"It cannot be that you——"

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII.

THE PLEDGE OF FAITH.

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

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

"For you."

"No, not for me."

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

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

"You did care—in a way, perhaps."

"You never told me that you loved me."

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

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

"And you thought me like them?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a low musical voice she repeated the following lines:

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

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

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

"My lips are unsealed now!" he panted.

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

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

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

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

She forced a laugh that was wholly without merriment.

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

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

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

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

"I tell you it is too late!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their lips met, and then——

The heavens fell!



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SIGNAL FOR SILENCE.

Lizette was hammering at Frank Merriwell's door.

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

Her knock and her cries brought Frank forth in pajamas.

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

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

Lizette seized Merry's arm.

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

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

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

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

Frank dropped on his knees.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, she saw it."

"From—her—window?" questioned Berlin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hastened up the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't Lizette tell you?"

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

"No, I didn't see him."

"Nor hear him?"

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

"Eh, why not?"

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

"How did you happen to be out there?"

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

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

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

Hodge returned while Frank was at work over Berlin.

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

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

"What's that?" asked Merry.

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

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

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

Bart went out.

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

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

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

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

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

"It's strange that Bessie should——"

Carson checked himself.

"Bessie?" questioned Frank.

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

"If you need a doctor——"

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

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

Carson rose to his feet a trifle unsteadily.

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

"You'd better not," Merry advised.

"I must—I want to."

"You're still weak."

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

"Come on, then," said Merriwell.

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

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

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

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

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

It was Lizette.

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

He understood the signal and nodded.

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



CHAPTER XV.

KIDNAPED!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"His hair—can't you see the change?"

"The change?"

"Yes, yes! His hair is lighter!"

"Lighter?"

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

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

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

He staggered as if struck a terrible blow.

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

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

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

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

The mark of the star was not there!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed her.

A moment later he was gone.



CHAPTER XVI.

FOR THE SAKE OF OLD DAYS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again a smothered cry came from the bundle.

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

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

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

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

He halted and scowled as he stood in thought.

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

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

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

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

The baby began to fret and cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let me take the child," he said.

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

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

"They're still on our track?"

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

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

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

He sought to take the baby from her.

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

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

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

"Murder?"

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

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

She fought him with all her strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man paused beside the wagon.

"Get in!" he commanded.

"What are you going to do?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Did Frank Merriwell kill him?"

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

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

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

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

The fiery eyes were right upon them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry looked down.

"He's dead!" said Frank.

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

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

"Sure!" breathed Berlin.

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

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

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

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

Carson's hand found that of Merriwell.

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

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

At last Merriwell spoke.

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



CHAPTER XVII.

A CALL TO THE "FLOCK."

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

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

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

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

Frank shook his head thoughtfully.

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

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

Frank gave a little start, and then smiled thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this his wife laughingly protested her innocence.

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

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

His wife frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

Ephraim leaned forward to pat his wife's cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mulloy and Gallup lighted cigars and promenaded the platform.

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

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

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

They paused at the edge of the group to listen.

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

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

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

Mulloy had gripped Ephraim's arm.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVIII.

A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have yeou a seat?" asked Gallup.

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

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

At the steps of the parlor car Greg halted.

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

"Shure," nodded Barney.

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

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

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

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

This touched Carker's pride.

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

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

They seized Carker and forced him up the steps. In a moment he ceased to resist and permitted them to push him into the car.

"All right, boys," he muttered regretfully, "as it's you, and we haven't seen each other for so long, I'll put aside my scruples and travel in a parlor car to-day."

They found Teresa and Juanita chatting in Spanish, quite unaware of what had taken place on the station platform. Carker was introduced to Mrs. Gallup and her young friend. He removed his hat, flung back his mane of hair, and bowed before them with the grace of a true gentleman.

"Mrs. Gallup," he murmured, "it's the pleasure of my life to meet the wife of my old friend and comrade. And to meet Mrs. Gallup's friend, Senyorita Garcia, is scarcely a smaller pleasure."

"How beauteeful he do talk!" murmured Juanita.

There was a strange flash in her dark eyes as she surveyed the young socialist. With his long hair, his pale classical face, his sad poetic eyes, he was indeed a handsome fellow of a type seldom seen. The fact that his clothes were unconventional in their cut and that he wore a negligee shirt with a soft wide collar detracted not a whit from his striking appearance.

The train soon pulled out, and when the conductor came through a seat was secured for Carker, who restrained Mulloy with an air of dignity when Barney attempted to pay the bill.

"I'm not quite busted myself," asserted Greg, with a faint smile, at the same time producing a roll of bills.

The conductor was paid and passed on. Then they settled down for a sociable chat.



CHAPTER XIX.

AN INTRUDER.

Turned from his socialistic theories and arguments into a different channel, Carker proved to be a most delightful conversationalist and companion. He was educated, cultured, and witty, although evidently lacking in humor. Possibly this came from the fact that he had so long and so earnestly regarded and meditated on the somber side of life. He seemed to fascinate Juanita, who listened intently whenever he spoke.

"What you do, senyor, when you travel so much?" inquired Teresa. "You leave Senyora Carkaire at home?"

Carker smiled sadly.

"There is no Senyora Carker," he answered.

"Oo!" cried Teresa. "You are not marreed?"

"No," replied Greg, "I'm not married."

"That ees so singulaire!"

"Veree, veree," murmured Juanita.

"It may seem singular," admitted Carker, "but a man like me, who has pledged his life to humanity, has little right to get married."

"I do not see why you say that," said Juanita.

"Perhaps I cannot make my reason plain to you, but there is an excellent reason. A man who marries should have a home. And a man who has a home should live in it. If I had such a home and was bound to it, I could not travel and carry on my life-work. I could not drag my wife around over the country, and it is not right for a married man to leave his wife alone a great deal."

