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Frank Merriwell's Son; Or, A Chip Off the Old Block

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Title: Frank Merriwell's Son; Or, A Chip Off the Old Block

Author: Burt L. Standish


        
Release date: May 3, 2008 [eBook #25316]

Language: English

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[Illustration: The Merriwell Series No. 137 Frank Merriwell's Son By
Burt L. Standish]


Frank Merriwell's Son

OR,

A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.

[Illustration]


STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1906
By STREET & SMITH
Frank Merriwell's Son

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.




TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.          A NEW LIFE.
CHAPTER II.         THE BIRTHMARK.
CHAPTER III.        ON THE VERANDA.
CHAPTER IV.         A MAID OF MYSTERY.
CHAPTER V.          THE SURPRISE.
CHAPTER VI.         THE FACE IN THE WATCH.
CHAPTER VII.        A BLACK SAMSON.
CHAPTER VIII.       THE SUBSTITUTES.
CHAPTER IX.         SPARKFAIR'S HIT.
CHAPTER X.          A MOONLIGHT MEETING.
CHAPTER XI.         THE TRUTH.
CHAPTER XII.        A HEART LAID BARE.
CHAPTER XIII.       THE PLEDGE OF FAITH.
CHAPTER XIV.        THE SIGNAL FOR SILENCE.
CHAPTER XV.         KIDNAPED!
CHAPTER XVI.        FOR THE SAKE OF OLD DAYS.
CHAPTER XVII.       A CALL TO THE "FLOCK."
CHAPTER XVIII.      A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
CHAPTER XIX.        AN INTRUDER.
CHAPTER XX.         OLD FRIENDS EN ROUTE.
CHAPTER XXI.        AT MERRY HOME.
CHAPTER XXII.       ANOTHER PILGRIM.
CHAPTER XXIII.      IN THE NOOK.
CHAPTER XXIV.       ON THE CLIFF.
CHAPTER XXV.        A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER XXVI.       A LIVELY GAME.
CHAPTER XXVII.      MURILLO'S FAREWELL.
CHAPTER XXVIII.     A COMPACT.
CHAPTER XXIX.       THE PROOF.
CHAPTER XXX.        THE EDUCATED HORSE.
CHAPTER XXXI.       A CHALLENGE.
CHAPTER XXXII.      A HARD PROPOSITION.
CHAPTER XXXIII.     THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.
CHAPTER XXXIV.      A TROUBLED MIND.
CHAPTER XXXV.       REMORSE.
CHAPTER XXXVI.      A FRIEND WORTH HAVING.
CHAPTER XXXVII.     A PROTEST.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.    A CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XXXIX.      JOLTS FOR BULLIES.
CHAPTER XL.         A DETERMINED FRONT.
CHAPTER XLI.        THE HOUR AND THE MAN.




FRANK MERRIWELL'S SON.

CHAPTER I.

A NEW LIFE.


Lizette, the French nurse, came softly and lightly down the stairs and
found Frank Merriwell pacing the library floor, while Bart Hodge and
Elsie Bellwood talked to him soothingly.

"Madame will see you now, saire," said the nurse, with a little curtsy.
"Ze doctaire he is gone now some time. Madame she is comforterbill. She
say she see you--alone."

Frank was all eagerness to go. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time,
scarcely heeding the white-capped nurse, who hurried after him, softly
calling:

"Not on ze rush, saire. You make ze rush, you gif madame ze start."

"That's so," muttered Merry, checking himself at the head of the stairs
and waiting for the cautious nurse. "Lizette, lead the way."

The girl, stepping softly as a cat, gently opened a door for him, thus
revealing a chamber where the light was softened by drawn window shades.
Within that chamber Mrs. Merriwell reclined amid the snowy pillows of a
broad bed.

"Ze mastaire is here, madame," said the nurse, as Frank entered.

In a moment Merry was bending over his wife.

Something small and pink, in a soft white garment, nestled on her arm.
It uttered a weak little cry--the cry of a new life in the great
seething world--which was sweet music to the pale woman on the bed and
the anxious man who bent over her.

"Oh, Frank," murmured Inza, "he's calling to you! He knows his father
has come."

Merriwell kissed her lightly, softly, tenderly. Then, with that
indescribable light in his eyes, he gazed long and fondly at the babe.

"It's a boy, Inza!" he murmured. "Just as you wished!"

"Just as I wished for your sake, Frank," she said. "I knew you wanted a
son. This is the happiest moment of my life, for I have given him to
you."

"A son!" exclaimed Frank softly, as he straightened up and threw his
splendid shoulders back. "Why, think of it, Inza, I'm a father--and you
are the dearest, sweetest, handsomest, noblest little mother in all the
world!"

The nurse ventured to speak.

"Madame is so well! Madame is so strong! It is wonderful! It is grand!"

"You've been very good, Lizette," said Inza. "We'll not forget it."

The nurse retired to the far end of the room, where she stood with her
back toward the bed, pretending to inspect and admire a Donatello upon
the wall.

Frank took the chair beside the bed and found Inza's hand, which he
clasped in a firm but gentle grasp.

"What shall we name him?" he asked.

"Why, haven't you decided on a name, dear?"

"Without consulting you? Do you think I would do such a thing, Inza?"

"The name that pleases you will please me," she declared. "What shall it
be, my husband?"

"Why not the name of my most faithful friend? Why not call him Bartley
Hodge Merriwell?"

"If that satisfies you, he shall be called by that name."

Somehow Frank fancied he detected a touch of disappointment in her
voice.

"But you, sweetheart--haven't you a suggestion to make?"

"If you would like me to make one."

"You know I would, Inza."

"Then let Hodge be his middle name. Let's call him Frank Hodge
Merriwell. The initials are the same as your own. Bart will be pleased,
and to me the baby will be little Frank."

"Fine!" laughed Merry, in great satisfaction. "That is settled. That
shall be his name. Hello, there, Frank Merriwell, the younger! I'll make
an athlete of you, you rascal! I'll give you such advantages to start
with as I never had myself."

"No matter what you give him, no matter what you do for him," murmured
the happy mother, "he can never become a better or nobler man than his
father."

Frank kissed her again.




CHAPTER II.

THE BIRTHMARK.


"Where are Bart and Elsie, Frank?" asked Inza.

"They're in the library."

"I want them to come up. Tell Lizette to call them."

The soft-footed nurse flitted from the room, and a few moments later
Elsie Bellwood and Bart Hodge appeared. Hodge followed Elsie with an air
of reluctance and confusion, which caused Inza to smile.

In a moment the golden-haired girl was bending over the bed, caressing
her bosom friend, and murmuring soft words of affection.

"You're such a brave, brave woman, Inza!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you make
me feel like a coward!"

"Come here, Hodge," urged Frank, drawing his friend round to the other
side of the bed. "Here's the boy. Here he is--Frank Hodge Merriwell."

"Frank Hodge Merriwell?" echoed Bart, fumbling for Merry's hand and
grasping it with an almost savage grip. "You've given him my name?"

"We did it--both of us together, old man."

"Merry, I--I don't know what--to say," stammered Bartley. "You've
completely upset me. It's the greatest honor----"

"There, there," smiled Frank, "don't splutter and mumble like that, old
fellow. You don't have to say a word. Just make a bow to the new-born
king."

Elsie was not one to gush, but, with clasped hands and flushed face, she
expressed her admiration for the child.

"You ought to feel proud, Bart," she said. "You ought to feel almost as
proud as Frank."

"Proud?" laughed Hodge. "Why, I--I---- My chest has expanded three
inches in the last thirty seconds. Proud? I'll bet my hat won't fit me!
He's a star, the little rascal!"

"He has ze star on his left shouldaire," said Lizette. "Shall I show it,
madame? Shall I show zem ze beautiful mark?"

"Please do," said Inza.

The nurse loosened the child's clothes and exposed the small, shapely
shoulder. There, at the very base of the arm, was a small, perfectly
formed pink, five-cornered star.

"I was right!" cried Hodge. "There's been a wonderful addition to the
universe! A new star has risen!"

"It's a birthmark," said Frank.

"Oh, isn't it very strange!" breathed Elsie. "It gives me a
superstitious feeling of awe. It seems to me that he is marked by fate
to be something grand and wonderful."

"It was so good of you, Elsie, to come to me when I wanted you,"
breathed Inza. "And Hodge--he traveled so far."

"Oh, everything is coming as smoothly as possible at the mines,"
declared Bart. "There's a first-class foreman at both the Queen Mystery
and the San Pablo. I could leave as well as not, and the old trains
couldn't run fast enough to bring me here after I received the wire from
Frank, saying that Elsie would be here. You bet I was glad to shake the
alkali dust out of my clothes."

"You've done great things for me at the mines, Bart," said Merry.
"Everything now seems to be going right for me everywhere in the world.
The Central Sonora Railroad is practically completed, and the San Pablo
is paying enormously. But these are not things to speak of on an
occasion like this."

After a few minutes Bart and Elsie retired, the nurse took the baby, and
Frank lingered a while longer at the side of his wife.

On returning to the library, Elsie stood at one of the large windows and
looked out upon the grounds and across the broad road toward the
handsome buildings of Farnham Hall. There was a strange expression of
mingled happiness and regret on her fair face. Something like a mist
filled her eyes.

Hodge came up behind her and put his arms round her.

"A penny for your thoughts, Elsie," he said.

"I don't think I could express them in words," she confessed. "Do you
think me a jealous person, Bart?"

"Jealous?" he exclaimed. "Far from it!"

"But I am--I'm jealous. I'm dying of envy."

"You--you jealous--of whom?"

"Inza. Look how all the best things of life have come to her. She has a
grand husband, who is doing a magnificent and noble work. Look at those
splendid buildings. Every one acknowledges now that Frank has done and
is doing more for the upbuilding and the uplifting of American boys than
any person has ever before done in all history. Inza is his wife, and
they have a son."

Bart's arms dropped at his sides, and he turned away.

In surprise, Elsie turned and saw him move from her. In a moment she had
him by the arm.

"What is it, Bart?" she exclaimed, in dismay.

He shook his head, seeming unable to speak.

"Tell me what it is. Tell me what I did to hurt you," she commanded.

He faced her again, looking deep into her blue eyes.

"You called up the past, Elsie," he said, in a low tone. "I can't forget
that once I thought Frank loved you--and you loved him. You've confessed
a feeling of jealousy toward Inza."

"Oh, no, no, no!" she said quickly. "You didn't understand me,
Bart--truly you didn't! It was not the sort of jealousy you mean. I'm
not jealous of her because she is Frank's wife--never! never!"

He seemed puzzled.

"Then what did you mean--what did you mean?" he asked.

"Why, can't you understand? Can't you see how it is? Fortune or fate, or
whatever you may call it, has been against me--against us, Bart. Have
you forgotten how we planned on a double wedding? Have you
forgotten----"

"Forgotten?" cried Hodge. "I should say not! It was the bitterest
disappointment of my life! You know I urged you, Elsie--I used every
persuasion in my power."

"But I could not consent. I was an invalid, and I feared my health would
never return."

"It has returned, little sweetheart. You're well again. You're stronger
and handsomer than ever before in all your life. You put me off then,
but you can't do it now! I won't let you!"

"You mean that----"

"I mean that when I left Mexico I made a resolve--I swore an oath. If I
go back there--if Frank wants me to go--you will go with me."

"Bart!"

"You must go with me," he repeated.

"Must?"

"I have said it. Look here, Elsie, I know you're not jealous of Inza
because Merry is rich."

"Oh, no, no!"

"As a rule, I have told you everything, my girl, but I now confess that
there is one thing that I have not told you. I have a secret."

"A secret from me?"

"Yes, a secret from you. You heard Frank state how well the San Pablo is
paying. You heard him say that I had been faithful in my work for him.
Perhaps you do not know that ere we entered into an agreement by which I
took charge of his two mines and acted as overseer for both of
them--perhaps you do not know that we nearly quarreled."

Elsie looked astounded.

"Nearly quarreled?" she exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Why, how could you?"

"Because he insisted on a certain condition in our agreement. Because he
insisted that, after a lapse of time and at the completion of the
Mexican railroad, I should accept a third interest in the San Pablo
Mine. I fought against it. I told him it was not right. I even
threatened to quit and have nothing to do with the work he wished me to
perform. He was inexorable, unyielding. I pointed out that my service
was not worth what he offered. I showed him that he could get
experienced and expert men to do the work for an infinitesimal part of
what he proposed to give me. He asserted that he was not giving me this
merely for my labor, but on account of past favors and things I had done
for him which could not be paid for in money. Even though I did not
permit him to force me into consenting to take this share of his mine, I
finally remained and did my best. I arrived in Bloomfield three days
ago. The day I reached here he placed a paper in my hands. That paper
makes me one-third owner of the San Pablo. I'm rich, Elsie. The future
is assured for me and for you. That very day I went to the town clerk
and had another paper made out. Here it is."

He took a document from his pocket, opened it, and placed it in her
hands.

"Why--why, what----" faltered Elsie.

"It's a marriage license," said Bart. "I've made all arrangements, and
to-morrow, God willing, you and I will be made man and wife."

It was even as Hodge had said. On the morrow, at her request, they were
married in Inza's chamber.




CHAPTER III.

ON THE VERANDA.


It was a beautiful sunny morning some three weeks later.

Inza and Elsie sat on the broad veranda of Merry Home, while Lizette,
the nurse, trundled the baby up and down beneath the shady trees on the
broad lawn.

Over at the east of Farnham Hall a group of laborers, among whom were
fully twenty of the Farnham boys, were completing the foundations for
Merriwell's new manual-training school building.

A glimpse of the distant athletic ground showed a number of boys hard at
work on the track and the baseball field.

There was a look of serene happiness on Inza's face, while Elsie was
positively rosy. After chatting a while, they sat some moments in
silence, busy with their own thoughts. Finally their eyes met, and Inza
laughed.

"No one would ever dream now that you were at one time determined to be
an invalid, Elsie," she said.

"Determined to be?" exclaimed Elsie. "Why do you use that word, Inza?"

"Why, you remember that I laughed at you--you remember I told you a
hundred times that you would be well and strong again."

"Yes, you were most encouraging, Inza, and I'll never forget how
faithfully you stuck by me. Still, there were reasons why I feared for
my future health."

"Silly reasons."

"Oh, no, Inza; not silly. You can't call them that. You know my mother
was never strong, and she finally became a chronic invalid."

"But your father----"

"Oh, he was a rugged man."

"You know it's said that girls generally take after their fathers and
boys after their mothers."

"But in my case it was different. A thousand times my father told me how
much I looked like my mother. I had a picture of her, and I could see I
was becoming more and more like her every day."

"You're a person who worries, Elsie. When things are not going just
right you give yourself over to fears for the future. I have absolute
courage and faith."

"Oh, I know my failing," admitted the golden-haired bride. "You and
Frank were made for each other. You're both courageous and trustful.
Frank has done marvels for Bart in the way of giving him unwavering
confidence and courage. You know Bart used to be quick-tempered,
resentful, and inclined to brood. He has learned, through Frank's
example, to overcome such failings, and he's now almost as confident
and optimistic as Frank himself. I think Bart will help me in that
respect."

"We're both extremely fortunate," said Inza gravely. "If other girls
could have such good fortune, this world would be a happy place. You are
going to stay with us this summer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Bart thinks it his duty to return to the mines. If he
goes, I shall go with him."

"But Frank says Bart will not be needed there for three months, at
least. You're not going to settle down to live in Arizona or Mexico,
Elsie?"

"Oh, I don't expect we'll live there all our lives," was the smiling
answer. "But while duty keeps my husband out there, I shall remain with
him."

"That's fine--that's splendid! But Frank says there is no reason why
Bart should spend more than five or six months of the year at the mines.
Frank wants you to have a home in the East--here in Bloomfield."

"Oh, I hope we may!" cried Elsie. "I'm sure Bart would like that."

"Then you'd better make your plans for it. There's a fine building lot
down the road, and Frank owns it. You know you were married so suddenly
we had no opportunity to make you a wedding present. If you can induce
Bart to build, Frank and I have decided to give you that lot as a
wedding present."

Elsie sprang up, her eyes dancing, flung her arms round Inza's neck, and
kissed her repeatedly.

"It's too much--too much!" she cried.

For a few moments their words and laughter were mingled in such
confusion that the record would produce a senseless jumble. Finally
Elsie sat down, appearing utterly overcome.

"Oh, what a glorious world!" she murmured. "What a grand, inexpressible
thing real true friendship is! Still, such a gift is----"

"Now don't feel that this is a case of charity," laughed Inza. "I want
you here--we want you here. Bart doesn't need charity. His interest in
the San Pablo makes him independent. He could buy a building lot
anywhere he chose in Bloomfield; but it happens Frank owns the best lot
near us, and our selfish desire to have you close by is one motive for
the present."

"Selfish, Inza? There never was a selfish bone in you or in your
husband. I understand and appreciate the spirit of the gift, and I'm
sure Bart will. Oh, won't it be the finest thing to plan our new house,
to watch while it is being built, to furnish it, and finally to move
into it and start with a real home of our own!"

Again they were silent.

Amid the trees birds were calling, mate to mate. A proud redbreast
danced across the lawn, pausing to capture a fated insect, then flew up
into one of the trees to feed its mate upon a nest.

Elsie was watching the maid, now bending over the carriage and crooning
softly to the baby.

"Did you ever notice how queerly Lizette does her hair, Inza?"

"Yes, I've noticed," was the answer. "There are several queer things
about her. Her skin is strangely dark, almost as if stained, and I know
she makes up her eyebrows. Sometimes I've noted that her French, when
she speaks in her own language, is anything but correct, yet she seems a
girl of some education. Her intonation is occasionally a trifle
different from that of most French people I've met."

"But she's very faithful."

"Yes, she is very faithful and very kind with the baby. But I believe
Lizette has a secret."

"A secret?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think that?"

"Occasionally she looks at me in the most peculiar manner. I've caught
her looking that way several times. Once I discovered her glaring at
Frank's back in a way that was almost savage."

"How singular! What do you suppose it means?"

"Oh, I don't know, unless it may be that she envies Frank and me. It may
be that some time she was disappointed by an unfaithful lover."

"Poor girl!" breathed Elsie. "If such is the case, I think I realize how
she feels. But look, Inza, here come the boys now. They're coming over
from the Hall."

The "boys" were Frank and Bart, who were approaching side by side, two
splendid specimens of American manhood.




CHAPTER IV.

A MAID OF MYSTERY.


Frank and Bart waved their hands and lifted their hats. Hodge dashed up
the veranda steps to join his wife, while Merry paused to bend over the
baby carriage.

"Why, he's wide awake," laughed Merry, as he surveyed the baby. "He's
chipper and bright as a new-minted dollar, but he isn't raising much of
a racket."

"Oh, he has ze most splendid tempaire for ze baby zat I evaire see,"
said Lizette. "He no make ze cry, ze squawk, ze squeal all ze time, like
some babeez. When he is hungaire he hollaire some. Zat is naturaile."

"Quite," laughed Merry. "When I'm hungry I'm inclined to put up a holler
myself. Hey, hey, toddlekins, you're getting a dimple!"

He touched the baby's cheeks, and the tiny hands found and grasped his
finger. A moment later that finger was in the baby's mouth.

"Hold on, you cannibal!" protested Frank, in great delight. "You're
trying to eat your own father! Haven't you any heart or conscience!
Haven't you any feeling for your dad! I believe he's hungry now,
Lizette. I believe he's perishing! Lizette, you're starving him!"

"Oh, oh, monsieur!" cried the nurse. "I nevaire starve heem. He have all
he need. You gif heem too much he git ze colic--he git ze cramp. You
make heem sick. You know how to feed ze big boys to make zem strong and
well, but you know not how to feed ze baby. You leave it to Lizette. She
takes ze perfect care of heem."

"I fancy that's right, Lizette," said Merry, straightening up and
looking at her. "You've proved that you know your business. I'll
remember you well, my girl. But, say, Lizette, what makes you do your
hair so queerly? What makes you hide your ears with it?"

The nurse seemed confused, and bowed her head until he could not see her
face fairly.

"Oh, maybe I have ze very ugly ear, monsieur. Eef not zat, mebbe I like
ze way I do ze hair. You know one time ze many girl do ze hair zis way
like Cleo de Merode."

"Well, you don't need to advertise yourself, and that was one of Cleo's
advertising dodges. Have you a brother?"

"A brothaire?"

"Yes."

"Why you ask it?"

"Because there's something wonderfully familiar in your appearance.
Because I've either seen you before or some one very much like you. Have
you a brother?"

"I have not ze brothaire."

"Then it must be a coincidence, but somehow I seem to remember dimly a
boy who looked like you. I may be mistaken."

"I have neither the brothaire nor the sistaire. I am all alone in ze
world, monsieur. I have ze hard time to geet ze living once. It gif me
ze great work."

"Well, don't worry about that any more, my girl. We need you right here
at Merry Home."

Inza was calling to him, and Frank hastened up the steps.

"I didn't expect you'd be able to come so soon, Frank," said his wife,
as he drew his chair close to hers.

"Oh, I arranged it to get off early this forenoon. Hodge has been
helping me. Diamond and Browning are still hard at work keeping the boys
pegging away."

"Everything is going well at the school?"

"Things couldn't go better. I don't know a boy who hasn't made great
improvement, although some have done far better than others. Each day it
seems that they take hold of the work with fresh enthusiasm and energy."

"You've got a great baseball bunch there, Merry," said Hodge. "I don't
wonder they trimmed everything in their class hereabouts. As a pitcher,
that fellow Sparkfair is the real article."

Frank nodded.

"You're right. Sparkfair is a wonder."

"But I can't quite fathom him," confessed Hodge. "If ever I saw a
deceptive young scoundrel, it's that chap. At times he's so meek and
modest that he dazes me. At other times he's so flippant and forward
that I want to collar him and shake him out of his clothes. I wouldn't
know how to deal with him, Frank."

"In some respects it was a problem with me," confessed Merry; "but
fortunately I struck on the proper course. Once I found out how to
manage, it was not hard to handle Sparkfair. He raised a lot of dust
when he first landed at Farnham Hall. It didn't take him long to get
arrested as a highwayman, and right on top of that I had to kill a fine
horse in order to keep the horse from killing Sparkfair. He's as full of
queer quirks and unexpected moves as an egg is full of meat. If there's
a practical joke perpetrated, I generally look for Sparkfair at the
bottom of it. About nine times out of ten I find him there. Still, he's
not malicious, and in a case of emergency I believe I can depend upon
him to be on the right side. For instance, when the boys started a
rebellion against manual labor Sparkfair refused to join them, and it
was his scheme that put a prompt and ludicrous end to the rebellion."

