The usual crowd had gathered to witness the game, and there was the usual display of flags. Yale was over-confident; Harvard was hopeful, but filled with fears.

The game began, and for three innings Yale had the advantage. The "sons of Old Eli" were jubilant, and they made the air ring with their cheers and songs.

At the end of the third inning it was seen that Harvard must make a change if it had any hope of winning. Yedding, the great Cambridge pitcher, was "rocky." He could not find the plate, and he was "hammered" when he did "get 'em over."

Some Yale man with an inclination to rhyme had composed some doggerel verse, which about twenty lads were singing to some sort of mongrel tune.

"Poor Harvard she can talk— (That's all!) At other things she'll balk; We'll beat her in a walk— Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

"Poor Harvard's lost her grip— (That's so!) She's let the pennant slip, We've done her up this trip— Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"

"It is altogether too early in the game to crow," declared Frank Merriwell. "Several things may happen before the ninth inning is over."

"Oh, we've got the game nailed solid now!" declared Bruce Browning, in a satisfied way. "Robinson will be able to get his shirts out of soak."

In the fourth inning Harvard sent a new pitcher into the box. It was Coulter, who, as a freshman, had pitched against Merriwell.

Coulter was nervous and rather wild at first, but he puzzled the Yale men, who could not hit him when he did get them over the plate.

"If he steadies down, he will prove to be a bad man," said Frank, soberly. "This is his first trial on the regular team, and he is not at his best just now."

Yale secured one score in the fourth inning, while Harvard retired with her third whitewash.

In the fifth there was a change. Coulter did steady down in a most astonishing manner, for he sent the Yale men to the bench in one-two-three order.

That seemed to give Harvard new life, and, when she came to bat, she showed a determination to do something.

Right there was where Heffiner took a streak of wildness, and Harvard scored three times.

Coulter kept up his work in the sixth, by allowing but one short single to be taken off his delivery, and no Yale man got further than second base.

Then it seemed that Harvard came to the plate with a determination to "pound it out." The defenders of the crimson jumped on Heffiner's curves, and the way they banged the leather gave the Yale crowd symptoms of heart failure. A single, a two-bagger and a homer in quick succession caused Heffiner to develop a bad case of "rattles," and it seemed that Harvard would never let up. There was consternation in the Yale ranks when Harvard tied the score with but one man out, and that consternation threatened to become a panic when two more scores came in.

Old Man Hicks was set at work "warming up," although it was felt that he must be a desperate resort. When Harvard scored again, Hicks was sent into the box.

The change seemed to work well, for Harvard's score getting was brought to an abrupt termination.

But Yale was in a desperate situation, for, at the beginning of the seventh, Harvard was three scores in the lead.

Merriwell had been on the point of going down and offering to do what he could to check Harvard's wild career, but it seemed that Old Man Hicks had done that, and so he sat still.

But Yale could not score. Coulter seemed to feel that the opportunity of his life had arrived, and he sent the Spalding's over the plate with all sorts of twists. The Yale men could not make fair and satisfactory connections with the ball, so no man reached home.

Hicks was lucky, and he succeeded in scattering the hits, which, with fine support, enabled him to retire Harvard with another goose's egg.

The eighth inning was disastrous for the blue, although Yale won a score by hard base running. When Harvard took her turn, she seemed to fathom Dad Hicks' delivery, and, for a short time, he was treated quite as bad as Heffiner had been. At the end of the eighth inning Harvard was six scores ahead, and it was plain that the game was lost for Yale.

Scores of sad-faced Yale spectators were heard expressing regret that Frank Merriwell had not been used in the game. Some of the wearers of the blue left the field immediately, unwilling to witness the termination of the game.

With despair set upon their faces, the Yale men went to the bat, ready to fight to the last gasp. But Coulter was also determined not to let slip any of the glory he had won, and all Yale's efforts to score were fruitless. The game ended with Harvard still six in the lead.