"Gol rap it, Greg," exclaimed Ephraim, "I don't believe that's your real reason for not gittin' married! I'll bet some gal throwed you down!"

"Well, perhaps you're right," admitted the young socialist. "You can't blame her if she did."

"Why not can we blame her?" questioned Juanita. "Deed she have the other lovaire? Oh, ha! ha! Senyor Carkaire! Maybe eet ees not nice to laugh, to joke, to speak of eet. I beg the pardon, senyor."

She had seen a shadow flit across his face and vanish.

He forced a laugh.

"If there was another man," he said, "I'm conceited enough to think I might have captured the prize in spite of him had I been willing to sacrifice my principles and renounce my socialistic beliefs."

"Oh, the girl she not have you because of that?" breathed Juanita. "Eet ees veree strange."

"Not so very strange," he asserted. "We'll say that she was a lady. Now it is a fact that nearly all ladies are extremely conventional in everything. They have a horror for the bizarre and the unconventional. They are shocked by the man who declines to be hampered with the fashion in clothes and in similar things. I could not fall in love with a girl who was not a lady."

"Begorra, you're an aristocrat at heart!" cried Mulloy. "Ye can't git away from it, me bhoy, no mather how much ye prate about socialism and th' brotherhood av mon."

"Still I protest you do not understand me."

"By gum!" muttered Gallup; "it don't seem to me that yeou are right 'bout the gals. Yeou kinder stick for the sort that's been born in the higher strata of life, as yeou call it. Ain't thar a hull lot of mighty smart ones that come out of the lower strata somewhere?"

"Oh, I admit that most of the brainy women and most of the brainy men come from the lower strata. Nevertheless, such women are not ladies."

"Begobs, ye make me tired!" cried Mulloy. "What you nade, Greg, is a dhoctor to look afther your liver."

"Mebbe the best doctor," grinned Gallup, "would be a girl he'd fall in love with and who'd fall in love with him. I guess she could cure him. If he happened to run across the right one and she axed him to give up his career and stop rampin' round over the country, I'll bet a good big punkin he'd cave in right on the spot."

"You're wrong," denied Carker. "No matter how much I cared for a girl, I could not give up my career. There was one once who asked me to give it up. She married another man."

He smiled as he made the confession, but in his eyes there was a look which told of the great sacrifice he had made.

"Mebbe you think you're doing a great work for humanity," observed Ephraim; "but, by ginger! I kinder think that Frank Merriwell is doing a greater work."

"What is he doing?"

"Haven't you heard 'bout it?"

"No. I haven't heard from Merriwell in the last year or more. The last I knew of him he was accumulating a fortune in mining. Like other men in these degenerate times, he had turned his great abilities to the mercenary task of amassing wealth. I was sorry when I heard this, for I had expected other things of him."

"Sorry, was ye?" snapped Ephraim.

"Sorry and disappointed," said Greg, shaking his head.

"Waal, now, you want to come right along with us to Bloomfield. We'll show you what Frank Merriwell's doing with that money he's accumulated. Ain't you ever heard 'bout his School of Athletic Development?"

"No."

"Waal, I guess that'll interest ye some, by jinks!"

"Tell me about it."

As clearly as he could, Ephraim explained the plan of Merry's new school. Carker listened with a show of interest until the Vermonter had finished.

"Well, I'm glad he's doing some good," said Greg. "Still, this is of minor importance compared with the great work in which I'm engaged."

"You go to grass!" almost snarled Ephraim. "Great fiddlesticks! Why, Frank is making real men of growing boys. He's making good, strong, healthy men that kin go out and successfully fight their way through life."

"Life should not be a battle," asserted the socialist. "Every man's hand should be outstretched to help a needy fellow man. This old-fashioned theory that human life is bound to be a battle is all wrong. We are one great body of brothers, bound together by a universal tie."

"Choke off roight where ye are," commanded Barney. "Oi'm yer fri'nd, Greg Carker, but Oi'll hit ye av ye sling any of that socialist talk at us! Ye've r'iled me now. Oi must have a shmoke to soothe me narves."

"Me, too," grinned Ephraim, as they both rose. "You'll 'scuse us for a little while, won't ye, girls? We'll jest step into the smokin' compartment."

"You may have the excuse if you weel leave Senyor Carkaire to entertain us," murmured Juanita.

"I'll remain here," nodded Greg. "I don't smoke."

"Gol ding him!" growled Ephraim, as he followed Barney into the smoking compartment. "He's a bigger crank than ever! He's gittin' wuss and wuss!"

"What he nades is a girrul to marry him and straighten him out," declared the Irish youth.

Five minutes after the departure of Eph and Barney a slender, black-eyed man, with a small dark mustache, came sauntering through the car. As he reached the spot where Carker was talking to Teresa and Juanita he stopped short, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and lifted his hat, bowing with a triumphant smile.

"Ah, Senyorita Garcia," he jubilantly said, "you take the flight from me, but I have found you."

"Jose Murillo!" exclaimed Juanita. And there was dismay and fear in her voice.



CHAPTER XX.

OLD FRIENDS EN ROUTE.

"Si, senyorita," laughed the stranger, "Jose Murillo."

"Where deed you come from?"

"The train on wheech I travel from the West eet join this train back at the junction."

Teresa's eyes were flashing. She rose and confronted the young Mexican.

"Senyor Murillo," she said, in Spanish, "you have annoyed Juanita enough. You have no right to follow her. You have threatened her. You have frightened her. If you are the gentleman you profess to be, you will leave her alone."

He showed his white teeth in a smile.

"I am a man with a purpose," he retorted, in the same language. "I love Senyorita Garcia! Her father promised that she should be my wife!"

