Book: Frank Merriwell at Yale

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




The third man was easy, and he fanned, also, making three in succession.

Parker punched Browning in the ribs.

"Say," he observed, "I'll go you two to one that Merriwell is on the
'Varsity team before the end of next season."

"If he is alive he may be," returned the king, grimly.

Our hero's pitching was a surprise to his friends, for until that day he
had not seemed to let himself out. Even then he did not appear to be
doing his best work, and one who watched him in a friendly way fancied
he might do still better if forced to make the effort.

Walter Gordon was filled with disgust and dismay.

"He's having great luck," muttered Gordon. "Why, I don't see how I
missed a ball I struck at. Every one was a dead easy thing, and I should
have killed any of them."

He squirmed as he heard Burn Putnam--familiarly called Old Put--the
manager of the team, compliment Merriwell on his skillful work.

"I fancy I'll be able to use you more than I thought I should at first,
Merriwell," said Putnam. "We can tell more about that in the future."

"I've got to strike that fellow out," thought Gordon as he went into the
box.

But he did not. Merriwell came first to bat in the second inning, and he
sent a safe single into right field, deliberately placing it, as was
evident to every ball player present.

Gordon turned green with anger, and then he became nervous. To add to
his nervousness, Merriwell obtained a lead from first and stole second
on his delivery, getting it easily.

But that was not the end of Gordon's woes, for Merriwell seemed in a
reckless mood, and he made for third on the next pitch, getting it on a
beautiful slide, although the catcher made an attempt to throw him out.

The catcher came down scowling, and Gordon went to meet him, asking as
he did so:

"What's the matter with you? You ought to have stopped him at second and
held him there."

"I ought to have stopped him!" came derisively from the disgusted
backstop. "I came down to ask you if this was the way you were going to
pitch in a regular game. Why, that fellow is getting a long start on
your delivery, and he does it every time. You've got to stop that kind
of business."

For some moments they talked, and then Gordon sulkily walked back to the
box. He tried to catch Frank playing off third, but simply wasted time.
Then he made a snap delivery and hit the batter, who went down to first.

By this time Gordon was rattled, and he sent the next ball over the
heart of the plate. The batter nailed it for two bags, and two men came
home.

Gordon walked out of the box and up to the bench where Old Put was
sitting.

"I am sick," he declared.

He looked as if he spoke the truth.

"I thought something was the matter with you," said the manager. "You're
white as a sheet. It's folly for you to practice while you are in this
condition."

Gordon put on his sweater and then drew his coat over that. He wandered
off by himself and sat down.

"Hang that fellow Merriwell!" he whispered to himself. "I never thought
he would bother me so much. I am beginning to hate him. He is too cool
and easy to suit me."

The practice was continued, and Merriwell showed up finely, so that Old
Put was pleased.

The sophomores quit trying to have sport with the freshmen, as it
happened that two of the professors had wandered into the park and were
looking on from a distance.

Browning saw them.

"Why are they out here?" he snapped. "Never knew 'em to come before. I
won't even get a chance to talk to Merriwell."

"Better keep away from him this afternoon," cautioned Hartwick. "He
can't escape you, and there is plenty of time."

"That's so," agreed Bruce. "But I hate to think how he is crowing to
himself over the way the freshies got into the park. I'd like to take
the starch out of him at once."

Hartwick induced Browning to leave the park, and the departure of the
king caused the sophomores to wander away in small groups.

As a general thing they were discussing Merriwell, his position with the
freshmen, and his pitching. Some insisted that he was not a pitcher and
would never make one, while others were equally confident that he was
bound to become a great twirler some day.

Some of the groups discussed the antagonism between Merriwell and
Browning, and all were confident that the king would do the freshman
when he got himself into condition. It was not strange that they
believed so, for they remembered how Bruce had knocked out Kid Lajoie,
who was a professional.

Browning himself proceeded directly to his rooms, where he sat himself
down and fell to thinking. Twice had he been up against Merriwell, and
he had found out that the leader of the freshmen was no easy thing. In
neither struggle had he obtained an advantage through his own unaided
efforts, and in this last affair he had felt that he was losing his
wind, while Merriwell seemed as fresh as ever till he was thrown by a
third party.

"That's where I am not yet his match," Bruce soberly decided. "If I were
fortunate enough to land a knockout blow with my left at the outset I'd
finish him easily; but if he should play me and keep out of my reach he
might get me winded so he could finally get the best of it. I must work
off more flesh."

