The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity, by Burt L. Standish

The scene was the stage of the Star Theater in Atchison, Kansas, and the occasion the rehearsal of Frank Merriwell’s company in his new play, “True Blue.” From the first night “True Blue” had been a success; the playgoers of Puleob, Colorado, who had witnessed the failure of its first version, welcomed “True Blue” enthusiastically and assured Frank, as Roscoe Havener, his stage manager, had put it, that he had a “winner.”

Frank had chosen to turn back toward the East, instead of continuing on to the Pacific coast, for it was late in the season and business was on the decline. It would be better for the members of his company if the play closed its run in the East, leaving them on the ground when the time came to make engagements for the coming season. Besides that consideration, Frank had other reasons in turning Eastward. The failure to keep the dates made for “John Smith” and the partial failure of “For Old Eli” had made it difficult for him to secure theaters for “True Blue” on the Western route, while it was comparatively easy to secure good bookings on the way Eastward.

So it happened that the “True Blue” company had jumped from Puleob straight across Colorado and Kansas to Atchison, where they were to open that night.

6 All the actors, except Frank, were on the stage carefully rehearsing, as Havener was determined that only by constant drill could slips be avoided, and he aimed to have a perfect performance.

As the afternoon waned, more than one glance of comment had been exchanged by the other players as they witnessed Bart Hodge’s repeated acts of insubordination. Bart seemed to be in a very unpleasant frame of mind, favoring everybody with savage glances and paying absolutely no attention to the directions of the stage manager. In the eyes of actors there is no more unpardonable offense than to treat the stage manager thus.

And Havener was not the man to overlook such offenses. Obviously he was incensed. But he understood how close to Frank Bart was, how strong were Frank’s feelings of friendship and loyalty to the dark-haired youth, and he controlled his wrath until finally he could tolerate the behavior of Hodge no longer.

“Because you took the wrong exit. I have told you repeatedly to use the right upper at the close of that scene, and you persist in leaving the stage by the right tormentor.”

Havener was angry, but he held himself in restraint. He did not curse, after the manner of most stage managers, but he showed that he meant what he said when he spoke again.

“Oh, will I?” said Bart, in a manner that was decidedly insolent. “Oh, I don’t know!”

Frank was in a dressing room, and did not hear what took place on the stage between Havener and Hodge.

Deep in his heart Bart felt that he was wrong, but he smothered the feeling, refused to pause to reason, and hurried to the dressing room, where he knew he would find Merriwell.

Hodge entered without knocking, and Merry knew in a moment, on looking up, that something was wrong.

Plainly enough something serious had happened, for Bart was not in the habit of talking that way. Frank straightened up and looked at him steadily without speaking. Bart’s eyes dropped before that gaze, but the sullen look did not leave his face, and he stared at the floor as if glaring at a deadly enemy.

“What is this, anyway?” Merry asked, after some moments. “What has gone wrong between you and Havener?”

“Havener is not in the habit of bulldozing anybody, Hodge, as you very well know.”

“I know he is in the habit of trying it on me. He doesn’t like me, and he doesn’t miss an opportunity to try to call me down. I’m dead sick of it!”

“You are altogether too sensitive, old man. Havener is the stage manager, and a good one he is, too. He has aided me immensely in getting the play into shape.”

“Oh, you’re inclined to give other people too much credit. I’ll guarantee there is not another playwriter who is starring in his own piece who will say that his stage manager has done much of anything for him.”

“I am not patterning my actions on those of others, Bart. I detest chaps who ape others. I believe in individuality. Be what you are. That is the maxim I go by. If others are selfish and ungrateful, it is no reason why I should be so.”

“Gratitude! gratitude! gratitude! It makes me tired! Has a fellow got to go through the world being grateful to everybody who is decent to him?”

“You know I did not mean that. You have a way 9 of distorting what I say so that it does not mean what I intended.”

“Oh, yes; of course I do something I shouldn’t do! I’m always doing something I shouldn’t do! It’s been the way all my life! At home I was forever doing something I shouldn’t do! At school it was the same. At college it was no better. And now, in trying to be an actor, I am still doing something I should not do. Oh, what’s the use to try to do anything! A fellow might as well bump along and not give a rap what he does or what happens to him.”

“You are getting in a bad way, Hodge,” said Merriwell, seriously. “I believe your liver is out of order.”

“This is no joking matter!” Bart snarled. “Don’t poke fun at me, Frank Merriwell! It doesn’t go with me for a cent!”

“If you had been given a sense of humor it might be better for you. Unfortunately, you never see the humorous side of anything. You take everything seriously, much to your own discomfort. Happy is the man who can see and understand the humor in everyday life.”

“Well, I’ll guarantee there is nothing humorous in what just happened on the stage.”

“Did he! did he!” panted Bart. “You say that as if it were of no consequence.”

“Havener is not in the habit of giving anybody a call down unless they deserve it.”

“Oh, it’s plain you think that fellow knows it all. But I’m going to tell you now that I can’t stand his insolence, and I won’t stand it!”

10 “We’ll have to talk this matter over, Bart,” he said. “If Havener has given you a call down without cause, you may be sure I shall have something to say to him. Now, tell me just how it came about.”

But, of a sudden, Hodge did not feel like telling. He began to realize that the truth would not put him in a very favorable light. Instead of quieting his anger, however, this made him feel still more angry.

“Oh, I haven’t anything to say about it!” he exclaimed, turning away. “I’ll pay the fine.”

“Oh, you are just beginning to realize there is something serious about it, are you!”

“I wish you wouldn’t blaze at me like that, Hodge. Anyone would imagine we were the bitterest of foes, instead of the firmest friends.”

“I don’t know about that. I have no friends. I wasn’t built to have friends. I believe I was intended for an Ishmael.”

“Now, drop that, Hodge!” commanded Frank, not a little shocked. “You were built for just what you choose to make yourself. If you select to become an outcast, you can do so.”

“That is what you believe. I don’t believe anything of the sort. I believe a fellow must be what he becomes. I believe everything is predestined, and, try as he may, no man can change the course that it has been destined that he must follow.”

“You are getting into a bad way, Hodge, for that 11 is the argument of every evil-doer and criminal since the days of Cain.”

“And it’s an argument that cannot be refuted!” shouted Bart, fiercely. “I suppose that you claim God is all-wise—that He knows everything?”

“Then, if He knows everything, He must know before a man is born just what that man will become, what he will do, every act he will commit. You can’t deny that. If He knows just what a man will do, then it must be that the man’s actions are foreordained. You can’t deny that. Every act that man does he was compelled to do because God knew what he would do, and he could not do differently.”

“And you would argue that a man should not attempt to make himself better and nobler because he cannot be any better if he tries? As I said before, that is the argument of bad men and criminals for centuries.”

“That’s enough!” Bart hissed. “I understand you, Frank Merriwell. You—you, who have pretended to be my friend—you have called me a criminal to my face. Ha, ha, ha! I didn’t think it would come to that. Never mind. I understand it all now. For all of our apparent friendship, I know now that you have doubted me deep down in your heart. You have not wanted to doubt me, but you could not help it, and so——”

“Yes, it has come to this!” snarled the angry, unreasoning youth. “Didn’t you know it would? Didn’t you know I was a worthless fellow? Oh, yes, you knew it.”

“Nothing. I have not forgotten what you have done 12 for me, but I am sorry you ever did it. You have chosen between me and Havener.”

“I will not take a call down from any man living!” shouted Bart. “Havener called me down. Havener is your stage manager. He fined me. If you do not stand by him, go out there and tell him he must apologize to me—tell him he must retract that fine.”

Hodge had not thought of making such a demand when he entered the dressing room, but his anger had led him on blindly till now reason was quite smothered by passion.

“Confound the facts! You say you have not chosen between us? Then you must stand by me. I tell you I cannot take this call down from Havener. If you stand by me, go out at once and inform him that he must apologize.”

“When you are cooler you will look at this matter in a different light. I’ll have a talk with you, then. I’ll learn what has happened, and you may be sure I’ll not uphold Havener if he is in the wrong.”

“That’s not what I want. You have said you would stand by me, even though you knew I might be in the wrong. You are put to the test.”

“Again you distort the meaning of my words. If you were charged with a wrong deed, I would stand by you—defend you—do everything in my power for you. This is different, and——”

“You have been put to the test,” he again declared, “and you have failed. It’s no use, Merriwell. I am an Ishmael. Every man’s hand is against me, and my hand is against all mankind. I don’t care what happens to me now.”

13 He flung himself out of the dressing room before Frank could say another word.

Frank was not left in a pleasant mood. He realized that his arguments had been rather weak against those made by Hodge, for he had been overwhelmed for the moment by a tempest of angry words, and his modesty had not permitted him to speak of the many instances of his unswerving fidelity to the passionate, erring fellow in the past. He had not been able to recall the many times he had stood by Bart alone, even when the proof had seemed overwhelming that Hodge had committed an evil action or a crime.

Frank had been astounded by the seeming burst of ingratitude from Bart, but he quickly decided that the dark-faced youth would come to his senses if given time to cool down and think over all the events that had transpired since their first meeting on the little platform of the railway station at Fardale.

Hodge, hot-blooded, passionate, unreasoning, had become his enemy on their first meeting. In various ways he had tried to injure and disgrace Merriwell, but he had failed in all his efforts. When they had both become cadets at the military academy, Hodge’s enmity had continued till, being charged with a disgraceful deed of which he was not guilty, Frank Merriwell had defended him and proven his innocence.

Then these singularly assorted lads had become roommates and chums, and time after time since had Frank proved his loyalty by standing true to Hodge under the most trying circumstances. In his calm reasoning moments, Bart knew this and was grateful. He had been ready enough to show his gratitude, but now anger had overcome everything, and, in his burst of passion, he had spoken words Frank had never expected to hear from his lips.

14 At first Merry felt like following him. His own blood was throbbing hotly in his veins on account of the injustice with which he had been treated, but he had held himself in check with a firm hand. Frank had learned that the man who can master himself can master others, and his self-control was something remarkable.

He quickly decided that it would be best to give Bart a chance to cool down somewhat. In the meantime, he would learn exactly what had happened on the stage. Merry hoped Bart’s sense of justice would reassert itself and would bring the hot-blooded fellow back with a desire to retract.

As for Bart, he was so blind with passion that he actually stumbled against Stella Stanley as he hurried across the stage behind the rear setting.

“Look out!” she exclaimed, with a short laugh. “Do you want to kill me?”

“I feel like killing somebody!” panted Bart, glaring at her; “but not you—not you, Miss Stanley,” he quickly added.

“Oh, you don’t want to take it that way,” she said. “You’ll get used to it after you have been in the business longer. We don’t get many call downs from Havener. I’ve been in companies where the stage manager would swear and tear around, and no member of the cast escaped being hauled over the coals.”

“No man can call me down that way!” exclaimed Bart. “I won’t stand for it!”

“Why, I supposed every member of the company had a contract with Mr. Merriwell. How is it that you have none?”

“That’s queer; but you are friends, and I suppose he thought it was not necessary. You are bound by——”

“Bound by nothing! Do you think I’ll stay to take such bullying? No! What difference did it make at rehearsal whether I made the exit by the tormentor or right upper?”

“You know Havener insists on every member going through rehearsal exactly as he will play so far as entrances, exits and business are concerned. He is a stickler for that. He may allow some of us to chew our lines at rehearsal, but the business must be correct. Merriwell has given him entire charge of the stage, and——”

“Of course I do, and I don’t want to see you make a bad break. What are you going to do if you quit the company?”

16 “Because it does not require acting. It is a part that comes natural to me.”

“Oh, is that it!” muttered Bart, suddenly growing fierce again. “You take such an interest in me because you think it may be difficult to find somebody to fill my place!”

“No, it is not that, my dear fellow—really it isn’t, I told you I liked you, and it is true. I didn’t like you much at first. I’ll confess that, but there’s something about you that makes me take to you. I rather like your way of getting hot under the collar when somebody rubs you against the grain. I’m pretty independent myself, but I don’t blaze up as you do.”

“Look here, Miss Stanley,” said Hodge, seriously. “I want to know something.”

“Throw them over?” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about, my dear fellow?”

“I am talking what I mean,” breathed Hodge, hurriedly. 17 “One thing you will acknowledge, Miss Stanley—I have not been very forward.”

“No!” exclaimed Hodge. “I am going to tell you something, Stella Stanley. I am something of a woman hater, although I do not go round prating about it and making myself offensive. I believe all women are treacherous—not to be trusted.”

“Well, I must say you are frank, to speak the least!” she exclaimed, showing her handsome, white teeth.

“I am truthful,” asserted Bart. “Others might lie about it; I tell you the simple truth.”

“I have come to believe what I do about women through what I have seen of them. They have disgusted me.”

Stella stood smiling. She was two or three years older than Bart, and inwardly she was thinking that he was very young, indeed, to have and utter such opinions.

“Don’t call me a boy!” panted Bart. “I don’t like it. Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t like that.”

“You, you, you!” he hoarsely whispered, leaning toward her, so that she retreated a bit in sudden surprise.

“But I thought you were a woman hater?” she said, maliciously. “What is the matter with you? Why aren’t you consistent?”

“Don’t ask me to be consistent!” he exclaimed. “I tried to hate you, like all the others. I tried not to pay 18 any attention to you. I tried to avoid you. I couldn’t do it.”

“Don’t be either, Miss Stanley. I am not trying to flatter. I hope I shall not offend. I didn’t mean to say this to you. Oh, I meant to keep my mouth shut, but I can’t.”

“That’s what ails lots of us,” she observed, with a flippancy that jarred on his nerves.

“Despite myself, I would think of you when you were not near. Despite myself, I would be watching you when you were in sight. I saw you laughing and talking with that addle-pated boy, Wynne, and I wanted to spank him. I saw you smiling on Lester Vance, and I wanted to knock his head off.”

“And all the while I never dreamed of this. Oh, say, Hodge, don’t get sentimental now. I don’t like it, my boy. I didn’t stop you to have you tell me all this, but——”

“I am going to tell it just the same!” he shouted, his eyes blazing. “I did not mean to, but I’ll not be stopped now. I am going to tell it, and, by Heaven, you must listen.”

“It’s a pretty bad case with you, that’s plain; but you’ll get over it, my dear fellow.”

“I have seen you walking with Vance,” he said. “You went to church with him in Puleob. You have permitted him to show you all kinds of attentions.”

“Polite! Kindness! I tell you I can’t stand it. That’s what ailed me to-day. That’s why I would not obey 19 Havener. It has gnawed on me—gnawed, gnawed. I have felt like kicking that fellow. Sometimes I have found it hard to keep my hands off him. Stella—Miss Stanley, you must quit him.”

Still he did not heed. He paid no attention to the flush that rose to her cheeks. The words continued to pour from his lips:

“You have said you liked me. Prove it! Now is your chance! You want me to stay with the company. I’ll stay if you throw both Vance and Wynne over—give them the cold shoulder. I’ll stay for all of the call down Havener gave me. I’ll swallow my pride and let the matter drop.”

“That will be sensible of you, but you must not be foolish about me, my boy—really you mustn’t. I am older than you, and it is my place to give you advice. You have lost your head, not your heart, my dear fellow.”

“Don’t talk to me that way!” came hoarsely from his lips. “Don’t talk to me as if you regarded me as a stripling! Answer me, Stella Stanley—will you drop those fellows?”

“I couldn’t think of giving them the marble heart, Hodge. It wouldn’t be right, you know.”

“And you’ll go on laughing and chatting with them! You will walk with Vance! You’ll eat at his table! Do you think I can stay and stand that? No! Oh, you are like all the others, and I hate you—hate you!”

He caught her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. She was startled by his sudden fierce action and cried out.

Bart straightened up, still with an arm about the actress, who seemed to hesitate whether to laugh or be angry. His eyes met those of Lester Vance, and they were filled with the most deadly hatred. He did not speak, but suddenly he stooped and kissed Stella once more.

Quickly Bart swung the woman behind him, and squarely he met Vance. His arm shot out, his fist landed with a crack and Vance lay stretched on the floor.

Then, without a word, with simply a look of unspeakable scorn and contempt toward the fallen actor, unmindful of the others of the company who came rushing to the spot, Bart walked down the stairs and out of the theater by way of the stage door.

Lester Vance got up. At first he was too dazed to speak, but he recovered his tongue after a little and began to swear.

“That will do, Mr. Vance! You know I do not permit any such language on the stage or around the theater. There are ladies present, too.”

Vance put his hand over his eye and gave Merry an ugly look. The other members of the company were around, asking what had happened.

“Yes, I know your rules,” he admitted; “but that cursed cur assaulted me—struck me in a treacherous manner when I was not looking!”

“Stop!” rang out Merry’s clear voice. “That will do, sir! Bart Hodge is my friend, and I will not permit you to apply such epithets to him!”

“But I suppose you permit your friend to assault and insult the ladies of this company?” he said, scornfully.

“Not if I know it; but Bart Hodge is not in the habit of assaulting and insulting ladies.”

“I have warned you once,” said Merry, speaking in a low tone. “I shall not speak again. Be careful!”

“Oh, you stand up for him, Frank Merriwell, without hearing what he has done!”

“I am willing to hear what he has done, but you must use proper language in relating it.”

“Proper language! I don’t know how proper language can be found to fit the occasion. I tell you your friend of whom you boast has insulted one of the ladies of the company!”

Vance pointed at Stella Stanley, who, to his unspeakable surprise, broke into laughter.

“What?” cried Vance, astounded, glaring at her. “Surely, Stella, I saw the miserable fellow clutching you in his arms. I heard you scream for help.”

“So did I,” nodded Billy Wynne, “and I came running to this spot as soon as I could. I saw Hodge strike Vance.”

“Others saw that,” said Lester. “There were plenty of witnesses to his assault upon me.”

“Methinks thou didst attempt to swipe him first,” murmured Douglas Dunton, “else these faithful eyes much deceived me.”

“Gol darned ef Vance warn’t tryin’ to dew somethin’ 23 ter Hodge,” grinned Ephraim Gallup; “but he didn’t seem ter do it very much.”

“I simply attempted to protect Stella from his attack,” asserted Lester. “I saw him seize her and kiss her in the most violent and offensive manner, and——”

“Now, you saw that in your mind, Lester, my boy,” she declared. “I did not struggle.”

“I hope, Miss Stanley,” he began, stiffly, “that you are not going to say that you liked it? If you——”

“That is exactly what I am going to say,” laughed the actress, to the surprise of all and the fury of Vance. “I’d just been taunting him—having sport with him, you know. He had his revenge by seizing me and kissing me.”

“Offensive to you, perhaps,” she commented, cheerfully; “but not to me. As I said before, I rather liked 24 it. I like a fellow who has the nerve to take things by storm when he cannot get them otherwise.”

She smiled on Vance in the most tantalizing manner as she said this, and he well understood her meaning. He ground his teeth with impotent rage.

“If you liked it so well,” he panted, “you should not have screamed as you did.”

“That was an accident,” she declared. “Didn’t mean to do it, you know, but it slipped out.”

“By gum!” chuckled the youth from Vermont. “It don’t seem to me that Bart done anything so very bad. I think he was a purty gol-darn lucky feller!”

“I hardly think Mr. Merriwell, who is so rigid in regard to the deportment of the members of his company, can approve of the behavior of some of them,” said Vance, with something like a sneer.

“Well, I was surprised to hear you confess that you liked the treatment you received from that low fellow.”

“Oh, you were!” came scornfully from the woman’s lips. “I understand you, Mr. Vance, and I do not like your language! Any insinuation against my character I will not stand! I see I have been wrong in thinking you a gentleman! I see I have made a mistake in permitting you to pay me some attentions! Now you are ready to presume on our friendliness.”

25 She cut him short with a gesture that might have been given by a tragedy queen.

“You have said enough, Mr. Vance! You cannot remedy it now. Let me tell you something—let me tell you all something! Bart Hodge has acted as a gentleman toward me. Anything that has happened that may seem to contradict my statement I could account for—if I chose. Let me say something more. I admire Bart Hodge. He is young, but he doesn’t care for any living thing, and that is something that I admire in any man. When he is angry he looks as if he’d enjoy killing somebody, and I admire him for that! If he started to do a thing men or devils could not keep him from doing it, and I admire him for that! When I attempted to have sport with him, he seized me, held me, forcibly kissed me—and I admire him for that! When some one attempted to interfere in my behalf, he promptly knocked that person down, and I admire him for that! There—I’ve said my say. You know what I think of Hodge.”

“I suppose you admire him for acting like a cad on the stage?” hissed Vance. “Havener must admire him, too! Oh, he is a fine chap to admire!”

“My dear fellow,” she said, in a most provoking way, “you had better attend to that eye without delay. It’s turning black. It’ll be closed if you don’t look after it.”

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Vance almost frothing with jealous fury.

Granville Garland was almost the only man who remained with Vance. The others moved away, talking about what had happened.

“You’ve got it in the neck, Vance,” said Garland, sympathetically. “She has thrown you down for Hodge.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” growled the discomfited actor. 26 “I could murder that fellow! I’d do anything to get even with him, and I’ll find a way to do it, too!”

“Well, just now you had better take Stanley’s advice and attend to that eye. You’ll be a beauty if you don’t doctor it in a hurry.”

Snarling to himself, Lester Vance left the stage, and a second later, fuming with fury, hurried from the theater. At a market he bought a slice of beefsteak to use as a poultice on his eye, and then hastened to the hotel at which the company was stopping.

Entering as unobtrusively as possible, he hurried up to his room. Turning a corner of the corridor, he suddenly halted, catching his breath.

A short distance away, with his back toward Vance, Hodge was unlocking the door of a room.

“Why is he going in there?” thought the jealous actor. “That is not his room. It’s Merriwell’s!”

Vance stood irresolute in the corridor, wishing to do something to injure Hodge, but undecided concerning the course to pursue.

“He has secured the key from the office and entered Merriwell’s room,” muttered the actor. “I wonder what he is up to. I’d give something if I knew.”

Softly he stole along the corridor till he reached the door of the room. There he paused and listened. He could hear Hodge moving about inside.

“Wish I might get a peep through the keyhole,” thought Vance. “I believe he is up to something queer. If I had time, I’d bring Merriwell here, so that he might catch the fellow in there.”

A moment later he was tip-toeing along the corridor, 27 almost on the run. He had the key to his own room, and he quickly and silently unlocked the door and entered. Soon he came out, bearing a chair, and leaving the door of his room standing wide open.

Reaching Merriwell’s room, he placed the chair before the door and quickly sprang upon it. Then, by standing on his toes, he was able to look through the transom glass.

What he saw did not give him satisfaction just then, for Bart was sitting at a little table, writing swiftly.

“Pshaw!” thought Vance. “He’s writing a letter—that’s all! He isn’t doing anything out of the way.”

The fellow was filled with disappointment. Still he continued to stand on the chair and watch the youth within the room.

After a time Bart finished his writing. He took out his watch and looked at it, muttering:

Vance pricked up his ears. He knew nothing of the quarrel between Merriwell and Hodge, if quarrel it could be called, and still instinct told him that something was wrong.

Hodge had risen, leaving what he had written on the table. He now picked up Frank Merriwell’s leather grip.

“It’s a good thing I know how to spring this lock,” said Hodge, “else I’d not be able to get out of Atchison unless I walked, and I’d do that before I would stay here now. I have cut clear from everybody now, and I’m going to go it alone in the future. If I go to the dogs who cares!”

28 The eyes of the spy beyond the transom began to glitter and he was in a flutter of excitement. Now he was certain that Hodge was up to something crooked, and he eagerly awaited developments.

Bart worked at the lock of the leather bag. It was some time before he succeeded in opening it, but succeed he did at last.

The man outside the door rose on his tiptoes and peered through the glass. In his excitement he nearly lost his balance, but he recovered without falling with a crash that would have alarmed the man he was watching.

Vance felt his heart fluttering and throbbing; it was not easy for him to control his breathing, which now was loud and hoarse. A sense of exultation was growing in his bosom.

“So that is the chap Frank Merriwell trusts!” he thought. “That is the friend in whom he has so much confidence! Ha!”

Hodge was taking things out of the grip. He scarcely looked at them as he dumped them out. He was eager and in great haste.

Vance recognized the grip as being beyond a doubt the one Merriwell always carried. He had observed that Frank seemed to think a great deal of that plain leather bag. He remembered hearing Merriwell say once on a time that the grip was very valuable to him, even though it might not be worth much to anybody else.

Bart did not seem to be looking for any particular article in the grip, for he did not examine the things he dumped out so carelessly. Evidently he was after something that lay at the bottom.

The spy choked down his heart, which seemed rising 29 into his throat. The glitter in his eyes became exultant. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and they quivered with a movement like the lips of a snarling dog that is watching a hated enemy.

Everything was out of the grip at last; it was empty. The spy expected Hodge would begin sorting the articles over in search of what he desired, but nothing of the kind happened.

Bart picked up the leather bag, and then, with one hand inside it and one outside, he made some singular movements.

Vance almost shouted the word. Out from the grip Hodge had taken a false bottom!

The spy dropped down and listened. He was aware that some sort of sound had issued from his lips in his intense excitement, and he wondered if the youth within the room had heard it.

After some minutes, hearing nothing to warrant him in believing he had alarmed Bart, the fellow arose again on his toes and peered through the glass of the transom.

Yes, money—paper money! There was no doubt of it. In that grip, hidden by the false bottom, Merriwell carried his money, and Hodge was removing it!

Now the spy’s excitement was so great that he could hear his own teeth chattering.

Hodge partly turned toward the door, and Vance ducked down, listening again. It was several moments before he dared peer through the glass again.

Hodge had restored the false bottom to the grip, and 30 was putting back the various articles he had taken out in the first place.

“He’s got the money!” exulted Vance. “He’s a thief! This is Frank Merriwell’s trusted friend! Oh, but I have him foul! I’d better skip, for he’ll be coming out directly.”

Vance slipped down from the chair, and hurried toward his room, taking the chair with him. Safely within his room, he watched and waited till Hodge came out, locked Merriwell’s door and hurried along the corridor.

Dodging out from his room, the spy sped the length of the corridor. Reaching the turn, he peered cautiously round.

Not more than two minutes did Vance have to watch. Hodge came out of his room, carrying his light overcoat and a heavy valise. With these he descended the stairs.

“By heavens! he is going,” muttered Vance. “He has robbed Merriwell, and he is going to skip! What shall I do?”

He thought of stopping Bart and having him arrested, but quickly decided that was not the best course to pursue, as he was not yet certain Bart had really committed robbery. It was possible Hodge had given Merriwell his money to keep, knowing it would be concealed in the bottom of the grip.

Lester’s heart sank at that, for, if it were true, Hodge was simply skipping the company, which was not such a serious crime.

“It’ll be best to let him go,” Vance decided. “That will queer him with everybody, and I shall have no more trouble with him. If he has robbed Merriwell, so much 31 the better. Oh, but it will be my turn to triumph now! Somebody’ll hear from me! Stella shall acknowledge that this slippery chap is not such a fine fellow after all. Merriwell will not stand up so proudly and claim Bart Hodge as his friend. Things have turned my way!”

It was nearly an hour later that Vance returned to the theater, wearing a bandage over his eye, and having his hat pulled well down to hide the fact.

He was decidedly nervous, and still there was something of triumph in his manner. He did not seem to feel the disgrace of his misfortune as keenly as it had been fancied he would.

“Hang it all,” said Garland, finding an opportunity to speak with Lester alone. “You actually act as if you thought you had come off best in your encounter with Hodge! What ails you?”

“I rather think I’ll come off best in the end,” grinned Lester, in a peculiarly knowing manner.

“Yes, you do. I can see a peculiar under-meaning in your manner. What has happened?”

“On my word, I do not!” protested Lester, in sudden alarm. “What could I know?”

“Been up to anything?” repeated Bart’s enemy, as if he did not understand. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing! Let it drop. But I wonder why you think you will come out best in the end.”

“Because I think this Hodge is a rascal, and I believe others will find it out. That’s all.”

“Oh, I fancy I have read him pretty thoroughly. I know just about how he is made up.”

“I’m afraid you are off your trolley. Hodge is not popular in the company, but I’m inclined to believe he’s on the level, for otherwise Frank Merriwell would not have anything to do with him.”

“They have been friends a long time. I believe they were schoolmates together. That is why Merriwell sticks by Hodge as he does. He’s a chap who will never turn his back on old friends, no matter what they may do.”

“I’ll bet the time will come when Frank Merriwell will turn his back on Bart Hodge,” he declared.

