would kill him. it will look like a premeditated murder." this hit jack hard, but it did not stagger him. "i can't help it. i did the trick to keep him from killing merriwell. merry was down, and that brute was kicking him. no one would dare try to stop mason with bare hands. i used the best and only means to stop him. if he dies----well, i'll take my chance with a jury of honest men." browning felt that diamond had nerve, for all that he was hot-headed and passionate. "well, we'll hope the fellow isn't hurt much." some one was bending over mason, fanning him, while others were pushing the crowd back. "get back--give him air! do you want to smother him to death?" "smother time, perhaps," chirped danny griswold, who could not hold back the pun, for all of the gravity of the situation. the rush had begun and ended so quickly that the faculty did not seem to be aroused. some of the students were watching for the expected appearance of the professors, however. water was brought, and mason's temples were bathed. he continued to breathe hoarsely for some time, plainly drawing his breath with the utmost difficulty, but the sound gradually lessened, and he finally struggled to sit up. "what's the matter? what's the matter?" he growled, harshly. "let me alone! let me get up!" some one offered to help him. "get out!" he snarled, flinging the fellow off. "what do i want of help? what's the matter with my head? it is whirling." he got up, although it was with the utmost difficulty he could do so, and there he stood in the midst of the crowd, swaying and putting his hands to his head. some could not believe their eyes. they had not thought it possible hock mason could betray weakness. "somebody struck me!" he harshly grated, glaring around. "where is he? i'll wring his neck as if he were a chicken! where is the fellow?" all were silent. "oh, i'll find out who it is," declared the bully, "and when i do, i'll make him weep tears of blood. i'll make him wish he never had been born. i'll----what's the matter with my head? it's going around--around--around----" he would have fallen, but some of the freshmen caught hold of him, and he was led from the campus toward his room. chapter xlviii. facing the bully. the events of that night created a sensation, forming a topic of general conversation. strangely enough, very few seemed to know who had struck mason, and those who did, kept silent, not wishing to be drawn into the affair, being friendly toward diamond. jack was not at all excited or alarmed over it, and he did not show concern when he was told over and over that the giant freshman would be sure to make good his threat, if possible. "let him try it!" said the lad from virginia. "next time i will finish him. i do not propose to fool with a beast like him." from the campus a party of students went direct to frank's room. frank had the cane he had taken from mason. "it will make a fine ornament for my room," he laughed, as he placed it conspicuously over the mantel. "jove!" cried danny griswold. "you should be proud of it. you took it from mason so quick that the fellow was dazed." "that was the flittiest pring i ever saw--i mean the prettiest fling i ever saw," excitedly declared rattleton. "how did you do it, merry?" "oh, that was a simple trick," smiled frank. "it would have bumped the wind out of any other fellow, but it didn't seem to damage mason much," observed charlie creighton. "it was diamond's little rap that damaged him," grunted browning, who had again captured a couch. "that was a corker!" broke forth banny robinson. "a corker!" echoed halliday. "i should guess yes! it dropped him in his tracks, and i saw the cops hammer him over the head with their clubs till they were tired without bringing him to his knees." "i intended to lay him out when i struck him," said jack, his eyes flashing. "i hit him on exactly the right spot." "i'm sorry you did it, old man," said creighton, soberly. "i'm not!" returned diamond, instantly. "he is sure to make it hot for you." "let him try it! he was kicking merry, and merry was down. if i'd had an iron bar, i should have cracked him with it, after seeing him sink his toe into frank's ribs." merriwell took a long step toward jack and grasped his hand. "thank you, diamond," he said, soberly and sincerely. "it is a true friend who stands by a man when he is down." he glanced around at the others a moment after saying this, and the eyes of some of them failed to meet his. they remembered how, a short time before, frank had been somewhat unpopular because of his refusal to play on the football team, and many of them had turned against him. they knew well enough that merriwell had not forgotten it, and he thought of it when he spoke. diamond was one of the few who had stood by him when he was most unpopular. "the time has come," said browning, slowly, "when this bully must be shown that he is not cock of the walk." "who'll show him?" cried several voices. "merriwell didn't hesitate about tackling him to-night--and got the best of him in a fair way. he struck a foul blow, and----" "a terrible blow it was," confessed frank, soberly. "i felt as if i had been kicked in the head by a mule." "oh, he'll kill a weak fellow with a fair blow of his fist!" exclaim halliday. "if we can't do anything else," said browning, "we'll have to organize against him. if we were to do that, we could bring him to time after a while." danny griswold lighted a cigarette, and perched himself on top of the table. "if merry will be our leader we may do something," he said. "i am not in favor of the scheme," declared frank. all regarded him in surprise. "you are not?" they cried. "no." "why not?" "it seems cowardly for several fellows to band together against one." "but it's all the way he can be subdued. what can we do?" "i am not certain it is the only way he can be subdued." "suggest another." "i won't make any suggestions to-night, but i will think it over." "we should organize for the protection of diamond," suggested creighton. "he is bound to find out jack struck him the blow that knocked him out, and then----" "don't worry about me," broke in the virginian. "i am not afraid of hock mason. he might kill me, but he'd never be able to make me squeal." this was not boasting. those who knew jack diamond best realized that he spoke nothing more than the simple truth. brute force might conquer him physically, but his heart could not be conquered in such a manner. creighton was in earnest about forming some sort of a combination, offensive and defensive, against mason, but merriwell would not go into it, and the scheme failed to go into effect. some one suggested that mason might be hurt more severely than they supposed, and robinson went out to find out, if possible, about it. he finally returned, but brought no information. "it would be a good thing if he couldn't get into bed for a day or two," said halliday; "but you'll see him about as well as ever to-morrow." ben was right. mason came forth to chapel in the morning, and, from his appearance, no one could have told that he had been knocked out in such manner the night before. straightway the giant freshman set about trying to discover just who it was that struck him, but those he questioned did not know, or lied by saying they did not know. mason grew more and more furious as time progressed and he failed to learn what he desired. he swore that he would find out before night, and the fellow should suffer. at noon a crowd gathered at the fence and talked the matter over. charlie creighton was there, and again he was in favor of organizing against the freshmen. while they were talking, mason was seen approaching. "here he comes!" was the general exclamation. "and he's out for blood!" declared creighton. "his manner shows that. there is going to be trouble." before reaching the fence, mason encountered danny griswold. instantly he collared the little fellow. "griswold," he said, "i know that you know who struck me last night. if you don't tell, i'm going to give you the worst drubbing you ever received." danny shrank away, saying: "i didn't see the fellow hit you." "but you know who did it. you can't deny that. who was it?" "i can't tell." mason raised his heavy fist. "tell, or i'll break your pretty little nose!" he grated. there was a step near at hand, and a calm voice said: "drop it, mason! you should be ashamed to bully a man smaller than yourself. don't dare to strike him!" hock looked around in astonishment. frank merriwell was close at hand, coolly standing there, with his hands thrust into his pockets. "hey?" cried mason, in surprise. "you heard what i said, freshman," spoke frank, as coolly as ever. there was a stir at the fence, for the students there saw all and heard all. "jingoes! merriwell has a nerve!" gasped one. "mason will thump him, sure!" said another. "if he does----" "hark!" "yes, i heard what you said," flung back the bully; "but what you say chops no frost. if i want to thump this chap i'll thump him, and twenty fellows like you can't stop me." "you overestimate your ability, freshman," said frank, and his coolness was most exasperating. "if you thump that chap, one fellow will thump you." "jee whiz!" palpitated one of the students at the fence, "now he's in for it!" "there'll be gore spilled!" muttered creighton. "i'm sorry for merriwell!" said another. "eh?" gurgled hock mason, more astonished than ever. "is that a fact?" "that is." "well, i'm going to thump him!" again he lifted his fist, and danny griswold cowered before it. "stop, mason!" cried frank, his voice hard and cold. "strike him, and i'll give you a mark to remember me by!" "ho, ho!" sneered mason, and he smashed griswold in the face. the moment the bully struck the little fellow, he released his collar and whirled toward frank. merriwell kept his word. crack--frank's fist struck fairly on hock mason's left eye, and the big bully was knocked down in a second. the witnesses gasped with astonishment. with a roar of rage, mason leaped to his feet and came at merriwell, somewhat blinded and dazed, but raging like a mad bull. with the utmost ease frank avoided the big fellow, and then he struck mason again. the second blow did not knock the giant down, but it stopped him a moment, and the blood began to run down his face. frank's fist had cut a long gash over the bully's right eye, and the blood quickly began to blind hock, for already his left eye was swelling swiftly, showing it might be entirely closed in a few moments. mason wiped away the blood with his coat sleeve, and went at frank with another rush. merriwell dodged, thrust out his foot, and tripped the freshman, sending him to the ground with a thud. over by the fence a little party witnessed all this with astonishment unspeakable. was this mason, the freshman bully, who was being handled in such a manner by merriwell? was this the man who had knocked out four new haven cops? mason had struck at frank savagely enough to lay him out, but merriwell easily dodged the blow. now the bully got upon his feet the second time. blood was streaming down his face, and he was fast going blind. he looked around for merriwell, but saw him dimly and indistinctly. "oh, hang you!" he cried. "you took me by surprise, and i can't see you now. if i could get hold of you----" "but you can't do it, you know," said frank, cheerfully, as he skipped out of the reach of his enemy's long arms. mason whirled around dizzily. he began to realize that it would be foolish to attempt to get the best of merriwell then. "oh, i'll fix you for this--i will!" he grated. "you think you will, but you won't," was the calm reply. "i shall be on the watch for you, and this is but a taste of what you'll get the next time you go up against me. your days as a bully around here are over. i told you i would mark you, and i have. whenever you look in a mirror for some time to come you will see something to remember me by." "whenever i look in a mirror for some time to come i shall remember you, and i'll repeat my vow to make you regret the day you ever saw me. next time we meet to fight, i'll hammer you within an inch of your life!" then, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his bleeding eye, he turned and hastened away. chapter xlix. to the rescue. danny griswold danced and crowed with delight. "oh, scissors!" cried the little fellow. "i don't mind the crack he gave me a bit. it was worth it to see him get done up like that. and it was done so quick!" the fellows at the fence rushed forward and gathered around merriwell. "never touched you at all, did he?" asked creighton. "didn't come within a hundred miles of me," smiled frank. then they got him by the hand, shook it, congratulated him, complimented him, expressed their wonder, and some of them almost seemed to doubt if they had actually seen hock mason done up in less than two minutes. "quickest job on record," declared silas blossom. "biff--biff--it was over. didn't suppose he could be licked like that." "he wasn't licked," said frank. "it is a mistake to think that. i took particular pains to give him the first soaker in the left eye, and that eye was closing up on him so he couldn't see out of it very well. then i let him have the next one on the right eye, and skinned my knuckles, see? those knuckles cut him over the eye, and he bled as if he had been stabbed. the blood got into his eye, and he was more than half blind. that was what stopped him, and i hoped all the time that i might do it, for i will confess that i have no desire to receive one of his prize-fighter thumps. i was lucky to do the trick just as i planned it." "and you had a nerve to stand up to him at all," said deacon dunning. "especially here on the campus at this time of day, when it would mean something serious if the faculty knew of the fight." "that was another thing i was thinking about," said frank. "i wanted to end the scrap as soon as possible, so we'd not be seen at it by anybody who'd make trouble for us. hope it won't kick up a muss and get us hauled over the irons." they were astounded by merriwell's coolness. he did not seem in the least ruffled by his encounter with the "bad man" of the freshman class, and was not particularly elated by his easy victory. he seemed to take it as a matter of course--a thing he had known would end just as it did. it was not long before every freshman and junior knew what had happened, but all alike were slow to believe it possible. frank merriwell, single-handed, had got the best of hock mason--no, no, that could not be true! the most of them wished to believe it, but could not at first. mason was not popular among the freshmen, although he was their leader. he had bullied them too much, and he had many secret enemies, who pretended to his face that they were his friends. the eyewitnesses of the encounter were forced to tell the story over and over till they were tired. every one seemed to desire to know to the minutest particular just how merriwell had gone to work to do the trick. some said it was pure accident, while others declared hock mason could not be knocked out by an accident. the latter were inclined to give frank credit for all he had done, but the most of them prophesied that mason would kill merriwell as soon as his eyes were in condition to allow him to see properly. diamond had not seen the encounter, a fact which he bemoaned very much. "oh, christopher!" he cried. "it was just my luck not to be around, and i'd given ten dollars to see it." frank told him how danny had refused to divulge the knowledge mason had desired. "that shows little gris has sand," said jack. "but i'm sorry he didn't speak right up and tell mason who it was. i don't want anybody to get thumped for keeping my secrets." "it's all right. i don't think mason slugged him hard. anyway, he only made a sore place on danny's cheek bone." "i am going to take pains to let mason know who it was thumped him with the cane. you're not going to fight him alone, merry." but that did not please frank at all. "you're going to do nothing of the sort, diamond," he promptly declared. "the fight is on between mason and merriwell now, and you will keep out of it. i haven't made any talk about it, but it's my object to subdue this fellow, if possible, so there will be no further trouble with him." "you may need help." "i think not. it will be better for one man to do the job, as that will humiliate him, while he is such a bull-headed chump that he would never submit till he was killed if there was a party against him." diamond seemed to feel sorry that he could not get into it somehow. he even accused frank of crowding him out. he had formed such a strong hatred for mason that he felt as if it would be the greatest satisfaction of his life to do something to humble and crush the fellow. but frank knew jack well enough to be sure it would not do for the hot-blooded virginian to be deeply mixed in the affair, as he would not hesitate at anything in order to get the best of the freshman he hated. diamond's soul rose up in scorn and contempt for a brutal fellow like mason. he actually felt that it would be a desirable thing to call mason out and shoot him in a duel. merriwell's popularity rose to the flood when it was known that he had not hesitated to face the freshman bully in defense of danny griswold, and had got the best of the encounter. every one congratulated frank, and shook hands with him till he was tired of it all, and felt like keeping out of sight in his room. but he knew it would not do to keep close in his room, for then it would be said that, although he had faced mason once, he was afraid of the vengeance of the infuriated bully. frank went out more than had been his habit for some time. he had been devoting himself with unusual closeness to his studies, his main object being to stand so well in the spring that there would be no drawback about going onto the baseball team. mason kept close in his room, had a doctor, and made the excuse that he had inflammation of the eyes so he could not appear at recitations and found it impossible to study. to those who knew all about it, the bully's excuse provided great amusement. three evenings after the encounter a jolly party gathered in traeger's. ale was freely consumed, stories told and jokes sprung. frank merriwell was one of the party, and, as usual, he drank nothing but "soft stuff." under no circumstances could he be induced to take a drink of liquor. frank's temperance principles were so well known that it was seldom any one urged him to drink anything. occasionally they would jolly him, and he was often spoken of as the "worthy chief of the good templars." he did not mind this, however, and he often said that, as he never drank anything but raw alcohol of the rankest kind, and he couldn't get that at the places he patronized, he refused to take anything at all. but he could be as jolly as any of the rest, and his stories and songs always "took." he was the life of any party, and, naturally, his society was much sought. while the party was making merry in traeger's, dismal jones wandered in. he paused and regarded them sadly, then said: "feasting, song and merriment within; cold, bitterness and misery without." "without what?" chirped danny griswold. "without yonder portal," solemnly returned jones. "as i approached this gilded snare of satan, i chanced to behold one who hath lately removed from one eye a beef-steak poultice, and whose other eye is in the neighborhood of several strips of plaster." "mason?" cried several. "verily thou hast named him," bowed dismal. "he stood there shivering in the bitter cold, while about him gathered his wretched followers. it was a sad and heart-rending sight. i was touched--no, i mean i was afraid i would be touched, and i hastened hither to seek something that would drive from me memory that sad spectacle. hot toddy, please." "mason?" exclaimed diamond. "i wonder why the fellow is hanging around here?" "looking for merry, perhaps," laughed paul pierson. "he wants to look out, or he will get merry thunder," laughed lewis little. "he got that the last time," said andy emery. "boys," said danny griswold, with sudden seriousness, "i believe there is something in the air." "what?" asked several. "dust," chuckled danny. "there's a high wind to-night." "hit him quick!" cried halliday. "hit him hard!" "a-haw! a-haw! a-haw!" laughed joe gamp, a big, hulking fellow from new hampshire. "darned if that little runt ain't alwus doin' that. a-haw! a-haw! a-haw!" gamp had a laugh that was infectious. he seldom burst into a hearty roar that every one in hearing did not roar also. on this occasion dismal jones was the only man who did not join in the laughter. dismal sipped his hot toddy, and looked sad and reproachful. mason was forgotten. jokes and stories followed. merriwell sang a song. the party showed no signs of breaking up, and frank decided that he must get some sleep, so he reluctantly bade them good-night. "i'm going along," said rattleton, rising. "don't want us all to go to protect you from mason and his gang, do you?" asked puss parker. "i think not," smiled frank. "i am not afraid of mason himself, and i hardly think he'll call on any of his friends to help him lick me. good-night, fellows." "good-night!" "good-night, merry!" "so long, old man!" "good luck, frank!" any one hearing them bid him good-night would have known he was a very popular fellow. every man there joined in the general chorus, and frank went out laughing, his heart warm within his bosom. "a jolly lot of fellows, rattles," he said, "and white men, every one of them." "oh, they are jolly enough," admitted harry; "but i hope you have not forgotten that almost every one of them turned his back on you when they fancied you were afraid of rob marline and did not dare play on the football team." "it is best to forget such things as that," returned frank. "it seemed to all of them that i showed the white feather, and, not knowing me as well as they might, they were disgusted. it also seemed that i was willing to let yale go on the field with a weak team when it might be strengthened if i would play. yale men are loyal to old eli. they will forgive a personal affront quicker than anything that looks like cowardice or treachery toward yale." "oh, well, if that's the way you look at it, i have nothing to say." chapter l. against odds. five minutes after merriwell and rattleton left traeger's the latter came rushing back, hatless, excited and out of breath. he burst in upon the merry party, gasping: "quick? quick! they've got him!" "hey?" cried several, astounded. "got who?" "merry!" "who's got him?" "gang with--masks--over--faces!" palpitated rattleton. "what's this?" shouted paul pierson. "the deuce you say!" "it's right," declared harry. "mason's gang--know it was--mason's gang!" every man was on his feet. "to the rescue!" shouted jack diamond. out of traeger's they poured. rattleton led them. he took them to the dark street where the gang had suddenly jumped out and pounced upon merriwell and himself. "it was right here," he said. "yes--here's my hat. i got a soaker in the jaw--knocked me stiff for a moment. they piled onto merry. had a cab waiting--bundled him into it. before i could give him a hand, they were carrying him off in the cab." "how many of them?" asked pierson. "i don't know--six or seven." "well, they have got away with him. they're gone. there is no cab in sight. what are we going to do?" "try to follow some way!" cried diamond. "we must find them! we must stand by merriwell! oh, curse it! we might have known something was up when jones told us he saw mason outside." "sure!" agreed the others. "i said there was something in the air," put in griswold, but no one paid the slightest attention to him. "we should have gone along with merry," grated the excited virginian. "then, if the gang had tried to jump him--oh, we'd given them a hot time!" "what do you suppose they'll do with him?" asked somebody. "do?" palpitated rattleton. "the infernal skunks will do something dirty! mason is playing to get square. he has sworn to hammer the life out of merry, and he'll try to keep his word." "it's a dirty trick!" fluttered diamond. "if merry is harmed, we should stand together and tar and feather mason." "we will!" every man there uttered the shout, and they were in earnest. for some moments they lingered near the spot, and then they started along the street in the direction rattleton said the cab had taken. they found a policeman after a time, and he had seen a closed cab go past in a hurry. he told them the direction it had taken. they tried to trace the kidnaped junior, but the attempt was a failure. at last they gave it up. vowing vengeance on all freshmen in general and hock mason in particular, they went back to traeger's. the story spread. it was not long before every junior abroad that evening knew what had happened. fierce were the threats made against the freshmen. the hour grew late, and some of the fellows decided to go to merriwell's room and wait for him. they anticipated that he would be released after mason had obtained his revenge. to their astonishment, merriwell's door was not locked. they opened it and walked in. merriwell was there! "come in, fellows!" called frank, cheerfully. he was examining some of his clothes. they were the clothes he had worn that evening, and a glance showed they were torn and ruined. "just looking over this suit, to see how much it was damaged," merriwell laughed. "it strikes me it is knocked out. won't ever be able to wear it again." then he saw them standing and staring at him in astonishment, and he asked: "what's the matter?" "rattleton must have been stringing us!" exclaimed puss parker. "lot on your nife--i mean not on your life!" spluttered harry. "i gave it to you straight." "but merriwell is here--all right." "how long have you been here, merry?" asked browning. "came in about ten minutes ago," answered frank. "just had time to change my clothes before you chaps drifted in." "then they did carry you off?" "rather." "but you're all right?" "never was better." "mason didn't get revenge on you?" "not this evening." "tell us about it!" cried browning and halliday, together. "yes, tell us," urged parker. "you've been in some kind of a scrimmage. that's evident by the appearance of the clothes you have taken off. tell us what happened." "i suppose rattles has told you how they jumped us?" "yes." "well, they had me before i could do a thing. i rather think mason got his hands on me. anyhow, it was some big fellow with the strength of samson. before i could strike for myself i was bundled into a cab, and two or three of them were in there with me. they told me to keep still. my hands were twisted behind my back and tied. then they carried me off." "didn't i give it to you straight?" cried harry. "where did they carry you?" asked halliday, eagerly. "somewhere out of town. they didn't talk much--didn't want me to recognize their voices, i suppose. i kept still, as they told me, but i was trying to work my hands free all the time. i found i could do it, but i waited till they stopped and bundled me out of the cab. then----" "then?" cried the listening boys, eagerly. "then i slipped my hands out of the ropes and sailed into them." "wish i'd been there," grunted browning, with unusual animation. "go on, frank--go on!" cried the others. "it was a right tight little scrap," laughed merriwell; "but they were taken by surprise, and that gave me a show. one or two of them got hold of me. they tore my clothes. once they got me down, but i managed to get away and got onto my feet. i told them i was going to mark the whole crowd so i would know them in the morning, and i think i did it for the most of them. it was dark, or i should have known them, for i ripped the masks off nearly all of the gang. every time i could, i slugged a fellow in the eye, and some of them will have their peepers decorated to-morrow." rattleton fell to laughing. "oh, gee!" he cried. "they were monkeying with a cyclone! they'll remember you, merry!" "i intended that they should. at last, seeing i could not lick the gang, and they were bound to get the best of me in the end, if i persisted in trying to do so, i took to my heels and ran for it. one fellow gave me a red-hot chase. he was a sprinter, fellows. i found i had drawn him on ahead of the others, and i slacked till he was close at my heels. he thought he was overtaking me. all at once i stopped short and turned on him. he couldn't stop or dodge, and he ran against my fist. well, i am dead sure he'll bear my mark to-morrow." merriwell was congratulated. alone and single-handed he had bested his enemies, a feat that was sure to add to his record. the end. the famous frank merriwell stories by burt l. standish "_best of all boys' books_" no modern series of tales for boys and youths has met with anything like the cordial reception and popularity accorded to the frank merriwell stories. there must be a reason for this and there is. frank merriwell, as portrayed by the author, is a jolly, whole-souled, honest, courageous american lad, who appeals to the hearts of the boys. he has no bad habits, and his manliness inculcates the idea that it is not necessary for a boy to indulge in petty vices to be a hero. frank merriwell's example is a shining light for every ambitious lad to follow. _twenty-four volumes ready_ frank merriwell's school days frank merriwell's skill frank merriwell's chums frank merriwell's champions frank merriwell's foes frank merriwell's return to yale frank merriwell's trip west frank merriwell's secret frank merriwell down south frank merriwell's loyalty frank merriwell's bravery frank merriwell's reward frank merriwell's races frank merriwell's faith frank merriwell's hunting tour frank merriwell's victories frank merriwell's sports afield frank merriwell's power frank merriwell at yale frank merriwell's set-back frank merriwell's courage frank merriwell's false friend frank merriwell's daring frank merriwell's brother _the motor power series_ donald grayson's famous motor stories for boys mr. grayson is an accomplished writer of up-to-the-minute juvenile stories which are eagerly read by modern american lads. in his new series, his characters have exciting adventures with every kind of motor-driven machines--motor cycles, automobiles, aeroplanes and submarines. you may readily see what a vast field for adventures mr. grayson has chosen. _now ready_ bob steele's motor cycle bob steele on high gear bob steele from auto to airship bob steele afloat in the clouds bob steele's submarine cruise bob steele in strange waters bob steele's motor boat bob steele's winning race bob steele's new aÃ�roplane bob steele's last flight [illustration: "good-bye, joe!"] baseball joe at yale or pitching _for the_ college championship _by_ lester chadwick author of "baseball joe of the silver stars," "baseball joe on the school nine," "the rival pitchers," "batting to win," "the winning touchdown," etc. _illustrated_ [illustration] new york cupples & leon company =books by lester chadwick= =the baseball joe series= = mo. cloth. illustrated= baseball joe of the silver stars or the rivals of riverside baseball joe on the school nine or pitching for the blue banner baseball joe at yale or pitching for the college championship (_other volumes in preparation_) =the college sports series= = mo. cloth. illustrated= the rival pitchers a story of college baseball a quarter-back's pluck a story of college football batting to win a story of college baseball the winning touchdown a story of college football the eight-oared victors a story of college water sports (_other volumes in preparation_) =cupples & leon company, new york= copyright, , by cupples & leon company =baseball joe at yale= printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i just in time ii a home conference iii one last game iv a sneering laugh v off for yale vi on the campus vii a new chum viii ambitions ix the shampoo x a wild night xi the red paint xii joe's silence xiii early practice xiv the surprise xv his first chance xvi joe makes good xvii another step xviii plotting xix the anonymous letter xx the cornell host xxi eager hearts xxii the crimson spot xxiii joe's triumph xxiv hard luck xxv at west point xxvi a sore arm xxvii the accusation xxviii vindication xxix bucking the tiger xxx the championship baseball joe at yale chapter i just in time "joe matson, i can't understand why you don't fairly jump at the chance!" "because i don't want to go--that's why." "but, man alive! half the fellows in riverside would stand on their heads to be in your shoes." "perhaps, tom. but, i tell you i don't think i'm cut out for a college man, and i don't want to go," and joe matson looked frankly into the face of his chum, tom davis, as they strolled down the village street together that early september day. "don't want to go to yale!" murmured tom, shaking his head as if unable to fathom the mystery. "why i'd work my way through, if they'd let me, and here you've got everything comparatively easy, and yet you're balking like a horse that hasn't had his oats in a month. whew! what's up, joe, old man?" "simply that i don't believe i'm cut out for that sort of life. i don't care for this college business, and there's no use pretending that i do. i'm not built that way. my mind is on something else. of course i know a college education is a great thing, and something that lots of fellows need. but for yours truly--not!" "i only wish i had your chance," said tom, enviously. "you're welcome to it," laughed joe. "no," and the other spoke half sadly. "dad doesn't believe in a college career any more than you do. when i'm through at excelsior hall he's going to take me into business with him. he talks of sending me abroad, to get a line on the foreign end of it." "cracky!" exclaimed joe. "that would suit me down to the ground--that is if i could go with a ball team." "so you haven't gotten over your craze for baseball?" queried tom. "no, and i never shall. you know what i've always said--that i'd become a professional some day; and i will, too, and i'll pitch in the world series if i can last long enough," and joe laughed. "but look here!" exclaimed his chum, as they swung down a quiet street that led out into the country; "you can play baseball at yale, you know." "maybe--if they'll let me. but you know how it is at those big universities. they are very exclusive--societies--elections--eating clubs--and all that sort of rot. a man has to be in with the bunch before he can get a show." "that's all nonsense, and you know it!" snapped tom. "at yale, i warrant you, just as at every big college, a man has to stand on his own feet. why, they're always on the lookout for good fellows on the nine, crew or eleven, and, if you can make good, you'll be pitching on the 'varsity before the spring term opens." "maybe," assented joe with rather a moody face. "anyhow, as long as i've got to go to college i'm going to make a try for the nine. i think i can pitch a little----" "a little!" cried tom. "say, i'd like to know what sort of a showing we'd have made at excelsior hall if it hadn't been for your pitching! didn't you win the blue banner for us when it looked as if we hadn't a show? pitch! say if those fellows at yale----" "spare my blushes," begged joe, with a laugh. "don't worry, i'm going to college for one reason, more than another, because mother wants me to. dad is rather set on it, too, and so i've said i'll go. between you and me," whispered joe, as if he feared someone would overhear him, "i have a faint suspicion that my respected mother wants to make a sky pilot of me." "a minister!" cried tom. "that's it." "why--why----" "oh, don't worry!" laughed joe, and then his face grew a bit sober as he continued: "i'm not half good enough--or smart enough. i'm not cut out for that sort of life. all i want is baseball and all i can get of it. that's my one ambition." "yes, it's easy to see that," agreed tom. "i wonder you don't carry a horsehide about with you, and i do believe--what's this?" he demanded, pulling a bundle of papers from his chum's pocket. "some dope on the world series, or i'm a june bug!" "well, i was only sort of comparing batting averages, and making a list of the peculiarities of each player--i mean about the kind of balls it is best to serve up to him." "you're the limit!" exclaimed tom, as he tried unsuccessfully to stop joe from grabbing the papers away from him. "do you think you might pitch to some of these fellows?" "i might," replied joe calmly. "a professional ball player lasts for some time, and when i come up for my degree on the mound at some future world series i may face some of these same men." "go to it, old man!" exclaimed tom enthusiastically. "i wish i had your hopes. well, i suppose i'll soon be grinding away with the old crowd at excelsior, and you--you'll be at--yale!" "probably," admitted joe, with something of a sigh. "i almost wish i was going back to the old school. we had good times there!" "we sure did. but i've got to leave you now. i promised sis i'd go to the store for her. see you later," and tom clasped his chum's hand. "that reminds me," spoke joe. "i've got to go back home, hitch up the horse, and take some patterns over to birchville for dad." "wish i could go along, but i can't," said tom. "it's a fine day for a drive. come on over to-night." "maybe i will--so long," and the two friends parted to go their ways, one to dream over the good fortune of the other--to envy him--while joe himself--baseball joe as his friends called him--thought rather regretfully of the time he must lose at college when, if he had been allowed his own way, he would have sought admission to some minor baseball league, to work himself up to a major position. "but as long as the folks want me to have a college course i'll take it--and do my best," he mused. a little later, behind the old family horse, he was jogging over the country road in the direction of a distant town, where his father, an inventor, and one of the owners of the royal harvester works, had been in the habit of sending his patterns from which to have models made. "well, in a few weeks i'll be hiking it for new haven," said joe, half talking to himself. "it's going to be awful lonesome at first. i won't know a soul there. it isn't like going up from some prep school, with a lot of your own chums. well, i've got to grin and bear it, and if i do get a chance for the 'varsity nine--oh, won't i jump at it!" he was lost in pleasant reflections for a moment, and then went on, still talking to himself, and calling to the horse now and then, for the steed, realizing that he had an easy master behind him, was inclined to slow down to a walk every now and then. "there are bound to be lessons, of course," said joe. "and lectures on things i don't care any more about than the man in the moon does. i suppose, though, i've got to swallow 'em. but if i can get on the diamond once in a while it won't be so bad. the worst of it is, though, that ball playing won't begin until april at the earliest, and there's all winter to live through. i'm not going in for football. well, i guess i can stand it." once more joe was off in a day-dream, in fancy seeing himself standing in the box before yelling thousands, winding up to deliver a swiftly-curving ball to the batter on whom "three and two" had been called, with the bases full, two men out and his team but one run ahead in the final inning. "oh! that's what life is!" exclaimed joe, half aloud, and at his words the horse started to trot. "that's what makes me willing to stand four years at yale--if i have to. and yet----" joe did not complete his sentence. as he swung around a bend in the road his attention was fully taken by a surprising scene just ahead of him. a horse, attached to a carriage, was being driven down the road, and, just as joe came in sight, the animal, for some unaccountable reason, suddenly swerved to the left. one of the wheels caught in a rut, there was a snapping, cracking sound, the wheel was "dished," and the carriage settled down on one side. "whoa! whoa!" yelled joe, fearing the horse would bolt and that perhaps a woman might be in the carriage, the top of which was up. the lad was about to spring from his own vehicle and rush to the aid of the occupant of the other, when he saw a man leap out. with one bound the man was at the head of his steed, holding him from running away, but there was no need, for the horse, after a calm look around, seemed to resign himself to his fate. "jove!" ejaculated joe. "that was quick work. that fellow is in training, whoever he is." following his original plan, even though he saw no need of going to the rescue, joe leaped from his seat. his steed, he knew, would stand without hitching. he approached the stranger. "a bad break," murmured joe sympathetically. "indeed it is, young man," replied the other in quick, tense accents. "and it comes at a particularly bad time, too." joe looked at him. the man seemed about thirty-five, and his face, though stern, was pleasant, as though in the company of his friends he could be very jolly. he was of dark complexion, and there was that in the set of his figure, and his poise, as he stood at the head of the horse, that at once proclaimed him an athlete, at least if not one in active training, one who could get into condition quickly. "a bad break, and at a bad time, too," the man went on. "i never knew it to fail, when i was in a hurry." "i guess that wheel is past fixing," spoke joe. "you might get one at the barn here," and he nodded toward a farmhouse not far distant. "i haven't time to make the try," said the man. "i'm in a great hurry. how far is it from here to preston?" "about five miles," replied joe. "hum! i never could make that in time to catch the train for new york, though i might have run it at one time. a little too heavy now," and he seemed referring to himself. "i might ride the horse, i suppose," he went on dubiously. "he doesn't look much like a saddle animal," ventured joe. "no, and there isn't a saddle, either. i must get to new york though--it's important. i don't suppose you are going to preston; are you?" he asked of joe quickly, referring to the nearest railroad station. "well, i wasn't," replied the youth, "but if you're in a hurry----" "i am--in a very great hurry. i just had about time to get the new york train, when, most unfortunately, i got into that rut. at the same time the reins got caught, and i must have pulled on the wrong one. i'm not much of a horseman, i'm afraid. the animal turned too quickly, and the wheel collapsed." "it wasn't very strong, anyhow," remarked joe, as he looked critically at it. "but if you want to get to preston i can take you." "can you--will you? it would be a very great accommodation. i really can't afford to miss that train. i came out here on some business, and hired this rig in preston. i thought i would have ample time to get back, and i believe i would. but now, with this accident--i wonder if i could leave this outfit at the farmhouse, and hire another there?" he asked musingly. "i don't believe mr. murchison has a horse now," said joe, nodding toward the farmhouse. "he has about given up working his place. but you could leave this rig here to be called for, and----" "yes--yes!" interrupted the man, quite impatiently. "i beg your pardon," he added quickly. "i'm all upset over this accident, and i really must reach new york to-night." "i'll drive you in!" offered joe. "but it will be out of your way, will it not?" "that doesn't matter. i'm in no hurry, and going to preston will not take me many miles off my road. i'll be glad to help you." "thank you. then i'll take advantage of your offer. shall i----?" he made a move as though to lead the horse up to the farmhouse. "i'll attend to that," spoke joe. "just get in my carriage, and i'll be with you in a few minutes." the stranger obeyed, and joe, unhitching the horse from the broken carriage, quickly led the steed to the stable, stopping on his way to explain to mrs. murchison, whom he knew slightly, the circumstances. she readily agreed to let the animal stay in their stall. then joe pulled the tilted carriage to one side of the road, and a few minutes later was sending his steed ahead at a pace not hitherto attained that day. "think we can make that train?" asked the man, who seemed immersed in his own thoughts. "i'm going to make a big try," answered joe. "do you live around here?" came the next question. "at riverside--about eight miles away." the man lapsed into silence, and as joe was rather diffident with strangers he did not press the conversation. they drove on for several miles, and suddenly the silence of the country was broken by a distant whistle. "is that the train?" exclaimed the man nervously, looking at his watch. "yes, but it's about three miles away. you can always hear it plainly here. we'll be in preston in a few minutes now, and i'll have you at the station in time." "i hope so," murmured the man. "i must get to new york--it means a great deal to me." joe urged the horse to even faster speed, and when he reached the quiet streets of preston more than one person turned to look at the carriage, which went along faster than vehicles usually did in that quiet community. once more the whistle sounded, and the man exclaimed: "we'll never make it!" "yes, we will," said joe quietly. "the station is only another block." "i'm sure i can't thank you enough," went on the man, and his hand sought his pocket. "you say you'll notify the livery keeper?" "yes, i'll tell him where his horse is, and he can send for it." "that's very kind of you. i wish you'd let me give you something--reward you for this service." "no--no!" exclaimed joe. "i couldn't think of it!" he saw a roll of bills in the man's hand. "but you don't know, young man, what it means for me to catch this train. i wish you'd let me pay for your time and trouble----" "no, indeed!" exclaimed the young pitcher. "i would do as much for anyone, and i hope he'd do the same for me." "that's a nice way of looking at it. but are you sure you won't let me make you----" the man again held out some bills, but the look on joe's face must have told him he was getting on dangerous ground, for he suddenly withdrew them and said: "well, i can't thank you enough. some day--is that the train?" he cried, as a puffing was heard. "i mustn't miss it now." "here we are!" cried joe, swinging around a corner. down a short street was the depot, and as they came in sight of it the train pulled in. "i--er--i wish--i must run for it!" exclaimed the man. "wait. i'll drive you right up!" called joe. "i'll take your valise. you get right out and run. have you a ticket?" "yes. this is exceedingly good of you. i----" but he did not finish. joe drove the horse up to the platform edge as the train came to a stop with a grinding of the brake shoes. the man leaped out almost before the horse had ceased running, and joe was not a second behind him with the valise. "go on!" exclaimed the youth, as the man hesitated. he fairly flung himself up the car steps, and the train began to move, for preston was little more than a flag station for the new york express. "thank you a thousand times!" cried the man as joe handed up the valise. "i wish--i didn't ask your name--mine is--i ought to have a card--i--er----" he began fumbling in his pocket, and joe half feared he was going to offer money again. but the man seemed to be hunting for a card. however his search was unsuccessful. he waved his hand to joe, and called: "thank you once more. perhaps i may meet you again. i meant to ask your name--too much occupied--mine is----" but just then the train gathered speed and the engineer, opening the exhaust, effectually drowned out all other sounds in the puffing of the locomotive. joe saw the man's lips moving, and realized that he was calling out his name, but he could not hear it. then, with a wave of his hand the stranger went inside the car. he had caught the train just in time. chapter ii a home conference "well, i wonder if i'll ever see him again," mused joe, as the train swung out of sight around a curve in the track. "it sure was a hustling time. i wonder who he was? seemed like some sort of an athlete, and yet he didn't talk sports--nor much of anything, for that matter. "i'm glad i could help him get his train. funny he should want to pay me, and yet i suppose he isn't used to having favors done him. he seemed like a nice sort of fellow. well, i've got to get over with these patterns. i'll be late getting home, i expect." joe's first visit was to the livery stable, where he told the proprietor of the accident. "hum! well, i s'pose he was driving reckless like," said mr. munn, who hired out old horses and older vehicles to such few of the townspeople as did not have their own rigs. "no, he was going slowly," said joe. "i guess that wheel was pretty well rotted." "mebby so. i'm glad i charged him a good price, and made him pay in advance. yes, i'll send out and get the rig. much obliged to you, joe. did he pay ye for bringin' him back?" "no, i didn't want anything," and with this parting shot the young pitcher went on his way. and, while he is jogging along to birchville, musing over the recent happenings, i will, in a paragraph or two, tell you something more about our hero, since he is to occupy that place in these pages. those of you who have read the previous books in this series, need no introduction to the youth. but to those who pick up this volume to begin their acquaintance, i might state that in the initial book, called "baseball joe of the silver stars," i related how he first began his upward climb as a pitcher. joe matson lived with his father and mother, mr. and mrs. john matson, in the town of riverside, in one of our new england states. mr. matson was an inventor of farming machinery, and after a hard struggle was now doing well financially. joe's ambition, ever since he began to play baseball, had been to become a pitcher, and how he made the acquaintance of tom davis, the boy living back of him; how they became chums, and how joe became a member of the silver stars nine is told in my first book. the nine was a typical one, such as is found in many country towns, though they played good ball. after an upward struggle joe was made pitcher, and helped to win some big games. he made many friends, and some enemies, as all boys will. in the second volume, called "baseball joe on the school nine," i told how our hero and his chum, tom davis, went to excelsior hall, a boarding institution just outside of cedarhurst, about a hundred miles from riverside. at school joe found that it was more difficult to get a chance at his favorite position than he had imagined it would be. there, too, he had his enemies; but joe was a plucky fighter, and would not give up. how finally he was called on to pitch in a great game, and how he, more than anyone else, helped to win the blue banner, you will find set down in my second book. three years passed, all too quickly, at excelsior hall, with joe doing the twirling for the school nine at all the big games. and now, with the coming of fall, and the beginning of the new term, he was not to go back, for, as i have intimated, he was to be sent to yale university. the course at excelsior hall was four years, but it was found that at the end of the third joe was able to take the yale entrance examinations, which he had done successfully. he did not enter with flying colors, for joe was no great scholar, but he was by no means at the foot of the ladder. so he was to plunge at once into the turmoil of university life--his one regret being, as i have said, that he could not join the ranks of the professional baseball players. but he was willing to bide his time. another regret, too, was that he would be very much of a stranger at yale. he did not know a soul there, and he wished with all his heart that tom davis could have gone with him, as he had to excelsior hall. but tom's parents had other views of life for him. "it doesn't seem like three years ago that i first started for excelsior," mused joe, as he drove along. "i sure was nervous then, and i'm in a worse funk now. well, there's no help for it. i've got to stick it out. no use disappointing dad and momsey. i only hope i make out half way decently." his errand accomplished, he drove back home, arriving rather late, and, to his mother's anxious inquiries as to what kept him, he related the happening of the broken carriage. "and you don't know who he was?" asked clara, joe's sister, curiously. "no, sis. say, but you're looking pretty to-night! got your hair fixed differently, somehow. somebody coming?" and playfully he pinched her red cheeks. "yes, mabel davis is coming to call," replied clara, pretending to be very busy arranging some articles on the mantle. "oh, ho! so that's how the wind blows!" exclaimed joe, with a laugh. "but i'll wager someone besides mabel is coming over. tom davis told me to come and see him, mabel is going out, you're all togged up--say, sis, who's the lucky chap?" "oh, don't bother me!" exclaimed the blushing girl. "that's all right. tom and i will come around later and put a tic-tac on the window, when you and mabel, and the two chaps, are in the parlor." "i thought you had gotten all over such childish tricks--and you a yale freshman!" exclaimed clara, half sarcastically. "well, i suppose i will have to pass 'em up--worse luck!" exclaimed her brother, with something like a groan. "have your fun, sis. it'll soon be over." "oh, my! what a mournful face!" laughed the girl. "there, run along now, little boy, and don't bother me." joe looked at her for a moment, and the conviction grew on him that his sister was prettier than ever, with that blush on her face. "little sister is growing up," thought joe, as he turned away. "she'll be a young lady soon--she's growing up. well, i guess we all are," and our hero sighed as though he could scarcely bear the weight of responsibility on his own shoulders. this was after supper, and as joe left the room, and clara hastened to her apartment, there to indulge in further "prinking," as joe called it, mr. and mrs. matson looked at each other. "what's getting into joe, i wonder?" spoke his father. "he's acting rather strange of late." "oh, i expect the responsibility of college life is making itself felt," said mrs. matson. "but i'm proud that i have a son who is going to yale. it is good you can afford it, john." "yes, ellen, i am too. education is a great thing, and a college course does a lot for a young fellow. i never had the chance myself, but perhaps it's just as well." "i am determined that joe shall have all the advantages we can give him--and clara, too," went on the wife. "i think joe should be very proud and happy. in a short time he will be attending one of the best colleges in the world." "yet he doesn't seem very happy," said mr. matson, musingly. "and i wonder why," went on his wife. "of course i know he wasn't very keen about going, when i proposed it, but he gave in. i'm sure it's baseball that made him want to stay on at excelsior hall." "probably. joe eats, sleeps and dreams baseball." "i do wish he would get that idea of being a professional baseball player out of his mind," went on mrs. matson, and her tone was a trifle worried. "it is no career to choose for a young man." "no, i suppose not," said her husband slowly. "and yet there are many good men in professional baseball--some rich ones too, i guess," he added with a shrewd laugh. "as if money counted, john!" "well, it does in a way. we are all working for it, one way or another, and if a man can earn it throwing a ball to another man, i don't see why that isn't as decent and honorable as digging sewers, making machinery, preaching, doctoring, being a lawyer or a banker. it all helps to make the world go round." "oh, john! i believe you're as bad as joe!" "no, ellen. though i do like a good game of baseball. i don't think it's the only thing there is, however, as joe seems to, of late. i don't altogether uphold him in his wish to be a professional, but, at the same time, there's nothing like getting into the niche in life that you're just fitted for. "there are too many square pegs in round holes now. many a poor preacher would be a first-class farmer, and lots of struggling lawyers or doctors would do a sight better in a shop, or, maybe even on the ball field. those sentiments aren't at all original with me," he added modestly; "but they are true just the same. i'd like to see joe do what he likes best, for then i know he'd do that better than anything else in the world." "oh, john! surely you wouldn't want to see him a professional ball player?" "well, i don't know. there are lots worse positions in life." "but i'm glad he's going to yale!" exclaimed mrs. matson, as the little family conference came to an end. chapter iii one last game "say, tom, do you know what i've got a good notion to do?" "indeed i haven't, joe, unless you're going to go out west and shoot indians, or some such crazy stunt as that." "forget it! but you know i've got to start for yale in about another week." "that's right. the time is getting short. excelsior opens four days from now, but i'm not going to drill in with the first bunch. i don't have to report quite so soon. i'm a senior now, you know." "so you are. i almost wish i was with you." "oh, nonsense! and you going to yale! but what was it you started to say?" "oh, yes, i almost forgot. say, why can't we have one last game before we have to leave town? one rattling good game of baseball to wind up the season! i'd just love to get into a uniform again, and i guess you would too. can't we pick up enough of the old silver stars to make a nine, with what we can induce to play from among the lads in town?" "i guess so." "then let's do it. the resolute team is still in existence, isn't it?" "yes, but i haven't kept much track of them. i've been away most all summer, you know." "and so have i, but i think we could get up a game for saturday. i believe we could get quite a crowd, but we wouldn't charge admission. what do you say?" "i'm with you. it would be sport to have a game. i wonder how we can arrange for it?" "i've got to go over to rocky ford for dad to-day," went on joe, "and i'll see if i can't get in touch with some of the resolutes. it may be that they have a game on, and, again, they may have disbanded. but it's worth trying. then you see as many of the fellows here as you can, and get up a nine. there ought to be five or six of the old silver stars around." "i'll do it! wow! it will be sport to get on the diamond again before we have to buckle down to the grind." "i hope i haven't forgotten how to pitch," went on joe. "let's get a ball and do a little practising out in the lots." the two chums, somewhat older, more experienced and certainly better players than when we first met them, three years before, were soon tossing the ball back and forth, joe warming up to his accustomed work as a twirler. "that was a beaut!" exclaimed tom, who was catching. "did the curve break well?" "couldn't have been better. you'll fool 'em all right with that twist." "i'm a little stiff yet. well, let's see what we can do toward getting up a game." joe went to rocky ford that afternoon, and was fortunate in finding the new manager of the resolutes, the one-time rivals of the silver stars. the team had greatly changed, and had been strengthened by some new players. they had not yet broken up for the season, and, as they had no game on for saturday, the manager readily agreed to come to riverside with his lads, and take on the silver stars in a sort of exhibition contest. "i suppose you'll pitch?" spoke the manager, as joe was about to leave for home. "yes, i want to. why?" "nothing, only maybe we better handicap your team, or else you'd better allow us half a dozen runs to start with," was the laughing answer. "i'm not as formidable as all that," retorted joe. "are any of the old boys playing yet?" "oh, yes, quite a few. there's art church, lew entry, ted neefus and hank armstrong." "i'll be glad to see 'em again," spoke joe. when he reached riverside late that afternoon tom met him and gleefully informed his chum that he had been able to get up a nine. "then we'll have a game!" cried joe. "will you catch for me?" "if you think i can." "sure you can. wow! we'll have some fun." the news of the coming game between the silver stars--or a team somewhat representing them--and the resolutes aroused considerable enthusiasm in riverside and the neighboring towns. there was a prospect of a large throng, and when saturday came--with as fine a specimen of weather as heart could wish--there was a great outpouring of "fans." the silver stars were first on the field, and though the team as then constituted had never played together, still after a little practice they got acquainted with each other, and were soon working in unison. joe and tom formed the battery, and they seemed an effective combination as they warmed up outside the diamond. then the resolutes arrived and they, too, began their practice. "we're going to have a big crowd," remarked joe, as he saw the stands filling, for riverside boasted of a fairly good field, where the semi-professional team held forth in the summer. but the season was about over now. "it's like old times," remarked tom. "come on, now some hot ones to finish up with, and then it'll be most time to call the game." the details were arranged, the umpire chosen, the batting orders submitted, and the teams came in off the field. the silver stars were to bat last, and as joe walked out to the mound to do the twirling, he was greeted by many friends and acquaintances who had not seen him since the summer vacation had started. some news of his prospective leaving for yale must have gotten around, for he was observed with curious, and sometimes envious eyes. "joe's getting to be quite a boy," remarked mr. jacob anderson, one of riverside's enthusiastic baseball supporters, to his friend, mr. james blake. "yes, he's a wonderful pitcher, i hear. seems sort of queer how the boys grow up. why, only a few years ago he was a small chap, playing around the vacant lots." "yes, time does manage to scoot along," spoke the other. "well, i guess we'll see a good game." as joe and tom paused for a brief consultation before opening the performance, the catcher, glancing toward the grandstand, uttered a surprised exclamation. "what's the matter?" asked joe. "that fellow with my sister--i meant to tell you about him. he was over to your house the other night, when he and sis, and charlie masterford called on your sister." "oh, ho! so it was charlie that clara was fixing up for!" exclaimed joe. "i'll have some fun with her. i guess she's at the game to-day. but what about the fellow with your sister?" "he's a yale man." "a yale man--you mean a graduate?" "no, he goes there now--sophomore i heard sis say. she was boasting about him, but i didn't pay much attention. i meant to tell you, but i forgot it." "a yale man," mused joe. "yes, that's him, with the flower in his coat. sort of a sport i guess. sis said he was on the nine, but i don't know where he plays. like to meet him? i don't know him myself, but i can get sis to present us. she met him at some dance this summer, and found he had relatives here he intended to visit. she asked him to call--say, isn't it great how the girls do that?--and he did--the other night. then he must have made a date with her. like to meet him? name's--let's see now--i did have it. oh, i remember, it's weston--ford weston. want to meet him after the game?" "no--i--i don't believe i do," said joe slowly. "he may think i am sort of currying favor. i'll wait until i get to yale, and then, if i get the chance, i'll meet him. he looks like a decent chap." "yes, mabel is crazy about him," said tom; "but all girls are that way i guess. none for mine! well, shall we start?" the batter was impatiently tapping his stick on the home plate. "play ball!" called the umpire, and, as joe walked to his place he gave a glance toward where mabel davis sat with a tall, good-looking chap. "a yale man," mused joe, "and on the nine. i wonder what he'll think of my pitching?" and, somehow, our hero felt a bit nervous, and he wished he had not known of the presence of the collegian. as he began winding up to deliver the ball he fancied he detected an amused smile on the face of ford weston. chapter iv a sneering laugh "come on now, art! line one out!" "a home run, old man! you can do it!" "slam one over the fence!" "poke it to the icehouse and come walking!" "we've got the pitcher's goat already! don't mind him, even if he is going to college!" these were only a few of the good-natured cries that greeted art church as he stood at the home plate, waiting for joe matson to deliver the ball. and, in like manner, joe was gently gibed by his opponents, some of whom had not faced him in some time. to others he was an unknown quantity. but even those newest members of the resolutes had heard of joe's reputation, and there was not a little of the feeling in the visiting nine that they were doomed to defeat through the opposing pitcher. "come on now, art, it's up to you." "give him a fair chance, joe, and he'll knock the cover off!" "play ball!" snapped the umpire, and joe, who had been exchanging the regulation practice balls with the catcher signalled that he was ready to deliver the first one of the game. the catcher called for a slow out, but joe shook his head. he knew art church of old, and remembered that this player fairly "ate 'em up." joe gave the signal to tom that he would send a swift in-shoot, and his chum nodded comprehendingly. "ball one!" yelled the umpire, and joe could not restrain a start of surprise. true, art had not swung at the horsehide, but it had easily clipped the plate, and, joe thought, should have been called a strike. but he said nothing, and, delivering the same sort of a ball the next time, he had the satisfaction of deceiving the batter, who swung viciously at it. "he's only trying you out!" was shouted at joe. "he'll wallop the next one!" but art church did not, and waiting in vain for what he considered a good ball, he struck at the next and missed, while the third strike was called on him without his getting a chance to move his bat. "oh, i guess the umpire isn't against us after all," thought joe, as he threw the ball over to first while the next batter was coming up. "how's that?" yelled tom in delight. "guess there aren't going to be any home runs for you resolutes." "oh, it's early yet," answered the visiting captain. but the resolutes were destined to get no runs in that half-inning. one man popped up a little fly, which was easily taken care of, and the next man joe struck out cleanly. he was beginning to feel that he was getting in form again. all that spring he had pitched fine games at excelsior hall, but, during the summer vacation, at the close of the boarding school, he had gone a bit stale. he could feel it himself. his muscles were stiff from lack of use, and he had not the control of the ball, which was one of his strong points. neither could he get up the speed which had always been part of his assets, and which, in after years, made him such a power in the big league. still joe felt that he was doing fairly well, and he knew that, as the game went on, and he warmed up, he would do better. "we ought to win," he told tom davis, as they walked to the bench. "that is if we get any kind of support, and if our fellows can hit their pitcher. what sort of a chap is he?" "don't know much about him. he's been at it all summer though, and ought to be in pretty good practice. we'll soon tell. len oswald is first up." but that was all len did--get up. he soon sat down again, not having hit the ball. "oh, i guess we've got some pitcher!" yelled the resolutes. "even if he isn't going to college!" added someone, and joe felt his face burn. he was not at all puffed up over the fact that he was going to yale, and he disliked exceedingly to get that reputation--so unjustly. but he did not protest. when the second man went out without getting to first base, it looked as if the contest was going to be a close one, and there began to be whispers of a "pitchers' battle." "'pitchers' battle' nothing!" exclaimed joe in a whisper to tom. "that fellow can't curve a ball. i've been watching him. he's got a very fast straight delivery, and that's how he's fooling 'em. i'm going to hit him, and so can the rest of us if we don't let him bluff. just stand close up to the plate and plug it. who comes next?" "percy parnell." "oh, wow! well, unless he's improved a whole lot he won't do much." but percy had, for the next moment he got the ball just where he wanted it, and slammed it out for a three bagger amid enthusiastic howls. then the other silver star players became aware of the opposing pitcher's weakness and began hitting him, until three runs had come in. then, in response to the frantic appeals of the "rooters" and their own captain, the resolutes took a brace and halted the winning streak. but it had begun, and nothing could stop it. joe, much elated that his diagnosis of his opponent had been borne out, again took his place in the box. he determined to show what he could do in the way of pitching, having done some warming-up work with tom during the previous inning. he struck out the first man cleanly, and the second likewise. the third hit him for two fouls, and then, seeming to have become familiar with joe's style, whacked out one that was good for two bases. "we're finding him! we're finding him!" yelled the excited resolutes. "only two down, and we've got a good hitter coming." joe saw that his fellow players were getting a little "rattled," fearing perhaps that he was going to pieces, so, to delay the game a moment, and pull himself together, he walked toward home, and pretended to have a little conference with the catcher. in reality they only mumbled meaningless words, for tom knew joe's trick of old. but the little break seemed to have a good effect, for the young pitcher struck out the next man and no runs came in. "oh, i guess yes!" cried the silver star crowd. the home team got two runs the next inning, and with goose eggs in their opponents' frame it began to look more like a one-sided contest. "boys, we've got to wallop 'em!" exclaimed the visiting captain earnestly, as they once more came to bat. joe's arm was beginning to feel the unaccustomed strain a trifle, and to limber up the muscles he "wound-up" with more motions and elaborateness than usual as he again took the mound. as he did so he heard from the grandstand a loud laugh--a laugh that fairly bubbled over with sneering, caustic mirth, and a voice remarked, loud enough for our hero to hear: "i wonder where he learned that wild and weird style of pitching? he'll fall all apart if he doesn't look out!" he cast a quick glance in the direction of the voice and saw ford weston, who sat beside mabel davis, fairly doubled up with mirth. mabel seemed to be remonstrating with him. "don't break your arm!" called ford, laughing harder than before. "hush!" exclaimed mabel. joe felt the dull red of shame and anger mounting to his cheeks. "so that's a yale man," he thought. "and i'm going to yale. i wonder if they're all like that there? i--i hope not." and, for the life of him, joe could not help feeling a sense of anger at the youth who had so sneeringly laughed at him. "and he's a yale man--and on the nine," mused joe. chapter v off for yale "we've got the game in the refrigerator--on ice." "take it easy now, silver stars." "let 'em get a few runs if they want to." thus spoke some of the spectators, and a number of the members of the home team, as the last half of the seventh inning started with the score ten to three in favor of the silver stars. it had not been a very tight contest on either side, and errors were numerous. yet, in spite of the sneering laugh of the yale man, joe knew that he had pitched a good game. they had hit him but seldom, and one run was due to a muffed ball by the centre fielder. "well, i guess you haven't forgotten how to pitch," exulted tom, as he sat beside his chum on the bench. behind them, and over their heads, sat the spectators in the grandstand, and when the applause at a sensational catch just made by the left fielder, retiring the third man, had died away the voices of many in comment on the game could be heard. "oh, i'm not so very proud of myself," remarked joe. "i can see lots of room for improvement. but i'm all out of practice. i think i could have held 'em down better if we'd had a few more games to back us up." "sure thing. well, this is a good way to wind up the season. i heard a little while ago that the resolutes came over here to make mince-meat of us. they depended a whole lot on their pitcher, but you made him look like thirty cents." "oh, i don't know. he's got lots of speed, and if he had the benefit of the coaching we got at excelsior hall he'd make a dandy." "maybe. i'm going over here to have a chin with rodney burke. i won't be up for a good while." "and i guess i won't get a chance this inning," remarked joe, as he settled back on the bench. as he did so he was aware of a conversation going on in the stand over his head. "and you say he's going to yale this term?" asked someone--a youth's deep-chested tones. "i believe so--yes," answered a girl. joe recognized that mabel davis was speaking. "he's a chum of my brother's," she went on. "they're talking of me," thought joe, and he looked apprehensively at his companions on the bench, but they seemed to be paying no attention to him, for which he was grateful. they were absorbed in the game. "going to yale; eh?" went on the youth's voice, and joe felt sure he was ford weston. "well, we eat his kind up down there!" "hush! you mustn't talk so of my friends," warned mabel, and yet she laughed. "oh, if he's a friend of yours, that's different," came the retort. "you're awful strong with me, mabel, and i'd do anything you asked." the girl laughed in a pleased sort of way, and joe, with a wild feeling in his heart, felt a certain scorn for both of them. "yes, he and my brother are chums," resumed mabel. "they went to boarding school together, but joe is going to yale. he is just crazy about baseball--in fact tom is, too, but joe wants to be a great pitcher." "does he think he's going to pitch at yale?" "i believe he does!" "then he's got a whole lot more thinks coming!" laughed the yale man. "he's about the craziest specimen of a tosser i ever stacked up against. he'll never make the yale scrub!" "hush! haven't i told you not to talk so about my friend?" insisted the girl, but there was still laughter in her tones. "all right miss mabel. i'll do anything you say. wow! that was a pretty hit all right. go it, old man! a three-bagger!" and in the enthusiasm over the game the yale man dropped joe as a topic of conversation. our hero, with burning cheeks, got up and strolled away. he had heard too much, but he was glad they did not know he had unintentionally been listening. the game ended with the silver stars winners, but the score was not as close as seemed likely in the seventh inning. for the resolutes, most unexpectedly, began hitting joe, though he managed to pull himself together in the ninth, and retired his opponents hitless. the last half of the ninth was not played, as the home team had a margin of two runs. "well, we did 'em," remarked tom, as he and joe walked off the field. "but they sort of pulled up on us. did they get on to your curves?" "no," spoke joe listlessly. "i--er--i got a little tired i guess." "no wonder. you're not in trim. but you stiffened up at the last." "oh, yes," but joe knew it was not weariness that accounted for his being hit so often. it was because of an inward rage, a sense of shame, and, be it confessed, a bit of fear. for well he knew how little it would take, in such a college as yale, to make or mar a man. should he come, heralded perhaps by the unfriendly tongue of the lad who had watched him pitch that day--heralded as one with a "swelled head"--as one who thought himself a master-pitcher--joe knew he could never live it down. "i'll never get my chance--the chance for the 'varsity--if he begins to talk," mused joe, and for a time he was miserable. "come on over to grub," invited tom. "sis and her latest find will be there--that yale chap. maybe you'd like to meet him. if you don't we can sneak in late and there'll be some eats left." "no, thanks, i don't believe i will," replied joe listlessly. "don't you want to meet that yale fellow? maybe he could give you some points." "no, i'd rather not." "all right," assented tom quickly. something in his chum's tones made him wonder what was the matter, but he did not ask. "i've got some packing to do," went on joe, conscious that he was not acting very cordially toward his old schoolmate. "i may see you later." "sure, any time. i'll be on hand to see you off for yale, old man." "yale!" whispered joe, as he swung off toward his own home, half-conscious of the pointing fingers and whispered comments of a number of street urchins who were designating him as "dat's de pitchin' guy what walloped de resolutes!" "yale!" thought joe. "i'm beginning to hate it!" and then a revulsion of feeling suddenly came over him. "hang it all!" he exclaimed as he stumbled along. "this is no way for a fellow to feel if he's going to college. i've got to perk up. if i am to go to yale, i'm going to do my best to be worth it!" but something rankled in his heart, and, try as he might he could not help clenching his teeth and gripping his hands as he thought of ford weston. "i--i'd like to fight him!" murmured joe. "i wonder if they allow fights at yale?" several days later you might have heard this in the matson home. "well, joe, have you got everything packed?" "don't forget to send me a flag." "you've got your ticket all right, haven't you?" "write as soon as you get there." "and whatever you do, don't go around with wet feet. it's coming on winter now----" "mother! mother!" broke in mr. matson, with a laugh at his wife and daughter on either side of joe, questioning and giving advice by turns. "you're like hens with one chicken. don't coddle him so. he's been away before, and he's getting big enough to know his way around by this time." well might he say so, for joe had grown fast in the past three years, and, though but nineteen, was taller than his father, who was not a small man. "of course he's been away," agreed mrs. matson, "but not as far as new haven, and going to yale is some different from excelsior hall, i guess." "i _know_ so," murmured joe, with a wink at his father. "i'm going to the station with you," declared clara. "here comes tom. i guess he's going, too." "well, i'll say good-bye here," said mrs. matson, and her voice trembled a little. "good-bye, my boy. i know you'll do what's right, and make us all proud of you!" joe's answer was a kiss, and then, with her handkerchief much in evidence, mrs. matson left the room. "come! come!" laughed mr. matson. "you'll make joe sorry he's going if you keep on." "the only thing i'm sorry about," replied the lad, "is that it'll be a good while until spring." "baseball; eh?" queried his father. "well, i suppose you'll play if you get the chance. but, joe, just remember that life isn't all baseball, though that has its place in the scheme of things. you're not going to yale just to play baseball." "but, if i get a chance, i'm going to play my head off!" exclaimed the lad, and, for the first time in some days there came a fierce light of joy into his eyes. "that's the spirit, son," exclaimed mr. matson. "and just remember that, while you want to win, it isn't the only point in the game. always be a gentleman--play hard; but play clean! that's all the advice i'm going to give you," and with a shake of his hand the inventor followed his wife from the room. "well, i guess i'm going to be left alone to do the honors," laughed clara. "come on now, it's almost train time. oh, hello, tom!" she added, as joe's chum entered. "did you bring any extra handkerchiefs with you?" "say i'll pull your hairpins out, clara, if you don't quit fooling!" threatened her brother. joe's baggage, save for a small valise, had been sent on ahead, and now, calling a good-bye to his parents, but not going to them, for he realized that it would only make his mother cry more, the young collegian, escorted by his sister and chum, started for the station. our hero found a few of his friends gathered there, among them mabel davis. "and so you're off for yale," she remarked, and joe noticed that she too, like his sister, seemed to have "grown up" suddenly in the last year. mabel was quite a young lady now. "yes, i'm off," replied joe, rather coldly. "oh, i think it's just grand to go to a big college," went on mabel. "i wish papa would let tom go." "i wish so myself," chimed in her brother. "i know one yale man," went on mabel. "i met him this summer. he was at the game the other day. i could write to him, and tell him you are coming." "please don't!" exclaimed joe so suddenly that mabel drew back, a little offended. "wa'al, i want to shake hands with you, an' wish you all success," exclaimed a voice at joe's elbow. he turned to see mr. ebenezer peterkin, a neighbor. "so you're off for college. i hear they're great places for football and baseball! ha! ha! 'member th' time you throwed a ball through our winder, and splashed alvirah's apple sass all over her clean stove? 'member that, joe?" "indeed i do, mr. peterkin. and how you told tom and me to hurry off, as your wife was coming after us." "that's right! ha! ha! alvirah was considerable put out that day. she'd just got her stove blacked, an' that sass was some of her best. th' ball landed plump into it! 'member?" and again the old man chuckled with mirth. "i remember," laughed joe. "and how tom and i blackened the stove, and helped clean up the kitchen for your wife. i was practising pitching that day." "oh, yes, you _pitched_ all right," chuckled the aged man. "wa'al, joe, i wish you all sorts of luck, an' if you do pitch down there at yale, don't go to splattering no apple sass!" "i won't," promised the lad. there were more congratulations, more wishes for success, more hand shakings and more good-byes, and then the whistle of the approaching train was heard. somehow joe could not but remember the day he had driven the man to the station just in time to get his train. he wondered if he would ever see that individual again. "good-bye, joe!" "so long, old man!" "don't forget to write!" "play ball!" "good-bye, joe!" laughter, cheers, some tears too, but not many, waving hands, and amid all this joe entered the train. he waved back as long as he could see any of them, and then he settled back in his seat. he was off for yale--for yale, with all its traditions, its mysteries, its learning and wiseness, its sports and games, its joys and sorrows--its heart-burnings and its delights, its victories--and defeats! off for yale. joe felt his breath choking him, and into his eyes there came a mist as he gazed out of the window. off for yale--and baseball! chapter vi on the campus joe matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the new haven station. he wondered what his first taste of yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness. he had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. for from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students--many freshmen like himself but others evidently sophomores, and a sprinkling of juniors and the more lordly seniors. instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed. "hello, slab!" "where have you been keeping yourself, pork chops!" "by jinks! there's old ham fat!" "come on, now! get in line!" this from one tall lad to others, evidently from the same preparatory school. "show 'em what we can do!" "hi there, freshies! off with those hats!" this from a crowd of sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads. "don't you do it! keep your lids on!" "oh, you will!" and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. joe began to breathe deeply and fast. if this was a taste of yale life he liked it. somewhat excelsior hall it was, but bigger--broader. gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. on all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting. "keb! carriage! hack! take your baggage!" seeing others doing the same, joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. as he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear: "oh ho! fresh.! off with that hat!" he turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat "swagger" clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. remembering the fate of the others, joe doffed his new derby, and smiled. "that's right," complimented the taller of the two sophomores. "glad you think so," answered joe. "well?" snapped the other sophomore sharply. "glad you think so," repeated our hero. "well?" rasped out the first. joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. he knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot. "put the handle on," he was reminded, and then it came to him. "sir," he added with a smile. "right, freshie. don't forget your manners next time," and the two went swinging along, rolling out the chorus of some class song. the confusion increased. more students poured from the train, overwhelming the expressmen with their demands and commands. the hacks and carriages were being rapidly filled. orders were being shouted back and forth. exuberance was on every side. "oh ho! this way, merton!" yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to assemble. "over here, lisle!" "there's perk!" "yes, and who's he got with him?" "oh, some fresh. come on, you goat. i'm hungry!" joe felt himself exulting, after all, that he was to be a part of this throbbing, pulsating life--part of the great college. he hung back, friendless and alone, and it was borne on him with a rush just how friendless and alone he was when he saw so many others greeted by friends and mates. with all his heart joe wished he had come up from some preparatory school, where he would have had classmates with him. but it was too late now. he made up his mind that he would walk to his rooming house, not because he wanted to save the carriage hire, but he would have to get in a hack all alone, and he was afraid of the gibes and taunts that might be hurled at the lone freshman. he had engaged the room in advance, and knew it would be in readiness. later he intended to join one of the many eating clubs for his meals, but for the present he expected to patronize a restaurant, for the rooming house did not provide commons. "i'll walk," decided joe, and, inquiring the way from a friendly hackman, he started off. as he did so he was aware of a tall lad standing near him, and, at the mention of the street joe designated, this lad started, and seemed about to speak. for a moment joe, noticing that he, too, was alone, was tempted to address him. and then, being naturally diffident, and in this case particularly so, he held back. "he may be some stand-offish chap," reasoned joe, "and won't like it. i'll go a bit slow." he swung away from the station, glad to be out of the turmoil, but for a time it followed him, the streets being filled with students afoot and in vehicles. the calling back and forth went on, until, following the directions he had received, joe turned down a quieter thoroughfare. "that must be the college over there," he said after he had swung across the city common, and saw looming up in the half mist of the early september night, the piles of brick and stone. "yale college--and i'm going there!" he paused for a moment to contemplate the structures, and a wave of sentimental feeling surged up into his heart. he saw the outlines of the elms--the great elms of yale. joe passed on, and, as he walked, wondering what lay before him, he could not help but think of the chances--the very small chances he had--in all that throng of young men--to make the 'varsity nine. "there are thousands of fellows here," mused joe, "and all of them may be as good as i. of course not all of them want to get on the nine--and fewer want to pitch. but--oh, i wonder if i can make it? i wonder----" it was getting late. he realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures--and the hundred and one things that would follow. "i guess i've got time enough to go over and take a look at the place," he mused. "i can hike it a little faster to my shack after i take a peep," he reasoned. "i just want to see what i'm going to stack up against." he turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. all of them in groups--not one alone as was joe. occasionally they called to him as they passed: "off with that hat, fresh.!" he obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him. "but i won't! i won't!" he told himself desperately. "i won't give in. i'll make friends soon! oh, if only tom were here!" he found himself on the college campus. pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. instinctively he turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure. "off with that hat, fresh.!" came the sharp command. joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey. "all right," he said, listlessly. "all right, what?" was snapped back at him. for a moment joe did not answer. "come on, fresh.!" cried the other, taking a step toward him. "quick--all right--what?" "sir!" ripped out joe, as he turned away. a moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. joe started as he beheld the countenance of ford weston--the youth who had laughed at his pitching. "that's right," came in more mollified tones from the sophomore. "don't forget your manners at yale, fresh.! or you may be taught 'em in a way you won't like," and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, weston took himself off across the campus. chapter vii a new chum for a moment joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do--wondering if the sophomore had recognized him. then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, joe breathed easier. "the cad!" he whispered. "i'd like to--to----" he paused. he remembered that he was at yale--that he was a freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him--of the youth who had a year's advantage over him in point of time. "yes, i'm a freshman," mused joe, half bitterly. "i'm supposed to take it all--to grin and bear it--for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that i won't get a swelled head. well," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "i guess there's no danger." he looked after the retreating figure of the sophomore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly. "after all!" he exclaimed, "it's no more than i've done to the lads at excelsior hall. i thought it was right and proper then, and i suppose these fellows do here. only, somehow, it hurts. i--i guess i'm getting older. i can't appreciate these things as i used to. after all, what is there to it? there's too much class feeling and exaggerated notion about one's importance. it isn't a man's game--though it may lead to it. i'd rather be out--standing on my own feet. "yes, out playing the game with men--the real game--i want to get more action than this," and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was joe himself. "oh, well!" he concluded. "i'm here, and i've got to stay at least for mother's sake, and i'll do the best i can. i'll grin and bear it. it won't be long until spring, and then i'll see if i can't make good. i'm glad weston didn't recognize me. it might have made it worse. but he's bound to know, sooner or later, that i'm the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he's like the rest of 'em i suppose he'll have the story all over college. well, i can't help it." and with this philosophical reflection joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house. it was a little farther than he had thought, and he was a bit sorry he had not selected one nearer the college. there were too many students to permit all of them to dwell in the dormitories proper, and many sought residences in boarding places and in rooming houses, and dined at students' clubs. "i suppose i'll have to hunt up some sort of an eating joint," mused joe, as he plodded along. "i'd be glad to get in with some freshmen who like the baseball game. it'll be more sociable. i'll have to be on the lookout." as he rang the bell of the house corresponding in number to the one he had selected as his rooming place, the door was cautiously opened a trifle, the rattling of a chain showing that it was secure against further swinging. a rather husky voice asked: "well?" joe looked, and saw himself being regarded by a pair of not very friendly eyes, while a tousled head of hair was visible in the light from a hall lamp that streamed from behind it. "i--er--i believe i'm to room here," went on joe. "matson is my name. i'm a freshman----" "oh, that's all right. come in!" and the tone was friendly at once. "i thought it was some of those sneaking sophs., so i had the chain on. come in!" and the portal was thrown wide, while joe's hand was caught in a firm grip. "are you--er--do you run this place?" asked joe. "not yet, but i'm going to do my best at it as soon as i get wise to the ropes. you can help--you look the right stuff." "aren't you the--er--the proprietor?" asked our hero, rather puzzled for the right word. "not exactly," was the reply, "but i'm going to be one of 'em soon. hanover is my name--ricky hanover they used to call me at tampa. i'll allow you the privilege. i'm a fresh. like yourself. i'm going to room here. arrived yesterday. i've got a room on the first floor, near the door, and it's going to be so fruity for those sophs. to rout me out that i got a chain and put it on. the old man said he didn't care." "the old man?" queried joe. "yes, hopkins, hoppy for short--the fellow that owns this place--he and his wife." "oh, yes, the people from whom i engaged my room," spoke joe understandingly. "i think i'm on the second floor," he went on. "wrong guess--come again," said ricky hanover with a grin, as he carefully replaced the chain. "there's been a wing shift, so mrs. hoppy told me. she's expecting you, but she's put you downstairs, in a big double room next to mine. hope you won't mind. your trunk is there, and your valise just came--at least i think it's yours--j. m. on it." "yes, that's mine." "i had it put in for you." "thanks." "come on, and i'll show you the ropes. if those sophs. come----" "are they likely to?" asked joe, scenting the joy of a battle thus early in his career. "they might. someone tried to rush the door just before you came, but the chain held and i gave 'em the merry ha-ha! but they'll be back--we'll get ours and we'll have to take it." "i suppose so. well, i don't mind. i've been through it before." "that so? where are you from?" "excelsior hall." "never heard of it. that's nothing. i don't s'pose you could throw a stone and hit tampa school?" "probably not," laughed joe, forming an instinctive liking for this new chap. "right. tampa hardly knows it's on the map, but it isn't a half bad place. ah, here's mamma hoppy now. you don't mind if i call you that; do you?" asked ricky, as a motherly-looking woman advanced down the hall toward the two lads. "oh, i guess i've been at this long enough not to mind a little thing like that," she laughed. "you college men can't bother me as long as you don't do anything worse than that. let me see, this is----" "matson, ma'am," spoke our hero. "joe matson. i wrote to you----" "oh, yes, i remember. i have quite a number of new boys coming in. i'm sorry, but the room i thought i could let you have isn't available. the ceiling fell to-day, so i have transferred you downstairs. it's a double room, and i may have to put someone in with you. if you think----" "oh, that's all right," interrupted joe good-naturedly, "i don't mind. i'll be glad to have a room-mate." "thank you," said mrs. hopkins, in relieved tones. "i can't say just now who it will be." "never mind!" broke in ricky. "have you grubbed?" "no," replied the newcomer. "i was thinking of going to a restaurant." "come along then. i'm with you. i haven't fed my face yet. we'll go down to glory's place and see the bunch." joe recognized the name as that of a famous new haven resort, much frequented by the college lads, and, while i have not used the real designation, and while i shall use fictitious names for other places connected with the college, those who know their yale will have no difficulty in recognizing them. "come on to glory's," went on ricky. "it's a great joint." "wait until i slip on a clean collar," suggested joe, and a little later he and ricky were tramping along the streets, now agleam with electric lights, on their way to the famous resort. it was filled with students, from lordly seniors, who scarcely noticed those outside of their class, to the timid freshmen. joe looked on in undisguised delight. after all, yale might be more to him than he had anticipated. "like to go a rabbit?" suggested ricky. "a rabbit?" asked joe. "i didn't know they were in season?" "the welsh variety," laughed ricky. "they're great with a mug of ale, they say, only i cut out the ale." "same here," admitted joe. "yes, i'll go one. it's made of cheese, isn't it?" "and other stuff. great for making you dream. come on, this is the freshmen table over here. i was in this morning." "do they have tables for each class." "they don't--i mean the management doesn't, but i guess it would be as much as your hair was worth to try to buck in where you didn't belong. know anybody here?" "not a soul--wish i did." "i didn't when i came this morning, but there are some nice fellows at the red shack." "red shack?" joe looked puzzled. "yes, that's our hang-out. it's painted red." "oh, i see." "there are a couple of 'em now," went on ricky, who seemed perfectly at ease in his comparatively new surroundings. he was a lad who made friends easily, joe decided. "hi, heller, plow over here!" ricky called to a tall lad who was working his way through the throng. "bring jones along with you. they're both at our shack," he went on in a low voice to joe. "shake hands with matson--he's one of us chickens," he continued, and he presented the newcomers as though he had known them all their lives. "you seem at home," remarked jones, who was somewhat remarkable for his thinness. "i am--slim!" exclaimed ricky. "i say, you don't mind if i call you that; do you?" he asked. "that's what the other fellows do; isn't it?" "yes. how'd you guess it?" asked jones, with a laugh. "easy. i'm ricky--richard by rights, but i don't like it. call me ricky." "all right, i will," agreed slim jones. "i'm hank heller, if you're going in for names," came from the other youth, while joe had to admit that his appellation was thus shortened from joseph. "well, now we know each other let's work our jaws on something besides words," suggested ricky. "here, do we get waited on, alphonse?" he called to a passing waiter. joe thought he had never been in such a delightful place, nor in such fine company. it was altogether different from life at excelsior hall, and though there were scenes that were not always decorous from a strict standpoint, yet joe realized that he was getting farther out on the sea of life, and must take things as they came. but he resolved to hold a proper rein on himself, and, though deep in his heart he had no real love for college life, he determined to do his best at it. the meal was a delightful one. new students were constantly coming in, and the place was blue with smoke from many cigars, pipes and cigarettes. ricky smoked, as did hank heller, but slim jones confessed that it was a habit he had not yet acquired, in which he was like joe. "say, we're going to have some fun at our joint," declared ricky on their way back, at a somewhat late hour. "we'll organize an eating club, or join one, and we'll have some sport. we'll be able to stand off the sophs. better, too, by hanging together. when the red shack gets full we'll do some organizing ourselves. no use letting the sophs. have everything." "that's right," agreed joe. as they passed along the now somewhat quiet streets they were occasionally hailed by parties of hilarious sophomores with the command: "take off your hats, freshies!" they obeyed, perforce, for they did not want to get the name of insurgents thus early in the term. "come in and have a talk," invited ricky, as they entered the rooming house. "it's early yet." "guess i'll turn in," confessed hank. "i'm tired." "i'll go you for awhile," agreed slim. "how about you, joe?" "no, i want to unpack a bit. see you in the morning." "all right. we'll go to chapel together." as joe entered his new room, and turned on the light, he saw a figure in one of the beds. for a moment he was startled, having forgotten that he was to share the room with someone. the youth turned over and gazed at joe. "oh!" he exclaimed with a rather pleasant laugh. "i meant to sit up until you came back, to explain, but i guess i fell asleep. mrs. hopkins said you had no objections to a partner, and this was the only place available." "not at all!" exclaimed joe cordially. "glad you came in. it's lonesome rooming alone." "you're matson; aren't you?" asked the youth in bed. "yes." "my name is poole--burton poole." then, for the first time joe recognized the lad he had seen standing all alone on the depot platform--the one to whom he had been inclined to speak--but from which impulse he had held himself back. chapter viii ambitions "shake hands!" exclaimed joe, as he stepped over to the bed, on which the other raised himself, the clothes draping around him. then joe saw how well built his new room-mate was--the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out, as his pajamas tightened across his chest. "glad to know you," greeted poole. "you are sure you don't mind my butting in?" "not at all. glad of your company. i hate to be alone. i wish you'd come in a bit earlier, and you could have gone down to glory's with us." "wish i had. i've heard of the place, but as a general rule i like a quieter shack to eat." "same here," confessed joe. "we're talking of starting a feeding joint of our own--the freshmen here--or of joining one. are you with us?" "sure thing. do you know any of the fellows here?" "three--in our shack. i just met them to-night. they seem all to the good." "glad to hear it. i'll fill in anywhere i can." "well, i'm going to fill in bed--right now!" asserted joe with a yawn. "i'm dead tired. it's quite a trip from my place, and we've got to go to chapel in the morning." "that's so. are you a sound sleeper?" "not so very. why?" "i am, and i forgot to bring an alarm clock. i always need one to get me up." "i can fix you," replied joe. "i've got one that would do in place of a gong in a fire-house. i'll set it going." and from his trunk, after rummaging about a bit, he pulled a large-sized clock, noiseless as to ticking, but with a resonant bell that created such a clamor, when joe set it to tinkling, that ricky hanover came bursting in. "what's the joke?" he demanded, half undressed. "let me in on it." "the alarm clock," explained joe. "my new chum was afraid he'd be late to chapel. ricky, let me make you acquainted with mr. poole." "glad to know you," spoke ricky. "got a handle?" "a what?" "nickname. i always think it's easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he's got one. it isn't so stiff." "maybe you're right. well, the fellows back home used to call me 'spike'." "what for?" demanded joe. "because my father was in the hardware business." "i see!" laughed ricky. "good enough. spike suits me. i say, you've got a pretty fair joint here," he went on admiringly. "and some stuff, believe me!" there was envy in his tones as he looked around the room, and noted the various articles joe was digging out of his trunk--some fencing foils, boxing gloves, a baseball bat and mask, and a number of foreign weapons which joe had begun to collect in one of his periodical fits and then had given up. "they'll look swell stuck around the walls," went on ricky. "yes, it sort of tones up the place, i guess," admitted joe. "i've got a lot of flags," spoke spike. "my trunk didn't come, though. hope it'll be here to-morrow." "then you will have a den!" declared ricky. "got any photos?" "photos?" queried joe wonderingly. "yes--girls? you ought to see my collection! some class, believe me; and more than half were free-will offerings," and ricky drew himself up proudly in his role of a lady-killer. "where'd you get the others?" asked spike. "swiped 'em--some i took from my sister. they'll look swell when i get 'em up. well, i'm getting chilly!" he added, and it was no wonder, for his legs were partly bare. "see you later!" and he slid out of the door. "nice chap," commented joe. "rather original," agreed spike poole. "i guess he's in the habit of doing things. but say, i'm keeping you up with my talk, i'm afraid." "i guess it's the other way around," remarked joe, with a smile. "no, go ahead, and stick up all the trophies you like. i'll help out to-morrow." "oh, well, i guess this'll do for a while," said joe a little later, when he had partly emptied his trunk. "i think i'll turn in. i don't know how i'll sleep--that welsh rabbit was a bit more than i'm used to. so if i see my grandmother in the night----" "i'll wake you up before the dear old lady gets a chance to box your ears," promised his room-mate with a laugh. and then our hero crawled into bed to spend his first night as a real yale student. joe thought he had never seen so perfect a day as the one to which the alarm clock awakened him some hours later. it was clear and crisp, and on the way to chapel with the others of the red shack, he breathed deep of the invigorating air. the exercises were no novelty to him, but it was very different from those at excelsior hall, and later the campus seemed to be fairly alive with the students. but joe no longer felt alone. he had a chum--several of them, in fact, for the acquaintances of the night before seemed even closer in the morning. the duties of the day were soon over, lectures not yet being under way. joe got his name down, learned when he was expected to report, the hours of recitation, and other details. his new chums did the same. "and now let's see about that eating club," proposed ricky hanover, when they were free for the rest of the day. "it's all right to go to glory's once in a while--especially at night when the jolly crowd is there, and a restaurant isn't bad for a change--but we're not here for a week or a month, and we want some place that's a bit like home." the others agreed with him, and a little investigation disclosed an eating resort run by a junior who was working his way through yale. it was a quiet sort of a place, on a quiet street, not so far away from the red shack as to make it inconvenient to go around for breakfast. the patrons of it, besides joe and his new friends, were mostly freshmen, though a few juniors, acquaintances of roslyn joyce, who was trying to pay his way to an education by means of it, ate there, as did a couple of very studious seniors, who did not go in for the society or sporting life. "this'll be just the thing for us," declared joe; and the others agreed with him. there was some talk of football in the air. all about them students were discussing the chances of the eleven, especially in the big games with harvard and princeton, and all agreed that, with the new material available, yale was a sure winner. "what are you going in for?" asked joe of ricky, as the five of them--joe, ricky, spike, slim jones and hank heller strolled across the campus. "the eleven for mine--if i can make it!" declared ricky. "what's yours, joe?" "baseball. but it's a long while off." "that's right--the gridiron has the call just now. jove, how i want to play!" and ricky danced about in the excess of his good spirits. "what are you going in for?" asked joe of hank heller. "i'd like to make the crew, but i don't suppose i have much chance. i'll have to wait, as you will." "if i can get on the glee club, i'm satisfied," remarked slim jones. "that's about all i'm fit for," he added, with a whimsical smile. "how about you, spike? can you play anything?" "the jewsharp and mouthorgan. have they any such clubs here?" "no!" exclaimed ricky. "but what's the matter with you trying for the eleven? you've got the build." "it isn't in my line. i'm like joe here. i like the diamond best." "do you?" cried our hero, delighted to find that his room-mate had the same ambition as himself. "where do you play?" "well, i have been catching for some time." "then you and joe ought to hit it off!" exclaimed ricky. "joe's crazy to pitch, and you two can make up a private battery, and use the room for a cage." chapter ix the shampoo football was in the air. on every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about "punts" and "forward passes," the chances for this end or that fullback--how the bulldog sized up against princeton and harvard. of course joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the 'varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub. "we're going to have a great team!" declared ricky, as he walked back from practice with joe one day. "i'm sure i hope so," spoke our hero. "have you had a chance?" "well, i'm one of the subs, and i've reported every day. they kept us tackling the dummy for quite a while, and i think i got the eye of one of the coaches. but there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that i don't know--it's a fierce fight," and ricky sighed. "never mind," consoled joe. "you'll make good, i'm sure. i'll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. i guess it won't be easy to get on the nine." "well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher," said ricky. "i hear that weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again." "weston--does he pitch?" gasped joe. it was the first time he had heard--or thought to ask--what position the lad held who had sneered at him. "that's his specialty," declared ricky. "they're depending on him for the yale-princeton game. princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this." "i hope we get it," murmured joe. "and so ford weston pitches; eh? if it comes to a contest between us i'm afraid it will be a bitter one. he hates me already. i guess he thinks i've got a swelled head." "say, look here, joe!" exclaimed ricky, with a curious look on his face, "you don't seem to know the ropes here. you're a freshman, you know." "sure i know that. what of it?" "lots. you know that you haven't got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the 'varsity; don't you?" "know it? do you mean that weston can so work things as to keep me off?" "not weston; no. but the rules themselves are against you. it's utterly impossible that you should pitch this year." "why? what rules? i didn't know i was ineligible." "well, you are. listen, joe. under the intercollegiate rules no freshman can play on the 'varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher." "he can't?" and joe stood aghast. "no. it's out of the question. i supposed you knew that or i'd have mentioned it before." joe was silent a moment. his heart seemed almost to stop beating. he felt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet. "i--i never thought to ask about rules," said joe, slowly. "i took it for granted that yale was like other smaller universities--that any fellow could play on the 'varsity if he could make it." "not at yale, or any of the big universities," went on ricky in softened tones, for he saw that joe was much affected. "you see the rule was adopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might come here for a few months, qualify as a freshman, and play on the 'varsity. you've got to be a sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make the big team, and then of course, it's up to you to make a fight for the pitcher's box." once more joe was silent. his hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in a measure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. he felt a sense of bitterness--bitterness that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to yale against his own wishes. and yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against his parents. they had their hearts set on a college course for him. "hang it all!" exclaimed joe, as he paced up and down, "why didn't i think to make some inquiries?" "it would have been better," agreed ricky. "but there's no great harm done. you can play on the freshman team this coming season, and then, when you're a soph., you can go on that team, and you'll be in line for the 'varsity. you can play on the junior team, if you like, and they have some smashing good games once in a while." "but it isn't the 'varsity," lamented joe. "no. but look here, old man; you've got to take things as they come. i don't want to preach, but----" "that's all right--slam it into me!" exclaimed joe. "i need it--i deserve it. it'll do me good. i won't be so cock-sure next time. but i hoped to make the 'varsity this season." "it'll be better for you in the end not to have done so," went on his friend. "you need more practice, than you have had, to take your place on the big team. a season with the freshmen will give it to you. you'll learn the ropes better--get imbued with some of the yale spirit, and you'll be more of a man. it's no joke, i tell you, to pitch on the 'varsity." "no, i imagine not," agreed joe, slowly. "then, i suppose there's no use of me trying to even get my name down on a sort of waiting list." "not until you see how you make out on the freshman team," agreed ricky. "you'll be watched there, so look out for yourself. the old players, who act as coaches, are always on the lookout for promising material. you'll be sized up when you aren't expecting it. and, not only will they watch to see how you play ball, but how you act under all sorts of cross-fire, and in emergencies. it isn't going to be any cinch." "no, i can realize that," replied joe. "and so weston has been through the mill, and made good?" "he's been through the mill, that's sure enough," agreed ricky, "but just how good he's made will have to be judged later. he wasn't such a wonder last season." "there's something queer about him," said joe. "how's that?" "why, if he's only a soph. this year he must have been a freshman last. and yet he pitched on the 'varsity i understand." "weston's is a peculiar case," said ricky. "i heard some of the fellows discussing it. he's classed as a soph., but he ought really to be a junior. this is his third year here. he's a smart chap in some things, but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still taking the soph. lectures, while in others he is with the juniors. he was partly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots of us in some things. so, while he was rated with the freshmen in some studies last year, he was enough of a sophomore to comply with the intercollegiate rules, and pitch on the 'varsity. he did well, so they said." "i wish fate handed me out something like that," mused joe. "if i had known that i'd have boned away on certain things so as to get a sophomore rating--at least enough to get on the big nine." "why, don't you intend to stay at yale?" asked ricky. "a year soon passes. you'll be a sophomore before you know it." "i wish i was in weston's shoes," said joe softly. since that meeting on the campus, when the sophomore had not recognized joe, the two had not encountered each other, and joe was glad enough of it. "i'm glad i didn't meet him in riverside," thought joe. "it won't make it so hard here--when it comes to a showdown. for i'm going to make the nine! the 'varsity nine; if not this year, then next!" and he shut his teeth in determination. meanwhile matters were gradually adjusting themselves to the new conditions of affairs at yale--at least as regards joe and the other freshmen. the congenial spirits in the red shack, increased by some newcomers, had, in a measure, "found" themselves. recitations and lectures began their regular routine, and though some of the latter were "cut," and though often in the interests of football the report of "not prepared" was made, still on the whole joe and his chums did fairly well. joe, perhaps because of his lack of active interest in football, as was the case with his room-mate, spike, did better than the others as regards lessons. yet it did not come easy to joe to buckle down to the hard and exacting work of a college course, as compared to the rather easy methods in vogue at excelsior hall. joe was not a natural student, and to get a certain amount of comparatively dry knowledge into his head required hours of faithful work. "i'm willing to make a try of it--for the sake of the folks," he confided to spike; "but i know i'm never going to set the river on fire with classics or math. i'm next door to hating them. i want to play baseball." "well, i can't blame you--in a way," admitted his chum. "of course baseball isn't all there is to life, though i do like it myself." "it's going to be my business in life," said joe simply, and spike realized then, if never before, the all-absorbing hold the great game had on his friend. to joe baseball was as much of a business--or a profession if you like--as the pulpit was to a divinity student, or the courts to a member of the law school. the yale football team began its triumphant career, and the expectations of the friends of the eleven were fully realized. to his delight ricky played part of a game, and there was no holding him afterward. "i've got a chance to buck the princeton tiger!" he declared. "the head coach said i did well!" "good!" cried joe, wondering if he would have such fine luck when the baseball season started. affairs at the red shack went on smoothly, and at the mush and milk club, which the freshmen had dubbed their eating joint, there were many assemblings of congenial spirits. occasionally there was a session at glory's--a session that lasted far into the night--though joe and his room-mate did not hold forth at many such. "it's bad for the head the next day," declared spike, and he was strictly abstemious in his habits, as was joe. but not all the crowd at the red shack were in this class, and often there were disturbances at early hours of the morning--college songs howled under the windows with more or less "harmony," and appeals to joe and the others to "stick out their heads." "i think we'll get ours soon," spoke spike one night, as he and joe sat at the centre table of the room, studying. "our what?" "drill. i heard that a lot of the freshmen were caught down the street this evening and made to walk spanish. they're beginning the shampoo, too." "the shampoo--what's that?" "an ancient and honorable yale institution, in which the candidate is head-massaged with a bucket of paste or something else." "paste or what?" "you're allowed your choice, i believe. paste for mine, it's easier to get out of your hair if you take it in time." "that's right. i'm with you--but--er--how about a fight?" "it's up to you. lots of the freshmen stand 'em off. it's allowed if you like." "then i say--fight!" exclaimed joe. "i'm not going to be shampooed in that silly fashion if i can help it." "then we'll stand 'em off?" questioned spike. "sure--as long as we can," declared joe. "though if they bring too big a bunch against us we'll probably get the worst of it." "very likely, but we can have the satisfaction of punching some of the sophs. i'm with you." "where'll they do it?" "no telling. they may catch us on the street, or they may come here. for choice----" spike paused and held up his hand for silence. there was a noise in the hall, in the direction of the front door. then came the voice of ricky hanover saying: "no, you don't! i've got the bulge on you! no monkey business here!" "get away from that door, fresh.!" shouted someone, half-angrily; "or we'll bust it in!" "give him the shampoo--both of 'em!" yelled another. "you don't get in here!" cried ricky. "i say----" his voice was drowned out in a crash, and a moment later there was the sound of a struggle. "here they come," said spike in a low voice. "let's take off our coats," proposed joe, in the same tone. "if we're going to fight i want to be ready." chapter x a wild night "say, ricky is sure putting up a great fight!" "yes, and he's as wiry as they make 'em!" "he'll make 'em wish they'd let him alone--maybe." "and maybe not," returned spike. he and joe had passed these remarks after a grim silence, followed by a resumption of the crashing struggle in the hall near the front door. "there are too many of 'em for him," went on joe's room-mate. "wait until i take a peep," proposed the young pitcher. he advanced to the door, rolling up his sleeves as he went. "don't!" snapped spike. "they'll be here soon enough as it is, without us showing ourselves. i'd just as soon they'd pass us up this trip--it's an unpleasant mess." "that's right. maybe we can stand 'em off." "no such luck. i think they're coming." the noise in the hall seemed redoubled. ricky could be heard expostulating, and from that he changed to threats. "i'll make you wish you hadn't tried this on me!" he shouted. "i'll punch----" "oh, dry up!" commanded someone. "stuff some of that paste in his mouth!" ordered another voice. "a double shampoo for being too fresh!" "no, you don't! i won't stand----" "then take it lying down. here we go, boys!" "i--oh----" and ricky's voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur. "he's getting his," said spike in a low tone. "and i guess here is where we get ours," said joe, as the rush of feet sounded along the corridor, while someone called: "come on, fellows. more work for us down here. there are some of the freshies in their burrows. rout 'em out! smash 'em up!" the tramping of feet came to a pause outside the door of our two friends. "open up!" came the command. "come in!" invited joe. they had not turned the key as they did not want the lock broken. into the room burst a nondescript horde of students. they were wild and disheveled, some with torn coats and trousers, others with neckties and collars missing, or else hanging in shreds about their necks. "ricky put up a game fight!" murmured joe. "he sure did," agreed spike. "hello, freshmen!" greeted the leader of the sophomores. "ready for yours?" "sure," answered spike with as cheerful a grin as he could muster. "any time you say," added joe. "the beggars were expecting us!" yelled a newcomer, crowding into the room. "going to fight?" demanded someone. "going to try," said joe coolly. "give 'em theirs!" was the yell. "what'll it be--paste or mush?" joe saw that several of the sophomores carried pails, one seemingly filled with froth, and the other with a white substance. neither would be very pleasant when rubbed into the hair. "maybe you'd better cut 'em both out," suggested joe. "not on your life! got to take your medicine, kid!" declared a tall sophomore. he made a grab for joe, who stepped back. someone swung at our hero, who, nothing daunted, dashed a fist into his antagonist's face, and the youth went down with a crash, taking a chair with him. "oh, ho! fighters!" cried a new voice. "slug 'em, sophs.!" joe swung around, and could not restrain a gasp of astonishment, for, confronting him was ford weston, the 'varsity pitcher. on his part weston seemed taken aback. "jove!" he cried. "it's the little country rooster i saw pitch ball. so you came to yale after all?" "i did," answered joe calmly. it was the first he had met his rival face to face since that time on the campus when weston had not known him. "well, we're going to make you sorry right now," sneered weston. "up boys, and at 'em!" "let me get another whack at him!" snarled the lad joe had knocked down. there was a rush. joe, blindly striking out, felt himself pulled, hauled and mauled. once he went down under the weight of numbers, but he fought himself to a kneeling position and hit out with all his force. he was hit in turn. he had a glimpse of spike hurling a tall sophomore half way across the room, upon the sofa with a crash. then with a howl the second-year men closed in on the two freshmen again. joe saw weston coming for him, aiming a vicious blow at his head. instinctively joe ducked, and with an uppercut that was more forceful than he intended he caught the pitcher on the jaw. weston went backward, and only for the fact that he collided with one of his mates would have fallen. he clapped his hand to his jaw, and as he glared at joe he cried: "i'll settle with you for this!" "any time," gasped joe, and then his voice was stopped as someone's elbow caught him in the jaw. "say, what's the matter with you fellows?" demanded a voice in the doorway. "can't you do up two freshmen? come on, give 'em what's coming and let's get out of this. there's been too much of a row, and we've got lots to do yet to-night. eat 'em up!" thus urged by someone who seemed to be a leader, the sophomores went at the attack with such fury that there was no withstanding them. the odds were too much for joe and spike, and they were borne down by the weight of numbers. then, while some of their enemies held them, others smeared the paste over their heads, rubbing it well in. it was useless to struggle, and all the two freshmen could do was to protect their eyes. "that's enough," came the command. "no, it isn't!" yelled a voice joe recognized as that of weston. "where's that mush?" "no! no!" expostulated several. "they've had enough--the paste was enough." "i say no!" fairly screamed weston. "hand it here!" he snatched something from one of his mates, and the next instant joe felt a stream of liquid mush drenching him. it ran into his eyes, smarting them grievously, and half blinding him. with a mad struggle he tore himself loose and struck out, but his fists only cleaved the empty air. "come on!" was the order. there was a rush of feet, and presently the room cleared. "next time don't be so--fresh!" came tauntingly from weston, as he followed his mates. "water--water!" begged joe, for his eyes seemed on fire. "hold on, old man--steady," came from spike. "what is it?" "something in my eyes. i can't see!" "the paste and mush i expect. rotten trick. wait a minute and i'll sponge you off. oh, but we're sights!" presently joe felt the cooling liquid, and the pain went from him. he could open his eyes and look about. their room was in disorder, but, considering the fierceness of the scrimmage, little damage had been done. but the lads themselves, when they glanced at each other, could not repress woeful expressions, followed by laughs of dismay, for truly they were in a direful plight. smeared with paste that made their hair stand up like the quills of a fretful porcupine, their shirts streaked with it, they were indeed weird looking objects. paste was on their faces, half covering their noses. it stuffed up their ears and their eyes stared out from a mask of it like burned holes in a blanket. "oh, but you are a sight!" exclaimed spike. "the same to you and more of it," retorted joe. "let's get this off." "sure, before it hardens, or we'll never get it off," agreed spike. fortunately there was plenty of water in their room, and, stripping to their waists they scrubbed to such good advantage that they were soon presentable. the removal of their coats and vests had saved those garments. "they went for you fierce," commented spike. "who was that fellow who came in last?" "weston--'varsity pitcher." "he had it in for you." "seemed so, but i don't know why," and joe related the little scene the day of the silver star-resolute game. "oh, well, don't mind him. i say, let's go out." "what for?" "it's going to be a wild night from the way it's begun. let's see some of the fun. no use trying to study, i'm too excited." "i'm excited too. but if we go out they may pitch onto us again." "no, we can claim immunity. i want to see some of the other fellows get theirs. we'll get ricky and the other bunch and have some fun." "all right; i'm with you." they dressed, and, having made their room somewhat presentable, they called for ricky. he was busy trying to get rid of his shampoo, which had been unusually severe. he readily fell in with the notion of going out, and with hank heller and slim jones in the party the five set out. they swung out into wall street, up college, and cut over elm street to the new haven green, where they knew all sorts of tricks would be going on. for the sophomores had started their hazing in earnest. it was indeed a wild night. the streets about the college buildings were thronged with students, and yells and class-rallying cries were heard on every side. "let's go over to high street," proposed joe, and they ran up temple, to chapel, and thence over to high, making their way through throngs. several times they were halted by groups of sophomores, with commands to do some absurdity, but an assertion that they had been shampooed, with the particulars, and the evidence yet remaining in spots, was enough to cause them to be passed. high street was filled with even a greater crowd as they reached it, a party of freshman pouring out from the college campus endeavoring to escape from pursuing enemies. through library street to york they went, with shouts, yells and noises of rattles and other sound-producing instruments. "let's follow and see what happens," proposed ricky. "i want to see some other fellow get his as long as i had mine." just then joe saw several figures come quietly out from behind a building and start up york street, in an opposite direction from that taken by the throng. under the glare of an electric light he recognized weston and some of the crowd who had shampooed them. some sudden whim caused joe to say: "there's the fellows who shampooed us. let's follow and maybe we can get back at 'em. there are only five--that's one apiece." "right you are!" sang out ricky. "i want to punch someone." "come on then," signalled spike. "i'm out for the night. it's going to be a wild one all right." and truly it seemed so. chapter xi the red paint pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, joe and his chums found themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness. "i wonder what they're up to," ventured spike. "oh, some more monkey business," declared ricky. "if they try it on any more freshmen though, we'll take a hand ourselves; eh?" "sure," assented the others. "there they go--around the corner--and on the run!" suddenly exclaimed slim jones. "get a move on!" our friends broke into a trot--that is, all but joe. he tried to, but stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain shoot through his ankle. "sprained, by jove!" he exclaimed. "i'm glad it isn't the baseball season, for i'm going to be laid up." he halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase, drew ahead of him in the darkness, and disappeared around another corner. "i can't catch up to 'em," decided joe. "wonder if i can step on the foot?" he tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk. "guess i'll go back," he murmured. "if there's a row i can't hold up my end, and there's no use being a handicap. i'll go back and turn in. i can explain later." he turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time. "if i could see a hack i'd hail it," he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. "i've got to tramp it out," joe went on. "well, i can take it slow." his progress brought him to wall street, and he decided to continue along that to temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the red shack was located. but he was not destined to reach it without further adventures. as he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation. "if it's my own crowd--all right," he said. "but if it's a lot of sophs., i don't want to run into 'em." he listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices. "that's the house over there," said someone. "right! now we'll see if he'll double on me just because i wasn't prepared. i'll make him walk spanish!" "got plenty of the magoozilum?" "sure. we'll daub it on thick." "they can't be after freshmen," mused joe. "i wonder what's up?" he looked across the street in the direction where, evidently, the unseen ones were directing their attention. "a lot of the profs. live there," mused joe. "i have it! some one's going to play a trick on 'em to get even. i'll just pipe it off!" he had not long to wait. out of the shadows stole two figures, and, even in the dimness he recognized one of them as ford weston. the other he did not know. "come on!" hoarsely whispered the 'varsity pitcher to his chum. "i'll spread it on thick and then we'll cut for it. separate streets. i'll see you in the morning, but keep mum, whatever happens." the two figures ran silently across the street, and paused in front of a detached house. one seemed to be actively engaged at the steps for a few minutes, and then both quickly ran off again, the two separating and diving down side streets. "huh! whatever it was didn't take them long," thought joe. "i wonder what it was? guess i'll----" but his half-formed resolution to make an investigation was not carried out. he heard shouting down the street, and thinking it might be a crowd of sophomores, he decided to continue on to his room. "they might start a rough-house with me," mused joe, "and then my ankle would be more on the blink than ever. i'll go home." he started off, rather excited over the events of the night, and found that even his brief spell of standing still had stiffened him so that he could hardly proceed. "wow!" he exclaimed, as a particularly sharp twinge shot through him. he had gone about two blocks when he heard someone coming behind him. he turned in apprehension, but saw only a single figure. "hello! what's the matter?" asked a young man as he caught up to joe. "twisted my ankle." "so? what's your name?" "matson--i'm a freshman." "oh, yes. i think i saw you at chapel. kendall's my name." joe recognized it as that of one of the juniors and a member of the 'varsity nine. "how'd it happen?" "oh, skylarking. the sophs. were after us to-night." "so i heard. you'd better do something for that foot," he went on, as he noticed joe's limp. "i'm going to as soon as i get to my room." "say, i tell you what," went on kendall. "my joint's just around the corner, and i've got a prime liniment to rub on. suppose you come in and i'll give you some." "glad to," agreed joe. "i don't believe i've got a bit at my shack, and the drug stores are all closed." "come along then--here, lean on me," and kendall proffered his arm, for which joe was grateful. "here we are," announced kendall a little later, as they turned into a building where some of the wealthier students had their rooms. "sorry it's up a flight." "oh, i can make it," said joe, keeping back an exclamation of pain that was on his lips. "we'll just have a look at it," continued his new friend. "i've known a strain like that to last a long while if not treated properly. a little rubbing at the right time does a lot of good." joe looked in delight at the room of his newly found friend. it was tastefully, and even richly, furnished, but with a quiet atmosphere differing from the usual college apartment. "you've got a nice place here," he remarked, thinking that, after all, there might be more to yale life than he had supposed. "oh, it'll do. here's the stuff. now off with your shoe and we'll have a look at that ankle. i'm a sort of doctor--look after the football lads sometimes. are you trying for the eleven?" "no, baseball is my stunt." "yes? so's mine." "you catch, don't you?" asked joe. "i've heard of 'shorty' kendall." "that's me," came with a laugh. "oh, that's not so bad," he went on as he looked at joe's foot. "a little swelled. here, i'll give it a rub," and in spite of joe's half-hearted protests he proceeded to massage the ankle until it felt much better. "try to step on it," directed shorty kendall. joe did so, and found that he could bear his weight on it with less pain. "i guess you'll do," announced the junior. "cut along to your room now--or say--hold on, i can fix you up here for the night. i've got a couch----" "no, thank you," expostulated joe. "the boys would worry if i didn't come back." "you could send word----" "no, i'll trot along. much obliged." "take that liniment with you," directed kendall. "won't you need it?" "not until the diamond season opens, and that's some time off yet. good night--can you make the stairs?" "yes--don't bother to come down," and joe limped out. as he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming in the front door. before he could reach it the portal opened and a student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. in the glare of the hall light joe saw that the youth was ford weston. he also saw something else. on weston's hand was a red smear--brilliant--scarlet. at first joe thought it was blood, but a slight odor in the air told him it was paint. an instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher--at least joe hoped to make him a rival--and weston started. then he thrust his smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room and slammed the door. chapter xii joe's silence "rather queer," mused joe, after a moment's silence. "i wonder he didn't say something to me after what happened. so he rooms here? it's a great shack. i suppose if i stay here the full course i'll be in one of these joints. but i don't believe i'm going to stay. if i get a chance on the 'varsity nine next year and make good--then a professional league for mine." he limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made him keenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might be lame for some time. "red paint," he murmured as he let himself out. "i wonder what weston was doing with it? could he---- oh, i guess it's best not to think too much in cases like this." he reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured foot making an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor. "well, what happened to you?" "where did you hike to?" "were you down to glory's all by your lonesome?" "what'd you give us the slip for?" "come on; give an account of yourself." these were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night. "what's the matter?" demanded spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping. "oh, nothing much. twisted ankle. i'll be all right in the morning. how did you fellows make out?" "nothing doing," said ricky. "the boobs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost 'em. did you see anything of 'em?" "not much," said joe, truthfully enough. "then where did you go?" he explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met kendall. he said nothing of watching weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor's house. "mighty white of kendall," was spike's opinion, and it was voiced by all. "oh, what a night!" exclaimed slim jones. "home was never like this!" "well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to," said joe, after a pause; "but i'm going to put my foot to bed." "i guess that's the best place for all of us," agreed ricky. "come on, fellows; i have got some hard practice to-morrow. i may be called to the 'varsity." "like pie!" jeered slim jones. "oh, ho! don't you worry," taunted ricky. "i'll make it." there was a sensation the next morning. it seemed that a well-known and very literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town, before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own front porch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared over the steps. the professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled, but this was not the worst of it. he had taken with him, on his lecture, some exceedingly rare and valuable babylonian manuscripts to enhance his talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from his portfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint, being ruined thereby. and, as the manuscripts had been taken from the yale library, the loss was all the more keen. "i say, joe, did you hear the news?" gasped ricky, as he rushed into his friend's room, just before the chapel call. "no. is there a row over the shampooing?" "shampooing nothing! it's red paint, and some of those musty manuscripts that a prof. had," and he poured out the tale. "red paint?" murmured joe. "yes. there's a fierce row over it, and the dean has taken it up. if the fellows are found out they'll be expelled sure. oh, but it was a night! but the red paint was the limit." joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket--a hand smeared with red. "fierce row," went on ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing sensations almost as soon as they happened. "the prof. went sprawling on his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers---- oh me! oh my! i wonder who did it?" "hard to tell i guess," answered joe, "with the bunch that was out last night." "that's so. i'm glad it wasn't any of our fellows. we all stuck together--that is all but you----" and, as if struck by a sudden thought, he gazed anxiously at joe. "oh, i can prove an _alibi_ all right," laughed the pitcher. "don't worry." "glad of it. well, let's hike. there goes the bell." there was indeed a "fierce row," over the spoiling of the rare manuscripts, and the dean himself appealed to the honor of the students to tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was. but joe matson kept silent. there was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing of moment was disclosed. it was several days later when joe, strolling across the college campus after a lecture, came face to face with weston. for a moment they stood staring at one another. the hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the 'varsity pitcher, and he seemed to be trying to hide his hand--the hand that had held the red smear. then, without a word, he passed on. and joe matson still maintained his silence. the fall passed. the yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship. the christmas vacation came and went and joe spent happy days at home. he was beginning to be more and more a yale man and yet--there was something constrained in him. his parents noticed it. "i--i don't think joe is very happy," ventured clara, after he had gone back to college. "happy--why not?" challenged her mother. "oh, i don't know. he hasn't said much about baseball." "baseball!" chuckled mr. matson, as he looked out of the window at the wintry new england landscape. "this is sleigh-riding weather--not baseball." "oh, i do wish joe would give up his foolish idea," sighed mrs. matson. "he can never make anything of himself at baseball. a minister now, preaching to a large congregation----" "i guess, mother, if you'd ever been to a big ball game, and seen thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you'd think he had some congregation himself," said mr. matson, with another chuckle. "oh, well, what's the use talking to you?" demanded his wife; and there the subject was dropped. joe went back to yale. he was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not at all brilliantly. study came hard to him. he was longing for the spring days and the green grass of the diamond. gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts, to baseball. the weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the hint of mildness in the wintry winds. in various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises, getting out old gloves that needed mending. the cage in the gymnasium was wheeled out and some repairs made to it. "by jove!" cried joe one day, "i--i begin to feel as if i had the spring fever." "baseball fever you mean," corrected spike. "it's the same thing, old man." jimmie lee, a little freshman who roomed not far from joe's shack, came bursting in a little later. "hurray!" he yelled, slapping our hero on the back. "heard the news?" "what news?" asked spike. "have you been tapped for skull and bones, or wolf's head?" "neither, you old iconoclast. but the notice is up." "what notice?" "baseball candidates are to report in the gym. to-morrow afternoon. hurray!" and he dealt spike a resounding blow. joe matson's eyes sparkled. chapter xiii early practice "what are you going to try for?" "have you played much before you came here?" "oh, rats! i don't believe i'll have any show with all this bunch!" "hey, quit shoving; will you?" "oh, rinky-dink! over here!" "hi, weston, we're looking for you." "there goes shorty kendall. he'll sure catch this year." "hello, mac! think you'll beat weston to it this year?" "i might," was the cool reply. the above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium. it was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material offered on the altar of baseball. at best but a small proportion of the candidates could hope to make the 'varsity, or even a class team, but this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment. "well, we're here!" exulted jimmie lee, who had, the night before, brought to joe the good news that the ball season had at least started to open. "yes, we're here," agreed joe. "and what will happen to us?" asked spike poole. "it doesn't look to me as if much would." "oh, don't fool yourself," declared jimmie, who, being very lively, had learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had secured much information. "the coaches aren't going to let anything good get by 'em. did you see benson looking at me! ahem! and i think i have whitfield's eye! nothing like having nerve, is there? joe, hold up your hand and wriggle it--they're trying to see where you're located," and, with a laugh at his conceit, jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get nearer the centre of interest--to wit, where the old players who served as coaches were conferring with the captain. the latter was tom hatfield, a junior whose remarkable playing at short had won him much fame. mr. william benson and mr. james whitfield were two of the coaches. george farley was the manager, and a short stocky man, with a genial irish face, who answered to the name of dick mcleary, was the well-liked trainer. "well, if i can make the outfield i suppose i ought to be satisfied," spoke jimmie lee. "but i did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside the diamond." "i'll take to the daisies and be thankful," remarked spike; "though i would like to be behind the bat." "carrying bats would do me for a starter," spoke a tall lad near joe. "but i suppose i'll be lucky if they let me play on the freshman team. anyhow as long as i don't get left out of it altogether i don't mind. what are you going to try for?" he asked of our hero. "i would like to pitch. i twirled at excelsior hall, and i think i can play on the mound better than anywhere else, though that's not saying i'm such a muchness as a pitcher," added joe, modestly. "i did hope to get on the 'varsity, but----" "pitch!" exclaimed the other frankly. "say, you've got as much chance to pitch on the 'varsity as i have of taking the dean's place to-morrow. pitch on the 'varsity! say, i'm not saying anything against you, matson, for maybe you can pitch, but weston has the place cinched, and if he falls down there's harry mcanish, a southpaw. he stands about second choice." "oh, i've been disillusioned," said joe frankly. "i know i can't get on the 'varsity this year. but don't they have more than one pitcher in reserve?" "oh, yes, sure. but bert avondale comes next, and i have heard that he's even better than weston, but weston is steadier--in most games. i don't want to discourage you, but you'd better try for some other place than pitcher." "no, i'm going to try for there," said joe in a low voice. "i may not make it, but if i get a chance to show what i can do, and then fall down, i won't kick. i mean next year, of course," he added. "oh, you may get a chance all right. every fellow does at yale. but you're up against some of the best college baseball material that ever came over the pike. sometimes i think i've got nerve even to dream of a class team. but listen--they're going to start the fun now." the manager was speaking, announcing more or less formally, that which everyone knew already--that they had reported to allow a sort of preliminary looking over of the candidates. there were several of the former ball team who would play, it was said, but there was always need and a chance, for new material. all save freshmen would be given an opportunity, the manager said, and then he emphasized the need of hard work and training for those who were given the responsibility of carrying the blue of yale to victory on the diamond. "and, no less does this responsibility rest on the scrub, or second team," went on farley. "for on the efficiency of the scrub depends the efficiency of the 'varsity, since good opposition is needed in bringing out the best points of the first team." farley, who was one of the old players, acting as a coach, went on to add: "i have used the word 'scrub' and 'second team,' though, as you well know, there is nothing like that here at yale, that is as compared to football. when i say 'scrub' i mean one of the class teams, the freshman, sophomore or junior, for, in a measure, while separate and distinct teams themselves, they will serve us the same purpose as a scrub or substitute team would in football. they will give us something to practice with--some opposition--for you've got to have two nines to make a ball game," and he smiled at the anxious ones looking at him. "so," he went on, "when i use the word 'scrub' after this, or when any of the other coaches do, i want you to understand that it will mean one of the class teams which, for the purpose of strengthening the 'varsity, and enabling it to practice, acts as opposition. "sometimes the 'varsity will play one team, and sometimes another, for the class teams will have their own contests to look after, to win, we hope; to lose, we hope not. i wish i could give you freshmen encouragement that you could make the 'varsity, but, under the rules, none of you can. now we'll get down to business." he gave encouragement to many, and consoled those who might fail, or, at best, make only a class team. then he introduced the captain--tom hatfield--who was received with a rousing cheer. "well, fellows," said hatfield, "i haven't much to say. this is my first experience at the head of a big college nine, though you know i've played with you in many games." "that's right--and played well, too!" yelled someone. "three cheers for hatfield!" they were given with a will, and the captain resumed. "of course we're going to win this year, even if we didn't last." this was received in silence, for the losing of the championship to princeton the previous season had been a sore blow to yale. "we're going to win," went on hatfield in a quiet voice; "but, just because we are, don't let that fool you into getting careless. we've all got to work hard--to train hard--and we've got to practice. i expect every man to report regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the 'varsity or not. it's part of the game, and we've all got to play it--scrub and 'varsity alike. "i guess that's all i've got to say, though i may have more later, after we get started. the coaches will take charge now and you'll have to do as they say. we won't do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of running to see how each fellow's wind is." he nodded to the coaches and trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry: "three cheers for hatfield. good old yale cheers!" the gymnasium rang with them, and then came the boola song, after which the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance. "now then, get busy!" commanded mr. benson. "old players over that side, and the new ones here. give in your names, and say where you've played. lively now!" he and mr. whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as they approached him, joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. would he have a chance? and, if he got it, could he make good? these were the questions he asked him. "name?" "matson--joe." "hum. yes. ever played before?" "yes, on a school nine." "where?" "excelsior hall." "hum! yes. never heard of it. where did you play?" "i pitched." "pitched. hum! yes. i never saw so many pitchers as we have this season. well, i'll put you down for your freshman class team, though i can't give you much encouragement," and mr. benson turned to the next lad. "go over there and do some throwing, i'll watch you later," he concluded, and joe's heart began to sink as he saw spike motioning to him to come to one side and indulge in some practice balls. "how'd you make out?" asked his room-mate. "oh, i'm engaged right off the bat," laughed joe, but he could not conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent. "so? then you had better luck than i. whitfield told me he didn't think i had the right build for a catcher." "well, maybe we can both make our scrub class team," spoke joe. "say, it hasn't half begun yet," declared jimmie lee, who had a hankering to play first base. "wait until the main coach gets here, and we'll have a shake-up that'll set some people on their ears." "what do you mean?" asked joe wonderingly. "i mean that the main gazaboo isn't here yet: mr. forsythe hasbrook--old horsehide they call him. he's the main coach. these are only his assistants." "is that so?" inquired spike. "it sure is. he's the real thing in baseball--horsehide is. an old yale man, but up-to-date. played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game from a to z. he never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun on the field, and then it doesn't take him long to size a fellow up. of course i only know what i've been told," he added, "but that goes all right." "well, if we didn't get picked for the team now, i don't believe we'll have any chance after the main coach gets here," said joe. "guess not," assented spike. "here we go." and they started to practice. chapter xiv the surprise "oh, get a little more speed on! don't run so much like an ice wagon. remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!" "lively now! throw that in as if you meant it! we're not playing bean bag, remember!" "oh, swing to it! swing to it! make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!" "don't be afraid of the ball! it's hard, of course, that's the way it's made. but if you're going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!" "stand up to the plate! what if you do get hit?" thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the 'varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was. "remember we want to win games," declared mr. benson. "we're not on the diamond to give a ladies' exhibition. you've got to play, and play hard if you want to represent yale." "that's right," chimed in mr. whitfield. "we've got to have the college championship this year. we've _got_ to have it. now try that over," he commanded of ford weston, who had struck one man out in practice. "do it again. that's the kind of playing we want." joe, who had been catching with spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. shorty kendall was catching for the 'varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed. "i wonder if i'll ever get there," mused joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. it seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him. "if i'd finished at excelsior," he told himself, "i think i'd have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class. hang it all!" the practice went on. it was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedly good material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more hopeful candidates back on the waiting list. as yet joe had been given scant notice. he had been told to bat, pitch, catch and run, but that was all. he had done it, but it had all seemed useless. the day was a perfect spring one, and the diamond was in excellent condition. it had been rather wet, but the wind had dried it, and, though there were still evidences of frost in the ground, they would soon disappear under the influence of the warm sun. in various sorts of uniforms, scattered over the big field, the candidates went at their practice with devotion and zeal. winning a baseball game may not be much in the eyes of the world, getting the college championship may seem a small matter to the man of affairs--to the student or the politician, intent on bigger matters. but to the college lads themselves it meant much--it was a large part of their life. and, after all, isn't life just one big game; and if we play it fairly and squarely and win--isn't that all there is to it? and, in a measure, doesn't playing at an athletic game fit one to play in life? it isn't always the winning that counts, but the spirit of fair play, the love for the square deal, the respect for a worthy foe, and the determination not to give up until you are fairly beaten--all these things count for much. so, after all, one can not blame the college lads for the intense interest they take in their games. it is the best kind of training for life, for it is clean and healthful. for a week or more this preliminary practice was kept up. the weather remained fine, and every afternoon the diamond was the scene of much excitement. the candidates reported faithfully, and worked hard. there were many shifts from some of the sophomore or junior nines to the 'varsity, and back again. some who had been called to the "scrub," as i shall call the class nines when they practiced against the 'varsity, were sent back to the waiting list--at best to bunt balls to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill. nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. it is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh. it is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it--or whether it will hit you--it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out. but when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere--when getting the college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. there is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor. and there is hard physical work, too. of course it is a welcome change from the class-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less. then there are the coaches to put up with. i never was a coach, though i have played under them, and i suppose there is some virtue in the method they use--that of driving the men. and when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically: "you're not playing ping-pong, you know, jones." or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness: "did you hurt yourself that time, smith? it was a beautiful wind blow, but--er--pardon me if i mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is to _hit the ball_. you hit it, and then you run--run, understand, not walk. and another thing, don't be so afraid of it. "of course this isn't a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with--it's hard, and when it hits you it's going to hurt. but--don't let it hit you, and for cats' sake stand up to the plate!" it's a way coaches have, i suppose, and always will. joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. and i think i agree with him. there is something you get at when a coach yells at you: "come on there you snail! are you going to hold that base all day? someone else wants to get past you know. "come on in! we need that run! move as if you meant it! don't fall asleep! oh, for cats' sake, fanning the air again? run now! that's it. slide! don't be afraid of soiling your clothes, we'll buy you another suit!" i hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at yale, and joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. it was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself. "i don't believe i'm ever going to make even the class scrub, spike," said joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat. "oh, yes you will," declared his friend. "you can pitch--you know it, and i know it. i haven't caught off you these two weeks for nothing. you can pitch, and they'll find it out sooner or later. don't give up!" "i'm not going to. and say, come to think of it, you're no better off than i am. they haven't noticed you either, and yet i've never seen anyone who held the balls any better than you do. and, as for throwing to second--say, you've got kendall beaten." "i'm glad you think so," murmured spike. "i know it!" insisted joe. "i've played in a few games. but what's the use of kicking? maybe our chance will come." "i hope so," replied spike. the practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused. "first game to-morrow," announced jimmie lee, bursting into joe's room one evening. "it's just been decided." "who do we play?" asked spike. joe felt his heart sink down lower than ever, for he realized that if he had a chance he would have heard of it by this time. "oh, it isn't a regular game," went on jimmie, who was jubilant from having heard that he would at least start at first base for the class team. "the scrub, as they call it, and 'varsity will play the first regular contest. horsehide is to be there for the first time. then there'll be something doing. i only hope he sees me." "the first regular practice game to-morrow," mused joe. "well, it will be a good one--to watch." "yes--to watch," joined in spike, grimly. "but the season is early yet, joe." as they were talking the door opened and ricky hanover came in. he was grinning broadly. "let's go out and have some sport," he proposed. "it's as dull as ditch water around here. come on out and raise a riot. i'll take you fellows down to glory's, and you can have a rabbit." "get out!" cried spike. "we're in training, you heathen, and you're not." "a precious lot of good it will do you," commented the newcomer. "why don't you chuck it all? you'll never make the team--i mean you and joe, spike. jimmie here has had luck. chuck it and come on out." "no," spoke joe slowly. "i'm going to stick." "so am i," added his room-mate. "you never can tell when your chance will come. besides, we owe it to yale to stick." "all right--i suppose you're right," agreed ricky, with a sigh. "i did the same thing at football. but i sure do want to start something." "begin on that," laughed joe passing him over the alarm clock. "it's run down. wind it and start it going!" ricky joined in the laugh against him, and soon took his departure. joe heard him come in at an early morning hour, and wondered what "sport" ricky had been up to. a large gathering turned out to see the first real baseball contest of the season. by it a line could be had on the sort of game the 'varsity would put up, and all the students were eager to see what sort of championship material they had. there was a conference between coaches and captains, and the 'varsity list was announced weston was to pitch, and kendall to catch. neither joe's name, nor those of any of his intimate chums were called off for a class team. joe did have some hope of the scrub, but when the name of the last man there had been called off, joe's was not mentioned. he moved off to the side, with bitterness in his heart. the game started off rather tamely, though the class pitcher--bert avondale--managed to strike out two of the 'varsity men, to the disgust of the coaches, who raced about, imploring their charges to hit the ball. at the same time they called on the scrub to do their best to prevent the 'varsity men from getting to the bases. it was playing one against the other, just as diamond dust is used to cut the precious stones of which it once formed a part. "well, i haven't seen anything wonderful," remarked joe to spike, after the first inning. "no, they're a little slow warming up. but wait. oh, i say, here he comes!" "who?" "the head coach--horsehide himself. i heard he was to be here to-day. it's his first appearance. now they'll walk spanish." across the back-field a man was approaching--a man who was eagerly surrounded by many of the candidates, and he was cheered to the echo, while murmurs of his name reached joe. "let's go up and have a look at him," proposed spike. "go ahead," agreed joe, for the game had momentarily stopped at the advent of the head coach. he was shaking hands all around, and, as joe approached, mr. forsythe hasbrook turned to greet someone behind him. joe had a good look at his face, and to his great surprise he recognized it as that of the man whom he had driven to the depot in such a rush to catch a train. "and he's yale's head coach!" murmured joe. "i--i wonder if he'll remember me?" chapter xv his first chance joe matson's hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be yale's head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for mr. hasbrook--or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, "horsehide"--had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. he wanted to watch the playing. after a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the 'varsity captain had a part, horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. he said little at first, and then when weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, mr. hasbrook called out: "hold on there! wait a minute, weston. that was as near a balk as i've ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing." "what do you mean?" asked weston, slightly surprised. "i mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. where were your eyes?" he asked, of the scrub captain. "i--er--i didn't think----" "that's what your brains are for," snapped the head coach. "you can't play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat. watch every move. it's the best general who wins battles--baseball or war. now go on, and don't do that again, weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base," ordered horsehide. the 'varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn. "he's sharp, isn't he?" said joe. "that's what makes him the coach he is," spoke spike. "what's the use of soft-soap? that never made a ball nine." "no, i suppose not." joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with mr. hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. nothing more had been heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet investigating. "i believe weston had a hand in it," thought joe, "but i'm not going to say anything. he had red paint on him, anyhow. i wonder what he has against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance? if i thought so i'd--no, i can't do anything. i've just got to take it as it comes. if i do get a chance, though, i think i can make good." the practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and several shifts were made. but the 'varsity pitcher remained the same, and joe watched weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points. for weston had them. he was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a curve. still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents. the game was almost over, and the 'varsity had it safely in hand. they had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many glaring errors, but in this they were not alone. "though, for that matter," declared joe, "i think the scrub pitcher did better, and had better support, than the 'varsity. i don't see why the scrubs didn't win." "it's just because they know they're playing against the 'varsity," declared spike. "there's a sort of nervousness that makes 'em forget to do the things they could do if it was some other nine. sort of over-awed i guess." "maybe," assented joe. "well, here's the end," and the game came to a close. "now for the post-mortem," remarked his room-mate. "the coaches and captain will get together and talk it over." "then we might as well vamoose," said joe. "they won't need us." "i guess not. come on." the boys strolled from the diamond. as they passed a group of the 'varsity players surrounding the coaches, joe saw mr. hasbrook step forward. he had a bat and seemed to be illustrating some of the weak points of the plays just made, or to be about to demonstrate how properly to swing at a ball. as joe came opposite him the head coach stepped out a little and saw our hero. for a moment he stared unrecognizingly at him, and then a smile came over his rugged face. his eyes lighted up, and, stepping forward, he held out his hand. "why, how do you do!" he exclaimed. "i know you--i'm sure i've seen you somewhere before, and under queer circumstances, too, but i can't just recall--hold on, wait a moment!" he exclaimed, as he saw joe about to speak. "i like to make my brain work. "ah! i have it! you're the young fellow who drove me to the station, in time to catch the new york train, the day my carriage wheel broke. well, but i'm glad to see you again! that was a great service you did me, and i haven't forgotten it. are you attending here?" "yes," said joe, glad that he had not been forgotten. "good! are you playing ball?" "well--er--i--that is i haven't----" "oh, i see. you're trying for your team. good! i'm glad to hear it. it's a great game--the greatest there is. and so you are at yale--matson--you see i haven't forgotten your name. i never expected to meet you here. do you know the other coaches?" "i've met them," murmured joe, and he half smiled in a grim fashion, for that was about as far as his acquaintanceship had progressed. he had met them but they did not know him apart from many others. "good!" exclaimed mr. hasbrook. "well, i'll see you again. and so you're at yale? look me up when you get time," and he turned back to his instruction, murmuring to the other coaches: "he did me quite a service some time ago. i'm glad to see him again. seems like a nice lad." the others murmured an assent, and then gave their whole attention to the man who had, more than anyone else, perhaps, mastered the science of baseball as it ought to be played. "well, say, you've got a friend at court all right!" exclaimed spike, as he and joe strolled along. "if i had your chance i'd----" "chance!" exclaimed joe. "what better chance have i than i had before?" "why, you know horsehide! why didn't you say so?" "i didn't know i did until a little while ago. i had no idea that the man i picked up and took to the station would turn out to be the yale coach. but if you think he's going to put me in ahead of the others just on that account you're mistaken." "oh, i don't say that." "it wouldn't be square," went on joe. "of course not. but as long as he does know you he might at least prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you've had so far." "well, maybe," laughed joe. "but i'm not expecting anything like that." "well, just remember me when your chance does come," begged spike. "and remember that i told you." "i will," declared joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly: "if ever i do get on the mound, spike, i'll try to have you catch for me." "i wish you would!" as they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how joe matson wished he was there none but himself knew. in their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between 'varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. it was agreed that the 'varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise. "but things will begin to hum now!" exclaimed jimmie lee, as he sat in joe's room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were encumbered with many lads of the red shack, and some visitors from other places. "yes, sir! horsehide won't stand for any nonsense. they'll all have to toe the line now." "jove, weren't the other coaches stiff enough?" asked clerkinwell de vere, who aspired to right field. "they certainly laced into me for further orders when i muffed a ball." "and so they should," declared spike. "that's what they're for." "oh, but wait until you do that when horsehide sees you," went on jimmie. "that won't be a marker, will it, shorty?" "i should say not. he'll make your hair curl all right. he's a terror." "friend of joe's here," put in spike. "no! is he?" demanded ricky hanover, who had drifted in. "how's that?" "oh, i just met him by accident," declared our hero. "it isn't worth mentioning." he told the incident after some urging. "i wish i stood in your shoes," said de vere. "i'd be sure of my place then." "nothing of the sort!" exclaimed jimmie lee. "if horsehide played favorites that way, he wouldn't be the coach he is. that's one thing about him--he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. i know he did it other seasons--everyone says so." "oh, he's square," chimed in another. "there's not a better coach living, and none you can depend on more. all he wants is to see good, clean playing, and yale to win." joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he resolutely put them out of his mind. "i don't want to get on even the 'varsity that way!" he said to himself that night, when the visitors were gone, and he and spike had turned in. "i want to win my way." nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next day, when he reported for practice. "well, same old gag over again i suppose," remarked spike, as they went out to toss and catch. "i suppose so," agreed joe. he passed mr. hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders just before the 'varsity-class game, but the head coach did not even notice joe. after some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of the pitchers, mr. benson called for a cessation of practice. "here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day," he announced, producing a paper. he began to read off the names. for the 'varsity they were the same as the day before. joe, who had permitted himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking. "for the opposition, or scrub," announced the assistant coach, and he ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled--that of pitcher. "joe matson!" he called, sharply. chapter xvi joe makes good for a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. he had been called to pitch for the scrub! once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, mr. benson called out sharply: "didn't you hear, matson? you're to pitch against the 'varsity, and i want you to beat 'em!" "yes--yes, sir," answered joe, in a sort of daze. "and, 'varsity, if you don't pound him all over the field you're no good! eat 'em up!" snapped the assistant coach. "don't let 'em win, scrub," insisted mr. whitfield, and thus it went on--playing one against the other to get the 'varsity to do its best. "play ball!" called the umpire. "get to work. come in, you fellows," and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up. "congratulations, old man!" murmured spike, as he shook joe's hand. "you deserve it." "and so do you. i wish you were going to catch." "i wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. fool 'em now." "i'll try." joe had a vision of bert avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted bert's despondent attitude. "it's tough to be displaced," murmured joe. "it's a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else's failure, and yet--well, it's all in the game. i may not make good, but i'm going to try awfully hard!" he wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by mr. hasbrook. "i wonder if i'd better thank him?" mused joe. "it would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because i've got a right to have it, for the reason that i can pitch. and yet he doesn't know that i can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. but they haven't watched me enough to know. however, i think i'll say nothing until i have made good." had joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. it is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man's style of play who seems to find out most. mr. hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries of the coaches who had done the preliminary work. "oh, matson. hum, yes. he does fairly well," admitted mr. benson. "he has a nice, clean delivery. he isn't much on batting, though." "few pitchers are," remarked the head coach. "i wonder if it would do to give him a trial?" "i should say so--yes," put in mr. whitfield. he was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in joe's favor, and, to do the assistant coaches justice, they both agreed that joe had done very well. but there were so many ahead of him--men who had been at yale longer--that in justice they must be tried out first. "then we'll try him on the scrub," decided mr. hasbrook; and so it had come about that joe's name was called. in order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the 'varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances. "play ball!" yelled the umpire again. "it's getting late. play ball!" joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him. as he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take off the smoothness of the horsehide, mr. hasbrook advanced toward him and motioned him to wait. "matson," said the head coach, smiling genially. "you wouldn't let me reward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though i wanted to. i hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but i never thought it would come in this way. i have decided to give you a chance to make good." "and i can't thank you enough!" burst out the young pitcher. "i feel that----" "tut! tut!" exclaimed mr. hasbrook, holding up his hand, "i wouldn't have done this if i didn't think you had pitching stuff in you. in a way this isn't a favor at all, but you're right though, it might not have come so quickly. i appreciate your feelings, but there are a few things i want to say. "at yale every man stands on his own feet. there is no favoritism. wealth doesn't count, as i guess you've found out. membership in the senior societies--skull and bones, scroll and keys--wolf's head--doesn't count--though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations take their members because of what they have done--not of what they are. "and so i'm giving you a chance to see what is in you. i'd like to see you make good, and i believe you will. but--if you don't--that ends it. every tub must stand on its own bottom--you've got to stand on your feet. i've given you a chance. maybe it would have come anyhow, but, out of friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, i was instrumental in having it come earlier. that is not favoritism. you can't know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to get the train that, otherwise, i would have missed. "it was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vital importance to me. i would be ungrateful, indeed, if i did not repay you in the only way i could--by giving you the chance to which you are entitled. "but--this is important--you've got to show that you can pitch or you'll lose your place. i've done what i can for you, and, if you prove worthy i'll do more. i'll give you the best coaching i can--but you've got to have backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and a lot of other things to make the yale nine. if you do i'll feel justified in what i have done. now, play ball!" and without giving him a chance to utter the thanks that were on his lips, mr. hasbrook left joe and took a position where he could watch the playing. it is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances. anyone would, i think, and when he pitched a wild ball, that the catcher had to leap for, there were some jeers. "oh, you've got a great find!" sneered weston. "he's a pitcher from pitchville!" joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more than that in a match game, and he did not reply. other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permitted it, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in a big game, where everything is done to "get his goat," as the saying goes. "ball two!" yelled the umpire, at joe's second delivery, and the lad was aware of a cold feeling down his spine. "i've got to make good! i've got to make good!" fiercely he told himself over again. there seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an effort he cleared it away. he stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace--an old trick to gain time--and when he rose he was master of himself again. swiftly, cleanly, and with the curve breaking at just the right moment, his next delivery went over the plate. the batsman struck at it and missed by a foot. "good work, old man!" called the catcher to him. "let's have another." but the next was a foul, and joe began to worry. "you're finding him," called the 'varsity captain to his man. "line one out." but joe was determined that this should not be, and it was not, for though the batter did not make a move to strike at the second ball after the foul, the umpire called sharply: "strike--batter's out." there was a moment of silence, and then a yell of delight from the scrubs and their friends. "what's the matter with you?" angrily demanded mr. hasbrook of the batter. "can't you hit anything?" the batsman shook his head sadly. "that's the boy!" "that's the way to do it!" "you're all right, matson!" these were only a few cries that resounded. joe felt a warm glow in his heart, but he knew the battle had only begun. if he had hoped to pitch a no-hit, no-run game he was vastly disappointed, for the batters began to find him after that for scattering pokes down the field. not badly, but enough to show to joe and the others that he had much yet to learn. i am not going to describe that practice game in detail, for there are more important contests to come. sufficient to say that, to the utter surprise of the 'varsity, the scrub not only continued to hold them well down, but even forged ahead of them. in vain the coaches argued, stormed and pleaded. at the beginning of the ninth inning the scrubs were one run ahead. "now if we can shut them out we'll win!" yelled billy wakefield, the scrub captain, clapping joe on the back. "can you do it?" "i'll try, old man," and the pitcher breathed a trifle faster. it was a time to try his soul. he was so nervous that he walked the first man, and the 'varsity began to jeer him. "we've got his goat! play tag around the bases now! everyone gets a poke at it!" they cried. joe shut his lips firmly. he was holding himself well in, and mr. hasbrook, watching, murmured: "he's got nerve. he may do, if he's got the ability, the speed and the stick-to-it-iveness. i think i made no mistake." joe struck out the next man cleanly, though the man on first stole to second. then, on a puzzling little fly, which the shortstop, with no excuse in the world, missed, another man got to first. there was a double steal when joe sent in his next delivery, and the catcher, in a magnificent throw to second, nearly caught his man. it was a close decision, but the umpire called him safe. there were now two on bases, the first sack being unoccupied, and only one out. "careful," warned the catcher, and joe nodded. perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for, after two balls had been called, joe struck him out, making two down. "now for the final!" he murmured, as the next batter faced him. there were still two on bases, and a good hit would mean two runs in, possibly three if it was a homer. "i'm going to strike him out!" thought joe fiercely. but when two foul strikes resulted from balls that he had hoped would be missed he was not so sure. he had given no balls, however, and there was still a reserve in his favor. "ball one!" yelled the umpire, at the next delivery. joe could hear his mates breathing hard. he rubbed a little soil on the horsehide, though it did not need it, but it gave him a moment's respite. then, swift and sure, he threw the bail. right for the plate it went, and the batter lunged fiercely at it. but he did not hit it. "striker out--side's out!" came from the umpire. joe had made good. chapter xvii another step "'varsity beaten! what do you know about that?" gasped ricky hanover, as the crowd that had watched the game swarmed out on the diamond. "and joe matson did it!" added spike. "jove! but i'm glad for his sake! and him only a freshman, playing on a scrub class team. i'm glad!" "so am i," added jimmie lee, who joined them. "will this get him a permanent place?" asked ricky. "he's entitled to it." "well, he's got his foot on the first rung of the ladder anyhow," was jimmie's opinion. "but it'll be a good while before he pitches for the 'varsity. he's got to show the coaches that it was no freak work. besides he's got a year to wait." "and he can do it!" declared spike. "i haven't been catching him these last two weeks for nothing. joe isn't a freak pitcher. he's got control, and that's better than speed or curves, though he has them, too." on all sides there was talk about the result of the practice game. of course the second nine had, in times past, often beaten the 'varsity, for the element of luck played into the hands of the scrub as well as into those of its opponents. but the times were few and far between when the first nine had to go down to defeat, especially in the matter of a scrub freshman pitcher administering it to them, and joe's glory was all the greater. "congratulations, old man!" exclaimed avondale, the scrub twirler whom joe had temporarily displaced. "you saw your duty and you done it nobly, as the poet says. you didn't let 'em fuss you when you were in a tight corner, and that's what tells in a ball game. shake!" "thanks!" exclaimed joe. he knew just what it meant for his rival to do this, and he appreciated it. "you can have a whack at them next." "i'm afraid not," returned avondale. "you did so well that they'll want to keep you at scrub, and you'll be on the 'varsity before you know it." "i wish i could think so," laughed joe. as he spoke he saw ford weston passing behind him, and the 'varsity pitcher had heard what was said. a scowl passed over his face. he did not speak to joe, but to captain hatfield, who was with him, the pitcher murmured, loudly enough to be heard: "it was just a fluke, that was all. we could have won only for the errors the fielders made." "maybe--maybe not," agreed the captain. "i think we were outpitched, and i'm not afraid to acknowledge it. we've got to do better!" "do you mean me?" there was challenge in weston's tone. "i mean all of us," was the quiet answer. "matson, you did us up brown, but you won't do it again," and the captain laughed frankly. "i'll try--if i get the chance," was the grim retort. meanwhile the coaches had singled out some of the 'varsity members whose playing had shown faults, and were giving instructions how to correct them. merky bardine, who played on third, had sprained his leg slightly, and the trainer, mcleary, had taken him in hand to treat him. mr. hasbrook walked up to joe. "you did very well," the chief coach was good enough to say, "and i'm glad you had your chance. you have a number of faults to correct, but i think you can master them. one is that you don't get enough into the game yourself. a pitcher must do more than merely deliver the ball. twice in this game you didn't get after the bunts as you might have done." joe felt a little discouraged. he had hoped for unqualified praise from the head coach, but he was sensible enough to realize that it was all said for his benefit, and he resolved to profit by it. in fact it was this quality and ability of joe's--enabling him to receive advice graciously--that made him the wonderful pitcher he afterward became. "you must play into the game more," went on mr. hasbrook. "outside of the catcher, you're the only man on the team who can handle certain bunts--i mean the pitcher. for that reason you want to study a style of delivery that won't leave you in a bad position to look after the ball if it is hit your way. you have the right idea now in throwing, but you can improve, i'm sure." "i'll try," spoke joe. "i know you will, and that's why i'm taking the trouble to talk to you. then you've got to be on the watch for base stealing. there are some catchers who can pretend to throw to second, and yet so suddenly change as to deliver the ball to the pitcher. this deceives the man on third, who starts for home, and if you have the ball you can nip him. so far we haven't had a catcher who can work this trick, but we may develop one before we get through." "then kendall isn't sure of his place?" asked joe eagerly, thinking of the desire of his chum spike to fill the position behind the plate later on. "well, he's reasonably sure of it," went on the head coach cautiously. "but we never can tell what will develop after the season opens. another point i'd like to impress on you is, that sometimes you've got to help out on first base. particularly is this the case when a bunt comes that the first baseman can take care of. then it's your duty to hustle over to first." "yes, sir," answered joe. it was all he could think of to say at the time. in fact he was rather dazed. there was a deal more to this baseball game than he had imagined. he was beginning to get an inkling of the difference between the amateur sport and the professional way of playing. "i don't want to burden you with too much advice at the start," went on mr. hasbrook, "for i want you to remember what i tell you. from time to time, as i see your weak points, i'm going to mention them to you." "i'll be glad if you will," spoke joe earnestly. "on the whole you did very well to-day," concluded the head coach, "and i'm glad we gave you the chance. report for light practice to-morrow, and the next day we'll try another game. look after your arm. you used it a good bit this afternoon." joe felt in rather better spirits after mr. hasbrook had finished than when he began. "i'm going to get a fair chance to show what i can do, anyhow," declared our hero, as he went to his room. on the way he was joined by spike, who had dropped back when the head coach started his instructions. "well?" asked joe's room-mate. "fairly well," was the answer. "say, i believe you've got a chance, spike." "me? how?" "why, it isn't settled that kendall will catch all of next season." "oh, i guess it is as much as anything is settled in this world. but i can wait. i've got four years here." joe was elated at his triumph, and little was talked of in baseball circles that night but how the scrubs had "put one over" on the 'varsity. there was some disposition to criticize the first team for loose and too confident playing, but those who knew gave joe credit for what he had done. and so the baseball season went on until the 'varsity was fully perfected and established, the class teams improved and the schedule made up. then came hard and grilling work. joe was doing his best on his freshman class team, and often played against the college nine, either in conjunction with his mates, or, when it was desired to give one of the other freshmen pitchers a chance, taking part with a mixed "scrub" team, composed of lads from various classes in order to give the 'varsity good opposition. and yale swept on her way. of course joe bewailed the fact that he would have to lose a whole year before he could hope for a chance to be on the first team, but he bided his time. weston was doing fairly well, and the feeling between him and our hero had not changed. the spring term was drawing to a close. yale and princeton had met twice, and there was a game apiece. yale had also played other colleges, losing occasionally, but winning often enough to entitle her to claim the championship if she took the odd game from the tiger. but she did not, and