Book: Frank Merriwell at Yale

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




Both lads were stripped to the waist. Merriwell was clean limbed, but
muscular, while Browning was stocky and solid. The sophomore had gotten
rid of his superfluous flesh in a wonderful manner, and he looked to be
a hard man to tackle.

The gloves were put on, and then the rivals advanced and shook hands. An
instant later they were at it, and the decisive struggle between them
had begun.

Their movements were so rapid that it was difficult for the eyes of the
eager spectators to follow them. Both got in some sharp blows, and the
round ended with a clean knock-down for Browning, who planted a terrific
blow between Merriwell's eyes and sent the freshman to the floor.

The sophs were jubilant and the freshmen were downcast. Merriwell simply
laughed as he sat on Rattleton's knee.

"Whee jiz--I mean jee whiz!" spluttered Harry. "Are you going to let
that fellow do you. The sophs will never get over it if you do. Hear 'em
laugh!"

"Don't worry," smiled Frank. "This is the beginning. There must be an
ending."

"Do him--do him, Bruce!" fiercely whispered Hartwick in the ear of his
principal. "It's plain enough that you can."

"I think I can," said Bruce, confidently.

The sophs offered three to two on Browning, and many bets were made.

Then time was called and the rivals advanced once more.

The second round was hotter than the first, if possible, and Merriwell
drew first blood by giving Browning a heavy one on the nose. It ended
with both sparring, and neither seeming to have a decided advantage.

Now the freshmen were encouraged, and they expressed their confidence in
their man. More bets were made, the sophomores still giving odds.

The third round filled the freshmen with delight, for Merriwell knocked
Browning off his feet twice, while he seemed to get no heavy blows
himself.

The sophs became quieter, and no money at odds was in sight. In fact,
the freshmen tried to get even money, but could not.

The fourth and fifth rounds were filled with good, sharp, scientific
work, but toward the close of the fifth both men seemed a trifle groggy.
Neither had a decided advantage.

"Dat Merriwell is a boid!" declared Buster Kelley enthusiastically.
"Why, dat chap could be der champeen of der woild if he went inter der
business fer fair. Dat's on der level, too."

Both lads were battered and bruised, and there was blood on their faces
when they retired to their corners at the command from Horner.

"He's a nut," confessed Frank. "He has given me some soakers, and he
takes his medicine as if he liked it."

"You'll finish him next round, sure," fluttered Harry. "I shall buck the
kickit--I mean kick the bucket if you don't."

"How is it?" Hartwick eagerly asked as he wiped the blood from
Browning's face. "Can you finish him next round?"

"I shall try, but I don't believe the fellow can be licked unless he is
killed. That's what I think of him."

"Didn't I hear you say you knew a trick that would do him?"

"Yes, but it is not a square deal, although no referee could call it
foul if this were a fight with bare fists. As it is, I'd have to get my
glove off."

"Do it! do it! You're a fool if you don't!"

"Then I'm a fool. That man has trusted this entire affair to our honor,
and if I can't whip him fair I won't whip him at all."

"You make me sick!" sneered Hartwick.

At the call the two men promptly faced each other for the final round.
At first they were a bit wary, but then, as if by mutual agreement, they
went at each other like tigers. Blow followed blow, but it was plain
that one man was getting quite as much as the other. Browning got in one
of his terrific drives, but it was not a knockout, and Merriwell had the
sophomore up up against the rope three times.

"Time! Break away!" yelled Tad Horner, forcing himself over between the
combatants. "It's all over."

"What's the decision?" shouted a dozen voices.

"A draw," was the distinct answer. "I declare it an even thing between
them."

There was a moment of silence, and then, bruised and smiling, Frank
Merriwell tore off his glove and extended his hand. Off came Browning's
glove, and he accepted the hand of the freshman.




CHAPTER XVII.

TALKING IT OVER.


Before night nearly every student knew that Merriwell and Browning had
fought a six-round, hard-glove contest to a draw, and it was generally
said that the decision was fair. Evan Hartwick seemed to be the only
witness of the fight who was dissatisfied. Roland Ditson had not been
invited to see it, but he expressed a belief that Browning would prove
the better man in a fight to a finish.

Several weeks slipped by.

After the glove contest Browning had very little to say about the
freshman leader. Whenever he did say anything, it was exactly what he
thought, and it was noted that he admitted Merriwell to be a comer.

Evan Hartwick could not crush down his powerful dislike for Merriwell.
He admitted to Bruce that he felt an almost irresistible desire to
strike the cool freshman whenever they met.