“Well, I wouldn’t advise you to bank much on that feeling. It will fool you. You feel that way because you hate Hodge. I don’t wonder you hate him, but, take my advice and let him alone. He is a dangerous fellow.”

“Thank you for the advice. He isn’t half as dangerous as you think, Garland. In fact, I regard him as perfectly harmless.”

“That eye doesn’t proclaim him to be. He must have given you that in short order. There was a squall from Stanley, and I rushed to see what had happened. Heard a heavy fall, and you were picking yourself up when I arrived on the scene, while Hodge was gone.”

“That’s it!” growled Vance. “He didn’t stay to face me! He took to his heels, like the sneak he is!”

“I don’t care what you think; he did run away, just the same, and I’ll bet he’ll take care not to meet me again.”

“Of course, he will. You are both in the same company, and you have business with each other in the play.”

“All the same, I don’t think Bart Hodge will dare meet me again,” boasted Vance.

Garland turned away with an impatient gesture. He did not like Hodge, but the seeming conceit of Vance was too much for him.

Vance saw the look on Garland’s face, and it cut him somewhat. He longed to tell Granville something more and he opened his lips to do so, but prudence bade him keep still, and so he did not speak.

With Hodge lacking, the rehearsal went on as well as possible, special attention being given to the specialties.

35 Frank was restless and nervous. He longed to go in search of Bart, for he fancied it was possible the hot-headed fellow had cooled down enough to listen to reason. He observed Vance was swaggering around in a rather remarkable manner under the circumstances.

Merry did not like Vance, but he resolved to question him, and so he asked him if he had seen Hodge; doing so quietly in order not to attract attention.

“Yes,” answered Lester, speaking loudly, “I saw Hodge at the hotel. He was coming out of your room, too.”

Frank did not question the fellow any more concerning Bart. Just then, Lester, who was looking down at his left hand, as if examining his finger nail, gave a start, exclaiming:

“No, I had it a while ago. I have been wearing it next to my little finger, and I had a hard time to get it on, so I put it on my little finger, although it was too large.”

“By gracious! I’m afraid so, and I valued it highly. It had my monogram set in fine stones, you know, and 36 it was a present to me. I wouldn’t lose it for any amount of money!”

In a few moments nearly everyone was searching for Lester’s ring. Although they looked all around the stage and in the dressing rooms, it was not found.

“You must have lost it after you left the theater, Vance,” said Rufus Small.

“If I lost it on the street, I’ll never see it again,” said Lester, dolefully. “It’s mighty tough!”

“That’s so!” he cried. “I’ll look for it there if you’ll let me go, Mr. Havener.”

“We’ll all go,” said Havener. “We can’t do anything more this afternoon.”

But rehearsing was over, and, not a little to Lester’s uneasiness, Frank Merriwell left the theater at once and hurried toward the hotel. Vance was unable to get ahead of Merry without running, and this he did not do.

Presenting himself at the desk, Frank asked if Hodge was in his room or around the hotel.

“I beg your pardon,” said Merry, quickly. “I did not mean to contradict your statement, but it does not seem possible for me to believe it. Will you give me the particulars?”

“There are no particulars, save that he asked for his bill, paid it, took the key to your room to get something he said he had in there, came down very soon with his grip and coat, and left.”

It was a rare thing for Frank Merriwell to be dazed, but he seemed so just then.

A little distance away stood Lester Vance, a look of intense satisfaction and triumph on his face.

“Bart has gone crazy!” thought Frank, his lips being pressed together. “He’ll be sorry for this. Unless I can stop him, there is no telling what may become of him. I’ll not be likely to see him again for a long time, and he is in such a reckless mood now that it will be dangerous for him to go by himself.”

“I must have a chance to think,” he decided. “I must conclude what to do.”

He closed the door of his room, and then he noticed a sheet of paper, covered with writing, lying on the table. Hastily he caught it up.

“ Frank : It’s no use—I quit! I suppose you will say it is a mean trick for me to leave you this way, but I don’t care if you do! It’s my nature cropping out. I think the devil is in me. I have taken all the money I need, and it will be useless for you to attempt to follow me up. You may as well let me go this time. I 38 take the money in place of my salary, which you have not yet paid me. Hodge. ”

Frank stood there, staring at the paper—staring, staring. The words ran together and danced before him. Something was tugging at his heart.

“I’ll wager he didn’t take enough money to keep him a week!” came hoarsely from Frank’s lips. “He should have taken twenty-five dollars, at least, and it’s likely he hasn’t taken more than ten.”

He picked up his grip and quickly emptied it upon the bed. Then he soon removed the false bottom and looked into it.

Frank stood there, as if turned to stone. On his face was a look of mingled astonishment and pain.

“Gone!” he finally said, his voice cold, hard and metallic. “Every dollar gone—eight hundred and sixty dollars in all!”

Before Frank could speak the door swung open, and Granville Garland, Douglas Dunton and Lester Vance entered.

“Has he?” said Frank, with perfect coolness, as if nothing had happened to disturb him in the least.

“I have,” nodded Dunton, looking serious. “I heard that he was seen purchasing a ticket for St. Joseph.”

“Is it true he has gone?” asked Garland. “I could hardly believe it when Vance told me.”

39 “And all because Havener called him down! My, my! How foolish! He oughtn’t to mind a little thing like that.”

“Yes. He ran away after hitting me and I said he would not stay to face me again. I knew he would sneak.”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Frank, with a short laugh. “So you think Hodge ran away to keep from meeting you again?”

“Mr. Vance,” said Frank, “whatever else Bart Hodge may be there is not a drop of cowardly blood in his body. If you were a thousand instead of one he would not have run away from you.”

“You think so,” he said; “but I don’t fancy you know him very well for all that you have been acquainted with him so long. I’ve never liked his looks. To me he seemed to be a chap who would hesitate at no crime.”

Vance saw that Merry had been investigating the grip, and he fancied his words would give the young actor-playwright a start, but Frank’s nerve was unruffled.

40 “Yes, that’s the question,” said Dunton, anxiously. “We can’t play without Hodge to-night.”

“It strikes me that he has played you dirty, Mr. Merriwell,” said Granville. “And he is the fellow with whom you have been so friendly!”

“It is possible you do not understand how matters stood,” he said. “I had no contract with Hodge.”

“No,” said Frank, “I had no contract with him, and so he has broken no pledge to me in leaving in this manner.”

“Still,” said Dunton, “there must have been some sort of understanding between you, and Hodge was pretty cheap to skip out without giving any sort of notice.”

“Not exactly the act of a friend of whom one can be proud,” broke from Garland. “I think you’ll have to acknowledge that, Mr. Merriwell.”

“You do not know all that happened at the theater to-day,” he said. “Hodge and I had some words.”

It was galling for him to make that confession, but he felt that something must be said to explain the sudden desertion of Bart.

“Then that must have happened before the unpleasantness between Hodge and Vance?” he said.

“It did,” nodded Merry. “Hodge left me in anger. He is hot-blooded and impulsive, and he did not stop to reason about the matter. He has skipped out, it is evident, 41 but I believe he will cool down and come back when he comes to think it all over.”

“But he’ll be treating you dirty if he doesn’t come back in time for the performance to-night,” said Garland. “You would not be likely to take him back if he returned to-morrow. I’m sure you wouldn’t take back any of the rest of us if we served you such a trick.”

“You can’t be sure of anything of the sort,” said Frank, sharply. “You were not with the company when Leslie Lawrence deserted and returned to beg pardon. I did not fancy Lawrence, he was not a friend, and yet I took him back. If Bart Hodge returns to-morrow, I shall take him back.”

“I suppose you would take him back if he had stolen your clothes from you?” asked Vance, jeeringly.

“If I chose to I certainly should,” answered Merry, his eyes seeming to bore Bart’s enemy through.

“Hodge didn’t have much money yesterday,” said Vance, staring at the open grip. “I wonder how he happened to have enough to-day to settle his hotel bill and purchase a ticket?”

Vance was disappointed and puzzled. He could not understand why Merriwell did not denounce Hodge, for he was certain Frank had discovered the money was gone. Was it possible Merry intended to keep silent 42 and not charge Hodge with the robbery? Vance could hardly believe such a thing possible. He could not fathom the depths of such fidelity to a treacherous friend.

“What’s this?” said Garland, stooping and picking up the crumpled sheet of paper. “There’s writing upon it.”

“Yes,” said Frank, as he quickly took it from the man’s hand. “I threw it down there.”

“Merriwell is too proud to let us know,” he thought. “He doesn’t want us to think he was fooled by Hodge.”

“Well, I, for one, shall not feel very good toward Hodge if he does come back,” admitted Dunton. “What are we going to do, Mr. Merriwell? The town is billed for the play, the day has arrived for the performance, and there is a big advance sale.”

“We’ll have to lay off to-night,” answered Frank, as if that settled it without further talk. “I will attend to that. Don’t let it worry you.”

“I wonder what he was after in this room,” came from Vance, in a last desperate effort to force Frank to speak out. “He sneaked out of here as if he had committed a crime. You haven’t lost anything, have you, Mr. Merriwell? He didn’t take anything from you, did he?”

“I haven’t looked around yet,” was the cool answer. “As for coming into this room, he had a right to do that at any time. It was a privilege I gave him, and it was always so understood by hotel clerks wherever we stopped. I know you do not like Hodge, but take 43 my advice, don’t try to make him appear worse than he is. I don’t like it, and I won’t have it!”

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I beg you to excuse me. I have business to look after, and time is valuable now.”

They took the hint and filed out. The door closed after them. Vance wheeled about and looked toward the door, his lips curling in scorn.

Shortly after the three actors departed, Ephraim Gallup came bursting into Frank’s room, looking excited and agitated.

“Gol-darn my pertaturs!” he spluttered. “Whut’s this I hear abaout Hodge?”

Gallup was stricken dumb for the moment. He stood there, his mouth yawning and his eyes bulging, utterly incapable of expressing his emotions.

Frank was packing some articles into his grip. He seemed to be making arrangements to depart.

Again the Vermont youth uttered the exclamation. He straightened up and cleared his throat. His mouth came together, and he began to look angry.

“By gum!” he exploded. “That’s whut I call a darn mean trick! I swan to man I never thought Hodge’d go back on yeou, Frank!”

“An’ they’re sayin’ daown in the office that he swiped somethin’ wut didn’t b’long to him,” said Ephraim.

“Who says so?” he asked, his heart giving a leap and seeming to drop back heavily, as if weighted down with sudden dread.

Was it possible Bart had stolen something from the hotel? Frank could not believe it.

It was a breath of relief that came from Merry’s lips, and still the suspense was not fully removed. What if Hodge had taken something belonging to some other member? Under the circumstances, it would brand him as a thief, even though actors frequently appropriated articles belonging to others of the craft, without seeming to regard it as stealing. In this case, nearly every member of the company would be against Bart, and they would magnify any little occurrence that might damage him.

“What were they saying?” asked Frank, with apparent unconcern. “What do they claim Bart has taken?”

“It would seem more manly for him to be silent about Hodge under the circumstances. If he talks too much it will look like a case of spite.”

Frank was relieved, and still he wondered how Vance could be certain enough to make such a charge against Hodge. He soon decided that it must be no more than suspicion on the part of Bart’s foe. Lester had seen Bart leave Merry’s room, and he had decided that Hodge had been in there for no honest purpose. That must be the explanation of the accusation against the erring youth.

Instantly Frank straightened up, giving the Vermont youth a look that seemed full of resentment and indignation.

“How can you ask such a question, Ephraim Gallup!” he cried. “I am astonished! Have you forgotten how many times Bart has been unjustly accused of such things? Have you forgotten how I have always stood by him without ever once being mistaken? Do you think Bart Hodge would stoop to do me a deliberate injury now?”

“Waal, he’s doin’ yeou an injury by jumpin’ aout an’ leavin’ ye in this air kind of way, by thutter!”

“He didn’t stop to think what he was doing. That’s what’s the matter. If he had, wild horses could not have dragged him away.”

“You know it, Ephraim—you know it! Hodge is passionate and hot-headed. After his call down by Havener to-day he came to me in my dressing room. We had some words.”

“Hodge was unreasonable. I found it impossible to talk the matter over with him properly. When I tried to do so, he flew off the handle. For the first time since we became chums I was unable to control him. His hot temper had burned his reason out. He left the theater and rushed here to the hotel. Without delay he packed up and took a train out of town. If he had given himself time to cool down he would not have thought of doing such a thing.”

“That is kainder looks ez if he run away to git rid of meetin’ Vance ag’in.”

“That is the worst kind of foolish talk,” he said. “Hodge would not run from an army of fellows like Lester Vance.”

“Certainly I mean it. Do you think I am going to let the poor fellow go to ruin? To-morrow he will be overwhelmed with shame for his hasty act, but that very shame will keep him from returning unless I find him and bring him back.”

“Frank,” said Ephraim, “yeou are the kaind of a friend to hev! Yeou stick to yeour friends to the last gasp. Be yeou goin’ right erway?”

“No; but I have a fancy that he has struck for St. Joseph first. I shall try to trace him there.”

“I’ll make arrangements about that. I want you to find Havener and send him here to this room without delay. I have some instructions to give him.”

“By gum!” he muttered. “Was there ever another feller that stuck to his friends same as Frank Merriwell does? He’s true ez steel!”

Havener came up and found Merriwell all ready to leave. The stage manager looked rather dejected.

“I’m sorry about this business, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, humbly. “I’m sure I didn’t think it would end this way. If I had dreamed it would I should have permitted Hodge to do just as he liked.”

“And thus ruined the discipline of the entire company,” said Frank. “You would have made a great mistake, Havener.”

“And he has done it because I spoke to him on the stage. I might have taken another opportunity.”

“Mr. Havener, when I made you stage manager of this company I did so with the full intention that you should manage the stage and the people on it. I made no reservations. At rehearsal I am under you, and I thoroughly understand that. It is the only way to run a company as it should be run. A stage manager must have absolute authority in his province, or he is of very little value. I tried to tell this to Hodge, but he was too hot to listen.”

“Always. At the same time I will not uphold a friend to the absolute injury of somebody else. I will stand by him and endeavor to convince him of his error, if he has 49 made one; but I will not aid him in injuring another person.”

“I was afraid you would blame me in this matter,” he said. “It’s pretty rough to be upset just like this, after all the troubles you have had and just when there seemed to be plain sailing ahead.”

“I do not blame you at all, Havener. I have heard just what took place on the stage, and I have no complaint to make.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. I am going away. I am going to make an attempt to overhaul Hodge and bring him back.”

“You are to notify the box office without delay that sale of seats must stop.”

“Tell the manager just what has happened. Here is a check which I have made out for you. It is for five hundred dollars.”

“To settle with the manager of the opera house and to pay bills here till I return.”

“It’s a check on a Denver bank, and it’s for five hundred dollars. I don’t think I can get it cashed in this place, Mr. Merriwell. You have plenty of ready money. You had better give me some of that.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Havener,” he said, “I have not plenty of ready money at the present time.”

“I know what I told you. I said I was carrying several hundred dollars with me so that I’d not get in a tight corner.”

“Yes. I have none of it handy now. For myself, I have less than a hundred dollars, which I was carrying on my person, but that will be enough for the present.”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Havener. And then, all at once, a singular expression came over his face. “It isn’t possible that what they are saying about Hodge is true?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean to admit that——”

“I do not mean to admit anything of the sort!” Merry cut in, without waiting for him to finish. “Vance was here with his unpleasant hints and suggestions. I will make that check good.”

“I know that Mr. Kent Carson, who knows the proprietor of this house very well, has vouched for me here, and the word of Kent Carson goes anywhere in Kansas or Colorado.”

“If that’s right, you are lucky. I believe I understand why you are determined to follow Hodge up. I hope you catch him, Mr. Merriwell. I didn’t think it of him!”

“That is the kind of talk I do not like,” declared Frank, sharply. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“You are to inform the company that I have left five hundred dollars with you to keep things straight and as a guarantee that I will return.”

“But you are not to say that I left you a check for five hundred dollars. You are to let them infer that I left the cold cash. Do you understand?”

“If anyone hints that there is anything queer about this business you are to silence that person without delay.”

“I will cancel with Leavenworth by wire. No: if you do not hear from me by ten o’clock to-morrow forenoon 52 you cancel. That will be better, for I might be where I could not wire you.”

“Say, but this is tough!” exclaimed Havener. “I hoped there would not be any more of this kind of business.”

“So did I,” nodded Frank; “but we can’t help it. It’s pretty ragged, but we’ll have to swallow it.”

“I don’t understand how it is that you still hold a feeling of friendliness toward a fellow who could put you in such a bad box.”

“That is because you do not understand Hodge and our relations. If I let him go now without an attempt to bring him back, I should regret it always.”

“It’s a lucky fellow who wins such friendship as yours,” said Havener, admiringly. “But I’m afraid Hodge doesn’t deserve it.”

“I don’t like that kind of talk!” exclaimed Frank, with a slight show of impatience. “I have upheld you in the matter of the affair at rehearsal, but I don’t like to hear you say anything against Hodge now.”

“All right. Now we will go down and find the proprietor of the hotel. I believe he will put his name to that check. I’ll take my deposit book along, to show him that I have a little something in the bank at Denver.”

They descended the stairs, Frank carrying his grip, but leaving his handsome light overcoat behind. The proprietor of the hotel was found, and in less than five minutes Merry had talked him into putting his name on the check, although he regretted doing so as soon as Frank was gone.

An evening train bore Frank Merriwell into St. Joseph. He had learned of a certainty that Hodge had purchased a ticket and taken a train for that city, and he hoped to find Bart there, although he feared he should not.

If Bart kept on for Chicago, as he might do, there was little chance of overtaking him.

After starting, Frank began to realize that such a blind pursuit seemed foolish in the extreme.

Frank did not like to think of that. And still the conviction that it was more than likely Hodge would continue his flight grew stronger and stronger.

“Well,” muttered Merry, as he stepped off the train, “I’ll make a search for him here. It’s the best I can do.”

He had known all along that he might have stopped Hodge by means of telegrams to the police departments of various places through which the fugitive must pass; but, even though Hodge had taken the money from the grip, Frank’s soul revolted against recovering it by bringing about the erring fellow’s arrest.

Already Bart was on the downward road—the road to ruin! Frank felt certain of that. Was it possible to stop him—to save him? It did not seem possible. It appeared as if Bart’s downfall were complete.

After leaving the station Frank found a policeman and asked a number of questions. Then he proceeded to a hotel, where he registered and left his grip. He examined the register, but Bart’s name was not there. He scarcely 54 expected to find it, for something told him Hodge would not register under his own name.

Frank believed he could recognize Bart’s handwriting at a glance, no matter what the name might be, and it was in this manner that he hoped to trace the fugitive.

He set out on a weary round of hotels, examining the register at each one. He could not run over the list of arrivals swiftly, for he knew it was possible Hodge might attempt to disguise his handwriting, as well as assume a fictitious name. This made him scrutinize each signature closely and carefully. It was a tiresome task, but he plodded on, hoping against hope. His nature revolted against such crude detective work, but this did not seem to be a case at which he could work in a systematic manner. If he found Hodge it would be a case of good fortune as much as anything else, and he knew it.

“It’s no use!” he muttered, in disgust. “A detective would laugh at me for trying to find a fugitive in such a manner. Yes, he would laugh at me for thinking a chap who had just stolen more than eight hundred dollars would stop so soon after taking to flight.

“Still, to me there seems two reasons why Hodge may have stopped here. If he had not taken money he might not have thought it necessary to get further away. If he did take it, he may have thought it would be easier to stop him by means of telegrams if he continued his flight by train than it would if he dropped off here and lost himself in this city.”

This reasoning did not give Merry much comfort. He began to realize that he was hungry. He had not felt the need of food before, so eager had he been to investigate the hotel registers.

55 Coming to what seemed like a respectable restaurant, he went in and gave an order.

He sat down near a table at which two men were eating. He noticed that, although they made a display of flashy jewelry, they were rather tough-looking chaps, decidedly sporty in their dress. One of them had a thick neck and close-cropped hair, while his face resembled that of a bulldog. The other addressed him as “Mul,” or “Muldoon.”

It soon became evident that the other man’s name was Rafferty. He had long, slim hands, with fingers that squirmed in a snakish manner. His eyes were restless and watchful.

Frank had a theory that most men betray the profession they follow by the language they use. While he was waiting for his order to be served he unconsciously listened to the talk of the two men.

“Well, Muldoon,” said the fellow with the snaky fingers. “I’ve taken your tip and shoved up a good wad on the sucker.”

“An’ yer all right, my boy,” asserted the owner of the bulldog face. “Dat chap ain’t so much of a sucker as some folks take him fer. Jest ’cause he comes from Chicago dey gives him dat name.”

“Do I? Well, say, ef I had a million I’d put it on dat. If he ever lands dat left maul on Kansas Jim’s neck der Maverick won’t know wot hit him.”

“There is no cold deck in this game, is there? It’s to be a square game with no holdout?”

“It’s dis way: It’ll be on der level jest as long as it can be, but if dey see Jim’s gittin’ der woist of it—well, he’ll be t’rowed down.”

“I’m on der inside, I told yer. I can’t give erway der boys wot puts me onter der game, but dey’ve tole me ter tip me friends off ter lay their long green on der Sucker.”

“Well, Mul, I don’t forget this turn if the game does run my way. I’ll see that you get a chance to go against Tommy the Terror, just as I promised, if I rake in the chips to-night. I don’t suppose there is any danger that the police will interfere?”

“Well, dere was danger, but I rudder t’ink der cops has been put off der scent. Dey dunno jest when der little bout’s goin’ ter come off.”

“But they must have seen the sports coming into town to-day. Lots of them have struck St. Jo. within the last ten hours.”

“I don’t believe there is any other city in the United States where this sort of game could be played to a finish. It’s to be a regular prize fight under pretension of having a private sparring exhibition.”

“But the way the sports have come into town should be enough to tell the police that something more than usual is to take place.”

“Aw! der perlice here are dead slow! Den dey don’t 57 care much, anyway. Was dere menny sports come on der train wid you, Rafferty?”

“Several. One young fellow had got onto the fight somehow, and he was dead crazy to see it, but didn’t know how to get there. I think he had a roll to blow, too.”

“Well, why didn’t yer give him der tip if yer t’ought he was on der level?”

Frank had decided that the fellow with the bulldog face was a slugger and prize fighter, while his companion, the owner of the squirming fingers, was a gambler. The language of the men had revealed this plainly enough.

“I didn’t get his name. He was carrying a heavy grip, with a long slip of paper pasted on the side of it. On the paper were printed the words ‘True Blue,’ but I don’t know what that meant.”

It was impossible for Frank Merriwell to repress a start. He came near leaping to his feet with an exclamation of satisfaction, but quickly closed his mouth and dropped back into his seat.

“On the track at last!” he mentally exulted. “That young fellow who seemed to have a roll to blow and who was so eager to see the prize fight was Bart Hodge!”

Frank Merriwell was on the alert now, his ears open to catch every word of the conversation to which up to that point he had listened with the idlest sort of interest.

Frank wondered why he had not thought of tracing Bart by means of the strip pasted on Hodge’s grip. In a moment, however, it seemed natural enough that he had 58 not thought of such a thing, for it had not seemed probable a fellow who had just stolen over eight hundred dollars would travel around with a conspicuous label by which he might be spotted and recognized. It was rather remarkable that Hodge had not removed the words in some manner from his traveling bag.

And Hodge had acted as if he had a “roll to blow!” In the midst of his feeling of satisfaction, Frank was stricken by a sharp pain. He was glad to be on the track of Bart, but the evidence of his former friend’s complete depravity filled him with distress.

Hodge had taken the money, and he was bound to have a gay time while it lasted. At least, everything seemed to indicate that.

Merry fancied that Bart had given up at last in his attempt to be honest and upright. For a long time he had struggled against his natural inclinations and against the unjust suspicions of others. He had grown tired fighting fate, for it had seemed that fate was determined that he should go wrong. No one save Frank Merriwell had shown absolute confidence in him.

Merriwell had ever seemed to believe that Bart would turn out well in the end, but now it appeared that his faith had been sadly at fault and his confidence woefully misplaced.

Frank could understand how a proud, sensitive fellow like Hodge could be driven to dishonesty by suspicion and mistrust. But there was one thing Merry could not understand.

How had Hodge smothered his conscience and his sense of justice and gratitude enough to permit him to rob the best and truest friend he had ever known?

That was a puzzle to Frank. He did not like to think of it. He could not bear to believe he had been entirely wrong in his estimate of Bart’s character.

59 Somehow Frank had hoped in the face of all the evidence of Bart’s culpability that it was not really true—that Hodge had not taken the money.

But now it seemed there could no longer be a doubt of it. This gambler Rafferty had fallen in with Hodge, and had given him a “tip” concerning the proper manner to get to the prize fight that was to take place in St. Jo.

Hodge had seemed to have a roll and he was aiming straight in the proper direction to get rid of it. Having cut clear from Frank, it was plain he was seeking the low and vicious.

Although a youth who could “handle his dukes” and take care of himself in a fight, Frank Merriwell thought very little of prize fights and prize fighters. He regarded professional pugilism as brutal, and the “sports” who followed it up and took delight in it as a low type of humanity. It was his belief that such affairs should be prevented by law, and the participants in them should be severely punished by fines and imprisonment.

Not that Frank wished the encounters stopped for the sake of the principals, but because he believed such spectacles aroused the worst instincts in the witnesses of them and tended to lower and degrade human beings who saw them.

Frank knew there was not a little that was cruel in Bart Hodge, but he had suppressed this instinct in his endeavor to model after Merry. He was one, however, who would have no mercy on an enemy, should it happen that that enemy fell into his power. And always had he seemed to take great satisfaction in a square standing fight.

Merry thought of his first battle with Hodge one moonlight night in an old pasture at Fardale. That fight had not been finished, but Frank recalled how like a fiend the black-haired boy had struggled. Since that time he had 60 seen Bart in many encounters, and always Hodge had fought with the same terrible fierceness, as if he was burning with a desire to kill his antagonist.

Such a fellow would take pleasure in witnessing a bloody and brutal prize fight—a fight to a finish.

Somehow Frank’s sympathy for Hodge lessened. Had Bart taken the money because he was in need of it, had he taken it to pay debts, had he taken it with the hope of going somewhere and starting in business for himself, then Frank could have been more lenient. But for Hodge to seem to hasten with the stolen money straight to the companionship of “sports,” gamblers, prize fighters and men of that order—it was too much!

“These men must not get away,” thought Frank. “I must follow them. I must find out where this fight is to take place and I must get into it.”

“If I could find this man Kelley of whom they were speaking,” thought Merry. “I know how to get there through him. Five dollars and the password, ‘upper cut,’ would do the trick.”

“I’ll be ready to go in a minute,” said the gambler. “Here, waiter, what’s the check?”

Frank was very hungry, but he would have left his food untouched rather than to lose sight of them then. He bolted down a few mouthfuls and drank the cup of coffee he had ordered.

61 “Check—quick!” he exclaimed. “Got to catch a train. Didn’t know it was so late.”

The waiter gave him his check and he paid it in a hurry, flinging down a quarter extra, and, grabbing his hat, bolted for the door.

Out on the street he was relieved to see Rafferty and Muldoon a short distance away, walking rapidly.

“I rather think you will lead me straight to Hodge,” he thought, exultantly. “If this was not a piece of luck! And it came just when I seemed wholly off the scent.”

Neither of the men seemed to imagine they were followed, and so Frank had no trouble in shadowing them.

At length the men turned into a side street. There it was somewhat more difficult to keep track of them, but Merry shadowed them without seeming to be doing anything of the sort. He kept track of all their twists and turns, unfamiliar with the city, though he was, and, at last, he saw them enter a saloon by a side door.

Frank was not far behind them. He noticed that others were flocking into that saloon by the same side entrance.

Inside, the saloon was packed. Men were smoking, drinking, swearing and exchanging sporting talk. Most of them were loudly dressed, and the saloon lights glinted on many huge diamonds, of which there was a decidedly vulgar display. A good number of the men were of the thick-necked, beefy sort.

It was such a saloon as Frank would regard as a “beer joint,” but beer was not the beverage there that night. It was either whisky, champagne, or nothing—and where was the man who was taking nothing?

This talk did not seem to attract much attention, for everybody seemed talking in a similar manner. One man was pounding on the bar. He had a huge red nose and a diamond in his shirt bosom that was as large as an acorn.