Phil Coulter was the hero of Harvard that night, while poor Hugh Heffiner returned to New Haven with his heart almost bursting with disappointment.



CHAPTER XXXV.

KIDNAPED.

"We'll down Harvard in everything at the tournament," was the angry resolve of the disappointed Yale crowd, who returned to New Haven to find no band and no great gathering of cheering students awaiting them at the station.

Among them all, not excepting Hugh Heffiner himself, no one felt worse about the defeat than did Frank Merriwell. In his heart, he blamed himself for not going to the manager of the Yale team and offering his services in case of emergency. He knew it was possible he might not have been able to save the game, but still the possibility that he might have done so bore heavily upon him.

But Frank did not dream that his enemies would make capital out of the fact that he had not taken any part in the game. He did not know they were saying he had kept among the spectators where he could not be found when things seemed to turn against Yale.

"Merriwell didn't dare pitch any part of that game," they were saying. "He was afraid, and he knew it would dim his glory if Harvard won. He has his record, and you won't see him pitching out any games in order to pull Yale out of a hole."

But Yates had ruined his chance of running in the mile race at the tournament by getting full on the train. Directly after the next meeting of the committee of arrangements, Frank was notified that he had been chosen to represent Yale.

Each night Frank took a run out into the country. He was determined to put himself in the very best condition possible.

This practice of Merriwell's was generally known, and he was watched with interest by friends and foes.

The time for the tournament drew near. Arrangements for all the contests had been completed. The end of the spring terms had come. Commencement was over, and another class had been showered with sheepskins.

In all the doings of this busy time of the college year Merriwell took little part, as he was putting himself in shape to do his best at the tournament, and the time he had to spare from "grinding" was given to hard physical work.

Then he went down to a summer cottage on the sound. The cottage was located near Southport, and there he continued his training, taking long runs into the country.

The day before the great tournament came at last. That afternoon Frank took his last run in training. He waited till near evening, and then jogged gently out along the country road.

It was dusk when he turned back toward the cottage where he knew Bruce Browning, Rattleton and Diamond were loafing on the veranda and awaiting his reappearance.

As he was passing through a small patch of woods, a cord that was strung across the road, about six inches from the ground, tripped him, and he fell heavily.

Frank was stunned by the shock. Before he could recover, dark forms rushed out and flung themselves upon him.

Frank realized that he had been attacked, and he tried to make a fight of it, but the shock of the fall had taken away his strength, and then he found there were three against him.

"Work lively!" growled a hoarse voice. "He's worse than a tiger in a scrap!"

His hands were twisted about behind his back and held there, while a cord was bound about them. In a remarkably brief space of time he was rendered helpless.

Then Frank's feet were bound, and he was forced to submit to the tying of a blindfold over his eyes. Before this was accomplished, however, he saw the three men through the gloom, and discovered that all wore masks to hide their faces.

When Frank was blindfolded, the man who had given all the commands, and who seemed to be the leader, said:

"Bring out the team."

Frank's ears told him that one of the men went away, and soon, by the sound, the boy decided that a team was being brought from some place in the woods, where it had been concealed.

"What sort of a job is this?" thought the captive lad. "It seems to be a case of real highwaymen right here in Connecticut. And still they do not seem like highwaymen, for then they would have robbed me and let me go. They are up to something else."

He soon found that his captors meant to remove him from the spot, for he was lifted from the ground and tossed into the bottom of the wagon, like a sack of grain. Then the men climbed in, the horses were whipped up, and away they all went.

After a drive of at least two hours, during which Frank had several times asked where they were taking him, and had been repeatedly cautioned to "shut up," the team came to a halt.

Frank was glad of it, for much of the distance had been made over rough roads, and he had been several times menaced in order to keep him quiet, and once choked into silence by two of the men, who sat upon him while they passed another team.

Frank was taken from the wagon, his feet were set at liberty, and he was marched into some sort of a building.