"Her father is dead," said Teresa, "and that promise no longer binds her. In Mexico you sought to force her into a marriage. We are not in Mexico now. We are in the United States. It's different here. My husband is close at hand. If you do not leave us, I'll call him. He will protect us from you."

"Pardon, senyorita," said Carker, also speaking in Spanish. "Permit me to offer my protection. I will see that this man gives neither you nor Senyorita Garcia further annoyance."

He rose and placed himself squarely before Murillo.

The Mexican glared fiercely at Greg.

"Gringo dog!" he sneered. "Who are you that offers your protection to these ladies?"

"I am their friend, senyor, and the friend of Mrs. Gallup's husband. It'll be a good thing for you if you move along and move at once."

Murillo laughed.

"You miserable gringo!" he exclaimed. "Do you think you can frighten me? Do you think you can drive me away with words? I have followed that girl a very long distance. She belongs to me by the promise of her father. She cannot run away from me! I will have her!"

"Look here, Senyor Murillo," retorted Greg quietly, "if you don't move along, I'll throw you out of that window!"

The Mexican fell back, and his hand was thrust into his bosom.

"Touch me, and you'll regret it!" he hissed, keeping his black eyes fastened on Carker.

"Is it a knife or a pistol you have in your hand?" questioned Greg quietly. "I know you've reached for one or the other. All the same I'll make good by throwing you out of the window if you don't pass on!"

Teresa grasped Carker's arm and whispered in his ear:

"Wait! Here come the boyees!"

Ephraim and Barney were returning from the smoking compartment. The moment they saw Murillo they hurried forward, realizing that something unpleasant was taking place. Gallup uttered a cry of exasperation as he recognized the Mexican.

"Look here, Barney," he exclaimed, "here's old Wan! Consarn his pate, he's followed Juanita!"

"Begorra, we'll have to soak the persistint gint in the neck!" burst from the young Irishman.

Murillo backed away a bit, and his hand came forth from his bosom. It grasped a small shining revolver.

"Touch me, you gringo curs, and I'll keel you!" he threatened.

A stalky, broad-shouldered young man, wearing a broad-brimmed Stetson hat, came down the aisle behind the Mexican. There was a certain breezy, Western air about this broad-hatted stranger. He gave one sharp look at Murillo, and a moment later he had the threatening Mexican in a grip of iron. One of the stranger's hands shot over Murillo's shoulder and grasped the revolver, turning the muzzle toward the roof of the car.

"A popgun like that is a whole lot dangerous for fools to play with," observed this person who had interrupted. "You ought to be turned over some one's knee and spanked a-plenty. That's whatever!"

"Great Juniper!" squawked Ephraim Gallup, flourishing his arms with a wild gesture of delight. "It's Buck—it's old Buck, by gum!"

"Hooroo, Badger, me bhoy!" laughed Barney. "Wherever did yez come from so suddint, Oi dunno?"

"In truth, it is my old college mate from Kansas!" breathed Carker.

Badger had twisted the pistol out of Murillo's fingers, with one hand while he easily held the Mexican helpless with the other hand. Badger was a big man. He stood six feet tall, and every inch of him was put up for strength and endurance. He was a fine-looking man, too, bronzed and weather-beaten, as if he had seen much outdoor life, yet having a certain atmosphere of ease and refinement about him which proclaimed him no ordinary cow-puncher or laborer. There was command and self-confidence in every glance of his eyes, in every movement of his person. In spite of his youth, a critical, discerning stranger would have pronounced him a man of much experience who feared nothing made of flesh and blood.

Murillo snarled at the Kansan in Spanish:

"Santissima! Caramba! Caraj——"

Like a flash Badger snapped the revolver out through the open window, and his hand closed on the throat of the furious Mexican, cutting the vile word short.

"Here, you low-mouthed spawn of sin," grated the big Westerner, "there are ladies present! If you use that word before them, I'll shut off your wind a-plenty and let it stay shut! You hear me murmur!"

Murillo made one last furious struggle, but it was quite ineffectual, and he finally subsided, lying limp in the grasp of the big man.

"Who is this greaser coyote?" asked Badger, as he relaxed his hold on the man's throat, allowing him to catch a painful breath. "Whatever was he doing a-pulling a popgun that fashion?"

"Oh, he ees the veree bad man, senyor!" exclaimed Teresa. "He annoy my dear friend, Juanita! He follow her all the way from Mexico! He threaten her eef she do not marry heem!"

Badger took a look at Juanita, and something like a gleam of admiration came into his big brown eyes.

"Juanita, you sure have my sympathy a-plenty," he observed. "You don't want to marry him?"

"Oh, no, no, senyor!" replied the frightened girl.

"Well, then I opine I'll drop him out of the window. That may jar him some."

A second later Murillo, kicking and gasping, clawing at the air, had been lifted like an infant by Badger, who seemed on the point of hurling him headlong through the open window.

"Santa Maria! Mercee!" begged the frightened wretch. "Spare me, senyor! Spare me, good senyor! Eef you throw me through the window, eet will keel me!"

"And that wouldn't be any great loss to the world, I judge," said the man from Kansas.

But now Juanita interfered.

"Oh, please do not throw heem from the train, senyor!" she implored. "Even eef I do despise heem, I should not weesh to see heem keeled."

Badger chuckled.

"Well, on condition that the gent will promise a whole lot that he'll quit bothering you, I'll let him off and won't throw him out of the window. Speak up, you whining, chattering gopher! Make the promise instanter, or out you go!"

"Oh, I promeese, senyor—I swear!" came from the frightened Mexican.

"Swear by all your saints," commanded Badger.

"By all the saints, I swear!" gasped Murillo.