“I’m Ned Carter of Kansas City!” he cried. “I reckon you gents know me! If any of you has money to throw away just back the Maverick. That steer will get branded deep to-night.”

“And I’m Col. McGraw of Topeka!” roared a tall man, who wore a slouch hat thrust far back on his head, and whose drooping mustache and long imperial were iron-gray. “I don’t give a dern whether you gents know me or not; but I’ll bet a cool thousand even that the Maverick will put the Sucker to sleep inside of fifteen rounds if he’s given a square deal.”

“Oh, I’m here to back my talk,” declared the Topeka man, fishing into an inside pocket. “Here’s the—— Well, I’m blowed!”

“I’ve been touched! Gents, I’ve been robbed of five thousand dollars I took to back the Maverick!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the crowd. “Colonel, it won’t go! You are a squealer!”

“Well, this beats!” he gasped. “It must be the police of this city are dead slow, or else they are standing in with the parties who are running this fight. If they were not, they’d be dead certain to catch on.”

“I’m certain they came in here,” he muttered. “They must be somewhere in this crowd.” He moved about to find them, being obliged to crowd his way about.

“Waal, ye’d better!” growled the big man, glaring at him. “What’re you in here fer, anyhow? Ye’re nothin’ but a boy. This ain’t no place fer you.”

Frank attempted to move away, but the arm of the man shot out, and Merry was collared.

“You go home to your mammy, youngster,” advised the fellow, starting to drag Frank to the door.

The door was reached, and the big fellow started to swing Frank round to get a better hold of him. At that moment Merry broke away with a sudden twist and yank, caught the surprised ruffian behind, gave him a strong shove, and planted his foot with all his strength under the tail of the man’s coat.

McGinty, the slugger, was fairly lifted by that kick and sent spinning through the swinging doors, which opened before him and closed behind him.

“And it’s the first time anything like that ever happened to the slugger.”

“Young chap, you’d better skip out by the other door, or he’ll kill you.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, quietly, his eyes flashing. “I am minding my business, and I shall not run away from that tough. If he bothers me again I’ll kick him so hard he won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“That’s the stuff!” roared Col. McGraw of Topeka. “The boy is all right! He’s no baby, and anybody who thinks he is makes a mistake. What’ll you have, young man? If I have been touched, I’ve got enough red money left to buy the drinks, and you can have anything you want.”

“Wh-wh-what?” exploded the colonel. “Never drink?—and you kicked McGinty? Oh, say——”

“What do you think of that, Kelley?” asked the Topeka man, in apparent disdain, addressing one of the barkeepers.

“Kelley! Kelley!” Frank mentally exclaimed, taking good note of the man who had been called that. “This must be the Kelley Rafferty directed Hodge to see.”

McGinty did not return, and two or three men went out to see what had become of him. They came back carrying the man Frank had kicked through the door.

“He’s done,” one of them said. “Found him lying outside, and he said he couldn’t get up.”

“Well, why in blazes did you bring him in here?” shouted one of the barkeepers. “Take him into the back room, now.”

“Say, young fellow,” he feebly asked, “do your legs run by steam? I was kicked by a mule once, but that wasn’t a patch to this!”

Much to his dismay, Frank found that this little incident had sufficed to draw attention to him. Again and again he was urged to drink. At length, in order to get up to the bar and find a chance to speak to Kelley, he consented to take a plain seltzer.

He reached the end of the bar and Kelley served him. As he did so, Frank thrust a five-dollar bill over the bar, saying:

“No good,” answered Kelley, shoving it back, to Frank’s dismay. “All gone.”

The bill was taken, and a piece of pasteboard was tossed at Merry, who caught it deftly.

“Sure,” nodded Kelley. “If you ain’t drinking anything but seltzer you’d better be getting in so that you’ll have a chance as near the ropes as you can get.”

“I am going in now,” said a man. “You can come along with me, young fellow.”

“Well, if this isn’t luck!” he thought. “I am bound to get there now, and I think I’ll be sure to find Hodge.”

He followed the man through a swinging door, and they passed along a dark wall till they came to another door. Then they ascended a flight of stairs, turned to the right, seemed to enter another building, traveled another passage, ascended more stairs, and came to a door where their tickets were taken.

“Not long,” was the doorkeeper’s response. “Fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps.”

They were admitted, and Frank soon found himself in quite a large room, with something like a pit in the center. In this pit was a raised platform, which was surrounded by ropes. All around this platform were rows of seats, rising tier on tier, as they do in a theater.

From at least six different entrances people were streaming into that room, and already a great crowd occupied 67 the seats. Men were smoking everywhere, but a huge fan ventilator seemed to carry off most of the smoke and keep the air fairly clear.

“Come on,” urged his companion. “We must get as good a place to see as possible. Let’s get down in front.”

But Frank was not so eager to get down toward the front, for he wished to be where he could overlook the crowd of spectators. He permitted the man to go ahead, but lingered behind.

It was wonderful how swiftly those seats filled up. It was not long after Merry entered before every seat seemed taken and many were standing. Betting talk was being made on all sides. The odds seemed in favor of the “Sucker.”

Still Frank could see nothing of Hodge, and it seemed that he had surveyed the face of every person present. He began to fear that Hodge was not present and would not appear.

“If he ever dreams I have followed him he will stay away from here—he’ll get out of St. Jo.,” thought Merriwell.

A loud-voiced fellow appeared and made an announcement. He delivered quite a speech, explaining how the referee had been chosen, and finally introduced the referee, who followed with a speech of his own, in which he boasted so much of his squareness that Frank decided he must be a great rascal.

Swathed in a blanket, one of the principals entered the roped arena, accompanied by his second. The crowd 68 thundered its applause, and he bowed his bullet head several times in acknowledgment, finally sitting down in a corner.

Then came the other fighter, also wrapped about by a blanket, and the audience howled still more hoarsely.

Frank paid very little attention to this. He scarcely noted what followed. Finally he heard the clang of a gong, and then he knew the fighters were at it. He glanced toward the “squared circle” and saw them sparring, lunging, dashing, retreating and dancing about each other, but his heart was sinking more and more as he failed to see anything of the one person he sought.

At that very instant Frank Merriwell’s eyes rested on the face of the one he sought. There he was, almost directly opposite.

Hodge must have heard the cry, for he looked across and his eyes found Frank’s.

Frank felt himself lifted, carried, whirled about, borne onward despite himself. He struggled to run back, to force his way toward the spot where he had seen Hodge. It was useless.

How it happened Frank Merriwell was unable to tell, but in the darkness he was swept along through a doorway, 69 down a flight of stairs, carried onward again by the rushing men, to finally stumble down another flight and grope his way out into the street by a basement door.

He had escaped arrest, but had lost Hodge. He found his way back to the saloon where he had purchased the ticket, but that was in the hands of the police.

Evidently the officers of St. Jo. were not so slow, after all. They had made a goodly haul, and patrol wagons were bearing the prisoners away by the twenties.

“I’ll bet anything Hodge was nabbed!” thought Merry. “If so, that will be all the better, for I’ll be able to reach him when he is arraigned in court to-morrow morning.”

Till midnight he remained up trying to find something of Hodge, and then he sought his hotel, more than satisfied that Bart had been captured by the police.

In spite of his exciting adventure, Frank slept well after retiring to bed. He had a way of relaxing his nerves and throwing off all worry and care, enabling him to sleep under the most trying circumstances.

In the morning Merry arose much refreshed, even though he had retired late. The theatrical business had accustomed him to late hours.

He ate a good breakfast, and was on hand when court opened. He saw the prisoners arraigned, and, to his unspeakable disappointment, Bart Hodge was not among them.

“But Hodge is here in St. Jo.,” thought Frank. “That is, he is here unless, after seeing me last night, he took alarm and fled. It’s probable he may have done that. It was foolish for me to shout to him just as the police were breaking in.”

Frank went to Kelley’s barroom. The place was wide open and doing business, as if nothing had happened.

70 Merry inquired about Hodge, and, after a time, Kelley seemed to remember Bart.

“Dark-faced chap,” said Kelley. “Rafferty sent him here, same as he did you?”

“All right. I know the fellow you mean. He said he had a lot of money, or he made some of Mike Roper’s gang believe he had. But the gang got left on him, for they didn’t find enough on him to pay them for doping him.”

“He’s the only one to blame for it. They’d let him alone if he hadn’t put up such a bluff about having a lot of money.”

“Well, Frosty Ike said he didn’t have enough to buy drinks for the crowd all round.”

“Now, look here,” said the stranger, who was rather disreputable in appearance, “you’ve got to promise not to blow to a living soul that I put you onto this.”

“I don’t reckon I’ll go along with ye,” he said. “I can’t afford to get Frosty Ike down on me.”

“The worst man in St. Jo. He eats railroad iron when he’s hungry! I wouldn’t make him a bite.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you lead me to my friend you shall have the twenty-five dollars. If it is true that this Frosty Ike and his gang have not robbed my friend there will be no danger of your getting into court. If they have robbed him I’ll give you a hundred dollars to testify against them, in case I think it best to prosecute. I may not prosecute.”

“You will have to agree not to prosecute before I’ll go any further. I wouldn’t get mixed up with Ike for two hundred dollars.”

Frank was not long deciding. He realized that he could not prosecute Frosty Ike’s gang without having all the facts come out concerning the manner in which Hodge obtained the money, and he concluded to give the man the desired pledge.

He was led to a low quarter of the city near the river. Down among a lot of storehouses they went, and entered one of the old buildings.

“He’s in here somewhere,” said Merry’s companion. “We’ll have to hunt for him.”

Frank was on guard for a trap, for it seemed quite possible he had been led into a snare. The search began. From room to room they went. At last they came to a wretched room, filled with old boxes and barrels. Frank was in advance. He entered the room, and there lay Hodge on the floor, drugged or—drunk!

It was hours later that Bart came to himself in a respectable 72 room of a hotel. He opened his eyes, and they rested on Frank Merriwell, who was sitting there, watching and waiting.

Bart did not speak. He lay there, wondering where he was and if he had been dreaming.

After a little, Frank moved nearer the bed, smiling in his old, pleasant way, and said:

“The doctor said he thought you’d come round all right in a short time,” observed Merry. “He hasn’t been gone long.”

“Well, you were about as ill as knockout drops could make you without doing you serious damage.”

“Knockout drops! Then it was no dream! Then I did talk like a fool to you in Atchison and run away! Then I did resolve to go straight to the devil in a hurry and try to make a start on the road! Then I really saw you at the prize fight just as the police broke in! Then I really did get in with a gang after that and drink with them! I have betrayed you, Frank! I ran away from you, like a miserable sneak! I felt I was doing a mean thing after I had started, but it was too late then!”

“What made you follow me, Frank?” said Bart. “Why didn’t you let me go? You have bothered with me enough. There is no reason why you should do so any more. You must despise me now. Why did you follow me?”

73 “I thought I might overtake you in time to save you, but you fell into the hands of those toughs, and they stripped you. You did not have coat, hat, watch or money when I found you.”

“They didn’t get much money,” said Bart, “for I didn’t have much. My watch was valuable, of course, but——”

“Why, I didn’t have much,” said Bart, “though I put up a bluff with the sports that I did. I took only twenty dollars, you know, and I left the note telling you I had taken that. I thought that was not too much for my work.”

Frank sat still some seconds, staring at Bart. Then he rose to his feet, and the look on his face caused Hodge to rise to his elbow and cry:

“Bart,” said Frank, slowly, “every dollar I had in that grip was gone when I looked for it after your departure.”

“Frank—Frank, you don’t think I took that money? My God! you don’t think I took it? I have fallen pretty low, but you don’t think I would rob you—you who have been the only true friend I had in all the world? Why, Merry, I’d starve—I’d suffer the tortures of hell before I’d do such a thing!”

Frank did not doubt him then; he felt in his heart that Bart spoke the truth. And Merry’s heart leaped with joy and triumph. Hodge was not guilty!

But Bart was completely “broken up” by what he had heard. Never had Frank seen him look so overcome by horror.

74 “Merry, Merry!” he gasped, “did you think I had stolen your money? Was that why you followed me?”

“No!” cried Frank. “That was not why I followed you, Hodge. I followed because I hoped to overtake you and bring you back—because I wished to save you from the consequences of your folly.”

“Still, you thought I had! Oh, heavens! Frank, Frank, this is enough to break a fellow’s heart!”

“Bart,” he said, speaking swiftly, “I could not account for the loss of the money. It was gone, and on the little table was your note, in which you said you had taken enough to meet your needs. What was I to think? It was your handwriting—I knew that. How could I account for the disappearance of the money?”

“How can you account for it now?” groaned Hodge. “Frank, are you sure it was gone—are you sure you made no mistake?”

“Open it, Frank!” he cried—“open it and let me see! I shall not be satisfied till I look!”

Frank did so. Bart tore out the contents. He sprang the fastening that held the false bottom in and removed the bottom.

“Yes, gone!” he groaned, thrusting in his hand and 75 feeling about. “But as there is a God, I swear I did not take it! Do you believe me, Frank?”

“More than that, I never did believe that you took it. My doubts caused me to keep silent when I made the discovery. Not a single person knows I lost the money.”

“Ah, Frank, again you have shown yourself the noblest fellow in the whole wide world. But I was not worth it! Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! I am such a mean, degraded creature!”

“You are nothing of the sort, Bart. You are too quick and passionate, and you have made a false step, but there is plenty of time to turn back.”

Frank snatched it from Bart’s fingers and looked at it. Then, with remarkable coolness and a feeling of unspeakable satisfaction, he said:

“This is the evidence that will convict the real robber! Look at the monogram on that ring—‘L. V.’”

Frank and Bart returned to Atchison. Of course Merry provided Hodge with a coat and hat. Fortunately, Bart had left his overcoat at a lodging house where he had stopped, so that was not stolen from him.

As soon as possible Merriwell summoned Lester Vance 76 to his room. Vance came in, looking rather uneasy. Hodge was there.

“Mr. Vance,” said Frank, “have you found your ring which you lost yesterday?”

“Vance,” said Merriwell, his eyes seeming to flash fire, “you can save yourself from disgrace, exposure and imprisonment by returning every dollar of that money. Otherwise, you go to prison!”

Vance broke down immediately and confessed. He told how he had slipped down to the office after Hodge and obtained the key to Frank’s room when the clerk was not looking, and how he had been able to take the false bottom out of the grip and secure the money. He restored the whole of it, and left the company suddenly and mysteriously.

The various members of the company, with the exception of Frank and Bart, believed Vance had departed thus hurriedly because of Hodge’s return.

“You are coming all right!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “When you can even crack a ghost of a joke like that it is a sign that you are getting to be yourself again.”

Ephraim Gallup uttered the exclamation. He was sitting near the window of the room looking out into one of the principal streets of St. Joseph.

“Then ter think Hodge is gittin’ like hisself ’cause he tried to crack a joke. It kainder seems ter me he’s gittin’ off his trolley. Did yeou ever hear him crack a joke when he was all right?”

“’Course ye don’t. I think it’s a mighty bad sign when Bart Hodge tries ter joke. He must be sick!”

Hodge said nothing. He was sitting astride a chair, 78 with his arms resting on the back and his chin resting on his arms. He looked at Ephraim grimly.

“True Blue” was playing a two nights engagement in St. Joseph, having opened the previous night at the Crawford Theater. The house had been packed, and the rattling college play went with a vim that electrified the audience and created a sensation. The manager of the theater had been delighted, and he lost no time in asking for a return date, which, however, Merry was unable to give him, on account of the lateness of the season and the route already booked.

Fortunately, Merriwell had been able to find a man to fill the place of Lester Vance, who had been “released” so abruptly in Atchison.

To Merry’s surprise the night before, the opening night, several handsome bouquets of flowers had been handed to him over the footlights, and one had been thrown at his feet from a box. He saw the person who threw the flowers, in acknowledgment of which he had bowed a bit and smiled, and he observed that she was a decidedly handsome young woman.

To his further surprise, he afterward discovered a slip of paper attached to the bouquet, and on the paper were written Portia’s words, “If you do love me, you will find me out!”

Frank had looked on this as something of a joke, but now, on receiving his morning mail, he was astonished to find in it no less than four “mash notes.”

“It’s evident you have made a hit with the fair sex in this city, Merry,” said Bart.

“He does that ev’rywhere, by gum!” grinned Ephraim; “but they don’t seem quite so forrud in some places. I ruther guess he hit ’em harder than usual here.”

79 “Here’s one that is a prize!” exclaimed Merry. “Poor girl! She should take a course at a good grammar school.”

“ Deer Sur : I seen you last night at the Theeatur, and i was Stuck on you right Hard, you Bet. you are All Right. I never seen Nobody cud touch you When it cums to Good axting. I am Only 17 year Old, but i haiv alwus Wanted to go ontew the stayge. i Would like to Play a Part like cassie Lee plays. i Do wisht you hed a Chanc for me in Your compny. you Are so handsum. oh i cud Love a Man Like you with all my Harte. I Will bee out side of The stayge Doar when you Go in to night. i have Golden hare, and ware a Red hat, with a White fether in it. You will kno Me by that.

“Grammar school!” exclaimed Hodge, as he passed the note on to Ephraim. “She should attend the primary! What a fool she must be!”

“Oh, I dunno!” grunted Ephraim. “She says Frank is all right. There ain’t northin’ foolish abaout that.”

“It is likely the poor girl has had no opportunities,” said Merry. “I am sorry for her.”

“Look out!” warned Hodge. “If you get up a feeling of sympathy for all the females who write you mash notes you’ll be in hot water. Every popular young actor has to dodge girls who want to steal him.”

“By thutter! I’ve notissed some of this comp’ny don’t do mutch dodgin’,” grinned Gallup.

“I do not like to carry round men who will give my company the reputation of being a lot of mashers,” he said, soberly. “Of course there is such a thing as a ‘harmless flirtation,’ but the girl who flirts with a strange actor is very foolish. She is playing with fire, and there is great danger that she will be burned.”

“But you can’t stop it,” said Hodge. “I haven’t been on the road very long, but I have found out that girls everywhere are ready to make fools of themselves over any old thing that is an actor.”

“I rather think not! You know well enough, Merriwell, that I do not take any stock in girls. All the same, I’ve never been in a place yet where I could not have made the acquaintance of girls. Mind, I say girls—not a girl.”

“Foolish is the word for it, Merriwell. And surely most of the girls seem intelligent enough. Some of them are very pretty.”

“And those bright and pretty girls are willing to become acquainted without an introduction with actors of whom they know absolutely nothing! Strange.”

“By gum!” broke in Ephraim. “It does seem that they’ll take any old thing they kin git ef it is an actor.”

“I asked that question to see what you thought about it. I, myself, do not fancy they are bad—all of them. It is simply a case of folly. There is a certain glamour about an actor that robes him with false attractions for light-headed young girls. It makes the most commonplace fellows seem like heroes. No. I do not think all girls who flirt with actors are bad, but I do think they are foolish. It is quite likely they would turn in scorn and repugnance from the very fellows who seem so much like heroes to them could they know the truth about those same heroes. When a theatrical company comes into a place, the girls will turn in many cases from the respectable, honest young men whom they know, and smile and flirt with the members of the company, who are utter strangers to them. In this manner they often acquire undesirable reputations without going to the extreme of doing anything seriously bad. But when a girl injures her reputation in such a manner it is pretty hard for her to win back the ground she has lost. She is regarded with suspicion, she has become a theme of gossip and perhaps she is startled to find that the young men she knows, who have always been polite and respectful, have suddenly grown familiar and forward in their manners toward her. She does not understand this, but she is entirely to blame for it. It is but natural for a young man to think there is something wrong about a girl who will flirt with a strange actor. It is but natural for him to lose in a certain measure his respect for such a girl and become free and easy in his treatment of her. He sees no reason why he cannot be that way if she will laugh and talk with an actor—a man of whom she knows absolutely nothing.”

82 “It’s plain enough you have thought about this matter, Frank,” he said.

“I have,” declared Merry. “Since going on the road I have thought of it a great deal, for you must know that I have seen how easy it is for a traveling showman to make the acquaintance of pretty girls wherever he goes. I don’t know that I have ever expressed myself on the subject before.”

“No, I do not like to say anything about them unless I can say something pleasant. I think girls are the fairest creatures in all the world, but they have their faults, the same as other fair things.”

“They’re all faults!” he declared. “I have grown disgusted with them.”

“Oh, you’re a pessimist!” said Frank. “You are too extreme. But I really wish there was some way to warn the young girls of the country against the folly of flirting with traveling actors.”

“I am afraid not. They will continue to flirt, as they have in the past, and no end of sorrow and shame will come from it.”

“Some gals do it,” said Ephraim, “because they think they kin hev some fun that way without goin’ too fur.”

“When the first false step is taken no human being can tell where it may lead.”

“Any girl must know she will be seen by people who know her in case she flirts with a strange actor,” Frank continued. “What does she suppose will be thought of her! If she does not think enough of herself to refrain 83 from such dangerous amusement, she should pause to consider what others may think of her. The story will pass from mouth to mouth; it may be elaborated. Perhaps she has passed in good society in her home. Of a sudden she notices that some of her former girl friends are a trifle frigid toward her. Then it is possible some little social event takes place and she received no invitation. She feels hurt and mortified. She may not suspect the truth, and so she goes on doing the very things that have led to her unpleasant situation. Or she may suspect it and say, in anger, that she has done nothing wrong, and so in absolute defiance keeps on as she has begun. In both cases she finds herself dropped from her social circle, and she is forced to seek friends elsewhere. She feels this keenly, but it may make her all the more desperate and defiant, so that she carries her flirtations with strangers further than she otherwise would. In her anger and desperation she may grow very reckless, which may lead to her utter shame and disgrace.”

“Darn it, Frank!” cried Ephraim, “ef the gals could hear yeou talk, I ruther guess they’d be keerful. But they can’t hear ye, so haow be yeou goin’ to do um any good?”

“I have thought of writing a play about it, or a book. If I wrote a book, it should be a novel and its title should be, ‘Harmless Flirting.’”

“You would waste your time, Merriwell,” said Hodge. “Your book would not be read by the ones for whom you wrote it. Such light-headed girls seldom read anything.”

“I am afraid you are right,” confessed Merry. “I am afraid girls will go on flirting with actors and strangers to their own sorrow and remorse.”

“ Dear Mr. Merriwell : I suppose you will think me very foolish to write to you, but I saw you in your beautiful play ‘True Blue,’ last night, and I was perfectly charmed. It is a lovely play, and you act the part of Dick Trueheart in a just perfectly splendid manner. My brother Tommy says you are a real Yale college man, and that you are just a peach. Tommy is fourteen. I am sixteen, but I’m real large for my age, so almost everybody thinks I am eighteen. I am going to see you again to-night. I wish I knew you. I think you must be awfully nice. I think actors are lovely, but papa says they are no good. He is a cross old patch. My mother is dead. I hope to go on the stage sometime and become a great actress, and wear diamonds and have flowers passed me over the footlights. I inclose a knot of blue and white ribbon. If you will wear it on your baseball uniform to-night I shall know you would like to become acquainted with me, and I will find a way to let you know my address before you leave St. Joseph. Oh, I do hope you will wear it! From your sincere admirer,

“Now, I am sorry for Dora,” declared Frank. “Her little head is full of false notions, and she is very liable to make a big mistake on that very account. I wish I might warn Dora.”

“That is the very thing I will not do. I do not believe in becoming acquainted in such a manner.”

85 “You, Ephraim?” he cried. “What’s struck you? It doesn’t seem that my talk of a few minutes ago impressed you much.”

“Now, here is one that makes me weary!” he said, with a show of repugnance. “Listen:

“‘ Dear Old Chappie : If you want to become acquainted with a jolly girl, meet me to-morrow at 2 P. M. in front of the theater. You will know me by the white pinks I will wear. Don’t be afraid to catch on.

“Here,” he said, “is the most foolish one of the lot, for it is from a person who should know better.”

86 “Great ginger!” gasped Ephraim. “Did a female woman write that stuff to yeou, Frank?”

“That is not all,” said Merry. “She has ended, like the others, by trying to make an appointment with me.”

“I don’t mind being popular with the ladies, but I do not fancy this kind of popularity.”

“You’d never do for a matinée hero,” said Hodge. “I have heard that they are deluged with mash notes. It gets to be a common thing with them, and they don’t mind it at all.”

“I don’t like to see such a display of weakness on the part of human beings. Now, what does this woman who has quoted Juliet to me know about me?”

“And she has taken chances of becoming a laughingstock and object of ridicule by writing me such stuff. For all she knows, I may be married.”

“I do not believe that is possible. No married woman would write such a letter.”

“Wouldn’t? Oh, I don’t know! Some of them are inclined to be rather gay.”

“There is a lady in the parlor who wishes to see Mr. Merriwell,” said the boy.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Merry, but it was plain he did not fancy the idea. “No one but a crazy female would think of doing such an immodest thing.”

“From what you have said, it’s plain you think some females do get a little daffy over actors.”

“Whut ef it is one?” asked Ephraim, still chuckling. “Whut will yeou do, Frank?”

“I’ll give her a little advice!” exclaimed Merry, as he prepared to go. “I shall talk plainly to her. But it may be some actress who is out of an engagement and wants a position.”

88 He went out, leaving Bart and Ephraim in the room. Frank was not in the most agreeable mood possible, for he had been annoyed by the letters.

He made his way straight to the ladies’ parlor. In a corner a woman was sitting. No other person happened to be in the parlor at the moment when Frank entered.

As Frank came in, the woman rose quickly and came toward him. He paused when he saw her face fairly.

“Great Scott!” was his mental exclamation. “It is the one who threw the flowers from the box!”

The woman was handsomely dressed, and she showed some signs of agitation. Frank surveyed her quickly. He saw at a glance that she was a person who seemed more attractive at a distance than on closer view. Still she was of the type that most men might call handsome. There was a look of mingled boldness and hesitation about her that was rather bewildering.

The situation was far from agreeable to him, and he resolved to discourage her at the very start.

“I have not had the honor of being presented to you,” he said, with a faint bow.

“But you recognize me? I threw you flowers—from the box. There—there—was a—a note attached.”

89 “Madam, permit me to tell you it was very foolish for you to write a note to an utter stranger.”

“But you—you did not seem like a stranger. You—why, it seemed that I had known you always!”

She half extended her hand, as if to rest it on his arm, but he drew back. A shadow came over her face, and a look of pain seemed to leap into her large dark eyes. Very expressive eyes they were. At first they had seemed full of innocence, but somehow there was something uncertain and shifty about them—something that gave their wide-open innocence the lie.

“Yes,” said Frank, regretting the necessity of speaking thus, yet feeling that he must, “it was very rash of you. You could know nothing of me. For all you knew I might be a rascal.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” she cried. “I knew you were not that! A rascal could not play the part of Dick Trueheart and make it so natural—so noble. I knew you had a good and noble heart. I knew you were the one man in all the wide world whom I could love!”

It was becoming more embarrassing for Merry. Somehow, there was a mingled timidity and unspeakable boldness about the woman that mystified him not a little. He wondered if she could be just right, mentally.

“Madam,” he said, “will you tell me at once what you want of me. My time is limited.”

“Now, don’t speak to me like that!” she almost sobbed. “It hurts me—here!”

“Well, this is a nice mess!” thought Merriwell. “What can I do with her?”

“As I watched you last night,” she went on, swiftly, “I became more and more infatuated. When the curtain fell on the third act I was completely carried away. I 90 knew I had found the hero of my life’s dream. I did not know you. We had never met before. I knew of no manner of obtaining an introduction. Then it was I resolved to fling conventionality to the wind, and I hastily wrote a single line on a slip of paper, which I attached to the flowers I carried. Then, when you were called before the curtain, I flung the flowers at your feet. You picked them up—oh, bliss!—and bowed and smiled upon me!”

She seemed trembling with the great excitement that governed her. The embarrassment of Frank’s position increased.

“I went home,” the young woman continued. “And all last night I dreamed of you, over and over and over. They were happy dreams. Ah, I was so sorry when the light of morning came in at my window and drove away my dreams by robbing me of sleep. I tried to sleep and dream some more.”

“Well, she’s got it bad!” Merry mentally exclaimed. “I’m afraid I’ll have trouble with this case. I wonder if insanity runs in her family. She’s old enough to know better, so she must be cracked.”

“At last,” the panting woman continued, leaning toward him, “I arose, and I made a desperate resolve to meet you somehow—anyhow. Then I wrote to you in the words of Juliet , which seemed to express my feelings so well. Did you receive my letter?”