"There," said the hoarse voice of the leader. "He's safe and solid here."

Through the blindfold there was a glow of light, and then the cloth was removed from his eyes.

Frank found himself in a rough room, to which there seemed to be no windows and but one door. In the room there was a table, a broken chair, and a rude sort of bed.

One of the two men who had brought him into the room coolly sat down astride the chair, and stared at Frank, his eyes gleaming by the flaring light of the tallow-dip that burned on the table.

"Set down," invited the man, making a motion toward the bed. "We offer our visitors the upholstered furniture out of courtesy. Make yourself at home."

"Don't care if I do," returned the boy, with equal coolness, "but in order for me to be thoroughly comfortable, it will be necessary for me to have my hands free."

"Sorry I can't accommodate ye just now, but I want to have a talk with yer first. Set down."

Frank obeyed.

"Well," he observed, "I suppose I might as well, as long as I do not seem to have much to say about it; but I'd like to know what this little game is."

"Thought you'd be kinder curious," said the man, with a hoarse laugh. "Well, ye see, it's this way. We've heard so much about you that we thought we'd kinder like the pleasure of your company for a day or two, and so we brought you over here."

A day or two! Frank gasped for breath, as a sudden light dawned upon him.

If he were held there for a single day he would not appear at Madison Square Garden to take part in the tournament!

"This is the work of my enemies!" he mentally cried. "They have hired these ruffians to kidnap and hold me till the tournament is over! Caesar's ghost! I never dreamed such a thing could be done in this quiet part of the New England States!"



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TOURNAMENT.

The interior of Madison Square Garden was decorated with the colors of a dozen colleges, and was aglow with hundreds of bright lights. The rows of seats, tier upon tier, were packed with people. The private boxes were all taken. A band was playing a lively air, and the tournament was on. Down in the great cleared space young men from the various prominent colleges of the country were struggling for victory in the athletic feats on the programme. At times some well-known amateur contestant was greeted by cheers as he appeared or accomplished a feat that was plainly remarkable. The favorites were greeted by the yells of the colleges which they represented, as they were seen preparing for some difficult attempt.

It was a scene of the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. Pretty girls were there in large numbers, their faces glowing with admiration for the young men who were struggling like gladiators down in the modern arena. The swell set of New York occupied the boxes. Fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, cousins and aunts of the contestants were on hand, watching with eagerness for the appearance of those in which their interest centered.

In some instances the parents of the young men engaged in the contests were plainly from the country. Their manners, their dress, their language indicated this. It was a wonderful occasion for them, and their hearts almost ceased beating when the favorite for whom they were watching showed himself and made his brave effort in some trial of strength and skill. Happy were they if he acquitted himself nobly.

The blue of Old Yale dominated one great section of seats. And when a Yale man won in some of the contests hundreds upon hundreds of strong-lunged young men arose to their feet and sent the college slogan pealing forth, while that great mass of blue fluttered and swayed as if swept by a fitful tempest.

It was Yale against the field, and Old Eli was acquitting herself nobly.

One of the private boxes was occupied by the Hon. Andrew Flemming and his family. His wife and his two daughters were there. In a corner of the box sat two lads who were talking earnestly in guarded tones. They were Tom Thornton and Andy Emery.

Thornton and Emery had been entertaining Fred Flemming's sisters, but now, for the moment, they had drawn aside and were earnestly discussing some point that seemed to interest them greatly.

"It must be that the matter is settled, and Yates has been substituted for the one who is missing," said Thornton; "but it seems rather astonishing that Flem should be so sure Merriwell would not appear."

"But he did seem sure," nodded Emery. "He told me over and over that Merriwell would not be here to run."

"And you must know enough of Frank Merriwell to be sure he would be here if he could get here, even if he had to crawl on his knees."

"That's right."

"Then what has happened to Merriwell?"

"You tell!"