"I wouldn't advise you to do it, my boy," lazily smiled Browning, who
was growing fat again, now that he was no longer in training. "He is a
bad man to hit."

"It depends on what he is hit with," returned Hartwick, grimly. "You
made a fool of yourself when you failed to break his wrist, after paying
twenty-five toadskins to learn the trick. That would have made you the
victor."

"And it would have made me feel like a contemptible sneak. I have been
well satisfied with myself that I did not try the trick. It is a good
thing to know, but it should be used on no one but a ruffian."

"It's surprising to me how soft you're getting. This Merriwell is
dangerous in many directions, and his career would have been stopped
short if you had broken his wrist. He has shown that he is a baseball
pitcher, but no man can pitch with a broken wrist. He is one of the best
freshmen half-backs ever seen at Yale, according to the general
acknowledgment. And now he is pulling an oar and coaching the freshmen
crew at the same time--something never attempted before--something said
to be impossible. Where would he be if you had broken his wrist?"

"He could coach the freshmen just the same, and the very fact that he
can do all these things makes me well satisfied that I did not fix him
so he couldn't."

"Wait! wait! What if the freshmen beat us out at Lake Saltonstall? What
if they come out ahead of us?"

"They won't."

"I know the fellows are saying they will not, but I tell you this
Merriwell is full of tricks, and there is no telling what he may do with
the fresh crew. He is working them secretly, and our spies report that
he seems to know his business."

"Well, if he makes them winners he will deserve the credit he will
receive. But he can't do it. No man can coach a crew and pull an oar at
the same time. The very fact that he is attempting such a thing shows he
isn't in the game."

"Don't be so sure. They say he has a substitute who takes his place in
the boat sometimes, and that gives him a chance to see just how the crew
is working."

"Rats! Who ever heard of such a thing! Merriwell is all right, but he
doesn't know anything about rowing. He may think he knows, but he is
fooling himself."

"Well, we will have to wait and see about that."

"I really believe you are afraid of Merriwell. Why--ha! ha! ha!--you are
the only one who has an idea the freshmen will be in the race at all."

"I know it, but few have had any idea that the freshmen could do any of
the things they have done. They have fooled us right along, and--"

"Oh, say! Give me a cigarette and let's drop it. From the way you talk I
should say you would make a good sporting editor for a Sunday-school
paper."

"That's all right," muttered Hartwick, sulkily, as he tossed Bruce a
package of Turkish cigarettes. "Wait and see if I am not right."

After this Bruce went about telling all the sophomores what Hartwick
thought, and urging them to "jolly him" whenever they could get a
chance. As a result Evan was kept in hot water the most of the time, but
he persisted in claiming that the freshmen were bound to give them a
surprise.

One evening a jolly party gathered in Browning and Hartwick's rooms.
Cigarettes were passed around, and soon the smoke was thick enough to
cut with a knife.

"How are the eggs down where you are taking your meals now, Horner?"
asked Puss Parker.

"Oh, they are birds!" chirped little Tad, who was perched on the back of
a chair, with his cap on the side of his head.

This produced a general laugh, and Parker said:

"Speaking of birds makes me think that riches hath wings. I dropped
seventy-five in that little game last night."

Punch Swallows groaned in a heartrending way.

"That's nothing," he said, dolefully. "I lost a hundred and ten last
week, and I've been broke ever since. Wired home for money, but the gov
didn't respond. After that game all I could think of was two pairs,
three of a kind, bobtail flushes, and so on. I made a dead flunk at
recitations for two days. The evening after I lost my roll I was to
attend a swell affair up on Temple Street. I was in a rocky condition,
and I took something to brace me up, for I knew there would be pretty
girls there, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything. The memory of
that horrible game was still with me, and whenever my mind wandered I
was thinking of jack pots and kindred things. Well, I went to the party,
and there were plenty of queens there, but I didn't seem to enjoy
myself, for some reason. I fancied it possible they might smell my
breath, and that worried me. I thought I would go off by myself, and so
I wandered into a little room where I imagined I would be alone, but
hanged if I didn't run into the hostess and a stack of ladies. Then,
with my mind confused, I made a fool of myself. 'Er--er--excuse me,' I
stammered; 'what room is this?' 'This is the anteroom, sir,' replied the
hostess. 'What's the limit?' says I, as I fumbled in my pocket. Then I
took a tumble to myself and chased out in a hurry. I saw the girls
staring after me as if they thought me crazy. It was awful."

