Book: Frank Merriwell at Yale

B >> Burt L. Standish >> Frank Merriwell at Yale




The Yale rooters tried to rattle Peck, but they succeeded in rattling
the batter instead, and, to their unutterable dismay and horror, he
fanned at a third one, missed it, and--

"Batter is out!" cried the umpire.

Then a great roar for Harvard went up, and the dazed freshmen from New
Haven realized they were defeated after all.




CHAPTER XXX.

RATTLETON IS EXCITED.


"It wasn't Merriwell's fault that the freshies didn't win," said Bob
Collingwood to Paul Pierson as they were riding back to New Haven on the
train that night.

"Not a bit of it," agreed Pierson. "I was expecting a great deal of
Merriwell, but I believe he is a better man than I thought he could be."

"Then you have arrived at the conclusion that he is fast enough for the
regular team?"

"I rather think he is."

"Will you give him a trial?"

"We may. It is a bad thing for any freshman to get an exalted opinion of
himself and his abilities, for it is likely to spoil him. I don't want
to spoil Merriwell--"

"Look here," interrupted Collingwood, impulsively. "I am inclined to
doubt if it is an easy thing to spoil that fellow. He hasn't put on airs
since coming to Yale, has he?"

"No."

"Instead of that, he has lived rather simply--far more so than most
fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends
with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents
possessed boodle or were poor."

"That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of
thinking himself too good to be living."

"Yet I have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he
may live as swell as he likes while he is here. What do you think of
that?"

"It may be true," admitted Pierson. "He is an original sort of chap--"

"But they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in
Collingwood, swiftly. "He isn't living cheap for economy's sake. You
know he doesn't drink."

"Yes. I have made inquiries about his habits."

"Still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking
ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz,
for which he settles. And he is liberal in other ways."

"He is an enigma in some ways."

"I have heard a wild sort of story about him, but I don't take much
stock in it. It is the invention of some fertile brain."

"What is it?"

"Oh, a lot of trash about his having traveled all over the world, been
captured by pirates and cannibals, fought gorillas and tigers, shot
elephants and so forth. Of course that's all rot."

"Of course. What does he say about it?"

"Oh, he simply laughs at the stories. If a fellow asks him point-blank
if they are true he tells him not to let anybody string him. He seems to
regard the whole business as a weak sort of joke that some fellow is
trying to work."

"Without doubt that's what it is, for he's too young to have had such
adventures. Besides that, there's no fellow modest enough to deny it if
he had had them."

"Of course there isn't."

In this way that point was settled in their minds, for the time, at
least.

There was no band to welcome 'Umpty-eight back to New Haven. No crowd of
cheering freshmen was at the station, and those who had gone on to
Cambridge to play and to see the game got off quietly--very quietly--and
hurried to their rooms.

Merriwell was in his room ahead of Rattleton. Harry finally appeared,
wearing a sad and doleful countenance.

"What's the matter, old man?" asked Frank as Harry came in and flung his
hat on the floor, after which he dropped upon a chair. "You do not seem
to feel well."

"I should think you would eel felegant--I mean feel elegant!" snapped
Harry, glaring at Frank.

"Oh, what's the use to be all broken up over a little thing?"

"Wow! Little thing!" whooped Harry. "I'd like to know what you call a
little thing--I would, by jee!"

"You are excited, my boy. Calm down somewhat."

"Oh, I am calm!" shouted Harry as he jumped up and kicked the chair
flying into a corner. "I am perfectly calm!" he roared, tearing up and
down the room. "I never was calmer in all my life!"

"You look it!" came in an amused manner from Frank's lips. "You are so
very calm that it is absolutely soothing and restful to the nerves to
observe you!"

Harry stopped short before Frank, thrust his hands deep into his
pockets, hunched his shoulders, thrust his head forward, and glared
fiercely into Merriwell's face.

"There are times when it positively is a crime not to swear," he
hoarsely said. "It seems to me that this is one of the times. If you
will cuss a little it will relieve my feelings immensely."

"Why don't you swear?" laughed Frank.

"Why don't I? Poly hoker--no, holy poker! I have been swearing all the
way from Cambridge to New Haven, and I have completely run out of
profanity."

"Well, I think you have done enough for both of us."

"Oh, indeed! Well, that is hard of me! I came in here expecting to find
you breaking the furniture, and you are as calm and serene as a summer's
morning. I tell you, Frank, it is an awful shock! And you are the one
who should do the most swearing. I can't understand you, hanged if I
can!"