"I can't. I know Flemming would go to any extreme to carry out his desires. In fact, he is altogether too reckless and headstrong. I knew he did not mean it when he told Merriwell he was ready to bury the hatchet, and I have felt that he was not talking to hear his own voice when he told us Merriwell would not be on hand to race to-night."

At this moment Fred Flemming entered the box. His face was flushed, and there was a look of triumph in his eyes. He spoke to his mother, and then addressed himself to the two boys, saying:

"It's all right."

Some event below attracted the full attention of all in the box save the trio in one corner.

"Yates will run?" asked Emery, eagerly.

"You bet your filthy!" nodded Fred. "I told you he would."

"But where is Merriwell?"

Flemming smiled mysteriously.

"It is evident," he said, "that Mr. Merriwell decided not to attend the tournament."

"Look here, Fred," said Thornton, nervously, "you haven't done anything that will get you into trouble, have you?"

Flemming snapped his fingers.

"What is it to me if Merriwell sees fit to stay away?" he asked. "He may tell some sort of a wild story, but it seems that he was afraid to appear and run. All I ask of you fellows is that you keep your mouths closed on one point."

"What is that?"

"I don't care to have you breathe to a living soul that I knew in advance that Merriwell would not be on hand."

"We'll not say a word about it."

"Yates had no idea that he might be called on. I found it necessary to keep with him all the time and see that he did not get geared up. Then I had him where he could be found by the committee in case he was needed."

"And——"

"And he was found."

"He has gone to prepare for the race?"

"Sure."

"That settles it! Merriwell has failed to show up!"

A wild Yale cheer turned their attention to the arena at this moment. Big Hickok was preparing to put the shot, and he had been greeted in this manner by his admirers as he stepped out.

Hickok was a giant, and Yale had the utmost confidence in him. Thus far the best record made by any other man was forty-one feet and five inches. Hickok must do his very best to beat that.

The cheers died away as the Yale Goliath poised himself for the effort. He crouched, and then the heavy iron sailed through the air and fell with a thud to the ground.

The tape was quickly drawn, and then the score went up.

Forty-two feet and three inches!

Once more Yale let herself loose, and it seemed that the roof must crack.

Hickok quietly declined to take the two remaining trials open to him. He was the last man on the list, and Yale had won. The hammer-throwing was to follow, and he was entered for the contest.

In the hammer-throwing contest Yale had another opportunity to yell, for Hickok was again the winner over all others, making a record of one hundred and twenty-three feet and nine inches.

The contests followed each other in swift succession, and Yale more than held her own. There was no reason why the wearers of the blue should not be jubilant.

At last, the races came on. Up in the Flemming box were three lads who were anxiously awaiting the announcement of the one-mile run.

Despite the triumph which he felt, Fred Flemming betrayed a sort of hilarious nervousness as he chatted with his sisters and his friends.

Watching Fred closely, Tom Thornton saw that he was under a strain. And again Thornton wondered what had become of Frank Merriwell.

Princeton won one of the shorter races, and Harvard won another. In each of these a Yale man was second.

"If Mr. Merriwell had contented himself with being less ambitious, he might be here to-night," said Flemming, in an aside to his college comrades.

Emery and Thornton exchanged glances. There was a significance about such language that could not be misunderstood. Thornton shivered a bit, and, unconsciously, drew back from Flemming.

The excitement of the evening was at its highest pitch thus far. The contestants for yet another race were getting into position, and, in another moment, they were off like a pack of greyhounds.

This time a Yale man carried his colors to victory, and the "Sons of Old Eli" yelled their approval and delight. Yale was doing nobly. This night she was making a record for herself that would be remembered.

But now came the greatest race of all—the mile run. Preparations were made for it, and feverish anticipation swayed the great multitude.

Fred Flemming was literally quivering as he leaned over the rail of the box.

"Let's give Yatsie a great send-off!" he exclaimed. "They are coming out in a minute."

He was watching the point where the runners must first appear. His hand shook on the rail.

