ON NEUTRAL GROUND.
The sensational climax of Merriwell’s dinner was the talk of the college
for many days, and it seemed now that Frank’s enemies must admit that
they had met their Waterloo.
Roland Packard was bitter in his resentment toward Defarge for having
lured him into a plot that had been so completely turned against him.
Hawkins, deeply humiliated by his defeat and the generous manner in
which Frank had treated him, had disappeared promptly from New Haven,
leaving the two chief conspirators to bear the burden of their signal
failure.
But Frank was not vindictive, and, satisfied with the result as it had
worked out, he discouraged any further reference to the matter among his
friends. Merriwell was ever generous to a defeated enemy, and it was
particularly gratifying to him to think that, of the long list of men
who had arrayed themselves against him, because of a spirit of jealousy,
so few now remained his foes. It was with this warm feeling in his heart
that he looked now with a smile of pleasure at the gathering of his
friends in his room.
Frank Merriwell’s room was the neutral ground on which—or in which—all
classes and conditions of Yale men met. The air of that room, perhaps
one of the finest rooms in splendid Vanderbilt, was thoroughly
democratic. There the man with money, or with ancestry, cut no better
figure than any other man, unless he had done something. To be a notable
in Merriwell’s room, the student must have accomplished something worthy
of his efforts. Of course, the “good fellow” was not barred, but he
could not hope to be a central figure merely because he was a good
fellow.
The Merriwell spirit was “a do-something spirit,” and it was strangely
infectious, for all who associated with him regularly soon acquired the
habit of doing things. Even big, lazy Browning awoke at times and
astonished everybody by the accomplishment of some marvel. Hodge was a
perfect engine of energy, although at times he became liable to break
loose and run wild, like an untamed mustang. Jack Ready, the eccentric
sophomore, was as restless and full of ginger as a young colt, or a
half-grown kitten.
Berlin Carson, the Westerner, possessed all the breadth and sweep of the
cattle-range and the plains, and he was fast making himself notable
since coming “under Merry’s wing.” Hock Mason, the man from South
Carolina, had once perverted his energy and been reckoned a bully, but
after the days of his reformation he used his energy in the right
direction, and accomplished things far more worthy than beating an
enemy.
Joe Gamp, right down from New Hampshire, long, lank, awkward, hesitating
in speech, had shown that he had sterling qualities and could fill an
emergency on the ball-field or in the classroom. Greg Carker, the
socialistic young millionaire, whose head continually buzzed with
schemes for the elevation of the masses and the leveling of the
aristocracy, could forget his schemes at times, could cease to rant
about “the coming earthquake,” and could do things worthy of a young
twentieth century Yale man.
Jim Hooker, who had been rescued from ostracism by Merriwell, and given
a chance to hold his head up before all men, showed that he possessed
manly qualities and would not hesitate in the face of necessity.
Starbright, the young freshman giant and wonder, had been brought to the
fore as Merriwell’s protégé, and no man could say he had not proved
himself worthy.
But only Starbright and Merriwell knew how worthy he had been as a
friend, for it was the big, yellow-haired man from Andover who opened
Frank’s eyes to the fact that Inza Burrage had never changed in her
devotion since the old days at far-off Fardale. Not only that, but Dick
had caused Merry to look inward and discover that his heart, also,
remained unchanged, and that Inza was dear to him as in the days of his
boyhood. And then Dick stepped aside, making the greatest sacrifice of
his life—all for Merry! What nobler friend could Frank have? Truly,
Starbright had done something to win for himself the seat of highest
honor amid that group of true-blue Merriwell men.
And then there was Dashleigh—he could do something. He could play the
mandolin and sing divinely. He had been playing just now, and he lightly
strummed the strings as the gathered students fell to chatting and
joking.
“Dashleigh,” said Jack Ready, posing with assumed grace before the
freshman, “your playing is remarkable for its simplicity. Why shouldn’t
it be? It is perfectly characteristic of you.”
“You’re a critic of music, I believe!” retorted Bert scornfully.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” came solemnly from the queer sophomore. “I have
traveled a great deal with a band.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have a habit of wearing a band round my hat. Besides that, I
have a lovely drum in my ear. Such advantages as those have given me the
right to be critical in musical matters.”