though her players insisted, none the less, that yale was at the top of the heap, and though the sporting writers conceded this, still princeton won the third game. and yale was bitter, though she stood it grimly,--as she always does. "well, we'll see what next year will bring forth," said spike to joe, at the wind-up of the baseball season. "you're coming back; aren't you?" "i wouldn't miss it for anything now. though, as a matter of fact, i didn't expect to. i thought i'd take one year here, and if i could get on the 'varsity nine long enough to say i had been on it, i'd quit, and go in for the professional end of it. but, since i can't, i'll come back and make another stab at it." "that's the way to talk. well, i hope to be here, too." the summer vacation came, and joe had passed his examinations. not brilliantly, but sufficiently well to enable him to enter the sophomore class. "and if i don't make the 'varsity next spring, it will be my own fault!" he cried, as he said good-bye to his chums and packed up for home. the summer passed pleasantly enough. joe's family took a cottage at a lake resort, and of course joe organized a ball team among the temporary residents of the resort. a number of games were played, joe pitching in fine style. one day a manager of one of the minor leagues attended a contest where joe pitched, and when word of this was carried to our hero he had a nervous fit. but he pulled himself together, twirled magnificently, and was pleased to see the "magnate" nod approvingly. though later, when someone offered to introduce joe to him, the lad declined. "i'll wait until i've made a better reputation," he declared. "i want the yale y before i go looking for other honors;" and he stuck to that. "joe seems to care more for college than you thought he would, father," said mrs. matson, when it came time for her son to go back as a sophomore for the next fall term. "i think he'll finish yet, and make us all proud of him." "joe will never do anything that would not make us proud of him," said his father. "but i rather fancy the reason he is so willing to go back to yale is that he didn't make the 'varsity baseball nine last season. there's a rule against freshmen, you know." "oh dear!" lamented mrs. matson. "i did hope he would like college for its own sake, and not for baseball." "it's hard to separate baseball and football from college likings, i guess," conceded her husband. and so joe went back. it was quite different from entering new haven as a freshman, and even in the old elms he seemed to have a proprietary interest. he took his old room, because he liked it, and a number of his other sophomore friends did likewise, though some freshmen held forth there as usual. then came the football season, and, though joe took an interest in this, and even consented to try for the scrub, he was not cut out for that sort of work, and soon gave it up. yale made her usual success on the gridiron, though the far-famed game with princeton resulted in a tie, which made the baseball nine all the more anxious to win the championship. the winter seemed endless, but soon there was the beginning of baseball talk, as before, and this was regarded as a sign of spring. there was no question now but what joe was eligible for the 'varsity, though that was far from saying that he would be picked for it. all his old friends had returned to the university, and there was little change in the baseball situation as regards new names. most of the old ones kept their same places. nothing definite had been learned about the red paint episode, and though it was mentioned occasionally, and often in a censorious manner as against the perpetrator of it, the latter was not discovered. then there began to gather at yale the oldtime players, who acted as coaches. mr. hasbrook, who from long familiarity with the game, and from his intense love of it, and for his _alma mater_, was again named as head coach. "well, we've got a pretty good nine, i think," said weston one day, after hard practice against the freshmen. how joe did thank his stars that he was not in the latter team, though he was first pitcher on the sophomore team. "yes, we have," admitted several. "it looks as if we could trim princeton this time." joe had pitched for the 'varsity in some informal practice games, though weston was regarded still as first choice. and joe was fearful that his cherished ambition was yet far from being realized. "we're playing good ball," said weston. "i don't say that because i'm pitching," he added quickly, as he saw some looking at him curiously, "but because we have got a good team--mostly old players, too," and he glanced meaningly at joe, as though he resented his entrance as an aspirant for the mound. "one thing--we've got to tighten up considerably," declared captain hatfield. "we'll play our first match game with amherst in two weeks, and we want to swamp 'em." "oh, we will," said weston easily. "not unless you pitch better--and we all play better," was the grim answer. "what do you mean?" "just what i said. you've got to strike more men out, and play a livelier game." "well, i guess i can," answered the pitcher, sullenly. there was only light practice the next day, and joe was told to perfect himself in signals with the class captain. then came another hard practice contest, and, somewhat to joe's surprise, he was not called on to pitch, as he fully expected. but he resigned himself cheerfully when avondale went to the mound. had our hero but known it, mr. hasbrook had deliberately omitted to start joe, wishing to discipline him, not, however, because of anything joe had done. "i think there's championship material for one of the big leagues in that lad," mused the head coach, to justify himself, "and he's got a hard row ahead of him unless he learns to take disappointment. i'll start him on the right track, though i would like to pitch him steadily." and so joe sat on the bench, while his rival pitched. whether it was on this account, or because the 'varsity had tightened, was not at once apparent, but the fact was that the first team began to pound out runs, and the scrub did not. "that's the way!" exclaimed the enthusiastic assistant coaches. "eat 'em up, 'varsity!" mr. hasbrook smiled, but said nothing. at the end of the seventh inning joe was sent in to pitch, but it was too late for the scrubs to save the game for themselves, since the 'varsity had it by six runs. nor did joe escape hitless, though from the time he went in no runs were made by his opponents. "joe, you're a better pitcher than i am," declared avondale, frankly. "i can see where i've made mistakes." "well, it isn't too late to fix 'em." "yes, i'm afraid it is," and, as it developed, it was, for from then on joe did most of the pitching for the scrub. occasionally, when his arm was a bit lame, avondale was sent in, or one of the other pitching candidates, but the result was nearly always disastrous for the scrub. not that joe always made good. he had his off days, when his curves did not seem to break right, and when his control was poor. but he was trying to carry out mr. hasbrook's instructions to get into more plays, and this handicapped him a bit at the start. the head coach saw this, and made allowances, keeping joe on the mound when the assistants would have substituted someone else. "wait," advised the head coach. "i know what i'm doing." the season was beginning to open. schedules were being arranged, and soon yale would begin to meet her opponents. the practice grew harder and more exacting. the voices of the coaches were more stern and sharp. no errors were excused, and the scrub was worked doubly hard to make the 'varsity that much better. ford weston had improved considerably and then one day he went to pieces in the box, when playing a particularly close and hard game with the scrub. there was surprise and consternation, and a hasty conference of the coaches. an attempt was made to stem the tide by putting in mcanish, the southpaw, and he did some excellent work, but the scrub seemed to have struck a winning streak and took everything that came their way. joe was pitching, and held the first team well down. there was gloom in yale that night, for the game with amherst was not far off, and the amherst lads were reported to be a fast and snappy lot. there was a day of rest, and then came the final practice against the scrub. there was a consultation among the coaches in which the first and second captains participated before the contest. then mr. hasbrook separated himself from the others. "matson!" he called sharply. "you and kendall warm up a bit, and get a line on each other's signals. matson, you're going to pitch for the 'varsity to-day!" chapter xviii plotting joe matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some lively warming-up practice with the catcher. the very thing he most wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. and yet he was sensible enough to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would pitch against amherst. but he had great hopes. "come!" he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the game. "i've got to pull myself together or i'll go all to pieces. brace up!" the sight of weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore joe to himself. "he's hoping i won't make good," thought joe. "but i will! i must!" it may have been because of joe's natural nervousness, or because the scrub team was determined to show that they could bat even their own pitcher, that was the cause of so many runs coming in during the first inning. no one could rightly say, but the fact remained that the runs did come in, and it began to look bad for the 'varsity. "i told you how it would be--putting in a green pitcher," complained mr. benson. "perhaps," admitted the head coach. "but wait a bit. joe isn't as green as he looks. wait until next inning." and he was justified, for joe got himself well in hand, and the 'varsity, as if driven to desperation by another defeat staring them in the face so near to the amherst game, batted as they never had before. avondale was all but knocked out of the box, and the scrub captain substituted another pitcher, who did much better. joe's former rival almost wept at his own inability. meanwhile our hero was himself again, and though he did give three men their bases on balls, he allowed very few hits, so that the 'varsity took the game by a good margin, considering their bad start. "that's the way to do it!" cried captain hatfield, when the contest was over. "do it to amherst," was the comment of the head coach. "we will!" cried the members of the first team. "good work, matson," complimented hatfield. "can you do it again?" "maybe--if i get the chance," laughed joe, who was on an elevation of delight. "oh, i guess you'll have to get the chance," spoke the captain. he did not notice that weston was close behind him, but joe did, and he saw the look of anger and almost hate that passed over the face of the pitcher. "he looks as though he'd like to bite me," murmured joe. "and yet it's all a fair game. i may get knocked out myself. but even then i'm not going to give up. i'm in this to stay! if not at yale, then somewhere else." if joe imagined that his work that day had been without flaws he was soon to be disillusioned, for mr. hasbrook, coming up to him a little later, pointed out where he had made several bad errors in judgment, though they had not resulted in any gain for the scrub. "still," said the head coach, "you don't want to make them, for with a sharp team, and some of the big college nines playing against you, those same errors would lose the game." and he proceeded to give joe some good advice. when avondale, the twice-humiliated pitcher, walked off the diamond that afternoon, he was joined by weston, who linked his arm in that of the scrub twirler. "well, we're both in the same boat," remarked avondale. "a better man has ousted us." "not at all--nothing of the sort!" cried weston, and his voice showed how much he was nervously wrought up. "i don't admit for a minute that matson can pitch better than i can." "well, i do, in my own case, and the coaches seem to in yours." "i'm a little out of form to-day," admitted weston, quickly. "i'll be all right to-morrow, and i'll pitch against amherst." "it'll be a great game," spoke avondale. "maybe. but say, what do you think of a fellow like him--a regular country clod-hopper--coming here, anyhow?" "who do you mean?" "matson. what right has he got to butt in at a college like yale, and displace the fellows who have worked hard for the nine?" "the right of ability, i suppose." "ability nothing! he doesn't belong here, and he ought to be made to quit." "well, i confess i don't like to lose the place i worked so hard for, and i don't see much chance of making the 'varsity now," admitted avondale; "but at the same time i must give matson credit for his work." "bah! it's only a flash in the pan. he can't last. i think i could make him quit if i wanted to." "how?" "would you join me in a little trick if we could?" "i don't know. what do you mean?" and avondale looked curiously at his companion. "i mean that red paint business and the spoiling of the ancient manuscripts. if it was known who did it he'd get fired." "you don't mean to say matson had a hand in that!" cried avondale aghast. "i'm not saying anything. but if it could be shown that he did it, he'd not pitch for yale--that's sure. shall i say any more? remember i'm making no cracks yet. but i know some things about matson no one else knows." this was true enough, but avondale did not take it in the sense in which it could have been truthfully said, but, rather, as weston meant he should--wrongly. now avondale had one fault. he was too easily led. he was brilliant, full of promise, and a jolly chap--hail-fellow-well-met with everyone, and that is not the best thing in the world, though it makes for temporary popularity. avondale was his own worst enemy, and many a time he had not the courage to say "no!" when the utterance of it would have saved him from trouble. so when weston thus temptingly held out the bait, avondale nibbled. "shall i say any more?" went on the other. "remember, you've got to be as tight as a drum on this." "of course. i--er--i--that is----" "come over here and i'll tell you something," went on the 'varsity pitcher, and the two were soon in close conversation. chapter xix the anonymous letter "have you seen the _news_?" gasped jimmie lee, bursting into the room of joe and his chum one afternoon, following some baseball practice. "it's great!" "you mean have we _heard_ the news; don't you?" questioned spike. "you can hear news, but not see it, that is unless the occurrence which makes news happens to come under your own observation. where is your logic, you heathen? _seen_ news!" "yes, that's what i mean!" snapped jimmie. "i mean have you seen the last copy of the yale _news_?" "no; what is it?" asked joe quickly. "something about the baseball nine?" "no, it's about those musty old manuscripts that got spoiled the time professor hardee slipped on his doorsteps in the red paint." "what about 'em?" demanded joe, thinking of the time he had seen weston slipping into his room, trying to conceal his hand on which was a scarlet smear. "what's new?" "why, it seems that some learned high-brow society wrote on to borrow them, to prove or disprove something that happened in the time of moses, and they had to be refused as the sheepskins are illegible. the powers that be tried to clean off the paint, but it took some of the lettering with it, and prof. hardee and some of his friends are wild over the loss. the _news_ says it's irreparable, and there's even an editorial on it." "well, that isn't much that's new," went on joe, as he took the college paper which jimmie held out to him. "it was known before that the parchments were pretty well on the blink. it's a shame, too, for they are the only ones in the world of that particular dynasty. what else?" "lots," went on jimmie. "the _news_ hints that a committee of seniors is working with professor hardee and some of the faculty, trying to find out who was responsible. if they do find out they may make the joker's folks pay heavy damages." "yes, if they find out," put in spike. "but it happened some time ago, and they haven't got a hint of it yet. it was a mean trick--i'll say that--but there are no welchers or squealers at yale." "i'm not so sure of that," murmured jimmie. "what do you mean?" asked joe quickly. "why this screed goes on to hint that the investigators have a line on who did it. they have some clews, it seems, and an exposure is hinted at." "get out!" cried joe, thinking of the effect it would have on weston should the truth--as joe thought it--come out. he had half made up his mind to deny everything he had seen, even if questioned. "that's right," asserted jimmie. "this article says it may soon be known who did the 'dastardly deed'--note the 'dastardly'--guess the editor dipped his pen in sulphuric acid. but it was a mean trick, and i guess we all feel the same way about it. the fellow who did it ought to be fired. fun is fun, and i like it as much as anybody, but this passes the limits." "right!" exclaimed spike. "but does it say anything about who it might be--what class?" "oh, it as much as says a freshman did it, of course--as if we did everything last year. anyhow, it's stirred up a lot of talk, i can tell you. i just came across the campus and the _news_ sold more copies than ever before, i guess. everyone seems to have one, and they're all talking about it. i hope if they do find out who did it, that he won't happen to be any of our crowd--or on the ball nine." "why?" asked spike. "why--he'd be expelled, of course, and if it was one of the 'varsity nine it might have a bad effect on winning the championship. we've got to win that this year." "oh, i guess it's mostly talk," asserted spike, as he read the article after joe had finished. as for joe he said little. but he thought much. "maybe," agreed jimmie. "and yet it looks as if there was something back of it all. i only hope there isn't. it would be tough for our class to have to stand for this." there was more talk along the same line, and, a little later, some other of the second-year class dropped in and continued the session. there were differences of opinion, as might have been expected. "well, after all is said and done," came from bert fost, who by reason of weight was ineligible for the nine, but who was an enthusiastic supporter, "when it's all over, i think we'll wipe amherst off the map." "we will--if the nine isn't broken up," declared jimmie. "broken up--what do you mean?" and bert glared at the questioner. "i mean that if it's proved that some member of the team did this red paint business it's all off with him having a chance to play against amherst." "oh, piffle!" declared bert. "that punk is written by some lad who's trying to make good on the _news_ so he'll get tapped for scroll and keys. forget it." but it was not so easily forgotten, for the article seemed to have some definite knowledge behind it, and the editorial, though student-inspired, as all knew, was a sharp one. "if it really is weston i'm sorry for him," thought joe, little thinking how near he himself was to danger. there were new developments the next morning--a certain something in the air as the young men assembled for chapel told that there was about to be a break. and it came. "here comes the dean!" the whisper went round, when the exercises were nearly over. "something's going to be cut loose." the dean addressed the students. he began mildly, but soon he had almost worked himself up to a dramatic situation. in veiled terms he referred to the red paint outrage, and then, after telling what it meant to have the valuable manuscripts ruined, he added: "i assume that you have all seen the article which appears in the college paper. with that, though i might, i take no issue. on another phase i do. "i have received an anonymous letter, accusing a certain student of the outrage. i shall, in this matter, take the course i always do when i receive such a cowardly communication as an anonymous letter--i destroy it unread," and, as he spoke the dean tore into fragments a piece of paper. the pieces he carefully put in his pocket, however, with the remark that they would be consigned to the fire unlooked at, as soon as possible. "i wonder who was accused?" said spike. "i wonder?" added joe. chapter xx the cornell host "that's the way to do it!" "yale always can do it!" "bull dog grit!" "the blue always wins!" "they came--they saw--but--we conquered!" it was the close of the yale-amherst baseball game, and the sons of eli had gloriously triumphed. they had trailed the banners of their opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with the runs. "i told you so!" chirped jimmie lee. "hold on!" cried slim jones. "didn't you start to be a calamity howler, and say yale wouldn't win?" "never!" asserted jimmie. "yes, you did!" "well, i was only bluffing. i knew we could put it all over them." "and we did," said spike in a low voice to joe. "only----" "only i didn't have much share in it," interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors. there had indeed been a "shake-up" on the nine the day of the game. until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. it lay between joe, weston, and mcanish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game--the first important one of the season for yale--the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler. joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and captain hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that weston had the coveted place. "well, old man, you're back where you belong," said avondale to him, as the name was called. "i suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?" "it can--if i remain pitcher," answered weston. "but i've got it all cocked and primed to explode if i have to. i'm not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me." "i don't know as i blame you--and yet he seems a pretty decent sort." "oh, he's not in our class!" "well, maybe not. do your best!" and weston did. never had he pitched a better game--even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. it was a "walkover" soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of yale. amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue. joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the eighth inning. then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, joe was called on to bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next inning. "what's the matter?" was asked on all sides. "is weston going stale?" "glass arm," suggested some of his enemies. "no, they're saving him for the harvard game," was the opinion of many. "they don't want to work him too hard." "and we have this game anyhow." "but what's the matter with mcanish?" "oh, he's out of form." and so joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the bench, eating his heart out. "show what you can do!" exclaimed the head coach to him as he took the mound. "and don't worry." "don't worry?" repeated joe. "that's what i said. remember what i told you, and don't try to win the game by merely pitching." joe recalled his instructions about backing up first base in an emergency, of taking care of the bunts, of watching the catcher, who might try to deceive the man on third. and it was well for joe that he did. for, though he did well from the pitching end, there came several opportunities to distinguish himself in making infield plays. once he made a fine stop of a bunt that, had it been a safety, would have done much to lower yale's lead. again he managed, by a quick play, on getting the ball from the catcher, to throw out the man at second, who was trying to steal third. there was applause for joe matson that day, though he did not pitch the team to victory. "well?" asked mr. hasbrook of his colleagues, after the contest. "what did i tell you? isn't he an all-around good player?" "he seems so," admitted mr. benson. "but i think weston did most excellently." "yes, he did," said the head coach, "but mark my words, he's overtrained or he hasn't the grit to stick it out. here we are at the beginning of the season, and he has failed us several times. i don't want to force my judgment on you gentlemen, but i think we ought to give matson a better trial." "all right, we'll send him in earlier in the cornell game next week," suggested mr. whitfield, and to that the head coach agreed. there were all sorts of baseball politics discussed in the dormitories, on the campus, and at glory's and other resorts that night. "it begins to look as if the coaches didn't quite know where they were at," declared ricky hanover. "they make a shift at the last minute." "a good shift--according to the way the game went," declared hen johnson, who held down second base. "that's yet to be seen," asserted jimmie lee. "amherst was fruit for us to-day." the opinions went back and forth--_pro_ and _con_--and it was, after all, a matter of judgment. yet back of it all was the indomitable yale spirit that has often turned defeat into victory. this was to hearten up those who picked flaws in the playing of the blue, and who predicted a slump in the following week, when the strong cornell team would be met. "oh, cornell may row us but she can't play ball us," declared jimmie lee. "we'll dump 'em." "we may--if joe matson pitches," spoke spike, in a low voice. "here! cut that out," advised joe, in a sharp whisper. meanwhile no more had been heard about the red paint matter, and it looked to be but a flash in the pan--what the _news_ had printed. the senior committee of investigation was not in evidence--at least as far as could be learned. baseball practice went on, sometimes joe pitching for the 'varsity, and again one of his rivals being called on. there was a tightening up on the part of the coaches--they were less tolerant--the errors were less excused. bitter words were the portion of those who made mistakes, and joe did not escape. "you must do a little better," the head coach urged him. "we're not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little removed from the professional class, as regards ability. play harder--sharper--more accurately--don't get rattled." and joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things, but it was hard work. he had begun to realize what a career he had marked out for himself. "well, are you going to spring it?" asked avondale of weston, a day or so before the cornell game. "what about the red paint?" "oh, i guess it will keep--if i pitch the game," was the answer. "did you send the anonymous letter?" "don't ask me," snapped weston. the day of the next game came--one of the great battles of the diamond, on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of the championship. the cornell host, many strong, descended on new haven, and made the air vibrant with their yells. they cheered yale, and were cheered in turn. out on the diamond they trotted--a likely looking lot of lads. "husky bunch," commented jimmie lee. "they sure are," agreed shorty kendall. "who'll pitch for you?" "don't know. they're just going to announce it." the umpire, the captains, managers, and coaches were holding a conference. joe, in spite of his seeming indifference, watched them narrowly. over in their section the cornell hosts were singing their songs and giving their cheers. the wearers of the blue had given their great cry--they had sung the boola song--some had even done the serpentine dance. all was in readiness for the game. "if he doesn't pitch me," murmured weston, "i'll be----" mr. hasbrook motioned to the umpire, who raised his megaphone to make the announcement. chapter xxi eager hearts "the battery for yale will be weston and kendall, and for cornell----" but the last announcement was given no heed by the supporters of the blue--at least by the players themselves, the substitutes, and joe matson in particular. a murmur went around. "weston! weston's going to pitch!" "after the work baseball joe's done too!" "why, weston isn't in form." "oh, he's practiced hard lately." "yes, and he was doing some hot warming-up work a little while ago. i guess they'll pitch him all right." "he must have put up a kick, and hasbrook gave in to him." "it looks so, and yet horsehide generally doesn't play a man unless he can make good. that's yale's way." these were only a few of the comments that were being heard on all sides. the yale team looked somewhat amazed, and then, lest their enemies find out that they feared they had a weak spot, they braced up, smiled and acted as if it was a matter of course. and, as far as cornell was concerned, they knew that there was rivalry between weston and joe, but as a pitcher is an uncertain quantity at best, they were not surprised that the 'varsity twirler whom they had faced the season before should again occupy the mound. it might be a part of the game to save matson until later. "tough luck, joe," said spike, as he passed his friend. "yes--oh, i don't know! i hadn't any right to expect to pitch!" joe tried to be brave about it, but there was a sore feeling in his heart. he had hoped to go into the game. "sure you had a right to expect it!" declared spike. "you're the logical pitcher. there's been some funny work going on, i'm sure. weston has pulled off something." "be careful, spike." "oh, i'm sure of it. why, look at horsehide's face!" joe glanced at the head coach. indeed the countenance of mr. hasbrook presented a study. he seemed puzzled as he turned away from a somewhat spirited conversation with mr. benson. for an instant his eyes met those of joe, and the young pitcher thought he read in them pity, and yet a trace of doubt. "i wonder if he has lost confidence in me?" thought joe. "i wonder if he thinks i can't pitch in a big game?" yet he knew in his own heart that he had not gone back--he was sure he could pitch better than he ever had before. the days at yale, playing with young men who were well-nigh professionals, had given him confidence he had not possessed before, and he realized that he was developing good control of the ball, as well as speed and curves. "i wonder why he didn't pitch me?" mused joe. "play ball!" called the umpire, and the hearts of all were eager for the battle of stick and horsehide to begin. cornell went to the bat first, and weston faced his man. there was a smile of confidence on the pitcher's face, as he wound up, and delivered a few practice balls to kendall. then he nodded as if satisfied, and the batter stepped up to the plate. "strike!" called the umpire, at the first delivery, and there was a murmur of amazement. the batter himself looked a bit confused, but made no comment. the ball had gone cleanly over the plate, though it looked as if it was going to shoot wide, and the player had thought to let it pass. weston smiled more confidently. he was hit for a foul, but after getting three and two he struck the batter out, and there was a round of applause. "i couldn't have done it any better myself," said joe, with honest praise for his rival. "wait," advised spike. "weston's got to last over eight more innings to make good, and he'll never do it." but when he struck out the next man, and the third had retired on a little pop fly, yale began to rise in her might and sing the beginning of a song of victory. "oh, we've got the goods!" her sons yelled. "how's that for pitching?" demanded someone. joe joined in the cheer that was called for weston, but his heart was still sore, for he felt that those cheers might have been for him. but he was game, and smiled bravely. yale managed to get one run during the last half of the first inning, and once more the sons of eli arose and sent forth a storm of cheers, songs and college cries. "go back home, cornell!" they screamed. but the cornell host smiled grimly. they were fighters from start to finish. joe noticed that weston did not seem quite so confident when he came to the mound the second time. there was an exchange of signals between him and the catcher, and weston seemed to be refusing to do what was wanted. after getting three and two on his man, the batter sent out a high one that the left fielder was unable to connect with, and the runner reached second. "never mind, play for the next one," advised kendall, and though the runner stole third, weston pitched the second man out. then, whether it was nervousness or natural inability cropping out at the wrong time, was not known, but the pitcher "went up in the air." with only one out, and a man on third, he began to be hit for disastrous results. he made wild throws, and the whole team became so demoralized that costly errors were made. the result was that cornell had four runs when the streak was stopped. "we've got to do better than this," declared the head coach, as the yale men came in to bat. "rap out a few heavy ones. show 'em what yale can do in a pinch." they tried, but cornell was fighting mad now, with the scent of victory to urge her players on. the best yale could do was two, leaving their opponents one ahead at the beginning of the third. and then weston went to pieces more than ever, though in the interval his arm had been rubbed and treated by the trainer. he had complained that it was stiff. i shall not give all the details of that game. yale wanted to forget it after it was over. but when, at the ending of the fifth inning, the score stood eight to four in favor of cornell there was a quick consultation among the coaches. what was said could not be heard, but mr. hasbrook seemed to be insisting on something to which the other two would not agree. finally horsehide threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. "avondale, take the mound!" he exclaimed. "avondale!" gasped the players. the scrub pitcher to go in and joe, who was his master, kept on the bench? it was incredible. "well, what do you know about that?" demanded spike. "i've a good notion to----" "be quiet!" begged joe. "they know what they're doing." but it seems they did not, for avondale was worse by far than weston had been. he was hit unmercifully, and three more runs came in. but he had to stick it out, and when the miserable inning for yale ended he went dejectedly to the bench. weston, who had been having his arm rubbed again, and who had been practicing with a spare catcher, looked hopeful. but this time, following another conference of coaches, mr. hasbrook evidently had his way. fairly running over to where joe sat the head coach exclaimed: "quick--get out there and warm up. you'll pitch the rest of the game. it's a forlorn hope, but we'll take it!" joe's face shone as he ripped off his sweater, grabbed up a ball and his mitt, and started for the practice stretch. his heart was in a tumult, but he calmed himself and began his work. but it was too much to expect to pull the contest out of the fire by such desperate and late-day methods. in the part of the game he pitched joe allowed but one hit, and with howls of delight his friends watched him mow down the cornell batters. not another run came in, but the lead of the visitors was too big, and yale could not overcome it, though her sons did nobly, rising to the support of joe in great style. "well, it's over," remarked spike gleefully as he caught joe's arm at the close of the contest. "you seem glad that yale lost," said the pitcher. "never! but i'm glad you showed 'em what you could do when you had the chance. if you'd gone in first yale would have won!" "oh, you think so--do you?" sneered a voice behind them. they turned quickly, to see ford weston, scowling with rage. "yes, i do," declared spike boldly. "then you've got another think coming!" was the retort. "i'm the 'varsity pitcher, and i'm going to hold on to the job!" chapter xxii the crimson spot "what do you think of him, anyhow?" asked spike of his room-mate, as weston passed on. "isn't he the limit!" "he certainly doesn't seem to care much for me," replied joe, with a grim smile. "but i suppose it's natural. almost anyone would feel that way at the prospect of being replaced." "oh, he makes me tired!" exclaimed spike. "he ought to stand for yale--not for ford weston. it's the first time in a good many years that any player has placed himself above the team." "but weston hasn't done that yet." "no, but that's what he's scheming for. he as good as said that he'll pitch for the 'varsity no matter what happens." "who's that? what's up?" asked another voice, and, turning, the two chums saw ricky hanover. "oh, you're talking about weston," he added, as he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. "what's he been saying?" they told him, and ricky, making a wry face, went on: "so that's how things are; eh? well, if weston tries that sort of game, i can see the finish of the yale nine. it'll be the tail end of the kite, and the championship will be in the soup. in fact it's beginning to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this cornell game." "but where does weston get his pull?" demanded spike. "how is it that they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn't make good. and here was joe all ready to go on the mound. you saw what he did when he got there and yet----" "spare my blushes! i'm a modest youth!" laughed joe. "that's all right, there's something back of all this," continued spike, vigorous in defence of his chum. "why should the coaches put weston in, and then, when he slumped, call on avondale before they did you, joe? it isn't right, and i think horsehide should have made a better fight for you. you claim he's a friend of yours, joe." "well, yes, in a way. and yet if i had to depend on his friendship to get on the mound i'd never go there. i want to stand on my own feet and have the right to pitch because i can do better than some other fellow. that's all i ask--a fair show. i don't want any favors, and mr. hasbrook isn't the man to give them to me, if i'd take them." "i guess you're right there," commented ricky. "but what i can't understand," went on spike, "is how horsehide seemed to give in to the other two coaches. it was as plain as a flagpole that he didn't want to pitch weston to-day, and yet he had to in spite of himself. why was it?" "do you really want to know?" asked ricky, and his voice was lowered, while he glanced around as if to make sure that no one would hear him save his two friends. "do you really want to know?" "certainly," declared spike, and joe wondered what was coming. "well, it's because weston is a member of the anvil club," said ricky. "it's a class secret society, and it has a lot of influence--more so than even some of the big senior clubs. weston belongs and so do horsehide and the other two coaches. they were in college, and they still keep up their affiliations. now you know why they pitched weston to-day--because he demanded it as a part of his right as a member of the anvil club." "do you mean to tell me," asked spike, "that the secret society is bigger than yale--that it could make her lose a ball game?" "no, not exactly," replied ricky. "but it is powerful, and a member has an unwritten right to demand almost anything in reason of the other members, and by their promises made they are obliged to help him." "but this wasn't anything in reason," said spike. "joe should have pitched the game, and then we'd have won. it was unreasonable to let weston go in." "look here!" exclaimed ricky. "i don't mean to say that yale men would do any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. but you can't say, right off the bat, that weston's demand was unreasonable. he thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much, very forcibly. it was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed for a try, on the ground that he was an anvil man--they had to give it to him, that's all. it was all they could do, though i guess horsehide didn't want to." "but there's avondale," went on ricky. "what about him?" "he's an anvil man, too." "and i'm not," broke in joe. "say," he asked with a laugh, "how do you join this society?" "you don't," spoke ricky solemnly. "you have to be asked, or tapped for it, just as for wolf's head, or skull and bones. oh, it's an exclusive society all right, and as secret as a dark cellar." "and you really know this to be so?" asked spike, almost incredulously. "well, no one says so out and out, but i've heard rumors before, and to-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. oh, weston's got the thing cinched all right." "then i haven't a chance," sighed joe, and more than ever he regretted coming to yale. yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch the college to a championship. "haven't a chance!" cried spike, indignantly. "do you mean to say, ricky, that they'll let weston go on losing games the way he did to-day?" "no, not exactly. but they'll pitch him because he will appeal to their society side, and bamboozle 'em into thinking that he has come back strong, and can sure win." "and if he doesn't--if he slumps as he did to-day?" "then they'll put in avondale or mcanish." "and joe won't get a show until last?" asked spike. "that's about the size of it." "i don't believe so." "all right. just watch," said ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. "of course," he went on, "the coaches may wake up to the fact before it's too late, or there may be such a howl made that they'll have to can the society plea. but it's a queer situation. come on down to glory's and we'll feed our faces." "wait until we get un-togged," suggested spike, for he, too, had on a uniform, hoping for a chance to play. but it had not come. it was late when joe and his chum got back to their room. they had met congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had been held over the game. but, though the faults of many players were pointed out, and though joe received due praise for his work, little had been said of weston's poor pitching. "it's just as i told you," declared ricky. "there are too many members of the anvil club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt weston's feelings, i guess." the 'varsity pitcher was not present. "well, it sure is a queer state of affairs," commented spike, as he and joe reached their apartment. "i wish we could do something. it's a shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, joe, that----" "oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep," advised joe. "i'm much obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after all." "humph! it won't unless we make it," murmured spike. the coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice came on, though weston was still retained on the mound. joe was told to go in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work than natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty wherever he was placed. weston seemed to be doing better, and he got into more plays, not being content to merely pitch. "we'll trim harvard!" was the general opinion, and yale stock, that had gone down, took an upward move. the harvard game was soon to come--one of the contests in the championship series, though yale generally regarded the fight with princeton as the deciding test. it was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the 'varsity seemed on edge, that joe said to spike: "come on, let's take a walk. it's too nice to go back and bone." "all right--i'm with you. we'll get out in the country somewhere." weston passed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, there was no cordiality in it. joe and spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it was almost dusk when they returned. as they entered their room, ricky came out to greet them. "what have you fellows been doing?" he demanded. "i came in to have a chat, and i found your room empty. a little later i heard you in it, and then, after i had found my pipe which i dropped under the bed, and went in again, you weren't to be seen. yet i was sure i heard you moving about in it." "we haven't been home since practice," declared spike. "you say you heard someone in our room?" inquired joe. "i sure did." "maybe it was hoppy." "no, for i asked him, and he said no." "any messages or letters left?" asked spike, looking around, but no missives were in sight. "oh, well, maybe it was spooks," declared joe. "i'm going to get on something comfortable," and he went to the clothes closet, presently donning an old coat and trousers. ricky made himself comfortable in an armchair, and the three talked for some time. "i say, what's that on your sleeve?" asked ricky of joe during a pause. "it looks like red ink. see, you've smeared spike's trigonometry with it." "quit it, you heathen!" exclaimed the aggrieved one. "red ink," murmured joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the crimson spot. he touched it with his finger. "it's paint--red paint!" he exclaimed, "and it's fresh!" chapter xxiii joe's triumph "red paint!" exclaimed ricky. "who put it there?" asked spike, and he looked queerly at joe. "not i," replied the pitcher. "and yet it's fresh. i can't understand. you say you heard someone in here, ricky?" "as sure as guns." "maybe it was some of those pesky freshies trying some of their funny work," suggested spike. "hazing and tricks are about over," came from joe, as he looked more closely at the red spot. "and yet someone seems to have been in here, daubing up my clothes. i wonder if they tried it on any more? lucky it was an old suit." he looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on the sleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled. "i have it!" suddenly cried spike. "what, for cats' sake?" asked ricky. "it's good luck!" "good luck?" demanded joe. "how do you make that out? these aren't my glad rags, that's a fact, but still paint is paint, and i don't want it daubed all over me. good luck? huh!" "of course it is," went on spike. "don't you see? that's red--harvard's hue. we play them next week, you'll pitch and we've got their color already. hurray! we're going to win! it's an omen!" "cæsar's pineapples!" exclaimed ricky. "so it is. i'm going to grind out a song on it," and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. "how's this?" he demanded a few minutes later. "listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it," and he recited: "we've got harvard's colors, we'll tell it to you. the red always runs at the sight of the blue. so cheer boys, once more, this bright rainbow hue, the red will turn purple when mixed with the blue!" "eh? how's that?" he asked proudly. "pretty nifty i guess! your uncle pete isn't so slow. i'm going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, joe." "maybe i won't." "oh, yes you will. but what do you think of it?" "rotten!" exclaimed spike. "punk!" was the opinion of slim jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. "disinfect it, ricky." "aw, you fellows are jealous because you can't sling the muse around when you want to. guess i'll try a second spasm." "not in here," declared spike, quickly. "this is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. i'm not going to have the dean raiding it just because you think you're a poet. that stuff would give our english lit. prof. a chill. can it, ricky, can it." "you're jealous, that's all," and despite the protest ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. there was quite a jolly little party, and ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success. the strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with harvard. "it's queer though, about that red paint," said spike, later that night, when he and joe were alone. "it sure is," agreed the pitcher. "maybe hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake," suggested his chum. but inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time. but after he got in bed, joe did some hard thinking. he recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, without believing, if weston could have come to his room. "he might have," reflected joe, "and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. if the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. and yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? no, it can't be that. unless he sneaked in here--knowing spike and i would be away--looking for something to use against me. "he doesn't want me to pitch, that's a fact, and if he could find something against me he'd use it. but he can't. i'm glad i'm not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or i'd be worrying about them not asking me to join. i'm going to keep out of it. but that red spot is sure queer." all yale was on edge on the day before the harvard game, which was to take place on the cambridge diamond. the team and the substitutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand "rooters" who were going along to lend moral support. particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and joe, weston, mcanish and avondale had been worked to the limit. they had been coached as they never had been before, for yale wanted to win this game. as yet it was not known who would pitch. at least the 'varsity candidates did not know, and joe was hoping for at least half a game. he was modest, for weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. his friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked. the stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. in the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the boola song, a new one--"bulldog grit!"--and ricky's effusion were gone over again. "hit the line!" came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other. "do you think you'll pitch, joe?" asked spike, in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side. "i don't know. there are all sorts of rumors going about. i'd like to--i guess you know how much--just as you would like to catch--but we can't always have what we want. the coaches are having a talk now. weston seems pretty confident." "yes, the cad! i wish he'd play fair." "oh, well," said joe, with an air of resignation, "i suppose he can't help it. i guess i shouldn't like it if i'd pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place." "but if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?" asked spike, as he took a vicious ball that joe slugged to him. "oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play--that's not saying i'm the best man by a long shot!" joe hastened to add; "but even in theory it's hard to see another man take your place." "something's doing," said spike suddenly. "the conference has broken up." joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking. tom hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain. he walked over to the umpire, and weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. he started for the players' bench, for harvard was to bat last, and yale would come up first for the stick-work. "it looks like him," remarked spike in a low voice. "well, i'll be ready when they call me," said joe, with a good nature he did not feel. the umpire raised his megaphone. there was a hush, and then came the hollow tones: "batteries for to-day. harvard: elkert and snyder--yale: matson and kendall." "by halifax!" cried spike, clapping joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. "you pitch, old man!" chapter xxiv hard luck shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire--cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries. "yah!" voiced the wearers of the crimson. "that's our one best bower! oh you elkert! tear 'em apart, snyder!" back came the challenge from the sons of yale. "you're our meat, harvard! keep your eye on the ball--that's all you'll be able to do. fool 'em, matson. 'rah for baseball joe!" our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. but kendall had his admirers too. "he eats 'em alive--shorty kendall does!" came the cry. "look out for our bear-cats, harvard!" once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs. "come, get together, you two, and make sure you don't have any mix-up on signals," exclaimed mr. hasbrook to joe and the catcher. "we want to win this game. and, joe, don't forget what i told you about getting in on all the plays you can. we'll need every man if we take this game. harvard has several good twirlers, and she's been playing like a house afire. watch yourselves." "then i'm really going to pitch?" asked joe. it was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after spike had clapped him on the back with such force. "pitch! of course you're going to pitch," declared the head coach. "and i want you to pitch your head off. but save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. but, mind!" and he spoke with earnestness. "you've got to make good!" "i will!" exclaimed joe, and he meant it. "come over here," suggested shorty. "plug in a few and we'll see if you're as good as you were yesterday," for joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including weston. as for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation. "what's the matter?" asked de vere, who had become rather intimate with ford of late. "matter! isn't there enough when that--when he pitches?" and he nodded his head toward joe. "why; do you think they'll get his goat, or that he'll blow, and throw the game?" "he might," sneered weston, "but i have a right to be on the mound to-day. i was half promised that i could pitch, and now, at the last minute, they put him in. i'm not going to stand for it!" "it's a sort of a raw deal," declared his friend. "i don't see why they let such fellows as he come to college. first we know there'll be a lot of hod-carriers' sons here instead of gentlemen," and de vere turned up, as far as possible, the point of his rather stubby nose. he himself was the son of a man who had gotten his start as a contractor, employing those same "hod-carriers" at whom the son now sneered. "that's right," agreed weston. "i should think they could keep yale a little more exclusive." "i agree with you," came from the other. "why i even understand that they are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons, and are working their way through, can join. it's going to be fierce. but none of them will get in the blue ribbon association," he added, referring to an exclusive college organization. "nor the anvil club either," added weston. "this is all hasbrook's fault. he's taken some silly notion to matson, and he thinks he's a wonderful pitcher. it seems they met somewhere, and matson did him a favor. now he's taking advantage of it." "but he can pitch," said de vere, who, for all his snobbishness, was inclined to be fair. "yes, after a fashion, but he hasn't anything on me. i won against harvard last year." "so you did." "and i could do it again." "i believe you. anyhow i think only the fellows in our own class--socially--should play. it makes it rather awkward, don't you know, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn't in your set. you've got to notice him, or there'd be a howl, i s'pose; but really some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this matson doesn't train in with us." "you're right. but if things go the way i think he may not last very long." "how do you mean? will he put up such a rotten game that they won't stand for him?" "that's all i can say now," rejoined weston, somewhat mysteriously. "but something may happen." "and you'll pitch?" "i hope so. i may get in this game, for i did beat harvard one year." but weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder of the season that yale finished a poor third, losing the championship. "play ball!" called the umpire. those who had been practicing straggled to the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions. "i guess you'll do," declared kendall to joe, with a nod of encouragement. "don't let 'em get your angora." "i'll try not to," came the smiling answer. "are they hard hitters?" "they are if they get the ball right, but it's up to you not to let 'em. give 'em twisters and teasers." "play ball," called the umpire again, and the first of the yale batsmen took his place. once more came the yells and cheers, and when the lad struck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, there was derisive yelling from the harvard stands. "two more and we've got 'em going!" was shouted. but jimmie lee, the diminutive first baseman, was up next, and perhaps the harvard pitcher did not think him a worthy foeman. at any rate jimmie caught a ball just where he wanted it, and rapped out a pretty two-bagger. "that's the way! come on in!" was shouted at him, but jimmie caught the signal to hug the half-way station, and stayed there. he stole third while they were throwing his successor out at first, and this made two down, with jimmie ready to come in on half a chance. but the harvard pitcher tightened up, and the fourth man succumbed to a slow twister on his final strike, making the third out, so that poor jimmie expired on the last sack. "now, joe, show 'em that we can do better than that," begged shorty, as he donned mask and protector. "throw me a few and warm up. then sting 'em in!" joe was a bit nervous as he went to the box, but he managed to control himself. he seemed to guess just what kind of a ball would fool the batter, and, after two balls had been called on him, sent over two in succession that were named strikes. "that's the way we do it!" yelled a yale admirer, in a high-pitched voice. "one more and he's done." but the one more did not come. instead, apparently getting the ball just where he wanted it, the harvard man swung on it to the tune of three sacks, amid a wild riot of cheers. "now we've got 'em going!" came harvard's triumphant yells, and joe felt the hot blood rush to his face. kendall saw it, and, guessing the pitcher's state of mind, walked out to the box and whispered: "don't mind. that was a fluke. it won't happen again. hold on to yourself--tighten up and we'll get 'em." joe felt better after that bit of advice, and was calmer when he wound up for the next batter. though he had been told that harvard would play a foxy game, he was hardly prepared for what followed. the next player up hit lightly, for a sacrifice, thinking to bring in the run. as it happened, joe stumbled as he raced to pick up the twisting ball, and though he managed to recover himself, and throw home, while on his knees, the man racing from third beat the throw and the first run for harvard was in. then such cheering as there was! yale was nonplussed for the moment, and her rooters in the stands sat glum and silent. but the spirit of the blue could not long be kept down, and soon the boola song came booming over the field. it cheered joe mightily, even though he saw the sneering look on the face of weston, who sat on the bench, hoping for a chance to supplant him. "here's where we walk away!" crowed a harvard man, but the wearers of the crimson did not, for that run was the only one they got that inning. but it was a start, and it looked big below the goose egg that adorned yale's score. the game went on, varyingly. yale managed to get two runs in the fifth inning, putting her one ahead, for joe had done such good work, aided by the rest of the team, when a hit was made, that harvard had not scored again. "matson's pitching a great game!" exclaimed mr. hasbrook, as he watched eagerly. "i told you we wouldn't make any mistake if we let him go in first," and he looked at his colleagues. "but that was a costly fumble," declared mr. benson. "yes, but no one is perfect. besides we're ahead." "only one run." "that's enough to win the game." "but hardly with four more innings to go," rejoined mr. whitfield, dubiously. "look at that!" exclaimed mr. hasbrook, in excitement, as joe grabbed a hot liner and whipped it over to first in time to catch the man napping there. "matson's more than just a pitcher." "you seem interested in him," spoke mr. benson. "i am. i think joe is going to make one of the finest ball players we've ever had at yale. he hasn't found himself yet, of course, and he needs more judgment. but he's got a future. i think we'll hear of him somewhere else besides on a college team, too." "i understand he has professional ambitions," admitted mr. benson. "but he's got a hard life ahead of him." "oh, he'll make good!" declared mr. hasbrook. and it seemed that joe was going to in this game. he was pitching wonderfully well, and harvard only found him for scattering hits. on her part yale was doing very well. harvard had tried another pitcher when she found that her first one was being pounded, but it availed little, and when the ninth inning closed, as far as the wearers of the blue were concerned, they were two runs ahead. "we've got 'em! we've got 'em!" yelled shorty with delight, capering about joe. "all you've got to do is to hold 'em down!" "yes--all--but that's a lot," declared the pitcher. "they're going to play fierce now." "but they need three runs to win. you can hold 'em down!" "i'll try," promised joe, as he went to the mound. it looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element that is always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the blue for the red. the first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre. so sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, that the player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of ed. hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second. "now we've got 'em going," came the cry. "a couple more hits and we've got the game." joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man on second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. his throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third. "never mind--play for the batter," advised shorty. joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. he was hit for a single, and the man on third scored. "two more and we've got 'em!" yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. "none down yet." then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. it was not joe's fault--at least not all his, though he made one error. but this seemed to affect all the yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game. "hard luck!" exclaimed shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. "hard luck!" chapter xxv at west point "we'd a right to that game!" "sure we had." "and we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, i guess." "it's tough luck!" the yale team and its admirers--no, in this case its sympathizers--were coming off the field after the harvard defeat. all sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard. joe said but little, though he thought much. every error--every little point he had missed--seemed to stand out glaringly. "never mind, old man!" it was spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum's shoulders. "i--i can't help it," replied the pitcher, bitterly. "we lost the game." "that's just it--we did--not you. cæsar's ghost, man! you can't carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the whole credit when we win. it's all in the day's work." "i know, but----" "'but me no buts,' now joe. just brace up. this is only one of the championship games. there are more to come, and we'll get enough to put us on top of the heap. i only wish i had your chances to perform in public." "i wish you had, spike. but i guess this was my last chance." "nonsense! they'll play you again. why weston--or avondale either, for that matter--wouldn't have done half as well, i think." "oh, so that's your opinion; is it?" snapped a voice behind them. there was no need to turn to know that weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering. "it sure is," retorted spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions. "well, you've got another think coming," snapped weston. "i'll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what's what." joe did not make reply, but he wondered if weston's words held significance. "maybe they won't let me pitch after this," he mused. spike, reading his thoughts, said: "now don't you go to thinking gloomy thinks, joe. you're all right if you only believe so. have some confidence in yourself." "i have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning i don't know what to think." "oh, bosh! if you'd had anything like decent support it never would have happened. hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill." "that's what!" chimed in jimmie lee, coming along just then. "this is only one game--the fortunes of war. we'll beat 'em next time; wallop princeton, and take the championship." "west point is next on the list," went on joe. "i wonder what sort of a game they play?" "like clockwork," explained spike. "i saw one, once, and they put it all over yale. but we've got to win this one." "that's what!" declared jimmie. "i say, i know a nice place where we can get a dandy rabbit. let's stay over to-night. i can stand some cuts, we'll take in a show, and have supper after it. come on, and we can go to new haven in the morning." "no, i guess i'll go back with the team," said joe, slowly. "they might think i was trying to dodge if i sneaked off. i'll go back with the rest." "all right--then we'll go to glory's and have a feed," insisted jimmie. "i've got to do something to raise my spirits." they went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends were moving to the hotel where they had stopped. yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn, and now, as the team walked through the cambridge streets they heard, on all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the victory. to joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the defeat. on the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard the yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students--jolly in spite of the defeat--he felt better. "it's only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip," declared ricky hanover. "we'll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and come out on top of the heap." college life resumed its usual routine after this big game. there were others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly. joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the 'varsity, but he was not. true, weston and avondale were called on at times, for the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in reserve. but joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. nor did mr. hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat. all the players received a calling down for their loose methods in the harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion. in a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the practice was snappier than it had been in a long while. "we want to defeat the army lads!" exclaimed the head coach a few days before the west point game. contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were announced the night before. it was at a meeting of the team, during which the coaches gave some good advice. joe saw weston in close conversation with mr. benson and mr. whitfield, and he had a fear that the deposed pitcher was trying to "pull strings" and make a place for himself. "of course you'll pitch, matson," said mr. hasbrook, in such a matter-of-fact voice that joe was rather startled. "and kendall will catch." there was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the harvard game, but no one said anything. joe, who sat beside spike, whispered: "i wonder when you'll get your chance?" "oh, some day, maybe," was the answer. "i can wait. i'm glad you've had yours." "i must make good, though," declared joe, half fearful that he would not. they arrived at west point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of the team, the substitutes and the "rooters" in right royal fashion. a big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired. "i wonder if we'll win?" mused joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. the cadets were already at practice, and showed up well. "a fine, snappy lot of fellows," observed jimmie lee. "we've got our work cut out all right." "that's what," declared hen johnson. as joe left the dressing room, he saw weston talking to mr. benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. the former 'varsity pitcher--who was now second choice it seemed--was much excited, and as joe passed he heard weston say: "well, i want half the game, anyhow. can't i have it?" "i--i'll see what i can do," replied mr. benson. "i'll do all i can." "i'm tired of playing second fiddle," snapped weston, as he drifted out behind a knot of players. joe began to think of many things. chapter xxvi a sore arm yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last--always an advantage it seems--so joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was concluded. the usual practice of the home team batting last did not prevail on this occasion. the stands were filled with a mass of spectators, in which pretty girls seemed to predominate. at least joe assumed that they were pretty for they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear witness to this designation. many of them were "stunning," to quote de vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice. "just so he could be nearer some of the girls," declared jimmie lee, who had the reputation of being a "woman hater." "some crowd," remarked joe to spike. "yes, and a good one, too," declared joe's room-mate. "it isn't all howling for yale blood. there are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as well as a lot of army men, and we've got our friends with us. you've got to play for all you're worth." "i intend to," declared joe, "but----" "now there you go!" interrupted his chum. "getting doubtful of yourself. stop it, i tell you! just make up your mind that you're going to make good and you will. these fellows are only human, and, though they've got the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. yale luck is bound to turn up sooner or later." "it had better be sooner then," remarked joe, with a grim smile. "two defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. i'd resign." "nonsense!" declared spike. "you can make good all right. remember that weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don't give it to him. hold on to the mound." "i intend to. and yet i heard something that set me thinking," and joe related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding: "i may be taken out after two innings." "not much!" declared spike emphatically. "i see what's going on. weston is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him. the cad!" "well, i can't find the heart to blame him," said joe, softly. "i can," snapped spike. "he's putting himself above the team." "well, maybe it will all come out right," said joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh. "oh, you get out!" cried spike cheerfully. "you've got the losing bugaboo in a bad form. cheer up--the worst is yet to come." "yes, a defeat," murmured joe, and then spike hit him such a thump in the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts. the practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the ground rules. these were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the inspiring cry rang out: "play ball!" "get 'em over, joe," advised shorty kendall, as the young pitcher walked out to his place. "shoot 'em in good and hard, but keep 'em over the plate. i know this umpire. he's fair, but he's careful. you'll have to work for all the strikes you get." "and i'm willing to," declared joe. somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never had before. he was aware of the scowling glance of weston, who sat on the bench, and, as joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so managed to "pull strings" as to gain his end. "anyhow, i'll pitch as long as i can," thought joe with grim determination. the game started. there was nothing remarkable about it, at least at first, so i shall not weary you with details of the strikes, balls, the sliding for bases, the decisions, and the runs. sufficient to say that at first neither side could score. joe and the rival pitcher were in good form, and, aside from scattering hits, which were usually only good for a single bag, little was done. for four innings neither side scored a run, though on one decision of the umpire, when joe came sliding home on a sacrifice by jimmie lee, and was called out, there was a howl of protest. "robber!" "blind man!" "he was safe by a yard!" "don't give it!" were some of the mildest epithets and expressions of opinion hurled at the umpire. "hold on! that isn't yale's way," said the captain quietly. "it's all right," and the decision stood, though had it been otherwise it would have meant a run for yale. and so the game went on until the eighth inning, which put west point one run ahead. there was excitement on the part of the army and its supporters, for in the last half of it yale had been unable to score, and it looked as if she might lose. "we've got to get 'em!" declared captain hatfield grimly, as he and his men took the field for the beginning of the ninth. "don't let one get past you, joe, and then we'll bat out two runs." the young pitcher nodded, but he did not smile. he was a little in doubt of himself, for there was a strange numb feeling in his right arm, and he knew that the muscles were weakening. he had worked himself to the limit, not only in this game, but the one with harvard, and now he began to pay the penalty. once or twice as he wound up to deliver he felt a sharp twinge that alarmed him. he had not asked to have one of the professional rubbers with the team massage him, for fear the rumor would get out that yale's pitcher was weakening. so he bore it as best he could. but his arm was sore. joe had struck out one man, and then he was found for a two-bagger. this man was a notorious base stealer and managed to get to third, while the player following him, who was the heaviest hitter on the team, had been passed by joe on a signal from the captain, who did not want to take chances. "he's afraid!" came the taunt, and joe was beginning to get nervous, especially as his pain increased. with two on bases, and only one out, joe saw come to the bat a man who was an expert bunter. he could lay the ball almost anywhere he wanted to, and our hero realized that he was in for a bad few minutes. it would not do to walk another. he must get this man. what he had feared came to pass. the player bunted and the ball came lazily rolling toward the pitcher. joe and kendall started for it, and then joe yelled: "i'll get it--go back!" he felt himself slipping on a pebble, but recovered with a wrench that strained his sore arm. with an effort he managed to get the ball. he knew that if he threw it from the unnatural and disadvantageous position he had assumed in recovering it, he would make his sore arm worse. but there was no help for it. the man on third had started for home. joe, with a mighty effort, threw to kendall, who caught it and tagged his quarry. "out!" called the umpire. one run was saved. then, like a flash the catcher threw to third, for the man who had been on first, having reached second, rather imprudently tried for another bag. he was tagged there by as neat a double play as could be desired, and the west pointers had finished, with but the one run to their advantage. "we need one to tie and two to win," exclaimed shorty to joe, as he tossed his big mitt into the air. "why," he added, "what's the matter with your arm?" for he saw it hanging down limp. "a strain," replied joe shortly. "i'm all right." "you are not! mcleary must look at you. we'll play somebody else this inning. you go get rubbed." and joe was glad enough to do so. chapter xxvii the accusation yale won from west point. it was almost a foregone conclusion after that sensational inning when joe went down and out with his sprained arm, after saving the game. his mates rallied to the support of, not only himself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless, the wearers of the blue made a determined stand. weston was called on to go in and replace joe, and the former 'varsity pitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him which made him do his best in spite of the odds against him. weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would give him a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitching against a formidable opponent of yale. but it was not to be, though he brought in one of the winning runs for the new haven bulldog. the crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors were putting up, and even the supporters of the army lads hailed them with delight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see a good play, no matter if it is made by the other side. "oh, wow! a pretty hit!" yelled the throng as weston sent a two-bagger well out in the field. his face flushed with pleasure, as he speeded around, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent events might not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against joe might have been dissipated. but no one did, and the result was that weston felt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even. "well played, boys, well played!" exclaimed the captain of the cadets, as he came up to shake hands with hatfield. "you did us up good and proper. we can't buck such a pitcher as you have. what happened to him!" "sprained arm," explained spike, who stood near. "too bad! tell him to take care of it," rejoined the cadet. "such twirlers as he is are few and far between. well, you beat us, but that's no reason why you can do it again. we'll have your scalps next year. now, boys, altogether! show 'em how west pointers can yell." the cheer for the yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged with regret, perhaps, for west point had been sure of winning, especially toward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries that echoed over the field. in turn the new haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallant opponents, and then came a special cheer for joe matson, whose plucky play had made it possible for yale to win. joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight. trainer mcleary was rubbing his sore arm. "hurt much?" the man asked, as he massaged the strained muscles. "some," admitted joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along his arm. "how are we making out?" "we win," declared mcleary, as a scout brought him word. "and you did it." "not by pitching," asserted joe. "no, perhaps not. but every game isn't won by pitching. there are lots of other plays besides that. now you've got to take care of this arm." "is it bad?" "bad enough so you can't use it right away. you've got to have a rest. you've torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have to heal. no baseball for you for a week." "no!" cried joe aghast. "no, sir! not if you want to play the rest of the season," replied the trainer. now joe did want to finish out the season, whether he came back to yale or not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that with princeton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would take place on the big new york polo grounds. "and, oh! if i could only pitch before that crowd!" thought joe, in a moment of anticipated delight. "there, i guess you'll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out of draughts and don't use it," said the trainer finally, as he bound up joe's twirling wing. "no practice, even, for a week, and then very light." joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, he realized that. he was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, and many were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as they greeted him. weston even condescended to say: "hope you won't be knocked out long, old man." "thanks," replied joe dryly. "it'll be a week anyhow." "a week!" exclaimed weston, and he could not keep the delight from showing on his face. then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. joe had little doubt what it meant. weston was going to try for his old place again while joe was unable to pitch. "well," remarked de vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms, whither he had gone. "i should think you could drop your other game, now that's he out of it." "not much!" exclaimed weston, with some passion. "this won't last. he'll be back pitching again, and do me out of it. what i'm going to do won't hurt him much, and it will give me a chance. i'm entitled to it." "i guess you are, old man." the yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in new haven when the ball nine arrived. fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. there were marches, and songs, and joe matson's name was cheered again and again. meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent. "if i shouldn't be able to pitch again!" he exclaimed to spike, in their room. "forget it!" advised the other. "you'll be at it again in a little while. just take it easy." and joe tried to, but it was hard work. it was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on--especially when weston was pitching. but there was no help for it. and then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came. the week had passed and joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl. "i'll get him yet," he muttered to de vere. "he's put me out of it again." "i'd go slow," was the advice. "it's been slow enough as it is," growled the other. the day for the first princeton game was at hand. it was to be played at yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. his arm was in good shape again. the night before the game the dean sent for joe to come to his office. "what's up now?" demanded spike, as his friend received the summons. "have you won a scholarship, or is the dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?" "both, i guess," answered joe with a laugh. in his heart he wondered what the summons meant. he was soon to learn. "i have sent for you, mr. matson," said the dean gravely, "to enable you to make some answer to a serious accusation that has been brought against you." "what is it?" faltered the pitcher. "do you remember, some time ago," the dean went on, "that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? the gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript was ruined. do you remember?" "yes," answered joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew. "well," went on the dean, "have you anything to confess?" "who, me? confess? why, no, sir," answered joe. "i don't know what you mean." "then i must tell you. you have been accused of putting the red paint on the steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take no further part in athletics, and you may be suspended." chapter xxviii vindication joe fairly staggered back, so startled was he by the words of the dean--and, not only the words, but the manner--for the dean was solemn, and there was a vindictiveness about him that joe had never seen before. "why--why, what do you mean?" gasped joe. "i never put the red paint on the steps!" "no?" queried the dean coldly. "then perhaps you can explain how this pot of red paint came to be hidden in your closet." "my closet!" cried joe, and at once a memory of the crimson stain on his coat came to him. "i never----" "wait," went on the dean coldly. "i will explain. it is not altogether circumstantial evidence on which i am accusing you. the information came to me--anonymously i regret to say--that you had some red paint in your closet. the spoiling of the valuable manuscripts was such an offence that i decided to forego, for once, my objection to acting on anonymous information. i did ignore one letter that accused you----" "accused me!" burst out joe, remembering the incident in chapel. "yes. but wait, i am not finished. i had your room examined in your absence, and we found--this." he held up a pot of red paint. "i had the paint on the steps analyzed," went on the dean. "it is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. but i deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though i will not expel or punish you." barred from athletics! to joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled. "i--i never did it!" he cried. "do you know who did, if you did not?" asked the dean. like a flash it came to joe. he could not tell. he could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that weston was the guilty one--the twice guilty one, for joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him. "well?" asked the dean, coldly. "i--i have nothing to say," faltered joe. "very well. you may go. i shall not make this matter public, except to issue the order barring you from athletics." without a word joe left. inside of an hour it was noised all over the college that he could not pitch against princeton, and great was the regret, mingled with anxiety. "what in thunder is up?" asked captain hatfield, as he sought out joe. "nothing." "oh, come off! can't you tell?" "no," answered joe, and that was all he would say. joe did not go to the yale-princeton game. yale won. won easily, though had weston, who pitched, not been ably supported the story might have been a different one. "one scalp for us," announced spike. "yes," assented joe gloomily. "oh, you get out!" cried spike. "i'm not going to stand for this. you've got to keep in form. there's no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. you and i will keep up practice. the dean can't stop you from that." nor did he try, and, though joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. and then life at yale went on much as before, though joe's heart was bitter. he seldom saw weston, who was again first choice for 'varsity pitcher. weston did fairly well, too, though some games yale should have won she lost. but it was to princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. could yale win the next contest? the answer was not long delayed. two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger's lair and was eaten up--to the end of his stubby tail. yale received the worst beating in her history. "and it's up to weston!" declared spike savagely, when he came back from princeton. "he was absolutely rotten. went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. then it was all over but the shouting, for avondale and mcanish couldn't fill in the gap. oh, joe, if you could only pitch!" "but i can't." "you've just got to! yale has a chance yet. it's a tie now for the championship. the deciding game will be played on the new york polo grounds in two weeks. you've got to pitch!" "i don't see how i can." "well, i'm going to!" and spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination. it seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. the lad was not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs. it was to this club that spike went when he burst out of his room, intent on finding, in some fashion, a way of vindicating joe, for he was firm in his belief that joe was innocent in spite of the silence. there had been rain the night before, and on a billboard adjoining the club room some of the gaudy red and yellow posters, announcing the final yale-princeton game, had been torn off. hardly knowing what he was doing, spike picked up part of a sheet, colored a vivid red. at that moment, from the side entrance, charlie, the janitor's son, came out, and spike, who had often given him odd tasks to do, and who felt sorry for the afflicted one, playfully thrust the red paper at him, saying: "here, charlie, take it home, and let your little sister cut out some paper dolls." he slapped the paper on the lad's hand, and being damp and pasty it stuck there, like a splotch of blood. charlie shrank back, cowering and frightened, whimpering like a child, and mumbling: "don't! oh, don't mr. poole. don't put that on me. i--i can't bear it. it's been haunting me. i'll tell all i know. the red paint--i put it there. but he--he made me. some of it got on my hand, and i wiped it off on his coat. oh, the blood color! take it away. i--i can't stand it!" "what's that?" fairly yelled spike. "red paint? here, tell me all you know! jove, i begin to see things now!" "take it off! take it off!" begged charlie, and he trembled so that spike feared he would have a seizure. "there--there--it's all right," he said soothingly. "i'll take it off," and he removed the offending paper. "now you come with me, and tell me all about it," he went on quietly. and charlie obeyed, like a child. a little later spike was closeted with the dean, taking charlie with him, and when they came out joe's room-mate said: "then the ban is removed, sir?" "certainly, poole," replied the dean, "and i will make a public explanation in the morning. i am very sorry this occurred, and i deeply regret it. but circumstances pointed to him, and i felt i had to act. never again, though, shall i place any faith in an anonymous letter. yes, everything will be all right. if matson had only spoken, though!" "it's just like him not to," said spike. chapter xxix bucking the tiger "hurray! matson is going to pitch for us!" "get out! he's barred!" "not now. it's all off. he'll pitch against princeton!" "where'd you hear it?" "what's the matter with weston?" "oh, he's gone--vamoosed--flew the coop. couldn't stand the disgrace. it'll all be out in the morning." student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at glory's--anywhere in fact, passed these, and similar remarks. "and to think you knew, all the while, that weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn't squeal!" cried spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder. "would you?" asked joe quietly. "well--er--now you have got me, old man! but it's all right. come on out and celebrate." and they celebrated as they never had before. joe was given an ovation when he entered glory's, and every member of the nine--substitutes and all--were there to do him honor. that is, all but weston and de vere. they had quietly taken themselves from yale. the explanation was simple. weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor's steps. he was not discovered, for joe kept quiet. then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, weston planned to throw suspicion on him. he sent the first anonymous letter, though avondale knew nothing of it. then weston took de vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that weston had used, into joe's closet. the epileptic lad, charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden weston sent the second anonymous letter to the dean, telling about it. what happened is well known. joe was accused, and would not inform on another to save himself. perhaps it was the wrong thing to do--certainly he owed it to himself to have the right to vindication. i am not defending him, i am only telling of what happened. then came the dramatic episode, when spike unwittingly brought out the truth from charlie. it seems that the boy's conscience had been troubling him, for though weston pretended it was only an innocent joke he was playing on joe, the lad suspected something. and so the full explanation was made to the dean, and the latter, publicly, at chapel the next morning, begged joe's pardon, and restored him to his full rights. as for weston and de vere, they were not in evidence. they had left yale. "sharp practice from now on," ordered mr. hasbrook, when the excitement had quieted down somewhat. "we'll have to replace de vere at right field, but otherwise the team will be the same as before. matson, you'll pitch, of course." "and he'll win for us, too!" cried spike. "i'm sure i hope so," went on the head coach. "spike, if it wasn't so late in the season i'd let you catch. you deserve something for your share in this." "oh, i wouldn't think of catching now, though it would be great," declared joe's chum. "give me a chance next season." "i sure will," said the head coach. "get busy now, everybody. we've got to beat princeton!" "oh, joe, do you think we'll win?" asked spike, half nervously, the night before they were to start for new york to meet their rivals. "win! of course we'll win!" cried joe, and though so much depended on him, he was the coolest member of the team. chapter xxx the championship such a crowd as filled the big polo grounds! the grandstands seemed full, and the bleachers too, but the elevated and surface roads brought more constantly, and the honking autos added to the clamor. it was a perfect day, and the ball field--one of the best in the world--where professionals meet professionals--was laid out with mathematical precision. from their lairs near the press boxes the tigers trotted to be welcomed with shouts and yells from their supporters and the songs of their fellows. "they beat us once--as we did them," said joe in a low voice. "they may beat us again." "not much!" cried spike. "a yale victory is in the air. i can feel it! look at that blue," and he pointed to the sky, "and then at that," and he waved toward the azure-hued yale stand, "and say we're going to lose! i guess not!" "a cheer for every man!" yelled the leader of the princeton cheer masters, who were armed with big megaphones as were their new haven rivals, except that the ribbons were of the tiger's stripes. "a cheer for every man!" and then, as the jersey cheer was howled there followed each time the name of some player--sweet music to their ears, no doubt. "they're signalling to us," said spike a little later. "i guess they want us inside to come out all in a bunch, as princeton did." this was the import of the message delivered to them a little later as they filed into the dressing rooms, where the team and substitutes now were. "remember, boys," said the captain solemnly, "we've got to win. it's yale's luck against princeton's maybe, but even with that it's got to be bulldog pluck against the tiger's fierceness. they can play ball." "and so can we!" declared several, in low voices. "prove it--by beating 'em!" was the quick retort. "pile out now, and have some snap to you!" if yale had gone wild, so now did the students from her rival college. the orange and black, which had been in evidence on the opposite stand to that which showed the blue, now burst forth in a frenzy of color. hats were tossed in the air, canes too, and one excited man dashed his tall silk head covering about with such energy that he split it on the walking stick of a gentleman seated near him. "i beg your pardon," said the one with the stick. "don't mention it! my fault entirely--i'm too excited, i guess, but i used to play on the princeton team years ago, and i came to-day to see her win. i don't care for a hat--i can buy lots more. but princeton is going to win! wow!" "i'm sorry for you," said the other with a smile. "but yale has the bulge to-day." "never!" "i tell you she has!" and then the argument began, good-natured enough, but only one of many like it going on all about the grounds. "hark!" said joe to spike, as they were walking back toward the diamond. "isn't that great?" there had come a momentary hush, and the sweet strains of the princeton song--"orange and black," floated over the big diamond. many of the spectators--former college men--joined in, yale ceased her cheering while this was rendered, and then came a burst of applause, for the melody was exceptionally well rendered. "well, they may sing, but they can't play ball," said spike. out came the bulldogs, and at once it seemed as if a bit of blue sky had suddenly descended on the stands, so solid was the mass of ultramarine color displayed, in contrast to the orange and black. "joe, old man, isn't it great!" cried spike, capering about. "to think that i'm really going to play in this big championship game!" "it's fine!" exclaimed joe, yet he himself was thinking how glorious it would be if he was only a professional, and could occupy the mound of the polo grounds regularly instead of on this rare occasion. "and i will, too, some day!" he murmured. "play ball!" the practice was over, the last conference between coaches, pitchers, catchers and captains had been held. the championship was now to be contested for. yale had won the toss and taken last chance at bat. "play ball!" joe walked to the mound, a trifle nervous, as anyone would have been under the circumstances, but, with it all, holding himself well in hand. as he got ready to deliver the customary five balls before attending to the batter a quiet-appearing man, sitting in one of the press boxes, moved so as to get a better view of the young pitcher. "what's the matter, mack?" asked one of the reporters. "think you see some bushleaguers in this bunch of college boys?" "you never can tell," was the quiet answer. "i'm always on the lookout for recruits, and i'm particularly in need of a good pitcher." "well, both teams have some good ones i hear," went on the newspaper man, and then he devoted himself to sending out an account of the game to his paper. with the first ball that he delivered joe knew that he was in shape to pitch the game of his career. he was sure of his control, and he realized that with a little care he could place the horsehide just where he wanted it to go. "if we can only bat a few we've got this cinched," decided joe, always aware, though, of the fatal element of luck. the early results seemed to justify his confidence. for four innings not a princeton man got farther than first base, and the crowd was wildly cheering him. "if it will only last," he thought, and the memory of his sore arm came to him as a shock. but he had not suffered from it since, and he hoped he would not. on her part yale had managed to get one run across, and thus the game stood at the beginning of the fifth inning. in that, for one fearful moment, joe had fears. he had been signalled to walk the heaviest batter, but something went wrong, and the man plugged a three bagger that got past spike. the next man up was a good hitter, and kendall, in fear and trembling, signalled for another pass. but joe shook his head. he was going to try to strike him out. and he did. amid wild roars the man was retired, and when two more had gone down, and princeton was still without a run, pandemonium broke loose. though yale tried with all her might to sweeten the score, she could not--at least in the next two innings. she batted well, but princeton seemed to be right on the ball every time. and with only one run as a margin, the game was far from won. "but we'll do it!" cried hatfield, fiercely. "that's what!" echoed joe. yale's chance came in the eighth inning, when, owing to an error by the princeton shortstop, a man got to first. none were out, and joe rapped out a pretty two-bagger that, followed by a wild throw home, enabled a man to score. then joe was brought in on a sacrifice hit, and when the inning ended yale had three more runs, making the score four to nothing in her favor. once more the riot of blue shot over the stands, while the orange and black fluttered listlessly. but the tiger was growling in his lair, while the bulldog was thus barking, and every yale player knew that fortune might yet turn against them. but when princeton had her last chance to bat, and only managed to get one run, it was all over but the shouting. joe had pitched magnificently, and when the last chance of the princeton tiger had vanished there was a rush for the young pitcher, and he was fairly carried away on the shoulders of his fellows. and such cheering as there was! "yale wins!" "yale is champion!" "three cheers for baseball joe!" the field swarmed with the spectators, who hardly stayed to hear the victors and vanquished cheer each other. the quiet man who had sat in the press box managed to get a word to joe, though he had to shout to be heard above the din. the young pitcher looked startled, then pleased, and his voice faltered as he answered; after a little more talk: "but supposing i don't make good, mr.--er--?" "mack is my name, i represent the manager; in fact i'm his assistant." "but supposing i don't make good?" repeated joe. "i know i can do pretty well here, but, as you say, i don't seem to take to the college life. still, i wouldn't want to make a public try as i'd have to, and then give up. it would bar me from the amateur ranks forever." "yes, i know that," was the answer, "but you needn't be afraid. look here, matson. this isn't the first time i've done such a thing as this. it's part of my business, and part of my business to know what i'm doing. i can size a player up as quick as a horse buyer can a spavined nag. i've sized you up, and i know you're all wool and a yard wide." "but this is the first time you've seen me play." "it was enough, i tell you." "and, as i said," went on joe, "i don't want to be in the position of putting myself out of the game. if i go in with you, and fail, i probably never could get another chance." "oh, yes you could. but look here, matson, you mustn't think of failure. you're not built that way. now aren't you sport enough to take a chance?" joe was silent for a moment. he thought of many things--of his overpowering ambition, and then answered falteringly: "i--i'm willing to try." "all right, then i'll sign you," was the answer. another rush of the delirious students almost carried joe off his feet. he was cheered and cheered again. through the mob came pushing and shoving the president of the exclusive anvil club. "i say, matson," he began, "this is great! yale has come into her own again. we'd like the honor of electing you to our society, and would be pleased to have you make application." "i'm much obliged to you," spoke joe slowly, "but i'm afraid i can't." "you can't! why not?" "because i'm going to leave yale!" "leave yale!" came the indignant protest. "what for?" "because i have just accepted, tentatively, an offer from one of the managers of a professional league to pitch for him the rest of this season, and all of next," replied joe quietly. "that's right," confirmed the man who had whispered in our hero's ear. "i know a good pitcher when i see one, and there is no use of matson wearing himself out on a college nine. he is cut out for a professional!" and to all the protests of his classmates joe would not give in. he knew that college was no place for him, and as the chance had come to get into the professional ranks, at good pay, he was going to take it; provided, of course, that his folks were willing. how he did, and what happened, will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called, "baseball joe in the central league; or, making good as a professional pitcher." "oh, joe, can't you reconsider, and stay at yale?" begged spike, when he and his chum, after the exciting events of the championship game, were in their room once more. "i don't know what i'm going to do without you." "spike, old man," said joe, and his voice broke a little. "i would like to stay, for your sake, and for some of the other fine fellows i've met here. i'd like to stay in spite of the unpleasant experience i've had. i know it's going to break mother all up to hear i've left college, but i'm not cut out for it. i'm a square peg in a round hole. i want to get into professional baseball, and i've just _got_ to. i shouldn't be happy here." "well, if that's the case," said spike, with a sigh, "i'm not going to say anything more. only it sure is tough luck. yale will miss you." "and i'll miss her, too, in a way. but my place isn't here." there was silence between them for a space, and then spike said softly: "come on down to glory's--for the last time. joe." and they went out together. the end the baseball joe series by lester chadwick _ mo. illustrated. price cents per volume._ _postage cents additional._ [illustration] . baseball joe of the silver stars _or the rivals of riverside_ . baseball joe on the school nine _or pitching for the blue banner_ . baseball joe at yale _or pitching for the college championship_ . baseball joe in the central league _or making good as a professional pitcher_ . baseball joe in the big league _or a young pitcher's hardest struggles_ . baseball joe on the giants _or making good as a twirler in the metropolis_ . baseball joe in the world series _or pitching for the championship_ . baseball joe around the world _or pitching on a grand tour_ . baseball joe: home run king _or the greatest pitcher and batter on record_ . baseball joe saving the league _or breaking up a great conspiracy_ . baseball joe captain of the team _or bitter struggles on the diamond_ . baseball joe champion of the league _or the record that was worth while_ . baseball joe club owner _or putting the home town on the map_ . baseball joe pitching wizard _or triumphs off and on the diamond_ _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the bomba books by roy rockwood _ mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket._ _price cents per volume._ _postage cents additional._ [illustration] _bomba lived far back in the jungles of the amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. the jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. he had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ . bomba the jungle boy . bomba the jungle boy at the moving mountain . bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract . bomba the jungle boy on jaguar island . bomba the jungle boy in the abandoned city . bomba the jungle boy on terror trail . bomba the jungle boy in the swamp of death . bomba the jungle boy among the slaves . bomba the jungle boy on the underground river . bomba the jungle boy and the lost explorers . bomba the jungle boy in a strange land . bomba the jungle boy among the pygmies _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the boy hunters series by captain ralph bonehill [illustration] _ mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors._ _price cents per volume. postage cents additional._ _captain ralph bonehill is one of the best known and most popular writers for young people. in this series he shows, as no other writer can, the joy, glory and happiness of outdoor life._ =four boy hunters= _or the outing of the gun club_ a fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in captain bonehill's best style. in the book are given full directions for camping out. =guns and snowshoes= _or the winter outing of the young hunters_ in this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. they hunt and trap to their hearts' content and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." a good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. =young hunters of the lake= _or out with rod and gun_ another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. the three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. =out with gun and camera= _or the boy hunters in the mountains_ takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. an escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the jewel series by ames thompson [illustration] _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in colors._ _price cents per volume._ _postage cents additional._ _a series of stories brimming with hardy adventure, vivid and accurate in detail, and with a good foundation of probability. they take the reader realistically to the scene of action. besides being lively and full of real situations, they are written in a straightforward way very attractive to boy readers._ . the adventure boys _and the_ valley of diamonds in this book they form a party of five, and with the aid of a shrewd, level-headed sailor named stanley green, they find a valley of diamonds in the heart of africa. . the adventure boys _and the_ river of emeralds with a guide, they set out to find the river of emeralds. but masked foes, emeralds, and falling mountains are all in the day's fun for these adventure boys. . the adventure boys _and the_ lagoon of pearls this time the group starts out on a cruise simply for pleasure, but their adventuresome spirits lead them into the thick of things on a south sea cannibal island. . the adventure boys _and the_ temple of rubies the adventure boys find plenty of thrills when they hit the ruby trail, and soon discover that they are marked by some sinister influence to keep them from reaching the ruby. . the adventure boys _and the_ island of sapphires the paths of the young jewel hunters lead to a mysterious island where the treasures are concealed. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york transcriber's notes: --text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --text in bold is enclosed by "equal" signs (=bold=). --punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --retained author's long dash style. stover at yale by owen johnson _lawrenceville stories_ the prodigious hickey the varmint the tennessee shad skippy bedelle stover at yale the wasted generation blue blood children of divorce [illustration: "together they went choking through the crowd"--_page ._] stover at yale by owen johnson author of "the varmint," "the tennessee shad," etc. with illustrations by f. r. gruger [illustration: logo] boston little, brown, and company _copyright, , by_ the s. s. mcclure co. _copyright, , , by_ the mcclure publications, inc. _copyright, ,_ by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian_ printed in the united states of america illustrations "together they went choking through the crowd" _frontispiece_ facing page "'hello,' said rogers' quiet voice. 'well, what do _you_ want?'" "'i come not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good'" "the period of duns set in, and the house became a place of mystery and signals" "oh, father and mother pay all the bills, and we have all the fun" "'life's real to those fellows; they're fighting for something'" "regan was his one friend" "'curse the man who invented fish-house punch'" stover at yale chapter i dink stover, freshman, chose his seat in the afternoon express that would soon be rushing him to new haven and his first glimpse of yale university. he leisurely divested himself of his trim overcoat, folding it in exact creases and laying it gingerly across the back of his seat; stowed his traveling-bag; smoothed his hair with a masked movement of his gloved hand; pulled down a buckskin vest, opening the lower button; removed his gloves and folded them in his breast pocket, while with the same gesture a careful forefinger, unperceived, assured itself that his lilac silk necktie was in snug contact with the high collar whose points, painfully but in perfect style, attacked his chin. then, settling, not flopping, down, he completed his preparations for the journey by raising the sharp crease of the trousers one inch over each knee--a legendary precaution which in youth is believed to prevent vulgar bagging. each movement was executed without haste or embarrassment, but leisurely, with the deliberate _savoir-faire_ of the complete man of the world he had become at the terrific age of eighteen. in front of him spasmodic freshmen arrived, struggling from their overcoats in embarrassed plunges that threatened to leave them publicly in their shirt sleeves. that they imputed to him the superior dignity of an upper classman was pleasurably evident to stover from their covert respectful glances. he himself felt conscious of a dividing-line. he, too, was a freshman, and yet not of them. he had just ended three years at lawrenceville, where from a ridiculous beginning he had fought his way to the captaincy of the football eleven and the vice-presidency of the school. he had been the big man in a big school, and the sovereign responsibilities of that anointed position had been, of course, such that he no longer felt himself a free agent. he had been of the chosen, and not all at once could he divest himself of the idea that his slightest action had a certain public importance. his walk had been studiously imitated by twenty shuffling striplings. his hair, parted on the side, had caused a revolution among the brushes and stirred up innumerable indignant cowlicks. his tricks of speech, his favorite exclamations, had become at once lip-currency. at that time golf and golf-trousers were things of unthinkable daring. he had given his approval, appeared in the baggy breeches, and at once the ban on bloomers had been lifted and the circle had swarmed with the grotesqueries of variegated legs for the first time boldly revealed. he had stood between the school and its tyrants. he had arrayed himself in circumstantial attire--boiled shirt, high collar, and carefully dusted derby--and appeared before the faculty with solemn, responsible face no less than three separate times, to voice the protest of four hundred future american citizens: first, at the insidious and alarming repetition of an abhorrent article of winter food known as scrag-birds and sinkers; second, to urge the overwhelming necessity of a second sleighing holiday; and, third and most important, firmly to assure the powers that be that the school viewed with indignation and would resist to despair the sudden increase of the already staggering burden of the curriculum. the middle-aged faculty had listened gravely to the grave expounder of such grave demands, had promised reform and regulation in the matter of the sinkers, granted the holiday, and insufficiently modified the brutal attempt at injecting into the uneager youthful mind a little more of the inconsequential customs of the greeks and romans. the doctor had honored him with his confidence, consulted him on several intimate matters of school discipline--in fact, most undoubtedly had rather leaned upon him. as he looked back upon the last year at lawrenceville, he could not help feeling a certain wholesome, pleasant satisfaction. he had held up an honest standard, he had played hard but square, disdained petty offenses, seen to the rigorous bringing up of the younger boys, and, as men of property must lend their support to the church, he had even publicly advised a moderate attention to the long classic route which leads to college. he had been the big man in the big school; what new opportunity lay before him? in the seat ahead two of his class were exchanging delighted conjectures, and their conversation, coming to his ears clearly through the entangled murmur of the car, began to interest him. "i say, schley, you were hotchkiss, weren't you?" "eight mortal years." "got a good crowd?" "no wonder-workers, but a couple of good men for the line. what's your andover crowd like?" "we had a daisy bunch, but some of the pearls have been side-tracked to princeton and harvard." "bought up, eh?" "sure," said the speaker, with the profoundest conviction. "big chance, mcnab, for the eleven this year," said schley, in a thin, anemic, authoritative sort of way. "play football yourself?" "sure--if any one will kick me," said mcnab, who in fact had a sort of roly-poly resemblance to the necessary pigskin. "lord, i'm no strength-breaker. i'm a funny man, side-splitting joker, regular cut-up--didos and all that sort of thing. what are you out for?" "a good time first, last, and always." "am i? just ask me!" said mcnab explosively; and in a justly aggrieved tone he added: "lord, haven't i slaved like a mule ten years to get there! i don't know how long it'll last, but while it does it will be a lulu!" "my old dad gave me a moral lecture." "sure. opportunity--character--beauty of the classics--hope to be proud of my son--you're a man now--" "that's it." "sure thing. lord, we'll be doing the same twenty-five years from now," said mcnab, who thus logically and to his own satisfaction disposed of this fallacy. he added generously, however, with a wave of his hand: "a father ought to talk that way--the right thing--wouldn't care a flip of a mule's tail for my dad if he didn't. and say, by gravy, he sort of got me, too--damned impressive!" "really?" "honor bright." a flicker of reminiscent convictions passed over mcnab's frolicking face. "yes, and i made a lot of resolutions, too--good resolutions." "come off!" "well, that was day before yesterday." the train started with a sudden crunching. a curious, excited thrill possessed stover. he had embarked, and the quick plunge into the darkness of the long tunnel had, to his keenly sentimental imagination, something of the dark transition from one world into another. behind was the known and the accomplished; ahead the coming of man's estate and man's freedom. he was his own master at last, free to go and to come, free to venture and to experience, free to know that strange, guarded mystery--life--and free, knowing it, to choose from among it many ways. and yet, he felt no lack of preparation. looking back, he could honestly say to himself that where a year ago he had seen darkly now all was clear. he had found himself. he had gambled. he had consumed surreptitiously at midnight a sufficient quantity of sickening beer. he had consorted with men of uncontrollable passions and gone his steady path. he had loved, hopelessly, madly, with all the intensity and honesty of which he was capable, a woman--a slightly older woman--who had played with the fragile wings of his boy's illusion and left them wounded; he had fought down that weakness and learned to look on a soft cheek and challenging eye with the calm, amused control of a man, who invincibly henceforth would cast his life among men. there was not much knowledge of life, if any, that could come to him. he did not proclaim it, but quietly, as a great conviction, heritage of sorrow and smashing disillusionments, he knew it was so. he knew it all--he was a man; and this would give him an advantage among his younger fellows in the free struggle for leadership that was now opening to his joyful combative nature. "it'll be a good fight, and i'll win," he said to himself, and his crossed arms tightened with a quick, savage contraction, as if the idea were something that could be pursued, tackled, and thrown headlong to the ground. "there's a couple of fellows from lawrenceville coming up," said a voice from a seat behind him. "mccarthy and stover, they say, are quite wonders." "i've heard of stover; end, wasn't he?" "yes; and the team's going to need ends badly." it was the first time he had heard his name published abroad. he sat erect, drawing up one knee and locking his hands over it in a strained clasp. suddenly the swimming vista of the smoky cars disappeared, rolling up into the tense, crowded, banked arena, with white splotches of human faces, climbing like daisy fields that moved restlessly, nervously stirred by the same expectant tensity with which he stood on the open field waiting for his chance to come. "i like a fight--a good fight," he said to himself, drawing in his breath; and the wish seemed but a simple one, the call for the joyful shock of bodies in fair combat. and life was nothing else--a battle in the open where courage and a thinking mind must win. "i'll bet we get a lot of fruits," said schley's rather calculating voice. "oh, some of them aren't half bad." "think so?" "i say, what do you know about this society game?" "look out." "what's matter?" "you chump, you never know who's around you." as he spoke, schley sent an uneasy glance back toward stover, and, dropping his voice, continued: "you don't talk about such things." "well, i'm not shouting it out," said mcnab, who looked at his more sophisticated companion with a little growing antagonism. "what are you scared about?" "it's the class ahead of you that counts," said schley hurriedly, "the sophomore and senior societies; the junior fraternities don't count; if you're in a sophomore you always go into them." "never heard of the sophomore societies," said mcnab, in a maliciously higher tone. "elucidate somewhat." "there are three: hé boulé, eta phi, and kappa psi," said schley, with another uneasy, squirming glance back at stover. "they're secret as the deuce; seventeen men in each--make one and you're in line for a senior." "how the deuce did you get on to all this?" "oh, i've been coached up." something in the nascent sophistication of schley displeased stover. he ceased to listen, occupying himself with an interested examination of the figures who passed from time to time in the aisle, in search of returning friends. the type was clearly defined; alert, clean-cut, self-confident, dressed on certain general divisions, affecting the same style of correct hat and collar, with, as distinguishing features, a certain boyish exuberance and a distinct nervous energy. at this moment an abrupt resonant voice said at his side: "got a bit of room left beside you?" stover shifted his coat, saying: "certainly; come on in." he saw a man of twenty-two or -three, with the head and shoulders of a bison, sandy hair, with a clear, blue, steady glance, heavy hands, and a face already set in the mold of stern purpose. he stood a moment, holding a decrepit handbag stuffed to the danger point, hesitating whether to stow it in the rack above, and then said: "guess i won't risk it. that's my trunk. i'll tuck it in here." he settled in the vacant seat, saying: "what are you--an upper classman?" something like a spasm passed over the well-ironed shoulders of schley in front. "no, i'm not," said stover, and, extending his hand, he said: "i guess we're classmates. my name's stover." "my name's regan--tom regan. glad to know you. i'm sorry you're not an upper classman, though." "why so?" said stover. "i wanted to get a few pointers," said regan, in a matter-of-fact way. "i'm working my way through and i want to know the ropes." "i wish i knew," said stover, with instinctive liking for the blunt elemental force beside him. "what are you going to try?" "anything--waiting, to start in with." he gave him a quick glance. "that's not your trouble, is it?" "no." "it's a glorious feeling, to be going up, i tell you," said regan, with a sudden lighting up of his rugged features. "can hardly believe it. i've been up against those infernal examinations six times, and i'd have gone up against them six more but i'd down them." "where did you come from?" "pretty much everywhere. des moines, iowa, at the last." "it's a pretty fine college," said stover, with a new thrill. "it's a college where you stand on your own feet, all square to the wind," said regan, with conviction. "that's what got me. it's worth everything to get here." "you're right." "i wonder if i could get hold of some upper classman," said regan uneasily. that this natural desire should be the most unnatural in the world was already clear to stover; only, somehow, he did not like to look into regan's eyes and make him understand. "how are you, stover? glad to see you." dink, looking up, beheld the erect figure and well-mannered carriage of le baron, a sophomore, already a leader of his class, whom he had met during the summer. in the clean-cut features and naturally modulated voice there was a certain finely aristocratic quality that won rather than provoked. stover was on his feet at once, a little embarrassed despite himself, answering hurriedly the questions addressed to him. "get your room over in york street? good. you're in a good crowd. you look a little heavier. in good shape? your class will have to help us out on the eleven this year." stover introduced regan. le baron at once was sympathetic, gave many hints, recommended certain people to see, and smilingly offered his services. "come around any time; i'll put you in touch with several men that will be of use to you. get out for the team right off--that'll make you friends." then, turning to stover, he added, with just a shade of difference in his tone: "i was looking for you particularly. i want you to dine with me to-night. i'll be around about seven. awfully glad you're here. at seven." he passed on, giving his hand to the right and left. stover felt as if he had received the accolade. schley ahead was squirmingly impressed; one or two heads across the aisle turned in his direction, wondering who could be the freshman whom le baron so particularly took under his protection. "isn't he a king?" he said enthusiastically to regan, with just a pardonable pleasure in his exuberance. "he made the crew last year--probably be captain; subtackle on the eleven. i played against him two years ago when he was at andover. isn't he a king, though!" "i don't know," said regan, with a drawing of his lips. stover was astounded. "why not?" "don't know." "what's wrong?" "hard to tell. he sizes up for a man all right, but i don't think we'd agree on some things." the incident momentarily halted the conversation. stover was a little irritated at what seemed to him his companion's over-sensitiveness. le baron had been more than kind in his proffer of help. he was at a loss to understand why regan should not see him through his eyes. "you think i'm finicky," said regan, breaking the silence. "yes, i do," said stover frankly. "i guess you and i'll understand each other," said regan, approving of his directness. "perhaps i am wrong. but, boy, this place means a great deal to me, and the men that are in it and lead it." "it's the one place where money makes no difference," said stover, with a flash--"where you stand for what you are." regan turned to him. "i've fought to get here, and i'll have a fight to stay. it means something to me." the train began to slacken in the new haven station. they swarmed out on to the platform amid the returning gleeful crowd, crossing and intercrossing, caught up in the hubbub of shouted recognition. "hello, stuffy!" "there's stuffy davis!" "hello, boys." "oh, jim thompson, have we your eye?" "come on." "get the crowd together." "all into a hack." "back again, bill!" "join you later. i've got a freshman." "where you rooming?" "see you at mory's." buffeted by the crowd they made their way across the depot to the street. "i'm going to hoof it," said regan, extending his hand. "glad to have met you. i'll drop in on you soon." stover watched him go stalwartly through the crowd, his bag under one arm, his soft hat set a little at defiance, looking neither to the right nor left. "why the deuce did he say that about le baron?" he thought, with a feeling of irritation. then, obeying an impulse, he signaled an expressman, consigned his bag, and made his way on foot, dodging in and out of the rapidly filled hacks, where upper classmen sat four on the seat, hugging one another with bearlike hugs. "eh, freshman, take off that hat!" he removed his derby immediately, bowing to a hilarious crowd, who rocked ahead shouting back unintelligible gibes at him. others were clinging to car steps and straps. "hello, dink!" some one had called him but he could not discover who. he swung down the crowded street to the heart of the city in the rapid dropping of the twilight. there was a dampness underfoot that sent to him long, wavering reflections from early street-lamps. the jumble of the city was in his ears, the hazy, crowded panorama in his eyes, at his side the passing contact of strangers. everything was multiplied, complex, submerging his individuality. but this feeling of multitude did not depress him. he had come to conquer, and zest was in his step and alertness in his glance. out of the churning of the crowd he passed into the clear sweep of the city common, and, looking up through the mist, for the first time beheld the battlements of the college awaiting him ahead, lost in the hazy elms. across the quiet reaches of the common he went slowly, incredibly, toward these strange shapes in brick and stone. the evening mist had settled. they were things undefined and mysterious, things as real as the things of his dreams. he passed on through the portals of phelps hall, hearing above his head for the first time the echoes of his own footsteps against the resounding vault. behind him remained the city, suddenly hushed. he was on the campus, the brick row at his left; in the distance the crowded line of the fence, the fence where he later should sit in joyful conclave. somewhere there in the great protecting embrace of these walls were the friends that should be his, that should pass with him through those wonderful years of happiness and good fellowship that were coming. "and this is it--this is yale," he said reverently, with a little tightening of the breath. they had begun at last--the happy, care-free years that every one proclaimed. four glorious years, good times, good fellows, and a free and open fight to be among the leaders and leave a name on the roll of fame. only four years, and then the world with its perplexities and grinding trials. "four years," he said softly. "the best, the happiest i'll ever know! nothing will ever be like them--nothing!" and, carried away with the confident joy of it, he went toward his house, shoulders squared, with the step of a d'artagnan and a song sounding in his ears. chapter ii he found the house in york street, a low, white-washed frame building, luminous under the black canopy of the overtowering elms. at the door there was a little resistance and a guarded voice cried: "what do you want?" "i want to get in." "what for?" "because i want to." "very sorry," said mcnab's rather squeaky voice--"most particular sorry; but this house is infected with yellow fever and the rickets, and we wouldn't for the world share it with the sophomore class--oh, no!" a light began to dawn over stover. "i'm rooming here," he said. "what's your name and general style of beauty?" "stover, and i've got a twitching foot." "why didn't you say so?" said mcnab, who then admitted him. "pardon me. the sophomores are getting so fidgety, you know, hopping all up and down. my name's mcnab--german extraction. came up on the train, ahead of you--thought you were a sophomore, you put on such a beautiful side. here, put on that chain." "hazing?" "oh, no, indeed. just a few members of the weakling class above us might get too fond of us; just must see us--welcome to yale and all that sort of thing. i hate sentimental exhibitions, don't you?" "is mccarthy here?" said stover, laughing. "your wife is waiting for you most anxiously." "hello, is that dink?" called down mccarthy's exuberant voice at this moment. stover went up the stairs like a terrier, answering the joyful whoop with a war-cry of his own. the next moment he and mccarthy were pummeling each other, wrestling about the room, to the dire danger of furniture and crockery. when this sentimental moment had exhausted itself physically, mccarthy bore him to the back of the house, saying: "we don't want to show our light in front just yet. we've got a corking lot in the house--best of the andover crowd. come on; i'll introduce you. you remember hunter, who played against me at tackle? he's here." there were half a dozen loitering on the window-seat and beds in the pipe-ridden room. hunter, in shirt sleeves, sorting the contents of his trunk, came forward at once. "hello, stover, how are you?" "how are you?" no sooner did their hands clasp than a change came to dink. he was face to face with the big man of the andover crowd, measuring him and being measured. the sudden burst of boyish affection that had sent him into mccarthy's arms was gone. this man could not help but be a leader in the class. he was older than the rest, but how much it would have been hard to say. he examined, analyzed, and deliberated. he knew what lay before him. he would make no mistakes. he was carried away by no sentimental enthusiasm. everything about him was reserved--his cordiality, the quiet grip of his hand, the smile of welcome, and the undecipherable estimate in his eyes. "will you follow me or shall i follow you?" each seemed to say in the first contact, which was a challenge. "how are you?" said stover, shaking hands with some one else; and the tone was the tone of hunter. there were three others in the room: hunter's room-mate, stone, a smiling, tall, good-looking fellow who shook his hand an extra period; saunders, silent, retired behind his spectacles; and logan, who roomed with mcnab, who sunk his shoulders as he shook hands and looked into stover's eyes intensely as he said, "awful glad; awful glad to know you." "have a pipe--cigarette--anything?" said hunter over his shoulder, from the trunk to which he had returned. "no, thanks." "started training?" "sort of." "take a chair and make yourself at home," said hunter warmly, but without turning. the talk was immediately of what each was going to do. stone was out for the glee club, already planning to take singing lessons in the contest for the leadership, three years off. saunders was to start for the _news_. logan had made drawings during the summer and was out for the _record_. hunter was trying for his class team and the crew. only mcnab was defiant. "none of that for me," he said, on his back, legs in the air, blowing rings against the ceiling. "i'm for a good time, the best in life. it may be a short one, but it'll be a lulu!" "you'll be out heeling the _record_, dopey, inside of a month," said hunter quietly. "never, by the great horned spoon--never!" "and you'll get a tutor, dopey, and stay with us." "never! i came to love and to be loved. i'm a lovely thing; that's sufficient," said mcnab, with a grimace to his elfish face. "i will not be harnessed up. i will not heel." "yes, you will." hunter's tone had not varied. stover, studying him, wondered if he had marked out the route of stone, saunders, and logan, just as he felt that mcnab would sooner or later conform to the will of the man who had determined to succeed himself and make his own crowd succeed. reynolds, a sophomore, an old andover man, dropped in. again it was but question of the same challenge, addressed to each: "what are you trying for?" the arrival of the sophomore, who installed himself in easy majesty in the arm-chair and addressed his questions with a quick, analytical staccato, produced somewhat the effect of a suddenly opened window. even mcnab was unwillingly impressed, and hunter, closing the trunk, allowed the conversation to be guided by reynolds' initiative. he was a fiery, alert, rather undersized fellow, who had been the first in his class to make the _news_, and was supposed to be in line for that all-important chairmanship. inside of five minutes he had gone through the possibilities of each man, advising briefly in a quick, businesslike manner. to stover he seemed symbolic of the rarefied contending nervousness of the place, a personality that suddenly threw open to him all the nervous panorama of the struggle for position which had already begun. on top of which there arrived rogers, a junior, good-natured, popular, important. at once, to stover's amused surprise, the rôle was reversed. reynolds, from the enthroned autocrat, became the respectful audience, answered a few questions, and found a quick opportunity to leave. "let's go in front and have a little fun," said rogers. somewhat perplexed, stover led the way to their room. "light up," said rogers, with a chuckle. "there's a sophomore bunch outside just ready to tumble." rogers' presence brought back a certain ease; they were no longer on inspection, and even in his manner was a more open cordiality than he had showed toward reynolds. that under all this was some graduated system of authority stover was slowly perceiving, when all at once from the street there rose a shout: "turn down that light!" "freshmen, turn down that light!" "turn it down slowly," said rogers, with a gesture to mcnab. "faster!" "all the way down!" "turn it up suddenly," said rogers. an angry swelling protest arose: "turn that down!" "you freshmen!" "turn it down!" "the freshest of the fresh!" "here, let me work 'em up," said rogers, going to the gas-jet. under his tantalizing manipulation the noise outside grew to the proportions of a riot. "come on and get the bloody freshmen!" "ride 'em on a rail!" "say, are we going to stand for this?" "down with that light!" "let's run 'em out!" "break in the door!" "out with the freshman!" below came a sudden rush of feet. rogers, abandoning the gas-jet, draped himself nonchalantly on the couch that faced the door. "well, here comes the shindy," thought stover, with a joyful tensity in every muscle. the hubbub stormed up the hall, shot open the door, and choked the passage with the suddenly revealed fury of angry faces. "hello," said rogers' quiet voice. "well, what do _you_ want?" [illustration: "'hello,' said rogers' quiet voice, 'well, what do you want?'"--_page ._] no sooner had the barbaric front ranks beheld the languid, slightly annoyed junior than the fury of battle vanished like a flurry of wind across the water. from behind the more concealed began to murmur: "oh, beans!" "a lemon!" "rubber!" "sold!" "well, what is it?" said rogers sharply, sending a terrific frown at the sheepish leaders. at this curt reminder there was a shifting movement in the rear, which rapidly communicated itself to the stammering, apologetic front ranks; the door was closed in ludicrous haste, and down the stairs resounded the stampede of the baffled host. "my, they are a fierce lot, these man-eating sophomores, aren't they?" said rogers, giving way to his laughter. and then, a little apologetically, but with a certain twinkle of humor, he added: "don't worry, boys; there was no one in that crowd who'll do you any harm. however, i might just as well chaperon you to your eating-joint." "le baron is going to take me out with him," said stover, as they rose to go. "hugh le baron?" said rogers, with a new interest. "yes, sir." "i didn't get your name." "stover." "oh! captain down at lawrenceville, weren't you?" "yes, sir." "well, wish you good luck," said rogers, with a more appraising eye. "you've got an opening this year. drop in and see me sometime, will you? i mean it." "see you later, stover," said hunter, resting his hand on his shoulder with a little friendly touch. "bully you're with us," said stone. "come in and chin a little later," said logan. saunders gave him a duck of the head, with unconcealed admiration in his embarrassed manner. mccarthy went with them. stover, left alone, measured the length of the room, smiling to himself. it was all quite amusing, especially when his was the fixed point of view. in a few moments le baron arrived. together they went across the campus, now swarming like ant runs. at every step le baron was halted by a greeting. recognition was in the air, turbulent, boyish, exaggerated, rising to the pitch of a scream or accomplished in a bear dance; and through it all was the same vibrant, minor note of the ceaseless activity. it was the air stover loved. he waited respectfully, while le baron shook a score of hands, impatient for the moment to begin and the opportunity to have his name told from lip to lip. "i'm going to be captain at yale," he said to himself, with a sudden fantastic, grandiloquent fury. "i will if it's in me." "we'll run down to heub's," said le baron, free at last, "get a good last meal before going into training. you look in pretty fit shape." "i've kept so all summer." "who's over in your house?" stover named them. "they weren't my crowd at andover, but they're good fellows," said le baron, listening critically. "hunter especially. here we are." a minute later they had found a table in the restaurant crowded with upper classmen, and le baron was glancing down the menu. "an oyster cocktail, a planked steak--rare; order the rest later." he turned to stover. "guess we'd better cut out the drinks. we'll stand the gaff better to-morrow." there was in his voice a quiet possession, as if he had already assumed the reins of stover's career. "are you out for the eleven again?" said stover respectfully. "yes. i'll never do any better than a sub, but that's what counts. we're up against an awfully stiff proposition this year. the team's got to be built out of nothing. there's dana, the captain, now, over at the table in the corner." "where?" said stover, fired at the thought. le baron pointed out the table, detailing to him the names of some of the coaches who were grouped there. when stover had dared to gaze for the first time on the face of the majestic leader, he experienced a certain shock. the group of past heroes about him were laughing, exchanging reminiscences of past combats; but the face of dana was set in seriousness, too sensitive to the responsibility that lay heavier than the honor on his young shoulders. stover had not thought of his leader so. "i guess it's going to be a bad season," he said. "yes; we may have to take our medicine this year." several friends of le baron's stopped to shake hands, greeting stover always with that appraising glance which had amused him in reynolds who had first sat in inquisition. he began to be conscious of an ever-widening gulf separating him and le baron, imposed by all the subtle, still uncomprehended incidents of the night, which gradually made him see that he had found, not a friend, but a protector. a certain natural impulsiveness left him; he answered in short sentences, resenting a little this sudden, not yet defined sense of subjection. but the hum of diners was about him, the unknown intoxication of lights, the prevailing note of joy, the free concourse of men, the vibrant note of good fellowship, good cheer, and the eager seizing of the zest of the hour. the men he saw were the men who had succeeded--a success which unmistakably surrounded them. he, too, wished for success acutely, almost with a throbbing, gluttonous feeling, sitting there unknown. all at once dana, passing across the room, stopped for a handshake and a word of greeting to le baron. stover was introduced, rising precipitately, to the imminent danger of his plate. "stover from lawrenceville?" said dana. "yes, sir." the captain's eye measured him carefully, taking in the wiry, spare frame, the heavy shoulders, and the nervous hands, and then stayed on the clean-cut jaw, the direct blue glance, and the rebellious rise of sandy hair. "end, of course," he said at last. "yes, sir." "about a hundred and fifty-four?" "one hundred and fifty, sir, stripped." "ever played in the back field?" "no, sir." "report with the varsity squad to-morrow." "yes, sir." "there's a type of man we're proud of," said le baron. "came here from exeter, waited at commons first two years; every one likes him. he has a tough proposition here this year, though--supposing we dig out." in the room the laughter was rising, and all the little nervous noises of the clash of plate and cutlery. stover would have liked to stay, to yield to the contagion, to watch with eager eyes the opposite types, all under the careless spell of the beginning year. the city was black about them as they stepped forth, the giant elms flattened overhead against the blurred mists of the night, like curious water weeds seen from below. they went in silence directly toward the campus. once or twice le baron started to speak and then stopped. at length he said: "come this way." they passed by osborne hall, and the brick row with the choked display of the coöp below, and, crossing to the dark mass of the old library, sat down on the steps. before stover stretched all the lighted panorama of the college and the multiplied strewn lights against the mysteries of stone and brick--lights that drew him to the quiet places of a hundred growing existencies--affected him like the lights of the crowded restaurant and the misty reflections of the glassy streets. it was the night, the mysterious night that suddenly had come into his boyish knowledge. it was immense, unfathomable--this spectacle of a massed multitude. it was all confounded, stirring, ceaseless, feverish in its brilliant gaiety, fleeting, transitory, mocking. it was of the stage, theatric. it brought theatric emotions, too keenly sensitized, too sharply overwhelming. he wished to flee from it in despair of ever conquering, as he wished to conquer, this world of stirring ambitions and shadowy and fleeting years. "i'm going to do for you," said le baron's voice, breaking the charm--"i'm going to do what some one did for me when i came here last year." he paused a moment, a little, too, under the spell of the night, perhaps, seeking how best to choose his words. "it is a queer place you're coming into, and many men fail for not understanding it in time. i'm going to tell you a few things." again he stopped. stover, waiting, heard across from the blazing sides of farnam a piano's thin, rushing notes. nearer, from some window unseen, a mandolin was quavering. voices, calling, mingled in softened confusion. "oh, charley bangs--stick out your head." "we want billy brown." "hello, there!" "tubby, this way!" then this community of faint sounds was lost as, from the fence, a shapeless mass beyond began to send its song towards him. "_when freshmen first we came to yale_ _fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol._ _examinations made us pale_ _fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol._" "what do you know about the society system here?" said le baron abruptly. "why, i know--there are three senior societies: skull and bones, keys, wolf's-head--but i guess that's all i do know." "you'll hear a good deal of talk inside the college, and out of it, too, about the system. it has its faults. but it's the best system there is, and it makes yale what it is to-day. it makes fellows get out and work; it gives them ambitions, stops loafing and going to seed, and keeps a pretty good, clean, temperate atmosphere about the place." "i know nothing at all about it," said stover, perplexed. "the seniors have fifteen in each; they give out their elections end of junior year, end of may. that's what we're all working for." "already?" said stover involuntarily. "there are fellows in your class," said le baron, "who've been working all summer, so as to get ahead in the competition for the _lit_ or the _record_, or to make the leader of the glee club--fellows, of course, who know." "but that's three years off." "yes, it's three years off," said le baron quietly. "then there are the junior fraternities; but they're large, and at present don't count much, except you have to make them. then there are what are called sophomore societies." he hesitated a moment. "they are very important." "do you belong?" asked stover innocently. "yes," said le baron, after another hesitation. "of course, we don't discuss our societies here. others will tell you about them. but here's where your first test will come in." then came another lull. stover, troubled, frowning, sat staring at the brilliant windows across which passed, from time to time, a sudden shadow. the groups at the fence were singing a football song, with a marching swing to it, that had so often caught up his loyal soul as he had sat shivering in the grand-stand for the game to begin. it was not all so simple--no, not at all simple. it wasn't as he had thought. it was complex, a little disturbing. "this college is made up of all sorts of elements," said le baron, at last. "and it is not easy to run it. now, in every class there are just a small number of fellows who are able to do it and who will do it. they form the real crowd. all the rest don't count. now, stover, you're going to have a chance at something big on the football side; but that is not all. you might make captain of the eleven and miss out on a senior election. you're going to be judged by your friends, and it is just as easy to know the right crowd as the wrong." "what do you mean by the right crowd?" said stover, conscious of just a little antagonism. "the right crowd?" said le baron, a little perplexed to define so simple a thing. "why, the crowd that is doing things, working for yale; the crowd--" "that the class ahead picks out to lead us," said stover abruptly. "yes," said le baron frankly; "and it won't be a bad judgment. money alone won't land a man in it, and there'll be some in it who work their way through college. on the whole, it's about the crowd you'll want to know all through life." "i see," said stover. his clasp tightened over his knees, and he was conscious of a certain growing uncomfortable sensation. he liked le baron--he had looked up to him, in a way. of course, it was all said in kindness, and yet-- "i'm frankly aristocratic in my point of view"--he heard the well-modulated voice continue--"and what i say others think. i'm older than most of my class, and i've seen a good deal of the world at home and abroad. you may think the world begins outside of college. it doesn't; it begins right here. you want to make the friends that will help you along, here and outside. don't lose sight of your opportunities, and be careful how you choose. "now, by that i mean don't make your friends too quickly. get to know the different crowds, but don't fasten to individuals until you see how things work out. this rather surprises you, doesn't it? perhaps you don't like it." "it does sort of surprise me," said stover, who did not answer what he meant. "stover," said le baron, resting a hand on his knee, "i like you. i liked you from the first time we lined up in that andover-lawrenceville game. you've got the stuff in you to make the sort of leader we need at yale. that's why i'm trying to make you see this thing as it is. you come from a school that doesn't send many fellows here. you haven't the fellows ahead pulling for you, the way the other crowds have. i don't want you to make any mistake. remember, you're going to be watched from now on." "watched?" said stover, frowning. "yes; everything you do, everything you say--that's how you'll be judged. that's why i'm telling you these things." "i appreciate it," said stover, but without enthusiasm. "now, you've got a chance to make good on the eleven this year. if you do, you stand in line for the captaincy senior year. it lies with you to be one of the big men in the class. and this is the way to do it: get to know every one in the class right off." "what!" said stover, genuinely surprised. "i mean, bow to every one; call them by name: but hold yourself apart," said le baron. "make fellows come to you. don't talk too much. hold yourself in. keep out of the crowd that is out booze-fighting--or, when you're with them, keep your head. there are a lot of fellows here, with friends ahead of them, who can cut loose a certain amount; but it's dangerous. if you want to make what you ought to make of yourself, stover, you've got to prove yourself; you've got to keep yourself well in hand." stover suddenly comprehended that le baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself. "don't ticket yourself for drinking." "i won't." "or get known for gambling--oh, i'm not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly." "i understand." "and another thing: no fooling around women; that isn't done here--that'll queer you absolutely." "of course." "now, you've got to do a certain amount of studying here. better do it the first year and get in with the faculty." "i will." "there it is," said le baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. "isn't it worth working for--to win out in the end? and, stover, it's easy enough when you know how. play the game as others are playing it. it's a big game, and it'll follow you all through life. there it is; it's up to you. keep your head clear and see straight." the gesture of le baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to stover. it was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, some one had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation. "are there any questions you want to ask me?" said le baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised. "no." they sat silently. and all at once, as stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the care-free windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition--eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him. and with it something snapped, something fragile--the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. and, as it went, it went forever. this was the world rushing in, dividing the hosts. this was the parting of the ways. the standards of judgment were the world's. it was not what he had thought. it was no longer the simple struggle. it was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. to win he would have to change. "it's been good of you to tell me all this," he said, giving his hand to le baron, and the words sounded hollow. "think over what i've said to you." "i will." "a man is known by his friends; remember that, stover, if you don't anything else!" "it's awfully good of you." "i like you, dink," said le baron, shaking hands warmly; "now you know the game, go in and win." "it's awfully good of you," said stover aimlessly. he stood watching le baron's strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path. "it's awfully good of him," he said mechanically, "awfully good. what a wonder he is!" and yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling--he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment? he stood alone, looking at the new world. it was no longer the world of the honest day. it was brilliant, fascinating, alluring, awakening strange, poignant emotions--but it was another world, and the way to it had just been shown him. he turned abruptly and went toward his room, troubled, wondering why he was so troubled, vainly seeking the reason, knowing not that it lay in the destruction of a fragile thing--his first illusion. chapter iii tough mccarthy was in the communal rooms, busily delving into the recesses of a circus trunk, from which, from time to time, he emerged with the loot of the combined mccarthy family. "dink, my boy, cast your eye over my burglaries. look at them. aren't they lovely, aren't they fluffy and sweet? i don't know what half of 'em are, but won't they decorate the room? and every one, 'pon my honor, the gift of a peach who loves me! the whole family was watching, but i got 'em out right under their noses. well, why not cheer me!" he deposited on the floor a fragrant pile of assorted embroideries, table-covers, lace pincushions, and filmy mysteries purloined from feminine dressing-tables, which he rapidly proceeded to distribute about the room according to his advanced theories on decoration, which consisted in crowding the corners, draping the gas-jets, and clothing the picture-frames. stover sat silently, out of the mood. "here's three new scalps," continued mccarthy, producing some cushions. "had to vow eternal love, and keep the dear girls separated--a blonde and two brunettes--but i got the pillows, my boy, i got 'em. and now sit back and hold on." he made a third trip to the trunk, unaware of stover's distracted mood, and came back chuckling, his arms heaped with photographs to his chin. "one thousand and one caucasian beauties, the pride of every state, the only girls who ever loved me. look at 'em!" he distributed a score of photographs, mustering them on the mantelpiece, pinning them to the already suspended flags, massing them in circles, ranging them in crosses and ascending files, and announced: "finest i could gather in. only know a third of 'em, but the sisters know the rest. isn't it a beauty parlor? why, it'll make that blond warbler stone, downstairs, feel like an amateur canary." suddenly aware of stover's opposite mood, he stopped. "what the deuce is the matter?" "nothing." "you look solemn as an owl." "i didn't know it." "well, how did you like le baron?" "he's a corker!" said stover militantly. "i've been arranging about an eating-joint." "you have?" "we're in with a whole bunch of fellows. gimbel, an andover chap, is running it. five dollars a week. we can see if we can stand it." "tough, go slow." "why so?" stover hesitated, looking at mccarthy's puzzled expression, and, looking, there seemed to be ten years' experience dividing them. "oh, i only mean we want to pick our friends carefully," he said at length. "what difference does it make where we eat?" "well, it does." "oh, of course we want to enjoy ourselves." stover saw he did not understand and somehow, feeling all the exuberant enthusiasm that actuated him, he hesitated to continue the explanation. "by george, dink," continued mccarthy comically solicitous of his scheme of decoration, "is there anything like the air of this place? you can't resist it, can you? every one's out working for something. by george, i hope i can make good!" "you will," said stover. and in his mind was already something of the paternal protection that he had surprised in hunter, the big man of the andover crowd. "if i'm to do anything at football i've got to put on a deuce of a lot of weight," said mccarthy a little disconsolately. "guess my best chance is at baseball." "the main thing, tough, is to get out and try for everything," said stover wisely. "show you're a worker and it's going to count." "that's good advice--who put it into your head?" "le baron talked over a good many things with me," said stover slowly. "he gave me a great many pointers. that's why i said go slow--we want to get with the right crowd." "the right crowd?" said mccarthy, wheeling about and staring at his room-mate. "what the deuce are you talking about, dink? do you mean to say any one cares who in the blankety-blank we eat with?" "yes." "what! who the deuce's business is it to meddle in my affairs? right crowd and wrong crowd--there's only one crowd, and each man's as good as the other. that's the way i look at it." he stopped, amazed, looking over at stover. "why, dink, i never expected you to stand for the right and wrong crowd idea." "i don't mean it the way you do," said stover lamely--for he was trying to argue with himself. "we're trying to do something here, aren't we--not just loaf through? well, we want to be with the crowd that's doing things." "oh, if you mean it that way," said mccarthy dubiously, "that's different. i've been filled up for the last hour with nothing but society piffle by a measly-faced runt just out of the nursery called schley. skull and bones--locks and keys--wolf's-head--gold bugs, hobgoblins, toe the line, heel the right crowd, mind your _p's_ and _q's_, don't call your soul your own, don't look at a society house, don't for heaven's sake look at a pin in a necktie, never say 'bones' or 'fee-fie-fo-fum' out loud--never--oh, rats, what bosh!" "schley is an odious little toad," said stover evasively. a little vain of his new knowledge and the destiny before him, he looked at the budding mccarthy with somewhat the anxiety of a mother hen, and said with great solemnity: "don't go off half cock, old fellow." "what! have you fallen for the bugaboo?" "my dear tough," said stover, with a little gorgeousness, "don't commit yourself until you know the whole business. you like the feeling here, don't you--the way every one is out working for something?" "you bet i do." "well, it's the society system that does it." "come off." "wait and see." "but what in the name of my aunt's cat's pants," said mccarthy, unwilling to relinquish the red rag, "what in the name of common sense is the holy sacred secret, that it can't be looked at, talked about, or touched?" "don't be a galoot, tough," said stover, in a superior way; "don't be a frantic ass. all that's exaggerated; only little jack-asses like schley are frightened by it. the real side, the serious side, is that the system is built up for the fellows who are going to do something for yale. now, just wait until you get your eyes open before you go shooting up the place." but, as he stood in his own bedroom, with no tough mccarthy to instruct and patronize, alone at his window, looking out at the sputtering arc lights with their splotchy regions of light and the busy windows of pierson hall across the way, listening to the chapel sending forth its quarter hour over the half-divined campus--he was not quite so confident of all he had proclaimed. "it's different--different from school," he said to himself half apologetically. "it can't be the same as school. it's got to be organized differently. it's the same everywhere." he went to bed, to sleep badly, restless and unconvinced, a stranger in strange places, staring at the flickering glare of the arc light against the window-panes, that light as unreal in comparison with the frank sunlight as the sudden bewildering introduction to the new, complex life was different from the direct and rugged simplicity of the unconscious democracy of school that had gone. he awoke with a start, to find mccarthy and dopey mcnab, in striped pajamas, solicitously occupied in applying a lather to his bare feet. he sprang up with all the old zest, and, a free scrimmage taking place, wreaked satisfactory vengeance on the intruders. "hang you, stover," said mcnab weakly, "if you'd snored another minute i'd have won my dollar from mccarthy. if you want to be friends, nothing like being friendly, is there? come on down to my rooms, we've got eggs and coffee right on tap. it's a bore going down to the joint. to-morrow we'll all be slaves of the alarm clock again. hang compulsory chapel." they breakfasted hilariously under mcnab's irresistible good humor. when at last stover sauntered out to reconnoiter in company with mccarthy, a great change had come. the emotions of the night, the restless rebelliousness, had lost all their acuteness and seemed only a blurred memory. the college of the day was a different thing. the late arrivals were swarming in carriages, or on top of heaped express-wagons, just as the school used to surge hilariously back. the windows were open, crowded with eager heads; the street corners clustered with swiftly assembling groups, sophomores almost entirely, past whom isolated, self-conscious freshmen went with averted gaze, to the occasional accompaniment of a whistled freshman march. despite himself, stover began to feel a little tightening in the shoulders, a little uncertainty in the swing of his walk, and something in his back seemed uneasily conscious of the concentrated attack of superior eyes. they entered the campus, now the campus of the busy day. across by the chapel, the fence was hidden under continually arriving groups of upper classmen, streaming to it in threes and fours in muscular enthusiasm. there was no division there. gradually the troubled perceptions of the night before faded from stover's consciousness. the light he saw was the clear noon of the day, and the air that filled his lungs the atmosphere of life and ambition. at every step, runners for eating-houses, steam laundries, and tailors thrust cards in their hands, coaxing for orders. every tree seemed plastered with notices of the awakening year, summons to trials for the musical organizations and the glee club, offers to tutor, announcements of coming competitions, calls for candidates to a dozen activities. "hello, dink, old boy!" they looked up to behold charley de soto, junior over in the sheffield scientific school, bearing down upon them. "hello, tough, glad to see you up here!" de soto had been at lawrenceville with them, a comrade of the eleven, now prospective quarter-back for the coming season. "you've put on weight, dink," he said with critical approval. "you've got a bully chance this year. are you reporting this afternoon?" "captain dana asked me to come out for the varsity." "i talked to him about you." he asked a dozen questions, invited them over to see him, and was off. they elbowed their way into the coöp to make their purchases. the first issue of the _news_ was already on sale, with its notices and its appeals. they went out and past vanderbilt toward their eating-joint. off the campus, directly at the end of their path, a shape more like a monstrous shadow than a building rose up, solid, ivy-covered, blind, with great, prison-like doors, heavily padlocked. "fee-fi-fo-fum," said mccarthy. "which is it?" said stover, in a different tone. "skull and bones, of course," said mccarthy defiantly. "look at it under your eyelids, quick; don't let any one see you." stover, without hearing him, gazed ahead, impressed despite himself. there it was, the symbol and the embodiment of all the subtle forces that had been disclosed to him, the force that had stood amid the passing classes, imposing its authority unquestioned, waiting at the end of the long journey to give or withhold the final coveted success. "will i make it--will i ever make it?" he said to himself, drawing a long breath. "to be one of fifteen--only fifteen!" "it is a scary sort of looking old place," said mccarthy. "they certainly have dressed it up for the part." still stover did not reply. the dark, weighty, massive silhouette had somehow entered his imagination, never to be shaken off, to range itself wherever he went in the shadowy background of his dreams. "it stands for democracy, tough," he said, as they turned toward chapel street, and there was in his voice a certain emotion he couldn't control. "and i guess the mistakes it makes are pretty honest ones." "perhaps," said mccarthy stubbornly. "but why all this mumbo-jumbo business?" "it doesn't affect you, does it?" "the trouble is, it does," said mccarthy, with a laugh. "do you know what i ought to do?" "what?" "go right up and sit on the steps of the bloomin' old thing and eat a bag of cream-puffs." stover exploded with laughter. "what the deuce would be the sense in that, you old anarchist?" "to prove to my own satisfaction that i'm a man." "do you mean it?" said stover, half laughing. mccarthy scratched his head with one of the old boyish, comical gestures stover knew so well. "well, perhaps i mean more than i think," he said, grinning. "in another month i may get it as bad as that little uselessness schley. by the way, he wants us over at his eating-joint." "he does?" "he's a horsefly sort of a cuss. you'll see, he'll fasten on to you just as soon as he thinks it worth while. here we are." they pressed their way, saluted with the imperious rattle of knives and plates, through three or four rooms, blue-gray with smoke, and found a vacant table in a far corner. a certain reserve was still prevalent in the noisy throng, which had not yet been welded together. immediately a thin, wiry fellow, neatly dressed, hair plastered, affable and brimming over with energy, rose and pumped mccarthy's hand, slapping him effusively on the back. "bully! glad to see you. this is stover, of course. i'm gimbel--ray gimbel; you don't know me, but i know you. seen entirely too much of you on the wrong side of the field in the andover-lawrenceville game." "how are you, gimbel?" said stover, not disliking the flattery, though perceiving it. "we were greatly worried about you," said gimbel directly, and with a sudden important seriousness. "there was a rumor around you had switched to princeton." "oh, no." "well, we're certainly glad you didn't." looking him straight in the face, he said with conviction: "you'll be captain here." "i'm not worrying about that just at present," said stover, amused. "all right; that's my prophecy. i'll be back in a second." he departed hastily, to welcome new arrivals with convulsive grip and rolling urbanity, passing like a doctor on his hospital rounds. "who's gimbel?" said stover, wondering, as he watched him, what new force he represented. "hurdler up at andover, i believe." in a moment gimbel was back, engaging them in eager conclave. "see here, there's a combination being gotten up," he said impersonally, "a sort of slate for our class football managers, and i want to get you fellows interested. hotchkiss and st. paul are going in together, and we want to organize the other schools. how many fellows are up from lawrenceville?" "about fifteen." "we've got a corking good man from andover not in any of the crowds up there, and a lot of us want to give him a good start. i'll have you meet him to-night at supper. if you fellows weren't out for football, we'd put one of you up for secretary and treasurer. you can name him if you want. i've got a hundred votes already, and we're putting through a deal with a sheff crowd for vice-president that will give us thirty or forty more. our man's hicks--frank hicks--the best in the world. say a good word for him, will you, wherever you can. see you to-night." he was off to another table, where he was soon in animated conversation. "don't mix up in it," said stover quietly. "why not?" said mccarthy. "a good old political shindig's lots of fun." "wait until we understand the game," said stover, remembering le baron's advice not to commit himself to any crowd. "but it would be such a lark." dink did not reply. instead he was carefully studying the many types that crowded before his eyes. they ranged from the new yorker, extra spick-and-span for his arrival, lost and ill at ease, speaking to no one; to older men in jerseys and sweaters, unshaven often, lolling back in their chairs, concerned with no one, talking with all. the waiters were of his own class, who presently brought their plates to the tables they served and sat down without embarrassment. it was a heterogeneous assembly, with a preponderance of quiet, serious types, men to whom the financial problem was serious and college an opportunity to fit themselves for the grinding combat of life. others were raw, decidedly without experience, opinionated, carrying on their shoulders a chip of somewhat bumptious pride. the talk was all of the doings of the night before, when several had fallen into the hands of mischief-bent sophomores. "they caught flanders down york street and made him roll a peanut up to billy's." "yes, and the darned fool hadn't sense enough to grin and bear it." "so they gave him a beer shampoo." "a what?" "a beer shampoo." "did you hear about regan?" "who's regan?" "he's a thundering big coal-heaver from out the woolly west." "oh, the fellow that started to scrap." "that's the man." "give us the story, buck." "they had me up, doing some of my foolish stunts," said a fellow with a great moon of a face, little twinkling eyes, and a grotesque nose that sprang forth like a jagged promontory, "when, all at once, this elephant of a regan saunters in coolly to see what's doing." "didn't know any better, eh?" "didn't know a thing. well, no sooner did the sophs spot him than they set up a yell: "'who are you?' "'tom regan.' "'what's your class?' "'freshman.' "'what in the blankety-blank are you doing here?' "'lookin' on.' "with that, of course, they began just leaping up and down for joy, hugging one another; and a couple of them started in to tackle the old locomotive. the fellow, who's as strong as an ox, just gives a cough and a sneeze, scatters a few little sophs on the floor, and in a twinkling is in the corner, barricaded behind a table, looking as big as a house. "'tom, look out; they're going to shampoo you,' says i. "'is it all right?' he says, with a grin. "'it's etiquette,' says i. "'come on, then,' says he very affably, and he strips off his coat and tosses it across the room, saying, 'it's my only one; look out for it.' "well, when the sophs saw him standing there, licking his chops, arms as big as hams, they sort of stopped and scratched their heads." "i bet they did!" cried a couple. "they didn't particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called waring, who'd been putting us through our stunts. "'i'm going in after that bug myself,' said he, with a yelp. 'come on!'" "well, what happened, buck?" "did they give it to him?" "about fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of the _débris_, as the french say," said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, "one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. they were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie--but they were happy!" "why happy?" "they had given _regan_ the shampoo." stover and mccarthy rose and made their way out past the group where buck waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd. "i came up in the train with regan," said stover, thrilling a little at the recital. "cracky! i wish i'd seen the scrap." "we'll call him out to-night for the wrestling," said mccarthy. "he's a queer, plunging sort of animal," said stover reflectively. "i wonder if he'll ever do anything up here?" saunders, riding past on a bicycle, pad protruding from his pocket, slowed up with a cordial hail: "howdy! i'm heeling the _news_. if you get any stories, pass them on to me. thought you fellows were down at our joint. where the deuce are you fellows grubbing?" "we dropped into a place one of your andover crowd's runnin'." "who's that?" "fellow called gimbel." saunders rode on a bit, wheeled, came slowly back, resting his hand on stover's shoulder. "look here," he said, frowning a little. "gimbel's a good sort, clever and all that; but look here--you're not decided, are you?" "no." "because we've been counting you fellows in with us. we've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "i think you'll find the crowd congenial." "when do you start in?" said stover. "to-morrow. are you with us?" "glad to come." "bully!" he made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "i say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. it'll queer you quicker than anything else. you don't mind my giving you a tip?" "not at all," said stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction saunders made to himself between politics and politics. "ta-ta, then--perfectly bully you're with us. i'm off on this infernal _news_ game--half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night--lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?" he sped on, and they went up to the rooms. "i thought we'd better change," said stover. "this place is loaded up with wires--live wires," said mccarthy, scratching his head. "well, go ahead, if you want to." "well, you see--we're all in the same house; it's more sociable." "oh, of course." "and then, it'll be quieter." "yes, it'll be quieter." a little constraint came to them. they went to their rooms silently, each aware that something had come into their comradeship which sooner or later would have to be met with frankness. chapter iv stover had never been on the yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as columbus questioned the sky or de soto sought the sea. three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. he was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoe-laces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys. the trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. in an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dog-trot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. in front--a thing of air and wood--rose the climbing network of empty stands. then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a cross-bar. no longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. the goal was his--the goal of yale--and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than waterloo or gettysburg! he camped down, one among a hundred, oblivious of his companions, hands locked over his knees, his glance strained down the field to where, against the blue sweater of a veteran, a magic y was shining white. for a moment he felt a plunging despair--he was but one among so many. the whole country seemed congregated there in competition. others seemed to overtop him, to be built of bone and muscle beyond his strength. he felt a desire to shrink back and steal away unperceived, as he had that awful moment when, on his first test at school, he had been told that he must stand up and fill the place of a better man. then he was on his feet, in obedience to a shouted command, journeying up the field to where beyond the stands a tackling dummy on loose pulleys swung like a great scarecrow. "here, now, get some action into this," said a fiery little coach, tompkins, quarter-back a dozen seasons before. "line up. get some snap to it. first man. hard--hit it hard!" the first three--heavy linesmen, still soft and short of breath--made lumbering, slipping attempts. tompkins was in a blaze of fury. "hold up! what do you think this is? i didn't ask you to hug your grandmother; i told you to tackle that dummy! hit it hard--break it in two! if you can't tackle, we don't want you around. tackle to throw your man back! tackle as if the whole game depended on it. come on, now. next man. jump at it! rotten! rotten! oh, squeeze it. don't try to butt it over--you're not a goat! half the game's the tackling! next man. oh, girls--girls! what is this bunch, anyhow--a young ladies' seminary? here! stop--stop! you're up at yale now. i'll show you how we tackle!" heedless of his street clothes, of the grotesqueness of the thing, of all else but the savage spark he was trying to communicate, he went rushing into the dummy with a headlong plunge that shook the ropes. he was up in a moment, forgetting the dust that clung to him, shouting in his shrill voice: "come on, now, bang into it! yes, but hold on to it! squeeze it. better--more snap there! get out the way! come on! rotten! take that again--on the jump!" stover suddenly felt the inflaming seriousness of yale, the spirit that animated the field. everything was in deadly earnest; the thing of rags swinging grotesquely was as important as the tackle that on a championship field stood between defeat and victory. his turn came. he shot forward, left the turf in a clean dive, caught the dummy at the knees, and shook the ground with the savageness of his tackle. "out of the way, quick--next man!" cried the driving voice. there was not a word of praise for what he knew had been a perfect tackle. a second and a third time he flung himself heedlessly at the swinging figure, in a desperate attempt to win the withheld word of approbation. "he might at least have grunted," he said to himself, tumbling to his feet, "the little tyrant." in a moment tompkins, without relaxing a jot of his nervous driving, had them spread over the field, flinging themselves on a dozen elusive footballs, while always his voice, unsatisfied, propelling, drove them: "faster, faster! get into it--let go yourselves. throw yourself at it. oh, hard, harder!" ten minutes of practise starts under his leash, and they ended, enveloped in steam, lungs shaken with quick, convulsive breaths. "enough for to-day. back to the gymnasium on the trot; run off some of that fatty degeneration. here, youngster, a word with you." stover stepped forward. "what's your name?" "stover." to his profound disappointment, tompkins did not recognize that illustrious name. "where from?" "lawrenceville. played end." tompkins looked him over, a little grimly. "oh, yes; i've heard something about you. look here, ever do any punting?" "some, but only because i had to. i'm no good at it." "let's see what you can do." stover caught the ball tossed and put all his strength into a kick that went high but short. "try another." the second and third attempts were no better. "well, that's pretty punk," said tompkins. "dana wants to give you a try on the second. run over now and report. oh, stover!" dink halted, to see tompkins' caustic scrutiny fixed on him. "yes, sir." "stover, just one word for your good. you come up with a big prep school reputation. don't make an ass of yourself. understand; don't get a swelled head. that's all." "precious little danger of that here," said dink a little rebelliously to himself, as he jogged over to the benches where the varsity subs were camped. le baron waved him a recognition, but no more. it was as if the gesture meant: "i've started you. now stand on your own feet. don't look to me for help." for the rest of the practise he sat huddled in his sweater, waiting expectantly as each time captain dana passed down the line, calling out the candidates for trials in the brief scrimmages that took place. the afternoon ended without an opportunity coming to him, and he jogged home, in the midst of the puffing crowd, with a sudden feeling of his own unimportance. he had barely time to get his shower, and run into the almost deserted eating club for a quick supper, when gimbel appeared, crying: "i say, stover, bolt the grub and hoof it. we assemble over by osborne." "where's the wrestling?" "don't know. some vacant lot. ever do any?" "don't know a thing about it." "we're going to call out a chap called robinson from st. paul's, garden city, for the lightweight, and regan for the heavy," said gimbel, who, of course, had been busy during the afternoon. "thought of you for the middleweight." "lord! get some one who knows the game," said stover, following him out. "have you thought of any one you'd like to run for secretary and treasurer?" said gimbel, locking arms in a cordial way. "no." "i've got the whole thing organized sure as a steel trap." "you haven't lost any time," said stover, smiling. "that's right--heaps of fun." "what are _you_ going to run for?" said stover, looking at him. "i? nothing now. fence orator, perhaps, later," said gimbel frankly. "it's the fun of the game interests me--the organizing, pulling wires, all that sort of thing. i'm going to have a lot of fun here." "look here, gimbel," said stover, yielding to a sudden appreciation of the other's openness. "isn't this sort of thing going to get a lot of fellows down on you?" "queer me?" said gimbel, laughing. the word was still new to stover, who showed his perplexity. "that's a great word," added his companion. "you'll hear a lot of it before you get through. it's a sort of college bug that multiplies rapidly. will politics 'queer' me--keep me out of societies? probably; but then, i couldn't make 'em anyway. so i'm going to have my fun. and i'll tell you now, stover, i'm going to get a good deal more out of my college career than a lot of you fellows." "why include me?" "well, stover, you're going to make a sophomore society, and go sailing along." "oh, i don't know." "yes, you do. we don't object to such men as you, who have the right. it's the lame ducks we object to." "lame ducks?" said stover, puzzled as well as surprised at this spokesman of an unsuspected proletariat opposition. "'lame ducks' is the word: the fellows who would never make a society if it weren't for pulls, for the men ahead--the cripples that all you big men will be trying to bolster up and carry along with you into a senior society." "i'm not on to a good deal of this," said stover, puzzled. "i know you're not. look here." gimbel, releasing his arm, faced him suddenly. "you think i'm a politician out to get something for myself." "yes, i do." "well, i am--i'm frank about it. there's a whole mass of us here who are going to fight the sophomore society system tooth and nail, and i'm with them. when you're in the soph crowd you mightn't like what i'm saying, and then again you may come around to our way of thinking. however, i want you to know that i'm hiding nothing--that i'm fighting in the open. we may be on opposite sides, but i guess we can shake hands. how about it?" "i guess we can always do that," said stover, giving his hand. the man puzzled him. was his frankness deep or a diplomatic assumption? "and now let's have no pretenses," continued gimbel, on the same line, with a quick analytical glance. "you're going with your crowd; better join one of their eating-joints." stover was genuinely surprised. "have you already arranged it?" said gimbel, laughing. "gimbel," said stover directly, "i'm not quite sure about you." "you don't know whether i'm a faker or not." "exactly." "stover, i'm a politician," said gimbel frankly. "i'm out for a big fight. i know the game here. i wouldn't talk to every one as i talk to you. i want you to understand me--more, i want you to like me. and i feel with you that the only way is to be absolutely honest. you see, i'm a politician," he said, with a laugh. "i've learned how to meet different men. sometime i'm going to talk over things with you--seriously. here we are now. i've got a bunch of fellows to see. mccarthy's probably looking for you. don't make up your mind in a hurry about me--or about a good many things here. ta-ta!" stover watched him go gaily into the crowd, distributing bluff, vociferous welcomes, hilariously acclaimed. the man was new, represented a new element, a strange, dimly perceived, rebellious mass, with ideas that intruded themselves ungratefully on his waking vision. "is he sincere?" he said to himself--a question that he was to apply a hundred times in the life that was beginning. chapter v "hello, there, stover!" "stover, over here!" "oh, dink stover, this way!" over the bared heads of the bobbing, shifting crowd he saw hunter and mccarthy waving to him. he made his way through the strange assorted mass of freshmen to his friends, where already, instinctively, a certain picked element had coalesced. a dozen fellows, clean-cut, steady of head and eye, carrying a certain unmistakable, quiet assurance, came about him, gripping him warmly, welcoming him into the little knot with cordial acknowledgment. he felt the tribute, and he liked it. they were of his own kind, his friends to be, now and in the long reaches of life. "fall in, fall in!" ahead of them, the upper classes were already in rank. behind, the freshmen, unorganized, distrustful, were being driven into lines of eight and ten by seniors, pipe in mouth, authoritative, quiet, fearfully enveloped in dignity. cheers began to sound ahead, the familiar _brek-e-kek-kex_ with the class numeral at the end. a cry went up: "here, we must have a cheer." "give us a cheer." "start her up." "lead a cheer, some one." "lead a cheer, hunter." "lead the cheer, gimbel." "lead the cheer, stover." "come on, stover!" a dozen voices took up his name. he caught the infection. without hesitating, he stepped by hunter, who was hesitating, and cried: "now, fellows, all together--the first cheer for the class! are you ready? let her rip!" the cheer, gathering momentum, went crashing above the noises of the street. the college burst into a mighty shout of acclaim--another class was born! suddenly ahead the dancing lights of the senior torches began to undulate. through the mass a hoarse roar went rushing, and a sudden muscular tension. "grab hold of me." "catch my arm." "grip tight." "get in line." "move up." "get the swing." stover found himself, arms locked over one another's shoulders, between schley, who had somehow kept persistently near him, and a powerful, smiling, blond-haired fellow who shouted to him: "my name's hungerford--joe hungerford. glad to know you. down from groton." it was a name known across the world for power in finance, and the arm about stover's shoulder was taut with the same sentimental rush of emotion. down the moving line suddenly came surging the chant: "_chi rho omega lambda chi!_ _we meet to-night to celebrate_ _the omega lambda chi!_" grotesquely, lumberingly, tripping and confused, they tried to imitate the forward classes, who were surging in the billowy rhythm of the elusive serpentine dance. "how the deuce do they do it?" "get a skip to it, you ice-wagons." "all to the left, now." "no, to the right." gradually they found themselves; hoarse, laughing, struggling, sweeping inconsequentially on behind the singing, cheering college. before dink knew it, the line had broken with a rush, and he was carried, struggling and pushing, into a vacant lot, where all at once, out of the tumult and the riot, a circle opened and spread under his eyes. seniors in varsity sweaters, with brief authoritative gestures, forced back the crowd, stationed the fretful lights, commanding and directing: "first row, sit down." "down in front, there." "kneel behind." "freshmen over here." "get a move on!" "stop that shoving." "how's the space, cap?" in the center, captain dana waited with an appraising eye. "all right. call out the lightweights." almost immediately, from the opposite sophomores, came a unanimous shout: "farquahar! dick farquahar!" "come on, dick!" "get in the ring!" out into the ring stepped an agile, nervous figure, acclaimed by all his class. "a cheer for farquahar, fellows!" "one, two, three!" "_farquahar!