"If I let you go now, you'll keep away from the senyorita in future? You'll never trouble her again?"

Murillo choked, but his fear caused him to take the oath.

Badger dropped the wretch in an upright position, turned him down the aisle, gave him a start, and said:

"Don't look back! Keep on going just as far as you can go on this train! Get into the rear car, and if you show your cowardly mug around here again, I'll kick you clean up through the top of your hat! You hear my promise, I opine."

Murillo heard it, and he kept on going until he had vanished from the car.

Barney Mulloy fairly quivered with laughter.

"Be heavins, Badger," he chuckled, "ye know how to handle a shnake! It's a relation to St. Pathrick ye are, and he drove all the shnakes out av Oireland. Hereafther you're St. Buck, begobs!"

"St. Buck is a heap good," laughed the Westerner, as he shook hands with his old friends, removed his broad-brimmed Stetson, and made a sweeping bow to the girls. "Mrs. Badger has a right jolly way of calling me angel sometimes, but, on my word, I can't discover even a pimple of a wing anywhere about me. But, say, people, however is it I find you all here together? Wherever are you bound for?"

"Bloomfield," answered Barney and Ephraim, in chorus.

"We're taking Carker along with us," explained Gallup. "We're all going to see old Frank at Bloomfield, by jinks!"

"Well, that's right fine," nodded Buck. "I'm bound for Bloomfield myself. Mrs. Badger and a friend are in the next car. Say, Winnie will be a heap surprised to see you boys. I'll lead her in. No, I have a better idea than that. We'll all hit the trail for the other car and descend on her in a bunch. There are plenty of empty seats in there, and we can have a right jolly old time."

In his breezy, commanding way he gathered them all up and led them into the next car, which had been attached to the train at the junction recently left.

Mrs. Badger—the Winnie Lee of the old days at Yale—was dozing in her chair when Buck came down upon her and awoke her by grasping her shoulder and giving her a shake.

"Waugh!" cried he. "Part the curtains of your peepers, Winnie, and observe this bunch of Injuns."

Mrs. Badger's companion was a slender young woman in a brown traveling suit. She was rather pretty in a supercilious way, but she showed questionable taste in a display of jewels while traveling.

"Oh, Buck, how you startled me, you great bear!" exclaimed Winnie. "What is it? Who is it?"

"Take a survey," directed the Kansan, with a sweep of his hand. "Here is our friend Gallup from Vermont, and that Frenchman, Mulloy, who was born somewhere in the north of Ireland."

"Oh, Ephraim Gallup! Oh, Barney Mulloy!" cried Winnie, in delight, as she sprang to her feet and grasped the hand of each.

"And you don't want to overlook Professor Gregory Carker, whose earthquake predictions must have been unheeded by the people of Frisco. Here he is, Winnie."

"Greg Carker!" burst from Winnie, as she shook hands with the young socialist. "Why, Greg, you're as handsome as a poet! You remind me of pictures of Lord Byron."

"Begobs, Ephie," whispered Mulloy, "we'll have to hold him and cut his hair! It's his hair that the ladies are shtuck on. No mon who predicts earthquakes has a roight to wear such ravishing hair."

At the mention of Carker's name Winnie Badger's companion had started and was now sitting bolt upright, staring at Greg and smiling.

Ephraim proudly introduced his wife and Juanita to Winnie.

While this was taking place Carker observed Winnie's friend. In a moment his face turned paler than usual, his eyelids started wide apart, and he lifted one hand with a movement of surprise and consternation. She looked straight into his eyes and continued to smile.

The others noted this. There was a hush, and all eyes were turned on the two.

Finally Carker's lips parted.

"Madge!" he breathed. And then after a moment, during which his bosom heaved, he repeated: "Madge!"

"Why, how do you do, Greg!" she laughed, extending her hand. "This is perfectly delightful! This is a most unexpected pleasure! I never dreamed of seeing you, Greg!"

"Why, this is queer!" exclaimed Winnie Lee. "So you know my friend, Mrs. Morton, do you, Gregory?"

"I know her," came huskily, from Carker's lips. "I know her very well."

"Oh, yes," gushed the young woman, "we are old friends—dear old friends."

Juanita had fallen back behind the others. Her hands quivered a bit, and her white teeth were sunk into her lower lip. In a whisper she breathed to herself:

"This is the woman!"



CHAPTER XXI.

AT MERRY HOME.

On arriving in Bloomfield, they found Frank Merriwell at the station with carriages to accommodate them all.

Imagine their feelings as they once more greeted their old comrade and leader. Even Buck Badger, the big breezy man of command, seemed to take a second place in the presence of Frank.

Many of the Bloomfield citizens had somehow learned that several of Merry's friends were coming on that train, and, as a result, there was a gathering at the station. The curious ones stared at Merriwell's old flock, and it was generally remarked that these friends of Frank were "all right."

Eli Given, Uncle Ed Small, and Deacon Elnathan Hewett were there in a triangular group, and they nodded and chuckled and shook hands with each other as Frank shook hands with the members of his old flock.

"Purty 'tarnal good-looking people, Eben," said Eli. "Look at that big feller with the wide hat that has the leather band round it. There's a real man for ye."

"Yep," nodded Eben, leaning on his crooked cane and looking the party over. "He's a man, the hull of him, but even at that I don't cal'late he quite comes up to our Frank. What do you think, deacon?"

"Boys," said Elnathan, "I ain't never yit seen the man that comes up to our Frank. All Bloomfield is proud of him to the bustin' point, and they ought to be."

"By jinks!" grinned Eli; "that tall feller jest introduced one of the dark-eyed gals as his wife. Wush! but she's a beaut! He's homelier than a barn door with the paint washed off, but she's a peach. Wonder how he ever ketched her."

