He was full of confidence when he walked up to the plate. The watching sophomores were doing their best to rattle Merriwell, and it seemed that he must soon get nervous, even though he did not seem to hear any of the jolly that was being flung at him.

The very first ball seemed to be just where Gordon wanted it, and he swung at it with all his strength. It twisted in toward him and passed within two inches of his fingers.

Gordon looked mildly surprised, but he was still confident that he would be able to hit the next one with ease. He found out his mistake later on when he went after an out drop and failed to come within six inches of it.

Then it was Gordon who grew nervous. He did not fancy the idea of being fanned out by his rival, and he felt that he must make connections with the next one. He resolved to wait for a good one, and Frank fooled him by putting two straight ones right over the center of the plate. Gordon felt sure that both would be curves, and so he offered at neither of them. The umpire, however, who was a particular friend of Gordon, called them both balls. Then Gordon went after the next ball, which was a raise, but found nothing but empty air.

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

Parker punched Browning in the ribs.

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

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

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

Walter Gordon was filled with disgust and dismay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sick," he declared.

He looked as if he spoke the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

Browning saw them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is the professor in?" he asked.

"I think he is," replied the barkeeper.

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

"Come in!" called a harsh voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Browning showed sudden interest.

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

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

"Yes, but how—how?"

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

"How bad will it hurt him?"

The man paused a moment and then added:

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

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



CHAPTER XVI.

TO BREAK AN ENEMY'S WRIST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I agree."

"Dat settles it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, what's next?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wen yer goin' ter fight him?"

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

"Where?"

"I don't know yet."

"Is he a squealer?"

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

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

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

"Oh, yes. I near fergot dat."

"Well, I didn't."

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hartwick began to regard his roommate with disdain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It looks that way," admitted the other.

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

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

Then he instructed Hartwick to carry a challenge to Frank.

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

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

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

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

"The fellows will say you are afraid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tad Horner was chosen referee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then time was called and the rivals advanced once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You make me sick!" sneered Hartwick.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVII.

TALKING IT OVER.

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

Several weeks slipped by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They won't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This produced a general laugh, and Parker said:

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

Punch Swallows groaned in a heartrending way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where'd he get it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willis nearly lost his breath.

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

"What! A sea captain?" asked Hartwick.

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

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

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

"A poor dentist, eh?"

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

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

"Water!" he gasped.

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

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

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

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

"Then he was a soldier?"

"No; a baseball umpire."

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

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

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

"To fizz?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It does look easy."

"Have they been easy thus far?"

"Oh, that's different."

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

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

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

Hartwick looked disgusted.

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

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

Hartwick showed still greater disgust, his eyes flashing.

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

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

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

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

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

"How do you know so much about it?"

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

"Well, what are his innovations?"

"The Oxford oar, in the first place."

"What is that?"

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What else has he done?"

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

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

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

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

Hartwick smiled wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVIII.

MERRIWELL AND RATTLETON.

"Harry!"

"Hello!"

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

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

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

"I said that you must stop smoking cigarettes."

"Well, what did you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you!" sarcastically.

"But I am in earnest."

"Really?" and Rattleton elevated his eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure."

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

"And would you do that?"

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

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

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

"What harm does it do?"

"A great deal."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come now, Harry," came earnestly from Frank. "Just cut clear from the things. They never did any man any good, and they have taken the wind and nerve out of hundreds. You don't want me to keep you on the crew and lose the race by doing so. You don't want it said that I have been partial to you because you are my roommate and particular friend. That's what will be said if things go wrong. The fellows will declare I was prejudiced against Gordon, and they will not be to blame unless you can prove yourself the best man. I have nothing against Gordon, and I am bound to use him as white as I can. I have explained why I don't want him on the crew, and I have tried to make it clear why I'll have to let him come on at once, unless you drop cigarettes. How is it, my boy? What do you say?"

Harry got up and went into the bedroom. A moment later he came out with a big package of cigarettes in his hands. He opened the window and flung them as far as possible.

"There!" he cried. "By the mumping Joses—I mean the jumping Moses! I'm done with 'em. I'm not going to smoke them any more!"

"Good boy!" laughed Frank, his face full of satisfaction. "Shake!"

They clasped hands.

Rat-tat-tat! A knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Dismal Jones, his face longer and sadder than usual, came slouching into the room.