"Oh, well, you mustn't mind the loss of a few dollars," said Andy Emery.
"A man can make a fortune in this country picking up chips--if he puts
them on the right card."

"Put a little perfumery on that before you use it again, Emery,"
grinned Tad Horner. "It's got whiskers."

"I think Swallows all right, but he reminds me of a man I knew once on a
time. I haven't seen Swallows when he had over twenty-five at a time
since he's been here, and still he says he dropped a hundred and ten in
one game."

"How about this man you knew?" asked Parker.

"He was a great fellow to stretch the long bow, and it became such a
habit that he could not break it. He seemed to prefer a falsehood to the
truth, even when the truth would have served him better. Well, he died
and was buried. One day I visited the cemetery and gazed on his
tombstone. On the top of the stone was his name and on the bottom were
these words: 'I am not dead, but sleeping.' Now that man was lying in
his grave, for his habit--"

Parker flung a slipper at Emery, who dodged it. The slipper struck Tad
Horner and knocked him off the back of the chair.

"That's all right," said Swallows, nodding at Emery, who was laughing.
"I'll square that the first chance I get."

"Do! But when you get a roll, remember there are Others who are looking
for you."

"Drop this persiflage and come down to business," said Browning, winking
at the others and nodding toward Hartwick, who did not seem to be
taking any interest in what was going on. "Let's talk about the races."

"Yas, by Jawve!" drawled Willis Paulding, who tried to be "deucedly
English" in everything. "Let's talk about the races, deah boys. That's
what interests me, don't yer know."

Hartwick squirmed. He knew what was coming, and still his disposition
was such that he could not resist a "jolly" in case the jolliers
expressed opinions that did not agree with his own.

Browning enjoyed seeing the gang get Hartwick on a string, and he was
ever ready to aid anything of the kind along. By nature the king of
sophomores was a practical joker. He had put up more jobs than any man
who ever entered Yale. That was what had given him his reputation.

"I understand the freshmen are rapidly coming to the front," observed
Hod Chadwick, with apparent seriousness.

"Is that right?" asked Parker. "Heard anything new?"

"Why, they say this Merriwell has the genuine Oxford system."

"Where'd he get it?"

"He has been abroad. It is even reported that he has studied at Oxford.
He has watched the work of the Oxford coach, and he is working the
freshmen eight on the same lines."

"That's right--that's right," nodded Hartwick, and the boys winked at
each other.

"How do you know it is right?" asked Emery. "What do you know about
Merriwell?"

"I know he has been abroad, and I have it straight that he spent
considerable time at Oxford."

"That's nothing. Any lubber might watch the work at Oxford, but what
would that amount to?"

"Merriwell is no lubber, as you fellows should know by this time."

"We don't seem to know much of anything about him. Who are his parents?
What about them?"

"I hear his father was drowned in bed," murmured Tad Horner.

"By Jawve!" exclaimed Willis Paulding. "How could that happen?"

"There was a hole in the mattress, and he fell through into the spring,"
gravely assured Tad.

Willis nearly lost his breath.

"That's all wrong," said Browning. "It's true Merriwell is no lubber.
Why should he be? His father was a skipper."

"What! A sea captain?" asked Hartwick.

"No, a bank cashier. He skipped to Canada."

"Wow!" whooped Tad Horner. "How that hurt! Don't do it again!"

"You fellows have things twisted," asserted Parker, with apparent
seriousness. "I have private advices that Merriwell's father is a poor
dentist."

"A poor dentist, eh?"

"Yes, rather poor, but he manages to pull out."

Tad Horner fell off the back of his chair and struck sprawling on the
floor.

"Water!" he gasped.

"You wouldn't know it if you saw it," grinned Parker.

"Without a doubt and without any fooling, Merriwell's father is dead,"
said Hod Chadwick.

"Do you know this for a fact?" asked Swallows.

"Yes. It is said that he died on the field."

"Then he was a soldier?"

"No; a baseball umpire."

"This is a very dry crowd," laughed Browning.

"I should think you would say something," hinted Chadwick.

"It isn't in the house. We'll go down to Morey's after supper settles
and I'll blow."

"To fizz?"

"Not this evening. Ale is good enough for this crowd."

"Oh, I don't suppose we can kick at that. But we were speaking about
Merriwell and the freshman crew. How are we to escape death at their
hands?"

"Have another cigarette all around," invited Parker as he passed them.

"That's too slow, but I'll take a cigarette just the same."