"Well, you know there is an old saw that says it is useless to cry over
spilled milk--"

"Confound your old saws! Crying and swearing are two different things.
Don't you ever cuss, Frank?"

"Never."

"Well, I'd like to know how you can help it on an occasion like this!
That is what gets me."

"Never having acquired the habit, it is very easy to get along without
swearing, which is, beyond a doubt, the most foolish habit a man can get
into."

Rattleton held up both hands, with a look of absolute horror on his
face.

"Don't--don't preach now!" he protested. "I think the habit of swearing
is a blessing sometimes--an absolute blessing. A man can relieve his
feelings that way when he can't any other."

"You don't seem to have succeeded in relieving your feelings much."

"I don't? Well, you should have seen me when I got aboard the train! I
was at high pressure, and there was absolute danger of an explosion. I
just had to open the safety valve and blow off. And I find you as calm
as a clock! Oh, Frank, it is too much--too much!" and Harry pretended to
weep.

"Go it, old man," he smiled. "You will feel better pretty soon."

"I don't know whether I will or not!" snapped Harry. "It was a sheastly
bame--I mean a beastly shame! That game was ours!"

"Not quite. It came very near being ours."

"It was! Why, you actually had it pulled out! You held those fellows
down and never gave them a single safe hit! That was wonderful work!"

"Oh, I don't know. They are not such great batters."

"Gordon found them pretty fast. I tell you some of those fellows are
batters--good ones, too."

"Well, they didn't happen to get onto my delivery."

"Happen! happen! happen! There was no happen about it. They couldn't get
onto you. You had them at your mercy. It was wonderful pitching, and I
can lick the gun of a son--er--son of a gun that says it wasn't!"

"I had a chance to size every man up while Gordon was pitching, and that
gave me the advantage."

"That makes me tired! Of course you had time to size them up; but you
couldn't have kept them without a hit if you hadn't been a dandy
pitcher. Your modesty is simply sickening sometimes!"

Then Harry pranced up and down the room like am infuriated tiger, almost
gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth.

"If I didn't think I could pitch some I wouldn't try it." said Frank,
quietly. "But I am not fool enough to think I am the only one. There are
others."

"Well, they are not freshmen, and I'll tell you that."

"I don't know about that."

"I do."

"All right. Have it as you like it."

"And you batted like a fiend. Twice at bat and two hits--a two-bagger
and a three-bagger."

"A single and a three-bagger, if you please."

"Well, what's the matter with that? Whee jiz--mean jee whiz! Could
anybody ask for anything more? You got the three-bagger just when it was
needed most, and you would have saved the game if you had come to the
bat in the last inning."

"You think so, but it is all guesswork. I might have struck out."

"You might, but you wouldn't. Oh, merry thunder! To think that a little
single would have tied that game, and we couldn't get it! It actually
makes me ill at the pit of my stomach!"

The expression on Harry's face seemed to indicate that he told the
truth, for he certainly looked ill.

"Don't take it to heart so, my boy," said Frank. "The poor chaps earned
that game, and they ought to have it. We'll win the last one of the
series, and that's all we want. Do you want to bury poor old Harvard?"

"You can't bury her so deep that she won't crawl out, and you know that.
Those fellows are decidedly soon up at Cambridge, and Yale does well to
get all she can from them. You can't tell what will happen next game.
They have seen you, and they may have a surprise to spring on us. If we
pulled this game off the whole thing would be settled now."

"Don't think for a moment that I underestimate Harvard. She is Yale's
greatest rival and is bound to do us when she can.

"We made a good bid for the game to-day, but it wasn't our luck to win,
and so we may as well swallow our medicine and keep still."

"It wasn't a case of luck at all," spluttered Harry. "It was sheer
bull-headedness, that's what it was! If Put had put you in long before
he did the game might have been saved."

"He didn't like to pull Gordon out, you see."

"Well, if he's running this team on sentiment, the sooner he quits the
better it will be for the team."

Frank said nothing, but he could not help feeling that Harry was right.
Managing a ball team is purely a matter of business, and if a manager is
afraid to hurt anybody's feelings he is a poor man for the position.

"Why didn't he put you in in the first place?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. I suppose he had reasons."

"Oh, yes, he had reasons! And I rather think I know what they were. I am
sure I do."

"What were they?"

"Didn't you expect to pitch the game from the start to-day?"

"Yes, I did."

"I thought so."

Harry nodded, as if fully satisfied that he understood the whole matter.