_" "candidate from the freshman class!" "candidate!" "robinson!" "teddy robinson!" "harris!" "no, robinson--robinson!" gimbel's voice dominated the outcry. there was a surging, and then a splitting of the crowd, and robinson was slung into the ring. in the midst of contending cheers, the antagonists stripped to the belt and stood forth to shake hands, their bared torsos shining in high lights against the mingled shadows of the audience. the two, equally matched in skill, went tumbling and whirling over the matted sod, twisting and flopping, until by a sudden hold robinson caught his adversary in a half nelson and for the brief part of a second had the two shoulders touching the ground. the second round likewise went to the freshman, who was triumphant after a struggle of twenty minutes. "middleweights!" "candidate from the sophomore class!" "candidate from the freshman!" "fisher!" "denny fisher!" the sophomore stepped forth, tall, angular, well knit. among the freshmen a division of opinion arose: "say, andover, who've you got?" "any one from hotchkiss?" "what's the matter with french?" "he doesn't know a thing about wrestling." "how about doc white?" "not heavy enough." the seniors began to be impatient. "hurry up, now, freshmen, hurry up!" "produce something!" still a hopeless indecision prevailed. "i don't know any one." "jack's too heavy." "say, you hill school fellows, haven't you got some one?" "some one's got to go out." the sophomores, seizing the advantage, began to gibe at them: "don't be afraid, freshmen!" "we won't hurt you." "we'll let you down easy." "take it by default." "call time on them." "i don't know a thing about it," said stover, between his teeth, to hungerford, his hands twitching impatiently, his glance fixed hungrily on the provokingly amused face of the sophomore champion. "i'm too heavy or i'd go." "i've a mind to go, all the same." mccarthy, who knew his impulses of old, seized him by the arm. "don't get excited, dink, old boy; you don't know anything about wrestling." "no, but i can _scrap_!" the outcry became an uproar: "quitters!" "'fraid cats!" "poor little freshmen!" "they're in a funk." "by george, i can't stand that," said stover, setting his teeth, the old love of combat sweeping over him. "i'm going to have a chance at that duck myself!" he thrust his way forward, shaking off mccarthy's hold, stepped over the reclining front ranks, and, springing into the ring, faced dana. "i'm no wrestler, sir, but if there's no one else i'll have a try at it." there was a sudden hush, and then a chorus: "who is it?" "who's that fellow?" "what's his name?" "oh, freshmen, who's your candidate?" "stover!" "stover, a football man!" "fellow from lawrenceville!" the seniors had him over in a corner, stripping him, talking excitedly. "say, stover, what do you know about it?" "not a thing." "then go in and attack." "all right." "don't wait for him." "no." "he's a clever wrestler, but you can get his nerve." "his nerve?" "keep off the ground." "off the ground, yes." "go right in; right at him; tackle him hard; shake him up." "all right," he said, for the tenth time. he had heard nothing that had been said. he was standing erect, looking in a dazed way at the hundreds of eyes that were dancing about him in the living, breathing pit in which he stood. he heard a jumble of roars and cheers, and one clear cry, mccarthy crying: "good old dink!" some one was rolling up his trousers to the knee; some one was flinging a sweater over his bared back; some one was whispering in his ear: "get right to him. go for him--don't wait!" "already, there," said captain dana's quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "already, here." "shake hands!" the night air swept over him with a sudden chill as the sweaters were pulled away. he went forth while dana ran over the rules and regulations, which he did not understand at all. he stood then about five feet ten, in perfect condition, every muscle clearly outlined against the wiry, spare yankee frame, shoulders and the sinews of his arms extraordinarily developed. from the moment he had stepped out, his eyes had never left fisher's. combat transformed his features, sending all the color from his face, narrowing the eyes, and drawing tense the lips. combat was with him always an overmastering rage in the leash of a cold, nervous, pulsating logic, which by the very force of its passion gave to his expression an almost dispassionate cruelty--a look not easy to meet, that somehow, on the instant, impressed itself on the crowd with the terrific seriousness of the will behind. "wiry devil." "good shoulders." "great fighting face, eh?" "scrapper, all right." "i'll bet he is." "shake hands!" stover caught the other's hand, looked into his eyes, read something there that told him, science aside, that he was the other's master; and suddenly, rushing forward, he caught him about the knees and, lifting him bodily in the air, hurled him through the circle in a terrific tackle. the onslaught was so sudden that fisher, unable to guard himself, went down with a crash, the fall broken by the bodies of the spectators. a roar, half laughter, half hysteria, went up. "go for him!" "good boy, stover!" "chew him up!" "is he a scrapper!" "say, this _is_ a fight!" "wow!" dana, clapping them on the shoulders, brought them back to the center of the ring and restored them to the position in which they had fallen. fisher, plainly shaken up, immediately worked himself into a defensive position, recovering his breath, while stover frantically sought some instinctive hold with which to turn him over. suddenly an arm shot out, caught his head in chancery, and before he knew it he was underneath and the weight of fisher's body was above, pressing him down. he staggered to his feet in a fury, maddened, unreasoning, and went down again, always with the dead weight above him. "here, that won't do," he said to himself savagely, recovering his clarity of vision; "i mustn't lose strength." all at once, before he knew how it had been done, fisher's arm was under his, cutting over his neck, and slowly but irresistibly his shoulders were turning toward the fatal touch. every one was up, shouting: "turn him over!" "finish him up!" "hold out, freshman!" "hold out!" "flop over!" "don't give in!" "stick it out!" with a sudden expenditure of strength, he checked the turning movement, desperately striving against the cruel hold. "good boy, stover!" "that's the stuff!" "show your grit!" "hold out!" "show your nerve!" in a second he had reasoned it out. he was caught--he knew it. he could resist three minutes, five minutes, slowly sinking against his ebbing strength, frantically cheered for a spectacular resistance--and then what? if he had a chance, it was in preserving every ounce of his strength for the coming rounds. "all right; you've got me this time," he said coldly, and, relaxing, let his shoulders drop. dana's hand fell stingingly on him, announcing the fall. he rose amid an angry chorus: "what the deuce!" "say, i don't stand for that!" "thought he was game." "game nothing!" "lost his nerve." "sure he did." "well, i'll be damned." "a quitter--a rank quitter!" he walked to his seconds, angry at the misunderstanding. "here, i know what i'm doing," he said in short, quick breaths, forgetting that he, a freshman, was addressing the lords of creation. he was a captain again, his own captain, conducting his own battle. "i'll get him yet. rub up this shoulder, quick." "keep off the ground," said one mentor. "you bet i will." "why the deuce did you give in so easily?" "because there are two more rounds, and i'm going to use my head--hang it!" "he's right, too," said the first senior, rubbing him fiercely with the towel. "now, sport, don't monkey with him until you've jarred him up a couple of times!" "that's what i'm going to do!" "time!" cried the voice of dana. this time he retreated slowly, drawing fisher unwarily toward his edge of the ring, and then suddenly, as the sophomore lunged at him, shot forward again, in a tackle just below the waist, raised him clear off the ground, spun him around, and, putting all his force into his back as a wood-chopper swings an ax, brought him down crashing, clear across the ring. it was a fearful tackle, executed with every savage ounce of rage within him, the force of which momentarily stunned him. fisher, groggy under the bruising impact, barely had time to turn on his stomach before stover was upon him. dink immediately sprang up and back, waiting in the center of the ring. the sophomore, too dazed to reason clearly, yielding only to his anger at the sudden reversal, foolishly struggled to his feet and came staggering toward him. a second time stover threw all his dynamic strength into another crashing tackle. this time fisher went over on his back with a thump, and, though he turned instinctively, both shoulders had landed squarely on the turf, and, despite his frantic protests, a roar went up as dana allotted the fall to stover. this time, as he went to his corner, it was amid pandemonium: "you're a corker, freshman!" "oh, you bulldog!" "tear him up!" "you're the stuff!" "good head, freshman!" "good brain-work!" several upper classmen came hurriedly over to his corner, slapping him on the back, volunteering advice. "clear out," said his mentor proudly. "this rooster can take care of himself." fisher came up for the third round, visibly groggy and shaken by the force of the tackles he had received, but game. twice stover, watching his chance, dove under the groping hands and flung him savagely to the ground. once fisher caught him, as they lay on the ground, in a hold that might have been decisive earlier in the match. as it was, stover felt with a swift horror the arm slipping under his arm, half gripping his neck. the wet heat of the antagonistic body over his inflamed all the brute in him. the strength was now his. he tore himself free, scrambled to his feet, and hurled fisher a last time clean through into the scattering crowd, where he lay stunned, too weak to resist the viselike hands that forced his shoulders to the ground. dana hauled stover to his feet, a little groggy. "some tackling, freshman! bout's yours! call out the heavyweights!" scarcely realizing that it was his captain who had spoken, dink stood staring down at fisher, white and conquered, struggling to his feet in the grip of friends. "i say, fisher," he said impulsively, "i hope i didn't shake you up too much. i saw red; i didn't know what i was doing." "you did me all right," said the sophomore, giving his hand. "that tackle of yours would break a horse in two. shake!" "thank you," said stover, flustered and almost ashamed before the other's perfect sportsmanship. "thank you very much, sir!" he went to his corner, smothered under frantic slaps and embraces, hearing his name resounding again and again on the thunders of his classmates. the bout had been spectacular; every one was asking who he was. "stover, eh, of lawrenceville!" "gee, what a fierce tackler!" "ridiculous for fisher to be beaten!" "oh, is it? how'd you like to get a fall like that?" "played end." "captain at lawrenceville." "he ought to be a wonder." "say, did you see the face he got on him?" "enough to scare you to death." "it got fisher, all right." while he was being rubbed down and having his clothes thrust upon him, shivering in every tense muscle, which, now the issue was decided, seemed to have broken from his control, suddenly a hand gripped his, and, looking up, he saw the face of tompkins, ablaze with the fire of the professional spectator. "i'm not shaking hands on your brutal old tackling," he said, with a look that belied his words. "it's the other thing--the losing the first fall. good brain-work, boy; that's what'll count in football." the grip of the veteran cut into his hand; in tompkins's face also was a reminiscent flash of the fighting face that somehow, in any test, wins half the battle. the third bout went to the sophomores, regan, the choice of the class, being nowhere to be found. but the victory was with the freshmen, who, knit suddenly together by the consciousness of a power to rise to emergencies, carried home the candidates in triumph. mccarthy, with his arms around stover as he had done in the old school days after a grueling football contest, bore dink up to their rooms with joyful, bearlike hugs. other hands were on him, wafting him up the stairs as though riding a gale. "here, let me down will you, you galoots!" he cried vainly from time to time. hilariously they carried him into the room and dumped him down. other freshmen, following, came to him, shaking his hand, pounding him on the back. "good boy, stover!" "what's the use of wrestling, anyhow?" "you're it!" "we're all for you!" "the old sophomores thought they had it cinched." "three cheers for dink stover!" "one more!" "and again!" "yippi!" mccarthy, doubled up with laughter, stood in front of him, gazing hilariously, proudly down. "you old dink, you, what right had you to go out for it?" "none at all." "how the deuce did you have the nerve?" "how?" for the first time the question impressed itself on him. he scratched his head and said simply, unconscious of the wide application of what he said: "gee! guess i didn't stop to think how rotten i was." he went to bed, gorgeously happy with the first throbbing, satisfying intoxication of success. the whole world must be concerned with him now. he was no longer unknown; he had emerged, freed himself from the thralling oblivion of the mass. chapter vi stover fondly dreamed, that night, of his triumphal appearance on the field the following day, greeted by admiring glances and cordial handshakes, placed at once on the second eleven, watched with new interest by curious coaches, earning an approving word from the captain himself. when he did come on the field, embarrassed and reluctantly conscious of his sudden leap to world-wide fame, no one took the slightest notice of him. tompkins did not vouchsafe a word of greeting. to his amazement, dana again passed him over and left him restless on the bench, chafing for the opportunity that did not come. the second and the third afternoon it was the same--the same indifference, the same forgetfulness. and then he suddenly realized the stern discipline of it all--unnecessary and stamping out individuality, it seemed to him at first, but subordinating everything to the one purpose, eliminating the individual factor, demanding absolute subordination to the whole, submerging everything into the machine--that was not a machine only, when once accomplished, but an immense idea of sacrifice and self-abnegation. directly, clearly visualized, he perceived, for the first time, what he was to perceive in every side of his college career, that a standard had been fashioned to which, irresistibly, subtly, he would have to conform; only here, in the free domain of combat, the standard that imposed itself upon him was something bigger than his own. meanwhile the college in all its activities opened before him, absorbing him in its routine. the great mass of his comrades to be gradually emerged from the blurred mists of the first day. he began to perceive hundreds of faces, faces that fixed themselves in his memory, ranging themselves, dividing according to his first impression into sharply defined groups. fellows sought him out, joined him when he crossed the campus, asked him to drop in. in chapel he found himself between bob story, a quiet, self-contained, likable fellow, popular from the first from a certain genuine sweetness and charity in his character, son of judge story of new haven, one of the most influential of the older graduates; and on the other side swazey, a man of twenty-five or six, of a type that frankly amazed him--rough, uncouth, with thick head and neck, rather flat in the face, intrusive, yellowish eyes, under lip overshot, one ear maimed by a scar, badly dressed, badly combed, and badly shod. belying this cloutish exterior was a quietness of manner and the dreamy vision of a passionate student. where he came from stover could not guess, nor by what strange chance of life he had been thrown there. in front of him was the great bulk of regan, always bent over a book for the last precious moments, coming and going always with the same irresistible steadiness of purpose. he had not been at the wrestling the opening night, he had not been out for football, because his own affairs, his search for work, were to him more important; and, looking at him, stover felt that he would never allow anything to divert him from his main purpose in college--first, to earn his way, and, second, to educate himself. stover, with others, had urged him to report for practise, knowing, though not proclaiming it, that there lay the way to friendships that, once gained, would make easy his problem. "not yet, stover," said regan, always with the same finality in his tone. "i've got to see my way clear; i've got to know if i can down that infernal greek and latin first. if i can, i'm coming out." "where do you room?" said stover. "oh, out about a mile--a sort of rat-hole." "i want to drop in on you." "come out sometime." "drop in on me." "i'm going to." "i say, regan, why don't you see le baron?" "what for?" "why, he might--might give you some good tips," said stover, a little embarrassed. "exactly. well, i prefer to help myself." stover broke out laughing. "you're a fierce old growler!" "i am." "i wish you'd come around a little and let the fellows know you." "that can wait." "i say, regan," said stover suddenly, "would you mind doing the waiting over at our joint?" "why should i?" "why, i thought," said stover, not saying what he had thought, "i thought perhaps you'd find it more convenient at commons." "is that what you really thought?" said regan, with a quizzical smile. the man's perfect simplicity and unconsciousness impressed stover more than all the fetish of enthroned upper classmen; he was always a little embarrassed before regan. "no," he said frankly, "but, regan, i would like to have you with us, and i think you'd like it." "we'll talk it over," said regan deliberately. "i'll think it over myself. good-by." stover put out his hand instinctively. their hands held each other a moment, and their eyes met in open, direct friendship. he stood a moment thoughtfully, after they had parted. what he had offered had been offered impulsively. he began to wonder if it would work out without embarrassment in the intimacy of the eating-joint. the crowd that they had joined--as gimbel had predicted--had taken a long dining-room cheerily lighted, holding one table, around which sixteen ravenous freshmen managed to squeeze in turbulent, impatient clamor. bob story, hunter and his crowd, hungerford and several men from groton and st. mark's, schley and his room-mate troutman made up a coterie that already had in it the elements of the leadership of the class. as he was deliberating, he perceived joe hungerford rolling along, with his free and easy slouch, immersed in the faded blue sweater into which he had lazily bolted to make chapel, a cap riding on the exuberant wealth of blond hair. he broached the subject at once: "say, hungerford, you're the man i want." "fire away." stover detailed his invitation to regan, concluding: "now, tell me frankly what you think." "have him with us, by all means," said hungerford impulsively. "might it not be a little embarrassing? how do you think the other fellows would like it?" "why, there's only one way to take it," said hungerford directly. "our crowd's too damned select now to suit me. we need him a darn sight more than he needs us." "i knew you'd feel that way." "by george, that's why i came to yale. if there are any little squirts in the crowd think differently, a swift kick where it'll do the most good will clear the atmosphere." stover looked at him with impulsive attraction. he was boyish, unspoiled, eager. "now, look here, dink--you don't mind me calling you that, do you?" continued hungerford, with a little hesitation. "go ahead." "i want you to understand how i feel about things. i've got about everything in the world to make a conceited, pompous, useless little ass out of me, and about two hundred people who want to do it. i wish to blazes i was starting where regan is--where my old dad did; i might do something worth while. now, i don't want any hungry, boot-licking little pups around me whose bills i am to pay. i want to come in on your scale, and i'm mighty glad to get the chance. that's why my allowance isn't going to be one cent more than yours; and i want you to know it. now, as for this fellow regan--he sounds like a man. i tell you what i'll do. i'll fix it up in a shake of a lamb's tail." "question is whether regan will come," said stover doubtfully. "by george, i'll make him. we'll go right out together and put it to him." which they did; and regan, yielding to the open cordiality of hungerford, accepted and promised to change at the end of his week. in the second week, having satisfactorily arranged his affairs--by what slender margin no one ever knew--regan reported for practise. he had played a little football in the middle west and, though his knowledge was crude, he learned slowly, and what he learned he never lost. his great strength, and a certain quality which was moral as well as physical, very shortly won him the place of right guard, where with each week he strengthened his hold. regan's introduction at the eating-joint had been achieved without the embarrassment stover had feared. he came and went with a certain natural dignity that was not assumed, but was inherent in the simplicity of his character. he entered occasionally into the conversation and always, when the others were finished and tarrying over the tobacco, brought his plate to a vacant place and ate his supper; but, that through, though often urged, went his purposeful way, with always that certain solitary quality about him that made approach difficult and had left him friendless. on the fourth afternoon of practise, as stover, restraining the raging impatience within him, resolved that at all costs he would not show the chafing, went to his place on the imprisoning bench, watching with famished eyes the contending lines, dana, without warning, called from the open field: "stover! stover! out here!" he jumped up, oblivious of everything but the sudden thumping of his heart and the curious stir in the ranks of the candidates. "here, leave your sweater," shouted tompkins, who had repeated the summons. "oh, yes." clumsily entangled in the folds of his sweater, he struggled to emerge. tompkins, amid a roar of laughter, caught the arms and freed him, grinning at the impetuousness with which stover went scudding out. on the way he passed the man he was replacing, returning rebelliously with a half antagonistic, half apprehensive glance at him. "take left end on the scrub," said dana, who was not in the line of scrimmage. "farley, give him the signals." the scrub quarter hastily poured into his ears the simple code. he took up his position. the play was momentarily halted by one of the coaches, who was hauling the center men over the coals. opposite stover, bangs, senior, was standing, legs spread, hands on his hips, looking at him with a look stover never forgot. for three years he had plugged along his way, doggedly holding his place in the scrubs, patiently waiting for the one opportunity to come. now, at last, after the years of servitude, standing on the coveted side of the line, suddenly here was a freshman with a big reputation come in the challenge that might destroy all the years of patience and send him back into the oblivion of the scrubs. stover understood the appealing fury of the look, even in all the pitilessness of his ambition. something sharp went through him at the thought of the man for whose position, ruthlessly, fiercely, he was beginning to fight. five or six coaches, always under the direction of case, head coach, were moving restlessly about the field, watching for the first rudimentary faults. one or two gave him quick appraising looks. stover, moving restlessly back and forth, his eyes on the ground, too conscious of the general curiosity, awaited the moment of action. the discussion around the center ended. "varsity take the ball," called out dana; "get into it, every one!" the two lines sprang quickly into position, the coaches, nervous and vociferous, jumping behind the unfortunate objects of their wrath, while the air was filled with shrieked advice and exhortation. "on the jump, there, biggs!" "charge low!" "oh, get down, get down!" "break up this play!" "wake up!" "smash into it!" "charge!" "now!" "block that man!" "throw him back!" "get behind!" "push him on!" "shove him on!" "get behind and shove!" "shove!" "shove! oh, shove!" attack and defense were still crude. the play had gone surging around the opposite end, but in a halting way, the runner impeded by his own interference. stover, sweeping around at full speed, was able to down the half from behind, just as the interference succeeded in clearing the way. at once it was a chorus of angry shouts, each coach descending on the particular object of his wrath. "beautiful!" "you're a wonder!" "what are you doing,--growing to the ground?" "what did i tell you?" "say, interference, is this a walking match?" "wonderful speed--almost got away from the opposite end." "say, charley, a fast lot of backs we've got." "line 'em up!" two or three plays through the center, struggling and squirming in the old fashion of football, were succeeded by several tries at his side. stover, besides three years' hard drilling, had a natural gift of diagnosis, which, with the savagery of his tackling, made him, even at this period, an unusual end, easily the best of the candidates on the field. he stood on guard, turning inside the attack, or running along with it and gradually forcing his man out of bounds. at other times he went through the loose interference and caught his man with a solid lunge that was not to be denied. the varsity being forced at last to kick, bangs came out opposite him for that running scrimmage to cover a punt that is the final test of an end. stover, dropping a little behind, confident in his measure of the man, caught him with his shoulder on the start, throwing him off balance for a precious moment, and then followed him down the field, worrying him like a sheep-dog pursuing a rebellious member of his flock, and caught him at the last with a quick lunge at the knees that sent him sprawling out of the play. up on his feet in a minute, stover went racing after his fullback, in time to give the impetus of his weight that sent him over his tackle, falling forward. "how in blazes did that scrub end get back here?" shouted out harden, a coach, a famous end himself. he came up the field with bangs, grabbing him by the shoulder, gesticulating furiously, his fist flourishing, crying: "here, dana, give us that play over again!" a second time bangs sought to elude stover, goaded on by the taunts of harden, who accompanied them. quicker in speed and with a power of instinctive application of his strength, stover hung to his man, putting him out of the play despite his frantic efforts. harden, furious, railed at him. "what! you let a freshman put you out of the play? where's your pride? in the name of heaven do something! why, they're laughing at you, ben,--they're giving you the laugh!" bangs, senior society man, manager of the crew, took the driving and the leash without a protest, knowing though he did that the trouble was beyond him--that he was up against a better man. suddenly harden turned on stover, who, a little apart, was moving uneasily, feeling profoundly sorry for the tanning bangs was receiving on his account. "look here, young fellow, you're not playing that right." stover was amazed. "what's the first thing you've got to think about when you follow down your end?" "keep him out of the play," said stover. "never!" harden seized him by the jersey, attacking with his long expostulating forefinger, just as he had laid down the law to bangs. "never! that's grand-stand playing, my boy; good for you, rotten for the team. the one thing you've got to do first, last, and always, is to know where the ball is and what's happening to it. understand?" "yes, sir." "now you didn't do that. you went down with your eyes on your man only, didn't you?" "yes, sir." "you never looked at your back to see if he fumbled, did you?" "no, sir." "and if he had, where'd you have been? if he holds it all right, knock over your end, but if he fumbles you've got to beat every one to it and recover it. you're one of eleven men, not a newspaper phenomenon--get that in your head. you didn't know i was trying you out as well as bangs. now let it sink into you. do you get it?" "yes, sir, thank you," said stover, furious at himself, for if there was one thing that was instinctive in him it was this cardinal quality of following the ball and being in every play. it was a day of the hardest, trying alike to the nerves of coaches and men, when the teams were driven without a rest, when tempers were strained to the snapping point, in the effort to instil not so much the details of the game as the inflaming spirit of combat. it was dusk before the coaches called a halt to the practise and sent them, steaming and panting, aching in every joint, back to the gymnasium for a rub-down. climbing wearily into the car to sink gratefully into a seat, dink suddenly, to his confusion, found himself by the side of bangs. "hello," said the senior, looking up with a grin, "i hope every muscle in your body's aching." "it certainly is," said stover, relieved. bangs looked at him a long moment, shook his head, and said: "i wish i could drop a ton of brick on you." "why?" "i've plugged away for years, slaved like a nigger at this criminal game, thought i was going to get my chance at last, and now you come along." "oh, i say," said stover in real confusion. "oh, i'll make you fight for it," said the other, with a snap of his jaws. "but, boy, there's one thing i liked. when that old rhinoceros of a harden was putting the hooks into me, you never eased up for a second." "i knew you'd feel that way." "if you'd done differently i'd slaughtered you," said bangs. "well, good luck to you!" he smiled, but back of the smile stover saw the cruel cut of disappointment. and this feeling was stronger in him than any feeling of elation as he returned to his rooms, after the late supper. he had never known anything like the fierceness of that first practise. it was not play with the zest he loved, it was a struggle of ambitions with all the heartache that lay underneath. he had gone out to play, and suddenly found himself in a school for character, enchained to the discipline of the cæsars, where the test lay in stoicism and the victory was built on the broken hopes of a comrade. for the first time, a little appalled, he felt the weight of the seriousness, the deadly seriousness of the american spirit, which seizes on everything that is competition and transforms it, with the savage fanaticism of its race, for success. chapter vii after a week of grueling practise, the first game of the season came like a holiday. stover was called out after the first few minutes, replacing bangs, and remained until the close. he played well, aided by several fortunate opportunities, earning at the last a pat on the back from dana which sent him home rejoicing. the showing of the team was disappointing, even for that early season. the material was plainly lacking in the line, and at full-back the kicking was lamentably weak. the coaches went off with serious faces; throughout the college assembled on the stands was a spreading premonition of disaster. saturday night was privileged, with the long, grateful sunday morning sleep ahead. "dink, ahoy!" shouted mcnab's cheerful voice over the banister, as he entered the house. "hello, there!" "how's the boy wonder, the only man-eating dink in captivity?" "tired as the deuce." "fine. first rate," said mcnab, skipping down. "forget the past, think only of the bright furniture. we've got a block of tickets for poli's daring-dazzling-delightful vaudeville to-night. you're elected. we'll end up with a game at reynolds'. seen the _evening register_?" "no." "my boy, you are famous," said mcnab, brandishing a paper. "i'm lovelier, but you get the space. never mind, i'll be arrested soon--anything to get in the papers!" while mcnab's busy tongue ran on, stover was gazing at the account of the game, where, among the secondary headlines, there stared out at him the caption: stover, a freshman, plays sensational game. the thing was too incredible. he stood stupidly looking at it. "how do you feel?" said mcnab, taking his pulse professionally. there was no answer stover could give to that first throbbing sensation at seeing his name--his own name--in print. it left him confused, almost a little frightened. "why, dink, you're modest," said the irrepressible mcnab; and, throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice: "i say, fellows, come down and see dink blush." a magnificent scrimmage, popularly known as a "rough house," ensued, in which mcnab was properly chastised, though not a whit subdued. mccarthy arrived late, with the freshman eleven, back from a close contest with a school team. they took a hurried supper, and went down a dozen strong, in jovial marching order. the sensations of the theater were still new to stover, nor had his fortunate eye seen under the make-up or his imagination gone below the laughter. to parade down the aisle, straight as a barber's pole, chin carefully balanced on the sharp edge of his collar, on the night of his first day as end on the yale varsity, delightfully conscious of his own startling importance, feeling as if he over-topped every one in the most public fashion, to be absolutely blushingly conscious that every one in the theater must, too, be grasping a copy of that night's _evening register_, that every glance had started at his arrival and was following in set admiration, was a memory he was never to forget. his shoulders thrown up a little, just a little in accentuation, as behooved an end with a reputation for tackling, he found his seat and, dropping down quickly to escape observation, buried himself in his program to appear modest before the burning concentration of attention which he was quite sure must now be focused on him. "dobbs and benzigger, the fellows who smash the dishes--by george, that's great!" cried mcnab, joyfully running over the program. "they're wonders--a perfect scream!" "any good dancing?" said hungerford, and a dozen answers came: "you bet there is!" "fanny lamonte--a dream, joe!" "daintiest thing you ever saw." "sweetest little ankles!" "who's this coming--the six templeton sisters?" "don't know." "well, here they come." "they've got to be pretty fine for me!" enthroned as lords of the drama, they pronounced their infallible judgments. every joke was new, every vaudeville turn an occasion for a gale of applause. the appearance of the "six templetons" was the occasion of a violent discussion between the adherents of the blondes and the admirers of the brunettes, led by the impressionable mcnab. "i'm all for the peach in the middle!" "ah, rats! she's got piano legs. look at the fighting brunette at this end." "why, she's got a squint." "squint nothing; she's winking at me." "yes, she is!" "watch me get her eye!" stover, of course, preserved an attitude of necessary dignity, gently tolerant of the rakish sentimentalities of the younger members of the flock. moreover, he was supremely aware that the sparkling eyes under the black curls (were they real?) were not looking at mcnab, but intensely directed at his own person--all of which, as she could not have read the _register_, was a tribute to his own personal and not public charms. the lights, the stir of the audience, the boxes filled with the upper classmen, the gorgeous costumes, the sleepy pianist pounding out the accompaniments while accomplishing the marvelous feat of reading a newspaper, were all things to him of fascination. but his eye went not to the roguish professional glances, but lost itself somewhere above amid the ragged drops and borders. he was transported into the wonders of dink-land, where one figure ran a hundred adventures, where a hundred cheers rose to volley forth one name, where a dozen games were passed in a second, triumphant, dazzling, filled with spectacular conflicts, blurred with frantic crowds of blue, ending always in surging black-hatted rushes that tossed him victoriously toward the stars! "let's cut out," said mcnab's distinct voice. "there's nothing but xylophones and coons left." "come on over to reynolds's." "start up the game." reluctantly, fallen to earth again, stover rose and followed them out. in a moment they had passed through the fragrant casks and bottles that thronged the passage, saluting the statesmanly bulk of hugh reynolds, and found themselves in a back room, already floating in smoke. white, accusing lights of bracketed lamps picked out the gray features of a dozen men vociferously rolling forth a drinking chorus, while the magic arms of buck waters, his falcon's nose and little muzzle eyes, dominated the whole. a shout acclaimed them: "yea, fellows!" "shove in here!" "get into the game." "bartender, a little more of that brutalizing beer!" "cheese and pretzels!" "hello, tough mccarthy!" "over here, dopey mcnab." "get into the orchestra." "good boy, stover!" "congratulations!" "oh, dink stover, have we your eye?" the last call, caught up by every voice, went swelling in volume, accompanied by a general uplifting of mugs and glasses. it was the traditional call to a health. "i'd like to oblige," said dink, a little embarrassed, "but i'm in training." "that's all right--hand him a soft one." for the first time he perceived that there was a perfect freedom in the choice of beverage. he bowed, drained his glass, and sat down. "oh, dopey mcnab, have we your eye?" "you certainly have, boys, and i'm no one-eyed man at that," said mcnab, jovially disappearing down a mug, while the room in chorus trolled out: "_drink the wine divine_ _as long as you can stand it._ _hand the bowl around_ _as long as you can hand it._ _drink your glass,_ _drink your glass,_ _dri-i-i-i-ink--he's drunk it down._" "oh, jim hunter, have we your eye?" each new arrival in turn, called to his feet, rose and drained his glass to a hilarious accompaniment, while stover, to his surprise, noted that fully a third of the crowd were ordering soft drinks. "oh, dink stover, here's to _you_!" from across the table tommy bain, lifting his glass of ginger ale, smiled a gracious smile. "same to you, tommy bain." the fellow who had addressed him was a leader among the hotchkiss crowd, out for coxswain, already spoken of for one of the class managerships. he was a diminutive type, immaculately neat, black hair exactly parted and unflurried, well jacketed, turn-down collar embellished with a red-and-yellow four-in-hand, a rather large, bulbous nose, and thin eyes that were never quiet--shrewd, direct, inquisitive, always estimating. he was smiling again, raising his glass to some one else down the table, and the smile that passed easily over his lips had the quality of seeming to come from the heart. mcnab and buck waters, natural leaders of the revels, arms locked, were giving a muscular exhibition of joint conducting, while the room in chorus sang: "_should fortune prove unkind,_ _should fortune prove unfair,_ _a cure i have in mind_ _to drive away all care._" "by george!" said hungerford, at his side, laughing, "it's good to be in the game at last, isn't it, dink?" "it certainly is." "we've got a great crowd; it's going to be a great class." "who's bain?" said dink, under his breath. "bain--oh, he's a clever chap, probably be a class deacon. that's another good thing about this place: we can all get together and drink what we want." "chorus!" cried mcnab and waters, with a twin flourish of their arms. "chorus!" shouted hungerford and bain, raising their glasses in accompaniment. "_for to-night we will be merry_ _as the rosy wine we drink--_ _the rosy wine we drink!_" "yea!" "a little more close harmony!" a great shout acclaimed the chorus and another song was started. hunter and bain were opposite each other, surrounded as it were by adherents, each already aware of the other, measuring glances, serious, unrelaxing, never unbending, never departing a moment from the careful attitude of critical aloofness. in the midst of the rising hilarity and the rebellious joy of newly gained liberty, the two rival leaders sat singing, but not of the song, the same placid, maliciously superior smile floating over the perfectly controlled lips of bain, while in the anointed gaze of hunter was a ponderous seriousness which at that age is ascribed to a predestined napoleonic melancholy. "solo from buck waters!" "solo!" "on the chair!" "yea, buck waters!" yielding to the outcry waters was thrust upward. "the cowboy orchestra!" "give us the cowboy orchestra!" "the cowboy orchestra, ladies and gentlemen." with a wave of his hand he organized the room into drums, bugles, and trombones, announcing: "the orchestra will tune up and play this little tune, "'_ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata,_ _ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata-ta!_' "all ready? lots of action there--a little more cyclonic from the trombones. fine! whenever i give the signal the orchestra will burst forth into that melodious refrain. i will now give an imitation of a professional announcer at buffalo bill's wild west show and congress of rough riders. orchestra: "_ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata_ _ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata-ta!_" while waters, with his great comical face shining above the gleeful crowd like a harvest moon rising from the lake, continued endlessly drawling out his nasal imitations, the crowd, for the first time welded together, rocked and shouted out the farcical chorus. when he had ended, buck waters sat down, enthroned forever afterward master of song and revels. bain began to cast estimating glances, calculating on the moment to leave. at the other end waters was fairly smothered under the rush of delighted comrades, patting him on the back, acclaiming his rise to fame. the tables settled down into a sentimental refrain led by stone's clear tenor. dink's glance, traveling down the table, was suddenly attracted by the figure of a young fellow with a certain defiant yet shy individuality in its pose. "who's the rather dark chap just beyond dopey?" he asked hungerford. "don't know; ask schley." "brockhurst--sidney brockhurst," said schley, not lowering his voice, "from hill school. trying for the _lit_. clever chap, they say, but a little long-haired." stover studied him, his curiosity awakened. brockhurst, of all present, seemed the most solitary and the most self-conscious. he had a long head, high, thin cheeks, and a nervous little habit, when intent or conscious of being watched, of drawing his fingers over his lips. his head was thrown back a little proudly, but the eyes contradicted this attitude, with the acute shyness in them that clouded a certain keen imaginative scrutiny. at this moment his eyes met stover's. dink, yielding to an instinct, raised his glass and smiled. brockhurst hastily seized his mug in response, spilling a little of it and dropping his glance quickly. once or twice, as if unpleasantly conscious of the examination, he turned uneasily. "he looks rather interesting," said stover thoughtfully. "think so?" said schley. "rather freaky to me." suddenly a shout went up: "come in!" "yea, sheff!" "yea, tom kelly!" the narrow doorway was suddenly alive with a boisterous, rollicking crowd of sheff freshmen, led by tom kelly, a short, roly-poly, alert little fellow with a sharp pointing nose and a great half-moon of a mouth. "come in, kelly!" "crowd in, fellows!" "oh, tom, join us!" "i will _not_ come in," said kelly, with a certain painful beery assumption of dignity. he balanced himself a moment, steadied by his neighbors; and then, to the delight of the room, began, with the utmost gravity, one of his inimitable imitations of the lords that sit enthroned in the faculty. "i come, not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good. beer is brutalizing. with your kind permission, i will whistle you a few verses of a noble poem on same subject." [illustration: "'i come not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good'"--_page ._] "whistle, tom?" "the word was whistle," said kelly sternly. extending his arm for silence, he proceeded, with great intensity and concentrated facial expression, to whistle a sort of improvisation. then, suddenly ceasing, he continued: "and what does this beautiful, ennobling little thing teach us, written by a great mind, one of the greatest, greatest minds--what does it teach us?" "well, what does it teach?" said one or two voices, after kelly had preserved a statuesque pose beyond the limits of their curiosity. "ask me," said kelly, with dignity. "mr. kelly," said mcnab rising seriously, "what does this little gem of intellectuality, this as it were psycho-therapeutical cirrhosis of a paleontological state,--you get my meaning, of course,--that is, from the point of view of modern introspective excavations, with due regard to whatever the sixth dimension, considered as such, may have of influence, and allowing that a certain amount of error is inherent in spanish cooking if eggs are boiled in a chafing-dish--admitting all this, i ask you a simple question. do you understand me?" "perfectly," said kelly, who had followed this serious harangue with strained attention. "and, moreover, i agree with you." "you agree?" said mcnab, feigning surprise. "i do." "sir, you are a congenial soul. shake hands." but, in the act of stealing this sudden friendship, kelly brought forth his hand, when it was perceived that he was tightly clutching a pool-ball, and, moreover, that his pockets were bulging like a sort of universal mumps with a dozen inexplicable companions. a shout went up: "why, he's swallowed a frame of pool-balls!" "he certainly has." "he's swiped them." "he's wrecked a pool-room." "how the deuce did he do it?" "why, tom, where did you get 'em?" "testimonial--testimonial of affection," replied kelly, "literally showered on me." "tom, you stole them." "i did not steal them!" "tom, you stole them!" "tom, o tom!" kelly, who had proceeded to empty his pockets for an exhibition, becoming abruptly offended at the universal shouted accusation, repocketed the pool-balls and departed, despite a storm of protest and entreaties, carrying with him mcnab. a number of the crowd were passing beyond control; others, inflexible, smiling, continued in their attitude of spectators, brockhurst because he could not forget himself, hunter and bain because they would not. "time for us to be cutting out," said hunter, with a glance at his watch. "what about it, stover?" dink was annoyed that he had not made the move himself. mccarthy, hungerford, and one or two of the freshman candidates arose. a shout went up from the noisy end of the table. "here! no quitting!" "cowards!" "come back!" "shut up; it's the football crowd!" "oh, football, eh?" "right." "splendid!" stover with a serious face, shook hands with troutman, a red-haired fellow with sharp advancing features who said impressively: "mr. stover, i wish to express for my friends the gratification, the extreme gratification, the extreme moral gratification we feel at seeing a football--a football candidate showing such moral courage--moral--it's wonderful--it moves me. mr. stover, i'd like to shake your hand." dink laughed and escaped, seeing, in a last glance at the vaporous fitful room, troutman solemnly giving his hand to waters, whom he was congratulating on his extreme moral courage in remaining. tommy bain, in the confusion, slipped out unnoticed and joined them. the last swollen burst of the song was shut from them. they went back toward the campus in twos and threes, over the quiet, moist pavement, past the noisy windows of mory's--where no freshmen need apply--to the common, where suddenly, in the moonlit shadow of a great elm, they found a vociferous group with tom kelly and mcnab in the midst. at this moment something fell from the skies within perilous distance. "what the deuce is that?" said hungerford, jumping back. "why, it's a pool-ball," said stone, stooping down. another fell, just missing hunter's shoulders. "it's kelly," said bain, "and he's firing at us." with a rush they joined the group, to find kelly, determined and enthusiastic, solemnly discharging his ammunition at the great bulbous moon that was set lumberingly above them. they joined the group that surrounded him, expostulating, sober or fuddled: "don't be an ass, tom." "the cops are coming." "i say, come on home." "how many more has he got?" "get him home, you fellows." "stop him." meanwhile, abetted by the admiring, delighted mcnab, tom kelly, taking the most solicitous aim, was continuing his serious efforts to hit the moon with the pool-balls which he had procured no one knew how. "i say, mcnab," said stover, drawing him aside, "better get him to stop now. too many cops around. use your influence--he'll listen to you." mcnab's sense of responsibility having thus become violently agitated, he wabbled up to the laboring kelly, and the following historic dialogue took place: "i say, tom, old fellow, you know me, don't you? you know i'm a good sort, don't you--one of the finest?" "i know you, dopey mcnab; i'm proud to know you." "i want to speak a word with you seriously." "what?" "seriously." "say on." "now, seriously, tom, do you think you can hit it?" "don't know; going to try's much as in me. biff!" "hold up," said mcnab, staying his hand. "tom, i'm going to appeal to you as man to man." "appeal." "you understand--as man to man." "sure." "you're a man; i'm a man." "the finest." "now as man to man, i'm going to tell you the truth." "the whole truth?" "solemn truth." "tell on." "you can't hit it." "why not?" "tom, it's too--too far away!" the two shook hands solemnly and impressively. "can't hit it--too far away," said kelly, with the pool-ball clutched tight. "too far away, eh?" "my dear tom," said mcnab, tearfully breaking the news, "it's too far--entirely too far away. you can't reach it, tom; believe me, as man to man--you can't, you can never, never hit it." "i know i can't, dopey," said kelly, in an equally mournful tone, "i know all that. all that you say is true. but, dopey, suppose i _should_ hit it, suppose i _should_, just think--think--how my name would go reeling and rocking down to fushure generations! biff!" they left mcnab overcome by the impressiveness of this argument, busily gathering up the pool-balls, resolved that every opportunity should be given kelly to rank among the immortals. stover would have liked to stay. for the moment, almost a rebellion swept over him at the drudgery to which he had condemned himself in his ambition. he saw again the low table, through the smoke, and buck waters's jovial pagan face leading the crowd in lazy, care-free abandon. he felt that liberty, that zest of life, that wild spirit of youth for which he yearned and of which he had been defrauded by le baron's hand, that hand which had ruthlessly torn away the veil. something leaped up within him--a longing to break the harness, to jump the gate and go heels in the air, cavorting across unfenced meadows. he rebelled against the way that had been marked out for him. he rebelled against the self-imposed discipline, and, most of all, he rebelled against the hundred eyes under whose inspection he must now inevitably walk. ahead of them to the left, across by osborne, came the gay, defiant singing of a group of upper classmen returning to the campus: "_for it's always fair weather_ _when good fellows stand together,_ _with a stein on the table_ _and a good song ringing clear._" the echo came to him with a certain grim mockery. there would be very little of that for him. it was to be four years, not of pleasure and inclination, but of seriousness and restraint, if he continued in his decision. for a moment the pagan in him prevailed, and he doubted. then they passed across high street, and at their sides the dead shadow of the society tomb suddenly intruded upon them. which of the group at the end of the long three years would be of the chosen? which would lead? "well, fellows, we go this way," said bain's methodical voice. "drop around at the rooms soon. good night." stover, hunter, and bain for the moment found themselves together, each striving for the same social honor, each conscious that, whatever an established system might bring to them, with its enforced comradeship, among them would always be the underlying contending spirit of variant ambitions. stover felt it keenly, almost with a sharp antagonism that drove from him finally the slumbering rebellion he had felt all that night--the tugging at the bridle of consciousness which had been imposed upon him. this was a bigger thing, a thing that wakened in him the great instincts of combat. he would be a leader among leaders. he would succeed as success was reckoned. he gave a little laugh and held out his hand to hunter. "good night, jim," he said. "why--good night," said hunter, surprised at the laugh and the unnecessary handshake. but the hand had been offered in challenge, and the laugh marked the final deliberate acceptance of all that le baron had logically exposed to him. "i'll play the game, and i'll play it better than they will," he said, setting his lips. "i've got my eyes open, and i'm not going to throw away a single chance. we'll see who'll lead!" chapter viii the intensity and seriousness of the football season abetted stover in his new attitude of napoleonic seclusion by leaving him little time for the lighter side of college pleasures. every hour was taken up with the effort of mastering his lessons, which he then regarded, in common with the majority of his class, as a laborious task, a sort of necessary evil, the price to be paid for the privilege of passing four years in pleasant places with congenial companions. after supper he returned immediately to his rooms, where presently a succession of visiting sophomores, members of the society campaign committees, took up the first hours. these inquisitorial delegations, formal, stiff, and conducted on a basis of superior investigation, embarrassed him at first. but this feeling soon wore off with the consciousness that he was a subject of dispute; and, secure in the opportunity that would come to him with the opening of the winter-term period of elections, his interest was directed only to the probable selection among his classmates. by the middle of october the situation at yale field had become critical. the earlier games had demonstrated what had been foreseen--the weakness and inexperience of the raw material in hand. serious errors in policy were committed by captain dana, who, in the effort to find some combination which would bolster up the weak backfield, began a constant shifting of the positions in order to experiment with heavier men behind the line. a succession of minor injuries arrived to further the disorganization. the nervousness of the captain communicated itself to the team, harassed and driven in the effort for accomplishment. that there was serious opposition among the coaches to these new groping policies every man saw plainly; yet, to stover's amazement, the knowledge remained within the team, impregnated with the spirit of loyalty and discipline. after three weeks of brilliancy at his natural position of end, buoyed up by the zest of confidence and success, he was abruptly called to one side. "stover, you've played behind the line, haven't you?" said dana. "a couple of games at school, sir," he answered hastily, "just as a makeshift." "i'm going to try you at fullback." "at fullback?" "get into it and see if you can make good." "yes, sir." he went without spirit, sure of the impossibility of the thing, feeling only the humiliation and failure that all at once flung itself like a storm-cloud across his ambition. a coach took charge of him, running over with him the elementary principles of blocking and plunging. when he lined up, it was with half of the coaching force at his back. "come on, stover; get into it!" "wake up!" "get your head down!" "keep a-going!" "ram into it!" "knock that man over!" "knock him _over_!" he went into the line blindly, frantically, feeling for the first time that last exhausting, lunging expenditure of strength that is called forth with the effort to fall forward when tackled. nothing he did satisfied. it was a constant storm of criticism, behind his back, in his ears, shrieked to his face: "keep your feet--oh, keep your feet!" "smash open that line!" "rip open that line!" "hit it--hit it!" "hard--harder!" "go on--don't stop!" a dozen times he flung his meager weight against the ponderous bodies of the center men, crushed by the impact in front, smothered by the surging support of his own line behind, helpless in the grinding contention, turned and twisted, going down in a heap amid the shock of bodies, thinking always: "well, the darn fools will find out just about how much use i am here!" when the practise ended, at last, dana called on tompkins. "joe, take stover and give him a line on the punting, will you?" "i say, he's been worked pretty hard," said the coach with a glance. "how about it?" said dana quickly. "all right," said stover, lying gloriously. at that moment, aching in every joint, he would have given everything to have spoken his mind. instead he brought forth a smile distinguished for its eagerness, and said, "i'd like to get right at it, sir." "fullback's the big problem," said tompkins, as they started across the field. "bangs can fill in at end, but we've got to get a fullback that can catch punts, and with nerve enough to get off his kicks in the face of that princeton line." "i'll do my best, sir," said stover, with a sinking feeling. for twenty minutes, against the rebellion of his body, he went through a rigorous lesson, improving a little in the length of his punts, and succeeding fairly well in holding the ball, which came spinning end over end to him from the region of the clouds. "that'll do," said tompkins, at last. "that's all?" said stover stoically, picking up his sweater. "that's all." tompkins, watching him for a moment, said suddenly: "stover, i don't know whether dana'll keep you at full or not, but i guess you'll have to get ready to fill in. come over to the gym lot every morning for about half an hour, and we'll see if we can't work up those punts." "yes, sir." they walked out together. "stover, look here," said tompkins abruptly, "i'm going to speak straight to you, because i think you'll keep your mouth shut. we're in a desperate condition here, and you know it. there's only one man in charge at yale, now and always, and that's the captain. that's our system, and we stand or fall by it; and in order that we can follow him four times out of five to victory, we've got sometimes to shut our eyes and follow him down to defeat. do you get me?" "i think i do." "no matter what happens, no criticism of the captain--no talking outside. you may think he's wrong, you may know he's wrong, but you've got to grin and bear it. that's all. remember it--a close mouth!" but it required all stover's newly learned stoicism to maintain this attitude in the weeks that arrived. after a week he was suddenly returned to his old position, and as suddenly redrafted to fullback when another game had displayed the inadequacy of the regular. from a position where he was familiar with all the craft of the game, stover suddenly found himself a novice whom a handful of coaches sought desperately to develop by dint of hammering and driving. his name no longer figured in the newspaper accounts as the find of the season, but as stover the weak spot on the eleven. it was a rude discipline, and more than once he was on the point of crying out at what seemed to him the useless sacrifice. but he held his tongue as he saw others, seniors, put to the same test and giving obedience without a word of criticism for the captain, who, as every one realized, face to face with a hopeless outcome, was gradually going to pieces. meanwhile dopey mcnab was just as zealously concerned in the pursuit of his classic ideal, which, however, was imagined more along the lines of such historic scholars as verdant green, harry foker, and certain heroes of his favorite author, charles lever. the annoyance of recitations by an economical imagination he converted into periods of repose and refreshing slumber behind the broad back of mcmasters, who, for a certain fixed portion of tobacco a week, agreed to act as a wall in moments of calm and to awake him with a kick on the shins when the summons to refuse to recite arrived. having discovered buck waters as a companionable soul, congenially inclined to the pagan view of life, it was not long before the two discovered the third completing genius in the person of tom kelly, who, though a member of the sheff freshman class, immediately agreed not to let either time, place, or conflicting recitations stand in the way of that superior mental education which must result from the friction of three such active imaginations. the triumvirate was established on a firm foundation on the day after kelly's ambitious but unsuccessful attempt to hit the moon with a pool-ball, and immediately began a series of practical jokes and larks which threatened to terminate abruptly the partnership or remove it bodily to an unimaginative outer world. mcnab, like most gentlemen of determined leisure, worked indefatigably every minute of the day. having slept through chapel and first recitation, with an occasional interruption to rise and say with great dignity "not prepared," he would suddenly, about ten o'clock in the morning, awake with a start, and drifting into stover's room plaster his nose to the window and restlessly ask himself what mischief he could invent for the day. after a moment of dissatisfied introspection, he would say fretfully: "i say, dink?" "hello!" "studying?" "yes." "almost finished?" "no." "what are you doing, mccarthy?" "boning out an infernal problem in spherical geometry." "i gave that up." "oh, you did!" "sure, it's too hard--what's the use of wasting time over it, then? what do you say to a game of pool?" "get out!" "let's go for a row up on lake whitney." "shut up!" "come over to sheffield and get up a game of poker with tom kelly." at this juncture, stover and mccarthy rising in wrath, mcnab would beat a hurried retreat, dodging whatever came sailing after him. much aggrieved, he would go down the hall, trying the different doors, which had been locked against his approach. about this time buck waters, moved by similar impulses, would appear and the two would camp down on the top step and practise duets, until a furious uprising in the house would drive them ignominiously on to the street. left to their own resources, they would wander aimlessly about the city, inventing a hundred methods to accomplish the most difficult of all feats, killing time. on one particular morning in early november, mcnab and buck waters, being refused admission to three houses on york street, and the affront being aggravated by jeers and epithets of the coarsest kind, went arm in arm on mischief bent. "i say, what let's do?" said mcnab disconsolately. "we must do something new," said buck waters. "we certainly must." "well, let's try the old clothes gag," said mcnab; "that always amuses a little." reaching the thoroughfare of chapel street, mcnab stationed himself at the corner while waters proceeded to a point about half-way down the block. assuming a lounging position against a lamp-post, mcnab waited until chance delivered up to him a superhumanly dignified citizen in top hat and boutonnière, moving through the crowd with an air of solid importance. darting out, he approached with the sweep of an eagle, saying in a hoarse whisper: "old clothes, any old clothes, sir?" his victim, frowning, accelerated his pace. "buy your old clothes, sir, buy 'em now." several onlookers stopped and looked. the gentleman, who had not turned to see who was addressing him, said hurriedly in an undertone: "no, no, nothing to-day." "buy 'em to-morrow--pay good price," said mcnab peevishly. "no, no, nothing to sell." "call around at the house--give good prices." "nothing to sell, nothing, i tell you!" "buy what you got on," said mcnab at the psychological moment, "give you five dollars or toss you ten or nothinks!" "be off!" said the now thoroughly infuriated victim, turning and brandishing his cane. "i'll have you arrested." mcnab, having accomplished his preliminary rôle, retreated to a safe distance, exclaiming: "toss you ten dollars or nothinks!" the now supremely self-conscious and furious gentleman, having rid himself of mcnab, immediately found himself in the hands of buck waters, who pursued him for the remainder of the block, with a mild obsequious persistency that would not be shaken off. by this time the occupants of the shop windows and the loiterers, perceiving the game, were in roars of laughter, which made the passage of the second and third victims a procession of hilarious triumph for mcnab and waters. tiring of this, they locked arms again and, taking by hazard a side street, continued their quest for adventure. "mornings are a dreadful bore," said mcnab, pulling down his hat. "they certainly are." "who was the old duck we tackled first?" "don't know--familiar whiskers." "seemed to me i've seen him somewhere." "say, look at the ki-yi." "it's a shetland poodle." "it's a pen-wiper." directly in front of them a shaggy french poodle, bearing indeed a certain resemblance to both a shetland pony and a discarded pen-wiper, was gleefully engaged in the process of shaking to pieces a rubber which it had stolen. "if it sees itself in a mirror it will die of mortification," said buck waters. "and yet, buck, he's happier than we are," said mcnab, who had been unjustifiably forced to flunk twice in one morning's recitation. "i say, dopey," said waters in alarm, "quit that!" "i will." "look at the fireworks," said waters, stopping suddenly at a window, "pin-wheels, rockets, roman candles." "what are they doing there this time of the year?" said mcnab angrily. "election parade, perhaps." "that's an idea to work on, buck." "it certainly is." "we must tell tom kelly about that." "we will." "why, there's that ridiculous ki-yi again!" "he seems to like us." "i'm not complimented." at this moment, with the poodle sporting the rubber about fifteen feet ahead of them, they beheld an italian barber lolling in the doorway of his shop, as profoundly bored by himself as they affected to be in conjunction. "fine dog," said the barber with a critical glance. "sure," said mcnab, halting at once. the poodle, for whatever reason, likewise halted and looked around. "looka better, cutta da hair." "you're right there, columbus," assented buck waters. "his fur coat looks as though it came from a fire sale." "he ought to be trim up nice, good style." "right, very, very right!" "give him nice collar, nice tuft on da tail, nice tuft on da feet." "right the second time!" "i clip him up, eh?" said the barber hopefully. "why not?" said mcnab, looking into the depth of buck waters's eyes. "why not, beecher?" said waters, giving him the name of the president of the college y. m. c. a. "i think it an excellent suggestion, jonathan edwards," said mcnab instantly. with considerable strategic coaxing, the dog was enticed into the shop, where to their surprise he became immediately docile. "you see he lika da clip," said the barber enthusiastically, preparing a table. "he's a very intelligent dog," said mcnab. "you've done much of this, columbus?" said waters with a business-like air. "sure. ten, twenta dog a day, down in da city." "edwards, we shall learn something." the dog was induced to come on the table, and waters delegated to hold him in position. "something pretty slick now, christopher," said mcnab, taking the attitude a connoisseur should take. "explain the fine points to us, as you go along." "sure." "i like the way he handles the scissors, beecher--strong, powerful stroke." "he's got a good batting eye, too, edwards." "my, what a nice clean boulevard!" "just see the hair fly." "it'll certainly improve the tail." "clip a little anchor in the middle of the back." "did you see that?" "i did." "he's a wonder." "he is." "columbus, a little more off here--oh, just a trifle!" "first rate; shave up the nose and part the whiskers!" "look at the legs, with the dinky pantalets--aren't they dreams?" "i love the tail best." "why, columbus is an artist. never saw any one like him." "would you know the dog?" "why, mother wouldn't know him," said mcnab solemnly. "all in forty-three minutes, too." "it's beautifully done, beautifully." "exquisite!" the barber, perspiring with his ambitious efforts, withdrew for a final inspection, clipped a little on the top and to the side, and signified by a nod that art could go no further. "pretta fine, eh?" "mr. columbus, permit me," said waters, shaking hands. mcnab gravely followed suit. the dog, released, gave a howl and began circling madly about the room. "open the door," shouted mcnab. "see how happy he is!" the three stationed themselves thoughtfully on the doorstep, watching the liberated poodle disappear down the street in frantic spirals, loops and figure-eights. "he lika da feel," said the barber, pleased. "oh, he's much improved," said waters, edging a little away. "he fine lookin' a dog!" "he'll certainly surprise the girls and mother," said mcnab, shifting his feet. "well, garibaldi, ta-ta!" "hold up," said the barber, "one plunk." "one dollar, raphael?" said buck waters in innocent surprise. "what for, oh, what for?" "one plunk, clippa da dog." "yes, but garibaldi," said mcnab gently, "that wasn't our dog." "shall we run for it?" said waters, as they went hurriedly up the block. "wait until garibaldi gives chase--we must be dignified," said mcnab, with an eye to the rear. "dagos have no sense of humor. here he comes with a razor--scud for it!" they dashed madly for the corner, doubled a couple of times, joined by the rejuvenated friendly poodle, and suddenly, wheeling around a corner, ran straight into the dean, who as fate would have it, was accompanied by the very dignified citizen who had been the first victim of their old clothes act and upon whom the frantic poodle, with canine expressions of relief and delight, immediately cast himself. "buck," said mcnab, half an hour later, as they went limply back, "napoleon would have whipped the british to an omelet at waterloo if he'd known about that sunken road." "we are but mortals." "how the deuce were we to know the pup belonged to professor borgle, the eminent rootitologist?" "well, we paid the dago, didn't we?" "that was outrageous." "i say, dopey, what'll you do if they fire us?" "don't joke on such subjects." "dopey," said waters solemnly, "while the dean has the case under consideration, just to aid his deliberations, i think we had better--well, study a little." "i suppose we must flirt with the text-books," said mcnab, "but let's do it together, so no one'll suspect." chapter ix the last week of the football season broke over them before stover could realize that the final test was almost at hand. the full weight of the responsibility that was on him oppressed him day and night. he forgot what he had been at end; he remembered only his present inadequacy. it had been definitely decided to keep him at fullback, for three things were imperative in the weak backfield: some one who could catch punts, with nerve enough to get off his kicks quickly in the face of a stronger line, and above all some one on the last defense who would never miss the tackle that meant a touchdown. in the last week a great change took place in the sentiment of the university--the hoping against hope that often arrives with the intensity of combat. at this time harvard and yale were still reluctantly estranged, due to a purely hypothetical question as to which side had begun a certain historic slaughter, and the big game of the season was with princeton, which, under the leadership of garry cockerell, dink's first captain at lawrenceville, had established a record of unusual power and brilliancy. up to monday of the last week, the opinion around the campus was unanimous that the day of defeat had arrived; but, with the opening of the week and the flocking in of the old players, a new spirit was noticeable, and (among the freshmen) a tentative loosening of the purse-strings on news of extra-insulting challenges from the south. at the practise, the season's marked division among the coaches was forgotten, and the field was alive with frantic assistants. the scrimmage between the varsity and the scrub took on a savageness that was sometimes difficult to control. the team, facing the impossible, with eagerness to respond, had clearly overworked itself. stover himself weighed a bare one hundred and forty, an unspeakable depravity which he carefully concealed. still, the team began to feel a new impulse and a new unity, inspired by the confidence of the returned heroes. the grim silence of the past began to be broken by hopeful comments. "by george, i believe there's something in those boys." "we've come up smiling before." "we may do it again." "shouldn't be surprised if they gave those princeton tigers the fight of their lives." "oh, they'll fight it out all right." one or two trick plays were perpetrated behind closed gates, and a thorough drill in a new method of breaking up the princeton formation for a kick, under the instruction of returning scouts. the team itself began to question and wonder. "that fellow rivers certainly has stiffened us up in the center of the line," said regan, between plays, in one of his rare moments of loquacity. "i've learned more in three days than in the whole darn season." "you've got to hold for my kicks," said stover, submitting to the sponge which clancy, the trainer, was daubing over his face. "we'll hold." "what do you really think, tom?" said stover as they stood a little apart, waiting for the scrimmage to be resumed. "do you think there's a chance?" "i'm not thinking," said regan, in his direct way. "haven't any business to think. but we're getting together, there's no doubt of that. if we can't win, why, we'll lose as we ought to, and that's something." others were not so unruffled as regan. the last days brought out all the divergent ways in which fierce, combative natures approach a crisis. dana, the captain, was plainly on the edge of his self-control, his forehead drawn in a constant frown, his glance shooting nervously back and forth, speaking to no one except in the routine of the day. dudley, at the other half, had adopted the same attitude. de soto at quarter, on the contrary, radiated a fierce joy, joking and laughing, his nervous little voice piping out: "a little more murder, fellows! send them back on stretchers. that's the stuff. what the deuce is the matter, bill, do you want to live forever? use your hands, use your feet, use your teeth, anything! whoop her up!" others in the line were more stolid, yet each in his way contributing to the nervous electricity that sent the team tirelessly, frantically, like mad dervishes, into the breach, while behind them, at their sides, everywhere, the coaches goaded them on. "oh, get together!" "shove the man in front of you!" "get your shoulder into it!" "fight for that last inch there!" "knock him off his feet!" "put your man out o' the play!" "break him up!" no one paid any attention to the scrubs, fighting desperately with the same loyalty against the odds of weight and organization, without hope of distinction, giving every last ounce of their strength in futile, frantic effort, rejoicing when flung aside and crushed under the victorious rush of the varsity, who alone counted. against the scrubs stover felt a sort of rage. time after time he went crashing into the line, seeing the blurred faces of his own comrades with an instinctive hatred, striking them with his shoulder, hurling them from the path of attack with a wild, uncontrollable fury at their resistance, almost unable to keep his temper in leash. the first feeling of sympathy he had felt so acutely for those who bore all the brunt of the punishment, unrewarded, was gone. he no longer felt any pity, but a brutal joy at the incessant smarting, grinding shock of the attack of which he was part and the touch of prostrate bodies under his rushing feet. thursday and friday the practise was lightened for all except for the backs. for an hour he was kept at his punting in the open and behind the lines, while the scrubs, reënforced by every available veteran, swarmed through the line, seeking to block his kicks. to one side a little knot of coaches watched the result with critical anxiety, following the length of the punts in grim silence. tompkins, behind him, from time to time, spoke quietly, knowing that his was a nature to be restrained rather than goaded on. "watch your opposing backs, stover. keep your punts low and away from them so as to gain as much on the ground as you can. that's it! here, you center men, you've got to hold longer than that! you're hurrying the kick too much. get it off clean, stover. not so good. remember what i say about placing your punt. you're going to be out-kicked fifteen yards; make up for it in brain work. all right, dana?" "that'll do," said dana, after a moment's hesitation. "all over?" said dink, dazed. "all over!" the scrubs, with a yell, broke up, cheering the varsity, and being cheered in turn. stover, with a sinking, realized that the week of preparation had gone and that as he was he must come up to the final test--the final test before the thousands that would blacken the arena on the morrow. the squad went rather silently, each oppressed by the same thought. "we'll go out to the country club for the night," said tompkins's shrill voice. "get your valises ready. and now stop talking football until we tell you. go out on the trot now!" from the gymnasium he went back to the house. as he came up the hall he heard a hum of voices from his room. "dink's got the nerve, but what the deuce can he do against that princeton line? do you know how much he weighs? one hundred and fifty." stover listened, smiled grimly. if they only knew his real weight! "do you think he'll last it through?" "what, dink?" said mccarthy's loyal voice. "you bet he'll last!" "blamed shame he isn't at end!" "by ginger! he'd make the all-american if he was." "yes, and now every one will jump on him for being a rotten fullback." "dana be hanged!" stover went back to the stairs and returned noisily at his entrance the crowd sprang up instinctively. he felt the sudden focus of anxious, critical glances. "hello, fellows," he said gruffly. "tough, help me to stow a few duds in my valise." "sure i will!" two or three hurried to help mccarthy, in grotesque, unconsciously humorous eagerness; others patted him on the back with exaggerated good spirits. "dink, you look fine!" "all to the good." "right on edge." "dink, we're all rooting for you." "every one of us." "you'll tear 'em up." "we're betting on you, old gazebo!" "thanks!" he took the bag which mccarthy thrust upon him. each solemnly shook his hand, thrilling at the touch, and hungerford said: "whatever happens, old boy, we're going to be proud of you." stover stopped a moment, curiously moved, and obeying an instinct, said brusquely: "yes, i'll take care of that." then he went hurriedly out. that night, after supper--a meal full of nervous laughter and assumed spirits--two or three of the older coaches came in, and their spirit of hopefulness somehow communicated itself to the team. other yale elevens had risen at the last moment and snatched a victory--why not theirs? it lay with them, and during the week they certainly had forged ahead. dink felt the infection and became almost convinced. then tompkins, moving around as the spirit of confidence, signaled him. "come out here; i want a little pow-wow with you." they left the others and went out on the dim lawns with the lighted club-house at their backs, and tompkins, drawing his arm through stover's, began to speak: "dink, we're in for a licking." "oh, i say!" said stover, overwhelmed. "but we have come on; we've come fast." "stover, that's a great princeton team," said tompkins quietly, "and we're a weak yale one. we're going to get well licked. now, boy, i'm telling you this because i think you're the stuff to stand it; because you'll play better for knowing what's up to you." "i see." "it's going to depend a whole lot on you--how you hold up your end--how badly we're licked." "i know i'm the weak spot," said stover, biting his lips. "you're a darn good player," said tompkins, "and you're going to leave a great name for yourself; but this year you've had to be sacrificed. you've been put where you are because you've got nerve and a head. now this is what i want from you. know what you're up against and make your brain control that nerve--understand?" "yes, i do." "you've got to do the kicking in the second half as well as in the first. you've got to keep your strength and not break it against a wall. you won't be called on for much rushing in the first half; you'll get a chance later. the line may go to pieces, the secondary defense may go to pieces; but, boy, if _you_ go to pieces, we'll be beaten thirty to nothing." "as bad as that!" "every bit." "that's awful--a yale team." he drew a long breath and then said: "what do you want me to do?" "i want you to get off every punt without having it blocked; and that's a good deal, with what you're up against." "yes, sir." "and hold on to every punt that comes to you--no fumbling." "no fumbling--yes, sir." "and kick as you've never kicked before--every kick better as you go on. put your whole soul into it." "i will." "you won't miss a tackle--i know that; but you'll have some pretty rum ones to make, and when you tackle, make them remember it." "yes, sir." "but, stover, above all, hold steadfast. keep cool and remember the game's a long one. boy, you don't know what it'll mean for some of us old fellows to see yale go down, but out of it all we want to remember something that'll make us proud of you." he stopped, controlled the emotion that was in his voice, and said a little anxiously: "i tell you this because a first game is a terrible thing, and i didn't want you to be caught in a panic when you found what you were up against. and i tell you, stover, because you're the sort of fighting stuff that'll fight harder when you know all there is to it is the fighting. am i right?" "i hope so, sir." "and now, do a more difficult thing. get right hold of yourself. put everything out of your mind; go to bed and sleep." this last injunction, though he tried his best to obey it, was beyond stover's power. he passed the night in fitful flashes of sleep. at times he awoke, full of a fever of eagerness from a dream of success. then he would lie staring, it seemed for hours, at the thin path across the ceiling made by a street lamp, feeling all at once a weakness in the pit of his stomach, a physical horror of what the day would bring forth. the words of the coach framed themselves in a sort of rhythmic chant which went endlessly knocking through his brain: "catch every punt--get off every kick--make every tackle." in the morning it was the same refrain, which never left him. he rose tired, with a limpness in every muscle, his head heavy as if bound across with biting bonds. he stood stupidly holding his wash-pitcher, looking out of the window, saying: "good heavens! it's only a few hours off now." then he began feebly to wash, repeating: "get off every kick--every kick." breakfast passed like a nightmare. he put something tasteless into his mouth, his jaws moved, but that was all. the brisk walk to chapel restored him somewhat, and the consciousness of holding himself before the gaze of the crowd. after first recitation, regan joined him, and together they went across the campus, no longer the campus of the university, but beginning to swarm with strangers, and strange colors amid the blue. "how are you feeling?" said regan in a fatherly sort of way, as they went through phelps and out on to the common. "tom, my shoes stick to the ground, my knees are made of paper, and i'm hollow from one end to the other." "fine!" "oh, _is_ it?" "you'll be a bundle of fire on the field." "let's not walk too far. we want to keep fresh," said stover, feeling indeed as though every step was draining his energy. "rats! let's saunter down chapel street and see the crowds come in." "you old rhinoceros, have you any nerves?" "lots, but they're a different sort. by george, isn't it a wonderful sight?" side by side with regan, a certain shame steadied stover. they went silently through the surging, arriving multitude, all intoxicated with the joy and zest of the great game. in and out, newsboys howling papers with headlines and pictures of the team thrust their wares before their eyes, while a pestiferous swarm of strange pedlers shrieked: "get your colors here!" "get your winnin' color." suddenly stover saw a headline--his name and the caption: stover the weak spot "let's get a paper," he said, nervously drawn to it. "no you don't," said regan, who had seen it. "come on, now, get out of here, some one might walk on your foot or stick a hatpin in your eye." "what time is it?" "time to be getting back." "tom, do you know how much i weigh?" said stover irrelevantly. "what the deuce?" "i weigh one hundred and forty-one pounds," said stover solemnly, as though imparting a state secret. "go on, be loony if you want," said regan. "i've seen bruisers before a fight act like high school girls. if you've got something on your mind, why talk it out, it'll do you good." "it's awful--it's awful," said stover, shaking his head. "what's awful?" "it's awful to think i'm the weak spot, that if they only had a decent fullback there would be a chance. i've no right there--every one knows it, and every one's groaning about it." "go on." "that's all," said stover, a little angry. "well, then come on, i'm getting hungry." "hungry! tom, i'd like to knock the spots out of you," said dink, laughing despite himself. "dink, old bantam," said regan, resting his huge paw on stover's shoulder in rough affection, "you're all right. i say so and i know it. now shut up and come on." chapter x almost before he knew it stover was in the car and the wheels were moving at last irresistibly toward the field. there was no longer any pretense in those last awful moments that had in them all the concentrated hopes and fears of the weeks that had rushed away. the faces of his own team-mates were only gray faces without identity. he saw some one's lips moving incessantly, but he did not remember whose they were. opposite him, another man was bending over, his head hidden in his hands. some one else at his side was nervously locking and unlocking his fingers, breathing short, hard breaths. he remembered only the stillness of it all, the forgetfulness of others, the set stares, and charlie de soto fidgeting on the seat and nervously humming something irrelevant. caught up in this unreasoning intensity of a young nation, filled, too, with this exaggerated passion of combat, stover leaned back limply. outside, the street was choked with hilarious parties packed in rushing carriages, blue or orange-and-black. horns and rattles sounded like tiny sounds in his ears, and his eyes saw only grotesque blurred shapes that swept across them. "i'll get 'em off--they won't block any on me--they mustn't," he said to himself, closing his eyes. then, on top of the draining weakness that had him in its grip, came a sudden feeling of nausea, and he knew suddenly what the man opposite him with his head in his hands was fighting. he put his arms over the ledge of the door, and rested his head on them, too weak to care that every one saw him, gulping in the stinging air in desperation. all at once there came a grinding jerk and the car stopped. from the inside came tompkins' angry, rasping voice: "every one up! get out there! quick! on the jump!" instinctively obedient, the vertigo left him, his mind cleared. he was out in the midst of the bobbing mass of blue sweaters, moving as in a nightmare through the black spectators, seeing ahead the mammoth stands, hearing the dull, engulfing roars as one hears at night the approaching surf. then they were struggling through the human barriers, and he saw something green at the bottom of a stormy pit, and a great growing roar of welcome smote him as of a descending gale, the hysterical cry of the american multitude, a roar acclaiming yale. "all ready!" said dana's unrecognizable voice somewhere ahead. "on the trot, now!" instantly he was sweeping on to the field and up along the frantic stands of suddenly released blue. all indecision, all weakness, went with the first hoarse cry from his own. something hot and alive seemed to flow back into his veins, and with every stride the spongy turf underneath seemed to send its strength and vitality into his legs. from the other end of the field, through the somber crowd, an orange-and-black group was trickling, flowing into a band and sweeping out on the field, while the princeton stands were surging to their feet, adding the mounting fury of their welcome to the deafening uproar that suddenly bound the arena in the gripping hollow of a whirlwind. "line up, you blue devils," came charlie de soto's raucous cry. "on your toes. get your teeth into it. hard, now. ha-a-ard!" he was in action immediately, thinking only of the signals, sweeping down the field, now to the right, now to the left, stumbling in his eagerness. "enough," said the captain's voice, at last. "get under your sweaters, fellows. brown and stover, start up some punts." dana and dudley went back to practise catching. brown, the center, pigskin under hand, set himself for the pass, while stover, blowing on his hands, measured his distance. opposite, bannerman, the princeton fullback, was setting himself for a similar attempt. in the stands was a sudden craning hush as the great audience waited to see with its own eyes the disparity between the rival fullbacks. stover, standing out, felt it all instinctively, with a little nervous tremor--the quick stir in the stands, the muttered comments, the tense turning of even the cheer leaders. then the ball came shooting back to him. he caught it, turned it in his hands, and drove forward his leg with all his might. at the same moment, as if maliciously calculated, the great booming punt of bannerman brought the princeton stands, rollicking and gleeful, to their feet in a burst of triumph. in his own stands there was no answering shout stover felt on his cheeks, under his eyes, two hot spots of anger. what did they know, who condemned him, of the sacrifice he had made, of the far more difficult thing he was doing? he remembered tompkins' advice; he could not compete with bannerman in the air. deliberately he sent his next punt low, swift, striking the ground about thirty yards away and rolling treacherously another fifteen feet before dudley, who had swerved out, could stop it. this time from the mass almost a groan went up. a sudden cold contempt for them, for everything, seized possession of stover. he hated them all. he stooped, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck it defiantly between his teeth. "shoot that back a little lower, brown," he said with a sudden quick authority, and again and again he sent off his fast, low-rolling punts. "that's the stuff, dink," said tompkins, with a pat on the shoulder, "but you've got to get 'em off on the instant--remember that. here, throw this sweater over you." "all right." he did not sit down, but walked back and forth with short steps, waiting for the interminable conference of the captains to be over. and again that same sinking, hollow feeling came over him in the suspense before the question that would be answered in the first shock of bodies. the feeling he felt ran through the thousands gathered only to a spectacle. the cheers grew faint, lacking vitality, and the stir of feet was a nerve-racked stir. dink gazed up at the high benches, trying to forget the interval of seconds that must be endured. it did not seem possible that he was to go out before them all. it seemed rather that in a far-off consciousness he was the same loyal little shaver who had squirmed so often on the top line of the benches, clinging to his knees, biting his lips, and looking weakly on the ground. "all ready--get out, boys!" dana came running back. yale had won the toss and had chosen to kick off. some one pulled his sweater from him, struck him a stinging slap between the shoulders, and propelled him on the field. "yale this way!" they formed in a circle, heads down, arms locked over one another's shoulders, disputing the same air; and dana, the captain, who believed in a victory, spoke: "now, fellows, one word. it's up to us. do you understand what that means? it's up to us to win, the way yale has won in the past--and win we're going to, no matter how long it takes or what's against us. now, get mad, every one of you. run 'em right off their feet. that's all." the shoulders under stover's left him. he went hazily to the place, a little behind the rest, where he knew he should go, waiting while brown poised the football, waiting while the orange-and-black jerseys indistinctly scattered before him to their formation, waiting for the whistle for which he had waited all his life to release him. and for a third time his legs seemed to crumble, and the whole blurred scheme of stands and field to reel away from him, and his heart to be lying before him on the ground where he could lean over and pick it up. then like a pistol shot the whistle went throbbing through his brain. he sprang forward as if out of the shell of himself, keen, alert, filled with a savage longing. down the field a princeton halfback had caught the ball and was squirming back. then a sudden upheaval, and a mass was spread on the ground. "guess he gained about fifteen on that," he said to himself. "they'll kick right off." dana came running back to support him. out of the sky like a monstrous bird something round, yellow, and squirming came floating toward him. he was forced to run back, misjudged it a little, reached out, half fumbled it, and recovered it with a plunging dive just as cockerell landed upon him. "get you next time, dink," said the voice of his old school captain in his ear. stover, struggling to his feet, looked him coolly in the eye. "no, you won't, garry, and you know it. the next time i'm going back ten yards." "well, boy, we'll see." they shook hands with a grim smile, while the field straggled up. he was lined up, flanked by dana and dudley, bending over, waiting for the signal. three times de soto, trying out the princeton line, sent dana plunging against the right tackle, barely gaining the distance. a fourth attempt being stopped for a loss, stover dropped back for a kick on the second down. the ball came a little low, and with it the whole line seemed torn asunder and the field filled with the rush of converging bodies. to have kicked would have been fatal. he dropped quickly on the ball, covering it, under the shock of his opponents. again he was back, waiting for the trial that was coming. he forgot that he was a freshman--forgot everything but his own utter responsibility. "you center men, hold that line!" he cried. "you give me a chance! give me time!" then the ball was in his hands, and, still a little hurried, he sent it too high over the frantic leaping rush, hurled to the ground the instant after. the exchange had netted princeton twenty yards. a second time bannerman lifted his punt, high, long, twisting and turning over itself in tricky spirals. it was a perfect kick, giving the ends exact time to cover it. stover, with arms outstretched, straining upward, cool as a yankee, knew, from the rushing bodies he did not dare to look at, what was coming. the ball landed in his convulsive arms, and almost exactly with it garry cockerell's body shot into him and tumbled him clear off the ground, crashing down; but the ball was locked in his arms in one of those catches of which the marvel of the game is, not that they are not made oftener, but that they are made at all. "come on now, yale," shouted charlie de soto's inflaming voice. "we've got to rip this line. signal!" two masses on center, two futile straining, crushing attempts, and again he was called on to kick. the tackles he had received had steadied him, driving from his too imaginative mind all consideration but the direct present need. he began to enjoy with a fierce delight this kicking in the very teeth of the frantic princeton rushes, as he had stood on the beach waiting for great breakers to form above his head before diving through. on the fourth exchange of kicks he stood on his own goal-line. the test had come at last. dana, furious at being driven back without a princeton rush, came to him wildly. "dink, you've got to make it good!" "take that long-legged princeton tackle when he comes through," he said quietly. "don't worry about me." luckily, they were over to the left side of the field. he chose his opening, and, kicking low, as tompkins had coached him, had the joy of seeing the ball go flying over the ground and out of bounds at the forty-yard line. the princeton team, springing into position, at last opened its attack. "now we'll see," said stover, chafing in the backfield. using apparently but one formation, a circular mass, which, when directly checked, began to revolve out toward end, always pushing ahead, always concealing the runner, the princeton attack surely, deliberately, and confidently rolled down the field like a juggernaut. from the forty-yard line to the thirty it came in two rushes, from the thirty to the twenty in three; and then suddenly some one was tricked, drawn in from the vital attack, and the runner, guarded by one interferer, swept past the unprotected end and set out for a touchdown. stover went forward to meet them like a shot, frantic to save the precious yards. how he did it he never quite knew, but somehow he managed to fling himself just in front of the interferer and go down with a death grip on one leg of the runner. a cold sponge was being spattered over him, he was on his back fighting hard for his breath, when he again realized where he was. he tried to rise, remembering all at once. "did i stop him?" "you bet you did." regan and dudley had their arms about him, lifting him and walking him up and down. "get your breath back, old boy." "i'm all right." "take your time; that princeton duck hasn't come to yet!" he perceived in the opposite group something prone on the ground, and the sight was like a tonic. the ball lay inside the ten-yard line, within the sacred zone. in a moment, no longer eliminated, but close to the breathing mass, he was at the back of his own men, shrieking and imploring: "get the jump, yale!" "throw them back, yale!" "fight 'em back!" "you've got to, yale--you've got to!" then, again and again, the same perfected grinding surge of the complete machine: three yards, two yards, two yards, and he was underneath the last mass, desperately blocking off some one who held the vital ball, hoping against hope, blind with the struggle, saying to himself: "it isn't a touchdown! it can't be! we've stopped them! it's yale's ball!" some one was squirming down through the gradually lightening mass. a great weight went from his back, and suddenly he saw the face of the referee seeking the exact location of the ball. "what is it?" he asked wildly. "touchdown." some one dragged him to his feet, and, unnoticing, he leaned against him, gazing at the ball that lay just over the goal-line, seeing with almost a bull-like rage the princeton substitutes frantically capering up and down the line, hugging one another, agitating their blankets, turning somersaults. "line up, yale," said the captain's unyielding voice, "this is only the beginning. we'll get 'em." but stover knew better. the burst of anger past, his head cleared. that princeton team was going to score again, by the same process, playing on his weakness, exchanging punts, hoping to block one of his until within striking distance, and the size of the score would depend on how long he could stand it off. "goal," came the referee's verdict, and with it another roar from somewhere. he went up the field looking straight ahead, hearing, like a sound in a memory, a song of jubilation and the brassy accompaniment of a band. again the same story: ten, fifteen yards gained on every exchange of kicks, and a slow retrogression toward their own goal. time and again they flung themselves against a stronger line, in a vain effort to win back the last yards. once, in a plunge through center, he found an opening, and went plunging along for ten yards; but at the last the ball was princeton's on the thirty-five-yard line, and a second irresistible march bore yale back, fighting and frantic over the line for the second score. playing became an instinct with him. he no longer feared the soaring punts that came tumbling to him from the clouds. his arms closed around them like tentacles, and he was off for the meager yards he could gain before he went down with a crash. he no longer felt the shock of the desperate tackles he was called on to make, nor the stifling pressure above him when he flung himself under the serried legs of the mass. he had but one duty--to be true to what he had promised tompkins: not to fumble, not to miss a tackle, to get each punt off clean. all at once, as he was setting in position, a body rushed in, seizing the ball. "time!" the first half was over, and the score was: princeton, ; yale, . then all at once he felt his weariness. he went slowly, grimly with the rest back to the dressing-room. a group of urchins clustering to a tree shrieked at them: "o you yaleses!" he heard that, and that was all he heard. a sort of rebellion was in him. he had done all that he could do, and now they would haul him over the coals, thinking that was what he needed. "oh, i know what'll be said," he thought grimly. "we'll be told we can win out in the second, and all that rot." then he was in the hands of the rubbers, having his wet, clinging suit stripped from him, being rubbed and massaged. he did not want to look at his comrades, least of all dana. he only wanted to get back, to have it over with. "yale, i want you to listen to me." he looked up. in the center stood tompkins, preternaturally grave, trembling a little with nervous, uncontrollable twitches of his body. "you're up against a great princeton team--the greatest i remember. you can't win. you never had a chance to win. but, yale, you're going to do something to make us proud of you. you're going to hold that score where it is! do you hear me? all you've got left is your nerve and the chance to show that you can die game. that's all you're going to do; but, by heaven, you're going to do that! you're going to die game, yale! every mother's son of you! and when the game's over we're going to be prouder of your second half than the whole blooming princeton bunch over their first. there's your chance. make us rise up and yell for you. will you, yale?" he passed from man to man, advising, exhorting, or storming, until he came to stover. "dink," he said, putting out his hand and changing his tone suddenly, "i haven't a word to say to you. play the game as you've been doing--only play it out." stover felt a sudden rush of shame; all the fatigue left him as if by magic. "if charlie'll only give me a few chances at the center. i know i could gain there," he said eagerly. "you'll get a chance later on, perhaps, but you've quite enough to do now." the second view of the arena was clear to him, even to insignificant details. he thought the cheer leaders, laboring muscularly with their long megaphones, strangely out of place--especially a short, fat little fellow in a white voluminous sweater. he saw in the crowd a face or two that he recognized--bob story in a group of pretty girls, all superhumanly glum and cast down. then he had shed his sweater and was out on the field, back under the goal-posts, ready for the bruising second half to begin. "all ready, yale!" "all ready." again the whistle and the rush of bodies. dana caught the ball, and, shifting and dodging, shaking off the first tacklers, carried it back twenty yards. two short, jamming plunges by dudley, through regan, who alone was outplaying his man, yielded first down. then an attempt at cockerell's end brought a loss and the inevitable kick. instead of a return punt, the princeton eleven prepared to rush the ball. "why the deuce do they do that?" he thought, biting his fingers nervously. opening up their play, princeton swept out toward bangs's end, forcing it back for four yards, and immediately made first down with a long, sweeping lunge at the other end. suddenly stover, in the backfield, watching like a cat, started forward with a cry. far off to one side, a princeton back, unperceived, was bending down, pretending to be fastening one of his shoe-laces. "look out--look out to the left!" his cry came too late. the princeton quarter made a long toss straight across, twenty yards, to the loitering half, who caught it and started down field clear of the line of scrimmage. a princeton forward tried to intercept him, but stover flung him aside, and, without waiting, went forward at top speed to meet the man who came without flinching to his tackle. it was almost head on, and the shock, which left stover stunned, instinctively clinging to his man, sent the ball free, where dana pounced upon it. "holy mike, what a tackle!" said regan's voice. "any bones broken?" "of course not," he said gruffly. some one insisted on sponging his face, much to his disgust. "how's the other fellow?" he said grimly. "he's a tough nut; he's up, too!" "he must be." the recovery of the ball gave them a short respite, but it served also to enrage the other line, which rose up and absolutely smothered the next plays. again his kick seemed to graze the outstretched fingers of the princeton forwards, and he laughed a strange laugh which he remembered long after. this time the punting duel was resumed until, well within yale territory, cockerell looked around and gave the signal for attack. "now, yale, stop it, stop it!" dink said, talking to himself. but there was no stopping that attack. powerless, not daring to approach, he saw the blue line bend back again and again, and the steady, machine-like rolling up of the orange and black. over the twenty-five-yard line it came, and on past the twenty. "oh, yale, will you let 'em score again?" de soto was shrieking. "you're on your ten-yard line, yale." "hold them!" "hold them!" two yards at a time, they were rolled back with a mathematical, unfeeling precision. "third down; two yards to go!" "yale, stop it!" "yale!" and stop it they did, by a bare six inches. behind the goal-line, charlie de soto came up, as he stood measuring his distance for a kick. "how are you, dink? want a bit of a rest--sponge-off?" "rest be hanged!" he said fiercely. "come on with that ball." suddenly, instead of kicking low and off to the right, he sent the ball straight down the field with every ounce of strength he could put in it. the punt, the best he had made, catching the back by surprise, went over his head, rolling up the field before he could recover it. a great roar went up from the yale stands, fired by the spirit of resistance. thereafter it had all a grim sameness, except, in a strange way, it seemed to him that nothing that had gone before counted--that everything they were fighting for was to keep their goal-line inviolate. nothing new seemed to happen. when he went fiercely into a mêlée, finding his man somehow, or felt the rush of bodies about him as he managed each time to get clear his punt, he had the same feeling: "why, i've done this before." a dozen times they stopped the princeton advance, sometimes far away and sometimes near, once within the five-yard line. every moment, now, some one cried wearily: "what's the time?" the gray of november twilights, the haze that settles over the struggles of the gridiron like the smoke of a battle-field, began to close in. and then a sudden fumble, a blocked kick, and by a swift turn of luck it was yale's ball for the first time in princeton's territory. one or two subs came rushing in eagerly from the side lines. every one was talking at once: "what's the time?" "five minutes more." "get together, yale!" "show 'em how!" "ram it through them!" "here's our chance!" stover, beside himself, ran up to de soto and flung his arms about his neck, whispering in his ear: "give me a chance--you must give me a chance! send me through regan!" he got his signal, and went into the breach with every nerve set, fighting his way behind the great bulk of regan for a good eight yards. a second time he was called on, and broke the line for another first down. regan was transformed. all his calm had gone. he loomed in the line like a colossus, flinging out his arms, shouting: "we're rotten, are we? carry it right down the field, boys!" every one caught the infection. de soto, with his hand to his mouth, was shouting hoarsely, through the bedlam of cheers, his gleeful slogan: "we don't want to live forever, boys! what do we care? we've got to face yale after this. never mind your necks. we've got the doctors! a little more murder, now! shove that ball down that field, yale! send them back on stretchers! nineteen--eight--six--four--ha-a-ard!" again and again stover was called on, and again and again, with his whole team behind him or regan's great arm about him, struggling to keep his feet, crawling on his knees, fighting for every last inch, he carried the ball down the field twenty, thirty yards on. he forgot where he was, standing there with blazing eyes and colorless face. he forgot that he was only the freshman, as he had that night in the wrestling bout. he gave orders, shouted advice, spurred them on. he felt no weariness; nothing could tire him. his chance had come at last. he went into the line each time blubbering, laughing with the fierce joy of it, shouting to himself: "i'm the weak spot, am i? i'll show them!" and the certainty of it all overwhelmed him. nothing could stop him now. he knew it. he was going to score. he was going to cross that line only fifteen yards away. "give me that ball again!" he cried to de soto. then something seemed to go wrong. de soto and dudley were shrieking out something, protesting wildly. "what's wrong?" he cried. "they're calling time on us!" "no, no, it's not possible! it's not time!" he turned hysterically, beseechingly, catching hold of the referee's arm, not knowing what he did. "mr. referee, it isn't time. mr. referee--" "game's over," said captain dana's still voice. "get together, yale. cheer for princeton now. make it a good one!" but no one heard them in the uproar that suddenly went up. nature could not hold out; the disappointment had been too severe. stover stood with his arms on regan's shoulders, and together they bowed their heads and went choking through the crowd. others rushed around him--he thought he heard tompkins saying something. he seemed lost in the crowd that stared at him, struggling to hold back his grief. only one figure stood out distinctly--the figure of a white-haired man, who took off his hat to him as he went through the barrier, and shouted something unintelligible--a strangely excited white-haired man. all the way back to the gymnasium, through the jubilant street, dink sat staring out unseeing, his eyes blurred, a great lump in his throat, possessed by a fatigue such as he had never known before. no one spoke. through his own brain ceaselessly the score, strangely jumbled, went its tiring way: "eighteen to nothing--to nothing! eighteen to six--it should have been eighteen to six. eighteen to nothing. it's awful--awful! if i only could punt!" his ideal, his dream of a yale team, had always been of victory, not like this, to go down powerless, swept aside, routed--to such a defeat! then he shut his eyes, fighting over again those last desperate rushes against defeat, against hope, against time, unable to believe it was over. "how many times did i take that ball?" he thought wearily. "was it seven or eight? if i'd only got free that last time--kept my feet!" he remembered flashes of that last frenzy--the face of a princeton rusher who reached for him and missed, the teeth savage as a wolf's and the strained mouth. he saw again regan turning around to pull him through, regan, the brute, raging like a fury. he remembered the quick, strange white looks that charlie de soto had given him, wondering each time if he had the strength to go on. why had they stopped them? they had a right to that last rally! "eighteen to nothing. poor dana--i wonder what he'll do?" he remembered, in a far-off way, tales he had heard of other captains, disgraced by defeat, breaking down, leaving college, disappearing. he dreaded the moment when they should break silence, when the awful thing must be talked over, there in the gymnasium, feeling acutely all the misery and ache dana must be feeling. "all right there, stover? let yourself go, if you want to." the voice was tompkins', who was looking up at him anxiously, the gymnasium at his back. "all right," he said gruffly, raising himself with an effort and half slipping to the ground. "sure? how's dudley?" he realized in a curious way that others, too, had gone through the game. then regan's arm was around him. he did not put it from him, grateful for any support in his weakness. together they went through the crowd of ragamuffins staring open-mouthed at a defeated team. "what's the matter with dudley?" "played through all the last with a couple of broken ribs." "dudley?" "yes. go as slow as you want, old bantam." "if we only could have had another minute, tom--" he stopped, unable to go on, shaking his head. "i know, i know." "it was tough." "darned tough." "i thought we were going to do it." "now, you shut up, young rooster. don't think of it any more. you played like a fiend. we're proud of you." "poor dana!" upstairs a couple of rubbers took charge of him, stripping him and rubbing him rigorously. two or three coaches came up to him, gripping him with silent grips, patting him on the back. the cold bite of the shower brought back some of his vitality, and he dressed mechanically with the squad, who had nothing to say to one another. "yale, i want to talk to you boys a moment." he looked up. in the center of the room was rivers, coach of coaches, around whom the traditions of football had been formed. stover looked at him dully, wondering how he could stand there filled with such energy. "now, boys, the game's over. we've lost. it's our turn; we've got to stand it. one thing i want you to remember when you go out of here. _yale teams take their medicine!_" his voice rose to a nervous staccato, and the sharp, cold eye seemed to look into every man, just as at school the doctor used to awe them. "do you understand? yale teams take their medicine! no talking, no reasoning, no explanations, no excuses, and no criticism! the thing's over and done. we'll have a dinner to-night, and we'll start in on next year; and next year nothing under the sun's going to stop us! go out; take off your hats! a great princeton team licked you--licked you well! that's all. you deserved to score. you didn't. hard luck. but those who saw you try for it won't forget it! we're proud of that second half! no talk, now, about what might have happened; no talk about what you're going to do. shut up! remember--grin and take your medicine." "mr. rivers, i'd like to say a few words." stover, with almost a feeling of horror, saw dana step forward quietly, purse his lips, look about openly, and say: "mr. rivers, i understand what you mean, and what's underneath it all, and i thank you for it. at the same time, it's up to me to take the blame, and i'm not going to dodge it. i've been a poor captain. i thought i knew more than you did, and i didn't. i've made one fool blunder after another. but i did it honestly. well, that doesn't matter--let that go. i say this because it's right, too, i should take my medicine, and because i don't want next year's captain to botch the job the way i've done. and now, just a word to you men. you've done everything i asked you to do, and kept your mouths shut, no matter what you thought of it. you've been loyal, and you'll be loyal, and there'll be no excuses outside. but i want you men to know that i'll remember it, and i want to thank you. that's all." instantly there was a buzz of voices, and one clear note dominating it--regan's voice, stirred beyond thought of self: "boys, we're going to give that captain a cheer. are you ready? hip--hip!" somehow the cry that went up took from dink all the sting of defeat. he went out, head erect, back to meet his college, no longer shrinking from the ordeal, proud of his captain, proud of his coach, and proud of a lesson he had learned bigger than a victory. chapter xi after the drudgery of the football season he had a few short weeks of gorgeous idleness, during which he browsed through a novel a day, curled up on his window-seat, rolling tobacco clouds through the fog of smokers in the room. he had won his spurs and the right to lounge, and he looked forward eagerly to the rest of the year as a time for reading and the opening up of the friendships of which he had dreamed. old age settled down rapidly upon him, and at eighteen that malady appears in its most virulent form. perhaps there was a little justification. the test he had gone through had educated him to self-control in its most difficult form. he was not simply the big man of the class, the first to emerge to fame, but the prospective captain of a future yale eleven. a certain gravity was requisite--moreover, it was due the university. to have seen the burning letters s-t-o-v-e-r actually vibrating on the front pages of metropolitan papers, to have gazed on his distinguished (though slightly smudged) features, ruined by an unfeeling photographer, but disputing nevertheless the public attention with statesmen and champions of the pugilistic ring--to have felt these heavenly sensations at the age of eighteen could not be lightly disguised. so he lay back among welcome cushions, book in hand, and listened with a tolerant ear to the rapid-fire comedy of mcnab and buck waters. he stayed much in his own room, which became a sort of lounging spot where the air was always blue with smoke and a mandolin or guitar was strumming a low refrain or a group near the fireplace was noisy with the hazards of the national game. pretty much every one of importance in the class dropped in on him. the preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over. with the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would begin. he understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage of being seen in his company--that his, in fact, was now the "right" crowd. he intended to call on several men who interested him: brockhurst, who had made his appearance with a story in the _lit_ which announced him as a possible future chairman; gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity he was in doubt; and, above all, regan, who genuinely attracted him. but, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what suggested itself during the day. besides, there was a complacent delight in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of independent languor. the first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark of le baron's during one of the evening visits. these embassies were always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. the inquisitorial sophomores arrived about eight o'clock in groups of three and four. as mccarthy was the object of attention from a different society, stover, when the former's inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. when the committee on stover appeared trimly at the door, mccarthy rose at once to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. the sophomores were embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the constraint of their superiors. on one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed out with funereal solemnity, le baron returned for a more intimate conversation. since the night of his introduction to college, stover had had only occasional glimpses of le baron. true, he was generally of the visiting committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive aloofness and impartiality. "i want to talk over some of the men in the class," said le baron, falling into an arm-chair and picking up a pipe, while his manner changed to naturalness and equality. stover understood at once that the attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position. "dink, i want to know your opinion. what do you think of brockhurst, for instance?" "brockhurst? why, i hardly know him." "is he liked?" "why, yes." "who are his friends?" stover thought a moment. "why, i think he rather keeps to himself. he strikes me as being--well, a little undeveloped--rather shy." "do you like him? "i do." "and schley?" the question was put abruptly, le baron raising his eyes to get his answer from stover's face. "schley?" said dink, considering a little. "why, schley seems to--" "regan?" said le baron, satisfied. "one of the best in the class!" "he seems a rather rough diamond." "he's proud as lucifer--but he has more to him than any one i know." "it's a question what he'll do." "i'd back him every time." "you are quite enthusiastic about him," said le baron, looking at him with a little quizzical surprise. "he's a man," said stover stoutly. "of course, the football captaincy will probably be between you two." "regan?" said stover, amazed. "either you or regan." stover had never thought of him as a rival for his dearest ambition. he remained silent, digesting the possibility, aware of le baron's searching inquiry. "of course, you have nine chances out of ten, but the race is a long one." "he would make a good captain," stover said slowly. "you think so?" "i hadn't thought of it before," stover said, with a sudden falling inside, "but he has the stuff in him of a leader all right." "i wish he weren't quite so set," said le baron. "he hasn't made a particularly favorable impression on some of the fellows." an involuntary smile came to stover at the thought of regan's probable reception of a committee of inspection. "he doesn't perhaps realize the importance of some things," he said carefully. "he doesn't," said le baron, who was not without a sense of humor. "it's a pity, though, for his sake. i wish you'd talk to him a little." "i will." le baron rose. "by the way, what are you going out for this spring?" "this spring?" said stover, surprised. "ever rowed any?" "never." "that doesn't make any difference. you learn the stroke quicker--no bad habits." "i'm light as mischief." "oh, i don't know--not for the freshman. we want to stimulate the interest in rowing up here. it's a good example for a man like you to come out. ever done anything in baseball or the track?" "no." "rowing's the stunt for you." he went toward the door, and turned. "have a little chat with regan. i admire the fellow, but he needs to rub up a bit with you fellows and get the sharp edges off him. by the way, when you start rowing i'll get hold of you and give you a little extra coaching." when mccarthy came grinning through the door, he found dink, his legs drawn up turkish fashion, staring rebelliously at the ceiling. "hello! in love, or what?" said tough, stopping short. "recovering, perhaps, from the brilliant conversation?" "by george, i'm not going out for anything more!" said dink, between his teeth. "heavens! haven't you slaved enough?" "you bet i have. i'll be hanged if i'm going through here--just varsity material. i'm going to be a little while my own master." "you think so?" said mccarthy, with a short, incredulous laugh. "every one's doing something." mccarthy was a candidate for the baseball nine. "have you heard anything about regan?" said stover, between puffs. "in what way?" "have any of the sophomores been around to see him?" mccarthy exploded into laughter. "_have_ they? didn't you hear what happened?" "no. what?" "they spent half the night locating his diggings, and when they got them the old rhinoceros wouldn't receive them." "why not?" "hadn't time, he said, to be fooling with them." "the old chump!" "lucky dog," said mccarthy, between his teeth. "i wish i had the nerve to do the same." "what the deuce?" "it makes me boil! i can't sit up and have a solemn bunch of fools look me over. i can't be natural." "it's give and take," said dink, smiling. "you'll think yourself the lord of the universe next year." "i'm not so sure," said mccarthy, gloomily. "rats!" "oh, you--you've a cinch," said mccarthy. "they're not picking you to pieces and dissecting you. half the crowd that come to see me have got some friends in the class they'd rather see in than me. i'm darned uncertain, and i know it." stover, who believed the contrary, laughed at him. he rose and went out, determined to find regan and make him understand conditions. his walk led him along the dark ways of college street into the forgotten street where, under the roof of a bakery, regan had found a breathing-hole for five dollars a month. for the first time a little feeling of jealousy went through stover as he swung along. why should he help build up the man who might snatch from him his ambition? why the deuce had le baron mentioned regan as a possible captain? no one else thought of such a thing. compared to him, regan was a novice in football knowledge and experience. still, it was true that the man had a stalwart, unflinching way of moving on that impressed. there was a danger there with which he must reckon. he found regan in carpet slippers and sweater, bending grimly over the next day's greek as if it were a rock to be shattered with the weight of his back. " - - - - ," said stover, in a hallo, giving the signal that had sent him through the center. regan started up. "hello, dink, old bantam; glad to hear your voice." stover entered, with a glance at the room. a cot, a bureau, a washstand reënforced by ropes, a pine table scorched and blistered, and a couple of chairs were the entire equipment. half the gas globe was left and two-thirds of the yellow-green shade at the window. in the corner was the battle-scarred valise which had brought regan's whole effects to college. "boning out the greek?" said stover, placing a straight chair against the wall so that his feet could find the ledge of the window. "wrestling with it." "don't you use a trot?" said stover in some surprise, perceiving the absence of the handy, literal short-cut to recitation. "can't afford to." "why not?" said stover, wondering if regan was a gospel shark, after all. "i've got too much to learn," said regan, leaning back and elevating his legs in the national position. "you know something; i don't. you can bluff; i'm a rotten bluffer. i've got to train my whole mind, lick it into shape and make it work for me, if i'm going to do what i want." "tom, what are you aiming for?" "you'd never guess." "well, what?" "politics." "politics?" said stover, opening his mouth. "exactly," said regan, puffing at his corncob pipe. "i want to go back out west and get in the fight. it's a glorious fight out there. a real fight. you don't know the west, stover." "no." "we believe in something out there, and we get up and fight for it--independence, new ideas, clean government, hard fighters." "i hadn't thought of you that way," said stover, more and more surprised. "that's the only thing i care about," said regan frankly. "i've come from nothing, and i believe in that nothing. but to do anything i've got to get absolute hold of myself." "tom, you ought to get in with the fellows more. you ought to know all kinds," said stover, feeling an opening. "i will, when i get the right," said regan, nodding. "why the devil don't you let the university help you out a while? you can pay it back," said stover angrily. "never! i know it could be done, but not for me," said regan, shaking his head. "what i need is the hardest things to come up against, and i'm not going to dodge them." "still, you ought to be with us; you ought to make friends." "i'm going to do that," said regan, nodding. "i'm going to get in at south middle after christmas and perhaps get some work in the coöp." he took up a sheet of paper jotted over with figures. "i'm about fifty dollars to the good; a couple of weeks' work at christmas will bring that up about twenty more. if i can make a hundred and fifty this summer i'll have a good start. i want to do it, because i want to play football. it's bully! i like the fight in it!" "what sort of work will you do?" said stover curiously. "i may go in the surface cars down in new york." "driving?" "sure. they get good pay. i could get work in the mines--i've done that--but it's pretty tough." "but, tom, what the deuce do you pick out the hardest grind for? make friends with fellows who only want to know you and like you, and you'll get a dozen openings where you'll make twice what you get at manual labor." "well, there's this to it," said regan ruminatively, "it's an opportunity i won't always have." "what the deuce do you mean?" "the opportunity to meet the fellow who gets the grind of life--to understand what he thinks of himself, and especially what he thinks of those above him. i won't have many more chances to see him on the ground floor, and some day i've got to know him well enough to convince him. see? by the way, it would be a good college course for a lot of you fellows if you got in touch with the real thing also." "are you a socialist?" said stover, who vaguely associated the term with dynamite and destruction. "i may be, but i don't know it." "i say, tom, do you go in for debating and all that sort of thing?" "you bet i do; but it comes hard as hen's teeth." stover, who had waited for an opportunity to volunteer advice, finding no opening, resolved to take the dilemma by the horns. "tom, i think you're wrong about one thing." "what's that?" "holding aloof so much." "particularly what?" "i'm thinking about sophomore societies, for one thing. why the deuce don't you give the fellows a chance to help you?" "oh, you mean the dinky little bunch that came around to call on me," said regan thoughtfully. "yes. now, why turn them out?" "why, they bored me, and, besides, i haven't time for anything like that. there are too many big things here." "they can help you like the mischief, now and afterward." "thanks; i'll help myself. besides, i don't want to get their point of view." "why not?" "too limited." "have you been talking to gimbel?" said stover, wondering. "gimbel? no; why?" "because he is organizing the class against them." "that doesn't interest me, either." "what do you make of gimbel?" "gimbel's all right; a good politician." "is he sincere?" "every one's sincere." "you mean every one's convinced of his own sincerity." "sure; easiest person in the world to convince." stover laughed a little consciously, wondering for a brief moment if the remark could be directed at him. curiously enough, the more the blunt antagonism of regan impressed him, the more he was reassured that the man was too radical ever to challenge his leadership. he rose to go, his conscience satisfied by the half-hearted appeal he had made. "i say, dink," said regan, laying his huge paw on his shoulder, "don't get your head turned by this social business." "heavens, no!" "'cause there's some real stuff in you, boy, and some day it's coming out. thanks, by the way, for wanting to make me a society favorite." dink left with a curious mixture of emotions. regan always had an ascendency over him he could not explain. it irritated him that he could not shake it off, and yet he was genuinely chained to the man. "why the deuce did le baron put that in my head?" he said to himself, for the tenth time. "if regan beats me out for captain it'll only be because he's older and has got a certain way about him. well, i suppose if i'm to be captain i've got to close up more; i can't go cutting up like a kid. i've got to be older." he resolved to be more dignified, more melancholy, shorter of speech, and consistent in gravity. for the first time he felt what it meant to calculate his chances. before, everything had come to him easily. he had missed the struggle and the heartburnings. now, suddenly, a shadow had fallen across the open road, the shadow of one whom he had regarded as a sort of protégé. he had thoughts of which he was ashamed, for at the bottom he was glad that regan would not be of a sophomore society--that that advantage would be denied him; and, a little guiltily, he wondered if he had tried as hard as he might have to show him the opportunity. "if they ever know him as i do," he said, with a generous revulsion, "he'll be the biggest thing in the class." york street and the busy windows of pierson hall came into his vision. a group of sophomores, ending their tour of visits, passed him, saluting him cordially. he thought all at once, with a sharp rebellion, how much freer regan was, with his own set purpose, than he under the tutelage of le baron. "i wonder what i'd do if no darn sophomore societies existed," he said to himself thoughtfully. and then, going up the stairs to his room, he said to mccarthy as he entered: "i guess, after all, i'll get out and slave again this spring--might as well heel the crew. i'm just varsity material--that's all!" chapter xii the first weeks of the competition for the crew were not exacting, and consisted mostly of eliminating processes. stover had consequently still enough leisure to gravitate naturally into that necessity of running into debt which comes to every youth who has just won the privilege of a yearly allowance; the same being solemnly understood to cover all the secret and hidden needs of the flesh as well as those that are outwardly exposed to the admiration of the multitude. now, the lure of personal adornment and the charm of violent neckties and outrageous vests had come to him naturally, as such things come, shortly after the measles, under the educating influence of a hopeless passion which had passed but had left its handiwork. about a week after the opening of the term, stover was drifting down chapel street in the company of hungerford and mccarthy, when, in the window of the most predatory haberdasher's, he suddenly was fascinated by the most beautiful thing he had ever seen adorning a window. a tinge of masculine modesty prevented his remaining in struck admiration before it, especially in the presence of mccarthy and hungerford, whose souls could rest content in jerseys and sweaters; but half an hour later, slipping away, he returned, fascinated. chance had been kind to him. it was still there, the most beautiful green shirt he had ever beheld--not the diluted green of ordinary pistache ice-cream, but the deep, royal hue of a glorious emerald! he had once, in the school days when he was blossoming into a man of fashion, experienced a similar sensation before a cravat of pigeon-blood red. he peered through the window to see if any one he knew was present, and glanced up the street to assure himself that a mob was not going to collect. then he entered nonchalantly. the clerk, who recognized him, greeted him with ingratiating unction. "glad to see you here, mr. stover. what can i do for you?" "i thought i'd look at some shirts," he said, in what he believed a masterly haphazard manner. "white lawn--something with a thin stripe?" "well, something in a color--solid color." he waited patiently, considering solicitously twenty inconsequential styles, until the spruce clerk, casually producing the one thing, said: "would that appeal to you?" "it's rather nice," he said, gazing at it. entranced, he stared on. then a new difficulty arose. people didn't enter a shop just to purchase one shirt, and, besides, he was known. so he selected three other shirts and added the beautiful green thing to them in an unostentatious manner, saying: "send around these four shirts, will you? what's the tax?" "very pleased to have you open an account, mr. stover," said the clerk. "pay when you like." stover took this as a personal tribute to his public reputation. likewise, it opened up to him startling possibilities, so he said in a bored way: "i suppose i might just as well." "thank you, mr. stover--thank you very much! anything more? some rather tasty neckties here for conservative dressers. collars? something like this would be very becoming to you. we've just got in a very smart line of silk socks. all the latest bonton styles. look them over--you don't need to buy anything." when stover finally was shown to the door, he had clandestinely and with great astuteness acquired the green shirt on the following terms: one green shirt (imported) $ three decoy shirts four silk ties (to go with green shirt) one dozen roxburgh turndown collars (to complete same) one dozen gladstone collars (an indiscretion) one half dozen silk socks (bonton style) ---- total for one green shirt $ by the time he had made this mental calculation he was half way up the block. then, his extravagance overwhelming him, he virtuously determined to send back the gladstone collars, to show the clerk that, while he was a man of fashion, he still had a will of his own. refreshed then by this firm conscientious resolve, he went down york street, where he was hailed by hungerford from an upper story, and went in to find a small group sitting in inspection of several bundles of tailoring goods which were being displayed in the center of the room by a little bow-legged yankee with an open appealing countenance. "i say, dink, you ought to get in on this," said hungerford at his entrance. "what's the game?" "here's a wonderful chance. little bright-eyes here has got a lot of goods dirt cheap and he's giving us the first chance. you see it's this way: he travels for a firm and the end of the season he gets all the samples for himself, so he can let them go dirt cheap." "half price," said the salesman nodding. "half price on everything." "i've bought a bundle," said troutman. "it's wonderful goods." "how much?" said stover, considering. "only twenty dollars for enough to make up a suit. twenty's right, isn't it, skenk?" "twenty for this--twenty-two for that. you remember i said twenty-two." "let me see the stuff," said stover, as though he had been the mainstay of custom tailors all his life. now the crowd was a new york one, a little better groomed than their companions, affecting the same predilections for indiscreet vests and modish styles that would make them appreciative of the supremacy of green in the haberdashery arts. "this is rather good style," he said, with a glance at troutman's genteel trousers. "what sort of goods do you call it?" "imported scotch cheviot," said the salesman in a confidential whisper. stover looked again at troutman, who tried discreetly, without being seen by the unsuspecting yankee, to convey to him in a look the fact that it was a crime to acquire the goods at such a price. thus tipped off, dink bought a roll that had in it a distinct reminiscent tinge of green, and saw it carried to the house, for fear the salesman should suddenly repent of the sacrifice. at half past eight that night, as he and tough mccarthy were painfully excavating a bit of greek prose for the morrow, mcnab came rushing in. "get out, dopey, we're boning," said mccarthy, reaching for a tennis racket. "boys, the greatest bargain you ever heard," said mcnab excitedly, "come in before it's too late!" "bargain?" said stover, frowning, for the word was beginning to cloy. mcnab, with a show of pantomime, squinted behind the window curtains and opened the closet door. "look here, dopey, you get out," said tough, wrathfully, "you're faking." "i'm looking for customs officers," said mcnab mysteriously. "what! i say, what's this game?" "boys, we've got a couple of _cuba libre_ dagos rounded up and dancing on a string." "for the love of mike, dopey, be intelligible." "it's cigars," said mcnab at last. "don't want them!" "but it's smuggled cigars!" "oh!" "wonderful, pure havanas, priceless, out of a museum." "you don't say so." "and all for the cause of _cuba libre_. you're for _cuba libre_, aren't you?" "sure we are." "well, these men are patriots." "who found them?" "buck waters. they were just going into pierson hall to let the sophs have all the candy. buck side-tracked them and started them down our row. hungerford bought twenty-five dollars' worth." "twenty-five? holy cats!" "for the cause of _cuba libre_! joe is very patriotic. all the boys came up handsomely." "are they good cigars?" said dink who, since his purchases of the day, was not exactly moved to tears by the financial needs of an alien though struggling nation. "my boy, immense! wait till you smoke one!" at this moment there came a gentle scratching at the door, and a chocolate pair appeared, with buck waters in the background. "emanuel garcia and henry clay!" said mcnab irreverently. "they smuggled the cigars right through the spanish lines," said waters who, from constant recital, had caught the spirit of unconquerable revolution. "how do you know?" said mccarthy suspiciously, watching the unstrapping of the cigar boxes. "i speak french," said waters with pride, and turning to his protégés he continued fluently, "_vous êtes patriots, vous avez battlez, soldats n'est-ce-pas?_ you see, they have had a whole family chopped up for the cause. the cuban junta has sent them over to raise money--very good family." "let's see the cigars," said stover. "how much a box?" curiously enough this seemed to be a phrase of english which could be understood without difficulty. "fourteen dollar." "that's for a box of a hundred," said mcnab, who screwed up the far side of his face, to indicate bargaining was in order. "of course," said buck waters, "everything you give goes to the cause. remember that." "try one," said mcnab. the smaller cuban with an affable smile held up a bundle. "nice white teeth he's got," said buck waters encouragingly. "don't let him shove one over on you," said mccarthy warningly. waters and mcnab were indignant. "oh, i say fellows, come on. they are patriots." "if they could understand you they would go right up in the air." "nevertheless and notwithstanding," said mccarthy, indicating with his finger, "i'll take this one; it appeals to me." "i'll worry this one," said dink with equal astuteness. they took several puffs, watched by the enthusiastic spectators. "well?" said mcnab. stover looked wisely at mccarthy, flirting the cigar between his careless fingers. "not bad." "rather good bouquet," said mccarthy, who knew no more than stover. "let's begin at eight dollars and stick at ten," said dink. at that latter price, despite the openly expressed scorn of the american allies of the struggle for cuban independence, stover received a box of one hundred finest havana cigars--fit for a museum, as mcnab repeated--and saw the advance guard of the liberators disappear. "dink, it's a shame," said mccarthy gleefully. "finest cigars i ever smoked." they shook hands and stover, overcome by the look of pain he had seen in the eyes of the patriots on their final surrender at ten dollars, said, with a patriotic remorse: "poor devils! think what they're fighting for! if i hadn't been so lavish to-day, i'd have given them the full price." "i feel sort of bad about it myself." about ten o'clock they rose by a common impulse and, seeking out the cigars with caressing fingers, indulged in another smoke. "dink, this is certainly living," said mccarthy, reclining in that position which his favorite magazine artist ascribed to men of the world when indulging in extravagant desires. "pretty high rolling, old geezer." "i like this better than the first one." "of course with a well-seasoned rare old cigar you don't get all the beauty of it right at first." "by george, if those chocolate patriots would come around again i'd give 'em the four plunks." "i should feel like it," said dink, who made a distinction. the next morning being sunday, they lolled deliciously in bed, and rose with difficulty at ten. "of course i don't believe in smoking before breakfast, as a general rule," said mccarthy in striped red and blue pajamas, "but i have such a fond feeling for cuba." "i can hardly believe it's true," said dink, emerging from the covers like an impressionistic dawn. "smoke up." "how is it this morning?" "wonderful." "better and better." "i could dream away my life on it." "we ought to have bought more." "too bad." after chapel, while pursuing their studies in comparative literature in the sunday newspapers, they smoked again. "well?" said stover anxiously. "well?" "marvellous, isn't it?" "exquisite." "only ten cents apiece!" "it's the way to buy cigars." "trouble is, dink, old highroller, it's going to be an awful wrench getting down to earth again. we'll hate anything ordinary, anything cheap." "yes, tough, we are ruining our future happiness." "and how good one of the little beauties will taste after that brutalizing sunday dinner." "i can hardly wait. by the way, i blew myself to a few glad rags," said dink, bringing out his purchases, "i rather fancy them. how do they strike you?" mccarthy emitted a languishing whistle and then his eyes fell on the cause of all the trouble. "keeroogalum! where did you get the pea-soup?" the expression did not please. however, stover had still in the matter of his sentimental inclinations a certain bashfulness. so he said dishonestly: "i had 'em throw it in for a lark." "why, the cows would leave the farm." "rats. wait and see," said dink, who seized the excuse to don the green shirt. when stover's blond locks were seen struggling through the collar mccarthy exploded: "it looks like you were coming out of a tree. what the deuce has happened to you? are you going out for class beauty? holy cats! the socks, the socks!" "the socks, you reuben, should match the shirt," said stover, completing his toilet under a diplomatic assumption of persiflage. "well, you are a lovely thing," said mccarthy, when the new collar and the selected necktie had transformed stover. "lovely! lovely! you should go out and have the girls fondle you." at this moment bob story arrived, as fate would have it, with an invitation to dinner at his home. "sis is back with a few charmers from farmington and they're crazy to meet you." "oh, i say," said stover in sudden alarm. "i'm the limit on the fussing question." "yes, he is," said mccarthy maliciously. "why, they fall down before him and beg him to step on them." "you shut up," said stover, with wrath in his eye. "why, bob, look at him, isn't he gotten up just to charm and delight? you'll have to put a fence around him to keep them off." "in an hour," said story, making for the door. "hunter and hungerford are coming." "hold up." "delighted you're coming." "i say--" "there's a miss sparkes--just crazy about you. you're in luck. remember the name--miss sparkes." "story--bob, come back here!" "au reservoir!" "i can't go--i won't--" but here dink, leaning over the banister, heard a gleeful laugh float up and the sudden banging of the door. he rushed back frantically to the room and craned out the window, to see bob story sliding around the corner with his fingers spread in a gesture that is never anything but insulting. he closed the window violently and returned to the center of the room. "damn!" "pooh!" said mccarthy, chuckling with delight. "petticoats!" "alas!" "a lot of silly, yapping, gushing, fluffy, giggling, tee-heeing, tittering, languishing, vapid, useless--" "my boy, immense! go on!" "confound bob story, why the deuce did he rope me into this? i loathe females." "and one just dotes on you," said mccarthy, with the expression of a cheshire cat. "i won't go," said stover loudly. "are you going in that green symphony?" "why not?" in the midst of this quarrel, joe hungerford entered, with a solemn face. "you're going to this massacre at story's?" "don't i look like it?" said dink crossly. "we'll go over together then," said hungerford, with a sigh of relief. "i say, help yourself to a cigar, joe," said mccarthy, with the air of a maecenas. "_cuba libre_?" said hungerford, approaching the box. "and _à bas_ spain!" hungerford examined the cigars with a certain amount of caution which was not lost on the room-mates. "how many of these have you smoked?" he asked, turning to them with interest. "oh, about three apiece." "how do you like 'em?" "wonderful!" said dink loudly. "wonderful!" said mccarthy. the three lit up simultaneously. "what did you pay for yours?" said hungerford, with a sort of inward concentration on the flavor. "ten bright silver ones." "i paid twenty-five for two. how do they taste?" "wonderful!" "troutman only paid seven-fifty for his box." "what!" "and hunter only five." "five dollars?" said mccarthy, with a foreboding. "but what i can't understand is this--" "what?" "dopey mcnab got a box at two-fifty." a sudden silence fell on the room, while, reflectively, each puffed forth quick, questioning volumes of smoke. "how do they smoke?" said hungerford again. "wonderful!" said mccarthy, hoping against hope. "they're not!" said dink firmly. he rose, went to the window, and cast forth the malodorous thing. hungerford followed suit. mccarthy, proud as the old guard, sat smoking on; only one leg was drawn up under the other in a tense, convulsive way. "they were wonderful last night," he said obstinately. "they certainly were." "and they were wonderful this morning." "not quite so wonderful." "i like 'em still." "and dopey mcnab bought a hundred at two-fifty." this was too much for mccarthy. he surrendered. dopey mcnab, at this favorable conjunction, sidled into the room with his box under his arm and the face of a boy soprano on duty. "i say, fellows, i've got a little proposition to make." a sort of dull, rolling murmur went around the room which he did not notice. "i find i've been cracking my bank account--the fact is, i'm strapped as a mule and have got to raise enough to pay my wash bill." "wash bill, dopey?" said mccarthy softly. "we must wash," said dopey firmly. "to resume. as i detest, abhor, and likewise shrink from borrowing from friends--" "repeat that," said joe hungerford. "i will not. but for all of which reasons, i have a little bargain to propose. here is a box of the finest cigars ever struck the place." "a full box?" "only three cigars out." "three!" said hungerford with a significant look at stover. "i could sell them on the campus for twenty, easy." "but you love your friends," said stover, moving a little, so as to shut off the retreat. "who will give me seven-fifty for it?" said mcnab, with the air of one filling a beggar with ecstasy. "seven-fifty. you'll let it go at seven-fifty, dopey?" said mccarthy faintly, paralyzed at such duplicity. "i will." "dopey," said dink, with a signal to the others, "what is the exact figure of that wash bill of yours?" "two dollars and sixty-two cents." "will you take two dollars and sixty-two cents for it?" "you're fooling." "i am very, very serious." mcnab struck a pose, while over his face was seen the conflict of duty and avarice. "take it," he said at last, in a glow of virtue. "i didn't say i wanted it." "you didn't!" "i only wanted to know what you'd really take." "what's this mean?" said mcnab indignantly. "dopey, would you sacrifice it at just a little less?" said hungerford. but here mcnab, suddenly smelling danger in the air, made a spring backwards. hungerford, who was on guard, caught him. "put him in the chair and tie him," said stover, savagely. which was done. "i say, look here, what are you going to do with me?" said mcnab, fiercely. "you're going to sit there and smoke a couple of those museum cigars, for our delectation and amusement." "assassins!" "two cigars." "never! i'll starve to death first!" "all right. keep on sitting there." "but this is a crime! police!" "there are other crimes, dopey." "hold up," said mcnab, frantically, as he perceived the cigar being prepared. "i've got to dine over at the story's at one o'clock." "so have we," said hungerford, "but mccarthy will watch you for us." "i will," said mccarthy, licking his chops. "i've got to be there," said mcnab, wriggling in a frenzy. "smoke right up, then. you can smoke them in twenty minutes." "police!" "i say, dink," said hungerford, as mcnab's head whipped from side to side like a recalcitrant child's. "perhaps we'd better get in all the crowd who fell for the cigars--round 'em up." "i'll smoke it," said mcnab instantly. "i thought you would." they sat around, unfeelingly, grinning, while mcnab, strapped in like a papoose, rebelliously, with much sputtering and coughing, smoked the cigar that dink fed him like a trained nurse. "fellows, i've got to get to that dinner." "we know that, dopey--but there's one thing you won't do there--tell the story of the _cuba libre_ cigar." "say, let me off and i'll put you on to a great stunt." "we can't be bought." "i'll tell you, i'll trust you! we're going to have a cop-killing over in freshman row. we've got a whole depot of roman candles. let me off this second cigar and i'll work you in." "we'll be there!" "you bandits, i'll get even with you." "you probably will, dopey, but you'll never rob us of this memory." "curse you, feed it to me quickly." the cigar consumed to the last rebellious puff, mcnab was released in a terrific humor, and departed hastily to dress, after remarking in a deadly manner: "i'll get you yet--you brutal kidnappers." "i think it's a rather low trick of bob story's," said stover, considering surreptitiously in the mirror the effect of his new color scheme. "ditto here," said hungerford. now stover was in a quandary. he was divided between two emotions. he firmly thought that he had never looked so transcendingly the perfect man of fashion, but he had numerous busy doubts as to whether the exquisite costume was as appropriate at a quiet sunday dinner as it undoubtedly would have been in a sporting audience. still, to make a change now, under the malicious inspection of tough mccarthy, would be to invite a storm of joyful ridicule, so he said hopefully. "think it all right to go in this?" "why not?" as this put the burden of the proof on him, stover remained silent, but compromised a little by exchanging a rather forward vest for one of calmer aspect. "well," he said, at last, with something between a gulp and a sigh, "i suppose we'd better push along." "i suppose so," said hungerford, who brought a strangle hold to bear on his necktie and shot a last look down at the slightly wavering line of his trousers. at the door, the vision of mcnab, like a visiting english duke, bore down upon them. "where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?" said stover, examining him critically. "why, dopey, you're a dude!" said hungerford disapprovingly. "everything is correct--brilliant, but correct," said mcnab with a flip of his fingers. "come on now--we're late." half way there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, mcnab said cheerily: "how d'ye feel? getting a little nervous, eh? getting cold feelings up and down your back? fingers twitching--what?" "don't be an ass," said hungerford huskily. "chump," said stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest. "'course you know, boys, you're dressed all wrong--in shocking taste. you know that, don't you? thought i'd better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you." "huh!" "joe's bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but dink's unspeakable!" "i am! what's wrong?" "fancy wearing a colored shirt--and such a color! you're gotten up for a boating party--not for a formal lunch. you're unspeakable, dink, unspeakable! look at me. i'm a delight--black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct." by this time they had reached the steps. "now, don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. it always shows. don't stumble or trip when you go in. don't bump against the furniture. don't stutter. don't hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. and don't, _don't_ shoot your cuffs." mcnab's malicious advice reduced hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented stover from bolting as he saw mcnab press the button. "stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets." "dopey, i'll wring your neck if you don't stop!" "ditto." "say something interesting to every girl," continued mcnab, in a solemn whisper. "talk about art or literature." the door opened, and they stumbled into the ante-room, from which escape was impossible. "dink," said mcnab in a last whisper. "what?" "don't ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff." the next moment stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes. judge story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot--a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer. "stover, i'm glad to shake your hand. we did all we could for you in those last rushes. we rooted hard. my wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. i certainly am proud to shake your hand. i won't shake it too long, because"--here he looked up in a confidential whisper--"because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and i'll fix it." "dad, aren't you awful?" said a voice in only laughing disapproval. "my daughter," said the judge, passing joyfully on to hungerford. "indeed, i'm very glad to meet you." he shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother. he followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on: "miss sparkes." "miss green." "miss woostelle." "miss raymond." then he straightened and allowed his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex: "isn't the judge perfectly terrible!" "you mustn't believe a word he says." "don't you think he's lovely, though?" "we really were so excited at the game." "oh, dear, i almost cried my eyes out." "we thought you were perfectly splendid." "we did want you to score so." "i just hated those princeton men, they were so much bigger." hungerford and mcnab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip. miss sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving mcnab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing. the entrance of mrs. story and bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage. "every one sitting next to the person they want," said the judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. "by george, if that body-snatcher of a miss sparkes hasn't bagged stover--well, i never! seems to me a certain party named hungerford has done very well indeed. mcnab, i perceive, is going to set the fashions for the class, but i certainly do like stover's green shirt." at this a shout went up, and stover's ears began to boil. "i don't see what you're ha-ha-ing about, mr. mcnab," continued the judge, diverting the attack, "descending upon us, a quiet, respectable back-woods family, with a boutonnière! i think that's putting on a good deal of airs, don't you? now, boys, don't let these young society ladies from farmington pretend they're too delicate to eat. you ought to see the breakfast they devoured. everybody happy all right." in five minutes all were at ease, chattering away like so many magpies. stover, finding that his breath came easier, recovered himself and listened with a tolerant sense of pleasure while miss sparkes rushed on. "the girls up at farmington will be so excited when they hear i've actually sat next to you at the table. you know, we're all just crazy about football. oh, it gets me so excited! dudley's the new captain, isn't he? i met him last summer at a dance down at long island. i admire him tremendously, don't you? he has such a _strong_ character." he nodded from time to time, replied in dignified monosyllables, and became pleasurably aware that miss raymond, opposite, in disloyalty to her companion, had one ear trained to catch his slightest word, while miss green and miss woostelle, farther away, watched him covertly over the foliage of the celery. he was a lion among ladies for the first time--a sensation he had sworn to loathe and detest; and yet there was in him a sort of warm growing feeling that he could not explain but that was quite far from unpleasant. "if miss sparkes, mr. stover, will stop whispering in your ear for just a moment," said the judge, on mischief bent, "you can help mrs. story with the beef." "you'll get accustomed to him soon," said his hostess, smiling. "there, if you'll steady the platter i think we two can manage it. i am so glad to have you here. bob has spoken of you so often. i hope you'll be good friends." there was something leonine and yet very feminine in her face, a quiet and restfulness that drew him irresistibly to her and gave him the secret of the reserve and charm that was in her children. of all the delegation from school, jean story alone had not seemed aware of his imposing stature. she was sitting between hungerford and hunter, whom she called by his first name, and her way of speaking, unlike the impulsiveness of her companions, was measured and thoughtful. she had a quantity of ash-colored hair which, like her dress, seemed to be floating about her. her forehead was clear, a little serious, and her eyes, while devoid of coquetry, held him with their directness and simplicity. he found himself only half hearing the conversation that miss sparkes rolled into his ear, watching the movements of other hands, feeling a little antagonism to hunter and wondering how long they had known each other. dinner over, he forgot his shyness, and went up to her with the quick direction which was impulsive in him when he was strongly interested. "i want to talk to you," he said. "yes?" she looked at him, a little surprised at the bluntness of his introduction, but not displeased. "you are very like your brother," he said. she seemed younger than he had thought. "i am glad of that," she answered, with a genuine smile. "bob and i are old friends." "i hope you'll be my friend," he said. she turned, and then, seeing in his face only sincerity, nodded her head slightly and said: "thank you." he said very little more, ill at ease, a feeling that also seemed to have gained possession of her. miss raymond and miss woostelle came up, and he found himself restored to the rôle of a hero, a little piqued at miss story's different attitude, always aware of her movements, hearing her low voice through all the chatter of the room. he went home very thoughtful, keeping out of the laughing discussion that went on, watching from the corner of his eye hunter, and wondering with a little unexplained resentment just how well he knew the storys. chapter xiii with stover's return after the christmas vacation the full significance of the society dominion burst over him. the night that the hold-offs were to be given, there was a little joking at the club table, but it was only lip-deep. the crisis was too vital. chris schley and troutman, who were none too confident, were plainly nervous. stover and mccarthy walked home directly to their rooms, and took up the next day's lessons as a convenient method of killing time. "you're not worrying?" said stover suddenly. mccarthy put down the penitential book, and, rising, stretched himself, nervously resorting to his pipe. "not for a hold-off--no. that ought to be all right." "and afterward?" "don't speak about it." "rats! you'll be pledged about the eighth or tenth." "what time is it?" said mccarthy shortly. "five minutes more." this time each took up his book in order to be found in an inconsequential attitude, outwardly indifferent, as all anglo-saxons should be. from without, the hour rang its dull, leaden, measured tones. almost immediately a knock sounded on the door, and le baron appeared, hurried, businesslike, mysterious, saying: "stover, want to see you in the other room a moment." dink retired with him into the bedroom, and received his hold-off in a few matter-of-fact sentences. a second after, le baron was out of the door, rushing down the steps. "your turn next," said stover, with a wave of his hand to mccarthy. "yes." the sound of hurrying feet and the shudder of hastily banged doors filled the house. "my, they're having a busy time of it," said stover. "yes." ten minutes passed. mccarthy, staring at his page, mechanically took up the dictionary, hiding the fear that started up. stover rose, going to the window. "they're running around pierson hall like a lot of ants," he said, drumming against the window. "how far's this advance go?" said mccarthy in a matter-of-fact tone. "end of page ," said stover. he came back frowning, glancing at the clock. it was seventeen minutes after the hour. all at once, outside, came a clatter of feet, and the door opened on waring, out of breath and flustered. "mccarthy, like to see you a moment." stover returned to the window, gazing out. presently behind his back he heard the two return, the door bang, and mccarthy's voice saying: "it's all right, dink." "all right?" he said. "yes." "glad of it." "he gave me a little scare, though." "your crowd lost a couple of men; besides, you give more hold-offs." "that's it." they abandoned the subject by mutual consent; only stover remembered for months after the tension he had felt and the tugging at the heart-strings. if he could feel that way for his friend, what would be his sensations when he faced his own crisis on tap day? fellows from other houses came thronging in with reports of how the class had divided up. every one had his own list of the hold-offs, completing it according to the last returns, amid a bedlam of questions. "how did story go?" "did schley get a hold-off?" "yes, but troutman didn't." "he did, too." "when?" "half an hour late." "brockhurst got one." "you don't say so!" "gimbel get anythin'?" "no." "regan?" "don't know." "any one know about regan?" "no." "how about buck waters?" "i don't know. i think not." "damned shame." "what, is buck left out?" "'fraid so." "what's wrong?" "too much sense of humor." stover, off at one side, watched the group, seeing the interested calculation as each scanned his own list, wondering who would have to be eliminated if he were to be chosen. story, tommy bain, and hunter were in his crowd, as he had foreseen. he went out and across the campus to south middle, where regan was now rooming. by the coöp he found bob story, and together they went up the creaky stairs. regan was out--just where, the man who roomed on his entry did not know. "how long has he been out?" said story anxiously. "ever since supper." "didn't he come in at all?" "no." "were they going to give him a hold-off?" said stover, as they went down. "yes. they've been looking everywhere for him." "i don't think the old boy would take it." "can't you make him see what it would mean to him?" "i've tried." "i'm afraid regan's queered himself with a lot of our crowd," said story thoughtfully. "they don't understand him and he doesn't want to understand them. didn't he know this was the night?" "yes; i told him." "stayed away on purpose?" "probably." "too bad. he's just the sort of man we ought to have." "how do you feel about the whole proposition?" said stover curiously. "the sophomore society question?" said story frankly. "why, i think there've got to be some reforms made; they ought to be kept more democratic." "you think that?" "yes; i think we want to keep away a good deal from the social admiration game--be representative of the real things in yale life; that's why we need a man like regan. course, i think this--that we've all got too much this society idea in our heads; but, since they exist it's better to do what we can to make them representative and not snobbish." stover was surprised at the maturity of judgment in the young fellow, as well as his simplicity of expression. he would have liked to talk to him further on deeper subjects, but, as always, the first steps were difficult and as yet he accepted things without a clear understanding of reasons. he went up with story for a little chat. there was about the room a tone of quiet good taste and thoughtfulness quite different from the boyish exuberance of other rooms. the pictures were braunotypes of paintings he did not know, while bits of plaster casts mellowed with wax enlivened the serried contents of the book-shelves. "you've got a lot of books," said stover, feeling his way. "yes. drop in and borrow them any time you want." while story flung a couple of cushions on the state arm-chair and brought out the tobacco, dink examined the shelves respectfully, surprised and impressed by the quality of the titles, french, german, and russian. "why do you room alone, bob?" he said, with some curiosity, knowing story's popularity. "i wanted to." story was opposite, his face blocked out in sudden shadows from the standing lamp, that accentuated a certain wistful, pensive quality it had. "i enjoy being by myself. it gives me time to think and look around me." "are you going out for anything?" said stover, wondering a little at the impression story had made already, through nothing but the charm and sincerity of his character. "yes, i'm going out for the _news_ next month, and besides i'm heeling the _lit_." "oh, you are?" said stover, surprised. "but it comes hard," said story, with a grimace. "i have to work like sin over every line. it's all hammered out. brockhurst is the fellow who can do the stuff." "do you know him at all?" "he won't let any one know him. i've tried. i don't think he quite knows yet how to meet fellows. i'm sorry. he really interests me." "that's a good photo of your sister," said stover, who had held the question in leash ever since his entrance. "so, so." "how much longer has she at farmington?" "last year." "going abroad afterwards?" said stover carelessly. "no, indeed. stay right here." "i like her," said stover. "it's quite a privilege to know her." story looked up and a pleased smile came to him. "yes, it is," he said. "bob, what do you think about mccarthy's chances?" story considered a moment. "only fair," he said. "why, what's wrong with him?" "he hasn't any one ahead pulling for him," said story, "and most of the other fellows have. that's one fault we have." "it would knock him out to miss." "it is tough." they spoke a little more in a desultory way, and stover left. he was dissatisfied. he wanted story to like him, conscious of a new longing in himself for the friendships that did not come, and yet somehow he could find no common ground of conversation. moreover, and he rather resented it, there was not in story the least trace of the admiration and reverence that he was accustomed to receive, as a leader should receive. the following weeks were ones of intrigue and nervous speculation. pledged among the first, he found himself with hunter, story, and tommy bain in the position of adviser as to the selection of the rest of his crowd. hunter and bain, each with an object in view, sought to enlist his aid. he perceived their intentions, not duped by the new cordiality, growing more and more antagonistic to their businesslike ambitions. with joe hungerford and bob story he found his real friends. and yet, what completely surprised him was the lack of careless, indolent camaraderie which he had known at school and had expected in larger scope at college. every one was busy, working with a dogged persistence along some line of ambition. the long, lazy afternoons and pleasant evenings were not there. instead was the grinding of the mills and the turning of the wheels. how it was with the rest he ignored; but with his own crowd--the chosen--life was earnest, disciplined in a set purpose. he felt it in the open afternoon, in the quiet passage of candidates for the baseball teams, the track, and the crew; in the evenings, in the strumming of instruments from alumni hall and the practising of musical organizations, and most of all in the flitting, breathless passage of the _news_ heelers--in snow or sleet, running in and out of buildings, frantically chasing down a tip, haggard with the long-drawn-out struggle now ending the fourth month. he himself had surrendered again to this compelling activity and gone over to the gymnasium, taking his place at the oars in the churning tanks, bending methodically as the bare torso of the man in front bent or shot back, concentrating all his faculties on the shouted words of advice from the pacing coach above him. he was too light to win in the competition of unusual material--he could only hope for a second or third substitute at best; but that was what counted, he said to himself, what made competition in the class and brought others out, just as it did in football. and so he stuck to his grind, satisfied, on the whole, that his afternoons were mapped out for him. meanwhile the pledges to the sophomore societies continued and the field began to narrow. mccarthy's hold-off was renewed each time, but the election did not arrive. in his own crowd story, hungerford, and himself found themselves in earnest alliance for the election of regan and brockhurst. regan, however, had so antagonized certain members of their sophomore crowd that their task was well-nigh impossible. he had been pronounced "fresh," equivalent almost to a ban of excommunication, for his extraordinary lack of reverence to things that traditionally should be revered, and as he had a blunt, direct way of showing in his eyes what he liked and disliked, his sterling qualities were forgotten in the irritation he caused. besides, as the opening narrowed to three or four vacancies, hunter and bain, in the service of their own friends, arrayed themselves in silent opposition to him and to brockhurst. about the latter, stover found himself increasingly unable to make up his mind. he went to see him once or twice, but the visit was never returned. in his infallibility--for infallibility is a requisite of a leader--he decided that there was something queer about him. he rather shunned others, took long walks by himself, in a crowd always seemed removed, watching others with a distant eye which had in it a little mockery. his room was always in confusion, as was his tousled hair. in a word, he was a little of a barbarian, who did not speak the ready lip language that was current in social gatherings, and, unfortunately, did not show well his paces when confronted with inspection. so when the final vote came stover, infallible judge of human nature, conscientiously decided that brockhurst did not rank with the exceedingly choice crowd of which he was a leader. with the arrival of the elections for the managerships of the four big athletic organizations, positions in the past disputed by the candidacies of the three sophomore societies, a revolution took place. the non-society element, organized by gimbel and other insurgents ahead of him, put up a candidate for the football managership and elected him by an overwhelming majority, and repeated their success with the navy. the second victory was like the throwing down of a gauntlet. the class, which had been quietly dividing since the advent of the hold-offs, definitely split, and for the first time stover became aware of the soundness of the opposition to the social system of which he was a prospective leader. quite to his surprise, jim hunter appeared in his room one night. "what the deuce does he want now?" he thought to himself, wondering if he were to be again solicited in favor of stone, who was still short of election. "i say, dink, we're up against a serious row," said hunter, making himself comfortable and speaking always in the same unvarying tone. "the class is split to pieces." "it looks that way." "it's all gimbel and that crowd of soreheads he runs. we had trouble with him up at andover." "well, jim, what do you think about the whole proposition?" said stover. "the college seems pretty strong against us." "it's just a couple of men who are cooking it up to work themselves into office," said hunter, dismissing the idea lightly. "you'll see, that's all there is to it." somehow, stover found that renewed contest with hunter only increased the feeling of antagonism he had felt from the first. he was aware of a growing resistance to hunter's point of view, guarded and deliberate as it was. so he said point blank: "i'm not so sure there isn't some basis for the feeling. we ought to watch out and make ourselves as democratic as possible." "my dear fellow," said hunter, in the tone of amused worldliness, "these anti-society fights go on everywhere. there was a great hullabaloo six or seven years ago, and then it all died out. you'll see, that's what'll happen. gimbel'll get what he wants, then he'll quiet down and hope to make a senior society. don't get too excited over things that happen in freshman year." "have you talked with story?" said stover, resenting his tone. "bob's got a curious twist--he's a good deal of a dreamer." "then you wouldn't make any changes?" "no, not in our crowd," said hunter. "i think we do very well what we set out to get--the representative men of the class, to bring them together into close friendship, and make them understand one another's point of view and so work together for the best in the university." "you think the outsiders don't count?" "as a rule, no. of course, there are one or two men who develop later, but if there's anything in them they'll really make good." "rather tough work, won't it be?" "yes; but every system has its faults." "what did you come in to see me about?" said stover abruptly. "to talk the situation over," said hunter, not seeming to perceive the hostility of the question. "i think all of us in the crowd ought to be very careful." "about what?" "about talking too much." "what do you mean by that?" "i mean, if you have any criticism on the system, keep it to yourself. gimbel is raising enough trouble; the only thing is for us to shut up and not encourage them by making the kickers think that any of us agree with them." "so that's what you came in to say to me?" "yes." "you're for no compromise." "i am." "are there fellows in our crowd, or the classes ahead, who feel as story does?" "yes; of course there are a few." "and, hunter, you see no faults in the system?" "what other system would you suggest?" now, stover had not yet come to a critical analysis of his own good fortune, nor had he any more than a personal antagonism for hunter himself. he did not answer, unwilling to let this feeling color his views on what he began to perceive might some day shape itself as a test of his courage. hunter left presently, as he had come up, without enthusiasm, always cold, always deliberate. when he had gone, stover became a little angry at the advice so openly imposed on him, and as a result he decided on a sudden move. if the split in the class was acute, something ought to be done. if hunter, as a leader, was resolved on contemptuous isolation, he would do a bigger thing in a bigger way. in pursuance of this idea, he suddenly set out to find gimbel and provoke a frank discussion. if anything could be done to hold the class together and stop the rise of political dissension, it was his duty as a responsible leader to do what he could to prevent it. when he reached the room, it was crowded, and an excited discussion was going on, which dropped suddenly on his entrance. what the subject of conversation was he had a shrewd suspicion, seeing several representatives from sheff. "hello, stover. come right in. glad to see you." gimbel, a little puzzled at this first visit, came forward cordially. "you know every one here, don't you? jackson, shake hands with stover. what'll you have, pipe or cigarette?" stover nodded to the fellows whom he knew on slight acquaintance, settled in an arm-chair, brought forth his pipe, and said with assumed carelessness: "what was all the pow-wow about when i arrived?" a certain embarrassment stirred in the room, but gimbel, smiling at the question, said frankly: "we were fixing up a combination for the baseball managership. we are going to lick you fellows to a scramble. that's what you've come over to talk about, isn't it?" "yes." the crowd, plainly disconcerted at this smiling passage of arms, began to melt away with hastily formed excuses. "quite a meeting-place, gimbel, you have here," said stover, nodding to the last disappearing group. "politicians should have," replied gimbel, straddling a chair, and, leaning his arms on the back, he added, smiling: "well, fire away." each had grown in authority since their first meeting on the opening of college, nor was the question of war or peace yet decided between them. "gimbel, i hope we can talk this thing over openly." "i think we can." "i'm doing an unusual thing in coming to you. you're a power in this class." "and you represent the other side," said gimbel. "go on." "you're going to run a candidate for the baseball managership." "i'm not running him, but i'm making the combination for this class." "same thing." "just about." "are you fellows going to shut out every society man that goes up for a class election?" "you're putting a pretty direct question." "answer it if you want to." "yes, i'll answer it." gimbel looked at him, plainly concerned in emulating his frankness, and continued: "stover, this anti-sophomore society fight is a fight to the finish. we are going to put up an outsider, as you call it, for every election, and we're going to elect him." "why?" "because we are serving notice that we are against a system that is political and undemocratic." "what good'll it do?" "we'll abolish the whole system." "do you really believe that?" said stover, strangely enough, adopting hunter's attitude. "i do; i may know the feeling in the upper classes better than you do." "gimbel, how much of this is real opposition and how much is worked up by you and others?" "my dear stover, why ask who is responsible? ask if the opposition is genuine and whether it's going to stick." "i don't believe it is." "that's not it. what you want to know is how much is conviction in me, and how much is just the fun of running things and stirring up mischief." "that does puzzle me--yes. but what i want _you_ to see is, you're splitting up the class." "i'm not doing it, and you're not doing it. it's the class ahead that's interfering and doing it. now, stover, i've answered your questions. will you answer mine?" "that's fair." "if you put up a candidate, why shouldn't we?" "but you make politics out of it." "do you ever support the candidate of another crowd?" stover was silent. "stover, do you know that for years these elections have gone on with just three candidates offered, one each from your three sophomore societies? and how have they been run? by putting up your lame ducks." "oh, come." "not always. but if you think you can elect a weak member instead of a strong one, you trot out the lame duck. why? because at the bottom you are not really social, but political; because your main object is to get as many of your men into senior societies as you can." "well, why not?" "because you're doing it at the expense of the class--by making us bolster up the weak ones with an office." "i don't think that's entirely fair." "you'll see. look at the last candidates the sophomores put up. you haven't answered my questions. why shouldn't we non-society men, six-sevenths of the class, have the right to put up our candidates and elect them?" "you have," said stover; "but, gimbel, you're not doing it for that. you're doing it to knock us out." "quite true." "that means the whole class goes to smash--that we're going to have nothing but fights and hard feelings from now on. is that what you want?" "stover, it's a bigger thing than just the peace of mind of our class." "but what is your objection to us?" said stover. "my objection is that just that class feeling and harmony you spoke of your societies have already destroyed." "in what way?" "because you break in and take little groups out of the body of the class and herd together." "you exaggerate." "oh, no, i don't; and you'll see it more next year. you've formed your crowd, and you'll stick together and you'll all do everything you can to help each other along. that's natural. but don't come and say to me that we fellows are dividing the class." "rats, gimbel! just because i'm in a soph isn't going to make any difference with the men i see." "you think so?" said gimbel, looking at him with real curiosity. "you bet it won't." "wait and see." "that's too ridiculous!" stover, feeling his anger gaining possession of him, rose abruptly. "how can it be otherwise?" said gimbel, persisting. "next year the only outsiders you'll see will be a few bootlickers who'll attach themselves to you to get pulled into a junior society. the real men won't go with you, because they don't want to kowtow and heel." "we'll see." "i say, stover," said gimbel abruptly, as dink, for fear of losing his temper, was leaving. "now, be square. you've come to me frankly--i won't say impertinently--and i've answered your questions and told you openly what we're going to do. give me credit for that, will you?" "i don't believe in you," said stover, facing him. "i know you don't," said gimbel, flushing a little, "but you will before you get through." "i doubt it." "and i'll tell you another thing you'll do before this sophomore society fight is ended," said gimbel, with a sudden heat. "what?" "you'll stand on the right side--where we stand." "you think so?" "i know it!" chapter xiv when a freshman has been invited to dinner and in a rash moment accepted the invitation and lived through the agony, he usually pays his party call (always supposing that he has imbibed a certain amount of home etiquette) sometime before graduation. in the balance of freshman year the obligation possesses him like a specter of remorse; in sophomore year he remembers it by fits and starts, always in the middle of the week, in time to forget it by sunday; in junior year he is tempted once or twice to use it as an excuse for sporting his newly won high hat and frock-coat, but fears he has offended too deeply; and in senior year he watches the local society columns for departures, and rushes around to deposit his cards, with an expression of surprise and regret when informed at the door that the family is away. dink stover temporized, confronted with the awful ordeal of arraying himself in his sunday prison garb and stiffly traversing the long, tricky, rug-strewn hall of the story's, with the chance of suddenly showing his whole person to a dozen inquisitive eyes. he let the first sunday pass without a qualm, as being too unnecessarily close and familiar. on the second sunday he decided to wait until he had received the suit made of goods purchased at a miraculous bargain from the unsuspecting yankee drummer. the third sunday he completely forgot his duties as a man of fashion. on the fourth sunday, in a panic, he bound his neck in a shackling high collar, donned his new suit, which looked as lovely as everything that is new and untried can look, and went post-haste in search of hungerford as a companion in misery and a post to which to cling. to his horror, hungerford had paid his visit, and felt very doubtful as to the propriety of repeating it before having been again fed. dink returned for mcnab or hunter as the lesser of two evils. they were both out. being in stiff and circumstantial attire, the afternoon was manifestly lost. with a sort of desperate hope for some miraculous evasion, he set out laggingly for the story mansion, revolving different plans. "i might leave a card at the door," he thought to himself, "and tell the girl that my room-mate was desperately ill--that i had just run in for a moment because i wanted them to know, to know--to know what?" the idea expired noiselessly. he likewise rejected the idea of stalking the door indian fashion, and slipping the card under the crack as if he had rung and not been heard. "after all, they might be out," he thought at last, hopefully. "i'll just go by quietly and see if i can hear anything." but at the moment when he came abreast the steps a carriage drove up, the door opened, and judge story and his wife came down. stover came to a balky stop, hastily snatching away his derby. "why, bless me if it isn't mr. stover," said the judge instantly. "dressed to kill, too. never expected to see you until i went around myself, with an injunction. how did you screw up your courage?" mrs. story came to his rescue, smiling a little at his tell-tale face. "don't stop on my account," said stover, very much embarrassed. "it's a beautiful day for a ride, beautiful." "oh, you are not going to get off as easily as that," said the judge, delighted. "my daughter jean is inside watching you from behind the curtains. go right up and entertain her with some side-splitting stories. besides, miss kelly is there with some important top-heavy junior who thinks he's making an awful hit with her. go in and steal her right away from him." the maid stood at the open door. there was nothing to do but to toil up the penal steps, heart in mouth. "is miss story in?" he said in a lugubrious voice. "will you present her with this card?" "step right into the parlor, sah. you'll find miss jean there," said the colored maid, with no feeling at all for his suffering. he caught a fleeting, unreassuring glimpse of himself in a dark mirror, successfully negotiated the sliding rugs, and all at once found himself somehow in the cheery parlor alone with miss story, shaking hands. "miss kelly is here?" he said, perfunctorily stalking to a chair. "no, indeed." "why your father said--" "that was only his way--he's a dreadful tease." stover drew a more quiet breath, and even relaxed into a smile. "he had me all primed up for a junior, at least." "isn't dad dreadful! that's why you came in with such overpowering dignity?" stover laughed, a little pleased that his entrance could be so described, and, shifting to a less painfully contracted position, sought anxiously for some brilliant opening that would make the conversation a distinguished success. now, although he still retained his invincible determination to keep his faith from women, he had during certain pleasant episodes of the last vacation condescended to listen politely to the not disagreeable adoration of a score of hero-worshiping young ladies still languishing in boarding-schools. he had learned the trick of such conversations, exchanged photographs with the laudable intention of making his rooms more like an art gallery than ever, and carried off as mementos such articles as fans, handkerchiefs, flowers, etc. but, somehow, the stock phrases were out of place here. he tried one or two openings, and then relapsed, watching her as she took up the conversation easily and ran on. ever since their first meeting the charming silhouette of the young girl had been in his mind. he watched her as she rose once or twice to cross the room, and her movements had the same gentle rhythm that mystified him in her voice. yet he was conscious of a certain antagonism. his vanity, perhaps, was a little stirred. she was not flattered in the least by his attentions, which in itself was an incredible thing. there was about her not the slightest suggestion of coquetry--in fact, not more than a polite uninterested attitude toward a guest. and, perceiving this all at once, a desire came to him to force from her some recognition. "you are very much like bob," he said abruptly, "you are very hard to know." "really?" "i really want to know your brother, but i can't. i don't think he likes me," he said. "i don't think bob knows you," she said carefully, raising her eyes in a little surprise. "you're right; we both take a long time to make up our minds." "then what i said is true?" he persisted. she looked at him a moment, as if wondering how frank she might be, and said after a little deliberation: "i think he's in a little doubt about you." "in doubt," said the prospective captain of a yale eleven, vastly amazed. "how?" "you will succeed; i am sure of that." "well, what then?" he said, wondering what other standard could be applied. "i wonder how _real_ you will be in your success," she said, looking at him steadily. "you think i am calculating and cold about it," he said, insisting. she nodded her head, and then corrected herself. "i think you are in danger of it--being entirely absorbed in yourself--not much to give to others--that's what i mean." "by george," said dink, open-mouthed, "you are the strangest person i ever met in my life!" she colored a little at this, and said hastily: "i beg your pardon; i didn't realize what i was saying." "you may be right, too." he rose and walked a little, thinking it over. he stopped suddenly and turned to her. "why do you think i'm not 'real'?" "i don't believe you have begun to think yet." "why not?" "because--well, because you are too popular, too successful. it's all come too easily. you've had nothing to test you. there's nothing so much alike as the successful men here." "you are very old for your years," he said, plainly annoyed. "no; i listen. bob and dad say the same thing." "you know, i wanted you to be my friend," he said, suddenly brushing aside the conversation. "you remember?" "i should like to be your friend," she said quietly. "if i turn out as you want." "certainly." he seized an early opportunity to leave, furious at what (not understanding that the instincts of a first antagonism in a young girl are sometimes evidence of a growing interest) he felt was her indifference. he did not go directly to his rooms, but struck out for a brisk walk up the avenue. "what the deuce does she think i'm going to turn out?" he said to himself, with some irritation. "turn out? absurd! haven't i done everything i should do? i've only been here a year, and i stand for something. by george, i'd like to know how many men get where i've gotten the first year." looking back over the year, he was quickly reassured on this vital point. "if she thinks i'm calculating, how about hunter? he's the original cold fish," he said. "yes, what about him? absurd. she just said that to provoke me." he sought in his mind some epithet adequate to such impertinence, and declared: "she's young--that's it; she's _quite_ young." suddenly he thought of regan, who had intruded his shadow across the path of his personal ambition. had he really been honest about regan? could he not have made him see the advantages of belonging to a sophomore society, if he had really tried? whereupon mr. dink stover began a long, victorious debate with his conscience, one of those soul-satisfying arguments that always end one way, as conscience is a singularly poor debater when pitted against a resourceful mind. "heavens! haven't i been the best friend he's had?" he concluded. "perhaps i might have talked more to him about the sophomore question, but then, i know i never could have changed him. so what's the odds? i'm democratic and liberal. didn't i go to gimbel and have it out? i can see the other side, too. what the deuce, then, did she mean?" after another long period of furious tramping, he answered this vexing question in the following irrelevant way: "by george, what an extraordinary girl she is! i must go around again and talk with her. she