"She's Spanish, or French, or something ferrun," asserted Uncle Eb. "I heerd her say something in some outlandish language to that other dark-eyed gal."

"Speakin' 'bout good-lookers," put in the deacon, "what's the matter with the one the big feller pushed for'ard as his wife? I don't guess Frank needed no introducin' to them, for it seems to me that he's met 'em both before."

"But, my jinks," gasped Eben, "look at the sparklers in the ears of that one in brown! S'pose them is real dimints? If they me, I bet they cost much as twenty-five dollars apiece!"

"Twenty-five?" said the deacon, with an intonation of contempt. "You ain't no judge of dimints, Eben! I bet they cost thirty!"

"Most of them seem to know Frank's nigger, Toots," said Eli. "Look at him show them ivories and nod and bow. By jinks! he'll snap his head off if he keeps that up. See that mouth of his'n stretch! The corners are going to pass each other at the back of his neck in a minute. If he keeps on, he'll lose the whole top of his head. It'll jest naturally crack right off."

"Well, well, boys, this makes me feel mighty good, myself," said the deacon. "Never used to be no sech things as this going on here in our town. I tell you if I wasn't a temperance man, I feel so good I'd jest go down to Applesnack's store and open up two or three bottles of ginger ale."

"A little hard cider for me," laughed Uncle Eb. "Rufus has it in his storeroom. I know where we kin git at the keg, boys, and I think we better celebrate ourselves."

"That's a good idee, Eben," said Eli. "We'll all go over to the grocery and wash the dust out of our throats with Applesnack's cider."

"Now, boys," protested the deacon, "I don't think I'd better go. If it should come out, people would talk. I think I'll keep away."

"No, ye don't! No, ye don't!" declared Given, as he grasped one of the deacon's arms. "Git hold of his other wing, Eben. We'll lead him up to the keg and pour it into him, if we have to. There won't nobody see us, deacon. We'll be in the back room, and we'll have Rufus shet the door. I guess you kin trust us, can't ye? I guess you ain't afraid we'll go round tellin' folks 'bout it, are ye? You know we're your friends, don't ye?"

"Course I know it," retorted the deacon. "But it's some agin' my principles, boys. It ain't jest right."

"Oh, fudge!" laughed Uncle Eb. "On a grand occasion like this you'd better set them air principles aside a little while. Frank is gittin' them into the carriages now. We'll see them off, and then we'll stroll over to Applesnack's and have jest one little taste of that cider."

"Let's start a cheer for Frank Merriwell and his friends as they go," suggested the deacon.

The others caught at this eagerly, and, as a result, when the carriages started away from the station, the villagers on the platform, led by the three "old boys," gave an irregular but hearty cheer for Frank Merriwell and his friends. Frank turned a laughing face toward them and waved his hand.

"The people around here seem a-plenty stuck on you, Merry," observed Badger, who was in the carriage with him.

"Oh, I have lots of friends in Bloomfield," answered Frank. "I had enemies enough at the start, but my worst enemies—the most of them—have turned into friends."

"Same old story," said the Kansan. "It was that way at college. You always made your strongest friends out of your bitterest enemies. Browning, for instance, was an enemy at the start, and I certain didn't cotton to you any at all. We had some hot old times in those days, Merry. That's whatever!"

"Hot old times! Grand old times!" came from Frank's lips. "I often think of them. You'll find Browning, Diamond, Hodge, and Carson at the house. And away back in the days at Fardale, long before I met you, Buck, Bart Hodge was a bitter enemy. Browning and Diamond are two of my instructors in the A. S. of A. D. Hodge is my overseer at the mines. Bruce and Jack have had their hands full this afternoon rushing the boys through the regular work in order that they might get off for the afternoon. Hodge and Carson have been helping. I've kept Carson at work during the last week or so. It was necessary. Certain unpleasant affairs of his put him in a bad way, and the only thing was to take up his mind by work. I haven't given him much time to think and brood."

"I opine we've got a brooder with us in the carriage behind," said Badger, in a low tone. "Carker shows it in his face and eyes."

"Oh, he's still suffering mentally over the troubles of the masses, I suppose," said Frank.

"There's something beyond that—something that has affected him still worse," explained Buck. "You noticed Winnie's chum, Mrs. Morton?"

"Of course I noticed her," smiled Frank. "Didn't you introduce me? She's rather pretty."

"Well, to the surprise of both Winnie and myself, we discovered on the train when Madge and Greg met that there had been some sort of an old love affair between them. I reckon that's two-thirds the trouble with Carker."

Over the bridge rumbled the carriages. As they rolled past Applesnack's store the grocer and several of his friends stood on the steps and waved a salute at them. All these villagers were smiling as if the reunion gave them almost as much enjoyment as it gave Frank and his old flock.

After leaving the village they soon came in sight of the buildings of Farnham Hall. These structures, located on a splendid site, brought exclamations of astonishment and pleasure from all who had not seen them before.

Then they saw Merry Home setting back amid the tall trees which surrounded it. The old Colonial house seemed to open its arms to them in welcome.

And on the veranda were Inza, Elsie, Jack Diamond, Bruce Browning, Bart Hodge, and Berlin Carson.

It's impossible to describe adequately the meeting as the newcomers left the carriages and were greeted by those waiting for them. The chatter and laughter of the girls made merry music, but for the most part the young men shook hands in silence, looking deep into one another's eyes and letting the grasp of their fingers express the emotions their lips could not speak.

The two colored men, Toots and Jumbo, together with the young Irish man of all work, who had also acted as a driver, took the turnouts round to the stables, where the three of them joined hands and did a crazy dance.