“Ah,” she sighed, “I wonder if you understood—I wonder if you knew how sincere I was! Oh, I could not write you everything, and I longed to so much, but I knew you would not understand. As it was, I had 91 to find a moment when my husband did not see me, for he——”

“I am. I was married when I was sixteen—to a man I hate! Oh, you cannot know the horror of being bound to a person you hate! It is dreadful!”

“And you, a married woman, are seeking a flirtation with a stranger—an actor? Madam, your folly is astonishing!”

“Don’t—don’t speak to me like that!” she pleaded, tears seeming to spring to her eyes. “I am not seeking a flirtation! I am seeking to know my ideal. You—you are my ideal!”

“It is the height of folly and rashness!” exclaimed Frank, severely. “Madam, if you have no thought for yourself, you should have some regard for me! Think of the position in which you are placing me!”

“That is because you do not know me,” she declared. “If you knew me—if you knew all about my terrible position, tied to this man I hate, you would have sympathy for me.”

“Even though you are bound to a man you hate, you are doing a most unwise thing in seeking consolation from a stranger and an actor. You can know nothing of me. Take my advice, madam, release yourself from this man you hate before you seek to win the affections of any other man. If you do not, you will succeed in winning nothing but the disdain of any man worth winning.”

“Oh, how can you speak to me like that!” she cried. “It is cruel of you!”

“In this case, cruelty may be kindness. You have placed me in a most awkward situation, madam. If you have as much regard for me as you claim, it hardly seems that you would do such a thing.”

“Oh, what can a woman do when her heart governs her in her every act! I felt that I must meet you, and there was no other way for me to do so. I could not let you go without knowing you—without seeking a few words of consolation from you.”

“I am very sorry for you, but you should let your head govern your heart. I trust you will excuse me, madam. This interview is anything but pleasant for me.”

He half turned away, but she uttered a cry that stopped him. She seemed on the point of flinging herself at his feet.

“Great Scott!” gasped Merry. “I hope she isn’t going to make a scene of that sort! It would be too much!”

“Stop!” she exclaimed, her eyes beginning to flash. “You cannot scorn me—you shall not! I have cast my pride aside, and I have exposed myself to your ridicule—all for what?”

The word seemed like a blow. For a moment he fancied she was about to pour a torrent of angry words upon him, but something entirely different happened. With a low, queer cry, she sprang forward, attempting to fling her arms about his neck!

At that instant a flushed and furious-looking man burst into the parlor, carrying a revolver in his hand.

The man paid no attention to her, but he glared at Merry in a murderous manner, shaking the revolver.

He was a man about thirty years of age, well dressed, but somewhat dissipated in appearance. He seemed wrought up to a pitch of great fury.

“My dear sir,” said Merry, with the utmost coolness, “you had better be careful with that revolver.”

“Be careful!” grated the angry husband. “I’ll be careful with it! I’ll fill you full of lead!”

“I know better! I know what I saw with my own eyes! I tracked her here! I knew she flung flowers to you last night! I knew she wrote to you this morning!”

“If a lady sees fit to fling flowers to me, I can’t help it. If she writes to me, I can’t prevent that”

As the man lifted the revolver Frank leaped to one side and sprang forward. In a twinkling he had grasped the weapon. There was a short, sharp struggle, and 94 the young actor leaped away, with the weapon in his hand.

The man seemed astounded by the easy manner in which he was disarmed, but he made a motion as if thinking of following Frank up.

“Don’t do it!” advised Merry. “The limit has been reached! I did not seek the acquaintance of your wife, and——”

He caught a look from the trembling woman, and he was puzzled by it. There seemed disappointment and appeal in her eyes. Instantly Merry wondered what he could say to shield her. It seemed strange that she did not faint or go into hysterics at the sight of her husband, but still there was an expression of terror on her face that made Frank pity her.

“Poor, weak thing!” thought Merry. “There is no telling what may be the result of this for her.”

“The lady was pleased with my play and my acting. She came here to tell me so. It is possible she has contemplated becoming an actress herself. She may have come to me for that reason. If so, I advise her to give up all thoughts of going on the stage.”

It was lame enough, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances without lying direct. Frank hated a liar, and yet he realized there were times when a man’s gallantry to a woman would force him to deviate from the direct truth. Such a “deviation” did not seem like a genuine lie.

“Bah!” cried the man, scornfully. “Don’t think you can make me believe such rot as that! I know better!”

“You are at liberty to believe it or not, just as you 95 like, sir,” said Merry. “But I have stood quite enough nonsense.”

“I did nothing of the kind, sir. Your wife came here entirely of her own accord, without enticement of any kind from me.”

“Oh, I know better! You can’t make me believe it was because she was interested in your play. She’ll not dare say that. Tell the truth woman—why did you come here?”

Frank heard it, and he realized that his efforts to shield her had been worse than useless.

“As for you,” she went on, giving her husband a scornful look. “I thought I loved you once—till I saw Frank Merriwell. Now—now I despise you!”

“By Jove! this is getting hot again!” thought Merry. “What fools some women are!”

The man ground his teeth together and walked the floor. He threw his hat aside and tore his hair.

“I knew it!” he panted. “This cheap actor has won your heart! He has alienated your affections from me!”

96 “Don’t dare call him a cheap actor!” she exclaimed, haughtily. “He is grand and noble!”

The words of the woman seemed to throw the man into still greater fury, and it appears that he was about to attack her.

“Woman, woman!” panted the furious husband, glaring at her. “Is this what you have come to!”

“A man who threatens that way seldom carries out his threats,” was Merry’s consoling thought.

“Go ahead,” defied the woman. “I rather think Frank Merriwell can protect me.”

“Protect you! I am the one to protect you! And you have turned to this common actor!”

“‘Cheap actor!’ ‘Common actor!’” muttered Merry. “This is real jolly!”

“You protect me!” sneered the woman. “I am done with you! I shall leave you forever!”

“I do not wish to deny it. Ever since his eyes met mine, I have felt myself drawn to him by an irresistible influence.”

“He has won my heart, and I can never be anything to you again,” laughed the reckless woman.

97 “Oh, you scoundrel!” shouted the man. “You have ruined my happiness! I swear you shall pay for it!”

“I think I have stood quite enough of this!” Merry broke out. “I deny that I have interfered with you in any way.”

“If you dare use such language again, I’ll be tempted to give you the thrashing you seem to desire, sir!” flashed Frank. “I am very sorry this unfortunate affair has taken place, but I declare it is in no way my fault. At first I was inclined to protect this lady, but she has seen fit to make that impossible, and now I feel at liberty to tell the whole truth.”

“I will, in a very few words. I confess that your wife threw me flowers from a box last night, and she came here to meet me to-day.”

“No! I did not know she was coming. She did not send up her card, but the boy said a lady wished to see me in the parlor. I believe every man should be as gallant to ladies as circumstances will permit.”

“I came down to see what the lady desired. Your wife was here. I was in no way responsible for what followed, but I assure you that she received no encouragement from me.”

“You saw me preventing her from clasping her arms about my neck. I had just told her how foolish she was, but she would not be rebuffed.”

“Liar!” panted the husband, seeming to become still more furious. “Do you dare accuse my wife of such immodesty! Do you dare charge her with following 98 you without encouragement! She would not do such a thing. You are trying to shield yourself behind a woman, you cowardly young——”

“Stop!” exploded Frank, stepping forward. “I have stood quite enough of this from you! I am sorry for you, but I am not willing to be called all sorts of vile names. Your wife forced me to tell the truth and the whole truth. I do not fancy lying, but I might have stretched the truth to protect her if she had given me any chance. She gave me no chance. She came here of her own accord, without encouragement from me, and——”

“Oh, you shall pay for every word you speak! You dare thus traduce my wife, you——”

“Stop again! I have seen quite enough of both you and your wife. I trust you will be good enough to take her away. She is not the only one to write me mash notes, and——”

“So you boast of your conquests! You are a gallant young blade! But you are like all actors, a poor, miserable——”

“You are like all jealous husbands—you have not a particle of sense in your head. You are decidedly exasperating, sir. Be kind enough to take your wife and go!”

“I will not go with him!” panted the woman, suddenly rushing on Frank and clasping him about the neck. “I will stay with you! You are the one I love!”

At this moment another man stepped into the parlor. He wore a long overcoat and his features were hidden by a full beard.

“Ha!” shouted the husband, triumphantly, rushing at this man and catching him by the arm, while he pointed toward Merry and the woman. “Look there! See! I want you for a witness in this matter, Mr. Davis! There is my wife with this wretch of an actor who has enticed her here! Do you see—do you see?”

By this time Merry had succeeded in putting the woman aside again, and now he was thoroughly exasperated.

“Madam, you have passed the limit! I think you should be in an insane asylum.”

Then he started toward the two men, but they turned toward the door, the husband crying:

“Don’t be in a rush, gentlemen. Mr. Merriwell wishes to talk with you a little.”

“I wish you would try that little trick!” flared Hodge, his face flushing suddenly. “I believe I’d enjoy a good scrap. I haven’t taken a hand in one for so long that it would be a satisfaction.”

“That’s what they say in melodrama,” observed Hodge, with grim humor. “‘Unhand me, villain!’ and ‘Let me pass!’ are stock phrases. There is no copyright on them, so you may use them whenever you like.”

Merry was somewhat surprised by Bart’s cool manner, but he knew there was a slumbering volcano beneath all that coolness.

“Yes, do!” urged Hodge, putting up his hands. “I’ll manage to get a pop at you both, I fancy.”

The woman uttered a scream, and something like an oath came from the man who had professed to be her husband.

101 “This is interesting!” exclaimed Hodge. “Then it appears that I happened on the scene just in time.”

“Waal, Bart, if yeou can’t hold the ’darn critters alone, I ruther guess we kin both do it,” drawled a voice, and Ephraim Gallup appeared to reënforce Hodge.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I wouldn’t hurry away. Just wait a while, and we will settle this little matter.”

“Never,” answered the bewhiskered man, seeming anxious to get out of the room. “I do not know you.”

“Why don’t you speak in your natural tone?” asked Merry, sweetly. “You will injure your voice trying to disguise it by growling like that.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I have found things quite hot enough right here to suit me. Now, if the tables should be turned, and you were to find it rather warm, it would be no more than fair.”

Both men seemed anxious, but the professed husband attempted to bluster again. His anger seemed artificial, however, and he did not impress anyone.

“Acts like a rooster with his tail feathers yanked out,” grinned Gallup. “He’s mighty mad over it, but the feathers are gone jest the same.”

Hodge had his lips pressed together, and he looked ready for anything that might happen.

102 A few words passed between the two men. It was plain they contemplated rushing on Bart and Ephraim in order to break from the room.

Frank strode forward quickly and grasped the bewhiskered man by the shoulder, saying:

Frank ducked, thus avoiding the blow. A second later, he caught hold of the fellow’s whiskers, gave a yank, and off they came in his hand.

It was a complete unmasking. The face of the rascally actor who had been “released,” on account of his crooked work in Atchison, was exposed by the sudden tearing away of the false beard.

The woman dropped down on a chair, and her “husband” stood and uttered some words which would not look well in print.

“A very pretty little game!” he commented, sarcastically; “but it is all up now. It didn’t work.”

“It was no game!” snarled the man called Reginald by the woman. “You can’t get out of it so easy!”

“You will be lucky if you get out of it short of six years,” said Hodge. “The law is rather severe on blackmailers.”

“And on thieves,” put in Ephraim, who had learned 103 of Lester Vance’s crooked work. “They make a purty good pair, by gum!”

“Vance,” said Merriwell, “you were foolish not to take my advice and get as far away from us as possible.”

“But you were doubly foolish,” Merry went on, “to come here in such a slim disguise to aid in this miserable attempt to blackmail me. I have been an actor too long not to tumble to false whiskers when I see them.”

“Take my advice, Merriwell,” cried Hodge, “land that snake in prison! You can afford the time to get such a rascal out of the way.”

“That’s right, by gum!” nodded Ephraim. “He is a snake, an’ I’d shove him naow.”

Vance exchanged looks with the other rascal. It was plain both men were confounded by the turn affairs had taken. But the one who claimed to be the woman’s husband had obtained another revolver, and, of a sudden, he pointed it at Frank Merriwell, crying:

Not one of the young actors was near enough to prevent him from shooting if he wished, but Merry instantly faced him, looking straight into his eyes over the top of the revolver, and calmly saying:

“You are a good bluffer, sir, but you haven’t the least idea of shooting anybody.”

And then he walked straight up to the man, took hold of his hand and pushed the revolver aside.

“Give it to him!” exclaimed Gallup. “I don’t want no darn fool p’intin’ pistols at me, by thutteration!”

The fellow made a sudden attempt to spring backward with the revolver. He had been dazed by Merriwell’s calmness and audacity, but now he resorted to 104 action. He realized that the young actor fully fathomed him, and it stung him to madness to think that his bluff had been “called” in such a prompt manner.

Frank, however, had taken hold of the weapon, and, with a sudden twist, he jerked it from the hand of the man, disarming the fellow in a twinkling.

The eyes of Hodge glittered with satisfaction. This was Merriwell in his old form. Not a whit of his nerve had Frank lost since the more exciting days at Yale, on the diamond, the gridiron, in the cane rushes and college bouts.

Having the revolver in his hand, Frank snapped it open, and then he burst out laughing.

“Curse you!” he snarled, catching up the revolver. “It won’t take long to load it!”

“I wouldn’t advise you to load it, sir,” said Merry, placidly. “It will go harder with you if you are found with a loaded weapon when the officer comes.”

“Business!” finished Frank, grimly. “I don’t like blackmailers, and I think they are dangerous, so I fancy I’ll have you put away for safe-keeping.”

105 Lester Vance looked around, as if in search of some avenue of escape. At last he realized that he was in a very bad scrape, and he longed to be well out of it.

All at once, with a wild cry, the woman sprang up, rushed at Frank, clasped him about the neck and began to scream. Shriek after shriek came from her lips.

Merry attempted to put her away, but she clung to him in a frantic manner, continuing to scream.

Her wild cries brought bell boys, porter, clerk, guests and others rushing onto the scene, and crowding into the parlor. There were some moments of general confusion, a struggle near the door, and then the woman seemed to swoon and slip to the floor.

Of course Merry was questioned, of course he was regarded with suspicion. A pompous man demanded to know the meaning of it, looking accusingly and scornfully at Merry.

In a very few words, Frank explained that an attempt at blackmail had been made, but when he looked round to point out the two men concerned in the crooked work, he found they had slipped away in the general confusion.

“Gol-darned if I noticed when they got aout!” exclaimed Gallup, in chagrin. “I was so upset by the howlin’ of that air woman that I never saw nothin’ else.”

“Here,” said Bart, coming forward, and Merriwell saw that he also looked crestfallen.

“I tried to hold Vance,” answered Hodge, “but some men seemed to think I was trying to murder him, and they parted us, giving him a chance to get away.”

“Gentlemen,” said Merriwell, speaking to the assembled crowd, “I think you see how it is. The scoundrels have taken to their heels, leaving this unfortunate woman 106 here to get out of it as best she can. The way they ran must convince you that they are just what I claimed—blackmailers.”

The woman showed signs of reviving. A gallant man assisted her to rise, and she quickly dropped down on the sofa, seeming weak and faint. As she was rather handsome, the man, like men, began to say there must be some mistake, as it was not possible she had been concerned in an attempt at blackmail.

“They make me sick!” growled Hodge. “If she were old and plain, they wouldn’t take so much interest in her.”

“The same old melodrama line!” murmured Merry, seeming indifferent in regard to the woman.

Hodge seemed inclined to make an attempt to stop the woman, but Merriwell restrained him, to his deep disgust.

“The show is over, gentlemen,” laughed Frank. “I trust you have received your money’s worth.”

Bart followed Merry to his room, and Ephraim trailed along behind. When they were in the room, Merry fell to laughing. Hodge flung himself down on a chair, looking sullen and sour, upon which Frank laughed the harder.

Ephraim sat on the edge of the bed and grinned, but seemed to be in doubt whether he had better laugh or not.

“Come, come, Hodge!” cried Merry. “What’s the use to look that way? It’s all over now.”

“Oh, he laughs at everything!” exploded Bart. “He says I have no sense of humor. Well, I am glad I haven’t if he sees anything funny about this business!”

“The idea of anybody attempting to blackmail an actor—a traveling showman. It is enough to make a horse laugh. I doubt if such a remarkable thing ever happened before.”

Ephraim began to see the affair from Frank’s viewpoint, and his grin broadened with great rapidity.

“By gum!” he cried. “I never thought of that! I guess folks wouldn’t b’lieve it ef yeou was to tell um.”

“Still I fail to see what there is laughable about it,” 108 snapped Bart. “The fellow knew you had money—Vance told him that.”

“And he knew you were young. He fancied you would be easy game. Where is there anything funny about it?”

“But you are a dead easy thing!” declared Bart. “Think of letting that woman go in such a manner!”

“Now, Hodge,” said Frank, with more seriousness, “after I have talked to you a bit, I rather fancy I can make you acknowledge that was the most sensible thing to do.”

“You know I was in earnest about giving Vance and the other rascal their dues. You know that, Bart.”

“I thought you did. I’d held onto Vance if those fool men hadn’t interfered. They gave him his chance, and he took it.”

“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, sheepishly. “I own right up, b’gosh! that I was so ’tarnally flustered when that woman began to yoop her up that I didn’t notice nothin’ till the men hed got erway.”

“Which was exactly what the woman wanted,” said Merriwell. “She grabbed me and screamed like that in 109 order to give the men a chance to skip. They took the chance.”

“Hodge, do you remember what you said when those men in the parlor were declaring the woman was too refined-looking to be engaged in a blackmailing scheme?”

“That was it. You also said that were she plain and old they would not make such a fuss over her.”

“Well, old man, at that moment I realized how little chance there was of convicting that woman of blackmail were she arrested. Do you suppose a jury of twelve men would have agreed to convict a young and handsome woman like that?”

“Answer!” exclaimed Frank. “Do you suppose that woman could have been convicted?”

“That was the very reason I was willing to let her go. I should have been foolish to put myself to the trouble of prosecuting her with every chance against conviction. I knew that.”

“Men are bigger fools than women!” he snapped. “I am beginning to realize that better and better.”

“Don’t fling that at me! A pretty woman will make a fool of a man any day, and it is impossible to find twelve men who will convict a pretty woman of crime if they can help it. Adventuresses know it, and they profit by it. If they are arrested, they work all their 110 arts on judge and jury, and in nine cases out of ten, they go scot-free. The old fools on the jury ogle the pretty prisoner, and sometimes they openly flirt with her. They sympathize with her because she is young and pretty, and, when the evidence is so strong they cannot acquit her, they disagree. Yes, men are fools!”

“That being the case,” he said, “I think you will have to admit that I was wise in letting the woman go.”

“Perhaps so,” acknowledged Hodge; “but I hated to see her get off. She was the chief one in a pretty mean piece of business.”

“He returned every dollar of the money, and I did not lose anything. A man in my place can’t afford to spend time in lawsuits. It would ruin my plans. Vance seemed thankful to get away, and I hoped we’d not hear anything from him again.”

“It will be unfortunate for Lester Vance,” said Merry. “He has reached the limit.”

“By gum!” cried Gallup, staring at Frank. “He wants to keep out of the way naow! When Frank Merriwell looks that way, he’s out fer business.”

Hodge also saw the look on Merry’s face, and he recognized it as the peculiar expression Frank wore whenever his patience was exhausted and he had decided to crush an enemy. And remembering things which had 111 happened in the past, Bart knew well enough that Frank could strike an enemy with terrible effect when he wished to do so.

Frank was on his way to the theater that afternoon, swinging along at a lively pace, paying very little attention to anybody, when somebody called:

He looked up quickly, and saw approaching him a rather good-looking girl of about nineteen. She was rather gaudily attired, and he noticed instantly that she carried some pinks.

He waited, although he really felt like running away. The girl came forward smiling. There was something rather saucy in her manner, and he saw there was paint on her cheeks and rouge on her lips. As soon as he discovered this, his desire to hasten away increased.

“Why,” laughed the girl, “you do not seem a bit glad to see me. Perhaps you did not receive my note.”

“I do not know you, miss,” said Merry. “I do not think we have been introduced.”

“Introduced! Ha! ha! ha! What do you care! I’ll introduce myself. I’m Daisy Blaney.”

“Miss Blaney, don’t you think you are rather foolish to speak to a stranger like this?”

“Oh, I guess not! You’re all right. I said that as soon as I saw you come onto the stage last night. I wondered if you looked as well off the stage as you do on it, and by gracious! I believe you look handsomer!”

This was almost too much for Frank. He flushed painfully, which seemed to add to the girl’s enjoyment.

“Miss Blaney!” he said, grimly, “I must say you are rather outspoken in your compliments.”

“It’s a little way I have, my dear fellow. Why, I do 112 believe you are blushing! Who ever heard of an actor that blushed! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Oh, say!” the girl went on; “don’t look at me that way. What do you care? I wanted to get acquainted with you, and there wasn’t any other way to do it.”

“Then it would have been better not to do it at all. Aren’t you aware you are putting yourself in a very bad light by deliberately seeking the acquaintance of a man and making it in such a manner?”

“Well, if you aren’t a queer actor!” she cried. “I have met lots of them, but I never struck one like you before. Usually they are ready enough to become acquainted.”

“I am afraid you have judged all actors by the ones you have met in this irregular manner. There are honorable men who are actors, the same as there are honorable men in other professions.”

“Is that so? That’s all right! That’s why I wanted to meet you. I reckoned you were on the dead level.”

“No man who is on the dead level will seek the acquaintance of any young lady in this manner.”

“No? Oh, come off! I’ve met lots of fellows who were all right, and I never had an introduction to them, either. You must have old-fashioned notions in your head, and you are the last chap I’d ever thought had ’em. Why, I took you for a fellow who would be rather lively! You must be dead slow. You need somebody to wake you up.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t like slow coaches. Oh, say, Frank, come out of it! What do you take me for?”

“Sorry! Oh, come off! You must belong to the Y. M. C. A.! By George! I didn’t think you would lecture me!”

“I haven’t time to give you a lecture, but I think you should receive one. I’d like to talk with you a while, for I think I could show you the folly of what you are doing.”

“On the contrary, I do believe in having a good time. I believe everybody should have a good time.”

“But there is a right way to have a good time, and a wrong way. I fancy you often think you are having a good time when you are deceiving yourself. One kind of a good time leads to satisfaction and pleasant memories; another kind of a good time leads to misery and remorse. My dear girl, be careful what kind of a good time you choose to have.”

“Oh, say, you ought to be a preacher! You an actor! You have made a mistake!”

“An actor may be a preacher. He may preach morality in his acting. I believe an actor has the greatest opportunities for doing good by his methods of preaching.”

“I fancy you have met the worst class of actors, Miss Blaney. You thought them all alike.”

“I never saw one before that wasn’t ready enough to make a mash and have a racket.”

Frank saw he was not making much impression on the girl. He had discovered that she was rather bright, for all that she was so reckless in her manner, and he was truly sorry for her.

“I am glad to say all actors are not mashers,” he said, slowly. “I hope none of my company are. My dear girl, you are making the mistake of your life by seeking the acquaintance of strange men in such a manner—by having anything at all to do with strange men. Don’t do it any more. You are good-looking, and I fancy you have a good education. Be careful what you do. By your actions you can win the scorn or the respect of people, just as you choose.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me that way!” she cried, with curling lips. “It’s too late!”

“Oh, people think I’m fly, and I can’t change their minds now. I’ve got the name, whether I deserve it or not.”

“Perhaps I have!” she exclaimed, defiantly, all the laughter gone from her face in a moment. “But I did it because they began to talk about me.”

“Oh, I didn’t die! I was ready to have some harmless sport, and they began to say I was gay. That made me mad. I said I would give them something to talk about—and I did!”

“Now, don’t talk to me that way. I’ve heard enough of it from other people! I didn’t want to get acquainted with you to be preached at—not by a long shot.”

“Miss Blaney, have you no thought for others? Is there no person whose heart you are breaking by your recklessness? Your mother——”

“I think I understand. Your mother worries over you. She has tried to talk with you and tell you you were doing wrong. Am I not right?”

“Oh, I’ve got friends here. I’ve been here visiting 116 twice before. The first time I was here was when I began to flirt with an actor.”

“Miss Blaney, you should return home. Your mother will be glad to see you, and——”

“The old man will kick me out. It’s no use, Frank Merriwell. I think you mean well enough, but you are off your trolley in regard to me. I can’t go back now, and I’m bound to have a good time while there is a good time going. I thought you were sporty, but I see I made a mistake. I reckon I’d better shift along. You are all right—from your head up.”

“Wait a moment. We play in Carrolton to-morrow night. Can I not take a message to your mother from you? Think how she must feel. Can’t I tell her something that will cheer her up?”

“How do you know but her heart is breaking for you? Perhaps she prays for you night and day. Perhaps——”

“Oh, don’t!” cried the girl. “I don’t like to hear about that. No, I won’t send a message by you. The idea that an actor should want to take such a message! Ha! ha! ha! Why, it’s perfectly ridiculous! Ha! ha! ha! ha!”

The girl’s laughter caused him to shiver a bit. It was not the laugh of genuine merriment—it was forced and unnatural.

“Don’t mind me! I’m not worth it! You have tried to give me some good advice, but it’s a waste of breath. I’m going to do as I like, no matter what comes of it.”

“Whatever you do,” said Frank, with deep earnestness, “don’t forget your mother! When you are having a good time, as you call it, think of your mother. When 117 you are gay, think of your mother, who may be praying for you at that moment. That is all, Miss Blaney. Good-by! I would like to know that some day—very soon—you go back to your mother.”

She was not laughing now. All the false merriment had gone out of her face, leaving it very sober. Something like tears seemed to fill her eyes.

At the stage door he saw Douglas Dunton talking to a very pretty, blue-eyed girl, who started and blushed when she beheld Frank, quickly exclaiming in a low tone:

“Never mind him,” laughed Dunton. “He’s not the only pebble on the beach.”

Frank said not a word, but entered the theater, apparently to the disappointment of the girl.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dunton,” he said, “but there is a matter I wish to speak about.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” grinned Douglas. “I knew you didn’t want to catch on there, old man. Elsie Bellwood or Inza Burrage is your style. This girl——”

“Oh, that wasn’t so hard to guess! She’s all broken up over you, but I think she can be induced to forget you. She is a little beauty, only she’s rather light-headed and thinks she’d like to be an actress.”

“Foolish child!” said Merry, scowling. “She needs somebody to look after her closely.”

“Oh, she was walking around outside the theater, and I simply walked up and spoke to her.”

“Dunton,” he said, “I hope you are not a masher. I hope you do not make it a practice of trying to mash pretty girls in the places where we play.”

“Mashing actors I detest,” declared Frank, plainly. “They have done no end of harm. They have given the profession a bad name. I would like a company who did not make a business of mashing.”

“Oh, I don’t make a business of it!” protested Douglas. “But when a fellow sees a nice little thing like this, he doesn’t feel like letting it go by—especially when it is easy.”

“I am sorry you spoke to the girl. She has an innocent face. Dunton, I wish you would let such girls alone.”

“What? Why, you wouldn’t want the members of your company running around with fly girls in the places where we go, would you?”

“No! I want them to mind their own business. I hope you will understand me, my dear fellow, and will not be offended. I do not wish my people to get a bad name by associating with those who are bad; nor do I wish them to get bad names by misleading those who are weak and foolish. It is likely that little girl has a mother who——”

“So much the worse. She has no one to look out for her and restrain her. She can easily be influenced in the wrong direction. No man who is a man will mislead such a girl.”

“Oh, you’re putting it too strong, Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “There is no harm in a little flirtation with a pretty girl. Don’t be jealous because I happened to catch on to her before you came along.”

“You know very well that is not why I am speaking to you. There was something about that girl’s innocent face that made me sorry for her. She is trembling on the brink of a downward path, I am sure of it. She is a girl not naturally bad, but she has her head filled with false notions, and she needs somebody to look out for her till she gets old enough to become aware that those ideas are false.”

“Oh, you are making too much of this, Mr. Merriwell. Don’t worry about girls like that. There are thousands of them. They are everywhere.”

“All the more reason why a man should take an interest in them. If one of them can be prevented from making the fatal mistake, it is a great thing.”

“If they are bound to be gay, they’ll be so, and you may lecture to them all you like.”

“But I hope no one in my company will help any girl to become ‘gay,’ as you call it. That is all I have to say, Dunton. I trust you will understand me. I don’t wish to meddle with your business.”