"Hello, Jones, old boy!" cried Frank, cheerfully. "What is troubling you now? You look like a funeral."

"I'm mad," said Dismal in a spiritless way.

"Is that what ails you? I'd never suspected it from your appearance."

"Appearances are oftentimes deceitful," croaked Jones. "Whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise."

"Well, sit down and tell us all about it," invited Frank, offering a chair. "My boy, it must be that you are studying too hard. You have the outward appearance of a greasy grind."

"What's that I just told you about appearances? You are too hasty in your judgments. The trouble with me this evening is that I have found out something."

"I never supposed it would trouble you like this."

"Wait. You do not know what it is."

"That's right. What is it?"

Frank was familiar with Dismal's queer ways, and he knew it was not easy to tell when this son of a "shouting Methodist" was jollying and when he was in earnest; but now he was convinced that Jones was really serious, and he felt that there must be some cause for it.

Harry, strangely sobered and silent, sat listening. He could not understand Jones, and he was on his guard, knowing how often the fellow turned into a farce what seemed a serious matter.

Dismal locked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. He cleared his throat and then said:

"Merry, what would you say if I were to tell everything I could find out about our crew to the sophs?"

"I should say you were a confounded sneak!"

"Hum! I kinder thought you'd say something like that."

"But you do not know too much about the crew."

"I know something, and I could know more if I had a mind to. All I would have to do would be to play the spy a little."

"Well, I suppose that is right. What about it?"

"Somebody is playing the spy."

"How do you know?"

"I've got it straight enough, for the sophs know all about what our crew is doing. They are laughing over the Oxford stroke and the English oars."

"How do you know this?"

"Heard 'em."

"When?"

"To-night."

"Where?"

"On the street. Browning and a party were going down to Morey's, and they were having a high old time with Hartwick, who was explaining the advantages of the stroke and the oars our crew has adopted."

"That's not proof that somebody has played the spy. It may have slipped out through the carelessness of some of our men."

"It may. But I don't think so. I heard Emery ask Hartwick how he knew so much about us."

"What did Hartwick say?" Frank eagerly asked.

"He said he had a nice fresh flat who thought it a fine thing to play the spy and blab all he found out."

"Blay bluses—I mean blue blazes!" cried Harry, banging his fist down on the table. "That's what makes me cot under the hollar! A man who would do a thing like that will steal a sheep! I'd like to have the pleasure of thumping him a few times—just a few!"

Merriwell was silent, a dark look on his face.

"It will not be healthy for the spy if I catch him," he finally declared. "I'll make it pretty hot for him around here!"

"Which would be a highly commendable action," bowed Dismal.

"Have you any idea who would do such a low-down thing?" asked Harry.

"Sometimes we have ideas which we do not care to express."

"That's right; but in a case like this—confidentially—to us, you know—"

"Well, if I say anything, it is to be strictly confidential."

"Sure!" cried Frank and Harry in a breath.

"You both give me your word for it?"

"We do."

"If I knew, I would not hesitate to come out openly and accuse the fellow," said Dismal; "but this is merely a case of suspicion, and I will tell you who I suspect."

"Go ahead."

"Well, there is a certain fellow who has not been above playing into the hands of the sophs in the past, and it is natural for me to suspect him. His name is—"

The door opened, and Roland Ditson came in without knocking.



CHAPTER XIX.

WHO IS THE TRAITOR?

"Hello, fellows!" cried Ditson. "How are yer, Jones! I am surprised to see you here. Is it possible you have let up cramming long enough to make a call? Why, I have even heard that you had your eye on some classical scholarship prize as soon as this. Everybody who knows you says you're a regular hard-working old dig."

"There are fools who know other people's business a great deal better than their own," said Dismal stiffly.

"That's right," nodded Ditson, who made a great effort to be rakish in his appearance, but always appeared rather foxy instead. "But I tell you this matter of burning the midnight oil and grinding is not what it's cracked up to be. It makes a man old before his time, and it doesn't amount to much after he has been all through it. Goodness knows we freshmen have to cram hard enough to get through! I am tired of it already. And then we have to live outside the pale, as it were. When we become sophs we'll be able to give up boarding houses and live in the dormitories. That's what I am anxious for."

"It strikes me that you are very partial to sophs," said Dismal, giving Roll a piercing look.