Hartwick got up and walked about in a corner, showing nervousness. They
urged him to sit down and take things easy. He felt like making a break
and getting out, but he knew they would roar with laughter if he did.

"You fellows are a lot of chumps!" he exclaimed, suddenly getting angry.
"You treat this matter lightly now, but you are likely to change your
tune after the race."

The boys were well satisfied, for they saw he was getting aroused.

"Oh, I don't know as we treat it so very lightly," said Emery. "We've
got to have our fun, no matter what we may think."

"But every one of you is of the opinion that we are going to have a
cinch with the freshmen."

"It does look easy."

"Have they been easy thus far?"

"Oh, that's different."

"You will find this is different when it is all over."

"Now, see here, Hartwick," said Parker; "you are the only soph who does
not think we have a soft thing with the freshmen. What's the matter with
you?"

"Why, he wants to disagree with us, that's all," said Browning. "Why, he
wouldn't eat anything if he thought it would agree with him. That's the
kind of a man he is."

Hartwick looked disgusted.

"Keep it up! keep it up!" he cried. "But you'll find out!"

"Now, see here, man," said Parker once more; "are you stuck on
Merriwell?"

Hartwick showed still greater disgust, his eyes flashing.

"Stuck on him!" he cried. "Well, not any! You fellows ought to know
that! Stuck on him! That gives me pains!"

"Well, I couldn't see what ailed you unless you were."

"It is because I am not stuck on him that I am so anxious to beat him,
as you fellows ought to be able to see."

"Oh, that's it? Excuse me! Well, now, how is he going to make a lot of
lubberly freshies beat us?"

"He's found some men who can pull oars all right, and he has introduced
a few innovations that will be surprises."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"I have been investigating, and I am not the only one."

"Well, what are his innovations?"

"The Oxford oar, in the first place."

"What is that?"

"Two to four inches longer than our oar, with a blade five and one-half
inches wide, instead of seven inches."

"For goodness' sake, what is the advantage of such an oar?"

"I'll tell you. With a short course and high stroke no set of men are
strong enough to use the old oar and go the distance without weakening.
You must admit that."

"Well?"

"With the narrow blades a longer oar can be used and the leverage
increased. That is plain enough."

The boys were silent for some moments. Here was a matter they had not
considered, and they were forced to confess that it was a point for
discussion.

"But that is not enough to enable the freshmen to win, even admitting
the English oar to be better, which has not been proven," said Emery.

"By Jawve! I am rather inclined to believe the English oar is superior,
don't yer know," put in Willis Paulding.

"That's not surprising in your case," said Emery.

"That's not all Merriwell has done," declared Hartwick.

"What else has he done?"

"He has introduced the Oxford style of catch, finish and length of
strokes, which means a longer swing, with more leg and body work."

"Well, that will cook 'em!" cried Tad Horner. "If he has done that,
we'll make a show of those greenies."

"What reason have you for thinking anything of the sort?"

"Every reason. The regular Yale stroke cannot be improved upon. That is
beyond question."

Hartwick smiled wearily.

"That's what I call conceit," he said. "You don't know whether it can be
improved upon or not."

There was an outburst of protests by the boys, who believed, as almost
every Yale man believes, that Yale methods are correct and cannot be
improved upon. Hartwick was regarded as disloyal, and all felt like
giving it to him hot.

"A longer body swing is certain to make a difficult recovery," said
Browning. "That is plain enough."

"Not if the men are worked right and put in proper form," declared
Hartwick. "I have been told that the English long stroke and recovery is
very graceful and easy, and that it does not wear on a man like the
American stroke."

"By Jawve! I think that's right, don't yer know," said Paulding.

"What you think doesn't count," muttered Tad Horner.

"With such a stroke and swing the men are bound to recover on their
toes," asserted Browning.

"Oh, rats!" said Punch Swallows. "What does that amount to, anyway, in a
case like this? We are talking of this tub load of freshmen as if they
were the 'Varsity crew. What's the use? It won't make any difference
what kind of a stroke they use. They are mighty liable to use several
different kinds, and they won't be in it at all, my children. Let's go
down to Morey's and oil up."

"Go ahead," said Hartwick, grimly. "But you will think over what I have
said after the race comes off."

The boys put on their caps and trooped out, laughing and talking as they
went.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MERRIWELL AND RATTLETON.


"Harry!"

"Hello!"

"You've got to stop smoking those confounded cigarettes."