Having arrived at this conclusion, Browning was decidedly glad that his
friends had kept him from closing in on Merriwell and forcing a fight on
the ball field.

"Another week will do it," Bruce thought. "No matter what is said, I'll
not meet that fellow till I am his match--till I am more than his match,
for I must do him. If I do not my days as king of the sophs are
numbered. I can see now that some of the fellows sympathize secretly
with Merriwell, although they do not dare do so openly. It must be
stopped. He may be a first-class fellow, but when he treads on my corns
I kick."

Hartwick tried to talk to Bruce, but the latter would say very little,
and it was not long before he left the room.

Browning stepped out briskly, and a stranger who saw him could not have
believed that he had the reputation of being the laziest lad in college.

In one line Bruce was thoroughly aroused, but he was neglecting his
studies in a shameful manner, and more than once a warning voice told
him that while he was putting himself in condition to dispose of
Merriwell he was getting into trouble in another quarter.

He did not heed that warning, however. His one thought was to retain his
position as king of the sophomores, and in order to do that he must not
let any freshman triumph over him.

In town he went directly to a certain saloon and stopped at the bar,
although he did not order a drink.

"Is the professor in?" he asked.

"I think he is," replied the barkeeper.

Then Browning passed through into a back room and climbed some dirty
stairs, finally rapping at a door.

"Come in!" called a harsh voice.

Bruce pushed open the door and entered. The room was quite large, but
was not very clean. The walls were pasted over with sporting pictures
taken from illustrated papers. There was a bed, some old chairs, one of
which had a broken back, a center table, a cracked mirror, and two
cuspidors. A door opened into another room beyond.

Lounging in a chair, with his feet on the table beside an empty beer
bottle and dirty glass, was a ruffianly-looking chap, who had a thick
neck that ran straight up with the back of his head. His hair was close
cropped and his forehead low. There was a bulldog look about his mouth
and jaw, and his forehead was strangely narrow.

The man was smoking a black, foul-smelling pipe, while the hands which
held a pink-tinted illustrated paper were enormous, with huge knuckles
and joints. His hand when closed looked formidable enough to knock down
an ox.

"How do you do, professor?" saluted Bruce.

"Waryer," growled the man, still keeping his feet on the table. "So it's
you, is it? Dis ain't your day."

"I know it, but I decided to come around just the same. I am not
getting the flesh off as fast as I ought."

"Hey?" roared the man, letting his feet fall with a crash. "Wot's dat?
D'yer men ter say I ain't doin' a good job wid yer? Wot der blazes!"

"Oh, you are doing all right, professor, but I find I must be in
condition sooner than I thought. My gymnasium exercise doesn't seem
to--"

"Dat gymnasium work is no good--see? I knows wot I'm givin' yer, too. I
told yer in der first place ter stick ter me, an' I'd put yer in shape.
It'll cost more, but--"

"I don't mind that. No matter what it costs, I must be in condition to
lick that fellow I was telling you about, and I must be in condition one
week from to-day."

"Dat's business. I'll put yer dere. An' yer know wot I told yer--I'll
show yer a trick dat'll finish him dead sure ef de mug is gittin' de
best of yer. It'll cost yer twenty-five extra ter learn dat trick, but
it never fails."

Browning showed sudden interest.

"I had forgotten about that," he said. "What will it do?"

"It'll do der bloke what ye're after, dat's wot."

"Yes, but how--how?"

"T'ink I'm goin' ter give der hull t'ing erway? Well, I should say nit!
I tells yer it'll fix him, and it'll fix him so dere won't be no more
fight in him. It'll paralyze him der first t'ing, an' he won't be no
better dan a stiff."

"How bad will it hurt him?"

The man paused a moment and then added:

"Well, I don't mind sayin' dat it'll break his wrist. Yer can do it de
first crack arter I shows yer how, but it'll cost twenty-five plunks ter
learn der trick."

After a few moments of hesitation Browning drew forth his pocketbook and
counted out twenty-five dollars.




CHAPTER XVI.

TO BREAK AN ENEMY'S WRIST.


Buster Kelley was a character. Professor Kelley he called himself. He
claimed to be a great pugilist, and he was forever telling of the men he
had put to sleep. But he couldn't produce the papers to show for it. The
public had to take his word, if they took anything.