"I think he's a splendid boy," said Inza. "I took a liking to him the
first time I saw him."

"He's done a great deal in the way of helping young Joe Crowfoot along,"
said Frank.

"There's another marvel!" exclaimed Bart. "If any one except you were to
tell me that your Indian boy has made such astonishing progress from
savagery to civilization in such a brief time, I'd disbelieve the yarn.
I've been giving him points on his work behind the bat. He grasps
everything almost instantly."

"He's remarkably apt," nodded Merriwell. "With his whole soul he's
determined to learn everything the white man can teach him. Old Joe
swore the boy to this obedience, and young Joe has never faltered or
hesitated. Still, I know he is sometimes consumed with a longing for the
wild life that's natural to one of his race. At times he wanders alone
in the fields and woods. He takes pleasure in following the trail of any
wild animal if he happens to find such a track. As a trailer, I believe
he's almost as wonderful as a bloodhound."

The conversation wandered on to other topics, and finally Inza spoke of
the wedding gift to Bart and Elsie. Hodge seemed quite overcome and
unable to express himself.

"Not a word, old fellow!" cried Frank, glancing at his watch and rising
quickly. "Come on if you're going into town with me."

"Are you going into town?" asked Inza.

"Oh, we won't be gone long," smiled Merry. "It's a little matter that
requires attention. Perhaps we'll bring back a surprise."

"Oh, now you've aroused my curiosity!"

"I intended to."

"Aren't you going to tell me what it is?"

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise."

"But I can't wait."

"Just like a woman," chuckled Merry. "Give them a hint of a surprise in
store for them, and they'll badger you to death until they spoil the
surprise. Let's take flight, Bart. Let's get away before the girls coax
it out of us."

He snatched a kiss and sprang down the steps, followed by Hodge.

"I think you're real mean!" cried Inza. "You just wait and see if I
don't play it back on you! I'll have a secret some time and keep it from
you!"

"Impossible!" said Merry. "No woman ever kept a secret."

"Especially from her husband," put in Hodge.

"Oh, you'll see--you'll see!" threatened Inza.

But the two laughing young men disappeared round the corner.

"Now, I'd just give anything in the world to know what they're up to,"
said Inza. "Aren't you dying to know, Elsie?"

"I am, but still I think I'll survive," was the answer.

Proceeding to the stable, Merry called Toots, who promptly appeared,
jerking off his cap and bowing as he showed his teeth in a grin.

"How'd do, Marsa Frank--good mawnin', sah," he said. "How'd do, Mist'
Hodge? What ken Ah do fo' yo' dis lubly mawnin'?"

"Hitch the span into the surrey," said Merry. "I want you to drive us to
the station."

While the colored man was hitching up, Frank and Bart talked.

"I heard some of the things you were saying to that French nurse girl,
Merry," said Hodge. "You seem to have an idea that you've seen her
before."

"I can't get over the feeling," confessed Frank. "Still, it doesn't seem
so much as if I'd seen her as it does seem that I've seen some one like
her."

"You asked her if she had a brother?"

"Yes."

"She said no?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that she told you the truth?"

"I had no reason to think otherwise."

"You trust her?"

"She seems perfectly trustworthy to me."

"Well, you may be right. In old times I was forever suspecting some one
you trusted. In most cases I was wrong, and I suppose I am wrong this
time."

"Then you suspect Lizette?"

"I have a queer feeling about that girl. I can't give my reasons for it,
Merry. Still, after you were through talking with her a little while ago
and you started up the veranda steps, I saw her give you a queer look
behind your back."

"What sort of a look?"

"I can't describe it. She just flashed you one daggerlike glance with
those black eyes."

"Oh, well, that meant nothing. Are you ready, Toots?"

"Yes, sah, all ready, sah. Git right in, gemmans. Whoa dar, Flossie!
Don't yo' git so nimpatient! Stop yo' dancin', old girl. You're gittin'
Dick all fretted up."

Frank and Bart sprang in and took the rear seat. In a moment Toots was
on the front seat, and the horses clattered out of the stable.




CHAPTER V.

THE SURPRISE.


The eastbound express drew up at Bloomfield station. Among the
passengers who got off was a slender, grave-faced young fellow, who
carried a satchel, and whose hand was grasped almost as soon as his foot
reached the depot platform. It was Frank Merriwell's old friend, Berlin
Carson.

"How are you, Berlin, old boy!" cried Frank, shaking that hand warmly.
"Here's Hodge."

Bart Hodge followed Frank in giving the traveler a handshake.

"By George, I'm glad to see you, Carson," he said.

The young man's grave face brightened and a look of seeming sadness
vanished from his eyes as he surveyed Merry and Hodge.

"Glad doesn't express it with me," he said. "I can't find words,
fellows. By Jove! you're both looking fine and happy as lords."

"Hodge ought to look happy." chuckled Merriwell. "Just married, you
know."

"Elsie Bellwood----"

"You've named her," nodded Frank. "She's the bride."

"Congratulations, Bart, old boy!" said Carson, again wringing the hand
of Hodge.

"But hasn't Frank put you onto the other event?" asked Bart. "There's a
new Merriwell in Bloomfield."

"A new Merriwell?"

"Three weeks old."

"And you never sent me word, Frank!" said Berlin, with a slightly
injured air.

"How could I? Didn't know your address. Last I knew you were not on the
ranch."

"No, I haven't stayed on the ranch much since father's death and
since----"

Carson broke off abruptly, as if his lips had nearly uttered something
he did not care to speak about.

"You were en route when I received your wire, Berlin," explained Merry.
"You couldn't expect me to answer it, you know."

"Of course not. It's all right, Merry."

Merriwell led Carson toward the waiting surrey. Toots was standing on
the platform, holding the horses.

"I believe you've met Toots, Berlin," said Frank.

"How'd do, Mist' Carson--how'd do, sah?" bowed Toots, his cap promptly
coming off his kinky head. "Long time since Ah've seen yo', sah, an' Ah
don' beliebe Ah'd known yo'. Yo's monstrous changed--monstrous changed."

"I suppose I have changed, Toots," said Berlin.

It was true, and both Frank and Bart had taken note of it. Carson was
much thinner, and there was a certain wan and weary look about him.

Merriwell had arranged that his assistants, Browning and Diamond, who
were also old schoolfellows of Carson's, should be at Merry Home when
Berlin reached there. And there was a great handshaking and much
exclaiming over his appearance.

"I salute the little mother!" said the Westerner, as he bent over Inza's
hand and kissed it. "And the bride, too!" he exclaimed, as he greeted
Elsie. "Merriwell, Hodge, let me shake hands with you again! My grip
must say the things my lips cannot."

"Where's the baby?" questioned Frank.

"Lizette has taken him in," answered Inza. "He's asleep now. Oh, this
was a surprise, Frank! I'm still angry at you, and yet I'm glad you
didn't tell me."

"And that's like a woman, too," smiled Merry. "Come, Carson, I'll show
you your room. You look pegged out, but a wash-up and something to eat
will brace you. Later on we'll have a royal chat over old times. Then
I'll show you through Farnham Hall and around the grounds."

Berlin was left in his room, off which there was a bath. Instead of
hastening to wash up when Merry was gone, Carson sat down on a chair,
and the expression of weariness crept back into his sad eyes.

"And I might have been as happy myself!" he murmured. "I suppose it was
not to be. I know I'm a fool, but I can't forget--I can't forget!"

After a few moments he arose and made preparations to descend.

At the head of the stairs he came face to face with Lizette, who was
coming up. He gave her a glance, then stopped as if turned to stone.
Like a flash he seized her arm.

"Bessie!" he exclaimed; "Bessie, you here?"

Lizette fell back against the wall, her face gone white and her lips
parted. Her free hand fluttered up to her heart, and for a few moments
she was speechless. Finally she forced a little laugh.

"Oh, how you frighten me, monsieur!" she exclaimed. "You catch me so
queek by ze arm, and your feengaires hurt!"

Carson released his hold, but blocked her path.

"Bessie?" he repeated, but this time there was a note of inquiry in his
voice.

The girl seemed bewildered, but she shook her head.

"Zat is not my name, monsieur. It is Lizette. I am ze nurse."

"That face! Those eyes!" breathed the agitated young man. "That voice,
also! Bessie, you cannot deceive me!"

"You gif me ze fear," said the nurse, shrinking away. "You look so very
strange. Why you glare at me wiz ze eye? Why you keep calling me
Bess-ee?"

"Are you not Bessie--my Bessie?"

"You haf ze very strange idea in your mind, saire. I nevaire saw you
before."

Berlin Carson was like one dazed and utterly bewildered. To all
appearances he had badly alarmed the girl. As he faltered in seeking
further words, she suddenly brushed past him and fled, her soft-falling
feet making no sound.

For fully three minutes Carson stood there without speaking. Finally,
with his hand on the banister, he started to descend the stairs.

"Am I deceived?" he whispered huskily. "No, by Heaven, it is she!"




CHAPTER VI.

THE FACE IN THE WATCH.


At lunch Carson was strangely silent and abstracted. The raillery of his
friends failed to awaken him into anything like liveliness. He smiled a
bit at their jokes and chaffing, but any one could see those smiles were
forced.

"I should say it was high time you got away from the wild and woolly
West!" cried Jack Diamond. "I've heard that loneliness on the ocean or
the plains makes a man gloomy, and, by Jove! I believe it's true."

"Cowboys and cattlemen are not gloomy," returned Carson. "As a rule,
they're a jovial, good-natured set, who thoroughly enjoy a joke or a bit
of humor. It's not loneliness on the plains that affects me, if there's
anything the matter with me."

"Anything the matter with you?" rumbled Browning. "Why, in the old days
you were always light-hearted. This is the first time I've ever seen a
depressed mug on you."

"Let me alone, and I presume I'll come out of it," said the young
Westerner. "I'm sorry if I'm casting a shadow on an otherwise happy
gathering. I didn't mean to."

"Oh, you're all right, Carson. I should say your liver might be out of
kilter. You need something to stir it up."

"If there's anything that will stir up a man's liver more than a
hundred-mile jaunt on horseback, I'd like to know what it is. I've been
taking plenty such jaunts this spring. Although I haven't been at the
ranch for a month, I was there when the snow came off, and rode the
range with the rest of the boys to find out how our cows had come
through the winter."

"Don't suppose you've been troubled any more by cattle thieves since the
demise of that fake Laramie Dave?" questioned Merriwell.

"No, we put an end to the business in our parts. We had you to thank for
it. You were the one who discovered how our brand of the B. S. was being
turned into the Flying Dollars brand. You stopped cattle stealing in the
Big Sandy region."

"Things were hot around there for a while, weren't they, Berlin?"
laughed Frank.

"I haven't heard about this," said Diamond. "What's the story?"

Carson looked disturbed.

"I don't like to tell it," he confessed. "Still, I don't suppose Frank
would give himself proper credit if he should tell you. Did you ever
hear of Laramie Dave, the rustler?"

"My dear fellow, I've been living on the other side of the pond so long
that I haven't heard of anything taking place out in your part of this
country. Who was this Laramie Dave?"

"The worst rustler known in recent years. He carried on most of his
operations on the big ranches to the north of us. He operated
extensively in Wyoming and in Montana. At last the cattlemen became
exasperated and made things hot for him up there. Next we knew Laramie
Dave was said to be getting in his work in Colorado. We lost cattle
right along on the Big Sandy, and the Bar S people had the same trouble.
The Flying Dollars people also made a similar complaint. The Flying
Dollars Ranch was owned by Colonel King.

"There was an old feud between my foreman and the foreman of the Flying
Dollars. I was with Merry in Denver when I received word that the
rustlers were hitting us hard, and I struck out for the Big Sandy, Frank
accompanying me. We found our fences were being cut everywhere, which
permitted our cattle to stray or to be driven off. We rode over our
ranch, took a look at the Bar S cattle, and visited the Flying Dollars.

"The night following our visit to the Flying Dollars Merry sat up
scrawling on a piece of paper in an aimless way, while I went to bed. He
woke me from a sound sleep by uttering an exclamation of triumph. I
think I growled at him, but he made me get up, and there on the paper he
had drawn the different brands of the three ranches, the Bar S, the Big
Sandy, and the Flying Dollars. He had combined all three brands into
one. He showed how either the Bar S or the B. S. could be turned into
the Flying Dollars by having the latter brand burned over them. But
every one in those parts respected Colonel King. No one had ever dreamed
that he was concerned in the rustling. Nevertheless, Merry's detective
work put us on the right track, and in the end we learned beyond
question that King was stealing and rebranding our cattle. His
assertions that he was losing cows were lies.

"The climax came when a posse of officers and detectives cornered
Laramie Dave, and some lead was pumped into him. Colonel King was a
gray-haired, respectable-looking man, while Laramie Dave wore long black
hair and a drooping mustache. But Laramie Dave's mustache was false, and
his long black hair was a wig which covered the white hair of Colonel
King. King was the real cattle thief. He was not, however, the real
Laramie Dave, who was still up in Wyoming somewhere. He had simply made
himself up to look like Laramie Dave, in order that the genuine rustler
might get credit for the cattle stealing.

"That's the whole story."

"Sounds like a romance or a bit of fiction," observed Diamond. "Don't
suppose such business could be carried on in the West at the present
time."

"We put an end to it as far as Colorado is concerned," nodded Carson.
"Merry deserves the credit for rounding up the last of our big cow
thieves."

"Let me see," murmured Merriwell, "Colonel King had a daughter, didn't
he? What became of her, Berlin?"

Carson shook his head.

"No one knows," he replied. "She disappeared after her father's death."

After lunch they again sat on the veranda and chatted a while. Finally
Frank, Bruce, and Jack went over to Farnham Hall, to attend to their
duties there.

"Show Berlin over the grounds, Hodge," said Merry, as he was leaving.
"I'll take him through the buildings myself later on."

Hodge and Carson strolled about that afternoon, first visiting the
picnic grove and from thence turning toward the lake and the boathouse.
At the boathouse they rested a while, for the spot was cool and
inviting.

"I'd like a camera," said Carson. "Jingoes, Bart, a fellow could get
some great views here! The scenery is soothing. That's the word for it,
soothing. It gives me a feeling of rest."

"Then take your time and rest as much as you like," said Bart. "Since
coming here I've had my first opportunity in months to rest. I never
fancied there was a lazy streak in me, but I'm getting lazier and
lazier every day. I'm afraid it would spoil me to hang around here long.
I wouldn't have any relish for Arizona alkali or Mexican dust and
sunshine."

They sat in one of the boats that drifted beside the boathouse float,
Carson dabbling his fingers in the water.

"It is a lazy spot," he murmured. "I should think Merriwell's boys would
get the tired feeling."

"Oh, some of them do," smiled Hodge; "but Frank won't let them loll
around long enough for it to become chronic. He keeps them up and
doing."

After they had been there nearly an hour, Bart felt for his watch and
found he had left it at the boathouse.

"What time is it, Carson?" he asked.

The young Westerner drew forth a hunting-case watch and opened it.

"Nearly three," he said. Then he sat staring at the watch.

But Bart observed it was not the face of the watch at which his
companion was gazing with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes. Leaning
forward a bit, Hodge discovered that on the reverse side of the open
front case there was a pictured face--that of a girl.

Finally, with a faint sigh, Carson closed the watch and slipped it into
his pocket.

"You and Frank are very fortunate, very happy, Bart," he said. And
again began dabbling in the water with his fingers.

"I know your secret now," thought Bart. "There's a girl behind it. By
Jove! Berlin, old man, you're hard hit."




CHAPTER VII.

A BLACK SAMSON.


The sound of boyish voices at a distance finally aroused them.

"It must be the baseball squad over on the field," said Bart. "Don't you
wish to go over, Carson?"

"Eh? Did you speak to me?" asked Berlin, glancing up from the pellucid
water.

"Hear those chaps over on the field?"

"Yes."

"We haven't looked that field over, you know. It's very interesting. You
haven't begun to inspect things yet, my boy. You want to see how Merry
has fitted up for all sorts of sports here. You ought to see the
bathhouse and the little clubhouse, the stand, the track, the diamond,
and the field in general."

"I suppose so."

Carson displayed very little desire to move.

"Well, come on," urged Hodge.

Without protest Berlin stepped from the boat to the float and followed
Bart. In a short time they were on the athletic field.

"What do you think of it?" asked Hodge, with a sweep of his hand. "Just
take a good look."

"It's a splendid field, I should say; but I don't see where the people
are coming from to fill that stand over yonder."

Bart laughed.

"That does look like a problem, doesn't it. The stand is almost large
enough for a city race track. All the same, it has been crowded more
than once this season."

"It doesn't seem possible."

"Certainly it doesn't."

"Why, it looks as if the stand could accommodate the whole of Bloomfield
and have room to spare."

"Merry doesn't draw on Bloomfield alone. There are lots of towns around
here, and they're already hot on athletics. Wellsburg isn't so far away,
and more than once Wellsburg has sent trainloads of people down here.
Pittston is larger than Bloomfield, and Pittston has the fever. I
understand the citizens of this little town thought Merry crazy when he
built that stand. They've changed their minds since."

"No one besides Frank Merriwell could build a stand like that and bring
out people to fill it in a little country village. His old-time
magnetism is as strong as ever. He draws people to him. Whatever he
does, he arouses them, and they come out like magic."

"That's right. This was a sleepy village if I ever saw one. In fact,
this was the sleepiest burg I ever did see. I was here, you know, before
Farnham Hall was built. I was here before the old Merriwell house was
remodeled and turned into Merry Home. This field was an uneven, rocky
strip of land, and the lake down yonder was half drained, the dam having
fallen into disuse. The metamorphosis seems almost as surprising as the
magic changes worked by Aladdin's lamp. Frank is the modern Aladdin. He
has the lamp hidden somewhere--I'm sure of it."

At the bathhouse they found the big colored man, Jumbo, who bowed most
respectfully to Hodge.

"Hello, Jumbo," said Bart. "How are your muscles to-day?"

"Well, sah," grinned the darky, "dey am not painin' me so much as dey
uster was. No, sah! Marsa Frank he sorter finds plenty ob work fo' to
reduce de pain in mah muscles."

"Berlin," said Bart, "Jumbo is so strong that his muscles actually ache
unless he can have some strenuous occupation by which to employ
himself."

The big negro grinned and winked at Carson.

"That was what Ah tol' Marsa Frank when Ah come here," he said. "Ah
wanted a job as perfesser in de 'cademy mos' monstrous baad. Dat gemman
friend ob mine, Toots, he done tol' me dar was an openin' for a physicum
destructor at de 'cademy. So, seem' Ah had all dat strength to spare, Ah
jes' 'plied fo' de position. It happened Ah was about twenty minutes too
late. De place was filled, but Marse Frank he gibbed me anudder job. In
de first place, he made me 'sistant physicum janitor at the 'cademy. All
Ah had to do was to keep things cleaned up around de place and fro out
on de back ob dere necks dem fool people what come round to bodder Marsa
Frank. Ah was so skeered for fear Ah wouldn't qualify fo' de position ob
'sistant physicum janitor dat Ah jes' scratched gravel night an' day,
and it wa'n't long before the reduction of the pain in mah muscles begun
to took place. I was plumb busted when Marsa Frank gib me dat position.
Ah didn't hab a cent about me. Eber hear ob a coon what didn't hab a
cent about him? Yah! yah! yah! Well, sah, dat was my condition. Now,
sah, Ah'ze rich. Ah'ze gut eleben dol's in de bank, an' Ah'ze addin' to
it continerly, sah--Ah'ze addin' to it continerly. If things keep up an'
nuffin' goes wrong, Ah'll soon hab mo' money dan dat bloated bond
holder, old Stranded Royle, an' dey say he's one ob de richest Creases
dere am outside ob de Raithchils. But Ah ain't nowhere nigh as rich as
at gemman friend ob mine, Toots. Bah golly! Ah bet dat brack nigger has
gut pretty nigh a hundred dollars salted away. He suttingly belongs to
de colored narrerstocracy. If Ah eber 'cumulates as much as dat, Ah'll
buy a brownstone house in Pillumdelphy an' settle down dar to lib on mah
income. Ah'd suttinly like to keep mah strength down the rest ob mah
life a crippin' coupins off'n gover'ment bands. Neber see none ob dem
gover'ment bands, but, bah jinks! dey mus' be de real stuff. Yah! yah!
yah!"

At last, to the satisfaction of Hodge, Carson was genuinely amused, and
he joined heartily in the infectious laughter of the big colored man.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE SUBSTITUTES.


After looking through the baths and the cozy little clubhouse, Bart and
Berlin mounted the stairs to the observation cupola of the latter. From
this point they could look down on the field or back toward Farnham Hall
and Merry Home.

"Truly a most fascinating spot. That's a grand old house of Frank's.
Makes me think of the fine old colonial mansions of the South."

"That was Merry's idea in remodeling it," nodded Hodge. "Although born
in the North, Frank is a man of the whole country. He's cosmopolitan. He
has absorbed the spirit of the South, the East, and the West. He's in
every way what you may call a representative American. There's no
question about the home atmosphere of those old colonial houses. They
make one feel sorry for the dinky, finicky, filigree houses built by
most people in these days."

There was a shout from the baseball field below, and, looking down
there, they saw several boys scampering round the diamond.

"Somebody made a great hit then," observed Berlin. "It was a homer, and
evidently the bases were full."

"That's the regular team at bat," exclaimed Hodge. "It's playing the
second team."

"How many teams are there?"

"Four in all, although beyond the second team the other two are not
particularly strong. The second team fancies it's as good as the
regulars, and it has beaten the regulars once. Let's go down."

A few minutes later they walked onto the field, where a hot dispute
seemed to be taking place. Guy Featherstone, the pitcher of the second
team, was furiously arguing with the umpire, who threatened to put him
out of the game.

"Put me out! put me out!" dared Feather. "You're robbing us, anyhow!
You're giving Sparkfair's bunch everything! You passed Bemis when I had
him fairly struck out, and that gave Sparkfair a chance to make that
hit. Before that we had three to one and were trimming them in great
shape. Now they're two runs ahead of us. I suppose you've fixed it up
with Spark. He's bound to win, if he has to make a deal with the umpire
to do it."

Dale Sparkfair, a handsome lad with blue eyes, broke into a merry laugh.

"Featherstone, your head is as light as the front part of your name and
as thick as the rear end of it," he declared. "You know I'm not given to
making deals with umpires. All I ever ask for is a square show, and I'll
have that or take to the warpath."