Frank knew it was useless to say anything more or talk plainer. Dunton understood him, and all he might add to what he had said would make no deeper impression.

That night the theater was packed to the doors. The “S. R. O.” sign was put out some time before the curtain went up, and several hundred more seats might have been sold. More than ever was the manager of the house delighted. He declared “True Blue” the greatest drawing card of the season, and he offered all kinds of bookings for next season.

The performance went off smoothly. The splendid climaxes in each act received tumultuous applause, and at 121 the end of the third act the audience was worked up to a pitch of great excitement. There were repeated curtain calls.

“Merriwell,” said Hodge, his dark face flushed with excitement, “this play beats your first one out of sight. I’ve never acknowledged it before, but I do now. ‘John Smith’ was not in it with this piece. Oh, but you wouldn’t do a thing with this in New Haven! Can’t you play there, Frank?”

“Perhaps,” smiled Merry, in a singular way. “I am going to put the play to the test in Chicago. We’ll be there the first of next week, and then we jump to New York.”

“Because I have been working for those engagements, but did not know that I’d get them. We play a week in New York. It’s make or break, old man. I started out on that plan, and I’m going to stick to it. I’ve been aiming for the top notch, and I’ll get there if it is possible.”

Frank was almost the last one of the company to leave the theater that night. He had remained to see that everything was properly cared for, being anxious that there should be no further hitches in the performance of “True Blue.” The company carried quite a lot of special scenery and mechanical “effects,” the most striking of which were those used in the great boat race scene which concluded the third act of the play, and Frank wished to be certain that everything was properly handled in getting it ready for shipment.

Well satisfied, Merry was walking swiftly toward his hotel when he noticed two persons entering a restaurant. He paused instantly, whistling softly to himself.

122 “Dunton and the blue-eyed girl!” he exclaimed. “He made a date with her, and she met him after the performance. I’m sorry she did it.”

He went forward till he could look into the front window of the restaurant, and he saw the actor and girl pass behind a screen down the room.

“I suppose the tables reserved for ladies must be down there,” muttered Frank. “Well, I don’t like the idea of playing the spy on anybody, and so I think I will let them alone.”

He walked on, but his sense of satisfaction had passed, and he was depressed. Although he tried to forget the actor and the girl, he found he could not do so.

Before the hotel was reached, he stopped short and stood in deep thought for some minutes. The blue eyes and innocent face of the girl haunted him.

“I can’t abandon her to what may happen!” he muttered. “No, even though I hate to play the spy. It is my duty to see that no harm comes to that foolish girl.”

Reaching the restaurant, he entered and walked down the room till he reached a table near the screen. There he took a seat, for, just as he reached that place he noticed a mirror set against the wall in such a position that it reflected a certain portion of the room beyond the screen, and that mirror showed him Dunton and the blue-eyed girl sitting at a table. Frank sat down where he could watch their every movement by aid of the mirror.

There were a number of couples in the room beyond the screen, and the sound of talk and laughter came plainly to Merry’s ears. Three men besides himself had taken seats in his part of the room.

Merry had sized up the place quickly. He decided that it was a second-rate restaurant, catering to the class of people who kept late hours.

123 A waiter came for his order, and Frank realized that he was hungry, so he ran over the bill of fare and ordered something he fancied would satisfy his appetite.

While waiting for the order to be served Merry watched the reflections of Dunton and the blue-eyed girl. The actor was doing his best to make her feel at ease, but it was evident that the experience of dining with a man in a restaurant at that hour of the night was novel to her, and she was nervous and excited, although she made efforts to appear at ease.

The popping of corks and clinking of glasses came from beyond the screen. The laughter of the men and women was of the strained and artificial kind. One man was talking rather loudly in a manner that plainly indicated his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. Occasionally a woman would begin to sing, but her companions cut her off.

“A bad place for the blue-eyed girl!” thought Merry. “I doubt if she ever saw anything like it before.”

Dunton was talking earnestly to the girl. He seemed to be telling her some sort of story, and he was using every fascination of which he was capable. On the stage, Dunton usually played heavies and villains; in everyday life Dunton was something of a comedian. Now he was able to bring fleeting smiles and nervous laughter to the lips of his companion.

124 A waiter brought them an addition to their order. Dunton told a funny story that seemed to amuse and startle the girl, for she looked at him reprovingly, even while she laughed.

His own order was filled after a time, and he fell to eating. He had begun to wonder if he had not made a mistake in thinking the girl in any serious danger. Perhaps Dunton had not known the real character of the restaurant when he took her in there. Still, Frank was sorry she had been brought into a place where such people could sit near her and she could hear the sounds and see hints of the false pleasures which lure so many girls to waywardness.

For some little time Merry did not pay much attention to what was taking place behind the screen. At length, he observed that Dunton was leaning over the narrow table and talking in a low tone to the girl, his eyes looking into hers. The actor had secured one of her hands. As she listened, the color in her cheeks came and went. She seemed confused and abashed, yet fascinated.

Now, Frank knew she was in real danger. He thrilled all over, and half started from his seat, but dropped back, muttering:

A waiter came with two bottles, buried to their necks in cracked ice. He stopped at their table and prepared to open the bottles.

Frank was astounded that Dunton should think of “blowing himself” on champagne, for that was what, beyond a doubt, the bottles contained. It was a most remarkable 125 thing for an actor to open anything so expensive for a stranger.

When the wine was placed before the girl, she hesitated and drew back. Frank was watching her closely, and that movement, that hesitation, settled him in the resolve to act.

Dunton leaned over the table, laughing and coaxing her. In a good-natured way, he was ridiculing her into drinking the wine.

Merry rose to his feet. A check had been placed on his table, and he tossed the amount of his bill beside it.

All the while he was watching the girl. He hoped she would refuse to touch the wine, but he realized she lacked the firmness to do so. Her face, though pretty, betrayed in its mold the weakness of her character.

Dunton was winning. The girl looked at the wine, while he continued in his persuasive way to urge her to try it. In hesitation and laughing confusion she asked him something, and Frank knew he was declaring on his honor that the wine was harmless.

And then, just as Dunton was clinking his glass against that of his pretty companion, Frank walked round the screen. The girl lifted her glass to drink.

126 “Oh, it’s Mr. Merriwell!” cried the girl, in mingled delight, confusion and shame, as she put the wine down.

“I think I wasted my breath when I talked to you to-night, Dunton,” he said.

“I have been watching you,” said Frank, honestly. “It was purely by accident that I saw you come in here with this young lady. I came in also and sat out there beyond the screen. I sat down where, by the aid of the mirror yonder, I could see everything you did.”

Dunton’s anger threatened to flare forth. He half started up, but dropped back, grating his teeth together. His look just then reminded Merry of the time when, infuriated beyond endurance, Dunton had tried to wound or kill Frank in a sword combat on the stage.

“Because I was impressed by the innocent appearance of this girl, and I feared for her safety. I thought it possible I had been mistaken till I saw this wine brought on, and now——”

“Now,” said Frank, looking straight into the eyes of the girl, “I’m going to take this young lady home!”

127 “Steady, Dunton!” commanded Merry, turning on him. “Don’t make a scene. It will do no good.”

“Do you think this is a very nice thing for you to do, Mr. Merriwell!” panted Dunton. “Don’t you think you are overstepping the bounds?”

“Not on your life! She is with me! I believe you are jealous because you did not catch on with——”

That word cut the speaker off instantly. Merriwell’s eyes looked dangerous just then, and Dunton knew Frank could not be trifled with when he was aroused.

“Oh, very well!” said the actor, with an effort to be mildly sarcastic. “I presume you will walk in here and take the young lady away from me without her consent? It is barely possible she may have something to say about it.”

“It is,” admitted Frank, “and I propose to let her say it, but still I am sure she will permit me to see her safely home.”

The girl arose at once, but just then two waiters came hurrying up, demanding to know what the trouble was about.

“Well, what are you doing bothering this gent and lady?” growled one of the waiters, who looked like a bouncer.

“Well, that beats!” gasped the bouncer. “He’s tryin’ ter take the gent’s lady frien’ away from him.”

“Don’t attempt to put your hands on me!” he said, grimly. “If you do, I shall knock you down!”

He endeavored to catch hold of Merry to run him for the door, and the other offered assistance.

Smash! crack!—two blows stretched one of the waiters on the floor and sent the other flying over the top of a table.

The girl seemed overcome with terror, but Merry politely offered his arm, calmly saying:

All this had happened so suddenly that the other patrons of the place scarcely seemed aware there was any trouble before the waiters had been knocked down and Frank was leaving with the girl.

Then, strangely enough, Douglas Dunton thrust out his foot, and the man tripped over it, going down with a crash. The other waiter was following him closely, and he went sprawling over his companion.

Dunton made haste to skip out by a side door, not even stopping to pay his bill. The waiters saw him escaping, and, remembering he had not paid, they turned after him, giving Merry an opportunity to get away without further molestation.

Entirely unaware that he had been saved from a second attack from the waiters by Dunton’s action, Frank lost no time in leaving the place, the girl clinging to his arm.

She was so badly frightened when the street was reached that it was some time before she could tell where she lived.

“Miss, I hope you will pardon me for interfering as I did, but I could not help it when I saw Dunton inducing you to drink wine. I read innocence in your face. I knew you were out of your element in that place and among the frequenters of it, and I resolved to save you.”

“But—but, the gentleman I was with, Mr. Dunton, is one of your company, Mr. Merriwell,” faltered the frightened and bewildered girl.

“I am well aware of that, and that was one reason why I was all the more determined to save you.”

“But he seemed like a nice fellow. Of course I did not admire him as I do you, Mr. Merriwell, but he was so pleasant, so jolly, so kind!”

“I haven’t a doubt of it. That made him all the more dangerous. I saw you talking with him when I entered the theater this afternoon.”

“Oh, did you!” she exclaimed. “Why, I didn’t think you noticed me at all!”

130 “I talked to him plainly, and I fancied my words had some impression. I was astonished when I saw you entering that place in company with him to-night.”

“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” cried the girl, in confusion; “is that a bad place? I didn’t know. I never was in there before! I didn’t know anything about it.”

“I believe that is the truth, for you did not seem at all at home in the place. I noticed that while watching you.”

“Mr. Dunton said it was a respectable restaurant, and he was so kind to ask me to have a little lunch with him, and he seemed so much like a perfect gentleman, and I didn’t like to refuse, and you did not even give me a look this afternoon, and—and——”

“There, there! You have explained it all. I understand it perfectly, my dear Miss—Miss——”

“My dear girl, I did not believe I would be doing right to encourage you in your folly. It is plain you have some very mistaken ideas in your little head. You said you thought actors perfectly lovely.”

“Some actors may be, but it is not safe for you to think them all so, and, above all things, it is not safe for you to make the acquaintance of actors as you made that of Douglas Dunton.”

“But there’s—there’s no other way to become acquainted with them, is there, Mr. Merriwell?”

“I must know them! How can I ever get onto the stage unless I do? Now, tell me that, Frank Merriwell!”

“I don’t know that it’s absolutely necessary, but I want to do so. It must be just perfectly lovely to play parts and sing and get flowers and wear diamonds!”

“That is how it seems to you. You know nothing of the work and worry of the life, nothing of its uncertainties, its privations. You see the actors dancing and singing and being merry before the footlights, and it seems ‘perfectly lovely.’ You may not know that in hundreds of cases the actresses send themselves the flowers they receive. Their diamonds glitter, but stage diamonds are paste, as a rule. I have no time to tell you all about the hollow mockeries of the life, but I have an opportunity to warn you, if you have a home, to stick by your home, and forever give up the notion of becoming an actress.”

“Oh, I don’t like you, Mr. Merriwell!” she cried. “I didn’t think you, an actor, would talk like that! That is the way papa talks.”

“Your father is right. Listen to him. I believe you said in your note that your mother is dead?”

“That is most unfortunate. Just now you need a mother to look out for you. But you have a home. If you were to become an actress, it is probable you would not have a home. Six months in the year, perhaps, or even more, you might be searching for an engagement, living as best you could during that time, uncertain as to the future. You would be the prey of sharks and sharpers, you would be bullied and cheated, you might get out 132 with a company and be left stranded and penniless a thousand miles from anywhere. Your sensitive nature would revolt against mankind and the world. All your finer nature would be ruined. Then you would do one of two things. You would end it all by taking your own life, or you would turn about and prey upon men, sinking lower and lower, traveling the road to destruction.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “I can’t believe anything so horrible would happen to me!”

“That all actresses were happy and prosperous—that they lived lives of ease and pleasure.”

“Did you ever stop to think if you had any special qualification for becoming an actress?”

“The girl who can act, who has real dramatic ability, is fortunate if she is pretty. That is absolutely true. It requires great talent for a homely girl to win success on the stage. At the same time, a girl who is merely pretty has almost absolutely no show unless she has dramatic ability to some extent, or can sing in a manner to command attention. Are you a fine singer?”

“A little will not do. Keep off the stage, Miss Dow. 133 Avoid actors. Do not flirt with them. You know nothing about them. They may be honorable men, and they may not be. The chances are that they are not. They are here to-day and gone to-morrow. They live lives which tend to rob them of their fine sense of honor.”

“Mr. Merriwell, I believe you have told me the truth. I have refused to believe others who have told me things about the stage and actors, but you are an actor, and you know what you are talking about. I realize now that I was very foolish to-night. Oh, I’ll get a scolding from papa, for he told me I could not go to the theater, and I ran away to go, just to see you.”

“Then you must not ask me what to tell him. I can give you no other advice.”

“Mr. Merriwell,” she said, “I am going to tell papa just what has happened, no matter how angry he may be. I’ll tell him all about the good advice you have given me, and I’ll also tell him that I mean to heed it. No matter what happens, I am going to tell the truth to-night! That is settled!”

134 “Bravo, little girl!” exclaimed Merry, in great satisfaction. “I do not believe you will be sorry.”

“I live just a few doors below,” she said. “I don’t think you had better go further. Mr. Merriwell—I—I don’t know how to say it, but I want to—to thank you. You have been awfully kind to me, and I appreciate it. You are just as brave as I believed you were, for you were not a bit afraid of those two waiters in the restaurant, and you handled them so easily! No matter what you have said about actors I shall always know there is one who is brave, noble and honorable! I shall not forget you, Mr. Merriwell!”

“I am glad to know you will remember me that way, Miss Dow,” said Merry. “You must not understand that I said all actors were bad. There are honorable men who are actors, the same as there are honorable men in other professions. The dishonorable ones, however, are those you are most likely to meet through a chance acquaintance. I hope you will never make the acquaintance of any man again in such a manner.”

“I—hope you do not—think too—bad—of—me,” she murmured, hanging her head.

“I do not think that way of you at all,” assured Frank. “I simply think you are like many other girls, too ready to depend on the honor of men of whom you know absolutely nothing.”

“But you have done so well here this time, and the people liked you so much.”

135 “I know; however, I may not be in the theatrical business next season. I hope to return to college. Good-by.”

“Good-by!” she exclaimed, impulsively. “I wish you all the success you deserve, and that is good fortune in everything.”

He took her hand. Then she turned away quickly, and he watched her till she had ascended the steps to her home.

Frank was satisfied. No matter what came out of the affair between himself and Dunton, he felt that he had done right. Thinking it all over, he walked onward swiftly.

“By Jove!” he muttered. “I believe I have lost my way! I do not remember passing through this quarter of the city.”

“I’ll meet a policeman pretty soon,” he thought, “and I’ll ask him to direct me.”

But the section of the city seemed to grow still worse as he advanced. Almost before he was aware of it, he found himself near the water front.

Pretty soon he came to a street where lights shone from windows here and there, and there were sounds of laughter and music issuing from some of the rather disreputable-looking buildings. Women flitted along the street, sometimes accompanied by men, sometimes alone. One of them, quite alone, stopped Merry, grasped him by the arm, peered into his face, and brokenly asked:

By the light that shone from a window, Frank saw 136 that the woman was at least fifty years old and dressed in a fairly respectable manner. She seemed greatly excited, and she was trembling.

“My child—my little girl!” answered the woman. “She is here somewhere in this city! I don’t know where! I can’t find her! Oh Heaven! I can’t find her!”

The woman seemed dazed. She put her hand to her head, as if trying to think. Frank could see she was nearly distracted with grief. Her eyes were red from weeping and her care-lined face still wet with tears.

“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know how to find her! The only way is to ask somebody—anybody. I thought I would ask the men whom I met on the street to-night, hoping some of them might be able to tell me something about her.”

“I followed her as soon as possible,” she said. “She ran away from home and came here to this city. She has been here before, and the city has ruined her. Her head is filled with false notions! Oh, I fear I shall not find my little girl again!”

“No, no; not yet! I didn’t want to do that. Daisy is so proud—so spirited! She would be awfully angry if I were to put the police after her.”

“If that is your daughter’s name, I have seen her and had a talk with her.”

“Don’t tell me that!” the distracted mother screamed. “You must know!”

Frank did not wish to tell that she had spoken to him. He said he did not know, and, in a clever manner, explained how he had talked with her, without telling how it came about.

“Poor Daisy! My little Daisy!” sobbed the woman. “She did not tell you the whole truth. She is not stopping with her friends here now. Her father was rather harsh with her, but he is ready enough to take her back. I followed her as soon as I could, but I have hunted, hunted, hunted—all in vain. Oh, I must find her! Can’t you help me?”

“My good woman, the best thing you can do is to get some rest to-night and look for your daughter to-morrow.”

“Rest! Do you think I can rest while my little girl is adrift in this wicked city? No, no! I shall never rest again till I find her!”

138 In vain Frank urged her, seeing that she was almost utterly worn out. She would not listen to him. She made him promise he would tell Daisy if he saw her that her mother was there searching everywhere for her. And then, all at once, the woman cried out that she must be searching, searching, and away she went.

When she was gone, Frank realized he had not found where she was stopping, or how he could communicate with her if he happened to meet Daisy again.

“But it isn’t likely I’ll see the girl again,” he muttered, walking on. “We leave the city early to-morrow.”

The meeting with the unfortunate woman had driven the feeling of satisfaction from him. He could not forget her and her saddened, tear-wet face. He was haunted by thoughts of her.

He came to a large building, in front of which hung a lighted, transparent sign, which read:

As he paused a moment and glanced upward, he heard a laugh that gave him a start. He had heard that mocking laughter before.

In a moment Frank had formed a resolution. He would find the girl if she were in the dance hall.

Frank ascended the stairs, learned that he could obtain admission for fifty cents, paid the money and entered the hall.

A waltz was in progress, and the floor was covered with gliding, whirling couples. As Frank had expected, the patrons of the dance were of the lower order of 139 society, although there seemed to be some semirespectable people on the floor.

Merry looked around for the girl whom he sought, and, to his intense satisfaction, it was not long before he discovered her. She was waltzing with a tall, red-headed young man, who looked like a would-be tough.

Frank kept watch of her, and when the waltz was over he saw her disappear with her partner into an adjoining room.

He found this room was where “refreshments” were served. In this case the “refreshments” seemed to consist mainly of beer, which the thirsty couples consumed at little tables.

Daisy and her partner were seated at a table, and Frank walked past, hoping she would notice him. She did, and instantly she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Miss Blaney,” said Frank, stopping and lifting his hat in the most respectful manner, fully aware that the red-headed youth was glaring at him in a savage manner. “I was looking for you.”

“For me?” gasped the girl, in still greater astonishment. “Now you are chucking a jolly at me!”

“Then come sit down. Mr. Merriwell, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Gallagher.”

Frank acknowledged the introduction by a bow, and “Mr. Gallagher” growled something in his throat.

Daisy urged him to sit down, but Frank did not fancy taking a seat in that place. However, in order to get an opportunity to talk with her, he finally seated himself, to the disgust of the youth with the red hair.

140 “Wot’ll yer have?” demanded a waiter, appearing at Frank’s elbow the moment he was seated.

“You may bring me a sarsaparilla,” said Merry, “and serve Miss Blaney and Mr. Gallagher whatever they choose to order.”

“Sarsaparilla!” shouted the girl, with a laugh. “Oh, say, Merry, old fellow, have a beer! Babies drink soft stuff!”

“Excuse me,” growled Gallagher, rising. “I don’t drink wid chaps that goozle that kind of stuff.”

“Soon as I left you to-day, some men came up to me and asked me if I knew you. I chucked a bluff that you were a particular friend of mine. Then they offered me twenty-five dollars to decoy you into a dive where they could knock the stuffing out of you.”

“You had better get out right away. There are some scrappers here, and you wouldn’t stand a ghost of a show if they spotted you, and tried to lay you out.”

“My mother?” cried the girl, astounded. “Oh, come off your perch! What are you giving me?”

“The truth. I met her a short time ago. She is nearly crazy, and she’s wandering up and down the streets to-night, searching for you, stopping every man and asking if he has seen you. She stopped me, and that was how I knew she was here.”

“Heavens!” she gasped. “I didn’t think for a minute she would do such a thing! My mother wandering about the streets of this city to-night! It’s awful!”

“Here’s yer drinks,” said the waiter, as he placed the glasses before them.

“But der drinks were ordered, an’ dey’ll have ter be paid fer,” declared the man, in an ugly manner.

“Here is your pay,” said Frank, flinging down a piece of money. “Come, Miss Blaney; we’ll try to find your mother.”

They started to leave the room, but before they had crossed the floor three men appeared in the doorway. Mr. Gallagher was one of them, and he pointed at Frank, saying:

“Those are the men who wanted me to decoy you into a dive!” whispered Daisy Blaney, in great alarm. “You are in a bad scrape, Frank Merriwell!”

“We’ve got him!” cried Vance, triumphantly. “Let’s 142 fix him so he’ll not be pretty enough to play the hero on the stage again for a month!”

Merry met their assault, and he quickly got a crack at Vance that sent the fellow spinning.

A hot fight ensued, but Frank was more than a match for the two men. He seemed to avoid their worst blows, and the way he got back at them filled Daisy Blaney with unutterable satisfaction.

“Well, he’s a bird, Gallagher, if he does drink sarsaparilla!” she cried. “He can eat you!”

That infuriated the red-headed fellow, and he plunged into the conflict. He took Frank by surprise, and got in a blow that staggered Merry for a moment.

“Dat fresh eat me!” howled Gallagher. “Well, I guess nit. He’s a soft t’ing, an’ I can do him wid me hands tied behind——”

Just then Frank got at Mr. Gallagher. He feinted, leading the fellow to lift his guard, and then Merry drove in a sledge-hammer blow over the heart that caused the red-headed chap to collapse and lay gasping and groaning on the floor.

It is possible Frank would have come off with flying colors, but the men had been given the impression that he was a spotter or spy who had been sent there for the purpose of making the club trouble, and now at least a dozen persons sailed into him. Before such an onslaught he was unable to stand. He was beaten to his knees, and 143 he would have been trampled under their feet in a few seconds more.

Then it was that a woman literally tore her way into the heart of the crowd, pushed and beat them back from Frank, and stood over him with a small revolver in her hand, screaming:

“Cowards! Are there no real men among you? Back! This gun is loaded, and, by Heaven! I’ll shoot the first one who tries to touch him!”

Frank staggered to his feet. One look he took at the woman, and he saw she was the one who had sought to aid in blackmailing him.

“He is no spotter,” she declared. “He is Frank Merriwell, the actor who is playing at the Crawford. I suppose he came in here to enjoy himself, the same as any man may. He has behaved himself, and this brutal assault is an outrage.”

“Mab!” cried a shaking voice, and the man who had claimed to be her husband forced his way forward, his face bruised and cut and bleeding from the blows he had received, “have you gone crazy?”

“No!” she shouted back. “But I’ve seen enough of this! Shame on you, Reg, to try to get revenge like this just because he was too sharp to bite your bait! As for that fellow who planned the job, he’s a cheap actor who was kicked out of Merriwell’s company, and he has been trying to do something to get revenge. I’m disgusted with him!”

It seemed that the woman was well known there, and her words carried some weight. It was useless for the man to protest, she showed her scorn for him and expressed her admiration for Frank Merriwell.

“He’s going out of here!” she declared, “and not another 144 one of you will lift a hand against him! I’ll shoot the dog that tries it. I promise you that, and you know Queen Mab always keeps her promises.”

“What she says goes,” declared a man. “You may as well let the young fellow alone. She’ll take him out.”

“I’m not going without Daisy Blaney,” muttered Frank, looking round. “Where is she?”

Daisy was found, and the three moved toward the door. No one offered to stop or molest them.

When the street was reached, the woman stopped and put up her revolver. She laughed a little.

“I rather admired you this morning, Mr. Merriwell,” she said. “I found you were too shrewd to be caught in such a trap as we had set for you. But more than ever I admire you now since I have seen you fight a dozen men and nearly prove a match for them all. You are all right, my boy, and you’ll not be troubled again by Queen Mab.”

Then, before Frank could say a word, she whirled about and ran back into the building.

They were standing there in the light from the doorway when there came a cry, and a woman came running up, flinging her arms about the girl.

“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, putting her arms round the aged woman and supporting her. “Mr. Merriwell found me and told me you were here, searching for me. Oh, mother, mother! I am so sorry!”

“Daisy, you will—go back—home? Father is—sorry! He’ll forgive and—forget, if you’ll—come back. I have been distracted! You—you’ll kill me if you don’t—come home! Won’t you come?”

145 “Yes, mother,” said the girl, now breaking into tears, “I’ll come home!”

“Well,” uttered Frank Merriwell, “this has been a rather lively night, but it has turned out most satisfactory in all ways.”

“Merriwell,” said Dunton, the following day, “I don’t remember just what I said in that restaurant last night, for I was pretty angry with you. I have been thinking it over since, and I’m rather glad you did just what you did. That little girl was altogether too unsophisticated. I don’t hold any hard feelings, and I hope you’ll forget anything I shot at you.”

“It’s all right,” assured Frank. “It’s rather awkward for either of us to speak about the matter, and I’m glad you were the one to mention it. But let such girls alone, Dunton. The world is bad enough, and women have reasons enough for thinking men deceivers and villains. You’ll find you’ll feel better if you do your best to make them think they have made a mistake in judging the sterner sex.”

“I think you are right about that,” confessed Dunton. “I believe I have learned a lesson.”

Frank Merriwell shot out the first and last words; a local sceneshifter and stage hand of the Wilcoxson Opera House asked the question.

Several days had elapsed and Merriwell’s company had reached Carrolton, Missouri, and Frank was watching the men who were bringing the special scenery for “True Blue” onto the stage.

The local stage hands were assisting in this work, and one of them, a rather fresh young chap, began to tear off some of the cleats that held the sets together. To do this, he used a hammer, and he began knocking them apart in a reckless manner.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “We can’t take care of this stuff in this shape.”

“Let it alone,” ordered Merry. “I’ll have somebody look out for that who knows how to do it without staving it to pieces.”

“Your scenery!” sneered the fellow, who did not know Merry, and fancied he might be the property man of the company, as he was a beardless youth. “Why, you talk as if you owned the old show! You make me tired! 147 Some chaps like to show off when they get a little authority, and I reckon you’re one of that kind.”

Frank made no retort to these insolent words, but his jaws squared a bit and there came to his eyes a look which the fellow would have known was dangerous had he been better acquainted with Merry.

The local stage hand fancied he had settled the matter by giving the presumptuous “property man” a call down, and he now went at the scenery again, smashing at the cleats with the hammer.

He did not strike more than a single blow, for, with a spring, Frank had him by the collar.

In a moment, Merry took the hammer from the surprised chap’s hand, and flung it far away.

The fellow whirled about and struck at Frank, but he was sent spinning to one side, to fall sprawling over some properties.

“I’m Joe Hooker!” he cried. “And I can do up anything in this town. I’ll have to smash ye for that!”

“If you know what is real healthy for you, Joe Hooker,” said Frank, with a grim smile, “you’ll keep your distance and let this scenery alone. You’re too fresh.”

“You’re the one that’s fresh, you two-cent property man!” howled the wrathy fellow. “You think you own the whole show, but I’ll knock some of the conceit outer your head!”

Apparently Frank had no thought of getting out of the way, but, at the moment when Hooker struck out with his open hand, thinking to give Merry a slap that 148 would set his head ringing, if it did not upset him, the young actor leaped aside, ducking the swinging blow, caught his assailant by the collar and a handy portion of his trousers, and ran him off the stage, shooting him down a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which he fell sprawling.

Ephraim Gallup came round just in time to witness this, and he stood laughing heartily, his hands on his hips.