In fact, he had never fought a battle in his life, unless it was with a
boy half his size. He made a bluff, and it went. The youngsters who came
to Yale and desired to be instructed in the manly art were always
recommended to Kelley.

To give Kelley his due, he was really a fairly good boxer, and he might
have made a decent sort of a fight if he had possessed the courage to
accept a match and the self denial and energy to go through a regular
course of training.

But Kelley was making an easy living "catching suckers," and there was
no real reason why he should go through the hardships of training and
actually fighting so long as he could fool the youngsters who regarded
him as a one-time great and shining light of the prize ring.

He was too shrewd to stand up with any pupil who might get the best of
him and permit that pupil to hammer away at him. He kept them at work on
certain kinds of blows, so he always knew exactly what was coming. In
this manner of training them he never betrayed just how much he really
knew about fighting.

Some of the young fellows who became Kelley's pupils were the sons of
wealthy parents, and then it happened that the professor worked his
little game for all there was in it. He sold them "secrets," and they
paid dearly for what they learned. Some of the secrets were of no value
at all, and some were actually worth knowing.

It happened that he did know how to break a man's wrist in a very simple
manner, providing he could find just the right opportunity. It was a
simple trick, but the opportunity to practice it could seldom be found
in a fight.

Kelley's eyes, which were somewhat bleary, bulged with greed as he saw
Browning count out the money.

"It's givin' yer der trick dirt cheap--see?" said the professor. "I
never sold it less dan twice dat ermount before. Dat's straight. I'll
have ter make yer promise not ter tell it ter der odder chaps before I
instructs yer."

"If I buy it it is mine," said Bruce.

"Come off der roof! You enters inter an' agreement wid me dat yer don't
blow dis t'ing, ur I don't tell yer."

"What if I want to tell a particular friend?"

"Yer don't tell him. Dat's all. I had ter pay t'ree hunderd dollars ter
learn dis, an' sign a 'greement dat I wouldn't give it erway. Jem Mace
tort me dis trick w'en I sparred wid him in Liverpool. He says ter me,
says he: 'Buster, ye're a boid, dat's wot ye are. If you knowed der
trick of breakin' a bloke's wrist dere ain't no duffer in der woild dat
can do yer. I'll show yer der crack fer sixty pound.' He wouldn't come
down a little bit, an' I paid him wot he asked. Since dat time I've
knocked roun' all over der woild, an' it's saved me life fife times. Dat
was a cheap trick wot I got from old Jem, dat were. A dago pulled a
knife on me oncet fer ter cut me wide open, but I broke der dago's wrist
quicker dan yer can spit."

"Well, here is your money, and now I want to know that trick."

"Yer 'grees not ter tell it ter anybody?"

"Yes, I agree."

"Dat settles it."

Kelley took the money and carefully stowed it away in his clothes.

"Strip up an' git inter yer trainin' rig," he directed.

Bruce went into the back room, and Buster poked himself in the ribs
with his thumb, grinning and winking at his own reflection in the
cracked mirror.

"Oh, say! but I'm a peach!" he told himself in a confidential whisper.
"If der college perfessers don't git arter me ergin I'll make me
forchune right yere."

Kelley had originally hung out a sign and advertised to instruct young
gentlemen in boxing, but the faculty had made it rather warm for him,
and it was generally supposed that he had been forced to leave New
Haven. He had not left, but he had changed his quarters to the rooms he
now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon.

In a short time Bruce called that he was ready, and the professor
leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a
striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia
such as a man in Kelley's business might need.

At one side of the room were several small closets, in which Kelley's
pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them. The
door of one closet was open, and Browning's street clothes were hanging
on some hooks inside.

Browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes.
He was stripped to the waist.

Buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye,
punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles
and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh.

"Well, say!" cried the professor. "I'd like ter know wot yer kickin'
erbout! I never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has,
an' dat's on der dead. Why, w'en yer comes yere yer didn't have a muscle
dat weren't buried in fat, an' now dey're comin' out hard all over yer.
You'd kick ef yer wuz playin' football!"

"That's all right," said Bruce, rather impatiently. "I know what I want,
and I am paying you to give it to me. Go ahead."

"Don't be so touchy," scowled Kelley. "Tackle der bag a while, an' let's
see how yer work."

Browning went at the punching bag while the professor stood by and
called the changes. He thumped it up against the ceiling and caught it
on the rebound thirty times in succession, first with his right and then
with his left. Then he went at it with both hands and fairly made it
hum. Then, at the word, with remarkable swiftness, he gave it fist and
elbow, first right and then left. Then he did some fancy work at a
combination hit and butt.