The runners appeared. The first was Beatty, the Harvard man, and the Harvard crowd "hoo-rahed" hoarsely. Then came Mansford, of Princeton, and the Tigers let themselves loose. Jetting, of Dartmouth, followed, and the New Hampshire lads greeted him in a manner that brought the blood to his cheeks. Then little Judd, the U. P. man, trotted out, and he was received with howls of delight from the Quakers.

"Now—now comes Yates!" cried Fred Flemming.

The Yale man appeared, and Flemming stood up to cheer. He dropped into his seat as if he had been shot, his face turning ashen gray, and the cheer dying on his lips.

"Good heavens!" gasped Tom Thornton. "It is Frank Merriwell!"

But his exclamation was drowned by the mighty cheer which greeted the appearance of the Yale standard-bearer.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

TO VICTORY—CONCLUSION.

"Merriwell! Merriwell! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!"

It was a mighty roar of voices. Then came the well-known Yale yell, which was repeated again and again. The entire Yale crowd was standing, wildly waving hands, hats, flags, handkerchiefs, anything and everything that could be found to wave. It was an ovation that might have gladdened the heart of an emperor.

It was not strange that the sound nerved the Yale man to vow within himself to die in the effort to win for dear "Old Eli," if he could not win otherwise.

But up in one of the boxes not far from the starting point were three young men who were utterly overcome with amazement and consternation. One of them had a face that was drawn and pale, as if he had received a mortal wound.

"What's it mean, Flem?" asked Andy Emery, in Fred's ear. "Merriwell is here! Have you been horsing us?"

Then, for all that his parents and his sisters were present, Fred Flemming ground out a bitter cry. His voice shook and he choked, as he answered:

"You know as well as I what it means! Oh, what luck!"

He was utterly unmanned, and his mother, observing his pallor, asked him if he had been suddenly taken ill. He answered her with a snarl, like a mad dog.

The five runners came down to the line. Just as they did so, Duncan Yates burst into the Flemming box.

"What sort of a jolly business is this, Flemming?" he demanded, his face pale with anger.

And then, seeing there were ladies present, he removed his cap and mumbled an apology.

Fred did not introduce Yates; he was too much broken up to think of such a thing.

"That's what I'd like to know," he said, helplessly. "You know we were told Merriwell was not on hand to run."

"But he showed up in time to dress, and I was coolly informed that I wasn't in it. I object to such treatment, and I want to know if it was a job on me."

"If it was a job, I'll give you my word I know nothing about it," said Fred, in a weak and humble manner.

At this moment, as they looked down, Frank Merriwell was seen to gaze straight toward them, and something like a scornful, triumphant smile flitted across his face.

"I'd like to strangle him!" grated Flemming.

The runners were preparing for the start. Pistol in hand, the starter stood ready to give the signal. His voice was heard bidding them make ready.

A moment later, the pistol cracked, and the runners leaped away.

"Oh, if he'll come in the tail-ender!" panted Fred Flemming.

The band was playing its liveliest air, and the runners sped around the track like fawns. Graceful fellows they were, with the possible exception of little Judd. Judd started off bravely, however, seeming to scoot into the lead like a squirrel, his short legs fairly twinkling.

The U. P. crowd let out a great cheer to encourage the little fellow.

Beatty, of Harvard, was likewise a quick starter, and he was right at Judd's heels, while Mansford and Merriwell got away side by side. Jetting, the Dartmouth representative, was slow about starting, but still he was a runner.

It had been expected that other colleges would take part in this race, but, for certain reasons, there were but five starters.

Around the track ran the lithe-limbed youngsters, with Judd holding the lead for two laps. Then he was passed by Beatty, who spurted to get to the front, and this gave Harvard an opportunity to "hoo-rah."

From the very outset it seemed that Merriwell and Mansford were in for a neck-and-neck match. They clung together in a singular manner.

For a time the five runners were well bunched, but there came a stringing out at last. Little Judd began to lag, and Jetting, who had pushed past Merriwell and Mansford, went by the U. P. man and began to crowd Beatty.