“I know a better critic than you who is deaf and dumb,” declared the
freshman.
“Poor fellow!” sighed Jack. “Deaf and dumb?”
“Yes.”
“What an unspeakable affliction!”
Dashleigh started to say something, and then flourished his mandolin at
Ready, as if to smite him. But the queer fellow waltzed away.
“Say, fellows!” he cried, “I was down to Traeger’s, with Ned Donovan and
his friends, last night, and we had a corking good time.”
“By the bottles you had around you when I dropped in there last evening,
I fancied you were having an uncorking good time,” observed Berlin
Carson.
“Now, that’s not bad for a tenderfoot from the wild and woolly,” nodded
Jack, regarding Carson approvingly. “My boy, you are coming. Why,
gentlemen, when he struck New Haven he was a walking arsenal! He carried
a gun on each hip, three bowie-knives in his belt, two more in his
boots, and had derringers in his sleeves. The first night at Old Lady
Harrington’s retreat for freshmen he went to bed with his spurs on. Just
forgot to unshackle them from his boots, you know. Of course, Mrs.
Harrington made a gentle kick in the morning, when she found his
spur-tracks in her sheets, and I understand he had to settle for the
sheets. That taught him a lesson. After that he remembered to take his
spurs off his boots before rolling in. Oh, there’s nothing like
experience as a teacher. I have heard that he sometimes removes his
boots on going to bed now.”
Carson took this guying good-naturedly.
“That’s all right,” he said. “At least, I don’t do one trick that I hear
is customary with you. Fellows, why do you suppose Ready puts his
pocketbook under his pillow every night when he goes to bed?”
“He cuc-cuc-can’t be afraid of ru-ru-robbers,” grinned Joe Gamp,
“’cuc-’cuc-’cause he never has enough mum-money to tut-tempt a robber
who was lul-lul-looking for the price of a drink.”
“Still he does put his pocketbook under his pillow, I’ve heard,”
declared Berlin. “And for that very reason he reminds me of a thrifty
business man.”
“How is that?” asked Boxer.
“Why,” said Carson, “he wants to feel that he has money to retire on.”
Ready threw up his hands, uttered a terrible groan, and fell heavily on
Bruce Browning, who was stretched on the couch. He rebounded with a
springing movement, however, and leaped away in time to escape a kick
from the big senior’s heavy foot.
“Please have your fits elsewhere!” rumbled Bruce, with a glare at Jack,
who was bowing profoundly and humbly craving pardon.
“I don’t know where else I can find anything so soft to fall on,”
declared Ready.
“Say,” smiled Bruce, “will you find a way to repress your idiocy for a
short time?”
“Idiocy!” exclaimed Jack, with an expression of despair. “Did I hear
aright? And only yesterday I had not been talking to him five minutes
before he called me an ass.”
“Why the delay?” grunted Browning.
“That reminds me of something I said the last time I attended the
theater,” Ready asserted. “The play was over, the orchestra was playing
a lively march, all the people were moving toward the doors. I looked
up, and right over one of those doors I saw the word ’exit’ in large
gilt letters. Then I said something real witty.”
“What could it be?” murmured Dashleigh.
“I said, ‘That lets me out,’” explained Jack. “Ha! ha! ha! That’s what
you call pure, unadulterated wit. Have a laugh with me! Ha! ha! Why, I’m
budding into a second Sydney Smith, and Syd was the real thing.”
“You will be nipped in the bud if you’re not careful,” said Frank. “Sit
down, Jack, and let up for a while. You’ve had your mouth open long
enough to thoroughly ventilate your system for an hour, at least.”
“And there has been an awful escape of gas,” said Carson.
“You’ve run your race,” declared Greg Carker, with a solemn wave of his
hand. “Stand aside now.”
“Is the earthquake coming?” awesomely inquired Jack. “If so, I’ll get
out of the old thing’s track in a hurry, Cark.”
“Speaking about races,” put in Bingham, the sophomore, “I heard a
strange rumor to-day. It was to the effect that Merry has been asked by
the freshmen to give them a little coaching, and has agreed to do so. I
can’t believe it, for it seems to me that he has his hands full without
bothering with the freshmen crew. I’m sure it isn’t true, is it,
Merriwell?”
“Yes,” said Frank quietly, “it is.”