brushes me up." and around he did go, not once, but several times. the first little antagonism between them gradually wore away, and yet he was aware of a certain defensive attitude in her, a judgment that was reserved; and as, by the perfected averaging system of college, he had lost in one short year all the originality and imagination he had brought with him, he was quite at a loss to understand what she found lacking in so important and successful a personage as mr. john humperdink stover. naturally, he felt that he was in love. this extraordinary passion came to him in the most sudden and convincing manner. he corresponded, with much physical and mental agony, with what is called a dashing brunette, with whom he had danced eleven dances out of a possible sixteen on the occasion of a house-party in the christmas vacation, on the strength of which they had exchanged photographs and simulated a confidential correspondence. he had done this because he had plainly perceived it was the thing for a man to do, as one watches the crease in the trousers or exposes a vest a little more daring than the rest. it gave him a sort of reputation among lady-killers that was not distasteful. at easter he had annexed a blonde, who wrote effusive rolling scrawls and used a noticeable crest. he had done this, likewise, because he wished to be known as a destructive force, as one who rather allowed himself to be loved. but he found the manual labor too taxing. he was cruel and abrupt to the blonde, but he consoled himself by saying to himself that he had restored to the little girl her peace of mind. on sunday evening, then, according to tacit agreement, after a pipe had been smoked and the fifth sunday newspaper had been searched for the third time, mccarthy stretched himself like a cat and said: "well, i guess i'll dash off a few heart-throbs to the dear little things." "that reminds me," said stover, with an obvious loudness. he took out the last heliotrope envelop and read over the contents which had pleased him so much on the preceding tuesday. somehow, it had a different ring--a little too flippant, too facile. "what the deuce am i going to write her?" he said, inciting his hair to rebellion. he cleaned the pen, and then the ink-well, and wrote on the envelop: _miss anita laurence_ it was a name that had particularly attracted him, it was so spanish and suggestive of serenades. he wrote again at the top of the page: "_dear anita._" then he stopped. "what the deuce can i say now?" he repeated crossly. "by george, i've only seen her five times. what is there to say?" he rose, went to his bureau, and took up the photograph of honor and looked at it long. it was a pretty face, but the ears were rather large. then he went back, and, tearing up what he had written, closed his desk. "hello," said mccarthy, who was in difficulties. "aren't you going to write anita?" "i wrote her last night," said stover with justifiable mendacity. "i was writing home, but feel rather sleepy." as this was unchallengeable, he went to his room and stretched out on the delicious bed. "i wonder if i'm falling in love with jean story?" he said hopefully. "i'm sick to death of anita calling me by my front name and writing as she does. i'll bet i'm not the only one, either!" this sublimely ingenious suspicion sufficed for the demise of the dashing brunette from whom he had forced eleven dances out of a possible sixteen. "jean story is so different. what the deuce does she want changed in me? i wonder if i could get bob to give me a bid for a visit this summer?" the opening to the imagination being thus provided, he went wandering over summer meadows with a certain slender girl who moved as no one else moved and in a dreamy landscape showed him the most marked preference. in the midst of a most delightful and thoroughly satisfactory conversation he fell asleep. when he woke he went straight to his bureau, and, removing the photograph of anita, consigned it to a humble position in the study amid the crowded beauties that mccarthy termed the harem. during first recitation, which was an inconsequential voyage into greece, his imagination jumped the blackboarded walls and went wandering into the realm of the possible summer. a week on the river at the oars, however, drove from him all such imaginings; but at times the vexing question returned, and each sunday, somehow, he found an opportunity to drop in and have a long talk with judge story, of whom he grew surprisingly fond. the period of duns now set in, and the house on york street became a place of mystery and signals. mcnab, naturally, was the most sought, and he took up a sort of migratory abode on stover's window-seat, disappearing under the flaps at the slightest sound in the corridor. stover himself began to feel the possibilities of vistas and the sense of lurking shadows. he was utterly disappointed in the material for a suit which he had bought from the unsuspecting yankee. it had a yielding characteristic way about it that brought the most surprising baggings and stretchings, and he had a suspicion that it was pining away and fading in the sun. by the time the tailor's bill had been presented (not paid), the suit might have been on the fashion account of a prince. then there were little notes, polite but insistent, from the haberdasher's whence the glowing green shirt, now sadly yellowed, had come. in order to make a show of settling, he went over to commons to eat, and, being on an allowance for clothes, economized on such articles of apparel as were visible only to himself and mccarthy, who was in the same threadbare state. [illustration: "the period of duns set in, and the house became a place of mystery and signals"--_page ._] his candidacy for the class crew kept him in strict training, though he ranked no better than third substitute. his afternoons thus employed and his evenings occupied with consultations, he found his life as narrowed as it had been in the season of football. every one knew him, and he had learned the trick of a smile and an enthusiastic bob of the head to every one. he was a popular man even among the outsiders now more and more openly opposed to the sophomore society system. he was perhaps, at this period, the most popular man in his class; and yet, he had made scarcely a friend, nor did he understand quite what was the longing in him. with the end of may and the coming of society week for the first time the full intensity and seriousness of the social ambition was brought before him. the last elections in his own crowd were given out, regan and brockhurst failing to be chosen. in mccarthy's society the last place narrowed down to three men; and stone, who had made the _news_, won the choice. stover was sitting alone with mccarthy on the critical night, when the door opened and stone entered. one look at his face told mccarthy what had happened. "i'm sorry, tough," said stone, a little over-tense. "they gave me the pledge. it's hard luck." "bully for you!" there wasn't a break in mccarthy's voice. "i knew you'd get it all along." "i came up to let you know right away," said stone, looking down at the floor. "of course, i wanted it myself, but i'm sorry--deuced sorry." "nonsense. you've made the _news_. you ought to have it." mccarthy, calm and smiling, held out his hand. "bully for you! shake on it!" stone went almost immediately and the room-mates were left alone. mccarthy came back whistling, and irrelevantly went to his bureau, parting his hair with methodical strokes of the brush. "that was real white of stone to come up and tell me," he said quietly. "yes." "well, we'll go on with that geometry now." he came back and sat down at the desk quite calmly, as if a whole outlook had not been suddenly closed to him. stover, cut to the heart, watched him with a genuine thrill. he rose, drew a long breath, walked to the window, and, coming back, laid his hand on his room-mate's shoulder. mccarthy looked up quickly, with a little flush. "good grit, old man," said dink, "darned good grit." "thank you." "it won't make any difference, tough." "of course not." mccarthy gave a little laugh and said: "don't say any more, dink." stover took his place opposite, saying: "i won't, only this. you take it better than i could do. i'm proud of you." "you remember what the old man said to you fellows after that princeton slaughter?" said tough solemnly. "'take your medicine.' well, dink, i'm going to swallow it without a wink, and i rather guess, from what i've seen, that's the biggest thing they have to teach us up here." "it'll make no difference," said dink obstinately. "of course not." but each knew that for mccarthy, who would never be above the substitute class, the issue of the senior society was settled, once and for all. the excitement of being initiated, the outward manifestation of calcium light night and the spectacular parade of the cowled junior societies with their swelling marching songs, and the sudden arrival of tap day for a while drove from stover all thoughts but his personal dreams. on the fateful thursday in may, shortly after half past four, he and tough went over to the campus. by the fence the junior class, already swallowed up by the curious body of the college, were waiting the arrival of the senior elections which would begin on the stroke of five. "lots of others will take their medicine to-day," said mccarthy a little grimly. "you bet." hungerford and mcnab, seeing them, came over. "gee, look at the way the visitors are on the campus," said mcnab. "they're packed in all the windows of durfee and over on the steps of dwight hall," said hungerford. "i didn't know they came on like this." "if you want a sensation," said mcnab, "just go over to that bunch of juniors. you can hear every one of them breathe. they're scared to death. it's a regular slaughter." stover looked curiously at mcnab, amazed to note the excitement on his usually flippant countenance. then he looked over at the herd huddled under the trees by the fence. it was all a spectacle still--dramatic, but removed from his own personality. the juniors, with but a few exceptions, were only names to him. his own society men meant something, and captain dudley of next year's eleven, who, of course, was absolutely sure. he felt a little thrill as he looked over and saw the churning mass and thought that in two years he would stand there and wait. but, for the moment, he was only eagerly curious and a little inclined to be amused at the excessive solemnity of the performance. "who do you think will be first tapped for bones?" said mcnab, at his side. "dudley," said hungerford. "no; they'll keep him for the last place." "well, allison, captain of the crew, then." "i heard smithson has switched over to keys." "they're both after de gollyer." all four had tentative lists in their hands, eagerly comparing them. "dopey, you're all wrong. clark'll never get it." "why not." "look at your bones list--there's no place for him. you've got to include the pitcher of the nine and the president of dwight hall, haven't you?" "my guess is rogers first man for keys." "no; they'll take some man bones wants--de gollyer, probably." "let's get into the crowd." "come on." "it's ten minutes of five already." le baron, passing, stopped stover, saying excitedly: "say, dink, watch out for the crowd who go keys and let me know, will you? i mean the men in our crowd?" "sure i will." stover was in the throng, with a strange, sharp memory of le baron's drawn face. it was a silent mass, waiting, watch in hand, trying stoically to face down the suspense of the last awful minutes. men he knew stared past him unseeing. some were carefully dressed, and others stood in sweater and jersey, biting on pipes that were not lit. he heard a few scattered voices and the brief, crisp remarks came to him like the scattered popping of musketry. "what's the time, bill?" "three minutes of." "did they ever make a mistake?" "sure; four years ago. a fellow got mixed up and tapped the wrong man." "didn't discover it until they were half way down the campus." "rotten situation." "i should say so." "let's stand over here." "what for?" "let's see dudley tapped. he'll be first man for bones." "gee, what a mob!" "packed like sardines." near the fence, the juniors, hemmed in, were constantly being welded together. stover, moving aimlessly, caught sight of dudley's face. he would have liked to signal him a greeting, a look of good will; but the face of the captain was set in stone. a voice near him whispered that there was a minute more. he looked in a dozen faces, amazed at the physical agony he saw in those who were counted surest. for the first time he began to realize the importance of it, the hopes and fears assembled there. then he noticed, above the ghost-like heads of the crowd, the windows packed with spectators drawn to the spectacle. and he had a feeling of indignant resentment that outsiders should be there to watch this test of manhood after the long months of striving. "ten seconds, nine seconds, eight," some one said near him. then suddenly, immediately swallowed up in a roar, the first iron note of the chapel bell crashed over them. then a shriek: "yea!" "there he comes!" "over by the library." "first man." across the campus, dana, first man out for bones, all in black, was making straight for them with the unrelenting directness of a torpedo. the same breathless tensity was in his face, the same solemnity. the crowd parted slightly before him and then closed behind him with a rush. he made his way furiously into the center of the tangle, throwing the crowd from him without distinction until opposite dudley, who waited, looking at him blankly. he passed, and suddenly, seizing a man nearer stover, swung him around and slapped him on the back with a loud slap, crying: "go to your room!" instantly the cry went up: "it's de gollyer!" "first man tapped!" the mass parted, and de gollyer, wabbling a little, taking enormous steps, shot out for his dormitory, tracked by dana, while about him his classmates shouted their approval of the popular choice. "yea!" "rogers!" "first man for keys." "rogers for keys!" stover set out for a rush in the direction of the shout, tossed and buffeted in the scramble. at every moment, now, a cry went up as the elections proceeded rapidly. from time to time he found le baron, and shouted to him his report. he saw men he knew tearing back and forth, hunter driven out of his pose of calm for once, little schley, hysterical almost, running to and fro. at times the slap was given near him, and he caught the sudden realization, a look in the face that was not good to have seen. it was all like a stampede, some panic, a sudden shipwreck, when every second was precious and, once gone, gone forever; where the agony was in the face of the weak-hearted and a few stoically stood smiling at the waiting gulf. the elections began to be exhausted and the writing on the wall to stare some in the face. then something happened; a cry went up and a little circle formed under one of the trees, while back came the rumor: "some one's fainted." "man's gone under." "who?" "who is it?" "franklin." "no, no; henderson." "you don't say so!" "fainted dead away. missed out for bones." all at once another shout went up--a shout of amazement and incredulity. a great sensation spread everywhere. the bones list had now reached thirteen; only two more to be given, and allison of the crew, dudley, and harvey, chairman of the _news_, all rated sure men, were left. who was to be rejected? stover fought his way to where the three were standing white and silent, surrounded by the gaping crowd. some one caught his arm. it was le baron, beside himself with excitement, saying: "good god, dink! you don't suppose they're going to turn down harvey or allison?" almost before the words were uttered something had happened. a slap resounded and the sharp command: "go to your room!" then the cry: "harvey!" "harvey's tapped!" "only one place left." "good heavens!" "who's to go down?" "it's impossible!" dudley and allison, prospective captains, room-mates from school days at andover, were left, and between them balancing the fates. a hush fell in the crowd, awed at the unusual spectacle of a yale captain marked for rejection. then dudley, smiling, put out his hand and said in a clear voice: "joe, one of us has got to walk the plank. here's luck!" allison's hand went out in a firm grip, smiling a little, too, as he answered: "no, no; you're all right! you're sure." "here he is." "last man for bones." "here he comes!" the crowd massed at the critical point fell back, opening a lane to where allison and dudley waited, throwing back their shoulders a little, to meet the man who came straight to them, pale with the importance of the decision that had been given him. he reached dudley, passed, and, seizing allison by the shoulder, almost knocked him down by the force of his slap. pandemonium broke loose: "it's allison!" "no!" "yes." "what, they've left out dudley?" "missed out." "impossible!" "fact." "hi, jack, dudley's missed out!" "dudley, the football captain!" "what the devil!" "for the love of heaven!" "why, dudley's the best in the world!" "sure he is." "it's a shame." "an outrage." "they've done it just to show they're independent." across the campus toward vanderbilt, allison and the last bones man, in tandem, were streaking like water insects. le baron, holding on to stover, was cursing in broken accents. but dink heard him only indistinctly; he was looking at dudley. the pallor had left his face, which was a little flushed; the head was thrown back proudly; and the lips were set in a smile that answered the torrent of sympathy and regret that was shouted to him. the last elections to keys and wolf's-head were forgotten in the stir of the incredible rejection. then some one shrieked out for a cheer, and the roar went over the campus again and again. dudley, always with the same smile and shining eyes, made his way slowly across toward vanderbilt, hugged, patted on the back, his hand wrung frantically by those who swarmed about him. stover was at his side, everything forgotten but the drama of the moment, cheering and shouting, seeing with a sort of wonder a little spectacled grind with blazing eyes shaking hands with dudley, crying: "it's a crime--a darned crime! we all think so, all of us!" for half an hour the college, moved as it had never been, stood huddled below dudley's rooms, cheering itself hoarse. then slowly the crowd began to melt away. "come on, dink," said hungerford, who had him by the arm. "oh, is that you, joe?" said dink, seeing him for the first time. "isn't it an outrage?" "i don't understand it." "by george, wasn't he fine, though?" "he certainly was!" "i was right by him. he never flinched a second." "dink, the whole thing is terrible," said hungerford, his sensitive face showing the pain of the emotions he had undergone. "i don't think it's right to put fellows through such a test as that." "you don't believe in tap day?" "i don't know." their paths crossed regan's and they halted, each wondering what that unusual character had thought of it all. "hello, tom." "hello, joe; hello, dink." "tough about dudley, isn't it?" "how so?" "why, missing out!" "perhaps it's bones's loss," said regan grimly. "dudley's all right. he's lucky. he's ten times the man he was this morning." neither hungerford nor stover answered. "what do you think of it--tap day?" said hungerford, after a moment. "the best thing in the whole society system," said regan, with extra warmth. "well, i'll be darned!" said stover, in genuine surprise. "i thought you'd be for abolishing it." "never! if you're going through three years afraid to call your souls your own, why, you ought to stand out before every one and take what's coming to you. that's my idea." he bobbed his head and went on toward commons. "i don't know," said hungerford solemnly. "it's a horror; i wish i hadn't seen it." "i'm glad i did," said stover slowly. "they certainly baptize us in fire up here." he remembered mccarthy with a new understanding and repeated: "we certainly learn how to take our medicine up here, joe. it's a good deal to learn." they wandered back toward the now quiet fence. all the crowding and the stirring was gone, and over all a strange silence, the silence of exhaustion. the year was over; what would come afterward was inconsequential. "i wonder if it's all worth it?" said hungerford suddenly. stover did not answer; it was the question that was in his own thoughts. what he had seen that afternoon was still too vivid in his memory. he tried to shake it off, but, with the obsession of a fetish, it clung to him. he understood now, not that he would yield to the emotion, but the fear of judgment that swayed men he knew, and what regan had meant when he had referred to those who did not dare to call their souls their own. "it does get you," he said, at last, to hungerford. "it does me," said hungerford frankly, "and i suppose it'll get worse." "i wonder?" he was silent, thinking of the year that had passed, wondering if the next would bring him the same discipline and the same fatigue, and if at the end of the three years' grind, if such should be his lot, he could stand up like dudley before the whole college and take his medicine with a smile. chapter xv when stover returned after the summer vacation to the full glory of a sophomore, he had changed in many ways. the consciousness of success had given him certain confidence and authority, which, if it was more of the manner than real, nevertheless was noticeable. he had aged five or six years, as one ages at that time under the grave responsibilities of an exalted leadership. a great change likewise had come in his plans. during the summer tough mccarthy's father had died, and tough had been forced to forego his college course and take up at once the seriousness of life. several offers had been made dink to go in with hungerford, tommy bain, and others of his crowd, but he had decided to room by himself, for a time at least. the decision had come to him as the result of a growing feeling of restlessness, an instinctive desire to be by himself and know again that shy friend dink stover, who somehow seemed to have slipped away from him. much to his surprise, this feeling of restlessness dominated all other emotions on his victorious return to college. he felt strangely alone. every one in the class greeted him with rushing enthusiasm, inquired critically of his weight and condition, and passed on. his progress across the campus was halted at every moment by acclaiming groups, who ran to him, pumping his hand, slapping him on the back, exclaiming: "you, old dink stover!" "bless your heart." "put it there." "glad to see you again." "how are you?" "you look fit as a fiddle!" "the all-american this year!" "hard luck about mccarthy." "ta-ta." his was the popular welcome, and yet it left him unsatisfied, with a strange tugging at his heart. they were all acquaintances, nothing more. he went to his room on the second floor in lawrence, and, finding his way over the bare floor and the boxes that encumbered, reached the window and flung it open. below the different fences had disappeared under the joyful, hilarious groups that swarmed about them. he saw swazey and pike, two of the grinds of his own class, men who "didn't count," go past hugging each other, and their joy, comical though it was, hurt him. he turned from the window, saying aloud, sternly, as though commanding himself: "come, i must get this hole fixed up. it's gloomy as the devil." he worked feverishly, ripping apart the covers, ranging the furniture, laying the rugs. then he put in order his bedroom, and, whistling loudly, fished out his bedclothes, laid the bed, and arranged his bureau-top. that done, he brought forth several photographs he had taken in the brief visit he had paid the storys, and placing them in the position of honor lit his pipe and, camping on a dry-goods box, like scipio amid the ruins of carthage, dreamily considered through the smoke-wreaths the distant snap-shots of a slender girl in white. he was comfortably, satisfactorily in love with jean story. the emotion filled a sentimental want in his nature. he had never asked her for her photograph or to correspond, as he would have lightly asked a hundred other girls. he knew instinctively that she would have refused. he liked that in her--her dignity and her reserve. he wanted her regard, as he always wanted what others found difficult to attain. she was young and yet with an old head on her shoulders. in the two weeks he had spent in camp, they had discussed much together of what lay ahead beyond the confines of college life. he did not always understand her point of view. he often wondered what was the doubt that lay in her mind about him. for, though she had given him a measure of her friendship, there was always a reserve, something held back. it was the same with bob. it puzzled him; it irritated him. he was resolved to beat down that barrier, to shatter it some way and somehow, as he was resolved that jim hunter, whose intentions were clear, should never beat him out in this race. he rose, pipe in mouth, and, taking up a photograph, stared at the laughing face and the quiet, proud tilt of the head. "at any rate," he said to himself, "jim hunter hasn't got any more than this, and he never will." he went back to the study, delving into the packing-boxes. from below came a stentorian halloo he knew well: "oh, dink stover, stick out your head!" "come up, you, tom regan, come up on the jump!" in another moment regan was in the room, and his great bear clutch brought stover a feeling of warmth with its genuineness. "bigger than ever, tom." "you look fine yourself, you little bantam!" "lord, but i'm glad to see you!" "same to you." "how'd the summer go?" "wonderful. i've got four hundred tucked away in the bank." "you don't say so!" "fact." stover shook hands again eagerly. "tell me all about it." "sure. go on with your unpacking; i'll lend a hand. i've had a bully summer." "what's that mean?" said stover, with a quizzical smile. "working like a slave?" "no, no; seeing real people. i tried being a conductor a while, got in a strike, and switched over to construction work. got to be foreman of a gang, night shift." "you don't mean out all night?" "oh, i slept in the day. you get used to it. they're a strange lot, the fellows who work while the rest of you sleep. they brushed me up a lot, taught me a lot. wish you'd been along. you'd have got some education." "i may do something of the sort with you next summer," said stover quietly. "they tell me tough mccarthy's not coming back." "yes; father died." "too bad. going to room alone?" "for a while. i want to get away--think things over a bit, read some." "good idea," said regan, with one of his sharp appraising looks. "if a man's given a thinker, he might just as well use it." hungerford and bob story joined them, and the four went down to mory's to take possession in the name of the sophomore class. regan, to their surprise, making one of the party, paid as they paid, with just a touch of conscious pride. the good resolves that dink made to himself, under the influence of the acute emotions he had felt on his return, gradually faded from his memory as he felt himself caught up again in the rush of college life. he found his day marked out for him, his companions assigned to him, his standards and his opinions inherited from his predecessors. insensibly he became a cog in the machine. what with football practise and visiting the freshman class in the interest of his society, he found he was able to keep awake long enough to get a smattering of the next day's work and no more. the class had scattered and groups with clear tendencies had formed, hunter and tommy bain the center of little camps serious and ambitious, while off the campus in a private dormitory another element was pursuing mannish delights with the least annoyance from the curriculum. the opposition to the sophomore societies had now grown to a college issue. protests from the alumni began to come in; one of the editors of the _lit_ made it the subject of his leader, while the college, under the leadership of rebels like gimbel, arrayed itself in uncompromising opposition and voted down every candidate for office that the sophomore societies placed in the field. that the situation was serious and working harm to the college stover saw, but, as the fight became more bitter, the feeling of loyalty, coupled with distrust of the motives of the assailants, placed him in the ranks of the most ardent defenders, where, a little to his surprise, he found himself rather arrayed with tommy bain and jim hunter in their position of unrelenting conservatism, fighting the revolt which was making head in the society itself, as bob story and joe hungerford led the demand for some liberal reform. however, the conflict did not break out until the close of the season. the team, under the resolute leadership of captain dudley, fought its way to one of those almost miraculous successes which is not characteristic of the yale system as it is the result of the inspiring guidance of some one extraordinary personality. regan went from guard to tackle, and stover, back at his natural position of end, developed the promise of freshman year, acclaimed as the all-american end of the year. still the possibility of regan's challenge for the captaincy returned constantly to his mind, for about the big tackle was always a feeling of confidence, of rugged, immovable determination that perhaps in its steadying influence had built up the team more than his own individual brilliancy. dink, despite himself, felt the force of these masterful qualities, acknowledging them even as, to his displeasure, he felt a rising jealousy; for at the bottom he was drawn more and more to regan as he was drawn to no other man. about a month after the triumphant close of the football season, then, stover, in the usual course of a thoroughly uneventful morning, rose as rebelliously late as usual, bolted his breakfast, and rushed to chapel. he was humanly elated with what the season had brought, a fame which had gone the rounds of the press of the country for unflinching courage and cold head-work, but, more than that, he was pleasantly satisfied with the difficult modesty with which he bore his honors. for he was modest. he had sworn to himself he would be, and he was. he had allowed it to make no difference in his relations with the rest of the class. if anything, he was more careful to distribute the cordiality of his smile and the good-natured "how are you?" to all alike without the slightest distinction. "how are you, bill?" he said to swazey, the strange unknown grind who sat beside him. he called him by his first name consciously, though he knew him no more than this slight daily contact, because he wished to emphasize the comradeship and democracy of yale, of which he was a leader. "feelin' fine this morning, old gazabo?" "how are you?" said swazey gratefully. "tough lesson they soaked us, didn't they?" "it was a tough one." "suppose that didn't bother you, though, you old valedictorian." "oh, yes, it did." stover, settling comfortably in his seat, nodded genially to the right and left. "i say, dink." "hello, what is it?" "drop in on me some night." "what?" said stover surprised. "come round and have a chat sometime," said swazey, in a thoroughly natural way. "why, sure; like to," said stover bluffly, which, of course was the only thing to say. "to-night?" "sorry; i'm busy to-night," said stover. swazey, of course, being a grind, did not realize the abhorrent, almost sacrilegious, social break he was making in inviting him on his society evening. "to-morrow, then?" "why, yes; to-morrow." "i haven't been very sociable in not asking you before," said swazey, in magnificent incomprehension, "but i'd really like to have you." "why, thankee." stover, entrapped, received the invitation with perfect gravity, although resolved to find some excuse. but the next day, thinking it over, he said to himself that it really was his duty, and, reflecting how pleased swazey would be to receive a call from one of his importance, he determined to give him that pleasure. setting out after supper, he met bob story. "whither away?" said story, stopping. "i'm going to drop in on a fellow called swazey," said stover, a little conscious of the virtue of this act. "i sit next to him in chapel. he's a good deal of a grind, but he asked me around, and i thought i'd go. you know--the fellow in our row." "that's very good of you," said story, with a smile which he remembered after. stover felt so himself. still, he had the democracy of yale to preserve, and it was his duty. he went swinging on his way with that warm, glowing, physical delight that, fortunately, the slightest virtuous action is capable of arousing. with nathaniel pike, a classmate, swazey roomed in divinity hall, where, attracted by the cheapness of the rooms, a few of the college had been able to find quarters. "queer place," thought dink to himself, eyeing a few of the divinity students who went slipping by him. "wonder what the deuce i can talk to him about. oh, well, i won't have to stay long." swazey, of course, being outside the current of college heroes, could have but a limited view. he found the door at the end of the long corridor and thundered his knock, as a giant announces himself. "come in if you're good-looking!" said a piping voice. stover entered with strongly accentuated good fellowship, giving his hand with the politician's cordiality. "how are you, nat? how are you, bill?" he ensconced himself in the generous arm-chair, which bore the trace of many masters, accepted a cigar and said, to put his hosts at their ease: "bully quarters you've got here. blame sight more room than i've got." pike, cap on, a pad under his arm, apologized for going. "awful sorry, stover; darned inhospitable. this infernal _news_ grind. hope y'will be sociable and stay till i get back." "how are you making out?" said stover, in an encouraging, generous way. pike scratched his ear, a large, loose ear, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose in a grimace, as he answered: "danged if i don't think i'm going to miss out again." "you were in the first competition?" said stover, surprised--for one trial was usually considered equivalent to a thousand years off the purgatory account. "yep, but i was green--didn't know the rules." "lord, i should think you'd have had enough!" "why, it's rather a sociable time. it is a grind, but i'm going to make that _news_, if i hit it all sophomore year." "what, you'd try again?" "you bet i would!" there was a matter-of-fact simplicity about pike, uncouth as was his dress and wide sombrero, that appealed to stover. he held out his hand. "good luck to you! and say--if i get any news i'll save it for you." "obliged, sir--ta-ta!" "holy cats!" said dink, relapsing into the arm-chair as the door banged. "any one who'll stick at it like that gets all i can give him." "he's a wonderful person," said swazey, drawing up his chair and elevating his hobnailed shoes. "never saw anything like his determination. wonderful! green as salad when he first came, ready to tickle prexy under the ribs or make himself at home whenever a room struck his fancy. but, when he got his eyes open, you ought to have seen him pick up and learn. he's developed wonderfully. he'll succeed in life." stover smiled inwardly at this critical assumption on swazey's part, but he began to be interested. there was something real in both men. "did you go to school together?" he said. "lord, no! precious little school either of us got. i ran up against him when i landed here--just bumped together, as it were." "you don't say so?" "fact. it was rather queer. we were both up in the fall trying to throttle a few pesky conditions and slip in. it was just after greek prose composition--cursed be the memory!--when i came out of alumni hall, kicking myself at every step, and found that little rooster engaged in the same process. say, he was a sight--looked like a chicken had been shipped from st. louis to chicago--but spunky as you make 'em. never had put a collar on his neck--i got him up to that last spring; but he still balks at a derby. so off we went to grub, and i found he didn't know a soul. no more did i. so we said, 'why not?' and we did. we hunted up these quarters, and we've got on first-rate ever since. no scratching, gouging, or biting. we've been a good team. i've seen the world, i've got hard sense, and he's got ideas--quite remarkable ideas. danged if i'm not stuck on the little rooster." stover reached out for the tobacco to fill a second pipe, all his curiosity aroused. "i say, dink," said swazey, offering him a match, "this college is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" he stood reflectively, the sputtering light of the match illuminating his thoughtful face. "just think of the romance in it. me and pike coming together from two ends of the country and striking it up. that's what counts up here--the perfect democracy of it!" "yes, of course," said stover in a mechanical way. he was wondering what swazey would think of the society system, or if he even realized it existed, so he said curiously: "you keep rather to yourselves, though." "oh, i know pretty much what i want to know about men. i've sized 'em up and know what sorts to reach out for when i want them. now i want to learn something real." he looked at stover with a sort of rugged superiority in his glance and said: "i've earned my own way ever since i was twelve years old, and some of it was pretty rough going. i know what's outside of this place and what i want to reach. that's what a lot of you fellows don't worry about just now." "swazey, tell me about yourself," said stover, surprised at his own eagerness. "by george, i'd like to hear it! why did you come to college?" "it was an idea of the governor's, and he got it pretty well fixed in my head. would you like to hear? all right." he touched a match to the kindling, and, his coat bothering him, cast it off. "the old man was a pretty rough customer, i guess--he died when i was twelve; don't know anything about any one else in the family. i don't know just how he picked up his money; we were always moving; but i fancy he was a good deal of a rum hound and that carried him off. he always had a liking for books, and one set idea that i was to be a gentleman, get to college and get educated; so i always kept that same idea in the back of my head, and here i am." "you said you'd earned your living ever since you were twelve," said stover, all interest. "that's so. it's pretty much the usual story. selling newspapers, drifting around, living on my wits. only i had a pretty shrewd head on my shoulders, and wherever i went i saw what was going on and i salted it away. i made up my mind i wasn't going to be a fool, but i was going to sit back, take every chance, and win out big. lord of mercy, though, i've seen some queer corners--done some tough jobs! up to about fifteen i didn't amount to much. i was a drifter. i've worked my way from portland, oregon, to portland, maine, stealing rides and hoofing it with tramps. i've scrubbed out bar-rooms in arizona and oklahoma, and tended cattle in kansas city. i sort of got a wandering fit, which is bad business. but each year i tucked away a little more of the long green than the year before, and got a little more of the juice of books. about four years ago, when i was seventeen--i'd saved up a few hundreds--i said to myself: "'hold up, look here, if you're ever going to do anything, it's about time now to begin.' so i planted my hoof out in oklahoma city and i started in to be a useful citizen." the pipe between stover's lips had gone out, but he did not heed it. a new life--life itself--was suddenly revealing itself to him; not the guarded existences of his own kind, but the earnest romance of the submerged nine-tenths. as swazey stopped, he said impulsively, directly: "by george, swazey, i envy you!" "well, it's taught me to size men up pretty sharply," said swazey, continuing. "i've seen them in the raw, i've seen them in all sorts of tests. i've sort of got a pretty guess what they'll do or not do. then, of course, i've had a knack of making money out of what i touch--it's a gift." "are you working your way through here?" said stover. all feeling of patronage was gone; he felt as if a torrent had cleared away the dust and cobwebs of tradition. "lord, no," said swazey, smiling. "why, boy, i've got a business that's bringing me in between four and five thousand a year--running itself, too." stover sat up. "what!" "i've got an advertising agency, specialties of all sorts, seven men working under one. i keep in touch every day. course i could make more if i was right there. but i know what i'm going to do in this world. i've got my ideas for what's coming--big ideas. i'm going to make money hand over fist. that's easy. now i'm getting an education. here's the answer to it all." he drew out of his pocketbook a photograph and passed it over to stover. "that's the best in the world; that's the girl that started me and that's the girl i'm going to marry." dink took the funny little photograph and gazed at it with a certain reverence. it was the face of a girl pretty enough, with a straight, proud, reliant look in her eyes that he saw despite the oddity of the clothes and the artificiality of the pose. he handed back the photograph. "i like her," he said. "here _we_ are," said swazey, handing him a tintype. it was grotesque, as all such pictures are, with its mingled sentimentality and self-consciousness, but stover did not smile. "that's the girl i've been working for ever since," said swazey. "the bravest little person i ever struck, and the squarest. she was waiting in a restaurant when i happened to drop in, standing on her own feet, asking no favor. she's out of that now, thank god! i've sent her off to school." dink turned to him with a start, amazed at the matter-of-fact way in which swazey announced it. "to school--" he stammered. "_you've_ sent _her_." "sure. up to a convent in montreal. she'll finish there when i finish here." "why?" said stover, too amazed to choose his methods of inquiry. "because, my boy, i'm going out to succeed, and i want my wife to know as much as i do and go with me where i go." the two sat silently, swazey staring at the tintype with a strange, proud smile, utterly unconscious of the story he had told, stover overwhelmed as if the doors in a great drama had suddenly swung open to his intruding gaze. "she's the real student," said swazey fondly. "she gets it all--all the romance of the big things that have gone on in the past. by george, the time'll come when we'll get over to greece and egypt and rome and see something of it ourselves." he put the photographs in his pocketbook and rose, standing, legs spread before the fire, talking to himself. "by george, dink, money isn't what i'm after. i'm going to have that, but the big thing is to know something about everything that's real, and to keep on learning. i've never had anything like these evenings here, browsing around in the good old books, chatting it over with old pike--he's got imagination. give me history and biography--that inspires you. say, i've talked a lot, but you led me on. what's your story?" "my story?" said stover solemnly. he thought a moment and then said: "nothing. it's a blank and i'm a blank. i say, swazey, give me your hand. i'm proud to know you. and, if you'll let me, i'd like to come over here oftener." he went from the room, with a sort of empty rage, transformed. before him all at once had spread out the vision of the nation, of the democracy of lives of striving and of hope. he had listened as a child listens. he went out bewildered and humble. for the first time since he had come to yale, he had felt something real. his mind and his imagination had been stirred, awakened, hungry, rebellious. he turned back, glancing from the lights on the campus to the room he had left--a little splotch of mellow meaning on the somber cold walls of divinity, and then turned into the emblazoned quadrangle of the campus, with its tinkling sounds and feverish, childish ambitions. "great heavens! and i went there as a favor," he said. "what under the sky do i know about anything--little conceited ass!" he went towards his entry and, seeing a light in bob story's room, suddenly hallooed. "oh, bob story, stick out your head." "hello, yourself. who is it?" "it's me. dink." "come on up." "no, not to-night." "what then?" "say, bob, i just wanted you to know one thing." "what?" "i'm just a plain damn fool; do you get that?" "what the deuce?" "just a plain damn fool--good-night!" and he went to his room, locked the door to all visitors, pulled an arm-chair before the fire, and sat staring into it, as solemn as the wide-eyed owls on the casters. chapter xvi the hours that dink stover sat puffing his pipe before the yellow-eyed owls that blinked to him from the crackling fireplace were hours of revolution. his imagination, stirred by the recital of swazey's life, returned to him like some long-lost friend. sunk back in his familiar arm-chair, his legs extended almost to the reddening logs, his arms braced, he seemed to see through the conjuring clouds of smoke that rose from his pipe the figures of a strange self, the dink stover who had fought his way to manhood in the rough tests of boarding-school life, the dink stover who had arrived so eagerly, whose imagination had leaped to the swelling masses of that opening night and called for the first cheer in the name of the whole class. that figure was stranger to him than the stranger in his own entry. together they sat looking into each other's eyes, in shy recognition, while overhead on every quarter-hour the bell from battell chapel announced the march toward midnight. several times, as he sat plunged in reverie, a knock sounded imperiously on the locked door; but he made no move. once from the campus below he heard dopey mcnab's gleeful voice mingling with the deep bass of buck waters: "_oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _and we have all the fun._ _that's the way we do in college life._ _hooray!_" [illustration: "'oh, father and mother pay all the bills, and we have all the fun'"--_page ._] for a moment the song was choked, and then he heard it ring in triumphant crescendo as the two came up his steps, pounding out the rhythm with enthusiastic feet. before his door they came to a stop, sang the chorus to a rattling accompaniment of their fists, and exclaimed: "oh, dink stover, open up!" receiving no response, they consulted: "why, the geezer isn't in." "let's break down the door." "what right has he to be out?" "is there any one else we can annoy around here?" "bob story is in the next entry." "lead me to him." "about face!" "march!" "_oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _and we have all the fun:_ _that's the way we do--_" the sound died out. upstairs a piano took up the refrain in a thin, syncopated echo. from time to time a door slammed in his entry, or from without the faint halloo: "oh, jimmy, stick out your head." dink, shifting, poked another log into place and returned longingly to his reverie. he could not get from his mind what swazey had told him. his imagination reconstructed the story that had been given in such bare detail, thrilling at the struggle and the drama he perceived back of it. it was all undivined. when he had thought of his classmates, he had thought of them in a matter-of-fact way as lives paralleling his own. "wonder what regan's story is--the whole story?" he thought musingly. "and pike and all the rest of--" he hesitated, and then added, "--of the fellows who don't count." he had heard but one life, but that had disclosed the vista of a hundred paths that here in his own class, hidden away, should open on a hundred romances. he felt, with a sudden realization of the emptiness of his own life, a new zest, a desire to go out and seek what he had ignored before. he left the fire suddenly, dug into his sweater, and flung a great ulster about him. he went out and across the chilly campus to the very steps where he had gone with le baron on his first night, drawing up close to the wall for warmth. and again he thought of the other self, the boyish, natural self, the dink stover who had first come here. what had become of him? of the two selves it was the boy who alone was real, who gave and received in friendship without hesitating or appraising. he recalled all the old schoolmates with their queer nicknames--the tennessee shad, doc macnooder, the triumphant egghead, and turkey reiter. there had been no division there in that spontaneous democracy, and the dink stover who had won his way to the top had never sought to isolate himself or curb any natural instinct for skylarking, or sought a reason for a friendship. "good lord!" he said, almost aloud, "in one whole year what have i done? i haven't made one single friend, known what one real man was doing or thinking, done anything i wanted to do, talked out what i wanted to talk, read what i wanted to read, or had time to make the friends i wanted to make. i've been nothing but material--varsity material--society material; i've lost all the imagination i had, and know less than when i came; and i'm the popular man--'the big man'--in the class! great! is it my fault or the fault of things up here?" where had it all gone--that fine zest for life, that eagerness to know other lives and other conditions, that readiness for whole-souled comradeship with which he had come to yale? where was the pride he had felt in the democracy of the class, when he had swung amid the torches and the cheers past the magic battlements of the college, one in the class, with the feeling in the ranks of a consecrated army gathered from the plains and the mountains, the cities and villages of the nation, consecrated to one another, to four years of mutual understanding that would form an imperishable bond wherever on the face of the globe they should later scatter? and, thinking of all this young imagination that somehow had dried up and withered away, he asked himself again and again: "is it my fault?" across the campus buck waters and dopey mcnab, returning from their marauding expedition, came singing, arm in arm: "_oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _and we have all the fun._ _that's the way we do in college life._ _hooray!_" the two pagans passed without seeing him, gloriously, boyishly happy and defiant, and the rollicking banter recalled in bleak contrast all the stern outlines of the lives of seriousness he had felt for the first time. at first he revolted at the extremes. then he considered. even their life and their point of view was something unknown. it was true he was only a part of the machine of college, one of the wheels that had to revolve in its appointed groove. he had thought of himself always as one who led, and suddenly he perceived that it was he who followed. a step sounded by him, and the winking eye of a pipe. some one unaware of his tenancy approached the steps. stover, in a flare-up of the tobacco, recognized him. "hello, brockhurst," he said. "hello," said the other, hesitating shyly. "it's stover," said dink. "what are you doing this time of night?" "oh, i prowl around," said brockhurst, shifting from one foot to the other. "sit down." "not disturbing you?" "not at all," said stover, pleased at this moment at the awe he evidently inspired. "i got sort of restless; thought i'd come out here and smoke a pipe. amusing old spot." "i like it," said brockhurst. then he added tentatively: "you get the feeling of it all." "yes, that's so." they puffed in unison a moment. "you're hitting up a good pace on that _lit_ competition," said dink, unconscious of the tone of patronage into which he insensibly fell. "pretty good." "that's right. keep plugging away." "why?" said brockhurst, with a little aggressiveness. "why, you ought to make the chairmanship," said dink, surprised. "why should i?" "don't you want to?" "there are other things i want more." "what?" "to go through here as my own master, and do myself some good." "hello!" stover sat up amazed at hearing from another the thoughts that had been dominant in his own mind; amazed, too, at the trick of association which had put into his own mouth thoughts against which a moment before he had been rebelling. "that's good horse sense," he said, to open up the conversation. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to do the best thing a fellow can do at our age. i'm going to loaf." "loaf!" said dink, startled again, for the word was like treason. "just that." "but you're not doing that. you're out to make the _lit_. you're heeling something, like all the rest of us," said stover, who suddenly found himself on the opposite side of the argument, revolting with a last resistance at the too bold statement of his own rebellion. "i'm not 'heeling' the _lit_," said brockhurst. his shyness disappeared; he spoke energetically, interested in what he was saying. "if i were, i would make the chairmanship without trouble. i'm head and shoulders over the rest here, and i know it. as it is, some persistent grubber who sits down two hours a day, thirty days a month, nine months of the year for the next two years, who will regularly hand in one essay, two stories, a poem, and a handful of portfolios will probably beat me out." "and you?" "i? i write when i have something to write, because i love it and because my ambition is to write." "still, that's not exactly loafing." "it is from your point of view, from the college point of view. it isn't what i write that's doing me any good." "what then?" said stover, with growing curiosity. "the browsing around, watching you other fellows, seeing your mistakes." "well, what are they?" said dink, with a certain antagonism. "why, stover, here are four years such as we'll never get again--four years to revel in; and what do you fellows do? slave as you'll never slave again. why, you're working harder than a clerk supporting a family!" "it's a good training." "for a certain type, yes, but a rather low type. thank you, i prefer to go my own way, to work out my own ideas rather than accept others'. however, i'm a crank. any one who thinks differently here must be a crank." while they were talking the hour of twelve had struck, and presently across the campus came a mysterious line of senior society men, marching silently, two by two, returning to their rooms. "what do you think of that?" said stover, with real curiosity. "that. a colossal mumbo-jumbo that has got every one of you in its grip." he paused a moment and gave a short laugh. "did you ever stop to think, stover, that this fetish of society secrecy that is spread all over this christian, democratic nation is nothing but a return of idol-worship?" this idea was beyond stover, and so, not comprehending it, he resented it. he did not reply. brockhurst, perceiving that he had spoken too frankly, rose. "well, i must be turning in," he said. "so long, stover. you go your way and i'll go mine; some day we'll talk it over--four years out of college." "the fellow _is_ a crank," said dink, going his way. "got some ideas, but an extremist. one or two things he said, though, are true. i rather like to get his point of view, but there's a chap who'll never make friends." and he felt again a sort of resentment, for, after all, brockhurst was still unplaced according to college standards, and he was stover, probable captain, one of those rated sure for the highest society honors. when he awoke the next morning, starting rebelliously from his bed, his head was heavy, and he did not at first remember the emotions of the night, as sleepily struggling through his sweater he ran out of his entry for a hurried cup of coffee. bob story hailed him: "hold up, you crazy man." "what's the matter?" "what the deuce got into you last night?" "last night?" said stover, rubbing his eyes. "you hauled me out of bed to shout out a lot of crazy nonsense." "what did i say?" said dink, trying to open his eyes. "nothing new," said bob maliciously. "you said you were a plain damn fool, and were anxious for me to know it." "oh, i remember." "well?" "well what?" "explanations?" stover did not feel in the mood; besides, the new ideas were too big and strange. he wanted time to understand them. so he said: "why, bob, i just woke up, that's all. i'll tell you about it sometime--not now." "all right," said story, with a quick look. "drop in soon." the following night stover again went over to swazey's rooms. it being saturday, one or two men had dropped in: ricketts, a down-east yankee who recited in his divisions, a drawling, shuffling stripling with a lazy, overgrown body and a quick, roving eye; joe lake, a short, rolling, fluent southerner from texas; and bud brown, from a small village in michigan, one of the class debaters who affected a websterian deportment. "i brought my pipe along," said stover genially. "got a place left where i can stow myself? hello, ricketts. hello, lake. glad to shake your hand, brown. how's the old _news_ getting along, pike? by the way, i'll give you a story monday." "right in here, sir," said lake, making room. a couple of stout logs were roaring in the fireplace, before which, propped up with cushions, the majority of the company were sprawling. stover took his place, filling his pipe. his arrival brought a little constraint; the conversation, which had been at fever pitch as he stood rapping at the door, dwindled to desultory remarks on inconsequential things. "well, i certainly am among the fruits of the class," thought stover, eyeing the rather shaggy crowd, where sweaters and corduroys predominated and the razor had passed not too frequently. in the midst of this hesitation, regan's heavy frame crowded the doorway, accompanied by brockhurst. both were surprised at stover's unaccustomed presence, brockhurst looking at him with a little suspicion, regan shaking his hand with new cordiality. "have you, too, joined the debating circle?" he said, crowding into a place by stover and adjusting the fire with a square-toed boot. "debating circle?" said stover, surprised. "why, this is the verbal prize ring of the college," said regan, laughing. "we settle everything here, from the internal illnesses of the university to the external manifestations of the universe. pike can tell you everything that is going to happen in the next fifty years, and so can brocky--only they don't agree. i'm around to get them out of clinches." "reckon you get rather heated up yourself, sometimes, tom," said lake. "oh, i jump in myself when i get tired of listening." swazey, lake, ricketts, and brown in one corner installed themselves for a session at the national game, appropriating the lamps, and leaving the region about the fireplace to be lit by occasional gleams from the fitful hickories. brockhurst, the champion of individualism, was soon launched on his favorite topic. "the great fault of the american nation, which is the fault of republics, is the reduction of everything to the average. our universities are simply the expression of the forces that are operating outside. we are business colleges purely and simply, because we as a nation have only one ideal--the business ideal." "that's a big statement," said regan. "it's true. twenty years ago we had the ideal of the lawyer, of the doctor, of the statesman, of the gentleman, of the man of letters, of the soldier. now the lawyer is simply a supernumerary enlisting under any banner for pay; the doctor is overshadowed by the specialist with his business development of the possibilities of the rich; we have politicians, and politics are deemed impossible for a gentleman; the gentleman cultured, simple, hospitable, and kind, is of the dying generation; the soldier is simply on parade." "wow!" said ricketts, jingling his chips. "they're off." "everything has conformed to business, everything has been made to pay. art is now a respectable career--to whom? to the business man. why? because a profession that is paid $ , to $ , a portrait is no longer an art, but a blamed good business. the man who cooks up his novel according to the weakness of his public sells a hundred thousand copies. dime novel? no; published by our most conservative publishers--one of our leading citizens. he has found out that scribbling is a new field of business. he has convinced the business man. he has made it pay." "three cards," said swazey's voice. "well, brocky, what's your remedy?" "a smashing war every ten years," said brockhurst shortly. "why, you bloody butcher," said regan, who did not seize the idea, while from the card-table came the chorus: "hooray, brocky, go it!" "that's the way!" "you're in fine form to-night!" "and why a war?" said pike, beginning to take notice. "a war has two positive advantages," said brockhurst. "it teaches discipline and obedience, which we profoundly need, and it holds up a great ideal, the ideal of heroism, of sacrifice for an ideal. in times of war young men such as we are are inspired by the figures of military leaders, and their imaginations are stirred to noble desires by the word 'country.' nowadays what is held up to us? go out--succeed--make money." "that's true, a good deal true," said regan abruptly. "and the only remedy, the only way to fight the business deal, is to interest young men in politics, to make them feel that there are the new battle-fields." "now tom's in it," said lake, threshing the cards through his fingers. at the card-table the players began to listen, motioning with silent gestures. "i _am_ off," said regan, bending forward eagerly and striking his fist against his open hand. "that's the one great thing our colleges should stand for; they ought to be great political hotbeds." "and they're not," said brockhurst shortly. "the more's the pity," said regan. "there i'm with you. they don't represent the nation: they don't represent what the big masses are feeling, fighting, striving for. by george, when i think of the opportunity, of what this place could mean, what it was meant to mean! why, every year we gather here from every state in the union a picked lot, with every chance, with a wonderful opportunity to seek out and know what the whole country needs, to be fired with the same great impulses, to go out and fight together--" he stopped clumsily in the midst of a sentence, and flung back his hair, frowning. "good government, independent thinking, the love of the fight for the right thing ought to begin here--the enthusiasm of it all. hang it, i can't express it; but the idea is immense, and no one sees it." "i see it," said pike. "that's my ambition. i'm going back; i'm going to own my own newspaper some day, and fight for it." "but why don't the universities reflect what's out there?" said regan with a gesture. "because, to make it as it should be, and as it was, a live center of political discussion," said brockhurst, "you've got to give the individual a chance, break through this tyranny of the average, get away from business ideas." "just what do you mean when you say we are nothing but a business college?" said stover, preparing to resist any explanation. he understood imperfectly what regan was advocating. politics meant to him a sort of hereditary division; what new forces were at work he completely ignored, though resolved on enlightenment. brockhurst's attack on the organization of the college was personal, and he felt that his own membership in the sophomore society was aimed at. "i mean this," said brockhurst, speaking slowly in the effort to express a difficult thought. "i hope i can make it clear. what would be the natural thing? a man goes to college. he works as he wants to work, he plays as he wants to play, he exercises for the fun of the game, he makes friends where he wants to make them, he is held in by no fear of criticism above, for the class ahead of him has nothing to do with his standing in his own class. everything he does has the one vital quality: it is spontaneous. that is the flame of youth itself. now, what really exists?" as he paused, stover, unable to find an opening for dissent, observed with interest the attitudes of the listeners: pike, his pipe forgotten in the hollow of his hand, was staring into the fire, his forehead drawn in difficult comprehension; regan was puffing steady, methodical puffs, nodding his head from time to time. in the background swazey's earnest face was turned in their direction, and the cards, neglected, were moving in a lazy shuffle; brown, the debater, man of words rather than ideas, was running his fingers nervously through his drooping hair, chafing for the chance to enter the fray; lake, tilted back, his fat body exaggerated under the swollen rolls of his sweater, from which from time to time he dug out a chip, kept murmuring: "perfectly correct, sir; perfectly correct." ricketts, without lifting his head, arranged and rearranged his pile of chips, listening with one ear cocked, deriving meanwhile all the profit which could be gained from his companions' divided attention. two things struck stover particularly in the group--the rough, unhewn personal exteriors, and the quick, awakened light of enthusiasm on their faces while listening to the expounding of an idea. brockhurst himself was transformed. all the excessive self-consciousness which irritated and repelled was lost in the fervor of the thinker. he spoke, not as one who discussed, but as one who, consciously superior to his audience, announced his conclusions; and at times, when most interested, he seemed to be addressing himself. "now, what is the actual condition here?" he rose, stretching himself against the mantel, lighting a match which died out, as did a half-dozen others, unnoticed on his pipe. "i say our colleges to-day are business colleges--yale more so, perhaps, because it is more sensitively american. let's take up any side of our life here. begin with athletics. what has become of the natural, spontaneous joy of contest? instead you have one of the most perfectly organized business systems for achieving a required result--success. football is driving, slavish work; there isn't one man in twenty who gets any real pleasure out of it. professional baseball is not more rigorously disciplined and driven than our 'amateur' teams. add the crew and the track. play, the fun of the thing itself, doesn't exist; and why? because we have made a business out of it all, and the college is scoured for material, just as drummers are sent out to bring in business. "take another case. a man has a knack at the banjo or guitar, or has a good voice. what is the spontaneous thing? to meet with other kindred spirits in informal gatherings in one another's rooms or at the fence, according to the whim of the moment. instead what happens? you have our university musical clubs, thoroughly professional organizations. if you are material, you must get out and begin to work for them--coach with a professional coach, make the apollo clubs, and, working on, some day in junior year reach the varsity organization and go out on a professional tour. again an organization conceived on business lines. "the same is true with the competition for our papers: the struggle for existence outside in a business world is not one whit more intense than the struggle to win out in the _news_ or _lit_ competition. we are like a beef trust, with every by-product organized, down to the last possibility. you come to yale--what is said to you? 'be natural, be spontaneous, revel in a certain freedom, enjoy a leisure you'll never get again, browse around, give your imagination a chance, see every one, rub wits with every one, get to know yourself.' "is that what's said? no. what are you told, instead? 'here are twenty great machines that need new bolts and wheels. get out and work. work harder than the next man, who is going to try to outwork you. and, in order to succeed, work at only one thing. you don't count--everything for the college.' regan says the colleges don't represent the nation; i say they don't even represent the individual." "what would you do?" said brown. "abolish all organizations?" "absolutely," said brockhurst, who never recoiled. "what! do you mean to say that the college of was a bigger thing than the college of to-day?" "my dear brown, it isn't even debatable," said brockhurst, with a little contempt, for he did not understand nor like the man of flowing words. "what have we to-day that is bigger? is it this organization of external activities? we have more bricks and stones, but have we the great figures in the teaching staff? i grant you, this is purely an economic failure--but at the bottom of the whole thing compare the spirit inside the campus now and then. who were the leaders then? the men of brains. then the college did reflect the country; then it was a vital hotbed of political thought. to-day everything that has been developed is outside the campus; and it's so in every college. this is the tendency--development away from the campus at the expense of the campus. that's why, when you ask me would i wipe out our business athletics and our professional musical and traveling dramatic clubs, i say, yes, absolutely. i would have the limits of college to be the walls of the campus itself, and we'd see, when men cease to be drafted for one grind or another, whether they couldn't begin to meet to think and to converse. however, that brings up the whole pet problem of education, and, i'm through talking. go on, pike; tell us that we are, after all, only schools for character." "brocky, you certainly are a radical--a terrific one," said pike, shaking his head. regan, smoking, said nothing. "a sort of red-shirt, eh?" said brockhurst, smiling. "you always go off on a tangent." "well, there's a good deal in what brocky says," said regan, nodding slowly, "about bringing us all back into the campus and shutting out the world. it's the men here, all sorts and conditions, that, after all, are big things, the vital thing. i'm thinking over what you're saying, brocky--not that i follow you altogether, but i see what you're after--i get it." stover, on the contrary, was aware of only an antagonism, for his instinct was always to combat new ideas. there were things in what brockhurst had said that touched him on the quick of his accepted loyalty. then, he could not quite forget that in the matter of his sophomore society he had rejected him as being a little "queer." so he said rather acidly: "brockhurst, one question. if you feel as you do, why do you stay here?" brockhurst, who had withdrawn after his outburst, a little self-conscious again, flushed with anger at this question. but with an effort he controlled himself, saying: "stover has not perceived that i have been talking of general conditions all through the east; that i am not fool enough to believe one eastern university is different in essentials from another. what i criticize here i criticize in american life. as to why i remain at yale, i remain because i think, because, having the advantages of my own point of view, i can see clearer those who are still conventionalized." "but you don't believe in working for yale," persisted stover, for he was angry at what he perceived had been his discourtesy. "work for yale! work for princeton! work for harvard! bah! sublime poppycock!" exclaimed brockhurst, in a sort of fury. "of all drivel preached to young americans, that is the worst. i came to yale for an education. i pay for it--good pay. i ask, first and last, what is yale going to do for me? work for yale, go out and slave, give up my leisure and my independence--to do what for yale? to keep turning the wheels of some purely inconsequential machine, or strive like a gladiator. is that doing anything for yale, a seat of learning? if i'm true to myself, make the most of myself, go out and be something, stand for something _after_ college, then ask the question if you want. ridiculous! hocus-pocus and flap-doodle! lord! i don't know anything that enrages me more. good night; i'm going. heaven knows what i'll say if i stay!" he clapped his hat on his head and broke out of the door. the chorus of exclamations in the room died down. ricketts, still shifting his victorious pile, began to whistle softly to himself. regan, languidly stretched out, with a twinkle in his eyes kept watching stover, staring red and concentrated into the fire. "well?" he said at last. stover turned. "well?" said regan, smiling. dink rapped the ashes from his pipe, scratched his head, and said frankly: "of course i shouldn't have said what i did. i got well spanked for it, and i deserve it." "what do you think of his ideas?" said regan, nodding appreciatively at stover's fair acknowledgment. "i don't know," said stover, puzzled. "i guess i haven't used my old thinker enough lately to be worth anything in a discussion. still--" "still what?" said regan, as dink hesitated. "still, he has made me think," he admitted grudgingly. "i wish he didn't quite--quite get on my nerves so." "there's a great deal in what he said to-night," said pike meditatively; "a great deal. of course, he is always looking at things from the standpoint of the individual; still, just the same--" "brocky always states only one side of the proposition," said brown, who rarely measured swords when brockhurst was present in the flesh. "he takes for granted his premise, and argues for a conclusion that must follow." "well, what's your premise, brown?" said stover hopefully, for he wanted to be convinced. "this is my premise," said brown fluently. "the country has changed, the function of a college has changed. it is now the problem of educating masses and not individuals. to-day it is a question of perfecting a high average. that's what happens everywhere in college: we all tend toward the average; what some lose others gain. we go out, not as individuals, but as a type--a yale type, harvard type, princeton type, five hundred strong, proportionately more powerful in our influence on the country." "just what does our type take from here to the nation?" said stover; and then he was surprised that he had asked the question that was vital. "what? what does this type stand for? i'll tell you," said brown readily, with the debater's trick of repeating the question to gain time. "first, a pretty fine type of gentleman, with good, clear, honest standards; second, a spirit of ambition and a determination not to be beaten; third, the belief in democracy." "all of which means," said regan, "that we are simply schools for character." "well, why not?" said pike. "isn't that a pretty big thing?" "you're wrong on the democracy, brown," said regan, with a snap of his jaws. "i mean the feeling of man to man." "perhaps." stover at that moment was not so certain that he would have answered the same. the discussion had so profoundly interested him that he forgot a certain timidity. "what would brockhurst answer to the school-for-character idea?" he said. "i calculate he'd have a lovely time with it," said ricketts, with a laugh, "a regular dog-and-slipper time of it." "in all which," said swazey's quick voice, "there is no question about our learning a little bit." a laugh broke out. "lord, no!" "that doesn't count?" "why the curriculum?" "that," said regan, rising, "brings up the subject of education, which is deferred until another time. ladies and gentlemen, good night. who's winning? ricketts. that's because he's said nothing. good night, everybody." stover went with him. "tom," he said, when they came toward the campus, "do you know what i've learned to-night? i've learned what a complete ignoramus i am." "how did you happen in?" said regan. stover related the incident without mincing words. "you're a lucky boy," said regan, at the conclusion. "i'm glad you're waking up." "you know i know absolutely nothing. i haven't thought on a single subject, and as for politics, and what you men talk about, i don't know the slightest thing. i say, tom, i'd like to come around and talk with you." "come," said regan; "i've had the door on the latch for a long while, old rooster." chapter xvii the next afternoon stover passed brockhurst going to dinner. "hello," he said, with a cordial wave of the hand. "hello," said brockhurst, with a little avoidance, for he had a certain physical timidity, which always shrank at the consequences of his mental insurgency. "i was a chump and a fool last night," said stover directly, "and here's my apology." "oh, all right." "drop in on me. talk things over. you've started me thinking. drop in--i mean it." "thanks, awfully." brockhurst, ill at ease, moved away, pursued always by a shackling self-consciousness in the presence of those to whom he consciously felt he was mentally superior. one direct result came to stover from the visit to swazey's rooms. despite the protests and arguments, he did not report for the competition for the crew. "stay in for a couple of months," said le baron. "we want the moral effect of every one's coming out." "sorry; i've made up my mind," said dink. "why?" "want time to myself. i've never had it, and now i'm going to get it." le baron of the machine did not understand him, and he did not explain. stover was essentially a man of action and not a thinker. he did not reason things out for himself, but when he became convinced he acted. so, when he had thought over brockhurst's theories and admitted that he was not independent, he determined at once to be so. he began zealously, turning his back on his own society crowd, to seek out the members of his class whom he did not know, resolved that his horizon should be of the freest. for the first time he began to reason on what others said to him. he went often to swazey's rooms, and regan's, which were centers of discussion. some of the types that drifted in were incongruous, bizarre, flotsam and jetsam of the class; but in each, patiently resolved, he found something to stir the imagination; and when, under regan's quickening influence, he stopped to consider what life in the future would mean to them, he began to understand what his friend, the invincible democrat, meant by the inspiring opportunity of college--the vision of a great country that lay on the lips of the men he had only to seek out. dink was of too direct a nature and also too confident in the strength of his position to consider the effect of his sudden pilgrimage to what was called the "outsiders." swazey and pike, at his invitation, took to dropping into his room and working out their lessons with him. quite unconsciously, he found himself constantly in public companionship with them and other newly discovered types who interested him. about two weeks after this new life had begun, le baron stopped him one day, with a little solicitous frown, saying: "look here, dink, aren't you cutting loose from your own crowd a good deal?" "why, yes, i guess i am," dink announced, quite unconsciously. "i wouldn't get identified too much with--well, with some of the fellows you've taken up." stover smiled, and went his way undisturbed. for the first time he felt his superiority over le baron. le baron could not know what he knew--that it was just these new acquaintances who had waked him up out of his torpor and made a thinking being of him. others in his class, mistaking his motives, began to twit him: "i say, dink, what are you out for?" "running for something?" "getting into politics?" "junior prom, eh?" he turned the jests aside with jests as ready, quite unaware that in his own crowd he was arousing a little antagonism; for he was developing in such deep lines that he did not perceive vexing details. all at once he remembered that it had been over a fortnight since he had called at the storys' and he ran over one afternoon about four o'clock, expecting to stay for dinner; for the judge kept open house to the friends of his son, and stover had readily availed himself of the privilege to become intimate. although bob story was bound to him by the closest social ties, dink felt, nor was he altogether at fault in the feeling, that the brother was still on the defensive with him, due to a natural resentment perhaps at dink's too evident interest in his sister. when he arrived at the old colonial house set back among the elms, eliza, the maid, informed him that no one was at home. miss jean was out riding. but immediately she corrected herself, and, going upstairs to make sure, returned with the welcome information that miss story had just returned and begged him to wait. he took the request as a meager evidence of her interest, and entered the drawing-room. waiting there for her to come tripping down the stairs, he began to think of the new horizon that had opened to him, and the new feeling of maturity; and, feeling this with an acute realization, he was impatient for her to come, that he might tell her. it was a good ten minutes before he turned suddenly at a rustling on the stairs, and saw her, fresh and flushed from the ride. "it's awfully good of you to wait," she called to him. "i did my best to rush." arrived on the landing, she gave him her hand, looking at him a little earnestly. "how are you? you're a terrible stranger." "have i been very bad?" he said, holding her hand. "indeed you have. even bob said he hardly saw you. what have you been doing?" she withdrew her hand gently, but stood before him, looking into his face with her frank, inquiring eyes. stover wondered if she thought he'd been a trifle wild; and, as there was no justification, he was immensely flattered, and a little tempted dramatically to assume an attitude that would call for reform. he smiled and said: "i've been on a voyage of discovery, that's all. you'll be interested." they sat down, and he began directly to talk, halting in broken phrases at first, gradually finding his words as he entered his subject. "by george! i've had a wonderful two weeks--a revelation--just as though--just as though i'd begun my college course; that's really what it means. all i've done before doesn't count. and to think, if it hadn't been for an accident, i might have gone on without ever waking up." he recounted his visit to swazey's rooms, drawing a picture of his self-satisfied self descending _en prince_ to bestow a favor; and, warming out of his stiffness, drew a word picture of swazey's telling his story before the fire, and the rough sentiment with which he brought forth the odd, common little tintypes. "by george! the fellow had told a great story and he didn't know it; but i knew it, and it settled me," he added with earnestness, always aware of her heightened attention. "it was a regular knockout blow to the conceited, top-heavy, prancing little ass who had gone there. by jove, it gave me a jar. i went out ashamed." "it is a very wonderful life--simple, wonderful," she said slowly, thinking more of the relator than of the story. "i understand all you felt." "you know life's real to those fellows," he continued, with more animation. "they're after something in this world; they believe in something; they're fighting for something. there's nothing real in me--that is, there wasn't. by george, these two weeks that i've gone about, looking for the men in the class, have opened up everything to me. i never knew my own country before. it's a wonderful country! it's the simple lives that are so wonderful." [illustration: "'life's real to those fellows; they're fighting for something'"--_page ._] she had in her hand a piece of embroidery, but she did not embroider. her eyes never left his face. for the first time, the rôles were reversed: it was he who talked and she who listened. from time to time she nodded, satisfied at the decision and direction in his character, which had answered the first awakening suggestion. "who is pike?" she asked. "pike is a little fellow from a little life in some country town in indiana; the only one in a family of eight children that's amounted to anything--father's a pretty even sort, i guess; so are the rest of them. but this fellow has a dogged persistence--not so quick at thinking things out, but, lord! how he listens; nothing gets away from him. i can see him growing right under my eyes. he's interested in politics, same as regan; wants to go back and get a newspaper some day. he'll do it, too. why, that fellow has been racing ahead ever since he came here, and i've been standing still. ricketts is an odd character, a sort of yankee genius, shrewd, and some of his observations are as sharp as a knife. brockhurst has the brains of us all; he can out-think us every one. but he's a spectator; he's outside looking on. i can't quite get used to him. regan's the fellow i want for a friend. he's like an old roman. when he makes up his mind--it takes him a long while--when he does, he's right." he recounted regan's ideas on politics--his enthusiasm, and his ideal of a college life that would reflect the thought of the nation. then, talking to himself, he began to walk up and down, flinging out quick, stiff gestures: "brockhurst states a thing in such a slap-bang way--no compromise--that it hits you at first like a blow. but when you think it over he has generally got to the point. where he's wrong is, he thinks the society system here keeps a man wrapped in cotton, smothering him and separating him from the class. now, i'm an example to the contrary. it's all a question of the individual. i thought it wasn't at one moment, but now i know that it is. you can do just what you want--find what you want. "but we do get so interested in outside things that we forget the real; that's true. brockhurst says we ought to bring the college back to the campus, and the more i think of it the more i see what he means. the best weeks, the biggest in my life, are those when i've realized i had an imagination and could use it." suddenly he halted, gave a quick glance at her, and said: "here i'm talking like a runaway horse. i got started." "thank you for talking to me so," she said eagerly. he had never seen in her eyes so much of genuine impulse toward him, and, suddenly recalled, in this moment of exhilaration, to the personal self, he was thrilled with a strange thrill at what he saw. "you remember," he said, with a certain new boldness, "how impudent you used to be to me, and how furious i was when you told me i was not awake." "i remember." "now i understand what you meant," he said, "but then i didn't." she rose to order tea, and then turned impulsively, smiling up to him. "i think--i'm sure i felt it would come to you; only i was a little impatient." and with a happy look she offered him her hand. "i'm very glad to be your friend," she said, to make amends; "and i hope you'll come and talk over with me all that you are thinking. will you?" he did not answer. at the touch of her hand, which he held in his, at the new sound in her voice, suddenly something surged up in him, something blinding, intoxicating, that left him hot and cold, rash and silent. she tried to release her hand, but his grip was not to be denied. then, seeing him standing head down boyishly unable to speak or act, she understood. "oh, please!" she said, with a sudden weakness, again trying to release her fingers. "i can't help it," he said, blurting out the words. "jean, you know as well as i what it is. i love you." the moment the words were out, he had a cold horror of what had been said. he didn't love her, not as he had said it. why had he said it? she remained motionless a moment, gathering her strength against the shock. "please let go my hand," she said quietly. this time he obeyed. his mind was a vacuum; every little sound came to him distinctly, with the terror of the blunder he had made. she went to the window and stood, her face half turned from him, trying to think; and, misreading her thoughts, a little warm blood came back to him, and he tried to think what he would say if she came back with a light in her eyes. "mr. stover." he looked up abruptly--he had scarcely moved. she was before him, her large eyes seeming larger than ever, her face a little frightened, but serious with the seriousness of the woman looking out. "you have done a very wrong thing," she said slowly, "and you have placed me in a very difficult position. i do not want to lose you as a friend." she made a rapid movement of her fingers to check his exclamation. "if what you said were true, and you are too young to have said such solemn words, may i ask what right you had to say them to me?" "what right?" he said stupidly. "yes, what right," she repeated, looking at him steadily with a certain wistfulness. "are you in a position to ask me to be your wife?" "let me think a moment," he said, drawing a breath. he walked away to the table, leaning his weight on it, while, without moving, she followed with a steady gaze, in which was a little pity. "let me help you," she said at last. he turned and looked up for the first time, a look of wretchedness. "it would be too bad that one moment should spoil all our friendship," she said, "and because that would hurt me i don't want it so. you are a boy, and i am not yet a woman. i have always respected you, no more so than to-day, before--before you forgot your respect toward me. i want always to keep the respect i had for you." "don't say any more," he said suddenly, with a lump in his throat. "i don't know why--what--why i forgot myself. please don't take away from me your friendship. i will keep it very precious." "it is very hard to know what to do," she said. then she added, with a little heightening of her color: "my friendship means a great deal." he put out his hand and gently took the end of a scarf which she wore about her shoulders, and raised it to his lips. it was a boyish, impulsive fantasy, and he inclined his head before her. then he went out hurriedly, without speaking or turning, while the girl, pale and without moving, continued to stare at the curtain which still moved with his passing. chapter xviii stover went rushing from the storys' home, and away for a long feverish march along dusky avenues, where unseen leaves came whirling against him. he was humiliated, mortified beyond expression, in a panic of self-accusation and remorse. "it's all over," he said, with a groan. "i've made a fool of myself. i can never square myself after that. what under the shining stars made me say that? what happened? i hadn't a thought, and then all at once--oh, lord!" a couple of upper classmen returning nodded to him, and he flung back an abrupt "hello," without distinguishing them. "why did i do it?--why--why!" he went plunging along, through the dark regions that lay between the spotted arc lights that began to sputter along the avenue, his ears deafened by the rush and grind of blazing trolley cars. when he had gone breathlessly a good two miles, he stopped and wearily retraced his steps. the return no longer gave him the sensation of flight. he came back laggingly, with reluctance. each time he thought of the scene which had passed he had a sensation of heat and cold, of anger and of cowardice. never again he said to himself, would he be able to enter the storys' home, to face her, jean story. but after a time, from sheer exhaustion, he ceased to think about his all-important self. he remembered the dignity and gentleness with which the young girl had met the shock of his blunder, and he was overwhelmed with wonder. he saw again her large eyes, filled with pain, trouble, and yet a certain pity. he recalled her quiet voice, the direct meeting of the issue, and deep through all impressions was the memory of the woman, sweet, self-possessed, and gentle, that had been evoked from her eyes. he forgot himself. he forgot all the wretchedness and hot misery. he remembered only this jean story, and the jean story that would be. and feeling the revealing acuteness of love for the first time, he said impulsively: "oh, yes, i love her. i have always loved her!" and silently, deep in his heart, a little frightened almost to set the thought to words, he made a vow that his life from now on should be earnest and inspired with but one purpose, to win her respect and to win the right to ask her for his wife. with the resolve, all the fret and fever went from him. he felt a new confidence and a new maturity. "when i speak again, i shall have the right," he said solemnly. "and she shall see that i am not a mere boy. that i will show her soon!" when he came again into the domain of the college, he suddenly felt all the littleness of the ambitions that raged inside those self-sufficient walls. "lord, what have i been doing all this time--what does it count for? brocky is right; it isn't what you do here, it's what you are ready to do when you go out. thank heaven, i can see it now." and secure in the knowledge that the honors he rated so lightly were his, he added: "there's only one thing that counts--that's your own self." it was after the dinner hour, and he hesitated; a little tired of his own company, longing for the diversion another personality would bring, and seeking some one as far removed from his own point of view as possible, he halted before durfee, and sent his call to the top stories: "oh, ricky ricketts, stick out your head." above a window went up, and a fuzzy head came curiously forth. "wot'ell, bill?" "it's stover, dink stover. come down." "somethin' doin'?" "you bet." presently, ricketts's bean-stalk figure came flopping out of the entry. "what's up, dink?" "i'm back too late for supper. come on down with me to mory's and keep me company, and i'll buy you a drink." "did i hear the word 'buy'?" said ricketts, in the manner then made popular by the lamented pete dailey. "you did." "lead me to it." at mory's, two or three men whom he didn't know were at the senior table. le baron and reynolds, prospective captain of the crew and chairman of the news, respectively, men of his own society, gave him a hearty, "hello, dink," and then stared curiously at ricketts, whose general appearance neither conformed to any one fashion nor to any two. gimbel, the politician, was in the off room with three of the more militant anti-sophomore society leaders. the two parties saluted in regulation style. "hello, you fellows." "howdy, there." stover, sitting down, saw gimbel's perplexed glance at his companion, and thought to himself: "i've got gimbel way up a tree. i'll bet he thinks i'm trying to work out some society combine against him." the thought recalled to him all the increasing bitterness of the anti-sophomore society fight which had swept the college. there was talk even of an open mass meeting. he remembered that hunter had mentioned it, and for a moment he was inclined to put the question direct to gimbel. but his mood was alien to controversy, and louis, with sidelong, beady eyes, and a fragrant aroma, was waiting the order. ricketts had, among twenty yankee devices for greasing his journey through college, a specialty of breaking in new pipes, one of which he now produced, with an apologetic: "you don't mind, do you, if i crack my lungs on this appetizing little trifle?" "i say, ricketts," said stover, trying to keep off his mind the one subject, "is that all a joke about your breaking in pipes?" "straightest thing in the world." "what do you charge?" "thirty-five cents and the tobacco." "you ought to charge fifty." "i'm going to next year. you think i'm loony?" said ricketts. "i'm not sure." "dink, my boy, i'll be a millionaire in ten years. you know what i'm figuring out all this time? i'm going at this scientifically. i'm figuring out the number of fools there are on the top of this globe, classifying 'em, looking out what they want to be fooled on. i'm making an exact science of it." "go on," said dink, amused and perplexed, for he was trying to distinguish the serious and the humorous. "what's the principle of a patent medicine?--advertise first, then concoct your medicine. all the science of foolology is: first, find something all the fools love and enjoy, tell them it's wrong, hammer it into them, give them a substitute and sit back, chuckle, and shovel away the ducats. bread's wrong, coffee's wrong, beer's wrong. why, dink, in the next twenty years all the fools will be feeding on substitutes for everything they want; no salt--denatured sugar--anti-tea--oiloline--peanut butter--whale's milk--et cetera, et ceteray, and blessing the name of the fool-master who fooled them." "by jingo," said stover, listening to this jumble of words, entranced, "i believe you're right. and so you've reduced it to a science, eh--foolology?" ricketts, half in earnest, never entirely in jest, abetted by newly arriving tobies, was off again on his pet theories of business imagination, disdaining the occasional gibes that were flung at him from gimbel's table. when le baron and reynolds passed out, with curious glances, stover was weak with laughter. later arrivals dropping in joined them, egging on the inventor. stover, who had been busily consulting his watch, left at half-past eight on a sudden resolve. the farcical interruption that had temporarily drawn him out of himself, had cleared his head, and brought him a sudden authoritative decision. he went directly to the storys', and, entering the parlor, found a group of his crowd there, dinner finished, trying out the latest comic opera chorus. he came in quite coldly self-possessed, shook hands, and immediately jumped into the conversation, which was all on the crisis in the sophomore societies. jean story was at the piano, a little more serious than usual. at his entrance, she looked up with sudden wonder and confusion. he came to her, and in taking her hand inclined his head in great respect, but did not speak to her. he had but one desire, to show her that he was not a boy but a man, and that he could rise to the crisis which he had brought on himself. hunter and tommy bain had been arguing for no compromise, bob story and hungerford were of the opinion that the time had come to enlarge the membership of the societies, and to destroy their exclusiveness. on the sofa, the little judge, a spectator, never intimating his opinion, studying each man as he spoke, appealed to stover: "well, now, judge dink, what is your learned opinion on this situation? here is the dickens to pay; three-fourths the college lined up against you fellows, and a public mass meeting coming. jim hunter here believes in sitting back and letting the storm blow over; bob, who of course can regulate it all, wants to double the membership and meet some objections. now what do you say? mr. stover has the floor. my daughter will please come to order." jean story abruptly turned from the piano, where her fingers had been absent-mindedly running over the keys. "frankly, i haven't made up my mind just yet," said stover. "there are a great many sides to it. i've listened to a good many opinions, but haven't yet chosen mine. every one is talking about the effect on the college, but what has impressed me most is the effect on the sophomore society men themselves. if the outsiders only knew the danger and handicap they are to us!" "hello," said the judge, shifting with a little interest. "what do you mean?" said hunter aggressively. "i mean we are the ones who are limited, who are liable to miss the big opportunities of college life. we have got into the habit, under the pretense of good fellowship, of herding together." "why shouldn't we?" persisted hunter. "because we shut ourselves up, withdraw from the big life of the college, know only our own kind, the kind we'll know all our life; surrender our imagination. we represent only a social idea, a good time, good friends, good figure-heads on the different machines of the college. but we miss the big chance--to go out, to mingle with every one, to educate ourselves by knowing opposite lives, fellows who see things as we never have seen them, who are going back to a life a thousand miles away from what we will lead." he expressed himself badly, and, realizing it, said impatiently: "here, what i mean is this. it's not my idea, it's brockhurst's, it's tom regan's. the biggest thing we can do is to reflect the nation, to be the inspiration of the democracy of the country, to be alive to the fight among the people for real political independence. we ought to get a great vision when we come up here, as young men, of the bigness of our country, of the privilege of fighting out its political freedom, of what american manhood means in the towns of georgia and texas, in the little manufacturing cities of new england, in the great west, and in the small homes of the big cities. we ought to really know one another, meet, discuss, respect each other's point of view, independence--odd ways if you wish. we don't do it. we did once--we don't now. princeton doesn't do it, harvard doesn't do it. we're over-organized away from the vital thing--the knowledge of ourselves." "then you'd abolish the sophomore societies?" said hunter, crowding him to the wall. "i don't know. sometimes i've felt it's the system that is wrong," said stover frankly. "lately, i've changed my mind. i think we can do what we want--at least i know i've gone out and met whom i wanted to without my being in a sophomore society making the slightest difference. i say i don't know where the trouble is; whether the whole social system here and elsewhere is the cause or the effect. it may be that it is the whole development of america that has changed our college life. i don't know; those questions are too big for me to work out. but i know one thing, that my own ideas of what i want here have taken a back somersault, and that i'm going out of here knowing everything i can of every man in the class." suddenly he remembered hunter's opposition, and turning, concluded: "one thing more; if ever i make up my mind that the sophomore society system or any other system ought to be abolished, i'll stand out and say so." when he had finished, his classmates began talking all at once, hunter and bain in bitter opposition, bob story in warm defense, hungerford, in his big-souled way, coming ponderously to his assistance. stover withdrew from the conversation. he glanced at jean story, wondering if she had understood the reason of his return, and that he had spoken for her ears alone. she was still at the piano, one hand resting on the keyboard, looking at him with the same serious, half-troubled expression in her large eyes. he made an excuse to leave, and for the second that he stood by her, he looked into her eyes boldly, with even a little bravado, as though to ask: "do you understand?" but the young girl, without speaking, nodded her head slightly, continuing to look at him with her wistful, a little wounded glance. chapter xix it was only a little after nine. he had left in the company of joe hungerford, who had ostensibly taken the opportunity of going with him. "i say, dink," he began directly, in the blustering, full-mouthed way he had when excited, "i say bully for you. lord, i liked to hear you talk out." "it's all simple enough," said stover, surprised at the other's enthusiasm. "i suppose i wouldn't have said all i did if it hadn't been for hunter." "oh, jim's a damned hard-shell from way back," said hungerford good-humoredly, "never mind him. i say though, dink, you really have been going round, haven't you, breaking through the lines?" "yes, i have." "i wish you'd take me around with you some time," said hungerford enviously. "why the deuce don't you break in yourself?" "it doesn't come natural, dink," said the inheritor of millions regretfully. "i never went through boarding-school like you fellows. by george, it's just what i want, what i hoped for here! and, damn it, what i'm not getting!" "you know, joe," said dink suddenly, "there wouldn't be any society problem if fellows that felt the way you and i do would assert themselves. by george, there's nothing wrong with the soph societies, the trouble is with us." "i'm not so sure," said hungerford seriously. "rats!" "you know, dink," said joe with a little hesitation, "it is not every one who understands you or what you're doing." "i know," said stover, laughing confidently. "some have got an idea i've got some great political scheme, working in with the outsiders to run for the junior prom, or something like that." "no, it's not all that. i don't think some of our crowd realize what you're doing--rather fancy you're cutting loose from them." "let them think," said stover carelessly. then he added with some curiosity: "has there been much talk?" "yes, there has." "any one spoken to you?" "yes." "i know--i know they've got an idea i'm queering myself--oh, that word 'queer'; it's the bogey of the whole place." "you're right there! but, dink, i might as well let you know the feeling; it isn't simply in our set, but some of the crowd ahead." "le baron, reynolds?" "yes. haven't they ever--ever said anything to you?" "bless their simple hearts," said stover, untroubled. "so they're worrying about me. it's rather humorous. it's their inherited point of view. le baron, joe, could no more understand what we are thinking about--and yet he's a fine type. sure, he's stopped me a couple of times and shaken his head in a worried, fatherly way. to him, you see, everything is selective; what he calls the fellow who doesn't count, the 'fruit,' is really outside what he understands, the fellows who are in the current of what's being done here. i must talk it out with him sometime. we've come to absolutely opposite points of view. and yet the curious thing is, he's fond as the deuce of me." "yes, that's so," said hungerford. he did not insist, seeing that stover was insensible to the hints he had tried to convey. not wishing to express openly a point of view which was personally unsympathetic, he hesitated and remained silent. "coming up for a chin?" said dink, as they neared the campus. "no, i've got a date at heub's. i say, dink, i'm serious in what i said. i want to wake up and get around. work me in." "you bet i will, and you'll meet a gang that really have some ideas." "that's what i want. well, so long." "so long, joe." dink, turning to the right, entered the campus past battell. he had never before felt so master of himself, or surer of a clear vision. the thought of his instinctive return to the storys', and the knowledge that he had distinguished himself before jean story, gave him a certain exhilaration. he began to feel the opportunity that was in his hands. he remembered with pleasure hungerford's demand to follow where he had gone, and he said to himself: "i can make this crowd of mine see what the real thing is--and, by george, i'm going to do it." as he delayed in the campus, le baron and reynolds passed him, going toward durfee. "hello, dink." "hello there." he continued on to his entry, and, turning, saw the two juniors stop and watch him. without heed he went up to his room, lit the dusty gas-jet, and went reverently to his bureau. he was in his bedroom, standing there in a sentimental mood, gazing at the one or two little kodaks he had displayed of jean story, when a knock sounded. he turned away abruptly, singing out: "let her come." the door opened and some one entered, and, emerging from his bedroom, he beheld to his surprise le baron and reynolds. "hello," he said, puzzled. "anything doing, dink?" said le baron pleasantly. "not a thing. make yourself at home," he said hastily. "take a seat. pipe tobacco in the jar--cigarettes on the table." each waved his hand in dissent. reynolds seated himself in a quick, business-like way on the edge of his chair; le baron, more sociable, passed curiously about the room, examining the trophies with interest. "i wonder what's up now," thought dink, without uneasiness. he knew that it was the custom of men in the class above about to go into the senior societies to acquaint themselves with the tendencies of the next class. "that's it," he said to himself; "they want to know if i'm heeling bones or keys." "you've got a great bunch of junk," said le baron, finishing his inspection. "yes, it's quite a mixture." le baron, refusing a seat, stood before the fireplace, a pocket knife juggling in his hands, seeking an opening. "here, i'll have a cigarette," he said finally, with a frown. reynolds, more business-like, broke out: "dink, we've dropped in to have a little straight talk with you." "all right." he felt a premonition of what was coming, and the short note of authority in reynolds's voice seemed to stiffen everything inside of him. "we've dropped a few hints to you," continued reynolds, in his staccato manner, "and you haven't chosen to understand them. now we're going to put it right to you." "hold up, benny," said le baron, who had lit his cigarette, "it's not necessary to talk that way. let me explain." "no, put it to me straight," said stover, looking past le baron straight into reynolds's eyes. an instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen. "stover, we don't like what you've been doing lately." "why not?" "you're shaking your own crowd, and you're identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn't count. what the deuce has got into you?" "just shut up for a moment, benny," said le baron, giving him a look, "you're not putting the thing in the right way." "i'm not jumping on any one," said reynolds. "i'm giving him good advice." stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to le baron. "well?" "look here, dink," said le baron conciliatingly. "a lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn't seem to understand. now, what i'm saying is because i like you, and because you are making a mistake. we're interested personally, and for the society's sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you ought to be, one of the big men of the class. dink, what's happened? have you lost your nerve about anything--anything wrong?" "wait a moment--let me understand the thing," said stover, absolutely dumbfounded. reynolds's purely unintentional false start had left him cold with anger. "am i to understand that you have come here to inform me that you do not approve of the friends i've been making?" "hold up," said le baron. "no, let's have it straight. that's what i want, too," he said quickly, facing reynolds. "you criticize the crowd i'm going with, and you want me to chuck them. that's it in plain english, isn't it?" a little flush showed on reynolds's face. he, too, felt the physical superiority in stover, and the antagonism thereof, and, being provoked, he answered more shortly than he meant to: "let it go at that." "is that right?" said stover, turning to le baron. "now, look here, dink, there's no use in getting hot about this," said le baron uneasily. "no one's forcing anything on you. we are here as your friends, telling you what we believe is for your own good." "so you think if i go on identifying myself with the crowd i'm with that i may 'queer' myself?" "that's rather strong." "why not have it out?" "this is true," said le baron, "that the men in your own crowd don't understand your cutting loose from them, and that no one can make out why you've taken up with the crowd you have." the explanation which might have cleared matters was forgotten by stover in the wound to his vanity. "you haven't answered my question." "well, dink, to be honest," said le baron, "if you keep on deliberately, there is more than a chance of--" "of queering myself?" "yes." "being regarded as a sort of wild man, and missing out on a senior election." "that's what we want to prevent," said le baron, believing he saw a reasonable excuse. "you've got everything in your hands, stover, don't waste your time--" "one moment." stover, putting out his hand, interrupted him. he locked his hands behind his back, twisting them in physical pain, staring out the window, unable to meet the suddenness of the situation. "you've been quite frank," he said, when he was able to speak. "you have not come to me to dictate who should be my friends here, though that's perhaps a quibble, but as members of my sophomore society you have come to advise me against what might queer me. i understand. well, gentlemen, you absolutely amaze me. i didn't believe it possible. i'll think it over." he looked at them with a quick nod, intimating that there was nothing more to be discussed. reynolds, saying something under his breath, sprang up. le baron, feeling that the interview had been a blunder from the first, said suddenly: "benny, see here; let me have a moment's talk with dink." "quite useless, hugh," said stover, in the same controlled voice. "there's nothing more to be said. you have your point of view, i have mine. i understand. there's no pressure being put on me, only, if i am to go on choosing my friends as i have--i do it at my own risk. i've listened to you. i don't know what i shall answer. that's all. good night." reynolds went out directly, le baron slowly, with much hesitation, seeking some opportunity to remain, with a last uneasy glance. when stover was left to himself, his first sensation was of absolute amazement. he, the big man of the class, confident in the security of his position, had suddenly tripped against an obstruction, and been made to feel his limitations. "by heavens! if any one would have told me, i wouldn't have believed it--the fools!" the full realization of the pressure that had been exerted on him did not yet come to him. he was annoyed, as some wild animal at the first touch of a rope that seems only to check him. he moved about the room, tossing back his hair impatiently. "that's what hungerford was trying to hint to me," he said. "so my conduct has been under fire. what i do is a subject of criticism because i've gone out of the beaten way, done something they don't understand--the precious idiots!" then he remembered reynolds, and his anger began to rise. "the little squirt, the impudent little scribbler, to come and tell me what i should or shouldn't do! how the devil did i ever keep my temper? who is he anyhow? i'll give him an answer!" all at once he perceived the full extent of the situation, and what a defiance would mean to those leaders in the class above, men marked for skull and bones, the society to which he aspired. "no pressure!" he said aloud, with a grim laugh, "oh, no! no pressure at all! advice only--take it or leave it, but the consequences are on your head. by heavens, i wouldn't have believed it." it hurt him, it hurt him acutely, that he, who had won his way to leadership, should have sat and listened to those who were the masters of his success. "hold up, hold up, dink stover," he said, all at once. "this is serious--a damn sight more serious than you thought. it's up to you. what are you going to do about it?" all at once the temper that always lay close to his skin, uncontrollable and violent, broke out. "by heavens--and i stood for it--i stood there quietly and listened, and never said a word! but i didn't realize it--no, i didn't realize it. yes, but he won't understand it, that damned little whipper-snapper of a reynolds; he'll think i've kow-towed. he will, will he? we'll see! by heavens, that's what their society game means, does it! thank heaven, i didn't argue with them. at least i didn't do that." he strode over quickly, and seizing his cap clapped it on his head, and stopped. "now or never," he said, between his teeth. he went out slamming the door; and as he went, furiously, all the anger and humiliation blazed up in a fierce revolt--he, dink, dink stover, had stood tamely and listened while others had come and told him what to do, told him in so many words that he was "queering" himself. he went out of the entry almost at a run, with a sort of blind, unreasoning idea that he could overtake them. by the fence he almost upset dopey mcnab, who called to him fruitlessly: "here--i say, dink! what the devil!" he reached the center of the campus before he stopped. he had quite lost control of himself; he knew what he would say, and he didn't care. suddenly he recalled where reynolds roomed, and went hot-foot for vanderbilt, with a fierce physical longing to be provoked into a fight. he arrived at the door breathlessly, a lump in his throat, never considering the chances of finding them out. le baron and reynolds were before the fireplace in a determined argument. he shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, digging his nails into his hands with the effort to master his voice. the two juniors, struck by the violence of his entrance, turned abruptly, and le baron, a little pale, started forward, saying: "i say, dink--" "look here," he cried, flinging out a hand for silence, "i don't know why i didn't say it to you there--when you spoke to me. i don't know. i'm a low-livered coward and a skunk because i didn't! but i know now what i'm going to say, and i'll say it. you came to me, you dared to come to me and tell me what i was to do--to heel--that's what you meant; to cut out fellows i know and respect--oh, you didn't have the courage to say it out, but that's it. well, now, i've just got one thing to say to you both. if this is what your society business means, if this is your idea of democracy--i'm through with you--" "hold up," said le baron, springing forward. "i won't hold up," said stover, beside himself, "for you or for any one else, or whatever you can do against me! here's my answer--i'm through! you and the whole society can go plumb to hell!" and suffocating, choking, blinded with his fury, he thrust his hand into his breast, and tore from his shirt the pin he had been given to wear, and flung it on the floor, stamped upon it, and bolted from the room. chapter xx for an hour, bareheaded, he went plunging into the darkness, a prey to a nervous crisis, that left him shaking in every muscle. he knew the extent of his passions, and the anger which had swept over him left him weak and frightened. "it's lucky that runt of a reynolds held his tongue," he said hotly. "by the lord, i don't know what i would have done to him. here, i must get hold of myself. this is terrible. well, thank heaven, it's over." he controlled himself slowly, and came back, limp and weak; yet beyond the physical reaction was a liberated soaring of the spirit. "i'm glad i did it! i never was gladder!" he said solemnly. "good-by to the whole society game, skull and bones, and all the rest. but i take my stand from now on, and i stand on my own feet. i'm glad of it." then he thought of jean story, and he was troubled. "i wonder if she'll understand? i can't help it. i couldn't do anything else. now, i suppose the whole bunch will turn on me. so be it." it was long after midnight when he came back gloomily to the light still staring from his window, and toiled up the heavy steps. when he entered the room, le baron, bob story, and joe hungerford were sitting silently, waiting for him, and in story's hand was the pin bruised by his furious heel. he saw at once the full strength of the appeal that was to be made to him, and he closed the door wearily. "i don't want to talk about it," he said slowly. "the whole thing is done and buried." bob story, agitated and solemn, came to him. "dink, this is awful--the whole thing is awful," he said earnestly. "you've got to talk it out with us." "do you understand, bob," stover said suddenly, "just what happened in this room?" "yes, i think i do." "i don't believe it." "dink, i want you to listen to me a moment," said le baron. "it's been rotten business, the whole wretched thing. i can understand how you felt. reynolds and you got on each other's nerves. you each said what you didn't mean. it was damned unfortunate. he put things to you like a fool, and i was telling him so when you broke into the room. he was all up on edge from something that had gone before." "oh, i lost my temper," said stover. "i know it." "i'd have done the same," said hungerford openly. "now, dink, there isn't one of us here that doesn't like you, and look up to you," said story, with his irresistible charm. "we know you're every inch a man, and what you do you believe in. but, dink, we're all friends together, and this is a terrible thing to us. we want you to take back your pin, and shut up this whole business. will you?" "i'd do a great deal for you, bob story," said stover, looking him in the eyes, "more than for any one else, but i can't do this." he said it calmly, with a little sadness. the three were impressed with the finality of the judgment. story, standing with the cast-off pin in his hand, turning and twisting it, said slowly: "dink, do you really mean it?" "i do." "it's a serious thing you're doing, stover," said le baron, with the first touch of formality, "and i don't think it should be done in anger." "i'm not." "remember that you are judging a whole society--your own friends--by what one man happened to say to you in a moment of irritation." "i don't want to talk of what's done," said stover slowly, for his head was throbbing. "i know myself, and i know nothing is going to make me go back on what i've said. i'm only going to say a word, and then i'm going into my room and going to bed. le baron"--with a sudden rise of his voice he turned and faced the junior--"don't think i don't understand what it means that i'm giving up. i get what you mean when you start in calling me stover. i know as well as i'm standing here that you and reynolds will keep me out of bones, whether i make captain or not. and that'll hurt me a good bit--i admit it. now don't let's quibble. it isn't the way reynolds said what he did--though that did rile me--it's what was told me, indirectly or directly--it's the same thing; you men in sophomore societies would limit my freedom of choice. there you are. i'm against you now, because for the first time i see how the thing works out, because you're wrong! you're a bad influence for those who are in, and a rotten influence for the whole college. now i've made up my mind to just one thing. i'm going to finish up here at the head of my own business--my own master; and i'm not going to be in a position to be told by any one in your class or my class what i'm to do." "one moment." le baron rose as stover moved towards the bedroom. "there's another side to it." "what other side?" "whatever you decide, and i won't take your answer until the morning," said le baron solemnly, "i want you to give me your word that what's happened to-night remains a secret." "i won't give my word to that or anything else," said dink defiantly. "i shall do exactly what i think is right to be done, and for that reason only. now you'll have to excuse me. good night." he went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices, dropped off to sleep. he was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang up to find bob story thundering on his door. he looked at his watch. it was still an hour before chapel. when he entered his dim study, story was waiting, and hungerford uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night. "have you fellows been here all night?" said stover, stopping short. "dink, we want a last chance to talk this over," said story solemnly. "we've all had a chance to sleep it out. le baron isn't here, just joe and myself--your friends." "you make it hard for me, boys," said dink, shaking his head. hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to stover, took him by the shoulders. "damn you, dink," he said, "get this straight, we're not thinking about the society, we're thinking about you--about your future. and i want you to know this: whatever you decide, i'm your friend and proud to be it." "what joe says is what i feel," said story, as stover, much affected, stood looking at the ground. "we're sticking by you, dink--that's why i'm going to try once more. can't you go on in the society, make no open break, and still fight for what you believe in--what joe and i believe in, too?" "but, bob, i think they're wrong through and through--you don't understand--i'm for wiping them out now." "that whole question's coming up, and coming up soon," continued story earnestly, "and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. work inside the crowd, if you can see it that way, dink. there are only five of us know what's happened, and no one else need know." "wait a moment, bob, old fellow," said dink, stopping him. "you two have got down under my skin, and i won't forget it. now i'm going to ask you fellows a couple of questions. first: you think if i stick to my determination that most of the crowd'll turn on me?" "yes." "that i have as much chance of being tapped for bones as jackson, the sweep?" "yes, dink." "now, boys, honest, if i took back my pin for any such reason as that, wouldn't i be a spineless, calculating little quitter?" neither answered. "what would you think of me, joe--bob?" "damn the luck," said hungerford. he did not attempt to answer the question. neither did bob story. they shook hands with stover, and went out defeated. just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would make, stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition. the second morning, as he went down high street to his eating-joint, hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. stover joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. they went inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their eyes over hasty breakfasts. four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore societies. "morning, everybody," said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer came back: "hello, joe." "hello, dink." "shove in here." at their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had somehow passed into rumor. opposite stover, jim hunter was sitting. he nodded to hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a conversation with tommy bain, who sat next to him. stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. he sat a moment quietly, his glance concentrated on hunter. "oatmeal or hominy?" said the waiter at his back. "one moment." he raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the attention of the table on him. "why, how do _you_ do, jim hunter?" he said, with every word cut sharp. there was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as hunter turned and looked at stover. their glances matched one another a long moment, and then hunter, with an excess of politeness, said: "oh, hello--stover." instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and a clatter of cutlery. "i'll take oatmeal now," said stover calmly. story, glancing over, saw two spots of scarlet standing out on his cheeks, and realized how near the moment had come to a violent scene. "dink, old gazabo," said hungerford, as they walked over to chapel, "what are you going to do? you can't go about the whole time with a chip on your shoulder." "oh, yes, i can," said dink between his teeth. "i'll stick right where i am. and i'd like to see jim hunter or any one else try that again on me!" hungerford shook his head. "you know, dink, you must see both sides. now from hunter's side, you've smashed all traditions, and given us a blow that may be a knockout, considering the state of feeling in the college. hunter's a society man, believes in them heart and soul." "then let him come to me and say what he thinks." "are you quite sure, dink," said joe, with a glance, "that there isn't some other reason for the way you two feel about each other?" "you mean jealousy?" said dink, flushing a little. "bob's sister? yes, there's that. but from the first we've been on opposite sides." he hesitated a moment, and then asked: "i say, joe, what does bob think about what i've done? tell me straight." "of course he respects you," said hungerford carefully, "more now than i think he did last year, but--bob's a society man--all these andover fellows are brought up in the idea, you know--and i think it's kind of a jolt." "i suppose it is," said stover, with a little depression. he would like to have asked hungerford to state his case to jean story, but he lacked the courage of his boyish impulse. the thought of jean story, as he sat in chapel, came to him like a temptation. the judge was of the skull and bones alumni, bob was sure to go; all the influences about her were of belief in the finality of that judgment. "yes, and hunter will go in with sailing colors; he'll never risk anything," he said bitterly, "and i'll stand up and take my medicine, for doing what? for showing i had a backbone. but no one will ever know it outside. they'll think it's something wrong in my character--they always do. stover, yale's star end, misses out for bones! that's the slogan. cheating at cards or bumming. i wonder what she'll think? lord, that's the hard part!" for a week, proud as lucifer, on edge for an opportunity, he stuck it out at the eating-joint, knowing the hopelessness of it all--that what he wanted had gone, and no amount of bravado could make him wink the fact, that in the midst of his own crowd, where he had stood as a leader, he was now regarded as an outsider. in the second week he gave up the useless fight, and went to commons, to the table where regan, gimbel, and brockhurst ate. they forebore to ask him the reasons of the change, and he gave no explanation. that something had happened which had caused him to break away from his society was soon a matter of common rumor, and several incorrect versions circulated, all vastly to his credit. his influence in the body of the class was correspondingly increased, and gimbel once or twice approached him with offers to run him for manager of the crew or the junior prom. one day, about a month after his withdrawal, when, bundled up in his dressing-gown, he went shuffling into the basement for a cold tub, he had quite a shock, that brought home visually to him the realization of the price he had paid. it had been the practise from long custom to inscribe on the walls tentative lists of the probable selections from the class for the three senior societies. on this particular list his name had stood at the head from the beginning, and the constant familiar sight of it had always brought him a warm, secure pleasure. all at once, as he looked at it, he perceived a leaden blur where his name had stood, and the names of bain and hunter heading the list. "i suppose they've got me down among the last now," he said, with a long breath. he searched the list, his name was not even on it. this popular estimation of what he himself believed had nevertheless power to wound him deeply. "well, it's so--i knew it," he said; but it was said in bitterness, with a newer and keener realization. he began indeed to feel like an outsider, and, rebelling against the injustice of it all, to set his heart in bitterness. hungerford and bob story, dopey mcnab often, tried to keep up with him, but, understanding their motives, he was proudly sensitive, and sought rather to avoid them. meanwhile the opposition to the sophomore societies reached the point of open revolt, and a mass meeting was held, which, as had been planned, caused a stir throughout the press of the country, and brought in from the alumni a storm of protest. stover, himself, despite his inclination to come forward in direct opposition, after a long debate, remained silent, feeling bound by the oath he had given at his initiation. shortly after the news spread like wildfire that the president, taking cognizance of the intolerable state of affairs, had summoned representatives of the three sophomore societies before him, and given them a month to deliberate and decide on some scheme of reform that would be comprehensive and adequate. rightly or wrongly, stover felt that these developments intensified the feeling of the society element against him. a few weeks outside the boundaries, despite all his bravado, had brought home to him how much he cared for the companionship of those from whom he had separated. regan was his one friend; brockhurst stimulated him; and in the intercourse with swazey, pike, lake, ricketts, and others he had found a certain inspiration. but after all, the men of his own kind--story, hungerford, and others, whom from pride he now avoided--were largely the men of the society crowd. they spoke a language he understood, they came from a home that was like his home, and their judgment of him would go with him out into the new relations in life. [illustration: "regan was his one friend"--_page ._] it was a time of depression and bitter revolt at what he knew was the injustice of his ostracism, forgetting how much was of his own proud choosing. he wandered from crowd to crowd, rather taciturn and restless, seeking diversion with a consuming nervousness. the new restlessness of spirit drove him away from the conferences in regan's and swazey's rooms to the company of idlers. for a period, in his pride and bitterness, he let go of himself, flung the reins to the wind, and started down hill with a gallop. in pursuance of his policy of open defiance, he chose to appear at mory's with the wildest element of the class. his companions were a little in awe of his grim, concentrated figure; when he sat into a game of poker or joined a table of revelers, he did it with no zest. he never joined in the chorus, and if he occasionally broke out into a boisterous laugh, there was always a jarring note to it, that caused his companions to glance at him uneasily. with the impetuousness of his nature, he outstripped his associates, plunging deeper and deeper, obstinately resolved, into the black gulf of his cynicism. in a week his excesses became college gossip, and, unknown to stover, the subject of many long conferences among his friends. one friday night, as, straying aimlessly from room to room, he set out for mory's in quest of tom kelly and a group of sheff pagans, he was trudging along the hard ways in front of welch hall, fists sunk in his pockets, head down under a slouch hat, when he chanced on tom regan coming out of the brick row. "hello there, bantam," said regan, with the prerogative of his size. "hello, tom," he said, but without enthusiasm, for he had rather avoided him in company with the rest of his old friends. "that's a deuced cordial greeting! where are you bound, stranger?" "mory's." "mory's," said regan, appearing to consider. "good idea. i've got a hankering after a toby of musty ale and a rabbit myself. wait till i stow these books and i'll join you." stover stood frowning, suspicious and rebelling, for at that age it is a point of honor, when a man of the world resolves to run his head against a stone wall, that any interference from a friend is regarded as an unwarranted insult. "he thinks he'll try the big brother act on me," he said, scowling. he was not in a particularly good humor, nor was his head clear from several nights that had gone their reeling way. when they entered mory's, tom kelly, dopey mcnab, and buck waters were already grouped in the inner room. "well, old flinthead, how do you feel after last night?" said kelly, making room for them. "fine," said dink mendaciously, secretly pleased at the tribute to his sporting talents before regan. "more'n i can say," said dopey, affectionately feeling of his head. "curse the man who invented fish-house punch." [illustration: "'curse the fellow who invented fish-house punch'"--_page ._] "get home all right?" continued kelly. "sure." "i had a little tiff with a cop. if he'd been smaller, i'd have taken his shield away. he was most impudent. never mind, i beat him in a foot race." "cocktails," said stover, resolved that regan should be well punished. "make it two for me, louis, i'll have to catch up." "i'll stick to a toby and a rabbit," said regan, without a change of expression. "cocktail, dopey?" continued stover, with a millionaire gesture. "i never refuse," said dopey, who planned to go through life on that virtuous method. with such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility. stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds, matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here as elsewhere. regan, after two tobies, withdrew from the contest, sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at interference. bob story and hungerford came in, and went away with a glance at stover's clouded face and regan's stolid, unfathomable expression. when midnight arrived, and louis came in with apologies to announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid. stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of what he had taken. he felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood firm, and his head was still under control. buck waters and a sheff man took tom kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling match or a foot race with too zealous members of the new haven police force; and stover had the fierce pride of showing regan that he could take charge of the hilarious but wabbly dopey mcnab, who, moved by the finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his superfluous change among his brother beings. with great dignity and impressiveness, stover, supporting one side, continued to give foggy directions to regan on the other, until, come to mcnab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure. stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and minute pains. "dopey's got weak head--no good--stand nothing," he said seriously to regan. "well, we've fixed him up for the night," said regan cheerily. "you've got a wonderful top, old sport." "i'm pretty good--dopey's got the weak head," said stover, taking his arm. "i'm good, i can put 'em under the table--all under the table." "good for you." "tom, you aren't--aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said dink, with all feeling of resentment gone. "lord, no, boy." "'cause it does me good--this does me good. i feel bad--pretty bad, tom, about some things. you don't know--can't tell--but i feel bad--this does me good--forget--you understand." "i understand." "you're a good friend, tom. they don't understand--no one else understands. i'd like to shake hands. thank you. good night." they had come opposite the brick row, and regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. but he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said: "feel all right, old bantam?" "fine." stover took a step or two, and then returned. "i put 'em to bed, didn't i?" "you certainly did." "never 'fects me." "you're a wonder." "i thank you for your company." "good night." stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him. "must get there--self-control--that's it, self-control," he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of regan's vision, sat heavily down on the steps. some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas. "who are you?" he said. "wookey, sir." "what's your class?" "freshman, sir." "very well. all right. you can help me--help me up. you know me?" "yes, sir." the pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. when he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog. "who are you?" he said, frowning. "wookey, sir." "where do you room?" "on the first landing, sir." "why do you wear pink ones?" the little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out: "don't you like 'em, sir?" "keep 'em on," said stover magnanimously. "so you're a freshman." "yes, sir." suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him. "freshman," he said thickly, "i want you listen to me. never drink to excess--understand. you beginning college--school of character--hold on yourself--lead a good life--self-control's the great thing--take it from me--understand?" "yes, sir," said wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he was rendering to the great dink stover. "that's all," said stover benignly. "is--is my bedroom still there?" "yes, sir." "you may lead me to it." when he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said: "i thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." then he said to himself: "it does me good--forget--happy now." a moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep. chapter xxi night after night, wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say: "hello, wookey, how are you to-night?" "all right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance. "all right myself," stover would answer. "see you to-morrow. good night." gradually, however, to his delight, stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. in the daytime they never met. stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed. one night stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum. "wookey." "yes, sir." "one thing must speak about--meant speak about long time ago." "what, sir?" said wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles. "study," said stover, with terrific solemnity. "want you be good scholar." "oh, yes, sir." "want you be validict--you understand what mean?" "yes, sir." "wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it's study, don't neglect study, you understand." "yes, sir; i do study pretty hard." "not enough," said stover furiously. "study all time! what 'cher do to-day? recite in--in greek, latin, eh?" "yes, sir--all right." "good, very good--proud of you, wookey," said stover, satisfied. "must be good influence--understand that, wookey. going to ask every night." "yes, sir." "all right. go an' study now. study lot more." this feeling of the influence he was exerting for wookey's academic betterment was so strong in dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought mcnab home with him to witness his works. when wookey appeared, something displeased stover. his protégé was not as he should be presented. suddenly he remembered--wookey was not in the pink pajamas! "wookey," he said sternly. "yes, sir." "the pink ones," he said solemnly. "very well, sir." "hurry." "yes, sir." "study's better in pink," said stover wisely to mcnab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. "most becomin'." "aha!" "make him study, dopey," continued stover. "i make him study." "want hear'm reshite," said mcnab, unconvinced. when wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, mcnab, who had been exhorted by stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said: "like you in pink, wookey; always wear 'em. want to hear you reshite." "reshite," said stover. "hold up," said dopey, scratching his head. "what's matter?" "where going to sleep?" "wookey, suggestions?" said stover, who added in a thundering whisper to mcnab, "always leave such things to wookey." the freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug. "thank mr. wookey," said stover severely. "mr. wookey, i thank you," said mcnab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "i'm most--interested--most, very fond of horace--reshite." wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of olympians, began directly to translate an ode of horace. mcnab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely: "what's that!--oh, yes, h'm--quite right--free, rather free, dink--not bad, not bad for freshman." "is it all right?" said stover anxiously. "all right." "all my influence," said stover. "wookey," said mcnab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. con-grath-ulate you." wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses. mcnab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head: "dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are." stover chose to be offended. "why you say that?" "'cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!" "what right you got to say that?" "every right--every," said mcnab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "i'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's diff, see?" "ratsh!" "i remember," said mcnab all at once. "i know what i want say. i'm going to leave it to wookey. wookey'll be the judge--referee--y'willin'?" "willin'." "'m going to give moral lecture," said mcnab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "i'm fond of stover, wookey, very fond--very worried, too, want him to stop drinking--bad for him--bad for any one, but bad for him!" stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh. "he's laughin' at me, wookey," said mcnab in a grieved voice. "he means by that insultin' laugh that i sometimes drink excess. i admit it; i'm not proud of it, but i admit it. but there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. when i take 'n occasional glass, i drink to be happy, make others happy--y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. that's the point--you're ref'ree. when stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. that's the point, y'understand. i want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce--i'm bad example." "you're my friend?" said stover, overcome. "you're besh friend." "shake hands." "shure." "dopey, i tell you truth--confide in you," said stover, slipping down beside him. "swear." "swear." "never tell." "never!" "i'm unhappy." "no!" "drink to forget, y'understand." "must stop it," said mcnab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front. "going to shtop it," said stover, "soon--stop soon--promise." "promish?" "promise! y'understand, want to forget." "must stop it," repeated mcnab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to stover. "promish," repeated stover solemnly. a moment later he said sleepily: "i shay." "shay it." "what--what i going to stop?" "what you, what--" mcnab frowned terrifically at the owls. "stop--must stop--promish--what--what stop?" the question being transferred to stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory. "i promished," he said slowly, "remember that--stop--promish stop. wookey!" "yes, sir." the pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance. "wookey! what--what's this all about? what's it?" wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other's hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret. but despite mcnab's more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of rake's progress. he still avoided his old friends--he had not been to the storys' home for weeks. regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. the truth was, stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. what he did, he did without restraint. at the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring for the raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what mcnab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. they were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. he wandered over into sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the law school, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met le baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and wookey unaided. he never was offensive or quarrelsome. on the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness. the climax arrived one friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put tom kelly to bed, and was returning from sheff alone. he was very well pleased with himself. he had delivered tom kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance. "weak head, all weak head," he said to himself valiantly, "all but stover, dink stover, old rinky dink. self-control, great self-control. that's it, that's the point. never taken home--walk myself--self-control." he began to laugh at the memory of tom kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. the excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. he clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy. "never hear end of it--tom kelly--boots--wonderful--poor old tom--'n i walkin' home--alone." some one on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off. "mustn't create false impression--all right! street corner--careful of street corner." he crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. "know just what 'm doin'. "_oh, father's mother_ _pays all the bills,_ _'n i have all the fun._" suddenly he remembered he was passing divinity hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology. "'scuse me, no offense." then he considered anxiously: "mishtake--nothin' hilar-ious--might be sunday." he tried to remember the day and could not. he stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously: "beg your pardon, don't mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?" "sure, me b'y," said the irishman. "it's to-morrow." "thanks--sorry trouble you," said stover, bowing. then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. "knew it was late--must hurry." when he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel. "battell--believe in compulsory chapel--yale democracy." he passed along college street, saluting the various buildings by name. "great inshtoostion--campus--brocky's right--bring life back into campus, bring it all back. things wrong now--everything's wrong--must say so--must stop an' fight, good fight. regan's right 'n swazey's right--all right. hello, donnelly. salute!" the campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of osborne hall, said: "so there you are again, dink. a fine life you're leadin'." stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism. "never saw any one take me home," he said. "always manage get home. that's the point, that's it--see?" "go on with you," said donnelly. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you who ought to be captain of the team." stover approached him. "bill--captain?" "what?" "i'm goin' to stop. solemn promish." he went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry. "i see it--see it plainly--perfect self-control. what's that?" the trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of pisa. he laughed cunningly: "don't fool me--might fool dopey--tom kelly--weak head--don't fool me--illushion, pure illushion--know all 'bout it. worse comes worse, get down hands knees." "well, dink, pickled again," said the voice of le baron from an outer world. he straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others. "all right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all." "look here, dink," said le baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words--man to man." stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely. "good." "we've had our break, but i've always respected you. you thought i was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. well, was i so far wrong? i believe in the best getting together and keeping together. you've chucked that and tried the other, haven't you? now look where it's brought you." stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. his head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. he wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come. "you're going to the devil, that's it in good english words," said le baron, not without kindness. "you ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you're headed for the biggest failure. and it's all because you've cut loose from your crowd, dink--from your own kind, because you've taken up with a bunch who don't count, who aren't working for anything here." suddenly stover revolted, saying angrily: "hugh!" "i don't want to hit you when you're down," said le baron quickly. "but, dink, man alive, you're too good to go to the devil. brace up--be a man. get back to your own kind again." "hugh, that's enough!" he said it sharply, and there was a finality about it. "i say, dink." "good night!" he stood without moving until he had compelled le baron to leave, then he set out for his room. a great anger swept over him--at himself, at the dink stover who had betrayed the cause, and given le baron the right to say what he did. "it isn't that," he said furiously, "it's not for breaking 'way--democracy--standing on m' own feet, no! it's a lie, all a lie. it's m' own fault--damn you, dink stover, you're quitter!" he marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on wookey's door. "come out!" the pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. the little freshman, perceiving stover's fierce expression, drew back in alarm. "go'n to help _you_ up to-night--able to do it," said dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve. he took wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. once in his room he motioned him to a chair. "sit down--somethin' to say to you!" wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big arm-chair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of stover. "studied to-day?" "yes, sir." "good. wookey, listen to me. i'm a quitter, you understand. i've fought fight--good fight--big fight--real democracy--'n then i lost nerve. i'm wrong; i'm all wrong. i know it. fault's with me, not what fought for. wookey, listen to me. le baron's wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn't know--realize--see." "yes, sir," said wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension. "i'm fool--big fool, but that's over, y'understand. never give le baron chance say again what he did to-night. 'm going fight again--good fight. an' no one's ever going say saw me like this again, y'understand." "yes, sir," said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in stover, rocking before the mantelpiece. "last time they ever get me this way!" the green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him. "the last time--by god," he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor. on the following night, a saturday, kelly, buck waters, and mcnab at mory's set up a shout of welcome as stover came in quietly: "good old dink!" "hard old head." "what is it, old boy?--get in the game." "a toby of musty, louis," he said, quietly sitting down. mcnab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips. "my round," said buck waters presently. "another toby for me," said stover. a little later kelly rang on the table: "bring 'em in all over again." "not for me," said stover. "i guess two'll be my limit from now on." there was no protest. mcnab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee. chapter xxii what stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little wookey on that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of the day. he had given his opponents the right to destroy all he had stood for by pointing to his own example. he had been a deserter from the cause, but the sound of the enemy's bugle had recalled him to the battle. he took the first occasion to stop le baron, for he wanted the latter to make no mistake about him. "hugh, i was rude as the devil to you the other night," he said directly. "i was drunk--more than you had any idea. what i want you to know is this. you put the question right up to me. you've forced me to take my stand, and i've done it. you're all wrong on the argument, but i don't blame you. only after this you'll never have the chance to fling that at me again. you and i'll never agree on things here, we're bound to be enemies, but i want to thank you for opening my eyes, putting it squarely up to me." he left without waiting for an answer, having said what he wished to. for several days he kept by himself, taking long walks, disciplining the ship that had sailed so long in mutiny. then he turned up in regan's room, and holding out his hand, said: "well, tom, it's over. how in blazes did you keep from telling me what you thought about me all this time?" regan, unruffled and undemonstrative, said through the cloud of his pipe: "well, i've seen men go through it before. you never were very bad." "what?" said stover, who felt rather annoyed at this tame estimate. "it's not a bad thing when you've licked the devil four ways to election," said regan. "you know what you can do, and that's something." "ever been through it?" said stover, still a little piqued. "ye-es." "really, tom?" said dink amazed. "ran about six months," said regan, crossing his legs and dreaming. "i wasn't nice and polite like you--used to clean up the place--rather ugly time, but i pulled out." "you've never told me about yourself," said stover tentatively. regan rose, reaching for the tobacco. "no, i never have," he said. "my story is one of those stories that isn't told. come on over to brocky's; he's got a debating scheme you'll be interested in." "you damned unemotional cuss," said stover, looking at him a little defiantly. "are you coming with me this summer to see a little real life--get a little real education?" said regan irrelevantly. "if you'll take me." "good boy." he rested his hand on stover's shoulder a moment, and gave him a little tap, and the touch brought a genuine thrill of happiness to dink. "lord, what a leader he'd make," he thought. "why is it, and what's the story the old rhinoceros can't tell, i wonder?" the old crowd was at brocky's, the crowd which had first stirred his imagination. his return produced quite a sensation. nothing was said, but the grip in the handshakes was different, and the diffident, hesitant little expressions of relieved good-will that came to him touched him more than he would have believed. brockhurst began to expound his scheme, speaking nervously, in compressed sentences, as he always did in the beginning of an argument. "here's what i'm trying to say. we've all been sitting round and criticizing--i mean i have--things up here. now why not really suggest something--worth while?" he frowned, and becoming angry at his own difficulty in expressing himself, gradually became more fluent. "we all feel the need of getting together and having real discussions, and we all agree that debating here has died out, become merely perfunctory. the debates take place in a class-room, and everything is cold, stiff, mechanical. now that all is unnecessary. what we want is something spontaneous, informal and with the incentive of a contest. this is my scheme. to take a certain number--say twenty--of the men in the class who really have ideas, and believe in expressing them; form a club to meet one night a week in some room over a restaurant where we can sit about tables, smoke, have beer and lemonade, a bit to eat if you want, everything natural, informal. divide the club up equally into two camps, each camp to have a leader for each debate, who opens the discussion and sums it up--the only formal, perfunctory speeches. every one else speaks as he feels like it, right from his table. have in an outside judge, and keep a record. at the end of the year the side that loses sets the other up to a banquet." stover was interested at once. he saw an instrument at hand for which he had been looking--something to bring the class together. "look here, it's bigger than that, brocky," he said earnestly. "i'm not criticizing--i like the idea, the whole thing, you know. but here's what we can do. make the club, say, forty, and get into it all the representative elements of the class--make it a real meeting place. get the fellows who are going to be managers and captains. they've all got to speak--the fellows on papers, the real debaters--and you'll have something that'll bring the class together." "what would you debate?" said swazey, while the others considered stover's suggestion. "college subjects every one has an opinion about at first," said regan. "and then get into red-hot politics." "of course stover's idea is a social one--democratic if you will," said brockhurst perplexed. "my idea was for a more intimate crowd, all alike, trying to discuss real things." "brocky, i don't believe you can do it," said stover. "my experience is that the big discussions, the ones worth while, always are informal, just as they've been in this crowd, and the crowd mustn't be too large." several nodded assent. "the other thing is something we need in the class. we've been torn to pieces, all at loggerheads, and i believe, outside of the debating, this is the first step to getting together. moreover, i think you'll find all crowds will jump at the chance. let me talk it around." "i think dink's got the practical idea, brocky," said regan. "and, moreover, he's the man to work it." as they went out together they were met with the sensation of the campus--the sophomore societies had been abolished! stover stopped mcnab, who was hurrying past. "i say, dopey, is it true?" "sure thing." "how'd it happen?" "don't know." gimbel came up with the full news. "the president gave them a certain time, you remember, to submit a plan of reform. they reported they couldn't agree, so he called the committee together and said: "'well, gentlemen, i gave you the opportunity to conform to public sentiment, you haven't been able to do it, you are now abolished.'" "who'd have thought it!" "you don't say so!" "abolished!" "i know you're glad, dink, old man," said gimbel, shaking his hand with a confidential look. "we all know how you stood." "it's for the best," said stover slowly; then he added: "but gimbel, the fight's over; the big thing now is for the class to get together--be careful how you fellows take it." strangely enough, in the hour of defeat the instinct of caste came back to him--he was again the sophomore society man. he walked over to his rooms with a curious feeling of resentment at the rejoicing on the campus, where the news was being shouted from window to window. bob story, leaving the fence, came over and took him by the arm. "dink, old fellow, i've been waiting to see you." "i've just heard the news," said stover, when they reached his room. "that's not what i came about," said story, "though it fits in all the better. dink, you won't mind our clearing up a little past history?" "i wish you would, bob," said stover earnestly. "i know you never saw things my way." "no, i didn't. i don't say you were wrong. it was a question of different temperaments. you did a braver thing than i would have done--" "oh, i say--" "yes, i mean it. of course i think it was all a rotten mistake, and that if you'd talked the matter out as you've done with me, le baron and reynolds would have seen your side." "perhaps so." "i felt that reynolds had acted like an ass, and you very naturally had lost your temper--the result being to put the society in the position as a society of dictating a man's friendships. i don't believe that was justified." "indirectly, bob, it worked out that way." "there i believe you're right, dink," said story openly. "i've come to see it, and i admit it now. i'm glad the system has gone. i'm for the best here. now, dink,"--he hesitated a moment--"i know you've been through a rotten time; you've felt every one was against you unjustly. i know all that, and i know you've got hold of yourself again." "that's true." "what i want to talk over with you now is this. don't let what has passed keep you away from any one in the class." "but, bob," said dink, amazed, "how can i help it? the soph crowd must be down on me--particularly now." "rats, they all know pretty well the circumstances, and they all respect your nerve, that's honest. we like a good fighter up here. now, dink, more than ever, we need a real leader here to bring us together again. don't leave the field to bain and hunter--they're all right in their way, but they can't see things in a big way. go right out where you've always gone, twice the man you used to be, and make us all follow you. don't make apologies for what you did--go out as though you were proud of it, and the whole bunch will rise up and follow you." "i get what you mean," said stover solemnly. "that's horse sense, bob--you've always got that. i wish you'd said it before." "i wish i had." stover looked at him wondering, but not daring to ask if some one else had prompted him to the act. "it's strange you came just now, bob," he said. "you've put words in my mouth that were already there. i've just been talking over a scheme that i think's a big idea. it's brockhurst's." he detailed the plan and his own suggestion. story was enthusiastic. they talked at length, drawing up a list of possible members, with the enthusiasm of pioneers. "i say, dink, there's one thing more," said bob, as he started to go. "i've been thinking a lot lately about things here, and what i want for the next two years--this is about ended. i'd like to propose something to you." "propose it." "what do you say to you and me, joe hungerford, and tom regan, all rooming together another year?" "tom?" said stover, surprised a moment. "the very thing if he'd do it." "the four of us are all different enough to make just the combination we need. i'm tired of bunking alone. i want to rub up against some one else." "there's nothing i could have thought of better, bob. you're right, we four ought to be friends--real friends--and stand together. here's my hand on it." "bully. i've spoken to joe, and he's going to see regan. i say, dink, drop in soon." "sure thing." "i mean at the house." "oh, yes." a little constraint came to him, and then a flush of boyish hope. "i'm coming round." "because--the family have been wondering." when bob had gone, stover stood a long while gazing at the excited groups about the fence, retailing the all-important news. "by george, i'll do it," he said at last. "i'll not leave it to tommy bain or jim hunter. it may be a fight, but i'm going out to lead because i can do it, and because i believe in the right things." then he thought over all the incidents of bob's visit, and he fell into a musing state with sudden wild jumps of the imagination. "i wonder--did he come of his own accord--i wonder if she knew!" with one of his old-time sudden resolves, he went that very night to the storys'. the struggle he had come through in victory showed in a new, abrupt self-confidence. he felt older by a year than at his last visit. jean story was at the piano, jim hunter on the wide seat beside her, turning over the leaves of her music. he saw it from the hall in the first glance. the judge, surprised, came to him, delighted. "well, if here isn't dink in the flesh. how are you? thought you'd eloped somewhere. glad to see you; tarnation if i'm not glad to shake your hand." hungerford, bain, bob story, and stone were present; a little difference in their several greetings. "well, we're holding a sort of wake here," said the judge cheerily. "bain seems the most afflicted." "it's a hard moment," said stover calmly, knowing that any expression of opinion from him would be resisted in certain quarters. "i felt quite upset myself to-day when i heard the news, despite the stand i've taken." hunter looked up and then down, but said nothing. "it's for the best," said hungerford, not wishing him to stand alone. "best for the college as a whole." "that remains to be seen," said bain. "i passed gimbel coming over, and his crowd. it wasn't very pleasant." "well, it's over," said dink in a matter-of-fact tone. "no post-mortem! the great thing now is to recognize what exists. the class to-day is shot to pieces. we want to get together again. one half our time's up, and, wherever the fault, we've done nothing but scrap and get apart." "i've been telling them a little about your scheme, yours and brockhurst's," said story. stover launched into an enthusiastic argument in its support. bain and hunter followed, instinctive in their opposition, each perceiving all the superiority that would derive to stover from its success. "may i ask," said hunter finally, in a tone of icy criticism, "what is the difference between knocking down the sophomore society and putting up this organization?" "very glad to tell you, jim," said stover, assuming an attitude of careful good-will. "the difference is that this is an open organization, drawing from every element of the class, to meet for the sole purpose of doing a little thinking and getting to know other crowds. the sophomore society was an organization drawn from one element of the class, consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of advancing the social ambitions of its members at the expense of others. one is natural and democratic, and the other's founded on selfishness and exclusiveness." the judge, fearing the results of a controversy, broke in, switching the conversation to safer channels. "by the way, jim," said stover, in an interlude, "we're counting on you and tommy bain to go into this thing and make it a success. is that right?" despite their reluctance at so prompt an espousal, hunter and bain were too far-seeing to set themselves in opposition. but the acceptance was given without enthusiasm, and, not relishing this sudden renewal of authority in one whom they naturally held at fault, they soon broke up the party. hungerford and bob went into the billiard room for a game, and presently the judge disappeared upstairs to run over some routine work. stover took the seat vacated by hunter, with perhaps a little malicious pleasure, saying: "aren't you going on playing?" the young girl hesitated a moment, turning the leaves aimlessly. "i don't know," she said. "do you want me to very much?" "i'd much rather talk." she closed the music, turning to him with a little reproachful seriousness. "you've been away a long while." "yes." he admitted the implied accusation with a moment's silence. "a crazy spell of mine. bob was over this afternoon and we had a long talk." he said it point blank, watching her face for some indication he hoped to find there of her complicity. "did he tell you?" "he was speaking of it at the dinner table," she said quietly. "did you blame me," he said impulsively, "for what i did about getting out of my society?" "no." "bob did, at least for a while," he said, looking eagerly into her eyes. "i did not agree with him there." she rose. "if we are going to talk, let's find more comfortable chairs." he followed her, a little irritated at the sudden closing on this delightful prospect. they took chairs by the window. through the vista of open rooms could be seen the glare of the brilliant lights, and the figures of the two young fellows moving at their game. suddenly, with a return of the old-time feeling of camaraderie between them, he burst out: "you know i've got into such a serious point of view! i don't quite know how it happened. sometimes it seems to me i'm missing all the fun of college life." he made a gesture toward the billiard room. "even fellows like mcnab, good for nothing, jovial little loafers, according to yale standards, do seem to be getting something wonderful out of these years. i don't. it's been all work or fighting." "that's because they are going different ways in life than you are," she said quickly. "tell me more about this new organization. it seems a big idea. whom will you take in?" she added suddenly: "take charge yourself, do it all yourself. it's just what you should do." he was too much interested in the expounding of the idea to notice the solicitude she showed him. after a while the conversation drifted to other topics. he spoke of the summer. "joe wants me to go on a cruise, and bob wants me to run up to your camp for a visit, but i've about decided to do neither." she looked up. "why not?" "i am going with regan for the summer--slumming it, i suppose some would call it; tom calls it getting real education. we're going down to work among men who work, to know something of what they think and want--and what they think of us. it appeals to me tremendously. i want to have an all-around point of view. there are so many opportunities coming now, and i want to grasp them all--learn all i can. what do you think?" "it is a splendid idea, just the thing for you now. it will broaden you," she said, with a determined bob of her head. "why doesn't bob ever bring regan around? he sounds interesting." "don't know--he sticks by himself. you can't move him. bob's told you about the four of us rooming together?" "yes." "i wonder--" "what?" she asked as he stopped. "did you suggest to bob what he said to me this afternoon?" he said point blank. she looked at him troubled and undecided, and he suddenly guessed the reason. "oh, won't you trust me enough to tell me," he said boyishly, "if you did?" she looked into his eyes a moment longer. "he was afraid you wouldn't like it," she said simply. "yes, i told him to go." a dozen things rushed to his lips, and he said nothing. perhaps she liked his silence better than anything he could have said, for she added: "you will do the big things now, won't you? you see, i want to see you at your biggest." when he went home that night, he seemed to walk on air. he had taken no advantage of her friendship, tempted almost beyond his powers as he had been by the kindness in her voice and her direct appeal. he had to tell some one, not of the interest he felt she had shown him, but of his own complete adoration and supreme consecration. so he hauled hungerford up to his room, who received the information as to stover's state of mind with gratifying surprise, as though it were the most incredible, mystifying, and incomprehensible bit of news. chapter xxiii when stover returned to college as a junior, he showed the results of his summer with regan. he had gone into construction gangs, and learned to obey and to command. he had had a glimpse of what the struggle for existence meant in the stirring masses; and he had known the keenness of a little joy and the reality of sorrow to those for whom everything in life was real. he had long ago surrendered the idea of entering skull and bones over the enmity of reynolds and le baron, and this relinquishing somehow robbed him of all the awe that he had once felt. he had returned a man, tempered by knowledge of the world, distinguishing between the incidental in college life and the vital opportunity within his grasp. the new debating club, launched in the previous spring, had been an instant success, and its composition, carefully representative, had become the nucleus of a new comradeship in the class. with the one idea of proving his fitness to lead in this new harmonizing development, stover made his room a true meeting-place of the class, and, loyally aided by hungerford and story, sought to restore all the old-time zest and good-will to the gatherings about the sophomore fence. his efforts were met by a latent opposition from hunter and bain, on one side, who never outgrew their wounded resentment, and from gimbel on the other, who, though enthusiastically seconding him in the open, felt secretly that he was being supplanted. but, as story had foreseen, stover had the magnetism and the energy to carry through what no other leader would have accomplished. once resolved on the accomplishment, upheld by a strong sentimental devotion, stover went at his task with a blunt directness that disdains all objections. each saturday night was given over to a rally of the class _en masse_ at the tontine. certain groups held off at first, but soon came into the fold when stover, who was no respecter of persons, would find occasion to say publicly: "hello there, what happened to you last night? get out of that silk-lined atmosphere of yours! wake up! you're not too good for us, are you?" "well, why weren't you there? it's no orgy--you can get lemonade or milk if you want. there are bad men present, but we keep 'em from biting." "i say, forget your poker game for one night. we all know you're dead game sports. that's why we want you--to give us an atmosphere of real life." the remarks were made half in jest, half in earnest, but they seldom failed of their object. at the saturday night rallies it was the same. stover was everywhere, saying with his good-humored, impudent smile what no one else dared to say, sometimes startling them with his boldness: "here now, fellows, no grouping around here. we want to see a sport and a gospel shark sitting arm in arm. come on, schley, your social position's all right--there's only one crowd here to-night. no one here is going to boost you into a senior society. percolate, fellows, percolate. we've scrapped like sam hill, now we're tired of it. no more biting, scratching, or gouging. don't forget this is a love feast, and they're going to be lovelier. now let's try over that song for the princeton game. bob story perpetrated it--pretty rotten, i think, but let's hit it up all the same." the rallies jumped into popularity. the class gasped, then laughed at stover's abrupt reference to the late unpleasantness, and with the laugh all constraint went. the class found itself, as a regiment returns to its pride again. it went to the games in a body, it healed its differences, and packed the long room at the tontine each saturday night, shouting out the chorus which buck waters, mcnab, stone, and the talent led. many, undoubtedly, marvelling at the ease with which stover had inspired the gathering, admired him for what they believed was a clever bid for society honors. but the truth was that he succeeded because he had no underlying motive, because he had achieved in himself absolute independence and fearlessness of any outer criticism, and his strength with the crowd was just the consciousness of his own liberty. by the fall of junior year, he was the undisputed leader of the class, a force that had brought to it a community of interest and friendly understanding. unknown to him, his classmates began to regard him, despite his old defiance, as one whom a senior society could not overlook. stover had no such feeling. he believed that the hatred in what remained of the sophomore society organization was, and would continue, unrelenting, and this conviction had determined him in a course of action to which he was impelled by other reasons. he went through the football season as he had gone through the previous season, with a record for distinguished brilliancy, acclaimed by all as the best end in years, the probable captain of the next year. he wanted the position, as he had desired it on his first arrival at yale, and yet he surrendered it. hunter had developed into a tackle and made the team. in the class below were two men of the defunct sophomore societies. stover had vividly before him the record of dana, his captain of freshman year, and the memory of the ordeal after the game, when he had stood up and acknowledged his lack of leadership. that this still resentful society element in the eleven would follow him with distaste and reluctance, despite all traditional loyalty, he knew too well. moreover, sure that he was destined to be passed over on tap day, he felt perhaps too keenly the handicap of such a rejection. then, at the bottom, reluctantly, he knew in his heart that regan was the born leader of men, and what once he had rebelled against he finally acknowledged. so when at the end of a victorious season the members of the eleven gathered for the election of the next year's captain, he stood up immediately and stated his views. it was a difficult announcement to make, both on the score of seeming sentimentality, and from the danger of seeming to refuse what might not be offered him. but during the tests of the last year the self-consciousness which would have prevented brockhurst's expressing himself had completely gone. determined on one course of action, to be his own master, to do what he wanted to do, and to say what he wanted to say, in absolute fearlessness, he spoke with a frankness that amazed his comrades, still under the fetish of upper-class supremacy. "before we begin," he said, "i've a few words i want to say. i suppose i am a candidate here. i don't say i shouldn't be crazy to have the captaincy. i would--any one would. what i say is that i have thought it over and i withdraw my name. even if you hadn't in tom regan here the best type of leader you could get, it would be very unfortunate for our chances next year if i were chosen. i'm quite aware that in a certain element of the team, due to the open stand i felt forced to take in the question of the sophomore society, there is a great deal of resentment against me. i can understand that; it is natural. but there should be no such division in a yale team. we've got a tough fight next year, and we need a captain about whom are no enmities, who'll command every bit of the loyalty of the team"--he paused a moment--"and every bit of help he can get from the college. i move that tom regan be unanimously elected captain." there was quite an outcry at the end of his declaration, especially from regan, who was utterly surprised. but stover held firm, and perceived, not without a little secret resentment, that the outcome came with relief not only to the team but to the coaches. when they returned, and regan was still protesting, stover said frankly: "look here, tom, we don't split hairs with one another. if i had thought it was right for me to stand for it i would have. i wanted it--like hell. you remember dana? i do. it's an awful thing to lead a team into defeat, and say i was responsible. i don't care to do it. besides, you are the better man--and i'm of such a low, skulking nature i hate to admit it. so shut up and buy me a rabbit at mory's. i'm hungry as a pirate." he had said nothing of his determination to any one. he had been tempted to talk it over with jean story, but he had refrained, feeling instinctively that in her ambition for him, and in her inability to judge the depth of certain antagonisms towards him, she would oppose his determination. the four friends had gone to lyceum together--swazey and pike were in the same building. there was a certain flavor of the simplicity and ruggedness of old yale in the building that gave to the meetings in their rooms a character of old-time spontaneity. by the opening of the winter term, stover, the enthusiast, had begun to see the weakness of movements that must depend on organization. the debating club, which had started with a zest, soon showed its limitations. once the edge of novelty had worn off, there were too many diverting interests to throng in and deplete the ranks. when, following regan's suggestion, they had attempted a new division on the lines of the political parties, the result was decidedly disappointing. there was no natural interest to draw upon, and the political discussions, instead of fanning the club into a storm of partizanship, lapsed into the hands of perfunctory debaters. regan himself took his disillusionment much to heart. they discussed the reasons of the failure one stormy afternoon at one of their informal discussions, to which they had returned with longing. "what the devil is the matter?" said the big fellow savagely. "why, where i come from, the people i see, every mother's son of them, feed on politics, talk nothing else--they love it! and here if you ask a man if he's a republican or a democrat, he writes home and asks his father. a condition like this doesn't exist anywhere else on the face of the globe. and this is america. why?" when he had propounded the question, there was a busy, unresponsive puffing of pipes, and then pike added: "that's what hits me, too. just look at the questions that are coming up; popular election of senators, income tax, direct primaries; it's like building over the government again, and no one here cares or knows what's doing. i say, why?" "there may be fifty-two reasons for it," said brockhurst, in his staccato, biting way. "one is, our colleges are all turning into social clearing houses, and every one is too absorbed in that engrossing process to know what happens outside; second is the fact that our universities are admirably organized instruments for the prevention of learning!" "good old brocky," said swazey with a chuckle. "just what i like; stormy outside, warm inside, and brocky at the bat. serve 'em up." brockhurst, who was used to this reception of his pointed generalizations, paid no heed. he, too, had grown in mental stature and in control. a certain diffidence was over him, and always would be; but when a subject came up that interested him, he forgot himself, and rushed into the argument with a zeal that never failed to arouse his listeners. brockhurst turned on swazey with the license that was always permissible. "well, what do you know? you've been here going on three years. you are supposed to be more than half educated. and you're not a fair example either, because you really are seeking to know something." "well, go on," said swazey, thoroughly aroused. "what do you know about the barbizon school, and the logical reasons for the revolt of the impressionists?" instantly there was an outcry: "not fair." "oh, i say." "that's no test." "finishing your third year, gentlemen," said brockhurst triumphantly, "age over twenty; the art of painting is of course known to the aborigines only in its cruder forms. well, does any one know at least who manet is, or what he's painted?" there was an accusing silence. "of course you've an idea of the barbizon school--one or two of you. you remember something about a man with a hoe or the angelus--that's sunday supplement education. now let me try you. please raise hands, little boys, when you know the answer to these questions, but don't bluff teacher. i'm not contending you should have a detailed knowledge of the world in your eager, studious minds. i am saying that you haven't the slightest general information. i'll make my questions fair. "first, music: i won't ask you the tendencies and theories of the modern schools--you won't know that such a thing as a theory in music exists. you know the opera of carmen--good old toreadore song. do you know the name of the composer? one hand--bob story. do you know the history of its reception? do you know the sources of it? do you know what bach's influence was in the development of music? did you ever hear of leoncavallo, verdi, or that there is such a thing as a russian composer? absolute silence. you have a hazy knowledge of wagner, and you know that chopin wrote a funeral march. that is your foothold in music; there you balance, surrounded by howling waters of ignorance. "take up architecture. do you know who built the vatican? do you know the great buildings of the world--or a single thing about greek, roman and renaissance architecture? do you know what the modern french movement is based upon? nothing. "take up religion. do you know anything about confucius, shintoism, or swedenborg, beyond the names? of course you would not know that under louis xvi a determined movement was made to reunite the catholic and protestant branches, which almost succeeded. that's unfair, because of course it is the forerunner of the great religious movement to-day. do you know the history of the external symbols of the christian religion, and what is historically new? darkness denser and denser. "take literature. you have excavated a certain amount of shakespeare, and grubbed among elizabethans, and cursed spenser. who has read taine's history of english literature, or known in fact who taine is? only bob story. and yet there is the greatest book on the whole subject; you could abolish the english department and substitute it. beside story, who else has had even a fair reading knowledge of any other literature--russian, norwegian, german, french, italian? who knows enough about any one of these writers to look wise and nod; renan, turgeniev, daudet, björnson, hauptman, suderman, strindberg? do you know anything about goethe as a critic, or the influence of poe upon french literature? what do you know? i'll tell you. you know les misérables and the three musketeers in french literature. you know goethe wrote faust. you're beginning to know ibsen as a name, and one may have read tolstoi, and all know that he's a very old man with a long white beard, who lives among his peasants, has some queer ideas, and has started to die three or four times. the papers have told you that. "take another field, of simple curiosity on what is doing in a world in which by opportunity you are supposed to be of the leading class. what do you know about the strength and spread of socialism in germany, france and england? in the first place no one of you here probably has any idea of what socialism is; you've been told it's anarchy, and, as that only means dynamite to you, you are against socialism, and will never take the trouble to investigate it. what do you know about the new political experiments in new zealand?--nothing. what do you know about the labor pension system in germany, or the separation of the church and state in france?--all subjects dealing with the vital development of the race of bipeds on this earth of which you happen to be members. "now here is a catch question--all candidates for the dunce-cap will take a guess. the botticelli story is such a chestnut now that you all know that it isn't a cheese or a wine--credit that to ridicule. i'm going to give you a few names from all the professions, and let's see who can tag them. what was spinoza, holman hunt, dostoiefski, ambrose thomas, savonarola (if you've read the novel you'd know that), bastien le page, zorn, bizet, bossuet! unfair?--not at all. these things are just as necessary to know to a man of education and culture as it is to a man of good manners to realize that peas are not introduced into the mouth by being balanced on a knife." "help!" cried hungerford, as brockhurst went rushing on. "great scott, what _do_ we know?" "you know absolutely nothing," said brockhurst savagely. "here you are; look at yourselves--four years when you ought to learn something, some informing knowledge of all that has developed during the four thousand years the human race has fought its way toward the light, four years to be filled with the marvel and splendor of it all, and you don't know a thing. "you don't know the big men in music; you don't know the pioneers and the leaders in any art; you don't know the great literatures of the world, and what they represent; you don't know how other races are working out their social destinies; you've never even stopped to examine yourselves, to analyze your own society, to see the difference between a civilization founded on the unit of the individual, and a civilization, like the latin, on the indestructible advance of the family. you have no general knowledge, no intellectual interests, you haven't even opinions, and at the end of four years of _education_ you will march up and be handed a degree--bachelor of arts! magnificent! and we americans have a sense of humor! do you wonder why i repeat that our colleges are splendidly organized institutions for the prevention of learning? no, sir, we are business colleges, and the business of our machines is to stamp out so many business men a year, running at full speed and in competition with the latest devices in cambridge and princeton!" "brocky, you are terrific," said swazey in admiration. there was too much truth in the attack, violent as it was, not to have called forth serious attention. "i feel a good deal the way you do," said bob story, and stover nodded, "only it seems to me, brocky, a good deal of what you're arguing for must come from outside--in just such informal talks as this." "that's true," said brockhurst. "if the stimulus in the college life itself were toward education all our meetings would be educational. it's true abroad, it isn't here. you know my views. you think i'm extreme. i'm getting an education because i didn't accept any such flap-doodle as, 'what am i going to do for yale?' but instead asked, 'what has yale got to offer me?' i'm getting it, too." stover suddenly remembered the conversation they had together the year before, and looking now at brockhurst, revealed in a new strength, he began to understand what had then so repelled him. "the great fault," continued brockhurst, "lies, however, with the colleges. the whole theory is wrong, archaic and ridiculous--the theory of education by schedule. all education can do is to instil the love of knowledge. you get that, you catch the fire of it--you educate yourself. all education does to-day is to develop the memory at the expense of the imagination. it says: 'here are so many pounds of greek, latin, mathematics, history, literature. in four years our problem is to pass them through the heads of these hundreds of young barbarians so that they will come out with a lip knowledge.'" "but come, we do learn something," said hungerford. "no, you don't, joe," said brockhurst. "you've translated the iliad--you've never known it. you've recited in horace--you have no love for him. you've excavated the plays of shakespeare, a couple of acts at a time; you don't know what hamlet means or lear, the beauty of it all has escaped you. you've _recited_ in logic and philosophy, but you don't understand what you're repeating. you're only _repeating_ all the time. your memory is trained to hold a little knowledge a little time--that's all. you don't enjoy it, you're rather apologetic--or others are." "well, what other system is there?" said regan. "there is the preceptorial system of england," said brockhurst, "where a small group of men are in personal contact with the instructor. in french universities, education is a serious thing because failure to pass an examination for a profession means two extra years of army service. men don't risk over there, or divide up their time heeling the _news_ or making a team. in germany a man is given a certain number of years to get a degree, and i believe has to do a certain amount of original work. "but of course the main trouble here is, and there is no blinking the fact, that the colleges have surrendered unconsciously a great deal of their power to the growing influence of the social organization. in a period when we have no society in america, families are sending their sons to colleges to place themselves socially. some of them carry it to an extreme, even directly avow their hope that they will make certain clubs at princeton or harvard, or a senior society here. it probably is very hard to control, but it's going to turn our colleges more and more, as i say, into social clearing houses. at present here at yale we keep down the question of wealth pretty well; fellows like joe hungerford here come in and live on our basis. that's the best feature about yale to-day--how it will be in the future i don't know, for it depends on the wisdom of the parents." "social clearing house is well coined," said hungerford. "i think it's truer though of harvard." "that's perhaps because you see the mote in your neighbors' eyes," said brocky rising. "well, discussion isn't going to change it. who's always talking about school for character--pike or brown? we might as well stand for that--but it would not be very wise to announce it to the american nation, would it?