"Well, what do I get, what do I get?" snarled Feather, showing his
teeth. "You can't bully everybody, Dale Sparkfair! I demand a square
show myself. I can tell when I strike a man out. I put the third strike
over fairly, and Bemis never wiggled at it. Kilgore called it a ball and
filled the bases."

The umpire was a boy with a queer, crooked mouth, one corner of which
twisted up while the other drooped.

"You seem to think everybody's crooked, Featherstone," he said angrily.
"I'm not umpiring this game for fun, but because you--you asked me to."

"I didn't suppose you were another of Sparkfair's sycophants!" flung
back Featherstone. "You're as crooked as your mouth!"

An instant later, had not Sparkfair and others held them apart, Kilgore
would have struck Featherstone.

"Stop where you are, both of you!" commanded Dale sternly. "We'll have
no fighting here on this field."

"He'll have to swallow his words, or I'll punch him for them!"

"I'll play no further with that fellow umpiring!" declared Featherstone.
"I am going to stop right here, and I think some of the rest feel the
same. Come on, boys, let's quit."

"The quitters will quit," came from Sparkfair; "but I don't believe
there are many quitters here, Feather."

Guy walked out and called for his men to follow him off the field.

"I'm with you," said one of them. "I think you're right, Feather, and
I'm done."

"Yes, take Booby along with you, Feather," said Dale. "I thought likely
he might hoist the white flag."

"We'll stop the game!" sneered Featherstone. "The team can't play
without us. Kilgore can forfeit to you, and you may feel as proud as you
like over your victory."

"Perhaps we'll be able to pick up a pitcher and a second baseman to fill
the vacancies," said Sparkfair, looking around. "Who'll volunteer? Any
one will do. We want to finish out this practice game."

"Come, Carson," urged Hodge, "let's you and I go into that game. I'll
pitch, and you play second."

"I'm all out of practice," said Berlin.

"And I'm not a pitcher, you know," reminded Hodge. "We can limber up and
have some amusement, anyhow."

He offered their services, and his offer was promptly accepted by the
second team, not a little to the dissatisfaction and dismay of
Featherstone.

"I'm the captain of that team," cried Guy, "and I order it off the
field!"

Bart walked up to the angry boy, placed a hand on his shoulder, and
looked straight into his eyes.

"I'm afraid you're just what Sparkfair has called you, my son--a
quitter," said Hodge, in a low tone. "The rest of the boys are going to
play. You and your friend had better run over to the Hall. Trot along,
now."

Muttering and growling, Featherstone turned away.

Hodge and Carson removed their coats, vests, collars, and neckties, and
prepared for business.

"How does the game stand?" asked Bart, as he walked out to the pitcher's
position.

"Score is five to three against you, and this is the sixth inning,"
answered Sparkfair. "You have your last turn at bat."

"How many men out?"

"Two."

"Come here, catcher," invited Bart. "I'll have to know your signals."

Walter Shackleton hurried to meet Hodge and explained his system of
signals. Bart listened and nodded.

"Give me a few minutes to get the kinks out of my arm, Sparkfair?" he
asked, as he again resumed the position at the pitching plate.

"Sure, sure," smiled Dale. "Go ahead and unbend your wing."

Hodge threw a dozen balls to Brooks at first. Then, with Lander, the
next batter, standing back, he sent two or three over the plate to
Shackleton.

"All right," he finally nodded.

"Play!" called Kilgore.

Jake Lander stepped into the batter's box and smashed the first ball
pitched by Bart. He drove it whizzing past Hodge, who did not have time
to touch it.

Carson trapped it cleanly, scooped it up, and threw it to Higgins at
first.

"Out!" shouted Kilgore.

"Great support, Berlin, old boy!" laughed Bart, as the second team
trotted in, and Sparkfair's nine took the field.

"Now we want to take a little fire out of this bright Spark, boys," said
Bart. "We need a couple of runs right off the reel. Who's the first
hitter?"

"I am," answered Sam Higgins.

"What's your position on the list?"

"Third."

"All right. Play your own game."

Higgins stepped out and swiped rather wildly at the first two balls,
missing them both.

"Make him get it over, my boy!" urged Bart.

With Sam anxious to hit, Sparkfair did his best to "pull" him on wide
ones, but Higgins let them pass, and three balls were called.

"Now you have him where you want him," came from Hodge. "If he doesn't
cut the pan, you will saunter."

Sparkfair attempted to cut the pan with a swift one, but Higgins hit it.
It was a hot grounder to Netterby, who fumbled it long enough for
Hungry Sam to arrive at first in safety.

Tommy Chuckleson and Sam Scrogg were on the coaching lines.

"We're off again!" shouted Scrogg.

"Off again, on again, gone again!" piped Chuckleson. "It's up to you,
Balloon! Don't take an ascension!"

Abe Bunderson, nicknamed "Balloon," was the next man to strike. Ere he
left the bench, Hodge whispered in his ear:

"Bunt, my boy. You know what Joe Crowfoot can do throwing. Higgins can't
steal. Sacrifice him to second."

Balloon nodded.

He obeyed instructions, bunting rather awkwardly, yet skillfully, and
sacrificing himself at first, while Higgins took second.

"Hodge next!" called the scorer.

"You're up against it now, Sparkfair," came from Lawrence Graves, as
Bart stood forth to the plate.

"I'm scared to death!" laughed Dale. "See me tremble! See me vibrate!"

The infielders crept in for a bunt, while Sparkfair pitched a swift,
high ball.

Hodge attempted to drop the ball just inside the first-base line, but
made a foul tip, and the sphere plunked into young Joe Crowfoot's mitt.

"Don't pick 'em right off the bat, Joseph," remonstrated Bart. "If you
get so close, you'll catch the ball before I have time to hit it."

The Indian boy smiled grimly.

"Mebbe that keep you from tying score," he said.

Sparkfair worked cautiously with Hodge, and, as a result, two balls were
called after this first strike.

"Walking is easier than running, Spark," reminded Bart.

"Then I think I'll let you chase," said Dale. "I hope you chase the ball
instead of chasing round the bases."

Hodge was watching Dale's every movement. He saw Sparkfair hold the
ball, covered by his hands, close to his mouth. Evidently the pitcher
intended to use the spit ball. Nevertheless, something warned Bart that
Dale had turned the ball over and grasped the dry side. His pretense of
trying a spit ball was all a bluff.

Whiz! The ball came whistling from Spark's fingers.

Crack! Hodge met it fairly on the trade-mark.

Away, away, away sailed the sphere, passing far over the head of Thad
Barking, the center fielder, who had turned and was running as fast as
his legs would carry him.

Guy Featherstone and Booby Walker had paused at a distance to watch the
game a few moments.

Featherstone uttered a furious exclamation of anger.

"I'm glad he hit that ball, and yet it makes me mad!" he grated. "I
might have done the same myself. Just look at that--just look at it!
It's a home run! It ties the score!"

He was right.




CHAPTER IX.

SPARKFAIR'S HIT.


Sparkfair sat down on the pitcher's plate and watched Hodge circling the
bases.

"Hereafter," he observed, with a doleful grin, "I'll put my fielders
over in the next county when you come to bat."

Bart's hit reminded Dale of Dick Merriwell's first appearance at
Fardale. He recalled the fact that Dick had come to bat in the ninth
inning, with two men out, the bases full, and three runs needed to tie
the score. Merriwell managed to connect with the ball after two strikes
had been called. He drove it far over Barking's head, clearing the sacks
and coming home himself, thus winning the game by a single run.

That recollection was decidedly unpleasant to Spark.

"If I get to ruminating on such things, I'll spring a leak and weep real
tears," he muttered, as he rose to his feet.

From the distance, Guy Featherstone shouted:

"Yah! yah! You're not so much, Sparkfair! You're pie for a real batter!"

With this parting taunt, Feather took Booby Walker's arm and led him
away, both disappearing into the bathhouse.

Tommy Chuckleson was the next hitter to face Dale. "Why can't I do
something like that?" exclaimed Chuck. "If I could ever hit the ball
hard enough, you'd see me making a record round the bases!"

"Just set a few mice after you and you'd make a record, all right,"
laughed Dale, in return.

Then he proceeded to strike Tommy out in short order.

Lawrence Graves, his face as expressionless as a doormat, came up and
batted a weak one into the diamond, being thrown out with ease.

The sixth inning ended, with the score tied.

Hedge returned to the pitcher's slab.

"We're going to trim you to-day, Spark," asserted Walter Shackleton, as
he crouched froglike behind the bat. "There are no quitters on the team
now."

"Don't alarm me--please don't!" implored Dale. "It's most unkind,
Shack."

Fred Hollis was the first one up. He batted a grounder through Bubbs and
reached second. Then came Brooks, who romped to first on an error by
Netterby, although Hollis was held at second.

"Joseph," said Hodge, as young Joe Crowfoot stepped out, "I know your
noble grandsire, and for his sake I'm not going to work you very hard
to-day. I'll let you go right back to the bench in a moment."

"Mebbe so," muttered young Joe. "We see."

Then he picked out a good one and lifted a long fly into the field.

"Hold your bases! hold your bases!" shouted the coachers at Hollis and
Brooks.

Bunderson, really looking something like a balloon with his round body,
made a hot run for the ball and pulled it down close to the foul flag.

A moment before the ball struck in the fielder's hands both coachers
shrieked:

"Run!"

Even as the ball landed in Bunderson's grasp Hollis and Brooks were off.

Abe lost a little time in turning to throw toward second. This lost time
enabled Brooks to reach the sack safely, while Hollis landed on third.

Crowfoot skipped down to first, hoping his fly might not be caught, but
he turned back in disappointment.

"I told you I'd let you rest, Joseph, my boy," said Bart.

"You near make bad mistake," retorted the young redskin. "You near guess
wrong that time."

"I confess it," nodded Hodge. "You gave me a heart throb when you
smashed the sphere."

"We need these runs, Barking!" called Sparkfair, as the next batter
walked out.

"It's a deuced poor game, don't you know," said Barking. "I'm really
getting sore on it, by Jove! I wish they would take up cricket. Mr.
Merriwell ought to introduce some good English game into this school."

"Hello!" said Hodge; "here's a pickle from Piccadilly. Here's a blooming
Britisher--in his mind. What are you going to do to me, Johnny Bull?"

Barking was actually flattered. He enjoyed being mistaken for an
Englishman.

"Aw," he drawled, "it's such a blooming bother to run bases. I rawther
think I'll walk, don't you know."

He did. In spite of Bart's best efforts Thad waited undisturbed and was
finally passed to first on four balls.

"If I had my hat with me, I'd take it off to you, Johnny Bull," said
Hodge. "You're clever--altogether too clever for us poor unsophisticated
Yanks. How long have you been over?"

"How long has he been over?" sneered Sim Scrogg from third. "Why, he
never saw the Atlantic Ocean. He was born inland, and he has never yet
been two hundred miles away from home."

"Play ball, fellows--play ball!" cried Sparkfair. "The sacks are
charged! The pillows are peopled! Only one out! Now's our time to settle
this game! The new pitcher is a mark! Bump him, Bubbs!"

Little Bob Bubbs was a clever hitter, and he connected with the ball all
right this time. He smashed it out on a line, and the crack of ball and
bat was followed almost instantly by the smack of ball and mitt as Hodge
pulled the sphere down with his left hand.

Without losing a moment to transfer the ball from the left hand to his
right, Bart snapped it over to Scrogg at third, catching Hollis off the
sack, and completing a breathless double play.

For an instant the regulars seemed dazed. For once in his life Sparkfair
could not find appropriate words, and, silently shaking his head, he
started for the pitcher's position.

"Ho! ho! ho!" rumbled Sam Higgins, as he lumbered in from first. "Just
fooling with you, that's all! Just getting your courage up to take some
of the swelling out of your heads!"

At bat Slick now faced Sparkfair. Oliver pulled his cap down hard on his
well-oiled hair, smiled a greasy smile, and then struck out.

Carson was the next man.

"I don't believe I can hit a balloon," he muttered to Bart, ere leaving
the bench. "I'm all out of practice, you know."

"You didn't appear very rusty at the start off," said Bart.

Berlin walked out, fouled the ball twice, and then lined it into left
for two bags.

"Oh, yes, you're all out of practice!" laughed Bart. "You can't hit a
bit, Carson!"

He was glad to see Berlin laughing on second.

"The old game's making him forget his troubles," thought Hodge. "That's
the main reason why I wanted him to play."

"These back numbers seem to be onto your curves, Dale!" cried Bob Bubbs.

"Don't rub it in--please don't!" implored Sparkfair. "The way they slam
me is simply awful! I did think I could pitch a little, but I'm afraid I
was deceived."

He knew Scrogg's weakness, however, and, forced Sim to put up an easy
infield fly, which Hollis handled.

Shackleton batted one into right field, and Carson attempted to reach
home on it.

Sleepy Jake Lander was very wide awake, and he made a line throw to the
plate.

Regardless of the fact that he was not in playing uniform, Carson slid.
Crowfoot was there, however, and he promptly tagged Berlin. Kilgore
declared it a put-out.

Hodge laughed at Carson and slapped him on the shoulder.

"These kids know how to play the game, old boy," he said. "We mustn't
forget that Frank Merriwell is their instructor and coach."

Carson joined in the laugh.

"I thought I had that score recorded on the score sheet," he confessed.

In the eighth, with one out and the bases full, Brooks drove in a run.

Two men attempted to score, however, and the second runner was put out
at the plate. A moment later another man was caught off his sack, making
the third out.

But the regulars had the lead.

"As a pitcher I don't seem to be a howling success," laughed Hodge. "I
thought they were going to make half a dozen that trip."

"We've got to get some now," said Carson. "If we don't I see our
finish."

"There's another inning. We come to bat last."

"But we can't depend on winning out in the last of the ninth."

"That's right; we do need runs."

Once more Sam Higgins was up to lead off, and Bart spoke a few words of
instruction in Sam's ear.

Higgins picked out an opening in the infield and drove a ball through
it.

Bunderson bunted once more and was safe on Bubbs' bad throw to first.

"Look out, Spark--look out!" cried the boys. "Here comes Hodge again!"

Sparkfair used all his skill to deceive Bart, and the boy's shoots and
curves were indeed enigmas. Hodge could not solve them, and a great
shout went up from the boys as Dale finally struck him out.

Chuckleson lifted a foul that dropped into Shackleton's mitt.

"Two gone, Spark--two gone!" barked Bubbs. "Now you can hold 'em!"

Hodge whispered instructions to Graves. Graves walked out, held his bat
on his shoulder, and stood like a post while Dale pitched. Somehow the
very fact that Lawrence seemed so utterly unconcerned appeared to rattle
Dale, who finally passed him to first, filling the bases.

"Too bad Slick is next," muttered Scrogg, as Oliver took his turn at
bat.

Slick drove a sharp grounder at Netterby, who booted it into the
diamond, and a run came in before the ball could be recovered.

Oliver was safe on first, and the sacks were still full.

The score was tied once more. Carson walked out and laced out a handsome
single, which brought in two runs.

"How Featherstone would rejoice had he lingered!" muttered Sparkfair.
"They're getting away with this game. I must stop it--I will!"

In spite of this determination, another error let in still another run,
and Sim Scrogg reached first.

At last Sparkfair found a victim, and Shackleton fanned.

Still, to most of the boys the game seemed lost, for the second team had
a lead of three runs.

"It's our last chance, fellows," said Dale gravely. "No fooling now. No
sacrificing. We've got to hit the ball."

Barely had he uttered these words when an inspiration came to him. He
called his players about him.

"Fellows," he said, "neither Scrogg nor Higgins are swift in handling
bunts. We won't try sacrificing, but we'll try bunting, with the idea of
bothering them. Don't bunt the ball where Hodge can handle it. Drop it
toward first or third. Lead off, Crowfoot."

Young Joe stepped out and bunted handsomely, dropping his bat and
scooting down the base line like a flash. Scrogg was seconds too late in
securing the ball and sending it to Higgins. Crowfoot was safe.

Thad Barking followed with an equally successful bunt.

Hodge called Higgins and Scrogg in a bit.

"Look out for those tricks," he warned.

Bubbs glanced toward Sparkfair inquiringly. Dale nodded.

Bubbs followed with the third bunt, while Crowfoot and Barking moved up.
Nevertheless, Scrogg managed to secure the ball and throw Towser out.

Netterby attempted to bunt, but popped up a little fly to Hodge and
followed Bubbs to the bench.

"I rather guess it's all over," said Higgins. "The bunting game didn't
work."

Bemis looked doubtful, but Sparkfair still held to his instructions.
Hiram obeyed and laid down a bunt on the line toward first.

Unseen by any one, Scrogg hooked his fingers into Crowfoot's belt and
held him at third. The Indian boy was angry and came near hitting Sim.

Hodge secured the ball too late to throw Bemis out, and the sacks were
full once more. Crowfoot appealed to Kilgore, but the umpire had not
seen Scrogg's trick and refused to penalize the second team on that
account.

Sparkfair was given a hand as he walked out to the plate. Once more Dale
thought of Dick Merriwell's feat on his first appearance at Fardale. The
situation was nearly the same. Two men were out, the bases were full,
three runs were needed to tie the score, and four to win.

"You'll have to check them, Bart," said Carson.

Hodge did his best with Sparkfair, and it began to look as if he would
succeed in striking Dale out, for Spark missed two benders.

But Dale did not strike out. He finally found a ball that suited him and
"found it good." It was a duplicate of Hodge's drive over center field.
The regulars whooped with joy as runner after runner came galloping over
the plate. They yelled like Indians as Sparkfair tore round the bases
and came in from third. Four runs were secured, and once more the first
team, had a lead of one tally.

"That's where you got even with me, Sparkfair!" called Hodge.

"I had to do it," laughed Dale. "You struck me out before."

With the sacks cleared, Hodge seemed invincible, for he quickly settled
Lander's hash.

The game was not over, for the second team had another chance.
Nevertheless, Sparkfair was at his best, and the three batters who faced
him went down, one after another.

Hodge was the first to congratulate Spark.

"You're a good man in an emergency, and such men win games," he said.

"Thanks," smiled Dale. "Don't mind my blushes. I simply love to blush."




CHAPTER X.

A MOONLIGHT MEETING.


In truth, the game had livened Carson up and taken his thoughts from
unpleasant things.

The remainder of the afternoon was fully occupied, for Merry showed
Berlin through the buildings and explained the methods of the school.

At dinner Carson seemed much brighter and joined in the talk and
laughter. After dinner he accompanied Frank and Inza to see the baby.
Little Frank was sound asleep, and one of the maids was watching over
him.

"Where's Lizette, Maggie?" asked Inza.

"Th' poor crather do have a headache," answered Maggie. "She axed me
would Oi look afther th' choild whoile she rested a bit."

"A headache? That's strange. Lizette has told me she never had an ache
or a pain in all her life."

"Did yez notice, ma'am, if she touched wood whin she said it?" asked
Maggie.

"I didn't notice."

"Thot's it, thot's it," declared the maid, with conviction. "Oi'm not
superstitious, but Oi nivver brag about mesilf thot Oi don't touch wood.
Mark me worruds, whin a person boasts and fergits to touch wood,
something happens to thot person. I nivver knew it to fail."

"A fine baby, Frank," said Berlin, as he stood looking at the child.
"You ought to be proud of him."

"No peacock was ever prouder," laughed Merry. "We hope to make a star of
him, eh, Inza?"

"Oh, the star--the birthmark!" exclaimed Inza. "Can't you show it to Mr.
Carson without waking the baby, Maggie?"

"Oi kin try, ma'am."

The maid gently slipped the clothes from the baby's left shoulder and
revealed the tiny, perfectly formed pink star.

"Wonderful! wonderful!" declared Berlin. "Why, one would think it
stamped there. I never saw anything so perfect in all my life. Frank,
Inza, that child is marked for something great."

"Let us hope you're right," said Merry.

That night, after retiring to his room, Carson sat a long time at the
open window, gazing out through the whispering trees toward the fall
moon that was rising in the east. The old feeling of sadness and
disappointment stole over him and gave him a sensation of uncontrollable
loneliness in the world.

"I suppose I was mistaken about Lizette," he finally muttered. "I shall
be able to tell when I see her again. I hoped to see her when they took
me to look at the baby. Rather strange she wasn't there. Still, I
presume it's true that she had a headache."

Finally he undressed, donned his pajamas, and got into bed.

Sleep did not come readily at his command. His brain was busy with many
thoughts. He recalled the old days at college, when he first met Frank
Merriwell. In those happy days ere meeting Bessie he was heart-free and
care-free. It seemed so long ago--so long ago. It was something like a
dream. Dimly he recalled the classroom, the campus, and the field. He
saw his youthful comrades gathering about him at the old fence in the
dusk of a soft spring evening. He heard their light talk and careless
laughter. He heard them singing beneath the windows of the dormitories.
He heard them cheering on the field as Old Eli battled for baseball
honors or struggled to win new gridiron glory.

Ah, those were happy days, Carson, my boy! They were the happiest you
have ever known. You did not appreciate those glorious days as they were
passing, but you appreciate them now, and the memory is a precious one.
Can such happy days as those ever again be yours?

Then he recalled old times on the ranch. He thrilled as he remembered
his first meeting with dark-eyed Bessie. How she had bewitched him! How
she had puzzled and fascinated him! At the very first he had felt her
fascination dangerous, yet it was so delightful that he did not mind the
danger.

Thinking of Bessie, he finally fell asleep and dreamed of her. On the
bed he tossed restlessly, murmuring her name. He seemed to see her near
at hand, yet gliding away before him as he vainly sought to overtake
her. She turned her bewitching face and smiled at him alluringly.
Desperately he strove to reach her, but always she kept just beyond his
grasp. Yet she beckoned him on with her smile and with her hypnotic
eyes. Finally, in mad desperation, he made one last great leap and
seized her. He had her now! She was his! She could not get away! In that
moment of triumph a marvelous metamorphosis took place, and as his arm
bound her to his side he beheld her transformed into a boy. She was no
longer Bessie, but young Tom King, reckless, taunting, derisive, and
mocking.

In that mysterious way of dreams, he now beheld himself gazing down upon
a dying man, who lay stretched upon the ground, a bullet having passed
through his body. He knew the man. It was Colonel King, the cattle
rustler, who had carried on his criminal work disguised as Laramie Dave.
There were other men standing about--armed men. The sheriff was there
with his posse. At last, through the revelation and information
furnished by Frank Merriwell, this cattle stealer had been captured and
shot. And now he was gasping his life away, and soon his stain-spotted
soul would stand naked before the judgment bar above.