Ditson was not fazed.

"They're a rather clever gang of fellows," he said. "Freshmen are very new, as a rule. Of course there are exceptions, and—"

"I suppose you consider yourself one?"

"Oh, I can't tell about that. But supposing I am; by the time I become a soph some of the newness will have worn off."

"I am not particularly impressed with any freshman who seems to think so much of sophomores. You ought to stay with them all the time."

"Oh, I don't know. They have treated me rather well, and I have found the most of them easy people."

"They seem to have found some freshman easy fruit. Somebody has been blowing to them about our crew."

"I know it," was Ditson's surprising confession, "and that's why I dropped in here. I wanted to tell Merriwell about it."

Jones gasped for breath. He was too surprised to speak for some minutes.

Ditson took out a package of cigarettes, offering them first to Harry, who shook his head.

"What?" cried Roll, amazed. "You won't smoke?"

"No."

"What's that mean?"

"I have left off," said Harry, with an effort.

"Left off? Oh, say! that's too good! You leave off!"

A bit of color came to Rattleton's face, and he gave Ditson a look that was not exactly pleasant; but Roll was too occupied with his merriment to observe it.

Frank was studying Ditson. He watched the fellow's every movement and expression.

Roll knew it was useless to offer cigarettes to Merriwell or Jones, so he selected one from the package, kneaded it daintily, pulled a little tobacco from the ends, moistened the paper with his lips, and then lighted it with a wax match.

"Say, Harry, old man, I pity you," he said, with a taunting laugh, looking at Harry. "I've tried it. It's no use. You'll break over before two days are up—yes, before one day is up. It's no use."

Rattleton bit his lips.

"Why, you are dying for a whiff now!" chuckled Ditson. "I know you are. I got along a whole day, but it was a day of the most intense torture."

"There may be others with more stamina than you, Ditson," snapped Rattleton. "Just because you couldn't leave off a bad habit, it's no sign that nobody can."

"Oh, I suppose not. But what's the use? Don't get hot, old man. You ought to know my way by this time."

"I do."

"What is it that you came to tell me?" asked Frank.

"Eh? Oh, about the sophs. Those fellows seem to know more about our crew than I do."

"What do they know?"

"Why, they know our men are using English oars, have adopted a new stroke, and have done several other things. Now, those are matters on which I was not informed myself."

"How do you know the sophs know so much?"

"I've just come from Morey's. Went in there with Cressy. Fine fellow, he is. While I was in there Browning and his crowd wandered in. They were drinking ale and discussing the race. I heard what they were saying. Couldn't help hearing, you know. They were talking about our crew and the new methods you had introduced. It was mighty interesting to me, as I didn't know about those new methods myself."

"How innocent!" muttered Jones.

Ditson elevated his eyebrows.

"What's that?" he demanded. "Why shouldn't I be innocent? I am not on the crew, and the men are training and practicing secretly. I have had no way of finding out what they were doing."

"But some sneak has!" cried Rattleton, fiercely, "and he's been and blowed all he found out!"

"Unless somebody on the crew has done the blowing," suggested Roll, exhaling a great puff of smoke. "That is barely possible, you understand."

"Possible! No!" cried Frank. "There's not a man on the crew who would do such a thing!"

"Oh, well, I suppose you know. But I understand there are two who are kept in form as substitutes. One of them thinks he should be on the crew. He is rather jealous of somebody who fills his place. He might be the one who has talked too much."

"You don't mean—"

"Rattleton ought to be able to guess who I mean," craftily said Ditson as he arose. "I'm not calling names, for I don't know anything certain. If I had proof—but I haven't. Never mind. You ought to know enough to watch a certain fellow who thinks his place is filled by a person not his equal. He says there is favoritism in the matter. I rather think I have spoken plainly enough. Wish you success, Merry, old man. Evening, fellows."

Ditson departed.

Our hero, Rattleton and Jones sat and looked at each other in grim silence for several minutes.

"Well?"

Frank broke the spell, looking keenly at Jones as he spoke.

"I dunno," mumbled Dismal, falling into the manner of speaking that had been habitual with him from his childhood. "I dunno—hanged if I do!"

"You thought you knew when you came in, my boy."

"That's right; but I dunno but I was off my trolley. And still—"

"Still what?"