By the time Buster called him off Browning was streaming with
perspiration and breathing heavily.

"Dat's first rate," complimented the professor. "Yer does dat like yer
wuz a perfessional."

"Great Scott!" gasped Bruce. "I'd never torture myself in this way if I
didn't have to! It is awful!"

He looked around for a chair, but Buster grinned and said:

"Dat's right, set right down--nit. Youse don't do dat no more in dis
joint. Wen I gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough--see? Dat's der
way ter pull der meat off er man."

"Well, what's next?"

"See if yer can raise yer record anoder pound on der striker."

Bruce went at the striking machine, which registered the exact number of
pounds of force in each blow it received.

"Has any one beaten me yet?" he asked.

"Naw. Dere ain't nobody come within ninety pound of yer."

Bruce looked satisfied, but he made up his mind to raise his record if
possible, and he succeeded in adding twelve pounds to it.

"Say!" exclaimed Buster, "if dat cove wot yer arter does you he's a
boid!"

"That's just what he is," nodded Bruce, streaming with perspiration. "He
is a bad man to go against."

"If yer ever gits at him wid dat left ye'll knock him out, sure."

"He is like a panther on his feet, and I shall be in great luck if I
find him with my left."

"Yer don't want ter t'ink dat. Yer wants ter t'ink yer goin' ter find
him anyhow. Dat's der way."

"I have thought so before, and I have discovered that he is a
wonderfully hard man to find."

"Wen yer goin' ter fight him?"

"I am going to try to make him meet me one week from to-day."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet."

"Is he a squealer?"

"I don't believe you could drag anything out of him with horses."

"If dat's right yer might make it yere, an' it could be kept quiet. I'd
charge a little somet'ing fer der use of der room, but dat wouldn't come
out of eder of youse, fer we'd make der fellers pay wot come in ter see
it."

"We'll see about that," said Bruce. "But now I want to know that trick."

"Oh, yes. I near fergot dat."

"Well, I didn't."

"Say, if yer use dat on him I don't t'ink we can have der scrap here."

"Why not?"

"If one of dem freshies got injuries in dis place so bad it might git
out, an' dat would fix me."

"I don't intend to use it on him unless I have to. Go ahead and explain
your trick. If it isn't straight I want my money back."

"Dere won't be any money back, fer der trick is all right, all right.
Now stan' up here an' I'll show yer how it's did."

Kelley then showed Bruce how to bring the edge of his open hand down on
the upper side of an enemy's wrist just back of the joint.

"Yer wants ter snap it like dis," Buster explained, illustrating with a
sharp, rebounding motion. "If yer strikes him right dere wid der cushion
meat on der lower edge of yer hand an' snaps yer hand erway like dis,
it's dead sure ter break der bone. Jes' try it on yer own wrist, but be
careful not ter try it too hard."

Bruce did as directed, and he found that he hurt himself severely,
although he struck a very light blow.

"Dat's ter trick," said Kelley, "an' it's a dandy. Don't yer ever use it
'less yer dead sure yer wants ter break der odder feller's wrist."

Then the professor called up a colored boy, who rubbed Bruce down, and
the king of the sophomores finally departed.

As he walked back toward his room in the dusk of early evening,
Browning began to feel sorry that he had learned the trick at all.

"It would be a dirty game to play on Merriwell," he muttered, "but now
that I know it, I may get mad and do it in a huff, especially if I see
Merriwell is getting the best of me."

The more Browning thought the matter over the greater became his regret
that he had learned the trick of breaking an opponent's wrist. For all
that he had a strong feeling against Merriwell, he could see that the
leader of the freshmen was square and manly, and he did not believe
Frank would take an unfair advantage of a foe.

Bruce became quite unlike his old jovial self. He was strangely downcast
and moody, and he saw that he was fast losing prestige with those who
had once regarded him as their leader.

Hartwick, Browning's roommate, was more bitter against Merriwell.

"The confounded upstart!" he would growl. "Think of his coming here and
carrying things on with such a high hand! When we were freshmen the
sophomores had everything their own way. They Lambda Chied us till they
became sick of it, and all our attempts to get even proved failures. Now
the freshmen who are following the lead of this fellow Merriwell seem to
think that they are cocks of the walk. I tell you what it is, Bruce,
you must do that fellow, and you must do him so he will stay done."