--we might be dubbed a reformatory. fathers, send your sons to college--reform their characters, straighten out the crooks. at the end give 'em a degree of--of, say--g. b." "what's that, brocky?" said swazey, grinning with the rest. "good boy," said brockhurst, who departed, as he liked, on the echoes of the laugh which he had inspired. "whew!" said hungerford, with a comical rubbing of his head. "what struck me?" "and i expect to make phi beta kappa," said swazey, with an apologetic laugh. "what a dreadfully disconcerting person," said bob story. "by george, it takes the conceit out of you," said stover ruthfully. "shall we all start in and learn something? what's the answer?" at this moment a familiar slogan was heard below, increasing in riotous, pagan violence with the approach of boisterous feet. "_oh, father and mother_ _pay all the bills,_ _and we have all the fun._ _hooray!_ _that's the way we do in college life--_ _in college life._" the room burst into a roar of laughter. "there's one answer," said regan rising. the door slammed open, and mcnab and buck waters reeled in arm in arm. "i say, fellows, we've cornered the sleigh market," said dopey uproariously. "we're all going to beat it to the cheshire inn, a bottle of champagne to the first to arrive. are you on?" half an hour later, stover at the reins was whirling madly along the crusty roads, in imminent danger of collision with three other rollicking parties, who packed the sleighs and cheered on the galloping horses, singing joyfully the battle hymn of the pagans: "_oh, father and mother_ _pay all the bills,_ _and we have all the fun._ _hooray!_ _that's the way we do_ _in college life._" chapter xxiv once stover had reconciled himself to the loss of a senior society election, he found ample compensation in the absolute liberty of action that came to him. it was not that he condemned this parent system; he believed in it as an honest attempt to reward the best in the college life, a sort of academic legion of honor, formed not on social cleavage, but given as a reward of merit. in his own case, he believed his own personal offending in the matter of le baron and reynolds had been so extreme that nothing could counteract it. so he gave himself up to the free and untrammelled delights of living his own life. his fierce stand for absolute democracy made of his rooms the ante-room of the class, through which all crowds seemed to pass, men of his own kind, socially calculating, glad to be known as the friends of regan, hungerford and story, all rated sure men, and stover, about whom they began to wonder more and more, as a unique and rebellious personality, which, contrary to precedent, had come to bear down all opposition. gimbel and hicks, elected managers for the coming year, came often, willing to conciliate the element they had fought, in the hopes of a favorable outcome on tap day. men who worked their way dropped in often on regan; ricketts, with his drawling yankee astuteness, always laughing up his sleeve; twenty odd, lonely characters, glad to sink into a quiet corner and listen to the furious discussions that raged about brockhurst, story and regan. it was seldom that stover talked. he learned more by listening, by careful weighing of others' opinions, than in the attempt to classify his own thoughts through the medium of debate. at times when the discussion wandered from vital sources, he would ask a question, and these sharp, direct remarks had a pertinency and a searching trenchancy that sometimes upset an elaborate argument. regan brought him to the romance of commonplace things, to a genuine interest and study of political conditions; brockhurst irritated and dissatisfied him, and so stimulated him to reading and self-analysis; story, with his seriousness and fairness, recalled him always to a judicial point of view and an understanding of others; hungerford, with his big, effusive nature, always dissatisfied and eager for realities, was akin to his own nature, and they grew into a confidential intimacy. in a community of splendid barbarians, their circle was exceptional, due to the pronounced individuality of their several rebellious minds. despite the abolition of the sophomore societies, other groups still maintained their exclusiveness, and kept alive the old antagonism, as the approach of tap day intensified the struggle for election and the natural campaigning of friend for friend. as brockhurst had prophesied, the chairmanship of the _lit_ board went to wiggin, a conscientious, thorough little plodder, who had never failed to hand in to each number his numerically correct quota of essays, two stories, a hammered-out poem and two painful portfolios. on the night of the election, stover heard from his room in lyceum the familiar: "oh, you dink stover--stick out your head." "hello there, brocky; come up," he said anxiously. "who got it?" "wiggin, of course. come on down, i want a ramble." it was the first time that brockhurst had shown a longing for companionship. stover returned into the room, announcing: "poor old chap. wiggin got it. isn't it the devil?" "wiggin--oh, lord!" said regan. "why, he's not fit to tie brocky's shoe-strings," said hungerford, who fired a volley of soul-relieving oaths. "i'm going down to bum around a bit with him," said stover, slipping on his coat, "cheer the old boy up." "well, he knew it." "lots of difference that makes!" below brocky, muffled to the ears, brim down, was whistling in unmusical enthusiasm. "_'tis a jolly life we lead,_ _care and sorrow we defy--_" "hello, that you, dink?" he said, breaking off. "come on for a tramp." at that age, being inexperienced, the undergraduate in questions of sympathy wisely returns to the instincts of the canine. stover, without speaking, fell into his stride, and they swung off towards west rock. "wiggin is the type of man," said brockhurst, meditatively puffing his pipe, "that is the glorification of the commonplace. he is a sort of sublime earthworm, plodding along and claiming acquaintance with the rose because he travels around the roots. he is really by instinct a bricklayer, and the danger is that he may continue either in literature or some profession where the cry is for imagination." "you could have beaten him out," said stover, as a solace. "and become an earthworm?" said brockhurst. "the luck of it is, he made up his mind to heel the _lit_. with his ideas he would have made leader of the glee club, president of the phi beta kappa, chairman of the _news_, or what not." "still, give him credit," said stover, smiling to himself, for he felt that he saw for the first time the human side of brockhurst. "i did; it was quite an amusing time." "what happened?" "why, the little grubber came up to me and said, 'brocky, old man, you ought to have had it.'" "why, that was rather decent," said stover. "rubbish. all form," said brockhurst impatiently. "showed the calibre of his mind,--the obvious; nothing but the obvious. he thought it the thing to say, that's all." "well, what did you answer?" said stover wondering. "i said, 'well, why didn't you vote for me then?'" stover burst out laughing, and brockhurst, who had lost a coveted honor, was a little mollified by the tribute. "of course he stammered and looked annoyed--naturally; situation his imagination couldn't meet, so i said: "'come, wiggin, no stuff and nonsense. you didn't think i ought to have it, and i know damn well, now that you've won out, you'll get a skull and bones to wear, pose in the middle of the photograph for the banner, and be thoroughly satisfied at our board meeting to sit back and listen while i do the talking.'" stover broke into a laugh. "brocky, you scandalized him." "not at all. he thought i was joking--the last thing that occurs to the grubber is that wit is only a polite way of calling a man an ass." "brocky, you're at your best, don't stop." brockhurst smiled. it was turning a defeat into a victory. he continued: "after all, wiggy is interesting. i'll be revenged. i'll put him in a book some day. he represents a type--the mathematical mind, quantity not quality. he set out for the chairmanship as a man trains for a long-distance run. do you know the truth? he rose every morning and took a cold shower, fifty swings to the left with the dumb-bell, fifty to the right, ate nothing heavy or starchy for his meals, walked the same distance each afternoon, and worked his two hours each night, hammering out divine literature." "oh, i say!" said dink, a little in doubt. brockhurst began to laugh. "he may have for all i know. now i'll bury him. he will be eminently successful--i like that word eminently. you see he has no sense of humor, and especially no imagination to hinder him." brockhurst, in one of his quixotic moods, began to gesture to the stars as he abandoned himself to the delights of his conceit. "oh, that's a wonderful thing, to have no imagination--the saving of commonplace minds. if wiggin had an imagination he would never have written a line, he would have perceived the immense distances that separated him from the olympians. instead he read stevenson, dumas, kipling, and, unafraid, wrote little stevenson echoes of dumas, capsule kiplings. he'll go out in the world, nothing will frighten him. he will rebel against nothing, for he hasn't an idea. he will choose the woman he needs for his needs, persuade himself that he's in love, and then persuade her. and he'll believe that's a virtuous marriage. he'll belong to the conservative party, the conservative church, and will be a distinguished subordinate, who will stand for tradition, institutions, and will be said to resemble some great man. then he'll die, and will be pointed to as a great example. _requiescat in pace._" "off with his head," said stover appreciatively. "now he's finished, own up, brocky, that you are furious that you did not buckle down and beat him out." "of course i am--damn it," said brockhurst. "i know i did right, but no one else will ever know it. and the strange thing is, dink, the best thing for me is to have missed out." "why, in heaven's name?" "if i had made the chairmanship, i should probably be tapped for bones--one of the successful. i might have become satisfied. do you know that that is the great danger of this whole senior business?" "what?" "the fellow who wears his honors like a halo. he's made bones or keys, he's a success in life. nothing more awaits him. 'i was it.'" "still, you would have liked it." "sure; i'm inconsistent," said brocky, with a laugh. "it's only when i don't get what i want that my beautiful reason shows me i shouldn't have had it." "well, there's no danger of either of us disappearing under the halos," said stover shortly. "i'm not so sure about you," said brockhurst. the casual doubt aroused strange emotions in stover. "i thought you didn't believe in them," he said slowly. "i don't. i don't believe in organizations, institutions, traditions--that's my point of view," said brockhurst. "but then i'm in the world to be in revolt." "you once spoke of the society system--the whole thing as it exists in america--" said stover, "as a sort of idol worship. i never quite understood your meaning." "why, i think it's quite obvious," said brockhurst surprised. "what was idol worship? a large body of privileged charlatans, calling themselves priests, impressed the masses with all the flummery of mysterious ceremonies, convenient voices issuing from caves or stone idols. what was an idol? an ordinary chunk of marble, let us say, issuing from the sculptor's chisel. when did it become sacred and awe-inspiring? when it had been placed in an inner shrine of shrines, removed from the public, veiled in shadows, obscured by incense, guarded by solicitous guards; the stone is still a stone but the populace is convinced. look into a well in daylight--commonplace; look into it at night--a great mystery; black is never empty, the imagination fills it." "how does this apply?" said stover, impatiently. "cases are parallel. a group of us come together for the purpose of debate and discussion; no one notices it beyond a casual thought. suddenly we surround ourselves with mystery, appear on the campus with a sensational pin stuck in our cravats, a bat's head or a gallows, and when, marvellously enough, some one asks us what the dickens we are wearing, we turn away; instantly it becomes known that something so deadly secret has begun that we have sworn to shed our heart's blood before we allow the holy, sacred name of bat's head or gallow's bird to pass our lips!" "it's a little foolish, but what's the harm?" "the harm is that this mumbo-jumbo, fee-fi-fo-fum, high cockalorum business is taken seriously. it's the effect on the young imagination that comes here that is harmful. dink, i tell you, and i mean it solemnly, that when a boy comes here to yale, or any other american college, and gets the flummery in his system, believes in it--surrenders to it--so that he trembles in the shadow of a tomblike building, doesn't dare to look at a pin that stares him in the face, is afraid to pronounce the holy, sacred names; when he's got to that point he has ceased to _think_, and no amount of college life is going to revive him. that's the worst thing about it all, this mental subjection which the average man undergoes here when he comes up against all this rigmarole of tap day, gloomy society halls, marching home at night, et cetera--et ceteray. by george, it _is_ a return of the old idol-worship idea--thinking men in this twentieth century being impressed by the same methods that kept nations in servitude to charlatans three thousand years before. it's wrong, fundamentally wrong--it's a crime against the whole moving spirit of university history--the history of a struggle for the liberation of the human mind." "but, brocky, what would you have them do--run as open clubs?" "not at all," said brockhurst. "i would strip them of all nonsense; in fact that is their weakness, not their strength, and it is all unnecessary. this is what i'd do: drop the secrecy--this extraordinary muffled breathless guarding of an empty can--retain the privilege any club has of excluding outsiders, stop this childishness of getting up and leaving the room if some old lady happens to ask are you a bones man or a keys man. instead, when a bones man goes to see a freshman whom he wants to befriend, have him say openly as he passes the chapter house: "'that's my society--skull and bones. it stands as a reward of merit here. hope you'll do something to deserve it.' "which is the better of the two ideas, the saner, the manlier and the more natural? what would they lose by eliminating the objectionable, unnecessary features--all of which you may be sure were started as horse play, and have curiously enough come to be taken in deadly earnestness?" "i think you exaggerate a little," said stover, unwilling to accept this arraignment. "no, i don't," said brockhurst stubbornly. "the thing is a fetish; it gets you; it's meant to get you. it gets me, and if you're honest you'll admit it gets you. now own up." "yes, i suppose it does." "now, dink, you're fighting for one thing up here, the freedom of your mind and your will." "why, yes," stover said, surprised at brockhurst's knowledge of his inner conflicts. "yes, that's exactly what i'm fighting out." "well, my boy, you'll never get what you're after until you see this thing as it is--the unreasoning harm done, the poppycock that has been thrown around a good central idea--if you admit such things are necessary, which of course i don't." "you see," said stover stubbornly, "you're against all organization." "i certainly am--inherited organizations," said brockhurst immediately, "organizations that are imposed on you. the only organization necessary is the natural, spontaneous coming together of congenial elements." they had returned to the campus, and brockhurst, by intent leading the way, stopped before the lugubrious bulk of skull and bones. "there you are," he said, with a laugh. "look at it. it's built of the same stone as other buildings, it has in it what secret? go up, young egyptian, to its mystery in awe and reverence, young idol worshiper of thirty centuries ago." "damn it, brocky, it does get me," said stover with a short laugh. "curious," said brockhurst, turning away. "the architecture of these sacred tombs is almost invariably the suggestion of the dungeon--the prison of the human mind." stover's conversation with brockhurst did not at first trouble him much. curiously enough the one idea he retained was that brockhurst had spoken of him as a possibility for tap day. "what nonsense," he said to himself angrily. "here, i know better!" but the next afternoon, the thought returning to him with pleasure, all at once, following a boyish whim, he passed into his old entry at lawrence, and, going down a little guiltily into the region of the bath-tubs, came to the wall on which was inscribed the lists of his class. on the bones list, third from the top, the name stover had been replaced and heavily underlined. it gave him quite a thrill; something seemed to leap up inside of him, and he went out hastily. then all at once he became angry. it was like opening up again a fight that had been fought and lost. "what an ass i am," he said furiously. "the deuce of a chance i have to go bones--with reynolds and le baron. can the leopard change his spots? about as much chance as a ki-yi has to go through a sausage machine and come out with a bark." but, as he went towards jean story's home, thinking of her and what she would want, the force of what brockhurst had said began to weaken. "brocky is impractical," he said artfully. "we must deal with things as they are, make the best of them. he exaggerates the effect on the imagination. at any rate, no one can accuse me of not taking a stand." he saw the old colonial home, white and distinguished under the elms, and he said to himself, hoping against hope: "if i were tapped--it would mean a good deal to her. i'll be darned if i'll let brocky work me up. i'm not going up against anything more! i've done enough here." he said it defiantly, for the courage of a man has two factors, his courage and the courage of the woman he loves. chapter xxv when he had returned to the college after the summer, he came to his first call on jean story with a confident enthusiasm, eager for the first look in her eyes. he had not corresponded with her during the summer. he had not even asked for permission to write, confident though he was that her consent would now be given. he was resolved, as a penance for his first blunder, to hold himself in reserve on every occasion. bob had written the news, always pressing him to take two weeks off for a visit to the camp, but dink, despite the tugging at his heart, had stuck to regan, perhaps a little secretly pleased to show his earnestness. now, as he came swinging impatiently toward the glowing white columns under the elms, he realized all at once what was the moving influence in his struggle for growth and independence. "here is the horny-handed son of toil," he said, holding out his hand with a laugh. she took it, turning over the firm palm with a little curiosity, and looked at him sharply, aware of a great change--they were no longer boy and girl. the vacation had made of the impetuous dink stover she had known a new personality that was strange and a little intimidating. he did not understand at all the sudden dropping of her look, nor the uneasy turning away, nor the quick constraint that came. he was hurt with a sudden sharp sting that he had never known before and the ache of unreasoning jealousy at the bare thought of what might have happened during the summer. "i'm awfully glad to see you," she said, but the words sounded formal. he followed her into the parlor puzzled, irritated by something he did not understand, something that lay underneath everything she said, and seemed to interpose itself as a barrier between them and the old open feeling of camaraderie. "mother will be so glad to see you," she said, after a little moment of awkwardness. "i must call her." this maneuver completed his bewilderment, which increased when, mrs. story joining them, suddenly the jean story of old returned with the same cordiality and the same enthusiasm. she asked a hundred questions, leading him on until he was launched into an account of his summer experiences, the little bits of real life that had brought home to him the seriousness of the world that waited outside. he spoke not as the stover of sophomore year, filled with the enthusiasm of discovery, but with a maturer mind, which had begun to reflect and to reason upon what had come into his knowledge. mrs. story, sunk in the old high-backed arm-chair near the fire, followed him, too, aware also of the change in the boy, wondering what lay in the mind of her daughter, camped at her knee on the hearth rug, listening so intently and yet clinging to her as though for instinctive protection. stover spoke only of outward things; the thoughts that lay beneath, that would have come out so eagerly before the girl, did not appear in the presence of another. as he understood nothing of this sudden introduction of a third into the old confidential relationship, he decided to be more formal than the girl, and rose while still his audience's attention was held by his account. "it's been awfully jolly to see you again," he said with a perfect manner to mrs. stover. "but you're going to stay to dinner," she said, with a little smile. "awfully sorry, but i've got a dozen things to do," he said, in the same careful, matter-of-fact tone. "bob sent word he'd come later." jean story had not urged him. he went to her with mechanical cheeriness, saying: "good-by. you're looking splendidly." she did not answer, being in one of her silent moods. mrs. story went with him towards the door, with a few practical housekeeping questions on the ménage that had just begun. as they were in the ante-room, jim hunter entered and, greeting them, passed into the salon. stover, deaf to anything else, heard her greeting: "why, jim, i _am_ glad to see you." mrs. story was asking him a question, but he did not hear it. he heard only the echoes of what seemed to him the joy in her laugh. "if you need any rugs let me know," said mrs. story in patient repetition. "i beg your pardon," he stammered. "yes--yes, of course." she looked at him with a little maternal pity, knowing the pang that had gone through him, and for a moment a word was on her lips to enlighten him. but she judged it wiser to be silent, and said: "come in for dinner to-morrow night, surely." this invitation fitted at once into stover's scheme of mislogic. he saw in it a mark of compassion, and of compassion for what reason? plainly, jean was interested in some one else, perhaps engaged. in ten minutes, to his own lugubrious satisfaction, he had convinced himself it was no other than jim hunter. but a short, inquisitive talk with joe hungerford, who magnanimously appeared stupidly unconscious of the real motives, reassured him on this point. so, after the hot tempest of jealousy, he began to feel a little resentment at her new, illogical attitude of defensive formality. gradually, as he gave no sign of unbending from his own assumption of strict politeness, she began to change, but so gradually that it was not for weeks that he perceived that the old intimate relations had returned. this little interval, however, had brought to him a new understanding. with her he had lost the old impulsiveness. he began to reason and analyze, to think of cause and effect in their relationship. as a consequence the initiative and the authority that had formerly been with her came to him. all at once he perceived, to his utter surprise, what she had felt immediately on his return: that he was the stronger, and that the old, blind, boyish adoration for the girl, who was companion to the stars, had steadied into the responsible and guiding love of a man. this new supremacy brought with it several differences of opinion. when the question of the football captaincy had come up he did not tell her of his decision, afraid of the ambition he knew was strong in her for his career. when he saw her the next night, bob had already brought the news and the reason. she received him with great distance, and for the first time showed a little cruelty in her complete ignoring of his presence. "you are angry at me," he said, when finally he had succeeded in finding her alone. "yes, i am," she said point blank. "why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" "i didn't dare," he said frankly. "you wouldn't have approved." "of course i wouldn't. it was ridiculous. why shouldn't you be the captain?" "there were reasons," he said seriously. "i should not have had a united team back of me--oh, i know it." "absurd," she said with some heat. "you should have gone out and made them follow you. really, it's too absurd, renouncing everything. here's the junior prom; every one says you would have led the class if you'd have stood for it." "yes, and it's just because a lot of fellows thought they knew my whole game of democracy that i wouldn't stand for it." she grew quite angry. he had never seen her so stirred. "stuff and nonsense. what do you care for their opinion? you should be captain and chairman of the prom, but you renounce everything--you seem to delight in it. it's too absurd; it's ridiculous. it's like don quixote riding around." he was hurt at this, and his face showed it. "it's something to be able to refuse what others are grabbing for," he said shortly. "but all you seem to care for is the name." the flash that was in his eyes surprised her, and the sudden stern note in his voice that she had never heard before brought her to a quick realization of how she must have wounded him. her manner changed. she became very gentle, and before he went she said hurriedly: "forgive me. you were right, and i was very petty." but though he had shown his independence of her ambitions for him, and gained thereby, at heart he had a foolish longing, a senseless dream of winning out on tap day--just for the estimation he knew she held of that honor. and, wishing this ardently, he was influenced by it. there were questions about the senior societies that he had not put to himself honestly, as he had in the case of the sophomore. he knew they were way back in his mind, claiming to be met, but, thinking of jean, he said to himself evasively again and again: "suppose there are bad features. i've done enough to show my nerve. no one can question that!" with the passing of the winter, and the return to college in the pleasant month of april, the final, all-absorbing tap day loomed over them only six weeks away. it was not a particularly agreeable period. the contending ambitions were too keen, too conflicting, for the maintenance of the old spirit of comradeship. the groups again defined themselves, and the "lame ducks," in the hopes of being noticed, assiduously cultivated the society of what are called "the big men." one afternoon in the first week in april, as dink was returning from the gymnasium, he was suddenly called to from the street. chris schley and troutman, in a two-seated rig, were hallooing: "hello there, dink." "come for a ride." "jump in--join us." the two had never been of his intimates, belonging to a new york crowd, who were spoken of for keys. he hesitated, but as he was free he considered: "what's the game?" "we're out for a spin towards the shore. tommy bain and stone were going but had to drop out. come along. we might get a shore supper, and toddle back by moonlight." "i've got to be here by seven," said dink doubtfully. "oh, well, come on; we'll make it just a drive." "fine." he sprang into the front seat, and they started off in the young, tingling air. troutman, at the reins, was decidedly unfamiliar with their uses, and, at a fervent plea from schley, stover assumed control. since freshman year the three had been seldom thrown together. he remembered troutman then as a rather overgrown puppy type, and schley as a nuisance and a hanger-on. he scanned them now, pleasantly surprised at their transformation. they had come into a clean-cut type, affable, alert, and if there was small mark of character, there was an abundance of good-humor, liveliness, and sociability. "well, dink, old chap," said troutman, as he passed along quieter ways, "the fatal day approaches." "it does." "a lot of seniors are out buying nice brand-new derbies to wear for our benefit." "i'll bet they're scrapping like cats and dogs," said schley. "they say last year the bones list wasn't agreed upon until five minutes before five." "the bones crowd always fight," said schley, from the point of view of the opposite camp. "i say, dink, did you ever think of heeling keys?" "no, i'm not a good enough jollier up for that crowd." "they say this year keys is going to shut down on the sporting life and swipe some of the bones type." "really?" said stover, in disbelief. "sure thing; tommy bain has switched." "i heard he was packer," said stover, not particularly depressed. in the college the rumor had always been that the keys crowd had what was termed a packer in the junior class, who helped them to pledge some of their selections before tap day. "sure he is," said troutman, with conviction. "wish he'd stuck to bones," said schley. "yours truly would feel more hopeful." "why, you fellows are sure," said stover to be polite. "the deuce we are!" schley, tiring of the conversation, was amusing himself from the back seat by well-simulated starts of surprise and a sudden snatching off of his hat to different passers-by, exclaiming: "why, how _do_ you do. i remember meeting you before." he did it well, communicated his good spirits to the pedestrians, who took his banter good-naturedly. all at once his mischievous eye perceived two girls of a rather noticeable type. instantly he was on his feet, with an exaggerated sweep of his hat, exclaiming: "ladies, accept my carriage, my prancing horses, my groom and my footman." the girls, bursting into laughter, waved to him. "yes, it's a lovely day," continued schley, in imitation of mcnab. "mother's gone to the country, aunty's visiting us now, uncle john's coming to-morrow--he'll be sober then. too bad, girls, you're going the other way, and such lovely weather. won't you take a ride? what? oh, do now. here, i say, dink--whoa there! they're coming." "rats," said troutman, glancing uneasily up the street. "sure they are. whoa! hold up. we'll give 'em a little ride, just for a lark. what's the diff?" he was down, hat off, with exaggerated chesterfield politeness, going to their coming. "do you mind?" said troutman to stover. "schley's a crazy ass to do this just now." "i wouldn't take them far," said stover, who did not particularly care. he had no facility for bantering of this sort, but it rather amused him to listen to schley. he saw that while they were of an obvious type one was insipid, and the other rather pretty, dark with irish black eyes. "ladies, i wish to make you acquainted with my friends," said schley, as he might speak to a duchess. "the ill-favored gent with the vermilion hair is the reverend doctor balmfinder; the one with the padded shoulders is binks, my trainer. now what is this little girl's name?" "muriel," said the blonde, "muriel stacey." "of course, i might have known it. and yours of course is maude, isn't it?" "my name is fanny le roy," said the brunette with a little pride. "dear me, what a beautiful name," said schley. "now girls, we'll take you for a little ride, but we can't take you very far for our mammas don't know we're out, and you must promise to be very good and get out when we tell you, and not ask for candy! do we promise?" schley sat on the rear seat, chatting along, a girl on either side of him, while troutman, facing about, added his badinage. it was not excruciatingly witty, and yet at times stover, occupied with the driving, could not help bursting into a laugh at the sheer nonsense. it interested him as a spectator; it was a side of life he knew little of, for, his nature being sentimental, he was a little afraid of such women. "what's our real names?" said troutman in reply to a demand. "do you really want to know? we'll send them to you. of course we've met before. in new york, wasn't it, at the junior cotillion?" "sure i saw this fellow at the hari-gori's ball," said fanny, appealing to her companion. "sure you did." "if you say so, all right," said troutman, winking at schley. "fanny, you have beautiful eyes. course you don't know it." "you two are great jolliers, aren't you?" said fanny, receiving the slap-stick compliment with pleasure. "they think we're easy," said muriel, with a look at schley. "i think the fellow that's driving is the best of the lot," said fanny, with the usual method of attack. "wow," said troutman. "come on back," said schley, "we don't count." stover laughed and drove on. the party had now passed the point of interest. he had no desire for a chance meeting that would require explanations, but he volunteered no advice, not caring to appear prudish in the company of such men of the world. they were in the open country, the outskirts of new haven just left behind. for some time fanny le roy had been silent, pressing her hand against her side, frowning. all at once a cry was wrung from her. the carriage stopped. all turned in alarm to where the girl, her teeth compressed, clutching at her side, was lying back against the seat, writhing in agony. troutman swore under his breath. "a devil of a mess!" they descended hurriedly and laid the girl on the grass, where her agony continued increasingly. schley and troutman were whispering apart. the other girl, hysterically bending over her companion, mopped her face with a useless handkerchief, crying: "she's got a fit; she's got a fit!" "i say it's appendicitis or gripes," said troutman, coming over to stover. his face was colorless, and he spoke the words nervously. "the deuce of a fix chris has got us into!" "come, we've got to get her back," said stover, realizing the gravity of the situation. he went abruptly to the girl and spoke with quick authority. "now stop crying; i want you to get hold of yourself. here schley, lend a hand; you and troutman get her back into the carriage. do it quickly." "what are you going to do?" said troutman, under his breath. "drive her to a doctor, of course." "couldn't we go and fetch a doctor here?" "no, we couldn't!" with some difficulty they got the suffering girl into the carriage and started back. no one spoke; the banter had given place to a few muttered words that broke the moaning, delirious tones of the stricken girl. "going to drive into new haven this way?" said troutman, for the second time under his breath. "sure." "hell!" they came to the city streets, and stover drove on hastily, seeking from right to left for a doctor. all at once he drew up at the curb, flung the reins to troutman, and rushed into a house where he had seen a sign displayed--"dr. burke." he was back almost immediately with the doctor at his heels. "i say, dink, look here," said schley, plucking him aside, as the doctor hurriedly examined the girl. "this is a deuce of a mess." "you bet it is," said stover, thinking of the sufferer. "i say, if this gets out it'll be a nasty business." "what do you mean?" "if we're seen driving back with--well, with this bunch!" "what do you propose?" said stover sharply. troutman joined them. "see here, leave her with the doctor, i'll put up all the money that's necessary, the doctor'll keep a close mouth! man alive, you can't go back this way!" "why not?" "good lord, it'll queer us,--we'll never get over it." "think of the papers," said schley, plucking at his glove. "we can fix it up with the doctor." at this moment dr. burke joined them, quiet, business-like, anxious. "she has all the symptoms of a bad attack of appendicitis. there's only one thing to do; get her to the hospital at once. i'll get my hat and join you." "drive to--drive to the hospital?" said troutman, with a gasp, "right through the whole city, right in the face of every one?" "don't be a fool, dink," said schley nervously. "we'll fix up burke; we'll give him a hundred to take her and shut up." stover, too, saw the danger and the inevitable scandal. he saw, also, that they were no longer men as he had thought. the thin veneer had disappeared--they were boys, terrified, aghast at a crisis beyond their strength. "you're right, it would queer _you_," he said abruptly. "clear out--both of you." "and you?" "you're going to stay?" said schley. neither could face his eyes. "clear out, i tell you!" when burke came running down the steps he looked at stover in surprise. "hello, where are your friends?" "they had other engagements," said dink grimly. "all ready." "i've seen your face before," said dr. burke, climbing in. "i'm stover." "dink stover of the eleven?" "yes, dink stover of the eleven," said stover, his face hardening. "where do i drive?" "do you want to go quietly?" said dr. burke, with a look of sympathetic understanding. from behind the girl, writhing, began to moan: "oh, doctor--doctor--i can't stand it--i can't stand it." "what's the quickest way?" said stover. "chapel street," said the doctor. stover turned the horses' heads into the thoroughfare, looking straight ahead, aware soon of the men who saw him in the full light of the day, driving through the streets of new haven in such inexplicable company. and suddenly at the first turn he came face to face with another carriage in which were jean story and her mother. chapter xxvi when stover returned to his rooms, it was long after supper. "where the deuce have you been?" said hungerford, looking up from his books. "went for a drive, got home late," said stover shortly. he filled the companionable pipe, and sank into the low arm-chair, which regan had broken for comfort. something in his abrupt procedure caused bob story to look over at regan with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows. "got this psychology yet?" said hungerford, to try him out. "no," said stover. "going to get it?" "no." "the thinghood of a thing is its indefinable somewhatness," said hungerford, with another slashing attack on the common enemy, to divert stover's attention. "what in the name of peanuts does that stuff mean?" dink, refusing to be drawn into conversation, sat enveloped in smoke clouds, his eyes on the clock. "hello, i forgot," said story presently. "i say, dink, troutman and schley were around here hallooing for you." "they were, eh?" "about an hour ago. wanted to see you particularly. said they'd be around again." "i see." at this moment from below came a bellow: "oh, dink stover--hello above there!" "that's troutman now," said joe hungerford. stover went to the window, flinging it up. "well, who's there?" "troutman and chris schley. i say, dink, we've got to see you. come on down." "thanks, i haven't the slightest desire to see you now or at any other time," said stover, who closed the window and resumed his seat, eyeing the clock. his three friends exchanged troubled glances, and regan began to whistle to himself, but no questions were asked. at nine o'clock stover rose and took his hat. "i'm going out. i may be back late," he said, and went down the stairs. "what the devil?" said hungerford, closing his book. "he's in some scrape," said regan ruthfully. "oh, lord, and just at this time, too," said story. stover went rapidly towards the hospital. the girl had been operated on immediately, and the situation was of the utmost seriousness. he had been told to come back at nine. when he arrived he found muriel stacey already in the waiting-room, her eyes heavy with frightened weeping. he looked at her curiously. all suggestion of the provoking impertinence and the surface allurement was gone. under his eyes was nothing but an ignorant boor, stupid and hysterical before the awful fact of death. "what's the news?" he asked. "oh, mr. stover, i don't know. i can't get anything out of them," the woman said wildly. "oh, do you think she's going to die?" "of course not," he said gruffly. "see here, where's her family?" "i don't know." "don't they live here?" "they're in ohio somewhere, i think. i don't know. ask the doctor, won't you, mr. stover? he'll tell you something." he left her, and, making inquiries, was met by a young intern, immaculate and alert, who was quite communicative to dink stover of the yale eleven. "she's had a bad case of it; appendix had already burst. you got her here just in time." "what's the outlook?" "can't tell. she came out of the anæsthetic all right." he went into a technical discussion of the dangers of blood poisoning, concluding: "still, i should say her chances were good. it depends a good deal on the resistance. however, i think your friend's family ought to be notified." stover did not notice the "your friend," nor the look which the doctor gave him. "she's here alone as far as i can find out," he said. "poor little devil. i'll call round about midnight." "no need," said the doctor briskly, "nothing'll develop before to-morrow." stover sent the waiting girl home somewhat tranquilized, and, finding a florist's shop open, left an order to be sent in to the patient the first thing in the morning. then, thoroughly exhausted by his sudden contact with all the nervous fates of the hospital, he walked home and heavily to bed. the next morning as he went to his eating-joint with regan and hungerford, the newsboy, who had his papers ready, gave them to him with a hesitating look. all at once joe hungerford swore mightily. "now what's wrong, joe?" said regan in surprise. "nothing," said hungerford hastily, but almost immediately he stopped, and said in a jerky, worried way: "say, here's the devil to pay, dink. i suppose you ought to know about it. damn the papers." with his finger he indicated a space on the front page of the new york newspaper he was reading. stover took it, reading it seriously. it was only a paragraph, but it rose from the page as though it were stamped in scarlet. dink stover's lark ends seriously. below followed in suggestive detail an account of the drive with friends "not exactly in recognized new haven society," and the sudden seizure of miss fanny le roy, with an account of his drive back to the hospital. "that's pretty bad," he said, frowning. "what do the others say?" one paper had it that his presence of mind and prompt action had saved the girl's life. the third one hinted that the party had been rather gay, and said in a short sentence: "_it is said other students were with young stover, who prefer not to incur any unnecessary notoriety._" "it looks ugly," said stover grimly. "who was with you?" said hungerford anxiously. "i prefer not to tell." "troutman and schley, of course," said regan suddenly, and, starting out of his usual imperturbability, he began to revile them. "but, dink, old man," said hungerford, drawing his arm through his, "how the deuce did you ever get into it?" "well, joe, what's the use of explanations?" said stover gloomily. "every one'll believe what they want to. it's a thoroughly nasty mess. it's my luck, that's all." "is that all you can say?" said hungerford anxiously. "all just now. i don't feel particularly affable, joe." the walk from his eating-joint to the chapel was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done. every one was reading the news, commenting on it, as he passed along, red, proud, and angry. he felt the fire of amazed glances, the lower classmen looking up at the big man of the junior class in disgrace, his own friends puzzled and uncomprehending. at the fences there was an excited buzz, which dropped perceptibly as he passed. regan was at one side, hungerford loyally on the other. at the junior fence bob story, who had just got the report, came out hurriedly to him. "i say, dink, it--it isn't true?" he said. "something's wrong--must be!" "not very far wrong," said stover. he saw the incredulity in bob's face, and it hurt him more than all the rest. "even bob thinks i'm that sort, that i've been doing things on the sly i wouldn't stand for in public. and if he thinks it, what'll others think?" "shut up, bob," he heard regan say. "it may look a nasty mess, and dink may not tell the real story, but one thing i know, he didn't scuttle off like a scut, but faced the music, and that's all i want to know." stover laughed, a short, nervous, utterly illogical laugh, defiant and stubborn. he would never tell what had happened--let those who wanted to misjudge him. several men in his class--he remembered them ever after--came up and patted him on the back, one or two avoided him. then he had to go by the senior fence into chapel with every eye upon him, watching how he bore the scandal. he knew he was red and uncomfortable, that on his face was something like a sneer. he knew that what every one was saying under his voice was that it was hard luck, damned hard luck, that it was a rotten scandal, and that stover's chances for skull and bones were knocked higher than a kite. then something happened that almost upset him. in the press about the chapel doors he suddenly saw le baron's tall figure across the scrambling mass. their glances met and with a little solemnity le baron raised his hat. he understood; they might be enemies to the end of their days, but the hat had been raised as the tribute of a man to a man. once in his seat he looked about with a little scorn--troutman and schley were not there. after first recitation he went directly to the hospital, stubbornly resolved to give no explanations, stubbornly resolved in his own knowledge of his right to affront public opinion in any way he chose. the news he received was reassuring, the girl was out of danger. muriel stacey not yet arrived, for which he was physically thankful. he returned to his rooms, traversing the difficult campus with erect head. "now, boy, see here," said hungerford, when he had climbed the stairs, "i want this out with you. what did happen, and who ran away?" "you've got the story in the papers, haven't you?" said stover wearily. "the new haven ones have in a couple of columns and my photograph." "is that all, dink, you're going to tell me?" "yes." "is that all you're going to let jean story know?" said hungerford boldly. stover winced. "damn you, joe!" "is it?" "she'll have to believe what she wants to about me," said stover slowly. "it's a test." "no, it isn't a test or a fair test," said hungerford hotly. "i know everything's all right, boy, but i want to stop anything that might be said. you're hurt now because you know you're misjudged." "yes, i am hurt." "sure; a rotten bit of luck has put you in a false position. that's the whole matter." "joe, i won't tell you," said stover shortly. "i am mad clear through and through. i'm going to shut up on the whole business. if my friends misjudge me--so much the worse for them. if some one else--" he stopped, flung his hat on the couch, and sat down at the desk. "what's the lesson?" but at this moment regan and story came in, bolting the door. "well, we've got the truth," said story. he came over and laid his hand on dink's shoulder. "what do you mean?" "tom and i have had it out with schley and troutman. they've told the whole thing, the miserable little curs." his voice shook. "you're all right, dink; you always were, but it's a shame--a damn shame!" "oh, well, they lost their nerve," said stover heavily. "why the devil didn't you tell us last night?" "what was the use?" "we could have stopped its getting into the papers, or had it right." "well--it all comes down to a question of luck sometimes," said stover. "i was just as responsible as they were--it was only fooling, but there's the chance." "dink, i've done one thing you may not like." "what's that?" "i've written the whole story to your folks at home--sent it off." "no--i don't mind--i--that was rather white of you, bob--thank you," said stover. he drew a long breath, went to the window and controlled himself. "what are troutman and schley going to do?" "they're all broken up," said story. "don't wonder." "they won't face it out very long," said regan, without pity. "well, it was a pretty hard test," said stover, coming back--and by that alone they knew what it had meant to him. despite the giving out of the true story, the atmosphere of scandal still clung to the adventure. his friends rallied stanchly to him, but from many quarters stover felt the attitude of criticism, and that the thing had been too public not to affect the judgment of the senior societies, already none too well disposed toward him. stover was sensitively proud, and the thought of how the story had traveled with all its implications wounded him keenly. he had done nothing wrong, nothing for which he had to blush. he had simply acted as a human being, as any decent gentleman would have acted, and yet by a malignant turn of fate he was blackguarded to the outer world, and had given his enemies in college a chance to imply that he had two attitudes--in public and in secret. the next morning came a note to him from jean story, the first he had ever had from her--just a few lines. "_my dear friend_: "you are coming in soon to see me, aren't you? i shall be very much _honored_. "most cordially, "jean story." the note brought a great lump to his throat. he understood what she wished him to understand, her loyalty and her pride in his courage. he read it over and over, and placed it in his pocket-book to carry always--but he did not go at once to see her. he did not want sympathy; he shunned the very thought. before, in his revolt, he had come against a college tradition, now he was face to face with a social prejudice, and it brought an indignant bitterness. he called every day at the hospital; out of sheer bravado at first, furious at the public opinion that would have him go his way and ignore a human being alone and suffering, even when his motives were pure. at the end of a week he was told that the girl wanted to see him. he found her in a cot among a row of other cots. she was not white and drawn as he had expected, but with a certain flush of color in her face, and lazy eyes that eagerly waited his coming. when he had approached, surprised and a little troubled at her prettiness, she looked at him steadily a long moment until he felt almost embarrassed. then suddenly she took his hand and carried it to her lips, and her eyes overflowed with tears, as an invalid's do with the strength of any emotion. the nurse motioned him away, and he went, troubled at what his boyish eyes had seen, and the touch of her lips on his hand. "by george, she can't be very bad," he thought. "poor little girl; she's probably never had half a chance. what the devil will become of her?" he knew nothing of her life--he did not want to know. when she left the hospital at last he continued to see her, always saying to himself that there was no harm in it, concealing from himself the pleasure it gave him to know himself adored. she would never tell him where she lived, always giving him a rendezvous on a certain corner, from which they would take a walk for an hour or so. guessing his desires, she began to change her method of dress, leaving aside the artifices, taking to simple and sober dress, which brought a curious, girlish, counterfeit charm. "i am doing her good," he said to himself. "it means something to her to meet some one who treats her with respect--like a human being--poor little girl." he did not realize how often he met her, leaving his troubled room-mates with a curt excuse, nor how rapidly he consumed the distance to their meeting place. he had talked to her at first seriously of serious things, then gradually, laughing in a boyish way, half tempted, he began to pay her compliments. at first she laughed with a little pleasure, but, as the new attitude continued, he felt her eyes on his face constantly in anxious, wistful scrutiny. one night she did not keep her appointment. he waited troubled, then furious. he left after an hour's lingering, irritable and aroused. the next night as he approached impatiently, half afraid, she was already at the lamp-post. "i waited an hour," he said directly. "i'm sorry; i couldn't come," she answered troubled, but without volunteering an explanation. "why?" he said with a new irritation. "i couldn't," she said, shaking her head. he felt all at once a new impulse in him--to wound her in some way and make her suffer a little for the disappointment he had had to undergo the night before. "you did it on purpose," he said abruptly. "no, no," she said frowning. "you did." then suddenly he added: "that's why you stayed away--to make me jealous." "never." "why, then?" "i can't tell you," she said. they walked along in silence. her resistance in withholding the information suddenly made her desirable. he wondered what he might do with her. as they walked still in silence, he put out his hand, and his fingers closed over hers. she did not draw them away. he gave a deep breath and said: "i would like--" "what?" she said, looking up as his pressure made her face him. he put out his arms and took her in them, and stood a long moment, looking at her lips. "forgive me--i--" he said, stepping back suddenly. "i--i didn't mean to offend you." "no--you couldn't do that--never," she said quietly. "you--you're so pretty to-night--i couldn't help it," he said. to himself he vowed he would never let himself be tempted again--not that night. "i'm going to take you to your home," he said, when after small conversation they returned. "sure." he was surprised and delighted at this, but almost immediately to be generous he said: "no, no, i won't." "i don't care." they had reached their corner. "to-morrow." "yes." "at eight." "yes." he resisted a great temptation, and offered his hand. she took it suddenly in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she had done in the hospital. "you've been white, awful white to me," she said, and flitted away into the engulfing night. when he left her, her words came back to him, and brought an unrest. he had almost yielded to what he had vowed never to do, he, who only wanted her to feel his respect. yet the next day seemed endless. he regretted that he had not gone to where she lived, for then he could have found her in the afternoon. a shower passed during the day, leaving the streets moist and luminous with long lances of light and star points on the wet stones. he went breathlessly as he had never gone before, a little troubled, always reasoning with his conscience. "it was only a crazy spell," he said to himself. "i don't know what got into me. i'll be careful, now." when he reached the lamp-post another figure was there, muriel stacey, painted and over-dressed, and in her hand was a white letter, that he saw half-way up the block. he stopped short, frowning. "where's fanny?" "here's a note she sent you," said the girl; "she's gone." "gone?" "this morning." he looked at the envelope; his name was written there in a childish, struggling hand. "all right; thank you," he said suffocating. he left hurriedly, physically uncomfortable in the presence of muriel stacey, her friend. at the first lamp-post he stopped, broke the envelope, and read the awkward, painfully written script. "i'm going away, it's best for you and me i know it. guess i would care too much and i'm not good enough for you. don't you be angry with me. good luck. god bless you. "f." he slipped it hurriedly in his pocket, and set off at a wild pace. and suddenly his conscience, his accusing conscience, rose up. he saw where he had been going. it brought him a solemn moment. then he remembered the girl. he took the letter from his pocket and held it clutched like a hand in his hand. "good god," he said, "i wonder what'll become of her?" he had found so much good that the tragedy revolted him. so he went through the busy streets with their flare and ceaseless motion, in the wet of the night, watching with solemn, melancholy eyes, other women pass with sidelong glances. all the horror and the hopelessness of a life he could not better thronged over him, and he stood a long while looking down the great bleak ways, through the gates that it is better not to pry ajar. then in a revulsion of feeling, terrified at what he divined, he left and went, almost in an instinct for protection, hurriedly to the story home, white and peaceful under the elms. he did not go in, but he stood a little while opposite, looking in through the warm windows at the serenity and the security that seemed to permeate the place. when he returned to his rooms, joe and regan were there. he sat down directly and told them the whole story, showing them her letter. "she went away--for my sake," he said. "i know it. poor little devil. it's a letter i'll always keep." solemnly, looking at the letter, he resolved to put this with the one, the first from jean story, and reverently he felt that the two had the right to be joined. "what's terrible about it," he said, talking out his soul, "is that there's so much good in them. and yet what can you do? they're human, they respond, you can't help pitying them--wanting to be decent, to help--and you can't. it's terrible to think that there are certain doors in life you open and close, that you must turn your back on human lives sometimes, that things can't be changed. lord, but it's a terrible thing to realize." he stopped, and he heard regan's voice, moved as he had never heard it, say: "that's my story--only _i_ married." suddenly, as though realizing for the first time what he had said, he burst out: "good god, i never meant to tell. see here, you men, that's sacred--you understand." and dink and joe, looking on his face, realized all at once why a certain gentler side of life was shut out to him, and why he had never gone to the storys'. chapter xxvii one result of stover's sobering experience with fanny le roy was that he met the problem of the senior elections with directness and honesty. what brockhurst had said of the injurious effect of secrecy and ceremony on the imagination had always been with him. yet in his desire to stand high in the eyes of jean story, to win the honors she prized, he had quibbled over the question. now the glimpse he had had into the inscrutable verities of human tragedy had all at once lifted him above the importance of local standards, and left him with but one desire--to be true to himself. the tests that had come to him in his college life had brought with them a maturity of view beyond that of his fellows. now that he seriously debated the question, he said to himself that he saw great evils in the system: that on the average intelligence this thraldom to formula and awe at the assumption of mystery had undeniably a narrowing effect, unworthy of a great university dedicated to liberty of thought and action. he saw that while certain individuals, such as hungerford and regan, laughed at the bugbear of secrecy, and went their way unconcerned, a great number, more impressionable, had been ruled from the beginning by fear alone. with the aims and purposes of skull and bones he was in thorough sympathy--their independence of judgment, their seeking out of men who had to contend with poverty, their desire to reward ambition and industry and character--but the more he freely acknowledged their influence for democracy and simplicity at yale, the more he revolted at the unnecessary fetish of it all. "they should command respect and not fear. by george, that's where i stand. all this rigmarole is ridiculous, and it's ridiculous that it ever affected me; it is of the middle ages--outgrown." then a problem placed itself before him. admitting that he had even the ghost of a chance of being tapped, ought he to go into a senior society feeling as he did about so many of its observances, secretly resolved on their elimination? finally, a week before tap day, he decided to go to judge story and frankly state his case, letting him know that he preferred thus to give notice of his beliefs. when he arrived at the story home the judge was upstairs in his study. jean, alone in the parlor, looked up in surprise at his expressed intention to see her father. since her letter they had never been alone. stover had avoided it with his shrinking from sympathy, and, perhaps guessing his temperament, she had made no attempt to go beyond the safe boundaries of formal intercourse. "yes, indeed, dad's upstairs," she said. then she added a little anxiously: "you look serious--is it a very serious matter?" he hesitated, knowing instinctively that she would oppose him. "it's something that's been on my mind for a long time," he said evasively; and he added with a smile, "it's what you call my quixotic fit." "it's about skull and bones," she said instantly. "yes, it is." "what are you going to say?" "i'm going to tell him just where i stand--just what i've come to believe about the whole business." "and what's that?" "that skull and bones, which does a great good here--i believe it--also does a great deal of harm; all of which is unnecessary and a weakness in its system. in a word, i've come to the point where i believe secrecy is un-american, undemocratic and stultifying; and, as i say, totally unnecessary. i should always be against it." "but aren't you exaggerating the importance of it all?" she said hastily. "no, i'm not," he said. "i used to silence myself with that, but i see the thing working out too plainly." "but why speak about it?" "because i don't think it's honest not to. of course," he added immediately, "i have about one chance in a thousand--perhaps that's why i'm so all-fired direct about it." "i wish you wouldn't," she said, rising and coming towards him. "it might offend them terribly; you never know." he shook his head, though her eagerness gave him a sudden happiness. "no, i've thought it out a long while, and i've decided. it all goes back to that sophomore society scrap. i made up my mind then i wasn't going to compromise, and i'm not now." "but i want to see you go bones," she said illogically, in a rush. "after all you've gone through, you must go bones!" he did not answer this. "oh, it's so unnecessary," she said. "no one but you would think of it!" "don't be angry with me," he said, a little troubled. "i am--it's absurd!" she said, turning away with a flash of temper. "i'm sorry," he said, and went up the stairs. when he returned, after an interview which, needless to say, had somewhat surprised the judge, he found a very different jean story. she was waiting for him quiet and subdued, without a trace of her late irritation. "did you tell him?" she said gently. "yes." "what did he say?" "i didn't ask for an answer. i told him how i felt, and that i would rather my opinions should be known. that's all." "are you going?" she said, as he made a movement. "i didn't know--" he said, hesitating and looking at her. "i am not angry," she said a little wistfully. "you were quite right. i'm glad you did it. you are much bigger than i could be--i like that." "you were the first to wake me up," he said happily, sitting down. "yes, but you have gone so far ahead. you do things without compromise, and that sometimes frightens me." she stopped a moment, and said, looking at him steadily: "you have kept away a long while. now you see you are caught. you can't avoid being alone with me." "i don't want to," he said abruptly. "you are so proud, dink," she said softly, using his nickname for the first time. "i have never seen any one so proud. everything you do i think comes from that. but it must make you suffer terribly." "yes, it does." they were in the front parlor, dimly lit, sitting on the window-seat, hearing from time to time the passing chug of horses' feet. "i knew how it must have hurt you--all this publicity," she said slowly. "why didn't you come when i wrote you? were you too proud?" "yes, i suppose so--and then it didn't seem fair to you--after all the talk." "i was proud of you," she said, raising her head a little. she put out her hand again to his, leaving it in his for a long time, while they sat in silence. the touch that once had so disturbed him brought now only a gentle serenity. he thought of the other woman, and what might have been, with almost a hatred, the hatred of man towards whatever he wrongs. "you are right about me," he said slowly. "most people think i don't care what happens, that i'm sort of a thick-skinned rhinoceros. how did you know?" "i knew." she withdrew her hand slowly, without resistance on his part; only when he held it no longer he felt alone, abandoned to the blackness of the street outside. "i've kept my promise to you, jean," he said a little unsteadily, "but don't make it too hard." she rose and he followed. together they stood in the shadows of the embrasure, half seeing each other. only he knew that her large eyes were looking out at him with the look of the woman that he had first called forth when he had wounded the pride of the girl. "i am glad you didn't listen to me just now," she said slowly. "when?" "when you went upstairs to dad. you will never weaken, i know." she came a little towards him, and understanding, he took her gently, wonderingly, in his arms. "it's going to be very hard for you," she said, "tap day--to stand there and know that you may be misjudged. i should be very proud to announce our engagement, then--that same day." then he knew that he held in his arms one who had never given so much as her hand lightly, who came to him in unflinching loyalty, whose only interest would be his interest, who would know no other life but his life, whose joy would be the struggle that was his struggle. tap day arrived at last, cloudy and misty. he had slept badly in fits and starts, nor had the others fared better, with the exception of regan, who had rumbled peacefully through the night--but then regan was one whom others sought. the morning was interminable, a horror. they did not even joke about the approaching ordeal. no one was so sure of election but that the possible rejection of some chum cast its gloom over the day. dink ran over a moment after lunch with bob for a last word with jean. she was going with her father and mother to see the tapping from a window in durfee. "i shall only see you," she said to him, with her hands in his, and her loyal eyes shining. "i shall be so proud of the way you take it." "so you think i won't be tapped," he said slowly. "it means so little now," she said. "that can't add a feather's weight to what you are." they went back to their rooms, joining hungerford and regan, who were whiling away the time playing piquet. "here," said tom in relief when they entered, "one of you fellows keep joe entertained, the darn fool has suddenly made up his mind he's going to be passed over." regan, relinquishing his place, went back to his book. "why, joe, you fluffy ass," said story affectionately, "you're the surest of the lot. shut up--cheer us up instead." "look at that mound of jelly," said hungerford peevishly, pointing to regan. "has he any nerves?" "what's the use of fidgeting?" said regan. an hour later hungerford stretched his arm nervously, rose and consulted the clock. "four-fifteen; let's hike over in about twenty minutes." "all right." "say, i don't mind saying that i feel as though i were going to be taken out, stuck full of holes, sawed up, drawn and quartered and boiled alive. i feel like jumping on an express and running away." stover, remembering joe's keen suffering at the spectacle back in freshman year, said gravely: "you're sure, joe. you'll go among the first. come back with smelling salts for me. i've got to stand through the whole thing and grin like a cheshire cat--that's _de rigueur_. do you remember how bully dudley was when he missed out? funny--then i thought i had a cinch." "if it was left to our class, you would, dink," said bob. "thanks." stover smiled a little at this unconscious avowal of his own estimate, rose, picked out his favorite pipe, and said: "i don't care so much--there's a reason. well, let's get into the mess." the four went together, over toward the junior fence, already swarming. "ten minutes of five," said hungerford, looking at the clock that each had seen. "yes." some one stopped stover to wish him good luck. he looked down on a diminutive figure in large spectacles, trying to recall, who was saying to him: "i--i wanted to wish you the best." "oh, it's wookey," said stover suddenly. he shook hands, rather troubled. "well, boy, there's not much chance for me." "oh, i hope so." "thanks just the same." "hello, dink, old fellow." "put her there." "you know what we all want?" he was in another group, patted on the back, his arm squeezed, listening to the welcome loyalty of those who knew him. "lord, if they'd only have sense enough." he smiled and made his way towards his three friends, exchanging salutations. "luck, dink." "same to you, tommy bain." "here's wishing." "back to you, dopey." "you've got my vote." "thanks." he joined his room-mates under the tree, looking over the heads to the windows of durfee where he saw jean story with her father and mother. presently, seeking everywhere, she saw him. their eyes met, he lifted his cap, she nodded slightly. from that moment he knew she would see no one else. "let's keep together," said regan. "lock arms." the four stood close together, arms gripped, resisting the press that crushed them together, speaking no more, hearing about them the curious babble of the underclassmen. "that's regan." "story'll go first." "stand here." "this is the spot." "lord, they look solemn enough." "almost time." "get your watch out." "fifteen seconds more." "five, four, three, two--" "_boom!_" above their heads the chapel bell broke over them with its five decisive strokes, swallowed up in the roar of the college. "_yea!_" "here he comes!" "first man for bones!" "reynolds!" from where he stood stover could see nothing. only the travelling roar of the crowd told of the coming seniors. then there was a stir in the crowd near him, and reynolds, in black derby, came directly for them; pushed them aside, and suddenly slapped some one behind. a roar went up again. "who was it?" said story quickly. "hunter, jim hunter." the next moment hunter, white as a sheet, bumped at his side and passed, followed by reynolds; down the convulsive lane the crowd opened to him. roar followed roar, and reports came thick. "stone's gone keys." "three wolf's-head men in the crowd." "mcnab gets keys." "hooray!" "dopey's tapped!" "bully." "wiggins fourth man for bones." still no one came their way. then all at once a bones man, wandering in the crowd, came up behind bob story, caught him by the shoulders, swung him around to make sure, and gave him the slap. regan's, hungerford's, and stover's voices rose above the uproar: "bully, bob!" "good work!" "hooray for you!" almost immediately regan received the eighth tap for bones, and went for his room amidst the thundering cheers of a popular choice. "well, here we are, dink," said hungerford. "you're next." about them the curious spectators pressed, staring up into their faces for any sign of emotion, struggling to reach them, with the dramatic instinct of the crowd. four more elections were given out by bones--only three places remained. "that settles me," said stover between his teeth. "if they wanted me i'd gone among the first. joe's going to get last place--bully for him. he's the best fellow in the class." he folded his arms and smiled with the consciousness of a decision accepted. he saw hungerford's face, and the agony of suspense to his sensitive nerves. "cheer up, joe, it's last place for you." then another shout. "bones or keys?" he asked of those around him. "bones." "charley stacey." "thirteenth man." "i was sure of it," he said calmly to himself. then he glanced up at the window. her eyes had never left him. he straightened up with a new defiance. "lord, i'd like to have gotten it, just for jean. well, i knocked against too many heads. i don't wonder." suddenly hungerford caught his hand underneath the crowd, pressing it unseen. "last man for bones now, dink," he said, looking in his eyes. "i hope to god it's you." "why, you old chump," said stover laughing, so all heard him. "bless your heart, i don't mind. here's to you." above the broken, fitful cheers, suddenly came a last swelling roar. "bones." "last man." the crowd, as though divining the election, divided a path towards where the two friends waited, hungerford staring blankly, stover, arms still folded, waiting steadily with a smile of acceptation on his lips. it was le baron. he came like a black tornado, rushing over the ground straight toward the tree. once some one stumbled into his path, and he caught him and flung him aside. straight to the two he came, never deviating, straight past dink stover, and suddenly switching around almost knocked him to the ground with the crash of his blow. "go to your room!" it was a shout of electrifying drama, the voice of his society speaking to the college. some one caught stover. he straightened up, trying to collect his wits, utterly unprepared for the shock. about him pandemonium broke loose. still dazed, he felt hungerford leap at him, crying in his ears: "god bless you, old man. it's great, great--they rose to it. it's the finest ever!" he began to move mechanically towards his room, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. he started towards the library, and some one swung him around. he heard them cheering, then he saw hundreds of faces, wild-eyed, rushing past him; he stumbled and suddenly his eyes were blurred with tears, and he knew how much he cared, after the long months of rebellion, to be no longer an outsider, but back among his own with the stamp of approval on his record. the last thing he remembered through his swimming vision was joe hungerford, hatless and swinging his arms as though he had gone crazy, leading a cheer, and the cheer was for bones. that night, even before he went to the storys', stover went out arm in arm with hungerford, across the quiet campus, so removed from the fray of the afternoon. "joe, it breaks me all up," he said at last. "you and i waiting there--" "don't speak of it, old fellow," said hungerford. "now let me talk. i did want to make it, but, by george, i know now it's better i didn't. i've had everything i wanted in this world; this is the first i couldn't get. it's better for me; i know it already." "you were clean grit, joe, cheering for bones." "by george, i meant it. it meant something to feel they could rise up and know a man, and you've hit pretty close to them, old boy." "yes, i have, but i've believed it." "it shows the stuff that's here," said hungerford, "when you once can get to it. now i take off my hat to them. i only hope you can make your influence felt." "i'm going to try," said stover solemnly. "the thing is so big a thing that it ought not to be hampered by bug-a-boo methods." brockhurst joined them. "well, the smoke's rolled away," said brockhurst, who likewise had missed out. "it's over--all over. now we'll settle down to peace and quiet--relax." "the best time's coming," said hungerford. "we'll live as we please, and really enjoy life. it's the real time, every one says so." "yes," said brockhurst, rebel to the last, "but why couldn't it come before, why couldn't it be so the whole four years?" "well, now, old croaker," said hungerford with a little heat, "own up the old college comes up to the scratch. we've surrendered the sophomore society system, and the seniors showed to-day that they could recognize honest criticism. that's pretty fine, i say." "you're pretty fine, joe," said brockhurst to their surprise. "well, it's good enough as it is. it takes an awful lot to stir it, but it's the most sensitive of the american colleges, and it will respond. it wants to do the right thing. some day it'll see it. i'm a crank, of course." he stopped, and stover felt in his voice a little note of bitterness. "the trouble with me is just that. i'm impractical; have strange ideas. i'm not satisfied with yale as a magnificent factory on democratic business lines; i dream of something else, something visionary, a great institution not of boys, clean, lovable and honest, but of men of brains, of courage, of leadership, a great center of thought, to stir the country and bring it back to the understanding of what man creates with his imagination, and dares with his will. it's visionary--it will come." [illustration: the yale quarter drove another forward pass to armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind.--_page _] frank armstrong at college by matthew m. colton author of "frank armstrong's vacation," "frank armstrong at queens," "frank armstrong's second term," "frank armstrong, captain of the nine," "frank armstrong, drop kicker." [illustration] a. l. burt company publishers new york printed in u. s. a. copyright, , by hurst & company made in u. s. a. contents chapter page i. the freshman rush ii. a brush with the police iii. the codfish creates news iv. making the eleven v. frank learns to tackle the dummy vi. the great freshman battle vii. a wreck at the harbor viii. fun at the theater ix. a jump in baseball and the result x. the try-outs at cambridge xi. a voyage to london xii. the codfish loses himself xiii. the flying machine to the rescue xiv. progress and a wreck xv. the match at queen's club xvi. making the 'varsity nine xvii. the southern trip xviii. football in junior year xix. the harvard-yale game xx. how all things came out at last frank armstrong at college. chapter i. the freshman rush. it was the evening of a day in late september and a noticeable chill in the air hinted at the near approach of fall. through the whole of that day and for several days previous to the opening of our story, incoming trains had deposited their burden of enthusiastic young humanity in the old town of new haven. from mountain, shore, city, town and country came the throng of students like an army of youth, to take up the work of the college year at yale, which opened her doors to them on the morrow. men from all classes were in that motley throng which surged and billowed around the corner of college and chapel streets, for this night was the night of "the rush," which tradition says shall be the first event of the college year. there were seniors, in their new-found dignity of seniority; juniors, nearer by a year to the coveted goal of a degree; sophomores, who by the passage of time coupled with an adequate stand escaped from the ignominious position of the youngest class, and last, but not least, the freshmen who, to-night, began their existence as a class. but the freshmen kept themselves aloof from the upper class-men, perhaps for reasons of offense and defense for they were to be tried out later on, and did not want to be found lacking. bronzed giants whose bulk proclaimed them to be at least "football material" shouldered their way through the crowd and the air was filled with the chatter and hum of many voices. greetings between men who had been separated for the summer were heard on every side. "hello, dick. mighty glad to see you!" "glad to see you again. it's great to be back, eh?" and the speakers, with a hearty hand-grip would pass on and repeat the formulæ with little variation, to other friends. suddenly the blare of a brass band cut through the chatter. marshals sprang to the work of getting the parade in order, for a parade always precedes and has come to be part of "the rush." these men, conspicuous by their long-handled kerosene torches and the 'varsity y emblazoned on sweaters (for only men who have won the coveted letter are eligible for the position of marshals,) began to separate the groups. "seniors, this way!" was the shout. "juniors, this way!" "sophomores, this way!" and, quickly following the command, the various groups, in the order named, dropped into line and, led by the marshals with torches swinging, went dancing down chapel street to the compelling melody of a popular college marching song. "freshmen, this way!" and to the shout, which was caught up and echoed up and down the line, the new-comers to the halls of yale dropped in behind the sophomores, feeling themselves, for the first time, a class instead of merely a huddled group without a bond of any kind. dancing as merrily as their predecessors to the strains of the band, the freshmen went swinging down the street imitating to the best of their ability the zigzag sweep of their elders. hands of strangers touched for the first time and arms were thrown over strange shoulders and the feeling was good. in the middle of that swaying mass of freshmen it does not take long to discover our three friends, frank armstrong, jimmy turner and last but not least the irrepressible codfish, clad immaculately as usual. to-night he wore a delicate gray norfolk suit with a vivid blue tie and socks to match, a tribute to the colors of the college he had adopted. "you are a brave one to appear in that paris model," laughed frank, who had arrayed himself in the oldest clothes he could find in anticipation of rough times before the evening was over. "merely trying to uphold the reputation of the class and inject a little beauty into the occasion," returned the codfish. "look at our friend james. he has the ear-marks of a hobo!" jimmy was far from being a beauty, it is true. "safe and sane, sonny. safe because the attentive sophomores won't take a second look at me and sane because i need my good ones when i go calling," retorted jimmy. "i think this sophomore scare is pure bunkum," the codfish suggested. "a fellow told me to-night that hazing at yale has been given up. someone was hurt a while ago in the merry pranks and the faculty stopped it, eh?" he wasn't quite certain about it, and wanted verification. "you're safe," said jimmy, "they never trouble the lady members of a class. hello, what's the matter?" he went on as the parade came to a sudden halt at the corner of church and chapel streets. "scrap, i guess," said frank. "bunch of town fellows trying to muss up the leaders. always do that, they say. there they go across the street, and here we go!" as the band, which had stopped for a moment while a gang of young rowdies tried to cut the line of parade and were worsted in the attempt, began again and the merry zigzag went on. around the central green or square of the city tramped the jolly hundreds, occasionally giving voice to the chorus of a song the band was playing or a cheer in which the freshmen joined as well as they were able, but in spite of their desire to be real yale men, stumbling badly on the nine "yales" at the end. up elm street, lined with hundreds of townsfolk glad to see the college once again in full swing, their faces lit up by the red fire and roman candles in the hands of the marchers, swung the leaders. at high street the procession turned and entered the campus. the gang of town boys and young men which had trailed the procession tried to force themselves into line, but were summarily thrown out, and without further molestation the marchers circled the campus or college yard, and, opposite the library, finally halted at a spot of green sward previously selected for the wrestling. the instant the leaders stopped there was a grand rush of the hundreds behind to gain a vantage point, and in a second the little circle the leaders had formed was squeezed together like paper. "get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those composing the living wall. of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to go back with all haste. pushing the ever-widening circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which were the climax of "the rush." "down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring. "out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the first rows and were lost to view in the ruck. "now i know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," frank gasped to turner as they bored their way toward the center of activity. our three friends had left the ranks of their class with many others when the head of the parade reached the campus, and dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time. their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a hundred pounds to the square inch" as turner expressed it, succeeded in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle of human faces. they were more fortunate than the hundreds who prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling. "we've lost the codfish," exclaimed frank. "oh, gleason," he called, but there was no answering voice. "lost in the shuffle," said turner. "he was with us a minute ago but he'll turn up. he won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it." "he isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned frank. "i thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time, but----" "sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore the football y on his blue sweater. "who is that whale of a man?" asked frank. "that's howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in front of them, who had overheard the question. the speaker held a notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler getting a story for the _news_, the official college paper. "freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over. frank nodded. "that fellow, yelling for a freshman lightweight candidate, is the crew captain," went on the heeler; "and over there to his left is dunnelly, the chap who kicked the goal against princeton last year and saved us the game." the heeler pointed out the celebrities as they prowled around the ring, calling loudly for wrestling champions. "you see," explained the heeler, "there are wrestling bouts in the three weights,--light, middle and heavy, between the sophomore and freshmen for the class championship. three bouts in each event." "o, you freshmen, show your sand, trot out a candidate!" bawled one of the men within the ring. the crowd outside clamored for candidates from the freshmen. "we want a sophomore lightweight!" roared another, and the crowd took up the cry and repeated it. "sophomore lightweight, freshman lightweight, don't be quitters, come across with the champions!" "sophomore lightweight, sophomore lightweight!" "freshman lightweight!" "don't be quitters!" "show your sand, freshmen!" suddenly there was a commotion on one side of the ring, and amid yells and the shaking of torches, the living wall opened and a slender, blond-haired youth stepped into the ring. "who is he?" "what's his name?" "sophomore or freshman?" "sophomore," said the boy. "your name," demanded a marshal. "ballard." "your weight?" "one twenty-nine, stripped." "you'll do." immediately two juniors volunteered to second him, and fell to work stripping him to the waist, the traditional custom for the friendly combat. meanwhile the calling for a freshman lightweight went on without success, and the crowd was throwing red-hot taunts at the youngest class for shirking their duty. the freshmen had pushed one of their number into the ring, but he proved to be over the required weight and was cast out without ceremony. a commotion on the outside of the ring started anew the calls for a freshman lightweight, and the call was unexpectedly answered by the appearance of a young man in delicate light gray clothes with blue necktie and socks to match, who was passed unceremoniously over the hands of the crowd and deposited right-side-up on the green grass of the enclosure. jimmy gasped. "the codfish, or i'm a hottentot!" "no one else, for sure. how did they get him?" exclaimed frank. the codfish was greeted by a rattling cheer, followed by much advice. "well done, freshman!" "take off those pretty clothes!" "he certainly is a yale man, look at that tie!" "good work, freshman, eat him up!" the referee, the captain of the yale wrestling team, strode over to the codfish, and looked him up and down. "you are not a very promising specimen," he said. "ever wrestle before?" "never," said gleason. "all i know about wrestling wouldn't hurt anyone." "what's your name and weight?" "gleason, and i weigh one twenty-five." "stripped or with those clothes on?" "clothes and all," said the codfish with a grin, and his eyes wandering around the sea of faces, chanced to light on his two friends, armstrong and turner. he waved an airy salute to them, and began with his seconds, two seniors, to divest himself of his coat, shirt and undershirt. "he really means to wrestle," gasped frank. "can you beat it?" "he certainly has his nerve with him," returned jimmy. "his middle name is nerve." the preliminaries over, ballard and the codfish faced each other in the flickering light of the torches, shook hands, and at the shrill scream of the referee's whistle, rushed at each other. neither was versed in the art of wrestling, but both were about the same size. down they went on the ground, gleason underneath, the sophomore struggling to pin the shoulders of the freshman to the ground, which meant victory. but just at the moment when things looked bad for the under-dog, he slipped out of the hold, squirmed free and threw himself with all his force against the sophomore, bearing him over sideways. the assault was so sudden that ballard was taken unawares, and before he could gather himself, gleason sprang on the prostrate boy and shoved his shoulder points on the grass. a resounding slap on the back by the referee testified to the success of the attack, and it was the freshmen's turn to cheer, which they did right lustily. chapter ii. a brush with the police. "first blood for the freshman. wow!!" both principals were now in their corners being fanned with towels and put in shape for the second bout which was to follow immediately, for there were three in each event as the codfish learned to his sorrow. his eyes wandered again to where frank and turner were wedged in the crowd, almost speechless at what they saw before them. "the codfish of all creatures in the world to be wrestling for his class," laughed jimmy. "we live and learn. he may be out for football yet." the subject under discussion just at this moment bent his head and whispered something to one of his seconds, then looked up and nodded in the direction of his friends agape on the other side of the circle. for a moment the gaze of the second rested on armstrong and turner. then the whistle blew and the boys sprang again to the center of the ring. this time it was different. the sophomore did not rush in so fearlessly. he circled round and round with arms outstretched and figure crouching. then he sprang at the freshman's leg and before the latter knew it he was on his back with his opponent squarely across his chest. "fall for the sophomore," announced the referee, slapping the victor on the shoulder. sophomore yells rent the air. "a tie, a tie! now bury the freshman this time. go to it." again the seconds ministered to their men, and after a two-minutes' rest the boys went at it, but the codfish, who was not noted for his physical prowess, went down after a brief tussle, and the lightweight event was awarded to the sophomores amid yells by that class which echoed back from the buildings of the quadrangle. gleason struggled into his clothes, and ducked through the living wall as fast as he could go, while the calls for the middleweight wrestlers were being yelled by the marshals. a husky young sophomore quickly responded, but again the freshmen were slow with their man. the big football captain, who had been in conference with some of his aides, walked across the ring. "you red-head, there," pointing to turner, "come out here and defend the honor of your class. the freshman who just wrestled says you're a good one." frank and jimmy looked at each other. "so that's the game the codfish put up on me," said jimmy. "wait till i get at him. i'll dirty his clothes worse than they are now." "come on, freshman," said the captain peremptorily. "i can't wrestle," said jimmy. "get out here and learn then. come on," and the captain reached a big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. jimmy felt compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. a path was cleared for him and he stepped into the ring. "good boy, red. you've got to even this thing up." "show us you have the goods!" yelled someone whose sympathies were with the freshmen. the freshman and sophomore took their corners after the referee had satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight, and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that might in any way injure his opponent. "does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the news-heeler of frank. "not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong," was frank's reply. "well, he'll need it. that fellow who is pitted against him is francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game." when the sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. his slender body was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome. "middleweights--sophomore francis, weight ; freshman turner, weight ," bawled the announcer. then the whistle shrilled and the boys sprang forward to shake hands. that preliminary over, they backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an opening. francis rushed, but turner cleverly evaded him. again he tried and was thrown off by turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies sounding sharp and clear in the night air. "good boy, turner. don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a senior as turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both the contestants in among the torches. it was francis' method of wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning. more skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and francis got a hold on turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. both crashed to the ground. there was a twisting, squirming struggle with turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break away from francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with francis across his back. the picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist. riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting with their exertions. most of the torches had by this time burned themselves out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. for a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the dormitory windows facing the campus, and in the dim light of the moon could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the dwight hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle. but the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around the ring were not interested in the pictures. back and forth the wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other. francis could not get his famous holds on turner for the latter, with extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was caught irrevocably. time was up for the bout before either had scored a fall. "keep him off, turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "tire him out in this next bout, and you will get him in the last one." "don't let him get that half-nelson on you or you are going sure as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting turner with a towel. "you've taken some of the confidence out of him already." francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice. "you'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "carry it right to him and don't let him get out of your grips." "he's strong," said francis. "he nearly broke my arm, but i'll get him. don't worry." but the confident smile had gone from his face. it was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty nearly evened by the freshman's unusual strength. "ready," shouted the referee, and once again the boys sprang at each other. francis was more cautious this time; turner watchful and wary. round and round they circled until turner seeing what he thought was an opportunity rushed with such a tremendous drive that francis, unable to escape, was borne off his feet. he managed to save himself from a bad position by driving turner's head down, and mounting his back, rode half way round the ring like an old man of the mountains, while the crowd yelled and laughed. the laughter seemed to madden jimmy. with a herculean effort he freed himself from francis who dropped to the ground on hands and knees firmly braced. using all his strength to turn him over without success, jimmy relaxed his muscles, rested for a moment, and then putting every pound of energy into one supreme effort, picked his opponent up by the middle and threw him backwards over his head. francis struck on his shoulder, rolled over on his back and lay still. he had been stunned by the fall. a little fanning brought francis back to consciousness, but he had enough for that night, and the referee awarded the bout to turner. a few moments of conference and the announcer cried: "turner wins the middleweight bout for the freshmen. the third bout will not be pulled off." the freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in durfee hall. as turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'varsity y stepped up to him. "do you play football?" "yes, a little," said turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his right forearm, which had been raised by one of the sophomore's love taps. "report to me at the field next monday. i'm the freshman football coach. maybe i can use you." turner thrilled. "so the old codfish didn't get me in wrong after all. i'll forgive him," he thought to himself. finished with his dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of spectators, and was picked up by frank who had wriggled from his position with difficulty. "great stuff, jimmy," cried frank. "it was worth real money to see you in action!" "i don't deserve any credit for it," said turner. "i happened to get a lucky lift on him. he knows more about the game than i'll ever learn. i hope i didn't hurt him." "never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned frank. "i wonder where hercules gleason went to. he disappeared after his meteoric burst of wrestling form." "as i'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed jimmy, pointing to a dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. the boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the codfish, mussed and bedraggled. great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent dragged him along the ground in the second bout. his usually sleek hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his face. "how did you like my début?" he asked weakly. "great, but how in the name of mike and the rest of the family did you come to get roped in?" "they noticed my special fitness for the job, i guess," murmured the codfish, "and they threw me into the ring, and when i got there, what was there left but to take my medicine?" "who was it that chucked you over our heads, and why didn't you follow us when we made a break?" demanded frank. "o, you ducked off so fast that i lost track of you, and then while i was hunting around for you a bunch of fellows came along and asked me if i were a freshman." "and you said no, of course," said jimmy. "no, i said yes with the result as you saw it. i was lucky to escape with my life. how that sophomore came to let me throw him is more than i can understand." "it was the blue socks that did it," declared frank. "he simply couldn't withstand them." "come on home," said the codfish, groaning. "i'm a mess." "not till this match is over," said frank. "we've got to stick by the class. there's one for us i guess," as freshmen yells betokened a fall for the candidate of the youngest class in the heavyweight match now going on desperately in the ring they had left. five minutes more, and a great burst of cheering announced the end of the match with the freshman candidate a winner. "that gives us the championship," shouted frank, and the three friends grasped each other about the shoulders and whirled around in a wild dance, the codfish favoring his lame knee as much as possible. like magic the great crowd of students faded from the campus and headed for york street. at the corner of high street and elm the gang of town roughs, now augmented to a hundred or more, yelled defiance at the students, and occasionally fell upon some of them who were on the outskirts of the crowd. "look out for your caps," came the warning, but it was not given soon enough to prevent some of the unwary from losing their headgear at the hands of the roughs who were out for the particular business that night of cap-snatching. hot blows were struck, the whole body of students uniting against the common enemy. at every few steps a rough, backed by a half dozen of his pals, dashed into the students and for a moment there would be a whirlwind of fighting, ending generally in the attacking party beating a retreat with bloody noses but with the prized cap trophies. keeping out of the fighting, the three friends moved slowly with the crowd in the direction of pierson hall on york street, where their rooms were located. frank supported the crippled codfish with an arm around his waist. jimmy appointed himself as rear guard, keeping a wary lookout for attacks. suddenly out of the crowd swooped two roughs and charged full at frank and the codfish, bowling them over like nine-pins. one of the roughs grabbed gleason's cap, which he was unwise enough to wear, and with it a handful of his hair. this brought a blood-curdling yell from the victim of the assault, and drew the attention of the crowd. for the second time that night jimmy went into action. a well-delivered punch knocked the cap-snatcher into the street, but before he could do more execution he was set on by a half dozen of the snatcher's friends who had followed closely on their companion's heels. frank dropped the codfish and sprang to jimmy's assistance, and in a second a scrap of major proportions was in full swing. the boys put up a whirlwind argument with their fists, and were holding their own when through the mass came ploughing two officers of the law, the light flashing on their brass buttons. "police, police, beat it!" yelled the roughs, and they fled precipitately, all excepting the two that frank and jimmy were pummeling with such exceeding vigor that they didn't have time to escape. into the circle where the fight was going on strode the officers with clubs drawn. "quit it and come with us," said one of the policemen. "we're going to put a stop to this street fighting. a night in the lock-up will take some of the spunk out of you fellows. come on," and each grabbed an arm of armstrong and turner while the roughs who had started the trouble, with terrified looks, turned, dashed through the crowd, and made their escape. "they snatched my cap," said the codfish. "so you were in it, too? you better come along with your friends," said one of the officers, reaching for gleason's arm. "why don't you take the roughs that started the muss?" remonstrated frank. "no lip, young fellow," said the officer, scowling and shaking his club. both policemen started forward, pushing their captors ahead of them, but the crowd blocked the way and began to hoot and yell. it looked like serious trouble for a minute when, shouldering through the crowd, came a giant of a man wearing the uniform of the university police. "what's the matter, boys?" he said in a soft tone. "these young fellows were fighting and we're going to jug them for a while." "no, i wouldn't do that, now," urged the soft voice. "maybe they had a reason. let me take charge of them. they're good boys." "they were defending themselves," said a man who stepped forward from the ring of spectators. "i saw the muss and these boys are not to blame." turner recognized in the speaker the man who had asked him to report at the field the next week, and his heart sank. it was a bad way to start his yale career, he thought. "let me take them in charge," urged the university officer, and reluctantly the city policemen released their holds on the offenders. "well, see that they don't get into trouble again on the streets or you can't save them." "o, i'll take care of them," and then to frank, "come on, boys, let's go over to your room. i wouldn't have you fighting for the world. it isn't a good way to start, you know." "we simply couldn't help it," turner burst out. "what would you do in such a case?" "o, i'd just naturally run," said the officer, and a laugh shook his huge bulk. "but if you couldn't run?" urged turner. "well, i'd just naturally have to fight, i s'pose," and he laughed again his good-natured laugh which had numberless times quieted turbulent spirits. "we'll forgive you this time. now where do you live? i'll see you to your rooms. you've had enough fun for the night." "we live together at pierson, just around the corner," said frank. "come on then," said the officer, and accompanied by a cheering crowd, the procession moved onward while the roughs, regaining some of their courage, followed at a safe distance and jeered. the boys gained their room without further trouble, and for an hour looked down on the seething mass on york street below where the classes pushed and struggled in good-natured fun. "well, it's been some evening," said the codfish reminiscently as he daubed arnica on his bruised knee. "yes, yale seems to be a lively little place," said turner. "hand me over that arnica when you have done with it. i have a few tender spots myself." "i'll have a lick at it when you are through with it, jimmy," laughed frank. "i lost a yard of skin in the last mêlée. i hope they don't have many nights like this. i wouldn't last." sore and bruised the three crawled into their beds, but the sting of broken skin could not stifle the feeling of radiant happiness that was theirs because at last they were "yale men," and a part of the great institution about which their dreams had so long centered. chapter iii. the codfish creates news. golden october, slipping rapidly by, found our boys settled comfortably in their college life. the first week was a hard one for them all, but as time went on they adjusted themselves to their surroundings, began to make acquaintances and easily dropped into the daily routine of work and play. frank and jimmy had gone out for the freshman football team, and the latter was now a recognized member of the squad with great hopes for the future. frank had been unfortunate. on the third day of practice he twisted an ankle and had been obliged to sit on the side-lines watching his fellows boom along under instruction of the coach while he saw his chances gradually growing slimmer. to-day he had gone out again and after half an hour again wrenched the bad ankle. it would be another week at least before he could think of playing. "you are the best representation of gloom i ever saw pulled off," said the codfish that night as frank hobbled into the room after dinner at commons, and threw himself into a chair. "my jinx seem to be working overtime," returned frank, "and my guardian angel is out visiting somewhere. did you ever see such luck?" and he deposited the injured leg on the chair in front of him. "bad judgment, my boy, bad judgment. you should have gone in for the less strenuous sport of rowing as i have," admonished the codfish. "a lazy, sit-down job and one for which you are peculiarly fitted," broke in jimmy turner. "ah, but my boy, if you can win your y sitting down, isn't it better than to be mauled by bear-cats every day? i belong to the antisweat brigade." "the only y you will ever get is the one you find in your soup," jimmy flung at him. "stranger things than that have happened, mr. turner." "yes, blue moons, for instance." codfish, fired by the general fever for something to do outside of the classroom, had indeed enlisted himself as a candidate for the coxswain of the crew, because, as he said, "you only had to sit still, pull ropes now and then and talk." he had been out as one of the coxswains and had shown some aptitude in spite of the fact that he knew nothing whatever about rowing. "i'm paralyzed with amazement," said frank, looking the codfish over quizzically, "that you ever got ginger enough into your system to even do sit-down work." "well, you see it was this way," returned the crew squad-man, crossing one thin leg over the other. "i went down there to the boat house one day, merely to look on, to see----" "to see how the young idea was shooting, eh?" grunted jimmy. "precisely. and when the coaches saw me they were struck with my peculiar--ahem----!" "unfitness!" "wrong again, the phrase i was going to use was, 'peculiar fitness,' fitness, do you get it? for the job, and begged me to help them out." "and you helped?" "what could i do? other things are claiming my attention but i could not see rowing go to the bad down there, so i accepted as gracefully as i could." "and now things are in a rotten state?" "for the second time, wrong and always wrong. they are improving daily. of course, i'm not in the first boat yet, it would have created too much jealousy, but i have assurance from headquarters that i will be moved into the coveted position of cox of the freshman crew as soon as it has been picked." "heaven help the first freshman crew then," groaned jimmy. "little do they realize the honor that is shortly to descend upon them," returned the codfish, complacently. "i have some original ideas about steering a shell which will practically assure them of the race next june." "and they are?" "why cast pearls before swine? the scheme will be revealed to you in due season," and the codfish pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to scribble on it industriously. "you didn't know, perhaps, that i've decided to go out for the _news_, did you?" said the codfish, scratching away with his head tilted on one side. "aren't you a little late in the undertaking?" inquired frank. "that is something of a job for even an intelligent man." "for an ordinary intellect, yes, but for me a mere bagatelle, or bag-of-shells, as the ancients have it." "heeling the _news_ means hours and hours of shacking," said frank. "have you seen those pale ghosts of heelers flitting around by day and by night on bicycles?" "o, yes, that's the ordinary way, i know. i shall deal only in scoops, which, if you follow me, means a 'beat' on all the other fellows." "it's a difficult business, sonny." "on the contrary, a cinch. watch your uncle dudley. simply mind over matter. you boneheads wouldn't understand my reasoning processes if i explained, so why explain? but i say, when is david powers expected in this burg?" "arrives on the morning train from new york," said frank. "got in on the _olympic_ last night from the other side. began to think he was lost." "good old davey. and he's going to be in pierson?" "yes, right across the hall from us." "good, i can use him in my _news_ ambitions. now i guess i'll run across to the _news_ office and tell the editors i'm ready to start work." "i hope they kill you," jimmy shot after him as the door banged. half an hour later the codfish was back in the room. "well, what happened?" both boys demanded. "what do you suppose?" "they fired you out after one good look at you." "on the contrary, they welcomed me with open arms. assignment editor is a peach. he recognized my ability at once." "how?" "o, kind of naturally doped it out for himself. general bearing i have, i s'pose. poor freshman bunch heeling the _news_ now, he told me, and that makes my chances better." "o, you egotist, you blithering egotist," laughed jimmy. "no, no, not egotism, just merely confidence. now if i were on the freshman football squad, i'd just simply know i was going to make the team, and that's all there'd be to it. i'd make it. mind over matter, my boy, mind over matter, as i was telling you." "and when do you begin?" inquired frank. "o, i'll knock off a little something in the morning. i've an hour after ten-thirty recitation. i asked the assignment editor to save me a column on the front page, in view of a scoop i contemplate. hand me that paper, turner," indicating the evening paper which lay on the floor at jimmy's feet. turner tossed it over to him, and codfish at once buried himself in its columns. after ten minutes' reading, the codfish slapped his knee with a resounding slap and gave evidence of excitement. "what's up, old top?" inquired frank, looking up from his book. "basis for a scoop first lick out of the box," was the answer. "and what?" "o, read it in the _news_ day after to-morrow," and the codfish settled himself to lay out his plans. he had come across an item which suggested something in the way of a story which would attract the attention of the whole college. nothing was seen of the codfish the next day. he explained to his roommates that he had taken two cuts and had gone into the suburbs on an exploring expedition. he had hardly time to welcome david powers who arrived in due season, and was properly installed among his belongings in the room across the hallway. but the following morning as with frank and jimmy he strolled across the campus to osborn hall for the first recitation after chapel, he proudly exhibited a copy of the _news_. on the first page in black type was emblazoned the head: extraordinary discovery. bones of prehistoric animal unearthed by workmen presented to yale museum. said to be most important find in recent years. then followed a description of the bones which were represented to be those of a prehistoric horse of a species not before known to the paleontologists. the article ended with the information that the bones had been carefully preserved, and had been presented, or would shortly be presented, to the yale museum by the _news_ representative who had had a prominent part in their recovery. the codfish puffed out his chest as frank and jimmy scanned the article. "what do you think of your humble roommate now, eh, what? didn't i tell you to read it in the _news_?" "so that's what bit you the other night?" "sure. the ordinary eye would have passed that item over without a thought, but i saw possibilities in it. you never saw so many bones," he added. "fine bones, perfectly fine bones, just as good as any over in the museum, and a lot whiter than most of them." "yes, but who told you they belonged to the prehistoric horse?" "o, the foreman of the gang. he was a keen guy, i tell you, knew all about the game and got me so enthusiastic that i bought the whole bunch for ten dollars. they'll have a chance to mull over them up at the museum in a day or two." "more likely they are the remains of some poor bossy," said jimmy, "who laid down and died yesteryear." "you are the most disgusting pessimist i know," said the codfish in high dudgeon. "haven't they as good a chance to be old-fashioned bones as anything? anyway i got the story in and a credit of five thousand words at least on the scoop. the fact that i bought them and presented them to the museum should be worth another bunch of credit to me, but i'll work that up into a new story that will knock their eye out." "but lord help you if you've put the _news_ in wrong," said frank. "tush, tush," was all that codfish would say, "don't discourage the efforts of a budding genius." several days later three expressmen might have been seen carrying most carefully a gigantic packing box labeled: relics--with care. and addressed to the peabody museum. behind it marched the codfish. "round the back way," he commanded. "you can't get in the front way. easy there. you're carrying the most important thing you ever handled." "it's darn'd heavy," grunted one of the men. "that's because it's so valuable," admonished the guardian of the box. "don't drop it, on your life; it's a prehistoric horse." "well, if it is, give me a historic one. he must be solid stone." "no, only solid bone, like your head. easy there!" stumbling and grunting the men carried the box as gingerly as they could around to the back of the museum. the codfish left his precious possession, and hunted around in the gloomy depths of the basement of the museum among the giant bones of long extinct mammals which lined the corridors. "they must all be ossified here," he muttered to himself, but as he was about to give up the search for something living in that forbidding cavern, he came upon an apron-clad man who looked him over curiously. "well," said he of the apron. "i'm looking for the bone man," said the codfish somewhat abashed. "you're in the wrong museum, you want the dime kind." "no, i don't. i want the bone professor." "o, the bone professor, eh? well, i'm the man," he said, while the suspicion of a smile crossed the pale features. "what's wanted?" "got a bunch of bones out here for you, great stuff, too." "whose bones?" "o, it's something that will interest you. i've presented them to the museum." "you have, eh? that's kind of you. didn't you think we had enough?" glancing around at the tiers of cases and the tons of uncased bones lying on the floor. "o, but you've got nothing like these. these are the whitest bones you ever saw, belonged to a prehistoric horse or something of that kind. don't you read the _news_? take a look at them. where do you want them put?" the "bone professor" called a workman who, with a hatchet, soon had the cover of the packing case ripped off, exposing the great find of the codfish. "this is a poor joke," said the professor, the danger light beginning to flash in his eye. "take them out of this." "why, aren't they good bones? didn't they belong to a prehistoric horse?" "a prehistoric jackass, and you are a direct descendant," shouted the professor. "i won't have you or your bones around here. you've dug up a domestic animal cemetery somewhere. off with them," and he turned on his heel and plunged into the basement without so much as another look at the discoverer of the prehistoric horse. "and to think that i paid ten dollars to get them here," reflected the codfish. "science can go hang in the future. here," to the driver of the wagon, "take this blooming box of bones away somewhere and lose it forever." "it'll take five dollars to lose it right," said the driver, who with his two assistants, had hung around, grinning broadly at the discomfiture of the friend of science. "it's worth five to have it lost," said the codfish as he went into his pocket for the necessary bill, "and if i ever see it or you again, beware of your life." "we'll take it to the soap factory, eh?" "no chance," said the codfish gloomily. "the bones are not old enough for the museum and too old for the factory. eat them if you want to, only get rid of them somehow. i'm off," and he strode out to high street in a rage. but the codfish had the newspaper man's sense, and that night wrote an article for his paper which explained that the find was only "semiprehistoric, and as such did not have the value that it was first supposed to have in spite of the authority of the first testimony." the codfish did not know till later that his prehistoric stories netted him less than nothing, for he was docked ten thousand words by the _news_ board for handing in an article which contained so much misinformation. in such ways do the fates trip up even unselfish friends of science. chapter iv. making the eleven. "i'd give good money, if i had it," quoth turner, "to have to-morrow's game over and won." half a dozen boys were gathered in the pierson hall rooms, and the talk was on the exeter game which was to be played on the morrow. "why so timid?" spoke up the codfish, who was planning another assault on the _news_ columns. "this exeter team is good, awfully good. did you see what they did to hotchkiss last week?" "sure-- to ." "and what was our score against hotchkiss?" "nothing to ." "figuring at that rate it will be an interesting occasion for us to-morrow afternoon," said frank armstrong gloomily. "but then," more cheerfully, "you can never tell what will happen in football. if our friend james turner could get away on one of his dashing runs, right early in the game, it might be a help." "i haven't been dashing much lately," said turner. "my dashing has been chiefly on the ground." "the worm may turn," suggested butcher brown, a broad-shouldered and loosely built young chap who played a tackle position on the second freshman eleven, and who lived on the same floor in pierson, at the end of the corridor. "speaking of worms," observed the codfish, "did you notice the _news_ this morning?" "i saw it was printed as usual," said frank. "some good football news on the first page?" "always thinking of football. did you happen to look in the crew notices? of course, you didn't." "what was it? tell us. have you been promoted?" "promoted is the word," said the codfish proudly. "i have the honor to announce to you, since you didn't read it for yourself, that i'm to guide the destinies of the third freshman crew henceforth." "i'm glad i'm not on it, then," said turner. "and," continued the codfish undaunted by turner's shot, "in about a week i'll land in the seat of the first eight. they are very fond of my style down there at the boathouse." "your line of talk i suppose is so overpowering that the crew rows hard to get away from it." "don't be sarcastic, armstrong. it doesn't fit your particular style of beauty. you are peeved because you can't make the freshman football team, and, of course, i don't blame you, but try not to be jealous of me." frank laughed. "go it, old bird," he said. "we're too fond of you to be jealous, but remember the old proverb: 'pride goeth before a fall!'" "watch me," said the codfish. "proverbs don't fit my case," and the codfish busied himself over a pile of correspondence. "why such industry?" inquired turner, after a few minutes of silence broken only by the scratching of the codfish's pen. "read it in the _news_, my son. i'm going to have a red-hot scoop to-morrow." "let us in on it." "not on your life." "has it anything to do with prehistoric horses?" "nothing at all. better than that. this one will make them all sit up and take notice. there ought to be about ten thousand words credit in this one. i can see the road clear to an editorship on that ancient and honorable sheet. when i get on the board, i'll see to it that all football games are very carefully reported, and that your glaring mistakes are not brought out too prominently." "thanks, very much," said turner, laughing. "you're a confident little rooster. for a man who talks so much you get very little into that same _news_, it seems to me." "i'll bet you i can get a front page article to-morrow." "i'm not a betting man," said turner. "moreover i don't want to take your money." "quitter," retorted the codfish. "i'll bet you for fun, money or beans." "i haven't had any fun for the last three weeks. i have no money, and beans are scarce." "then i'll show you, anyway. read the _news_ in the morning," and grabbing a handful of manuscript the codfish dashed out the door, slamming it vigorously behind him as was his habit. an hour later, just as the boys were about to turn in for the night, jim, the university officer, pushed the door open and entered. "hello, boys," said the officer, seating himself in a big armchair and puffing with the climb of three flights of stairs. "do you have a fellow named gleason rooming here, a _news_ heeler?" "sure," said frank, "that's the codfish." "yes, yes," said the officer. "well, he's been pinched." "what, arrested?" "sure thing. he's down at the lock-up now. captain just telephoned me to see if i could locate his friends." "what was he up to?" "riding a bicycle on the chapel street sidewalk." "but he has no bicycle, it would be too much like work for him to ride one." "well, he must have borrowed it then, because he was pulled in by one of the city men for breaking the ordinance against riding on the sidewalk." "the nut," ejaculated turner. "he should have known better than that." "we've got to get him out of hock," said frank. "i guess you will if he gets out to-night," returned the officer, laughing, "and it takes about fifty dollars bail to do it." the boys looked at each other, aghast. "fifty dollars!" they said. "that's a lot of money." "take up a collection," suggested the officer, "and i'll go down to the station with you. it has got to be cash. they won't accept checks for bail, you know." frank and jimmy brought forth their rolls, but when they had laid all their cash on the table they were still short a matter of twenty-five dollars. in this emergency david powers was called upon across the hall, and he advanced the necessary funds. at the police headquarters they found the codfish installed in the captain's room, writing industriously. "just in time," said the captain. "i was just going to put him in the cooler. i think he ought to spend the night with us, anyway. teach him a lesson." the codfish continued his writing unconcernedly for a minute, sighed with satisfaction, folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. "when the formalities are complied with, i'll go along with you. have you got the bail?" he said to frank, who was gazing at him in amazement. the money was soon paid over, and the codfish was released from the grip of the law with instructions to be on hand for the opening of the city court at nine o'clock the next morning. "you crazy nut," said jimmy, on the way up to pierson hall. "how did you come to get pinched?" "method in my madness, old top. let's swing around to the _news_ office. i've got a couple of articles for them, two more scoops." "and what are they?" "o, read the _news_ in the morning," said the codfish, joyfully. "you wouldn't understand the workings of the genius mind like this," tapping his forehead, "if i told you." the boys swung over to elm street, and the codfish handed in two articles at the _news_ office, and then went along with his friends. "it always gives me a feeling of deep exhaustion to see those heelers working so hard on that sheet." "do they work hard?" inquired frank. "work hard! great fishes of the vasty deep, they put in an amount of hours that ought to make you football fellows blush with shame, if you could blush. the ordinary news-heeler doesn't have time to eat his meals." "you don't cut out many, i notice," laughed jimmy. "yes, but i'm not the ordinary kind." "i've heard you say that before." "these other fellows chase little bits of things for news' sake, while i create news for my sake. get the difference?" "right--o," said frank. "you created some the other day--some bone news." "'still harping on my daughter,' as one william shakespeare said some moons since? can't you give that a rest and turn your mind to the present? never worry about the dead past, is my motto. even napoleon made mistakes, to say nothing of turner, eh jimmy?" reaching the pierson room, the codfish threw himself into a big chair and sighed luxuriously. "great day's work. although i started late on this competition i must be nearly up to the leader now, and a little more hustling will shoot me to the front." "what an ego!" exclaimed frank. "but now in the privacy of our own room, will you kindly tell me, why, how and what for did you get yourself in the hands of the law to-night, whose bicycle was it you borrowed, and when are we going to get the money we advanced to release your worthless carcass from hock?" "my, what a lot of questions. do you mean to tell me you haven't visioned my scheme, a bright young fellow like you? pshaw, pshaw, armstrong, i didn't think it of you." "go ahead and elucidate, sherlock holmes!" "it seems hardly necessary, but it is said, and truly i now perceive, that brains and brawn are not kindred attributes of the genus football man. in a word, i got myself pinched, and thereby made news for the _news_. savez?" "you got arrested on purpose to write up your own arrest?" "sure thing, surest thing you ever knew. made a pretty little story of it, touched on the brutality of the officer who hauled me into the station, and, incidentally, made a strong plea for the use of the city sidewalks by heelers on bicycles when the streets are as dusty as they are now, to say nothing of a little hit at the lack of courtesy accorded the yale student by the ordinary, garden variety of policeman." "and this is what we provided good money for!" said frank. turner advanced threateningly upon the offender. "this is what we were dragged from our room in the dead hour of night for, this is the thing for which we deposited our good money! i hope they give you a thousand dollars and costs, and send you to jail for a year, to-morrow morning." "o, yes," continued the codfish, not noticing turner's outburst, "and i forgot, i wrote another little item suggesting that the criminal club, of which i am now a member in good standing, and which has fallen into decay, be rejuvenated and reëstablished in its glory of the olden days." "well, you've had your trouble for nothing, old lunatic. the _news_ won't print anything like that." "if they don't, they don't know good news when they see it." "costly news, i should say," grunted frank. "costly with our money. we want our money back and fifty per cent. interest for the wear and tear on our constitutions in this night air." "i'll pay it to you out of my dividends from the _news_ board when i cash in." "then we'll never get it," groaned jimmy. "i'm going to bed. codfish has absolutely gone nutty." "that's always said about geniuses by ordinary folks, old top. time alone will prove who is the nutty gent," the codfish shot after him as turner went into his bedroom. the next morning the college was agog with excitement about the proposed flight of aeroplanes over yale field some time during the afternoon while the football game was in progress. details of the flight were given in the yale _news_, the names and histories of the aviators and the types of machines to fly. it was further stated that one of the flyers would loop-the-loop in full view of the crowds in the stands. the codfish was bursting with pride at the sensation he had sprung, for it was his story which had set the college talking. "it's knocking their eye out," he boasted. "is it coming off?" inquired frank incredulously. "sure, it's coming off. it cost me a cool two hundred and fifty to get them here, and i've had a dickens of a time keeping it quiet." "so that's what you've been at these last three days, is it?" said turner. "a week, my boy, you can't do big things like that in three days. this ought to give me a lead in the race. eh, what?" "a race for your life, if it doesn't come off." "always skeptical, no imagination, typical football type, slow to grasp an idea. if you had read the papers you would have seen that they're having a flying meet down at bridgeport. with a little lubricant in the shape of cash, the rest was easy." a great crowd journeyed to yale field that afternoon, so great that it resembled in a measure the days of the big football games. with three events scheduled--a freshman game, a 'varsity game and a flying exhibition, all in one afternoon, thousands were drawn in the direction of the field, and the football manager chortled with joy as he saw the shekels going into his treasury. the games came and went, but no fliers hove in sight. the freshmen were overwhelmed by the big exeter team, and after that was over the 'varsity proceeded to punch holes in their opponents. the spectators divided their attention between the field and the sky, but nothing came. the nearest thing to an aeroplane that appeared during the afternoon was a large hawk which floated up from the southwest, and volplaned down from the heights. for a moment it raised false hopes. the crowd reluctantly filed out of the big stands as darkness began to settle over the field and still no flying men put in their appearance. the codfish was puzzled but not alarmed. nothing could disturb his buoyant nature. he rode back to the city on a car loaded with people who indignantly proclaimed a fake by the yale _news_ for the purpose of drawing a larger attendance for the game, but although he heard, the codfish kept his own counsel. arriving at his room he found a telegram from the manager of the meet at bridgeport, notifying him that owing to a disagreement among the fliers, they would not be able to come to new haven at all, and that his check would be returned next day. "well, this lets me out," soliloquized the promoter of the flying meet. "i'll write this up, describe the disagreement in detail, and hand it in for monday's paper. great thought," he added aloud, "more credit for yours truly. we play them both ways and the middle, there's no chance to lose." just then frank and jimmy came in. the game had not been one to enliven their spirits. they were caustic in their remarks to the codfish. "you are certainly a bum flying meet promoter," said frank. "with two such stories as you have pulled off in our conservative little _news_, you might as well die." "on the contrary, i've just begun a little story," as indeed he had, "which will explain the matter satisfactorily. fliers are said to be uncertain birds anyway, and i guess they are. this story," he added, "will put me straight with the editors and the editors straight with the college. no harm done at all. exhibition arranged, all in good faith, some aviator has the pip, no flight, telegram explains, i explain, more news at every turn, and there you are." "yes, and there you are," said turner scowling. "your roommates get the blame for not letting you be locked up, as you should be." "o, i didn't see you scoring any touchdowns to-day. come in," he yelled as a knock came on the door. a young freshman heeler entered with a note which he handed to the promoter of the flying exhibition. "from the _news_," he added and went out. the codfish took the letter and tore off the end of the envelope. "big assignment i imagine, expected as much, they're beginning to see i'm onto my job." but as the codfish read, a change came over his face. he went through the short note once and then again, while his roommates watched him curiously. "well, what is it, an assignment, eh?" said frank. "something big?" "an assignment, yes," returned the codfish weakly, "an assignment to quit. what do you think of this?" and he read aloud: "g. w. gleason, pierson hall. dear sir:-- it is the unanimous opinion of the board that you had better confine your activities to some other field of endeavor than the _news_. an imagination like yours is wasted on the ordinary business of publishing a college paper. we do not deal entirely in fiction. we respectfully suggest that you try the _courant_, which will more nearly suit your peculiar type of genius. very truly yours, john p. murray, chairman." "fired, by gosh," said the codfish. "fired it is," said turner. "i knew your zeal would carry you over the falls." "well, i had a good time going, anyway." "o, i say," said frank, "what did they give you at city court this morning?" "five dollars and costs, not much for the experience. it was worth all the trouble. experience is what i live for." "you funny duffer," said frank, laughing. "now pay up," and the codfish did. "well, there's one thing i still have left, my crew job. they can't shake me there." chapter v. frank learns to tackle the dummy. "how does that ankle feel?" inquired the freshman coach of frank armstrong one afternoon at practice on the week following the exeter game. "i see you stepping around quite lively on it." "i think it is good enough, sir," said frank. it was far from a well ankle, but frank was desperately anxious to get into the game from which he had been denied on account of his accident, and was willing to take a chance with it. he had felt that he was going to be overlooked entirely in spite of the fact that he had kept in training and had done as much as he could under the conditions. "good enough then. do you know the signals?" "yes, sir." "well, then take some practice now and later i want to try you at quarter on the second. you played there on your prep. school team, eh?" "yes, sir," said frank, his heart jumping at the thought that he was to have his chance, after all. "all of you over to the 'varsity field," commanded the coach. "the exhibition of tackling in that exeter game was enough to make a strong man weep, not a half dozen clean ones in the whole game. i'll teach you to stop a man or kill you in the attempt," and coach howard, with a determined face, led his squad into the great wooden amphitheater where at one end below the goal line stood two tackling dummies, looking very much like gallows, each with the canvas-clad shape of a man dangling from a rope over a pit of sawdust and loam. there had been some tackling practice early in the season in which frank had not participated on account of his injured ankle, so the experience for him to-day was to be a new one. "now, this is the way, watch me carefully," said howard. "start from here," indicating a point about fifty feet from the dummy, "get under way quickly, increase your speed toward the end of the run, spring off one foot, not a dive, remember, strike the dummy with your shoulder just under the hips, and wrap your arms around the legs. this way," and suiting the action to the word, howard, who was in football uniform, dashed at the swinging figure, struck it with a crash, carried it from its fastening on a clean, driving tackle. "now line up and all take your turn," said the coach as he came back to the group. "lead off, bostwick." bostwick was an old end from andover, who had come down to yale with a reputation already made, and who had been chosen captain of the team. after bostwick ran a steady string of the freshmen tackling the dummy, some cleanly, some awkwardly. a field assistant picked up the canvas-clad figure, and replaced it on the hook after each savage assault, ready for the next man, while the coach stood by, offering criticism and suggestion. "too low, too low," he shouted to a candidate. "your man would get away from that. just what you did saturday." or to another, "don't slow up; he won't bite you. drive into him hard, and carry him right off his feet and keep a good grip with both hands, both hands," he yelled as one of the tacklers slapped one arm around the canvas legs. it was frank's turn. he sprinted down the runway, sprang head-first at the swinging figure, hit it cleanly, and grasping it tightly with both arms, crashed down in the sawdust pit. "wrong, wrong," cried howard. "that was a diving tackle. your team would be penalized for that; you've got to make that last step a long stride, not a jump, remember. otherwise it was o. k." frank picked himself out of the pit, and walked back limping a little. he had leaped with all his vigor from the injured leg, and winced with the pain of it. but he was not going to show it. on his second trial he did better, but was so anxious to favor the ankle that he slowed up and took a succession of little short steps just before he sprang, which drew the fire of the coach down upon him, and caused a smile to go around the waiting line. "afraid of it?" queried the coach, sarcastically. "it isn't stuffed with anything harder than excelsior, and it won't bite you." frank walked back to his place at the end of the line crestfallen, but determined to show a better result on his next trial. several of the 'varsity coaches had strolled over from the other tackling dummy, where some of the 'varsity line men were being put through their paces, and all of them were on the lookout for likely material for future 'varsity teams. but, try as he might, frank could not satisfy the coach. something was wrong with all his attempts. the coach did not know that the injured ankle was throbbing like a toothache. frank was afraid to admit it for fear he would be relegated to the side-line for another period of waiting. so he blundered through his tackling at a great disadvantage. "that's enough," said the coach at last. "you are a sad bunch at this game, but we'll give you a daily dose of it and see if it helps any. come back to the freshman field for a scrimmage," and followed by his squad of pupils, he led the way. that afternoon was a nightmare for frank. favoring his ankle as much as he dared, he ran the second team without snap or vigor, and although he got away on two quarterback runs for ten or fifteen yards each, and nearly got a field goal from a difficult angle, he was pulled out of his position and sent to the side-lines before the scrimmaging was finished, firmly convinced that he was not cut out for a quarterback. "this infernal ankle of mine," he grumbled to jimmy turner on their way back in the stuffy car to the city. "i couldn't do anything. my leg felt like a stick. i couldn't get out of my own way." "i don't think you made much of a hit with the coach this afternoon," admitted that individual. "i heard him say to one of the 'varsity men, just as we were getting on the car, that you had some possibilities, but you were too much afraid of getting hurt." "he did, did he?" and frank glared at coach howard who was sitting further up the car pointing out a play diagram to madden, the quarter of the first team. "thought i was a nice old lady! i'll show him something if this leg ever gets better," and he gritted his teeth in anticipation of the happy time to come when he could disprove the coach's suspicions. handicapped by his bad ankle, and often in agony with the pain of it on the field, frank continued, as the days went by, to fight an up-hill but losing fight. turner was daily strengthening his position at left halfback, and was already looked upon as of possible 'varsity caliber for the next year. while not very fast, he ran hard and low, and it took an uncommonly hard tackle to bring him to the ground. he also had that thing which pleases the coaches, an unfailing instinct for the ball. wherever it was, turner was not far away. on the saturday of that week came the game with pawling school. frank sat on the side-lines with longing in his heart as he saw his teammates, for the first time in the season, play a game worthy of them. the first quarterback, madden, ran his team with speed and judgment, and when the half was finished had driven the visitors down the field and scored two touchdowns on them. in the third quarter, madden received a hard jolt in the stomach in a scrimmage, and frank thrilled as he saw the coach walk down the side-line, looking for a substitute. he came on, passed frank and selected a quarter named barlow to take madden's place, and who sat just beyond him. barlow shed his sweater as he ran, and with a few words from the coach, sprang into madden's place behind the center. under his guidance another touchdown was added in the third quarter, and the teams changed sides for the last period of the game. frank gave up hope, as the minutes flew by, for any chance at that game. barlow was not doing so well now, but there was little time to play. the pawling team had twice succeeded in stopping the freshmen near the pawling goal line, and the substitute quarter had fumbled a punt which for a moment threatened a touchdown against his team. bostwick, the vigilant end, had recovered the ball at midfield, and saved the situation, but coach howard was evidently anxious. he had made many substitutions to give new men practice, and had thus weakened the team, while pawling seemed to gather new strength. down the side-line came howard again. this time he stopped opposite frank. "i'm going to send you in, armstrong, to get a little practice. hang onto the ball and keep your head. steady that line up and look out for the forward pass. hurry it up." but there was no need to tell frank to hurry. he had torn off his sweater with the first hint of his opportunity, and was listening to the coach with body poised for the run onto the field. in his eagerness he had entirely forgotten about the ankle. with the coming of the new quarterback, the team took fresh life. under his urgings, they began to mow down their opponents as they had in the first part of the game, and the crowd gathered along the side-lines expressed their appreciation of the brace the team was taking in joyous howls. a pretty forward pass, turner to bostwick, put the ball on pawling's -yard line. harrington, the big center, made a bad pass on the next play, but on a slice outside of tackle, turner made five yards. the pawling team braced, and cut the advance down on the next play to a single yard. bostwick stepped back to frank and whispered something to him. then he called the whole team around him, and with arms over each other's shoulders, they conferred on the next play. dropping apart quickly, the linemen sprang into position. "look out for a fake," cried the pawling quarter, dancing around in front of the goal posts. "a forward pass!" cried another of the backs. but it was neither a fake nor a forward pass. armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line, coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to the cross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, true pass from harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe against it as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts. the kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and its appreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skyward flight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines. a kick-off at midfield which turner ran back yards, a single rush, and the whistle ended the game. "why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said coach howard giving armstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to the side-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "you put that over like a veteran!" "didn't have a chance before," said frank, grinning. "guess you didn't. well, i'll see to it that you get a chance after this." and then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectators straggled off to the cars, "i had pretty nearly come to the conclusion that you were too soft for the game of football." "my ankle isn't as good as it ought to be," said frank, looking down. "i was afraid of doing more damage to it." "i'll take a look at that ankle in the gym," said howard. "maybe we can make a quarterback of you yet. i want you to come over to the freshman training table after this." it was a joyful gathering in pierson that night, with a full attendance, for little by little the armstrong-turner-gleason-powers combination began to have a following in the dormitory and in the class. friends began to drop in to talk over matters of the moment as they passed to and from their rooms, and if they were the right kind they always had a welcome. the room became the central one for spreads and parties, when the fun raged until ten o'clock. "all over," frank would shout. "lights out." both turner and armstrong believed in keeping strict training hours. on this particular night the codfish was in his element. "three cheers for our own little quarterback," he howled. "sit down, you fish," shouted turner. "you didn't even see the game." "o, but i have ears. all the little birds sang it as i was coming up from the boathouse this evening." "how's the freshman crew coming on?" "i'm on the second now. you should have seen us scare the first boat this afternoon. had a mile spin. started up by the quinnipiac bridge, and finished at tomlinson, points you land-lubbers know nothing about." "and the second was licked, of course?" "only by a blade, my son. we gave them the race of their lives, fairly tore down the river, scared the oysters and all that sort of thing, to say nothing of the first freshmen." "and when do they put you in the first shell?" "'nother week, about, i guess. wouldn't be right to the other fellow to advance me too fast." "great stuff, codfish," said turner, laughing. "i think you have confidence enough to steer the 'varsity crew over the course at new london right now." "sure thing," said that worthy. "there's nothing to it. mind over matter, as i hinted to you once before; kind of scientific attitude." the codfish was busy untying a voluminous box which he had brought home with him. "for heaven's sake, what have you got there, a prehistoric horse?" inquired turner. "no, my little halfback, it is a guitar," and having finished unwrapping the instrument, he swung it over his head. "i'm going out for the musical club stuff. i must have some activity, some life; can't get it with two grumps like you fellows, so i must go after it." "jove," groaned frank, "haven't we suffered enough with you and the piano without having a guitar?" the codfish lay back on the window seat, strummed the untuned guitar, and began to hum: "when i was a student at cadiz i played on the spanish guitar--" "you'll be a student in hades if you don't let up!" shouted turner. "we can stand anything excepting the picture of you as a student at cadiz. please desist." "o, tush, old fellow, your soul is not attuned to music. what's the next line? i seem to disremember it----" "when i was a stoogent at cadiz." strum, strum, strum, strum, "i played on the spanish guitar." "good night!" yelled frank. "come on, let's go to poli's and hear some real music. we'll let the codfish be 'a stoogent at cadiz' all to himself." "s'matter?" said the musician reproachfully. "well, if you must go, good night. i cannot frivol my time away at poli's vaudeville when true art is stirring in my soul." "let her stir then," said frank. "we're off," and the door banged. chapter vi. the great freshman battle. the week of the princeton game was a hard one for the freshman team. coach howard, assisted by several members of the 'varsity coaching staff, drove the team with all his might, but the results were not encouraging. frank had been established as quarterback on the second team on the monday following the pawling game, and was making good there. he was now a substitute to madden, and twice had been called over to the first eleven when madden went out of the game temporarily. away back in his head was the hope that he might still win out in the race for the quarterback position. but madden had come to yale with a big reputation justly earned at hill school, and was a hard man to displace. when frank's hopes were highest the crash came. bostwick, the captain and end, threw out his knee in a fierce scrimmage, and was carried groaning to the side-lines. "the fifth end hurt this fall, confound the luck," said howard as he stood looking down at the captain. "and no one to take your place that's worth a cent." "i'll be all right in a day or two," moaned bostwick. "stick some one in till i get a brace on this thing. i can play in the game saturday." "maybe you can and maybe you can't," said the coach. "did you ever see such beastly luck, and we were just beginning to round into shape. who am i going to put in there? there's half a dozen ends and none of them worth a tinker." he ran his eye over the squad which crowded around the injured captain. "here, armstrong," he called, "did you ever play end?" "a few times in prep. school, sir." "well you can learn it, can't you?" said howard petulantly. "bostwick may pull through in time, and maybe he can't, and you are better than anything i have." "i'll do my best," said frank, feeling his hopes for a place on the team slipping away, for he knew well that in the short time still left in the season his chances were small to learn that most difficult of line positions--end. "you are fast and about the only clean tackler i have on the squad," said howard. "get in and try it." bostwick, having been temporarily fixed up and led limping away in the arms of two of the substitutes in the direction of the car, play was resumed with armstrong in his new position. "don't you let anyone get past you on the outside," commanded howard. "and don't be drawn in, no matter what happens. if you can't break the interference, spill it so the defensive half can get the man with the ball. come on, try it." frank did try and tried hard. his ankle had improved, and under the punts he went down the field like a streak of lightning, missing but few tackles. but when the team was on the defensive, he showed the weakness of inexperience. "outside of you that time," bawled the coach, and when the new end moved out further, the play went inside. sometimes he stopped the interference and sometimes, digging desperately through the tangle of legs, he got the runner on a driving tackle, which earned for him a "good boy, armstrong," from howard. but it was bitter hard work, and never in his life had the welcome "that's enough for to-day" found him so ready to quit. his body felt bruised and sore all over from the driving work of the afternoon and his legs were as heavy as lead, as in the gathering dusk he dragged himself to the waiting trolley car which was there to carry the team to the city. "you did well to-day, armstrong, for a starter," said the coach kindly as he came through the car. "it's a hard dose i've given you." frank smiled a wan smile as he loosened his shoe laces. "how heavy are you?" "guess about a hundred and forty-one or two," said frank, straightening up while the muscles of his back protested. "too light, too light," said the coach, shaking his head. "if you had another ten or fifteen pounds on you, you'd do. but bostwick may be able to get into the game by friday," he added, and passed along to his seat. walking over from the training table that night, turner railed bitterly at frank's luck. "you had a chance, a bare chance to get in at quarterback for a part of the game anyway, in spite of your bad start, and now you are dished, sure as shooting. the captain will be o. k. it didn't look like a bad injury to his knee." "can't be helped," said frank. "we've got to take our medicine in this old game. that's part of the training at yale, isn't it?" "it is, but it's not easy stuff to swallow." "well, there's nothing to do but swallow it, and i'm going to be game, but it hurts. bostwick may not make it, and i may get in against princeton, after all." turner shook his head. "i don't think there's a chance; you are only filling in. i can see the handwriting on the wall. he'll come back, and you will be his substitute. the only chance is that he may get hurt again, but i hope he won't for he is the best we've got on that side of the line." "i hope he comes back," said frank fervently, "because with me in there i wouldn't give three cents for our chances." "which are not any too good with the best we have." it proved to be as jimmy said. bostwick was put under heroic treatment in the baking oven for sprained and injured limbs, and to the great joy of all, frank included, appeared on the field on thursday. he was a little stiff because of the hampering action of the brace that howard had devised for him, but went to his old place in the line while frank was sent to the side-lines. the practice went well. "we still have a chance against the tiger cubs," said the coach. "only a signal drill for fifteen minutes to-morrow," he called out as the squad was leaving the field. "get to bed early and don't worry yourselves to death. we're going to give them the time of their lives saturday." the cheerfulness of the coach was largely assumed, for the princeton cubs were coming up from tigertown with a long string of victories to their credit. only twice during the whole season had they been scored on, and one of these was a lucky drop-kick. the yale freshman team, on the contrary, had staggered through the season with a showing far from creditable, and the critics were all predicting a big score for the visitors. but in spite of the gloomy forecastings, the yale freshmen went into that game with a determination to do or die, and while they did not win, neither did the much-heralded princeton cubs win. frank watched from the side-lines the desperate battle up and down the gridiron. he saw his roommate giving the best that was in him in the struggle, and prayed fervently that bostwick might last it out. every man on the team was a hero that day, and when the final whistle blew, with captain bostwick still on his feet and playing a whirlwind game in spite of his injured knee, the score stood at a tie, nothing to nothing. going in on the car the coach had nothing but praise for the team. "we didn't lick them, but it is a good start for harvard next saturday," he said. "we have a week left, and we'll give the johnnies a run for their money, all right." "armstrong," the coach added, as he dropped down beside him in the trolley car, "i'm sorry you didn't get in, but better luck next time." "o, that's all right," returned frank. "i was mighty glad to see bostwick go through, he showed his sand with that bad knee." "he certainly did, and he deserves a lot of credit. but i'm going to keep you at end just the same because i may need you." "all right, sir," said frank, but he well knew it was the end of his ambitions for a place on the team excepting for an accident to the captain, which he did not want to think about. four days of practice the week after the princeton contest brought the team to a condition of fitness which they had not before reached that year, and on friday afternoon, escorted to the train by a hundred of their class, the team with substitutes, coaches, trainers and a goodly crowd of supporters, set out for cambridge. as the 'varsity was away, the freshman game had the honor of being staged on the main gridiron. that game in the towering stadium was one that hung long in frank's memory. it was a game of desperate attack and defense. three times in the first period the rushing red-legged players had the blue team down inside the five-yard line, and three times they were stopped by the stone-wall defense. all through the first half the yale team fought on the defensive, crumpling up before the fierce rushes of the harvard players, but somehow stiffening as the goal line approached. so certain were the harvard players of scoring a touchdown that they disdained to try for a goal from the field, and each time they were stopped by the men from new haven they took the ball back with dogged determination, only to lose it again. "we have them now," said howard as his men were being cared for between the halves. "go after them. they've shot their bolt, and it's our turn." after the kick-off in the third quarter, turner raised great hopes by running the ball back through the harvard team, and, before he was tackled, laid it only twenty yards away from the harvard goal line. a smash at center earned only two yards. "armstrong, get ready, i'm going to send you in to try for a goal," said the coach, running down to where frank was sitting, shivering with the excitement of the struggle that was going on out in the field. frank slipped off his sweater, and made ready, but the chance he so longed for never came. madden's signal was mixed somehow, and the man who was to take the ball wasn't where the quarter expected him to be. he started to run with the ball himself, but was upset by a savage tackle, and dropped the pigskin, which went bounding backward toward his own goal. half a dozen players took a driving shot at the leather, but it eluded them as if it had been greased. finally a lanky harvard end wound his body around it at midfield. yale's chance to score at that particular moment was lost. frank gritted his teeth and slipped on his sweater again. the battle was once more taken up with renewed vigor. the advantage lay first with one team and then with the other, but never again did yale have so good a chance to score. again striking its stride, after a lot of futile punting, the yale freshmen got together and began to plough through their opponents. turner was playing like a demon while the little yale contingent matched yell for yell with the harvard supporters on the other side of the field. turner on two tries reeled off twenty-five yards, and put the ball just across the center of the field. a forward pass netted fifteen yards more, and again the coach began to look for a chance to score, not for a touchdown, for the attack had not shown itself capable of beating down that splendid defense, but by a drop-kick if the opportunity came. but again when hope was high in every heart came a sudden disastrous fumble, and again the red-legged end had the ball. "take it away from them," howled the yale crowd. "throw 'em back." "eat the johnnies up." but that husky harvard team was not a whit disturbed by the ferocious cries from the yale side of the field. they settled down to business again, and slowly, but surely, worked the ball down toward the blue goal line. the tired boys from new haven fought on grimly in the fourth period, making the gains against them shorter and shorter as they were pushed back. turner intercepted a forward pass which would have surely made a touchdown for harvard, and for a time there was a respite for the yale freshmen for the fullback kicked the ball far down the field, only to have it caught and brought back past bostwick, this time, for thirty yards. at it again went the two teams, yale defending stubbornly, but vainly, against the powerful rushes of the harvard backs, who, now that the end of the game was drawing near, threw their last bit of energy into the attack. through center and tackle went the bull-like rushes of the backs. bostwick's end was circled for fifteen yards, and he was laid out for a while, but revived soon after a little dabbing of the sponge on his face. "i want you to be ready, armstrong," said the coach, hurrying up to frank whose eyes were glued on the field, and whose heart was pumping with the excitement of the struggle. he was straining almost as hard as his mates out on the field, lunging his shoulder into the substitute who sat next to him, in the unconscious effort to help stop the harvard rushes. "touchdown, touchdown," sang out the harvard freshmen supporters. "we want a touchdown!" "hold 'em!" "hold 'em, yale!" was the defiant cry from the opposite side of the field. "show the johnnies where you come from!" with the ball on the yale ten-yard line it looked as if no power in the yale team, at least, could stop the victorious march. bostwick was again laid out, but was up on his feet after a minute of attention. "good old bostwick," cried frank, stirred by the game fight his captain was making. "long cheer for bostwick!" and the dancing cheer leaders led a ringing yell for the fighting captain, which seemed to stiffen up the boys out on the field. they stopped the next harvard rush without a yard of gain. standing like heroes together, the freshmen line did the impossible, repulsed the fierce assaults the harvard team could give, and took the ball. "y-a-a-y----" yelled the yale stand, rising as one man. hats and caps went into the air. the cheer leaders tried to get order, and give a cheer, but no one paid any attention to them. the crowd continued to yell like comanches, as the lines settled themselves again. "time must be nearly up," said a substitute. "it can't be," cried frank, gritting his teeth in a frenzy. "they must have five minutes more to play. they've got to have it," and he drove his heels into the unoffending ground as if at that distance he could help in the charge that was to be delivered against the red host. "what's madden going to do, rush it?" inquired a voice. "i hope not," said howard. "a short kick would mean a free catch and a chance for a placement goal. good boy," he shouted as madden changed the signal, and the fullback, who had gone back behind the goal line, came running up again to the regular formation. "put it through them!" "smash it out, boys!" the signal came sharp and clear from the lips of the quarterback, high above the background of yells from the partisans. "turner's ball," whispered frank to himself. the pass was swift and true. turner took the ball from madden's hands at full speed. the play was intended to be a slice off tackle, a play that had gained a good deal of ground during the afternoon. but, alas for the best laid plans of men, mice and football players, he never reached his destination. the tired yale line sagged and broke. through gaping holes poured a stream of crimson-jerseyed men. two tacklers struck turner, who was practically on his goal line, at the same time, and swept him backward like chaff. so swift and sudden had been the deluge that the halfback was carried off his feet and over the goal line before he had even a chance to yell "down." the crowd did not at once appreciate the significance of the matter, but a few, recognizing a safety for harvard, set up a scattered cheer. a moment later the fateful information was flashed from the scoreboard, "safety," and the harvard stand delivered itself of a high-pitched yell. a moment later the referee's whistle blew, and the great game was over. a host of men swept from the stands and surrounded the victors, cheering and prancing about. with bostwick at its head, trying hard not to limp, and with faces drawn and mud-stained, the beaten team walked wearily to the dressing rooms where they were joined by the substitutes. "you didn't win but i'm proud of you all," said coach howard, slapping the jaded players on the back as they came through the door. "you were up against a better team, fifty per cent. better." "here, bostwick," he added a minute later to the captain, who, sunk in gloom and with hanging head, was pulling off his wet football clothes, "cheer up. we can't always win. the main business is that you and your team played a magnificent up-hill game. i'm satisfied and yale will be satisfied for you gave the best in you. that's always the test. you'll have another chance next year." chapter vii. a wreck at the harbor. the excitement of football had passed like most things in college and out of it. the 'varsity had triumphed over princeton, and tied with harvard in a stirring, up-hill game, and now the students had settled down to the ordinary routine. while it was late in november, the fall had been such an open one that the crews, eager to get every day of practice possible, stuck to their work in the harbor. codfish held manfully onto the job of coxswain in the second freshmen eight, the long-looked-for place on the first still eluding him. he was hopeful, however. "i'll get it before the rowing stops, and if not then, when it starts in the spring," he boasted to his roommates. "watch me." this afternoon he was perched on the window seat, legs crossed, lolling back on the cushions, and tickling the guitar. "for the love of mike," cried frank from his room, where he had gone to nab an elusive french irregular or two, "isn't that 'stoogent from cadiz' ever going to graduate?" "why so peevish?" inquired the codfish, keeping up his strumming and humming. "there are fourteen different keys, you know, mr. armstrong, and as you never know which one you're going to be caught in, i've got to be a spanish student in every one of them. i only have ten more to fix in my retentive memory, so the agony will soon be through." "how many have you circumvented?" "six to date. i'm going to tackle the minors to-night; plaintive little things, those minors, they get the heart-throb stuff." "heavens!" said frank. "why don't you hire a hall somewhere out in hampden? i'll go halves with you to get rid of you." "'music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,'" quoted the codfish, "but not the football player." "music did you say?" growled frank. "no soul, no soul at all for the beautiful," sighed the guitar player. "such music ought to move you to tears." "it does, bitter tears, very bitter tears. please desist, stop and quit. i'm having trouble with this dose of romance language. i wonder why they ever called them romance languages?" "give it up." then, throwing down the guitar: "i say, frank, chuck it and come down to the harbor. we are going to have a bit of a brush with the first freshmen crew, and you've never seen your old pal hold the tiller ropes. maybe i can get you into the launch. we go out at three. where's turner and david?" "david is probably grubbing on his lit. stuff, and there's no use in trying to get him. jimmy went over to chapel street to get something, and ought to be back here in a minute. here he comes now. i'll go if he does." turner came into the room whistling a merry tune, threw himself on the couch and elevated his heels to the end of the desk in the national attitude. "gee whiz, but it's a great day! why don't you fellows get out? not many more days like this between now and next may." "the codfish has just invited us down to the harbor to see how well he can't steer a boat, and i said i'd go if you would. i've some french here, but there's no hope of doing it when this musical bug is doing his stunts." "i'm your man," said turner, jumping up at once. "i know the coach and maybe we can get on the launch." "i'll attend to that," said the codfish, majestically. "i haven't been knocking around that old boathouse two months for my health. you are my guests to-day." "go it, old skate. so long as we get aboard we don't mind who does the trick." "lead on, macduff," quoted frank, and like playful dogs newly unleashed, they broke for the street. racing over to chapel street, they caught a steamboat car at the york street corner, and, after a fifteen-minute ride, reached their destination. on the float was a scene of great activity. the crews of half a dozen boats were standing around waiting their turn to embark. some carried oars in their hands, others were stretched at full length on the runways, taking in to the full the rays of the warming late fall sun. most of them were stripped to the waist as in summer, for the day had an uncommon warmth. one crew had just landed, evidently from a smart row, for sweat glistened on their bare and brawny backs, as they unshipped their oars and at the word of their coxswain snapped their shell out of the water and turned it upside down over their heads in one splendid free sweep. they were just in time to see the 'varsity go out, eight clean-limbed, stalwart young fellows, who carried their shell easily, with a quick and springy step, and with almost military precision. without a word spoken, the long sweeps were quickly adjusted in the row-locks. at a word from the captain, the men stepped to their seats, bent and fastened their feet into the sandal-like attachments at the footboards. then the boat was shoved off until the long sweeps were free to catch the water on both sides of the boat. "row," snapped the coxswain, and eight blades cut the water like knives, sending up a little spurt of water in the front of each one of them. like a machine the bodies swung back and forth, the blades dipped rhythmically, and in a minute the crew was but a dot in the waters of the lower river where the 'varsity launch, the "elihu yale," waited. "by jove," said frank, admiration showing on his face, "that was about as pretty a thing as i can imagine." "don't you wish you had gone out for the crew?" inquired turner. "they don't twist your ankles and knees down here, or muscle-bruise you." "no, but they break your back and freeze you to death in the cold winds down here," said someone laughingly. "i just heard your friend's remark, and thought i'd enlighten you. don't you remember me, turner? we wrestled this fall one night, about a thousand years ago. francis is my name." both then recognized the wrestler whom turner threw over his head the night of the rush. he extended a frank hand. "coming down to look us over?" "didn't know you rowed," said turner, taking the proffered hand. "yes, i'm trying it. not much good, either, but maybe i can help to push some other fellow up a peg higher. that's all we scrubs are good for, you know." he said it without any heat, merely stating the fact. "we help to cultivate the flowers, but we can't pick them. it's a part of the yale training. "ta, ta, there's my call," and he dashed into the boathouse where his crew were preparing to take the shell out. following the second 'varsity, came the first freshmen crew, and then on the heels of the first came the second, the codfish busying himself with an air of great importance. permission having been given armstrong and turner to watch the practice from the freshman launch, which lay at the end of the float, they climbed in with alacrity. the launch preceded the two crews down to the bridge where it waited till the shell came up. "take it easy, now," said the freshman coach as the crews lined up alongside. "keep your stroke to about twenty-six and pull it through. ready? row!" both crews dropped their blades in the water, pulled a long, slow stroke, and slipped rapidly up the river, the little launch darting first to one and then the other while the coach shot words of criticism at the oarsmen through a short megaphone. "number five, don't slump down on the catch!" "you're very short in the water, number two, finish it out and get your hands away quickly." "don't buck your oar, four, on the finish; sit up straight." "for heaven's sake," this to the codfish. "can't you keep that boat straight? what are you wabbling all over the river for?" "'vast, 'vast," he yelled as the rowing grew ragged. "'vast" is short for "avast," the usual signal to stop rowing. when the crews came to rest on their oars, the coach shot a torrent of criticism at the men. no one escaped. "exactly like football," said frank grinning. "no one ever gets it quite right." "only difference from football is," said jimmy, "that the other fellow is getting the hot shot now. i guess i'll take mine on the field." "me, too," said frank. "it doesn't strike me as inspiring, this crew business." "and the codfish isn't such a whirlwind as he tries to make us think," commented turner. the coxswain was coming in for a fire of criticism from the coach with the megaphone. "now try it again and watch yourselves--you get worse every day." "doesn't it sound natural?" laughed frank. "no more of that in ours for a year." the crews, stopping and starting, but always under a shower of advice from the coach, drove their way up to the upper bridge where they were ordered to turn around and line-up for the race down stream. after much dogged paddling by fours and high-pitched orders by the coxswains, for the boats were difficult to swing around in the swift running current, they finally got about and were sent off with a word from the coach who had previously ordered them to keep below twenty-eight to the minute. down the river the boats flew, each crew striving with might and main. for a little time it was nip and tuck, but by degrees the first crew edged ahead, and half a mile from the start had a lead of three-quarters of a length and were rowing easily, while the winded second was splashing along and dropping further back at every stroke. the codfish was steering a serpentine course which further retarded his boat. when the crews drew up at the end of the mile, both badly pumped out from the sprint, the coxswain of the second came in for a raking by the coach. "you wabbled down that course like a drunken man," he said hotly. "you ought to be on an oyster boat. what's the matter with you? can't you see?" "poor gleason, he's getting his this afternoon," said frank. for another hour the crews were kept on the jump and then, as the dusk was beginning to come down over the hills, the coach ordered them in. "race it for the float," he commanded, "and look out for the sand bar by the bridge. it's low water. go!" the second was lying about a length ahead of the first boat when the order was given, and, seeing his opportunity, the codfish shouted: "now we've got them, beat 'em to it. row, you terriers!" throwing what science they had learned to the winds, the second freshman crew drove their oars into the water and, at a stroke far above what the coach wanted, tore off for the boathouse, the shell swaying and the water flying while the codfish urged them on at the top of his voice. "sock it through, you huskies, don't let them get you!" the first crew, not to be outdone, started after the second. at first they kept the stroke down, but the coxswain, seeing his chance of overhauling the renegades in the short distance to go, called on his stroke to "hit it up," which that individual was nothing loath to do. "cut them out before they get to the float," cried the coxswain of the first crew. up went the stroke, and the race was on in earnest. the coaching launch had drifted down toward the bridge on the outgoing tide, before the coach saw what was in progress. he waved his arms, bawled through the megaphone, and gesticulated in an endeavor to stop the wild pace, but neither crew heard, nor wanted to stop if they had heard. this was not a race under instructions. it was only a private scrap and, as such, it stood, for the launch was too far off to overhaul the flying, splashing crews. foot by foot the first crew gained on the second, which now, with the stroke over forty to the minute, merely stabbed their oars in the water and jerked them out again, while the spray flew from each assault of the blades. the better trained first crew kept the stroke longer, and in coming to the float were only a few yards behind. edging in, they crowded the second from their course, and in order to avoid a collision, the luckless codfish steered his crew widely to the left. he knew, but had forgotten in the excitement of the race, that a narrow sand bar almost awash at low tide, was just below the central pier of the drawbridge. "look out there, second crew," came the warning cry from the float now directly opposite the racing shells. the coxswain in the second heard, but it was too late. straight onto the sand bar, on which rippled less than an inch of water, ran the slender nose of the shell. the brake thus suddenly applied to the frail craft checked the speed, and when the boat stuck midway of the bar, with each end suspended above deep water, every oarsman was thrown from his seat. immediately an ominous cracking was heard, and the front end began to sag with its load of more than five hundred pounds. "jump," yelled the captain, who rowed the bow oar; but before any of the forward four could free themselves from their foot harness, the slender boat snapped squarely in the middle, where it rested on the bar, and both pieces, with their crews aboard, slipped off into deep water, filled and sank. for a moment it looked serious, but, fortunately, every member of the second, with the exception of the codfish, could swim. as they found themselves deeply immersed, they shook themselves free from their foot fastenings and struck out in the cold water for the float only a few rods distant, all excepting the codfish. he kept his seat in the shell and held to the tiller ropes for dear life, while the current swept him down stream in the path of the oncoming launch. as the rear end of the broken shell swung across the bow of the launch, the coach reached down, grabbed the ill-fated coxswain by the back of his coat, and jerked him into the launch. then with a boat-hook both ends of the ruined craft were captured, for both ends, released from their weight, now floated buoyantly, and were towed to the float. "i forgot about the sand bar," said the codfish meekly, as he stood on the cockpit of the launch, the water running from him in streams. "and you forgot my instructions, too," said the coach, his eyes blazing at the luckless coxswain. "this will do for you. pack up your duds and don't come down here again. if i see you around this float again, i'll chuck you overboard." the bedraggled oarsmen had all made the float in safety, and enjoyed the discomfort of their coxswain who in his zeal had inadvertently given them a cold bath. "how was i to remember the blooming sand bar?" complained the codfish that night, radiant now in dry raiment. "we were winning. what's a sand bar in the glory of victory?" "are you going down again," inquired frank, "and take the chances of a ducking?" "not on your tin-type," said the ex-coxswain. "the thing was beginning to pall on me. no diversity in the job, no spectators to urge you on as you have out at the field, nothing but work. i've resigned the job." "another way for saying you're fired, eh?" said turner, smiling at the imperturbable roommate. "have it any way you want to, old sport. one thing," continued the codfish, "even if i have lost the chance to shine in aquatics, i still have the mandolin club left. i'll put a dent in that by and by." and curling himself up on the couch, with the pillows properly arranged at his back, he struck into the spanish fandango, the newest addition to his not very extended répertoire. chapter viii. fun at the theater. up the gallery of the hyperion theater, the freshman class went bouncing with a great clatter and stamping of feet. it was the night of the glee club concert, toward the end of january, which, in the days of frank armstrong's freshman year, opened the festivities of junior promenade, the great social function of yale. the promenade has for generations been known as the "junior prom," but it is not strictly a junior occasion. seniors, and even sophomores whose finances are not too low to permit the purchase of a ticket, may go, but in spite of the fact that many of these classes do go, the prom is still largely a junior affair. around the prom, or ball, which brings the social gaiety to a close, have grown in the course of years other entertainments for the fair guests and their chaperons, who gather in new haven by the hundred from the length and breadth of the land. of these the glee club concert was one where the freshmen in those days, for it has all been changed since, were tolerated in the upper gallery of the theater. they could not sit in the pit or balcony of the house. custom had allowed them certain rights and their "stunts" were looked forward to as a part of the entertainment. the freshmen were not supposed to interfere with the concert itself but frequently did interfere in spite of the restraining influence of junior guards who were scattered through the gallery. but the throwing of confetti, streamers and cards to the fair guests was tolerated and expected. occasionally the freshmen overdid the thing and not infrequently a "rough-house" of considerable proportions held sway. frank's class was a lively one, as had been shown on several occasions during the fall and early winter. a number of the members had a faculty for getting into trouble on all occasions. half a dozen of them had been only a few days before up before the freshman committee for attempting to break up a dance in one of the local halls of the city, which necessitated the rushing of a squad of police to the scene. minor mischief was always being done. rumors were rife that the freshmen were going to perpetrate something new on the night of the glee club concert. therefore the junior guards were more than usually vigilant. "what's that you have under your coat?" demands a junior as a tall freshman appears on the landing of the stairs with the skirts of his raincoat bulging suspiciously. "nothing but myself," backing away. "come on, open up! what have you got?" "nothing, i tell you," but the junior lays violent hands on him and after a moment's search drags forth a squawking hen! she flaps herself free from the grip of her rescuer and creates a disturbance which brings scores up to the landing on the double quick. the hen is finally captured and carried out, squalling tremendously at the unaccustomed usage. other freshmen are captured with noise-making devices, living and mechanical, and thrown out bodily or the objectionable instruments of torture taken from them. but some have slipped past even the vigilant eyes of the guards, and are ready to carry out the freshman part of the entertainment as classes before them have done. inside the theater the gallery is jammed till it can hold no more. there is a babel of voices through which occasionally cuts the sharp yale cheer, that the freshmen now, with three months of practice, have learned to perfection. cheers, howls and catcalls make that gallery a perfect bedlam. over the gallery front, looking fearfully insecure in their high perch, hang scores of boys angling for the attention of the juniors' young ladies with a long string to which is attached a card and perhaps a pencil. one side of the card bears a fond message to the fair guest below, and the other side is blank for the answer, which the freshman above hopes to catch in his angling. and frequently he does. the junior takes it all in good part. "o, lovely creature, will you be mine, will you let me hold your lily-white hand when i'm a junior?" is the rather disconcerting message a young lady in one of the boxes pulls down after it has been dangled in front of her nose for a minute or two by freshman hands in the top gallery. the freshman above having established communication, waits impatiently for an answer. presently it is written in the box below and is pulled up eagerly. "no, i don't like the color of your hair." "i'll dye it blue if that will help any," may be the next message. fifty men are angling at a time and the lines sometimes get crossed. it is all great fun for the girls who enter into the spirit of the thing and are not disturbed, after the first shock, at the ardent messages that are swung in front of their faces. of course, every one cannot angle for love messages in the pit because, although the front of the gallery resembles a grape-hung garden wall with the clustering heads, there are several hundreds behind the first row. they content themselves with throwing confetti and paper streamers into the pit and boxes until there is a jungle of it below, through which a late-comer must literally break his way. the floor itself is covered with confetti and cards whereon are printed in prose and verse amazing praises for the class in the upper gallery, recounting what that class will do when it becomes a junior class two years later and shall have the position of honor. on this particular night everything went well in the gallery until the program was half over. then trouble broke loose, for all legitimate means for attracting attention had been exhausted. at the moment the quartet was delivering itself of a touching melody and quiet was temporarily established even in the gallery. the tenor, striving for one of his highest notes, suddenly broke off with a violent sneeze. some one in the gallery had thrown a tissue paper wad of snuff against the scenery behind the quartet. the paper broke and the snuff, light as feathers, permeated the air. the bass singer of the quartet immediately followed the tenor with a resounding bellow at which the audience, not knowing the cause, burst into roars of laughter. but soon they changed from laughing to sneezing, for handfuls of the snuff were now pitched over the gallery rail by the offenders, and the coughing and sneezing became general. no one was exempt. dignified chaperons, pretty girls and their escorts joined in the chorus. the quartet retired in confusion, holding onto their noses. "stop it, stop it!" "get out, freshmen," yelled the guards, but so thick was the press in the gallery that the guards were powerless to get at the offenders. to cap the climax, a freshman emptied about a bushel of fine, powderlike confetti on the heads of the people below, while still another opened a pillow of fine down feathers which, dropping to the pit of the theater in a cloud, covered the gowns of the ladies. the feathers insinuated themselves down the necks of everyone. having worked their last indignity, two score of the freshmen tumbled down the gallery stairs like a hurricane, and broke pell-mell for the street with the guard after them. some punches were delivered, but most of the freshmen escaped, yelling, with whole skins. then the glee club concert went on again and was not interrupted but once, when someone threw a small rubber ball from the gallery which struck the leader fairly on top of his head and bounced twenty feet into the air to the great amusement of the audience and the discomfort of the leader. "some night!" observed the codfish as the boys reached their room in safety. "i got hit three times in the overflow. gee whiz, how those feathers stick!" "were you the pillow man?" inquired frank. "i was that same. have you noticed the absence of two of our best cushions?" "my cushions," gasped frank, "and where are the cases?" "when the storm burst i didn't have time to get them under cover. they go to the hyperion management as a souvenir." "more likely to the junior scouts," suggested jimmy. "thoughtful kid, my initials were on them," said frank. "you could create trouble for someone if you were alone on a desert island." but no trouble did come out of the incident for the great dance itself coming on the next evening, as it did, overshadowed such minor things as the freshman class and its doings. but the affair had one result. it was the last time that the glee club concert was ever held at the hyperion. after that year it went to one of the university halls where freshmen, fishing from the top gallery, tantalizing feathers and tormenting snuff were not known, and where the concert went its full length without disturbance of any kind. frank armstrong, while a frequent visitor at the swimming pool, had not gone out for the freshman team. football had claimed his attention in the fall when swimming practice first began, and although urged to join the freshman team by classmates, who had seen him in the pool, he had declined. "i want to have a good big deposit in the education bank when baseball opens up," he used to say. "you're a blooming old grind," the codfish would retort when frank advanced his reasons for keeping the time free for studies. "you aren't doing as much as i am for the class." "but i'm doing as much as i can for the class and something for myself." "selfish, selfish. here's the freshman swimming team staggering along----" "floundering along, you mean." "fishes flounder, and there's no fish on the team, human or otherwise. that's the reason they ought to have a good, able-bodied fish like yourself, scales and all, to help 'em out." but in spite of frank's desire to keep away from swimming, other than as a pastime, and to keep in fair condition, he became drawn into it unintentionally. one day, sprinting down the length of the pool to overtake jimmy, he attracted the attention of max, the swimming instructor, who kept an eagle eye on the outlook for promising talent. "where you learn to svim like dat?" inquired max as frank pulled himself out of the water at the end of the pool while jimmy hung gasping with his exertions on the edge. "o, paddling around," returned frank. "pretty good paddlin', i guess. vhat's your name?" "armstrong." "freshman?" "yes." "ever do any racing?" "a little." "here, let's see if you can svim fifty yards fast." "o, but i'm not in training." "don't make no difference about dat. svim up one length and back again. i see your time. come on, i tink you can svim fast." frank, thus urged, took a racing dive, paddled easily to the other end of the pool, turned leisurely and came back to the starting point. "umph!" grunted the swimming instructor. "dirty-five seconds, dat's bad. you ought to do it five seconds bedder!" frank grinned, thinking he was nicely out of the difficulty, for he argued with himself that in justice to his work he could not give the time necessary this year at least to go in for swimming. but he reckoned without max who stood squinting at him. "now," said the instructor, "vhen you've got your vind again i vant you to do dat over again. und doan loaf along so much, move dose arms and legs a little bid faster." jimmy laughed, for he knew frank was trying to get out of swimming training. but frank was fairly caught now, and there was nothing for him to do but to swim the distance again. he perched on the edge of the pool end, and balanced for the start as burton had shown him. he took the water as cleanly as a knife and using a graceful but powerful crawl shot down to the further end, turned half under water and came back with a quickening gait until his hand touched the pool end where max stood with his eyes glued on the watch. "dirty seconds," said the instructor half to himself. and then to frank. "vhy didn't you dell me dat before? i vant you to come here effery day and svim. dis freshman bunch of mine ain't no good. you'll help? who showed you how to svim like dat anyway?" "o, a fellow named burton." "who?" "burton, one of your yale captains." "o, burton, hey? are you de fellar armstrong dat svam down at travers island last summer?" frank nodded. "py jiminy, vhy didn't you dell me dat before? dat settles it. now you got to come and help out this freshman bunch." that was the end of frank's resolution not to get mixed up in athletics until the baseball practice opened. every day found him at the pool, and under the careful guidance of the instructor he improved steadily, and when the freshman-sophomore relay race came off he was selected as the man to swim the last relay for his class. this he did so well that, although starting with a handicap of ten feet, he beat out his opponent by the breadth of a hand, and won the event for the freshmen. frank might have been induced to continue in the swimming game, for the love of it, but in the last part of february the overpowering call for baseball candidates caught him, and he joined the uniformed crowd that daily haunted the cage in the rear of the gymnasium; and through the afternoons, when recitations permitted, he took his share of batting, base-running, pitching, stopping grounders, and all that goes to the training of a yale baseball player. he was at first enrolled among the candidates for pitcher, but as there seemed to be a great plenitude of pitchers, he was relegated to the outfield, but glad to be on the squad on any position. "what, our young christy mathewson out in the lots! fie upon them!" exclaimed the codfish when he heard. "even napoleon had to begin," returned frank. "maybe they'll back me off the field before long. college baseball isn't school baseball, you know." with the coming of warmer weather, the crocuses and chirp of the robin in late march, the baseball and track men forsook the cage for the open field, and there during the long afternoons the candidates were put through their paces by the different coaches. coach thomas, who had been appointed by the 'varsity captain to drill the freshman nine, was a believer in hard work and gave his pupils plenty of it to do. naturally, men from the larger preparatory schools, who had come to yale with a reputation made in their school, had the first call. when they made good they held their positions. armstrong and turner, coming as they did from a school not among the half dozen prominent ones in the country, had to show their merit by hard fighting. but the coach played no favorites and when a player showed merit in the practice he had due consideration. turner and armstrong, the former as catcher and the latter as pitcher, worked as a battery for some of the early practice. frank's remarkable control stood him in good stead at first, but as the batters improved in their hitting of straight balls, frank dropped behind in the race, and was now used only occasionally for batting practice. he was one of the half-dozen substitutes in the outfield. turner fell into a more fortunate situation as catchers on the squad were scarce, and before two weeks of practice had elapsed, was in second place in the race for the position of backstop on the freshman nine. chapter ix. a jump in baseball and the result. the fact that the freshman diamond lies very close to the running track, and more particularly that the right field foul-line impinges on the back stretch of the track, by a peculiar circumstance had a very important influence on the college life of frank armstrong. and so do great things turn on small incidents. on a particular day in may, freshman baseball practice was in full swing. frank was still an humble outfielder with little hope of a promotion to the pitcher's box, for three men of more experience were ahead of him. thomas, however, attracted by the bearing of frank, had held him on the squad in spite of the fact that he was not an exceptional fielder. he was attentive to instructions and because of his willingness and earnestness to do whatever was told him to do, held his place as a substitute right fielder. "in these days," the coach told him, "no pitcher can get along without a good assortment of curves. your straight ball is fine, but they get to it. you can curve the ball but you can't get it over the plate when you do curve it." "that's my trouble, but i'll learn if you'll show me," said frank, "that is, i'll do my best to learn." but thomas was not a pitcher and therefore could not show him just how to get that puzzling break to the ball which assured a pitcher of success with even a moderately good control. so frank languished in the outfield much to the disgust of turner and the codfish who thought he was being done an injustice. a practice game was in progress between the first and second nines, and the first nine was at bat. frank was playing right field. down along the first base line came a sizzling grounder just inside the base. an undercut to the ball caused it, when it struck the turf, to pull off into foul ground. at once the man on second shot for home. frank started at the crack of the bat, while the batter set sail for first base with the evident intention of making second at least on the hit which seemed good for two easy bases. frank, who was playing closer in than he should have been, went for the grounder with all his speed, but seeing no hope of intercepting it by ordinary means, leaped in the air to a point in the line of the rolling ball. his feet, as they struck the ground, formed a barrier which the ball struck and jumped into the air in easy reach of his hand. he recovered his balance, seized the ball and drove it like lightning to the plate, catching the runner. the catcher snapped the ball to second, completing the double. it was a pretty play and brought forth hand-clapping from the two score of bystanders who were watching the game. now it chanced that the trainer of the track team, johnny black by name, was looking over his runners as they loped around the back stretch of the track. his eye for the moment was off his half-milers, and was attracted by armstrong's leap for the rolling ball. he crossed the track to the freshman outfield, searching for the mark of frank's cleats when he left the ground. having found the starting point, he searched carefully till he found the marks of his landing, which happened to be on a bit of ground bare of turf where the cleat marks showed plainly. a ball whizzed past his ear, but he paid no attention, and even the shout of the freshman coach that he was in the field of play apparently had no effect upon him. he measured the distance of armstrong's jump with his eye, then stepped it deliberately. "hey, right-fielder," demanded johnny, as frank, the batting side having now been retired, trotted toward the plate, "what's your name?" "armstrong," shouted that individual over his shoulder. "come here, armstrong," said the trainer in peremptory tones. frank halted and went back to him. "you look to me like a jumper. what are you doing over here when you can jump feet with baseball clothes on?" he demanded. "trying to play ball the best i know how." "any chance to make it?" said the trainer as he walked along toward the plate while the first team went to their places in the field. "not very good looking now," returned frank. "i'm sort of a seventeenth sub-pitcher and outfielder." "so! i want you over at the track for a day or two. you ought to jump a mile. say, thomas," this to the coach, "let me have armstrong for a day or two. i'm in an awful hole for jumpers and he ought to make one or i miss my guess. if he doesn't turn out right, you can have him back again. if he does, you'll never get him!" "that's right, come and take my men away from me," grumbled thomas. "but i can spare him just now as he is a pitcher and i've got three pretty good ones. send him back here if he doesn't make good." "all the work i'll ask him to do in training for the jump, if he has the goods, won't prevent him from working with you if he wants to, but i want him first." "all right," said thomas. "armstrong, report to black to-morrow afternoon, and when you have shown him how far you can't jump, come back here for what practice you can get." "all right, sir," returned frank. "two o'clock to-morrow at the track house. bring a track suit with you and jumping shoes if you have them." "all right, i'll be there," said frank but he did not relish the change. his heart was set on baseball, and it was a great disappointment to him to be pulled into the track work. but his motto was to do the best that was in him without question, which is the starting point for success in most things. the coming of the freshman jumper did not create much interest on the track squad. his jumping did not please the trainer. "your form is bad," black told him. "in jumping, form is everything. you may get to twenty-one or twenty-two feet the way you are going, but that will be the end of it. you must get higher in the air at the take-off." frank worked hard to master the new style. in school he had jumped naturally and without much coaching, but felt himself that he was not getting his greatest distance. he redoubled his efforts but could not lengthen out beyond nineteen feet or a little better. then he began to fall below that even. "you're jumping like an old brindle cow," said black one day. "are your legs sore?" "my shins feel as if they would crack every time i land in the pit," said frank, feeling the offending legs gingerly. "why in thunder didn't you tell me that before? you can't work at the broad jump the same as you do at football or baseball. lay off for a day or two and keep off your feet." the rest did frank a world of good for when he returned to the jumping pit he cleared over twenty feet in his first trial, much to the trainer's delight. thereafter he was watched with the closest attention by black. in the spring games which came the last week in april he won third place in the handicap broad jump; and after a hard fight succeeded in beating out warrington, the freshman jumper who had done the best work up to that time. two weeks later at the princeton freshman meet frank won second place with a jump of feet inches, and first place in the harvard freshman games a week later, bettering his mark by three inches. armstrong was ineligible, of course, for the 'varsity meets with princeton and harvard, but kept at work perfecting his form and watching closely the work of hotchkiss, the junior, who was a consistent performer around feet inches, and who occasionally approached feet. but as frank daily increased his marks, the interest of hotchkiss waned. the intercollegiates came and went, and hotchkiss maintained his position as intercollegiate champion by winning the broad jump for yale at feet inches. but armstrong never ceased his efforts. a trip to cambridge for the finals in the intercollegiates showed him the styles used by the greatest collegiate jumpers, and after returning to new haven he put his observations to such good effect that he cleared feet inches. "what's the use of keeping up that old grind at the track," said the codfish one night. "why don't you go over to the freshman baseball squad? you may get a chance there yet." "i'm after something," returned frank, "and it's coming so fast that i don't want to let go." "and that something?" "don't laugh, it's hotchkiss. he's been so blamed cocky that i'd give my shoes to lick his mark in the intercollegiates just for personal satisfaction. i'm too late to do anything with the baseball squad now anyway." "noble ambition," said the codfish, "but what's the use? there's nothing more for the track men this spring." "just the same i'm going to keep at it." "go ahead then, jump your legs off, while turner and i win the glory." turner had by steady improvement worked himself into the position of first catcher on the freshman team. the codfish, leaving temporarily his ambition to break into the exclusive ranks of the mandolin club, had won the position of official scorer of the freshman, a place which he filled with great credit. "another sit-down job," said turner laughing. "trust the codfish to get something easy." "why not? i don't love violent exercise. if i hanker for the cool shade of the scorer's bench and can record the glorious deeds of our young catcher and ease up on him when he makes flub-dubs, who is to say me nay? but i'm a believer in hard work, just the same----" "for the other fellow," broke in frank. "sure, that's what gives yale her prestige, doesn't it? if it becomes necessary for me to don the baseball suit to uphold the athletics of yale, then i'll do it. till then, with all you good workers around, i don't see any reason why i shouldn't take the shade." "noble youth," said frank. "we'll keep on in the sun and let you take the shade," and nothing either the codfish or turner could say changed frank's determination to keep everlastingly at his jumping practice, uninteresting though it appeared to his roommates. "now i know why you stuck to the jumping," said the codfish one morning as he scanned the first page of the _news_. "elucidate," said frank. "here it is right in our lively little daily. oxford and cambridge-yale-harvard meet arranged. teams about evenly matched. sail for england july nd, and a whole string of likely candidates in which i see your name." "o, but i'm a freshman, and a freshman can't compete in 'varsity matches," said frank, but his heart gave a bound just the same. "you won't be a freshman after june th, you bonehead," returned the codfish joyfully, "provided you don't flunk your examinations. you'll be a jolly sophomore with all the blackness of freshman year behind you." "but there's hotchkiss. he's better than i am, and a junior." "he'll be a senior, don't you savez, but that will make mighty little difference if you can outjump him. they will take only the best, or i'm a galoot." "you generally are, codfish, but i'll work my head off to make that team." "you've nearly worked it off already, and you've got to make that team. pictures in the papers, details of your early life, moving stories about your many virtues, weeping relatives at the dock as the ship sails out of the bay and all that sort of thing. i can see it all now." frank laughed at his enthusiastic friend. but his pulse quickened at the thought of the possibility of making the team which should represent america in this international contest. turner, too, was wild with delight at the turn affairs had taken. "now i wish i had been a jumper. we'll read the cable dispatches every day. you're bound to make it." "don't count your chickens," said frank, "till they are safely hatched. you forget that hotchkiss is doing nearly feet." two days later a call in the _news_ brought all the first string track men together in the trophy room of the gymnasium, and frank armstrong was among them. captain harrington read the challenge from the english universities, and told them what was expected of them. "this is going to be a free field, and everyone will have his chance. the team will be the best that harvard and yale can get together. practice will be held at the field every day as usual, and the trials will be at cambridge a week before we sail. only first place counts in this meet with the englishmen so it will not be necessary to take any but the best men in each event. i want you to give the best in you. we must give a good account of ourselves here at yale." the captain got a rousing cheer at the end of his speech which was a long one for him, and the athletes clattered down the wide, marble steps in excited discussion of the coming event and yale's possibilities. "armstrong," said the trainer next day at the field, "you have a chance to make this team. i want you to go to it as hard as you know how." "i've been doing that for the last month." "well, you've improved a lot in that time. you've got to beat hotchkiss to win out. it's up to you." during the remainder of the college year frank put every spare minute in the preparation for the final test for the team. even in the trying time of examinations he managed to squeeze out half hours at the field, and when it was not possible to get out there, he studied the theory of broad-jumping, searched the library for information on the subject and found little enough. at commencement a famous jumper of former years took him in hand and gave him some advice which helped him greatly. steadily, if slowly, he continued to improve his marks, until one hot morning he raced down the runway and cleared feet inches, much to the discomfort of hotchkiss who, in spite of his experience, did not relish the fact that the freshman was drawing nearer and nearer to equality with him. "twenty-two feet ten inches," announced black. "hotchkiss, you've got to look out for your laurels. this freshman will beat you out if you don't improve your jump." hotchkiss scowled and tried harder than ever, but he seemed to have reached his limit, and was unable to surpass his distance in the intercollegiates. that night frank wrote to his mother: "mother, i have a chance, only a chance, mind you, to make the team that is going to england to represent yale and harvard. if i win a place are you and dad willing to let me go?" and the answer came back on the next mail: "yes." "that settles it," cried frank, flourishing the letter above his head as he capered about the room. "i'll win out or die trying." the codfish spoke up: "perhaps you don't know that i'm going too." "for what?" inquired frank. "to see that you keep in strict training and out of mischief." "you actually mean you would go across if i should make the team?" "bettcher life," came the quick answer. "i've got to do something this summer, and i can't imagine anything better than to see the johnny bulls properly tanned." "jimmy, how about you?" inquired frank. "i'm not a bloated bondholder like the codfish. it's work for mine this summer. but i'll read all the cablegrams and pray for you!" chapter x. the try-outs at cambridge. it was the day of the try-outs at cambridge when the best that harvard and yale could muster were gathered to contest for a place on the team which should meet oxford and cambridge. "one week more and we will be on the briny," observed gleason confidently to frank. the speaker, jimmy and david had all journeyed to the big stadium to see their classmate compete for a place. "gleason, if you talk like that much more, you'll hoodoo me. don't forget that i'm a novice at this game. i've got about one chance in ten." "you'll come through all right," said david powers. "i've noticed that you do pretty well under pressure." "as, for instance, football on the yale freshman team!