"I don't like the man I suspected, but I never thought the fellow shrewd enough to play a double game."

"Perhaps it is because you do not like him that you suspected him."

"Oh, it may be—it may be. And I don't suppose that is a square deal. I didn't have absolute proof."

"You were going to name him when Ditson came in."

"I was, but I will not call any names now. I propose to look into this matter somewhat. Likely it's too late to prevent the traitor from completing the damage, but he can be exposed. It will be some satisfaction to see him held up to public scorn."

"That is true, Dismal, and I want you to do your best to find out who the man is. Make a sure thing of it. Get positive proof, if possible."

"Whoever he is his sin is sure to find him out."

There were footsteps on the stairs and the sound of laughing voices. The door burst open and several freshmen came trooping in, as if they felt quite at home there. Lucy Little was at their head, and his face showed excitement.

"I say, Merriwell!" he cried, "are you out for a little sport to-night?"

"That depends on what sort of sport it is."

"'Sh!" said Little, mysteriously. "Close the door, uncle."

A fellow by the name of Silas Blossom, who was familiarly called "uncle," obeyed.

Little looked at Rattleton and then stared hard at Jones, who had the face of a parson.

"I don't know about you," he said, "but I think you are all right. Even if you have scruples I don't believe you will blow."

"Very kind!" grunted Dismal.

"The rest of the gang is all right," said Little.

"Then give us your scheme," spluttered Harry, whose curiosity was thoroughly aroused. "Don't bush around the beat—I mean beat around the bush."

"What do you fellows say to a turkey chase?" asked Little.

"A turkey chase?"

"Yes. Out around West Rock way. There are plenty of old farmers who have good fat turkeys out that way. It is a good cool night, and we can capture two turkeys without trouble. Then we'll take 'em in here and have a roast. Are you wid us?"

"Those who are not wid us are agin' us!" fiercely declared Bandy Robinson.

"And that is dead right, me b'hoys," nodded Arthur Street, who was known at Yale as Easy Street, on account of his free-and-easy way.

Merriwell hesitated. He was in for any kind of honest sport, but he did not quite fancy the idea of stealing turkeys.

"Why don't we buy our turkeys at the markets?" he asked.

The other lads stared at him in astonishment.

"Buy them!" they shouted. "Say, are you dafty, man? Where would the fun come in? You know better than to propose such a thing."

"Stolen fruit is ever the sweetest," quoth Uncle Blossom. "It's not many fellows we would take into such a scheme, but you were just the man we wanted, Merriwell. If we bought a turkey we wouldn't have any appetite for it. Now, the run out into the country and back will give us an appetite. One fellow will have to stay here and get the fire ready, while the rest of us chase turks. Come on, man—it's what you need to start your blood circulating."

Merriwell seemed to suddenly make up his mind.

"I am with you," he said as he arose. "Who stays and looks after the fire? We don't want anybody along that can't run."

"Well, I'm no sprinter," confessed Dismal. "I'd like to go along, but I'm afraid I'd peg out. I'll have things ready when you show up. But what time will you be back?"

Frank looked at his watch and then made a mental calculation.

"It will be about eleven," he said.

"All right."

"Say, Jones," said Street, "just go down to Billy's and get a few bottles of beer. We'll need it to wash the turk down."

"And cigars," cried Blossom. "Don't forget cigars. What would a turkey feast be without a smoke afterward?"

Matters were soon arranged, and it was not long before five freshmen left Mrs. Harrington's "quiet house" for freshmen, and started along York Street at a brisk, steady jog.

Merriwell took the lead, and the others came after him at regular distances. The night air was rather sharp, and there was a bright moon.

Along the streets of New Haven the five freshmen ran, and those who observed them supposed they were some crew in training.

Merriwell set a moderate pace, for he knew it was likely they would need all their wind on the return. There was no telling what sort of a scrape they might get into.

Rattleton was behind, taking things as easy as possible. He filled his lungs with the crisp, clear air, and it made him feel like a young race horse, but he held himself in check.

Street actually loafed along, although he managed to keep his place.

"If one of us is caught, he'll be like the gangplank of a steamer," called Harry as they left the main part of the city and entered the suburbs.

"How's that?" asked Blossom.

"Pulled in," chirped Rattleton. "Don't stop to throw anything this way. Keep right on."