"Well," said Frank, a bit sharply, "you have not explained yourself. I
am curious to know why I was not put into the box at the start."

"Well, I am glad to see you show some emotion, if it is nothing more
than curiosity. I had begun to think you would not show as much as
that."

"Naturally I am curious."

"Do you know that Paul Pierson, manager of the 'Varsity team, went on to
see this game?"

"Yes."

"Why do you suppose he did so?"

"Oh, he is acquainted with several Harvard fellows, and I presume he
went to see them as much as to see the game."

"He wasn't with any Harvard fellows at the game."

"Well, what are you trying to get at?"

"Don't be in a hurry," said Harry, who was now speaking with unusual
calmness. "You regard Old Put as your friend?"

"I always have."

"But you think he didn't use you just right to-day?"

"I will confess that I don't like to be used to fall back on with the
hope that I may pull out a game somebody else has lost."

Harry nodded his satisfaction.

"I knew you would feel that way, unless you had suddenly grown foolish.
It's natural and it's right. There is no reason why you shouldn't be the
regular pitcher for our team, but still Gordon is regarded as the
pitcher, while you are the change pitcher. Frank, there is a nigger in
the woodpile."

"You will have to make yourself clearer than that."

"Putnam knew that Pierson was going to be present at the game."

"Well?"

"Pierson didn't go on to see any Harvard friends. He couldn't afford the
time just at this season with all he has on his hands."

"Go on."

"Putnam knew Pierson was not there to see any Harvard men."

"Oh, take your time."

Harry grinned. He was speaking with such deliberation that he did not
once twist his words or expressions about, as he often did when excited
and in a hurry.

"That's why you wasn't put in at the start-off," he declared.

"What is why? You will have to make the whole matter plainer than you
have so far. It is hazy."

"Putnam did not want Pierson to see you pitch."

"He didn't? Why not?"

"Because Pierson was there for that very purpose."

"Get out!"

"I know what I am talking about. You have kept still about it, but
Pierson himself has let the cat out of the bag."

"What cat?"

"He has told--confidentially, you know--that he has thoughts of giving
you a trial on the regular team. The parties he told repeated
it--confidentially, you know--to others. It finally came to my ears. Old
Put heard of it. Now, while Old Put seems to be your friend, he doesn't
want to lose you, and he had taken every precaution to keep you in the
background. He has made Gordon more prominent, and he has not let you
do much pitching for Pierson to see. He permitted you to go in to-day
because he was afraid Gordon would go all to pieces, and he knew what a
howl would go up if he didn't do something."

Frank walked up and down the room. He did not permit himself to show any
great amount of excitement, but there was a dark look on his handsome
face that told he was aroused. Harry saw that his roommate was stirred
up at last.

"As I have said," observed Frank, halting and speaking grimly. "I have
regarded Burnham Putnam as my friend; but if he has done as you claim
for the reasons you give he has not shown himself to be very friendly.
There is likely to be an understanding between us."

Rattleton nodded.

"That's right," he said. "He may deny it, but I know I am not off my
trolley. He didn't want Piersan to see you work because he was afraid
you would show up so well that Pierson would nail you for the regular
team."

"And you think that is why I have been kept in the background so much
since the season opened?"

"I am dead sure of it."

"Putnam must have a grudge against me."

"No, Frank; but he has displayed selfishness in the matter. I believe
he has considered you a better man than Gordon all along, and he wanted
you on the team to use in case he got into a tight corner. That's why he
didn't want Pierson to see you work. He didn't want to lose you. But he
was forced to use you to-day, and you must have satisfied Pierson that
you know your business."

"Well, Harry, you have thrown light on dark places. To-morrow I will
have a little talk with Put about this matter."

"That's right," grinned Harry; "and Pierson is liable to have a little
talk with you. You'll be on the regular team inside of a week."




CHAPTER XXXI.

WHAT DITSON WANTED.


On the following day the great topic of conversation for the class of
'Umpty-eight was the recent ball game. Wherever the freshmen gathered
they discussed the game and the work of Gordon and Merriwell.

Gordon was a free-and-easy sort of fellow, and he had his friends and
admirers, some of whom were set in their belief that he was far superior
to Merriwell as a pitcher.

Roland Ditson attempted to argue on two or three occasions in favor of
Gordon, but nobody paid attention to what he said, for it was known that
he had tried by every possible means to injure Merriwell and had been
exposed in a contemptible piece of treachery, so that no one cared to be
known as his friend and associate.