“Gol-darn ef I don’t believe he kainder thinks he struck somethin’ all-fired decepshus, Frank!” chuckled the Vermont youth.

Billy Wynne, the property man, had also seen the finish of the encounter, and he was highly amused.

There was a scrambling sound on the stairs, and, a moment later, Joe Hooker, his face flaming red, came scrambling and panting to the top, revenge gleaming in his eyes.

“Drat ye!” he snarled. “Ye didn’t do that fair! You don’t ’mount ter shucks, and I can paralyze ye in a fair fight!”

“I am not here to fight,” Merry laughed. “I am minding my own business, and, if you know when you are well off, you will do the same. If you don’t, you may get hurt.”

Frank’s laughter irritated the chap more than anything else. Again he made a rush, but this time it was with the intention of smashing Frank without delay.

Now Frank wished to avoid a fight, if possible, and he easily dodged in time to avoid the fellow’s rush.

“Yeou darn fool! Yeou don’t know who yeou’re gittin’ up ag’inst! You’ll be etarnally chawed up fust thing yeou know!”

149 But the furious stage hand did not heed, if he heard. He wheeled and came at Merry again.

Frank was beginning to get tired of this. He did not wish to strike the fellow, and yet he could not keep up the dodging.

The curtain had been raised to let light in onto the stage while the scenery was being brought in and arranged.

Once more Merry managed to avoid the rush of the angry chap, although he was barely able to do so, as now the fellow was watching for him to dodge.

This dodging made Hooker all the more confident, for he thought Frank did not dare stand up and meet him.

This time, however, Frank stepped back as the belligerent stage hand plunged past him, unable to stop his rush when Frank had dodged, and quickly grabbing him, flung him clean out over the proscenium and footlights, so he struck sprawling between the front row of seats and the stage.

This handling astounded Hooker, who could not understand it at all. He jumped up and started to leap back onto the stage.

The local stage manager had appeared in time to witness the manner in which Frank handled Hooker, and now he shouted:

“That dratted property man’s meddlin’ with me!” snarled Hooker. “I’ll eat him if he’ll stop dodging!”

“Property man!” cried the stage manager. “Why, you’re daffy! That’s Frank Merriwell, the owner of the show!”

Hooker was astounded. He had reached the stage again, and he stopped in a half-stooping posture, staring at Merry, his under jaw drooping.

150 “Him the owner of the show?” he ejaculated, in evident doubt. “Ye’re kidding, Sawyer.”

“No, I am not,” assured the local stage manager. “What’s all this about, anyhow? What’s he been doing, Mr. Merriwell?”

“He started to tear apart some of the scenery here, and I told him to let it alone, but he was not inclined to do so. When I stopped him he attacked me.”

“An’ he faound himself up ag’inst a feller that kin eat Hookers ez fast ez they kin walk up,” laughed Ephraim Gallup. “There ain’t enough Hookers in Mizzury to bother Frank Merriwell.”

“Is that so?” sneered the stage hand. “My brother Sam can clean out this whole show. He’s just home from New Mexico, and there ain’t anybody in this town wants to tackle him.”

“Yeour brother Sam would be pie for Frank Merriwell,” asserted Ephraim. “Ef he knows when he’s well off, he’ll mind his own business.”

“By hocus, we’ll see,” shouted Hooker. “He don’t ’low anybody to meddle with me, and I’ll just bring him round here. He’ll make things sizzle!”

“I shall not handle your brother in the same gentle manner that I handled you, in case he comes here and attempts to make trouble. You know you were wrong, so you had better drop it.”

“That’s right, Joe,” said the local stage manager, anxiously. “What’s the use to kick up a fuss over it?”

“Think I’m going to stand this kind of treatment?” snarled Joe. “I’m no fool! I’ll be back pretty soon.”

“His brother’s a pirate! He’s a big fellow, and a regular ruffian. He’s been in half a dozen fights since he got home, a week ago. He killed a man in a fight before he left for New Mexico, two years ago, and that was why he got out of here. They ain’t dared try to arrest him sense he come back.”

“Well, that’s pretty interesting!” commented Frank, with a slight show of scorn. “So the law-abiding citizens of Carrolton permit the ruffian to run things just as he pleases?”

“He went into a saloon the night he got home and shot the necks off all the bottles in sight, ending by shooting out the lights.”

“And nobody arrested him for that trick? Well, this fellow must be regarded as a bad man from Bitter Creek.”

“There ain’t nobody here dares tackle the job. He gets drunk and shoots out windows in houses, and has a great time.”

“They don’t want to try it. He’s going back to New Mexico pretty soon, and as long as he don’t do any great damage they’ll keep still while he’s here and pray for him to go. He’ll be furious when he hears Joe’s story. There’ll be the dickens to pay!”

“Well, I don’t like to have trouble with anybody,” admitted Frank, with a slight show of regret; “but I couldn’t let that young fellow smash up my scenery. Why do you have him round the theater?”

“He’s a good worker, and the managers are the ones who hire him. I don’t have anything to do with that. You had better go away, Mr. Merriwell.”

“Nobody is regarded as a coward for trying to avoid trouble with Sam Hooker. People say anybody who won’t get out of the way and let him alone is a fool.”

“It doesn’t make any difference if he carries cannons. Go ahead with the work of putting in my scenery. I shall stay here till the last piece is in.”

“That’s all right, Frank,” said Ephraim; “but there ain’t no need of yeou gittin’ chawed up by this pirut. I an’ Wynne’ll stay here ter look aout fer the stuff, an’ yeou better go to the hotel.”

153 “Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “That beats! I didn’t think I’d hear anything like that from you!”

“Darn it!” he cried. “There ain’t no reason why yeou shouldn’t be keerful. That ain’t bein’ a coward.”

“Of course not,” hastily put in Sawyer, the local stage manager. “Didn’t I tell you nobody is regarded as cowardly for attempting to avoid trouble with Sam Hooker.”

“That’s better than having your head broken. If you stay here and wait for Sam Hooker, you won’t play to-night.”

“I know it. He’ll put you out of shape. They say he knocked down old Dorman’s bull with one blow of his fist.”

“I have heard of such things being done,” said Frank, still without showing alarm; “but I’ve never happened to see anybody do it yet.”

“Well, I shall do my best not to let Mr. Sam Hooker hit me in that manner. That is all.”

“If you do your best, you will get out and go to the hotel. If he comes there you’ll have somebody tell him you have gone somewhere else.”

“Just keep that stage door wide open,” he directed. “I threw Joe Hooker down those stairs, and it may happen that his brother will take the same sort of tumble. Go on putting the stuff in, and don’t worry about me.”

So the work continued, although everybody but Frank seemed anxious and nervous. Merry was perfectly cool, and seemed to have forgotten all that had occurred and 154 that Joe Hooker had departed to look for his terrible brother.

It was not much more than thirty minutes before there was the sound of heavy feet on the stairs, and, after taking a look down, Ephraim ran to Frank, exclaiming:

Not a word did Merry say, but he advanced to meet the Hookers, buttoning his coat tightly around him.

Joe Hooker came in first, his face shining with triumph. He was followed by a large man, who was dressed in the rough garments of a cowboy and wore a wide-brimmed hat, with a cartridge band round it. This fellow had a flushed face and reddish eyes. He did look decidedly savage.

“Right there!” cried Joe, pointing at Frank Merriwell. “That is the chap! He’s the one, Sam!”

The cowboy stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and glared at Frank in great amazement.

“Why, he wouldn’t be a bite fer me. Look hyar, ef you can’t handle that yar lily-faced chap, yer ain’t no brother o’ mine. I reckoned yer was goin’ ter put me up ag’in somethin’ what wuz wuth tacklin’.”

155 Sam Hooker seemed to be on the point of turning about and leaving, much to the relief of Ephraim and the local stage manager.

“If you don’t thrash him, Sam,” he said, “he’ll blow all over town that he walloped a Hooker.”

“Your brother did not obey me when I asked him to stop hammering at some of my scenery, and I was compelled to handle him roughly,” admitted Frank, quietly.

“Whoop!” roared the elder. “Is this yar possible? Is it possible a hand-fed cosset calf will blat at this untamed old maverick in this yar manner? I reckon I’m dreamin’!”

“It’s jest what he done, Sam,” declared the younger brother, eagerly. “He thinks he can do you.”

“Waal, I reckon I’ll hev ter wipe up ther floor with him, jest ter teach ther blame fool a lesson.”

Whereupon the cowboy spat on his hands and prepared to attack Merriwell, at whom he glared in a manner 156 that expressed his contempt for such an insignificant person.

Ephraim Gallup stood near, his mouth wide open and his knees seeming to shake beneath him. The aspect of the cowboy was so terrible that the Vermonter actually seemed frightened.

Sawyer, the local stage manager, was also frightened, but he did not dare interfere, for he stood in great fear of Sam Hooker.

“It’s too bad!” he said, in an aside to Billy Wynne. “There won’t be any show to-night, unless Mr. Merriwell has an understudy. Sam Hooker will stave him all up.”

“Perhaps so,” said Wynne. “But Frank Merriwell is quite a scrapper when he is forced to fight.”

“I warn you again to keep away and let me alone,” said Frank, grimly. “I do not wish to fight with you.”

“To be course ye don’t! Haw! haw! Ye’d be a fool ef ye did! But ye’ve made some loose talk, so that I’ve gotter chaw ye up. Be ye reddy?”

Frank stood with his hands at his sides, his eyes watching every motion of the ruffian. He seemed perfectly careless and unprepared, but, in fact, he was quite ready for anything.

Sam Hooker took a step forward, but paused in astonishment when Frank did not cower or attempt to run away.

“Give it to him!” urged Joe, who seemed anxious to “get even” with the youth who had handled him so easily. “He’s a dodger! Look out for him!”

157 “He won’t be able to do no dodgin’ when I’m done with him,” declared the vicious cowboy.

“Mr. Sawyer,” said Frank, speaking in a cool manner to the local stage manager, “please hold the door wide open, so I can throw this ruffian downstairs without trouble.”

“Do my ears hear straight?” he gasped. “Throw me downstairs! What—that? Waal, may I be jiggered!”

To the astonishment of Joe Hooker, Frank Merriwell did not attempt to dodge. Instead, with a sweep of one arm, he knocked Sam Hooker’s hands aside, and then planted a blow on the cowboy’s chin. It was a swinging uppercut, and it literally lifted the ruffian off his feet.

The head and shoulders of the man struck the floor before any other part of his body. Barely had he dropped when the young actor was on him, grasping him by the collar and slack of his trousers. With a jerk, Frank brought the man up, ran him to the door, and gave him a thrust. Then, at the very head of the flight of stairs, Merry lifted Sam Hooker with a terrible kick.

The man actually seemed to turn over and over in the air, and he struck at the bottom of the stairs with a thud that shook the building.

Joe Hooker gave a shout of rage, and he was on Frank just as Merry delivered that kick. It was too late for him to aid his brother, but he knocked Frank against the wall, and then tried to clutch him by the throat.

“Hold on, ye crooked critter!” he shouted. “Yeou can’t do that when I’m araound, by thutteration!”

In a moment Merriwell had recovered from the surprise of the sudden attack, and he also had hold of the cowboy’s younger brother.

159 “I don’t want him,” confessed Gallup, as he relaxed his hold on Frank’s assailant.

Merry whirled Joe toward the door, and, a moment later, the fellow went sailing downstairs after his brother, on top of whom he landed.

Sam Hooker, stunned and bewildered, was just crawling to his feet when Joe came flying through the air, striking on his shoulders. The cowboy was hurled to the floor again by the crushing weight of his brother.

Joe was not seriously hurt, as his fall had been broken, but Sam lay still and groaned.

Joe sat up and looked at his brother, whom he had regarded as mighty and invincible. Sam opened his eyes after a little and looked at Joe. It was several moments before either of them spoke.

Then they were silent several moments, still staring at each other. At last, Sam ventured to speak again.

“Did I?” murmured the cowboy. “I’m ruther muddled. Where’s the dude?”

Again they were silent, while the cowboy seemed trying to collect his thoughts, plainly no easy matter.

160 “Nothing,” answered Joe, dolefully. “He did it to you. He kicked you clean down the stairs, and then threw me after ye.”

“Look hyar, Joe!” he growled; “don’t tell me a lie, fer I’ll wallop yer ef yer do!”

“Don’t ask me! I reckoned you’d chew him up, but he seemed to handle you easier than he did me.”

“Why, thar ain’t no galoot in this yar town kin handle me!” growled the cowboy, making a desperate struggle to rise.

He grew dizzy and toppled over. Then Joe assisted him to his feet, but he stood there in a bewildered way.

“Never felt so queer in all my life,” he muttered. “The wind seems all knocked out of me. I think I need a drink to brace me up.”

“I don’t think I’ll do a thing ter him now, but I reckon I’ll settle with him later. I’ll shoot him full of holes like a sieve! I’ll smash him like a fly! I’ll rope him like a—steer! I’ll brand him like a calf!”

“I allow you made some talk like this before we came here,” he said; “but the dude kicked you down the stairs.”

“I wasn’t ready for him. I wasn’t expecting him to move so quick. He took me off my guard. Ef he’d seemed at all dangerous, I’d been watchin’ out. But I’ll do him! He’ll never play in his old show ter-night! I promise you that, Joe. I’ll fix him so he won’t be able ter walk acrost ther stage!”

As Joe landed in a heap on Sam, Sawyer, the stage 161 manager, stared at Frank Merriwell in wonder and admiration.

“How did ye do it?” he muttered. “Why, Sam Hooker didn’t seem to bother you no more’n his brother Joe, and both of ’em was pie.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Ephraim Gallup, slapping his thigh. “I did think that big feller was dangerous, but he was disposed of so gol-darn easy that it was over before I knowed it hed begun.”

“When he come up here, I ruther thought I’d like to be to hum on the farm, b’gosh!” confessed Ephraim; “but now I wouldn’t hev missed it fer a hull acre of pertaturs.”

“Mr. Merriwell is a noted amateur athlete,” said Billy Wynne, speaking to Sawyer. “But he never boasts about it, and we, the members of his company, are just beginning to find it out.”

“Well,” said the stage manager, “I’m glad he was able to handle Sam Hooker, but I wish he’d done the feller up so he couldn’t make any more trouble. He’ll try to get revenge, see if he don’t. He’ll make lots of trouble for Mr. Merriwell.”

“He better not,” said the Vermont youth, grimly. “The best thing he kin do is ter keep still and mind his business.”

“I hardly think Mr. Hooker is very dangerous,” smiled Frank. “I have noticed in almost every case that bullies are overrated. People get to thinking them very dangerous, and thus they are able to carry on a reign of terror till somebody takes the wind out of them. After that they seldom amount to much. Sometimes they degenerate so that boys can handle them. I am willing 162 to prophesy that Mr. Hooker will turn out one of this kind. As soon as it is well known that somebody has thrashed him, he will become an object of ridicule, and no one will have cause to fear him.”

“Well, if you could bring such a state of affairs about, the whole town would owe you a vote of thanks,” declared Sawyer.

“It is not very likely that he will molest me again, unless, by some chance, it becomes known that he was handled roughly this time. Then he may make a desperate attempt to reclaim his lost reputation.”

“And you are not at all afraid of him, Mr. Merriwell?” “Afeared of him?” exploded Ephraim Gallup. “By gum! I ain’t never yit seen ther critter that walked araound on two laigs that Frank Merriwell was skeered of.”

“I do not believe he is nearly as bloodthirsty as he wishes people to believe,” said Merriwell.

“Would you go right out of the door down there if you knew he was waiting for you?” asked Sawyer, doubtfully.

“Do you think I would drop out of a window on the other side of the building so he would not see me?”

“No, but it don’t seem to me that you know just what kind of a man Sam Hooker is. You don’t seem to realize that he has whipped five fighting men in a stand-up battle. I don’t believe that kind of a man can be easily tamed.”

“Why, ding-darn it!” cried Gallup. “He never come back to git any more arter he run ag’in Frank!”

“And for that very reason,” said the local stage manager, 163 “I am inclined to believe he will lay for Mr. Merriwell.”

“If he does, he’ll git a wuss wallopin’ then he ever guv anybody in his life. I’ll warrant him that.”

“He made a mistake in thinking he was going to handle Mr. Merriwell easily. Next time he will not make that mistake.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Sawyer,” said Frank. “Go ahead getting my stuff in. Ephraim, go to the hotel and send Havener and Dunton here to help handle this stuff. We must have somebody in the place of Joe Hooker.”

Ephraim departed, and Frank continued to watch the disposal of his scenery as it was brought in.

It was not long before Havener, Dunton and Gallup appeared. Ephraim came in fuming.

“By gum!” he cried. “Yeou’re goin’ ter have a raow with that feller, sure, Frank! He’s watchin’ fer ye!”

“At the saloon on the corner,” answered the Vermonter. “He was peekin’ aout of the winder, an’ he jumped aout when he saw me comin’. Soon as he saw yeou warn’t with me, he said somethin’ kainder disgusted like an’ went back in. There’s a reg’ler gang with him.”

“There is a crowd of young toughs who follow him around,” explained Sawyer. “They think he’s able to whip Corbett, and they take delight in seein’ him smash anybody.”

“I rather fancy I shall have enough of my friends with me to see that I get fair play,” he said. “That is all I ask.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Merriwell. I believe I’d like a chance to make myself solid with you again, for you must have a poor opinion of me since what happened in St. Jo.”

“You did no more than hundreds of actors are doing every season,” said Merry; “and you were man enough afterward to acknowledge that you believed you were in the wrong. I have held nothing against you, Dunton.”

“Ephraim told us about your encounter with this ruffian,” said Havener. “You should have broken his head with a club.”

They continued the work of arranging the scenery and getting it ready for quick handling at night. The first scene was set.

Frank told Sawyer that he wanted five men for supers, and they must be on hand at three o’clock for instructions. Sawyer promised to provide them.

“Now,” said Ephraim, who was somewhat agitated, despite his efforts to keep cool, “there’s goin’ ter be a dinged hot old time. Come erlong, Mr. Sawyer, if yeou want to see ther jamboree.”

“I’ll follow,” said Sawyer, and it was plain that he did not wish to be seen with the actors.

As they approached the saloon on the corner a number of men were seen loitering in front of it. One of them darted into the saloon.

165 “Gone ter tell Hooker!” gurgled Ephraim. “Jeewhillikins! I’m beginnin’ ter feel that I kainder wisht I was to hum on the farm!”

As the little party reached the corner, Joe Hooker came running out, quickly followed by his brother and several of the toughs of the town.

“There he is!” cried Joe, pointing to Frank. “Now smash him, Sam! Yeou said you would.”

The cowboy grinned viciously as his eyes rested on Frank. He placed himself squarely in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Don’t let him get hold of you, Merriwell!” panted Dunton, who was pale and unsteady. “He looks like a perfect devil!”

“Hold on, hyar!” roared Sam Hooker, glaring at Merry. “You’re ther galoot I’ve bin waitin’ fer!”

“Oh, I’ll make mincemeat of him,” promised the ruffian, advancing on Merry. “I’ll pulverize him!”

Frank did not order him to keep off, for he knew it would be a waste of breath. Instead of that, to the astonishment of Hooker and his gang, he went straight at the fellow like a flash.

This was a movement entirely unexpected. The cowboy attempted to catch hold of Merry, but Frank dodged aside, still advancing, struck the fellow a blow on the elbow that whirled him sideways, and then gave him one under the ear that made him stagger.

166 The ruffian whirled back, but Merriwell had followed him closely, and the blow Hooker struck was readily parried. Then Merry began to hammer the fellow scientifically, following every advantage closely, and keeping him going. Only once was Frank hit, and that was a weak blow, for he jumped back in time to avoid the full force of the swinging drive, which must have knocked him down had he not made the movement.

As Frank leaped back, the ruffian fancied things had turned his way, and, uttering unprintable language, he tried to close in.

“Don’t let him get hold of you, Merriwell!” again panted Dunton, who was shaking in every limb.

To the astonishment of everybody, Frank paid no heed to this, but suddenly darted inside his assailant’s guard and grappled with him.

The ruffian tried to crush the young athlete, but, by a wrestling trick, Frank lifted him, flung his heels into the air, snapped him over his hip, and sent him heavily to the solid walk.

These movements had carried them close to where the man who had been washing windows in a dazed way, with the hose in his hands, the water pouring from the nozzle.

In a twinkling, Merriwell caught the hose from the man’s hand and turned the stream on Sam Hooker, who had risen to a sitting position.

167 “Whar is he!” the ruffian roared. “Has he run away? I’ll swaller——”

Sizz—spat!—the stream from the hose struck Hooker full in the mouth, drowning his words instantly.

The crowd of toughs began to realize what was happening to the terror of the town, and they were astounded.

“That’s Frank Merriwell!” cried one of the boys of the town. “If you fellers have ever heard of him, you oughter know he can do up all the Hookers in Missouri! He’s a honey cooler!”

Joe Hooker was dazed, for up to this meeting he had not realized that his bully brother had met his match in a smooth-faced, boyish-looking actor.

Even now, when the realization of the truth was beginning to force itself on Joe, he was so infuriated because such a thing could be possible that it made him crazy. Snarling and spitting like a wild cat, he made a spring for Merry.

Quick as a flash, Frank turned the stream from Sam Hooker to his brother. It struck Joe in the eyes, blinding him, staggering him. It filled his mouth and forced its way down his throat. He gurgled and choked, and then his heel caught and he fell flat on his back.

By this time Sam was able to sit up again, catching his breath and rubbing the water out of his eyes.

168 “Oh, I’ll have his blood!” panted the cowboy. “This settles him! Whar is he? Show him ter——”

He was trying to get out a revolver when Merry gave it to him again, and over on his back he was knocked once more.

The spectators had been filled with wonder, but now they saw the ludicrous side of the encounter, and they began to pound each other on the back and shout with laughter.

“By gum! this is a reg’lar jamboree!” he giggled. “It oughter be an advertisement fer ther show if Frank does ther bully of ther taown up good.”

“It will be the wonder of the place,” declared Sawyer, the local stage manager. “I don’t understand it now.”

Douglas Dunton showed his relief. Although he had agreed to stand by Frank, Dunton had been decidedly frightened. Now he was beginning to laugh.

Havener had not said much, but he was looking on in great satisfaction, nodding his approval over what was happening.

169 Joe Hooker sat up, but Merry was giving Sam all he wanted just then, and he paid very little attention to Joe.

The younger brother got onto his hands and knees, and then sprang to his feet. He did not make more than two steps toward Merry, however, before the stream of water struck him in the eyes once more.

This time it came unexpectedly, but Joe was not knocked down. He reeled back, putting up his arm to protect his face.

Frank continued to pour the water upon him. Joe whirled back toward Merry, but the water struck him in the back of the neck. He bent over, and the stream beat under his coat, turning it up over his head. Then, with his coat in that manner, Joe gave up and took to his heels, dusting round the corner.

No one had offered to help the brothers. At first no one had imagined Sam Hooker could need help in disposing of the boyish actor. When they began to understand that the bully had met his match, they were so dazed that no one made a move to help him. When the stream of water was turned on him, the risibilities of the rough fellows were aroused, and they shouted with laughter over the plight of the fellow upon whom they had gazed in fear and awe a short time before.

As soon as a bully ceases to command respect, as soon as he is made ridiculous, his prestige is gone. No one had dared laugh at Sam Hooker before that. He had done the most grotesque things without causing anybody to crack a smile. Now, however, they literally roared with amusement.

Sam heard them laughing. At first it infuriated him, but that stream of cold water cooled his rage swiftly. He got onto his hands and knees and tried to rise. The water struck him again, sending him back to his hands 170 and knees. That was too much. Without realizing what a laughable spectacle he presented, he scrambled on all fours for a place of safety. He scampered round the corner after his brother, and Frank Merriwell was left in possession of the field.

“Permit me to return your hose to you, sir,” said Merry, smilingly, as he gave the hose back to the man from whom he had snatched it. “I trust you will pardon me for my rudeness in taking it thus abruptly, but there did not seem to be time enough to ask in a polite manner.”

“O-ho! o-ho! o-ho!” he bellowed. “Funniest—thing—I—ever—saw! Oh-ho! a-haw! a-haw!”

“I am glad I was able to provide you with amusement, sir,” said Merry, quietly. “And I trust I have caused you no inconvenience.”

“If he does, I’ll hunt him up and give him the worst thrashing of his life,” said Merry, with the utmost coolness, speaking loudly enough for the staring roughs to 172 hear. “I have been very gentle with him thus far, but the limit is reached. Next time I have trouble with him I think I shall break his back.”

“Didn’t I tell ye he could do up all the Hookers in Missouri!” triumphantly cried the village boy. “I’ve read all about him, and he is the warmest biscuit in the pan.”

“I reckon I’d better git away afore Sam Hooker comes back lookin’ fer me,” said the man who had been using the hose.

He shut off the water, made haste to detach the hose, and hustled into the store, without saying another word.

“Come on, gentlemen,” said Merry, speaking to his friends. “The Hookers seem to have hooked it.”

“If it should happen that Sam Hooker wishes to see me again, tell him to come round to the hotel and call for me. If he hasn’t had enough, I’ll finish him next time.”

“He seemed pretty desperate, but there’s not much behind his outward appearance. I saw that in the first place.”

“Well, I will explain. He is masquerading here in cowboy rig, and he is doing that to impress the people of this place. He makes himself look as fierce and terrible as possible. That is for the purpose of terrifying people and making them stand in awe of him. He has a way of swaggering and bragging. Now, a real desperado seldom makes such an effort to convince people that he is desperate. Very often it is the case that the genuine desperado, the real dangerous man, is peaceful and mild in appearance, seeking to avoid rather than to attract attention. One of the most desperate ruffians the West ever produced—Slade—was as mild-mannered as a woman. Wild Bill, who was a ‘killer’ all his life, never swaggered and boasted of what he could do. Jesse James was not a boaster. I might name many others. In nine cases out of ten, the desperado who boasts and brags, who swaggers and tries to frighten everybody by his terrible appearance, is a craven at heart, and he may be handled with ease once he realizes he has met his master.”

“Merriwell,” said Havener, “it is a wonder to me how you read human character so well. Do you ever make a mistake?”

“It’s alwus in that way that he makes mistakes, by thutter!” put in Gallup. “He never makes um any other way, an’ I guess by jee! that sometimes when he does trust a feller, he knows the chap’s crooked, but kainder hopes he won’t prove that way.”

174 “Yes,” smiled Merry, “I have trusted many chaps, while I felt in my heart that they were crooked, but I hoped I might be mistaken. I do not like to condemn a man before he has been given a show to display what there is in him.”

Dunton had been walking along in silence after his first remark. Now he observed:

“I rather believe that sometimes, by trusting such fellows, you put them on their honor so that they are ashamed to do you a dirty turn.”

“That is my object—it is my hope,” said Merry. “The moment a man knows he is mistrusted, if his character is weak, he begins to mistrust himself. Let him feel that others have confidence in him, and his conscience in many cases makes him ashamed of being crooked.”

“I don’t suppose I’m any too good,” admitted Dunton. “In fact, I realize I’m not. It was not so long ago that I tried to do you a bad turn, Merriwell. That was when you first joined the company to which I belonged. I was no match for you. You did me up, but then, instead of exposing me and causing my release in disgrace from the company, you kept still and gave me a show. When I understood the full extent of your generosity, I began to compare myself with you, and the comparison was odious. I was disgusted with myself. I said, ‘Frank Merriwell is square, white and generous. What are you?’ Then I came to you, Merriwell, and owned up.”

“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “And I do not believe to this day Havener knows anything about it, although he was witness of the whole affair as it originally happened.”

“I knew there was some trouble between you and Dunton,” said the stage manager, “and I saw that it came out all right, for both of you dropped all hard feelings, or seemed to.”

175 “But you never knew,” said Dunton, “that I tried to kill Merriwell.”

“Well, it’s a fact,” admitted the actor. “It was in the time when we were playing in repertoire just after the wind up of poor old ‘Uncle Tom.’ You remember that Merriwell was run into the leading part in a hurry, to fill the place of Leslie Lawrence, who was ill.”

“Well, I was hot because I could not have the part, and I did not rehearse very well.”

“In my heart,” Dunton went on, “was a perfect hell of fury. I don’t think I ever felt that way before. My hatred for Merriwell knew no bounds. I resolved to show him up. I am something of a fencer and there was a sword duel in the play. I was the villain in the piece, and I fought with the hero. It was necessary for Merriwell to do the duel with me. In the piece I should seem to have the best of it at first, and then he should show superior skill and disarm me.”