--go to, david, go to! i know what you fellows are trying to do. you're trying to keep up my sinking spirits. much obliged." frank was dressing for the trials along with the point-winners of the 'varsity track team, but he felt strange and shy with the older and more seasoned athletes. he was the only freshman who had been taken with the yale squad, and his three friends, david, jimmy and the codfish, had made it a point to be with him. "i don't see any particular reason for anyone going over to represent us in the broad jump anyway," said frank. "how's that?" inquired someone. "didn't you see the morning papers? no? well, vare, that oxford man, jumped feet in practice, and they think over there there's nothing but england to this coming meet. all the prophets have it settled." "i've heard of prophets slipping before now," said the codfish gaily. "and vare is a consistent jumper, better than feet most of the time, from all i can learn," went on frank. "cambridge has a pretty good jumper, too, better than we have, but away behind vare. so if the unexpected happens and i should win out, which doesn't look bright, i'd be nothing but an also-ran when it comes to the scratch over there." out on the track where the contestants were now hurrying, a crowd of officials and friends were gathered along the straightaway and the various jumping pits. halloby had already won his place in the high hurdles and was receiving the congratulations of his friends as he walked smilingly back to the track house. "good boy, halloby," came the greeting from all sides. a yale man had been second. both would be taken. hotchkiss was at the jumping pit when frank reached there, and was engaged in marking with the greatest care the length of his strides just before the "take" of the jump so that he would get the best results. up and down the runway he went, measuring and pacing. he gave armstrong a curt nod as he walked to the jumpers' bench to the right of the runway. just as the quarter-mile ended, giving harvard two men and yale none in this event, the broad jumping contest was started with hotchkiss leading off. on his first try, hotchkiss overran the jumping block. mcgregor, a harvard man, cleared feet inches, another harvard man feet , and then it came frank's turn. "now, armstrong," said the trainer as he walked down the runway toward the point where frank had left his jersey as a starting mark. "keep your head, get a breeze up in those last six strides and hit the block hard. go ahead." frank loped down the runway for perhaps fifty feet, speeding up toward the middle of the run. then within six or eight strides of the block he burst into full speed, hit the block squarely, and shot into the air. it looked like a magnificent jump but when he struck in the soft sawdust and loam of the pit he could not hold the full distance, and fell backwards, breaking the ground a good three feet to the rear of where his heels first touched. naturally, the jump was measured from the block to the point where his hand broke the ground. "twenty feet four inches," sang out the judge of the event. "this yale freshman isn't such a wonder, after all," whispered a harvard competitor to another sitting next him on the bench. "if he could have held his distance, it would have been a peach, though." "your old fault, armstrong," said black coming over to him. "that jump was actually better than feet. now, try to stay up on your next." as the trainer spoke, hotchkiss came rushing down the runway. he got a perfect take-off, rose in the air, turned halfway round in his flight, but held the distance he had made on the jump, which was a moment later announced to be feet inches. mcgregor followed with a pretty jump of feet , while his teammate did not better his first jump, which was not good enough even to be measured. again it was frank's turn, and so well did he heed the coaching of black that the judge gave him credit for feet inches, the second best jump of the afternoon. hotchkiss still held the lead, however, and swaggered a little as he walked around. the jumpers followed each other in rotation. frank's next try was a failure, but on the following one, gathering all his energies for a supreme effort, he sailed into the air like a bird. "twenty-two feet ten and three-fourths inches," called the judge, showing in his voice an awakening interest in the event. hotchkiss, stung at the thought that the freshman had beaten his best mark, showed very plainly in his preparations for his trials that he meant to wipe him out. he moved his marks a trifle, stepped the distance carefully, and then, seemingly satisfied, walked slowly to the end of the runway. "he's peeved," remarked turner. "what difference does it make to him anyway, he's sure to be taken, isn't he?" inquired david. "hotchkiss is one of those chaps who hate to be anything but first." "he has a head like a rhinocer-hoss," said the codfish. as he spoke, hotchkiss turned at the far end of the runway. every eye was on him now, which was not at all displeasing to him. down the runway he came like a race horse, his gaze fixed steadily on the take-off block where the supreme effort was to be made. but so great was his speed in his endeavor to eclipse all previous efforts that he struck the block badly, sprang in the air, lost his direction and landed partly in and partly out of the pit in an awkward straddle. unable to keep his balance he fell over sideways on the hard ground and lay there groaning. in an instant a half score of bystanders had run to the aid of hotchkiss. he was picked up and set upon his feet, half stunned, but when he attempted to take a step, he sank down groaning. the trainer sprang to the side of the injured jumper. "where is it?" he demanded. "my ankle," moaned hotchkiss. "i twisted it in some way. here, let me try it again." but try as he might, he could not bear a particle of weight on the injured leg, and had to be carried to the locker building in the arms of two of his teammates. immediately a buzz of excited conversation rose. "that hurts our chances in england, doesn't it?" inquired one of the officials. "yes, it does. hotchkiss was good enough to win over the cambridge man in case anything should happen to the oxford man, vare. he didn't have a chance to beat vare because hotchkiss has never done as well as feet, while vare is a consistent performer at several inches better." "the broad jump is one of the events that we've got to count out, then, isn't it?" "it certainly is now," said the trainer. "if armstrong had a year more of experience he'd give the oxonian a good battle. armstrong is a natural jumper, but has not perfected his form yet. it will take another year." when the excitement over the injury to hotchkiss had passed, the trials continued and armstrong created a ripple of interest when on his last trial he came within an inch of the coveted -foot mark. the result of the contest in the broad jump was that armstrong, representing yale, and mcgregor, representing harvard, were selected for the team. in all, twenty-six men were chosen that afternoon for the fourteen events to be contested in england, fourteen from harvard and twelve from yale. these men were the very flower of both teams. in the hammer and shot events only two from each college were selected since the best hammer throwers were also the best shot putters. to say that it was a jubilant quartet of boys who tumbled off the train at milton, would be expressing it in weak terms. "open up the cupboard," cried frank after the home greetings were over. "you have four champion diners with you to-night." "a little soup, slice of mutton and toast for the athlete, mrs. armstrong. frank isn't allowed to eat anything rich, you know, training table grub and all that." "you chase yourself around the block, mr. codfish. the training table has a rest for a solid week--apple dumplings, strawberry shortcake and all the fixings belong to me." "seems as if you had earned it, son," said mr. armstrong. "grand little muscles, mr. armstrong," said the loquacious codfish. "nice, hard and knotty, warranted pure steel, made in germany--just feel them, best set in yale--delivery of goods guaranteed----" the dinner gong cut the speaker's flow of language short, but at the table he kept the conversation moving at a lively pace. "well, boys," said mr. armstrong, edging into the torrent of talk, "do you like yale as well now as ever?" "yale is great stuff," came the ready chorus. "it would be better if we didn't have so many studies," added the codfish. "how's that?" "well, a fellow just gets settled down to doing something like baseball or football or track athletics when the recitations break in. and the profs. get so peeved when a fellow isn't up to form that they have an unkind habit of flunking him." "and do you flunk, mr. gleason?" inquired mrs. armstrong. "does he flunk! o, my!" laughed jimmy. "i hold the record in the class," said the codfish proudly. "four in one day. such a successful flunker that i have three conditions for next year." "conditions, what are they?" "o, just little attachments that they sometimes put onto freshmen," laughed frank. "have you any, frank?" inquired his father. "in athletics a fellow has to keep up to the scratch, you know. if he doesn't, he can't go into athletics. the codfish is the free-lance." "yes, he's gone into everything," interjected jimmy, "and so far hasn't won a battle." "o, but he will," said mrs. armstrong. "thank you for your confidence," said that individual rising and making a sweeping bow. "'familiarity breeds contempt,' so they say, and my familiar roommates fail to see the outcroppings of genius as clearly as you do. i've nearly won several battles already." and then jimmy gave the history of the codfish's unsuccessful onslaughts on the _news_, the crew and the mandolin club to the amusement of the older members of the family. "the difficulty is," said the codfish, "that the individual has no chance at college. it is all for the development of the average man, like jimmy there, for instance. genius is frowned upon. i could have revolutionized the _news_ if they'd given me a little longer chance at it." "demoralized it, you mean," said frank. "mother, give me another piece of that shortcake. my, but it tastes good after so much training table." training hours were broken that night, and for several nights to come, for the boys played with as much vigor as they worked. but frank did not neglect his physical training. swims at seawall, where our friends foregathered for the first time several years before, rowing, and walks in the country, kept him in trim for the work which was to come. chapter xi. a voyage to london. ten days after the trials at cambridge, frank, with the codfish at his side, stood on the promenade deck of the great white star liner _olympic_, and waved good-by to his friends on the dock as the big boat moved slowly out into north river. "bring back their scalps, you indians," shouted someone. "don't let the johnny bulls get your goats, you yaleses!" "show them how they do it in yankeeland, harvard!" to all of which the outgoing athletes, in a little group apart from the rest of the passengers, smiled and waved hands in acknowledgment. "gee whiz," said the codfish as the big ship slipped swiftly down the bay, "i never thought of it before, but what if i should be seasick?" "it doesn't make so much difference about you," said frank heartlessly, "but what if _i_ should? that's the question!" fortunately, the ocean was calm and none of the team suffered in the slightest from the dreaded sickness. with the first meal on the ship the athletes were seated together, and soon yale and harvard lines were forgotten. the men from the two universities fraternized with each other and the team was neither harvard nor yale, but an american team with only one object in view,--victory from their english cousins. training regulations were established at once, and while the routine was not so strict as on land, the trainers saw to it that their athletes retired not later than : and that they were up at in the morning for a jog around the decks before the passengers were about. the long decks of the _olympic_ made a surprisingly good training ground. a training stunt which amused the passengers was dancing, not in the ordinary sense of the word, but "standstill sprinting" as the codfish called it, on a cork mat, on which the runners got practically the same leg action as they would running on the open track. a large cork mat was spread on the boat deck, and relays of men, four at a time, pranced merrily, rested and pranced again. then came a cold salt water shower and a rub-down. in the afternoon the dancing exercise would be repeated. skipping the rope was another deck exercise which played a large part in keeping the men in good condition. "where do you keep yourself nowadays?" said frank one evening after dinner. he had noticed that gleason disappeared for long periods during the day. "o, just sitting about and thinking. can't think where you athletes are romping around. you make more noise than a bunch of magpies. i'm sick of athletic chatter, that so-and-so ought to do seconds, and that mr. blinks of harvard should win his half if he doesn't get too fast a pace in the first quarter, that mr. jenks of yale is likely to pull a tendon, and so on and so on." "so you sneak off and improve your mind?" "right-o, sonny. i'm doing that same." but the next day frank discovered the cause of the codfish's long absences. the codfish did not have his meals at the athletes' table but at a table nearby. adjoining the table where he sat, fate, in the person of the steward's assistant, had placed mr. and mrs. mortimore hasbrouck, their daughter marjorie and son william. fate went a step farther than the location of the hasbrouck family and undoubtedly had a hand in the business of seating marjorie at this table where her bright face was in range of the codfish's roving eyes. now, marjorie was fair to look upon as the codfish admitted to himself when she made her appearance in the dining saloon the first night at sea. "but she's only a kid," he said to himself, "just fresh out of some boarding school if i dope that pin on her shoulder right." the codfish looked and looked, but the eyes of marjorie were on the athletes' table beyond him, and were not for him. her gaze continually traveled over his head, and now and then he could hear the words "harvard, yale, track athletes----" for, of course, everyone knew that the teams were aboard even before the ship left the dock. "she doesn't know i belong to the party," thought the codfish, gloomily, "or she wouldn't waste all her looks at the next table. i've got to fix that!" that night he made it a point to speak to billie, while the latter hung on the outskirts of the crowd of athletes, and billie was, of course, overjoyed to be spoken to by a college man, for he was only in his third year in prep. school, and considered a collegian a kind of demigod. "are you one of the athletes?" inquired billie. "i'm one of the yale men," said the codfish feeling his chest expand. billie jumped to the conclusion that he was one of the competitors, and was duly elated at the fortunate acquaintance. "gee whiz, i'm glad to know you. i'm going down to yale myself next year if i get through my exams. should have been there this year but flub-dubbed the exams. dad says if i don't make it next year it's good-night for mine." "stick to it, stick to it, my boy! a college life is a great thing,--training of the mind, associations, mental and physical development and all that sort of thing." as he talked he led the way up the deck in the direction of the hasbrouck family chairs. the codfish shot a look out of his eye and observed the object of his search, the fair marjorie. but the expected didn't happen. billie, glorying in the companionship of a yale man and a member of the great team of athletes, led his new-found friend up and down the deck half a dozen times to let the full weight of its significance sink into the family. getting impatient at last, and tired of the walking, the codfish said: "seems to me i've seen you and your sister before somewhere. perhaps it was down at the game last fall." "wish i had been there, but nothing doing! just at that time i got into trouble at school and the pater shut down on me. beastly luck. but, say, mr.-- mr.----" "gleason." "mr. gleason, won't you come and meet the family? sis will be delighted to know a yale man." thus came the codfish to the hasbrouck family, where, being properly presented, he bowed low and with supreme dignity. when marjorie offered him her hand he held it a trifle overtime and looked unspeakable things. "what is your specialty, mr. gleason?" inquired mrs. hasbrouck. "o, a little of everything," said the codfish noncommittally. "o, isn't that lovely," cried marjorie. "he does everything!" "well, i try a few things," struggling to produce a modest smile and with indifferent success. "tell us about yale, mr. gleason," said mrs. hasbrouck. "i'm so sorry john isn't here because william is going down to yale next year, i hope. i went to a game there years ago, a football game i think it was, in june----" "baseball, i think," corrected billie. "they don't play football in june." "well, baseball then. i thought it a wonderful place." "o, it's a pretty good place," said gleason, and then nothing loath to talk, particularly when marjorie made the inquiries, he launched into a dazzling word picture of yale and her glories. at the end of ten minutes he had made such progress with marjorie that she readily accepted his invitation to take a promenade with him. from that moment the affairs of the yale-harvard track team, and even the more intimate concerns of his roommate began to decline from the zenith of his attentions. marjorie was in the ascendency. it was on the second day out that frank armstrong, noticing the codfish's absence, had asked him where he kept himself, and was not at all satisfied with the answer he got. "the codfish sitting around, thinking! never!" said frank to himself. and shortly after, frank had ocular demonstration as to the real trouble. he met codfish and marjorie, and the former was so much absorbed that he didn't even see his roommate. "by jove!" cried frank. "wait till i see him!" when the codfish turned up that night in the stateroom, frank pounced upon him. "so you've been sitting around, thinking, have you?" "sure thing, thinking what i'd do next. i say, frank, she's a pippin. billie's an awful bore, but his kid sister is a peach, believe me!" "i thought you were an out-and-out woman-hater." "i used to be in my younger days," said the codfish, earnestly, "but this marjorie girl has certainly got me going. some eyes, boy, some eyes." "so, that's why you've been neglecting your poor roommate, is it? i thought you came over here to see that i had good attention and kept in training. i might be at almost anything, even enjoying a pipe in the smoking room with john hasbrouck as far as you are concerned." "i guess you will be all right looking after yourself. now in marjorie's case--" he had reached the point already of calling her "marjorie," and he lingered a little over the name--"in marjorie's case, it is different. she needs a strong arm to lean on," and the codfish stretched his legs out luxuriously. "and you are furnishing the arm?" "precisely." "and how about her father and mother and even her brother? they have no protecting arms, i suppose?" "frank, they don't understand her. she seems quite alone. this is in confidence, frank,--she's going to go on the stage as soon as she's through school. she'd make a hit, i tell you! she has great ambition, that girl has!" "and what does her mother say about the stage?" "o, just laughs at her, has no conception of the depths of that girl's nature. i doped her out for myself soon as i saw her. frank, old chap, i love her!" at this astounding piece of intelligence frank howled with laughter. "all right, go ahead and laugh, but i tell you this is serious. say, frank, you wouldn't mind if i went on to paris with the hasbroucks, would you? you won't need me for anything. i'll get back to london for the meet maybe." "you'll get lost snooping around paris all by yourself," said frank as soon as he could regain the breath that gleason's question had knocked out of him. "o, but i'll not be alone. i'll travel with the hasbroucks. my heart tells me to go." "very well then," said frank. "if you have such an unreliable heart, there's nothing for it but to go i suppose. you may change your mind or your heart before we dock." "never!" said the codfish. "this is a deep and lasting feeling i have. it has changed the whole course of my life. i came onto this boat a mere boy, now i feel i'm a man with all the responsibilities of a man." codfish's infatuation was too good a story to keep, and frank took mcgregor, the harvard broad jumper, with whom he had struck up a friendship, into his confidence. "that friend of mine, gleason, has a love attack and tells me he is going to desert and go on to paris with the fair charmer. how are we going to head him off?" "win his girl away from him," suggested mcgregor. "but he doesn't give anyone a chance," said frank, laughing. "he sticks around from morning till night. he certainly has a terrible case." "get him up on the boat-deck for a game of shuffleboard," suggested mcgregor, "and then we'll get someone to talk to marjorie. when that fellow gets tired, we'll have someone else take up the relay and so on." "great," said frank. "let's try." that afternoon, the codfish, all unsuspecting, was led off for a try at the popular deck game, and in his absence one of the team, who was in the plot, contrived to get an introduction to marjorie, took the vacant chair of her father, and began a lengthy conversation. when the codfish, who had been detained at the game as long as possible, hurried back to his lady-love he found his place occupied. back and forth he paced, casting longing looks in the direction of the hasbrouck chairs, but marjorie was deeply interested in the young man alongside of her, and did not even look in the codfish's direction. after half an hour of agony, the codfish observed with joy that his rival was preparing to leave, but just at that moment, up strolled another of the athletes to the coveted chair, and being asked to sit down, did so and continued the conversation, while plotter no. went on his way. for two mortal hours the codfish was held at bay, pacing the decks and railing at his luck while the relays continued. "how in the deuce did she come to know all these fellows?" growled the codfish to himself. "next time i'll not go playing shuffleboard and leaving her alone, so help me bob!" when finally the codfish thought his inning was about to come, marjorie tripped gaily off with the last of her suitors, and after a promenade around the deck, disappeared somewhere below to gleason's great distress of mind. that evening marjorie was again carried off, this time by the yale half-miler, and the only thing left for the codfish was to occupy her vacant chair, which he did, and proceeded to make himself agreeable to mrs. hasbrouck, though his eyes followed marjorie on her promenade up and down the deck. "mighty attractive girl, that miss hasbrouck," said frank that night as the boys were preparing to retire. "she's made a great hit with the team, did you notice it?" "did i notice it?" cried the codfish petulantly. "yes, i noticed it. where in the name of the great horn spoon did she meet all those fellows?" "mutual attraction, i s'pose," said frank. "i saw you holding forth with her mother most of the evening. charming lady, eh?" "o, yes, all right. interested in philanthropy and all that sort of thing. wanted me to help her raise something for the widows and orphans fund for sailors; subscription papers, and all that sort of thing." "and you're for it?" "o, yes, marjorie's mother you see. couldn't do anything else. i've got to stand in right with her mother." "noble youth," said frank. "first catch the mother and the daughter will come easy. is that it?" "you have a glimmer of intelligence, armstrong, a rare thing in your case." "we have him on the run," said mcgregor the next morning at breakfast. "i suggest a round-robin letter to the young lady. how would this suit?" he hauled a letter from his pocket and handed it to frank, who read it while a smile stole over his face. "will she take it all right, do you think?" said frank as he handed the letter back to the conspirator. "sure thing. the codfish cuts no figure now since she's had a taste of bigger game. i'll write it out and get everyone to sign it." "go to it," said frank. "we must save our little codfish." that afternoon while miss hasbrouck was curled up in her deck chair with the codfish in attendance, a deck steward handed a letter to her. a long list of signatures followed. "a wireless?" inquired the codfish, much interested. "too funny for anything," said the girl. "i wonder if i had better let you read it? it concerns you." "me?" said the codfish in astonishment, reaching out for the letter. "promise not to get mad if i let you see it?" "cross my heart, hope to die if i do." "all right, then, but remember your promise." she passed the letter over to him, and this is what he read: "dear miss hasbrouck:-- "we have observed with growing anxiety the attention which one of our party has been paying to you. while we do not wish to alarm you, we feel you ought to know that this young man is afflicted with mental aberration. in other words, he is slightly off his head. as far as we know he has never had a dangerous spell, but you can never tell. please pardon us for seeming to intrude, but we thought you ought to know." then followed a long list of signatures of practically every man on either team. gleason was just finishing the perusal of the note when mcgregor pranced up to miss hasbrouck. "take a walk around the deck?" he queried, and that young lady hastily jumped up without even excusing herself to the codfish, and started off at a brisk pace with the young harvard man. "nutty, am i?" said the codfish. "i'll show them," gritting his teeth, "i'll show them. they're trying to queer me," and then to mrs. hasbrouck who had just come up from her stateroom: "o, mrs. hasbrouck, i'm going to help you with that fund. guess pretty nearly everyone of the two teams will subscribe to it." "that's very sweet of you, indeed. it is a noble thing to do to help such a good cause to provide for the widows and orphans of the sailors who go down in the great deep." "sure thing," said the codfish, enthusiastically. "all our fellows are very generous on such a thing as that. i never saw such a noble bunch of fellows as we have with us." mrs. hasbrouck beamed over her spectacles. "i think we ought to collect as much of the fund as we can to-day; only a little more of our sea voyage is left, you know." "'a bird in the hand is said to be worth two in the bushes!'" returned the codfish. "i'll be back in a minute," he added. on the way down to the bulletin board in the companionway where were inscribed the signatures of those who were willing to help along the fund with contributions, he came upon marjorie and mcgregor, their heads together in deep conversation. neither saw him or they pretended not to see him as he passed, and the fires of revenge burned the deeper in his heart. five minutes later he was back at mrs. hasbrouck's chair. "the names of pretty nearly every one of our fellows are down under that subscription paper," he informed her. "i've made a copy of them all and the amounts opposite each name." "this is wonderful," said mrs. hasbrouck, enthusiastically as she ran through the list. "mr. mcgregor $ ; mr. armstrong $ ; mr. wallace $ ; mr. burrows $ ; why, this is really wonderful. you will certainly get your reward for your kindness. i'll call the steward's attention to this, and suggest that he ought to collect to-day, for to-morrow will be our last day on shipboard, you know." "yes, i think he ought to get after them to-day. so much hurry and scurry on the last day that he might miss some of the contributions." a little later consternation was thrown into the "contributors" to the widows and orphans fund. a very businesslike young steward armed with a list, began his collections. two or three of the collegians paid up without protest for they supposed such collections were the regular thing, but when the collector reached mcgregor, who was still holding the fort with marjorie in the shade of one of the lifeboats, he met a refusal. "twenty-five dollars for the widows and orphans fund! i never heard of it before!" protested the "contributor." "there must be a mistake, sir," said the steward, "you must have forgotten, your name is one of those on the subscription paper in the companionway bulletin board." "my name on the paper? quit your kidding." "o, but it is, sir. i made a careful copy myself, sir, of all the names, and i'm sure i'm right." "then i must have done it in my sleep," exclaimed the puzzled mcgregor. "where is the bulletin board?" "i'll show you, sir," and the steward led the way to the saloon deck. shortly they stood before the board in question. there were a number of notices on the board, but the steward pointed out the one in question. "there it is, sir, and there's your name," triumphantly. "we, the undersigned, subscribe to the widows and orphans fund the amount set after each of our names:" mcgregor's jaw dropped as he read the notice. then in amazement his eye traveled down the long list of signatures till it fell on his own. "it is sure enough my signature and no forgery. but when in the name of mike did i do it?" he gazed in helpless wonder at marjorie who had accompanied him to the companionway. "seems to me i've seen that list before," said miss hasbrouck. "it looks like one that was attached to a letter i received to-day." mcgregor stepped up to the board, scrutinized the subscription paper closely, then took out the thumb tacks which secured it to the board itself. "look," he said, displaying the back of the paper. "the codfish has put one over on us. this list has been very neatly pasted onto the bottom of the widows and orphans fund subscription paper, and as both were written on ship's paper the deception was a clever one." "o, my, the wretch!" said marjorie. "the young runt," quoth mcgregor in high dudgeon, "wait till i get at him!" but he did not get at the codfish just then for that individual kept himself out of sight until the next morning. the story went the rounds of the ship as might naturally be expected, and not a few of the team members, seeing that the codfish had made a neat shift of the joke onto their own heads, paid up their alleged subscriptions so that the fund was a gainer in the end. sad to relate, however, the standing of the codfish with the hasbrouck family was gone, never to return. his best efforts next morning failed to draw even a look of recognition from marjorie's bright eyes as she passed and repassed him during the deck promenade, tripping along gaily between two members of the team. once he thought he caught the expression as she passed: "that horrid boy." from mrs. hasbrouck he could only draw a frigid nod. "and that's all the thanks i get for boosting the old fund," said the codfish to himself. "well, never mind, women are fickle. i'll have no more of them in my whole life," and he went his way whistling a merry tune. that afternoon as the ship was passing up southampton water the codfish found frank leaning on the rail watching the beautiful and ever-shifting panorama opening before him. "say, frank, i guess i'll not go on to paris." "changed your mind?" there was a hint of laughter in frank's voice. "yes, i think i ought to stick around for the practice and the games, don't you? doesn't seem quite right to desert now." "good boy," said frank. "i think you'll find england more congenial than paris. it wouldn't be right to leave us anyway." "that's what i think, too. i'll stick with the bunch." chapter xii. the codfish loses himself. the team with all its paraphernalia went through to london that night, and the next morning took train for brighton about fifty miles south on the english channel, where all were quartered at the grand hotel on the esplanade facing the channel. training quarters were established on the grounds of the brighton athletic club which had been generously offered to the visitors by the board of governors. it was an eager lot of athletes that tumbled out of the tally-ho at the club that morning, for the trainers insisted that the practice should begin at once, and the men themselves, cooped up as they had been for a week, were no less anxious to get to work than the trainers were to have them. several scores of people, attracted to brighton by the news that the yale and harvard teams would train there for the week previous to the match with oxford and cambridge, were in attendance when the americans got into action. "a likely looking lot," was the english comment. after a light work-out, armstrong and mcgregor were called to the jumping pit. "try a few," said trainer black, "but make it easy and be careful you don't twist your ankles. we're badly enough off as it is." after measuring out the runway and taking half a dozen practice runs, mcgregor made a leap of something over feet on his first try. frank followed, but did not show anything impressive. again he tried, but whether from the enforced idleness on the steamer or from physical condition, again fell far short of the jump he expected to make. "you're not getting any lift at all," said black, coming up at that moment. "shoot high in the air when you strike that take-off." frank attempted to follow instructions, but his legs felt heavy and dead. he knew very well without information from the trainer that he failed to get his height. the more he jumped, the worse he got, but persisted until trainer black said: "that's enough, now. jog around the track a couple of times and go in. you are off to-day but i guess it will be all right to-morrow." but the next day, while there was a little improvement in his distance, frank was far behind his american performances. mcgregor jumped consistently at feet and a half. the strange ground did not seem to bother him in any way, while with frank either the straight runway, the different conditions of air or the week of partial idleness on shipboard had played havoc with his skill. naturally, he began to worry, and this had its effect in keeping him back. on the third day on english soil the whole team was taken up to london to the queen's club grounds so that the athletes might have an opportunity to try out the track. it proved to be a faster and better track than the one they were working on at brighton and everyone was well pleased with the result of the day's work. frank had improved a little on his jumps, but was still inches behind his harvard mate. several times he had succeeded in getting a good spring, but failed to hold the distance. it did not make him feel any happier to note that the english writers, after watching the performances of the two american jumpers, had counted them out of the contest entirely. "vare," wrote one sporting critic, "will have no trouble in winning the broad jump for the american representatives are not in his class. it is unfortunate that their best jumper was unable to come across the water because of an accident in practice a few days before the americans were to sail. but even with hotchkiss, the injured yale man, at his best he could not expect to measure up to the great oxford jumper who has been doing feet and over, consistently in practice, and has never yet been extended to his full limit to win in any event he has entered. with the broad jump a foregone conclusion for the oxford-cambridge team, the chances seem to favor the english athletes to carry off the meet." frank laid down the paper. "so, they've written us off, have they? perhaps we may fool them yet," and he ground his teeth together, resolving that if he were beaten out it would not be because he did not try. but the next day's practice on the brighton track yielded no better results. as he was walking slowly down the runway with feelings of disgust at his poor showing, he was accosted by a tall stranger whom he had seen talking with the captain a few minutes before. "do you mind if i give you a word of advice?" said the newcomer. "certainly not. if you can show me how to get out about a foot further, i'll be the happiest jumper in the united kingdom." the stranger smiled. "you are too anxious about this jumping business," he said, "and you're working too hard at it. you have plenty of speed and a good spring, but you don't get high enough at the take-off. supposing we try a little experiment." "i'll try anything," said frank, eagerly. "i used to jump a little myself," said the stranger, "and my trouble at first was very like what yours is now. i couldn't get up. so i tried an experiment which i'm going to try on you now." stepping to the side of the track he picked up a high hurdle and placed it about four feet behind the jumping-block, in the pit itself. "now," he continued, "i want you to clear the top of that hurdle by six inches or more. at your highest point of flight bring your shoulders and arms well forward, so you will hold all your distance when you strike. try it." frank went back the full length of the runway, started at an easy lope and gathering full speed fifty feet from the end of his run struck the block squarely, and sprang high into the air. he had the feeling that it was a good jump but was not prepared for what the measuring tape showed-- feet, inches. "that's better," said the tall stranger. "but i want you to go even higher than that. clear the hurdle by a foot or more if you can. get your greatest speed right at the take-off and _think_ high as well as go high." again frank rushed down the runway and leaped with all his power, clearing the hurdle by a foot or more. by this time half a dozen of the members of the team were gathered by the jumping pit. recognizing a good jump, one of them seized the tape and measured: "twenty-three feet, one-half inch," he sang out. "well, maybe we have a chance for that jump yet. good boy, armstrong." twice more the stranger sent frank down the runway and each time the jumper rose to expectations. on the last jump the tape showed feet, ½ inches. "now, we'll take the hurdle away, but you must _think_ it is there," continued the coach. "have it in your mind as you come up to the block that you are going away above the imaginary mark. jumping is a matter of brains as much as of legs. try it without the hurdle." this time frank almost equaled his former jump, and as the figures were announced, his teammates crowded around him, congratulating him. "that's the stuff, armstrong," said trainer black. "you may throw a scare into these englishmen if you keep up that gait." "who is that man coaching me?" inquired frank, a little later. "that, didn't you know? that's princewell, an intercollegiate champion of ours a few years back, one of the best in the business in his day." "he certainly knew what was the matter with me," said frank, almost beside himself with happiness. "i'd give a leg to beat vare." "i don't expect that," said black, "because vare is a great jumper, one of the best in great britain. if you give him a good run for his money you will have done something we will all be proud of. we can win without the broad jump if our calculations are right." but alas for frank's high hopes, the next day saw him below feet again, and work as he might, he fell back steadily. without the impetus given by princewell, who had gone to london, he could not get within six inches of his best marks of the day before. black finally ordered him to the clubhouse. "i don't want you to put on jumping shoes again before saturday." saturday was the day of the games. "but i need the practice," frank remonstrated, "i'm just getting the knack." "forget it," said the trainer, "and do as i tell you. i'll take the risk. you mustn't jump again before you go into your event. and i'd advise you to keep off your feet as much as you can. rest, rest, man. that's the best thing you can do just now." frank turned away heartbroken. "if i could only keep at it, i'd get the trick back. i had it yesterday and i've lost it to-day." "keep off my feet," grumbled frank that night to gleason. "rest and keep off my feet. i wonder if he intends to have me keep my bed." "o, you're too nervous, that's all. a little country air would be good for you. say, by jove, i've got an idea, rest, recreation, off your feet, on the job and all that." "open up, my son." "it's this. let's hire a motor and see some of this blooming country. i don't suppose they object to your exercising your eyes." "i'm with you if the captain hasn't any objection. we've been sticking pretty closely around here." "it's a monumental idea and worthy of a great brain like mine." the captain had no objection and was indeed glad of it since he felt it would take frank's attention from the coming games. "and how about the motor? i'm not a bloated bondholder like you, but i'll go my halves." "oh, run away. i've been aching to find an excuse to spend some money round here. i know where i can get a little pippin of a machine for ten shillings the hour. ten shillings are $ . our money and cheap when it includes a dinky little chauffeur with a uniform. watch me produce!" and away the codfish dashed down the street. in twenty minutes he was back with a snappy little, high-powered runabout painted a flaming red color. "couldn't get a blue one," he apologized. frank hopped in alongside the driver, and the codfish perched behind in the rumble seat. for two hours frank forgot entirely about the yale-harvard-oxford-cambridge track meet, and his part in it. and those who have traveled in the beautiful lanes and highways of sussex will understand his absorption. again in the cool of the afternoon gleason appeared for another "personally conducted" tour, this time to the west of brighton, along the shore road. eye-tired from watching the moving panorama of country and town, frank armstrong slept, free from the regular nightmare of broad-jumping competition in which he never could quite reach his best. the great day of the contest came around at last and found the american athletes pitched to a high degree of excitement. a final trial of the queen's club track had given some very satisfactory performances, which more than hinted at an american victory. burrows, the harvard sprinter, had run the hundred in nine and four-fifths seconds, and seemed sure of not only this event but of the two hundred and twenty as well. with these two secure, the american athletes had a clear lead in the race for victory. "this is the great day, boys," announced trainer black at the breakfast table. "train leaves for london at : . games at two o'clock. put all the stuff you need in your suit cases. they will go up on the train with us." "do we lunch in london?" asked someone. "no, we have a bite on the train which gets to london at a little before twelve. it's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station to the queen's club grounds. we won't get there much before half past twelve or a quarter to one. that'll give us plenty of time to dress and be ready for the johnny bulls by two o'clock." frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to the hotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "i'm as nervous as a cat," he said to himself. "if they had only let me keep on working i'd have been a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death." "oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street, "come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking the world's record." "can't," said frank. "train leaves in less than two hours. have you packed up?" "packed up, no. the valet will do that. who wants to pack suit cases a morning like this? come on, you short-skate, come on and forget queen's club." "i'll go you for an hour," said frank, "but that's the limit. i don't want to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere." "this machine is guaranteed bust-proof. you can trust the old reliable. it is even fool-proof." "i'd need that assurance with you around." "and you're coming?" "yes, but only for an hour." "don't worry, i'll have you back, hope to die if i don't." away shot the little runabout on the eastbourne road. as before, the chauffeur acted as guide and pointed out various objects of interest as they spun along the smooth road. "just down there to the east about twenty miles the way we're heading is hastings." "that's where william the conqueror had his little scrap one day some moons ago, isn't it?" inquired the codfish. "yes, sir, he fought a bit of a fight there, and just over to the left there is the duke of buccleuch's estate. and down there in the field where you see that house in the trees i was born meself, sir." "good for you," said the codfish, "fine place to be born, nice open spaces; a very good piece of judgment. and the old folks still live down on the old new hampshire farm?" "yes, sir, they are living there now. i say, would you mind stopping at the door, sir? my mother's been ailing, and i'd like to see her a minute." "dutiful and kind-hearted son, we'll be happy to stop for you. better still, you give me the steering wheel and we'll drive on for a mile or two and pick you up on the way back." "can you drive?" asked the chauffeur dubiously. "can i drive? can a duck float? i've driven a six-sixty pierce arrow through the white mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means. let's see," said the irrepressible codfish, as he slipped into the driver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shift lever as he spoke: "first speed inside ahead, second speed outside ahead, high, outside back. reverse, inside back. i've got you, steve. we'll be back here in fifteen minutes. please be waiting at the church for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning." "be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penalty driving without a license." "same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the codfish shouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he dropped into high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow. "this is what we should have done long before this," quoth gleason, "a chauffeur is a clog on conversation." "yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions." the boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when frank, with his mind on train time, said: "better turn now, old man. we've been out nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my time limit." "you're great on mathematics. let's go up this road through the village there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up the gent who went to visit the old folks, and then i'll drop you in dear old brighton in some few minutes. but first let us explore a little." "i'd rather we explored some other time," frank remonstrated. but the codfish was willful. he found a road leading to the left, circled the village and came back again to a highway. "now, let's see, where did we leave that chap?" he mused. "right along here some place by the willows, wasn't it?" driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur, but no sight of him could they discover. "well, it certainly was here somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as per agreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?" "gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said frank, in alarm. "well, it's a good road, isn't it?" "but no road is good unless it leads to brighton. remember your promise. that train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. and, moreover, we're lost." "lost, your eye! how can we be lost when i'm at the helm?" but, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "i say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to brighton?" "naw. second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead." "how far from here?" "'bout five mile." "the country is saved. now see the dust fly. twenty minutes to do five miles. oh, it's a cinch. that chauffeur can walk home. i'll settle." fifteen minutes later the codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "is this the way to brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by. "this _is_ breyting," with an accent on the "is." "what?" almost yelled the driver of the red car. "this _is_ breyting, i tell you." "how do you spell it?" "b-r-e-y-t-i-n-g, breyting." "oh, lord, we want b-r-i-g-h-t-o-n, brighton, down by the sea, where all the piers and pebbles are." "oh, why didn't you say so at first? take the road to the left down about half a mile. it'll bring you down to the far end of the street that runs along the water." "how far is it?" asked frank in a despairing voice. "'bout twelve or thirteen miles." "and fifteen minutes to do it in. this is awful!" "cheer up, cheer up," said the driver, making a great show of confidence which he didn't in the least feel. "we may do it yet." opening the throttle the car fairly leaped along the road. "it's exceeding the speed limit, but in a good cause," said the codfish. "lord, i hope the tires stand up." he had hardly spoken the word when the right front shoe gave way with a loud bang. the car careened to the right sharply, crossed the shallow ditch with a lurch that nearly threw the boys out of their seats, and, finally, under control again, was steered back on to the road to fetch up with a violent jerk when the emergency brake was driven down hard. chapter xiii. the flying machine to the rescue. "well, i'm glad that's over," said the luckless codfish, as he slipped from behind the steering wheel and hurried out in front to see what damage had been done. "phew! we're lucky," he continued, "to be alive. if that shoe had gone and busted itself on the bridge half a mile back we would probably have been two bright little angels by now; gone and done for." "by the looks of things, i'm done for anyway," said frank. "we are lost some miles from brighton and," looking at his watch, "the train starts in just seven minutes." "maybe they'll wait for you." "royal mail trains never wait, and that carries the mail. it's twenty minutes' work to put that shoe on." "shoe, nothing. i put no shoe on. we'll pick up some wayside garage and till that happens i'll drive on the rim. no damage is done on our flight up the bank. here we go, halting but steady." frank was silent. he was thinking of the effect his absence would have on his teammates. it hurt him to think that his captain would set his nonappearance down to carelessness, and so it had been in a way. he should not have gone so far. he should have insisted that gleason keep away from the steering wheel. perhaps the need for his presence would be desperate. his absence might mean, in some unaccountable way, the loss of the meet. these thoughts and many others pounded through his brain as the car limped along the road, but they all had the same refrain: "you've been a failure, you've been a failure." rounding a turn in the road, gleason caught sight of a garage sign, and in a minute drew up at the door. "ten shillings to put that tire on and put it on quickly," said he. two workmen from the garage sprang at the wheel, but they had scarcely begun work when a clock in a neighboring church tower boomed the half-hour. the boys looked at each other. "i know how you feel, frank," said gleason. "i was a double-barreled jackass to take you off this morning, and seventeen times a fool for getting lost." "i'm in very badly with everyone," said frank, "but growling will not help matters. maybe there'll be a later train which will get me there in time." "i've got you into this, frank, and i'll get you out of it somehow, don't worry. there must be another train." with the new shoe on the front wheel and the garage men the richer by several shillings more than the codfish promised, the red runabout was again headed for brighton, this time at a more moderate pace. it was just eleven o'clock when the car drew up at the railroad station. frank almost expected to see some of his teammates, but the platform and waiting-rooms were deserted. inquiries at the ticket office brought the information that the next london train was at twelve-fifteen and did not reach london till one-fifty. "one-fifty," groaned frank. "i might as well take the next ship back to america. i've lost out. i'm disgraced." both boys were the picture of gloom. suddenly gleason's face lit with high resolve "look here, armstrong, i'll take you to london in this machine." "but it isn't ours, and you have no license to drive." "it's ours as long as we pay ten shillings an hour for it, license or no license." "you'd get lost again." "no, no, it's a straight road. i looked it up once. you follow the railroad. look here," he added in great excitement, "the thing can be done without a grain of doubt. here it is a little past eleven. we can certainly average twenty-five miles an hour. that means that we can be there a little after one. fortunately, the club is but a little ways out of our course, over in west kensington." "i'm game for it," said frank, "but just the same, i don't like the idea of your going off with a machine and no license. you'll get jugged for sure if anything goes wrong." "nothing's going wrong. i got you into this trouble and i'm going to get you out somehow. climb in and hold onto your headgear, we are only going to hit the high places." he shot away from the station and swung into the great north road, sign-marked "london," with the motor humming to the quickened pace. "nothing to it, frank," boasted the confident chauffeur. "this is the way they all should have come up, plenty of ozone and action, no stuffy cars. we may even beat them to the club if we have luck," and he pushed the gas lever a few notches higher, and neatly dodged a dog curled up in the sand of the road. now that he was headed for london, even frank's spirits rose. what seemed no chance half an hour ago had been transformed into a possibility. well he knew that gleason was exceeding the speed limit, but the time was so short a chance had to be taken with tires, road, police and everything else. the stake was worth it. one cannot race along the roads of south-east england and race very far. so the inevitable happened. ten miles outside of brighton, when gleason was doing something better than forty miles an hour, he pretended not to hear a hail from the side of the road, and kept straight on, but he could not help hearing the sharp spatter of a motorcycle behind him a minute later, and instinctively knew it was the police. he slowed down till he was running at about fifteen miles an hour. the officer came alongside. he was plainly angry. "why didn't you stop when i called to you?" demanded the officer. "oh, did you call?" asked the codfish innocently. "we are in a great hurry," explained frank. "we have to be there by one o'clock or one-thirty at the latest." "now maybe you will and maybe you won't. turn that car around and come along with me." "look here, this chap here," indicating frank, "is in that track meet up at queen's club at two o'clock this afternoon. he lost his train by accident and i promised to get him there. now, let us go through." "can't be done. you americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. you can't do it here, i tell you. let's see your license." the codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "great scott! i haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him." "another thing to explain to the magistrate. come along now." the codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside. to the disgust of the two american youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street. "well, now, let us go along," insisted the codfish. "we've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. we've done our duty, now let's call it off. when you come to america i'll get you a job on the police force of syracuse. come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. this fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at queen's club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the english to help lick the yankees." his cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. as the codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. he read it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car. "you're a pretty slick young fellow," he said, "but both of you will stay with us for a while. you are in pretty deep." "how so?" inquired frank. "as if you didn't know! perhaps you never heard of this," and he read the message he had just received: "stop and hold two young men in red runabout number b. stolen from chauffeur near brighton, known to have started for london shortly after eleven o'clock." the message was signed by the chief of police of brighton. "a lovely kettle of fish," commented gleason. "do you remember once of telling me that i could get into trouble in a desert island?" "i do and it's true." "it would be still true if i were alone in the middle of the pacific. but there's one thing about this business which cheers me: you are now a member of the criminal club at yale in good standing." "i'd rather be in good standing up at queen's club. do you realize that the team is at london now and we are in the lock-up?" for the greater part of an hour frank and gleason were held in durance vile as automobile thieves, and as a secondary count, breaking the speed limit. but all things finally come to an end. the magistrate was found, and sat with great dignity on the case. one of his first acts was to fine gleason the sum of five pounds for excessive speed and then to declare him still liable to the charge of theft. fortunately for the codfish and frank, who momentarily expected to be thrown into the village jail, the chauffeur, who had been overcome with the desire to see his parents that morning and who had been the innocent cause of most of the trouble, appeared with the proprietor of the garage where the little red runabout had been obtained. explanations soon followed. the garage proprietor verified all that the boys said about their being a part of the american team and followers, and his hand being properly greased with american dollars from the plethoric purse of gleason, was perfectly willing that the car should go on to london, driven by his own chauffeur. "but remember," said the magistrate, "not over twenty miles an hour or you'll be brought in before you get to your journey's end." "at twenty miles an hour," said frank, "it is no more good to us than an ox-cart. it is nearly one o'clock now and two hours on the road would bring us there too late. i guess it's too late all right," and he turned away, deeply moved by the thought that his hard work, the three thousand-mile trip across the water, the ambitions of himself and of his friends, all went for naught. tears of chagrin came to his eyes. "nothing on earth can save us now," acquiesced the codfish. "o lord, if i only had an aeroplane with about a hundred horse-power motor in it," he wailed. "guess they could accommodate you down at burtside," said the officer who, now the incident was closed, showed a friendly interest in the two young men. "what do you mean?" frank burst out. "oh, there's a flyin' school down at burtside, 'bout half a mile from here. perhaps they'd rent one to you young chaps for the afternoon." "great peter!" cried the codfish, "let's try. here's a chance. here," to the returned chauffeur, "drive us down to that aeroplane place if you know where it is. i'm going to buy one." "yes, sir," said the chauffeur, thinking that the young americans had better be favored for they were very likely mad as march hares. how could they be otherwise, having first run away with his machine and then, being deprived of that, willing to buy an air craft to continue the journey. but he piloted the boys to burtside which proved to be a flying school of some importance with biplanes and monoplanes in the hangars, and two or three beginners at the flying game, receiving instruction. the boys quickly explained their errand. they wanted to get to london in desperate haste, trains couldn't accomplish it, automobiles at the rate they let them run over english roads couldn't and there was no other way but the air. the director of the school was not sure whether it could be done or not. money, gleason told him, was no object, which played its part in the decision. by good fortune one of the aviators in the school was a young american who had been flying with great success in england for a year. he heard of the plight of his compatriots, and readily agreed to take frank up. he would take one or the other, but not both. "i'm willing to pay $ if you will take frank armstrong to the queen's club, or as near to that point as you can get, and i'll give you an equal amount not to take me." "you needn't be afraid," said butler, "i have no machine that will carry more than one passenger. it will have to be only one of you." "that suits us both. armstrong, here, wants to go and i don't, so we're all satisfied." "have you ever been up?" inquired butler of frank. "never, but i'm determined to get to london if i can, and i don't care how it is." "all right," said butler. "we have no time to lose. i'll get out the big biplane." the plane was run out of the hangar, examined closely by the attendants, looked over in a cursory manner by the aviator himself. "now," he said to frank, "hop up here alongside of me, to the right. take hold of that wooden support and put your feet on this wire. don't look down or you may get dizzy. i'm going about five hundred feet high. keep your eyes straight ahead and forget you're flying." "good-by, old fellow," said the codfish, half in fun and half in earnest, as frank climbed to his precarious place alongside the aviator, and then to butler, "where do you come down?" "one can never tell in this business, but i will try to land in hendon, which is only about three miles from the club." "and how long will it take?" "somewhere about thirty minutes if the wind aloft is as steady and strong as it seems to be down here." "frank, that will get you to hendon at one-forty-five, and a taxi will do the rest. i'll come as fast as i can in the motor, and if we don't get pinched again i may get to dear old london in time to see the finish." "all ready," sang out butler. a half dozen attendants clung fast to the trail of the big biplane while another spun the propeller. the engine immediately sprang into noisy life, the roar of the exhaust drowning out all human speech in the neighborhood. gleason saw the hands of the aviator drop off the steering-wheel in a downward sweeping signal which meant "let go," a signal instantly obeyed by the attendants, who dropped flat on the ground while the great tail of the birdlike monster swept over their heads with an ever increasing rush. for fifty or sixty feet the running gear of the machine kept on the ground, but, as the velocity increased and butler elevated his plane, the machine gradually cleared the earth and soared aloft. the codfish watched it as it rose and followed it in the vastness of the sky vault until there was but a mere dot against the fluffy clouds in the northern sky. chapter xiv. progress and a wreck. we will leave frank armstrong shooting londonward in the largest passenger-carrying biplane in the burtside school for aviators, seated on a mere chip of a seat, holding on with a death grip to the slender upright of seasoned spruce, and turn our attention back to the morning at brighton. contrary to what gleason and frank imagined as they sat in their disabled motor on the highway some miles outside of brighton at the hour their train was scheduled to leave, they were not missed at first. in the hurry of leaving their temporary training quarters, the team managers and assistants had so much to do that they left the business of getting from the hotel to the station, a matter of only a few hundred yards, to the individuals themselves. no one happened to notice, as they left the hotel in straggling groups of three and four, that armstrong was not with them. at the station half a dozen compartments on the london train having been reserved in advance, the athletes tumbled aboard without even a thought of luggage, taking it for granted, with the usual cheerful carelessness of traveling athletes, that everything would be all right. each was concerned only for himself. it was not to be thought of for a moment that any member of either team would be so foolish as to get himself left behind. the ten-thirty on the london and brighton was the vestibule and corridor type of train, not like the ordinary single compartment coach in common use on english and continental railroads. it was therefore possible to pass from car to car and from compartment to compartment on this train much the same as on an american pullman train, and visiting between team members shortly began. trainer black, going the rounds, discovered that armstrong was missing. at first it was thought that he, with his companion gleason, had accidentally gotten into a wrong compartment, but a hasty search from end to end of the train disclosed the fact that he was not aboard at all. "i don't remember having seen him after breakfast," said the yale captain. "could he have gone up to london on the train ahead of us by any chance?" "no," returned mcgregor, "armstrong is very conscientious and would not disobey orders which were explicit enough about this train." "i'll bet a hat," said halloby, "that his rattle-headed friend, codfish gleason, took him out for a ride this morning, and that something went wrong with the power-plant, and they are sitting on the road somewhere waiting for someone to tow them home." and, as it proved, hurdler halloby wasn't so far out of the way, excepting that, instead of sitting on the road, they were at that moment falling with a loud report into the hands of the law. so, perhaps, it was well that no one on the american team knew their exact location. "come to think of it," said another, "i saw the chap they call codfish swing around to the hotel this morning in a red runabout and a little later saw the runabout going off up the street, but didn't notice who was in it. but i do know that all three seats were full." "that's enough," said black. "gleason thinks he is the sole and special guard of armstrong's health and happiness, and hired that automobile for the purpose of keeping the jumper's mind occupied with something besides jumping. i agreed to it myself. now we lose a man on account of it." "thank goodness," broke in the captain, "we didn't have to depend on him for an event or we'd have been in a bad way. if he should get to the grounds in time after all, i'd feel like punishing him by not allowing him to jump," snapped the captain. "he's punished already," said black. "probably eating his heart out somewhere. he's the most conscientious fellow i ever saw. it's his fool friend, the codfish, who got him into any trouble that he's in." "i'll telegraph him to come on the next train," said the captain. "will not do much good, i guess, the next train wouldn't get him there in time. but don't worry, he'll be there at those games if he hasn't met with a serious accident, or i miss my guess badly, but as for his doing any good, it's another matter." "it's too bad," growled captain harrington. "the papers will throw the hot shot into us for being careless. it makes us all look like dummies, confound the luck!" "don't worry about it, captain. you have enough on your hands, and vare is a certain winner anyway in armstrong's event. you have your own troubles this afternoon in the quarter. so take it easy, and quit worrying about something that really doesn't matter a great deal as far as actual results go." "i'm going to telegraph, just the same," returned the captain, "to the grand. they would probably go there when they found we had gone, eh?" "go ahead, it will do no harm," admitted black. so harrington sent off a telegram from a station fifteen miles or so from london. a bit peremptory the telegram was, but it relieved the captain's feelings. this was the telegram: "frank armstrong, the grand, brighton. come to london on next train, take taxi to queen's club immediately afterwards. absolutely no excuse for missing team train." but this telegram, as we have seen, never reached the man for whom it was intended. at one o'clock taxicabs dropped the yale-harvard athletes, attendants, and trainers at the south gate of queen's club. already several thousand people had gathered in the stands, and a steady stream was pouring in the gates, not with the impetuosity that distinguishes an american crowd, but interested withal in the games they were shortly to see. the majority of the crowd was, of course, english, but the americans made a brave showing. they gathered together, apparently for mutual support, halfway down the track stretch and at once selected a cheer leader who was now working up enthusiasm by an occasional yell, simply to let the enemy know that young america would be heard from in more ways than one. a surprising number of americans had come together for the event. not all were harvard and yale men, although members of these two institutions predominated. students and graduates from universities all over the united states might have been seen in the crowd. it was not a harvard-yale affair to them, it was america against england, and everyone from the far side of the atlantic was there to lend a shout for his countrymen. college lines were forgotten. along the track-side and in the grand stand speculation was rife as to the outcome of the games. experts had figured out just how the various men were to finish, and the figures had been printed in the morning papers and in the noon editions. all admitted, however, that the match would be an extremely close one with the chances slightly in favor of the visitors. "well," said one confident young man in the group of americans, "we'll take the hundred, two-twenty and both the hurdles. i'd bet my last dollar on that. these englishmen can't get their legs moving in a short distance." "ah, yes, but then when it comes to the longer distance we can't keep our wind going. that's where they have us." "oh, i don't know, there's harrington, the yale captain, who can certainly get away with the quarter. he's been doing under fifty seconds right along. he will give us the fifth event, and all we need to tie is one more, and to win, two more. why, dick, old fel, it's a cinch." "and what are the other two events, please, sir prophet?" "shot for one, they can't beat old red-top mcginnis. these english chaps never learned how to put a shot anyway, and there's the high jump, certainly ours; it's like taking money from a baby." "sounds like seven wins, the way you have it figured out." "it is seven places or my training as to what five and two make is all to the bad. i tell you it's a cinch. i'd put up all my spare cash on it, and walk home cheerfully if i lost out. but, pshaw! we can't lose!" conversation was checked by the appearance of several athletes who had emerged from the club locker-room doorway, and who were walking across the turfed stretch to the track. they were seen to be americans, and a ringing shout went up from their supporters which brought smiles to the faces of the young athletes. the english spectators applauded the americans with hand-clapping. by twos and threes the athletes made their appearance on the track before the hour set for the beginning of the games, for the day was bright and warm and the sun of more advantage to them than the shade and cool of the training quarters. it is not our purpose to narrate in detail the doings of the half hundred athletes who struggled for the honor of their colleges and country that afternoon nor how records fell and predictions of experts were set at naught, how the balance swung this way and that, how the mercurial american cheer-leader ruined the throats of his countrymen for the encouragement of the team striving desperately on field and track. we are more intimately concerned with frank armstrong whom we left a thousand feet more or less in the air, taking a last desperate chance to be in at the finish on the queen's club track. frank afterwards said that he experienced no fear of any kind as the flying machine glided upward from the earth. at first there was the sensation of great speed, though the machine was comparatively close to the ground, but as the height increased that sensation diminished. instead of the machine seeming to rise, the earth seemed to drop away leaving the machine stationary. below, the country revealed itself like a map, with the highways and lanes standing out sharply. to the south he got the glint of the english channel, and to the north was a great black smudge which he took to be london with its smoke from tens of thousands of chimneys. "going higher," shouted butler. "bad currents down here." the words came faintly to frank through the roaring of the wind and the sharp crackle of the engine exhaust. the plane plunged and rocked in an air billow. "go ahead as far as you want to," shouted frank, "but get me there." he had lost all sensation of fear and almost of interest in the flight. his mind was on queen's club. steadily the machine climbed until the green of the trees and the grass all became as one, and the red tiles of the roofs showed only as a splash of color among the vast expanse of green. at the greater height of perhaps two thousand feet, where butler found better currents, frank thought the country below seemed more than ever like a map in one of his old school geographies. twenty towns and cities lay within the range of his vision and, by turning his head slightly, he could distinguish, across the whole width of the channel, the dim outlines of the shores of france. the motor of the big biplane, which had been running with the precision of a well-timed clock for the space of half an hour, began to give evidence of something wrong with its internals. it skipped, stuttered in its rhythm for a moment and then went on, only to repeat in a moment. the aviator, helpless in this emergency, merely jiggled his spark lever, but the stuttering of the motor continued, and then with a most disconcerting suddenness the motor stopped entirely. "we've got to come down," shouted butler, "but i'll make our fall as long as possible. hold tight." frank needed no urging. he felt the death of the steady forward movement and the grip of gravity as the biplane began to drop with incredible swiftness toward the earth. but it was a drop which was controlled by the cool-headed butler, and every foot of the drop took them nearer to their destination. five hundred feet below, frank saw a little patch of green field entirely free from trees or shrubbery, and to this he rightly guessed the aviator was heading. it looked like a golf course from that height, and, indeed, proved to be. now they were directly over the haven which butler had picked out, and it seemed in a fair way to pass it, when the flyer banked hard to the left, almost pivoted on his left wing, brought the machine around over the golf links again and, with a final swooping spiral came to earth with a shock sufficiently hard to snap off at the hub one of the wheels of the biplane's running gear. chapter xv. the match at queen's club. "sorry," said butler, "i couldn't land you where i promised, but this motor has played hob with me. she's been acting badly for a week." a score of people came running up. "hurt, hurt?" they cried. "hurt? no!" said frank, "only disappointed. we were heading for hendon. how far is it to queen's club grounds?" "'bout five miles," volunteered someone. "is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired frank. "i've got to get to queen's club on the double quick." he looked at his watch. it showed three minutes of two. the games were about to begin! "butler, excuse me if i leave you," cried frank. "go to it, boy," said butler, "and the lord bless you." heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, frank started off on a sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi was available at that moment, and the man in the little office wasn't hopeful that any would be back right away. "they may come any minute, and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. if you'll take the 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile of queen's club grounds." scarcely waiting to hear the last words, frank darted for the street mentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric 'bus bound for west kensington. fortunately, he found a seat-mate who was well acquainted with what was going on at queen's club that day. "going to see the games, i suppose," he said. from him frank learned that a short cut could be made which would be of considerable help as a time-reducer. fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang from the 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the general direction of the club. as he ran, the last instructions of trainer black came to his mind: "take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." he could not suppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed to keep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached the track and if he was in time when he did reach there. always he kept an eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw none excepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along on their own business. losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, and nearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such a place in london as the queen's club, he was halted by a college yell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. getting his bearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed through a short street and stood before the main gate of the club. "is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "the meet--is it over?" "who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whose eyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked with sweat and dirt. "i'm one of the competitors," gasped frank. "ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. did you run all the way from new york?" "i _am one of the competitors_," said frank, emphasizing every word, "and through an accident got left at brighton. please let me go to the training quarters of the american team." "well, 'ere's a rum cove. comes up 'ere and wants to get passed into the gymes for nothink." for a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get to the club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance was lost. finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger to the american quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched through the gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of captain harrington, who was just going out for his quarter. the captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "you're a little late," he said. "we don't bring men across the atlantic to have them late for the beginning of a track meet. you are no value to us. we will not need you." frank opened his mouth to speak, but harrington interrupted sharply with "i don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start of his event. frank did not have the heart even to look at the race which was slated to go to the americans through the superior ability of the yale captain. trainer black looked up when he entered the building, but said nothing. frank felt as if he had been thrown into outer darkness. he ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped into a chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley of spontaneous cheering which drifted through the window. "what's that?" cried trainer black, and dashed out the door. "sounds like an english cheer!" an english cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a cambridge "dark horse" who had run the yale quarter-mile champion off his feet in the stretch. a minute later harrington staggered into the room, and threw himself face downward on a table. "this loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "to think that harrington should lose out, of all people. he loafed too much in the first part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. it was a foxy trick the englishman worked, but a fair win enough." "where's armstrong, where's armstrong?" came the excited call by trainer black. frank stood up. "here," he said simply. "get into your clothes," black shouted. "why are you sitting there like a dummy? here, some of you fellows help him. patsy, rub his leg muscles a bit--jack, help patsy. move lively!" frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscles were being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their life depended on doing a quick and thorough job. "it's like this," said black, coming over to the rubbing table. "everything went about as scheduled until harrington fell down in his quarter. that leaves us short an event we counted on." "did we get the shot?" "no, confound it, that rhodes scholar from dakota beat our man out on the last try." "so the englishmen have now two more than we calculated?" "exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing the two-mile run unless their men choke." "and the broad-jump?" inquired frank, weakly. "you've got to win that!" black said it as if it was by no means an unusual request. "win it?" gasped frank. "what has vare done?" "took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet, and hasn't jumped again. mcgregor's been dragging his tries along, hoping that you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do better than twenty-two six. armstrong, if you can turn the trick on vare it will give us the meet. you've got to do it!" he added vehemently. frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty track suit, and, with the yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "i suppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully. "were you resting and keeping off your feet?" in spite of the seriousness of the situation, frank could hardly restrain a grin. "keeping off my feet!" he thought. "if they knew what i've been through to get here! guess i'm all right," he said aloud. mcgregor greeted frank enthusiastically. "where in the name of billy patterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer: "this vare is a grasshopper. he has this event cinched, you and i are only ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the johnny bulls have decided they've licked the yankees for once in their lives--look! they're beginning to go!" then to frank: "for pity's sake, let out a link and make a good showing. i'm tied to the ground with a bag of lead in each heel." frank did not need any urging. the complacent attitude of the englishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three or four, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added to his determination. he had made a desperate struggle to be where he was now, and he was not going to let it end there. measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, vare set his marks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runway and made his first leap. "twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer. vare had walked to the jumping pit. a flicker of a smile crossed his face, he nodded cheerfully to his cambridge jumping mate, and picking up his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another look at the americans, turned his face to the track house. "his lordship vare de vare has published to the world that it's all over, frank," said mcgregor. "i'd give a good right leg if i could beat him, he's so mighty superior. but i've only got one more jump, and it's not in me. if you don't want to see my poor busted heart cluttering up this field, go after him." "it's now or never," said frank to himself as he walked slowly down the runway. "what was it princewell said--think high when you hit the take-off--think high---- i'll think a mile high if it will help!" in spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the club, he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt as if he were walking on air. the hard incidents of the morning were forgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing, the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception of his captain. now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool and calculating. he had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, and he would call it to the last ounce. down the runway came armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then with a great burst of speed. his eye was fixed on the take-off block, but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feet out there in the pit. he struck the block perfectly and, with hands thrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginary hurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and held his full distance. with a shout mcgregor, recognizing a good jump, sprang from the bench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which frank was just stepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles. "twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled. coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deaf ears. then, as the full significance became apparent, the americans in the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startled and turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbers in the direction of the gate. "y-e-a-a-a--armstrong!" yelled mcgregor in a frenzy of delight, and fell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon the back and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "it means that old claude vare de vare, lord of creation and elsewhere, has got to come back and do it over again! we have a chance! oh, armstrong, it means we have a chance!" interest in the stand immediately became intense. people who were leaving returned to their seats. "a ripping jump!" commented an englishman as he reseated himself, "but vare will take his measure." vare had been sent for, and was even now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which said plainly: "what's all this fuss about anyway? we'll settle this now once and for all." a ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as vare turned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced down the narrow way now hedged with faces. he was a champion of champions, and would show them how a champion jumped. but not that time, for his best effort fell under twenty-three feet. surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against the advice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that, too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet. the news that armstrong had equaled vare's best jump spread to the locker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. what had seemed like an event lost for a certainty to the americans, had in a moment been turned into a possibility. mcgregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation in any way. thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging armstrong, whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes of the whole american contingent. "you have him now, frank," mcgregor whispered as, with arm over frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "he let himself get cold, and i'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feet again." but mcgregor was mistaken. vare, the champion, after he had had more life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and cleared twenty-three feet, one inch and a half. a little scattering cheer from the englishmen, and vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, his face showing the relief he felt. "i'm all right now," he said to an anxious, inquiring teammate, "but i felt jolly well frozen those first two jumps, though." "the meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now stands six events for america and six for england, with the broad-jump still to be decided. vare, of oxford, has the longest jump to his credit--twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he made in breaking the tie created by armstrong, of yale, with a jump of twenty-three feet, which is _his_ best at present." at this moment captain harrington came onto the track in street clothes. he walked up to frank: "armstrong," he said, "jack told me all about your troubles getting here. i want to tell you you made a game fight to correct the original mistake. i know you were personally not at fault. here's my hand on it!" frank took the proffered hand. his captain had taken him back into the fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point with sudden joy. if frank needed anything to make him unbeatable that afternoon, the thing had come to pass. "i'll try to justify your faith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light. coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit the take-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air. spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take a step at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the first appearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpers before him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavor to get great distance. he struck squarely on his feet in almost a sitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfully that he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. he held every inch of his great jump, however. for it was a great jump. that could be seen by anyone, and the officials and trackmen gathered around while a careful measurement was taken. the serene vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowd close to the pit. "what is it, what is it?" snapped harrington who could hardly await the rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape, who was taking his time to make certain. "twenty-three feet, four inches!" the cheer of the small group of men on the track itself was taken as a good omen by the americans in the stand, and these latter at once delivered themselves of a full-grown yell, which echoed back from the brick dwellings which surround the field. "twenty-three feet, four inches!" came the announcement, bawled to all sides of the field through the megaphone, and again the american yells broke out. in the storm of cheering which frank's great jump had elicited, vare was seen to rise to his feet and walk slowly to the start of the runway. two of his teammates went with him, and at each of his important marks he stopped and scrutinized them carefully as if he was not sure in his own mind that they were just right. twice he tried the full runway from the start to the take-off block, making new marks for his guidance. and now, being quite ready, he made his first of the three tries allotted to him. on the first he cleared twenty-three feet, two inches, and on the second bettered this mark by half an inch. "only an inch and a half behind you, armstrong," said mcgregor, in a nervous staccato, "but i'll eat my shoes, spikes and all, if he can equal that one of yours." "if he does," said frank, "it's all over, i'm afraid. how i came to get that far out is more than i can understand. it's a dream, don't wake me!" silence settled over the crowd as vare faced the pit for his last trial. his face was drawn and white. now he moves forward, crouching a little, with chin out and jaws tightly clenched. the loping run develops at half distance into a sweeping rush, the englishman hits the take-off squarely, and leaps with every ounce of energy in his body--up, up, out, out, he goes, while the spectators at the track side hold their breaths. now he has reached the full height of his jump, and is coming down. will his drive carry him far enough to win? he is down in the pit, topped over by the impetus of his rush, but the jump is clean, and the measurers are at work. carefully the tape is placed, carefully it is read, and then---- "twenty-three feet, three and one-quarter inches," comes the announcement. the americans go mad now indeed, for the meet is won, since the oxford champion has failed to equal armstrong's magnificent jump by three-quarters of an inch, not much, it is true, but enough to make the difference between victory and defeat. just as the jubilation was at its height, a dusty, grimy youth, in what were once white flannels, rushed through the gate, and threw himself on frank as the latter was being escorted like a young prince of the blood to the club house. "i knew you would do it, you old lobster," cried the newcomer, who was none other than codfish gleason. "sorry i couldn't get in at the death, but i was arrested three times for moving too fast for these johnnies, and paid a five-pound fine every time. i couldn't have gone much further for my money was running short." to say that frank armstrong was the hero of the occasion is to tell only a part of the truth. the youngest man on either team had achieved the greatest glory, and his teammates were not slow in acknowledging the fact. at the dinner that night in london, given to members of the four teams, frank was called on to make a speech, and it was the shortest on record: "i did the best i could," after which he sat down covered with confusion, amid loud applause. the next day came the sight-seeing in london and some of the nearby towns, and then a generous and thankful management stood the expense of a trip for the american winners to amsterdam, to cologne, to lausanne, where the song-birds of the party serenaded the girls' school there, and then to paris, with many side trips. but, in spite of the beauties and wonders of the strange countries, frank said afterward that the best sight of all was the shores of long island viewed from the deck of the homing cunarder. chapter xvi. making the 'varsity nine. frank armstrong returned to college in the fall with a reputation. his remarkable jumping which won the deciding event of the meet at queen's club in london, and no less the picturesque manner in which he had made his way from brighton that eventful day, had been spread widely in the newspapers, and no one within reach of the cable or telegraph but knew the details of the story. but the publicity and adulation in no way disturbed frank's balance. he was much too level-headed for that, and went about his work the most unassuming of his classmates. "nothing to make such a fuss about," he used to say. "i simply had to do it. that's all there is to it." the luck of the room drawings had landed our three friends in connecticut hall, that century and a half memorial to old yale. "comfortable and musty," was the codfish's comment when he had heard the news. david powers had drawn a room in welch hall directly opposite. it was david's secret ambition to win a position on the literary magazine, and to this end he had applied himself industriously in the freshman year. he succeeded in getting several essays and a poem accepted by the august editors. he had tried himself out, and was now going after the coveted honor with high determination. out on the football field the annual preparation for the great struggles with harvard and princeton was going on. james turner and frank armstrong were enrolled as members of the squad, and took their daily medicine on the second eleven. frank's lack of weight--he was still only about one hundred and fifty pounds--prevented him from competing on an even footing with ends twenty pounds heavier, with which the 'varsity was well supplied that year. the quarterback position was so well filled that he despaired of winning his way there and the coaches, evidently of the same opinion, kept him where he had played on the freshman team. turner, on the other hand, had added weight and was in a fair way to win a place somewhere in the back field. frank put in a great deal of time under the direction of the punting coach, and made good progress at that department of the game, but at drop-kicking he had little opportunity. "drop-kicking isn't yale's way of scoring," said jimmy turner one night when the day's work was being discussed in the connecticut hall room before a crackling fire of log-wood. "the coaches want a team that can carry the ball over the goal-line, not one that can boot it over the cross-bar." "i know it looks better to have the force drive the other fellow back across his own goal, but since these new rules went into effect it's mighty seldom you ever see it in a big game. but i'm not knocking. i'll keep at the drop-kicking and hope for a chance." but the chance for frank did not come. in two of the smaller games he was called in the fourth quarter with a number of other substitutes, and when the team play was badly disorganized because so few regulars were in the line. he played at end in each case and was pulled back for the punting. once with a good opportunity for a field goal on the opponent's twenty-yard line, a poor protection allowed a lineman to get through and block the ball--a thing which very nearly resulted in a touchdown against yale, for a free end picked up the loose ball and was not brought down until he was well into yale's territory. while armstrong was not at all to blame, the general crowd saw only that his kick was blocked and considered him unsafe as a drop-kicker. turner won his y in the princeton game when he was sent in to relieve cummings, the right halfback, a few minutes before the final whistle, but armstrong's chance didn't come. he sat through the four quarters and saw the yale team win at the very end. a week later armstrong was among the blanketed figures on the side-lines, who watched the struggle of yale and harvard up and down the gridiron, with hopes rising and falling as the tide turned one way or the other. at the very end of the game, with the score against yale, a fumble in the harvard back field gave yale possession of the ball on harvard's thirty-yard line. the yale stand rose en masse and begged for a touchdown, but two assaults were stopped with scant advance. the coach ran down the line, looking among his substitutes. "armstrong, get ready to go in," he said in a quiet, tense voice, but even as frank jumped to his feet to obey the summons, the whistle blew and the game was over. "another year coming," frank said quietly as jimmy, with arm across his roommate's shoulder, on their way from the field, protested against the hard luck. "you're pretty cheerful about it," commented turner, "and you deserved the chance as much as i did." "if i had been good enough, i'd have gone in before. the coaches know what they are about. if i ever get enough weight on me, i'll have a better chance to make the eleven." "and then you'll not be able to jump twenty-three feet," said turner; "for every compensation there's some setback. that's the way of life." the codfish was bitter in his condemnation of the entire coaching system which did not discover armstrong's "supreme merit." "the idea of not using you, frank, when they had every chance in that last quarter. i call it a murdering shame! they might have pulled out the game." frank laughed. "i recognize your talent as a musician and your loyalty as a friend and your virtue as a gentleman, but i still think the coaches knew their jobs, and that when they didn't send me in they had good and sufficient reason for it. i'm not kicking. anyway, i have two more chances, so what's the use of crying?" the codfish continued to growl about the "injustice" for several days, and then, like everyone else, forgot all about football and turned his attentions to the future. before the fall frank had taken occasional dips in the pool when not overtired by the work at the field. max, foreseeing a recruit for his swimmers, took pains to encourage him, and, later, at the suggestion of captain wilson of the swimming team, frank became a member of the squad. after the close of the football season, being well up in his studies and glad of the opportunity to take up a form of athletics which appealed to him strongly, he went at the work with great earnestness. in the try-outs armstrong won his right to a place on the team in the fifty and one hundred yards, having covered these distances in good time, and, when the intercollegiate meets came along, he did his share in point-winning for yale. "armstrong," said captain wilson one afternoon as the two were resting after a practice spin of one hundred and fifty yards, "did you ever try to swim a two-twenty?" "used to go more than that distance in open water, but never in the tank. why?" "well, mcgill, the canadian university, is sending a team down here in february. they have two or three crackajacks up there and they are making a little southern trip. i've just wired them the date and i'd like to make as good a showing as possible." "we ought to be pretty good excepting in the two-twenty," said frank. "and if you'll work for that distance we ought to be pretty good there, too. i'll take care of the hundred as well as i know how, and i'll let hobbs swim the fifty." "and who swims the two-twenty for mcgill?" "hopkins, the olympic champion." frank gave a long whistle. "and so you want me to be the goat? all right, mr. captain, i'll do my best and lead the goat right up to the altar to be sacrificed by the olympic champion. but to do it gracefully, i ought to have some coaching in that distance." "and you're going to get it. i've sent for burton to come up and give us a little advice. he was one of our best men at the distance as well as at the hundred." "yes, i know him. taught me to swim." "really! well, that's fine. he has the knack of teaching, and can tell you the tricks of the furlong if anyone can." the mcgill meet was only two weeks off, and frank began his training in earnest. twice a day he swam the furlong, first at a moderate gait and then quickening the stroke until he was traveling at good speed throughout the distance. burton came up from new york and spent a portion of two days with him, and, before the coaching was over, frank had the satisfaction of beating out his old teacher of the crawl stroke. "you're too good for me now," gasped burton as he pulled himself out of the water at the end of the race. "i'll have to leave you to the tender mercies of hopkins himself." the night of the meet finally came around, and the building was all too small to hold the hundreds who crowded to the pool doors. every seat was sold long in advance and standing room was crowded almost to suffocation. the attraction was, of course, hopkins, who had been taking the measure of every swimmer at his distance that he had met, and who was heralded as the greatest swimmer in the world over the furlong distance. after wilson had won the hundred and hobbs had lost the fifty-yard contest, hopkins sauntered carelessly from the dressing room, clad in a black silk racing suit. he proved to be a tall and powerful young man, heavily muscled. alongside of him, as the two stood perched on the pool end, frank looked very slender, but there was a suggestion of concealed strength in the latter's well-rounded limbs and of vitality and staying power in the deep chest. "two-twenty yards even!" sang out the referee. "eight lengths and sixty feet. hopkins, the olympic champion on the left for mcgill; armstrong on the right for yale. ready! get set! go!" at the word, both bodies shot through the air and hit the water like one. the champion used a long, rather slow but powerful trudgeon which was peculiarly mixed with the crawl in the leg action; armstrong used a quicker crawl, in which the legs were scarcely bent at the knee, but were thrashed rapidly in a very narrow angle. the crowd expected the champion to pull away at once, but when the two turned at the far end of the pool, they turned at exactly the same instant. down to the starting point the swimmers came, moving with great speed, but still the yale man stayed with his big opponent with grim determination, and even finished the fifty a fraction of a second in advance of his canadian opponent, shooting away on the second fifty still in the lead. twice more the swimmers covered the length of the tank without relative change in position. and now the crowd, with nearly half the race over, seeing that their representative was holding his own, rose to their feet and delivered a wild yell which echoed among the high girders of the place, and from that time they did not cease to yell at the game fight waged in the water below them. at the one hundred and fifty-yard mark, armstrong, putting on a burst of speed, led his great rival by five or six feet. hopkins, who had never changed his steady drive for a moment, now quickened his thresh perceptibly, and in another length of the tank had almost overhauled the yale man who was kicking along with every pound of energy in his body. armstrong still led, but as they approached the two hundred-yard mark, there was less than a yard separating them. "armstrong! armstrong! armstrong!" yelled the crowd. but the boy who was causing all the excitement was not conscious of anything but a dull roaring in his head. the noise of the cheering came to him faintly, much more faintly than the splash, splash of hopkins's arms just behind him, and, even as he looked out of the corner of a water-filled eye, the relentless canadian drew up nearer and still nearer. "sixty feet to go!" frank heard in a dull sort of way the official's voice. could he do it, that impossible distance? his throat was parched and his chest seemed bursting with the strain of the pumping heart. could he live for sixty feet more? it was a thousand miles. summoning every last ounce of will pressure, he drove ahead blindly, following mechanically the swimming lines on the pool bottom with no help from smarting eyes. somewhere near was hopkins, he could feel the swirl of water from his powerful arm drives, but whether hopkins was ahead or behind he could not tell. his arms were like lead, his legs paralyzed. a great weariness settled upon him, a great and compelling burden which benumbed all the faculties of brain and body. about fifteen minutes later frank found himself lying on a couch in the room of the 'varsity swimming team, with several anxious faces looking down at him, among them that of hopkins. "what's the matter?" he asked in a bewildered way. "nothing, 'cepting you drowned yourself," said captain wilson, "dead as a door nail." "did i finish?" he asked very weakly. "you certainly did, you finished the race and yourself at the same time. two of us had to go to the bottom for you," said the captain. "you sank like a stone." "that's where i went to sleep, then?" "i guess so, you had us scared, i tell you." "you gave me a great race, armstrong," said hopkins, "one of the hardest i ever had. it wasn't record time, but it was as fast as the two-twenty is generally done. i only won by a few inches, and mighty lucky to get it at that," admitted the canadian generously. "if i made you work, i'm satisfied," said frank weakly. "i hadn't a ghost of a chance to win, but i set out to make you work for your victory." "and you did," returned hopkins laughing. chapter xvii. the southern trip. "congratulations to our noble little pitcher," cried the codfish. "i see you are drafted for honors on the southern trip." it was mid-march and the baseball work in the cage was over. the 'varsity nine had been at work on the open field for nearly a week, and frank armstrong as well as jimmy turner were members of the squad. frank had shown possibilities as a pitcher, while turner was considered a substitute catcher in second or third place. the occasion for gleason's congratulations was the announcement in the _news_ that not only turner but armstrong as well was among those selected to make the trip always taken to the south by the 'varsity nine for practice at the time of the easter vacation. frank quinton, a new graduate coach, who had taken charge of the baseball situation, had been attracted by armstrong's earnestness and his peculiar ability to put the ball over the plate, and had undertaken with some success to teach him the art of curving the ball and at the same time retaining his control. under the new coach's guidance the pitcher had done particularly well, and it was no surprise to anyone that he was included among the twenty players who were slated to make the trip. his chief competitors were gilbert, a junior, and martin, a senior, both more experienced in the box, but neither of first class quality. appleton, the pitcher of the 'varsity the year before, had graduated, and on these three named the hopes of the yale team centered. "and is our old friend, the trouble maker, coming along with us?" inquired turner. "bettcher life," returned the codfish. "things might run too smoothly if i stayed at home." "you certainly can be depended upon to add a little dash of pepper wherever you are," said frank laughing. "you have no cause to complain, old fel," retorted gleason. "if i hadn't got you two thousand feet in the air last summer you could never have won your broad-jump, nor have had the chance to have your picture printed in the papers with the story of your sweet young life." "perhaps all that excitement did help," said frank, "but in the future we will take no more chances in an airship." "i'll promise you that much anyway," returned the codfish, "but just the same i think a good deal of credit is due to your humble servant for that victory last july. of course, i don't expect any credit for it from the unthinking public or my selfish roommates, but i have my own congratulations anyway." "and that's a lot," laughed frank. "do you go down with the team?" "yes, all arranged, tickets, pullman, boat, everything. i'm one of that noble band of 'heelers' who brave everything to be a supporter and lend a yell in the hostile country when most needed." "bully for you, codfish," cried turner. "we may need you, but leave your automobile at home." the itinerary of the southern trip included washington, where the tour opened with a game with georgetown; charlottesville, va.; richmond and norfolk. at the latter place three games were to be played, then was to follow a boat trip up the chesapeake bay to washington, where a second game was to be played with georgetown. everyone was looking forward to the delights of warm sun and spring breezes in the land of flowers, for the march winds on yale field had been anything but conducive to good ball playing. but spring was reluctant even in the south, and warm days were few and far between. yale lost the first game with georgetown with martin in the box, and fared no better with the university of virginia nine when gilbert, who was supposed to be the most effective of the yale staff of pitchers, went down before the fusillade of hits. "you will start the game with the norfolk league team to-morrow," said coach quinton to armstrong as the players were leaving the dinner table at the hotel in norfolk. "this will be one of the best games of the trip and i want to win it." "all right, sir," returned frank. "i'll do my best." frank won his game, but at heavy expense. for five innings he pitched great ball and kept the league hitters to two runs, while the yale team, finding themselves, batted out seven runs by clean hitting and fast base-running. then in the sixth frank began to slow up and the norfolk batters reached his delivery frequently, but runs were cut off by superb playing of the yale infield. every ball he pitched sent a sting through his muscles with a pain almost unbearable, but he kept on to the end of the inning. "what's the matter with you?" inquired the coach as he came to the bench. "is your arm bothering you?" "yes, something seems to be wrong with it. hurts like thunder." quinton knew only too well the symptoms. armstrong had "thrown his arm out," a not uncommon thing in early spring baseball. his muscles, not sufficiently worked out, had been injured in the delivery of the speed ball he had been pitching. martin finished the game and held it safely, but frank pitched no more that trip nor during the season for the 'varsity. for a time after returning to new haven he was worked in the outfield, but even there was at a disadvantage because he could not shoot the ball on a long throw from the outfield. so he was displaced by a weaker hitter, and shortly after went over to the track squad where he was received with open arms by the trainer, who foresaw a certainty of added points in the coming track meets. and he was not disappointed, for frank, now out of baseball because of his accident, gave his entire time to the perfection of the broad jump, and won first place at the harvard and princeton dual meets. he took second place to the great moffatt who made the trip across the continent from the university of california, and set a mark at twenty-three feet nine inches, which even frank's unusual skill failed to equal, although on three different trials he had improved on his jump at the queen's club in london. armstrong was now rated as one of the best jumpers in any of the colleges. but his ambitions in the direction of baseball and football had failed to materialize through accidents of one sort or another. he was the kind of a boy, however, who was willing to do as well as it was possible the thing that was available without repining about the things impossible. during the stay at norfolk the codfish sustained his reputation as a friend of trouble. on the way down from washington he had scraped acquaintance with a classmate named chalmers, who had some acquaintances in norfolk. the party was hardly established at the hotel when gleason hunted up his friend chalmers and suggested that they take a ride in one of the snappy looking motor cars that stood in front of the hotel for hire. chalmers pleaded poverty. "only four dollars an hour," said gleason, "and we can look all over the town. bully old place, all wistaria and pretty girls and happy darkies. come on, don't be a tight wad!" "four dollars an hour would break me. at that price i could ride about ten minutes. let's walk," suggested chalmers. "oh, come on, let's show these southerners some speed. i have fifteen dollars in my inside pocket. there's a perfectly ripping blue car out front with a darky all fussed up to beat the band. it looks like a private rig and all that. one hour will do the trick, and i'll foot the bill." that argument moved chalmers, whose finances were low. together the boys located the blue motor car with its snappy driver, immediately after lunch, and tumbled into the tonneau. "where do you-all want to go?" inquired the driver. "oh, just show us around," said the codfish, with a wave of the hand. "show us all the flossy streets and the monuments, but i warn you now i don't climb any of them. fire away." thus admonished, the driver headed his machine in the direction of ghent, threading the streets of the quaint old town while the boys lay back luxuriously on the cushions of the tonneau. "gee whiz," said chalmers, as the blue car rolled down boissevain avenue, "there's miss smith or i'm an injun." "where, who and what?" inquired the codfish, immediately alert. "just coming down the steps of that white house over there." "know her?" "sure. kid sister's roommate at school or something like that. been at our house once. promised sis i'd look her up, but didn't expect to have time." "gee, but she's a pippin," said the codfish, enthusiastically. "let's ask her to take a ride in our pretty blue car!" "and thereby kill two birds with one stone." "which two?" "keep my promise to sis and do a humane act. she lives miles from here i know. probably been calling." "poor thing, we ought out of common courtesy ask her to ride home. i hate to see so pretty a girl walking with nothing better than a dog for company. go ahead, be a gent; have a heart!" by this time the car had traveled a block or so beyond where they had passed miss smith, whose steps were bent in the opposite direction to that in which the boys were headed. chalmers was finally convinced by the persuasive codfish that the automobile should be offered to the young lady, and the driver was ordered to turn around. the pedestrian was soon overtaken, and, hat in hand, chalmers sprang from the car and intercepted the young lady. "miss smith, i believe?" he said, advancing with a grin. "oh, mr. chalmers, i'm so glad to see you. your sister wrote me you were coming down, but i never thought you would remember me." "how could i ever forget?" said chalmers, making his most elaborate, and what he considered fetching, bow. "this is my friend mr. gleason of yale." "so glad to meet mr. gleason," chirped the young lady. "and you-all are down with the yale team? isn't that too lovely?" neither of the boys could see just how it was "too lovely," but they took it for what it was worth. "will you permit us to drive you home?" said the codfish, waving his hand magnificently toward the blue motor car. "chalmers says you live miles from here." "oh, that would be too lovely," gurgled miss smith. "i just adore motoring, and it is such a nice day, too. i live only a mile from here, but it would be sweet to ride that far in your car." miss smith was escorted to the blue motor, and established in the middle of the rear seat while chalmers and gleason took seats on either side of her. the bull terrier, not nearly so much pleased with motoring as his mistress, spread himself over the floor and occasionally made frolicsome dashes at gleason's yale blue silk socks, a large expanse of which was showing. "get out, you little beast," cried gleason, alarmed for the welfare of his beautiful socks. "chew chalmers over there, he's much better chewing than i am." "o, don't mind him, mr. gleason, he just adores blue. i simply can't keep anything blue around the house. always eats it up." "well, he can't eat any of my blue stuff. he must be a harvard dog; quit it, fido," as the dog made another dash. a few minutes' drive brought them to miss smith's house. "o, i simply don't want to get out," she said. "then why do you?" queried the codfish. "it pains us to have you leave. we were just looking around, you know, and would like to have someone point out the sights of your gay and festive city." "that would be too lovely, and i'll be so glad if you'll take cousin mary." "cousin mary is on," said the codfish. "where does she live?" "o, just around the corner. she loves motoring, too, and we poor people down here can't have automobiles of our own." it was but a minute's trip to cousin mary's, and matters were facilitated by discovering the young lady in question standing in her doorway, hatted and gloved, with a camera in her hand. she was more than plump, she was decidedly fat and had red hair. the codfish decided he wasn't for cousin mary. introductions were quickly made and the call explained. cousin mary was willing to ride anywhere so long as it was in a motor. "now where shall we go?" inquired the codfish. "you tell us. this will be a personally conducted tour, you know." "o, it would be just too lovely to drive to virginia beach," gushed miss smith. chalmers, who knew something of the geography of the territory, winced and tried to catch his companion's eye, but that individual failed to see the warning glance, and ordered--"drive to virginia beach, james." "all right, sah," and the machine shot off for the beach. chalmers very generously took the seat alongside the driver, leaving the codfish with the girls in the tonneau, which was a disposition highly satisfactory to the latter. but he took care to put cousin mary on the far side of the seat. as mile after mile was spun off, and still the destination was not reached, the codfish began to wonder what the length of the drive might be, but his pride forbade him to ask. on and on went the car at an easy pace. they had been out nearly two hours from the hotel, and the codfish began to make mental calculations. "two hours, that makes eight dollars," he calculated, "another hour and a half back, that makes fourteen. that makes some little bill. i can readily see i'm busted already!" his conversation began to halt, but the lovely miss smith was concerned only in the beauties of the landscape which she pointed out to her companion on the seat, who was not so deeply interested as he might have been had things been different. at last the car drew up at the beach. "how far do you call it down here, james?" inquired the codfish, nonchalantly. he was still calculating. "i reckon about twenty-five miles," said the driver. "kaint make much time on these here roads." "yes, i noticed that," returned the codfish dryly. the young ladies were overjoyed to be at the beach. they walked on the sands and took photographs. "cousin mary just loves to take photographs," miss smith explained. then the girls discovered they had a call to make--would mr. chalmers and mr. gleason mind? a very dear girl friend whom they hadn't seen for a whole month was at the beach. would they come? no, then they would only be gone a few minutes. it was "too lovely" to have such a chance to call. so the boys were left behind to wait impatiently. the minutes passed and then more minutes. "and there's that blooming motor sitting there at four dollars an hour," growled the codfish. "three hours and fifteen minutes gone already. i'm bankrupt now and twenty-five miles to go back. i'll be entirely insolvent by the time we turn up in norfolk." fifty minutes more passed and miss smith and cousin mary reappeared on the scene only to exhaust another reel of films photographing the car, the pavilion, a decrepit boat drawn up on the sands, and several sea views. "cousin mary is so artistic," explained miss smith. "you ought to see some of her sea views, they are just too sweet." "i've enough sea views to last me the rest of my natural life," muttered the codfish under his breath. "i'm not much for sea views at four dollars an hour." when everything necessary and unnecessary that the girls could think of had been done, the motor was turned in the direction of norfolk, and set off at, a leisurely pace much to the disgust of the codfish. the longer the driver took to cover the distance, the more money he made. time was money to him with a vengeance. on the outskirts of norfolk, and just as dusk was beginning to settle, the rear shoe gave way with a loud explosion. "how long?" inquired the codfish, laconically. "i reckon 'bout twenty minutes," replied the driver, at which miss smith set up a remonstrance. "we must be home. mother will think something dreadful has happened. the trolley is only a few blocks from here. we can't wait that long for him to fix the old tire." "all right, then," said the codfish. "we'll all go, and james, you see us at the hotel after you get fixed up again." he was glad of the opportunity to have the automobile white elephant off his hands, and saw a chance of getting to the hotel and preserving his dignity before the girls. he could get the money he needed as soon as he got back. but his luck was against him in the shape of the darky driver who was both obstinate and suspicious. "kaint do dat, sah," the driver protested, "last time i do dat, i done get stung. we done been out five hours and a half, dat makes twenty-two dollars, not countin' little something you gwine to give james." "o, mr. gleason," cried miss smith. "i thought it was your own car." there was a note of reproach in her voice, and the speaker tossed her head. a ride in a hired car didn't seem so luxurious as in a private one. a hasty conference between the two boys resulted in the pooling of all their cash in hand, which amounted to just $ . . this amount the codfish offered the driver, who refused it and loudly argued for his rights before a gathering crowd. he would not let his passengers out of his sight, so it was finally arranged that chalmers should see the young ladies home while he, the codfish, held as a hostage, hung around for another half hour while the shoe was replaced. he reached the hotel late for dinner, where he borrowed sufficient money to pay the driver. of course, the story got out, and the two participants never heard the last of it. it was even resurrected in the class day histories at the end of senior year. chapter xviii. football in junior year. after college closed frank armstrong and jimmy turner joined a party of engineers and their assistants, whose work it was to survey a new railroad through the heart of new brunswick, one of the maritime provinces of canada, and for two months they enjoyed the life of veritable savages in the open air. following the pointing finger of the compass they burrowed through the tangled forests, sleeping sometimes rolled in blankets with a bunch of fragrant hemlock boughs for a pillow, and, only when the weather was bad, under the protecting service tents, several of which had been brought along for bad weather. many nights, however, the tents were never set up at all, and the whole party of young men slept with only the stars for their roof. frank made himself invaluable at river crossings, of which there were many, for bridges were few and far between. it was his duty to swim the barring river with the engineers' "chains" which he did with such success that he was nicknamed "the torpedo." later he was followed by other members of the party on homemade catamarans. the life agreed with both the boys, and when the party finished its work and took train at the little station of harcourt on the intercolonial railroad, with clothing ragged from the rough caress of the tangled woods and shoes guiltless of blacking, they might well have been mistaken for young lumbermen instead of college students. ten days later they were in football clothes on yale field, obeying the call for early fall practice before college opened. frank had put on ten pounds during the summer, and for the first time felt himself strong enough to withstand the punishing work of the game. he was hard as nails, in perfect condition and eager for any work the coach might set him at. again he was placed at end in practice by coach hanley, and made such good progress that in the middle of the first game he was called in to play the position, where he acquitted himself with such credit that he earned a word of praise from captain baldwin. through the long, hard grueling work of the fall he fought for his place, alternating between the 'varsity and the second eleven, learning something every day under the tuition of this or that coach for the purpose of helping yale turn out a winning team. turner was firmly established at right halfback, and gave promise of becoming a great player. his irresistible smashes earned many yards for yale in the minor games of the season, and it was a common prediction that he would be first choice for the place in the championship games. he succeeded not by any great speed but by his instinct for the opening his linemen made and his almost uncanny ability to keep his feet and burrow for a gain through the worst tangle of human bodies. it was turner who was always given the ball down near the goal line to carry it across, and he rarely failed to accomplish his end. the uncertainty regarding who was to play right end was banished in the brown game which preceded the princeton game by one week. the game was a hard one, and neither side could score a touchdown. frank was called in at right end to replace saunders, and on the second line-up took a well delivered forward pass and scored with practically a free field. twice again before the game was over he proved his ability in this particular play. his baseball helped him in the handling of the football, and his speed and elusiveness in an open field added to his chances. it was therefore no surprise to anyone in the college when he was slated to go in the first line-up against princeton. "i'm putting you in, armstrong," said coach hanley, "in spite of the fact that saunders has had more experience. in other words, i'm taking a chance with you. don't fall down. this princeton team has a strong line and we've got to fox them with the forward pass. keep cool, and use your head all the time." the instructions sounded easy enough, but when frank took his place at right end on the day of the game, under the eyes of thirty thousand people, to say that he was nervous expressed only a small part of his feelings. while the big yale center placed the ball at midfield for the kick-off he lived, like other high-strung players before him, what seemed a whole year of his lifetime. he was almost overcome by the sudden fear that he might not be able to do what was expected of him, and the barking cheers from the yale side of the field added to his nervousness instead of encouraging him. twice biddle, the center, placed the ball, and twice the stiff breeze topped it over. frank's heart was pounding, and he felt weak and ineffective, but at the shrill scream of the whistle, and as the ball rose in the air and soared off in the direction of princeton's goal, his mind cleared like a flash. he regained his grip on himself, and sped off down the field like the wind, feeling a moment later the grim joy of shock and strain as his arms closed around the legs of the man with the ball, who came sweeping up the field, behind what seemed like a wall of interference. how he reached the runner, he never knew, but the fact that he had reached him seemed to give him the strength of ten men. twice the princeton backs were shot at his end. once he got the runner, and the second time he spilled the interference, leaving turner to take the man with the ball, which he did with a jolting tackle that jarred the princeton man's very being. up and down the field surged the tide of battle, while the stands under the urging of the cheer-leaders gave out on the one side or the other an almost steady roar of cheers. in spite of their volume they seemed strangely far away to the players whose energies were engaged entirely with the matter in hand. once the new right end was drawn in, and a princeton back slipped around him for fifteen yards. the sharp reprimand from the captain was not necessary for he was raging at himself, savage at being tricked. a moment later he was tricked again: the back made a feint at the end, went inside him and was stopped by turner. "that's the place," yelled a princeton coach, "put it there again!" it looked like a weak place indeed, and the princeton quarter, after making his distance on the other side of the line, again shot his catapult at right end. this time frank went through the interference, and tackled so viciously that there were hisses from a few in the princeton stand. he was fighting mad, crazy to hurt and to be hurt. again and again he hurled himself blindly against the princeton onrush only to be borne backwards. suddenly he realized what the matter was. the coach's words came to him: "keep cool, play your game and keep your head working." it was like a dash of cold water, and he was immediately cool. he had a grip on himself in a moment, and he now smiled back into the mocking eyes of his opposing end where a moment before he had glared in hate. he had obtained the mastery over himself. again the play swung around to his end, but this time he met it coolly and deliberately, and checked it without the gain of a foot, while the yale stand announced its approval with a mighty and spontaneous shout. time after time the princeton attack at the right end was met and turned back, and saunders, who had been told to get ready to replace armstrong, sat down again at the motion of coach hanley, and wrapped his blankets around his shoulders. this much frank saw out of the corner of his eye, and a thrill of satisfaction went through him. he had learned his lesson and was making good. it is not our intention to tell the story of frank's baptism of fire, nor how the two evenly matched teams battled to a tie at the end of four desperately fought periods. frank played through three of these periods, and although he played well and did all of his duty, he never had a clear chance at a forward pass. the ball was thrown either too far or not far enough on the half dozen tries at the pass, or the attempt to throw was spoiled by the eager princeton forwards who crowded through the line. at the end of the third quarter he was taken out weak and staggering from his exertions, and saunders went in. but the coach's "all right, armstrong," was music to his ears as he came over to the side-line to be immediately wrapped in a big blanket by the trainer. that night, while the team was dressing in the gymnasium, the coaches gave the men the benefit of some advice. "you fellows forgot most of the time," said hanley, "that you were a team. you were playing every man for himself. you should have licked that princeton team, and the only reason you didn't was that you were not a yale team. we don't want brilliant individual stuff. one must help the other. if you get together before next saturday we can beat harvard. if you play as you did to-day, harvard will lick you out of your boots, because she has a great team and it is together. you are just as good, but you are not together." it was straight talk, and it sank deep. monday was a day of rest at the field, but on tuesday the final preparation for harvard began. behind locked gates under the urgings of the half a score of coaches who had hurried to new haven, the previous practice and even the princeton game were like child's play. armstrong was at right end, a position which he had fairly won, but saunders on the second eleven fought tooth and nail to displace him. it seemed to frank that the second eleven coaches had a particular grudge at his end, for he was called upon to stop more than his share of attacks. but he was able to do what was expected of him, backed up as he was by the sturdy and omnipresent turner who withstood everything with a never-failing energy. wednesday's practice, fiercer than the day before, if that could be, found frank armstrong still in possession of his place at right end, but it was with a sigh of relief that he heard the welcome "that's all," of coach hanley. he watched with interest the usual celebration of the second eleven which marks the end of the year's practice. on thursday the 'varsity, with substitutes, a score of coaches and heelers, took the afternoon train to the north, and were quartered at a hotel just outside of cambridge. a brief signal practice was held in the towering stadium on soldiers field friday, where the last instructions were given to the men. it would be too much to say, and not the truth, that the night was a peaceful one for most of the yale eleven. turner and armstrong were quartered in separate beds in the same room. the former slept like a log, apparently free from all thoughts of the morrow. frank, on the other hand, tossed and turned, got up in the night and sat at the window while his companion snored contentedly. in the early hours of the morning he finally dropped into a sleep which was disturbed by dreams of the harvard runners slipping past just beyond his reach. how he got through the morning he never knew, but he did get through somehow, and finally found himself dressed for the fray and in the big 'bus with the rest of the eleven, headed for the stadium. "there go the yaleses!" sang out an urchin. "dey won't look so nice as dat when de harvards get through wit' dem," shouted his companion. occasionally the 'bus passed yale sympathizers, and then it got a cheer or: "go to it, yale, you're the boys who can do it!" from every direction throngs of people were heading toward the great concrete structure whose huge gray bulk seemed to fill the horizon. already thousands swarmed in its arches, and even at this hour little black specks of human beings were seen outlined on its upper heights against the sky. progress became slower as the 'bus neared the field, and it finally took the combined efforts of a squad of police to break the crowd sufficiently to let the yale players through to the locker building within the shadow of the stadium walls. the game was to be started at two o'clock, and at a quarter of that hour it would have been difficult to find a vacant place in all those towering tiers. yale occupied the south and harvard the north side of the field. the cheer-leaders were tuning up, as it were. back and forth across the field were flung songs and cheers, and in this lull before the battle each applauded the other's efforts. five minutes before the hour the harvard captain, with his red-jerseyed and red-stockinged warriors at his heels, dashed through the gate at the northwest corner of the field. a great wave of crimson seemed to sweep the harvard stand from end to end as the thirty thousand harvard sympathizers rose to their feet, waving flags and red bandannas. a crackling cheer like musketry rolled across the field. while the harvard cheer-leaders called for a cheer for the team, the yale stand sat motionless. a minute later, however, it sprang into life as captain baldwin led his men onto the field through the same gate at a loping run. the yale crowd was smaller, but what a noise it did make! after a few minutes of signal practice, the two captains with the officials met at the center of the field and tossed for choice of sides. the coin which was flipped in the air by the referee fell heads, which was the side captain randall of harvard, had called, and he indicated with a sweep of his hand that he would take the west end of the field. what little wind was then blowing at his back was the only advantage he had. both elevens quickly dropped into their places, the whistle shrilled and the game was on. that was a game which went down in history as one of the fiercest and hardest ever played between the two old rivals. it was clean and free from bad feeling which sometimes marks close games, but intense from the first line-up to the last. harvard, after receiving the ball on the kick-off, cut loose a smashing attack through the line, reeling off the yards with terrible, tremendous force, a force that yale did not seem to be able to meet successfully. down over the white lines went the harvard machine, plays timed to perfection and gaining wherever they struck, not much, but enough in three tries to carry them the necessary yards for a first down. a perfect roar of cheers boiled up from the harvard side of the field while yale seemed paralyzed. only after the ball had been pushed well into yale territory did her cheer-leaders begin to get something like a cheer of volume. but yale was learning, and before harvard had progressed to the danger zone the advance was stopped, and yale took the ball, an act that was approved by a mighty cheer. turner bored through for eight yards on the first play, and followed it up with enough to make a first down, but there the advance stopped. porter, the yale fullback, who was doing the punting, was hurried by the rush of the harvard forwards, and his kick almost blocked. it traveled diagonally across the field for a bare fifteen-yards gain, and was harvard's ball. "now stop 'em right here! take it away," commanded captain baldwin. "you can do it!" but harvard was not to be stopped just then. playing like red demons, they fought their way foot by foot into yale's territory, and threatened the yale goal. turner and armstrong were on the bottom of every heap when the play came at their side, but the best they could do was to keep the gains down. they could not entirely stop them. but the gallant yale line rallied less than ten yards from their goal, and again checked the crimson attack. so determined were the harvard team to make a touchdown that they scorned to try a field goal, and depended on a forward pass to make the necessary distance. armstrong, alert for just such a move, intercepted the ball and again it was yale's. yale's rushing attack was stopped short and porter was sent back to punt. "block it! block it! block it!" yelled the harvard partisans but although the red line tried desperately to do this, porter succeeded in getting his kick off, but the ball went high, was held back by the wind which at that moment was blowing a stiff breeze, and it dropped into the harvard quarter's hands a bare twenty yards back of his line of scrimmage. a groan went up from the yale hosts as harvard, for the third time, took up the march down the field. chapter xix. the harvard-yale game. yale's defense stiffened and made her opponent's going become harder. with five yards to go for a first down, the harvard quarter and his right end executed a neat forward pass which put the ball on yale's twelve-yard line directly opposite the posts, and one smash at right tackle put it three yards nearer the goal line. "touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" begged the harvard stand. "hold 'em, hold 'em, hold 'em!" pleaded yale, but the pleading was of no avail, for that splendid harvard team, working like a well-oiled piece of machinery, drove on and over their opponents till the ball lay only three yards away from the goal. a touchdown seemed inevitable. captain baldwin drew his men together in a little group and exhorted them to such good purpose that the next charge was stopped dead in its tracks. again the lines faced each other, again came the crash of body meeting body. the harvard back with the ball tucked under his arm shot off to the left, slipped inside his own tackle and was clear of the first line of defense. but as he straightened up from his running crouching position, turner met him with a bull-like rush, picked him clear off his feet and threw him with such violence that the ball flew from his grasp and bounced crazily along the ground in the direction of the goal. man after man took a diving shot at it as it rolled until the turf was covered with sprawling figures. finally the ball disappeared beneath a mass of bodies which the referee slowly dug apart and found--frank armstrong wrapped around the ball in a loving embrace! "yale's ball," was the silent announcement of the scoreboard, but never was an announcement before or since greeted with such a yell. from that moment the tide of battle turned. porter got off a long, low twisting punt which caught the harvard backfield man napping. he made a desperate effort to reach it, but although he got his hands on the ball he could not hold it, and was swept away by a blue avalanche. when the smoke cleared away, captain baldwin was lying on the ball on harvard's forty-yard line. before the teams could line up again, the whistle blew to end the quarter and the teams changed ends of the field. three minutes later the game was on again, this time with yale the aggressor and harvard on the defensive. conditions of the first quarter were reversed and now it was yale, the team fighting like one man, who was pushing her opponents steadily down the field. held at the thirty-yard line with three yards to go for a first down, the yale quarter sent a pretty forward pass to armstrong who made a beautiful catch and was not downed till he was run out of bounds at the fifteen-yard line. pandemonium reigned among the yale hosts, and the cheer-leaders tried vainly to get a unison cheer. the crowd would not look but kept their eyes glued on the play. now it was yale's turn to call for a touchdown, and the tiered thousands did it right lustily, but unfortunately, for their hopes, a bad pass on the next play lost five yards and turner was stopped on the next attempt. "armstrong back!" cried the quarter. frank left his place at end and took up his position fifteen yards back of the line of scrimmage, measuring carefully the distance to the goal posts, thirty-five yards away, while the crowd waited in breathless silence. the lines crouched tense and ready. the ball shot back from biddle on a long pass to frank but it came so low that he had almost to pick it from the ground. quick as a flash he straightened up, dropped the ball to the ground, and drove his toe against it as it rose again. away it spun on its course, while the eyes of forty thousand people strained after its flight. but luck was against yale that day. the ball, traveling straight and true, had not been given quite enough power. it struck the cross-bar, bounced high in the air and fell back into the playing field where a harvard back pounced upon it. harvard punted on the kick-out over forty-five yards and after several exchanges without result, the half ended and the tired players tramped slowly off to the locker house to be told by the coaches why they had not done their work just right. fifteen minutes later the game was on again, but not with its first fierceness. no human beings could continue the pace set in that first half, and the play settled into a punting duel between porter and his opponent, with neither team able to gain much by straight rushing. both tried forward passes but with a few exceptions they failed for one reason or another. the quarter passed without either team threatening the other's goal, and predictions were beginning to be made that barring accidents the game would be a tie. five minutes after the fourth period began, a fumbled punt by the yale quarter and a recovery by an alert harvard end shifted the battle with jarring suddenness into yale territory, with yale on the defensive. again the harvard machine began to work with its first smoothness and down, down they drove the ball in spite of a desperate defense. held at the ten-yard line, the harvard quarter, who in the early season had been heralded as a great drop-kicker but who had shown nothing of his ability in late games, dropped back ten or twelve yards behind his line and put the ball between the posts with neatness and dispatch. when the tumult, which the field goal had brought to pass in the harvard stands, quieted down again yale set out to win back the points lost. but it seemed like a hopeless task, for harvard, with victory in sight met every effort, and stopped it. time was flying, and many of the harvard people, feeling assured of harvard's victory, were filing out of the stands. yale supporters stayed on, hoping against hope, for only five minutes were left to play. suddenly the yale quarter changed his tactics. catching the harvard backs in a favorable position for the play, he snapped a forward pass to armstrong who caught it and made the middle of the field on a dodging run, where he was brought down from behind. the gain brought hope back to drooping yale spirits, and a cheer rattled across the field. immediately on the heels of this successful pass, which drew out the harvard defense, he sent turner into the line and added another eight yards. the tide of harvard departure was suddenly checked by this hostile demonstration, and seeing that the defense did not close up, the heady little quarter tried turner again with such effect that it was a first down. the yale stands were cheering like mad, at this unlooked-for burst of speed when the team was supposed to be beaten. the captain himself, with turner clearing the way, lunged forward five yards and added two more a moment later. again the harvard defense crept in and the yale quarter, seeing his opportunity, drove another forward pass to armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind. he sidestepped the tackle by the opposing end, ran obliquely toward the side-line, stopped and let the rush of tacklers pass him, slipped out of what seemed an impossible position, and with a clear field, with the exception of one man, cut straight for the goal line with friend and foe thundering behind. straight at the tackler, who waited with outstretched arms, he ran. the muscles, which had been crying for rest a moment before, were now like steel. now he was within two steps of the harvard back. he appeared to be running straight to certain disaster, but as the harvard tackler lunged forward, frank swung his body to one side, brought his forearm down with all his force on the outstretched arm nearest him, and was past. the momentary check, however, brought a fleet harvard end up to him, who, unwilling to take a chance at the yale man's flying legs, sprang full upon his back. the force carried frank off his feet, staggering headlong. even with the burden on his back he managed to fall head-first toward the goal line, where he was instantly pinned to the ground by two tacklers with such force that he lay stunned. he required the services of the trainer with sponge and water bottle before the play could be resumed. the ball lay exactly ten yards from the goal and in the face of the known defensive strength of harvard, it seemed an impossible task to put it over from there. captain baldwin took the ball two yards on the first try and then the red-headed turner, like a maddened bull, drove through for four yards in a whirling mass of red and blue-legged players. again turner was called upon and when the pile untangled, he had laid the ball within two yards of the coveted white line which to cross meant glorious victory. captain baldwin drew his men back for a conference while the stands stopped their cheering long enough to speculate whether he would attempt a goal from the field or risk defeat on an attempt to carry the ball across for a touchdown. doubts were soon set at rest for the yale team sprang back into regular formation and crouched for the signal. you might have heard a pin drop in that vast crowd, so still they were as the two lines crouched, with swaying arms and tense bodies. snappily came the signal, sounding high, clear and shrill in that amazing quiet, followed by the crash of meeting lines. turner with his head down between his mighty shoulders, drove like a catapult into the struggling mass on the heels of his captain. there was a moment of squirming and grinding, then the whole mass fell in a sort of pyramid which refused to untangle itself even at the orders of the referee, and he was obliged to pull and dig to get at the bottom. and what he found at the bottom was turner, bruised and bleeding, but joyfully happy with the ball hugged to his breast and across the goal line by four inches! it was of no account that the kick-out (for the touchdown had been made well toward the corner of the field) was bungled. yale had scored a touchdown and the lead. two minutes afterward the whistle ended the game, and the wildest sort of celebration began. every member of the yale team was seized, protesting, and carried by the half-crazed students in a whirling march around the field. hats were thrown over the goal posts by the hundreds, the owners entirely indifferent as to whether they ever got their headgear back again. many students went back to new haven that night minus their hats, but little did it matter as yale had won a glorious battle in the face of what seemed certain defeat. and the names of turner and armstrong were on every tongue. that night turner was elected captain and frank cast his vote for his old friend although he himself had been nominated as a candidate. chapter xx. how all things came out at last. when the spring of junior year came around, frank armstrong enrolled himself in the baseball squad. the rest of nearly a year had apparently completely cured his arm, and he became at once one of the leading candidates for pitcher. coach quinton had engaged the services of a professional pitcher from one of the big leagues for the early practice, and from this man frank learned much about the art of pitching. quinton was careful, however, not to work him in cold weather, fearing a return of the trouble in his pitching arm. the result of this careful handling was that he rounded into form in mid-season, and was the mainstay of the nine in the box. turner was the receiving end of the battery, and together they became the terror of opposing nines. at the end of a season which was only partly successful, with a victory from princeton and a defeat by harvard, the latter caused by yale's inability to hit the ball with men on bases, frank armstrong was unanimously elected captain for senior year. "i think the way you two fellows are hogging the ys and captaincies around here is disgraceful," complained the codfish one night. "armstrong ought to be ashamed. turner is bad enough with football and baseball, but armstrong is nothing short of a y trust, with three different kinds of them. why aren't you modest like i am?" frank laughed. "some are born ys," paraphrased the codfish, "some achieve ys and some have ys thrust upon them." "you ought to be put out for that," said frank. "but i say, how would you like to score for us next year?" "to cover up your errors, eh?" "no, just to keep you quiet." "in that case, i'm on, but you need look for no favors in the scoring from me. i'm an impartial gink. no friends when i'm on the job. do i get a southern trip?" "sure, you do. but you must keep away from hired automobiles." "forget it," said the codfish, who didn't like to be reminded of the norfolk experience. frank and jimmy spent their summer together at seawall, and renewed old acquaintances. many hours the two boys spent together going over plans for their teams, while with swimming and rowing they kept themselves in the pink of physical condition. "my ambition is to win both the princeton and harvard series," frank said one evening as they sat on the veranda of the armstrong cottage, their eyes wandering over the bay with its twinkling lights. "and that's the reason i'm going to ask you to let me out of football work this fall." "i don't like it at all, frank," returned the football captain. "i need you. you've had the experience and i, too, have ambitions." "yes, but look at that bunch of freshman material from last year's freshman eleven. it would make a whole 'varsity team in itself--squires, thompson, williams, weatherly and the rest. great scott, i wouldn't be in it with that bunch. you know you don't need me. i've got a lot of material to whip into shape, and with both of us out of the nine, quinton wouldn't be pleased. but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll go out and work with my own team, and if you have to have me, i'll go over and take my medicine. but if you don't need me, then i'll keep on with my own work." that was the arrangement the captains made between themselves, and although it was something of a sacrifice, captain turner, fortunately well supplied with end material, went through his season with flying colors, ending with two glorious victories over yale's dearest foes, and writing his name, in the doing of it, large on yale's page of football history. when the spring of senior year rolled around, it found frank making progress with the team he hoped would be called a championship nine. the easter trip was an unqualified success, with only one defeat recorded, and that by the norfolk leaguers. all the college games were won handily, and the nine returned to new haven with a prestige for clever all-around play. through the season of preliminary home games, the nine acquitted itself well. besides himself, captain armstrong had two pitchers, a man named read and of only ordinary ability, and another, whittaker, a big, raw-boned westerner, who was a tower of strength in the box. on the latter frank depended as his substitute in the championship series with princeton and harvard, for the games, owing to a combination of circumstances, ran so closely together that no one man could possibly pitch them all. four days before the first championship game, evidence was handed to the captain which made him doubt the amateur standing of whittaker. the testimony was that whittaker had played professional ball in a western town. the captain and coach called the pitcher over to the former's room for an explanation. the westerner admitted at once that he had pitched ball for money for three seasons before coming to yale, but since he had used the money to defray his expenses it was not plain to him that he was not eligible. "i'm mighty sorry," said frank, "but you can't pitch any more for yale. in any interpretation of the rules you are a professional, and not eligible for an amateur nine." "yes, but no one knows it at princeton or harvard, do they?" "true, but that makes no difference. i say again, 'i'm mighty sorry but you can't pitch for yale,'" and while he said it, his heart sank for he well knew that read would never be able to stem the tide of a championship match, and besides read there was no one but himself. to make matters worse he had recently felt a twinge in his pitching arm when delivering certain curves. it might be a recurrence of the old trouble! "that about settles us," said frank after whittaker had taken his departure, a sentiment which was echoed by the college men when it became known that whittaker was ineligible. "we'll pitch read in the first princeton game and take a chance," was quinton's advice. "it will be the second game that's the teaser." fortune favored captain armstrong, for princeton very kindly played away off-form, and allowed yale to get such a lead in the early part of the game that even though read began to weaken toward the end and was hit hard, yale kept her lead without difficulty. captain armstrong played in right field, and was ready to go in at a moment's notice, but fortunately there was no need for it. read, the second string man, had come through with credit, but the princeton batters had given sufficient evidence in the last inning or two what would be likely to happen to him if he faced them again. "it seems to be up to you, captain," said quinton, "to clean this up at princeton next saturday. if you do, our chances are better for the harvard series, for there will be a little time for rest. if you don't win, then there has to be a tie in new york, and that runs us right on top of the first harvard game in cambridge." "i've been thinking it over," said frank, "and you're dead right. that game at princeton must be taken, and i'm going to take it if i can. you put that down in the book." the college, well knowing the state of the pitching staff, but with great confidence in the hard-hitting and fast-fielding team and its captain, backed it loyally, and sent a thousand men to princeton to cheer. the game was an exciting one from start to finish, with a great deal of hitting on both sides. captain armstrong, who was in the box, pitched wonderful ball throughout, and kept hits well scattered. but it was noticed that he used very little but a straight ball, his effectiveness being due to a continual change of pace which baffled the princeton batters. now and then in a critical moment, he put over a curve, but curves were the exception. coach quinton watching narrowly from the bench, knew the significance of the captain's action. it was the old trouble. every man played his position like a veteran that day, and in spite of the strange ground and the boundless enthusiasm of the princeton thousands back for commencement celebration, frank, before the sun went down, had accomplished half, at least, of his dearest ambition, a double championship for yale, by beating princeton with a margin of two runs. the night before the team left for cambridge to play the first game of the harvard series, there was a long conference in the captain's room as to the best way of disposing of yale's forces. "i want to pitch read in that first game," said frank. "the chances are against us there anyway, and it would be better, i think, to let my arm rest for the second game in new haven." "you might start the game," suggested coach quinton, "or be ready to jump in if read shows signs of blowing up, but it will depend on how you feel that day." "i know how i'll feel," frank replied, "and i know how this old wing of mine feels now. i know that if i pitch in cambridge, that's the end of me. i can't throw a ball hard enough now to break a pane of glass, and i'll be lucky to be able to stay in the game at all." quinton tilted back in the chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "well, then, read it will be for the game on thursday, and he'll have to go through it, win or lose," he announced. "you will play in right field and lob them in if they come in your direction." "i'd be glad to sit on the bench if you think barrows could come through with a hit or two. he's a better fielder than i am. i want the strongest nine we can get in there on thursday," said frank. "not on your life," said quinton with determination. "with one arm you are better than barrows with three. he can't hit anything." and so it was settled that the captain should play in the field and that read should go into the box. it was the best thing to do under the circumstances. for three innings, read held the harvard batters hitless, and hope began to grow in the team and in the hearts of the team's supporters that he would last to the end. turner's home run drive with a man on base put yale in the lead with two runs, in the second inning. but in the fourth, read, in trying to get a ball over the inside corner of the plate, hit a batter, and in the endeavor to retrieve his error by catching the man napping off first base, threw wild to the first baseman. the result was that before the ball was recovered the runner was perched, grinning, on third base. the double error unsteadied read, who in his endeavor to strike out the next two batters who were both good waiters, passed them both. the bases were filled with none out. then came harvard's hard-hitting catcher with a three-base hit which drove in three runs. that ended read's efficiency. in the same inning he was hit for a single and two doubles in succession. the net result of this slaughter, coupled with a base on balls and two infield errors, gave harvard six runs before the side was retired. yale added a run in the fifth, but harvard, now hitting like demons, and with read at their mercy, slammed the ball for three more runs. yale continued to play with dogged determination against overpowering odds, striving to hold down the score as low as it might be. the fielders worked faithfully, but read was now being hit at will and many of the balls went safely. "let me go in and try to stop this," frank suggested, as he came to the bench in the eighth inning. "no use now," said quinton. "it's harvard's day and the game is gone. stay where you are and we'll take this back again next tuesday." in the eighth and ninth, read steadied down, but then it was too late, in spite of a dogged up-hill fight by yale. the final score stood to . read had no appetite that night at the training table. "never mind it, old fellow," said frank, laying his hand on read's shoulder. "that happens to the best of them once in a while; forget it; we'll get them next tuesday. they had all the breaks of luck, anyway. it was their day." "yes, they had me; i was the best man on they had; i'm disgusted with myself," and the big pitcher hung his head. "forget it," said frank, and nothing more was said; but in spite of the assumed cheerfulness it was a quiet lot of ball-players who took the train for new haven. during the next four days, the captain's arm was a subject for the careful attention of the trainers, who rubbed and kneaded the strained member at every possible opportunity. nearly every known remedy was tried, for well everyone knew that on armstrong depended the next game--the great commencement game--which drew back thousands of graduates. the worried coach spent most of his time with captain armstrong, and when he had exhausted his own knowledge of arm treatments, went to old yale ball-players who were flocking back to give what assistance they could in the crucial game. the newspapers deprecated yale's chances, but the college was behind its team to a man. "armstrong has a glass arm," wrote the sporting writers in the daily prints. "little hope for the bull-dog; harvard expects to clean up on tuesday." "we may fool 'em yet," said frank, as he threw down a paper he had been reading, "eh, turner? this old wing feels better to-night and i'm dying to get a chance at them." "and we are with you," said turner. "i want to get away from the memory of the fourteen to five business up at cambridge." the great day came. although the game was not called till three o'clock, the big wooden stands at the field were filled an hour before that time. the spectators had gathered early to watch the antics of the returning uniformed classes of graduates, whose parade behind a score of bands is always one of the features of the day. joyfully the long line of the parade wound around the field, the younger graduates capering to the ringing music of the bands, the older ones more sedate and garbed more soberly. gradually the classes were ushered to their seats and half an hour before the game the grounds were cleared. harvard had a fast and snappy practice. when armstrong led his men on to the diamond for the yale practice, the cheer-leaders led the packed thousands in a tremendous ovation. "they seem to be with us, anyway," said frank, who was standing with coach quinton by the home plate. "you can bet everything you own, they are," returned quinton, "and we must give them what they are looking for--a victory." "i'd give my arm to do it," said frank. and he meant it. all the preliminaries over, there was a hush as the captains at the plate with the two umpires talked over ground rules. it was harvard first to bat, and as the yale team trotted to their positions in the field and the captain took up his place in the box, a roar swept the stands, while the cheer-leaders bawled through their megaphones: "make more noise, you fellows, we can't hear you." that was a game long to be remembered. the very first of the red-stockinged batters met squarely the first ball captain armstrong delivered, and drove it between left and center for three bases. "same old story," sang out the harvard cheer-leader. "give them a cheer; we'll make a dozen the first inning." but he was mistaken. the next two batters, the strongest of the team, fell before frank's shoots, and the third put up a foul fly which turner captured close to the stand. this gave the yale men a chance to let loose some enthusiasm. in yale's half of the inning, a single and an error put two men on bases with one out. but the necessary hits were not forthcoming, and although the men reached third and second, the side was retired before a runner crossed the plate. nip and tuck, the teams played for five innings with no runs scored on either side. armstrong was pitching brilliant ball. no one in the stands and but few on the team itself, knew the price he was paying. slow and fast he mixed them up, with an occasional curve which sent twinges of pain from finger tips to shoulder. in tight places, he steadied his team and was always the captain, inspiring and resourceful. coach quinton well knew what frank was going through. "can you stick it out?" he said, when the game was more than half over. "i don't know. i'm pitching and praying at the same time," was the answer. the break came in the sixth, and it was in harvard's favor. with one out, kingston, the big harvard first baseman, hit a liner to the pitcher's box, which frank partly blocked with his gloved hand. the ball bounded to the left and fell dead twenty feet behind him, and before the second baseman, who had come in with all possible speed, could field it, kingston had crossed first base. the next man up singled over second. with two on, captain armstrong tightened up and struck out the following batter, while the stands roared their approval; but the next man hit a low liner to left field, which scored kingston. frank was pitching now slowly and deliberately. his arm was numb, but somehow he got over the third strike on the last man and saved more runs. yale fought hard to win the run back and got a man to third, but a stinging liner to short-stop was perfectly handled and the side was out. nothing happened in the eighth for either side, and harvard began the ninth, one run to the good, steady and confident. armstrong was pitching now on nerve alone. his arm, subjected to a hard strain through the preceding eight innings, was what the newspapers had called "glass," but the brain that directed it was cool and calculating. fortunately for him, the first man fouled out to the third baseman on the second ball pitched, but the second batter caught one of the yale pitcher's slow lobs and made a safe hit. the third bunted down the third base line and was also safe. it was now or never, and gathering up his fast waning forces, frank struck out the next man, while the shooting pains in his arm brought the cold sweat out on his forehead. confidently the last harvard batter faced him, swinging his bat. frank tried a curve which went outside the plate. a foul followed, and then a strike. twice he threw high to tease the batter, and then with all the vigor he had left, he snapped over a straight ball, close to the knees. the batter swiped desperately at it. "you're out," came the sharp tones of the umpire; and as the batter threw his bat wickedly towards the bench, the yale stands rose _en masse_ and yelled their approval. "we've got to win it now," commanded captain armstrong at the bench. "it's our last chance. i can't pitch another ball." at that command the team galvanized into action. the first man up bunted the ball of the hitherto invincible pitcher down the first base line, and was safe. then came the reliable turner, gritting his teeth and pawing the ground at the plate. twice he let the ball pass on strikes, and then the harvard man pitched one to his liking--a swift, straight ball at about the shoulder. turner met it with all the force of his vigorous young body, well towards the end of the bat, full and square. the ball started low, like a well-hit golf ball from the tee, rising as it traveled. out and up it went, while the runner on first, after one look, scudded for home. just what became of that ball, no one ever knew. it was never found. some say it struck an automobile on the far side of the outfield fence, and some even say it continued its flight on down to the river. but it did not matter. it was a clean home-run, turner following his galloping teammate more leisurely, trotting across the plate with the winning run. down from the stands poured the thousands. they dashed on the field and swept up captain armstrong and his gallant warriors. then when the first transports of joy were over, the classes broke into the zigzag step, arms on shoulders, to the crash of a score of bands. and no one thought the outburst extravagant, for yale had won. four days later, after almost superhuman efforts to improve captain armstrong's arm, yale again met harvard on neutral grounds and again won, thus clinching the championship. thus was frank armstrong's hope of a double championship realized. his name is still pointed to by admiring aspirants for pitching honors in the old college, and his skill and pluck are part of the traditions of baseball. there is little left to tell of our story. the day after captain armstrong's great baseball victory at new haven he joined in the imposing exercises of commencement day. with others of the senior class, he marched in solemn academic procession through the historic campus and city common, and later took his degree from the hands of the president of the college on the broad platform of woolsey hall, crowded with black-robed dignitaries. undergraduate life was a thing of the past, and as our three friends walked slowly back to their room to begin packing for their departure, there was little joy in their bearing. even the irrepressible codfish was temporarily subdued. "well, was it worth it, eh, frank?" said turner as he began throwing things into his trunk. "was it worth it? why, jimmy, it is worth half a man's life to be here four years." "my sentiments, too," broke in the codfish. "and mine," said a deep voice at the door. it was david powers, one of the big forces in the undergraduate world, who had won his way to prominence in literary work while his friends were climbing athletic heights. "let's pledge ourselves, then, to old yale," said frank, and the four boys grasped hands. "we may never meet like this again, fellows, but let us not forget that wonderful old line---- "'for god, for country and for yale.'" the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. obvious punctuation errors repaired. pg. , "de-demands" => "demands" (demands a junior) pg. , "campanionway" => "companionway" (in the companionway) pg. , "charlotteville" => "charlottesville" (charlottesville, va.) proofreaders transcriber's note: a table of contents has been created for this e-text. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. frank merriwell's races by burt l. standish author of "frank merriwell's schooldays," "frank merriwell's trip west," "frank merriwell's chums," "frank merriwell's foes," etc. philadelphia david mckay, publisher - south washington square copyright, by street & smith table of contents. chapter i. horse talk. chapter ii. an adventure on the road. chapter iii. teaching a rascal a lesson. chapter iv. birds of a feather. chapter v. what a hair can do. chapter vi. prince and the eavesdropper. chapter vii. the plot. chapter viii. taking chances. chapter ix. a strong accusation. chapter x. a fight against odds. chapter xi. a matter of speculation. chapter xii. the challenge. chapter xiii. the wrestling match. chapter xiv. plotting fun. chapter xv. thornton's "mash." chapter xvi. another challenge. chapter xvii. pure grit. chapter xviii. after the boat race. chapter xix. the yale spirit. chapter xx. spurning a bribe. chapter xxi. on the special train. chapter xxii. the fight on the train. chapter xxiii. seen again. chapter xxiv. two warnings. chapter xxv. the theatre party. chapter xxvi. trapped. chapter xxvii. an emissary from the west. chapter xxviii. friends or foes. chapter xxix. talk of a tour. chapter xxx. a hot run. chapter xxxi. an incentive to win. chapter xxxii. the run to the station. chapter xxxiii. enemies at work. chapter xxxiv. baseball. chapter xxxv. kidnaped. chapter xxxvi. the tournament. chapter xxxvii. to victory--conclusion. frank merriwell's races chapter i. horse talk. "he's a beauty!" jack diamond uttered the exclamation. he was admiring a horse frank merriwell had lately purchased. "he is," agreed danny griswold, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets and his short legs set far apart. "but think of paying a thousand dollars!" "he looks like a racer," declared bruce browning, who showed unusual interest and animation for a fellow who was known as the laziest man at yale. "he's got the marks of a swift one," asserted diamond, walking around the bay gelding, which frank merriwell had led out into the middle of the stable floor for inspection. "he is rangey, has clean limbs, and a courageous eye. i shouldn't wonder if he could cover ground in a hurry." "i did not buy him for a racer," asserted frank. "i purchased him as a saddle horse purely for my own use and pleasure." "you must have money to burn," chirped griswold. "your old man must have made loads of it. i had an uncle four times removed once who made money, but he got arrested when he tried to pass it." "that reminds me of my father and his partner," said browning, with apparent seriousness. "they formed a strange sort of a partnership. one of them stayed in new york all the time, while the other remained in california. in this manner they managed always to have plenty of money between them." "oh, goodness!" gasped diamond, "if you fellows keep this up, i shall want to get away." "if you want to get a weigh, we'll try to find some scales for you," chuckled griswold, his eyes twinkling. "they say dan dorman's father has plenty of money," said frank. "i've heard so," admitted browning. "but dorman is too mean to make much of a drain on the old man's pile." "that's right," nodded griswold. "why, he is so mean that in the winter, when his hair gets long, he wets it thoroughly, and then goes out in the open air and lets it freeze." "what does he do that for?" "so he can break it off and save the price of a hair-cut!" "say," cried diamond, desperately, "i thought you fellows were talking about a horse!" "no," yawned browning, "we're talking about a jackass." every one but jack seemed to appreciate this, for they all grinned. "well," said the lad from virginia, "merriwell has brought out his horse for us to inspect, and i move we do so. after this is over, you may talk of anything you please." "it is rather remarkable that you should pay such a price for a mere saddle horse," declared browning. "i simply kept my promise," smiled frank. "your promise?" "exactly." "what promise?" "the one i made to myself when this horse enabled me to overtake a runaway that was dragging winifred lee to danger and possible death. this is the animal on which i pursued the runaway, and i took him without asking leave of the owner. i vowed that if this horse enabled me to catch and stop the runaway before miss lee was harmed i would own the creature if it took my last dollar," he added. "and that," cried griswold, trying to strike a dramatic attitude--"that is true love!" "well, i don't know as i blame you, merriwell," admitted bruce. "winifred lee is a stunning girl. but it strikes me that the owner of the horse swindled you." a bit of additional color had risen to frank's cheeks, and he looked strikingly handsome. the boys knew it would not do to carry the joke about winnie lee too far, and so they refrained. "the man who owned the horse did not want to sell him at any price," explained frank. "i induced him to set a price that he thought would settle me, and then i snapped him up so quickly it took away his breath." "i should think your guardian would have kicked at throwing up a thousand for such a purpose." "he did," laughed frank, looking at diamond, who showed a little confusion. "you remember that jack, rattleton and myself went on to springfield to meet him a few days ago?" "and got arrested for kidnaping a baby!" chuckled griswold. "that was a corker. we didn't do a thing to you fellows when you got back here!" "that's right," admitted jack, dolefully. "not a thing! you simply marched us through the streets and onto the campus with a band and banners and made a stunning show of us!" "well," said frank, "professor scotch, my guardian, was so glad to get out of the scrape when the judge discharged us that he gave up the thousand without a flutter. that's how i got the money." "well," yawned browning, "now you have the horse, you'll find him an expensive piece of furniture. it takes money to take care of 'em and feed 'em." diamond had been inspecting the gelding from all sides, surveying him with the air of one who knows something about horses, and he now asked: "has the creature a pedigree, old man?" "sure," nodded frank. "its pedigree is all right. i have it somewhere, but i don't care so much for that." "oh, i don't know! it may prove of value to you some day." "how?" "well, you may take a fancy to enter nemo in a race or two." "what then?" "if he should win, you'll want his pedigree." "i suppose that is right, but i am no sportsman of the turf; that is professional. amateur sports are good enough for me." "honest horse racing is one of the grandest sports in the world!" cried jack, with flashing eyes. "honest horse racing!" laughed griswold. "what's that? where do you find anything like that?" "oh, there is such a thing." "there may be, but people are not used to it." "that's why i do not think much of horse racing," declared frank. "there are too many tricks to it to suit me." "oh, there are tricks to any sort of sport." "very few to college sports. if a man is caught at anything crooked it means ruin for his college career, and he is sure to carry the stigma through life. i tell you college sports are honest, and that is why they are so favored by people of taste and refinement--people who care little or nothing for professional sports. the public sees the earnestness, the honesty, and the manhood in college sports and contests, and the patrons of such sports know they are not being done out of their money by a fake. prize fighting in itself is not so bad, but the class of men who follow it have brought disgrace and disrepute upon it. fights are 'fixed' in advance by these dishonest scoundrels, and the man who backs his judgment with his money is likely to be done out of his coin by the dirtiest kind of a deal." "what makes me sore," said diamond, "is that some sensational newspapers should send professional bruisers to witness our college football games and denounce them as more brutal than prize fights." "that makes me a trifle warm under the collar," admitted browning. "but i don't suppose we should mind what that class of papers say. their motto is 'anything for a sensation,' and the intelligent portion of the newspaper readers is onto them. these papers have faked so many things that they carry no weight when they do tell the truth." "i wouldn't mind putting nemo into a race just to see what sort of stuff there is in him," admitted frank. "why don't you do it?" cried diamond, eagerly. "i wouldn't want to enter him in any of the races around here." "take him to new york." "no; those races are beyond my limit. all i want to do is try him for my own satisfaction." "then run him into the mystic park races at bethany. you can do that quietly enough." "that's so," said browning. "you can do that without attracting too much attention to yourself." "we'll all go up and see the race," declared griswold. "it will be great sport. do it, old man!" "but where can i get a jockey i can trust?" "you'll have to scrub around for one, and take chances." "no!" cried merriwell, as a sudden thought struck him. "i can do better than that." "how?" "i have the fellow." "who?" "a colored boy at home. he is fond of horses." "has he ever ridden in a race?" "twice." "did he win?" "once. my uncle, who kindly left me his fortune, was a crank on fast horses, and he owned a number of them. toots could ride some of them that would allow nobody else to mount them. uncle asher had horses in the races every year, but he was often 'done' by his jockeys. he knew it well enough, but he found it impossible to get the sort of jockey he wanted. toots begged to ride a race, but he was a little shaver, and uncle was afraid. finally, one day, just before a race was to come off, uncle asher discovered that his jockey had sold out. at the last moment he fired the fellow, and was forced to let toots ride, or withdraw his horse. toots rode, and won. the next time he rode he might have won, but the horse was doped." "he's just the chap you want!" nodded jack, with satisfaction. "put nemo into the bethany races, and let toots ride him." "i'll think of it," said frank. a hostler approached the group. "howdy do, mr. merriwell, sir?" he said. "one of your friends called to see your horse this morning, sir." "one of my friends?" cried frank, in surprise. "who was it?" "he gave his name as diamond, sir--jack diamond." merriwell immediately turned on jack and asked: "hello, how about this? did you call to see nemo this morning?" "not much!" exclaimed jack. "this is the first time i have been here. the hostler is mistaken." "you must have misunderstood your visitor, grody," said frank. "he could not have given his name as jack diamond, for this is jack diamond here." the man stared at jack, and then shook his head. "that's not the feller," he declared. "of course not. your visitor must have given you some other name." "not on your life," returned grody, promptly. "he said his name was jack diamond, sir, and i will swear to that." "well, this is somewhat interesting!" came grimly from frank. "what did he do, grody?" "he looked nemo over, sir." "looked nemo over how--in what way?" "why, i offered to take nemo out of the stall, but he said no, not to bother, as he only wished to glance at the horse. he went to the stall, which same i showed him, and looked in. the door wasn't locked, for i had just been cleanin' the stall out. he opened the door and stood there some little time. first thing i knew he was gone. i went and looked into the stall, and he was examinin' nemo's feet. he seemed wonderful interested in the horse, and i saw by the way he acted he knew something about horses." "the interest deepens," observed frank. "go on, grody." "when he came out of the stall he says to me, says he, 'merriwell has struck a right good piece of horseflesh there.' says i, 'in the best of my judgment he has, sir.' says he, 'i understand he paid a fancy figure for the gelding, something like a thousand, he told me.' says i, 'if he told you that i have no doubt he told you correct, sir.' then says he, 'does he mean to race him?' 'that,' says i, 'bein' a friend of mr. merriwell, is something what you should know as well as i, or better.' then he says, says he, 'horses is mighty uncertain property, for you never can tell what may happen to them.' in this i agreed with him, but there was something about him i didn't like much. then he went away." frank whistled. "this is highly interesting," exclaimed frank. "what did this fellow look like, grody? can you describe him?" "well, i looked him over rather careful like, sir, but i don't know as i can describe him particular, except that he had on a checked suit and wore a red necktie, in which were a blazer, genuine, or to the contrary. i know horses, but i'm no judge of diamonds. he was smooth shaved, and his jaw were rather square and his hair short. the eyes of him never looked straight at me once. somehow i didn't think he were a student, for he made one or two breaks in the words he said that made his talk different from your student's. he didn't have that sort of real gentleman way with him neither." frank turned to his friends. "now what do you suppose this business means, fellows?" he asked. "it means crookedness!" declared diamond, rather excitedly. "i am dead sure of that!" "it looks that way," admitted browning. "but what sort of crookedness can it mean?" asked frank, bewildered. "what is the game?" "that will develop later; but there is some kind of a game on, be sure of that," asserted jack. "if not, why should anybody come here and give a fictitious name? that gives the whole thing away. look out, frank, all your enemies are not sleeping!" "well, it is time they let up on me," said merriwell, seriously. "they have brought nothing but disaster and disgrace on themselves thus far, and----" "some of them are looking for revenge, mark what i say." "i am tired of being bothered and harassed by petty enemies!" exclaimed frank. "i have had considerable patience with the fellows who have worked against me, but there is a limit." "that's right, and they would have reached the limit with me long ago," declared diamond. "well, it is like this, jack," said frank; "it is almost always true that not all of a man's enemies are bad fellows. to begin with, you remember that you were my enemy, and now we are friends, and this is not the first time such a thing has happened with me." "well, if a man were bucking against me, i do not think i would wait to see how he would turn out before i bucked back." "oh, i am not in the habit of doing that. you will remember that i bucked back pretty hard in your case." jack did remember it, and he felt that merriwell was capable of holding his own with his foes. "you will do well to look out for your horse, all the same," said diamond. "that's right," grunted browning. "if i were in your place, merriwell, i'd watch out pretty sharp." "i will," said frank. "i'll have toots come on here and keep watch over nemo most of the time. when he is not here, grody can take his place. if i have an enemy who thinks of stealing my horse, he'll have hard work to accomplish his design." "unless he does it before you get things arranged," said griswold. "put him up, merriwell, and let's get out." "i am going for a ride," said frank. "put the saddle on him, grogan. will see you later, fellows, if you are going now." "we'll wait till you leave," yawned browning. "there's no reason why we should tear our clothes hurrying away." "you are not liable to tear your clothes doing anything," laughed frank. chapter ii. an adventure on the road. grody soon had nemo saddled and bridled. the horse was eager to be away, as he showed by his tossing head, fluttering nostrils and restless feet. "whoa, boy," said frank, soothingly. "don't be so impatient. we'll get away in a moment." he swung into the saddle, the stable doors rolled open, and away sprang the gelding. the remaining lads hurried out of the stable to watch frank ride, grody accompanying them. "he seems like he were a part of the horse," declared the hostler, admiringly. "that young gentleman were born to handle horses, he were." "he is, indeed, a graceful rider," nodded diamond. "i am sure he did not learn in any riding academy, for he rides naturally. the riding academies all turn out riders with an artificial and wooden style. there is no more distressing sight than the riders to be seen in central park, new york, almost any afternoon. they bounce around in the saddle like a lot of wooden figures, and it is plain enough that many of them do not bounce because they want to, but because they think it the proper thing. southerners ride naturally and gracefully. mr. merriwell rides like a southerner." "he rides like buffalo bill," said browning, with an effort. "bill is the best rider i ever saw." diamond was watching merriwell and the horse, a queer look on his face. finally he exclaimed: "by jove! there's something the matter with nemo!" "what is it?" asked griswold. "i didn't notice anything." "the horse shows a suspicion of lameness," asserted jack. "you have good eyes to detect it," observed browning, doubtingly. "i can't see that anything is the matter with the horse." "i'll wager he goes lame before merriwell returns." "if he does, i shall think you have great discernment." merriwell turned a corner and disappeared. "come, fellows," said griswold, "let's shuffle along." "merriwell is altogether too generous," declared diamond, as the trio walked away. "in what way?" asked browning. "with his enemies. i know you and i were both enemies to him in the beginning, and----" "he threw us down hard." "that's all right; but there are enemies you have to hold down." "merriwell didn't do a thing to hartwick!" exclaimed griswold, grinning. "he scared the fellow so he ran away from college, and nobody knows where he went." "yes, but merriwell gave him the opportunity to skip and escape the disgrace that must follow public exposure of his acts. some fellows would have exposed him and brought about his expulsion." "that's right," chirped griswold. "merriwell was as generous with hartwick as he could be with such a fellow. he might have used him much worse than he did." "and do you fancy hartwick thinks any more of merriwell for not exposing him publicly?" asked jack. "oh. i don't know." "well, i will wager that he does not. more than that, i'll venture that hartwick, wherever he may be, cherishes a fierce desire for revenge, and longs for the day when he will be able to get back at frank. merry will hear from that chap again." and there the subject was dropped. frank enjoyed the ride upon nemo's back, for the horse seemed intelligent and something of a comrade. the boy talked to his mount as if the animal could understand every word he uttered. he had ridden beyond the limits of the city before he noticed that nemo was limping the least bit. "what's the matter, old fellow?" asked frank, with concern. "have you hurt yourself some way?" nemo shook his head. it almost seemed that the animal was answering the question in the negative. "you must have stepped on a stone," merriwell declared. "why, you are really beginning to limp in earnest!" frank immediately dismounted, after having decided it was nemo's left hind leg or foot that was lame. "i'll make an inspection, and see if i can discover what is the matter," said the boy, anxiously. he examined both of the horse's hind feet, but could not see that anything was wrong. "if that rascally shoer has blundered in his work he'll not get another chance at you, boy," merriwell declared. after patting nemo's neck and fondling the fine creature a bit, frank mounted once more. but nemo limped worse than ever. "this is singular," muttered the perplexed lad. "i don't understand it at all. there's something wrong, for a fact." he watched the horse, and decided that he had made no mistake in locating the lameness in the left hind leg. again he dismounted and made an examination, and again the result was far from satisfactory. "i wish you might speak and tell me what is the matter," said frank, in dismay. "i'll have you examined without delay by somebody who knows his business." he rode slowly into the outskirts of the city. of a sudden there was a rattle of wheels and a clatter of hoofs behind him. he turned and looked back, to see a carriage coming along the road at a reckless rate. two persons were seated in the carriage, and the horse was covered with sweat. "why are those fools driving like that?" muttered merriwell. "are they drunk, or is it a matter of life or death?" "get out of the road!" the command was hoarsely shouted, and frank reined aside, having no desire to get in the way of the reckless driver. once more the boy on the horse turned to look back. "drunk, sure enough," he decided. "and they are two young fellows, too. students on a tear, perhaps." the occupants of the carriage had been drinking heavily, but they were not so drunk that they did not recognize the boy in advance when he turned in the saddle the second time. "hey, rolf!" exclaimed the one who was not driving. "it's merriwell!" "that's what it is!" cried the driver. "i haven't seen him for some time, but i know his face too well to ever forget it!" "he's out on his new horse." "sure." "run him down! run him down! throw him off! now's our chance!" the driver was just intoxicated enough to be utterly reckless of consequences, and he snarled: "hang me if i don't do it!" and then, when they were very near the boy and the horse, he suddenly reined toward frank with the intention of running into merriwell's mount. in another moment there might have been a grand smash there on the road, but frank had caught the words "run him down!" and he gave nemo a light cut with the whip, at the same time pulling him still farther into the ditch. nemo was not used to the whip, and he leaped like a flash. such a spring would have unseated any but a most expert rider, but the boy in the saddle seemed to move as a part of the horse. into the ditch they went, and past them spun the carriage containing the two reckless young men. the carriage came very near upsetting. it careened and spun along on two wheels, threatening to hurl its occupants into the ditch, for the driver had reined the horse back toward the middle of the road. both clung on for life. "don't blame me!" muttered merriwell, through his teeth. "you were looking for a smash." but the carriage did not go over; it righted at last. one of the young men looked back and shook his fist at the boy on the horse, and then away they went in a cloud of dust. "if that was not evan hartwick, i am greatly mistaken!" exclaimed frank, as he reined nemo back into the road. "so he is back here as soon as this? i know what that means. he is looking for revenge on me." frank had seen the face of the driver as the carriage spun past, and he added: "hartwick's companion is somebody i know. i did not obtain a fair look at him, but--great scott! it was the card sharp, rolf harlow!" harlow was a fellow who had entered harvard, but had not completed his second year there, leaving suddenly for reasons not generally known. a yale man by the name of harris, familiarly known as "sport," because of his gambling inclinations, had known harlow, and had introduced him to a number of yale students. harris and harlow were both poker players, but they claimed that they played the game "merely for amusement." a number of harris' acquaintances had been induced to enter into the game, and there had been some very "hot sittings." no one seemed to suspect that harlow was crooked, for he almost always lost, although he never lost large sums. harris won almost continually. he seemed to be the luckiest fellow in the world in drawing cards. he would hold up one ace on a large jackpot and catch two more aces and a small pair. it seemed the greatest kind of "bull luck." harry rattleton, merriwell's roommate, was following the game. frank tried to induce him to keep away, but it was without avail. then frank seemed to take an interest in the game, and it was not long before he proved that harlow was a card manipulator, and caught him at one of his tricks. that finished harlow's career at plucking yale "fruit," and the fellow left new haven suddenly. harris had remained under a cloud of suspicion since that time, as there seemed very little doubt but he had been in league with harlow, and they had divided the plunder between them. the proof had not been sufficient to incriminate harris, but it had been enough to make him unpopular and cause him to be shunned. he had seemed to take this very meekly, but some of merriwell's friends declared that harris had not forgotten or forgiven, and that he would strike back at frank if the opportunity ever presented. now harlow was back in new haven, and hartwick, who had been forced to leave college to escape expulsion, was also there. that meant something. "hartwick, harlow and harris--the three hard tickets. they are birds of a feather. all they need is ditson to make a most delectable quartet!" so muttered frank merriwell, as he gazed at the receding cloud of dust. frank began to realize that there was more trouble in store for him. "i shall not deal gently with that gang this time," he declared, with a hard-set face. "this little adventure has put me on my guard, and i don't propose to let them have much fun with me. those two fools were just full enough to drive right into me with the hope of doing me an injury, without a thought of their own necks. they might have been thrown out and killed, but they did not hesitate because of that. the one thought was to do me some way--any way. hartwick always was a desperate fellow, but i did not fancy harlow could be such a chap. however, he was driving that horse, and the way he drove was proof enough that he is careless of life and limb at times." for some time frank paid very little attention to nemo, but the lameness of the horse became so pronounced at last that he could not help observing it once more. "that worries me, old fellow," he admitted, with a troubled face. "it is something i can't understand." he rode slowly back to the stable. it was growing dark when he arrived at the stable. a strange man was standing outside as frank rode up. the man looked keenly at the boy and the horse, and then, as the doors rolled open, followed into the stable. "horse is lame, eh?" he said, questioningly. "i didn't notice that when he went out. he wasn't lame then, was he?" frank paid not the least attention to this question. the man was a stranger, and the boy did not care to talk with him. "i spotted that horse when yer rode out, young man," the stranger persisted. "fine lookin' critter--just the kind i've been wantin' some time for a saddle horse. whose critter is it?" "grody," said frank, utterly ignoring the man, "i want you to see if you can tell what ails nemo. he is lame in one of his hind feet. he was taken that way after i had been out a while. i think it possible there is something the matter with the way he is shod. will you look after him without delay?" "to be sure, sir--i'll not fail, sir," said grody. "then the horse belongs ter you, does it?" asked the strange man, coming forward and addressing frank in a point-blank manner. "i am a horseman, and i know all about critters. if there's anything the matter--and there seems to be--i can tell what it is in five minutes. shall i make an examination, young man?" "no, sir!" came sharply from merriwell's lips. "i do not propose to have strangers fooling around my horse. i do not know you, sir, so your offer is respectfully declined." chapter iii. teaching a rascal a lesson. "now hold on, young man, don't be so fast," said the stranger. "you do not know me now, and i don't blame yer fer not wantin' anybody yer don't know doing anything fer yer horse; but here's my card--professor james colbath--and now i know you have heard of me. i am one of the greatest veterinary surgeons in the country." frank ignored the card, and the man began to show signs of anger. "this is no bluff!" he exclaimed. "it's on the level. i have nary doubt but i can find out what's the matter with the critter in five minutes, and if i don't give yer a square deal i don't want a cent for my services, that's all." he would have lifted one of nemo's feet, but frank cried: "drop that! i tell you i don't want you, and i won't have you! get away from this horse!" the man growled and stiffened up. "all right," he said, somewhat savagely. "i did think of trying to buy the critter off yer, but you're too flip. if the animal stays lame, don't blame me." although frank had seemed to pay very little attention to the stranger, he was inspecting him closely. he saw the man had pulled his hat down over his eyes, and wore his coat collar turned up. he had a black beard that concealed his features to a great extent. grody was also looking the stranger over closely. he fancied he detected a familiar sound in the man's voice. the light in the stable was rather dim, and that served to make the inspection of the boy and the hostler rather unsatisfactory. all at once, grody started as if struck by a sudden idea. as soon as possible, he whispered in frank's ear: "that mug is the same chap that were here this afternoon, sir." "the same chap? what chap?" "the one what gave his name as diamond." "no? you said that fellow had no beard." "i don't believe this man's beard is all right." frank was aroused. he fancied that he saw a ray of light. the fellow who had called himself professor colbath turned away. he had heard the hostler whisper, and he caught frank's question. immediately he showed a desire to get out. leaving the horse to grody, frank quickly placed himself before the stranger, saying: "hold on a minute. i don't know but i'll talk with you a little." "no, yer won't!" growled the man. "i'm done tryin' to talk with a fresh youngster like you--i'm done with you." "well, i am not done with you!" frank's voice rang out sharp and stern. "what do you want?" asked the man, uneasily. "i want to see your face." "well, look at it, and when ye've seen it i'll proceed to smash yours! i don't take no insolence from a kid!" "take off your hat!" "i will--nit!" "and that beard--take it off!" "ye're crazy!" cried the man, as he started back. "am i?" frank gave a spring and a grab with both hands. one hand snatched away the cap, and the other tore off the black beard, which, indeed, proved to be false. the man uttered an exclamation of rage, and struck at frank, who dodged the blow. "is this the fellow, grody?" cried frank. "the same mug!" declared the hostler, excitedly. "well, that's all i want to know!" burst from frank, as he flung the hat and beard to the floor. "so you were monkeying around my horse to-day, you fakir! well, what you need is a pair of good black eyes, and i propose to give them to you!" snap!--off came the boy's jacket in a twinkling, and he still stood between the unmasked man and the door. the man, who was a coarse-looking young ruffian, ground his teeth and uttered some violent language. "git out the way!" he snarled. "i'm a fighter, and i'll kill yer! i can put yer ter sleep with one punch!" merriwell's blood was thoroughly stirred, and he felt just like teaching the fellow a lesson. although a youth in years, frank was, as my old readers know, a trained athlete, and he could handle his fists in the most scientific manner. "i am going to give you a chance to put me to sleep," he shot back. "i see your dirty game from start to finish! you are a fakir of the worst sort, and you tried to work me. you did something to my horse to make him lame, and you thought you would get a fat pull out of me for doctoring him. instead of that, you have run your head into a bad scrape, and it will be damaged when you get it out." "you talk big for a kid. why, i can blow yer over with my breath." "it is strong enough. but i don't go over so easy. up with your hands if you are such a fighter! i'm coming for you!" "all right! if ye're bound to have it, come on!" the man put up his guard, and then merriwell went at him, while grody gasped for breath, thinking the college lad could be no match for the young ruffian. there were a few swift passes, and then frank went under the fellow's guard and gave him a terrific uppercut on the chin. that was a staggerer, and the boy followed it up while the man was dazed. punk!--biff!--two blows, one on the body and the other fairly in the eye. the second blow nearly knocked the man down, and it made him as fierce as a famished tiger. snarling like an enraged beast, he tried to close in on the lively lad. "oh, let me get hold of you!" he grated. "i'll crush the life out of ye!" frank avoided the rush by stepping aside, and gave the fellow another body blow as he passed. body blows, however, were not as effective as they should have been, on account of the fellow's clothing, and merriwell quickly decided to waste no more energy in that manner. the man turned, and went for frank again. this time the boy did not try to get out of the way, but he met his antagonist squarely, and gave him a heavy one in the other eye. "that ought to make them mates," said frank, with a laugh. "you won't know yourself when you look in the glass to-morrow morning. perhaps it'll teach you better than to try any of your rackets on a boy. you can't always tell what you are getting up against." the man's teeth could be heard grinding together. he was so furious that he quite lost his head. then frank sailed in to finish the affair as soon as possible. grody held his breath, nearly bursting with astonishment and admiration. "oh, say!" he chuckled. "i never saw a youngster what were that fellow's match! he's hot stuff!" the hostler could scarcely believe it possible that merriwell was giving the scoundrel a first-class whipping, but this became more and more evident with each passing moment. in fact, frank was struck just once during the entire encounter, and that was a glancing blow on the forehead, which he scarcely noticed. he thumped the rascal to his heart's satisfaction, and then knocked him flat with a round-arm swing that landed on the jaw. the ruffian lay on the floor and groaned. when he started to get up merriwell exclaimed: "there, i think that will do you for to-night! when you want some more of the same just come fooling around my horse!" he caught the man by the shoulders, yanked him to his feet, ran him to the door, and booted him out of the stable. having done this, frank turned back and coolly put on his coat. "there, grody," he said, "i feel better. i think it is possible i have given that rascal a lesson he will not forget in a hurry." the hostler stared, and then he cried: "mr. merriwell, sir, you are a wonder! if as how you were to go inter ther ring you'd make some of the duffers hustle. that were the neatest job what i ever see!" "it was not so much of a trick," declared frank. "the fellow is strong, i'll warrant, but he is too heavy on his feet and too slow in his movements. there are scores of fellows in college who can polish him off." "i will allow i never knowed you college chaps were able to fight like that before. i knowed some of you were for fighting among yourselves all right, but i didn't think you could go up against a reg'ler scrapper." "it's a part of the education at yale," smiled frank; "and i've found it comes in handy occasionally. the man who can't fight his way through this world in one manner or another gets walked over by chaps who are not his equal in any other way. i do not believe a man should fight only at the proper time, but when he has to fight, i hold that he should be able to do a good turn at it." "well, you can do your turn all right, sir." "now, grody, nemo must receive proper attention. i am sure that fellow did something to make the horse lame. what he did i can't tell. i don't see how he did it without getting his brains kicked out." grody hesitated, and then he said: "mr. merriwell, sir, i wants to tell ye something." "all right, grody, go on." "i didn't tell all what happened in the stall to-day when that bloke were here." "oh, you didn't?" "no, sir. what called my attention to the fact that he had gone inter the stall were a racket." "what sort of a racket?" "nemo kicked and squealed, sir, and i heard the man speaking to him. then i ran over and looked in." "what was the rascal doing, grody?" "he were examinin' nemo's feet, sir." "and that was when he got in his dirty work!" cried frank, angrily. "i'm afraid i didn't thump him as much as he deserved! i feel like hunting him up and giving him a few more!" chapter iv. birds of a feather. in a little back room of a saloon three young men were sitting. they were talking earnestly, for all that two of the three showed they had taken altogether too much liquor to be entirely sober. "we're glad to see you, sport," one of the drinkers declared. "well, i am glad to see you, harlow, old man, and you, too, hartwick, although we were never friendly before you left yale so suddenly." "that was my fault," admitted hartwick, huskily. "i didn't know enough to pick out the right sort of pals. i trusted too much to ditson. he's no good!" "now there is where you make a mistake," asserted sport harris, quickly. "i know ditson has no nerve, but he hates the same fellow we hate, and he is good to do the dirty work. we can make use of him, hartwick." "i don't know anything about him," confessed harlow. "no, he hasn't the nerve to play poker, and so you did not get acquainted with him when you were here." "i don't know that he hates merriwell so much," growled hartwick. "you remember that ditson blowed everything to merriwell, and that is why i was forced to skip. oh, i'd like the satisfaction of punching the face off the dirty little traitor!" "but what caused ditson to blow? he says you misused him." "i choked the cad a little, that is all." "but there was something back of that," declared harris. "what led you to choke him?" "oh, we had a little trouble. he was trying to squeeze me too hard, and i wouldn't stand for it." "trying to squeeze you?" "yes." "how?" "well, i don't mind telling you. you know i tried to mark merriwell for life by punching my foil through the mask that protected his face while we were engaged in a fencing bout. i had prepared my foil for that in advance by fixing the button so i could remove it, and by sharpening the point of the foil. i wanted to spoil the fellow's pretty face!" the most malignant hatred was expressed in hartwick's words and manner. he went on: "i tried the trick, but did not succeed. ditson carried off the foil, and kept it. he would not give it up, although he promised to a hundred times. he used it to aid in blackmailing me. when he asked me for money, i did not feel like refusing him, for he could throw me down hard by turning the foil over to merriwell. but he carried the thing too far. "one night when i was in a bad mood he tried to squeeze more money out of me. he had been living in luxury for some time, while i was broke almost continually. i kicked and refused to give up. then he had the insolence to threaten me with exposure. i lost my head and choked him. directly after that he turned like a viper and blowed everything to merriwell. that was my downfall. i had to skip. is there any reason why i should not hate the sneak?" "no, i do not wonder that you are sore on him; but he did not make anything out of the trick." "didn't make anything! why, he forced me out of college!" "that was not the main thing he was looking for." "then what was?" "he hoped to get in with merriwell, and he fancied merriwell would think him a fine fellow for blowing." "well?" "well, he made a mistake in frank merriwell, for merriwell despised him all the more, although he did nothing to injure ditson. he does not recognize ditson at all, and now ditson is more eager than before to do merriwell an injury." "all the same, ditson can't be trusted." "not unless he is so deep in the game that it means ruin for him to blow. then he is caught. as i said in the first place, he is a good man to do the dirty work that we do not want to touch." "i think harris is right," nodded harlow, "and you may get a chance to even up with ditson by throwing him down when we have fixed merriwell nicely." "but you want to remember you are going up against a bad man in frank merriwell," warned sport. "i do not care to be forced out of yale." "of course not," said hartwick and harlow. "you fellows have not so much to look out for. you can do things that would be beyond me." "we made a bluff at doing something to-day," growled hartwick. "we were out for a drive, and we came upon merriwell. he was on his new horse, and we tried to run him down, but he got out of the way." "i don't know but it is a good thing he did," confessed harlow. "if we had struck him there'd been a general smashup. i was driving, and we were making the old nag hit a hot pace. we came near going bottom up as it was." "you must have been badly rattled," exclaimed harris. "oh, i don't know," laughed hartwick, harshly. "we've been up against it for the past three days. eh, harlow?" "that's what," nodded the card sharp. "hartwick is a hard man to follow. he can kill more stuff than anybody i ever saw." "well," said harris, "i have asked ditson to come in here this evening. i took a chance on it, for i thought we could get rid of him easily enough if we didn't want him. he is liable to be along at any moment." harlow looked at a handsome watch. "a quarter to ten," he said. "he ought to be around soon if he is coming at all." "he will be. where'd you get that ticker, old man?" "oh, i took it off a sucker in a game. i'll have to soak it if i don't strike some sort of graft pretty soon. i'm getting down to hard pan." "i suppose you are all right, hartwick?" questioned harris. "you can call on your old man and make him give up any time." "well, i guess not! i haven't been able to get a dollar out of the old duffer since i left college. he is icy toward me, and he says i can go it for myself and be hanged." "that's pleasant! what have you been doing to gather in the coin?" "why, confound it! haven't i formed a partnership with harlow! i don't know anything about card tricks, but he works all of that, and i win the money. he gives me the hands to do it on, you see. if there is suspicion aroused, the poor suckers take to watching me, and they are unable to catch me at anything crooked. our only trouble is to find the right sort of fruit for plucking. we generally pretend we are strangers to each other. sometimes we have a little disagreement over the table, just to fool the fools all the more." "that's first-rate," laughed harris. "i wish the gang here was not onto harlow. i could get you some ripe plums." "and that's what made me so sore on merriwell," growled harlow. "but for that fellow we'd be right in it now. oh, i want to soak him some way, and soak him hard!" "and we'll find a way to soak him, too!" growled hartwick. "let's have another round, fellows." he pushed a button and a waiter appeared. drinks were ordered. when they were brought, ditson came in with the waiter. "hello, roll!" called harris. "glad you came along. mr. ditson, mr. harlow. i think you have met the other gentleman." ditson started and turned pale when he saw hartwick, who was glowering at him. "oh, yes! mr. ditson has met me!" said evan, significantly. "we do not need an introduction!" ditson seemed on the point of getting out in a hurry, but harris arose and took him by the arm. "it's all right," he assured. "sit down, roll." "what sort of a game is this?" hesitatingly asked ditson, keeping his eyes on hartwick. "have you fellows got me in here to do me up?" "nothing of the sort." "not but i'd like to do you, and do you good," confessed hartwick, "but harris won't have it." "no," said sport; "i hold that we are all united by our hatred for a common foe, and we cannot afford to be anything but friends." "all the same, it was a dirty deal you gave me, ditson," growled evan, who seemed to be longing to pick a row with the newcomer. "you forced me into it," declared ditson, weakly. "forced you?" "yes." "how was that?" "you know well enough. you set on me like a mad tiger, and i'll bet you would have choked me to death in your room if you hadn't been seized with one of your attacks of heart trouble. i was afraid of you, and i had to do something to protect myself." "so you blew the whole thing to merriwell! that was a brave trick. but i understand merriwell has turned you down in great shape since that." "well, he hasn't used me right," admitted ditson. "sometimes i think i'd like to kick the wind out of him, but i know i can't do it." "you may have the chance to take the wind out of him," said harris. "sit down, old man, and we will talk matters over. what are you drinking?" "bring me a sherry flip, waiter," ordered ditson, seeing the waiter had paused outside. then he sat down in a chair offered him, saying: "if there's any sure way of doing merriwell up, i'm in for it; but i give it to you straight that i am sick of trying to do him and having him come out on top. it's got to be a sure thing this time, or i don't touch it." beyond a thin partition in a room next to the one occupied by the four plotters sat a man who had a cut and bruised face and a pair of swollen black eyes. this man had been drinking heavily. a bottle of whiskey and a glass sat on the little table before him. he was alone in the room. he had seemed to suddenly lose all interest in the whiskey, and he was leaning against the board partition with his ear close to a crack, intently listening to the talk of the four lads in the next room. the man had heard frank merriwell's name spoken, and that was the first thing to attract his attention to what the occupants of the next room were saying. "that's the fellow!" muttered the man, hoarsely. "he's the one what gave me these beautiful peepers and pretty mug! i'll give him something worse than this before long." then he decided to listen. "wonder if them chaps is his friends? i'll jest see what they're sayin' about him." it was not long before the man was able to hear enough to satisfy him that the lads in the next room were anything but friends of frank merriwell, and he listened with fresh eagerness. he heard ditson come in with the waiter, and caught much of the conversation that followed. then ditson sat down, and the plotters lowered their voices. "that settles it!" exclaimed the man. "i'm goin' right in there and see if they don't want to take me inter the gang. them college ducks will be jest the fellers to help me in gettin' back at frank merriwell." he got up, left the little room, and went around to the door of the other room. without stopping to knock, he opened the door and walked in. "h'waryer," he saluted, as the four lads stared at him in amazement. "my name's mike hogan, and i want ter join in with ther push." "get out of here, you bum!" cried hartwick, fiercely. "you are intruding on a private party." "hold hard, young feller!" returned the fellow who had given his name as mike hogan. "don't call me a bum! i'm onto your curves, and there ain't no reason why you and me shouldn't be friends." "friends!" exclaimed hartwick--"friends! well, i prefer to choose my friends." "and you didn't make much of a success when you chose a young gent here what is named ditson. keep yer seat!" "press the button, harlow, and we'll have this fellow thrown out!" came savagely from hartwick's lips. "wait a minute before you press the button," urged mike hogan. "do you see this face?" "yes." "it's a peach, now, ain't it?" "you can consider yourself lucky if it isn't worse than that when you get out of here, my man." "don't 'my man' me, young feller! i don't like it! do yer know who give me this face and these two beautiful eyes?" "no, and we----" "well, i'll tell yer who it was. it was a feller what goes by the name of frank merriwell." "well, he did a first-class job," commented harris. "that really looks like some of merriwell's work." "he done it," nodded mike. "nacherlly i ain't got no love to speak of for him. well, i was in the room next to this just now, and as i was leanin' against the partition i happened to overhear what you chaps was sayin' in here. from what i heard, i judged you didn't love this merriwell none to brag about, and i says to myself, 'mike, if you want to get even, them is the boys to hitch fast to.' then i got right up and came in here without bein' invited. i hope you'll excuse me, gents, but i couldn't help it under the circumstances. i had a sort of feller-feelin' for you chaps, and i thought mebbe we might arrange some sort of a deal together that would do this merriwell, and do him for keeps. i'm not a chap with much education, but i'll bet anything i can hate just as hard as you fellers, and if there's anybody i hate on the earth, it's frank merriwell. "there, now, gents, you have heard what i have ter say, and i hope you'll tumble ter ther fact that i am on the level. this is no case of stringing. i want ter pay back that feller for these two black eyes and this mug. mebbe you can help me to do it, and i can help you to square yerselves with him at the same time. if that is right, why shouldn't we kinder go into partnerships for a short period? i put the question to yer, and you can do as ye please." the quartet at the table looked at one another inquiringly and doubtingly. they seemed to hesitate. "if this man tells the truth, and i should judge that he does, he may be of service to us and we to him," said sport harris. "that's right," nodded harlow. "if merriwell gave him that mug and those beautiful eyes, i don't wonder that he wants to get square." hartwick was silent. he was looking mike hogan over, and he was thinking: "is it possible i have fallen to the point where i have to take such a fellow as a comrade? no! it will not be as a comrade. we can use him as a tool, perhaps, and that is what we will do, if we use him at all." "sit down," invited hartwick, suddenly rising and offering mike his chair. "i'll get another. i want to hear just how you came by those eyes." hogan sat down at the table and hartwick brought a chair from a corner. "we are all anxious to hear how you came by those eyes," declared harlow. "some gent order drinks, and i will tell ye. never mind," he cried, as he saw them look at each other knowingly, as if they thought he was trying to work them for liquor, "i'll order, myself! don't you think for a second that i'm broke!" then he flung a small roll of bills on the table before them, reached past harlow, and pressed the button. when the waiter appeared, he said: "give these gents anything they want, pete." "wot if they orders champagne?" grinned pete, winking at the boys. "then bring it, dern ye!" snarled hogan, as he grabbed up the roll of money and thrust it at the waiter. "take the pay out of that and gimme the change." drinks were ordered and quickly brought. hogan paid for them and gave the waiter a quarter as a tip. "how about it, pete?" he asked. "am i all right?" "ye're all right, mike," declared the waiter, promptly; "and the young gents will find that anything you says sticks." then he went out. "now," said hogan, "before i begin i want to tell you chaps this: i'm on the make. that is how i happened to get up against this chap merriwell. i heard that he paid a cool thousand for that horse of his, and i kinder admitted that a boy who could pay that sum for a horse must be in circumstances that would permit him to burn money in an open grate. such a chap was worth my attention. i know horses from their hoofs to the tips of their ears. there ain't much of anything i don't know about 'em. and i knew merriwell must be stuck on the horse for which he paid a thousand plunks. "well, gents, i'll tell ye my scheme. i kinder thought it would be easy to play the horse doctor, and work merriwell for a good pot. all that was necessary was to make something ail the horse. then i went round to the stable where he keeps the critter, after i had first learned the name of one of merriwell's friends. i wanted to get at the horse, and i knew it wouldn't be easy unless i appeared to be on the inside track with merriwell. i went round and said i was this friend of merriwell, and in that way i got into the stall with the horse. "don't you care what i done to make that horse lame, but i done it all right. when merriwell rode out this afternoon the critter went to limpin' under him. when he came back to the stable i was there, but i had changed my clothes and i wore a beard. i introduced myself as a horse doctor, and offered to cure his horse, or not to charge him a dollar. if i cured the critter, which i could do easy, i meant to charge him a hundred dollars, and i thought he'd be fool enough to pay it without a kick." "that shows you didn't know the kind of a fellow you were trying to fool," said harris. "i found that out all right. he wouldn't make any talk with me. then when i got hot and was going away he suddenly took a notion to stop me. the first thing i knew he had snatched off my hat and beard, and the hostler recognized me as the same chap as was in to see the horse this afternoon. "i didn't feel alarmed then," mike went on, "for merriwell is a young chap, and i know something about fighting. that is, i thought i knew something about it. i'm not sure about that now. i told him to get out of the way, or i would do him up. i saw my scheme was bu'sted, but i felt sure it'd be some time before he'd find out what ailed his horse. "that young fool didn't seem at all scared of me. he wouldn't get out of the way and let me go, but he put himself in my way, and then we had it. when we got through i found that i had it, and i had it bad. there ain't no need to tell just what happened. take a look at my mug and you'll see for yourself. that young cuss can fight like a tiger! "but now i'm goin' to get level with him, and don't you fergit it! i'll make him sorry that he ever gave mike hogan a pair of black eyes! i'll never be satisfied till i have done him the worst kind of a turn. "i heard you chaps talkin', and it struck me that we might pull together to do him dirt. that's why i came right in. what do you say to it?" the boys looked at each other, and then they nodded approval. "you'll do," said harris. "you may prove a very valuable man for us." chapter v. what a hair can do. at his first opportunity to get away from recitations the following day frank took diamond and rattleton and hastened down to the stable to find out how nemo was coming along. grody, who had just saddled a horse for a gentleman, met frank, and the expression on his face was anything but reassuring. "well, how is the pony this morning?" asked merriwell, anxiously. "just as lame as he were, sir," answered grody. "i've been tryin' to find out what it were that happened to him, but i can't, sir." "did you take him to the shoer the first thing this morning and have his feet examined, as i directed?" "i did that, sir." "and what did the shoer say?" "he located the lameness in the same foot what we said were lame, sir, and he took off the shoe, but he said as how it were all right, and no fault of the shoeing. he didn't know but a nail might have gone too deep, sir, but he found that were not it." this was anything but satisfactory, and frank showed it by his face. "well," he said, "you know i told you to summon dr. cobb, if it proved something beyond the shoeing." "and that were what i done, sir." "and the doctor could not tell what ailed the horse?" "the doctor has not come yet, sir. he were busy when i send the message to him, but he said---- here he is now, sir." a rig drew up at the door, and a short, stubbed, red-bearded man stepped out. this man entered the stable with a quick step and called to the hostler: "well, grody, did you telephone me?" "yes, sir, i did, sir," said the hostler, quickly. "important case, you said?" "yes, sir, very important." "where's the horse?" "i'll bring him right out, sir." the hostler hastened to do so, and dr. cobb looked keenly at nemo. "walk him around," directed the doctor. grody obeyed. "just a bit lame," commented the doctor. "it may be a slight strain. it doesn't seem to be much." "but it grows worse when he is taken out on the road," said frank. "it was very bad yesterday afternoon." the doctor glanced at the boy. "your horse?" he asked. "yes, sir." "when did you first notice he was lame?" "yesterday afternoon." "had him out this morning?" "grody took him to the shoer, that's all." "what did he say?" "said there was nothing the matter with the way nemo is shod." "perhaps he lied. didn't want to hurt his business. did he do anything?" "yes, he reset the shoe on the lame foot." "hum! horse may be all right by to-morrow or next day." "i do not think he will, doctor." "eh? why not?" "because i have reasons to believe he was made to go lame." "is that so? well, now the matter becomes more interesting. what causes you to think anything of the sort?" frank explained, and the doctor listened attentively to his story. "this is worth investigating," he declared. "i know a few of the tricks of these fellows, and i think i'll find out what was done to your horse, if anything was done." the boys watched the doctor with great interest. they saw him examine the lame leg from the knee down. in doing this he put on a pair of spectacles. nemo was nervous. he seemed afraid the doctor would hurt him, and it was not found easy to make him stand. at last dr. cobb uttered a sharp exclamation. "bring my case, which you will find under the seat in my carriage, grody," he directed. grody hastened to obey. "have you found out what the matter is, doctor?" frank anxiously asked. "i believe so, but i am not sure yet." jack and harry came near, eager to learn what had been done to lame the horse. the doctor opened his case, and took out some tweezers. "do you see this hair here?" he asked, having brushed the fetlock aside and taken the end of a hair in his fingers. the boys saw it, but wondered what that hair could have to do with the lameness of the horse. "it is not the right color," declared the doctor. "you see it is white, instead of being the color of the other hairs here." despite himself frank felt his anger rising. how could the color of a hair make the horse lame? did the man take him for a fool because he was a boy? the three boys exchanged glances, and harry made a threatening gesture at the back of the doctor's head. "i see the hair is white, sir," said frank, his voice cold and hard; "but i scarcely think a white hair could make my horse go lame. i know i am a boy, but i do not like to be taken for a fool." the doctor looked up and saw the indignation expressed on the faces of the three lads. then he chuckled in a singular way and said: "wait till i get through, young man. i do not take you for a fool ordinarily, but you can easily make a fool of yourself over this matter." he had taken the short white hair, which was very coarse, in his fingers, having separated it from the others. "notice the peculiar place where this hair seems to grow," he directed. "it is not a part of the fetlock, but the fetlock hid it from view. i am going to pull this hair out, but first i want you to notice that there is another hair, it seems, on the other side of the ankle, and it is just like this. see it?" the boys saw it. "in a moment you won't see it," declared the doctor, as he adjusted the tweezers, getting a careful grip on the end of the hair. "here it comes." then he quickly drew it out and nemo started a bit, but was quieted by grody. "young man," said the doctor, "look at this. this hair appeared to be about an inch in length, but now it is three inches long. it is not broken off, and yet it has no root. i will guarantee there is not another hair on this horse like it! i will guarantee it did not grow on this horse! i will guarantee it was what made this horse lame! and i do not want my fee if this horse shows any lameness two hours from now!" the boys were astonished, as their faces indicated. "but, doctor, i do not understand!" cried frank. "you must explain. how could a hair----" "i will explain. it's an old trick, but one seldom tried. this hair came from the tail of a white horse. it was threaded into a long, keen needle. the fellow who got at your horse yesterday was an expert. with one jab of that needle he passed the hair through the flesh just back of this cord. it went in at one side, and came out on the other. after that, while he was pretending to look at the horse's feet, he clipped off the ends, and the hair was left in there. it could remain a day or so without doing any particular injury, but it was bound to make the horse lame as soon as he used that leg much. if it had been left there permanently it might have ruined the horse. that is all, young man." "why was a white hair chosen, doctor?" "the fellow felt sure it would not be noticed, and yet he could quickly locate it by its color when the time came for him to cure your horse of its lameness." once more the boys looked at each other, and this time it was plain they realized there were some things they did not know. "doctor," said frank, promptly, "i wish to beg your pardon. i believe i said something rather hastily, but now i wish to say that you know your business thoroughly." the doctor smiled, and closed his case. "i have been in the business all my life," he said, "but i expect to continue to learn something new about it as long as i live. i will say that i doubt if i should have seen what was the matter with your horse if you had not told me of the fellow you believed had lamed him and how the horse kicked up a racket when the man was in the stall. that set me to looking for tricks, and i found the hair." frank offered to pay the doctor, but he refused to take it then, saying: "here's my card, young man. if your horse is all right this afternoon you may send me five dollars. you may need me again some time." then he strode out of the stable, flung the case under the seat, scrambled into his carriage, caught up the reins, and away he went in a hurry. "well, may i be farred and tethered--i mean tarred and feathered!" cried harry rattleton. "i never saw anything like that before." "nor i," confessed jack diamond. "it's astonishing! i have learned something to-day that i never knew before. i never would have dreamed that a hair could lame a horse in that way!" "you want to look out for nemo now," said harry, "and not let that chap get at him again." "i mean to," asserted frank. "i have sent for my colored boy, toots, to come on and keep watch here when grody is unable to do so. till he gets here, grody, i want you to watch nemo like a hawk. i hardly think the whelp will try another trick, but there is no telling. i gave him a bad thumping." "but not half what he deserved!" cried diamond. chapter vi. prince and the eavesdropper. nemo's lameness seemed to vanish as if by magic, and frank was well satisfied. grody took the utmost care of nemo till toots arrived. the colored boy was delighted to come on to new haven, and, as he was a lover of horses, his new occupation suited him very well. when frank could not find time to take the horse out for his daily exercise toots did it. one evening a party of students gathered in diamond's room. he had invited them there to show them his new bulldog. diamond had a fad, and it was dogs. his dog had caused trouble between diamond and merriwell early in their college career by taking a strip out of frank's trousers. that dog had received mortal injuries in a fight, and now diamond had another dog. "isn't he a beauty!" cried jack, as he displayed the ugly-looking brute. "look at that head and those jaws! he comes from a line of gladiators." "what do you call him, diamond?" asked ben halliday. "prince." "put not thy trust in princes," croaked dismal jones. "is he kind?" asked bandy robinson. "oh, he has a sunny disposition," assured jack, smiling. "a sunny disposition," chirped griswold, from the top of the table, upon which he had climbed so that he might be out of the way. "by that i presume that you mean he will make it hot for any other dog he may tackle." "hold on, danny, old man!" cried jack, reprovingly. "haven't i treated you right?" "not lately, but if you've got any beer in the coop you can." "that gives me a pain!" cried robinson. "you must have been eating window glass," chuckled griswold. "that's how you happen to feel the pane." "you ramed little bunt--i mean you blamed little runt!" exclaimed rattleton, catching danny by the neck. "if you keep up this reckless punning you'll receive a check some day." "i hope so," was the instant retort. "i'm broke, and i sent to the governor for one to-day." "let him alone, harry," advised merriwell, laughing. "you simply make him worse by talking to him." "that's the only thing i have against griswold," declared jack. "he will pun in the most reckless manner at all times. some of his jokes are not what they are cracked up to be." "like the eggs we used to get down at mrs. harrington's when we were freshmen," grinned griswold. "even the vilest sinner may repent and be forgiven," came solemnly from dismal jones. "there's a faint ray of hope for griswold." "but it's mighty dim," declared robinson. once more attention was given to jack's dog, and diamond pointed out the animal's fine features. "when are dogs at their best?" asked halliday, seriously. "in winter," griswold instantly put in. "there are no flies on them then." "smother him!" howled robinson, wildly. "smother time," cackled danny, as he slipped off the table and dodged around a chair to get out of reach. halliday caught up a pair of scissors and pretended to sharpen them, looking at griswold as if he meant to shed his gore. "what are you going to do?" asked danny. "going into the scissors-grinding business? it's great when things are dull." it was plain that danny could not be suppressed, and so the boys tried to ignore him. prince was admired some more, and then halliday picked up a banjo, put it in tune, and sang a song. "your voice is somewhat off color to-night, old man," observed robinson, "and i think you skipped a bar." "you don't know him," cried griswold, instantly. "i was out with him last night and he didn't skip any." then almost every other fellow in the room grabbed up something and threw it at danny, who could do nothing but shield his face and take the pelting he received. "diamond is a dog crank, and merriwell is a horse crank," said robinson. "by the way, i hear you think of racing your horse this spring, merriwell?" "who told you that?" asked frank. "who told me? oh, i don't know. is it a secret? i think i have heard several fellows speak of it." "oh, i don't know as it is a secret," said frank. "i may try him in some small country race, if i get a good opportunity; but i am not likely to have much of a chance, between baseball, rowing, and my studies. i'm kept pretty busy." "the only wonder to me is that you get time to study at all," declared halliday. "i never before saw a fellow who could carry on so many things at the same time and make successes of them all." "i hear two more men have been dropped a class," said diamond. "that's right," sighed jones. "dorman and street have departed hence. may peace go with them." "poor old easy!" exclaimed robinson. "he was a fine fellow, but he was altogether too easy. he wouldn't skin, and he couldn't keep up with the push." "there are some other fellows who are bound to go sooner or later," observed rattleton. "i can name several." "both harris and ditson are bound to get it in the neck," said griswold. "they are skinners of the worst kind." "that's right," agreed halliday. "ditson is an expert at it. he spends more time and ingenuity in concocting schemes to fool the examining tutor or professor than it would take to learn his subjects ten times over." "sure's you're born!" exclaimed jones. "why, he has his finger nails, cuffs, and the palms of his hands covered with writing and diagrams every time he knows he is to be called up, and in this way he always succeeds in making a clean rush." "harris knows something about photography," said halliday, "and he is continually making minute pictures of diagrams and writing, which he arranges on little tabs, which he can hold in his palm. he seldom flunks, but he'll trip some time." "hanged if i can see why fellows should work so hard to fool tutors or professors when they might learn all that was required of them without half the trouble," cried harry. "that is easy enough to explain," smiled merriwell. "harris is a natural gambler. he delights in excitement and danger, and he actually enjoys taking such desperate ventures." "well, there is something in that," laughed rattleton. "i never regarded it that way before. i'll be fanged if there isn't hascination in it--no, i'll be hanged if there isn't fascination in it!" "it's too bad this matter was mentioned, fellows," said merriwell, with pretended seriousness. "i regret it very much." "why?" asked robinson, curiously. "notice how excited rattleton has become over it? he's not quite such a sport as harris, but he had rather take chances on anything than eat, and it's ten to one he'll be skinning within a week." "sometimes a fellow has to skin," declared griswold. "did you ever, danny?" asked diamond. "did i? well! i have a patent scheme of my own." "what is it?" asked rattleton, eagerly. "why, i have a box of chalk crayons which i bought for myself. i have soaked them in alum water till they are hard, and i usually have several of them about my person. they are covered with diagrams and everything that may prove interesting or necessary. but i want to tell you something. i never use 'em unless i am driven to the wall." "by that he means the blackboard," laughed halliday. "and you were talking about harris and ditson being skinners!" came reproachfully from jones. "my dear young man, there is a place that burneth with fire and brimstone!" "that is reserved for liars," chuckled danny. "jones, beware, any moment may be your next." "that's right," agreed jones, sadly. "i am sure i shall not live to see another day--if i die to-night." "gentleman," said merriwell, "death is a grave subject to jest upon. you'd better bury it." "that's all right," put in robinson. "if he catches cold any of us may go to coffin." "i'll not undertaker pun," murmured rattleton. then there was a deathlike silence, and the lads all looked at one another reproachfully. "let's change the subject," cried diamond. "speaking of ditson, i believe he claims to have blue blood in his veins. says his ancestors came over on the _mayflower_, and were among the first to settle in this country." "they may have settled," said griswold, "but none of his family has ever settled since that time. they owe everybody that will trust them." "ditson has stuck his friends right and left since coming to yale, till he has not a friend left," said robinson. "why, he owed hartwick several hundred dollars when hartwick left," declared diamond. "just the same, hartwick is back in new haven and in is chummy with ditson again," asserted jones. merriwell displayed some interest. "how do you know he is chummy with ditson?" he asked. "i have seen them together!" "that means something!" cried rattleton, excitedly. "those pads are cotting--i mean those cads are plotting! you want to look out for trouble, merry!" "i will!" exclaimed frank. "ditson is treading on dangerous ground. if he makes a break, i'll descend on him. i have been easy with a chap of his treacherous nature quite long enough." "too long!" burst fiercely from diamond. "if i had been in your place i'd ended mr. ditson's career long ago." "i don't know what the fellows can do to injure me," said frank. "they'll find some way to give it to you if you don't watch out," said rattleton. "perhaps one of them hired that fellow to lame your horse." "perhaps so." "you think a great deal of that horse," said jack. "you want to be constantly on your guard or something will happen to it." "toots is on the watch, and any one will have hard work getting the best of that darky. he is about as sharp as they make 'em." "he is a very clever coon," admitted harry; "and he seems to know his business, still you can't tell what may happen." "i wouldn't have anything happen to nemo for worlds. i don't quite understand why i think so much of that horse, but he is a wonderfully intelligent creature." "don't tell that you care so much for him. if your enemies were to find it out they would scheme to fix nemo." "i'd have no mercy on the person that injured that horse." "what's the matter with your dog, jack?" asked robinson. "he is acting in a very queer manner." prince was sniffing at the door, whining and growling, while the hair on his neck bristled in a significant manner. diamond got up and quickly approached the door. in a moment he flung it open, and out shot prince. there was a sound of swiftly retreating feet, a clatter on the stairs, a scramble, a shout of pain or fear, and a sudden blow. "quick, fellows!" cried jack, excitedly. "prince has found an eavesdropper!" they rushed out, they sprang down the stairs, and at the foot they found the dog, apparently in a dazed condition, but with a piece of cloth in his mouth. "good dog!" cried jack. "where is he?" prince growled and chewed away at the piece of cloth. "he got away," said frank. "he must have struck prince with a heavy cane, or a club, for we heard the blow. the dog was stunned, but he held fast to this piece of the fellow's trousers." "after him!" spluttered rattleton. "he may not be able to get away! we'll try to capture him!" but the effort was vain. the eavesdropper had made good his escape. after a little time the boys all came back to diamond's room. they found jack examining the piece of cloth, which he had taken from the bulldog with no small difficulty. "it is from somebody's trousers," said jack, seriously. "whoever the sneak was, he'll have to buy a new pair. he hit prince a frightful blow behind the ear, but the good old fellow held fast to this trophy." "if we'd nabbed the fellow, we wouldn't have done a thing to him--not a thing!" cried griswold. "see if any of you fellows recognize this piece of cloth as belonging to the clothing of any chap you know," invited diamond. they all examined it. "if i mistake not," said dismal jones, "this came from a certain section of a certain individual's trousers, and the section to which i refer is located about eight inches south of the back strap." "and the fellow," exclaimed robinson, "the fellow is----" "roland ditson!" finished rattleton. "in that case," said diamond, "merriwell's enemies have received a good tip concerning his fondness for nemo. you will have to be doubly careful about that horse after this, frank." chapter vii. the plot. if roland ditson was the person from whose trousers the piece of cloth had been torn he took good care to destroy what he had retained of the breeches without delay, for they were never again seen in his possession. the figure on the cloth was not pronounced enough to distinguish it in a manner to make it absolute proof that it came from a garment owned by roland. nevertheless diamond accused ditson of listening at his door, but roll vigorously denied that he had done so. diamond told him he was a natural-born prevaricator, and let it go at that. but ditson was watched like a hawk by the boy from virginia, for jack felt sure the fellow was up to crookedness. frank merriwell knew that if ditson had been listening to the conversation that was taking place in that room his enemies must know in what light he regarded nemo. this caused frank to caution both toots and grody to redouble their vigilance in watching over and caring for the splendid creature. "don' yo' worry about me, marser frank," assured the darky lad. "dat's de fines' hawse dat dis chile ebber seen, an' i'se gwan ter watch ober heem lek he wus de apple ob mah eye." "i have decided to enter nemo in the mystic park races at bethany, toots," merriwell declared, "and i think i'll let you ride him, my boy." toots showed two rows of gleaming ivories and beamed with the greatest delight. "if yer done dat, marser frank, i'se gwan ter win on dat hawse jes ez shore ez yeh bawn, sar!" he cried. "i'se done rid dat critter enough teh know he's a wondah, sar. dat hawse is wuf a forchune, sar!" "if you win, toots, i may give you a chance to ride him in some races later in the season." "if i don' win dat race, i done hope i nebber dror annodder bref, sar!" cried the darky boy, excitedly. "dat'll show yo' what yo' kin do at de coney islan' races. if yo's gwan ter gamble on dat hawse, yo's a dead sho' winnar, sar!" "i am not much of a gambler, toots, but i may back nemo for a little something." "yo'll win, marser frank. if dis darky ebber knowed what he wus talking about yo'll win!" frank's enemies seemed remarkably quiet, but something told him that every move he made was watched. this was true, and they soon knew exactly what races he intended to enter nemo for, and that the darky was going to ride the horse. one night harris, hartwick, harlow, ditson and mike hogan met in the saloon where they had first formed a combine against merriwell. they were there by appointment, called together by hartwick, who seemed to have assumed the leadership. hartwick was taking no chances on any thin partitions, and so he secured a little back room in the place, where it seemed that nothing could be overheard by any one who might chance to be watching them. drinks were ordered, and when they were brought and the waiter had departed hartwick said: "gentlemen, we may as well get down to business at once. i have called you together to make arrangements for striking a blow at our common enemy." "well, i think it's erbout time!" growled mike hogan. "i've been wantin' ter do something fer a long while, but you have kept holdin' me back." "you have been too much on the jump, my friend," said hartwick, scowling. "if we'd let you gone it alone you'd had merriwell on his guard, and that would have ruined everything." "it strikes me that merriwell is on his guard now," observed harris. "he acts as if he knew there was something in the wind." "well, he doesn't know what." "i don't know about that, either. he guards that horse as if the animal was worth its weight in dollar bills." "which comes entirely from the fact that hogan here tried to knock the horse out once," declared harlow. "i don't know about that, either," said hartwick. "but i want to say one thing here and now: if there's any one of this party who is playing double and carrying information to merriwell, he'd better order his own coffin without delay, for he is bound to be found out, and we'll throw him cold in a minute." he looked at ditson in a most significant manner as he said this, but roll showed no signs of guilt. "well, what's yer plan of war, boss?" asked hogan, impatiently. "don't get in too much of a hurry," scowled hartwick. "we know merriwell intends to enter nemo in the mystic park races, at bethany." "yes." "that is the time to get at him." "how?" "he has money to burn. get him to back nemo for large sums for any of the first three positions. give him all sorts of odds, if necessary; but get him to chuck up the dough, and then beat him out." "that's all right," growled hogan; "but where's the dough comin' from what is shoved up against his good stuff?" "let me alone for that," said hartwick, significantly. "i know a way to get it, and we'll have it. i wish we might get merriwell to stake his entire fortune on that horse. we'd end his career at yale." harris laughed. "i'd like to know how you are going to get so much money, hart?" he cried. "why, i had to lend you twenty as capital the last game of poker you entered." "don't let anything worry you if you don't know all about it, sport," advised hartwick. "you've got your twenty back, haven't you?" "yes." "well, you can't kick." "all right; but i'm afraid your scheme won't work out very well." "it will, just as hard, if we can depend on mike here to make sure merriwell's horse does not win." "watcher want me ter do?" asked mike. "doctor the animal at the last moment, if you can't buy off the jockey." "that's easy! but where does my share of ther profits come in?" "you shall have your share, don't you worry. we'll have that all arranged in advance." "then that goes! i am with yer, gents." "what are the rest of us to do?" asked harris. "there will be something for all of us to do. ditson must continue to play the spy on merriwell." "and that's the most dangerous job of all!" cried roll. "you know what came near happening to me the night i found out merriwell intended to put nemo in the mystic park races. i was nearly chewed up by diamond's dog." "but you escaped with your life," said harris. "because i took that cane with the loaded end. if it hadn't been for that the infernal dog would have eaten me. i hit him an awful blow. it would have killed any other dog." "well," said harlow, "we'll strike a different kind of a blow directly--one that will do more than lay out a dog." chapter viii. taking chances. it was the day of the spring races at mystic park, and bethany was filled with strangers. horsemen, sporting men, sightseers, touts, race-track gamblers, women in gay attire, and all the different kinds of persons usually seen at a country horse race in the state of connecticut were on hand. a number of yale lads had come up to bethany to attend the races. the most of them were friends of frank merriwell. some of his enemies were there, also. frank had brought nemo up himself, and he scarcely slept the night before the races. he felt that there was danger in the air. nemo had been entered in the "free for all," and his name was on the bills. frank had been informed that he would be given odds that his horse did not take a purse. he had received an anonymous letter ridiculing him for thinking of entering such a horse. he had been taunted and told that he dared not stake money on nemo. merriwell knew well enough that there was a plot afloat, and it seemed that the scheme was to make him lose money on his horse. if he had been timid he would have hesitated about backing nemo for anything; but the ones who had been taunting him had reckoned well on his mettle, and they had succeeded in pricking his pride and arousing him. frank had seen nemo work on a track with toots in the saddle. he had timed the horse repeatedly, and he felt confident that nemo could not fail to take a position if he were in proper form when he entered the race. frank sent for money. he demanded it. his guardian did not feel like refusing, as he remembered that his last effort to suppress frank had resulted in a most painful train of incidents, the culmination being his arrest for kidnaping a baby. he sent frank a check for the sum desired. when bethany was reached merriwell was approached by a tall, thin man, who wore a prince albert coat and looked like a parson. this man introduced himself as john baldwin, and he proved to be very "smooth." frank knew in a moment that the stranger was trying to catch him for a sucker. he felt like knocking the man down, but, instead of that, he bet three hundred and fifty dollars against a thousand dollars that nemo would take a purse in the "free for all." john baldwin departed, apparently looking for other bloods who wished to take flyers. but frank was to see baldwin again. the man came back and in the most sneering manner possible, offered to let him out of his bet for fifty dollars. he told frank that nemo was a "dead one" and could not even crawl. the result was that merriwell bet the man five hundred even that nemo would take a purse, and there were but three purses in the "free for all." after baldwin departed the second time frank regretted that he had not booted the insolent fellow. "never mind," thought the lad. "i'll win his cash all right." in the morning there was a row in the stable where nemo was kept. toots was found vigorously punishing a flashily dressed negro. "tek dat, yo' dirty brack nigger!" shouted toots, as he smashed the other fellow on the nose. "yo' cayn't com' 'roun' dis chile wid none ob yere 'swinuations an' yore offers ob money to throw de race! i'll kick part ob yore panjaloons clean out frough de top of yore hade, yo' brack son ob a gun!" the colored boy fought like a furious tiger, and the other fellow, after trying to strike back a few times, took to his heels, leaving a smashed silk hat behind him. "what's the matter, toots?" asked frank, who had rushed to the scene of the conflict, accompanied by others. "mattah, sar?" cried toots, fiercely. "why, dat brack whelp come call me out ob de stall har, an' he says to me, says he, 'if yo' pulls nemo so he don' take a purse it am wuff two hundred dollars to yo'.' an' he flashes his roll ob bills in mah face. i didn't wait fo' no mo' conwersashun, sar, but i jes' soaked him a dandy under der ear." "good boy, toots!" laughed frank. "you're all right!" "well, w'en dey fools 'roun' dis chile dey strikes hot stuff," grinned the boy. frank knew now that there was a "job" to knife him in the race. rattleton and diamond were on hand, and they took turns in helping toots keep guard over nemo. merriwell was angry. he went out looking for john baldwin. when he found baldwin he offered to bet all the money he had about him that nemo would take either the first or the second purse. baldwin snapped at the bet in a manner that showed he believed he had a "soft thing." "you'll go back to yale broke," he sneered. "don't let that worry you," returned frank, coolly. "it strikes me that the fellow who is furnishing you with cash stands a chance of dropping something." "you say that very mildly. you're scared now." "if i had more money about my clothes i'd put it all up." "that shows what an easy thing you are. i'll take your paper against my good money, and now you don't dare do a thing." "how much do you want to risk that way?" "any sum you like." "i'll go you for five hundred." "done." frank had made the original selection of stakeholder, and he had chosen a man who was interested in the track, but was known to be perfectly square. this choice had proved satisfactory to baldwin. once more this man was hunted up, and he felt it his duty to caution frank. the boy simply smiled. "don't lose any sleep about me, mr. davis," said frank, quietly. "it isn't necessary." twenty minutes after this bet was made john baldwin informed evan hartwick. "good!" cried hartwick, fiercely. "if i get hold of that piece of paper i'll use it to ruin frank merriwell at yale. i can do it! nemo must be fixed for fair!" then he rushed away. "oh, well!" said baldwin, with a satisfied smile; "i don't care which way the wind blows now. i have made my commission on this work to-day, and i have nothing to lose. if those fellows slip up in their plans it won't be my funeral." then he lighted a cigar and strolled away. rattleton and diamond watched nemo closely, permitting toots to get an hour's sleep. then the colored boy came out feeling first rate, and merriwell showed up to take his friends to have something to eat. "by jove!" he exclaimed, with a happy laugh. "one of you fellows will have to loan me the money to settle for the feed. i've staked every cent on nemo, and i haven't enough left to purchase a sandwich." "whew!" whistled diamond. "haven't you been plunging pretty steep, old man?" "oh, i don't know!" smiled frank. "we'll have money to start a conflagration with when we return to new haven." "i think so," agreed jack; "but there are slips." "now, toots," said frank, "we are going to leave nemo in your care for a short time. you know what i expect of you." "yes, sar, an' you may 'pend on me, sar." "all right, my boy. come on, fellows." away the three went, arm in arm, laughing and joking, like the light-hearted fellows they were. ten minutes after they left toots decided to give nemo some water. he stepped out of the stall for a bucket. as he picked it up he fancied he heard a suspicious sound inside the stall, and he hurried back. when the colored boy stepped into the stall he saw a tough-looking young man in a plaid suit offering nemo an apple. it was mike hogan. "g'wan frum dat hawse, man!" shouted toots, as he flung the bucket straight at mike's head. the bucket struck hogan, knocked him down, and he lay stunned almost beneath the feet of frank merriwell's racer. an hour later the starter's flag had fallen and the "free for all" at mystic park had begun. among the spectators were three lads who were excitedly watching the beginning of the race. they were hartwick, harlow and harris. "if that horse is doctored i'm a fool!" declared harlow, his eyes fastened on frank merriwell's nemo. "he must be--he must be!" palpitated hartwick, whose eyes were bloodshot and whose face was flushed so that it betrayed he had been drinking heavily. "nemo starts all right," said harris, in an agitated voice. "i should not wonder if harlow were right, hartwick, my boy." "then hogan has betrayed me!" came gratingly from hartwick. "if he has i'll have his life!" "where is the fellow?" asked harlow. "he should be on hand." "that's right, where is he?" echoed harris. "he has not reported." "but he was sure he would not fail," said hartwick. "he had everything fixed with one of the stablemen, and he said he knew he could get into nemo's stall." "all the same i'll wager that frank merriwell will come out on top again," fluttered harris. "it is just his luck. perhaps he has outwitted us in some way." "no! no!" exclaimed hartwick, with sudden satisfaction. "see--see there! already nemo is dropping behind black boy. pawnee is in the lead, fanny d. is second, lightfoot is third, and now black boy has pushed ahead of nemo! ha! ha! ha! everything is all right! hogan has done his work, and the stuff is beginning to tell on merriwell's racer at just the right time. we'll send the fellow back to yale penniless, and then i will jump on him with his paper. i'll expose him as a race-track gambler, a fraud, a swindler! i'll ruin his college career, as he ruined mine! but i'll not be satisfied then. i'll hound him till he is weary of his life! i'll make him remember the day he dared lift his hand against evan hartwick! i can feel his blow now! it left a mark on my cheek. that mark is not there now, but the scar is on my heart! nothing can cure it but full and absolute reprisal! this is my first triumph!" hartwick almost frothed at the mouth, and his reddish eyes glared as if there were a glowing furnace within his passionate soul. evan's companions looked at him with awe, and harris shivered a bit, drawing a little away. the passions of the revengeful lad had been wonderfully aroused by the liquor he had taken, and he showed at his very worst just then. "toots does not seem to be pushing nemo as he might," muttered harlow. "the boy is taking it easy. if i did not know the attempt had failed i should think he had been bought off." "pawnee can't hold the lead," declared harris. "i am willing to bet all i have that he will not take the race." "hang pawnee!" snarled hartwick. "i do not care which horses secure the purses, if merriwell's animal is not one of them." "well, it begins to look as if you were safe," came with some satisfaction from harlow. "black boy is the favorite and he is crawling now. already he is neck and neck with lightfoot." hartwick's hand shook as he adjusted the field glasses he held and brought them to bear on the racing horses. "it's all right. i know it's all right!" he muttered, hoarsely. "lightfoot is holding the lead on nemo. frank merriwell's horse is fifth, and the animal will not hold out to get around the track. i believe nemo is swaying now. the horses behind are gaining! ha! ha! how it will wring merriwell's heart to see his beauty come in last!" "this is early," cautioned harris. "they have just reached the quarter now. wait till they pass us before you begin to count your chickens, old man." the spectators grew excited as the racing horses swung around the half-mile track and came flying down toward the judges' stand on their first round. men waved their hats and cheered, the white handkerchiefs of women were fluttering. "black boy! black boy! he is the winner for a thousand!" roared a big man in the grand stand. "fanny d.! fanny d.!" shouted another. "she is taking the lead!" this was true. pawnee, as harris had declared, proved unequal to the task of holding the lead. in the second quarter fanny d. crept alongside and gradually forged ahead, for all that black boy's rider used whip and voice. poor old lightfoot was steadily losing ground, and hartwick ground his teeth as he saw nemo come into fourth place. still it did not seem that merriwell's horse had made a spurt. and then, as the horses came thundering down the track, a sudden change seemed to come over the black boy on nemo's back. he leaned far forward, and appeared to be talking into nemo's ears, which were laid almost straight back. he cut the air with his whip, but the lash did not fall on the glossy coat of the handsome animal. "look!" palpitated harlow. "see nemo! the creature has awakened! that horse is all right! hartwick, i believe merriwell will secure third money, after all." "not on your life!" ground forth evan, his eyes glaring. "the creature is doing his best now." as the foremost racers shot past the judges' stand at the expiration of the first half, it was seen that fanny d. had taken the lead away from pawnee, while black boy was steadily gaining. although nemo had shown a streak of speed he had not grown dangerous. but now came the time when the mettle of the racers was to be tested. black boy responded nobly to whip and voice. he went ahead in a marvelous manner. he was soon nose and nose with pawnee, and then he took second place, with his nose at fanny d.'s flank. but there was another change. again the black boy on the back of frank merriwell's racer leaned forward and talked into the ears of the horse, and then came a spurt that caused hundreds of spectators to gasp with amazement. pawnee struggled nobly to hold third place, but nemo passed him, and evan hartwick nearly choked with fury. then it was seen that nemo was gaining on the others. he crept up beside black boy till they were nearly even, and thus the two animals passed fanny d. at the end of the third quarter. when the home stretch was reached black boy was leading by a neck, with nemo second and fanny d. third. evan hartwick was nearly beside himself with rage. the language that came from his lips cannot be printed here. in vain his companions tried to calm him. he cursed them both, and struck at them. then the voice of another person was heard. "i slipped on the trick, boss. they caught me, and they didn't do a thing to me--not a thing! my head was near broke and they made me take a bite outer ther apple i was tryin' to feed ther horse. it'd killed me if they'd made me eat ther whole of the apple. i'm sorry, but----" it was mike hogan, his brutal face pale and drawn, if he were, indeed, ill, and a bloody handkerchief tied about his head. "your head was near broken!" snarled hartwick. "you bungling fool! i'll finish the job!" and then he hit mike in the face with his fist. they grappled and fell, and, as the other lads were trying to pull them apart, there came a great shout that announced the race was over. the crowd was heard cheering. "which won?" was the question harlow paused to ask. "nemo came in first by a full length," replied a spectator. then hogan was dragged off hartwick, who lay pallid and still on his back, looking as if the end had come for him. two nights later a jolly party gathered in frank merriwell's room to offer him congratulations. there were speeches, songs, toasts and jests. "how much will you take for nemo now, merriwell?" asked jack diamond. "i want to buy him and send him south to my father." "you can't," laughed frank. "your father hasn't money enough to buy the dear old boy." "but what are you going to do with him?" asked rattleton. "you must think of the future." "not now," smiled merriwell. "to-morrow is my queen's birthday, and i am thinking of the present." bruce browning loafed into the room. "heard the news, fellows?" he asked. "no; what is it?" cried several voices. "hartwick's been arrested." "arrested? what for?" "for robbing his own father of seven thousand dollars. he knew how to get at the old gentleman's dough, and he swiped it several days ago. he's been burning money since then." "was the robbery committed before the mystic park races?" asked frank. "sure, my boy." "then that explains why the mysterious man in black followed me up and drove me into so many bets. he had hartwick's money, and hartwick was behind the entire game. well, all his plots miscarried and he got it in the neck at last." "which served him right," declared jack diamond, with satisfaction. chapter ix. a strong accusation. after the great horse race matters moved along smoothly for some time. frank worked hard over his studies and made fine progress. he did not dare race nemo again, for the college authorities would not permit it, in the face of what had been said about betting. frank had gotten rid of some of his enemies for the time being, but there were others, those who could not stand it to see him become such a general hero. one evening a crowd of these gathered in a resort known as jackson's. all had been drinking freely, and it was not long before every tongue was loosened. in the crowd were several students that my old readers have met before. they included a hot-headed lad named tom thornton, a fussy fellow called puss parker, and fred flemming, willis paulding, andy emery and tad horner. earlier in the evening they had met at morey's, but found they could not talk privately there, as the place was filled with students. then thornton had given them the tip to go down to jackson's, a place sometimes patronized by the students, although it did not exclude the general public. jackson's was known as a "joint," and very few of the college lads cared to have it known that they ever went there; but it was a place where a private room could be obtained in which to drink, gamble, or carouse, and for this reason it appealed to a certain class of students. it was in this place that frank had exposed the gambler, rolf harlow, and broken up the game by which harlow and harris were bleeding a certain number of "lambs." in getting together his party, thornton had chosen the ones who seemed to have sympathy with himself and fred flemming, or held a grudge against frank merriwell. merriwell's name had not been mentioned until all had indulged very freely in wine, thornton being the most generous in "blowing off." then came a discussion about college sports, over which all had grown more or less heated. at length merriwell's name was mentioned, and then thornton declared frank a cad. "by jawve!" drawled willis paulding, allowing cigarette smoke to escape from his mouth as he spoke, "i agree with you, thornton, don't yer 'now. i nevah could bear that fellaw merriwell." tad horner gave a sniff. "merriwell would feel bad if he knew it," observed tad, sarcastically. "it would break him all up." "that would not make the least difference to me, my dear fellaw," declared willis, who was too dense to catch the sarcasm. "i have nevah twaveled awound with him." "i have noticed that," grinned tad. "you have permitted him to avoid you in a most astonishing manner." "what have you against merriwell, thornton?" asked parker. "i didn't know you were so down on him. you both played on the football team last fall." "and merriwell made a record for himself by winning the game for yale," said andy emery. thornton laughed sneeringly, showing his perfect white teeth. "merriwell is always making a record for himself at something," he returned. "i'd rather have his luck than be born rich. if any other fellow on the team had obtained the ball at that particular moment, he could have gone through princeton's line as well as merriwell did, for yale's interference was simply marvelous, and a clear road was given the runner." emery shook his head. "i think your memory is slightly at fault, old man," he said. "i am sure merriwell bowled over at least one man, and dodged one or two others, besides going down the field like a wild engine, with princeton's fastest runner at his heels and unable to tackle him. oh, it is not all luck with merriwell, thornton, as you would acknowledge, if you were not prejudiced." "you talk as if you are stuck on the fellow!" snarled tom, in his most cutting manner. "but you know i am not. i have held away--have had nothing to do with him." "and that is the reason why i invited you down here to-night." "so? well, i thought there was something more in the wind than a simple discussion of athletics. what's up?" "don't be in a hurry. we'll come to that presently. have another drink all around. this is on me. push the button, horner. i want to order more fizz." "this is too much!" sighed tad, as he pressed the button that communicated with an electric bell at the bar. "if we do not let up, we'll be in rocky shape in the morning." the waiter appeared, and the wine was ordered. when the waiter went out, after serving the order, he left the door communicating with the next room standing open. "gentlemen," cried thornton, lifting his glass of sparkling "fizz," "here's to a break in merriwell's luck. may it come soon." all drank. "i can't quite agree with thornton that it is all luck," said puss parker, lowering his half-emptied glass. "it is not luck that enables merriwell to pitch on the ball team." "oh, i don't know!" exclaimed tom. "if heffiner's arm had not been in bad condition, merriwell would not have obtained the opportunity when he did. if he had not obtained it then, he might not have obtained it at all, for there are several other fellows who can twirl quite as well as he." "they think they can, but i have my doubts." this kind of talk did not satisfy thornton, and he snapped: "i must say i didn't suppose you were one of that cad's sycophants, parker! i fancied you had more stamina than that. next thing you'll be saying that when his horse won the 'free for all' at mystic park it was something more than luck." "from what i have heard, i presume there was a great deal of luck connected with that affair, but that is outside college sports. i did not see the race, but i have heard that all sorts of tricks were tried to put merriwell's horse out of the race." "so his friends have reported; but i take no stock in it. if he ever enters that horse in another race he will lose his socks betting on the beast." "we were talking of rowing a short time ago," said emery. "let's return to our mutton. thornton was kicking because merriwell has made a try for the eight, and seems to stand a good show of getting there. i don't see where thornton's growl comes in. he can't pull an oar." "but flemming can," came quickly from tom; "and he was sure of a position on the eight till merriwell went for a place. like pierson, who captained the ball team last season, collingwood seems to be stuck on merriwell. that's why he has thrown flemming down." "but i thought merriwell's ideas about rowing did not correspond at all with collingwood's ideas?" said tad horner, with unusual gravity. "when merriwell was captain of the freshman crew, he introduced the oxford oar and the oxford stroke. he actually drilled a lot of dummies into the use of the oar and into something like the genuine english stroke. everybody acknowledged it was something marvelous, and one newspaper reporter had the nerve to say that the freshmen had given the 'varsity crew a pointer." "oh, yes," grated thornton, bitterly. "the newspapers have advertised merriwell at every opportunity. remember what a howl they made when he stopped that runaway horse and rescued fairfax lee's daughter. any one would have thought the fellow had done a most marvelous thing, and since then he has been taken into the very swellest new haven society, and he is lionized as if he were something more than a mere snob. it makes me sick!" "there is still some mystery about the fellow," said parker. "how did he happen to know so much about the oxford stroke?" "i've heard that he was at oxford long enough to thoroughly acquaint himself with the english methods," answered emery. "and it has been reported that the fellow has traveled all over the world," said horner. "his rooms are decorated with all sorts of strange weapons, trophies and skins of wild animals, which it is said he gathered in his travels." "bah!" sneered thornton. "i have my doubts about his ever being at oxford, and i take no stock at all in the rest of that guff. it is barely possible that he may have been over to england, but the yarn about his having traveled in south america, africa and europe, is the biggest sort of rot." "well, let it go as rot," said horner; "you must acknowledge that he did something most astonishing with that freshman crew. we did not have the least idea in the world that they could beat us, but we were not in the race on the home stretch." "oh, we thought we had a soft thing, that's all. if we'd dreamed we had a hard race coming, we'd won all right." "that may be, but i am not so sure. still, if merriwell could do so much with a lot of freshmen, what might not be done if the same methods were used with the 'varsity crew?" "bah!" cried thornton again. "that sort of rot makes me sick! bob collingwood has his own ideas, and he will not accept suggestions from any one, although i think he was a fool to throw down flemming for merriwell. flem did great work on the football team, and he is in condition to make a special effort at rowing this spring, while merriwell is obliged to play ball as well." "i don't see how merriwell does so many things and does them so well," confessed tad horner. "oh, he is one of the chaps who has the nerve to try anything, and will stumble through anything after a fashion. nine times out of ten those fellows are never heard from after they leave college. the fellow who takes some branch of athletics at college and sticks to it is likely to select some line of business when he has graduated, and stick to that. he is not diving into everything, and making a success of nothing." "but merriwell seemed to be diving into everything, and making a success of everything. he is put up differently than most fellows." "he showed his caddishness in introducing the english oar and stroke when he was captain of the freshman crew. he would ape things english, and in that line he makes a failure, at least." "by jawve! that is wight, don't yer 'now," drawled willis paulding, who had visited london once on a time and endeavored to be "awfully english" ever since. "he has not cawt the english air and expression, don't yer understand. he--aw--makes a wegular failyaw of that, deah boys." "oh, say!" cried tad horner, "don't pile on the agony quite so thickly, paulding. it is nauseating!" "merriwell may not try to ape english manners and speech," said thornton, "but he is a cad, just the same, and the friends he has made here at yale are a lot of thin-blooded, white-livered creatures. look at them! there is bruce browning, once called 'king of the sophomores,' but cowed and bested by merriwell, to be afterward dropped a class. there is jack diamond, a boastful southerner. he forced merriwell to fight, but fawned about merriwell's feet like a cur when whipped." "you lie, sir!" by the open door a supple, well-built, dark-faced lad sprang into the room. his eyes were flashing, and his teeth came together over his words with a click. it was jack diamond himself! chapter x. a fight against odds. "diamond!" "great scott!" "here's trouble!" the lads about the table sprang to their feet, giving utterance to these exclamations. willis paulding was the only one who did not say anything, and he failed to speak because the sound seemed to stick in his throat. diamond's manner showed that he was fully aroused by what he had overheard, and that he meant "fight" was evident. the hot blood of the old south was pulsating in his veins and flaming darkly, like a danger signal, in his face. pointing straight at tom thornton, jack slowly and distinctly said, his manner showing the struggle he was making to hold himself in check: "mr. thornton, you are a liar! more than that, mr. thornton, you know you are a liar!" thornton quailed a bit, and then, in sudden fury, he flung back: "and you are an eavesdropper, jack diamond. eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves!" the muscles of the virginian's face twitched, and his clinched hands were quivering. "by accident i overheard what you were saying," he declared. "i was looking for a friend, and so came into this place, which i seldom visit. i was told a party of students had gathered here, and as i entered the room adjoining, i heard my name spoken by you--i heard you declare that, like a cur, i fawned about merriwell when he had whipped me." "and i say it again!" cried thornton, hotly. "it is the truth. your boasted southern courage is a sham. you have shown that." diamond walked forward to the table. "mr. thornton," he said, "you are among friends, and i am alone, but i brand you as a liar!" as he uttered the words he picked up a partly emptied glass of wine and dashed the contents in thornton's face. "there!" he cried, dashing the glass to the floor; "i have expressed myself! you cannot mistake my meaning, sir!" thornton whipped out a handkerchief and wiped the liquid from his eyes. then he dropped the handkerchief, and caught up a wine-bottle, with which weapon he leaped at jack. parker caught thornton's uplifted arm just in time to keep him from trying to break the bottle over diamond's head. "do you want to kill him?" exclaimed puss, excitedly. "yes," snarled thornton, "i will kill him!" "pray do not interfere with the fellow, mr. parker," urged jack, his voice shaking with passion. "i will take care of myself." "you'd better get out of here!" came fiercely from parker. "you have no business here!" "i have business in any place where i am lied about and insulted, sir! let him alone, and i will agree to give him all the fight he desires!" now, for the first time, fred flemming stepped forward. he was a big fellow, and was known to be a fierce fighter, with the inclinations of a bully. "i think we'll give you a thumping before we let you go, diamond, just to teach you a lesson," he said, in a most insolent manner. "i've wanted to get at you or your friend merriwell for some time." "you--you get at merriwell!" flung back jack. "why, he'd do you up with his right hand tied behind him!" "you think so because he did you. well, i am going to break your face, and then merriwell may pick it up, if he dares." he threw off his coat in a moment, and then came at jack, crying to the others: "close the door! don't let anybody in here till i have fixed this sneak as i will fix merriwell when i get at him! close the door!" willis paulding started to obey, but before he could swing the door shut it was flung open with such violence that willis was sent tumbling to the floor. into the room leaped frank merriwell, and he placed himself between diamond and his would-be assailant. "wait a moment, flemming," he said, with the utmost self-possession. "it is not necessary for you to waste your energies on mr. diamond." it was a most dramatic tableau, as every lad stood motionless and staring for some seconds. there was a strong contrast between diamond and merriwell. jack was literally quivering with passion, while frank actually smiled serenely into flemming's face, as if he thoroughly enjoyed the situation. but those who knew merriwell best said that in times of trouble he was the most dangerous when he smiled. "so you are around!" flemming finally growled. "how did you happen in here? were you playing the eavesdropper also?" "i happened to be passing the saloon, and i thought i saw my friend diamond come in here," explained frank, calmly. "i wondered what could bring him into such a place, and so i entered likewise. they said he had come back here. i came also. that is how i happened to arrive at precisely the right moment." "you'll find it was precisely the wrong moment!" cried flemming. "close and fasten the door, boys! we'll jump on these two cads, and do them up now and at once! come on!" "i don't know but it will be a good time to settle a few old scores with them," said emery, becoming aroused. "it will do them good to show them they can be licked!" "that goes!" shouted puss parker. "six to two--three to one!" laughed frank. "oh, well, that's not so bad. come on, my brave fellows! we'll do our best to make it interesting, eh, jack?" "oh, all i want is a chance at thornton!" panted the virginian. willis paulding was quivering with excitement. he thought he saw his opportunity, and he lost no time in improving it. he had hated merriwell from the first, but never had he dared do anything to injure frank. now, grasping his heavy cane, he slipped forward and came up behind merriwell. swish--crack! the cane cut through the air and fell on merriwell's head, dropping the lad in a senseless heap to the floor. it was a cowardly blow, but it put merriwell out of the fight in a twinkling, for he was stunned. "so this is the way you fight!" cried diamond, wheeling about and leaping at willis, who gave a scream and vainly tried to escape. jack caught the fellow, grasped him by the ears, and flung him back against the wall. thump! thump! thump!--jack banged the head of the helpless wretch against the wall till it seemed that paulding's skull would crack. willis tried to scream for help, but with the very first thump his tongue was caught between his teeth, and he nearly bit it in two. blood gushed from his mouth, and he sunk in a limp heap to the floor as jack released him. diamond turned quickly, but not in time to escape flemming, whose heavy fist caught the virginian behind the ear. down jack went. as he tried to get up flemming kicked him over. the sound of the fight had aroused those in the front of the saloon, and several came hurrying in. the door had not been closed, as flemming had directed, and the curious ones gained easy admission to the room. among the foremost was plug kirby, a tough of the town, whom frank had once whipped. he saw frank stretched on the floor, and he hoarsely demanded: "who done that job? who hit me friend merriwell? show me der blokie, an' i'll punch der face offen him instanter!" thrusting out his chin, kirby glared around at the boys. at best, he was an ugly-looking scoundrel, with a bullet head and a bulldog neck. "so you are one of merriwell's friends!" sneered flemming. "that speaks well for merriwell!" "w'at's dat?" snarled plug, advancing on fred. "dat merriwell is white ter ther bone, an' i sticks by him--see! dis gang has done him dirt, an' i'm goin' ter punch der mugs offen der whole of yer!" "merriwell should be proud of his friends!" cried flemming, scornfully. "it is plain that he has been very careful in his selection!" "an' it's plain ter me dat merriwell has been took foul, else yer never'd knocked him out dis way. i've been up ag'inst him, an' he could lick dis whole gang if he had a square deal." then kirby pointed straight at flemming, and fiercely exclaimed: "i t'ink you're der bloke w'at done him dirt! i'm goin' ter knock der packin' outer youse, me fine chap!" he rushed at fred, who caught up a chair and struck at kirby's head. plug dodged, caught hold of the chair, and wrenched it from flemming's grasp. "right here is where i cleans out der place!" he shouted. he swung the chair aloft, and the boys made a rush to get out of the room. whiz!--the chair flew through the air, striking fred flemming between the shoulders, knocking him down instantly. then the police came in suddenly, and clubbed kirby into a helpless condition, while all the others, with the exception of merriwell and diamond, escaped from the place. jack was examining frank's wound when they were both placed under arrest. "what is this for?" demanded the young virginian. "what have we done to merit arrest? why didn't you take those fellows who got the better of us in such cowardly ways?" "don't ask questions!" growled one of the officers. "you'll have a chance to answer a few when yer come before the judge in the morning." those words filled diamond with a feeling of terror. he knew what it would mean if they were brought up before a magistrate in the morning. it would become known that they had been arrested in a place like jackson's, and in company with a ruffian of plug kirby's stamp. kirby would claim that frank merriwell was his friend, and that would settle everything. jack saw that it meant disgrace and expulsion for himself and merriwell. flemming and thornton would be triumphant. jack was very proud, and it made him writhe with anguish when he thought how heavily such a blow would fall upon his parents. for a moment he was quite overcome. jackson came into the room. he was greatly excited, and he begged the officers to let the prisoners go, for he knew unpleasant attention would be attracted toward his place if it became publicly known that two students had been arrested there. "it's time we pinched somebody in this joint," said one of the policemen. "there's been more crooked jobs put up here than anywhere else in the city. you oughter lose yer license, jackson, and i rather think yer will this time." jackson had ordered the door closed to keep out the curious crowd that had been attracted by sounds of the conflict. one of the bartenders was standing guard over the door. the saloon-keeper drew one of the policemen aside, and spoke earnestly and excitedly to him. the officer shook his head, and replied: "we've overlooked things that went on here till it won't do no longer, jackson. there has been complaints against this joint, and ye're lucky that we don't pull the whole shooting-match." the other officer now took a fair look at merriwell, who was sitting up and feeling tenderly of his head. "why, hello!" exclaimed the policeman. "i t'ink i knows you!" "hello, magoon!" returned frank, rather faintly. "i hope you didn't hit me that crack over the head with your stick?" "i do know yer!" cried the officer. "ye're ther boy what stopped ther horse and saved fairfax lee's girl! you're all right!" "my friend there says we're arrested, magoon. how about it?" "we didn't know it was you, but ther job is done now," said the policeman, apologetically. "well, can't this matter be fixed up?" asked frank, anxiously. "you know what it will mean to me if i am pulled up before a magistrate in the morning. everything will come out, and then i'll be expelled from college." "that's rocky," admitted magoon; "but what can i do? i can't let you off without lettin' the others go." "well, why shouldn't you let my friend diamond go? we were up against six fellows, and it seems that we got the worst of it. those chaps are the ones who should be arrested." "but we didn't catch 'em." "you caught us because we had been foully knocked out by the crowd," declared jack. "we were taken at an advantage, and did not have any kind of a show. now are we to suffer while the ones who were to blame go free?" "you made a big mistake in coming into this kind of a joint," declared the officer, severely. "and you were arrested at the same time with plug kirby, a tough of the lowest order. that's what gits you in a hole. if we lets you go, we've got to let him go." then diamond explained how kirby happened to be in the room, and frank added light to the matter by telling how he came to know the thug, who had been hired to whip him once on a time, but who had received a severe thumping instead. "and that is how it happens that he claims you for his friend?" asked magoon, grinning. "you hammered friendship into him?" "that's right," said frank. "he has been ready to do anything for me ever since that night." "well, i must say that's the first thing i ever knowed about plug kirby that made me feel like goin' easy with him! and he was fighting for you against the crowd? i'll have a word with murphy." two of the officers drew aside, while the third stood guard at the door. after a few moments, jackson was called up by magoon, and the trio spoke in low tones. frank was keeping watch of all that passed, and he saw jackson take something out of his pocket and slip it into murphy's hand. "that lets us out, jack," said merriwell, guardedly. "jackson has fixed it with the officers." "if you're right, we are dead lucky," muttered diamond. "it began to look as if we were booked for our walking-papers." "which would have pleased certain young gentlemen who do not admire us very much." "they would have held a jubilee over it. with you out of the way, flemming would have gone on the crew. he has suddenly come to hate you because he thinks you have shut him out from that position." "scarcely do i settle with one set of enemies before another rises up to make it interesting for me," said frank. "i believe i have more enemies than any other fellow at yale." "and you have more friends. any man who is as popular as you is certain to have enemies. you arouse the envy of the weak and shallow, and the jealousy of those who would become your rivals, but are incompetent to become your equals. at the same time, you are able to command a larger following than any fellow at yale. you are a leader in everything, and it is certain that you will be able to make your choice of the junior societies next year. it is no more than natural that you should have bitter foes who desire your downfall." "well, my enemies have not succeeded very well with their plots thus far. if we get out of this scrape all right, i'll give my attention to this new gang who have rallied around fred flemming, for he is evidently the leader." "yes, he is the leader, and tom thornton is his first officer. if you give your attention to flemming, i will look after mr. thornton. is that settled?" "it is settled." "good! now we'll see if jackson has fixed matters." one of the policemen was having a talk with plug kirby. kirby seemed rather sullen and obstinate. "i weren't doin' notting to git me head t'umped like dis," he muttered, sulkily. "me frien' merriwell was bein' jumped by a gang, an' i went in fer ter back him up. you cops lets der gang git off, an' den yer pinches us. i don't care wot yer do wid me, an' i don't make no promises. go on wid yer deal." here frank merriwell stepped in. "you profess to be a friend of mine, kirby," he said. "dat's wot i am, pal," nodded the tough. "then show it. if i am pulled up before a magistrate, it is pretty sure that i'll be expelled from college, which will be rough on me. if you are my friend, you will agree to keep your mouth shut about this affair. if you are my enemy, you will refuse." "well, pal, if yer puts it dat way, i can't refuse yer. i did kinder reckon you'd stan' by me when i was hauled up, an' i t'ought your influence might fix t'ings; but, if it's der way you say, i'll take me medicine, an' never open me trap. is dat satisfactory?" "you have not been placed under arrest at all--understand that?" demanded officer murphy. "sure." "and you know nothing about a row in this place. catch on?" "sure." "you're doing this for your friend merriwell. see?" "sure." "that's all. we'll have a drink all around on jackson, and i'll club the head off you, kirby, if you blow anything." frank took seltzer, while the others drank beer or whiskey, according to their fancy. ten minutes later, merriwell, diamond and kirby were let out of jackson's by the back door. when they were at some distance from the saloon, frank turned to the bruiser and said: "diamond tells me that you got into this trouble by attempting to defend me, kirby. i am sure i appreciate it, but i had rather you would drop calling me your friend. you can do me more harm that way than any other." "all right," nodded plug, gloomily. "dat goes. i know i ain't in your class, an' i don't want ter do yer no hurt. all der same, if i git a chance ter fight fer yer any time, i'll do dat." frank appreciated the kindness of the big bruiser, whose admiration he had won by giving him a severe thrashing. "all right, kirby," he laughed. "i certainly can't object if you want to fight for me. there have been times when i could have found you quite useful in pitting you against ruffians who had tried to injure me. are you down on your luck nowadays?" "well, rudder!" "well, here's a v. go play you are a millionaire." kirby eagerly grasped the five-dollar bill which frank passed him, earnestly exclaiming: "if youse ain't der whites' young cove what i ever seen, i'm a liar! if yer wants me ter do up der whole gang as was ag'inst yer ter-night, jest you say so! i'd like der job." "if i need you, i'll let you know," assured frank. "good-night." plug doffed his battered hat. "good-night, young gent. may ye alwus prosper, an' may old nick take yer enemies." as frank and jack walked toward their rooms in south middle, the virginian observed: "you are the strangest fellow i ever saw, merriwell. when you do make a friend he is ready to go through fire for you, and you make friends of all sorts and conditions of persons. your friends are as firm and unwavering as your enemies are virulent and dangerous." "and still i seldom seek the friendship of any one," declared merriwell. "if they wish to be my friends, i accept them for what they show themselves to be. if they choose to be my enemies, well and good; let them look out for themselves. to-night i have found that a new combine of enemies has risen against me. i know them all, and i shall treat them as they deserve." chapter xi. a matter of speculation. frank spent an hour every afternoon in the gymnasium, where he took such exercise as he considered best, always spending at least a few minutes of the time on one of the rowing machines. a great deal of speculation had been aroused by bob collingwood's determination to take merriwell upon the 'varsity crew. it was known that collingwood was a thorough believer in the american oar and american stroke as opposed to the shorter-bladed oxford oar and the longer english stroke. collingwood had ever seemed thoroughly satisfied with yale methods, and he had expressed his scorn of the oxford method of placing the seats on alternate sides of the boat. it was generally presumed that frank merriwell was thoroughly english in his ideas and beliefs, and it was thought that he was altogether too set to give up what he fancied was right, even though he might get on the crew by so doing. still some one had been forced to give in, and there was much speculation about it. then came the rumor that yale was to have an english coach, and the tongues of the gossips began to wag furiously. "it's a great triumph for frank merriwell!" cried danny griswold to a party of friends gathered in the gym. danny was flushed and perspiring from recent violent exertions on the bars. some of the group about him were in training suits, and some were in street dress. "also a triumph for good old 'umpty-eight," declared ben halliday, with satisfaction. "how is that?" asked bandy robinson. "why," answered halliday, "it was the freshman crew of 'umpty-eight that, under merriwell's instructions, adopted the oxford oar and stroke and defeated 'umpty-seven at saltonstall. do you see?" "vanity, vanity," quoth dismal jones, with the air of a methodist preacher of old times. "they who exalt themselves in high places shall be cast down. beware of false pride and the swelled head." "oh, you are always croaking!" exclaimed lewis little. "i think it is a mistake to run off onto english methods," said burn putnam. "harvard has done that, and they'll say we are following harvard's example." "what if they do say so?" yawned bruce browning, lazily. "what do we care, so long as we win the race at new london?" "but we can't win this year," declared walter gordan, who had been swinging the clubs, and was flushed from the exertion. "it strikes me it is a crazy scheme to attempt to change the oars and the stroke at this late day. harvard has been hammering away at her crew since last fall, and it will be in perfect trim when the new london race comes off, while yale's crew will be all broken up if this change of methods occurs." this seemed logical, and not a few were ready to agree with gordan. harry rattleton came up, and the lads appealed to him at once. "you are merriwell's roommate," said robinson, "and you should know if it is true that yale is going to change her oars and stroke for the oxford oar and stroke." harry grinned mysteriously. "why should i know all this just because i am merriwell's roommate?" he asked. "do you think he knows everything he tells me--i mean do you think he tells me everything he knows?" "of course not, but he'd be sure to tell you this, for you know he introduced english methods with 'umpty-eight last year, and he must be rather proud if collingwood has given in that those methods are preferable to the old yale ways." "if merry were proud of anything, you'd never know it by his words or manner," said harry. "he is not given to boasting." "oh, of course not!" cried little, impatiently. "we all swear by frank merriwell, but what we wish to know is if he has induced collingwood to adopt the oxford oar and stroke." "well, you'll have to ask merriwell, for i will tell you frankly that i don't know. the longer i room with him the less i pry into his affairs, and, if he knows collingwood's plans, he has not seen fit to reveal them to me. that is all, gentlemen." that was anything but satisfactory, as the faces of the assembled lads plainly indicated. "well, it can't be long before we find out!" cried robinson, in disgust. "if yale has whiffled about at this late hour it will show reprehensible weakness and lack of policy. harvard is bound to win. then she will crow. they have won the annual debate right along, so that my old fogy uncle declares all the brains are in harvard. if they win the spring race he'll decide that brawn is going to harvard, as well as brain, and yale is in the decline." "they never won anything fair," declared halliday. "why, i've heard they have men out west all the while searching for new debaters. they claim that harvard don't care to go in for athletics, but takes a leading stand in all intellectual pursuits, such as debating and chess." "chess is certainly a highly intellectual pursuit," drawled browning. "if i had entered harvard i should take an interest in it. debating is too trying. the exertion of standing on one's feet and talking is very severe." "if you would take a little more exertion you might get some of the flesh off you," said putnam. "how did you happen to get fat so suddenly, browning, old man?" "oh, he fell off the roof one day and came down plump," chuckled griswold, mischievously. "here! here! here!" exclaimed rattleton, making a grab at danny, who dodged and slipped out of the way. "you want to let up on that, young fellow." "i have tried to reduce my weight by dieting," said bruce, with apparent seriousness. "i've been in the habit of eating a juicy tenderloin steak twice a day, but i gave that up and tried cheap fifteen-cent steaks instead." "how did you find it?" asked little. "oh, pretty tough," answered browning, with a sly wink. "this isn't what we were talking about," broke in walter gordan, impatiently. "if those harvard willies win from us this spring, it will be a frightful blow for old eli." "if they win it will come from collingwood's shallying about," asserted "deacon" dunning, who had just joined the group. "merriwell's ideas may be all right, but it is too late to adopt them this season. i am merriwell's friend, but i believe fred flemming should have been retained on the crew. by taking in merriwell it may upset everything. flemming is a good man, and merriwell already has more than he can properly attend to." "now you are getting me cot under the hollar--i mean hot under the collar!" exclaimed rattleton, his eyes snapping. "i want to ask you a question, mr. dunning. when have you known frank merriwell to make a failure of anything he has attempted?" "oh, he has been wonderfully successful, i grant that; and i do not doubt but he would have made a good man had he been taken on the crew last fall." "he will make a good man anyway, and you can bet on that!" cried harry. "it is not necessary that there shall be a change of methods because merry has been taken on the crew. although he believes in the superiority of the oxford oar and stroke, he may not think it good policy to attempt to make a change now. but that is not all. merry makes a good leader, but he is also a good follower, and it is his theory that utter obedience is due superiors. i'll wager that he will not intrude his ideas on collingwood. if he does not regulate his stroke with that of the rest of the crew he will soon be dropped, and flemming or some other fellow will have his oar. all this talk you are making is mere speculation, and i advise you to wait a while till you know what you are talking about." having thus delivered himself, rattleton turned away. at this moment frank entered the gymnasium to take his regular exercise. he was accompanied by jack diamond, who had been seen with merriwell very often of late. immediately the group of sophomores decided that one of their number should ask merriwell point-blank if a change to the english methods was contemplated. the choice fell on bandy robinson, who did not relish his job much. robinson approached frank with no little hesitation, and something about his manner seemed to betray his object, for merriwell read his thoughts. "go back," directed frank, grimly--"go back and tell them that they will find out all they want to know by waiting." then he entered one of the dressing-rooms, and robinson retreated, muttering: "it's no use--merriwell seems to know just what a person is thinking about. he is one of the jolliest fellows in the world, and, at the same time, when he takes a fancy, one of the most unapproachable." chapter xii. the challenge. merriwell and diamond entered a dressing-room together. the moment the door closed behind them, frank laughed shortly. "i'll wager that i hit the nail on the head that time," he said. "the moment i saw that knot of fellows talking so excitedly i decided they were speculating concerning the change on the crew, and my eyes told me they had deputized robinson to question me, so i did not give him the chance." "the dropping of flemming and your acceptance in his place has created a stir," said jack. "it is generally thought that you will ruin everything with your english ideas." "that shows how little they know me," smiled merriwell, as he threw off his coat. "i almost fancy it is generally believed that i go in for english methods simply because they are english." "you fancy rightly, merry. the majority of the fellows believe that." a cloud came to frank's face. "i do not care to be misunderstood to such an extent," he said. "i am no anglomaniac; i am american to the bone. i have traveled some, and i prefer this country above all other countries on the face of the earth. i was at oxford long enough to witness the races and make an investigation of their methods. i believe that in the matter of rowing the english are more advanced than the americans. this is not strange, for they have been at it longer. now, although i claim to be thoroughly american, i try not to be narrow and pig-headed. simply because a thing is american, i do not believe it must therefore be superior to everything else in the world; but i am bound to defend it till i find something by which it is excelled. if americans will adopt the english oar and the english stroke, i am confident that, in a very few years, they will so improve upon them that they will be able to give points to our cousins across the 'pond.'" "you are, indeed, broad-minded and liberal, merriwell," said diamond, with admiration. "it was you who first convinced me that northerners no longer hold a feeling of enmity against southerners. till i met you the word 'yankee' seemed to me to be a stigma--a name to be applied in derision to the people of the north. to my astonishment, i found you were proud to be called a yankee, and then you explained to me that foreigners applied the name to all native-born americans. you explained to me that in the early days of this country, when northerner and southerner fought for one common cause, freedom and independence, all who opposed the tyranny of our oppressors were termed yankees. i remember the night when we sat up till two in the morning talking of these things. you did not tell me anything i had not considered before, but you revealed things to me in a new light. you showed me the north and south bound by ties of blood, and i think you aroused in me a broader feeling of patriotism than i had ever before known." the cloud passed from merriwell's face as his companion spoke, and, as diamond finished, frank reached out and took his hand. "you are from the south, i from the north," he said, in his most charming manner; "yet we are brothers. in the north and in the south there are those who still entertain sectional feelings and prejudices, but the time will come when all this will pass away." "i think it is fast passing," declared jack. "it is," nodded frank. "so far as sectional feelings go, there should be no north, no south, no east, no west. we are all united under one flag, the most beautiful of all flags--the star spangled banner! we are all citizens of one country, the greatest and grandest the sun ever shone upon! we should be ready at any time to lay down our lives for our flag and our country." diamond's eyes flashed, and it seemed that the noble look on frank merriwell's face was reflected in jack's. his blood was stirred by the grandest of all emotions--patriotism. looking at the virginian at that moment, no one could for an instant doubt his courage and his loyalty. "i believe we should pay more attention to the early history of our country, when north and south were united against a common foe," continued frank. "that is what will arouse true patriotism. massachusetts had her tea party, but virginia had her--washington!" jack diamond bared his head. "merriwell," he said, with great earnestness, "the greatest enemies of our country are those who try to arouse sectional feeling. i am sure of that." "quite right," said frank. "in the north and in the south there are cheap fellows and cads who pose as gentlemen. you and i have had a few experiences with some of them, and it seems that there are others." "i presume you mean flemming, thornton and their crowd?" "flemming is the leader, and his enmity against me has been aroused because i have been taken on the crew in his place. i did not seek the position, and i was surprised when collingwood called on me to take it." "you were no less surprised than others, for collingwood has always maintained that yale's methods are superior to those of oxford, and he knows you believe quite the opposite. it is a matter of speculation if he intends to change to the english methods at this late hour." frank smiled. "collingwood is not a fool. there will be no change. already i am in training to perfectly acquire the yale stroke." this was both a surprise and a relief to jack, who had feared that collingwood had decided on the change, and that in case harvard won merriwell would be blamed to a certain extent. "i am glad, merry!" exclaimed diamond, his eyes gleaming. "if yale wins and we square matters with flemming and thornton, i shall be perfectly satisfied." "i am hoping to get at mr. flemming this afternoon," said frank, grimly. "how is that?" "he spends some time in the gym every day, and i timed my visit to-day in order to catch him here." "but what can you do here?" asked the virginian, wonderingly. "you can't fight him in the gym." "i do not want to fight him." "no?" cried jack, in astonishment. "then what do you mean to do?" "flemming considers himself the champion wrestler at yale. i hope to wrestle with him." "hope to wrestle?" exclaimed diamond, still more astonished. "why, even if you were to throw him, it could give you very little satisfaction." frank smiled mysteriously. "do you think so?" he inquired. "well, we shall see. when you are ready, we shall go out. i will wrestle with you, and you shall throw me. we'll be near flemming at the time. that will give him an opportunity to pass some remarks, if he so desires. if he does so, you may be sure i will lose no time in picking them up. i am tired of fighting, and i hope to finish this chap in another way." "if you finish him by wrestling with him, i shall consider it a marvel. i am afraid you have misjudged your man, merry; he'll not be finished so easily." "we shall see. are you ready? then come on." they left the dressing-room, frank in advance. as they came out they were regarded with some interest by the knot of sophomores, who were still talking of the surprising change that had been made on the crew. as he passed the lads, frank called pleasantly to them, and they greeted him in return, and the manner in which this was done would have betrayed to a keen-eyed stranger that merriwell was something more than an ordinary man at college. frank's keen eyes detected flemming at the ladders. "that is first rate," he muttered. "the turf is nearby." a few moments later frank was engaged in casting the shot near where fred flemming was exercising on the ladders. at about the time frank fancied flemming would finish, frank gave jack the signal, and they were soon struggling in what seemed to be a good-natured wrestling match. diamond was really supple and catlike on his feet, and he possessed more than common strength; but he was not frank merriwell's match, for, besides being a natural athlete, frank had developed himself in every way, so that he was really a wonder for a youth of his years. the struggle between frank and jack quickly attracted a number of spectators to the spot, and merriwell was well pleased to see flemming come down from the ladders and approach, accompanied by tom thornton. it seemed that the battle between the wrestling lads became fiercer and fiercer, but at last jack secured a sudden advantage, and merriwell went down heavily. "bah!" fred flemming was heard to say. "those fellows remind me of two awkward cubs. neither knows the rudiments of scientific wrestling." one leap brought frank merriwell to his feet, another leap carried him before flemming, who was turning away. "wait a moment, sir," said frank, his voice cold, clear and distinct. "i believe you consider yourself something of a wrestler, flemming?" merriwell had appeared before him so suddenly that fred started back involuntarily. then, angry with himself at the recoil, his lips curled scornfully, and he surveyed the other lad in the most haughty and insolent manner. "get out of my way!" he cried, harshly. "i will not be bothered by you!" the same old smile--the smile that was so dangerous--crept over merriwell's face. "you think you will not be bothered by me," he said, his voice smooth and soft, "but you deceive yourself. you have taken a fancy to bother me, to revile me behind my back, even to make false statements concerning me, for you have said that i sought your position on the crew and obtained it by underhand means. in the presence of these witnesses you have stated that i am a most bungling wrestler. that is something you cannot deny." "i do not wish to deny it. you are not a wrestler--you know nothing of the art." "and you claim to be a wrestler?" "yes, i can wrestle." "then, here and now, i challenge you to wrestle me at side-holds, catch-as-you-can and arm's end, the winner of two out of three falls to be acknowledged the best man, and hugh heffiner to be the judge. if you refuse to wrestle, i will brand you as a blower and a braggart--a fellow not fit to be accepted in the society of gentlemen. your answer, flemming--your answer!" chapter xiii. the wrestling match. flemming turned pale and trembled with suppressed passion, while his hands were clinched, and he glared at merriwell as if he longed to strike the lad who had dared face him and fling such an insulting challenge in his teeth. he tried to speak, but the words were choked back in his throat. he felt that merriwell was seeking retaliation, and, for that reason, had purposely worded his challenge in a manner calculated to cut him deeply. "shame!" came from the lips of tom thornton. still the lad who had given the challenge smiled. "i am meeting mr. flemming as he would meet me," said frank, calmly. "i am using the sort of language he would not hesitate to apply to me. of course i feel that i am lowering myself in doing so, but it is absolutely necessary in some cases to place one's self on the level of an unscrupulous enemy in order to meet and defeat him." all this was said with coolness and distinctness, and it was as if frank were deliberately sinking the knife deeper in flemming's writhing body. it seemed to be more than flemming could endure, for he lost control of himself, and would have leaped toward frank. "you insolent hound!" he cried, through his set teeth. merriwell stood with his hands at his side, making no move, but he saw that flemming's friends had grasped him and were holding him in check. "steady, flem, my boy!" fluttered thornton. "remember where you are!" "i will strangle him." "wait! you can't do it here!" "let me go!" "thornton is right," declared andy emery, who had placed himself between the two foes. "you cannot fight him here, old man." "then fix it so i can fight him somewhere--anywhere! i could murder him!" "you will have to wrestle him." "yes," said thornton, "you will have to do that, fred, or his friends will believe you are afraid." "then i will wrestle him--and i will break his back!" "you must calm down before you attempt it, and you must promise to wrestle fairly according to rules." "that will give me no chance to get square for this insult." "you can show your superiority by throwing him, which you will do, as you are an expert wrestler, and, for all of the other things he does so well, no one ever heard that merriwell could wrestle. then, the next time you meet him outside college bounds, you can force him to apologize." emery nodded. "thornton is right, flemming," he said. then, with a mighty effort, fred seemed to gain control of his anger, and he calmly said: "all right, i will wrestle him, but i shall not be gentle with him, although i promise not to foul him." "be as rough as you choose, as long as you keep within bounds." then it was that frank merriwell was heard saying to the friends who had gathered around him: "it may seem that i have opened myself to criticism by my manner in challenging this person, but i call you all to witness that he was the first to be insulting by his manner of criticising the friendly bout between mr. diamond and myself. that, however, was not the beginning. had not flemming given me other cause, i should not have challenged him in such a manner. i have sought neither his friendship nor his enmity, but he has seen fit to regard me as an enemy. i can honor an honest foe who meets me man to man, but not one who takes a mean advantage of me. on my head i now bear a bruise where i was felled by a heavy cane in the hands of one of flemming's friends, when he with five companions set upon diamond and myself. i always endeavor to square all my accounts with friends and foes, and i shall balance the books with flemming." fred forced a scornful laugh. "a very fine speech!" he cried. "i assure you, merriwell, you shall have the opportunity to square matters. i could wish something somewhat more businesslike than a mere wrestling match, but that may come later--if you have as much nerve as you wish persons to think you possess. to begin with, i'll show you that i spoke the truth when i said you know nothing of the art of wrestling. i am satisfied to have hugh heffiner for judge and referee." merriwell had chosen heffiner because he knew hugh was a square man, and they were not at all chummy, so he could not be accused of having selected a person who would favor him. heffiner was in the gymnasium, and had been attracted by the struggle between merriwell and diamond, so he had overheard all that passed between frank and fred. diamond was standing at one side, his arms folded, a look of satisfaction on his face. for all of flemming's reputation as a wrestler, diamond felt sure that merriwell was making no false moves. he knew frank too well to think he would deliberately challenge his enemy to wrestle without feeling certain of his own ability to accomplish his defeat. flemming was eager for the struggle, while merriwell was calm and deliberate in his movements. flemming's friends gathered about him, giving him advice. then frank was not a little astonished to find tad horner at his side, and heard the little junior say: "look here, merriwell, i want you to understand that i am not your enemy, although appearances may be against me." "you were one of the flemming gang at jackson's." "i acknowledge it but with shame," said tad, and, to frank's surprise, the little fellow colored deeply. "at the same time, you will remember that i did not lift a hand against you. you are a white man, merriwell, and i think you all right." frank was impressed by tad's sincerity. "thank you," he said. "it is not necessary for every fellow who dislikes me to be a rascal. i am sure that all of flemming's friends are not rascals. it is quite probable that a great many honest fellows think me in the wrong, but i am glad to know that you, who were present at jackson's, do not think so." tad retired, quite satisfied with this. he had long admired merriwell, and he felt it his duty to come out on this occasion and express himself openly. he did not mind that flemming and his friends regarded him with anger and scorn. arrangements for the wrestling match were soon made, and then the two lads faced each other on the turf. flemming was tall and solid, with broad shoulders and a back of which he was particularly proud. he was heavier than merriwell. there was not a single ounce of superfluous flesh on frank merriwell. he was a mass of bone and sinew, splendidly formed and supple as a young panther. in every movement and pose there was indescribable grace, and, at the same time, a suggestion of wonderful strength and self-reliance. flemming was bold and confident. he had made a special study of wrestling, and he knew all the tricks employed by experts. he had seen merriwell and diamond wrestling, and he felt certain that his adversary and rival would be an "easy thing." it chanced that the under holds in the first match fell to flemming, which made him certain in his own mind that he would have no trouble in throwing the lad he hated. the signal was given, and the enemies advanced and secured holds. then heffiner gave the command, and the struggle began. in the twinkling of an eye flemming tried the cross-buttock, but it seemed that merriwell had been expecting just such a move, for he passed his left leg behind fred's right and through in front of fred's left. then the force of flemming's surge seemed to lift both lads off their feet. "down merriwell goes!" cried thornton, triumphantly. but it seemed that in the act of falling frank whirled in the air and brought his rival under. this, however, had been planned from the very instant that fred made the first move to accomplish the cross-buttock, and frank's lock-trip had brought it about by lifting the other lad from the ground by a whirling movement. flemming struck fairly on his shoulders, with merriwell across his body, and heffiner cried: "first fall for merriwell!" exclamations of astonishment broke from the spectators. instead of a struggle of some moments, this fall had seemed to come about in the twinkling of an eye. but what was most astonishing was that flemming was flat on his back at the bottom when the lads struck the ground, although it had appeared that he had successfully accomplished the cross-buttock. it is certain that very few of those who witnessed the affair had the least idea how merriwell had accomplished this, but they saw that he was the victor in the first contest. jack diamond seldom smiled, but now he did so, and the expression of satisfaction on his face was complete. "who said merriwell was going down?" squealed danny griswold, in delight. "somebody fooled himself that time!" thornton bit his lip, muttering some fierce exclamation beneath his breath. of them all no person was more astonished than fred flemming. he lay dazed and wondering, scarcely able to realize that he was flat on his back and his enemy across his chest. frank arose hastily, his face quite calm and expressionless. he did not betray satisfaction or triumph, but his manner indicated that what had happened was no more than he had fully expected. he had confidence in himself, which any one must have to be successful, but still he was not overconfident, which is a fault quite as much as timidity. flemming sat up. he had felt himself lifted from his feet with a twisting movement, and he had felt himself whirled in the air, but still he could not understand how the feat had been accomplished. shame caused the hot blood to rush into his face, and he ground his teeth together, his whole body quivering. "it was an accident--it must have been an accident!" he told himself. "i tried to throw him so heavily that i overreached myself." the look on merriwell's face cut him like a keen knife and made him feel a fierce longing for the next tussle. "they actually think he threw me, when i threw myself," was his thought; "but i will undeceive them in a moment. next time i will drive him into the earth beneath me! there'll be no further miscalculation." thornton was at the side of his friend. "how in the world did you happen to let him take a fall out of you in that manner?" whispered tom, in extreme disgust. flemming's lips curled. "bah!" he returned. "he did not do it!" "no? but you were thrown! explain that." "i was not thrown." "yes, you were, my dear fellow! heffiner has given merriwell credit for winning the first fall." "i made a misjudgment in the amount of strength i should use on the fellow, and i turned myself in the air," declared fred. "is it possible?" "of course it is!" hissed flemming, who saw the incredulity in the face of his friend. "he is even easier fruit than i imagined." thornton brightened up somewhat, although not fully satisfied. "you must not let him accomplish it this time." "i tell you he did not accomplish it before!" came bitterly from the crestfallen and furious youth. "i will convince you of that in a moment. see the fellow stand there with that lordly air as if he had actually accomplished something. i will take all of that out of him! this is catch as we can, and i will break his back!" "injure his back in some way, and he will not be able to hold the place that belongs to you on the crew." "that is right!" panted flemming, his eyes glittering and his teeth showing. "a fellow with a sprained back is no good at an oar. why, thornton, my boy! merriwell has played right into my hands! he has given me the very opportunity i most desire, and i'll be a chump if i neglect it! if he is not taken to his room on a stretcher, it will be necessary for some of his friends to aid him. i know a hug that will take the stiffness out of his spine and make him lame for a month!" "give it to him!" fluttered tom, with returning confidence. "fix the cad this time so he will not be able to wrestle any more!" "i will, rest assured of that. this is my opportunity. in five minutes the starch will be taken out of him." flemming was confident, far more confident than he would have been had he dreamed that merriwell had turned him in the air and brought him underneath in the first fall. in his mind he saw merriwell groaning on the ground, saw him assisted to his room, saw him helpless in bed and attended by a physician. but what gave flemming the greatest satisfaction was the vision of collingwood humbly asking him to again resume his place on the crew--the place now given to frank merriwell. it seemed remarkable to fred that he had not planned to engage the lad he hated in a wrestling match, and so injure him in such a manner that he would be unable to row on the crew. but no less remarkable, it seemed, was the fact that he had been challenged to wrestle by merriwell, and thus given the opportunity he most ardently desired. the only thing that marred his satisfaction at that moment was that merriwell had, apparently by accident, seemed to have acquired the honor of having thrown him in the first struggle. "gentlemen," said heffiner, "are you ready?" the antagonists stepped forward and signified their readiness. the spectators fell back. "this time it is catch as you can," said yale's famous pitcher. "any kind of a hold is fair. is that understood?" "it is," nodded merriwell. "certainly," bowed flemming, giving frank a scornful look. "very well, gentlemen. prepare to clinch. ready--go!" chapter xiv. plotting fun. like a panther merriwell sprang forward, but he halted quite as suddenly and stood erect, careless and disdainful. flemming came forward in a crouching posture. he believed he saw his opportunity, and, with a gasp of satisfaction, he darted in and caught the lad he hated about the body. this time it was not flemming's intention to throw merriwell too suddenly. he wanted a little time to wrench frank's back, and then he would cast his foe writhing and helpless at his feet. tom thornton saw that fred had obtained the hold he sought, and he mentally exclaimed: "this time there will be no blunder!" jack diamond no longer smiled. he saw that flemming had obtained what seemed to be a great advantage, and his face was filled with concern. "it was careless of merriwell to give the fellow such a hold!" thought jack. "flemming is sure to be the victor this time!" there was a look of intense satisfaction on fred flemming's face as he made firm his clasp about merriwell's back. and then, just as flemming was ready to give a bear-like hug, something happened. frank's right arm was bent so that his forearm came directly under fred's chin, while his left arm was clasped across fred's shoulders behind his back. merriwell gave a sudden surge, drawing flemming close with his left arm, and thrusting back the fellow's head by pressing his right arm under his enemy's chin. in the twinkling of an eye flemming's wind was shut off, and his neck seemed to crack beneath the strain. he made a mad effort to hurl merriwell to the ground, but he had delayed the attempt a moment too long. frank merriwell well knew how dangerous was the trick he had played upon his enemy. he knew that he could break flemming's neck in that manner if he desired to do so, and he was careful not to make the sudden pressure too intense. flemming could not breathe, and his eyes started from his head. his strength seemed to leave his body, and his struggles to throw the lad he hated were weak and ineffectual. he was like a child in the hands of frank merriwell. the spectators stared in astonishment, and diamond gasped: "great cæsar! merry purposely let flemming get that hold!" "break away, flem--break away!" cried tom thornton, quivering with excitement. but flemming could not break away, for he had not sufficient strength to do so. "foul!" shouted emery, starting forward, as if he would part the combatants. in a moment jack diamond's arm was extended and pressed across emery's breast, holding him back like a bar of iron. "there is no foul in this match!" came exultantly from the lips of the virginian. "that was stated at the beginning." flemming made one last feeble struggle, and then the two lads went down together, with fred under. they fell heavily, and merriwell came down on his enemy with his full weight. a moment later frank arose. on the turf fred flemming lay white and still, his eyes closed. "bring some water," calmly directed the victor. "i think mr. flemming has been stunned." "this fall settles the match," decided hugh heffiner. "frank merriwell has won by throwing flemming two times in succession. permit me to congratulate you, mr. merriwell, for it is apparent that you are as expert in the art of wrestling as you have proved yourself to be in the other things you have attempted." "thank you," said frank, simply, as he accepted heffiner's hand. jack diamond whispered in tom thornton's ear: "it is your turn next!" diamond called on merriwell that evening. "you are a dandy, old man!" cried the virginian, admiringly. "you got back at flemming in great shape. they say he has been weak as a rag ever since you dropped him the second time, and it is pretty certain he will hold you in respect hereafter." "i shall be satisfied if he will let me alone," said frank, quietly. "i have no grudge against him, but the fellow who has not the nerve to fight his way in this world gets left. life is a battle from start to finish, and the hardest fighter is the winner." "true," nodded jack. "my mother was one of the gentlest women in the world," continued merriwell. "thoughts of strife and contention distressed her. to her a personal encounter was brutal and vulgar, and she instructed me never to fight unless absolutely compelled to do so. as far as possible i have tried to remember her teachings. i have not found it possible to do so at all times, as my enemies would ride over me if i did. when i see that a foe is determined to force me into an encounter then i become the aggressor. in another thing my mother was at fault. many times she told me never to strike the first blow. she was wrong. often the first blow wins the battle. if a person sees there is certain to be an encounter, he should do his best to get in the first blow, and make it a good one. then he should not be satisfied to let it rest there till his enemy has recovered, but he should follow it up. that is my belief." "and you are right. old man, you have a level head. i never saw another fellow like you, merriwell, and i doubt if there is another in the world." frank laughed. "you flatter me, diamond." "not at all." "ah, but you do. i know my own failings." "i wonder what they are?" "do not think for a moment that i have no failings! i have studied my own nature, and i have discovered them. as far as possible, i seek to remedy them. to myself i am a very ordinary sort of fellow. i know it, jack. the man who can see no flaws in himself is an egotist, a cad, and a shallow fool! as soon as he is perfectly satisfied with himself, he ceases to progress--he deteriorates." "that is true." "among my friends i see many things worthy of emulation. you, my dear diamond, are not aware of your own fine qualities, and----" "that will do, merry!" cried jack, blushing. "i am sure that i try to be a gentleman. my father was a true southern gentleman." "there can be no doubt of that. you show your breeding in every way. a natural gentleman will be a gentleman under any circumstances. he carries the air about him, and nothing can disguise it." jack sat down. "you have squared your score with flemming," he said; "but i have a little matter to settle with thornton. i am wondering how i shall settle it." "thornton is flemming's satellite. it would be cruel to use him roughly." "but i will not let him off! he should be taught a lesson." "look here, jack, i have a scheme." "what is it?" "let's put up a racket on him." "what sort of a racket?" "oh, one out of which we can get some sport and humiliate him at the same time. i am sure you do not want to fight with the fellow?" "i have been thinking that i would be ashamed to have an encounter with him." "exactly so. now, i know you are not much of a fellow for pranks, but i hope you will agree to this little scheme of mine." "state it," said jack, rather doubtfully. "well, you know thornton considers himself something of a masher. he gets stuck on every pretty girl who smiles on him." "yes." "danny griswold is a daisy as an impersonator of girls. you know he is to play a girl's part in one of the entertainments to be given in the fall. he has done the trick before, and he sent home for his outfit a week ago. yesterday, while rattleton and i were cramming for recitations the door opened, and a stunning blonde walked into the room. she seemed confused when she saw us, begged our pardon, and said she was looking for her cousin, danny griswold. she had entered the wrong room by accident. harry offered to show her to danny's rooms, but she said she could find the way. still she was in no hurry to go, and i began to be rather nervous, for i did not fancy the idea of having a young lady without a chaperon visit us. i feared it would become known, and we would receive a reprimand. she was decidedly giddy, and she sat on the arm of the easy-chair there and giggled and said it must be so nice to be a boy and go to yale. after a while i began to smell a rat. i got up and took a closer look at her. say, she was gotten up in great shape! it was that little imp griswold!" "well, what is your scheme?" asked jack, smiling. "it is to put griswold onto thornton. let danny rig up and see what he can do. it's ten to one thornton will think he has a new mash, and then we can have any amount of sport with the fellow." jack looked more doubtful than ever. "i don't see how that is getting square with him," he declared. "if the game works, you can pretend to be in love with the same girl. you can challenge thornton to mortal combat. he won't dare meet you. then you can expose him, and if that will not be getting even with him i don't know how you can get even." this scheme did not exactly meet diamond's approval, and frank found it difficult to induce him to agree to it. at last, however, merriwell succeeded. "we'll have barrels of fun out of this," laughed frank. "i feel in need of a little fun to wake me up." chapter xv. thornton's "mash." tom thornton was alone in his room when there came a knock on the door. "come in," called tom, without turning his head or taking his feet down from the table on which they were resting. as he had been out late the night before, he was not in a very agreeable mood. he had sent for his tailor some time before, and he supposed it was the tailor who had knocked and entered at his command. "well, here you are at last!" tom growled. "i've waited long enough for you, too! you are slower that molasses in midwinter! i suppose you want to know what ails me now. well, i'll tell you. that last pair of trousers you made me are too short in the waist and too full around the bottoms--that's what's the matter. i'd be mobbed if i should show myself in them. now, don't tell me they are all right! i'll just try them on right before you, and let you see---- great jupiter! what have i been saying!" he had turned his head, and he saw a vision that electrified him and brought his feet down from the table with a thump. just within the room a very pretty girl was standing, and she was staring at him in a half-frightened, half-amused manner. "i--i--i beg your pup-pup-pardon!" stammered thornton, jumping up, confused and flustered. "i didn't know! i--i thought it was my tailor!" "and you nearly frightened the senses out of me by growling at me in that way," giggled the girl. "why, i thought you were a great horrid bear, and you were going to eat me." "if i were a bear, i couldn't ask for a daintier meal," said tom, gallantly. "oh, my!" laughed the girl. "what a difference!" "i am bound to even matters if possible." "that's it? then you did not really mean what you just said, after all?" the smile vanished from her face, and she seemed a bit offended. "oh, yes i did--i vow i did!" exclaimed tom, hastening to repair the "break." "you see i am all broken up by the surprise. i--i didn't think of seeing a young lady here--alone." "i suppose not. i am looking for my cousin, mr. griswold." "griswold? griswold? why, i have heard of him. yes, he is a soph. you'll find him over in south middle. this is welch hall." "oh, dear! then i was misdirected. i was told i'd find him here somewhere. i beg your pardon, sir." "oh, don't mention it, miss--er--miss----" "darling. my name is grace darling, and i have come down to spend a week in new haven. you see i am from the country." "i should say so!" thought thornton; "and as fresh as they make 'em! but she is pretty--yes, she is a genuine stunner! a sort of wild flower. she is so innocent and unsophisticated!" "i presumed you were not familiar with yale, or you would not be in the dormitories without a chaperon," said thornton, aloud. "it is all right, though," he hastened to declare, as she seemed to shrink back. "i will escort you over to south middle, and help you find your cousin. my name is thornton--thomas thornton." "you are very good, mr. thornton, but i think i can find danny all right. i will not put you to the trouble." "oh, it will be no trouble--not the least in the world, i assure you." "still i don't know what danny would think. even though your company would be very pleasant, i dare not accept it without a proper introduction, mr.--mr. thornton." this was said in the most coquettish manner possible, and tom thornton felt his heart beating proudly. "i've struck her all right!" he told himself. "i mustn't let it slip. i'll improve the opportunity." so he talked to her in his most fascinating manner, and was bold enough to express a hope that he might see her again, to which she replied that he "might." and when she left tom was in a state of delighted satisfaction, thoroughly pleased with himself. thornton was inclined to boast of his conquests, and it was not long before he had told several of his friends about the "corking pretty girl" who had wandered into his room. "and i caught her without a struggle," he declared repeatedly. "country girl and rather unsophisticated; but a regular rustic rose--no, a regular daisy. cousin of some fellow over in south middle. her name? never mind. i am not giving things away. she is going to stay down a week, and gave me her promise that i should see her again. but she intends to be strictly proper, although she does not know much of city ways, for she declared that i must be properly introduced to her before she would make an appointment with me. oh, it's dead easy when you know how!" tad horner was thornton's roommate. "grace darling" had chosen an occasion when tad was not in, and thus had found tom alone. tom boasted of his conquest to tad, who grinned and tried to chaff him about his charming country girl. "did she have hayseed in her hair?" asked tad. "it's not that kind of a lady, horner. they'll all be envious of me. she is a stunning blonde, and her innocent country ways make her all the more attractive. she has such eyes--and such teeth! her lips are very inviting, my dear boy. it's just the sort of a mouth a fellow longs to kiss. and if i do not sip nectar from those ruby lips before she returns to her country home, i'll be dead slow." "wow!" whooped tad. "sip nectar! that beats! thornton, this rural maiden has knocked you silly!" "wait till you see her, and you will not wonder, my boy." "i'll go something you do not see her again." "oh, but i have her promise!" "ah, she was giving you a jolly!" "you'll see!" cried tom, piqued. "just wait a while." two days passed, and thornton began to think he would not hear anything from his "mash." then came an invitation to spend an evening at winnie lee's, and winnie hinted that among her guests there was to be a young lady from the country who wished to apologize for intruding upon mr. thornton in his room. "it's grace darling!" thought tom, exultantly. "she will be introduced to me! and she must be of fine people to be accepted as a guest at miss lee's, for the lees belong to the _élite_ of the town. oh, gracie is all right, if she is from the country!" on the evening of the party tom arrayed himself in his finest, used perfumery liberally--too liberally--on his handkerchief and his clothes, and set out with a light heart for miss lee's. as old readers know, winnie lee and frank merriwell were very friendly. as winnie was of a lively disposition and enjoyed a joke thoroughly, it was not difficult for frank to induce her to aid him in carrying out his plan. winnie was all the more ready to do so because she disliked tom thornton, who had made himself offensive by having declared that he could "catch" her without a struggle if he so desired, but she was not his style. this had been repeated to winnie, and she had treated thornton with the utmost disdain since hearing it; but frank had urged her to consent to invite tom to the party that the joke might be carried out, and she finally had consented. for a moment thornton wondered when he received the invitation, and then he decided that "grace darling" must have induced miss lee to offer it. tom little dreamed of the surprising events that were to take place before the evening was passed. chapter xvi. another challenge. thornton found merriwell, diamond, rattleton and browning were among winnie lee's guests. this he had expected, however, and he was resolved to notice them as little as possible. willis paulding was there, and tad horner came later, much to tom's surprise, as he had not known tad had been invited. there were a number of jolly girls, and thornton was not long in looking around for grace darling. when tom finally discovered her, to his disgust, she was chatting with jack diamond in a cozy corner, which was almost shut off from the rest of the room by portières. "hang that fellow!" thought thornton. "he has been introduced to her, and he has lost no time in getting in his work." as soon as diamond left the girl tom hastened to find winnie lee, of whom he requested an introduction to "miss darling." "oh, yes!" said winnie, laughing; "she spoke of you, but i had almost forgotten. i trust you will find her very entertaining, mr. thornton." "i am sure i shall," said tom. "we have seen each other, you know, but have not been introduced." "and she is very particular about that. being bred in the country, she is not fully conversant with the ways of the world, but she knows an introduction is the proper thing, and she insists on that. there she is." "miss darling" was seen chatting with a number of young gentlemen and ladies who had gathered about her. the group scattered as winnie and tom came up. "miss darling" saw them, and timidly held her fan before her face, peering over it shyly. "mr. thornton," laughed winnie lee, "it gives me the greatest pleasure to introduce you to miss darling." tom bowed profoundly, while the girl giggled, and made a courtesy. winnie lee laughed more than ever. at a distance frank merriwell and jack diamond were watching. "will you see winnie lee!" softly exclaimed merriwell. "she is nearly exploding with laughter. she can't hold it. it will be a miracle if thornton does not tumble." "all the others are laughing," said jack. "they had to get away when thornton was introduced. he will be crazy when he finds out how he has been fooled." frank was laughing. "oh, yes; he'll tear his hair. the story is bound to circulate. don't give him too much time with griswold before you get in your work and challenge him. horner is in the game, and he has agreed to help it along." "thornton will murder horner." "it will be remarkable if they do not suddenly cease to room together." "have you brought the pistols?" "you bet! everything is ready. willis paulding must be involved. we must soak him, as well as thornton. there go thornton and his mash toward the cozy corner. you must intrude before it becomes too warm for griswold, or he is liable to give the whole snap away." in the meantime thornton had expressed his delight at meeting his charmer again, and had led her away to the very cozy corner in which he had seen her chatting so vivaciously with jack diamond. once in the corner the girl ensconced herself in the shadow of the portières, and, for the first time, the fan dropped from her face. "this is charming," declared thornton, in his most fascinating manner. "ever since i first saw you i have dreamed of an occasion like this, miss darling." the girl giggled. "oh, you are such a flatterer, mr. thornton!" she returned, leaning toward him. "not at all," declared tom, as, apparently by accident, his hand fell on hers and remained there. "i am telling you the truth. since that hour when fate led you to my room, i have thought of you almost constantly by day, and i have dreamed of you at night. your face has been before my eyes continually." her head was bowed, so he could not see her eyes. he felt her hand quiver in his clasp. "oh, i am not doing a thing!" was his mental exclamation. "she can't resist me!" he grew bolder with amazing rapidity. he seemed to fancy that he could do so with this unsophisticated country girl without being "called down." "miss darling," he murmured, leaning yet nearer to her, and holding her hand with both of his own, "do you believe in love at first sight?" she giggled again. "why, i don't know," she confessed. "i do," declared tom. "i did not till i met you, but since that delightful moment i have." "oh, rot!" the girl seemed to say. "eh?" exclaimed thornton, in astonishment. "what did you say?" "i said, 'i think not,'" was the laughing answer. "my cousin has told me all about college fellows, and how they pretend to be all broken up over a girl, but are giving her the dead jolly all the time." tom gasped, for the girl rattled off slang as if thoroughly familiar with it. but this dampened thornton's ardor for no more than a moment. "i never give any one a jolly, miss darling," he declared, trying to appear sincere. "miss darling!" he murmured. "what a sweet name! and it suits you so well!" "do you think so?" laughed the girl. "i do--i do!" palpitated thornton. "it will be a lucky fellow who can call you his darling! if i might----" "mr. thornton, you are presuming! this is too much!" then jack diamond suddenly appeared, and asked: "did you call for aid, miss darling?" "i was about to do so," declared the girl. "mr. thornton has been very presuming and forward." "then mr. thornton shall answer to me!" came sternly from jack's lips. "if he is not a coward, he will come outside." tom turned pale and stammered. he felt like refusing to go outside, but he feared the girl would think him a coward. then he looked around, and his eyes fell on willis paulding. "yes, i will go out with you," he said. "miss darling" seemed to be overcome with fear. "don't kill him, jack!" she whispered. so she addressed diamond as "jack." that fired thornton till he longed to strangle the virginian. "lead on!" he exclaimed. "i will follow." they left the room, thornton calling to willis, who followed them, wonderingly. diamond had made a signal to merriwell, and frank was not far behind. diamond led the way to the garden. it was a moonlight night, and seemed almost as light as day. "mr. thornton," said diamond, sternly, "you have grossly insulted a young lady friend of mine. it is my duty to protect her. i challenge you to fight me, the weapons to be pistols, the place here, and the time now. your answer, sir--your answer!" thornton turned pale, and hesitated. he knew nothing of dueling, and therefore did not know that, being the challenged party, it was his privilege to name the weapons, the time and the place. in a moment, he found tad horner at his elbow. where tad had come from and how he happened to be there tom could not conceive. but tad was on hand, and he whispered: "take him up, old man--take him up! he is a regular fire-eater--in his mind. he thinks you will squeal. if he finds you will fight, he is sure to back out. he hasn't any real nerve. if he does fight, i'll fix it all right, for i will see that the pistols are loaded with blank cartridges. after the first shot, i will demand that the duel cease. thus you will get the reputation of having fought a duel, without incurring any danger to yourself." thornton was pleased with the scheme. he wished to be considered a dare-devil sort of fellow, and he felt that it would give him a great reputation if he fought a real duel. "sir," he said, turning to diamond, "i accept your challenge, and i shall do my best to shoot you through the heart!" five minutes later came the question: "gentlemen, are you ready?" "all ready," answered both diamond and thornton. "i will count three, and then give the word," said frank merriwell, distinctly. "one!" despite himself, willis paulding felt his flesh creep and heard his teeth chatter. thornton was shaking, even though he had been assured by tad horner that there were no bullets in the pistols. diamond was cool as an iceberg. the bright moonlight seemed to show a look of deadly determination on his face. "confound him!" thought thornton, quaking. "he'd as lief fight a duel as eat! hang those southerners! they do not know what it is to be afraid!" "two!" counted merriwell. the duelists raised their weapons and seemed to take careful aim. "three--fire!" at that instant there was a scream, and a female figure sprang out from the shadows and rushed before jack just as thornton pulled the trigger. there was a single report, and the female figure dropped to the ground, although diamond tried to catch her in his arms. thornton, the smoking pistol in his hand, stood staring, as if turned to stone. "good gracious!" gasped willis paulding. "you have shot somebody, thornton, deah boy!" "there must have been some mistake," said tad horner. "it seems that there was a bullet in your pistol, tom!" thornton hurried forward and looked down at the fallen girl, whose eyes were closed, and whose face seemed ghastly pale in the white moonlight. "it is miss darling!" came hoarsely from tom. "i have killed her!" "don't let the murderer escape!" cried diamond, sternly. "seize him and his second! they are both guilty!" "excuse me!" fluttered willis paulding. "i think i will go right away, don't yer 'now!" then he took to his heels, and ran, as if pursued by a hundred officers of the law. thornton was scarcely less terrified, and he slipped away into the shadows while the others were gathered around the fallen girl. when both willis and tom were gone, the girl suddenly sat up, and burst into a peal of boyish laughter. "there!" cried the voice of danny griswold; "didn't i do that all right? i wouldn't be surprised if thornton's hair turned gray. but i'm going to get out of this rig as soon as possible. these corsets are killing me. i can't get a full breath." "you little rascal!" laughed frank merriwell, as he gave griswold a shake. "you are a born actor, and you have given tom thornton a shock that he will not get over for some time--to say nothing of willis paulding." "if it cures thornton of bragging about his mashes i'll be satisfied," said tad horner. "but i'm afraid he'll never forgive me. i'll have to make a hustle and find him before he does something desperate. i'll tell him miss darling simply fainted, and was not injured at all. good-night, fellows. see you later." then he hastened away. "well, jack," said frank, addressing diamond, "it strikes me that you and i are more than square with mr. flemming and mr. thornton." "i think that is right," admitted the virginian, with a grim smile. chapter xvii. pure grit. all other college sports seem to grow dim in comparison with the great spring race. it is the crowning athletic event of the season. the vast gathering of people at new london occurs but once a year, and the only event to be compared with it is the annual football game in new york. new london for a week before the race is filled with "old grads," fathers of yale men who are interested in boating, college lads, mothers of students, sisters and sweethearts. at eastern point the fort griswold house is thronged with persons of this sort. the pequod is overflowing. on the broad piazzas old classmates meet and talk over former victories and defeats. there they watch the thronging craft upon the river. every one talks boating, whether he knows anything about it or not. "willie off the yacht" is there, togged in flannels and making a desperate struggle to roll in his gait. for a week, at least, he is a waterman, with the salt flavor in everything he says or does. and the girls--the girls! they, too, dress in flannels and yachting caps, and they try to talk knowingly about "strokes," "oars" and "the crew." but they are charming--every one of them! yale and harvard's quarters are on the left bank near gale's ferry. many of the "old oars" are permitted to visit the crew. the great coachers are there. they are regarded with awe and respect, for surely they know everything there is to know about racing! the race comes off at five in the afternoon. by midday the town is full, and every train brings fresh throngs of laughing girls and boisterous students. all are decorated with the blue or the crimson. flags are everywhere, and there are horns in abundance. at the docks the great sound steamers are moored, and they are packed with sight-seers. there are numberless yachts on the river, all decorated with gay colors and thronged with gay parties. within the boathouse, preparations were being made for the race. collingwood was giving final instructions to his men. bastow, an old coach, was surveying each and every one in the most critical manner possible. they were handsome fellows, these men of the crew. their flesh was brown and firm, and their eyes were bright. they had broad backs and powerful shoulders. collingwood looked troubled. it was evident there was something on his mind. fred flemming, in a new spring suit, is talking with popkay, the little cox. some wonder that flemming, who had been dropped for merriwell, should be there. among the spectators on a certain yacht are tom thornton and willis paulding. they are watching for the crew to appear, and, as they watch, thornton says something that betrays a knowledge of flemming's presence in the boathouse. "i'll go you two to one that flem rows after all," he declares. "do you dare take me, paulding?" "by the way you say that i should think you were betting on a sure thing, don't yer 'now," drawled willis. "i am," asserted tom. "i have it straight that merriwell is not in trim, and will be laid off. flemming was called to quarters at the last moment." "it'll be a corker on merriwell if he is not allowed to row, by jawve!" "yes; it will give me no end of satisfaction. that fellow put up the 'grace darling' job on me, and diamond helped him to carry it out. i have been a guy for the whole college ever since danny griswold told down at morey's how he fooled me. some day i'll wring that little rat's neck!" "they never could have worked the game if horner hadn't helped them." "of course not; but i have cut clear of horner. we have separated, and i never give the fellow a look when we meet. like the other fools, he is stuck on merriwell, and he thought he was doing something cunning when he helped them work the horse on me." "if merriwell doesn't row you'll have a chance to get back at them. you can say you knew it all the time, old chappie." "oh, he won't row to-day, and i'll rub it in when i get the opportunity." within the boathouse, at this very moment, bob collingwood was saying to frank merriwell: "you cannot row in the race to-day, merriwell. you are out of condition." frank turned pale. "if you say i can't row, that settles it," he said, huskily; "but i think you are making a mistake. i can row, and i'll prove it, if you will give me the chance. you shall have no cause to complain of me." "but i know you are not fit to pull an oar. you have tried to conceal it from me, but i know you have a felon on your hand. am i right?" "you are right," calmly admitted frank; "but give me a chance, and i will row for all there is in me, even if it takes my arm off at the shoulder." collingwood looked into merriwell's eyes, and what he saw there caused him to say: "all right, my boy, you shall row if we lose by it." "if we lose the race it will not be my fault," returned merriwell. the harvard cheer broke from a thousand throats as the harvard crew came down the stream and arrived first at the start. yale followed almost immediately, and two students who were on a trim little yacht craned their necks and glared at the men in the boat. something like a groan escaped the lips of tom thornton, and willis paulding declared: "i don't see flemming, but merriwell is there!" "yes!" grates tom; "he has managed to keep his place somehow! well, that settles it! harvard will win!" orders were shouted, and then it was seen that both crews were "set." the men, their brown backs gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, were reaching forward at arm's length, ready for the first stroke. a voice was heard commanding them to make ready, then came the cry: "go!" there was a pistol shot, and both boats darted forward. the four-mile race to the railway bridge piers of new london had begun. in an instant the great crowd set up a wild cheering, and colors fluttered everywhere. away went the boats, side by side. harvard's style of rowing had changed completely from that of the previous year, when her boat had jumped at every stroke. now her crew bent with a long sweep that sent the boat through the water with a steady motion. yale used a shorter and more snappy stroke. the men seemed to have more life at the start, but it was the kind of a stroke that was sure to pump away their energy to a great extent in a long race. but collingwood was crafty. he knew that it would be an easy thing to take the life out of his men by steep work at the beginning, and he doubted if the advantage thus gained could be held. to a certain extent, he regulated yale's speed by that of its rival. in his heart collingwood feared harvard's new style of rowing. he was not willing to acknowledge that anything english could be superior to anything american, and yet he remembered how the freshmen of 'umpty-eight, coached by merriwell, had adopted something like the oxford stroke, and had won the race from the sophomores at lake saltonstall. he also remembered merriwell's hand, and he feared the fellow must give out before the finish. if yale could hold her own till near the end collingwood hoped to win by a spurt. outside of merriwell, he felt that the crew was in perfect condition. he was sure the men were superior to those in the harvard boat. harvard begins to gain. that strong, steady stroke is telling. it looks as if the crimson lads were going to pull away from the blue with ease. collingwood does not allow himself to get excited in the least. he keeps his men steadily at work, husbanding their strength as far as possible. "'rah! 