"Bah golly, Jumbo, you big stiff," cried Toots, as he struck the huge darky a resounding blow on the back, "Ah'ze the happiest nigger in dis hull unumverse! Wasn't dat de finest-looking bunch ob people yo' eber set yo' homely eyes on, Jumbo? Bah golly! dat's de kind ob folks Marsa Frank trains round wid. Ain't dem gals jes' de slappinest good-lookers yo' eber see?"

"Now don' yo' git familiar talkin' 'bout Marsa Frank's lady friends!" warned Jumbo. "Ah'ze a friend to you, Toots, but dis familumarity don' sot well on mah stomach."

"Aw, go on dar, you big brack jollier!" yapped Toots. "Ah'ze known Marsa Frank eber since he was knee high to a grasseshopper. Ah guess Ah knows mah place. He's tol' me more'n once, 'Toots, yo'se a gemman distinctive ob yo' color.' Dar ain't no udder nigger dat could gib Marsa Frank a piece of device de way Ah can. He'd took it off'n me when he'd up and slam any udder brack sassbox right ober de crannyum whack-o! Don' yo' git no notion, Jumbo, jes' beca'se Ah injuiced Marsa Frank to gib yo' a job, dat yo' ken hab de same familiar acquaintance wid him dat Ah has. Now back up an' look arter dem hosses! Git onto yo' job befo' Ah discharges yo'!"

"Well, wouldn't dat ar gib a ring-tailed elephant a cramp!" muttered Jumbo warmly, as he went about his work.

An hour after the arrival at Merry Home the visitors were ushered into the large, light, airy dining room, where they found seats at a long table. There were servants enough for the occasion, and everything was served promptly.

Mrs. Morton sought to secure a seat at Greg Carker's side, but in a clever manner Carker had avoided such proximity to her, without seeming to do so intentionally. Instead of having her at his elbow, it was Juanita who sat there.

"Well, senyorita," said Carker, smiling on her, "what do you think of Frank Merriwell's home and his friends?"

"Oh, eet ees the most splendeed theeng I evaire see," she murmured. "Eet makes me feel so happy for you all."

"Happy?" said Carker, regarding her closely. "Why, I fancied you were looking rather unhappy. To me you seemed downcast. Has anything occurred to make you sad?"

"Oh, eet ees that I am so far from home—perhaps," she answered. "Why deed you not seet by the beauteeful lady you meet again one time more on the train?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The friend of Senyorita Badgaire. I theenk she ees so veree pretty. She ees marreed, eh?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, she's married," muttered Carker.

"You are sorree?"

"Sorry?"

"Si, senyor. Eef she was not marreed, perhaps you would beside her seet."

"I don't think so—at least, knowing her as I do now. Still, I don't blame her. I'm the cause of it all."

"You feel veree, veree bad?"

"I'll be honest with you, senyorita—I can't tell whether I feel very bad or not. I have felt rather upset, I confess. But, my dear girl, human nature is peculiar. It's a strange thing, but I believe most men and most women take melancholy delight in feeling themselves to be martyrs. We all delight to moan over lost loves. That is the poetry in our natures. Occasionally we spend our time grieving over some lost love that reason and good judgment tells us would have come to naught under any circumstances. I hope Mrs. Morton is happy and satisfied. Perhaps you'll think me fickle, senyorita, but let me confess to you the fact that I'm not feeling as much like grieving as I was—before I met you."

For a few moments Juanita did not seem to grasp his meaning, but when she did the soft, warm color mounted to her cheeks, and her confusion was plainly evident.

On the opposite side of the table Gallup nudged Teresa, who had been placed at his left.

"Hey, Teresa," he whispered, "get onto Carker. Gol rap him! He's making hay in a hurry."

"What ees eet you mean to make the hay?" questioned Teresa, puzzled. "To me it seem that he make the love. He talk so verree low that nobody except Juanita hear what he say, and Juanita she blush."

"That's right," chuckled Ephraim, "and, by Jim! Mrs. Morton is looking daggers and hoss pistols."

Then he lifted his voice and addressed Carker.

"Hold on there, Greg!" he called. "You can't eat your soup with your fork! Why don't you use a spoon?"

It was Carker's turn to be confused, but he forced a laugh.

"I have a lamentable habit of becoming abstracted in pleasant company," he said.

"Evidently you find your company extremely pleasant, Mr. Carker," observed Mrs. Morton, with a little toss of her head.

"Extremely is not quite the word, madam," he replied, with a bow. "Absorbingly pleasant is far better."



CHAPTER XXII.

ANOTHER PILGRIM.

At intervals during the meal the sound of plaintive, doleful music floated in through the open windows.

"Sounds like a baby squawking," observed Ephraim Gallup.

"Begobs! Oi thought it was some wan playing on bagpoipes," observed Barney Mulloy. "Oi wonder whativer it can be, Oi dunno?"

Frank listened.

"To me it sounds like a cross between a clarinet, a flute, and a piccolo," he smiled. "Some one is trying to furnish music for this festive occasion."

He called one of the servants and asked her to find out the origin of the peculiar doleful music.

In a few moments the girl returned and quietly explained that a wandering musician had halted on the lawn and was performing on some sort of a wind instrument.

"He's a bery funny-lookin' maan, Mr. Merriwell," grinned the girl. "He suttinly am wearin' de oddest clo'es Ah eber seen. An' he's round an' corperlous, wid de biggest fat cheeks when he blows, an' a yeller mustache dat keeps wigwaggin' all de time."

Frank thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out a silver half dollar and put it in the colored girl's palm.

"Give him this, Liza, and tell him to jog along," he said quietly.

But after Liza had performed the commission and returned to the dining room the doleful notes of the wind instrument continued to float in through the open windows.

"The wandering minstrel is bound to give you your money's worth, Merry," laughed Jack Diamond.