"Oh, I don't believe he is such a bad fellow at heart, It wouldn't be
right to injure him permanently."

"Wouldn't it? Give me the chance and see if I don't fix him."

Hartwick began to regard his roommate with disdain.

"For goodness' sake, don't get soft," he implored. "The fellows will say
you are chicken-hearted, and that will settle your case. You'll never
get back to your old position if you once lose it."

"I'd rather be thought chicken-hearted than hold my position by dirty
play."

Hartwick made no retort, but it was plain to see that he entertained a
different view of a case like the one in question.

Browning worked like a beaver to get himself in shape for the coming
struggle, but he promised himself over and over that he would never do
such a thing again. It was pride and hope that sustained him through his
severe course of training.

"No fresh mug can do youse now," Buster Kelley finally declared. "I'll
put me dough on you, an' I'll win, too."

Bruce was really in very good form, and he felt that he stood more than
an even chance with Merriwell.

He had seen the freshman fight, however, and he realized that he would
not have a walkover.

The freshmen began to think that Browning feared to meet Merriwell, and
they openly told him as much. They taunted him to such an extent that it
was with the utmost difficulty he held himself in check till the
expiration of the time he had set for getting himself in condition.

"What if I should see the freshman getting the best of me and should
break his wrist?" he thought. "I might make it appear to be an accident,
but I would know better myself. I'd get the best of Merriwell, and the
fellows would still hail me as King Browning, but I would be ashamed of
myself all the while."

It was that thought which troubled him so much and made him appear so
grouchy.

"Browning is in a blue funk whenever he thinks of stacking up against
the freshman," one sophomore confidentially told another. "I believe he
has lost his nerve."

"It looks that way," admitted the other.

Thus it came about that Bruce's appearance led his former admirers to
misjudge him, and he saw a growing coolness toward him.

"I'll meet Merriwell on the level," he finally decided, "and I will whip
him on the level or I'll not whip him at all."

Then he instructed Hartwick to carry a challenge to Frank.

"I will fight him with hard gloves," said Bruce.

He had decided that with a glove on his hand he could not easily perform
the trick of breaking his enemy's wrist in case he was seized by an
impulse to do so.

"Gloves?" cried Hartwick. "Why, man, why don't you challenge him to meet
you with bare fists?"

"Because I have decided that gloves are all right."

"The fellows will say you are afraid."

"Let them say so if they like," returned Bruce, but he winced a bit, as
if a tender spot had been touched.

Hartwick did his test to induce his friend to challenge Merriwell to a
fight with bare fists, but Bruce had made up his mind and he was
obstinate.

So it came about that Hartwick carried the challenge just as Browning
desired, and it was promptly accepted. Merriwell was not a fellow who
sought trouble, but he knew he must meet Browning or be called a coward,
and he did not dally. He quietly told Hartwick that any arrangements Mr.
Browning saw fit to make would be agreeable to him. In that way he put
Browning on his honor to give him a square deal.

The matter was kept very quiet. It was decided that the match should
come off in Kelley's back room, and a few of Merriwell's and Browning's
friends should be invited. Bruce paid for the room and firmly "sat on"
the professor's scheme to charge admission.

"This is no prize fight," he rather warmly declared. "We are not putting
ourselves on exhibition, like two pugilists. It is a matter of honor."

"Well, if youse college chaps don't git der derndest ideas inter yer
nuts!" muttered Kelley, who could not understand Browning's view of an
affair of honor. "Youse takes der cream, dat's wot yer do!"

On Saturday afternoon one week after the rush at the park certain
students might have been seen to stroll, one at a time, into the saloon
over which were the headquarters of Professor Kelley. It was three in
the afternoon that about twenty lads were gathered in Buster's
training-room to witness the meeting between Merriwell and Browning.

Tad Horner was chosen referee.

"Look here," he said before the first round, "if any man here isn't
satisfied with my decisions, let him meet me after the match is over,
and I will satisfy him or fight him."

This was said in all earnestness, and it brought a round of applause and
laughter.

It was agreed that it should be a six-round contest, not more and no
less, unless one side threw up the sponge or one of the men was knocked
out.

Rattleton was Frank's second, and Hartwick represented Bruce. A regular
ring had been roped off, and the men entered from opposite sides at a
signal. Much to his disgust, Kelley was not allowed to take any part in
the affair.

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