Through his dream--if dream it was--a voice sounded, cutting him to the
heart. That voice cried, "You have killed him, you devils!" Then young
Tom King threw himself on his father's prostrate body, weeping bitterly.
Carson attempted to lift the boy, but once more before his eyes a change
took place, and Tom King became Lizette, the French nurse.

He awoke, shaking in every limb, with cold perspiration on his face.

"Did I dream," he hoarsely muttered, "or did I live the past over
again?"

There was no more sleep for him. He rose and went to the window. The
cool night beckoned to him. The soft moon smiled at him. The whispering
leaves said, "Come out, come out."

Carson dressed, softly descended the stairs, and left the house.

He filled his lungs and stretched his arms. The moon had mounted into
the eastern sky, and there were deep shadows beneath the trees. The
restless young man walked amid those shadows.

Suddenly he paused, startled by the sound of voices. Near at hand two
persons were talking. One voice, hoarse, harsh, suppressed, was that of
a man. The other was a woman's voice.

"What does it mean?" thought Carson. "Who is here at this hour? I must
know--I'll investigate."

Cautiously he stole forward, keeping deep within the shadows. He had not
proceeded far before these words, spoken by the woman, came distinctly
to his ears:

"I cannot--I will not do it!"

An instant later a shadowy figure came rustling toward him. It was the
woman, and she was right upon him ere she discovered the silent man who
stood there beneath the trees. With a little gasp, she turned and fled
on. A patch of moonlight, shimmering through the branches, had shown him
her face.

The face of Lizette!




CHAPTER XI.

THE TRUTH.


His first impulse was to follow her. Then he stopped and stood waiting
for the man. The man did not come.

"Where is he? who is he?" speculated Berlin.

After a time Carson turned toward the house.

"She's in her room long ere this," he thought.

But close by the wall a shadow lingered, and, as he approached, this
shadow suddenly moved forward and confronted him.

"What is it you do here?" demanded the voice of Lizette. "I know you see
me. I know you hear sometheeng. Why you watch me? _Mon Dieu!_ would you
hurt a poor girl?"

Carson took a firm grip on himself and was deliberate in speaking.

"Why should I wish to hurt you?" he asked. "You have done no harm, have
you?"

"Oh, no, no, no! I haf done notheeng!"

"Then why do you fear?"

"You watch me. You follaire me."

"If you have done nothing wrong, you need not fear to be watched."

"But it is not honerable to play ze spy on a girl."

"I did not do so intentionally. I could not sleep, and I came out here
to get the air. It was wholly by chance that I ran across you. Who was
with you?"

"No one, monsieur."

"Tell me the truth," commanded Berlin, still in that calm, deliberate
tone.

"It is ze truth."

"Think again. You place me in the awkward position of contradicting a
lady. You were talking with a man."

"No."

"But I heard him."

"What deed you hear?" she fiercely demanded, as she clutched his arm.
"Tell me what deed you hear heem say?"

"Then you acknowledge there was a man?"

"Oh, what is ze use to deny! _Oui_, _oui_, zere was ze man!"

"Who is he?"

"Perhap maybe he is my lovaire. Perhap he has promised me to marry."

For one instant Berlin seemed on the point of losing all his assumed
self-control. His hands shook, and he made a move as if he would seize
her roughly. He checked this movement just in time.

"Your lover, eh?" he said. "Well, what sort of a lover is he who meets
you in this sort of a manner at night? Why doesn't he see you like a
man, instead of sneaking around this way? Your lover, girl? What right
have you to have a lover other than myself? You call yourself Lizette,
and you speak with an accent, but I know you are Bessie King. I did
think I might be mistaken, but now I'm positive there is no mistake. I
am right. You are Bessie!"

She threw back her head and laughed softly.

"I hear ze madame say you are not well, monsieur," she said. "I theenk
ze madame is right. It must be een your head. I am vary, vary sorree for
you. You should not become so much excited."

"I knew you were a wonderful actress, Bessie, but you astonish me still.
When you lived on the Flying Dollars Ranch you took delight in acting a
part."

"What is ze Flying Dollairs Ranch?"

He paid no heed to the question.

"Yes, you were a great actress even then," he went on. "Colonel King had
a beautiful daughter, and he was supposed to have a son--a harum-scarum,
reckless lad, who went galloping over the ranges with the cowboys, roped
cattle, took part in round-ups, and did all sorts of things like that.
This boy was known as Tom King. Colonel King's foreman, Injun Jack, had
a grudge against Frank Merriwell and swore to kill him. He found his
opportunity and attempted to shoot Merriwell. In order to save
Merriwell's life young Tom King shot Injun Jack. It was thought that
Jack had been instantly killed. But while Colonel King lay dying a few
hours later and Tom King was weeping over his father, Injun Jack
appeared and made a revelation that astounded every one. The boy who had
been known by that name was Bessie King, the colonel's daughter. You are
that girl."

Again Lizette tried to force a laugh.

"It is so strange a crazee notion," she said.

"Why keep it up?" demanded Berlin. "You must realize you cannot fool me,
even though, by the change in your appearance, by doing your hair in a
peculiar manner, penciling your eyebrows and staining your skin, you
have deceived Merriwell himself. He did not know you as I knew you. Look
at me, Bessie. Have your eyes shown you no change in me? Have you not
seen how altered I have become since your disappearance? I never knew
how much I loved you until you had vanished and I could not find you. I
have searched everywhere, and every hour since your vanishing has been
an hour of restless torture for me. It seems to me that I loved you,
Bessie, as no man ever loved a girl before. You gave me no opportunity
to declare my love, but I declare it now. It's as strong as it was
then--and stronger. I swore I would find you some time. I vowed you
should be mine. I have found you, and I intend to keep that vow. What's
this, little girl--you're weeping? You won't deny me longer? You are
Bessie--Bessie, my own!"

"Yes," she answered chokingly, "I am Bessie!"




CHAPTER XII.

A HEART LAID BARE.


It was the truth at last. His heart leaped madly. But when he reached
for her she started back.

"Don't touch me!" came huskily from her lips. "You must not!"

"Mustn't?"

"No."

"Why, Bessie, I still----"

"You can't forget that I am the child of a cattle thief--a criminal!"

"That's not your fault, little girl. I can forget it. I have forgotten
it."

"It's impossible," she declared, shaking her head.

"Such talk is folly, Bessie. Your father's misdeeds should not blight
your life. I will not have it so! You were innocent."

She turned her face toward him, and those wonderful dark eyes looked
sadly into his. There were tears trembling on the long lashes.

"You know I'm not foolish, Berlin Carson," she said, in a strangely
hardened tone. "In the old days on the ranch I was no soft-hearted,
light-headed girl."

"You were the most bewitching and fascinating creature the Colorado sun
ever shone upon. There was always a mystery about you, and it bound me
with a magic spell. The years since I saw you last have made that spell
more potent and powerful."

"Still, I'm the daughter of a man who rustled cattle. He did not rustle
them in the good old-fashioned way. Instead of that, he stole them after
the manner that a sneak thief picks a pocket. He did his work by
altering the brands. He posed as another man. He sought to lay all the
blame on the shoulders of Laramie Dave, a known rustler."

"Why talk of that, Bessie?"

"I lived on the Flying Dollars Ranch. Dressed as a boy, I rode the range
with my father's cattlemen, who helped him rustle. Do you think I knew
nothing of what was taking place? Do you think I was silly enough and
soft enough to be deceived? You must understand that I knew my father
was a criminal."

Carson shivered a little, but it was not because of the cool night air.
In all the weeks and months since her vanishing, in all his thoughts of
her, this thing had never occurred to him. He had regarded her as the
innocent, unfortunate daughter of a bad man.

Now, however, he sought an excuse for her.

"He was your father, and you had to protect him. You could not betray
your own father. You must have suffered."

"You're too kind, too generous," she hoarsely explained. "It was no
effort on my part to keep his secret. I knew what business he followed
long years before I ever saw you. I knew it long before he purchased the
Flying Dollars. Down in Texas he was a rustler, but, unlike other
rustlers, he did not squander his money. He saved it and sent me to
school. In a boarding school I was regarded as the daughter of a wealthy
ranchman. I was popular with my girl schoolmates. No one of them ever
suspected that my father was a cattle thief and that I knew it."

"For Heaven's sake, stop!" commanded Carson. "Don't seek to degrade
yourself in my eyes! Don't try to turn me against you in this manner!"

"I'm simply telling you the truth, Berlin Carson. Do you wonder why I
vanished after my father's death? Do you wonder why I never faced you
again? You knew a part of the miserable truth. Had I been compelled to
see you again, I knew I would tell you all, and I likewise knew what
that meant."

"What it meant?"

"Yes."

"You thought----"

"I knew it would shock you beyond words. I knew the effect it must have
upon you. I could not bring myself to meet you, well knowing that you
would shudder and shrink from me."

He lifted his hand.

"No, no, never!" he declared. "You were wrong, Bessie. You were
frightfully mistaken. The trouble was that you did not understand
me--you did not know me."

"It cannot be that you----"

"I should have pitied you, and I should have loved you all the more,
even as I do now," he asserted. "Why not? It was not your fault that
your father was a criminal. Of course you had to keep his secret. It was
a cruel fate that placed you in such a position."

"Wait a little longer," she urged. "You must know the truth, every bit
of it. I admired my father. I loved the danger and the thrill of that
wild life. Not only did I know what he did, but more than once, in the
darkness of night, I aided him and his men in their work. I was dressed
as a boy, and only Injun Jack and my father knew I was not a boy. Now
you know what sort of girl you have fancied you loved. I mingled with
those men, those desperadoes, who were profane as pirates--who were, in
a sense, the pirates of the great plains. A fine life for an innocent
girl! Have you forgotten that my hands are stained with human blood?
Have you forgotten it was my bullet that killed Injun Jack?"

"That was one of the bravest deeds of your life. Only for that, Frank
Merriwell would be dead. Only for your nerve and bravery in shooting
that ruffian, one of God's grandest men would have been murdered in
cold blood. Since my college days I have loved and admired him above all
other men. When you saved his life by taking another worthless life you
did a noble deed. Had you not fled, I would have married you at the
earliest possible moment. I am ready now, Bessie."




CHAPTER XIII.

THE PLEDGE OF FAITH.


Still it seemed impossible for her to believe. She put out her hand
toward the near-by wall of the house, as if seeking support. When he
offered to give her that support, she continued to hold him at bay.

"You're a noble boy, Berlin," she whispered. "You will make a noble
husband for some girl."

"For you."

"No, not for me."

"Then you do not love me! You never loved me!" he panted. "You were
toying with me! You were deceiving me! It was a part of your amusement!
You knew you had fascinated me and bewitched me, and it gave you
pleasure to toy with me! Ah, this hurts more than everything else!"

"I did care for you," she asserted faintly.

"You did care--in a way, perhaps."

"You never told me that you loved me."

"Because you would not give me a chance. I never told you in words, but
my eyes told you so a hundred times."

"I've seen others who talked with their eyes and kept silent with their
lips."

"And you thought me like them?"

"Well--no. You were different; I acknowledge that."

"But you thought me fit only to flirt with. That was it. You took
delight in arousing the fire in my heart that you might see it glowing
from my eyes. You're like them all. They love to play with fire. They
love to lead a man on and then throw him down. But I didn't think you
just like every other girl. I thought you different."

"You have learned that I was different, but in a way you did not
suspect."

"Then you confess you were toying with me, deceiving me?" he bitterly
exclaimed.

A little while before she had sought to turn him against her by telling
all the truth. When that effort failed and he suddenly accused her in
this manner, she had fancied she saw the way to accomplish her purpose
with a falsehood. But now that she was face to face with it she faltered
and could not lie.

"I tell you I did care for you--I cared for you more than words may
express. My fear in those days--and it was the only fear I had ever
known--was that you would learn the truth about me and despise me. Do
you remember the day that you brought Frank Merriwell to the Flying
Dollars? Do you remember that you were left alone in the little library
and in a book you found some verse I had written? I used to write poetry
in those days. Those verses were entitled 'My Secret.' I was angry when
I found you had read them, and I tore them up. I can quote the first
stanza."

In a low musical voice she repeated the following lines:

    "When he comes riding up the valley
      I watch from my window nook;
    My cheeks burn hot, my heart is throbbing
      For a single word or look
    To tell me that he loves me truly,
      But fear his lips will not be
    Unsealed to whisper low the story
      That means so much to me.

"It's poor poetry, Berlin--poor poetry; but it expressed the longing of
my heart. And your lips remained sealed!"

Now he would have seized her and crushed her to his heart, but with
astonishing strength she clutched his wrists and held him back.

"My lips are unsealed now!" he panted.

"It's too late!" she cried, in a weak, heartbroken tone; "too late!"

"Why is it too late? How can that be?"

"One thing you have forgotten. You found me here playing a part. Do you
think I'm pretending to be a French nurse merely as a whim--merely as an
amusement?"

"I can't understand that," he confessed. "Why is it?"

She forced a laugh that was wholly without merriment.

"Perhaps this is only one of many parts I have played. You called me an
actress. I am--an actress on the stage of life. I intended that no one
should ever again recognize me as the daughter of Colonel King. I found
it necessary to work--to make my living somehow. Had I appeared here as
Bessie King, do you think Frank Merriwell would have trusted me? Do you
think I would be an inmate of his home? Oh, no, Berlin. I had to
disguise myself to deceive him, and it was necessary to play my part
well. Even when I did my best I realized he knew he had seen me before
some time, somewhere. Once he questioned me. Once he asked me if I had a
brother. He was very, very near discovering the truth then. Do you think
I can have any feeling of friendliness for this man Merriwell? Do you
think I can forget that it was through him my father met his fate? Only
for Frank Merriwell the real truth might have remained a secret. In time
the cattle stealing would have ceased. My father would have sold the
Flying Dollars, and we would have gone elsewhere. But Merriwell came,
and his discovery brought the sheriff and his posse. Sometimes when I
have thought of this I've longed to kill Frank Merriwell. More than once
I have said to myself, 'His life is yours, for you saved it once.'"

"You should put aside such thoughts and feelings, Bessie. You cannot
blame Frank. He was my friend. I brought him to the Big Sandy. Our
cattle were being stolen. As my friend, he did his best to aid me."

"Oh, I suppose it's wrong, but a person brought up as I have been finds
it hard to distinguish right from wrong. Many of the things people
recognize as right seem wholly wrong to me. Would you have a wife with
such a distorted conscience, Berlin Carson?"

"Let me be your guide," he pleaded. "Let me teach you the right."

"I tell you it is too late!"

Words seemed useless, and he stood there gazing at her helplessly,
almost hopelessly. A sudden thought struck him like a blow, and he
almost reeled.

"There is another!" he hoarsely whispered. "Ah, ha, that's it! I've
struck the truth at last! It's that man--the man you met to-night! Speak
up, Bessie! Tell me who he is! By Heaven, you shall tell me!"

"I will--in time," she promised. "Wait, Berlin--please wait!"

"I've waited too long already. Have I waited simply to find another man
in my place?"

"Wait a little longer," she urged. "I have promised to tell you all, and
I will. Can't you trust me a little longer, Berlin? Please--please trust
me a little longer!"

She held out her hands in pleading, and a moment later, ere she could
check him, he had seized her and was holding her to his heart.

"Yes, yes," he panted, "I will trust you, Bessie--I'll trust you with my
very life!"

Their lips met, and then----

The heavens fell!




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SIGNAL FOR SILENCE.


Lizette was hammering at Frank Merriwell's door.

"Wake up, monsieur!" she cried. "_Mon Dieu_, it is such a terrible
theeng! Queek! queek! Do come, monsieur!"

Her knock and her cries brought Frank forth in pajamas.

"What is it--what's the matter?" he demanded.

The voice of Hodge was heard questioning the cause of the disturbance,
and Bart came forth from another room.

Lizette seized Merry's arm.

"Oh, come queek!" she implored. "I see it from my window. I have ze bad
headache so long I cannot sleep. Zen I geet up and sit by ze window. I
look out and see some one walking beneath the trees. When he walk in ze
moonlight I see it is ze Monsieur Carson. Zen all at once--oh, ze
terrible theeng!"

"Go on!" commanded Frank. "All at once--what?"

"I see ze ozzer man--just ze glimpse. I see heem run out queek and soft
behind Monsieur Carson. He lift his hands. He strike Monsieur Carson
with sometheeng, and Monsieur Carson he fall down and lie so still on ze
grass. Zen ze ozzer man he run away."

It did not take Frank long to go leaping down the stairs, and Hodge
followed him closely. They tore open the door and rushed out. Within the
shadow at the corner of the house they stumbled over a prostrate figure.

Frank dropped on his knees.

"It's Berlin!" he hoarsely exclaimed. "Heavens! is he dead?"

"Hardly that, Merry," came a faint whisper, as Carson stirred in Frank's
arms. "What was it that fell on me? It seemed as if the moon came down
and burst upon my head. I saw a flash of fire and heard a frightful
explosion. What happened to me?"

"Some one struck you down from behind. Lizette saw it from her window.
She was sitting at the window and saw you walking here on the lawn. She
saw the man rush upon you and knock you senseless."

"Lizette?" muttered Carson. And then again in a queer tone he said:
"Lizette?"

"Yes, she saw it."

"From--her--window?" questioned Berlin.

"From her window," repeated Frank. "Have you been robbed, Carson? The
ruffian must have been a robber. I presume he went through your
pockets."

"I don't know," muttered the young Westerner thickly.

"Let me see," said Frank. "He didn't take your watch, and here's your
purse. Why, this is singular! I wonder if he saw Lizette. I wonder if
she uttered a cry and frightened him away."

"Let's find the whelp!" snarled Hodge.

"First let's find out how badly Carson is hurt. Let's get him into the
house."

Together they lifted Berlin and assisted him to the house between them.

Inza was calling from the head of the stairs to know what was the
matter.

"Lie to her, Merry," said Hodge. "Don't let her get excited. Wait, I'll
do the lying. I'll quiet her and Elsie."

He hastened up the stairs.

Carson sat on a chair and felt of his head with both hands.

Frank struck a light, and he examined to see how badly his friend was
injured.

"Here's a bad bump," he said; "but I don't believe your scalp is broken.
Looks as if you'd been struck by a sandbag."

"Whatever it was, it put me out of commission mighty quick," mumbled
Berlin. "Goodness! my head aches a whole lot. I'm weak a-plenty."

They heard Bart telling Inza and Elsie that a man had been seen prowling
around outside. Hodge was concealing the fact that anything had happened
to Carson. He urged them to go back to their rooms.

"No need of frightening them over me, Merry," muttered Berlin. "I'm all
right. My head is too thick to be easily cracked."

"Tell me just how it happened," urged Merry.

"Didn't Lizette tell you?"

"Yes, but I thought she might be mistaken in her excitement. Did you see
any one? Did you see who struck you?"

"No, I didn't see him."

"Nor hear him?"

"Nor hear him, Frank. I heard nothing. It's doubtful if I'd heard a clap
of thunder just then."

"Eh, why not?"

"Oh, well, you see I was--I'd been--I'd been--thinking," faltered
Carson.

"How did you happen to be out there?"

"Couldn't sleep. Went out to get the air."

"Well, let me doctor that bump. Sit right still; I'll take care of you."

Merry hurried away, soon returning with a bowl of cool water and a
sponge. He also had some sort of soothing liniment.

Hodge returned while Frank was at work over Berlin.

"Managed to calm the girls down and sent them back to bed," he said.

Then he took something from his pocket, clicked it, and looked it over.

"What's that?" asked Merry.

"My pistol," answered Bart grimly. "I'm going out to look for the gent
who did this little job."

"Don't go alone. Wait till I get Carson fixed, and I'll be with you."

"And that will give him plenty of time to get away. We've given him too
much time already, Frank. Don't worry about me. I'll take care of
myself, and I'll take care of him if I find him."

Bart went out.

"Are you feeling better, Carson?" questioned Merry.

"Oh, I tell you I'm all right," was the answer, as Berlin tried to force
a laugh.

"Who could be prowling round here?" speculated Frank. "I wonder if a
burglar was trying to break in."

"That must be it," said Carson quickly. "Did Lizette describe the man?"

"No. She said she barely saw him as he rushed out behind your back and
struck you."

"It's strange that Bessie should----"

Carson checked himself.

"Bessie?" questioned Frank.

"I mean Lizette," Berlin hastened to say. "My thoughts are all in a
jumble. Don't mind me if I get mixed up. I'm all right now, Merry."

"If you need a doctor----"

"I don't. You've done everything a doctor could do."

"Then if you're all right, I think I'll go out and look around for
Hodge."

Carson rose to his feet a trifle unsteadily.

"I'm going with you," he declared.

"You'd better not," Merry advised.

"I must--I want to."

"You're still weak."

"Oh, no; I'm strong enough. Just see, Frank, I can walk all right."

"Come on, then," said Merriwell.

All around the grounds they searched, finally finding Hodge, who stated
that he had seen no trace of any one.

"The rascal made good his escape," said Frank. "I'll notify the sheriff
first thing in the morning. A while ago there were some burglaries in
surrounding towns. Perhaps the crooks have decided to operate in
Bloomfield."

"And it was natural they should pick out your house first, Merry," said
Carson.

They turned toward the house and paused again beneath the very tree
where Berlin had stood when he heard the mingled voices of Lizette and
the unknown man. As Frank and Hodge were talking, Carson turned away and
walked a short distance toward the house. Stepping out from beneath the
trees, he looked up.

In an open upper window a face appeared, distinctly shown by the
moonlight.

It was Lizette.

He gazed up at her, and she looked down at him. Then she leaned forth
from the window, lifted one hand and pressed a finger to her lips.

He understood the signal and nodded.

She vanished, and he saw her no more that night.




CHAPTER XV.

KIDNAPED!


The following day Lizette seemed strangely overcome--almost
prostrated--by what she claimed she had beheld from her window the
previous night. Professing that she was quite ill, she kept to her room
a great deal, permitting Maggie to care for the baby.

Carson was restless and nervous, and in his face his friends observed a
strange look of eagerness, which at times gave place to an expression of
triumph or of doubt. His injury proved to be comparatively slight.

Frank reported the presence of the prowler and the attack on Carson to
the local authorities.

Somehow an atmosphere of unrest and uncertainty, a sensation of
expectation in the face of some unforeseen calamity, seemed to hover
over Merry Home.

It was nearly mid-afternoon, and Inza was on the veranda, with Elsie
near, when Maggie appeared, looking puzzled and frightened.

"Shure, ma'am," she said, "Oi wish ye'd come up and take a peep at the
choild."

"Is anything the matter with little Frank?" exclaimed Inza, hastily
rising. "Is he ill, Maggie?"