"They say Browning was caught swiping turks in his freshman year," said Lewis, "and it cost his old man a round sum to settle and keep the thing quiet, so Bruce wouldn't be expelled. Dad Browning has got money to burn."

"Well, his son's a good match for him," Merriwell tossed over his shoulder.

"A good match for him! Oh, say!" gasped Robinson, exhibiting signs of sudden weakness.

Away they went, laughing and jesting, finally leaving the city behind and getting out into the country. Up hill and down dale they steadily jogged, covering mile after mile in a rather surprising manner.

At length Merriwell called a halt, and they held a council of war. Blossom said he knew where they were certain to find turkeys, and so they gave him the lead. He confessed that there was a chance of getting into trouble, as the owner of the turkeys had been robbed before, and he might be on the watch. That simply added zest to the adventure, and there was not one of the party who would have consented to look elsewhere for their turkeys.

They finally came in sight of a farmhouse that sat on the side of a hill. Near the house was a stable and sheds. A large orchard lay back of the sheds.

"There," said Blossom. "That is where old Baldwin lives, and his turks are in one of those sheds."

"Crumping jickets—I mean jumping crickets!" exclaimed Harry. "How bright the moon shines! If he's on the watch we can't get anywhere near those sheds without being seen."

The boys began to realize that they were engaged in a decidedly perilous adventure. If one of them should be caught it would mean almost certain expulsion from college, besides a heavy fine if the case were carried to court.

"We'll have to approach by way of the orchard," said Frank. "Does Baldwin keep a dog?"

"Sure—a big half-blood bull."

"That's nice. We are liable to find plenty of fun here. Every man must provide himself with a stout and heavy club to use on that dog in case of emergency. That is important. The lights are out, and it looks as if the farmer and his family were sleeping soundly, but, as Jones says, appearances are sometimes deceptive. We'll have to take our chances. Three of us will go through the orchard. The other two must get near the house in front and be ready to create a diversion in case we are discovered. Harry, you and Bandy take the front. You are both good runners. If Mr. Baldwin and his dog get after us, attract his attention in some manner."

"And get him after us?"

"That's the idea."

"Jupiter! I wish I had brought a gun for that dog! Bandy, you are liable to have to use those crooked legs of yours in a decidedly lively manner before the night is over."

When everything was arranged Harry and Bandy advanced along the road, going forward slowly, while Frank, Blossom and Little made a detour and came into the orchard.

The hearts of the boys were in their throats, and still there was something about the adventure that filled them with the keenest delight.

Each one had secured a club, and they were ready to give the dog a warm reception if he came for them.

Little watched beneath a tree, while Merriwell and Blossom slipped up to one of the sheds which had a favorable look.

In the meantime Rattleton and Robinson had got near the front of the house and were hiding in a ditch, waiting and listening.

"I am surprised that Merriwell should agree to take a hand in this," whispered Harry. "He is a queer chap—has scruples about doing certain things. I thought he would object to hooking out a turk."

"Oh, such a thing as this isn't really stealing," protested Robinson. "It is different."

"In our minds, but not in the mind of Farmer Baldwin, by a long shot. If we're caught it will be called stealing."

"Oh, well, a fellow who won't do anything like this is too good for this world. He's got wings sprouting."

"You know well enough that Merriwell is no softie," returned Harry, rather warmly. "He's proved that. Any man has a right to his ideas, and if he thinks a thing wrong he's justified in refusing to have anything to do with it."

"Perhaps so; but Merriwell is right on the limit now."

"How?"

"He will not drink, he does not smoke, and I never have heard him cuss."

"Does it make a fellow a man to drink and smoke and swear? I tell you you'll go a long distance before you find a fellow who is any more of a man than Frank Merriwell. I was dead lucky when I got him for a roommate."

"You're stuck on him. I say he is all right, but he is on the limit. I believe the fellows would like him better if he would break over once in a while."

"I doubt it. But it is awful still around here. I wonder where that dog can be? It would be a surprise if the fellows got away with the turks without making any noise at—"

There was a sudden hubbub, a terrible squalling and squawking, the barking of a dog, and the report of a gun!



CHAPTER XX.

A HOT CHASE.

"My stars!" gasped Harry. "There's trouble, sure enough!"

"I should remark!" palpitated Robinson. "I'll bet a dollar one of the fellows is full of shot!"