“It was in that duel that I determined to make a monkey of him. I would show the audience what a stick he was.”

“I’ve known other folks to git fooled in a real duel with him,” said the Vermonter.

“This turned out a real duel,” said Dunton. “When the time came, I insulted Merriwell by adding venom to the regular lines of the part. I called him a crawling cur. I did my best to make him feel my real contempt for him.”

“The duel began,” Dunton continued. “I started to play with Mr. Merriwell, who had rehearsed awkwardly in the afternoon. To my surprise, I found his awkwardness was gone. He met me with the touch and skill of an expert. At first I could not realize that he had fooled me. When I did, I was infuriated beyond measure. My first thought was to wound him, if I could.”

“I fought with all the skill and fury I knew,” said Dunton; “but he met all my attacks, and held me at bay with ease. My rage increased till I lost my head entirely. I longed to kill him, I swore I would kill him—I made a desperate attempt to do it!”

“I remember that the duel was the finest I ever saw on the stage,” said Havener, “but I was afraid something would happen. I didn’t dream it was a real duel.”

“It was,” nodded Dunton. “I lunged straight for Merriwell’s body, trying to run him through.”

“I know that he understood my purpose. I do not think I deceived Mr. Merriwell for a moment. He met me fairly. Then, before I knew it, my weapon was 177 wrenched from my hand and sent spinning into the air.”

“Merriwell caught it when it came down, and immediately offered it to me, hilt first.”

“A single moment I hesitated,” the actor continued, “and then I was seized by such rage as I never felt before and never expect to feel again. I snatched the weapon and made one mad lunge to drive it straight through the heart of my antagonist.”

“Mr. Merriwell was on guard for me. He was not taken unawares, and he foiled my attempt. Then he attacked me with such fury that I could not stand before him. I was driven back and back. I saw a terrible light in his eyes, even though he laughed in my face. His sword was flashing and glittering everywhere. I realized that I was completely at his mercy, and I believed he intended to kill me. Then I dropped my sword and cried for mercy.”

“Whoop!” exploded Gallup. “That’s ther way Frank Merriwell serves ’em! Oh, he is the boy ter do it!”

“Well,” finished Dunton, “I more than half expected to be cut down, but nothing of the kind happened. I remember with what scorn Mr. Merriwell said he would not stain his sword with my treacherous blood. I remember how I felt after that. No person can understand the tumult of feelings in my heart. I thought of running away. You complimented us on the duel after the curtain had fallen, Mr. Havener, but you warned us that we were far too reckless, and we must not do it that way again. I believed Mr. Merriwell would expose me 178 then. He did not. Then I was sure he would do so very soon. He did not. I waited in suspense as long as I could stand it, and then I came and asked him when he was going to blow the whole thing. He said he was going to wait and see how I behaved in the future, and that he had no thought of blowing if I didn’t try it again. Well, I haven’t tried it. Have I, Mr. Merriwell?”

“And to think I never knew a thing about this before!” exclaimed the stage manager. “Mr. Merriwell never breathed a word of it to me—not a word.”

“Mr. Dunton kept his word to me,” said Frank. “I am sure it was my place to keep mine to him.”

“Yes; he was too good a man to let slip. I had a place for him, and he has filled it.”

“And I think,” said Douglas Dunton, seriously, “that my association with Frank Merriwell has improved me in various ways. Anyone who takes him for a model is bound to improve.”

Hodge came rushing into Merriwell’s room almost as soon as Frank arrived. He waved two papers over his head in a triumphant way, crying:

Merry was astounded, for such a demonstration on the part of Hodge was almost unprecedented.

“Well, this is interesting. The papers must have given the play a good send off?”

“Great—simply great! Here’s the Dramatic Reflector , the leading New York paper, and it has almost a quarter of a column about the production of your piece in Puleob.”

“Yes. And the Snipper gives you a good long notice, too. The Reflector says ‘True Blue’ is a winner from the start, and you are a dandy in your part. The Snipper does not give the cast, same as the other paper, but its notice is just as complimentary. Here, read ’em, read ’em!”

“It is better than I expected,” he said. “Now I understand how it happened that I received notice in St. Jo that there was an opening in New York for the week that I desired. The manager of the theater had seen these notices.”

“That’s about the size of it,” nodded Hodge. “Oh, you are on the straight road to success—you are forging to the front.”

“You will. I know that. Just think of the houses we had in St. Jo. And the advance sale here is remarkable. The manager says he never knew such a sale but once before. The house will be jammed to-night. We could play here three nights to paying business, and this is a small place. What’ll we do when we hit Chicago?”

“I think I shall be able to tell in Chicago whether the piece will be a success or not.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You can’t be sure. The taste of Chicago sometimes varies from that of New York. What is a success in one place is sometimes a failure in the other.”

“But that happens so seldom that it is an exception. If ‘True Blue’ catches on in Chicago, it will go in New York.”

“Well, I believe it is bound to go anywhere. It took me some time to realize you had written a better play than your first one, but I know it now.”

“Come right in, Cassie,” invited Frank. “Who’s that following you? Tell him to come in.”

“I—I came to tell you something,” she said, but hesitated, as she saw Bart sitting there.

“It’s nothing private,” declared Havener. “There is no reason for being secret about it, Cassie. The entire company knows we’re engaged.”

“Oh, I know,” smiled Havener, who looked decidedly happy. “But I’ll tell. We’re going to be married in Chicago, Mr. Merriwell. We have settled on that. I’ve induced Cassie to agree to it at last.”

“I congratulate you, Havener!” exclaimed Frank, 181 grasping his hand and shaking it warmly. “I believe you will be happy together, and surely you deserve happiness, if any man deserves it, for fortune was rather hard on you in your other venture.”

“And Cassie,” said Frank, looking into the eyes of the girl. “Why, she’s changed remarkably in the last few weeks. The sad look has gone from her face, and there is color coming to her cheeks and luster to her eyes.”

“You gave me courage to fight my terrible habit. You encouraged me to pray. Heaven gave me strength. I believe I have won at last; but not until I was reasonably sure of that would I again consent to the marriage after that woman interfered with the other. The shock of that nearly sent me back into my old ways again.”

“I am very glad, Cassie—glad for both you and Havener. I knew how much depended on it.”

“The happiness of our lives depended on it—yes, our very lives!” asserted the man.

“I have satisfied myself beyond a doubt, and Cassie 182 also, that the woman I believed my wife was the lawful wife of another at the time we were living together. She committed bigamy. That clears me of her, and I am free.”

Frank showed Havener and Cassie the notices in the dramatic papers, and they took their turn to congratulate him.

“The sun of happiness and prosperity is shining brightly on all of us just now,” said Merry. “I see my way clear to get back to college, and——”

“Leave the rest of us in the lurch,” laughed Havener. “Well, I guess we can take care of ourselves.”

“Oh, that is so good of you!” cried Cassie. “Just think of it, Ross! You were saying yesterday that you’d give anything if you had a piece like this for me to play in!”

“I don’t know,” said Havener. “Words can’t seem to express what I want to say.”

“I’ll back it myself,” said Frank. “That is, I’ll do it if Chicago and New York does not break me. Of course, I may run against snags in those places. If I get broken, I believe you should be able to find an angel, Havener, in case I do not keep in the business.”

“It’s a shame that you are thinking of leaving just as you’re getting such a start!” cried Cassie.

“I want to get back to college,” said Frank. “I feel something drawing me back there. If I wait longer, my old classmates and chums will be gone. Of course I can go back and finish my course, but it will not be the same. I have made up my mind to return to Yale somehow in the fall.”

“Well,” said Cassie, “whatever you do, I wish you good fortune and happiness, for I am sure you deserve it.”

“Thank you. A man deserves what he wins. I have worked hard to win out, and prosperity seems coming my way at last.”

Havener and Cassie departed pretty soon, and Frank turned to find Bart seated on a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, and his face hidden in his hands.

The change from Hodge’s jubilation of a short time before to his present attitude and appearance of dejection was rather startling. Merry paused an instant, then stepped forward quickly, exclaiming:

“Oh, but there is,” declared Frank. “You were feeling well enough a short time ago. What’s the meaning of this change?”

“Look here, Bart,” said Merry, gently, “I’m your friend—I’m the one for you to talk to about this matter, old man.”

“There isn’t anything to talk about,” he asserted. “Can’t a fellow have the blues once in a while, if he wants ’em!”

“Nobody wants the blues, Hodge. A man in good health, with a liver that is not torpid, should not have the blues. Is there anything the matter with your liver?”

“There was a cause for the sudden change in you,” said Merry, seriously. “A little while ago you seemed in better spirits than you have shown before for a month. And now you are in the funks.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” he cried, fiercely. “I don’t want to hear anything that will remind me of Yale! Isn’t it bad enough for me to know you are going back there!”

“I’m afraid I do not quite understand you,” said Merry, slowly. “Why should you feel that way about it?”

“Then what is the matter? You seem to be completely off your trolley, old man. You’re getting freakish.”

“Oh, I suppose so! Rub it in! I had a letter from my mother yesterday. She said she was sorry to give me up, but I had been a terrible disappointment to her. She did hope I would get through college. She was sending me money to get through on, you know. I was a fool! I gambled her money away, and she sent it without letting my father know, for he would have stopped her had he known. Oh, isn’t there a reason why I should feel blue?”

“Worse! worse! Ha! ha! How could they be any 186 worse? Here my mother, who has clung to me all through everything, is giving up in despair! She thinks I have gone to the dogs.”

“What’s the use?” said Bart, bitterly. “She knows I ran away from college. Do you fancy it would make her feel any better to know I did so because I could not meet the gambling debts I had contracted? In this case, it is better not to tell the truth.”

“Look here, Merriwell, I want to know just what you are driving at! Come out and give it to me straight.”

“All right,” smiled Frank. “I mean that you are going back to college when I go. Is that plain enough?”

“You are, just the same. I am done with Yale. How 187 could I go back there, after skipping out as I did and leaving all those debts? It’s impossible.”

“You know your debts were paid. When Browning returned to college, he squared them all.”

“Without my knowledge, Merriwell. I refused to let you send the money, but you did it without letting me know a thing about it. I was the one to pay the debts I had contracted. You did that.”

“He was bound by a pledge not to say I had anything to do with it, but to give the impression that the money came from you.”

“Merriwell,” he said, huskily, “I’d be an ungrateful churl not to appreciate such kindness!”

“It’s all right, old man; it’s what I’d wish another to do for me were I in your place.”

“It’s exactly what you would not accept from another. I know that. You put me in this position without my consent. Now I owe you all that money.”

“That’s easy to say, but it’s not easy to do. Now you are going back to college, and what’s to become of me? I am left!”

“No; I have no love for any of your Yale friends. Of course I was sorry that I failed to finish my course and graduate. It’s too late now. I tell you my mother has 188 given me up. That makes it impossible for me to return to college. She was paying my way. Now there is no one to furnish me with money, and I am as bad off as you were when you lost your fortune.”

“Bart, I’ve been thinking of something lately. You know all about our discovery of the lost fortune in the Utah Desert.”

“I know all about your discovery of it, and I know no other person had a hand in it.”

“But Browning, Diamond, Rattleton and Toots were with me. It has been divided equally among us. Shortly after the discovery of that treasure you joined our party. I have thought it all over, and it seems no more than fair that you should have a share of that fortune.”

“Not a bit of it. I say it is right. The others have received their shares, but you shall have your share of mine. I will divide with you, and that will give you four thousand dollars. With that sum you can return to college and finish your course.”

“I’d like to know what you take me for!” he cried. “Are you trying to insult me, Frank?”

“Well, then, don’t ever make me such an offer again. You know what I think of those chaps who accepted the checks you sent them. You know I believe that treasure belonged entirely to you, and no other had a right to a dollar of it. Do you take me for a fellow who would accept from you a gift of four thousand dollars? Well, that’s what you propose to make me—nothing more, nothing 189 less. It won’t go with me, Merriwell. I do not thank you for the offer, for you should have known better than to make it. Go back to Yale. I wish you good fortune—I wish you everything you desire. I will go my way in the world; you’ll go yours. It must come to that in time, anyhow. What odds if it comes sooner than we had anticipated! You have taken an interest in me, Frank, and your friendship is the pleasantest memory of my life; but even that must become a mere memory sometime.”

“There is no reason why it should become a mere memory while life shall last,” said Frank, soberly. “Though fate may divide us, still our friendship should remain firm and unshaken. As for your return to Yale, I’m not going to say anything more about it now, but I shall not give it up.”

While a rehearsal was taking place for the benefit of the supers that afternoon the local stage manager came to Frank and said:

“Mr. Merriwell, there is a young lady down at the door who wishes to see you.”

“A young lady?” exclaimed Merry, not without a feeling of consternation, for his recent experiences in St. Joseph were vivid in his memory.

“Methinks thou hast another mash, most noble grand high muck-a-muck,” spouted Douglas Dunton, in the eccentric manner he sometimes assumed.

“Perchance thou wouldst send me down to see the fair damsel—but I doubt it,” murmured Dunton.

He went down to the door and found the girl who was waiting there. He was surprised to see her standing with her head bowed, in an attitude of apparent dejection and shame.

She nodded her head, but did not look up, not a little to his perplexity and wonderment.

No wonder he had not recognized the bold, saucy, reckless girl in this meek, abashed, low-spoken maiden.

“Yes, Daisy Blaney,” she said. “I thought perhaps you did not want to know me, and I did not wonder much.”

“Oh, because—because—you know,” she faltered, in confusion. “I reckon I ain’t just the sort of girl you would be proud to introduce to your friends. You didn’t meet me under very favorable circumstances, and you must think I’m pretty far down the scale.”

“Still, I know just what you think, and I don’t know 191 that I blame you much. You are different from any show feller I ever met before. I never fancied any of them cared a snap what became of a girl if they could have a good time. None of them ever gave me any good advice before. I never saw one before you who was not ready to catch on and have a racket. Instead of catching on, you gave me a calling down. I knew I deserved it, and it made me feel all the more reckless. I thought I was too far on the road to turn back, and I tried to forget what you said to me; but I couldn’t forget it, and it kept sounding in my ears all the time. I couldn’t run away from the sound; I couldn’t drown it with music and laughter. I saw you looking at me in that sympathizing, pitying way, and, though I tried to laugh at you for a fool, your eyes haunted me. Oh, I tell you I was right miserable after that talk with you. You set me to thinking of mother and home.”

“Mother and home!” said Frank, softly. “The two strongest influences for good. How many a wayward wanderer has been reclaimed by thoughts of mother and home!”

“If mother had had her way at home I’d never left,” the girl went on. “It was the old man—father, I mean. He drove me away. He didn’t seem to understand me at all. If I made a little mistake, he was so harsh and cruel with me. Why,” she exclaimed, suddenly relapsing into slang under the pressure of excitement, “the old duffer uster be a pretty gay boy himself, and there wasn’t any reason why his daughter shouldn’t take after him. All the same, he never thought of that, but he was dead hard on me.”

Frank knew this was the fault of many fathers. They forgot their own younger days and were harsh and hard with their sons or daughters who showed they had inherited certain lively qualities from their parents.

192 “But your mother—for her sake, you must overlook anything from your father.”

“Yes, I suppose I ought, but it’s pretty hard sometimes. He’s tried to be so strict with me it’s driven me to do some of the things I have done.”

“That is where you are making your mistake. I do not wish to lecture you now, Miss Blaney, and I am going to say no more about it. I am glad I was able to find you that night in St. Jo.”

Her eyes began to shine and something like a flush came to her cheeks, which, with satisfaction, Merry observed were now unmarred by paint.

“You were brave, Frank Merriwell!” she cried; “just as you seemed to be in the play—just as I knew you were! Those men did not frighten you in the least. You fought the whole crowd like a tiger. But I thought you would be killed till that woman interfered. Who was she?”

“A stranger—a woman I had never seen but once before in my life. Then she was in a plot to blackmail me. The plot failed, and she was ready to turn against her accomplices. What do you know of her?”

“Nothing, save that she is known in the sporting circles of St. Jo. as Queen Mab, and she is something of a mystery. There’s not a gay girl in the city who would not give anything to be like Queen Mab.”

“I am sure the woman is not all bad. It was rare good fortune that brought your mother along there just as we escaped from the place.”

“One reason why I came here was to thank you,” said the girl; “but there is another reason.”

“Everybody in town has heard of it. Sam is in disgrace, but he has sworn a great oath that he’ll disgrace you worse than you did him.”

“Yes, I heard it from his brother Joe. You know Joe kind of—kind of—— Well, he calls at our house.”

The girl’s confusion explained her meaning. The red blood mounted to her face now, and Frank saw she was ashamed of Joe Hooker when she compared him with some of the flashy city youths she had met.

“Yes; I pumped it all out of him. He doesn’t know I ever met you in all my life. I slipped in here on the sly, so they would not catch on that I had warned you.”

“No; it won’t half pay back what you did for me—the risk you ran. I was thinking of that.”

To Frank it seemed a case of “bread on the waters.” But he had not learned what plot had been formed against him, and his curiosity was aroused.

“Joe says Sam is just furious,” the girl went on. “He is fierce enough to kill you. He would kill you, if he dared. He loaded up his guns and swore a mighty oath to make you regret the day you were born.”

“There is considerable wind about Sam Hooker,” said Frank; “but still he might be driven to something desperate.”

“Yes. He says he’ll drag you over the footlights and clean out of the theater.”

“Well, this is rather interesting!” exclaimed Frank; “and I am greatly obliged to you for telling me about it.”

“I shall be prepared for Mr. Hooker, be sure of that. But you must take care not to let him know you have told me.”

“Little danger of that. I wouldn’t dare. Joe invited me to come to the theater with him to see Sam square the score. I shall be here, and I do hope you will look out.”

“Don’t worry at all about that, Miss Blaney. Now that I know what is coming, there is not the least danger in the world that I shall not be ready.”

“It may prove a most fortunate thing for me. I thank you, Miss Blaney. I shall not forget your kindness.”

“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” she exclaimed; “I hope you’ll not think of me as so very bad! I hope you won’t remember me that way!”

“No,” he said, looking straight into her eyes; “I shall not think of you that way, Miss Blaney. I shall think of you as the joy of your mother in her old age. I shall think of you as loving and soothing her in her declining years. I hope I shall not be mistaken in my thoughts.”

195 “You shall not!” she said, earnestly; “I promise you that, Frank Merriwell! I will be a better girl in the future. It will help me to be better knowing you remember me that way. Good-by.”

The entire company seemed in high spirits that night as the time approached for the curtain to rise on the opening scene of the first act.

People were pouring into the theater. Every seat had been sold, and the sign “S. R. O.” was displayed at the box office.

“Methinks this settles it,” spouted Douglas Dunton, behind the curtain. “Prosperity has struck us hard, and we are winners from the word ‘go.’ Oh, this whole company is hot stuff!”

The orchestra began to play, and Frank, made up for his first appearance, came to the peephole and looked out at the audience.

Every seat in the Wilcoxson Opera House was filled. The rear of the theater was packed with those who had paid admission for the privilege of standing.

“By gum! it’s a sight fer sore eyes!” exclaimed Ephraim Gallup, close to Frank. “Don’t yeou think so?”

Frank did not reply, for he was searching the faces of those in the rows near the stage, looking for Sam Hooker.

Sam had secured a seat where he could easily accomplish his purpose, as he fancied. There was a look of fierce determination on his countenance.

“Great fortune, Mr. Merriwell!” exclaimed Garland. “That’s the sort of a house that pays. It strikes me we are forging to the front with great strides.”

“Mr. Garland,” said Frank, “have you the revolver you draw on me in the first act?”

Immediately Frank took some cartridges from his pocket, snapped the weapon open, and——

“What are you doing?” exclaimed Garland, in perplexity. “The revolver was loaded, Mr. Merriwell.”

“I am loading it with another kind of cartridge,” said Frank, as he refilled the cylinder.

“I suppose not,” admitted Frank, as he finished loading 198 and snapped the weapon back into shape. “I didn’t think you would understand.”

“A weapon that is loaded with anything but blank cartridges is not a very safe thing to squabble over.”

“That is true, and, for that reason, we must be very careful in our squabble over it to-night, Mr. Garland.”

“Something is liable to happen. That is why I have loaded this weapon. If I should call for it suddenly, you are to pass it to me; but I do not think I shall need it till after the struggle takes place. It will be in my possession from that time on.”

“No. It is sufficient that I have a reason for wishing this revolver loaded with something besides blanks. Here, take it, Garland, and be careful with it. When you pull it on me, point it in the air and begin to pull down with it. I will spring forward and grasp it before it covers me. Keep your finger off the trigger. Do not hang to it quite as tight as usual in the struggle.”

“All right,” said Garland, in a puzzled way; “but I’d give something to know what is going on.”

Ephraim Gallup was as much puzzled as Garland, but he asked no questions, for he knew there were times when it was utterly useless to question Merry.

The story of Merriwell’s strange act passed from mouth to mouth, and the actors and actresses were puzzled and bewildered over it. Agnes Kirk even declared that she believed success had turned Frank’s brain.

“He was always queer,” she asserted. “A fellow who will stoop to feed and pet a tramp cat and then carry it around as a mascot is not right. But I call on everybody 199 to notice that we have become prosperous since he let that cat go.”

“Oh, I hardly think that,” said Stella Stanley. “He did not let the cat go till after this piece had made a hit. Then he said he could not carry the creature around, and he would prove she had nothing to do with the success or failure of the show by letting her go. He seemed to knock the wind out of your superstitious prophecies, Agnes.”

“Not at all,” declared the other actress, stiffly. “I said the cat would hoodoo us in the first place, and it did, no matter what happened afterward.”

Stella Stanley turned away, laughing. She saw Hodge, standing at a distance, regarding her steadfastly.

Since the affair in Atchison, when Bart deserted the company, the dark-faced youth had scarcely spoken to Stella. After being brought back by Frank, he seemed to take the utmost pains to avoid her.

Now, as she started toward him, he wheeled about and disappeared behind the back drop.

“I’d like to know what ails him!” she exclaimed, somewhat angrily. “He shan’t keep up this running away from me!”

Then she followed Hodge and ran him down back where the shadows were thickest. She grasped him with both hands.

“Look here, Bart Hodge!” she exclaimed; “do you think I’m going to eat you up? or what ails you? You run away from me as if you regarded me as a snake!”

200 “Stop it!” she cried. “I’m tired of it! I don’t like it! I won’t have it! Will you be good enough, Mr. Bart Hodge, to treat me differently?”

“To begin with, you regard me as a mere boy—a stripling who does not know his own mind. You insulted me when I told you of my admiration for you. You laughed at me. You might as well have said ‘calf love.’ I won’t stand for that kind of treatment from you or any other woman!”

She did not laugh at him now, for he was beginning to realize that he could not be treated like a boy. She could not flatter and flirt with him as she did with Billy Wynne. His admiration for her was not of the sort to endure that kind of cajolery.

“Mr. Hodge,” she said, “if I did anything to offend you, if I was offensive, I beg your pardon.”

“Yes, you beg my pardon, but you will go on regarding me as an addle-pated boy. If I dared open my lips to honestly tell you of my admiration, you would laugh at me! Oh, I know! You are like them all—only handsomer and colder!”

“You have a fancy that you have read me, Bart Hodge, but let me tell you that you are a very poor judge of human nature. You seldom read anybody aright.”

“It’s not such a difficult thing to read a woman,” he sneered. “They are all alike in one respect—they are as treacherous and fickle as cats! They think they love. They enjoy being petted and caressed. They purr and show all sorts of affection, but they are shallow. No more than a cat do they know true affection! As ready as 201 a cat are they to sink their claws into the hand that caresses them! And when their master is gone, like a cat, they seek petting and fondling from another. They cannot be constant till the master returns; they cannot be true to death and after—like a faithful dog!”

Stella Stanley was rather high-spirited, and it made her “hot” to hear anybody talk in such a manner.

“You are trying your best to insult me now,” she said, “and you are succeeding very well! I’d like to tell you what I think of men like you, but I haven’t the time, and I don’t choose to waste my breath on you now. In some respects, I admire you; in others, I despise you. You are like all men, thoroughly unjust toward women. Other men may hide their thoughts, but you speak out; that is the difference. Men talk of the fickleness of women, but experience shows that women are far more constant than men. Once a woman loves a man truly, with all her heart and soul, she never loves another like that. She gives that man all that is best of her. What does she receive in return? If he provides her a home, clothes, food, he thinks he is doing his full duty. Don’t talk to me of the fickleness of women!” she hissed. “Don’t ever dare speak to me again like this, Bart Hodge! Sometimes I think I admire you, but when you show yourself as you have just now, I despise you!”

The overture was finished, and the orchestra played a “riser” for the curtain to go up.

It was an audience to make any actor do his best. Gallup in the part of Reuben Grass soon put the audience in a good humor. He strolled onto the stage in his jay make-up, singing the song with which he had made such a hit in Merriwell’s first play:

The audience received him with a burst of applause, and Ephraim responded by getting off several country gags that delighted everybody.

No, not everybody. Down near the front sat a man who scowled and glowered at the stage. It was Sam Hooker, and he was there to make trouble. He was handling something which Gallup could not see. Ephraim paused and winked at the ruffian in a most tantalizing manner.

The audience was waiting for the appearance of the star. The whole town had heard of the manner in which Frank had treated the terror of the place, and everybody seemed anxious for a look at the boyish actor who had dared face the ruffian.

Granville Garland, as Carius Dubad , came on and 203 carried things with a high hand, everything leading up to an effective enter for Merriwell.

Dubad was terrorizing Grass when the moment came for Merry to make his appearance. As he entered there was a great burst of applause and a voice from the gallery cried:

“That’s him! That’s Frank Merriwell hisself, and he’s a lollypalooser!”

Then about fifty boys jumped up in the gallery and yelled like a lot of wild Indians.

Immediately after his enter, Frank’s lines caused him to threaten to fling the villain of the piece out of the house, whereupon the villain drew a revolver.

This was the weapon Frank had loaded with bullet-bearing cartridges. Merry sprang on Garland and wrested the revolver from his hand, while Ephraim looked on in apparent terror.

While this brief struggle was taking place, Sam Hooker rose to his feet, roaring:

“Whoop! He’s a purty lively maverick, but I’m ther puncher ter put my brand on him. First I’ll rope him, same as I would a steer. Hyar goes!”

The man’s words had warned Merry that the time for action had come. With the loaded revolver in his hand, he sprang back from Garland.

Quick as thought, Frank lifted the revolver and fired a single shot. The bullet cut the rope, and the noose fell harmlessly at the feet of the young actor!

It was over in the twinkling of an eye, and the ruffianly cowboy stood there with the useless end of the cut rope in his hands, dazed and bewildered by what had happened.

204 The audience was startled, and Frank saw that the people must be calmed at once, so he immediately stepped to the footlights and began to speak:

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “there is no real cause for alarm. Please keep your seats. The attempt of this ruffian with the rope to break up the performance has proved a failure. This is his third attack to-day upon me. I fancied I had taught him a lesson, but he does not seem to have sense enough to know it. Now, if there is an officer present, I wish he would remove the man from the house. The performance will then go on.”

“Waal, dern my eyes!” muttered Sam Hooker, having drawn in the rope and examined the severed end. “Ther critter shot it in two with a bullet!”

“You needn’t call fer an officer,” said Sam Hooker. “I’ll go right out without no trouble. You say I ain’t got sense enough ter know when I’m beat. Mebbe not, but I’ve got sense enough ter know you froze me out on this yar game without half tryin’.”

Then the dejected ruffian turned and made for the door, hissed on every hand by the angry audience.

When Hooker had disappeared, the performance continued as if nothing had happened.

There was not a little excitement among the actors. They bombarded Merriwell with questions at the end of the act. They wanted to know how it happened that he had been aware of Hooker’s intention. On this point he did not enlighten them, but he assured them he had been prepared for any move the ruffian had contemplated.

The time between the acts gave the audience a chance to buzz about the remarkable thing that had happened. Some could not believe it possible Frank had cut the rope 205 with a bullet. Not a few insisted that it was impossible, because actors never used weapons loaded with bullets on the stage.

But all had witnessed what had happened, and it was plain the star had defeated Sam Hooker’s purpose in some manner.

There was no further attempt to interrupt the performance, although some timid ones expected Hooker to return with a gang of roughs and create disturbance.

The performance was over at last, and Frank breathed easy. Although he had been on his guard for anything that might happen, he could not help feeling relieved when the curtain fell on the last act without witnessing another effort to break him up or molest him.