Although they lingered at the table fully an hour after that, the musician continued to play outside during all that time, with brief intervals of rest.

Finally, when dessert was over and they had chatted and gossiped a while, Frank proposed that they should move to the veranda.

As the jolly party came out upon the veranda they discovered the musician. He was a portly young German, and he stood on the lawn, with a battered old carpetbag between his feet, while he blew at a wheezy flute with such vigor and vim that his eyes threatened to pop out of his head.

"He certainly is working overtime," observed Diamond.

"I'd like to know the name of his tailor," chuckled Browning. "His clothes certainly fit him handsomely—in spots."

"Anyhow they touch the high places," came from Badger.

Frank Merriwell paused on the veranda steps and scrutinized the musician intently.

"Fellows," he said, "that chap looks familiar to me. I've seen him before. I know him."

Bart Hodge's hand dropped on Merry's shoulder.

"You're right, Frank," he said. "We both know, him—we all know him."

An instant later Merry sprang down the steps, rushed forward and seized the flute player.

"If you need any assistance," called Gallup, as he descended to the lawn, "I'll help you kill him, Merry."

"Hans Dunnerwurst!" cried Frank, as he grasped the hand of the German and shook it delightedly. "I thought I knew you!"

The stranger seemed nearly pumped out of breath. As soon as he could speak he retorted:

"Uh-ha! I pelieft you vould knew me uf you recognitioned me. How you vos alretty, Vrankie? It peen a long dime since ve med up py each udder, ain'd it? I knew der lufly musig vot I vos discouragin' to you vould pring de houze oudt uf you bretty quick. Yah! I knew you coot not stand der delightfulness uf id forefer. Ach Himmel! How der flute does luf to blay me! Id peen der grandest instrument dot efer found me der vorld in."

Several of the party had followed Frank down the steps and surrounded Dunnerwurst. They greeted him warmly, seizing his hand and shaking it.

But suddenly the Dutchman caught sight of Gallup. With a whoop of joy, he grabbed up his carpetbag and started for the Vermonter.

"Oh, Ephie, Ephie!" he squawked, rushing forward and embracing Gallup, who was nearly upset by this impetuosity. "You vos so glad to see me dot I coot almost cry right avay alretty quick now!"

"Waal, gol dern my punkins!" exploded Ephraim. "It sartinly is old Hans!"

"Oldt Hans? Oldt Hans?" yelled Dunnerwurst indignantly. "Who vos you callin' oldt Hans mit such carelessness? Py Chiminy! I peen not more than a year younger as you vos yourselluf! Don'd you git so bersonal in my remarks!"

Then he saw Barney Mulloy, who was standing near, a broad grin on his face.

With a howl, Hans flung the carpetbag and the flute straight up into the air.

"Id vos Parney!" he shouted. "Id vos dot Irish pogtrotter!"

Then the carpetbag came down, struck Hans on the head and knocked him to a sitting position on the grass.

"Sarves ye roight for torturin' our ears wid thot croupy flute, ye bologna sausage!" laughed Mulloy.

"Pologna sissage! Pologna sissage!" howled Hans. "You vos chust as sauciness as I efer vos! Vy don'd I learnt some manners dot vould make a chentleman uf you!"

Together, Mulloy and Gallup seized the Dutchman, one by each arm, lifted him part way to his feet and then permitted him to fall back with a thud.

"Look out there, boys," laughed Frank, "you'll dent the ground!"

"Mine cootness!" gurgled Hans. "The ground dented me alretty soon! Don'd put my hands on you again!" he ordered, as his friends once more offered assistance. "Don'd try to pull der ground avay from me! I vill dood it mineselluf. I vill got up mitoudt nopody's resistance."

Puffing and grunting, he finally rose to his feet, wiped the perspiration from his face, and stood there, bowing and smiling in a manner that was little short of distressing.

Frank led the Dutchman up the steps and presented him to the ladies. Hans' effort at suave politeness as he bowed with his hand over his heart was most laughable.

"Mine cootness! vos dot Inza Purrage?" he gurgled. "I used to think she vos der most peautiful girl vot efer seen me, but, so hellup me sour krout, she vos sixdeen times prettier-lookin' than efer!"

"You're the same old flatterer, Hans," said Inza; "but you mustn't try to flirt with me now. I'm married, you know."

"Vy dit you hurriness so much? Vy dit I not vait for you?" he demanded.

"Here's Elsie, Hans."

"Vot, dot—dot angel vomans mit der golden hair her head all ofer?"

"She's now Mrs. Hodge," explained Bart.

Hans struck himself a furious blow on the chest and staggered.

"Dere I vos again!" he groaned. "Oh, vot a terrible misdake for her! Elsie Pellwood—und she iss now Elsie Hotch? By Chiminy! you vos a lucky poy, Part; but I don'd blame her when I see tears in her eyes because she knows I vos not marreed mineselluf."

"You come here," invited Gallup, as he grasped Hans' arm and turned him toward Teresa. "I jest want to knock you daown to my wife. Mrs. Gallup, this hot dog is my old friend, Hans Dunnerwurst, that I've told ye about more'n once."

"Oo!" murmured Teresa; "I am charmed to meet Senyor Dunnerwierst."

Hans seemed speechless as he bowed and bowed, keeping his eyes on Teresa all the while. Finally he turned, seized Gallup by the shoulder, pulled him down, and hissed in his ear:

"How dit you dood id? You vos so homely dot a clock coot stob you, und you haf marreed up py a curl dot vords coot not found my tongue for expressment."

"Waal," chuckled the Vermonter, "if you want to express your tongue, send it to the Adams Express Company."

"Maype I think dot vos a coot choke!" sneered Hans. "You alvays vos so funny, Ephie, dot you caused me puckets uf tears to veep."