"And somebody is in danger of being full of teeth directly. Come, this is our time to create a diversion."

Then Harry let himself out. He whooped like a wild Indian and pranced right up toward the house. Robinson followed the good example, but they did not seem very successful in attracting attention to themselves.

Two dark figures were seen scudding through the orchard, and then a man came out of the house, slamming the door and shouting:

"Sick 'em, Tige—sick the pesky rascals! Chaw 'em up! Don't let 'em git erway! Take 'em, dorg!"

The dog was doing his duty in the vicinity of one of the sheds, but his barking suddenly turned to howls of pain, and several blows were distinctly heard.

Despite the two yelling and dancing lads in the road, the old farmer made for the shed, and it was seen that he had a gun in his hands.

"He's going to shoot somebody!" cried Harry, wildly. "We must hake a tand—er—take a hand in this! Come on!"

With all the speed he could command Rattleton dashed after the farmer. The barking of the dog had suddenly ceased, and a third dark figure was seen scudding through the orchard.

"Stop, you pesky thief!" yelled the farmer. "If you don't stop I'll shoot! I'll fire ye full of lead!"

Then he halted and raised his gun to his shoulder. He was quite unaware that Harry was now quite close upon him.

When Rattleton saw the man raise the gun he swung back the hand that held the heavy stick. With all his strength he hurled the stick at the farmer.

Whiz! It sped through the air and struck the man fairly between the shoulders. At the same instant the gun spoke, but the farmer went down in a heap, and his aim was spoiled.

"Had to do it to save some one of the fellows from carrying off a load of buckshot," muttered Rattleton, who was desperate. "I don't want to see anybody shot to-night."

He did not stop running, but he dashed straight up to the man, snatched up the gun, and fled onward.

"Hey! hey!" cried the man, as he scrambled to his feet. "Consarn you! Drop that gun! Bring it back!"

"Come get it!" invited Harry, with a defiant laugh.

The farmer started after the boy, who led him a merry chase across the fields and over the fences. Harry kept just far enough ahead to lure the panting man on.

"If I ever git my hands on ye you'll go to jail!" declared the farmer. "I'll learn you pesky rascals a lesson!"

"Teach—not learn, uncle," Harry flung back. "You should be more careful about your grammar."

"I believe you are one of them consarned student fellers."

"You are a wonderful guesser."

"If I can't ketch ye I'll report ye."

When he had lead the man far enough so that he was sure the other fellows had plenty of start, Harry tossed aside the gun, which was an old muzzle-loading, single-barreled affair.

The panting farmer stopped and picked up the gun, then he stood and shook his fist at Rattleton, who was speeding away like a deer.

"Oh, I'll report ye—I will, by jee!" he vowed over and over.

In the meantime Merriwell had had a most exciting adventure. He had found the turkey roost and had selected the biggest old gobbler of them all. But the gobbler was a hard customer and he showed fight, whereupon there was a general squawking and squalling.

Clinging to his capture, Frank made a dash for the door. He tripped and fell, and it is certain that by falling he saved himself from carrying off a charge of shot, if not from death. He had tripped over a rope that connected with a spring gun, which was discharged, and some of the shot tore through his coat sleeve.

Then he heard the dog, and he knew he was in for a hot time. He gave the old gobbler's neck a fierce wring, then dropped the turkey just in time to meet the dog.

The creature sprang for Frank's throat, and the boy struck him with the club which he had brought along. The dog dropped to the ground, but immediately made another dash. Frank was fortunate in getting in a lick that stretched the animal quivering on the ground.

He could hear Rattleton and Robinson whooping wildly, but he knew no time was to be lost in getting away, so he caugh up the gobbler and ran.

Frank heard the farmer calling for him to stop, but, with Mr. Gobbler dangling on his back, he fled the faster.

The gun spoke, but he was not touched, and he did not stop to look around, so he did not know how Harry had saved him.

Three-quarters of an hour later the five fellows who had started out on the turkey chase met on the outskirts of New Haven. They came up one at a time, Rattleton being the last to appear. There was a general feeling of relief when it was found that all were there safe and sound.

It was decided that they should go into the city one at a time, taking different routes. Frank believed he could reach the house without being stopped, although it would be no very easy job.

