THE STREET MUSICIANS.
That afternoon Frank had a chance to help a machinist who was making
some repairs on an engine. The work was difficult to reach, and the
machinist kept Frank to pass him his tools as he required them. Frank
watched to see how everything was done, and asked some questions. At
first the engineer growled his answers, but Frank had a pleasant way
of leading him on, so that, after a time, he became more agreeable.
He was an intelligent man, and he appreciated intelligence in others.
This being the case, it did not take him a great while to discover that
Merriwell was different from the ordinary wiper.
When the machinist spoke of certain parts of the locomotive he found
that his assistant knew something about them, or, at least, quickly
caught onto his meaning. Then he was astonished to learn that Merry was
spending his first day in a roundhouse.
“How have you picked up a knowledge of so many things about an engine,
young man?” he asked.
“I have two books on locomotive engineering which I purchased,”
answered Frank, reddening somewhat. “It was a subject that interested
me, and I have read the books pretty thoroughly.”
“That’s it, eh? Well, you can’t learn anything of real practical value
without experience; but those books may help you, my boy.”
“I think they will, sir, for I have a good memory, and I do not easily
forget anything I study.”
“Keep on studying. Anything you want to know you can find out by asking
me. They’ll tell you old Tom Bowers is sulky and surly, but don’t mind
that. It’s only my way. I rather like your appearance. I think you are
a young man with get-there in him, and get-there is what counts in this
world.”
In this way Frank found another friend, much to the surprise of the
other wipers, none of whom had been able to get along with Tom Bowers.
The work that afternoon was far more agreeable than it had been in the
forenoon, and Frank was well satisfied when night came.
At the same time, he knew some of the wipers were already growing
jealous of him, seeing that he promised to be something of a favorite,
as he had been able to draw Tom Bowers into conversation. As a rule,
Bowers swore and snarled at his assistants, but he had treated Frank
in a different manner.
As Frank left the roundhouse three of the wipers were talking together
near the door, and one of them said:
“There goes the fellow now. I tell you, we don’t want such chaps here.”
“We can’t help it,” said another.
“Why not? We’ve driven men out.”
“If you think you can drive him, try it. Old Slugs didn’t cut much of a
figure with him.”
“Oh, I’m not going to try it alone; but the whole of us----”
Frank passed on and heard no more of their talk. He was not disturbed,
for he knew there was certain to be rivalries and jealousies among
workmen, and he believed he could live down the dislike for him that
was being shown at the very beginning of his career.
Frank had taken a room in a cheap quarter. He felt that he must live
according to his means, and his pay as wiper was sure to be poor.
Merriwell’s former friends would not have believed it possible for
him to bring himself to one small square room, with bare floors and
undecorated walls. He smiled as he fancied some of them looking in on
him in his new quarters.
But no one realized better than Frank Merriwell that the young man who
lives beyond his means forms habits that lead to certain ruin in the
end, and he was determined to start right.
There is much in the right kind of a start in life. It is slow,
heart-breaking work climbing the ladder of fortune, but the patient
plodder wins in the end, for he makes sure of each step as he goes.
Frank had arranged to take his meals at a cheap restaurant, but he
went home and washed up thoroughly before going out. He had bought
some curled hair, which he knew would, with the aid of good soap, be
very effective in removing the grime from his hands, and, after he
had washed, scarcely a trace of his work could be discovered by the
closest inspection. He knew that in time the dirt must wear beneath
his finger nails so it could not be removed, and so he had cut his
beautifully-shaped nails as short as possible, preferring to sacrifice
them rather than carry them about “in mourning.”
He had been fortunate in finding a place to eat, for, although the
restaurant was cheap, everything looked clean, and he was able to eat
the food with relish.
Somehow, as he sat there eating, he was not cast down or dejected.
Instead, a feeling of self-reliance and independence possessed him, and
his heart swelled with something like exultation.
He had been cast upon his own resources, and he must make his way along
in the world and unaided. If there was any real ability in him, he
firmly believed he would succeed, and he welcomed the test. Not a fear
or a doubt concerning the future possessed him.
Having eaten heartily, he went out for a stroll about the city. He felt
the need of a walk in the open air, after which he would go to his room
and get a good night’s rest.
Gradually he walked toward a better section of the city. At last he was
attracted by the sound of music and of singing, and, in front of some
shops he saw a boy and girl standing, while a small crowd had gathered
near.
The boy was playing on a guitar, while the girl was singing. They were
rather poorly clad, although their clothes were neat and clean. The boy
might have been seventeen years old, and he had one short, crooked leg,
making necessary the use of a crutch. The girl was not over fifteen,
and she had one of the sweetest faces Frank had ever looked upon. There
was something pathetic about her face--something that struck to Merry’s
heart with a pang.
The boy joined in with her on the chorus of the song, and there was
something about it that brought a mist to Frank’s eyes. He stopped and
listened, feeling in his pocket for a piece of money.
When the song was finished the boy passed around the hat. Few of the
listeners gave anything, but each one was thanked. Frank threw a dime
into the hat. It was more than he could afford, but he felt that it was
the only kind of extravagance in which he would indulge.
The boy and girl looked alike, and Frank decided they were brother and
sister. The boy played again, and they sang.
A crowd of roistering young chaps came along and stopped. When the song
was finished they made some comments about the girl, bringing the hot
blood to the cheeks of Frank Merriwell.
“She’s good enough to hug,” said one.
“That she is,” laughed another. “She’s a peach. What’ll you bet I don’t
hug her?”
“She needs money. Perhaps she’d let you kiss her for a quarter, Ned.”
“By Jove! I’d give it!”
“You don’t dare, right here on the street.”
“I’ll go you the drinks on it.”
“Done.”
Then Frank Merriwell moved a little nearer.
The fellow called Ned walked up to the girl and chuckled her under the
chin, saying:
“Ah, there, my little daisy! You’ll make a prima donna some day. Give
us a kiss, and I’ll give you a quarter.”
The girl shrank away with a little cry of alarm, reaching out in a
vague way toward her brother.
In an instant the latter was aroused. He uttered a cry of anger.
“Go ’way!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “She’s my sister! How dare you
insult her?”
“Oh, don’t get gay!” said the youth. “I’m not insulting her. I made her
an offer.”
“Go ’way, or I’ll strike you with my crutch!”
“You wouldn’t hurt anything. I’ve got a bet on this, and I must kiss
her or lose. Come, now, here’s half a dollar. That should be an object.”
“Jack!” gasped the girl.
“He shall not touch you!” exclaimed the boy, trying to push the fellow
away.
“Get out!” ordered the aggressor, catching the boy by the collar and
giving him a swing that threw him down.
“Shame! shame!” cried some of the spectators.
They started to interfere, but the young bloods jumped in, ready for a
fight, and the witnesses hesitated.
With one exception.
Frank Merriwell’s blood was boiling. His lips parted slightly, showing
his white teeth, which were set together.
Just as the fellow caught the shrinking, terrified girl by the
shoulder, Frank struck him a terrible blow.