"Nivver a bit," answered the girl. "He's slaping loike a top."

"But what is it? You look so queer."

"It's quare Oi feel, ma'am. Oi left him in his little bed a whoile ago
to take a bit av a breath, which Oi naded. Whin Oi came back he was
there, all roight, all roight, but it's moighty odd he looks to me."

Inza followed Maggie to the chamber where the child lay asleep.

"Lift the window shade and let in the light," she said.

It happened that Frank came over to the house a few moments later to get
a book he needed, and he was startled when his wife, pale and shaking,
came flying down the stairs, seized him by the arm, and panted:

"Come, Frank--this minute! Come quick! The baby!"

Believing the child seriously ill, Merry lost no time in following his
wife. They found Elsie beside the crib. The baby lay there wide awake,
looking at them in a wondering way as they stooped above him.

"Why, he doesn't seem to be ill, Inza," said Merry. "You frightened me.
I thought he was dying."

She clutched his arm with a grip that was almost frantic in its
astonishing strength.

"Look at him!" she hoarsely cried. "Look close!"

"What is it, Inza? What do you see?"

"His hair--can't you see the change?"

"The change?"

"Yes, yes! His hair is lighter!"

"Lighter?"

"Yes, lighter than little Frank's! And his eyes--his eyes are blue!
Frank's were brown!"

"Great heavens, it's true!" burst from Merriwell. "What does it mean,
Inza? What sort of juggling in this?"

"Frank Merriwell, that's not our child!"

He staggered as if struck a terrible blow.

"Not our child? Then, who---- What child is it? Where did it come from?
You must be mistaken, Inza!"

"I'm not! I know my own baby boy!"

"The star--look for the star!" shouted Merriwell.

Almost fiercely he seized the baby's garments and with one movement tore
them from the tiny shoulder.

The mark of the star was not there!

Merriwell straightened up and stood for a moment like a man turned to
stone. In that moment, however, while he outwardly seemed so inactive
and dumfounded his brain was working swiftly.

"Where's Lizette?" he demanded, and his voice was calm and cold.

"Where's Lizette, Maggie?" panted Inza, turning on the now thoroughly
frightened servant.

"In her room, ma'am, Oi suppose," was the answer.

"Find her," said Frank. "Bring her here instantly."

Maggie rushed away and soon returned with the announcement that Lizette
was not in her room.

By this time Inza was so frightened that she was threatened with
hysterics. She almost fought Elsie, who was seeking to calm her.

"Let me talk to her, Elsie," said Frank.

He grasped his wife firmly yet gently, holding her and looking straight
into her eyes.

"Look at me, Inza--look at me," he commanded. "Look me in the eyes."

Even in her frantic condition she could not disobey him. Tremblingly
Elsie looked on, seeing Merry gaze intently into his wife's dark eyes.

"Inza," said Frank, in that same calm, masterful tone, "you must be
quiet. You must trust me. I've never failed you yet. I'll not fail you
now. That is not our child, but I will find little Frank and bring him
back to you. Sit here!"

He lifted her bodily and placed her in a big easy-chair. Again he gazed
intently into her eyes, and beneath that gaze she rapidly grew calmer.

"You know I'll do what I have said I would, Inza--you know it."

"Yes," she huskily whispered, "I know it, Frank--but I'm almost
distracted--I'm almost crazy! Don't lose a moment!"

"Wait calmly and confidently when I'm gone. I'll have to leave you. When
I return I'll place little Frank in your arms."

He kissed her.

A moment later he was gone.




CHAPTER XVI.

FOR THE SAKE OF OLD DAYS.


A man and a woman were making their way through a strip of timber where
the shadows were thick. They were almost running, the man being in
advance. He carried a bundle, from which at intervals came a strange,
smothered cry, like the wailing of an infant.

"Oh, Selwin, Selwin," gasped the woman, "I can't keep this up! I'm ready
to drop now! Can't you go a little slower?"

"And have those human hounds overtake us?" snarled the man. "Curse them!
They're like bloodhounds on the scent! I've tried every trick to turn
them off our track. I've doubled and turned, I've crossed ledges and
waded streams, but I fear to hear them behind us any moment!"

"You were mad, Selwin--mad!" gasped the weary woman, whose garments were
tattered and torn, and whose hands and face were scratched and bleeding.
"I told you how it would be! I told you we could not carry this mad
scheme through!"

"I will carry it through!" he grated. "If we can keep away from them
until darkness falls, they'll be unable to follow us farther."

"But the whole country will be aroused! We can't escape! I say it was
madness!"

"How in the devil did they find it out so soon?"

"I knew they would--I knew it! The other child----"

"Looked enough like this one to pass muster for a few hours, at least,"
he interrupted. "Satan take the brat! Hear it squall!"

Again a smothered cry came from the bundle.

"Don't hurt it!" pleaded the woman. "Don't handle it so roughly!"

"Hurt it? Furies! I'd like to strangle it! Here's a path. We'll follow
that."

The path soon brought them into an old wood road, and they mounted a
wooded hill, the woman desperately stumbling along at the heels of the
man. On the hillside they came upon a deserted hut. Through the trees
they could see the sun sinking redly in the west.

"Oh, stop, Selwin--stop a little while!" entreated the fatigued woman.
"Let's rest here."

He halted and scowled as he stood in thought.

"They should be somewhere over to the northeast," he said. "I wonder if
I could see them from the top of the hill. I'll try it. Here, take the
brat, Bessie. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He tossed the bundle into her arms, whirled and rushed away up the hill.

The woman sat down on the trunk of a felled tree. She opened the bundle
and gazed sadly, almost lovingly, on the face of an infant. The little
eyes looked up at her, seemed to recognize her, and something like a
smile came to the child's face.

"Poor little Frank! poor little Frank!" she breathed. "It's a shame--a
brutal shame! Oh, why did I ever consent! Even though I have hated your
father, I love you! It's drink that's turned the brain of Selwin
Harris!"

The baby began to fret and cry.

"You're hungry, darling," muttered the woman. "Oh, what brutes we are!
What a wretched thing I am! I've always been bad, and I always will be.
Still, a noble man loves me. Oh, Berlin, Berlin, you will despise me
now! Even though you loved me through all the past and for all of the
past, you'll scorn and despise me now! Well, what does it matter? You
found me at last, and you forced the truth from my lips; but it was too
late--too late!"

Bitter tears of mingled sorrow and shame welled into her eyes and
blinded her. They fell from her cheeks upon the cheeks of the fretting
child.

"Oh, Frank--oh, little honey boy!" she sobbed. "I hope you may never
live to know such wretchedness as I have known! Better that you should
die now! Better you had never been born! Why was I born? Why was I set
adrift in this wretched, wicked old world? Not one thing in life has
ever gone right with me!"

A crashing sound gave her a start, and she saw the man returning on a
run. As he passed a corner of the old hut one foot seemed to break
through the ground, and he went down. With some difficulty, he drew
forth his leg from a hole into which he had plunged. Pausing, he looked
down into that hole, and far beneath he caught a faint mercurylike
glitter.

"An old well," he muttered. "The brush and deadwood had fallen over the
mouth of it and hidden it. I came near dropping in there myself."

"Are you hurt, Selwin?" called the woman.

"No," he answered; "but I came mighty near falling into a trap."

As he approached her she observed a look on his face that gave her a
shuddery chill.

"Let me take the child," he said.

"No; I'll carry him a little while. Did you see anything of the
pursuers?"

"See them?" he snarled. "Curse them, yes!"

"They're still on our track?"

"Following it like hounds--like hounds! There are four of them. I know
Merriwell and Hodge. The other two are boys. One of the boys is leading,
and he runs, stooped forward, with his eyes on the ground. No Indian
ever followed a trail more accurately than he has followed ours."

"No Indian?" cried the woman. "You say he is a boy. Then it must be
young Joe Crowfoot! I've seen him. He's one of the boys at Merriwell's
school. He is a full-blooded Indian."

"That accounts for it!" rasped the man. "That explains my failure to
deceive them. The rest of the pursuers are far away on the main road. I
saw them. They're in a carriage. Give me that child, Bessie."

He sought to take the baby from her.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her hand shaking as she put it up
to hold him off.

"There's only one thing to be done. If we're captured with the child in
our possession, we go to the jug. If the child is not in our possession
and cannot be found, we can swear we know nothing about it. The other
one----"

"You're still mad, Selwin Harris! Would you murder this helpless
infant?"

"Murder?"

"Yes. There's murder in your heart--in your face! I see it!"

"Look here, Bessie; there's only one show for us to escape. That kid has
encumbered me frightfully. I couldn't help you. That child out of the
way, I can help you. We'll dodge them until it gets dark. I'll drop the
brat into that old well and pull the brush over the opening. I can do it
so that the well will not be found. We'll go back a short distance on
our tracks and then turn off. They'll turn at the same point and follow
us. There's no time to waste. Let me have the brat."

She fought him with all her strength.

"Never! never! never!" she panted. "You'll have to kill me first!"

In a moment or two he realized that, unless he beat or choked her into
unconsciousness, he could not take the infant from her.

"You're a fool--you always were!" he raged.

"Yes, I'm a fool!" she flung back. "I was a fool to ever have anything
to do with you! Back yonder somewhere in the carriage that is following
us is a man who loves me--a noble, manly, honest man. I knew him first,
and he would have married me. Had I not run away from him, I'd be his
wife to-day, and I'd be an honest woman."

"You--you an honest woman!" flung back the ruffian, with a sneering
laugh. "You an honest woman--the daughter of a cattle thief!"

"Laugh! Sneer! Taunt me! Fling my disgrace in my face! And you're the
man I once thought I loved! I thought I did! Ha! ha! ha! You've called
me a fool. It's true! I thought I loved you; but now I hate you--I hate
you!"

"Oh, rats! You're playing to the gallery now, Bessie. Well, we'll have
to move--we'll have to hike lively. The sun is almost down. The shadows
are growing thicker. Will darkness never come?"

"It's come for me!" she groaned. "It's in my heart! It's in my soul! For
me it is the eternal, never-ending night of sin, disgrace, and shame!"

He clutched her arm and dragged her on. Again they stumbled and lunged
and tore their way through the shadowy woods. To their right the sun had
dropped beyond the far-away hills, flinging a last reddish glow up into
the highest sky, and this glow seemed temporarily to lighten the whole
forest. Through a boggy spot they floundered. Through a jungle they
thrust themselves. And at last, as the reddish sky was fading and
turning to lead, they came upon a rutty, winding country road. Darkness
shut down quickly.

A light gleamed ahead of them. It came from the window of a house.

Hitched to a fence corner in front of the house was a horse, attached to
an old wagon.

The man paused beside the wagon.

"Get in!" he commanded.

"What are you going to do?"

"Get in! I'm going to take this team. Somebody who is calling at that
house left it standing here. It was left for us."

He lifted her into the wagon, sprang to the head of the horse, unhitched
the animal, and a moment later was by the woman's side. The horse was
reined around into the road. The man seized the whip and a moment later
the sound of the animal's hoofs mingled with the rattle of the wagon
wheels.

"Night at last!" cried the desperate kidnaper. "Now we'll dodge them
somehow!"

"You cannot dodge them, Selwin," said the woman. "I feel that we're
hurrying straight into their clutches."

"Why, you fool, they're behind us! I tell you we'll dodge them now. Why
in blazes did I ever bother to take that other brat from the poorhouse
where its mother died? It was your plan to substitute one child for the
other, Bessie. I wanted to steal Merriwell's kid in the first place.
Furies take him! I swore years ago to strike at his heart when the time
came. He was responsible for the death of my brother. They were at Yale
together, this Merriwell and poor old Sport. Merriwell disgraced Sport
by exposing him as a card sharp. Sport sought to get even. He followed
Merriwell to England, and in England he died. In his last letter to me
he wrote that he had a premonition of his fate. He said he felt sure
that Merriwell would do him up at last."

"Did Frank Merriwell kill him?"

"Oh, just the same as that. I believe Sport was killed in some sort of
an accident while he was running away from Merriwell. I've waited a long
time, but I've struck at last. Satan take this hill!"

He lashed the horse, and the animal went galloping up the road that
wound over the hill.

Suddenly, at a turn of the road, two fiery eyes burst into view, and
through the night came the wild shriek of an automobile horn.

With an oath, the man sought to rein to one side of the narrow road.

The fiery eyes were right upon them.

There was a crash. The wagon was struck and smashed. Man, woman, and
child were hurled into the ditch.

Chester Arlington, a lad who, despite his father's wealth, had been
dismissed from school, stopped his machine ten rods farther on.

"Are you hurt, June?" he asked, addressing his sister, who numbered Dick
Merriwell and Dale Sparkfair among her admirers.

"No, I'm not hurt," answered the girl, who was sitting beside him. "But
I believe you've killed some one, Chester! I told you that you would!
Oh, it's terrible! Let's go back and see."

Arlington removed one of the oil lamps from his car, and they started
back toward the scene of the collision.

Another wagon came over the brow of the hill and stopped. From a
distance in the opposite direction came a sharp signal whistle that was
answered by one of the three persons in the wagon.

"That's Merry!" exclaimed Berlin Carson, as he leaped out. "I wonder
what's happened here. Somebody's smashed up."

Two minutes later young Joe Crowfoot, Frank Merriwell, Bart Hodge, and
Dale Sparkfair arrived. They found a horse, with the shafts of a smashed
wagon attached, calmly grazing by the roadside. The wrecked wagon was in
the ditch. Near by lay the body of a man. A few yards away sat a woman,
holding an unharmed child in her arms.

"We've got them, Frank!" said Berlin Carson, as he took the lamp from
Arlington's hand and turned the light on the face of the prostrate man.
"Here's the wretch who did it! Do you know him?"

Merry looked down.

"He's dead!" said Frank.

"I think his neck was broken," exclaimed Carson. "I don't believe he
realized what happened after the automobile struck the wagon. Do you
know him, Frank?"

"I've seen that face before. Yes, I think I know him. His name--his name
is Harris! That's it! Why, his brother was at Yale! You remember Sport
Harris, Carson?"

"Sure!" breathed Berlin.

Merriwell seized the child, and the woman surrendered it to him.

"I'm wicked!" she said. "Put me in prison! But I saved your child's
life when Selwin Harris would have taken it!"

"Lizette, why did you do this thing?" asked Merry. "What was that man to
you?"

"He was my husband," she replied. "I'm not Lizette. That's not my name.
I deceived you because he commanded me to. Put me in prison! I hope they
keep me there till I die!"

Carson's hand found that of Merriwell.

"Merry," he said huskily, pleadingly, "this poor girl is Bessie King. I
loved her once. It's dead now, all the love I knew. She has been more
weak than sinful. You have your boy safe in your arms. You'll take him
back to Inza. You'll keep your promise to her. We were old comrades at
college. I would have done anything for you then, and I would do
anything in my power for you now. For my sake let this poor woman
go--for my sake, Frank!"

There was a hush. Frank stood there in silence for such a long time that
every person seemed to hear the beating of his own heart.

At last Merriwell spoke.

"For your sake I will, Berlin," he said.




CHAPTER XVII.

A CALL TO THE "FLOCK."


Protected from arrest by the pity of Berlin Carson, whose love for her
was as dead as was the man she had acknowledged as her husband, Bessie
left behind her the home which, for several hours, she had plunged in
grief and anxiety. An examination of the infant which had been kidnaped
showed that it had sustained no injury, and, filled with a spirit of
thankfulness, Frank and Inza Merriwell resolved that the little
foundling which had been substituted for their baby son should be placed
in a more worthy home than was afforded by the asylum from which it had
been taken. In a few days such a home was found, and the infant which
had inspired Frank and Inza with such feelings of consternation when
they had discovered that it was not their own, was committed to the
kindly care of a prosperous and honest young farmer and his wife, who
were childless, and who lived only a few miles from the Merriwell home.

But it did not take long for the sympathetic eyes of Frank and Inza to
see that the ardent love of Berlin Carson for the young woman, who had
proved herself to be unworthy of him, though now extinguished, had left
him moody and disinterested in the future.

And so one evening, Inza, laying a hand on one of the arms of her
husband, said gently:

"We must do something for Berlin, Frank. It is wrong for a man to brood
so over a misfortune as he is doing. Is it not possible for us to do
more to enliven him and cause him to think less of his disappointment
and the shock he has received?"

Frank shook his head thoughtfully.

"I scarcely see what more we can do, Inza," he replied. "Men are unlike
women. The grief of a woman may yield to the sympathetic words and
actions and cheerful influence of friends, but when a man has some great
trouble--especially if he be a strong man--it is best that he should
have an opportunity to make his fight against depressing influences
alone. He must have time to think it out. All references to his sorrow
are likely to irritate him, and evidence of the pity of others galls his
pride. No, no, Inza, there is little that you and I can do, I fear. Let
us do our best to surround him with a cheerful atmosphere, and----"

"That is precisely what I mean, Frank. Now, I have a plan. Several weeks
ago I heard you say that one day you might find it possible to have
around you here many of the members of what you are so often wont to
call your 'old flock'--your old school and college mates, and some of
your old friends from the Southwest. Why do you not make an effort now
to get them here?"

Frank gave a little start, and then smiled thoughtfully.

"I will think it over, Inza," he said.

Early the next morning Frank sent out a number of telegrams to his old
friends. To these telegrams he received replies in the course of the
next twenty-four hours.

And thus it came to pass that the pilgrimage to Merry Home began.

Several days later, in a parlor car of the eastbound express were four
young people who had traveled far. They were Ephraim Gallup; his wife,
Teresa; Barney Mulloy, and a charming and vivacious Spanish girl,
Juanita Garcia, Teresa's bosom friend. The men were old friends of Frank
Merriwell.

All wore sensible traveling suits, and, in spite of the long journey,
they appeared to be little fatigued. There was an expression of
eagerness and impatience on the face of Gallup, and Mulloy seemed in a
similar mood.

"By gum, we're gittin' back into God's country ag'in!" exclaimed the
lanky Vermonter. "Arter bein' buried down there in Mexico so long it
seems jest like heaven."

"Do they be afther callin' this a fast expriss?" burst from Mulloy.
"Faith, but it crawls loike a shnail, so it does. Will we iver reach
Bloomfield? It's itchin' Oi am to put me hands on Frankie Merriwell."

"Eet ees so glad I shall also be to see Senyor Merriwell," laughed
Teresa.

"Hey?" cried Gallup, giving her a look of mock reproof. "Naow yeou be
keerful, young woman! I ain't fergut that you was kinder smashed on him
once."

At this his wife laughingly protested her innocence.

"Nevvier, nevvier after I knew you loved me, Ephraim," she declared.
"One time I theenk you do not care. Then I geet so very angry. Then I
make eyes at ze handsome Senyor Merriwell. I do eet to see how you like
that. Eet make you geet to your job on. Eet make you set your tongue
loose and say the word I want you to say. Senyor Merriwell he not care
one snap for me. I know eet. Do you theenk Teresa ees the foolish girl?"

"Not a hanged bit of it!" chuckled Gallup. "She was the slickest little
article I ever run up ag'inst. I guess yeou're right, Teresa. I guess
yeou kinder waked me up when you flung them goo-goo eyes at Frank. Fust
time in my life I ever felt that way, but, by ginger! I wanted to swat
him on the jaw. Great Hubbard squashes, wasn't I in love then!"

His wife frowned.

"Een love then?" she exclaimed. "You not be so much so now, ah?"

"Thunder! I'm ten times wuss now than I was then, and you know it,
Teresa. Didn't I coax and beg and hang on like a dog to a bone to git
you to come East with me to visit Frank?"

"It was the baby," breathed Teresa. "The question was to breeng the baby
or to leave eet with eets grand-fathaire. I know he take the most
splendeed care of eet. He have the nursees watch all the time, and he
watch heemself. He know how to care for the baby most beautiful."

"That's right," nodded Gallup, "the old don is a rappin' good baby nuss.
It's the funniest thing in the world to see him doddling round with a
baby in his arms. And to think that he used to be a red-hot
revolutionist, and called the Firebrand of Sonora! As a fighter, he was
a rip-tearer. As a baby nuss he's the greatest expert that ever wore
men's trousers."

"Begob, the don is all roight, all roight," agreed Barney. "The only
gint who iver downed him was Frankie Merriwell. Instid av layin' it up
against Frankie, and lookin' for revinge, the way people ginerally
suppose Mexicans and Spaniards do, the don shook hands, and became wan
av Frankie's bist friends."

Ephraim leaned forward to pat his wife's cheek.

"Your old dad is a jim-hickey, Terese," he said.

Juanita had been smiling, and now she laughed outright in a rippling,
musical manner.

"What ees eet you laugh at, Juanita?" demanded Teresa.

"Oh, eet ees the way the Yankee man he keep on making love," answered
the girl. "One time I theenk I despise every gringo. One time I theenk
maybe perhaps if I find one who have the great likeeng for me--eef he be
handsome, eef he be good--I theenk maybe--perhaps----"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Mrs. Gallup laughingly. "Eet ees the great change of
the mind. Maybe you meet lots of good-lookeeng young man at Senyor
Merriwell's. We make the marriage for you."

"Oh, no," protested Juanita. "That ees the way they do in Mexico. I like
the way the American girl do. She make her own marriage. She catch the
man she want. She not have to take the one her people say she must
marry. No one for me ees to make the match."

"Hooroo for you!" cried Barney. "Thot's the stuff! It's a diclaration of
indepindince! Oi wonder who'll be at the reunion, Ephie?"

"I dunno," answered Gallup, shaking his head. "Merry's telegram said
there'd be a lot of the old flock there. I'll be all-fired glad to see
'em. Wonder how the fellers have prospered. I hope they've all done as
well as we have, Barney."

"Av they have," nodded Mulloy, "the most av thim should be satisfied.
It's a clane little pile av money we made in thot railroad business,
Ephraim."

"You bate!" chuckled the Vermonter. "Take us together, Barney and we
make a hull team, with a little dog under the wagon."

"As a business partner," said the Irishman, "Oi'll take a down-east
Yankee ivery toime. Begobs, Ephie, ye know how to do business all
roight, all roight!"

"And as a railroad construction boss," grinned Gallup, "yeou're right up
to date, Barney. Yeou handled your end of the business slick as a
whistle while I was lookin' arter my end. I wonder what they're stoppin'
here for?"

The train was pulling up at a junction. On questioning the porter, they
learned that there would be a stop of nearly twenty minutes while other
cars were taken on from another route.

Gallup proposed that they should step out on the platform and get some
air. Neither Teresa nor Juanita seemed anxious to do this, so Ephraim
and Barney left them in the car.