Frank presented Juanita and Mrs. Morton, and when it was all over Hans sank on a chair, quite overcome.

"How did you happen to show up at such an opportune time, Dunnerwurst?" inquired Merry.

"Vun veek ago," answered the Dutchman, "vile the flute vos learning to blay me in Cinsanity, Ohio, a newsbaper reads me apout Vrang Merriwell's great School Athletic Envelopment uf. My mint made me up to come right avay soon as der car fare coot raise me. Und here I vos."

"Well, you're welcome to Merry Home. You just fill out the party. You make it complete. This is indeed a great reunion of the old flock. Tell us what you are doing, Hans."

"Dit you not heard me on der flute play? I vos a musiga. Der heart uf me vos so full uf musig alretty dot I haf to play it oudt to keep from pursting vide open."

"Here comes some more visitors, Merry," called Diamond. "I think we know them."

With their arms linked together, three old men were approaching rather unsteadily.

Merry instantly recognized Eli Given, Uncle Eb Small, and Deacon Hewett. As the trio turned in from the road their feet somehow became tangled, and all three went down sprawlingly. Uncle Eb sat up and made a whack at Eli with his crooked cane, crying shrilly:

"That's the second time you've tripped me!"

"Don't blame it on me, you doddering old fossil!" flung back Given.

"Peace, boys—peace!" remonstrated the deacon, waving his hands in the air. "Raise not your voices in harsh words and brawling. I don't think any one tripped you, Eben. I've noticed myself that the ground is rather unsteady. I think we're feeling a few left-over tremors from the Frisco earthquake."

"Mebbe you're right, deacon," said Uncle Eb, seeming pacified. "Kin you tell me jest how them earthquakes work? Do they make things go round in a circle? I've been noticin' durin' the last few minutes that the trees and fences were all floatin' round us."

"If we brace ourselves and walk carefully," said Elnathan, as he rose and swayed a bit, "I think we'll have no further difficulty in getting along. Permit me to assist you, Eben."

But when he tried to lift Uncle Eb up he lost his balance, fell heavily on Small and flattened him out.

"This is really astonishing," muttered Frank, repressing his laughter with difficulty as he started down the steps.

"Oh, what's the matter with them, Merry?" asked Inza.

"Now don't get worried, dear," he answered, over his shoulder. "The sun is very warm to-day, and I'm afraid they're suffering from it. We must get them into the shade before they have sunstroke. Come on, fellows."

Assisted by the boys, the three old men were lifted to their feet and escorted into the shade beneath the spreading trees in front of the house.

Uncle Eb poked Elnathan in the ribs with his cane.

"Come on now with that speech, deacon," he urged. "You're the speechmaker of the party."

Elnathan cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "this is a grand and glorious day. This is the day when that grand and glorious bird, the American eagle, should plume itself with pride and utter a scream that could be heard from the Pacific to the Atlantic, from the Gulf to the Canadian border."

"Hooray! hooray!" piped Eli Given. "That's the talk, deacon. Spatter it on thick!"

"We are sons of free men," continued Elnathan, making a gesture that nearly caused him to lose his balance. "The Declaration of Independence and the Emancipation Proclamation made us all free and equal. If there be one among you who is not stirred by this glorious thought, let him hide his head in shame. This is the day on which the whole country rejoices at the birth of liberty. Let the cannons boom! Let the rockets siz! Let the pinwheels whiz! And let the popcorn pop!"

"Hold on, deacon—hold on!" interrupted Uncle Eb. "That's your last year's Fourth of July speech. That don't seem 'zactly 'propriate to this occasion."

"Now you back up, Eben," commanded Given. "You let him spout. It sounds purty good to me, whether there's any sense to it or not."

"What was I sayin'?" asked the deacon. "Where did I leave off? You kinder interrupted my train of discourse, Eben. Mebbe I'd better stop."

"There's a lady coming to join our party," said Bart Hodge. "I think it's your wife, Eli."

"My w-h-a-t?" gasped Eli Given, actually turning pale. "Where is she? Great scissors! If she ever gits her hands on me now, I see my finish!"

A woman, with a sunbonnet dangling by the strings tied beneath her chin, was coming down the road in a hurried manner. With some difficulty Eli finally discovered her.

"That's Mrs. Given as sure as Adam ett the apple!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe she's seen me. Boys, I've gut to go, and I've gut to go in a hurry, too."

"Well, don't you think I'm goin' to hang around for her to git holt of me," said Uncle Eb, as he started toward the corner of the house, hobbling along as fast as his legs and his cane could carry him.

"I think perhaps I'd better go, too," muttered the deacon, as he followed Eben's example.

In spite of the start of his companions, Given passed them on a run and turned the corner, making straight for the stable. The three old chaps legged it into that building and disappeared from view.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Given had seen them, and she was not far behind when they vanished through the wide-open door. She found Uncle Eb propped up with his cane, standing in a dark corner of a box stall.

"Eben Small," she said, as she shook her fingers in his face, "you're a disgrace to the community! Now, not a word! Don't speak! I know what you've been doing, you and my husband and Elnathan Hewett! You've been drinking hard cider at Rufus Applesnack's store! I'm going to take Eli home, and I'll give him a dressing down he won't soon forgit! I tell ye not to speak! You ain't gut nuthin' to say!"

She then lifted her voice and called for her husband to come forth. As there was no response, she looked into the crib, and there she found Elnathan curled up, pretending to be fast asleep.

"Deacon Hewett," she said, "you've posed as an example to the community. Now don't snore! I know you're awake! You can't fool me? So you will continue to snore, will ye?"

There was a squawk from the deacon, for she had seized him by the nose and given it a twist that brought him upright in the crib.