The New Hampshire boys cheered him on, and the sound of the yell he loved to hear got into his head and worked his undoing. Otherwise Jetting must have been a dangerous man for the leaders at the finish. As it was, he pumped himself out some seconds too soon.

At the first quarter Harvard led, and she was still leading, with Dartmouth second, when the first half was passed.

Then came a fierce struggle for the lead, which ended with the weakening of both Beatty and Jetting. Beatty weakened first, however, and fell back, but Jetting was seen to stagger a bit, recover and go on.

Merriwell and Mansford passed Beatty and narrowed the gap between them and Jetting. Mansford set his teeth and gained an advantage of ten feet by a quick break. This advantage he was resolved to hold.

Jetting fought like a tiger to hold the lead, but Mansford crowded him harder and harder, finally going to the front.

Then came a desperate struggle between Merriwell and Jetting, but Yale's colors were carried into second place at the beginning of the last quarter.

And now—now there was excitement. The finish was drawing near, and Princeton had the lead, although the distance was short.

As Frank passed the Yale crowd he was given a rousing cheer, which seemed to put fresh life and strength into his body. He crept up on Mansford, who was running like the wind. The difference grew less and less. Eight feet, six feet, four feet—could he close the gap?

Then, for a moment, a black cloud seemed to pass before Frank's eyes. His heart was in his mouth, where it lay hot and dry, like a stone that has baked in the sun. It seemed that he must fall.

"Win or die! win or die!"

Those words rang through his head as if some one had shouted them into his ear.

"I will!"

He knew the end was close at hand, and still the black and yellow was before him.

Then it was that Frank nerved himself for one last great effort, and dashed forward with a fresh burst of speed that seemed little short of marvelous. That burst carried him to Mansford's side—carried him into the lead—carried him over the line at the finish—a winner!

There was a grand supper in New York that night, at which Frank Merriwell was the guest of honor. He was toasted again and again by his admiring friends, and it seemed that everybody was his friend at last. There were speeches and songs and a general merry time. Old Yale had carved her way to glory once more, and among her standard-bearers Merriwell was the leader.

"Tell us, tell us, old man," cried Paul Pierson, "how was it that you happened to be so late in appearing at the garden? Really we had given up hope that you would come, and were for getting Yates into running rig. You barely got along in time. What kept you away?"

"I was unavoidably detained," answered Frank, smiling.

"Yes, but that is an unsatisfactory explanation. Rattleton and the fellows who were with you reported your mysterious disappearance, and we were for putting detectives on the case to-morrow. Can't you clear up the mystery?"

"Well, you see, it is like this: I fell in with some gentlemen who seemed to take a strong interest in me. Note the word strong there. In fact they were too strong for me. They seemed to like me exceedingly well, and they pressed me to stay all night with them. I was sort of roped into it, as it were. I found it difficult to get away without wounding their feelings."

This was said in a queer manner, and the lads about the table looked at each other inquiringly.

"But you managed to get away?" said Pierson.

"Yes, I offered them inducements in the shape of coin of the realm. They seemed to be out for stuff, and some person, who must love me dearly—had induced them to take charge of me and care for me tenderly. However I worked on their greed by offering more than my friend had offered, and, as I promised not to make too much of a fuss about it, I was let off, but barely in time to reach here. I am not going to say anything more about this matter just now, but I expect to look around some and find out who my friend is who engaged the gentlemen to care for me so tenderly. When I find him—well, I won't do a thing to him!"

"Well, here's luck to you!" cried Pierson, lifting his glass. "Gentlemen, here's luck to Frank Merriwell, the best all-around man who ever called dear Old Yale alma mater. Drink—drink hearty!"

A few words more and we will bring this story to a close.

Frank was truly the hero of the college, and it was many a day before his wonderful dash was forgotten by even the most indifferent of the students.

THE END