The junction was a bustling little town, and there was a great deal
going on in the vicinity of the station.

Mulloy and Gallup lighted cigars and promenaded the platform.

At the far end they observed a group of men and boys surrounding a
person who stood on a small square box, making a speech. This person
was bareheaded, and his hair was unusually long and disheveled. He was
dressed in a loose suit of light-colored clothes, wore a negligee shirt,
with a soft turndown collar, and had no vest. His back was toward Barney
and Ephraim as they approached.

"Begorra! it's natural he looks," muttered the Irishman.

"Gol-dinged if that ain't right!" agreed Gallup. "Somehow his voice
sounds kinder nateral, too."

They paused at the edge of the group to listen.

"Friends and brothers," cried the speaker, in a clear, sad voice, "I
presume many of you heard me speak on your public square last evening.
Still it is possible that some of you were not there to listen to my
words, to hear my warning of the great coming clash of the classes. It
is as inevitable as the sinking of yonder sun to-night and its rise
again to-morrow. With a prophetic eye I look into the future and behold
the day when labor shall have its rights. That day is coming as surely
as the sun continues to rise in the east. The iron hand of Capital would
hold it back, but that cruel iron hand cannot, Joshua-like, stay the
course of the sun nor stem the tide of human progress.

"Every intelligent person within the sound of my voice knows it is true
that the rich are growing richer and the poor are becoming poorer. The
accumulation of stupendous fortunes in the hands of individuals
threatens the very foundations of our government. Time was when a man
worth a million was supposed to be immensely rich. To-day the possessor
of a single million is looked on with scorn and contempt by our
multimillionaires. Ten millions, twenty millions, fifty millions--aye,
even a hundred millions are now accumulated by individuals. This money
belongs to the masses, the laborers who have earned it by the sweat of
their brows."

"Hear! hear!" "That's right!" "Hooray!" cried the crowd.

Mulloy had gripped Ephraim's arm.

"Ivery word av thot has a familiar sound to me," muttered the Irishman.
"Oi've heard thot talk before and from the same lips."

"My friends," continued the speaker, "we are all brothers. Justice to
one and all of this great human family should be our motto.
Unfortunately for me I was not born of the masses, as the royal knights
of labor are now called by the American aristocrats of boodle. By birth
I was supposed to be exalted above the lower strata of humanity. My
parents were wealthy. My father gave me an education to be a slave
driver over the common people. His blood runs in my veins, but my heart
is not of his heart. In his eyes I have become disgraced because I dared
boldly claim the street laborer, the man with the hoe, the man with the
pick and shovel, the man with the sweat of honest toil on his brow--I
have dared to claim him as a fellow man and brother.

"I have traveled from coast to coast, and I have lived in the poorest
quarters of New York, Chicago, and other great cities. My heart has bled
at the sufferings of the poor people who are wearing their wretched
lives away in toil for a most wretched sustenance. The friends I once
knew have turned from me and called me a socialist, an anarchist. They
call us anarchists because we sympathize with the downtrodden
masses--because we prophesy the coming of the great struggle that shall
emancipate these masses. We are not anarchists, but we are proud to be
called socialists. Anarchy is disorder and ruin. Socialism is order and
equal rights for all. Let them point the finger of scorn at us. What
care we? But let them beware, for the great earthquake is coming."

Mulloy and Gallup had forced their way through the crowd, and even as
the speaker uttered these words Barney gave him a terrible slap on the
back, while Ephraim kicked the box from beneath his feet.

"The earthquake do be come, begorra!" shouted Mulloy. "Greg Carker, ye
bloody old socialist raskil, Oi have yez in me hands, and Oi'm going to
hug yez till ye holler!"




CHAPTER XVIII.

A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.


Carker was almost smothered in the powerful arms of the delighted Irish
youth.

To the crowd, however, it seemed that a violent assault had been made on
the orator. In that crowd were many who sympathized with the socialistic
speaker or were pronounced socialists themselves. These persons grew
excited immediately, and a dozen of them sought to push forward to
Carker's assistance. They reached for Mulloy and Gallup with savage
hands or sought to smite the two young men with clenched fists.

"Great hemlock!" exclaimed Ephraim, as he thrust aside the outstretched
hands or warded off blows. "What in thutteration's the matter with this
bunch of lunatics!"

"Down with them--down with the aristocrats!" snarled the angry crowd.

"Whoop! Hooroo!" shouted Barney Mulloy, releasing Carker. "Is it a
schrap thot do be on our hands, Oi dunno? Begorra, it's so long since
Oi've been consarned in a real fight that me blood tingles with pleasure
at the thought av it."

By this time Carker recognized the sun-tanned young man who had
interrupted his speech. As quickly as possible he flung himself in front
of the excited crowd, threw up his hands, and shouted:

"Stand back! stand back! They're my friends!"

"Gott in Himmel!" gurgled a German. "Did not they you attackt? Dit ve
not see them py our eyes as they didid it?"

"I tell you they're my friends," persisted Carker.

"They hit-a you! They grab-a you!" shouted an Italian. "They stop-a you
from making the speech!"

"It's all right," persisted the young socialist. "I had finished my
speech. I tell you to keep back! Stand off! The man who touches them is
not friendly toward me. He's not friendly toward socialism."

"Vale," said the German, "uf you put it to us up dot vay, it vill a
settlement make."

Then he turned and faced the crowd, pushing many of them back with his
pudgy hands as he shouted:

"Stood avay nearer off! Don't push up so far close! Dit you not hear our
prother say they vas his friendts alretty?"

The excitement of the crowd rapidly subsided. Carker spoke to them
calmly, explaining that the two young men who had brought his speech to
such a sudden termination were his bosom comrades of old times, even
thought they might not be thoroughbred socialists.

"Where the dickens did you two boys come from?" he finally demanded, as
he once more turned toward Ephraim and Barney, grasping their hands.
"Oh, it's good to see you again, fellows!"

"Begorra, to see yez is a soight for sore eyes and to hear yez is music
to deaf ears!" chuckled Barney Mulloy. "You're the same old rabid
champeen av the downtrodden masses. You're still pratin' away about the
coming of the great earthquake."

"That's right, by gum!" grinned Gallup. "But, say, why didn't yeou warn
the people of Frisco before they gut shook up?"

"When I speak of the great coming earthquake," said Carker, "you know
I'm talking figuratively. But you haven't answered my question. Where
did you chaps come from?"

"Right up from old Mexico," replied Ephraim. "We've been down there, me
and Barney, a-helpin' put through the new Central Sonora Railroad. The
old road's finished, and we're takin' a vacation now, with a big bank
account to our credit and plenty of the long green in our pants
pockets."

"Tainted money! tainted money!" exclaimed Greg dramatically. "You've
been laboring for a heartless corporation. These great railroad
companies have made their wealth by robbing the downtrodden masses."

"Ye don't say!" grinned Barney. "The money we have made may be tainted,
but the only taint I've discovered about it is 'tain't enough."

"Oh, you're still frivolous and thoughtless, both of you," asserted
Greg, with a shake of his bushy head. "You can't seem to realize the
fact that in these degenerate days there are no longer opportunities for
men to rise from the lower ranks to positions of competence,
independence, and power. The great corporations and trusts are killing
competition and holding the masses down. A boy born in the lower walks
no longer has a chance to get out of that strata of existence."

"It's rot ye still talk, me fri'nd," declared Barney. "Oi think th'
chances are as good as they iver were, and a lot betther, av anything."

"If yeou're right," put in Ephraim, "'tain't the great corporations and
trusts alone that are to blame. It's the labor organizations that say
every workingman, no matter whether he's capable of great things or is
just an ordinary dub, shall take a sartain scale of wages. That kills
ambition and keeps young fellers of ability and genius from risin'. Yes,
siree, it sartinly does."

"Oh, your mind is too narrow to grasp all the phases of this great
question," asserted the young socialist, with a sweep of his hand. "I
wish you'd prove to me that young men still have a chance to rise in
these days. Show me an example."

"Me bhoy, ye moight take a look at Barney Mulloy," suggested the smiling
Irishman. "It's something loike tin thousand clane dollars he's made in
th' last year. Thot he's done in Mexico."

"And when yeou git through lookin' at him," suggested Gallup, "yeou
might cast an eye round in my direction. Me and Barney have been
partners, and, by jinks! I've cleaned up ten thousand, too."

For a moment Carker seemed a bit staggered, but he quickly recovered.

"What's ten thousand in these days? What's that but a drop in the bucket
when your big magnates accumulate millions upon millions?"

"Well, me bhoy," laughed Barney, with a comical twist of his mug, "tin
thousand will do for a nist egg. Wid thot for a nist egg, we ought to
hatch out enough to kape us from becomin' objects of charity in our ould
age."

"A man is foolish to waste his time in argument with such chaps as you,"
said Greg, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Are you on this train?"

When they replied that they were, he explained that he was there to take
the same train. Within the station he secured his battered old suit
case, which he had left there.

"Have yeou a seat?" asked Gallup.

"Why, I expect to get a seat on the regular passenger coach," answered
Carker.

"You kin git a seat in our car, I guess," said Ephraim. "Not more'n half
the seats was taken."

At the steps of the parlor car Greg halted.

"Are you riding in this car?" he asked.

"Shure," nodded Barney.

"Then I'm sorry," said the young socialist. "I can't ride with you."

In a breath both Mulloy and Gallup demanded to know why.

"Parlor coaches are made for aristocrats," explained Greg. "I'm one of
the masses. I'm democratic. I ride with common people in the common
coaches."

"Begorra, ye'll roide in this car av we have to kidnap yez!" shouted
Mulloy. "Av you're too close-fisted to buy a sate yersilf, Oi'll pay for
it!"

This touched Carker's pride.

"You hurt me by such words, Barney," he protested. "Close-fisted! My
boy, do you know I've given away nearly all my ready money in the last
six months to the needy and suffering? I've seen big, fat-stomached,
overfed men lolling in their parlor-car seats while weak invalids,
wretched and faint from the strain of trouble, have sat in the common
cars. Do you think I could be selfish enough to spend my money for my
own comfort and luxury, knowing that such poor people might be suffering
on this train?"

"Yer heart's all roight, Greg, ould bhoy," explained Barney; "but ye'll
foind thot yer pocketbook isn't big enough to alleviate all th'
suffering thot ye'll discover in the world. Come on, Ephraim, we'll put
him on this car or l'ave him dead on the platform."

They seized Carker and forced him up the steps. In a moment he ceased to
resist and permitted them to push him into the car.

"All right, boys," he muttered regretfully, "as it's you, and we haven't
seen each other for so long, I'll put aside my scruples and travel in a
parlor car to-day."

They found Teresa and Juanita chatting in Spanish, quite unaware of what
had taken place on the station platform. Carker was introduced to Mrs.
Gallup and her young friend. He removed his hat, flung back his mane of
hair, and bowed before them with the grace of a true gentleman.

"Mrs. Gallup," he murmured, "it's the pleasure of my life to meet the
wife of my old friend and comrade. And to meet Mrs. Gallup's friend,
Senyorita Garcia, is scarcely a smaller pleasure."

"How beauteeful he do talk!" murmured Juanita.

There was a strange flash in her dark eyes as she surveyed the young
socialist. With his long hair, his pale classical face, his sad poetic
eyes, he was indeed a handsome fellow of a type seldom seen. The fact
that his clothes were unconventional in their cut and that he wore a
negligee shirt with a soft wide collar detracted not a whit from his
striking appearance.

The train soon pulled out, and when the conductor came through a seat
was secured for Carker, who restrained Mulloy with an air of dignity
when Barney attempted to pay the bill.

"I'm not quite busted myself," asserted Greg, with a faint smile, at the
same time producing a roll of bills.

The conductor was paid and passed on. Then they settled down for a
sociable chat.




CHAPTER XIX.

AN INTRUDER.


Turned from his socialistic theories and arguments into a different
channel, Carker proved to be a most delightful conversationalist and
companion. He was educated, cultured, and witty, although evidently
lacking in humor. Possibly this came from the fact that he had so long
and so earnestly regarded and meditated on the somber side of life. He
seemed to fascinate Juanita, who listened intently whenever he spoke.

"What you do, senyor, when you travel so much?" inquired Teresa. "You
leave Senyora Carkaire at home?"

Carker smiled sadly.

"There is no Senyora Carker," he answered.

"Oo!" cried Teresa. "You are not marreed?"

"No," replied Greg, "I'm not married."

"That ees so singulaire!"

"Veree, veree," murmured Juanita.

"It may seem singular," admitted Carker, "but a man like me, who has
pledged his life to humanity, has little right to get married."

"I do not see why you say that," said Juanita.

"Perhaps I cannot make my reason plain to you, but there is an excellent
reason. A man who marries should have a home. And a man who has a home
should live in it. If I had such a home and was bound to it, I could not
travel and carry on my life-work. I could not drag my wife around over
the country, and it is not right for a married man to leave his wife
alone a great deal."

"Gol rap it, Greg," exclaimed Ephraim, "I don't believe that's your real
reason for not gittin' married! I'll bet some gal throwed you down!"

"Well, perhaps you're right," admitted the young socialist. "You can't
blame her if she did."

"Why not can we blame her?" questioned Juanita. "Deed she have the other
lovaire? Oh, ha! ha! Senyor Carkaire! Maybe eet ees not nice to laugh, to
joke, to speak of eet. I beg the pardon, senyor."

She had seen a shadow flit across his face and vanish.

He forced a laugh.

"If there was another man," he said, "I'm conceited enough to think I
might have captured the prize in spite of him had I been willing to
sacrifice my principles and renounce my socialistic beliefs."

"Oh, the girl she not have you because of that?" breathed Juanita. "Eet
ees veree strange."

"Not so very strange," he asserted. "We'll say that she was a lady. Now
it is a fact that nearly all ladies are extremely conventional in
everything. They have a horror for the bizarre and the unconventional.
They are shocked by the man who declines to be hampered with the fashion
in clothes and in similar things. I could not fall in love with a girl
who was not a lady."

"Begorra, you're an aristocrat at heart!" cried Mulloy. "Ye can't git
away from it, me bhoy, no mather how much ye prate about socialism and
th' brotherhood av mon."

"Still I protest you do not understand me."

"By gum!" muttered Gallup; "it don't seem to me that yeou are right
'bout the gals. Yeou kinder stick for the sort that's been born in the
higher strata of life, as yeou call it. Ain't thar a hull lot of mighty
smart ones that come out of the lower strata somewhere?"

"Oh, I admit that most of the brainy women and most of the brainy men
come from the lower strata. Nevertheless, such women are not ladies."

"Begobs, ye make me tired!" cried Mulloy. "What you nade, Greg, is a
dhoctor to look afther your liver."

"Mebbe the best doctor," grinned Gallup, "would be a girl he'd fall in
love with and who'd fall in love with him. I guess she could cure him.
If he happened to run across the right one and she axed him to give up
his career and stop rampin' round over the country, I'll bet a good big
punkin he'd cave in right on the spot."

"You're wrong," denied Carker. "No matter how much I cared for a girl,
I could not give up my career. There was one once who asked me to give
it up. She married another man."

He smiled as he made the confession, but in his eyes there was a look
which told of the great sacrifice he had made.

"Mebbe you think you're doing a great work for humanity," observed
Ephraim; "but, by ginger! I kinder think that Frank Merriwell is doing a
greater work."

"What is he doing?"

"Haven't you heard 'bout it?"

"No. I haven't heard from Merriwell in the last year or more. The last I
knew of him he was accumulating a fortune in mining. Like other men in
these degenerate times, he had turned his great abilities to the
mercenary task of amassing wealth. I was sorry when I heard this, for I
had expected other things of him."

"Sorry, was ye?" snapped Ephraim.

"Sorry and disappointed," said Greg, shaking his head.

"Waal, now, you want to come right along with us to Bloomfield. We'll
show you what Frank Merriwell's doing with that money he's accumulated.
Ain't you ever heard 'bout his School of Athletic Development?"

"No."

"Waal, I guess that'll interest ye some, by jinks!"

"Tell me about it."

As clearly as he could, Ephraim explained the plan of Merry's new
school. Carker listened with a show of interest until the Vermonter had
finished.

"Well, I'm glad he's doing some good," said Greg. "Still, this is of
minor importance compared with the great work in which I'm engaged."

"You go to grass!" almost snarled Ephraim. "Great fiddlesticks! Why,
Frank is making real men of growing boys. He's making good, strong,
healthy men that kin go out and successfully fight their way through
life."

"Life should not be a battle," asserted the socialist. "Every man's hand
should be outstretched to help a needy fellow man. This old-fashioned
theory that human life is bound to be a battle is all wrong. We are one
great body of brothers, bound together by a universal tie."

"Choke off roight where ye are," commanded Barney. "Oi'm yer fri'nd,
Greg Carker, but Oi'll hit ye av ye sling any of that socialist talk at
us! Ye've r'iled me now. Oi must have a shmoke to soothe me narves."

"Me, too," grinned Ephraim, as they both rose. "You'll 'scuse us for a
little while, won't ye, girls? We'll jest step into the smokin'
compartment."

"You may have the excuse if you weel leave Senyor Carkaire to entertain
us," murmured Juanita.

"I'll remain here," nodded Greg. "I don't smoke."

"Gol ding him!" growled Ephraim, as he followed Barney into the smoking
compartment. "He's a bigger crank than ever! He's gittin' wuss and
wuss!"

"What he nades is a girrul to marry him and straighten him out,"
declared the Irish youth.

Five minutes after the departure of Eph and Barney a slender, black-eyed
man, with a small dark mustache, came sauntering through the car. As he
reached the spot where Carker was talking to Teresa and Juanita he
stopped short, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and lifted his
hat, bowing with a triumphant smile.

"Ah, Senyorita Garcia," he jubilantly said, "you take the flight from me,
but I have found you."

"Jose Murillo!" exclaimed Juanita. And there was dismay and fear in her
voice.




CHAPTER XX.

OLD FRIENDS EN ROUTE.


"_Si, senyorita_," laughed the stranger, "Jose Murillo."

"Where deed you come from?"

"The train on wheech I travel from the West eet join this train back at
the junction."

Teresa's eyes were flashing. She rose and confronted the young Mexican.

"Senyor Murillo," she said, in Spanish, "you have annoyed Juanita enough.
You have no right to follow her. You have threatened her. You have
frightened her. If you are the gentleman you profess to be, you will
leave her alone."

He showed his white teeth in a smile.

"I am a man with a purpose," he retorted, in the same language. "I love
Senyorita Garcia! Her father promised that she should be my wife!"

"Her father is dead," said Teresa, "and that promise no longer binds
her. In Mexico you sought to force her into a marriage. We are not in
Mexico now. We are in the United States. It's different here. My husband
is close at hand. If you do not leave us, I'll call him. He will protect
us from you."

"Pardon, senyorita," said Carker, also speaking in Spanish. "Permit me to
offer my protection. I will see that this man gives neither you nor
Senyorita Garcia further annoyance."

He rose and placed himself squarely before Murillo.

The Mexican glared fiercely at Greg.

"Gringo dog!" he sneered. "Who are you that offers your protection to
these ladies?"

"I am their friend, senyor, and the friend of Mrs. Gallup's husband.
It'll be a good thing for you if you move along and move at once."

Murillo laughed.

"You miserable gringo!" he exclaimed. "Do you think you can frighten me?
Do you think you can drive me away with words? I have followed that girl
a very long distance. She belongs to me by the promise of her father.
She cannot run away from me! I will have her!"

"Look here, Senyor Murillo," retorted Greg quietly, "if you don't move
along, I'll throw you out of that window!"

The Mexican fell back, and his hand was thrust into his bosom.

"Touch me, and you'll regret it!" he hissed, keeping his black eyes
fastened on Carker.

"Is it a knife or a pistol you have in your hand?" questioned Greg
quietly. "I know you've reached for one or the other. All the same I'll
make good by throwing you out of the window if you don't pass on!"

Teresa grasped Carker's arm and whispered in his ear:

"Wait! Here come the boyees!"

Ephraim and Barney were returning from the smoking compartment. The
moment they saw Murillo they hurried forward, realizing that something
unpleasant was taking place. Gallup uttered a cry of exasperation as he
recognized the Mexican.

"Look here, Barney," he exclaimed, "here's old Wan! Consarn his pate,
he's followed Juanita!"

"Begorra, we'll have to soak the persistint gint in the neck!" burst
from the young Irishman.

Murillo backed away a bit, and his hand came forth from his bosom. It
grasped a small shining revolver.

"Touch me, you gringo curs, and I'll keel you!" he threatened.

A stalky, broad-shouldered young man, wearing a broad-brimmed Stetson
hat, came down the aisle behind the Mexican. There was a certain breezy,
Western air about this broad-hatted stranger. He gave one sharp look at
Murillo, and a moment later he had the threatening Mexican in a grip of
iron. One of the stranger's hands shot over Murillo's shoulder and
grasped the revolver, turning the muzzle toward the roof of the car.

"A popgun like that is a whole lot dangerous for fools to play with,"
observed this person who had interrupted. "You ought to be turned over
some one's knee and spanked a-plenty. That's whatever!"

"Great Juniper!" squawked Ephraim Gallup, flourishing his arms with a
wild gesture of delight. "It's Buck--it's old Buck, by gum!"

"Hooroo, Badger, me bhoy!" laughed Barney. "Wherever did yez come from
so suddint, Oi dunno?"

"In truth, it is my old college mate from Kansas!" breathed Carker.

Badger had twisted the pistol out of Murillo's fingers, with one hand
while he easily held the Mexican helpless with the other hand. Badger
was a big man. He stood six feet tall, and every inch of him was put up
for strength and endurance. He was a fine-looking man, too, bronzed and
weather-beaten, as if he had seen much outdoor life, yet having a
certain atmosphere of ease and refinement about him which proclaimed him
no ordinary cow-puncher or laborer. There was command and
self-confidence in every glance of his eyes, in every movement of his
person. In spite of his youth, a critical, discerning stranger would
have pronounced him a man of much experience who feared nothing made of
flesh and blood.

Murillo snarled at the Kansan in Spanish:

"_Santissima! Caramba! Caraj----_"

Like a flash Badger snapped the revolver out through the open window,
and his hand closed on the throat of the furious Mexican, cutting the
vile word short.

"Here, you low-mouthed spawn of sin," grated the big Westerner, "there
are ladies present! If you use that word before them, I'll shut off your
wind a-plenty and let it stay shut! You hear me murmur!"

Murillo made one last furious struggle, but it was quite ineffectual,
and he finally subsided, lying limp in the grasp of the big man.