Whenever Ditson would approach a group of lads and try to get in a few
words he would be listened to in stony silence for some moments, and
then the entire crowd would turn and walk away, without replying to his
remarks or speaking to him at all.

This would have driven a fellow less sensitive than Ditson to abandon
all hope of going through Yale. Of course it cut Ditson, but he would
grind his teeth and mutter:

"Merriwell is to blame for it all, curse him! I won't let him triumph!
The time will come when I'll get square with him! I'll have to stay here
in order to get square, and stay here I will, no matter how I am
treated."

Since his duplicity had been made known and his classmates had turned
against him Ditson had taken to grinding in a fierce manner, and as a
result he had made good progress in his studies. He was determined to
stand ahead of Merriwell in that line, at least, and it really seemed
that he might succeed, unless Frank gave more time to his studies and
less to athletics.

This was not easy for a fellow in Merriwell's position and with his
ardent love for all sorts of manly sports to do. He gave all the time he
could to studies without becoming a greasy grind, but that was not as
much as he would have liked.

To Ditson's disappointment and chagrin Merriwell seemed quite unaware
that his enemy stood ahead of him in his classes. Frank seemed to have
quite forgotten that such a person as Roll Ditson existed.

Ditson was an outcast. The fellow with whom he had roomed had left him
shortly after his treachery was made public, and he was forced to room
alone, as he could get no one to come in with him.

Roll did not mind this so much, however. He pretended that he was far
more exclusive than the average freshman, and he tried to imitate the
ways of the juniors and seniors, some of whom had swell apartments.

Ditson's parents were wealthy, and they furnished him with plenty of
loose change, so that he could cut quite a dash. He had fancied that his
money would buy plenty of friends for him. At first, before his real
character was known, he had picked up quite a following, but he posed as
a superior, which made him disliked by the very ones who helped him
spend his money.

He had hoped to be a leader at Yale, but, to his dismay, he found that
he did not cut much of a figure after all, and Frank Merriwell, a fellow
who never drank or smoked, was far more popular. Then it was that Ditson
conceived a plot to bring Merriwell into ridicule and at the same time
to get in with the enemies of the freshmen--the sophomores--himself.

At last he had learned that at Yale a man is not judged so much by the
money he spends and the wealth of his parents as by his own manly
qualities.

But Ditson was a sneak by nature, and he could not get over it. If he
started out to accomplish anything in a square way, he was likely to
fancy that it could be done with less trouble in a crooked manner, and
his natural instinct would switch him off from the course he should have
followed.

He was not at all fond of Walter Gordon, but he liked him better than he
did Merriwell, and it was gall and wormwood for him when he heard how
Merriwell had replaced Gordon in the box at Cambridge and had pitched a
marvelous game for three innings.

"Oh, it's just that fellow's luck!" Roll muttered to himself. "He seems
to be lucky in everything he does. The next thing I'll hear is that he
is going to pitch on the 'Varsity team."

He little thought that this was true, but it proved to be. That very day
he heard some sophomores talking on the campus, and he lingered near
enough to catch their words.

"Is it actually true, Parker, that Pierson has publicly stated that
Merriwell is fast enough for the Varsity nine?" asked Tad Horner.

"That's what it is," nodded Puss Parker, "and I don't know but Pierson
is right. I am inclined to think so."

"Rot!" exclaimed Evan Hartwick, sharply. "I don't take stock in anything
of the sort. Merriwell may make a pitcher some day, but he is raw. Why,
he would get his eye batted out if he were to go up against Harvard on
the regular team."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Andy Emery. "He is pretty smooth
people. Is there anybody knows Pierson made such an observation
concerning him?"

"Yes, there is," answered Parker.

"Who knows it?"

"I do."

"Did you hear him?"

"I did."

"That settles it."

"Yes, that settles it!" grated Roland Ditson as he walked away. "Parker
didn't lie, and Pierson has intimated that Merriwell may be given a
trial on the Varsity nine. If he is given a trial it will be his luck to
succeed. He must not be given a trial. How can that be prevented?"

Then Ditson set himself to devise some scheme to prevent Frank from
obtaining a trial on the regular nine. It was not an easy thing to think
of a plan that would not involve himself in some way, and he felt that
it must never be known that he had anything to do with such a plot.

That night Ditson might have been seen entering a certain saloon in New
Haven, calling one of the barkeepers aside, and holding a brief
whispered conversation with him.

"Is Professor Kelley in?" asked Roll.