'rah! 'rah! harvard! harvard!" roared the crowd. frank merriwell was working perfectly with the rest, and no one could imagine from his appearance that every stroke seemed to drive a keen knife from his wrist to his elbow. his face was very pale, but that was all. at the end of the first mile harvard was two lengths in advance, and seemed to be gaining. still yale worked steadily, showing no signs of excitement or alarm. the crowds on the yachts were waving hats and handkerchiefs and flags. they cheered and yelled and hooted like human beings gone mad. it was a scene of the wildest excitement. it had become plain to all, despite the fact that harvard had a lead, that the race was to be a stern one. yale was out to win, if such a thing "lay in the wood." when the second mile was passed harvard was still another length in advance. but yale was beginning to work up steadily, forcing harvard to a more desperate struggle to hold her advantage. when the two and a half mile flag was passed it was seen that yale had begun to creep up. still she was not dangerous. her friends were encouraged, however, and the sound all yale men love--the yale yell--could be heard above the roaring of the crowd. that sound seemed to put fresh life and heart into the yale crew. at the beginning of the last mile harvard was scarcely two lengths in advance. it was a wonderful race. the excitement was at the highest pitch. the harvard crew, although it had started out so beautifully, had not the stamina to endure the strain. no. was pulling out of the boat, while no. showed signs of distress. yale begins to spurt. her men are working like machinery. no one could dream that one of them was suffering the tortures of a being on the rack, and still such was the truth. a hundred times it seemed to frank merriwell that he must give out; a hundred times he set his teeth and vowed that he would die before he would weaken. no one could know the almost superhuman courage and fortitude which enabled him to keep up and continue his work in the proper manner. those who watched the crew closely fancied that he worked with the utmost ease, for all of the long pull. collingwood had forgotten merriwell's felon. he was reckoning on the final spurt to bring "old eli" to the front. harder and harder he worked his men. now the uproar along the river was deafening. the prow of the yale boat was at harvard's stern--and then yale began to creep along by harvard's side. no. of the harvard crew reeled on his seat. then he braced up and went at it again. but he was not in stroke. the faces of both crews were set. they were like gladiators battling for their very lives. in the yale boat was one who seemed to be growing blind and numb. in his heart he was praying for strength as earnestly as he would have prayed for the salvation of his soul. only a few moments more--he must hold out. the boats were side by side, and the excitement was simply indescribable. such a finish was unprecedented. it was a race to be remembered for all years to come--to be spoken of with pride and discussed with wonder. then came the moment when collingwood drove his men for all there was in them. he was pitiless, and yale shot into the lead. the line was crossed. then cannons boomed and whistles shrieked. but in the yale boat was one whose ears were deaf to all this tumult of sound. frank merriwell had fallen in the bottom of the boat in a dead faint. but yale--yale had won! chapter xviii. after the boat race. "breka co ax co ax co ax! breka co ax co ax co ax! o--up! o--up! paraboleau! yale! yale! yale! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! yale!!!" imagine a thousand, full-lunged, hearty, healthy american lads shouting this cry in unison! it was a sound never to be forgotten by those who heard it. the victorious blue fluttered everywhere. harvard had made a gallant fight, and it had been "nobody's race" almost to the finish. the yale crew proved superior, but it won purely by brawn and stamina. old oars confessed that up to the last half mile harvard had shown better coaching and had seemed to establish the superiority of the oxford oar and stroke over american methods. but "old eli" had seemed to feel that it would be a lasting disgrace to be vanquished by anything about which there was an english flavor. the spirit of bunker hill and ' was aroused, and the defenders of the blue were willing to die in the struggle if such a sacrifice could bring victory. it was not the first time that pure grit had won against odds. as the yale boat crossed the line frank lay, deaf to all the tumult of applause, his eyes closed, but still with his pale face set in a look of mingled pain and unyielding determination. "it's merriwell!" exclaimed bob collingwood. "i had forgotten him." his words were drowned by the roaring of the excited thousands and the shrieking of the whistles. the prow of the yale boat was turned toward the bank. it was necessary to avoid the craft that came rushing about on every side, but the shore was soon reached. "hold her steady!" cried collingwood. "somebody dash water into merriwell's face." the command was obeyed, and in a moment frank opened his eyes. it was at the moment when the yale cheer was pealing from a thousand throats, and the look of pain on merriwell's face changed to one of satisfaction and joy. "did we win?" he huskily asked. collingwood nodded, his flushed face beaming, pride in his big blue eyes. "you bet!" he answered. "it's hard to beat old eli!" "i am satisfied!" gasped merriwell. his eyes drooped, and he seemed on the verge of going off into another swoon. "throw more water on him," pitilessly directed collingwood. it was done, and frank started up, gasping. "here--here!" exclaimed a man on the bank; "give him a pull at this. it will fix him all right." he stooped down and held out a flask. "what is it?" asked frank. "it's the best brandy money can buy," was the answer. it was passed to frank, but he pushed it away, shaking his head. "i never touch liquor," he declared. "i do not want it." "but it will not hurt you now--it will do you good," declared the man who owned the flask. "i can get along without it." "but i shall be offended if you do not take it." frank looked sharply at the man. he saw a suntanned individual, who wore a wide-brimmed hat and was dressed in clothes which were worn and appeared to have been made for service rather than for fit and elegance. there was something piercing about the man's dark eyes, and something about the beardless face that impressed it upon the boy's memory. there was a small purple scar on the man's chin, and frank noted this, although he might have overlooked it easily in that hasty glance. "then you will have to be offended, sir," said frank, firmly. "i do not wish to appear rude, but i never drink under any circumstances, and i will not begin now." the man drew back after the flask was returned to him. the last look he gave the boy was peculiar, as frank could not tell whether it was one of satisfaction or anger. in a moment this man was forgotten. the boat slipped out to the _clyde_, the little steam yacht that was to take the victorious crew back to quarters. the exhausted rowers were lifted on board amid renewed cheering, and the trip up the river began. it was a triumphant procession. all along the line the _clyde_, which was decorated with blue, was received with cheers and shrieking whistles. men waved hats and flags, pretty girls fluttered handkerchiefs and pennants, squads of students gave the yale cheer at intervals, and two scores of boats, crowded with students and friends, accompanied the boat that carried the victorious crew. the jubilant yale men sang songs of victory and cheered till their throats ached and they were hoarse. on board the _clyde_ were jack diamond and harry rattleton. when merriwell was lifted to the deck he found himself clasped in harry's arms, and the dear fellow laughed and cried as he hugged his roommate to his breast. "i never dought you'd threw it--i mean i never thought you'd do it!" cried harry, brokenly. "i thought that hand would knock you out sure. how could you do it, merry, old boy? it must have been awful! i saw you keel over when the line was crossed, but you never havered a ware--wavered a hair till the race was over." frank smiled a bit. "a fellow can do almost anything if he sets his determination on it," he said. "but i came near not having the opportunity to try." "how was that?" "collingwood found out about my hand. i am afraid you said something about it, harry." "not a word, save to diamond, and not to him till after the race began." "well, coll found it out some way, and he came near laying me off for flemming, who was on hand." "and now i understand a few things i heard this morning," broke in diamond. "emery and parker were offering to bet that flemming would row to-day." "how much did you fake 'em tor--i mean take 'em for?" cried harry. "i didn't know but some of the men had given out or something, so i did not take them at all. i did not imagine for a moment that they thought flemming was going to row in merry's place." collingwood came up. he was bundled from his ears to his heels. merriwell was in a sweater and coat. "how's your hand, old man?" asked bob, his eyes gleaming. "oh, it is giving me a jolly time!" grinned frank, grimly. "it isn't doing a thing." "mr. merriwell," said collingwood, earnestly, "i want to tell you frankly that to-day you made the greatest display of pure grit that it has ever been my fortune to witness. i did not believe it possible you could hold out through the race with that hand, and i meant to lay you off for flemming, although i regretted doing so, as he has not been working with us of late, and i felt that the change would weaken the crew. when you told me square and straight that it would be no fault of yours if the race were lost, i decided to keep you. after that i felt that i was making an error, but it was too late to change. now i know it was no error, and i wish to say that i am sure you aided materially by your splendid work to win." others of the crew came up. merriwell was surrounded by friends and admirers. diamond whispered in his ear: "you should be happy, old man, for you have triumphed over your enemies, and the story of your heroic work will be known to all yale by monday." then collingwood led frank below for a rub down. chapter xix. the yale spirit. at the boathouse there was a scene of riotous jollification. it was impossible to exclude the overjoyed friends of the crew. they crowded in and expressed their unbounded delight in almost every imaginable manner. there was a popping of corks, and "fizz" began to flow freely. now that the great race was over, the crew were no longer in training, and they were allowed to drink as much of the wine as they liked. it was forced upon them from all sides. merriwell was almost mobbed by the fellows who were determined that he should drink champagne with them. "you can't refuse now, old man!" shouted charlie creighton. "i saw it all, and no one suspected there was anything the matter with you. just to think that you rowed the race with a felon on your hand! it is marvelous! and i won a cool five hundred on old eli! whoop! if you refuse to take a drink of champagne with me i'll call you out and shoot you through the liver pad!" he was wildly waving a bottle of mumm's about his head as he made this excited speech. but merriwell did refuse, and he did it with a firmness that showed them all that he could not be induced to drink. "queer chap, that merriwell," commented charlie creighton, addressing his chum, paul hamilton. "never knew him very well, but i've seen enough of him to know he's the clean white stuff even if he is a temperance crank." "in the year and a half that he has been here," said hamilton, "he has made a greater record in athletics than any other man ever made in twice that time. and think of his rowing the race to-day with that hand, and then fainting the moment he knew the line was crossed and yale had won! i tell you, creighton, that fellow is all sand--every bit of him." "that's what he is," nodded creighton. "he is running over with the true yale spirit. i tell you, my boy, old yale bears mighty men! come, let's kill this bottle of fizz, which i got off the ice expressly for merriwell, confound him!" then they lost little time in opening the bottle and swallowing its sparkling contents. bob collingwood was overwhelmed with congratulations. he said very little before the crowd, but to a particular friend he declared: "it is one of the marvels of the year that we won to-day. harvard outrowed us for fully three-quarters of the course, and she would have finished in the lead if her crew had been as stocky as ours. their stroke is easier on a man than ours." "then you acknowledge at last that the oxford stroke is superior to the american?" eagerly questioned the friend. "i have acknowledged nothing yet, but i fear i'll be forced to." the jubilant fellows were making the boathouse ring with songs of victory. about twenty flushed lads were roaring: "how can they ever beat us-- how can they beat old yale? we down 'em when they meet us, you bet we never fail! we've got 'em so they fear us in every contest fair; and soon they'll not come near us, because they will not dare. chorus: "then give us a cheer for old eli-- a cheer for our gallant crew; she has won, and she wins forever, with her noble boys in blue. "poor harvard falls before us, she is not in the game; so swell the merry chorus, old eli's won again! it was a gallant battle, my boys who wear the blue; but you they cannot rattle, no matter what they do." there were other songs, and in the midst of all this rejoicing a crowd of pretty girls, accompanied by chaperons, came into the boathouse. among them was winnie lee, who lost no time in finding frank and congratulating him. "i knew you would win, frank--i knew you would!" she exclaimed, her bright eyes sparkling. "why, you are talking as if i rowed the whole race!" he said, laughing and blushing. "well, i'm sure they'd never won without you," she declared. "that's like a girl! of course yale would have won anyhow! how can they beat us?" at this moment collingwood came up, accompanied by a gentleman who carried a case in his hand. "here, merry, old boy," cried the captain of the crew, "i've brought a doctor to look after that hand of yours." "what is the matter with your hand?" asked winnie, anxiously. "oh, nothing much," assured frank, carelessly. "nothing much, only there is a bad felon on it," said collingwood. "a felon? and you rowed with a felon on your hand? oh, frank!" winnie looked at him with added admiration showing in her eyes. "that's what he did," nodded collingwood. "it was the greatest display of grit i've ever seen. do you wonder he flopped over in a dead faint when we crossed the line at the finish?" the doctor looked at frank's hand, which was now badly inflamed. after a thorough examination the physician glanced up at frank and observed: "if you were able to row with this hand, i rather think you'd endure burning at the stake by a band of indians without uttering a murmur!" "you dear fellow!" cried winnie, with girlish enthusiasm; "i feel just like giving you a good hug!" then frank blushed more than ever. the doctor opened his case and proceeded to dress merriwell's hand. while the physician was thus employed frank was somewhat surprised to observe at a little distance the same man who had offered him a drink of brandy as he was recovering from his swoon at the close of the race. this man was watching the boy in a strange manner, but the moment he saw he was observed he quickly turned away. frank's curiosity was aroused. "i wonder who he is and what he wants here?" thought the boy. "how did he get in here, anyway? he seems to take a remarkable interest in me, and i can't say that i like it." the man walked away and mingled with the throng. in a short time frank's hand was cared for, and the doctor gave directions for future treatment of the felon. "it is bound to trouble you for some time, and you will find it very painful," he said. "after what you have done to-day, i doubt if you sleep much to-night." "i don't care if i do not sleep for a week so long as yale won!" declared the boy. "you have the true yale spirit," said the doctor, approvingly. "yale men carry that unconquerable spirit out into the world, and that is why old eli turns out so many successful men in all walks of life. i think there is no fear as to your future, my boy." "thank you, sir," said merriwell, simply. chapter xx. spurning a bribe. "i would like to speak with you." frank felt a touch on his shoulder, and the words sounded in his ear. he turned quickly and found himself face to face with the mysterious stranger. it happened that at that moment they were alone, nearly all the throng having gathered about three fellows who, with banjo, mandolin and zither, were making some lively music. "what do you want?" asked frank, rather suspiciously. the man beckoned for him to come aside. "i have something i wish to say to you, and i do not care to be overheard by others," he declared. "well, i wonder what sort of a snap this is?" thought merriwell. he hesitated a moment, and then curiosity to know what the stranger had to say overcame him, and he followed the man to a corner of the room. the stranger was very mysterious in his manner. "you are a likely sort of youngster," he said, in a rather noncommittal way. "is that what you wish to tell me?" asked frank, sharply. "steady, young colt! don't be in too much of a hurry. it doesn't pay to be in a hurry--none whatever." frank's impatience increased. he did not like the stranger's manner, for there was something crafty and insinuating about it. "if any one were watching us, he'd be sure to think we were putting up some sort of a crooked game," thought merriwell. "my time is valuable," he said aloud. "then you can't make more out of it than you can by spending it gabbling with the crowd." the man's manner was offensive, but frank's curiosity caused him to hold himself in check and listen to what the stranger should say. "you are interested in other sports besides rowing, i reckon?" said the unknown, inquiringly. "yes." "baseball?" "yes." "i have heard that you pitch on the 'varsity nine." "that is right." the man assumed a more cautious air than ever, and lowered his voice still more. "i allow that the man who pitches can throw a game, if he wants to?" frank's dislike for the stranger increased rapidly. "he can throw a game if he is crooked and dirty enough to do such a mean thing!" came with spirit from the lad. "that is putting it a heap rough," deprecatingly declared the man. "every galoot is out for the dust. it is the way of the old world, as you will find before you have hoofed it much farther along the trail of life." "well, what are you driving at?" "yale won the race to-day, and i reckon she's got glory enough to last her a while." "go on." "the last ball game of the series between yale and harvard comes off next week?" "it does." "yale has won one, and harvard one." "that is right." "yale stands a right good chance of winning the deciding game?" "she is pretty sure of winning." "and i have a pot of dust on harvard. i can get odds that yale will win, so i can stake more money." frank fancied that he saw the stranger's game, and he felt his anger rising rapidly; but, with a great effort, he held himself in control, and pretended that he did not understand. the boy looked the man over from head to heels. he was making a study of the unknown. already he had decided by the man's appearance and language that he was a westerner, or wished to be considered such. frank was not absolutely certain that the fellow was not masquerading as a man from the west. as merriwell remained silent after the stranger's last statement, he went on: "if there is any way of knowing as how harvard will win, i can stake my rocks on her, and pull off a good thing." still frank was silent. "you can see that plain enough, can't you, youngster?" demanded the man, seeming to grow impatient and restless before the lad's steady, piercing gaze. "any one should be able to see that," was the cold answer. "then all i've got to do in order to make a stake is to fix it so that harvard is dead sure of winning." "how can you fix it?" "i don't see but one way." "how is that?" "make it worth something to the yale team to throw the game to harvard. i can afford to do that, i reckon; but i've got to find the right man to do the trick." frank's jaws seemed to grow square and hard, and there was a dangerous fire in his eyes. the stranger did not appear to discern this, however, for he went on: "it rather strikes me that the pitcher has the best chance to do the little turn i want done, and that's why i've come to you. now, don't go off half-cocked! hold hard, and hear me chirp. every young fellow at college needs money, and they need a right good bit of it, too. i don't allow that you are any exception. now, i reckon i can show you how you can make a smart bit of a pile and do it dead easy. nobody but you and me will ever know you did it at all, and there isn't any danger that we'll preach about it--none whatever." "make a square statement as to what you want," commanded frank, finding it difficult to keep his voice from quivering, and feeling that his cheeks were burning with the angry blood that had surged into them. "that's what i'll do, youngster. if you will pitch that game so harvard will win, i'll give you a thousand dollars in cold cash. now i reckon you understand me." "i think i do," came icily from frank. "you want me to sell the game for a thousand dollars! you put a small price on my honor, sir!" "a small price! you talk as if a thousand were nothing! hang me if i ever saw a youngster of your caliber! perhaps you think i'm fooling? perhaps you think i won't pay? look here! i'll make it two thousand dollars, and i'll give you a thousand in advance. that is a square deal, as you must allow." then he took a huge roll of bank notes from his pocket. some were new bills, while some were worn and soiled. he rapidly counted off a thousand dollars in ten, twenty, fifty and one hundred dollar bills. this money he thrust into merriwell's hands, saying: "there you have it, and that binds the bargain between us. i'll give you the other thousand directly harvard wins and i collect my wagers. i'm a man of my word. i reckon it is settled?" frank looked at the money, making sure it was genuine. he quickly satisfied himself on that point. it was all right. never before had such a bribe been offered merriwell, and, for some seconds, he stood with the money in his unbandaged hand, feeling somewhat dazed and doubtful. "put it out of sight!" whispered the stranger. "don't let 'em see you have it. give me your promise that you will throw the game to harvard." "i shall not pitch that game," said frank. "no?" "no, sir." "why not?" "my hand will not be in condition, as you should know. true it is my left hand, but i'll not be able to bat with it, even if i could pitch." "but you would throw the game if you could pitch?" "no!" cried merriwell, fiercely, letting his outraged indignation flame forth. "what do you take me for? i am no sneak and traitor, and not for ten thousand dollars--not for a hundred thousand dollars--not to save my very life would i do such a dastardly thing! you have made a mistake in your man! take back your dirty money! i would not touch a dollar of it for the world! it would contaminate me!" then he flung the roll of bills straight into the face of the astonished man. as the man stooped to pick up the money, which had fallen at his feet, frank caught him by the collar with his well hand, yanked him up, and started him on a run for an open window. clinging to the money, the stranger uttered a protest at such rude treatment, but he was unable to turn about or break away, although he tried to do so. headlong through the window frank pitched the fellow, giving him a powerful kick to help him along. there was a cry of pain and rage, and the man disappeared. this act of frank's had been noted by the others within the boathouse, and it created no little wonder and excitement. harry rattleton came running up, spluttering: "hello, frank! mut's the whatter--i mean what's the matter?" "oh, nothing in particular," answered merriwell, quietly. "i simply fired a scoundrel, that's all." "what was he up to, old man?" demanded bob collingwood, in a tone that indicated that he was sorry not to have taken a hand in the little fracas. "did he try to do you?" "no; but he is trying to do yale." "how is that?" frank explained, briefly telling of the bribe offered by the mysterious stranger. a circle of lads had gathered about merriwell, and they listened with rising anger to his words. cries of astonishment and rage broke from their lips when frank told of the truly astonishing bribe which the unknown had offered. "my only regret," concluded frank, "was that i did not have two good hands with which to handle the rascal." "and my regret is that i was not there to handle him for you!" cried jack diamond. "i wonder how the fellow got in here?" exclaimed collingwood. "i'll have to inquire into that." "he can't be far away," cried one of the angry lads. "let's get out and nab him!" "come on! come on!" was the general cry, and there was a rush for the door. but the unknown had not lingered in the vicinity of the boathouse. he was not found, which made it plain that he had taken to his heels as soon as he landed outside the window. "too bad!" growled collingwood. "a good soak in the river is what he'd got, if we'd caught him." chapter xxi. on the special train. some of the lads felt like staying in new london and making a night of it, but this was strictly against rules, and those who did so took a desperate chance of getting into trouble by it. after the race there was a general rush for the trains, and those bound west over the n. y., n. h. & h. were crowded. later on there was a special train for the yale crew and their friends. as this train was not exclusive and it was generally known that it would be run, large numbers of students waited for it, and it was quite as crowded as the trains which had preceded it. the car containing the victorious crew was a scene of wild merrymaking. the eight muscular lads who had pulled off another victory for old eli were gathered in the middle of the car and surrounded by admiring friends, who cheered and sang and smashed one another's hats, and played the very old nick with one another. beer, wine and whiskey had been brought on board the train, and it was urged upon the crew. danny griswold was in his glory. about half the time he was perched upon the shoulders of the crowd, and it was observable that he did not refuse anything that was offered him in the way of a liquid. still, for all that he drank so much and mixed his drinks, he did not seem to get any worse off than he had been when the train started from new london. charlie creighton climbed upon the backs of two seats and made a speech. "hark, ye noble sons of old eli!" he began, with a spread-eagle gesture that came near causing him to lose his balance and fall off headlong. "this is the great day when we can get up on our hind legs and make the welkin ring with war whoops of victory. to-day we stand with one foot on princeton's neck and the heel of the other foot gouging into harvard's back. they have bitten the dust before us, oh, mighty warriors in blue! they have fallen like autumn leaves before a gale. we have carried our colors on to victory in many a mad scrimmage, but never have we done a better job than we did this day. during the greater part of the race it looked as if harvard would take our scalps. we who watched the awful struggle felt our blood turn cold with fear. then, when we looked upon the calm face of our captain [cheers], we took heart and hoped. like clockwork he was handling his men, and his calm confidence gave them heart. they saw he did not fear the result, and when he began to drive them for the final spurt every one of that noble band responded like the greatest of heroes. [more cheers.] then it was that yale began to crowd harvard. then it was that the harvard crew showed how the pressure was telling on them. then it was that the backers of old eli who were watching the struggle became confident that we were still in it and would pull off the race after all. then old yale crept into the lead, the spurt being admirably timed, so that our boat crossed the line just in time to make old eli again the winner. and to whom is honor due for this? you know!" "collingwood! collingwood!" roared the jubilant crowd in the car. "hurrah for dear old bob!" then they cheered and cheered, and then they called for a speech from "dear old bob." collingwood was lifted to his feet. he protested that he could not make a speech, but they would not be satisfied till he had said something, and so he cried: "well, boys, we did them--and we did them good!" this was better than a long speech, and it produced the most unbounded enthusiasm. when the excitement had abated somewhat, collingwood arose again, and motioned for silence. in a moment he was receiving the full attention of every one. "every man on the crew deserves praise," began bob. "hooray for the croll hew--i mean the whole crew!" shouted harry rattleton, smashing his new straw hat over bandy robinson's head. "but there is one who deserves especial commendation," collingwood added. there was a breathless silence, and all eyes were turned on frank merriwell, who flushed beneath this sudden attention. "there was one man on the crew who was not in condition to row in the race to-day, and i came very near letting him out. now i am glad i did not, for, although he had a bad felon on his left hand, there was no man of the crew who pulled a stiffer stroke or showed more lasting powers till the finish was reached. he fainted then, it is true, but it was because of the frightful pain in his hand and arm, and i wish you to remember that he did not faint till the victory was won." "merriwell! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" not even bob collingwood himself received a greater ovation. frank was seized, he was lifted aloft, he was perched on the shoulders of his friends, and then there was a general howl for a speech. frank felt himself thrill from his hair to his toes; his eyes were dimmed with moisture, even though he laughed. in his bosom there was a choking sensation of gratitude and love for his comrades and the admiring throng around him. he forgot that he had a single foe at yale--that he had a foe in all the wide world. "boys," he said, somewhat brokenly, "i did my best for dear old yale--that is all." that was all he said. it was enough. it seemed to touch a chord in every breast, and there was a ring of patriotism in the cheering that followed. "here's to good old yale--drink it down! here's to good old yale--drink it down! here's to good old yale, she's so hearty and so hale-- drink it down! drink it down! down! down!" it seemed that every person in the car joined in singing this song. the enthusiasm was running higher and higher. in every heart the yale spirit grew deeper and stronger during that ride from new london to new haven. the students who were there never forgot that scene--never forgot how they thrilled with love for old yale. the hardships and struggles of college days were forgotten; the triumphs and joys alone were remembered. but with it all it is certain that the result of the race had disappointed no harvard man more than it did fred flemming. at the last moment he had been overjoyed to learn that merriwell had a bad felon on one of his hands, which, it seemed, must debar him from rowing in the great race. flemming had kept himself in condition as far as possible, and he lost no time to let collingwood know that he could be called on in case of emergency. that he would be called on seemed almost certain, for he was notified to be on hand at yale's quarters before the time set for the race to begin. he had been on hand, ready to strip off in a moment, and had seen collingwood talking earnestly with merriwell. then, to his inexpressible astonishment, he had been told that merriwell would row after all. from that moment flemming hoped and prayed that yale would lose the race. he would have given almost anything in his power to give had frank merriwell been unable to row to the finish. but merriwell had finished the race, and yale had won. flemming's friends, who had bet that he would row in the race, had lost money, and they were sore also. it was bitter gall for flemming and tom thornton to pretend to rejoice over yale's victory, but they dared not do otherwise. it happened that they waited till the special train left for new haven, and they were on that train and in the car which carried the victorious crew. occasionally they cheered with the others, to keep up appearances; but, for the most part, they remained seated in a corner at one end of the car and talked in low tones. "how was it that collingwood happened to retain the fellow for all of his hand?" asked thornton, referring to merriwell. "ask me something easy!" exclaimed flemming. "i am sure he intended to fire the fellow, but i think merriwell begged to be given a show, and collingwood did not have the nerve to chuck him off." "collingwood must be soft!" "oh, i don't know. i think that cad merriwell must be a hypnotist by the way he gets around some fellows." "i don't want to have anything further to do with him." "oh, you've lost your nerve since merriwell and griswold put up that girl job on you, and diamond drew you into a bogus duel." "that was enough to make any fellow lose his nerve." "rats!" "you may say 'rats,' but you don't know how you would have felt if you had been in my place. just as the word was given to fire and i pulled trigger, griswold, dressed as a girl, rushed between us. i fired, and, with a frightful shriek, he fell. then i ran forward and looked at him. the moonlight made him look deathly white, and i felt sure i had shot him. i'll never forget the sickening sensation that came over me at that moment! the hangman's noose seemed to dangle before my eyes. i dropped the pistol and rushed away to my room. i think i was stunned, for horner found me sitting on a chair and staring blankly at the wall about an hour afterward. then he said the girl had not been shot at all, but had fainted. say, flem, my boy, it is utterly impossible for me to tell the feeling of thankfulness and relief that rushed over me. i felt just like getting right down on my knees and thanking providence, but i didn't, for tad horner was watching me all the time, and i saw the laughing devil in his eyes. then, within two days, i found myself the guy of the whole college, and, finally, it all came out that 'grace darling' was danny griswold in his theatrical rig, and i had been played for a blooming guy by merriwell and diamond, assisted to a certain extent by horner, my own roommate." "and the only decent thing you ever did about it was to quit horner cold. you've never seemed to have sand enough to make an effort to get back at merriwell." "i decided that merriwell is a bad man to monkey with." "that's rot! it's his reputation that frightens you. i'm going to watch my chance to get even with him." "so am i, young man!" whispered a voice in flemming's ear. fred whirled swiftly, and saw close at his shoulder a rather rough-appearing, smooth-faced man, who wore a wide-brimmed hat, and was weather-tanned, as if by much exposure. "eh?" exclaimed the college lad. "who are you?" "one who has a good reason to dislike that fly chap, mr. frank merriwell," was his answer. flemming was suspicious. "why should you hate merriwell?" he asked. "because he kicked me," was the fierce reply. "he kicked you? then you are the man he fired out of the boathouse? i heard about that little affair." "i am the man." "you should have known better than to try to bribe merriwell to throw any sort of game or race to harvard. that chap is so honest that he has wings sprouting under his clothes. he said you pushed a thousand dollars at him?" "i did--i put it into his hand." "and he flung it into your face?" "yes, curse him! then he threw me out of the window!" "well, you do seem to have a reason for disliking him. what would you do to him if you got a good chance?" "ask me what i wouldn't do! all i want is the chance!" "can you keep your mouth closed?" "you bet your dust! i never peach!" "then you may be just the kind of a man i am looking for. i want somebody with nerve. the trouble with the fellows in college who hate merriwell is that they do not dare butt up against him. they are afraid of him." "well, i'm not afraid of any man living, let alone a mere boy. he's nothing but a tenderfoot! waugh!" "hear them shouting over him!" muttered thornton. "see! they have lifted him on their shoulders! one would think he alone won the race to-day!" then frank was heard to make the brief speech which elicited such hearty applause. "it is sickening!" growled flemming, pale with jealous rage. "it is," nodded the stranger. "it makes me want to give him back the kick he gave me!" "if you stick to me, i promise you that you shall have a good opportunity," said flemming. "you may bet your rocks that i'll tie to you, pard," assured the unknown. "i'll help you to get square, and you can help me. frank merriwell will have to keep his eyes open if he dodges us both." chapter xxii. the fight on the train. it happened that, as he was perched on the shoulders of his friends and admirers, frank merriwell saw flemming and thornton in the further end of the car. merriwell would not have given his enemies more than a passing glance, but it occurred that he saw and recognized the man who was talking to flemming. "it is the scoundrel who tried to bribe me!" muttered frank, angrily. "and he is with flemming and thornton! i fancy i smell a mouse." then he forced his friends to put him down, and, the moment he was on his feet, he hastened along the aisle toward the end of the car, having called diamond to follow him. the plotters saw frank coming, and the expression on his face told them that there was a storm brewing. "by jove!" fluttered thornton, in alarm; "he looks as if he means to thump somebody!" although he did not show it, flemming was not a little alarmed by merriwell's angry appearance. several of the students gathered about the crew saw there was something in the wind, and they followed merriwell and diamond down the crowded aisle. halting within a short distance of his enemies, frank pointed straight at the stranger and cried: "there he is! take a good look at him, boys! that is the creature who tried to bribe me to throw the ball game to harvard!" his words rang through the car, and were heard by every one. the uproar and excitement that followed was quite unexpected by frank. a wild shout of anger broke from the college lads, and there was a scramble for that end of the car. "mob the wretch!" "thump him!" "choke him!" "don't let him get away!" these cries broke from the crowd of lads, who strove in mad haste to get at the stranger. "great christopher!" gasped tom thornton, in terror. "i'm going to get out of this! it's altogether too hot for me!" then he tried to slip away. flemming did not know what to do. the manner of the angry lads was alarming, and he saw no reason why he should defend a man who was quite unknown to him. but the stranger did not wait to be defended. with a wild shout, that was like the war whoop of an indian, he leaped up and lunged straight into the crowd, striking out right and left. in less than ten seconds a general fight was taking place in that end of the car. jack diamond, who had a grudge against tom thornton, collared tom as he was trying to slip away. "hold on!" cried the virginian. "you can't play the sneak in that way! i saw you talking with that scoundrel! did you and flemming set him on to bribe merriwell?" "i don't know anything about it!" protested tom, struggling. "let go, diamond!" "well, not in a hurry!" returned jack. "i don't know where the money came from, but i believe you and flemming tried to ruin merriwell by bribing him to throw a game and then exposing him. if that was the trick, you fooled yourselves. frank merriwell is not that kind of a fellow!" with a fierce exclamation, thornton struck savagely at jack's face, but diamond dodged the blow. "oh, you will, will you!" he cried, and then he gave thornton a terrible thump between the eyes. in another moment they were at it fiercely. although flemming was a big fellow with a reputation as a bully, harry rattleton had not hesitated to lay hands on him. "you're a chine fap--i mean a fine chap!" shouted harry. "so you are concerned in this attempted bribery!" "get out!" snarled flemming. "i'll break your nose!" "break it!" invited rattleton. "i'll try to do a little something while you are about it!" flemming waited to say not another word, but, quick as a flash, he did strike harry a heavy blow on the jaw. rattleton was staggered, but he held on to flemming. a moment later both were swept down by the rush of the crowd. it was something of a blind fight, and it waged with great fierceness, although in an aimless manner, for some moments. several of the windows in the car were broken. bob collingwood waded into the midst of the struggling mass of human beings, scattering them with his powerful arms, and crying: "here, stop this senseless scrapping! where is the fellow who tried to bribe merriwell?" where, indeed? all looked around for him, but he was gone. in some manner he had made his escape in the midst of the tumult. "he must be on the train!" cried frank. "he can't escape from the train till it stops! here--i have his coat! he left it in my hands when the crowd tore us apart." merriwell held up the garment. "he must be in the car back of this!" declared collingwood. "i want to see him--i want to get a fair look at his face." "i'd like to do something else to his face!" shouted another student. "think of any one offering a yale pitcher money to throw a game to harvard!" this brought a mad howl from the angry students. rattleton and flemming had been torn apart during the struggle, and thornton and diamond were separated, but not until jack had thumped the fellow he disliked, and done it several times. both flemming and thornton were forgotten. the excited students rushed out by the open door, and crowded into the rear car, which was the only one on the train to which the unknown man could have escaped. "where is he?" was the hoarse shout that went up, as the angry boys packed into the car. they looked desperate and dangerous, as if they were thirsting for human blood. at the farther end of the car a man in his shirt-sleeves crouched and muttered: "well, derned if i expected to kick up this sort of a rumpus! i've seen all kinds of mobs, but i will allow that this reminds me of a regular judge lynch crowd, and no mistake. never judged a lot of youngsters would get stirred up this way any whatever. they're on a regular rampage." he kept out of sight as far as possible, feeling that it was the most "healthy" thing to do. "where is he?" demanded collingwood, who was just ahead of merriwell--"where is the man who belongs to this coat? he must have come in here! did a man in his shirt sleeves come in here?" "yes, yes!" replied several. "what has he been doing?" "doing!" roared "dear old bob," flushed with anger. "why, he is the creature that tried to bribe merriwell!" it seemed that this piece of business was generally known, for collingwood's words produced a roar of indignation. down at the rear end of the car a young man stood up and shouted: "this way! here he is! he can't get away!" then it seemed that the students all spotted their game at the same moment, and there was a fierce scramble for that end of the car. the hunted man saw them coming, and a desperate look settled on his face. "i'd as lief fall into the clutches of a whole tribe of apache indians!" he gasped. "they're after my scalp for sure!" he leaped to the door, and tore it open. "stop!" rang out the voice of frank merriwell. "you cannot escape, for you will be killed if you leap from the train!" the man hesitated one moment. he saw the college lads rushing down the aisle, and then, although the train was making a speed of at least forty miles an hour, he descended the steps. collingwood and merriwell came out through the open door. as they reached the platform, they saw the man clinging in the darkness at the foot of the steps. he was in a crouching position, his hands clasping the iron holds. in the gloom his face seemed fully as white as the sleeves of his shirt, which fluttered in the breeze. "for heaven's sake, don't jump!" cried frank. collingwood tried to grasp the man by the arm. as he did so, the mysterious man dropped from the steps, instantly disappearing in the darkness. "he's gone!" gasped frank, horrified. "yes, he is gone!" said collingwood, hoarsely. "that's the end of him, for surely he was killed when he struck the ground!" chapter xxiii. seen again. for two days frank scanned all the newspapers for an account of the finding of the body of an unknown man somewhere on the line of the n. y., n. h. & h. r. r., but he looked in vain. "well, that is remarkable!" merriwell decided. "i can't understand it. if that fellow escaped, it is a miracle. and if he escaped, i believe i shall hear from him again," he finished. the spring term was drawing to a close. but two more events were to transpire before the coming of the long summer vacation. there was the final ball game with harvard, and then the great intercollegiate athletic tournament at madison square garden in new york--the latter affair to be the great college event of the year. frank was entered for several of the contests in new york, but his hand, although improving, would not be in condition to allow him to play ball again that season. as for the coming vacation, his plans were not perfected as yet. some of his friends were going to bar harbor, some contemplated spending the summer quietly at home, some were going abroad for a flying trip, and many had expressed themselves as quite undecided as to the manner in which they would pass the summer months. frank had boldly proposed a bicycle journey across the continent, but all his friends, with the exception of diamond, had considered the proposition a joke. diamond grew enthusiastic over it, urging merriwell to carry out the plan, even though but two of them should make the jaunt. frank's plan embraced a party of at least four--possibly more. what made rattleton believe that merriwell was joking was that frank had soberly asked bruce browning, the reputedly laziest man at yale, to make one of the party. bruce came near fainting with horror at the mere mention of such a thing. "my dear merriwell!" he gasped, "is it possible that you take me for a candidate for a lunatic asylum? do you think that i am on the verge of lapsing into complete idiocy? or are you simply trying to have a little sport at my expense?" "nothing of the sort, my dear fellow, i assure you," said frank. "i am in sober earnest about getting up a party to make the trip across the continent, and i think it would be a fine thing for you if you were to make one of the company." bruce was reclining on a couch in merriwell's room at the time, lazily puffing away at a cigarette. he languidly reached out his hand and felt for frank's wrist. "permit me to examine your pulse, old fellow," he murmured. "if you are not trying to work some kind of a horse on me you must be in a bad way. ah!" he said, knowingly, with his thumb and finger on frank's wrist, "i thought so! pulse irregular--flutters like an old rag in the wind--flesh hot and dry, eye changing and unsteady, dryness in your throat and general vacancy in your stomach. what you need is a tonic--and you need it bad. you should take whiskey, it may be the only thing that will save you from an utter breaking up of the nervous system or premature death. the premature death will happen if you try to jolly me any more. i shall carry a gun with me constantly hereafter, and it will not cost too much of an effort to point it in your direction and pull the trigger." frank laughed. "i know you are almost too lazy to draw your breath," he said, "and i also know that the best thing that could happen to you would be just such an expedition as i have proposed. however, i suppose it is useless to waste my breath talking to you, and so i will drop it." but for all of browning's refusal to be one of the party, frank did not give up the project of a trip across the continent from ocean to ocean during the summer vacation. but almost immediately other matters occupied his attention. one night he was spending an evening in town with a jolly party of students. the others were drinking beer and ale, while merriwell took nothing but ginger ale or bottled soda. as they were leaving traeger's, frank caught a glimpse of the face of a man who seemed to be waiting for them to come out. for one moment merriwell stopped as if turned to stone, and then, with a hoarse shout of recognition, he leaped after the man, who had slipped away. the others followed frank, and they soon pursued him around a corner, where they found him standing still and staring about in a disappointed manner. "what is it, old man?" asked paul hamilton. "why did you give that whoop and then chase yourself around here in such a lively fashion?" "it was not myself i chased," declared frank. "it was quite another party, i assure you; but he has given me the slip, for i can see nothing of him." "who was it?" "the man who tried to bribe me to throw the last ball game to harvard!" "that fellow?" exclaimed all the lads, excitedly. "are you sure?" "dead sure," asserted frank, confidently. "i saw his face fairly in the light in front of traeger's when we came out." "then he was not killed in the leap from the train!" cried diamond. "how did he escape?" "ask me something easy!" exclaimed frank. "i never expected to look on that man's face again, unless i looked on it as a corpse." "confound him!" exploded harry rattleton. "i'd like to hake his break--i mean break his head! what does he want around here?" frank was silent. there was a grim look on his face, and it was plain that he had been not a little disturbed by the sight of the mysterious stranger. the boys turned toward college, discussing the queer actions of the unknown as they walked along. one or two of them fully believed the man must be a lunatic. that night, as frank and harry were preparing for bed, the former declared: "that strange man is about as large a mystery as i ever ran across. he is beginning to be a decided nuisance." "what do you make of him, anyway?" "that he is a westerner, or wishes to be thought such. his language betrays that. and he is the last man i could dream would be staking enough money on a game of college baseball to be able to offer a bribe of two thousand dollars to make sure that the game would result in his favor." "by jove!" cried rattleton; "if any other fellow but yourself had told me that a stranger had made them such an offer and had forked over one-half cash in advance i should have considered him a looming byer--no, a blooming liar!" "and you would not be to blame for thinking so. to me it seems like a dream, but i know it actually happened." "well, what is he hanging around new haven for?" "i'll give it up, unless he hopes to get at heffiner or dad hicks, one of whom must pitch the game at springfield." "he'll get used rough if he pushes his dirty dough at either heffiner or hicks!" cried rattleton. "i think so," nodded frank. "i believe they are loyal to dear old yale, and nothing can buy their honor." "most yale men are. there may be one or two sneaks who would sell out, as there are black sheep in every flock. i don't believe flemming would be above such a trick." "oh, i don't know! i do not wish to think that bad of flemming. i know he is my enemy, and i believe he hates me so he would do almost anything to injure me but i do not wish to think that a fellow like him even would stoop to such a dastardly trick as to betray old yale." "you always think every fellow is white till you are convinced to the contrary beyond the shadow of a doubt." "i had rather believe all men honest and deceive myself in that manner than to suspect everybody and thus think that one honest man was a rogue." harry regarded frank in a queer manner, slowly shaking his head, but saying nothing more. for all that they had been friends and roommates for a year and a half, rattleton was forced to confess to himself that there still remained many things about merriwell that he could not understand. that frank was shrewd harry knew, and yet merriwell sometimes seemed to deliberately deceive himself by thinking that certain fellows were honest when he should have known better. it seemed the hardest thing in the world for frank to be convinced that any fellow was thoroughly bad, even though that person might be an enemy who had endeavored in numerous ways to do him an injury. "merriwell seems to come out all right in everything," thought rattleton; "but it would not be the luck of any other fellow who dared take the chances he does." chapter xxiv. two warnings. the morning after the evening when frank saw the mysterious stranger in front of traeger's he received a warning note through the mail. it read as follows: "be constantly on your guard. your enemies are plotting to do you serious injury. i shall do what i can to foil them, but you had better watch out." it was unsigned, and the handwriting was cramped and awkward, as if the person who wrote it was not accustomed to handle a pen. "well, i wonder what sort of a game this is!" cried frank, in disgust. "it is a fake, pure and simple!" rattleton was at his side. "what is it?" asked harry. "read that!" invited frank, thrusting the anonymous warning into the ready hands of his friend. harry glanced it over and then whistled softly. "rot!" he cried. "anybody can see that's lot on the nevel--i mean not on the level." "but what sort of a game is it?" questioned frank, in perplexity. "if it was an appointment to meet somebody somewhere, or even a warning to stay away from some place, i could see something in it; but the mere statement that enemies are plotting to injure me doesn't indicate much in this case." "it seems to indicate that somebody fakes you for a tool--no, takes you for a fool!" spluttered rattleton. frank's face grew scornful. "that somebody may find out that it is not entirely healthy to try crooked games with me," he grimly said. "i believe i see through the trick." "what is it, then?" "this bogus warning will be followed by another. the other will go a little further than this. then will come the third, which will be the one intended to draw me into some sort of a trap. oh, the game is too thin!" harry looked into his roommate's face, and saw that frank merriwell was aroused at last. "what are you going to do?" asked rattleton. "i am going to have a few words with fred flemming at the first opportunity. i have been easy with flemming, for i could not believe the fellow all bad, even though he had tried to injure me, but, if he is going to hire a ruffian like this unknown man to try to work my ruin, i shall draw the lines on mr. flemming. he is rich, but that will not save him." "they say he has money to burn." "i don't care if he is a monte cristo. he cannot ride over me with all his money, and i do not believe that a scoundrel will be tolerated at yale after his villainy is exposed, even though he may be rich and have influential parents and connections." "what do you think the game is?" "as to that i am more or less at sea; but i believe that the bribe which was offered me to throw the ball game to harvard was a trap meant to work my undoing." "flemming must have known your hand would not permit you to play in that game, so he could not have been in that piece of business." "my dear boy, i do not fancy i was expected to pitch that game. it was thought that i would keep the money. that money was marked. this man would have gone forth and blowed that he had bribed me. he would have told what marked money he had given me. i should have been cornered--perhaps arrested--then searched. you see what that would have meant. the marked money would have been found on my person. it would have been exactly as the stranger had described it. it is certain that somebody was watching and saw him give me the money. that person would have testified against me. then frank merriwell's college career would have come to a sudden termination. in some ways it was a bungling plot, and in others it was crafty enough." "but a cool thousand--that was an awful roll to push at a fellow!" "it was a bold and desperate stroke, and the fact that such a sum was offered shows that the one who put up the job knew i could not be bought with a petty amount. he did not know that it made no difference whether it was one dollar or one million--i would not sell my honor and betray dear old yale for any sum!" "you have other enemies besides flemming." "yes--thornton." "he doesn't count, for he lacks nerve." "whom do you mean?" "harris does not love you." "it will be a long time before sport harris will venture to lift a hand against me again, for the memory of the fate of his comrade, hartwick, is too vivid before him. hartwick brought disgrace and ruin on himself by trying to injure me. he was forced to leave college, and then, when he came back to new haven and put up that race-track job on me, he finished his own downfall by robbing his father in order that he might have a sum of money to stake against me, feeling sure i must lose. directly after that race he was arrested." "what was done about that matter? was he sent to prison?" "no; his father would not press the case; but i have heard that the old man's heart is broken by hartwick's actions. the worthless rascal was the apple of the old man's eye. his father had expected to see him go through college and graduate with flying colors. the disgrace has bowed the father with grief, and it is said he cannot live long." "then hartwick will get all his money." "no. the old man has made a will that cuts evan off with a very small sum. the rest of the money and estate goes to other relatives and to charity." "and evan hartwick brought all this on himself by his dastardly attempts to injure you. it should be a warning to others." "it is an old saying that 'the way of the transgressor is hard,' but it seems to take human beings a long time to become convinced that it is absolutely true." frank kept his eyes open, and waited for the second warning, which he felt sure would come. he was not mistaken, for it came near night. a boy appeared at frank's door, and handed over a sealed envelope, which he explained he had received from a man with a heavy beard. he said he had been paid a quarter of a dollar to deliver it. frank tore it open and read: "you will be invited to go to the theatre to-night. do not go. your enemies will be on the watch for you." "oh. i knew it was coming!" cried frank, scornfully. "it is a flimsy trick! it actually disgusts me!" harry was out, and merriwell was alone. later harry came in, accompanied by diamond, browning, griswold and creighton. "i say, old man," cried charlie creighton, addressing frank, "we have something on for to-night, and we want you to take a hand." "you may take a few rotten eggs or decayed vegetables with that hand, if you like," grinned griswold. frank remembered the second warning. of the party creighton was the only fellow he did not know very well, and, if there was an enemy among them, creighton must be the man. frank resolved to show no suspicion. "what's up?" he asked. "to-night," cried griswold, dramatically, "the curtain will go up on one of the greatest tragedies ever enacted on any stage--nit!" "hush!" whispered creighton, mysteriously. "whisper it softly. 'uncle tom's cabin' is in town, with two _little evas_, two _marks_, three real siberian bloodhounds, bred in new jersey, and a jackass." "the jackass is the manager of the company," grinned griswold. "i presume you have heard of that immortal play, 'uncle tom's cabin,' mr. merriwell?" questioned creighton. "methinks i have," assured frank. "'methinks' is good," nodded creighton. "it has a fat sound." "eh?" grunted browning, who already had deposited his corpulent body on the couch. "did anybody speak to me?" "ah, mr. browning," said creighton, "i think you said as we were coming along that you have had the pleasure of seeing 'uncle tom's cabin'?" "yes, i said so." "then permit me to inquire if you have ever seen 'ten nights in a barroom'?" "no," grunted bruce; "but i have seen ten barrooms in a night." "here, hold up!" cried griswold, promptly. "that belongs to me, and i have used it on everybody i could hit with it." "never mind," murmured browning. "it is a good thing, so we'll have to move it along." "seriously," said diamond, "there is a crummy 'uncle tom's cabin' company at a cheap theatre in town, and creighton has purchased a box. he wants us to go along." "that's the idea," acknowledged charlie. "all the fellows are onto it, and there will be two or three hundred yale boys there. we won't do a thing to the hamfatters!" frank smiled. he saw that it would be an opportunity for any amount of sport he was sure, and the mere thought of it made him eager to go. but he remembered the warning. it was most remarkable that the invitation to the theatre had followed so closely after the receipt of the note from the unknown. "of course you'll go, old fellow?" cried creighton, who saw that merriwell was hesitating. "of course he will!" cried rattleton. "merry is always in for a little racket of this sort." "he is always foremost in anything of the kind," said diamond. "that is why i want him in my box," smiled creighton. "oh, we won't do a thing in that box--not a thing! i have ordered plenty of fizz on ice, and--oh, but you do not drink fizz, do you, merriwell?" "no," said frank; "but i am no temperance crank, and i do not make myself offensive by trying to convince everybody else that men who do drink are fools. college lads should have brains enough to know what they want and what they do not want, and it is impertinent for any fellow to go around trying to make good templars of men who enjoy a glass of beer or wine now and then." creighton impulsively grasped frank's hand. "merriwell," he cried, "by example you are the best possible temperance lecture, and you will make more converts by keeping still than by preaching." "there may be something in that," admitted frank. "i knew a parson once on a time who never mentioned religion unless some one broached the subject, except when he was in the pulpit. his name was lamfear. he did not go around with his face drawn down, asking everybody if they had received salvation and loved the lord. i admired him more than any parson i ever knew, and i used to go to his church sundays to hear him preach. he was a good man, although he seemed to enjoy seeing boys play baseball and skate and coast and fly kites. i remember that one time he put on skates himself, and took a spin on the river with the boys and girls. now i know that man did more good by keeping still about religion than he could have done had he dinned it into the ears of everybody he met. every one saw he was a good man, for his daily life told that. all the young folks admired him as much as they disliked another old parson who was forever talking about the wickedness of the world and the goodness of the lord, and collaring persons everywhere to ask them why they did not attend church oftener. good old parson lamfear! may his tribe increase!" "well," said griswold, "we'll let parson lamfear rest. what we want to know is if you are with us to-night." "to go, or not to go? that is the burning question," murmured browning, as, still stretched on his back, he struck a match, lighted a cigarette, dropped part of the match on his chin, and gave a howl of pain. frank suddenly made up his mind. "i'll go," he said. chapter xxv. the theatre party. it was a gay party that left south middle that evening and started for the theatre. merriwell had not said a word to rattleton concerning the receipt of the second warning. a spirit of sheer reckless defiance led him to accept the invitation to the theatre, even though he had not wished to spend his time that evening in such a manner. "this may be a jolly," he told himself; "if i were to stay away the fellows would have a horse on me sure." creighton had a beautiful tenor voice, and as they started out beneath the elms, he sang: "i shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth--i know not where----" danny griswold seemed to take a fiendish delight in giving a humorous twist to anything sentimental, and so he interrupted with: "the next day a man came around and sold me dead dog at a dollar a pound." "if that were original i wouldn't mind," said creighton; "but you got it from some star vaudeville performance, you little runt." "that's where i get all my gags," frankly confessed griswold. "i store them up for use, and they come in handy some time." "some time, when you spring a stale joke, i shall be led to assassinate you," declared bruce browning. "impossible!" cried griswold. "that would be a crime." "well, what's the odds?" "you are too fat to commit a crime." "how is that?" "it is difficult for fat persons to stoop to anything low, you know." "you seem to find considerable amusement because i am somewhat overweight," said bruce, with attempted severity. "not at all," chirped danny. "some men are well enough in their weight, but this doesn't apply to coal dealers." "say, griswold," called rattleton, "what's the average fate for a wool--no, i mean the average weight for a fool?" "a simple ton," replied the little fellow, quick as a flash. frank clapped danny on the back. "good boy!" he exclaimed, laughing. "rattleton didn't get ahead of you that time." "it is hard for anybody to get ahead of me," declared griswold. "i am really a lively man in a footrace, for my father is a watchmaker, and he has given me instructions in the business." "i fuf-fuf-fuf, fail to see huh-huh-how that applies," said joe gamp, a lad with a serious impediment in his speech. "why, you see i have learned how to make good time," chuckled danny. gamp roared with laughter. he was a big, raw-boned, hulking fellow from new hampshire, and his laugh was like the braying of a mule. creighton had invited gamp to the theatre for the amusement the country lad would provide. "he'll break the performers all up if he ever gets started laughing," said charlie to merriwell. "when he gets going in good style nothing will stop him." there was something about the country boy that merriwell liked. frank quickly decided that joe was a big-hearted, honest fellow, such a blunder-heels that he was certain to provoke ridicule, and yet thoroughly worthy and deserving. in laughing, gamp opened his mouth to the widest extent. he suddenly closed it, and clapped his hand to his jaw. "jee-ru-sa-lem!" he gasped; "there gug-gug-gug-goes that old aching tut-tut-tooth of mine! i was careless to let the night air gug-gug-get into it." "why don't you have it pulled out?" asked diamond. "i'm going to have it pup-pup-pup-pulled and all the rest of my 'tut-'tut-'tarnel teeth just as soon as i can afford the money to bub-buy a new set," declared gamp, honestly. "why spend your money in such a foolish way?" said griswold, with apparent seriousness. "save the dentist's bill. i know a dog that will insert a full set of teeth free of charge." open flew gamp's mouth again, and his braying laugh caused a passing pedestrian to dodge so suddenly that he jumped from under his own hat. "say!" exclaimed charlie creighton, getting hold of griswold; "save those till we get to the theatre. then you can set him going, and we'll have sport." "can't save them," declared danny. "they have to come when the opportunity offers." and so they went on their way to the theatre, laughing and joking, singing snatches of college songs, and having a jolly time generally. creighton had made no mistake in saying a large number of college lads would be present. it seemed that there were at least two hundred in the theatre, and it was apparent that they were there for "a racket." the moment creighton's party entered the box a tall young man in the first row of orchestra seats arose and faced the house, soberly saying: "ladies and gentlemen, this is a most auspicious, not to say suspicious, occasion. it is probable that many of you were not aware that we were to be honored to-night by having the privilege of witnessing the performance in company with royal personages, but such is the fact. the party that has just entered the box on the right is the prince of chow-chow, who is accompanied by the duke of dublinstout, the earl of easytogetajag, the emperor of buginhishead, the high mogul of whooperup, the chief pusher of whangdoodleland and the great muckamuck of hogansalley. gentlemen, it is your privilege to salute them." then every college boy in the house arose and bowed with great gravity toward the box. "well, this is sure to be a hot time!" laughed merriwell, delighted. "you bet it is!" assured charlie creighton. "we'll make _simon legree_ regret that he is living." an usher came down the aisle and remonstrated with the tall student. the tall student replied to the usher with exaggerated politeness, declaring that he meant no harm, but that he had felt it his duty to inform the audience that such distinguished personages were in the box. then when the tall young man sat down, as if by a prearranged signal, there was a wild outburst of applause, stamping of feet, whistling catcalls, and so forth. the musicians came out and began to put their instruments in tune. they composed an orchestra carried with the troupe, and were, as rattleton forcibly expressed it, "decidedly on the bum." some of the musicians seemed to dread what was coming, for they looked pale and agitated. "they know that some of the over-ripe vegetables and stale hen-fruit which the audience may toss at the performers is liable to fall short," smiled merriwell. having tuned up after a fashion, the orchestra began to file away at some sort of a medley. griswold rolled his eyes and said: "i am carried away with the music, as the monkey who was perched on the hand-organ remarked." it was with the utmost difficulty that the assembled students repressed a desire to uplift their voices and drown the sounds which came from the wretched orchestra; but they felt that it would not do to alarm the players by too great a demonstration, and so the only interruptions to the overture were a few catcalls. at last the curtain rolled up, and the play began. an ominous silence seemed to hang over the audience. the actors were nervous at first, but as the silence continued and offensive demonstrations were not immediately made, they gained courage and swung into their parts with as much enthusiasm and ability as possible. it is possible that the sight of two or three policemen at the back of the house gave the performers courage. the officers had been called in to overawe the college lads in case they became too demonstrative. at length, in a very pathetic part of the first act, griswold leaned over to joe gamp, and whispered: "it is very touching, isn't it?" "yes," said the country boy, chokingly, "it mum-mum-mum-makes me fuf-fuf-fuf-feel like th-th-thunder!" he nearly blubbered outright, for he had never seen many plays, having found it necessary to spend his money with the greatest care, as he was confined to a certain allowance to take him through college. "and uncle tom's bible," said danny--"it reminds me of a conundrum. how was the ark propelled?" "dud-dud-darned if i know." "by a noah, of course," explained griswold. gamp caught his breath, and then he lay back and roared: "haw! haw! haw! a-haw! a-haw! a-haw!" this roar of laughter, coming as it did at a solemn and pathetic point in the play, was most startling. _uncle tom_ came near collapsing on the stage, and the other actors were so disturbed that they got tangled in their lines. the students caught on, and there was an immediate burst of applause that swelled louder and louder. this died away most suddenly and unexpectedly, and joe gamp was heard to shout in his endeavor to make griswold hear: "by jiminy! that was a good one! a-haw! a-haw! a-haw! a-haw!" the lad from the country went off into another paroxysm of laughter, pressing his hands to his sides, and shutting his eyes, utterly unconscious for the moment of his surroundings. of a sudden joe remembered that he was at the theatre. his mouth came together with a snap, his eyes flew open, and he ceased to laugh and stiffened up, with a frightened look on his face. the change was so ludicrous that the entire audience was convulsed, and the actors could not help laughing. from that moment the play progressed under difficulties. in the scene where the slaves were being sold at auction some of the students began to pepper the actors with pea-shooters, doing it cautiously, so that they would not be spotted in the act. every time _marks_ would open his mouth to say "seventy-five" he would be struck by one or more peas, which were fired with force sufficient to make them sting like hornets. "seventy----wow! whoop!" yelled _marks_, clapping a hand to the side of his face, and suddenly dancing an original can-can. "five hundred," cried _legree_. "seventy-fi---- we-e-e-ow! stop it! somebody is shooting things at me!" _marks_ had been spotted on the end of his long nose, to which he was wildly clinging with both hands, as he pranced around the stage. "what's the matter?" growled _legree_, in a guarded tone, unable to understand what had happened. "have you gone crazy, you fool? stand up and bid!" then he cried: "six hundred!" "seventy-five---- hornets and blisters!" finished _marks_, as he was nailed by three or four peas. "i can't stand this! it's too much!" he bolted off the stage. _legree_ looked dismayed, and then he advanced to the footlights and addressed the audience. "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "i trust you will excuse the gentleman who is playing the part of _marks_. he has not been well for several days, and he is somewhat troubled with hallucinations. of course we know his troubles are all imaginary, and---- ye-e-e-ow! i'm shot!" a pea had struck him squarely between the eyes, and he started back so suddenly that he sat down on the stage as if he had been knocked off his feet. "a-haw! a-haw! a-haw!" roared the voice of joe gamp, and the audience joined in the shout of laughter. chapter xxvi. trapped. there was an uproar in the theatre, which the ushers and the police were unable to quell for some time. the curtain was rung down, and then, after a short wait, the manager came out and said the show would go on, if the audience would behave. he threatened to have the persons who were using the pea-shooters arrested, and this threat was greeted by hisses and catcalls. after a while, however, the curtain went up once more, and the play proceeded in a tangle of "real siberian bloodhounds," _gumption cutes_, _marks_, _topsies_, _little evas_, escaping slaves, slave hunters and general excitement and confusion. it was plain that the actors feared further trouble, and they were rushing through their lines, eager to get off the stage as soon as possible. the bloodhounds were cheered by the students and peppered with peas. when _topsy_ declared she "nebber was born, but jes' growed," some one inquired the name of the fertilizer used in her rearing. when the jackass appeared, a solemn voice from some uncertain part of the theatre called the attention of the audience to the "leading actor of the colossal aggregation." _little eva_ was invited to exhibit her wings. the college boys were irrepressible, and yet they did not do anything to absolutely break up the show, although joe gamp's haw-haws came near proving disastrous several times. a policeman came down to the box and threatened to arrest joe, but he was pacified by creighton, who had a decidedly smooth way of "fixing things." frank merriwell remained quiet until near the end of the play, enjoying the sport the other fellows were making. at last, however, he decided to produce some amusement himself. frank was a very good amateur ventriloquist, although he seldom practiced the art. now, however, he saw his opportunity. _little eva_ was on her deathbed, and the mourners were assembled about. all at once one of the mourners seemed to say: "this business is on the bum." every one started and stared. the actors were astounded, and the audience amused. then the death agony went on until another of the watchers by _eva's_ side observed: "it makes me sick!" the manager was heard to hiss from the shelter of the wings: "i'll make you sick when you come off!" "oh, go fall on yourself, you old cheat!" the actor seemed to fling back. then _little eva_, in her death agony, apparently remarked: "give it to the old duffer! he owes me six weeks' salary, and i'll quit dying right now if the ghost doesn't walk immediately!" this brought laughter and hearty applause from the college lads. when the applause had subsided _uncle tom_ apparently observed: "he can't get ahead of me. i've put an attachment on the jackass." this was more than the excitable manager could stand, and he rushed onto the stage, shaking his fist at _uncle tom_ and crying: "confound you! i don't owe you a cent! you obliged me to pay up before you would go on to-night!" and then he nearly collapsed when he realized what his anger had led him to do and say. the college lads arose from their seats and cheered. standing in the front of the box, charlie creighton shouted: "this is the best part of the show, fellows. let's give 'em one! now--all together!" then the yale yell pealed forth, and _little eva_ came near dying in reality from heart failure. this broke up the show entirely, and the curtain came down with a rush, while the frightened orchestra made haste to disappear. from behind the curtain the manager shouted that the show was over, and the laughing, tumultuous students hurried out of theatre. "well, merriwell," said charlie creighton, "how have you enjoyed the evening?" "immensely," laughed frank. "it was a regular sus-sus-sus-circus," declared joe gamp. "never had so much fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf-fun in all my bub-born days!" "we had them on a string, like a kite," murmured bruce browning. "and that's what made them soar," chuckled griswold. just as the street was reached, frank gave a slight exclamation, and quickly forced his way through the crowd toward a man who was near at hand. that man was the mysterious stranger. the unknown seemed to be watching merriwell, for he whirled about and hastened away the moment frank started in his direction. "oh, i want to get my hands on that fellow!" grated frank. the man did his best to escape, but merriwell was close after him. the stranger hurried along a street, and frank broke into a run. then the unknown glanced over his shoulder, and started to run himself. "hold on!" commanded frank. that made the stranger run the faster. frank followed, but could see nothing of the person he was pursuing. "he must have dodged into a doorway," decided the lad. "no--here is where he went, down this alley." the mouth of a dark alley was before him, and he plunged into it. he did not go far before he decided that further pursuit was folly, and he turned back. "he's slippery," muttered the boy; "but i'll catch him some time, if he continues to shadow me." dark forms appeared at the mouth of the alley, and a hoarse whisper came to merriwell's ears: "he went in here, and the alley is blind, so he can't get out. do him--and do him dirty!" for all that frank had been often in desperate peril, something about this situation chilled him to the heart. the uncanny darkness, the unknown alley, his creeping foes coming down upon him, possibly with deadly intent, all served to make him feel weak and helpless for the moment. there are times when the bravest heart shrinks with dread, and, for all that frank was a lad with remarkable nerve, it is not strange that he felt a thrill of fear at that moment. it is claimed that men have lived who "never knew the meaning of the word fear," and it is possible that this may be true; but in case they ever were placed in situations of extreme peril, such persons must have been lacking in some of the essential elements that compose a human being. we think of them as deficient in certain ways, wanting in the finer qualities, and naturally coarse and brutish. it is the person who experiences fear and conquers it by his own determination to do so who is the greatest hero. one of the bravest generals america has produced, a man who had the reputation of being utterly fearless, once was asked if he ever had been afraid while in battle. "no, sir," was his reply, "never in battle; but sometimes just before going into an engagement, i have felt it necessary to keep my teeth clinched to prevent my heart from jumping out of my mouth." still the men whom he commanded never knew that he experienced a single thrill of fear. he conquered his trepidation by his wonderful will power, and always in battle he appeared perfectly unaware that there was the least danger. indeed, he was sometimes criticised for his apparent recklessness in exposing himself to deadly peril. frank merriwell never courted peril, and he avoided danger when he could do so in a manly way and without lowering his own sense of dignity. once engaged in a dangerous encounter, or forced into a position of peril, frank's blood arose, and he seemed to be seized by a reckless disregard of his personal safety. then it was that he laughed in a singular manner, and his enemies had learned that he was the most dangerous when that laugh sounded from his lips. as he heard those unknown foes creeping down upon him in the darkness of the alley, frank crouched close to the ground, and felt about with his hand for some weapon of defense. fear suddenly gave place to anger, and he longed to retaliate on his enemies. he knew well enough that the men creeping down upon him were hired tools, chosen by his foes to do him severe bodily injury. "oh, for a club--a stone--anything!" he thought. but his hand found nothing that suited his need at that moment. the cautiously advancing men came nearer and nearer. he could hear them whispering to each other, and they seemed to block the entire width of the narrow alley. he could not make out their number, but he was sure there must be several of them. "can yer see him, jake?" "no, an' i can't hear him neither." "but he's here somewhere, and they say he'll fight. look out fer him." frank heard these whispered words, and then, without realizing that he was about to do so, he laughed! there were hoarse cries, curses and blows. a savage struggle suddenly was begun in the dark alley. frank had hoped to break through the line of his foes by his sudden rush, but he was not successful, although his hard right fist knocked a man down with his first blow. then he received a shock that seemed to cause a thousand bright lights to flash before his eyes, and he knew he had been struck on the head with some sort of weapon. the boy staggered. uttering hoarse exclamations, his assailants, like beasts of prey, sprang upon him. "give it to him!" cried a voice. with new strength, frank twisted and squirmed. in doing so, he threw his head from side to side, and it chanced that he succeeded in saving it from the blows which were intended to render him helpless. those blows, many of them, at least, fell on his shoulders and his back with benumbing force. he forgot that his left hand was not yet well, but he used it as freely and as vigorously as his right. and, once more, something like a laugh came from his lips. "hear him!" hissed one of the ruffians. "why, he's a perfect young fiend!" but frank could not long hold his own against such odds. some of the blows aimed at his head fell glancingly, but they were enough to rob him in a measure of his strength. he tried to tear away, and then he was felled to the ground. merriwell felt that "the jig was up" with him. they had him at their mercy, at last. then it was that a surprising thing happened. with encouraging cries, two men came through the darkness and attacked the boy's assailants. that the new arrivals on the battlefield were armed with heavy clubs was apparent, and they used them mercilessly on the ruffians. this attack was unexpected by frank's assailants, and they could not meet it. immediately they turned and fled, pursued by one of the men who had set upon them. just then, apparently disturbed by the sounds of the fight, some person came to a nearby window with a lighted lamp. the light shone out into the alley, and fell on frank merriwell and one of the men who had saved him. "plug kirby!" gasped frank, sitting up. "dat's wot, me boy!" cried the bruiser, cheerfully. "an' i kinder t'ink we didn't git round any too quick neider." "you came just in time." "be yer hurt much, youngster?" asked kirby, anxiously, assisting frank to arise. "i think not. got a few cracks and was upset, but that is all. where is the man who was with you?" "he whooped it along after der gang. kinder t'ink he wanted ter ketch one of der blokes an' hold him fer der perlice ter pinch." "who was he?" "dunno." "what?" cried frank, astonished--"don't know who was with you when you came to my aid?" "well, i dunno his name, youngster, and that's on der level." frank was eager to ask more questions, but plug said: "we'd best push outer dis. dunno wot'll happen if we stays here too long. der gang might come back." so they hurried out of the alley, frank receiving some assistance from kirby, as he was rather dizzy when he tried to walk. when the street was reached no one seemed to be in the immediate vicinity. "shall we wait for your friend?" asked merriwell. "naw," answered plug. "he ain't likely ter come back." a short time later they were seated at a table in a nearby resort, and frank was treating kirby. frank had examined his own injuries, and discovered they were not serious, although it was likely that he would be sore about the head and shoulders from the bruises he had received. "now tell me," urged frank, "who was with you when you came to my assistance? i am eager to know." "i tole yer dat i don't know der cove's name, but i do know dat he is all right an' on der level." "well, how is that you do not know his name?" "never asked him." "how do you happen to know him?" "well, yer see, it was dis way: i was inter jackson's der odder evenin' takin' me nightcap. dere was some fellers in dere wot was college chaps, and dey was talkin' about races and t'ings. pretty soon dey said somet'ing about you. some of 'em was hard on you, an' dat got me mad up. i jes' waded inter der gang an' offered ter lick anybody wot didn't t'ink you was der clean stuff." frank smiled a bit, realizing that he had, indeed, made a firm friend of this bruiser who had once tried to whip him, but had received a severe drubbing, instead. "dey didn't want ter shove up against me," kirby went on, "an' dey got out right away. den a man walks up ter me, and he says i was all right, an' he blows me. he continues ter blow me, an' ask me questions about you. arter a while, he asks me if i would fight fer you if i had der chance. 'would i!' says i, jes' like dat. 'well, old sport, show me der chance!' den he says dat you has some enemies wot is plannin' ter do yer, an' he might be able ter give me a chance ter put in a few licks fer yer. "well, dis evenin', as i was inter jackson's, who should come in an' call me aside but dis same cove. he says ter me, 'kirby'--he had found out me name--'kirby,' says he, jes' like dat, 'i'm goin' ter give yer dat chance ter put in some licks fer frank merriwell.' "den he tells me dat he were in a place an' heard a scheme ter put some toughs onter yer ter-night w'en yer was goin' home from der t'eeter. dey had heard some feller say dat he was goin' ter invite yer ter be in er box wid him at der t'eeter, an' so dey knew yer was goin'. "dat's all, 'cept dat me an' der bloke wot was wid me went ter der t'eeter, him payin' all expenses, an' we kept watch of yer. w'en we came out, you started fer him, an' he hooked it. i was s'prised, but i follered. den i found dere was odders follerin', an der gang run yer in here. der feller i was wid, as was in a doorway nigh der alley all der time, skipped back fer me, an' we jumped right down inter der alley, takin' some heavy canes, wot we had wid us all der time. you know wot happened arter dat." frank was puzzled and mystified. he asked plug to describe the mysterious man, and kirby did so. this added to frank's wonderment, for the description tallied with that of the stranger who had tried to bribe him to throw a ball game to harvard; but that it could be the same man, even though everything indicated that it must be, frank could not believe. that night, after going to bed, frank lay awake for hours, thinking of the stranger and the mystery which surrounded him. chapter xxvii. an emissary from the west. frank was determined to solve the mystery of the unknown man. he did not tell rattleton everything concerning his adventure of the previous night, although he was forced to explain that he had been in an encounter, and that he did not know who his assailants were. the theatre party had wondered greatly at frank's sudden disappearance, and frank confessed that he had followed the mysterious unknown, who had given him the slip. "that fellow is playing the shadow on you, frank," cried harry, indignantly. "he's up to some sort of crookedness." "he must bear a charmed life, or he would have been killed the night he jumped from the new london special," said frank. "he decided it was best to take chances by jumping rather than to fall into the hands of old eli's sons, and i think he was right." creighton came around to inquire how it happened that merriwell disappeared so suddenly the previous evening. since the boat race creighton had sought merriwell's company, although he had scarcely given frank any attention before that. creighton was a prominent society man and had considerable influence at yale; his friendship was of value to any fellow on whom he saw fit to bestow it. his father was rich, and charlie spent money freely, as his whims dictated. not even those with whom he was not on friendly terms, however, could justly accuse him of being a cad. "awfully jolly time last night," yawned creighton. "it was rather kiddish, but it is a relief to play the boy once in a while. it capped the whole business when the actors themselves finished the fun by giving the manager away in the last act." frank smiled, but did not explain his connection with the crowning event of the evening. "jove! i'm hungry," charlie declared. "come on, merriwell and rattleton, we'll go down to bob's, and have a chop." he would not take no for an answer, and so, a few minutes later, the trio crossed the campus, creighton in the middle, his arms locked with those of the other lads. all were laughing and joking in a light-hearted manner. creighton took them directly to a restaurant that was famous for its chops. they ordered, charlie and harry taking ale with their food. just as the chops were brought on, a man came in and took a seat at a table nearby. this man was dressed in a new suit of "store clothes," and wore a full beard. he gave his order to the waiter in a low tone, and then began perusing a paper, behind which his face was almost entirely hidden. rattleton happened to sit so that he naturally looked toward the man, and, several times, he caught that individual peering over the top of the paper. it did not take harry long to note that the person with the paper seemed to be watching frank merriwell. suddenly frank's roommate arose, and, with two swift steps, he was at the man's side. without a word, harry caught the gentleman by the beard, which he gave a sharp jerk. the beard came off in harry's hand! it was false! "look, frank!" cried rattleton, pointing at the smooth-shaven face exposed; "it is the mysterious man who has been following you about!" it was in truth the mysterious unknown, and frank was on his feet in a twinkling, resolved not to let the man escape till he had given a full explanation of his remarkable conduct. to merriwell's surprise, the stranger showed no desire to run away, but sat smiling serenely up at him, calmly observing: "do not excite yourself, mr. merriwell; there is no reason for it. i have completed my business in a most satisfactory manner, and i am now ready to explain everything to you." "it is an explanation which i expect and demand," said frank, coldly. "it is no more than fair that i should have one, as you have shown yourself my persistent enemy, and that without any just cause that i know of." "you are mistaken," returned the man; "instead of your enemy, i have been your firm friend from the very first." "i fail to see how you can make that out." "i will call at your rooms this evening and give you a full explanation." "no!" cried frank, promptly, "you will give me an explanation here and immediately." "i do not think you will press me to that," was the calm assertion. "i might speak of affairs of a personal and family nature." "you--you speak of such affairs--to me? now it strikes me that you are attempting a bluff, sir; but it will not work." the stranger reached into his pocket and took out something, which he held up before frank's eyes. "this," he said, with confidence, "will convince you that i speak nothing but the truth." "my father's ring!" gasped frank. "yes," bowed the man; "it is the ring that led him to one of the richest mines in the southwest. he said that it would simply be necessary for me to show it to you, and you would know that he sent me. shall i call this evening, mr. merriwell?" "if you please, sir," said frank, bowing respectfully. the boys were surprised, but frank said he would explain some time later. that evening the stranger called, as he had said he would. frank had taken pains to run harry out of the room, so they were quite alone. the boy locked the door, as a precaution against unwelcome interruptions. the mysterious man introduced himself as david scott, the confidential agent of charles merriwell, frank's unfortunate father, who had spent the best years of his life and separated himself from his family and friends in the mad search after "phantom fortune." at last charles merriwell had "struck it rich," and he was now a very wealthy man; but he was broken in health, and he often feared for his reason. as charles merriwell had been eccentric and unfathomable all his life while poor, thus he remained now that he was rich. of late he had been seized by a conviction that he could not live long, and it was his desire to make a will that would give almost his entire wealth to his son. but before he made such a will, mr. merriwell decided to know just what sort of a young man his son had become. as he did not feel like leaving his mine and going east to investigate, he sent his confidential clerk, david scott. in his instructions to scott, charles merriwell showed the peculiarities of his character. he provided the agent with plenty of money, and instructed him to thoroughly probe the inward character of the youth about which he was to acquire information. scott was instructed to discover all of frank's bad habits, and to determine if the lad could be led astray by evil influence, or in any other manner. the agent had carried out his instructions to his complete satisfaction, and he complimented the blushing boy on his integrity of character and sterling manhood. scott explained how he had pretended to ally himself with frank's foes, and thus had heard the plots against the boy. he had sent frank the warnings, and he had secured the aid of plug kirby to aid him in beating off merriwell's ruffianly assailants. "i scarcely think you will be troubled any more by your enemies," declared scott. "i had a session with them last night, after the failure of their attempt on you, and i sent the varmints scurrying for tall timber in a hurry. i told them that i was your friend, and not your enemy, and that i would come up as a witness against them if you saw fit to prosecute them. then they begged me to keep still, and agreed to let up on you for good and all if i wouldn't chirp. i made the galoots no promises." for hours frank and scott sat and talked of charles merriwell, his health, his mine and his plans. and when the man departed, it was with a letter from frank merriwell to charles merriwell in his possession. the next evening frank received a call which surprised him greatly. what it was the next chapter will tell. chapter xxviii. friends or foes. thump--bang! thump--bang! "open this door!" thumpety--thump--bang! bang; bang! "open this door, or i will dake it brown--i mean i will break it down!" harry was excited. "hold on a moment, can't you?" cried the laughing voice of frank from within the room. harry was pressing against the door with one hand, having rained the heavy blows upon it with the other hand, which was clinched in a most threatening manner. the door flew open with a suddenness that precipitated rattleton into the room with a headlong rush and plunged him plump into the stomach of a young man who happened to be in the way. "ugh!" "wow!" bump! bump!--both went down, clasped in each other's arms. two other lads stood staring at the fallen ones. they were frank merriwell and fred flemming. tom thornton was the unfortunate who stood in the way of rattleton's headlong rush. and harry, quite unintentionally, had struck thornton a smart blow with his clinched fist. at that moment it did look as if the excited lad had rushed into the room with the premeditated purpose of hitting tom. "here! here!--break away!" cried merriwell, sharply. "not much!" panted tom, in excitement and anger. "think i'm going to let him go, so he can hit me again?" "catch hold, flemming," ordered frank--"catch hold of your friend, and we'll part them." he grasped rattleton by the collar as he spoke, but fred made no move to pull thornton away. seeing this, merriwell obtained a firm hold on the collars of both harry and tom, and, with a surprising display of strength, wrenched them apart, yanked them to their feet, and held them at arm's length. "steady, now!" he cried, as they seemed to betray a desire to get at each other. "quit it!" "he struck me!" cried thornton. "it was antirely excidental--no, entirely accidental," declared harry, flourishing his arms. tom dodged. "well, you act as if you are trying to bring about another accident," he said. "i know you hit me intentionally, and i'll make you pay for it, too!" "bah! you can't make me pay for anything!" flung back harry, his anger aroused by thornton's words. "do you think you can run around punching fellows in this way without getting it back? you'll find you are mistaken!" "you were in my way when i came in." "i didn't have time to get out of your way." "well, what's all this about anyway?" demanded frank. "are you fellows trying to settle some sort of a score?" "it looks to me," said flemming, stiffly, "as if mr. rattleton took advantage of our presence in this room to strike thornton." "well, what are you chaps here for, anyway?" demanded harry. "that is what i would like to know. we don't run in your class, and so----" "hold up, old man," interrupted merriwell, promptly. "mr. flemming and mr. thornton called to see me about a personal matter." "i thought so," declared rattleton, "and i decided you would get the worst end of it, as they were two to your one--and the door was locked. if they are here to do you, count me into it. i'll take care of this fellow thornton while you polish off flemming." "we did not come here to fight," said fred, haughtily. "didn't?" exclaimed harry, in surprise. "then what sort of a game are you up to, for i know it is something crooked?" flemming tossed his head. "mr. rattleton," he said, "your language is very offensive to me." "had to glear it--i mean glad to hear it," shot back rattleton, rudely. "i didn't want you to misunderstand me." "mr. merriwell," said fred, turning to frank, "i think we had better go. our business was with you, and mr. rattleton seems determined to raise a quarrel with us. as you know, we did not come here to quarrel, and, regarding mr. rattleton as your friend, we will endeavor to overlook his behavior and insulting language." "but we cannot forget it," added thornton, giving harry a fierce look. "it will be remembered." "i am sure i don't want you to forget it," flung back rattleton. "come, tom," urged flemming, "we will go. good-day, mr. merriwell." frank released thornton, who followed flemming from the room, simply pausing at the door to say: "good-by, mr. merriwell." "good-by," smiled frank. and then, when the door had closed behind them, frank dropped into a chair and laughed softly but heartily. "well, i fail to fee anything sunny about it--i mean i fail to see anything funny about it," growled rattleton, prancing fiercely up and down the room. "if you'll tell me where the laugh comes in, i'll snicker, just to keep you company." "the whole thing is very funny," laughed merriwell. "why, you were eager to hammer thornton, and the fellow was afraid you would, for all the bluff he put up." "it would have given me great satisfaction to thump him," confessed harry; "for i know it is exactly what he deserves. what were they up to, anyway? that's what puzzles me. i expected to find that they had done you up." "oh, nothing of the sort!" "but they were up to some crooked game--i know it. i thought they had fastened the door, so that they could do the job without being interrupted." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed frank. "that explains why you looked as if you were literally thirsting for gore when you lunged into the room and grappled with thornton." "did i hit him?" "you had your fist clinched, and you may have given him a slight rap in your excitement." "well, i did not give him that rap intentionally; if i had, he'd found something entirely different. by jingoes! i may get the chance to show him the difference some time!" "you'd better drop it, old man." "eh? drop it?" "that's what i said, harry, and that is what i meant, my boy." "but why? i don't think i understand you. those fellows are your enemies, and that makes them mine." "they have been my enemies, but we have had a peace conference." "the dickens!" "and we buried the hatchet." "well, i didn't suppose you could be fooled so easy! i knew they were up to some sort of a game--i knew it." "well, what sort of a game do you think it was?" "they're trying to fool you--trying to make you think they are ready to bury the hatchet, while they are still waiting to hit you behind your back whenever they can. that's the kind of chaps they are. they can't fool me, if they can you. if they can lull you into carelessness till their opportunity comes, they will drive the knife into you, and sink it deep. don't mink i'm thisted--i mean don't think i'm twisted. i am dead certain of the sort of cattle i'm talking about. you will be playing right into their hands if you get the idea that they have let up on you in the least. when they get a good chance, you'll get it in the neck." "well, harry, you may be right; but i have reasons to believe that flemming is anxious to call a truce just at present. he made a serious mistake when he tried to enlist david scott against me. scott found out all of flemming's plots and secured enough evidence of the fellow's rascality to cause his expulsion from yale if it were made public." "well, it should be made public immediately." "oh, i don't know about that! expulsion from college might mean the ruin of flemming's future." "if he keeps on, he'll do that, whether he is expelled or not." "if he does it himself, i shall not have it on my conscience. if i were to bring about his expulsion, and he went to the dogs, i might blame myself for it, thinking he would have done differently had he remained here. do you catch on?" "i catch on that you are dead easy with your enemies till they force you to down them for good." "but when they do compel me to down them----" "i will acknowledge that you always do a good job," said rattleton, with an approving grin. "mr. scott believed that i should be severe with flemming and thornton," admitted frank; "but i knew that thornton was dragged into the business by flemming, without having any real heart for what he was doing. if i were to expose flemming, it would implicate thornton, and that seemed too much of a retaliation. i thought the whole matter over carefully, and decided to give the fellows a chance. then mr. scott went to them and nearly frightened the life out of them by saying he meant to expose them to the faculty. that brought them to their knees immediately." rattleton expressed his satisfaction by a vigorous pantomime. "finally," continued frank, "when they had begged and promised, mr. scott agreed to let up on them if they would come to me, offer apologies, and give me their pledge to let me alone in the future." "and that is how they happened to be here to-day?" "yes." "why was the door locked?" "i locked it to prevent any of the fellows from dropping in on us while we were talking the matter over." "well, jones told me he had seen those chaps come in here, and i decided they were looking for bother, so i made a hustle to get here. when i found the door locked, i was sure they had you in a corner, and so i threatened to break it down if it was not opened without delay." "and, when it was opened, you came in like a raging lion." "well, i was ready for any scrim of a shortage--i mean any sort of a scrimmage." "you showed your readiness," laughed frank. "i have the word of those fellows that they will let me quite alone if i drop the past." "i wouldn't believe either of them under oath!" "you are a doubter anyway. we'll wait and see what will occur." chapter xxix. talk of a tour. there was a rap on the door, which immediately popped open, and in bobbed a head, thatched with carroty hair, upon which was perched a crumpled cap. a freckled, jolly face was wrinkled into a cheerful grin, and a voice that was made up of bubbles and hollows cried: "hello, chaps! i just looked in to see if you were doing well, as the cook said to the lobster, when she lifted the sauce-pan lid." "come in, stubbs," invited frank, promptly--"come in and make yourself as big a nuisance as possible." "no need to tell me to do that," piped the lad at the door, as he bounced into the room. "i always make myself a nuisance wherever i am. it is my policy." he was a little short-legged fellow, with a roly-poly body and twinkling eyes. good nature bubbled out all over him. at a glance you could see he was the sort of chap who would try to be merry under almost any circumstances. this was bink stubbs, a lad with whom frank and harry had recently become acquainted. frank had picked him up because of his merry ways and quaint sayings of the wise and humorous order. "have you fellers got any smokers?" asked bink, as he deposited himself on a chair. "no, we haven't got any smokers," answered harry. "and the last time you were here, bruce browning said you swiped a whole package of cigarettes from him." stubbs tried to look horrified, and then cried: "well, i'll be hanged! as the picture said when it found the cord was tied to it." "you know neither of us smoke," said merriwell. "i know you pretend you do not, but i don't know that you are not bluffing when you say so." "what's that? do you mean to insinuate that i am lying? why, i'll step on you, stubbsie!" "in that case my days are numbered, as the calendar said to the blotter." there was a sound of voices outside the door, and then, with very little ceremony, three lads came filing into the room. there were browning, diamond and griswold. "get up, you little villain!" said bruce, as he collared stubbs and yanked him off the easy-chair. "don't you know enough to let other folks have a chance to sit down, you lazy little rascal?" and then, with a sigh of relief, bruce deposited his corpulent form on the chair. stubbs bristled up, as if he meant to fight, then seemed to change his mind, and shook his head and remarked: "such things are bound to a cur, as the dog said when he looked at the tin can that was tied to his tail." the boys were welcomed by frank and harry, and merriwell said: "i'm glad you fellows dropped in. i want to find out how many of you are going to take that bicycle trip across the continent during the summer vacation." "jeewhiskers!" grinned danny griswold. "think of bruce browning, the champion lazy man at yale, riding a bicycle across the continent. the exertion of riding across the campus would utterly prostrate him." "um!" grunted bruce. "it's singular that small things annoy one worst." "oh, yes," returned danny, promptly; "even a little mosquito bores me frightfully." "say, griswold," piped stubbs, "that's a bad habit to get into." "what's a bad habit to get into?" demanded danny, bristling up resentfully. "that suit of clothes you have on," said stubbs, whimsically. "it's a miserable fit." "well, you'll have a bad fit if i get after you!" exclaimed griswold, hotly. "you're a base fraud and an impostor! you are trying to steal my thunder by reading the same comic papers that i do. if you keep this up you'll use up all of my original jokes." "oh, well," said stubbs, "cough up a cigarette and i'll let you forgive me. i'm dying for a whiff." griswold hesitated, and then flung a package of cigarettes at bink, who skillfully caught them, extracted one, closed the package, and tossed it back. a moment later the little chap had lighted the cigarette, and, as he deposited himself at full length on a tiger-skin rug, he puffed out a great whiff of smoke, and murmured: "now i have something to blow about, as the cyclone said when it lifted a house and barn into the next state." "speaking about clothes," said browning, languidly, "did you see goldstein, the tailor, to-day, rattleton?" "yes, i saw him," nodded harry. "and did you tell him i said i would settle that little bill?" "sure." "that's kind of you. did he seem convinced?" "he said he was." "was what?" "convinced that you lied." this provoked a laugh. when the laughing had ceased, griswold sagely observed: "it is remarkable that man is the only animal that can lie standing up." "say, you chaps," called frank, "drop this sort of chatter, and answer my question. how many of you are in for spending the summer vacation in a bicycle trip across the continent?" "you'll have to excuse me," said griswold, as he followed stubbs' example and lighted a cigarette. "i'm going down to bar harbor, and play tennis on my vacation." "i can't endure tennis," drawled browning. "i should say not. too much exertion for you." "it is not that. i don't like to be around where others are playing it." "don't? why not?" "because it is so noisy." "noisy? christmas! how do you make that out?" "why, you can't play it without a racket," said browning. griswold staggered and clutched at his heart. "what papers have you been reading?" he gasped. diamond spoke up for the first time: "i'll tell you what i'll do, merriwell--i'll go on this bicycle trip across the continent, if i can secure my mother's consent?" "will you?" cried frank, eagerly. "then see her as soon as possible. i couldn't ask for a better fellow than you. harry thinks he can go, and that makes three of us. we'll do the trick, even if we can't get another fellow. is it agreed?" "it is agreed if i can get my mother to agree to it," assured jack. "well, let's talk about another matter," said bruce. "the tournament at madison square garden is right upon us. are you on for anything, merriwell?" "yes," answered frank, "i shall take part in several contests." "how about the mile run?" questioned diamond. "i believe yates is in for that," said merriwell. "that's something i want to speak to you about," drawled bruce. frank was rather surprised, as browning had taken very little interest in athletics of late. during his early days at yale, bruce had been a pusher in athletic matters, being at that time an athlete himself, as he kept himself in form and held back the threatening development of flesh by the severest sort of training. but bruce could not continue to resist the temptations of his appetite, and it became more and more difficult for him to keep in trim. as long as he was a freshman he had done so, but when he became a sophomore he gradually abandoned the struggle. still he had remained active as a leader, and had been known at one time as "the king of the sophomores." his final effort at training had been when he put himself in condition to meet merriwell in a four-round hard-glove contest. the bout had been pronounced a draw, but browning afterward acknowledged that he must have been knocked out had it continued to a finish. from that time browning's interest in athletic matters waned. he lost ambition in that line, and he soon became so overburdened with flesh that nothing save a question of life or death could have induced him to go into training. it was not so very long before bruce was known as the champion lazy man at yale. all that he seemed to care about was to eat, drink, smoke and loaf. he seldom was known to "grind," and his attempts at "skinning" were pitiable failures. then he was dropped a class, and, as he still stuck to yale, he found himself arrayed with merriwell and the fellows whom he at one time had regarded as enemies. in that class merriwell was regarded as a leader in athletic matters, and bruce seldom mentioned anything of the kind. now, however, to merriwell's surprise, he displayed sudden interest in the great intercollegiate tournament to be held in madison square garden, new york, directly at the close of the spring terms. in the various contests yale was to be represented by her best men. there had been some uncertainty concerning the one who would wear yale's colors in the mile run, but the belief grew that duncan yates, a junior, would be the one finally settled on by the committee in charge of the matter. "why don't you go into that race, browning, old sylph?" grinned danny griswold. "you would astonish the public." "some time i'll sit on you, runtie," growled bruce. stubbs remarked: "that will settle it, as the sugar observed when the egg dropped into the coffee." rattleton threw a slipper at bink, who grunted as it struck him in the ribs, but serenely continued to smoke, his mottled face wrinkled into a quaint grimace. "what is it that you want to say about the mile race, browning?" asked frank, his curiosity aroused. "i want to say that i do not believe yates is the proper man to represent old eli." "he is fast, and he has a record." "it's no use to talk about his record." "why not?" "orton, of u. p., lays over him, and this will be a case of yale against the field. better men than orton may show up." "yates may break his own record." "that word 'may' is all right, but it can be applied both ways. he may not." "there's van tassle," said diamond. "he claims to be a record-breaker." "a record-breaker!" sniffed griswold. "why, that fellow couldn't break an egg!" "that's right," nodded rattleton. "he breaks records with his mouth. don't talk about him." "well, there are others," laughed frank. "name a few of them," invited browning, with more animation than he had displayed for some time. "there's hickson." "he's stiff in the joints, as you know." "walter gordan." "he's no stayer. that fellow can run, but he has not the sand to make himself a winner." "he thinks himself the biggest thing on ice," said rattleton. "by the way," broke in griswold, "what is the biggest thing on ice?" "the profit," promptly answered stubbs, and then he made a scramble to get out of griswold's way. "it's no use, i can't shine when that chap is around!" exclaimed danny, with attempted seriousness. "he has an answer for all my conundrums." "that makes me think of one for you," piped bink, who was now perched on the back of a high chair, like a monkey. "why is a duel a quick affair?" "answer it yourself. i'll never tell." "well, a duel is a quick affair because it takes only two seconds to arrange it." "there won't be a duel in this case," grunted browning; "but there'll be a cold-blooded murder if you kids keep on. i'll assassinate you both!" frank laughed. "oh, let them go it, bruce," he said. "it seems to amuse them, and it doesn't harm anybody else." "i think browning is right about yates," declared diamond. "he is not the proper man to represent yale in that race." "whom would you suggest?" asked frank. "frank merriwell, by all means." "now that is folly!" said merriwell, seriously. "i fail to see why it is folly," cried browning. "you are the man i have had in my mind all along." "but i have no record." "to the winds with your records! what we want is a man who can run. he'll make a record." "why do you think i can run?" "i have seen you run, and i have heard the fellows tell about your speed. that is enough in your case." frank shook his head. "it is not enough," he contradicted. "i know i have a record as a base runner in a ball game, but the best base runners are not always able to make good showings in races. besides that, base running is dash work, and this is a case of running a mile. there is a vast difference." "that's all right," spluttered harry, quickly. "you can mun a rile--i mean run a mile with the best of 'em. i've seen you on a long run." "when was that?" "when we had that turkey chase. you led us all, and it didn't bother you a bit. then, after you made the run out into the country and back, pierson got after you before you could get to our rooms. you ran away from him, and held on to the turkey. that settled in pierson's mind that you could hustle along all right, and it had something to do with his giving you a place for a trial on the ball team." "that is true," frank was forced to confess. "have you ever been in any races?" asked diamond. "oh, i took part in some races when i was at fardale academy." "what did you do in them?" "i believe i won, but you must remember that i had no such rivals to go against as will be found at the tournament." "and you were in no such condition as you are now. is that right?" frank was forced to confess that it was. then browning tried to pin frank down and make him answer the question whether he did not have confidence enough in himself to believe he could race duncan yates for a mile. "of course i could race him," smiled frank, "but the matter of winning is another question." "well, i believe you are the man to run for yale in that race," said browning; "and i am going to use my influence to see that you, and not yates, are entered. that is settled, and it is no use for you to make any objections." chapter xxx. a hot run. soon it became evident that bruce browning had not lost his old-time push entirely. when there was something to arouse him, he could bestir himself and get to work in a marvelous manner, as long as it was not necessary for him to again go into training. browning knew paul pierson, who was one of the committee of arrangements for the coming tournament, and he knew that pierson was well aware of frank merriwell's general ability. bruce had heard pierson express a belief that merriwell was one of the persons who, by sheer determination and sand, as well as ability, was bound to win in almost everything he attempted. bruce went to pierson immediately after leaving merriwell's room. pierson was one of the sort who seldom said much, and browning left him without knowing whether he had made an impression or not. late that afternoon, however, pierson accidentally met frank, who was crossing the campus. "i say, merriwell," said paul, in his abrupt manner, "can you run?" "some," answered frank, sententiously. "hum!" grunted pierson. then he looked frank all over, as if he had never seen him before and was taking his physical measure. "you keep yourself in the very best condition all the time, i see," he finally observed. "well i seldom do anything to abuse myself." "are you in training for a race?" "not exactly." "how long would it take for you to put yourself in condition?" "possibly a week." "what are you good for--a short dash, or a long run?" "i think i can do either fairly well." "fairly well does not go at yale, as you know, merriwell. you must do things exceptionally well. you are altogether too modest. if something had not brought you out, nobody could have known you could do anything at all. you have been pushed in various ways by others, but you fail to push yourself." "oh, i do not go about blowing my own horn," said frank, smiling. "you will find you'll have to blow your own horn when you go into business, or my brother is a liar. he keeps hammering at me that the man who does not blow his horn is the fellow who gets left. to a large extent, it is that way here at yale. the fellow who keeps still and sits back gets left. that's my sermon. i'm not going to say any more now. get into training for a long run. i'll come round at nine this evening and go you a sprint of a mile or two, just to see how you show up." that was all. pierson turned and sauntered away, without another word. frank whistled softly, and smiled. "this is browning's work," he muttered. "pierson takes things for granted. how does he know i will take any part in a race? he does not ask if i will, but he tells me to go to work and get into shape. he is coming round to-night to see how i show up. all right." at ten minutes of nine that evening, paul pierson rapped on the door of merriwell's room, and was invited to walk in. he was in a rig for running, and he immediately said: "come, come! get out of those duds, merriwell. you are to run with me to-night." "how far?" "from one to five miles, as i take a fancy." "oh, well, i won't change my clothes for a little thing like that," said frank, carelessly. "you'd better," declared paul. "i'm going to give you a hustle, and you'll find you can keep up better if you are in a suitable rig." "i'll take the chances of keeping just as i am." pierson's teeth came together with a click. he did not like that, although he tried not to show it. "the fellow thinks he can outrun me on a long pull, as he happened to do so for a short distance once on a time," he thought. "i'll see if i can fool him." pierson considered himself an excellent long-distance runner, although he seldom took part in races, realizing that, good though he was, there were still better men. frank had on a loose thin shirt, and a light-weight suit of clothes. he caught up a cap, and announced that he was ready to go with paul. they went out, and soon were crossing the campus. having arrived at a point quite outside the college grounds, paul paused and said: "we will start from here and make a run out into the country. i will set the pace going out, but when we turn to come back, it will be a case of the best man gets home first. the termination of the run will be your room." "that is satisfactory," nodded frank. far away a band of jolly students were singing "stars of the summer night," their melodious voices making sweet music beneath the great elms. the soft breath of june came across the campus, seeming to gently bear the words of the beautiful song to their ears. "are you ready?" asked pierson, sharply. "all ready." "then here we go." they were off, shoulder to shoulder. although frank had not seemed to prepare for the run, he had put on his running shoes, feeling that he might absolutely need them. along the streets of new haven they went, attracting but little attention, as it was not an uncommon sight at that season to see some of the college lads taking a night run in that manner. they passed a group of fellows who were standing beneath a street light near a corner. "here!" softly exclaimed one of the group; "who are these chaps?" the entire party turned to take a look at the runners. "it's pierson----" "and merriwell!" "what did i tell you, yates!" exclaimed fred flemming, a ring of satisfaction in his voice. "well, may i be kicked!" growled duncan yates, as he started after the two lads, who had passed and were scudding along the street at a steady trot. "flem seldom makes a mistake," murmured tom thornton. "but merriwell is not in his rig," said andy emery, the fourth one of the group. "that doesn't make any difference," declared flemming. "he is taking a run with pierson, and that proves what i told yates. you all know how that chap undermined me on the crew. i don't say that he can't row, mind you--i do not claim that i could have done any better than he did; but i do claim that he is full of such sneaking underhand tricks, and i knew he was trying for something when i saw him stop pierson on the campus to-day." yates was silent, staring along the street, down which the two runners had disappeared. "come, old man!" cried flemming, slapping yates on the back, "let's go into morey's and sit down, where we can have a drink and talk this matter over." duncan shook his head. "i won't go in there," he said. "why not?" "i am in training, you know, and somebody would see me drinking there. that would kick up some talk." "well, will you go anywhere?" "yes, i'll go somewhere that we can sit down in a quiet room, where there is no chance that fellows who know me will drop in. i feel just like having something." "i know the very place," declared flemming. "come on." then the quartet moved away, flemming leading. in the meantime merriwell and pierson had continued on their way. as had been agreed, pierson set the pace. at first he ran along at a gentle trot, but by the time the outskirts of new haven were reached he had begun to increase his speed. "now," he thought, "i'll put merriwell to the test, and i do not fancy he will be in condition to make a very hot run on the return." faster and faster went paul, and still the lad at his side kept there with apparent ease. with their clinched hands held close to their breasts and their heads thrown back, they ran on and on. there was a slice of a moon in the western sky, shedding a thin white light over the world. from far to the south came the shrill whistle of a locomotive, cutting through the air like a keen knife. the road which pierson had selected was one over which there was considerable travel, and it was in very fair condition. without appearing to do so, paul slyly kept watch of merriwell, wishing to see just how frank stood the strain. he was forced to acknowledge that, for a time at least, merriwell was standing it very well. "oh, he is endeavoring to show me how easy he can do it!" mentally exclaimed paul. "wait--wait a bit! i think i will give him a hot push for a bit." faster and faster ran pierson, and soon he was rather gratified to hear frank beginning to breathe heavily. yes, although paul had hoped that merriwell would show up well, he did feel a momentary sense of satisfaction when it seemed that he was making the pace a hot one for his companion. then frank began to lag. he did not fall far behind paul, and still he seemed unable to keep his place at pierson's side. "i won't do a thing to him coming back!" decided paul. "browning was dead wrong. the fellow is capable of short dashes, but he is not the man for a long run. i am rather sorry." at last, he decided that they had gone far enough into the country, and so he turned about, without stopping, calling to frank: "now for the hustle into town, and let's see what you are made of, my boy. i am going to run away from you as if you were standing still." "i wouldn't do that!" flung back merriwell, as he wheeled about. somehow it seemed to paul that there was a touch of sarcasm in the way frank uttered the words. that aroused the committeeman still more, and he retorted: "no, you wouldn't do it, because you couldn't; but i am going to." "all right," laughed frank. "i don't suppose there is any danger that somebody will steal me for my beauty if you leave me alone out here in the country. go ahead and run away from me." "good-by." "good-by." then pierson did run. he skimmed over the ground in a wonderful manner, but the sound of running feet clung close behind him, and, when he glanced over his shoulder, merriwell was still there. "hanged if he doesn't hold on well!" mentally exclaimed paul. then, as he glanced around, it began to seem that merriwell was running with still greater ease than he had at any previous time. somehow it appeared as if he was keeping close behind pierson without any particular effort. "you're doing well," paul finally flung over his shoulder. "can you keep it up?" "i think so," was the half-laughing answer. "i am holding myself in so that i can make an attempt to follow you a short distance when you get ready to run away from me." "great smoke!" thought paul. "is he guying me? or does he fancy i have not been doing my best?" after a little, he confessed: "i am beginning to think that won't be an easy trick, merriwell. you will not be far behind when we reach your room." at this, frank suddenly came up beside paul. "judging by the way you talk, you are somewhat out of wind," he said. "not at all," declared pierson. "then i presume you are in condition for a little dash?" "oh, of course! but you may beat yourself out if you crowd yourself too hard." "think so?" "sure. better not." "oh, i think i'll chance it. come on, old man, let's tear up some dust." then frank spurted. pierson set his teeth and made a desperate effort to keep up, but, despite his determination not to fall behind, he found that merriwell was steadily and surely drawing away. "come on," called frank, in a rather tantalizing manner. "it can't be that you are going to let me run away from you?" paul did not answer. "what's the matter?" called frank again. "are you ill?" still no answer. "well, you are not sociable at all," laughed the lad in advance, tauntingly. "i don't seem to like your company, and so i think i will move along. good-by." with that, pierson could see that the tantalizing fellow actually made an increase of speed. "confound him!" grated paul. "i believe he was fooling me all along when he seemed to be having a hard time to keep up. all that panting and heavy breathing was put on." it was decidedly humiliating to be "jollied" in such a manner; but paul found he could not hold his own with frank, and he finally gave up the struggle. still he continued to run on, thinking that the lad ahead would use up his wind by such a burst of speed, and believing there was a possibility of overtaking merriwell before south middle was reached. this did not happen, however, and when paul burst into frank's room, he found rattleton there, listening to a funny story that merriwell was telling. and merriwell? he had his feet resting comfortably on the top of a table, while he lay back in an easy-chair, looking remarkably cool, as if he had not lately made a run of several miles. more than that, he had changed his clothes, as the suit he had on was not the same he had worn during the run! paul staggered in, and dropped limply on the couch, staring at frank, as if he saw a ghost. "look--here--merriwell," he panted, "what--are--you--made--of? are--you--run--by--steam?" "oh, no!" laughed frank. "i beg your pardon for leaving you in such a manner, but you know you had become so very unsociable that i had to do----" pierson made a weak gesture, and interrupted with: "don't apologize for that--it was the agreement that one should run away from the other, if possible, on the way back. you had a right to do it." "what is all this about?" asked rattleton, in a mystified manner. "what have you fellows been doing?" "don't you know?" cried paul, amazed. "no, i don't know," declared rattleton. "frank walked into the room a short time ago, went into his bedroom, took a sponge bath and changed his clothes, and we have been telling stories since then." "took a sponge bath?" shouted pierson, popping bolt upright. "jerusalem. you talk as if he had been here half an hour! i will admit that this beats anything i ever experienced!" then he flopped down on the couch again, as if utterly overcome. chapter xxxi. an incentive to win. paul pierson had made a discovery that night, and, before he left, he told frank merriwell to put himself into condition to enter one of the races at the madison square garden tournament in new york. "you seem to be in pretty good condition now," he said, with a grim smile; "but you know whether you can improve your condition or not. if you can, do it, for you are liable to be pitted against men who will give you a decidedly hotter time than you have ever struck." "all right," said frank, quietly. "you'll find that i shall be in shape, and i'll do my best to be a credit to old yale." "you have been a credit to yale ever since the day you entered college," said pierson, sincerely. "to-night has settled one thing in my mind. i believe you are a wonder in almost anything in the way of athletics." "oh, not a wonder!" said frank. "but you can be sure that i am bound to do my level best in anything i attempt." "i know it! i am not sure i'll be able to get you on, but i am going to try to run you into the one-mile race. we have some men for the shorter dashes, but do not seem to have but one man besides yourself who can be considered for the mile run. he has been in training for some time, and the committee had nearly decided on him. now i am satisfied that you are the better man, but i'll have to satisfy the others." "i want you to bear witness that i have not worked to fill the place of any other fellow." "it might be better for yale if you would work for such things," growled pierson. "you will not find other fellows holding back. if any chap is capable of filling your place at anything, you may be sure he will fill it, and he'll never stop to consider your feelings about the matter." "that is rust jite--i mean just right!" cried rattleton, approvingly. "well, i am going to my rooms and take a rub down," said paul. "good-night, fellows." "good-night, mr. pierson." when the door had closed behind paul, rattleton executed a grotesque dance on the carpet. "whoop!" he softly cried. "didn't i knock him silly when i pretended not to know anything about the run this evening! oh, wheejiz--er, jeewhiz! he nearly fainted when i told him you calmly walked into the room, took a sponge bath, put on another suit, and then we had been telling stories." "you rascal!" cried frank, laughing and giving harry a shake. "that was all your own work. i didn't know you were thinking of running such a bluff on him." "never thought of it myself till he came in," chuckled harry. "between us we managed to get you out of your other clothes, give you a quick rub, and jump you into a fresh suit before pierson showed up." "it has been a very enjoyable evening," smiled frank, as he again deposited himself on the easy-chair. "if i had planned to have sport with pierson, i could not have worked it better. you should have heard me panting and puffing along behind him on our way out! you should have heard him bidding me good-by when we started to come back! and then you should have heard me asking him if he was ill when i got ready to leave him!" harry laughed in the heartiest manner, as his imagination supplied the picture. "it is too good!" he cried. "and you will go into the mile run sure! browning caused pierson to tackle you." "it seems that i have done pretty well in athletic matters this spring," said frank, "and i was rather indifferent concerning the matter of taking any prominent part in the tournament at madison square. however, if i can do anything to uphold the standard of old eli, i want to do my best." "frank, if you run in that race, you will win," came soberly from harry's lips. "i shall stake every dollar i can rake on you. if you do win, i'll have enough cash to take me through the summer vacation we have planned." the door had been softly opened, and the most of rattleton's speech was overheard by a third person, who now exclaimed: "and i'm going to bank my cash on you, merriwell! if you win, i'll--i'll--why, hang me! i'll make that trip across the continent with you!" it was bruce browning, who advanced into the room. "are you in earnest about that, bruce?" asked frank. "you bet i am in earnest!" was the assurance. "you will try to pump a bicycle from new york to san francisco?" "try it! confound it! i tell you i'll do it if you win the mile run for old yale!" "then," said frank, "i have a double object to work for, and i am going to win if it is in my body to do so!" rattleton was astonished to see browning show so much animation. "why, you actually appear like your old self!" he exclaimed. bruce sat down. "tell me about it," he invited, speaking to frank. "some of the fellows said they saw you and pierson chasing yourselves, and i caught what rattleton was saying just as i came in." frank told bruce all about the night run, and a lazy smile spread over the fat lad's round face as he listened. "that's one on pierson!" he exclaimed. "he thinks he is unequalled when it comes to a long-distance run, and i'll wager something that you have fixed him so he will fight to get you into that race. i can see him bidding you farewell! ha! ha! ha! and then i can see him when you took your turn! ha! ha! ha!" bruce laughed in a hearty manner, and, for some time they talked over the events of the evening. "what sort of a fellow is yates?" asked frank. "i've never met him to have a talk with him." "oh, he isn't half bad," answered bruce, in a somewhat noncommittal manner. "i presume he will feel injured if i am chosen to run, instead of him?" "what if he does? that's none of your business." chapter xxxii. the run to the station. the final ball game of the series between harvard and yale was to take place at springfield. the day of the game arrived, and there was an exodus from yale. there was a rush for the last train by which the college lads could reach springfield in time to witness the whole of the game. on their way to the station, frank and harry fell in with jack diamond and danny griswold. "we've got to hurry," said diamond, glancing at his watch. "there is no time to waste if we want to catch the train." they soon overtook flemming, emery and yates. these fellows were in the company of several other lads, among whom were two of the committee of arrangements for the tournament. "you fellows seem to be in a great rush," one of the party called to frank and his friends. "you had better rush a little, if you want to catch the train," flung back griswold. "ah!" said andy emery, with an undisguised sneer; "it's merriwell and his trainers. they are putting him in condition to beat the field in that race he expects to enter." "go him to the station, yates!" exclaimed one of the lads accompanying duncan. "just show him he doesn't know how to run." "yah!" flung back griswold, quick as a flash. "yates knows better than to try that. where would he be when merriwell reached the station?" "buying his ticket inside," sneered emery, in return. that aroused jack diamond, who flushed hotly and turned on andy. "i'll go you ten even that merriwell beats yates to the station platform," he flashed, producing a roll of bills. "this is business! take me if you have the nerve!" "oh, i'll take you!" cried emery; "and, when the business is over, i'll take your money, too." he promptly produced a ten-dollar bill, and the money was quickly thrust into the hands of a stakeholder, who was chosen by mutual agreement. "it strikes me you men are pretty swift," said yates, in a manner that showed his disapproval. "how do you know i will run?" "'sh!" warned flemming. "you'll have to run now, or they'll say you were afraid to go against merriwell." it was plain that yates did not feel at all pleased by the situation, but he said: "if i must run, i will, and i'll beat the fellow, but i don't care about getting into a sweat just now." "never mind that," said emery, in yates' ear. "if you beat merriwell to the station, it is pretty sure that you spoil his show for getting into the mile run. this is your chance to do that little job, so don't let it slip." frank had said very little. it was not easy to tell if he felt satisfied or displeased over the situation. the party turned a corner, and came in view of the station. "here is a good starting point," said emery. "does it satisfy you, diamond?" "perfectly," bowed jack. "then that's all right. are you going to run, fellows?" "i leave that entirely to mr. yates," said frank, quietly. "oh, i'll go you--and i'll do you!" exclaimed yates, as he tore off both coat and vest and flung them at flemming, who caught them. that started rattleton, who excitedly cried: "i'll tet you ben dollars--i mean i'll bet you ten dollars you don't do it!" yates paid no attention to this, but flemming said: "i'll have to go you, rattleton. put up the tenner." the money was quickly posted, and then the rivals stood side by side, with their coats and vests removed, ready for the word. merriwell seemed quiet and indifferent, as if it were an event of no particular moment; while on yates' face there was a look that plainly showed he was determined to settle all dispute by winning the dash to the station. one of the committee had been chosen to give the word, and he stepped out, sharply calling: "ready!" the lads leaned forward over the scratch in the dirt, which had been drawn by somebody's heel. "go!" away shot the rivals like leaping fawns. they seemed like two foxes, and the crowd of lads who broke away in pursuit resembled a pack of hounds. it was a hot dash, and, for some time, the boys were running side by side, neither seeming to have an advantage. "wait a bit," panted emery, at diamond's side; "you'll soon see yates spurt and leave merriwell." "what do you think merriwell will be doing while yates is spurting?" asked jack, sarcastically. "he'll seem to be standing still." "will he? wait and see!" the rivals were drawing near the station, and still it seemed that they were keeping side by side. "now they are spurting!" yes, they were spurting for the finish, but, to the amazement of yates' friends, a single bound had seemed to carry frank merriwell two yards in advance of the other runner, and this advantage merriwell maintained. in another moment the station would be reached, and the race must end. seeing this, andy emery was bitterly grinding out an exclamation of rage and disgust. suddenly yates seemed to trip and fall heavily. he tried to spring up, but seemed to be hurt, and he was struggling to rise when flemming reached the spot and lifted him to his feet. "are you hurt?" asked several, as they gathered around duncan. "not much," he answered, rather thickly; "but i lost the dash by that fall." "rats!" muttered harry rattleton. "he had lost it before he fell." "i was ready to make the final spurt, which would have carried me ahead of merriwell at the finish," declared yates. "oh, it is a case of beastly luck!" growled andy emery. "it is the way everything turns in merriwell's favor. he never wins except it is by cold luck." "oh, come off!" chirped danny griswold. "you're sore, that's all ails you!" "shut up, or i'll wring your neck!" "you can't catch me, you know," taunted the little fellow, as he skipped out of reach. on the station platform merriwell was quietly waiting the arrival of the others, fanning himself with his handkerchief. it happened that bruce browning was at the station, and he had seen the race between the rivals. in his ponderous manner, he hurried to congratulate frank. "yates was a fool to try it!" declared bruce, his round face seeming to expand into one broad grin. "he might have known what would happen. i see crockett and gibbs, two of the committee, with the fellows. they witnessed the whole business, and it must have settled matters in their minds." "i wish yates had not fallen," said frank, with regret. "he did not fall accidentally, and you can bet your greasy coin on that! it was plain enough." "then you think--just what?" "that he saw he was beaten, and fell so that he might make a claim that you outran him by accident." "i had the lead." "yes, and he could not have recovered and overtaken you in a week! but that makes no difference. allee samee, i rather fancy yates will not fool anybody very much." the knot of fellows now approached the station, where there was a great throng of yale lads who had seen the race. yates was very pale, but there was a burning light in his eyes. he advanced straight to frank, and distinctly said: "mr. merriwell, you beat me this time through an accident; but i will run you again, and i'll win." frank bowed with the utmost courtesy. "mr. yates," he said, "you will find me willing and ready to run with you any time." "whoopee!" squealed danny griswold, turning a handspring. "that's business straight from headquarters!" "here comes the train!" was the cry. then there was a scramble for tickets and for seats on the train. chapter xxxiii. enemies at work. it happened that merriwell and his friends entered the smoker. they found bink stubbs curled up in a corner, puffing away at a cigarette. "you seem to be well fixed, stubbs," said frank. and the little fellow cheerfully returned: "oh, i've got a snap, as the bear said when he stepped into the steel trap." then room was made for a jolly little party in the corner, and all the fellows who smoked lighted up cigarettes or cigars. "i've got ten more to put on the game to-day," cried rattleton, gleefully. "and i took it out of flemming. that is what pleases me the most." jack diamond smiled. "it pleases me to say that i pulled a sawbuck out of emery," he said. "he squirmed a little, but it was too late to squeal." "we'll all come back with our clothes stuffed with money," declared browning. "yale is sure to win to-day, and that will put lots of fellows on their feet. some of the boys have soaked everything they could rake together to get money to put on the game, for heffiner's arm is in great form, and he says he will make monkeys of the harvard willies." "speaking about hocking things," said bandy robinson, "i let my unc. have a dozen white shirts, among other things. if yale doesn't win, i won't have a shirt to my name." "that's nothing," declared ben halliday, nonchalantly, as he blew out a big whiff of smoke. "i've soaked my entire wardrobe, save what i have on my back. but willis paulding did the slickest trick to raise the wind." "paulding?" cried diamond. "i'd never dreamed he could do anything very smooth." "he did, just the same. last year, when merry pitched the deciding game of the series, paulding felt sure harvard would win, and he stuck on 'em every last rag of money he could rake and scrape. well, yale won, and willis was busted. he was forced to tell his old man the whole truth before he could get money enough to let him out of new haven for the summer. more than that, the old man has taken precautions to prevent willis from having any money to waste in betting this year. he has all of willis' bills sent to him to settle, and keeps his son horribly short of filthy. just as hard, willis found out that the governor had told his tailor to make the boy all the clothes he wanted. that was enough. willis ordered six suits at fifty dollars each, and he soaked every one of them at ten each as soon as he got them. so you see paulding is provided with plenty of coin for this little racket, and he says he is going to put every red he has on old yale. last year cured him of betting against his own colors." "if willis thought of that scheme himself, he has more brains in his head than i fancied," smiled diamond. "tell you how i made a strike," chirped danny griswold. "you know i've been writing a few things and giving them away to the papers. well, the governor heard of it, and he decided i was making a fool of myself, so he sat down and fired a shot at me. he called my attention to the fact that johnson said the man who writes for anything but money is a fool. this is the way i answered: 'dear gov: i observe you say some chap by the name of johnson says the man who writes for anything but money is a fool. i quite agree with mr. johnson. please send me one hundred dollars.' that must have hit the old boy about right, for he sent me fifty." danny ended with a gleeful chuckle, and the listening lads laughed. "that's pretty good--for you," nodded bink stubbs; "but speaking about clothes reminds me that i had a little lunch in a restaurant last evening, and i found a button in the salad. i called the waiter's attention to it, and he calmly said, 'that's all right, sir; it's part of the dressing.'" "now he has broken loose!" cried danny griswold. "there is no telling what sort of a rusty old gag he'll try to spring. if we only had a few stale eggs for him!" bink grinned, as he observed: "there's nothing like poached eggs, as the nigger said when he robbed the hencoop." diamond proposed a song, and soon the boys were at it. when they had finished one song, browning soberly observed: "it seems to me that there is one song which would be particularly appropriate for this season when all of us are soaking something in order to raise the wind." "what is it?" shouted several voices. "solomon levi." in another moment the merry lads were shouting: "my name is solomon levi, my store's on salem street; that's where you buy your coats and vests and everything that's neat. i've second-handed ulsterettes, and everything that's fine, for all the boys they trade with me at a hundred and forty-nine. chorus: "oh, solomon levi! tra, la, la, la! poor sheeny levi! tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la! "and if a bummer comes along to my store on salem street and tries to hang me up for coats and vests so very neat, i kick that bummer right out of my store, and on him sets my pup, for i won't sell clothing to any man who tries to hang me up." thus the rollicking lads spent the time as the train rolled along bearing them to witness the great ball game of the season with harvard. again and again frank merriwell's friends expressed regret because his hand, on which there had been a felon, prevented him from taking part in the game. they could not forget that he had pitched the deciding game between yale and harvard the previous year, and had won it. frank had also done some good work during the present season, and sporting papers all over the country had declared that he was one of the very best college "twirlers." this, however, was hugh heffiner's last year at yale, and, without doubt, the coming game was the last he would ever pitch for "old eli." until merriwell appeared, heffiner had been yale's mainstay in the box, and his admirers declared that it was pretty sure that a long time would elapse before he would have a worthy successor. but heffiner was overworked, and he came near throwing his arm out. as it was, he strained his arm so that he was utterly unable to pitch at all. then it was that it was found necessary to find somebody to assist the "change pitcher," dad hicks, in his work. hicks was good for four or five innings, but he was unable to keep up the strain through an entire game. paul pierson, captain and manager of the yale nine, had seen merriwell do some pitching for the freshmen, and he resolved to give frank a trial. pierson's judgment was not at fault, and merriwell quickly proved that he was worthy to become heffiner's successor. of course there was much regret because frank could not be on the bench, at least, ready to go into the game if needed; but all seemed to feel confident that heffiner would make his last game for yale a hot one. he had done some marvelous work, and, as he declared himself in prime condition, there was no reason why he should not hold harvard down on this occasion. while merriwell was surrounded by friends in the smoker, and the boys were having a decidedly jolly time, duncan yates was getting into a decidedly ugly mood in the adjoining car. when yates thought of his failure to beat his rival in the dash to the station he ground his teeth and muttered bitter curses. and he was egged on by fred flemming and andy emery. tom thornton had joined the group, but he said very little; and, when he found an opportunity, he whispered in flemming's ear: "better go slow. remember the promise we gave merriwell. if he finds out we are working against him, it will go hard with us." "he won't find it out. i hate him too much to keep still if i can arouse another fellow against him. give me your flask. yates has killed all i have in mine." thornton took a whiskey flask from his pocket, and slipped it into flemming's hand. then he left, for he did not wish merriwell's friends to see him in such company. flemming and emery made a pretense of drinking with yates, but they did not take much. yates, however, continued to "hit the bottle hard." his face became flushed, and his eyes glowed as flemming continued to tell him of merriwell's "underhand work." "that fellow did me dirt," declared flemming. "in this same sneaking way, he had me dropped from the crew this spring, and got on in my place." "that's right," agreed emery. "he has a way of influencing such men as he can get at, and he is using his influence to get the committee to throw you over." "and he can't run with you, anyway," said flemming. "it is possible that he can lead you in a short dash, like the race to the station to-day, but he would not be in it in a long run." "that race was one of his tricks," asserted emery. "i believe the job was put up by him." "how?" asked yates, huskily. "why, he saw you in company with the rest of us, and he thought he stood a good show of outrunning you for a short spurt, so he had diamond and rattleton make the talk that they did to bring the race about." "if that was not crooked, i don't know what you could call it," nodded flemming. "he sprung it on you when you were not suspecting, and he led you to go against him for a short run, in which he is at his best. all the time, he knew he was not your match for a long race. that doesn't make a bit of difference to him." "not a bit," said andy. "he is not looking for the good of old yale, but he is looking to get into the big race at the tournament. he has been lucky in everything he has tried, and he is depending on his luck to win the race and acquire further glory for himself." "let's have another drink all round," suggested flemming, as he produced thornton's flask once more. yates took several swallows. emery and flemming pretended to drink in a hearty manner, but they allowed very little whiskey to go down their throats. this drink seemed to be the one that aroused yates to action. he suddenly jumped to his feet, and there was a fierce look on his face as he cried: "come on!" "what are you going to do?" asked flemming, quickly thrusting the flask into his pocket. "i am going to find frank merriwell!" came hoarsely from yates' lips. chapter xxxiv. baseball. there was a crush in the rear end of the smoker. a crowd had gathered there, and the lads were singing, shouting, laughing and making merry in various ways. some fellows were sitting on the backs of the seats. the trainmen could not drive them down. it was useless to try with such a set of lads. danny griswold was astride the shoulders of dismal jones, who was the only solemn-looking man in the car. occasionally jones would "break out" in his peculiar camp-meeting revivalist's style and would deliver fragments of a sermon on the frivolous things of the world. each time he was quickly suppressed, however. into the midst of this jolly crowd came a lad whose face was flushed and whose eyes were gleaming strangely. his lips curled back over his set teeth, and he seemed to quiver with a strange eagerness. "let me through!" he growled, forcing his way along. "there is a fellow here i want to see." there was something in his voice that caused them to give him room to advance till he was standing directly in front of frank merriwell. then his hands clinched, and, as he tried to speak, he choked with passion, so that words failed him. a sudden hush came over the throng, for they saw that there was trouble impending. "it's yates!" somebody muttered the words, and they seemed to break the spell that had fallen on the enraged lad who was glaring at frank. "yes, it is yates!" he snarled. "i suppose all you fellows are frank merriwell's chums, but that makes no difference to me." he stopped a moment, but he did not take his eyes from frank's face. he seemed to be gathering himself for the supreme effort. "merriwell," he said, his voice shaking, "you are a sneak!" every one expected frank would leap to his feet and strike yates, but he did nothing of the kind. the hot blood rushed to his face, and then fled away again, leaving him cold and pale. about his firm jaws there was a sudden hardening, and in turn he showed his teeth. "mr. yates," he said, "you are not complimentary." "i do not mean to be to such a fellow as you!" yates shot back. "you are insulting!" "i am if the truth can be considered an insult." "i demand an explanation." "i do not propose to waste any breath in giving explanations to such as you. you know why i say you are a sneak--you know you are a sneak!" frank merriwell laughed. that laugh was a warning that he was dangerous. diamond knew it; rattleton knew it. they held themselves ready to make room when frank merriwell saw fit to act. "you put yourself in a bad light by calling a man a sneak and then refusing to tell why you call him that," said frank. yates did not know merriwell very well and that laugh had not sounded a warning to him. instead, it really seemed that frank was frightened, and he had laughed to conceal the fact. "it is my conviction," he cried, "that you are not only a sneak, but you are also a coward! if that is not enough, i will make it still more forcible." quick as a flash, he struck frank in the face with his clinched fist. a gasp came from those who witnessed this act. there was no time given for further words. like a leaping panther, frank merriwell shot up and alighted on duncan yates. he clutched yates in his strong grasp, snapped him off his feet, swung him into the air. the spectators had fallen back in a wild sort of scramble to get out of the way. thus enough room was made for merriwell to act. it was a warm day, and the car door was open. almost before any one could tell what frank thought of doing, he leaped out through the doorway, and, with the lad who had delivered the blow still poised above his head, seemed on the verge of hurling yates from the flying train! "stop, frank!" diamond shouted the words. cries of horror broke from the lips of the other spectators of the scene, but, strangely enough, none of them made a move to prevent merriwell from carrying out his apparent purpose. if merriwell flung yates from the train the unfortunate lad who had aroused frank's wrath must be instantly killed. at first, when he had felt himself clutched, yates had struggled, but, to his amazement, he seemed like a child in the grasp of the infuriated athlete. as frank reached the platform and poised yates aloft, the latter seemed to realize his peril, and fear robbed him of nerve and strength. he was limp and helpless in merriwell's grasp. and then, almost as quickly as frank had caught the lad up, he lowered him to his feet. again merriwell laughed, but this time there really seemed to be something of amusement in the sound. "if i had dropped you off, mr. yates, you must have been injured," he said, and his voice was soft and gentle. yates gasped. "jee!" chattered bink stubbs. "that was a regular hair-raiser, as the fellow said when he finished the blood-and-thunder story." yates swayed and caught at the iron rail. the flush had gone out of his face, which was ashen-gray. "better go into the car," said merriwell. "you seem rather unsteady, and you might fall off here." without a word, yates steadied himself by taking hold of the side of the door, and entered the car. merriwell followed, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it lightly to the spot on his cheek where a slight bruise marked the spot that had felt the enraged lad's fist. the witnesses of this scene seemed to breathe freely for the first time. they stared at frank as if his marvelous display of strength had been a revelation to them. yates had plenty of friends, as he had never seemed a bad sort of fellow, but the fact that he had struck merriwell while the latter was sitting down was against him. "he's been drinking," one declared. "merriwell could not have handled him that way otherwise." "did merriwell really mean to throw him off?" asked another. there were some murmurs of disapproval at frank's action, but the expressions of astonishment and admiration for his display of strength drowned all other sounds. yates turned and looked at frank, but he seemed unable to express his feelings by means of words. jack diamond was flushed with rage. "it would have served the fellow right if merriwell had dropped him off!" declared the hot-blooded southerner. andy emery was near at hand, but he had been unable to give yates any assistance when the latter was grasped by frank. "good heavens!" he kept repeating, as he stared at frank merriwell in a manner that showed his unutterable amazement. it was plain that such a display of strength had been a revelation to him, and from that time emery was bound to regard merriwell with renewed respect. "mr. yates," said frank, quietly, "this is no place to settle any quarrel that has arisen between us; but i wish to say before witnesses that i consider you entirely in the wrong, and certainly you owe me an apology. you may not think so now, but i believe you will think so in time." that was all. he returned to his seat and sat down. yates seemed to hesitate, and then turned away, accompanied by emery. flemming had kept himself in the background during the entire affair. when the train reached springfield yates was in no condition to go to the ball ground. he had taken too much whiskey to carry, and his pretended friends, flemming and emery, were forced to get him out of sight as soon as possible. "that ought to be a settler for him," said diamond. "a fellow who is in training for a race can't afford to get loaded." yale men had heavily backed their own club to win, and it seemed that the majority of the harvard crew was trying to put money on the blue. it was expected by harvard that merriwell would pitch the deciding game, for the actual condition of his hand had been kept a secret, and harvard feared merriwell. to himself frank confessed that he could pitch the game, as his hand was in fairly good condition, but such improvement had not been expected, and it had been arranged that he should do no "twirling." besides that, it was heffiner's last game for yale, and, taking into consideration the record he had made, it seemed no more than right that he should be placed in the box. the usual crowd had gathered to witness the game, and there was the usual display of flags. yale was over-confident; harvard was hopeful, but filled with fears. the game began, and for three innings yale had the advantage. the "sons of old eli" were jubilant, and they made the air ring with their cheers and songs. at the end of the third inning it was seen that harvard must make a change if it had any hope of winning. yedding, the great cambridge pitcher, was "rocky." he could not find the plate, and he was "hammered" when he did "get 'em over." some yale man with an inclination to rhyme had composed some doggerel verse, which about twenty lads were singing to some sort of mongrel tune. "poor harvard she can talk-- (that's all!) at other things she'll balk; we'll beat her in a walk-- hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! "poor harvard's lost her grip-- (that's so!) she's let the pennant slip, we've done her up this trip-- hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" "it is altogether too early in the game to crow," declared frank merriwell. "several things may happen before the ninth inning is over." "oh, we've got the game nailed solid now!" declared bruce browning, in a satisfied way. "robinson will be able to get his shirts out of soak." in the fourth inning harvard sent a new pitcher into the box. it was coulter, who, as a freshman, had pitched against merriwell. coulter was nervous and rather wild at first, but he puzzled the yale men, who could not hit him when he did get them over the plate. "if he steadies down, he will prove to be a bad man," said frank, soberly. "this is his first trial on the regular team, and he is not at his best just now." yale secured one score in the fourth inning, while harvard retired with her third whitewash. in the fifth there was a change. coulter did steady down in a most astonishing manner, for he sent the yale men to the bench in one-two-three order. that seemed to give harvard new life, and, when she came to bat, she showed a determination to do something. right there was where heffiner took a streak of wildness, and harvard scored three times. coulter kept up his work in the sixth, by allowing but one short single to be taken off his delivery, and no yale man got further than second base. then it seemed that harvard came to the plate with a determination to "pound it out." the defenders of the crimson jumped on heffiner's curves, and the way they banged the leather gave the yale crowd symptoms of heart failure. a single, a two-bagger and a homer in quick succession caused heffiner to develop a bad case of "rattles," and it seemed that harvard would never let up. there was consternation in the yale ranks when harvard tied the score with but one man out, and that consternation threatened to become a panic when two more scores came in. old man hicks was set at work "warming up," although it was felt that he must be a desperate resort. when harvard scored again, hicks was sent into the box. the change seemed to work well, for harvard's score getting was brought to an abrupt termination. but yale was in a desperate situation, for, at the beginning of the seventh, harvard was three scores in the lead. merriwell had been on the point of going down and offering to do what he could to check harvard's wild career, but it seemed that old man hicks had done that, and so he sat still. but yale could not score. coulter seemed to feel that the opportunity of his life had arrived, and he sent the spalding's over the plate with all sorts of twists. the yale men could not make fair and satisfactory connections with the ball, so no man reached home. hicks was lucky, and he succeeded in scattering the hits, which, with fine support, enabled him to retire harvard with another goose's egg. the eighth inning was disastrous for the blue, although yale won a score by hard base running. when harvard took her turn, she seemed to fathom dad hicks' delivery, and, for a short time, he was treated quite as bad as heffiner had been. at the end of the eighth inning harvard was six scores ahead, and it was plain that the game was lost for yale. scores of sad-faced yale spectators were heard expressing regret that frank merriwell had not been used in the game. some of the wearers of the blue left the field immediately, unwilling to witness the termination of the game. with despair set upon their faces, the yale men went to the bat, ready to fight to the last gasp. but coulter was also determined not to let slip any of the glory he had won, and all yale's efforts to score were fruitless. the game ended with harvard still six in the lead. phil coulter was the hero of harvard that night, while poor hugh heffiner returned to new haven with his heart almost bursting with disappointment. chapter xxxv. kidnaped. "we'll down harvard in everything at the tournament," was the angry resolve of the disappointed yale crowd, who returned to new haven to find no band and no great gathering of cheering students awaiting them at the station. among them all, not excepting hugh heffiner himself, no one felt worse about the defeat than did frank merriwell. in his heart, he blamed himself for not going to the manager of the yale team and offering his services in case of emergency. he knew it was possible he might not have been able to save the game, but still the possibility that he might have done so bore heavily upon him. but frank did not dream that his enemies would make capital out of the fact that he had not taken any part in the game. he did not know they were saying he had kept among the spectators where he could not be found when things seemed to turn against yale. "merriwell didn't dare pitch any part of that game," they were saying. "he was afraid, and he knew it would dim his glory if harvard won. he has his record, and you won't see him pitching out any games in order to pull yale out of a hole." but yates had ruined his chance of running in the mile race at the tournament by getting full on the train. directly after the next meeting of the committee of arrangements, frank was notified that he had been chosen to represent yale. each night frank took a run out into the country. he was determined to put himself in the very best condition possible. this practice of merriwell's was generally known, and he was watched with interest by friends and foes. the time for the tournament drew near. arrangements for all the contests had been completed. the end of the spring terms had come. commencement was over, and another class had been showered with sheepskins. in all the doings of this busy time of the college year merriwell took little part, as he was putting himself in shape to do his best at the tournament, and the time he had to spare from "grinding" was given to hard physical work. then he went down to a summer cottage on the sound. the cottage was located near southport, and there he continued his training, taking long runs into the country. the day before the great tournament came at last. that afternoon frank took his last run in training. he waited till near evening, and then jogged gently out along the country road. it was dusk when he turned back toward the cottage where he knew bruce browning, rattleton and diamond were loafing on the veranda and awaiting his reappearance. as he was passing through a small patch of woods, a cord that was strung across the road, about six inches from the ground, tripped him, and he fell heavily. frank was stunned by the shock. before he could recover, dark forms rushed out and flung themselves upon him. frank realized that he had been attacked, and he tried to make a fight of it, but the shock of the fall had taken away his strength, and then he found there were three against him. "work lively!" growled a hoarse voice. "he's worse than a tiger in a scrap!" his hands were twisted about behind his back and held there, while a cord was bound about them. in a remarkably brief space of time he was rendered helpless. then frank's feet were bound, and he was forced to submit to the tying of a blindfold over his eyes. before this was accomplished, however, he saw the three men through the gloom, and discovered that all wore masks to hide their faces. when frank was blindfolded, the man who had given all the commands, and who seemed to be the leader, said: "bring out the team." frank's ears told him that one of the men went away, and soon, by the sound, the boy decided that a team was being brought from some place in the woods, where it had been concealed. "what sort of a job is this?" thought the captive lad. "it seems to be a case of real highwaymen right here in connecticut. and still they do not seem like highwaymen, for then they would have robbed me and let me go. they are up to something else." he soon found that his captors meant to remove him from the spot, for he was lifted from the ground and tossed into the bottom of the wagon, like a sack of grain. then the men climbed in, the horses were whipped up, and away they all went. after a drive of at least two hours, during which frank had several times asked where they were taking him, and had been repeatedly cautioned to "shut up," the team came to a halt. frank was glad of it, for much of the distance had been made over rough roads, and he had been several times menaced in order to keep him quiet, and once choked into silence by two of the men, who sat upon him while they passed another team. frank was taken from the wagon, his feet were set at liberty, and he was marched into some sort of a building. "there," said the hoarse voice of the leader. "he's safe and solid here." through the blindfold there was a glow of light, and then the cloth was removed from his eyes. frank found himself in a rough room, to which there seemed to be no windows and but one door. in the room there was a table, a broken chair, and a rude sort of bed. one of the two men who had brought him into the room coolly sat down astride the chair, and stared at frank, his eyes gleaming by the flaring light of the tallow-dip that burned on the table. "set down," invited the man, making a motion toward the bed. "we offer our visitors the upholstered furniture out of courtesy. make yourself at home." "don't care if i do," returned the boy, with equal coolness, "but in order for me to be thoroughly comfortable, it will be necessary for me to have my hands free." "sorry i can't accommodate ye just now, but i want to have a talk with yer first. set down." frank obeyed. "well," he observed, "i suppose i might as well, as long as i do not seem to have much to say about it; but i'd like to know what this little game is." "thought you'd be kinder curious," said the man, with a hoarse laugh. "well, ye see, it's this way. we've heard so much about you that we thought we'd kinder like the pleasure of your company for a day or two, and so we brought you over here." a day or two! frank gasped for breath, as a sudden light dawned upon him. if he were held there for a single day he would not appear at madison square garden to take part in the tournament! "this is the work of my enemies!" he mentally cried. "they have hired these ruffians to kidnap and hold me till the tournament is over! cæsar's ghost! i never dreamed such a thing could be done in this quiet part of the new england states!" chapter xxxvi. the tournament. the interior of madison square garden was decorated with the colors of a dozen colleges, and was aglow with hundreds of bright lights. the rows of seats, tier upon tier, were packed with people. the private boxes were all taken. a band was playing a lively air, and the tournament was on. down in the great cleared space young men from the various prominent colleges of the country were struggling for victory in the athletic feats on the programme. at times some well-known amateur contestant was greeted by cheers as he appeared or accomplished a feat that was plainly remarkable. the favorites were greeted by the yells of the colleges which they represented, as they were seen preparing for some difficult attempt. it was a scene of the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. pretty girls were there in large numbers, their faces glowing with admiration for the young men who were struggling like gladiators down in the modern arena. the swell set of new york occupied the boxes. fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, cousins and aunts of the contestants were on hand, watching with eagerness for the appearance of those in which their interest centered. in some instances the parents of the young men engaged in the contests were plainly from the country. their manners, their dress, their language indicated this. it was a wonderful occasion for them, and their hearts almost ceased beating when the favorite for whom they were watching showed himself and made his brave effort in some trial of strength and skill. happy were they if he acquitted himself nobly. the blue of old yale dominated one great section of seats. and when a yale man won in some of the contests hundreds upon hundreds of strong-lunged young men arose to their feet and sent the college slogan pealing forth, while that great mass of blue fluttered and swayed as if swept by a fitful tempest. it was yale against the field, and old eli was acquitting herself nobly. one of the private boxes was occupied by the hon. andrew flemming and his family. his wife and his two daughters were there. in a corner of the box sat two lads who were talking earnestly in guarded tones. they were tom thornton and andy emery. thornton and emery had been entertaining fred flemming's sisters, but now, for the moment, they had drawn aside and were earnestly discussing some point that seemed to interest them greatly. "it must be that the matter is settled, and yates has been substituted for the one who is missing," said thornton; "but it seems rather astonishing that flem should be so sure merriwell would not appear." "but he did seem sure," nodded emery. "he told me over and over that merriwell would not be here to run." "and you must know enough of frank merriwell to be sure he would be here if he could get here, even if he had to crawl on his knees." "that's right." "then what has happened to merriwell?" "you tell!" "i can't. i know flemming would go to any extreme to carry out his desires. in fact, he is altogether too reckless and headstrong. i knew he did not mean it when he told merriwell he was ready to bury the hatchet, and i have felt that he was not talking to hear his own voice when he told us merriwell would not be on hand to race to-night." at this moment fred flemming entered the box. his face was flushed, and there was a look of triumph in his eyes. he spoke to his mother, and then addressed himself to the two boys, saying: "it's all right." some event below attracted the full attention of all in the box save the trio in one corner. "yates will run?" asked emery, eagerly. "you bet your filthy!" nodded fred. "i told you he would." "but where is merriwell?" flemming smiled mysteriously. "it is evident," he said, "that mr. merriwell decided not to attend the tournament." "look here, fred," said thornton, nervously, "you haven't done anything that will get you into trouble, have you?" flemming snapped his fingers. "what is it to me if merriwell sees fit to stay away?" he asked. "he may tell some sort of a wild story, but it seems that he was afraid to appear and run. all i ask of you fellows is that you keep your mouths closed on one point." "what is that?" "i don't care to have you breathe to a living soul that i knew in advance that merriwell would not be on hand." "we'll not say a word about it." "yates had no idea that he might be called on. i found it necessary to keep with him all the time and see that he did not get geared up. then i had him where he could be found by the committee in case he was needed." "and----" "and he was found." "he has gone to prepare for the race?" "sure." "that settles it! merriwell has failed to show up!" a wild yale cheer turned their attention to the arena at this moment. big hickok was preparing to put the shot, and he had been greeted in this manner by his admirers as he stepped out. hickok was a giant, and yale had the utmost confidence in him. thus far the best record made by any other man was forty-one feet and five inches. hickok must do his very best to beat that. the cheers died away as the yale goliath poised himself for the effort. he crouched, and then the heavy iron sailed through the air and fell with a thud to the ground. the tape was quickly drawn, and then the score went up. forty-two feet and three inches! once more yale let herself loose, and it seemed that the roof must crack. hickok quietly declined to take the two remaining trials open to him. he was the last man on the list, and yale had won. the hammer-throwing was to follow, and he was entered for the contest. in the hammer-throwing contest yale had another opportunity to yell, for hickok was again the winner over all others, making a record of one hundred and twenty-three feet and nine inches. the contests followed each other in swift succession, and yale more than held her own. there was no reason why the wearers of the blue should not be jubilant. at last, the races came on. up in the flemming box were three lads who were anxiously awaiting the announcement of the one-mile run. despite the triumph which he felt, fred flemming betrayed a sort of hilarious nervousness as he chatted with his sisters and his friends. watching fred closely, tom thornton saw that he was under a strain. and again thornton wondered what had become of frank merriwell. princeton won one of the shorter races, and harvard won another. in each of these a yale man was second. "if mr. merriwell had contented himself with being less ambitious, he might be here to-night," said flemming, in an aside to his college comrades. emery and thornton exchanged glances. there was a significance about such language that could not be misunderstood. thornton shivered a bit, and, unconsciously, drew back from flemming. the excitement of the evening was at its highest pitch thus far. the contestants for yet another race were getting into position, and, in another moment, they were off like a pack of greyhounds. this time a yale man carried his colors to victory, and the "sons of old eli" yelled their approval and delight. yale was doing nobly. this night she was making a record for herself that would be remembered. but now came the greatest race of all--the mile run. preparations were made for it, and feverish anticipation swayed the great multitude. fred flemming was literally quivering as he leaned over the rail of the box. "let's give yatsie a great send-off!" he exclaimed. "they are coming out in a minute." he was watching the point where the runners must first appear. his hand shook on the rail. the runners appeared. the first was beatty, the harvard man, and the harvard crowd "hoo-rahed" hoarsely. then came mansford, of princeton, and the tigers let themselves loose. jetting, of dartmouth, followed, and the new hampshire lads greeted him in a manner that brought the blood to his cheeks. then little judd, the u. p. man, trotted out, and he was received with howls of delight from the quakers. "now--now comes yates!" cried fred flemming. the yale man appeared, and flemming stood up to cheer. he dropped into his seat as if he had been shot, his face turning ashen gray, and the cheer dying on his lips. "good heavens!" gasped tom thornton. "it is frank merriwell!" but his exclamation was drowned by the mighty cheer which greeted the appearance of the yale standard-bearer. chapter xxxvii. to victory--conclusion. "merriwell! merriwell! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" it was a mighty roar of voices. then came the well-known yale yell, which was repeated again and again. the entire yale crowd was standing, wildly waving hands, hats, flags, handkerchiefs, anything and everything that could be found to wave. it was an ovation that might have gladdened the heart of an emperor. it was not strange that the sound nerved the yale man to vow within himself to die in the effort to win for dear "old eli," if he could not win otherwise. but up in one of the boxes not far from the starting point were three young men who were utterly overcome with amazement and consternation. one of them had a face that was drawn and pale, as if he had received a mortal wound. "what's it mean, flem?" asked andy emery, in fred's ear. "merriwell is here! have you been horsing us?" then, for all that his parents and his sisters were present, fred flemming ground out a bitter cry. his voice shook and he choked, as he answered: "you know as well as i what it means! oh, what luck!" he was utterly unmanned, and his mother, observing his pallor, asked him if he had been suddenly taken ill. he answered her with a snarl, like a mad dog. the five runners came down to the line. just as they did so, duncan yates burst into the flemming box. "what sort of a jolly business is this, flemming?" he demanded, his face pale with anger. and then, seeing there were ladies present, he removed his cap and mumbled an apology. fred did not introduce yates; he was too much broken up to think of such a thing. "that's what i'd like to know," he said, helplessly. "you know we were told merriwell was not on hand to run." "but he showed up in time to dress, and i was coolly informed that i wasn't in it. i object to such treatment, and i want to know if it was a job on me." "if it was a job, i'll give you my word i know nothing about it," said fred, in a weak and humble manner. at this moment, as they looked down, frank merriwell was seen to gaze straight toward them, and something like a scornful, triumphant smile flitted across his face. "i'd like to strangle him!" grated flemming. the runners were preparing for the start. pistol in hand, the starter stood ready to give the signal. his voice was heard bidding them make ready. a moment later, the pistol cracked, and the runners leaped away. "oh, if he'll come in the tail-ender!" panted fred flemming. the band was playing its liveliest air, and the runners sped around the track like fawns. graceful fellows they were, with the possible exception of little judd. judd started off bravely, however, seeming to scoot into the lead like a squirrel, his short legs fairly twinkling. the u. p. crowd let out a great cheer to encourage the little fellow. beatty, of harvard, was likewise a quick starter, and he was right at judd's heels, while mansford and merriwell got away side by side. jetting, the dartmouth representative, was slow about starting, but still he was a runner. it had been expected that other colleges would take part in this race, but, for certain reasons, there were but five starters. around the track ran the lithe-limbed youngsters, with judd holding the lead for two laps. then he was passed by beatty, who spurted to get to the front, and this gave harvard an opportunity to "hoo-rah." from the very outset it seemed that merriwell and mansford were in for a neck-and-neck match. they clung together in a singular manner. for a time the five runners were well bunched, but there came a stringing out at last. little judd began to lag, and jetting, who had pushed past merriwell and mansford, went by the u. p. man and began to crowd beatty. the new hampshire boys cheered him on, and the sound of the yell he loved to hear got into his head and worked his undoing. otherwise jetting must have been a dangerous man for the leaders at the finish. as it was, he pumped himself out some seconds too soon. at the first quarter harvard led, and she was still leading, with dartmouth second, when the first half was passed. then came a fierce struggle for the lead, which ended with the weakening of both beatty and jetting. beatty weakened first, however, and fell back, but jetting was seen to stagger a bit, recover and go on. merriwell and mansford passed beatty and narrowed the gap between them and jetting. mansford set his teeth and gained an advantage of ten feet by a quick break. this advantage he was resolved to hold. jetting fought like a tiger to hold the lead, but mansford crowded him harder and harder, finally going to the front. then came a desperate struggle between merriwell and jetting, but yale's colors were carried into second place at the beginning of the last quarter. and now--now there was excitement. the finish was drawing near, and princeton had the lead, although the distance was short. as frank passed the yale crowd he was given a rousing cheer, which seemed to put fresh life and strength into his body. he crept up on mansford, who was running like the wind. the difference grew less and less. eight feet, six feet, four feet--could he close the gap? then, for a moment, a black cloud seemed to pass before frank's eyes. his heart was in his mouth, where it lay hot and dry, like a stone that has baked in the sun. it seemed that he must fall. "win or die! win or die!" those words rang through his head as if some one had shouted them into his ear. "i will!" he knew the end was close at hand, and still the black and yellow was before him. then it was that frank nerved himself for one last great effort, and dashed forward with a fresh burst of speed that seemed little short of marvelous. that burst carried him to mansford's side--carried him into the lead--carried him over the line at the finish--a winner! there was a grand supper in new york that night, at which frank merriwell was the guest of honor. he was toasted again and again by his admiring friends, and it seemed that everybody was his friend at last. there were speeches and songs and a general merry time. old yale had carved her way to glory once more, and among her standard-bearers merriwell was the leader. "tell us, tell us, old man," cried paul pierson, "how was it that you happened to be so late in appearing at the garden? really we had given up hope that you would come, and were for getting yates into running rig. you barely got along in time. what kept you away?" "i was unavoidably detained," answered frank, smiling. "yes, but that is an unsatisfactory explanation. rattleton and the fellows who were with you reported your mysterious disappearance, and we were for putting detectives on the case to-morrow. can't you clear up the mystery?" "well, you see, it is like this: i fell in with some gentlemen who seemed to take a strong interest in me. note the word strong there. in fact they were too strong for me. they seemed to like me exceedingly well, and they pressed me to stay all night with them. i was sort of roped into it, as it were. i found it difficult to get away without wounding their feelings." this was said in a queer manner, and the lads about the table looked at each other inquiringly. "but you managed to get away?" said pierson. "yes, i offered them inducements in the shape of coin of the realm. they seemed to be out for stuff, and some person, who must love me dearly--had induced them to take charge of me and care for me tenderly. however i worked on their greed by offering more than my friend had offered, and, as i promised not to make too much of a fuss about it, i was let off, but barely in time to reach here. i am not going to say anything more about this matter just now, but i expect to look around some and find out who my friend is who engaged the gentlemen to care for me so tenderly. when i find him--well, i won't do a thing to him!" "well, here's luck to you!" cried pierson, lifting his glass. "gentlemen, here's luck to frank merriwell, the best all-around man who ever called dear old yale _alma mater_. drink--drink hearty!" a few words more and we will bring this story to a close. frank was truly the hero of the college, and it was many a day before his wonderful dash was forgotten by even the most indifferent of the students.