"Who is this greaser coyote?" asked Badger, as he relaxed his hold on
the man's throat, allowing him to catch a painful breath. "Whatever was
he doing a-pulling a popgun that fashion?"

"Oh, he ees the veree bad man, senyor!" exclaimed Teresa. "He annoy my
dear friend, Juanita! He follow her all the way from Mexico! He threaten
her eef she do not marry heem!"

Badger took a look at Juanita, and something like a gleam of admiration
came into his big brown eyes.

"Juanita, you sure have my sympathy a-plenty," he observed. "You don't
want to marry him?"

"Oh, no, no, senyor!" replied the frightened girl.

"Well, then I opine I'll drop him out of the window. That may jar him
some."

A second later Murillo, kicking and gasping, clawing at the air, had
been lifted like an infant by Badger, who seemed on the point of hurling
him headlong through the open window.

"Santa Maria! Mercee!" begged the frightened wretch. "Spare me, senyor!
Spare me, good senyor! Eef you throw me through the window, eet will keel
me!"

"And that wouldn't be any great loss to the world, I judge," said the
man from Kansas.

But now Juanita interfered.

"Oh, please do not throw heem from the train, senyor!" she implored.
"Even eef I do despise heem, I should not weesh to see heem keeled."

Badger chuckled.

"Well, on condition that the gent will promise a whole lot that he'll
quit bothering you, I'll let him off and won't throw him out of the
window. Speak up, you whining, chattering gopher! Make the promise
instanter, or out you go!"

"Oh, I promeese, senyor--I swear!" came from the frightened Mexican.

"Swear by all your saints," commanded Badger.

"By all the saints, I swear!" gasped Murillo.

"If I let you go now, you'll keep away from the senyorita in future?
You'll never trouble her again?"

Murillo choked, but his fear caused him to take the oath.

Badger dropped the wretch in an upright position, turned him down the
aisle, gave him a start, and said:

"Don't look back! Keep on going just as far as you can go on this train!
Get into the rear car, and if you show your cowardly mug around here
again, I'll kick you clean up through the top of your hat! You hear my
promise, I opine."

Murillo heard it, and he kept on going until he had vanished from the
car.

Barney Mulloy fairly quivered with laughter.

"Be heavins, Badger," he chuckled, "ye know how to handle a shnake! It's
a relation to St. Pathrick ye are, and he drove all the shnakes out av
Oireland. Hereafther you're St. Buck, begobs!"

"St. Buck is a heap good," laughed the Westerner, as he shook hands with
his old friends, removed his broad-brimmed Stetson, and made a sweeping
bow to the girls. "Mrs. Badger has a right jolly way of calling me angel
sometimes, but, on my word, I can't discover even a pimple of a wing
anywhere about me. But, say, people, however is it I find you all here
together? Wherever are you bound for?"

"Bloomfield," answered Barney and Ephraim, in chorus.

"We're taking Carker along with us," explained Gallup. "We're all going
to see old Frank at Bloomfield, by jinks!"

"Well, that's right fine," nodded Buck. "I'm bound for Bloomfield
myself. Mrs. Badger and a friend are in the next car. Say, Winnie will
be a heap surprised to see you boys. I'll lead her in. No, I have a
better idea than that. We'll all hit the trail for the other car and
descend on her in a bunch. There are plenty of empty seats in there, and
we can have a right jolly old time."

In his breezy, commanding way he gathered them all up and led them into
the next car, which had been attached to the train at the junction
recently left.

Mrs. Badger--the Winnie Lee of the old days at Yale--was dozing in her
chair when Buck came down upon her and awoke her by grasping her
shoulder and giving her a shake.

"Waugh!" cried he. "Part the curtains of your peepers, Winnie, and
observe this bunch of Injuns."

Mrs. Badger's companion was a slender young woman in a brown traveling
suit. She was rather pretty in a supercilious way, but she showed
questionable taste in a display of jewels while traveling.

"Oh, Buck, how you startled me, you great bear!" exclaimed Winnie. "What
is it? Who is it?"

"Take a survey," directed the Kansan, with a sweep of his hand. "Here is
our friend Gallup from Vermont, and that Frenchman, Mulloy, who was born
somewhere in the north of Ireland."

"Oh, Ephraim Gallup! Oh, Barney Mulloy!" cried Winnie, in delight, as
she sprang to her feet and grasped the hand of each.

"And you don't want to overlook Professor Gregory Carker, whose
earthquake predictions must have been unheeded by the people of Frisco.
Here he is, Winnie."

"Greg Carker!" burst from Winnie, as she shook hands with the young
socialist. "Why, Greg, you're as handsome as a poet! You remind me of
pictures of Lord Byron."

"Begobs, Ephie," whispered Mulloy, "we'll have to hold him and cut his
hair! It's his hair that the ladies are shtuck on. No mon who predicts
earthquakes has a roight to wear such ravishing hair."

At the mention of Carker's name Winnie Badger's companion had started
and was now sitting bolt upright, staring at Greg and smiling.

Ephraim proudly introduced his wife and Juanita to Winnie.

While this was taking place Carker observed Winnie's friend. In a moment
his face turned paler than usual, his eyelids started wide apart, and he
lifted one hand with a movement of surprise and consternation. She
looked straight into his eyes and continued to smile.

The others noted this. There was a hush, and all eyes were turned on the
two.

Finally Carker's lips parted.

"Madge!" he breathed. And then after a moment, during which his bosom
heaved, he repeated: "Madge!"

"Why, how do you do, Greg!" she laughed, extending her hand. "This is
perfectly delightful! This is a most unexpected pleasure! I never
dreamed of seeing you, Greg!"

"Why, this is queer!" exclaimed Winnie Lee. "So you know my friend, Mrs.
Morton, do you, Gregory?"

"I know her," came huskily, from Carker's lips. "I know her very well."

"Oh, yes," gushed the young woman, "we are old friends--dear old
friends."

Juanita had fallen back behind the others. Her hands quivered a bit, and
her white teeth were sunk into her lower lip. In a whisper she breathed
to herself:

"This is the woman!"




CHAPTER XXI.

AT MERRY HOME.


On arriving in Bloomfield, they found Frank Merriwell at the station
with carriages to accommodate them all.

Imagine their feelings as they once more greeted their old comrade and
leader. Even Buck Badger, the big breezy man of command, seemed to take
a second place in the presence of Frank.

Many of the Bloomfield citizens had somehow learned that several of
Merry's friends were coming on that train, and, as a result, there was a
gathering at the station. The curious ones stared at Merriwell's old
flock, and it was generally remarked that these friends of Frank were
"all right."

Eli Given, Uncle Ed Small, and Deacon Elnathan Hewett were there in a
triangular group, and they nodded and chuckled and shook hands with each
other as Frank shook hands with the members of his old flock.

"Purty 'tarnal good-looking people, Eben," said Eli. "Look at that big
feller with the wide hat that has the leather band round it. There's a
real man for ye."

"Yep," nodded Eben, leaning on his crooked cane and looking the party
over. "He's a man, the hull of him, but even at that I don't cal'late he
quite comes up to our Frank. What do you think, deacon?"

"Boys," said Elnathan, "I ain't never yit seen the man that comes up to
our Frank. All Bloomfield is proud of him to the bustin' point, and they
ought to be."

"By jinks!" grinned Eli; "that tall feller jest introduced one of the
dark-eyed gals as his wife. Wush! but she's a beaut! He's homelier than
a barn door with the paint washed off, but she's a peach. Wonder how he
ever ketched her."

"She's Spanish, or French, or something ferrun," asserted Uncle Eb. "I
heerd her say something in some outlandish language to that other
dark-eyed gal."

"Speakin' 'bout good-lookers," put in the deacon, "what's the matter
with the one the big feller pushed for'ard as his wife? I don't guess
Frank needed no introducin' to them, for it seems to me that he's met
'em both before."

"But, my jinks," gasped Eben, "look at the sparklers in the ears of that
one in brown! S'pose them is real dimints? If they me, I bet they cost
much as twenty-five dollars apiece!"

"Twenty-five?" said the deacon, with an intonation of contempt. "You
ain't no judge of dimints, Eben! I bet they cost thirty!"

"Most of them seem to know Frank's nigger, Toots," said Eli. "Look at
him show them ivories and nod and bow. By jinks! he'll snap his head
off if he keeps that up. See that mouth of his'n stretch! The corners
are going to pass each other at the back of his neck in a minute. If he
keeps on, he'll lose the whole top of his head. It'll jest naturally
crack right off."

"Well, well, boys, this makes me feel mighty good, myself," said the
deacon. "Never used to be no sech things as this going on here in our
town. I tell you if I wasn't a temperance man, I feel so good I'd jest
go down to Applesnack's store and open up two or three bottles of ginger
ale."

"A little hard cider for me," laughed Uncle Eb. "Rufus has it in his
storeroom. I know where we kin git at the keg, boys, and I think we
better celebrate ourselves."

"That's a good idee, Eben," said Eli. "We'll all go over to the grocery
and wash the dust out of our throats with Applesnack's cider."

"Now, boys," protested the deacon, "I don't think I'd better go. If it
should come out, people would talk. I think I'll keep away."

"No, ye don't! No, ye don't!" declared Given, as he grasped one of the
deacon's arms. "Git hold of his other wing, Eben. We'll lead him up to
the keg and pour it into him, if we have to. There won't nobody see us,
deacon. We'll be in the back room, and we'll have Rufus shet the door. I
guess you kin trust us, can't ye? I guess you ain't afraid we'll go
round tellin' folks 'bout it, are ye? You know we're your friends,
don't ye?"

"Course I know it," retorted the deacon. "But it's some agin' my
principles, boys. It ain't jest right."

"Oh, fudge!" laughed Uncle Eb. "On a grand occasion like this you'd
better set them air principles aside a little while. Frank is gittin'
them into the carriages now. We'll see them off, and then we'll stroll
over to Applesnack's and have jest one little taste of that cider."

"Let's start a cheer for Frank Merriwell and his friends as they go,"
suggested the deacon.

The others caught at this eagerly, and, as a result, when the carriages
started away from the station, the villagers on the platform, led by the
three "old boys," gave an irregular but hearty cheer for Frank Merriwell
and his friends. Frank turned a laughing face toward them and waved his
hand.

"The people around here seem a-plenty stuck on you, Merry," observed
Badger, who was in the carriage with him.

"Oh, I have lots of friends in Bloomfield," answered Frank. "I had
enemies enough at the start, but my worst enemies--the most of
them--have turned into friends."

"Same old story," said the Kansan. "It was that way at college. You
always made your strongest friends out of your bitterest enemies.
Browning, for instance, was an enemy at the start, and I certain didn't
cotton to you any at all. We had some hot old times in those days,
Merry. That's whatever!"

"Hot old times! Grand old times!" came from Frank's lips. "I often think
of them. You'll find Browning, Diamond, Hodge, and Carson at the house.
And away back in the days at Fardale, long before I met you, Buck, Bart
Hodge was a bitter enemy. Browning and Diamond are two of my instructors
in the A. S. of A. D. Hodge is my overseer at the mines. Bruce and Jack
have had their hands full this afternoon rushing the boys through the
regular work in order that they might get off for the afternoon. Hodge
and Carson have been helping. I've kept Carson at work during the last
week or so. It was necessary. Certain unpleasant affairs of his put him
in a bad way, and the only thing was to take up his mind by work. I
haven't given him much time to think and brood."

"I opine we've got a brooder with us in the carriage behind," said
Badger, in a low tone. "Carker shows it in his face and eyes."

"Oh, he's still suffering mentally over the troubles of the masses, I
suppose," said Frank.

"There's something beyond that--something that has affected him still
worse," explained Buck. "You noticed Winnie's chum, Mrs. Morton?"

"Of course I noticed her," smiled Frank. "Didn't you introduce me? She's
rather pretty."

"Well, to the surprise of both Winnie and myself, we discovered on the
train when Madge and Greg met that there had been some sort of an old
love affair between them. I reckon that's two-thirds the trouble with
Carker."

Over the bridge rumbled the carriages. As they rolled past Applesnack's
store the grocer and several of his friends stood on the steps and waved
a salute at them. All these villagers were smiling as if the reunion
gave them almost as much enjoyment as it gave Frank and his old flock.

After leaving the village they soon came in sight of the buildings of
Farnham Hall. These structures, located on a splendid site, brought
exclamations of astonishment and pleasure from all who had not seen them
before.

Then they saw Merry Home setting back amid the tall trees which
surrounded it. The old Colonial house seemed to open its arms to them in
welcome.

And on the veranda were Inza, Elsie, Jack Diamond, Bruce Browning, Bart
Hodge, and Berlin Carson.

It's impossible to describe adequately the meeting as the newcomers left
the carriages and were greeted by those waiting for them. The chatter
and laughter of the girls made merry music, but for the most part the
young men shook hands in silence, looking deep into one another's eyes
and letting the grasp of their fingers express the emotions their lips
could not speak.

The two colored men, Toots and Jumbo, together with the young Irish man
of all work, who had also acted as a driver, took the turnouts round to
the stables, where the three of them joined hands and did a crazy dance.

"Bah golly, Jumbo, you big stiff," cried Toots, as he struck the huge
darky a resounding blow on the back, "Ah'ze the happiest nigger in dis
hull unumverse! Wasn't dat de finest-looking bunch ob people yo' eber
set yo' homely eyes on, Jumbo? Bah golly! dat's de kind ob folks Marsa
Frank trains round wid. Ain't dem gals jes' de slappinest good-lookers
yo' eber see?"

"Now don' yo' git familiar talkin' 'bout Marsa Frank's lady friends!"
warned Jumbo. "Ah'ze a friend to you, Toots, but dis familumarity don'
sot well on mah stomach."

"Aw, go on dar, you big brack jollier!" yapped Toots. "Ah'ze known Marsa
Frank eber since he was knee high to a grasseshopper. Ah guess Ah knows
mah place. He's tol' me more'n once, 'Toots, yo'se a gemman distinctive
ob yo' color.' Dar ain't no udder nigger dat could gib Marsa Frank a
piece of device de way Ah can. He'd took it off'n me when he'd up and
slam any udder brack sassbox right ober de crannyum whack-o! Don' yo'
git no notion, Jumbo, jes' beca'se Ah injuiced Marsa Frank to gib yo' a
job, dat yo' ken hab de same familiar acquaintance wid him dat Ah has.
Now back up an' look arter dem hosses! Git onto yo' job befo' Ah
discharges yo'!"

"Well, wouldn't dat ar gib a ring-tailed elephant a cramp!" muttered
Jumbo warmly, as he went about his work.

An hour after the arrival at Merry Home the visitors were ushered into
the large, light, airy dining room, where they found seats at a long
table. There were servants enough for the occasion, and everything was
served promptly.

Mrs. Morton sought to secure a seat at Greg Carker's side, but in a
clever manner Carker had avoided such proximity to her, without seeming
to do so intentionally. Instead of having her at his elbow, it was
Juanita who sat there.

"Well, senyorita," said Carker, smiling on her, "what do you think of
Frank Merriwell's home and his friends?"

"Oh, eet ees the most splendeed theeng I evaire see," she murmured. "Eet
makes me feel so happy for you all."

"Happy?" said Carker, regarding her closely. "Why, I fancied you were
looking rather unhappy. To me you seemed downcast. Has anything occurred
to make you sad?"

"Oh, eet ees that I am so far from home--perhaps," she answered. "Why
deed you not seet by the beauteeful lady you meet again one time more
on the train?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The friend of Senyorita Badgaire. I theenk she ees so veree pretty. She
ees marreed, eh?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, she's married," muttered Carker.

"You are sorree?"

"Sorry?"

"_Si, senyor._ Eef she was not marreed, perhaps you would beside her
seet."

"I don't think so--at least, knowing her as I do now. Still, I don't
blame her. I'm the cause of it all."

"You feel veree, veree bad?"

"I'll be honest with you, senyorita--I can't tell whether I feel very bad
or not. I have felt rather upset, I confess. But, my dear girl, human
nature is peculiar. It's a strange thing, but I believe most men and
most women take melancholy delight in feeling themselves to be martyrs.
We all delight to moan over lost loves. That is the poetry in our
natures. Occasionally we spend our time grieving over some lost love
that reason and good judgment tells us would have come to naught under
any circumstances. I hope Mrs. Morton is happy and satisfied. Perhaps
you'll think me fickle, senyorita, but let me confess to you the fact
that I'm not feeling as much like grieving as I was--before I met you."

For a few moments Juanita did not seem to grasp his meaning, but when
she did the soft, warm color mounted to her cheeks, and her confusion
was plainly evident.

On the opposite side of the table Gallup nudged Teresa, who had been
placed at his left.

"Hey, Teresa," he whispered, "get onto Carker. Gol rap him! He's making
hay in a hurry."

"What ees eet you mean to make the hay?" questioned Teresa, puzzled. "To
me it seem that he make the love. He talk so verree low that nobody
except Juanita hear what he say, and Juanita she blush."

"That's right," chuckled Ephraim, "and, by Jim! Mrs. Morton is looking
daggers and hoss pistols."

Then he lifted his voice and addressed Carker.

"Hold on there, Greg!" he called. "You can't eat your soup with your
fork! Why don't you use a spoon?"

It was Carker's turn to be confused, but he forced a laugh.

"I have a lamentable habit of becoming abstracted in pleasant company,"
he said.

"Evidently you find your company extremely pleasant, Mr. Carker,"
observed Mrs. Morton, with a little toss of her head.

"Extremely is not quite the word, madam," he replied, with a bow.
"Absorbingly pleasant is far better."




CHAPTER XXII.

ANOTHER PILGRIM.


At intervals during the meal the sound of plaintive, doleful music
floated in through the open windows.

"Sounds like a baby squawking," observed Ephraim Gallup.

"Begobs! Oi thought it was some wan playing on bagpoipes," observed
Barney Mulloy. "Oi wonder whativer it can be, Oi dunno?"

Frank listened.

"To me it sounds like a cross between a clarinet, a flute, and a
piccolo," he smiled. "Some one is trying to furnish music for this
festive occasion."

He called one of the servants and asked her to find out the origin of
the peculiar doleful music.

In a few moments the girl returned and quietly explained that a
wandering musician had halted on the lawn and was performing on some
sort of a wind instrument.

"He's a bery funny-lookin' maan, Mr. Merriwell," grinned the girl. "He
suttinly am wearin' de oddest clo'es Ah eber seen. An' he's round an'
corperlous, wid de biggest fat cheeks when he blows, an' a yeller
mustache dat keeps wigwaggin' all de time."

Frank thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out a silver half dollar
and put it in the colored girl's palm.

"Give him this, Liza, and tell him to jog along," he said quietly.

But after Liza had performed the commission and returned to the dining
room the doleful notes of the wind instrument continued to float in
through the open windows.

"The wandering minstrel is bound to give you your money's worth, Merry,"
laughed Jack Diamond.

Although they lingered at the table fully an hour after that, the
musician continued to play outside during all that time, with brief
intervals of rest.

Finally, when dessert was over and they had chatted and gossiped a
while, Frank proposed that they should move to the veranda.

As the jolly party came out upon the veranda they discovered the
musician. He was a portly young German, and he stood on the lawn, with a
battered old carpetbag between his feet, while he blew at a wheezy flute
with such vigor and vim that his eyes threatened to pop out of his head.

"He certainly is working overtime," observed Diamond.

"I'd like to know the name of his tailor," chuckled Browning. "His
clothes certainly fit him handsomely--in spots."

"Anyhow they touch the high places," came from Badger.

Frank Merriwell paused on the veranda steps and scrutinized the musician
intently.

"Fellows," he said, "that chap looks familiar to me. I've seen him
before. I know him."

Bart Hodge's hand dropped on Merry's shoulder.

"You're right, Frank," he said. "We both know, him--we all know him."

An instant later Merry sprang down the steps, rushed forward and seized
the flute player.

"If you need any assistance," called Gallup, as he descended to the
lawn, "I'll help you kill him, Merry."

"Hans Dunnerwurst!" cried Frank, as he grasped the hand of the German
and shook it delightedly. "I thought I knew you!"

The stranger seemed nearly pumped out of breath. As soon as he could
speak he retorted:

"Uh-ha! I pelieft you vould knew me uf you recognitioned me. How you vos
alretty, Vrankie? It peen a long dime since ve med up py each udder,
ain'd it? I knew der lufly musig vot I vos discouragin' to you vould
pring de houze oudt uf you bretty quick. Yah! I knew you coot not stand
der delightfulness uf id forefer. _Ach Himmel!_ How der flute does luf
to blay me! Id peen der grandest instrument dot efer found me der vorld
in."

Several of the party had followed Frank down the steps and surrounded
Dunnerwurst. They greeted him warmly, seizing his hand and shaking it.

But suddenly the Dutchman caught sight of Gallup. With a whoop of joy,
he grabbed up his carpetbag and started for the Vermonter.

"Oh, Ephie, Ephie!" he squawked, rushing forward and embracing Gallup,
who was nearly upset by this impetuosity. "You vos so glad to see me dot
I coot almost cry right avay alretty quick now!"

"Waal, gol dern my punkins!" exploded Ephraim. "It sartinly is old
Hans!"

"Oldt Hans? Oldt Hans?" yelled Dunnerwurst indignantly. "Who vos you
callin' oldt Hans mit such carelessness? Py Chiminy! I peen not more
than a year younger as you vos yourselluf! Don'd you git so bersonal in
my remarks!"

Then he saw Barney Mulloy, who was standing near, a broad grin on his
face.

With a howl, Hans flung the carpetbag and the flute straight up into the
air.

"Id vos Parney!" he shouted. "Id vos dot Irish pogtrotter!"

Then the carpetbag came down, struck Hans on the head and knocked him to
a sitting position on the grass.

"Sarves ye roight for torturin' our ears wid thot croupy flute, ye
bologna sausage!" laughed Mulloy.

"Pologna sissage! Pologna sissage!" howled Hans. "You vos chust as
sauciness as I efer vos! Vy don'd I learnt some manners dot vould make a
chentleman uf you!"

Together, Mulloy and Gallup seized the Dutchman, one by each arm, lifted
him part way to his feet and then permitted him to fall back with a
thud.

"Look out there, boys," laughed Frank, "you'll dent the ground!"

"Mine cootness!" gurgled Hans. "The ground dented me alretty soon! Don'd
put my hands on you again!" he ordered, as his friends once more offered
assistance. "Don'd try to pull der ground avay from me! I vill dood it
mineselluf. I vill got up mitoudt nopody's resistance."

Puffing and grunting, he finally rose to his feet, wiped the
perspiration from his face, and stood there, bowing and smiling in a
manner that was little short of distressing.