“Waal, by gum!” said Ephraim Gallup, as he met Frank behind the curtain, “yeou’ve made a new record ter-night. If yeou don’t use that fer advertising in ther Chicago papers, yeou are dead slow.”

“Shootin’ that rope in tew. It’d be a great story for yeour press agint. Yeou oughter git it sworn to by reliable parties who saw it, an’ telegraph it to yeour agint right off.”

“Well, I haven’t thought of that. I’m afraid it would seem too much like a fake to be swallowed by the people who read the theatrical columns in the papers.”

“Well, I think we can draw houses in Chicago without the use of that yarn. It may be all right, but I don’t fancy we need it.”

“All right!” exclaimed Ephraim. “I bet yeou four dollars I git aout a yarn that packs your theatur in Chicago.”

He made a run for his dressing room to get off his stage dress and make-up, eager to carry out his plan.

Hodge was in the sulks and would have nothing to say to anybody. As soon as possible he left the theater and went to the hotel.

Ephraim, hot to get reliable citizens of Carrolton to swear to the remarkable happening of that night, had also left.

Those who were not required to remain behind and handle scenery did not lose much time in getting their make-up off and their effects together, after which they departed for the hotel.

Frank lingered to watch the packing of the special scenery. He was not supposed to do this, but his anxiety that everything should be done right led him to do so.

When the last of it was nearly packed, Frank put on his light coat and left the theater by the side door.

He had not gone twenty steps from the door before he fancied he heard a light step behind him.

Something settled over his head and entangled him in muffling folds. At the same moment he received a blow that knocked him down.

Although thus attacked from behind and taken by surprise, Frank made a desperate fight.

He realized he had been set upon by several assailants, 207 and they were trying to beat him into nonresistance. For a time the blanket protected him from the force of their blows, but it smothered him, and he grew weaker and weaker. He did not give up, however, as long as he had the least strength left to resist.

At last he was beaten into a state of helplessness, and then, still enfolded by the smothering blanket, he was hurriedly lifted and carried away by strong hands.

When Merry came to himself he found himself in a small room that was poorly lighted by a single kerosene lamp.

In a stove a fire was burning, while on the stove sat a big pan, which contained some substance that gave out a peculiar odor.

“I’m glad the critter ain’t hurt much,” he said, in a voice which Frank instantly recognized. “I didn’t want ter crack his head, fer that ’ud spoil ther fun we’re goin’ ter have with him.”

“He won’t make much spread on the stage for a long time after we get through with him,” said the first speaker.

“Come, my pritty dude actor,” he said, roughly. “We’re goin’ ter give ye a new suit o’ clothes.”

208 “Thank you, Sam Hooker,” said Frank, quite coolly. “You are becoming exceedingly generous.”

“That is your name. You can’t fool me, even if your face is hidden. I know you. I know your voice.”

“Waal, what ther blazes do I care!” cried the man, stripping the mask from his face and casting it aside. “I want yer ter know me! I want yer ter know I’m gittin’ even with yer. I am Sam Hooker.”

“You would look better if you kept on the mask,” said Merry. “Anything to hide that villainous face of yours.”

“It’s a good time for you to do that!” exclaimed Frank, scornfully. “You wouldn’t dare if my hands were free! You are a coward—a miserable coward!”

“Can’t? Waal, you may git another rap on ther head that’ll keep it still!”

“It is a wonder to me that a ruffian of your stamp has hesitated at murder. Go ahead with your dirty work!”

“Oh, we ain’t goin’ ter kill ye! Not much! We’ve got somethin’ better fer ye! We’ve got somethin’ you’ll like—I don’t think!”

“That’s right,” laughed one of the others. “It’ll keep ye good an’ warm, an’ you’ll be a pretty picture.”

“So both Hookers are in this little business. Joe, if you follow in the tracks of your brother, I’ll guarantee you will land in prison. He’ll be there within a year.”

“I want ye ter know I’m in this business, too!” he 209 snarled. “If ye swear to it afterward, your word’s no better’n ourn, and we’ll swear you lie.”

“Now,” said Merry, “if the rest of the fine gentlemen will kindly uncover, we’ll be able to talk this matter over face to face.”

“They jest come erlong to see ther fun,” said the cowboy. “We’re goin’ ter do ther business. Eh, Joe?”

“Oh, ye’re anxious ter know! You’ll find out soon enough. Is ther tar hot, Joe?”

“Then we’d better prepare the gent for his new suit o’ clothes. Bring in ther feathers.”

Now Frank understood the foul purpose of the gang, and his rage knew no bounds. However, he realized it would be useless to give vent to his anger, and he held himself in check.

“Tar and feathers, eh?” he said, apparently quite cool, for all of the seething fury in his heart.

“Ye’ve struck it,” chuckled Sam Hooker, as Joe hurriedly left the room. “You’ve made me ther laughin’-stock o’ ther town, an’ now I’m goin’ ter disgrace you.”

“Wait a minute,” said Frank. “I have a few words to say to you before you begin your dirty work.”

“Speak lively, fer we ain’t got no time ter waste. All the same, ye may as well spare yer breath, fer nothin’ you kin say will make any difference.”

“I do not expect it will, but I wish to make you a little 210 promise, Mr. Hooker. It is this: If you adorn me with a coat of tar and feathers, I promise you that I will make you regret the day you ever saw me. I promise you I will make you weary of life! I will not rest in carrying out my promise. I will hound you down, and I’ll make you such an object of scorn and contempt that you will long for death! I swear it!”

“Go ahead!” cried Sam Hooker. “You’ve made me ther laughin’ stock o’ Carrolton now, an’ I’m bound ter git even with yer! Now, we’ll strip him, Joe.”

Through the door bounded a girl. With all her strength she pushed Sam Hooker aside. Over Frank Merriwell she stood, with a hardwood baseball bat raised aloft.

Joe took a step forward, but she glared at him and seemed ready to strike with all her strength.

“I’ll hit you, Joe Hooker, just as quick as anybody else!” she declared. “And I reckon I can lay you out with this bat!”

“You shan’t touch him, I tell ye!” she screamed. “He was my friend. He talked to me better than anybody ever did before. I won’t see him hurt.”

“I won’t see you do your mean work!” she panted. “You were to blame in the first place, and you know it! He met you like a man, and, because he was your master, now you have plotted to disgrace him this way. Shame!”

“I’ve been a fool to have anything to do with you!” she flung back. “I am done. From this night I’ll never speak to you again!”

212 “No! I have seen the difference between a real man and a common fellow who swaggers and blusters. Frank Merriwell is a man.”

“Now I wouldn’t let him off to save my life!” snarled Joe, all the jealousy of his nature aroused. “You are struck on him! He shall have a double coat!”

“Little good that will do! You are nothing but a girl, and we are five men.”

Frank admired the girl then. He strained at his bonds trying to free his hands, but in vain.

“I will!” she cried—“I swear I will! Don’t try to put a hand on me, Joe Hooker! If you do, I’ll stretch you on the floor!”

“Oh, come, Daisy,” he said, coaxingly, “don’t be foolish! You can’t save him! Put down that bat and we will talk it over.”

“Not on your life! I know what you want and you don’t get it that way! Frank Merriwell has been good to me, and I will fight for him as long as I can draw a breath!”

It was too late, for one of the masked men had edged along till he found a favorable opportunity to spring. Now he made a leap at the girl, grasping the bat.

She screamed and struggled, but it was useless then. They seized her, tore the bat from her hands, held her helpless, even though she bit and scratched.

213 “Take the cat out of here, Joe!” roared Sam Hooker. “Be lively about it! Get her away, and keep her away!”

Joe Hooker lifted the girl in his arms and carried her from the room, for all of her screams and struggles. He was not gone long before he returned, slamming the door and fastening it. He was panting, but seemed more vicious than ever.

“She broke away from me,” answered Joe. “Hurry up with the job! I want to put the tar on myself! Oh, I’ll fix him! She called him a man! She is struck on him!”

He glared at Frank, who was now sitting with his back against the wall, having drawn himself into that position.

“We’d better be lively if that girl is free,” said Sam, nervously. “There is no telling what she may do.”

They advanced on Frank, but stopped in surprise, as he suddenly shot up to standing position, with his back against the wall. There was a look in the eyes of the captive that warned them he was not in a submissive mood.

“Grab him, fellers!” ordered Joe Hooker. “Strip his clothes off! We’ll have the tar and feathers onto him in less than five minutes! We’ll fix him!”

He sprang at Frank, but out shot one of Merry’s feet, striking Joe in the stomach and hurling him backward with terrific force. The fellow dropped to the floor, where he lay gasping, grunting and groaning, apparently badly hurt.

Sam Hooker gave a howl of rage when he saw what had happened to his brother. He had fancied Merriwell was beyond making further resistance, but now he saw his mistake. However, the fate that had befallen Joe did not render him cautious. Uttering fierce language, he rushed at Merry.

In France Frank Merriwell had learned to “box with 214 his feet,” having taken lessons from a Frenchman who was an expert in the art. Frank had realized the value of being able to use his feet scientifically in a rough-and-tumble fight, and now his acquirement stood him in good stead.

Joe Hooker had been kicked in the stomach, but his brother received a kick under the chin that fairly lifted him off the floor.

The masked ruffians were astounded. They stared at Frank as if unable to believe a youth whose hands were tied behind his back had upset the terrible Hooker brothers so quickly and easily.

“Go—for—him!” groaned Joe, catching his breath in gasps. “Kill him! Smash him!”

“Come on!” he invited. “My hands are helpless, but I fancy I am a match for all of you, so long as I can see. Come on!”

They had expected that he would stand still, but he did nothing of the kind. He ducked and darted between them. Then he whirled and raised one of them into the air with a terrible kick.

Clinging to his jaw and snarling like a furious animal, Sam Hooker struggled to his feet, meaning to take part in the struggle.

He got what he wanted. The kick he gave Sam Hooker threw the fellow full upon the stove, and his head struck in the pan of hot tar. Over the stove to the floor went Sam, tar and all.

Then the most frightful howls of pain issued from the throat of the ruffian. He rolled about on the floor, clawing at his face and eyes, and roaring with pain.

Joe tried to get up, but he was kicked full against his brother. In his agony, Sam struck out and smote Joe full on the nose, causing the blood to flow.

“Why, this is a regular merry old spree of a time!” exclaimed Frank Merriwell, as he danced backward, still laughing. “You chaps seem to be having lots of fun with me! Aren’t you glad you brought me here? Isn’t it a real jolly time?”

Then he actually charged on the masked rascals, and they dodged to get out of his way. Then might have been seen the remarkable and ludicrous spectacle of three men making frantic endeavors to avoid one whose hands were tied behind his back—one whom a few moments before they had regarded as a helpless captive!

“Whar’s my guns?” roared Sam Hooker. “I’ll shoot ther critter full o’ lead! I’ll kill him! I’ll——”

“You seem to have a little tar on you, Sammy,” laughed Frank. “Why, you make a real laughable spectacle! If you could see yourself in a mirror you would be greatly amused. It will take you several days to comb the tar out of your hair.”

216 “I heard you say so before. You were going to tar and feather me, but your scheme seems to have miscarried. You’ve got the first dose of tar yourself.”

“Where’s that baseball bat?” howled Joe Hooker. “I’ll beat his brains out! Give me that bat!”

He saw it and made a scramble for it, but Frank headed him off and bowled him over, although Joe made a desperate attempt to get hold of Merry.

Sam Hooker had not found his “guns,” but he was on his feet now, and in his hand glittered a long knife.

“Hold on!” cried one of the masked men. “That is going too far! We don’t want a hand in a murder!”

Merry knew his life was in danger, but that did not rob him of his nerve. He actually laughed again.

In the excitement of the struggle none of them had noticed it, but now they saw the room was filling with smoke. And they paused, they could hear the crackle of the flames.

One of the men leaped to the door and tore it open. Then they saw the gleam of the flames, and, for a moment, they were appalled.

“The old house is all afire!” shouted the man at the door. “We must get out in a hurry if we want to get out at all!”

217 Sam Hooker was the last of the gang to reach the door. He turned a moment, and his tar-bedaubed face made him look like a fiend.

Frank bounded toward the door, but it closed with a slam, and he recoiled helplessly from the shock of striking against it. Again and again he flung himself against that door, but it refused to yield, and he realized that he was a helpless prisoner in the burning building, abandoned to his doom by those dastardly ruffians.

He looked for windows, but the only one he could see was in the roof, far above his head.

It was a terrible position. He could hear the crackling of the flames as they gained headway, and the smoke came pouring into the room so thickly that it threatened to strangle him. He coughed and choked and hurled himself again and again against the doors, till he was weak and battered and hopeless.

“Somebody must see this fire,” he muttered; “but they will get here too late to save me! The jig is up!”

Then came a sound at one of the doors! Then it was flung open, and a coughing, strangling girl staggered into the room.

“Come!” she gasped. “Hurry! If you don’t, we’ll not get out of here! The old building will be all afire in five minutes!”

He followed her. The light of the flames showed her seeming to plunge into the thickest of the yellow, rolling 218 smoke. He reached some stairs and fell clean to the bottom. There she got hold of him and dragged him out into the open air.

“We must hurry!” she panted. “The fire will be seen! We do not want to be found here! Men will come and ask questions.”

“This way,” she whispered, and he ran after her, as she darted round the building, from the upper windows of which there now came a reddish glare.

“I know how to get away from here,” she said. “This old building is on the outskirts of the town.”

He trusted everything to her, and they ran on through the darkness, cutting across lots till they reached a distant street.

Then they heard the cry of fire from another direction, and they knew the first alarm had been given.

“I’ll not forget what you have done for me to-night, Miss Blaney,” declared Frank. “You saved my life!”

“You did quite as much for me,” she asserted. “I 219 believe you saved me from a life of wretchedness. You made me understand just where I was drifting.”

“You are a brave little girl! I shall remember how bravely you stood up before those ruffians.”

“I knew something was happening. Joe would not tell me what, but I knew they were going to do something. I followed him after he left me to-night. I did not go into the house, though he thought I did. I saw them take you there. Then was when I made my mistake. I should have hurried to your friends and told them what happened, instead of trying to save you myself.”

“Well, it has turned out all right. They will think I perished in the burning building.”

“Oh, the wretches!” she exclaimed. “To leave you there to be burned to death! I’ll never have anything to do with Joe Hooker again—never as long as I live!”

“He is not in your class, Miss Blaney. In the morning both Joe and Sam will be arrested on a warrant I shall swear out. They will not be expecting it. It will be a great surprise for them.”

“I don’t care,” said the girl. “I hope you will make them suffer for their dreadful acts. I shall not pity them one bit.”

220 “Then you may depend on me. I’d do anything for you, Frank Merriwell!”

He pressed her hand in parting, bade her good-night and hurried toward the hotel.

“I hardly think so. It is an old building on the outskirts of the town. It is not tenanted.”

Later, in his room, he told them of the thrilling adventure through which he had passed.

“What are you going to do, Frank?” panted Bart, fiercely. “What are you going to do to the Hookers?”

“That’s so, by gosh!” spluttered Ephraim. “They’re wuss’n I thought they was! If ever any critters oughter be lynched, them is the ones!”

“The sheriff will wait on them in the morning,” said Merry. “He will serve them with a great surprise, for they think I am burning in that old building.”

In the morning, however, neither of the Hooker brothers could be found in Carrolton. Whether they had learned of Merriwell’s escape or not, they had taken the alarm and fled from the town.

Frank made known the story of their atrocity, and the anger of the honest citizens of the place was great. They assured Merry that neither of the brothers would be tolerated in Carrolton again if they reappeared there.

221 Had not Frank felt that any neglect of his present duties would seriously endanger the success he now seemed on the highroad to achieve he would have abandoned everything in order to follow the wretches and bring them to justice. His future weighed heavier in the balance than his just vengeance, however, for Merry was too shrewd and clear sighted to pass over the substance to pursue the shadow. “True Blue” meant wealth, the satisfaction of his desires, happiness; the punishment of the Hookers, aside from its aspect as an act for the benefit of society, was but the satisfaction of anger, and nothing more.

Accordingly, early the following morning, Frank and his company left Carrolton en route for Chicago, where the real test of “True Blue” was to come. Frank felt little anxiety as to the result of this test. He knew he had written a winning play and he believed that at last he had seized that tide in his affairs that was to bear him on its broad bosom to fame and prosperity.

Frank had experienced adversity in its most chilling form. Firm and sturdy in his purpose to overcome his misfortunes, he had toiled with body and brain like the strong-hearted American youth he was, and now, as he reviewed the past and calculated his future from its present promise, he might well say:

This is an ideal line for boys of all ages. It contains juvenile masterpieces by the most popular writers of interesting fiction for boys. Among these may be mentioned the works of Burt L. Standish, detailing the adventures of Frank Merriwell, the hero, of whom every American boy has read with admiration. Frank is a truly representative American lad, full of character and a strong determination to do right at any cost. Then, there are the works of Horatio Alger, Jr., whose keen insight into the minds of the boys of our country has enabled him to write a series of the most interesting tales ever published. This line also contains some of the best works of Oliver Optic, another author whose entire life was devoted to writing books that would tend to interest and elevate our boys.

TALES OF VICTORIES

Gained in the Pre-Revolutionary wars by lads of pluck and intelligence. Every true boy will be fascinated with these stories of the exciting adventures of boys who gladly gave their lives to freedom’s cause.

BOYS OF LIBERTY LIBRARY

3.: —The Young Ambassador. By John De Morgan
7.: —The Young Guardsman. By John De Morgan
11.: —Fighting Hal. By John De Morgan
15.: —By Order of the Colonel. By Lieut. Lounsberry
19.: —A Call to Duty. By Lieut. Lounsberry
23.: —The Young Patriot. By Lieut. Lounsberry
26.: —The Trader’s Captive. By Lieut. Lounsberry

Only Ten Cents Per Copy

At All Newsdealers

If ordered by mail, add four cents to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

NEW YORK

has written a new series of adventure stories for THE POPULAR MAGAZINE, entitled

The purchase of these stories at a handsome price, for publication in THE POPULAR MAGAZINE, beginning with the September, 1905, number, is only one step toward the goal we have set for this magazine:—that is, the best reading matter and more of it than is given by any other magazine in the world.

Cutcliffe Hyne is the author of the renowned “Captain Kettle” stories, which caused a sensation among lovers of good reading. We are free to say, however, that “The Trials of Commander McTurk” will become even more popular because they are written, at our suggestion, around an ultra-patriotic American character. We feel certain that the doughty commander will win his way into a warm corner of every reader’s heart.

THE POPULAR MAGAZINE is for sale at all newsstands at 10c. per copy. Back numbers may be secured from your dealer or from the publishers at the regular price.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S PROSPERITY; OR, TOIL HAS ITS REWARD ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate .

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org .

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

PUBLISHED EVERY WEEK


To be Published During September

328—Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity	By Burt L. Standish
327—Jack Harkaway’s Friends	By Bracebridge Hemyng
326—A Rattling Good Story	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
325—The Young Franc-Tireurs	By G. A. Henty
324—Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian	By Burt L. Standish
323—The Sheik’s White Slave	By Raymond Raife


To be Published During August

322—A Rattling Good Story	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
321—Snarleyyow, The Dog Fiend	By Capt. Marryat
320—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune	By Burt L. Standish
319—By Right of Conquest	By G. A. Henty


To be Published During July

318—A Rattling Good Story	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
317—Jack Harkaway’s Schooldays	By Bracebridge Hemyng
316—Frank Merriwell’s Problem	By Burt L. Standish

____

315—The Diamond Seeker of Brazil	By Leon Lewis
314—Andy Gordon	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
313—The Phantom Ship	By Capt. Marryat
312—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums	By Burt L. Standish
311—Whistler	By Walter Aimwell
310—Making His Way	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
309—Three Years at Wolverton	By A Wolvertonian
308—Frank Merriwell’s Fame	By Burt L. Standish
307—The Boy Crusoes	By Jeffreys Taylor
306—Chester Rand	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
305—Japhet in Search of a Father	By Capt. Marryat
304—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company	By Burt L. Standish
303—The Prairie	By J. Fenimore Cooper
302—The Young Salesman	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
301—A Battle and a Boy	By Blanche Willis Howard
300—Frank Merriwell on the Road	By Burt L. Standish
299—Mart Satterlee Among the Indians	By William O. Stoddard
298—Andy Grant’s Pluck	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
297—Newton Forster	By Capt. Marryat
296—Frank Merriwell’s Protege	By Burt L. Standish
295—Cris Rock	By Capt. Mayne Reid
294—Sam’s Chance	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
293—My Plucky Boy Tom	By Edward S. Ellis
292—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck	By Burt L. Standish
291—By Pike and Dyke	By G. A. Henty
290—Shifting For Himself	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
289—The Pirate and the Three Cutters	By Capt. Marryat
288—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity	By Burt L. Standish
287—Kit Carson’s Last Trail	By Leon Lewis
286—Jack’s Ward	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
285—Jack Darcy, the All Around Athlete	By Edward S. Ellis
284—Frank Merriwell’s First Job	By Burt L. Standish
283—Wild Adventures Round the Pole	By Gordon Stables
282—Herbert Carter’s Legacy	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
281—Rattlin, the Reefer	By Capt. Marryat
280—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle	By Burt L. Standish
279—Mark Dale’s Stage Venture	By Arthur M. Winfield
278—In Times of Peril	By G. A. Henty
277—In a New World	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
276—Frank Merriwell in Maine	By Burt L. Standish
275—The King of the Island	By Henry Harrison Lewis
274—Beach Boy Joe	By Lieut. James K. Orton
273—Jacob Faithful	By Capt. Marryat
272—Facing the World	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
271—Frank Merriwell’s Chase	By Burt L. Standish
270—Wing and Wing	By J. Fenimore Cooper
269—The Young Bank Clerk	By Arthur M. Winfield
268—Do and Dare	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
267—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise	By Burt L. Standish
266—The Young Castaways	By Leon Lewis
265—The Lion of St. Mark	By G. A. Henty
264—Hector’s Inheritance	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
263—Mr. Midshipman Easy	By Captain Marryat
262—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation	By Burt L. Standish
261—The Pilot	By J. Fenimore Cooper
260—Driven From Home	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
259—Sword and Pen	By Henry Harrison Lewis
258—Frank Merriwell In Camp	By Burt L. Standish
257—Jerry	By Walter Aimwell
256—The Young Ranchman	By Lieut. Lounsberry
255—Captain Bayley’s Heir	By G. A. Henty
254—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty	By Burt L. Standish
253—The Water Witch	By J. Fenimore Cooper
252—Luke Walton	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
251—Frank Merriwell’s Danger	By Burt L. Standish
250—Neka, the Boy Conjurer	By Capt. Ralph Bonehill
249—The Young Bridge Tender	By Arthur M. Winfield
248—The West Point Rivals	By Lieut. Frederick Garrison, U. S. A.
247—Frank Merriwell’s Secret	By Burt L. Standish
246—Rob Ranger’s Cowboy Days	By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
245—The Red Rover	By J. Fenimore Cooper
244—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale	By Burt L. Standish
243—Adrift in New York	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
242—The Rival Canoe Boys	By St. George Rathborne
241—The Tour of the Zero Club	By Capt. R. Bonehill
240—Frank Merriwell’s Champions	By Burt L. Standish
239—The Two Admirals	By J. Fenimore Cooper
238—A Cadet’s Honor	By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
237—Frank Merriwell’s Skill	By Burt L. Standish
236—Rob Ranger’s Mine	By Lieut. Lounsberry
235—The Young Carthaginian	By G. A. Henty
234—The Store Boy	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
233—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes	By Burt L. Standish
232—The Valley of Mystery	By Henry Harrison Lewis
231—Paddling Under Palmettos	By St. George Rathborne
230—Off for West Point	By Lieut. Fred’k Garrison, U. S. A.
229—Frank Merriwell’s Daring	By Burt L. Standish
228—The Cash Boy	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
227—In Freedom’s Cause	By G. A. Henty
226—Tom Havens With the White Squadron	By Lieut. James K. Orton
225—Frank Merriwell’s Courage	By Burt L. Standish
224—Yankee Boys in Japan	By Henry Harrison Lewis
223—In Fort and Prison	By William Murray Graydon
222—A West Point Treasure	By Lieut. Frederick Garrison, U. S. A.
221—The Young Outlaw	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
220—The Gulf Cruisers	By St. George Rathborne
219—Tom Truxton’s Ocean Trip	By Lieut. Lounsberry
218—Tom Truxton’s School Days	By Lieut. Lounsberry
217—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour	By Burt L. Standish
216—Campaigning With Braddock	By Wm. Murray Graydon
215—With Clive in India	By G. A. Henty
214—On Guard	By Lieut. Frederick Garrison, U. S. A.
213—Frank Merriwell’s Races	By Burt L. Standish
212—Julius, the Street Boy	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
211—Buck Badger’s Ranch	By Russell Williams
210—Sturdy and Strong	By G. A. Henty
209—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield	By Burt L. Standish
208—The Treasure of the Golden Crater	By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
207—Shifting Winds	By St. George Rathborne
206—Jungles and Traitors	By Wm. Murray Graydon
205—Frank Merriwell at Yale	By Burt L. Standish
204—Under Drake’s Flag	By G. A. Henty
203—Last Chance Mine	By Lieut. James K. Orton
202—Risen From the Ranks	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
201—Frank Merriwell in Europe	By Burt L. Standish
200—The Fight for a Pennant	By Frank Merriwell
199—The Golden Cañon	By G. A. Henty
198—Only an Irish Boy	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
197—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour	Burt L. Standish
196—Zip, the Acrobat	By Victor St. Clair
195—The Lion of the North	By G. A. Henty
194—The White Mustang	By Edward S. Ellis
193—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery	By Burt L. Standish
192—Tom, the Bootblack	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
191—The Rivals of the Diamond	By Russell Williams
190—The Cat of Bubastes	By G. A. Henty
189—Frank Merriwell Down South	By Burt L. Standish
188—From Street to Mansion	By Frank H. Stauffer
187—Bound to Rise	By Horatio Alger, Jr.
186—On the Trail of Geronimo	By Edward S. Ellis
185—For the Temple	By G. A. Henty
184—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West	By Burt L. Standish
183—The Diamond Hunters	By James Grant

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frank Merriwell's Prosperity; or, Toil Has Its Reward

Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity
OR
TOIL HAS ITS REWARD

CHAPTER I.
WHEN RAGE RULES.

CHAPTER II.
THROUGH THE TRANSOM.

CHAPTER III.
BART’S WILD MOVE.

CHAPTER IV.
“TRUE AS STEEL.”

CHAPTER V.
ON THE TRACK.

CHAPTER VI.
RUN TO EARTH.

CHAPTER VII.
FOOLISH GIRLS.

CHAPTER VIII.
AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION.

CHAPTER IX.
UNMASKED!

CHAPTER X.
MORE ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER XI.
FRANK SPEAKS HIS MIND.

CHAPTER XII.
A LIVELY NIGHT.

CHAPTER XIII.
A MISSOURI TERROR.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE DOWNFALL OF SAM HOOKER.

CHAPTER XV.
THE FRUITS OF EFFORT.

CHAPTER XVI.
BART AND DAISY.

CHAPTER XVII.
PLAIN WORDS.

CHAPTER XVIII.
AN ASTONISHING SHOT.

CHAPTER XIX.
AN UNEQUAL BATTLE.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frank Merriwell's Prosperity; or, Toil Has Its Reward

Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity OR TOIL HAS ITS REWARD

CHAPTER I. WHEN RAGE RULES.

CHAPTER II. THROUGH THE TRANSOM.

CHAPTER III. BART’S WILD MOVE.

CHAPTER IV. “TRUE AS STEEL.”

CHAPTER V. ON THE TRACK.

CHAPTER VI. RUN TO EARTH.

CHAPTER VII. FOOLISH GIRLS.

CHAPTER VIII. AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION.

CHAPTER IX. UNMASKED!

CHAPTER X. MORE ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER XI. FRANK SPEAKS HIS MIND.

CHAPTER XII. A LIVELY NIGHT.

CHAPTER XIII. A MISSOURI TERROR.

CHAPTER XIV. THE DOWNFALL OF SAM HOOKER.

CHAPTER XV. THE FRUITS OF EFFORT.

CHAPTER XVI. BART AND DAISY.

CHAPTER XVII. PLAIN WORDS.

CHAPTER XVIII. AN ASTONISHING SHOT.

CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEQUAL BATTLE.