"He is, sir," replied the barkeeper. "Do you wish to see him?"

"Well--ahem!--yes, if he is alone."

"I think he is alone. I do not think any of his pupils are with him at
present, sir."

"Will you be kind enough to see?" asked Ditson. "This is a personal
matter--something I want kept quiet."

The barkeeper disappeared into a back room, was gone a few minutes, and
then returned and said:

"The professor is quite alone. Will you go up, sir?"

"Y-e-s," said Roll, glancing around, and then motioning for the
barkeeper to lead the way.

He was taken into a back room and shown a flight of stairs.

"Knock at the door at the head of the flight," instructed the barkeeper,
and after giving the man some money Ditson went up the stairs.

"Come in!" called a harsh voice when he knocked at the door.

Ditson found Kelley sitting with his feet on a table, while he smoked a
strong-smelling cigar. There were illustrated sporting papers on the
table, crumpled and ragged.

"Well, young feller, watcher want?" demanded the man, withont removing
his feet from the table or his hat from his head.

Ditson closed the door. He was very pale and somewhat agitated.

"Are we all alone?" he asked, choking a bit over the question.

"Dat's wot we are," nodded the professor.

"Is it a sure thing that our conversation cannot be overheard?"

"Dead sure."

Ditson hesitated. He seemed to find it difficult to express himself just
as he desired.

"Speak right out, chummy," said Kelley in a manner intended to be
reassuring. "I rudder t'inks yer wants ter lick some cove, an' yer've
come ter me ter put yer in shape ter do der job. Well, you bet yer dough
I'm der man ter do dat. How many lessons will yer have?"

"It is not that at all," declared Roll.

"Not dat?" cried Kelley in surprise. "Den wot do youse want?"

"Well, you see, it is like this--er, like this," faltered Roland.
"I--I've got an enemy."

"Well, ain't dat wot I said?"

"But I don't want to fight him."

"Oh, I sees! Yer wants some odder chap ter do de trick?"

"Yes, that is it. But I want them to more than lick him."

"More dan lick him? W'y, yer don't want him killed, does yer?"

"No," answered Ditson, hoarsely; "but I want his right arm broken."

"Hey?"

Down came Buster Kelley's feet from the table, upon which his knuckles
fell, and then he arose from the chair, standing in a crouching
position, with his hands resting on the table, across which he glared at
Roland Ditson.

"Hey?" he squawked. "Just say dat ag'in, cully."

Roll was startled, and looked as if he longed to take to his heels and
get away as quickly as possible; but he did not run, and he forced
himself to say:

"This is a case of business, professor. I will pay liberally to have the
job done as I want it."

"An' youse wants a bloke's arm bruck?"

"Yes."

"Well, dis is a quare deal! If yer wanted his head bruck it wouldn't
s'prise me; but ter want his arm bruck--jee!"

"I don't care if he gets a rap on the head at the same time, but I don't
want him killed. I want his right arm broken, and that is the job I am
ready to pay for."

Kelley straightened up somewhat, placed one hand on his hip, while the
other rested on the table, crossed his legs, and regarded Ditson
steadily with a stare that made Roll very nervous.

"I might 'a' knowed yer didn't want ter fight him yerself," the
professor finally said, and Ditson did not fail to detect the contempt
in his face and voice.

"No, I do not," declared Ditson, an angry flush coming to his face. "He
is a scrapper, and I do not think I am his match in a brutal fight."

"Brutal is good! An' yer wants his arm bruck? Don't propose to give him
no show at all, eh?"

"I don't care a continental what is done so long as he is fixed as I
ask."

"I s'pose ye're one of them stujent fellers?"

"Yes, I am a student."

"An' t'other feller is a stujent?"

"Yes."

"Dem fellers is easy."

"Then you will do the job for me, will you?"

"Naw!" snorted Kelley. "Not on yer nacheral! Wot d'yer take me fer? I
don't do notting of dat kind. I've got a repertation to sustain, I has."

Ditson looked disappointed.

"I am willing to pay well to have the job done," he sad.

"Well, yer can find somebody ter do it fer yer."

"But I don't know where to find anybody, professor."

Kelley sat down, relighted his cigar, restored his feet to the table,
picked up a paper, seemed about to resume reading, and then observed:

"Dis is no infermation bureau, but I s'pose I might put yer onter a cove
dat'd do der trick fer yer if yuse come down heavy wid der stuff."

"If you will I shall be ever so much obliged."

"Much erbliged don't but no whiskey. Money talks, me boy."

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