Frank led the Dutchman up the steps and presented him to the ladies.
Hans' effort at suave politeness as he bowed with his hand over his
heart was most laughable.

"Mine cootness! vos dot Inza Purrage?" he gurgled. "I used to think she
vos der most peautiful girl vot efer seen me, but, so hellup me sour
krout, she vos sixdeen times prettier-lookin' than efer!"

"You're the same old flatterer, Hans," said Inza; "but you mustn't try
to flirt with me now. I'm married, you know."

"Vy dit you hurriness so much? Vy dit I not vait for you?" he demanded.

"Here's Elsie, Hans."

"Vot, dot--dot angel vomans mit der golden hair her head all ofer?"

"She's now Mrs. Hodge," explained Bart.

Hans struck himself a furious blow on the chest and staggered.

"Dere I vos again!" he groaned. "Oh, vot a terrible misdake for her!
Elsie Pellwood--und she iss now Elsie Hotch? By Chiminy! you vos a lucky
poy, Part; but I don'd blame her when I see tears in her eyes because
she knows I vos not marreed mineselluf."

"You come here," invited Gallup, as he grasped Hans' arm and turned him
toward Teresa. "I jest want to knock you daown to my wife. Mrs. Gallup,
this hot dog is my old friend, Hans Dunnerwurst, that I've told ye about
more'n once."

"Oo!" murmured Teresa; "I am charmed to meet Senyor Dunnerwierst."

Hans seemed speechless as he bowed and bowed, keeping his eyes on Teresa
all the while. Finally he turned, seized Gallup by the shoulder, pulled
him down, and hissed in his ear:

"How dit you dood id? You vos so homely dot a clock coot stob you, und
you haf marreed up py a curl dot vords coot not found my tongue for
expressment."

"Waal," chuckled the Vermonter, "if you want to express your tongue,
send it to the Adams Express Company."

"Maype I think dot vos a coot choke!" sneered Hans. "You alvays vos so
funny, Ephie, dot you caused me puckets uf tears to veep."

Frank presented Juanita and Mrs. Morton, and when it was all over Hans
sank on a chair, quite overcome.

"How did you happen to show up at such an opportune time, Dunnerwurst?"
inquired Merry.

"Vun veek ago," answered the Dutchman, "vile the flute vos learning to
blay me in Cinsanity, Ohio, a newsbaper reads me apout Vrang Merriwell's
great School Athletic Envelopment uf. My mint made me up to come right
avay soon as der car fare coot raise me. Und here I vos."

"Well, you're welcome to Merry Home. You just fill out the party. You
make it complete. This is indeed a great reunion of the old flock. Tell
us what you are doing, Hans."

"Dit you not heard me on der flute play? I vos a musiga. Der heart uf me
vos so full uf musig alretty dot I haf to play it oudt to keep from
pursting vide open."

"Here comes some more visitors, Merry," called Diamond. "I think we know
them."

With their arms linked together, three old men were approaching rather
unsteadily.

Merry instantly recognized Eli Given, Uncle Eb Small, and Deacon Hewett.
As the trio turned in from the road their feet somehow became tangled,
and all three went down sprawlingly. Uncle Eb sat up and made a whack at
Eli with his crooked cane, crying shrilly:

"That's the second time you've tripped me!"

"Don't blame it on me, you doddering old fossil!" flung back Given.

"Peace, boys--peace!" remonstrated the deacon, waving his hands in the
air. "Raise not your voices in harsh words and brawling. I don't think
any one tripped you, Eben. I've noticed myself that the ground is rather
unsteady. I think we're feeling a few left-over tremors from the Frisco
earthquake."

"Mebbe you're right, deacon," said Uncle Eb, seeming pacified. "Kin you
tell me jest how them earthquakes work? Do they make things go round in
a circle? I've been noticin' durin' the last few minutes that the trees
and fences were all floatin' round us."

"If we brace ourselves and walk carefully," said Elnathan, as he rose
and swayed a bit, "I think we'll have no further difficulty in getting
along. Permit me to assist you, Eben."

But when he tried to lift Uncle Eb up he lost his balance, fell heavily
on Small and flattened him out.

"This is really astonishing," muttered Frank, repressing his laughter
with difficulty as he started down the steps.

"Oh, what's the matter with them, Merry?" asked Inza.

"Now don't get worried, dear," he answered, over his shoulder. "The sun
is very warm to-day, and I'm afraid they're suffering from it. We must
get them into the shade before they have sunstroke. Come on, fellows."

Assisted by the boys, the three old men were lifted to their feet and
escorted into the shade beneath the spreading trees in front of the
house.

Uncle Eb poked Elnathan in the ribs with his cane.

"Come on now with that speech, deacon," he urged. "You're the
speechmaker of the party."

Elnathan cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "this is a grand and glorious day.
This is the day when that grand and glorious bird, the American eagle,
should plume itself with pride and utter a scream that could be heard
from the Pacific to the Atlantic, from the Gulf to the Canadian border."

"Hooray! hooray!" piped Eli Given. "That's the talk, deacon. Spatter it
on thick!"

"We are sons of free men," continued Elnathan, making a gesture that
nearly caused him to lose his balance. "The Declaration of Independence
and the Emancipation Proclamation made us all free and equal. If there
be one among you who is not stirred by this glorious thought, let him
hide his head in shame. This is the day on which the whole country
rejoices at the birth of liberty. Let the cannons boom! Let the rockets
siz! Let the pinwheels whiz! And let the popcorn pop!"

"Hold on, deacon--hold on!" interrupted Uncle Eb. "That's your last
year's Fourth of July speech. That don't seem 'zactly 'propriate to this
occasion."

"Now you back up, Eben," commanded Given. "You let him spout. It sounds
purty good to me, whether there's any sense to it or not."

"What was I sayin'?" asked the deacon. "Where did I leave off? You
kinder interrupted my train of discourse, Eben. Mebbe I'd better stop."

"There's a lady coming to join our party," said Bart Hodge. "I think
it's your wife, Eli."

"My w-h-a-t?" gasped Eli Given, actually turning pale. "Where is she?
Great scissors! If she ever gits her hands on me now, I see my finish!"

A woman, with a sunbonnet dangling by the strings tied beneath her chin,
was coming down the road in a hurried manner. With some difficulty Eli
finally discovered her.

"That's Mrs. Given as sure as Adam ett the apple!" he exclaimed. "I
don't believe she's seen me. Boys, I've gut to go, and I've gut to go in
a hurry, too."

"Well, don't you think I'm goin' to hang around for her to git holt of
me," said Uncle Eb, as he started toward the corner of the house,
hobbling along as fast as his legs and his cane could carry him.

"I think perhaps I'd better go, too," muttered the deacon, as he
followed Eben's example.

In spite of the start of his companions, Given passed them on a run and
turned the corner, making straight for the stable. The three old chaps
legged it into that building and disappeared from view.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Given had seen them, and she was not far behind when
they vanished through the wide-open door. She found Uncle Eb propped up
with his cane, standing in a dark corner of a box stall.

"Eben Small," she said, as she shook her fingers in his face, "you're a
disgrace to the community! Now, not a word! Don't speak! I know what
you've been doing, you and my husband and Elnathan Hewett! You've been
drinking hard cider at Rufus Applesnack's store! I'm going to take Eli
home, and I'll give him a dressing down he won't soon forgit! I tell ye
not to speak! You ain't gut nuthin' to say!"

She then lifted her voice and called for her husband to come forth. As
there was no response, she looked into the crib, and there she found
Elnathan curled up, pretending to be fast asleep.

"Deacon Hewett," she said, "you've posed as an example to the community.
Now don't snore! I know you're awake! You can't fool me? So you will
continue to snore, will ye?"

There was a squawk from the deacon, for she had seized him by the nose
and given it a twist that brought him upright in the crib.

"Where's my husband?" she demanded. "Don't speak! Don't say a word! I
want to know where my husband is!"

"Well, how kin I tell you if I don't speak?" snarled the deacon. "I
dunno where he is, anyhow! Go 'way and lemme alone! This hot weather is
giving me an awful headache."

"Oh, you've got a headache, have ye? Well, that's retribution, Mr.
Hewett. You ought to have a headache. You've led my husband astray. He's
a temperance man."

"Me lead him astray!" groaned Hewett. "Why, 'twas him and Eben that
coaxed me over to Applesnack's store."

"Now don't you tell me that, you sinful old hypocrite! Eli never touches
hard cider unless somebody induces him to do so. And I know Eben don't
drink it on account of the effect on his rheumatiz."

"That's right, mother!" piped a weak, small voice from beneath the crib,
as Eli poked his head out. "The deacon is all to blame!"

"Oh, there you be!" she snapped, as she pounced on him and pulled him
forth. "Now you git up here and march home!"

Having pulled him to his feet, she took a firm grip on his ear and led
him from the stall and out of the stable.




CHAPTER XXIII.

IN THE NOOK.


That afternoon was to be long remembered by all the visitors at Merry
Home. It passed pleasantly in spite of the fact that Hans insisted on
"rending a selection" on the flute and seemed rather disappointed and
downcast when they begged him not to play any more.

"Der musig haf no heart for you," he complained. "Maype you vould like a
popular song to sing to me. I vill gif you 'Efrybody Vorks Poor Vather.'
Yes? No?"

"Don't yez do it, Hans," entreated Barney. "We have suffered enough
already."

"Und id vos such a peautiful song!" moaned Dunnerwurst. "I understandt
der author uf dot song got only fife hundret dollars for writin' id."

"Waal," drawled Gallup, "maybe it was his first offense. Did he pay the
fine?"

"Fife hundret dollars vos a small amoundt," said Hans. "Still I vould
like to add it py my 'lefen dollars and seventeen cents vot I haf my
pocket in."

"How much would that make in all?" questioned Gallup. "You always was a
rippin' good mathematicker, Hans, though seems to me you did git a
little balled up in substraction. If you've gut eleven dollars and
sixteen cents in your pocket, and I should take five dollars away from
you, whaot would be the result?"

"You vould be carried avay an ambulance in," said the Dutchman promptly.

Carker had bestowed a great deal of attention on Juanita. Although she
pretended not to notice this, Mrs. Morton was waiting her opportunity,
and it came when Greg strolled away alone beneath the trees. In a few
moments she made an excuse and followed him. Finding him seated on a
rustic bench in a little nook, she uttered an exclamation of pretended
surprise over discovering him there.

"Why, Greg," she fluttered, "are you here?"

He rose at once.

"Yes, I'm here," he answered. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morton, if I
alarmed you. I'll not bother you if you wish to sit here."

"Oh, you foolish boy!" she laughed, placing her hands on his breast and
pushing him back on the seat. "Sit down. Isn't this a delightful place!
We're all alone here by ourselves, and nobody can see or hear us."

She placed herself at his side.

"It might be somewhat embarrassing for you if any one should discover us
here," said Greg.

"Embarrassing for me? What a foolish idea! You always were a foolish
fellow, Greg Carker."

"You've told me so before."

"And told you the truth."

"I presume you still think so. You thought me foolish because of my
socialistic beliefs. You used to make sport of me. I haven't forgotten
that."

"The trouble with you, Greg, is that you take things too seriously. You
never can see a joke. If any one plays a joke on you, you're offended,
and you try to get even. You've been getting even with me to-day."

"In what manner?"

"By the way you made eyes at that insipid creature, Juanita."

"I wouldn't call her insipid if I were in your place," he remonstrated.
"It doesn't seem nice of you, Madge--I mean Mrs. Morton."

"Oh, call me Madge. There is no reason why you should be so extremely
formal. I knew you before I met George Morton."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I thought I knew you," he retorted, "but I discovered I was mistaken."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it is true."

"I don't believe you ever cared for me, Greg."

"And I know you never really cared for me. If you had, you'd not have
cast me over as you did for Morton."

"But I couldn't do anything with you, Gregory. You persisted in throwing
your life away."

"In what manner?"

"In becoming a socialist. In lecturing on socialism in defiance of your
father's wishes and my entreaties. Your father threatened to cut you off
without a dollar."

"I believe he's made a will in which I am given the liberal sum of one
dollar," said Carker. "So you see he has not quite cut me off without a
dollar. The money made all the difference with you, Madge. Morton was
wealthy. I had nothing in the world, and no particular prospects. You
married Morton."

"Well, a girl has to look out for herself in these days."

"But you pretended that you loved me."

"I did," she declared earnestly. "I loved you then, Greg, and I've loved
you ever since."

Again he shrugged his shoulders, and a low laugh came from his lips.

"You don't believe me!" she exclaimed. "If you only knew how much it
hurt me to see you smiling into the eyes of that Spanish girl! Oh, I
longed to choke her!"

"How do you think I felt when you dropped me and became George Morton's
wife?"

"I'd never done that had you been sensible. Had you promised your father
that you'd give up socialism, I'd have clung to you through everything,
Gregory. You know socialism is so ridiculous! And socialists are the
skuff and rabble of humanity. All the cranks and crackbrains are
socialists."

"Every great thinker since the world began has been called a crank. I
admit that there are many undesirable persons allied with the
socialists, but because of that the great principles of the party cannot
be condemned. The theory of socialism is founded on the rock of justice
and----"

"Oh, I've heard all that before, Gregory. Don't talk it any more. How
can you blame me if I did not wish to marry a penniless man absolutely
without prospects?"

"I don't blame you," he said. "At the same time, Madge, I hate to think
that you married George Morton simply for his money. I hate to think you
deceived him in such a manner."

"Oh, George was a good fellow, and money is an absolute necessity,
Gregory. Had I possessed a fortune, it would have been different. The
mere fact that your father had cut you off would have made no difference
to me then. It makes no difference to me now."

"But it's too late now, Madge."

"Oh, no, it isn't too late."

He drew back from her, and the look she saw in his eyes brought a sudden
flush to her cheeks.

"You think me bold. You think me forward," she hastily said. "Long ago
you made me confess that I loved you. Do you think I forgot you? Oh,
no; there's been never a day since we parted that I've not longed to see
you again."

In spite of her hand on his arm, he rose to his feet.

"This won't do, Madge," he said calmly. "You're a married woman. What if
your husband should hear you speaking such words to me?"

She was on her feet also.

"My husband--why, Gregory,--don't you know--haven't you heard? I have no
husband!"

"You--have--no--husband?"

"No. I'm a widow. I've just come out of mourning. George has been dead
more than a year."

Carker seemed turned to stone. She was standing squarely in front of
him, and she placed both her hands on his arms, looking up into his
eyes.

"I supposed you knew," she murmured. "He left me in comfortable
circumstances, and there is now no reason why I should worry about the
future. If your father is unrelenting, it can make but little difference
to us. Even though we may not agree about socialism, I'll let you have
your way. Everything has come out right at last, Greg. Isn't it
splendid!"

Before he realized her intention, one of her arms slipped round his
neck.

At that moment Juanita Garcia passed the entrance to that little nook
and saw them. She did not pause, but, pale-faced and wide-eyed, hurried
silently on.




CHAPTER XXIV.

ON THE CLIFF.


During the remainder of the day Juanita avoided Greg Carker.

Evening came. Within the house the boys were singing the old college
songs to the accompaniment of a piano as Juanita stole away alone and
listened a long time from a corner of the veranda. Tears dimmed her
eyes, and she whispered soft words to herself.

"I know I'm a veree fooleesh girl," she said. "I cannot help eet. Eet
ees not to be that he should care for me."

Her heart throbbed with bitter disappointment. She left the house behind
and wandered away through the dusky June night. Crossing the road and
the fields, she came at last to Ripple Lake, on the edge of which she
lingered while the moon crept up in the east.

"I ought to return," she murmured. "If they mees me, they will become
alarmed. But I cannot go back there yet--I cannot go back!"

Her restless spirit led her round the shore of the lake until she
finally found herself on a bluff that rose from the water's edge. The
moon was now behind her back. At the brink of the bluff she peered over
into the shadow below.

A footstep startled her.

With a smothered cry, she turned and found herself face to face
with--Jose Murillo.

"It is you, Juanita!" he exclaimed, in Spanish. "All day I have waited
and watched for the opportunity to speak with you!"

"Senyor Murillo, why did you come here? You promised----"

"What is a man's promise to a gringo!" he retorted. "Did you think they
could frighten Jose away from you? No, no, Juanita!"

"But I do not want to see you."

"You're a foolish girl. Why are you so determined against me? Your
father gave me his promise----"

"It will do you no good to speak of that, senyor. I tell you now for the
last time that I do not care for you--I never can. If you are a
gentleman, you will bother me no more. I'm going back now."

He placed himself before her.

"Not yet!" he exclaimed.

"You cannot stop me, senyor!"

"Oh, yes, I can, senyorita. Don't fancy I've followed you all the way
from Mexico to be baffled so easily. The Murillos are determined men. I
have resolved that you shall be mine!"

"Never!"

"That word is easy to speak. What have I done that you should despise
me?"

"You say the Murillos are determined men. They are, likewise, bloody
men. I know not why my father favored you. I do know that my mother
feared all Murillos, even as I fear you."

"It is good for a woman to have a husband whom she fears and respects."

"In this case fear and respect do not go together, senyor. I have no
respect for you."

"Then I will teach you respect when you are mine."

"That opportunity will never be given you. Look, senyor, we stand at the
edge of this cliff. The water is very close at hand. I wish you to
understand me. Rather than become your wife, I'd leap into that water. I
cannot swim."

"Leap!" he exclaimed. "I will leap after you, and I cannot swim!"

"Are you mad?"

"It is madness perhaps, senyorita, but it is the madness of love. You
must understand me now. You must understand how useless it is to fly
from me. Once I thought you cared for another man. Once I was jealous of
Emmanuel Escalvo. He never knew how close he walked with death. When I
learned you did not care for him I put away my knife. There can be no
others--unless you have met him within a few hours. I am satisfied that
there is no other."

With sudden indiscretion and defiance, she exclaimed:

"You're wrong, Senyor Murillo! There is another!"

He uttered a sudden curse.

"Who is the man? Tell me his name, and he shall have what Emmanuel
Escalvo escaped!"

She was frightened by her folly.

"Who is the man?" he snarled, suddenly seizing her. "Speak quick--speak
at once!"

"You hurt me, senyor!" she panted, striving to break from his grasp. "Let
me go!"

"I will not! I have you now, and I'll keep you! I'll never let you go!"

"I beg your pardon," said a quiet voice, "but I think you're mistaken."

Jose Murillo found himself sprawling on the ground. He looked up, and in
the moonlight he saw Gregory Carker offering Juanita support.

"Oh, why deed you come?" panted the girl. "Now he weel know! He weel
keel you!"

Snarling like an angry dog, Murillo leaped to his feet. The moonlight
shimmered on a blade he had whipped from his bosom.

"This ees the man!" he panted triumphantly, as he sprang at Greg.

Carker flung up his arm, and Murillo's knife slashed his sleeve from
shoulder to elbow.

In a twinkling Greg had closed with the Mexican, grasping the man's
wrist and holding him in an effort to keep him from using the knife.

Juanita sought to interfere, but the cool, determined young American
warned her back.

"Leave this man to me," he said.

"He has the knife!"

"But I don't think he'll use it," said Carker, as he backheeled Murillo.

In a moment they were down, twisting and squirming and writhing on the
ground.

With her hands clasped, and her lips parted, Juanita looked on, standing
ready to do her best should she see Murillo free his knife hand.

Carker had once been an athlete. He was not now in the best condition,
but, nevertheless, he was stronger than his foe, and he finally pinned
Murillo to the ground.

"Drop that knife!" commanded Greg, seeking to force the weapon from the
Mexican's fingers.

In this attempt he had almost succeeded, when of a sudden Murillo
squirmed away, rolled over and over and scrambled up.

Carker rose on the brink of the cliff and again faced the man. Murillo
came at him with a leap, making a savage slash with the knife. Carker
dodged just in time and thrust out his foot. Over that outthrust foot
the Mexican tripped. Straight forward he plunged, with a cry and a
splash, into the water below.

"Perhaps a cold bath will do him good," observed Carker, breathing a
trifle heavily.

Juanita seemed ready to faint.

"Oh, senyor, you are the brave man!" she breathed. "Oh, my heart eet beat
so for you! I have such a terrible fear that he would keel you!"

Carker felt a strange thrill that ran over him from head to feet.

"Would you have cared so much?" he asked hoarsely.

"Eet would have keeled me, too, senyor!" she answered. "The lake--I
should have leaped into eet! Like Murillo, I cannot swim."

"Like Murillo, eh?" exclaimed Greg. "Then the fellow can't swim? Well, I
think it's up to me to pull him out."

He stripped off his coat, ran some distance away to a point where he
could descend to the water's edge and made his way along the foot of the
little bluff. Peering into the shadows, he called in vain to the
Mexican.

Out beyond the point where the cliff shadow lay on the water there were
tiny shimmering waves, but in that shadow he could see nothing.

"I'm afraid this is rather a serious matter for Jose Murillo," he
muttered. "Had I realized the scoundrel couldn't swim, I'd followed him
into the lake and pulled him out. I take it he's gone."

Juanita called to him from above:

"Can't you see him, Senyor Carkaire?"

"Don't be alarmed, Juanita," he answered. "I'm coming back there. I'll
be with you in a moment."

He took one last look in search of the Mexican.

"I had to defend myself," he thought. "I'm sorry I was concerned in it,
but I think Jose Murillo will trouble Juanita no more."

She was waiting in a trembling anxiety as he reappeared. He picked up
his coat and put it on.

"Deed you find heem?"

"Not a trace," answered Carker. "He must have sunk like a stone. It's an
unfortunate affair, Juanita, but you have no further cause to fear that
man. Come, little girl, I'll take you back to the house. Give me your
arm."

Timidly she clung to his arm, and they turned their steps toward Merry
Home.

"Do you believe in fate?" asked Carker.

"Si, senyor. Eet was fate that I should meet Senyor Murillo as I deed."

"And it was fate that led me here. I have been seeking an opportunity to
speak with you all the afternoon. You would not give me a chance. Every
time I approached you ran away from me. Why did you do so, Juanita?"

"Why deed you weesh to speak with me?"

"I had something I wished to say. Juanita, I can't seem to find the
words. I presume I'm rather excited. That's natural under the
circumstances. It was something about you that bewitched me. It must
have been your eyes."

"Oo, what ees eet you say, senyor? You theenk I do not know sometheeng.
On the train you tell of the girl who would not marree you--the girl who
marree the other man. You meet her in the car with Senyora Badgaire. I
know! I know! She ees the one! You luf her!"

"I may as well make a clean breast of it," said Carker. "I thought I did
once. She gave me the shake, Juanita. It's all over now."

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