Harry Rattleton let his feet fall with a thump from the table on which
they had been comfortably resting and turned about to stare at
Merriwell, his roommate. His face expressed astonishment, not unmingled
with anger.

"Will you be good enough to repeat that remark?" he said, exhaling a
cloud of smoke and holding his roll daintily poised in his fingers.

"I said that you must stop smoking cigarettes."

"Well, what did you mean?"

"I am in the habit of saying what I mean," was the quiet answer as Frank
scanned the paper over which he had been pondering for some time.

Harry got upon his feet, shoved one hand into his trousers pocket, and
stared in silence for some seconds at Merriwell. That stare was most
expressive.

"Well, may I be jotally tiggered--I mean totally jiggered!" he finally
exclaimed.

"You'll be worse than that if you keep on with those things," asserted
Frank. "You'll be totally wrecked."

"This is the first time you have had the crust to deliberately tell me
that I must do anything," growled Harry, resentfully. "And I feel free
to say that I don't like it much. It is carrying the thing altogether
too far. I have never told you that you must do this thing or you
mustn't do that. I should have considered that I was beddling with
something that was none of my misness--er--meddling with something that
was none of my business."

Frank perceived that his roommate was quite heated, so he dropped the
paper and said:

"Don't fly off the handle so quick, old man. I am speaking for your own
good, and you should know it."

"Thank you!" sarcastically.

"But I am in earnest."

"Really?" and Rattleton elevated his eyebrows.

"Come now," said Frank, "sit down and we will talk it over."

"Talk it over, eh? I don't know why we should talk over a matter that
concerns me alone."

"Your dinner did not set well. I never saw you so touchy in all my life.
You know I am your friend, old man, and there is no reason why you
should show such a spirit toward me."

"I don't like to be told what I must do and what I mustn't by anybody.
That's all there is about it."

Harry did sit down, but he lighted a fresh cigarette.

"Well, I suppose you will have your own way, but I want to explain why I
said what I did. You know we are out to beat the sophs in the boat
race."

"Sure."

"Well, in order to do it every man of us must be in the pink of
condition. You are not drinking, and Old Put doesn't know how much you
are smoking. If he did he would call you down or drop you. It is pretty
certain that Gordon would take your place."

"Well, I suppose you are going to tell Old Put all about it? Is that
what you mean?"

"Not exactly. But you know I have as much interest in the makeup of our
crew as Old Put, although he is the man who really has charge of us."

"Well?"

"If I were to say so, you would be taken out and some one else would
fill your place."

"And would you do that?"

"Not unless forced to do so. You should know, Harry, that I am ready to
stick by you in anything--if I can."

"If you can! I don't understand that--hang me, if I do! If I have a
friend I am going to stick to him through anything, right or wrong!"

"That's first rate and it is all right. If you get into any trouble, I
fancy you will not find anybody who will stand by you any longer. But
this matter is different. You are in training, and you are not supposed
to smoke at all, but you get here in this room and puff away by the
hour."

"What harm does it do?"

"A great deal."

"Get out! It doesn't make a dit of bifference."

"That's what you think, but I know better. At Fardale I had a chum who
smoked cigarettes by the stack. He was a natural-born athlete, but he
never seemed quite able to take the lead in anything. It was his wind. I
talked to him, but he thought I didn't know. Finally I induced him to
leave off smoking entirely. He did it, though it was like taking his
teeth. It was not long before he showed an improvement in his work. The
improvement continued and he went up to the very top. He acknowledged
that he could not have accomplished it if he had kept on with his
cigarettes.

"Now, old man," continued Frank, coming over and putting a hand on
Harry's shoulder in a friendly way, "I am interested in you and I want
to see you stay on our crew. You must know that I am giving it to you
straight."

Harry was silent, gazing down at the floor, while his cigarette was
going out, still held between his fingers.

"I am going to tell you something that you do not know," Frank went on.
"Old Put has been asking me to give Gordon more of a show. He thinks
Gordon is a better man than you, but I know better. If you will leave
cigarettes alone you are the man for the place. Gordon has a beautiful
back and splendid shoulders, but he lacks heart, or I am much mistaken.
It takes nerve to pull an oar in a race. A man has got to keep at it for
all there is in him till he drops--and he mustn't drop till the race is
over. That's why I want you. I am confident that you will pull your arms
out before you give up. But you won't have the wind for the race unless
you quit cigarettes, and quit them immediately."

Harry was still silent, but his head was lower and he was biting his
lips. The cigarette in his fingers had quite gone out.

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