He was remarkably successful until he was on York Street and close to Mrs. Harrington's. The street seemed clear, and he wondered where all the fellows could be, when of a sudden a tall form in dark clothes stepped right out before him. He gave a gasp, for at a glance he seemed to recognize one of the professors.

"Young man," sternly said a familiar voice, "what have you there?"

"It's Professor Grant!" thought Frank, aghast.

The professor blocked his way. What could he do?

Quick as a flash he swung the gobbler around and struck his challenger a smashing blow with it, knocking him sprawling.

Then he took to his heels, still holding fast to his capture.

In a moment he heard the sound of feet in pursuit, and he knew the outraged professor was after him.

Frank's heart was in his mouth, and he felt scared for the first time that night. He was certain it would mean expulsion to be caught.

For all of the running he had done that night, he fled like a frightened deer, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He had never dreamed that Professor Grant was a sprinter, but the man was running at great speed—seemed to be gaining.

"Stop, sir!" cried the pursuer. "I tell you to stop!"

"Not much!" thought Frank. "I won't stop! If you catch me your wind is better than I think it is."

He did not dare go into his house, so he dashed past, cut into another street, turned corner after corner, and still he found himself pursued. It seemed marvelous that Professor Grant could keep up such a pace.

Finally the pursuer called:

"Merriwell, is that you?"

No answer.

"I know you," declared the pursuer, and now Frank perceived that that voice did not sound like Professor Grant. "You are a crackajack runner. I wanted to give you a try to see what you could do. I'll see you to-morrow. Good-night."

The pursuer gave up the chase.

"As I live, I believe it was Pierson, manager of the ball team!" muttered Frank when he was sure it was no trick and he was no longer followed. "He looks something like Professor Grant, and he is a great mimic. That's just who it was."

A short time later he was in his room, where a jovial party of freshmen was gathered.



CHAPTER XXI

ROAST TURKEY.

Frank's appearance, with the turkey still in his possession, was hailed with shouts of delight.

"We didn't know as you would get in," said Jones. "I invited some more of the fellows up here, as you see, and we found out that some of the sophs seemed to know something unusual was going on."

"That's right," nodded Rattleton. "They were laying for us. Two of them stopped me when I reached York Street. They told me to give up what I had, but I didn't have anything to give up, so they let me go."

Then Frank told of his adventure with a person who looked like Professor Grant.

"That's it!" cried Little. "That was their game! They were after our turkey."

"But how did they know we were after turkey?" asked Robinson.

"They must have been told by somebody," said Street.

"And that means we have a tattler among us," declared Burnham Putnam—Old Put—looking keenly around.

The boys looked at each other suspiciously, wondering if there was one of the number who would carry to the sophs.

To Frank's surprise he saw that Walter Gordon was there. Jack Diamond was also present.

Frank found an opportunity to get close to Dismal and whisper in his ear:

"Great Caesar, old man! why did you invite Gordon here?"

"I did not."

"Then how does he happen to be here? He didn't come without an invitation, I am sure of that."

"He was in Billy's when I asked Put to come up. I knew you would like to have Put here."

"That's all right."

"Well, Put asked Gordon to come along before I could prevent it. Of course I didn't have the crust to make any objection after that."

"I should say not! It's all right, but you want to remember that the sophs found out something was going on. Did Gordon come right along with you?"

"No. He said he'd have to go to his room, but he showed up a few minutes after we arrived here."

"Lots of mischief can be done in a few minutes. Did he know just what was going on here?"

"Well, he knew somebody had gone out into the country to swipe something for a feast."

"And it is pretty plain that the sophs became aware of the same fact. Here is food for reflection, Dismal."

"You are right."

The foragers told of their adventures in capturing the turkey, and there was a great deal of laughter over it. Merriwell showed how near he came to getting shot, and it was universally agreed that he was remarkably lucky.

Harry told how he had bowled the old farmer over just as the man was about to shoot at Frank, and then he convulsed them with laughter by relating the capture of the gun and the chase he had led the hayseed.

Robinson said he thought Harry was crazy when he rushed after the farmer in the way he did.

"I couldn't understand what sort of a game he was up to," said Bandy, "and I didn't feel like following him into the jaws of the lion, so I held aloof. I saw him fling his club at the old duffer and saw it knock him down. Then, when I was sure Harry was all right, I legged it."