PROPERLY PUNISHED.
That afternoon Frank called on Inza in Warrington Terrace, where Bernard
Burrage was stopping.
Mr. Burrage, who was an invalid, greeted the boy pleasantly.
“I am pleased to meet you again, Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “And I thank
you for the service you rendered my daughter this forenoon. You will
pardon me if I do not rise from my chair. The old trouble, you know.”
“I hoped to see you much improved in health, Mr. Burrage,” said the boy,
with an air that stamped his words as more than superficial politeness.
“Did you not find the climate agreed with you in the Southern States?”
“Oh, it was very well in the winter; but I could not stay there in the
summer. I am afraid my search for health is vain. We have friends and
relatives here, and that is why we stopped in London. Later we shall go
to Italy, and I hope for improvement there.”
“I sincerely trust that you may not be disappointed, sir.”
Then Frank sat on a chair Inza had placed for him, and chatted agreeably
with Mr. Burrage for half an hour, speaking briefly of the countries he
had visited and of his adventures, when questioned by the invalid.
“You are a strange youth, Frank Merriwell,” declared Bernard Burrage,
regarding him with no little wonderment. “One would never know you had
seen anything of the world if he did not drag the facts from you by
questions, and I am certain it has never before been the fortune of
another youth to travel so much and meet with such adventures. We have
heard from you indirectly since Inza received your last letter, and so
we knew of your wonderful experiences as king of a cannibal island and
in search of the ‘missing link’ in the wilds of Africa.”
“Heard from me?” exclaimed Frank, in surprise. “How?”
“Through Elsie Bellwood,” said Inza, quietly. “She wrote me.”
Frank started, overwhelmed by a sudden thought. Just what had Elsie
written Inza? The girls had been warm friends, and, after being rescued
from the island of cannibals, Frank had been much with Elsie on Captain
Bellwood’s trading vessel.
In the world there were two girls whom Frank Merriwell admired above all
others, and it seemed that his friendship for one was quite as strong as
for the other. They were Inza Burrage and Elsie Bellwood.
In the company of either of these girls Frank seemed to forget the other
for the time. They were vastly different in appearance and temperament,
although both were remarkably pretty. Inza had dark hair and eyes, while
her disposition was passionate and resentful. Elsie had sunny hair and
blue eyes, and her disposition was gentle and trusting.
In an honest, boyish way, Frank had made love to both of these girls. He
had tried to make both understand that he did not contemplate marriage
for years to come, and that he did not bind them by any vows or pledges.
He was young, they were young; the years to come might bring many
changes.
Surely this was honest and manly, and anything further would have been
folly between mere boys and girls.
But both girls regarded him as the greatest hero in all the wide world,
and, girl-like, both thought they could never, never, never care for
another fellow as they cared for him. Inza would have promised to marry
him—some time—if he had asked her; but that was something he had
avoided, knowing such boy-and-girl vows were seldom kept.
Elsie was so conscientious that she had thought it wrong to accept more
than the simplest attentions from Frank. She had thought it would be
betraying her friend.
Frank had laughed at her. In the Florida swamps he had saved her from
kidnapers, and in Africa he had rescued her from a gorilla. After such
experiences it would have been most remarkable had their friendship
continued simple and prosaic. It would not have been human, and, for all
of his unusual qualities and accomplishments, Frank was human.
But now he fancied he understood why Inza had treated him as she had
when they met in London. Elsie—dear, honest little Elsie—had written her
friend about Frank, and all Inza’s passionate jealousy had been aroused.
Frank looked at Inza, and she gave him something like an accusing
glance. Then he knew he had hit upon the truth.
“Yes,” said Mr. Burrage, without observing the glances which passed
between the boy and girl, “Inza and Elsie are such warm friends, you
know. Elsie was very enthusiastic about you.”
“Very,” said Inza.
After a time, Mr. Burrage seemed tired, and the boy and girl fell to
chatting by the window, while the invalid dozed in the easy-chair.
“Poor father!” said the girl. “It does not take much to tire him now.”
“And still he seems improved since I saw him in New Orleans.”
“Oh, he is; he is much better, else he would not have been able to take
the voyage across.”
There was a little silence. Mr. Burrage’s eyes were closed, and he was
breathing heavily and regularly.
“We must speak low,” whispered the girl. “Let him rest.”
“Yes, let him rest,” said Frank, drawing his chair nearer to her. “And
now tell me about yourself, Inza.”
“I didn’t know as you would care to ever hear anything about me again,”
she murmured, and he saw the warm color creep up into her cheeks.
“What nonsense, Inza! Is that why you cut me yesterday, and again
to-day, on the Row?”
“N-no.”
“Why was it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That is—I——”
She stopped in confusion, her face crimson now. She did not wish to make
the confession.
Frank secured her hand. She tried to draw it away, but he did not permit
her to succeed. He leaned toward her, whispering:
“I will tell you why it was, Inza. Elsie Bellwood wrote you something
you did not like. Ah, I am right!”
“Something I did not like?” she repeated, attempting an evasion. “Why,
Elsie is my dearest friend. Even if she did write something I did not
like, how could that affect us?”
Frank laughed softly.
“Inza, tell me the truth,” he urged. “Of course there was a reason why
you treated me so.”
With a sudden toss of her head, she looked him straight in the eyes,
something more than a suggestion of defiance in her manner.
“Well, suppose that Elsie did write something I did not like. What was
it? Tell me that.”
“And tell you something you already know. I do not believe Elsie
Bellwood would write anything that was not strictly true. You know I was
with her on Captain Bellwood’s vessel for a long time, and Elsie is one
of my dearest friends.”
“Nothing more?”
“No, nothing more than a dear friend.”
“But she says she loves you—she did say it! And she told how you were
together, and how you—you kissed her! She said she knew it was wrong all
the time, but she did care for you so much. And she asked me to forgive
her.”
“Bless her honest little heart!” smiled Frank. “And did she tell you
that we had agreed to tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
“And you were jealous?”
“Yes.”
“And you resolved never to have anything to do with me again?”
“Yes. I vowed over and over that I would never, never speak to you
again.”
“But you have.”
“How could I help it? You stopped my horse; perhaps you saved me from
being killed. I had to thank you.” And then, with a sudden change of
manner, she went on: “I am not going to be foolish, Frank; Elsie is a
splendid girl. I tell you, I will be one of the bridesmaids, and you
must have a swell wedding.”
Frank held in check the laughter that bubbled to his lips.
“You would make a charming bridesmaid, Inza; but you would look better
as the bride. However, we will not consider that now. Neither of us
should think seriously of such matters for years. Perhaps I may have the
opportunity to stand as best man for Kennington Glanworth when you are
married—if he does not kill me in a duel.”
“What nonsense, Frank! He is my cousin.”
“Once or twice removed?”
“Oh, I believe he is a second cousin.”
“In that case, I see nothing to prevent the union. Bless you, my
children, bless you.”
“You are a bigger tease than ever. Kennington has been very kind to me
since we came to London, that is all. He aided me in trying to avoid
you, like the good fellow he is. You must not blame him. I was to
blame.”
“Then you should be punished.”
“Be careful, sir! I know you are very daring, but——”
“Oh, you want to beg off. Well, you cannot. The more I think of the
matter, the stronger becomes my conviction that you should be severely
punished.”
He leaned toward her, looking very severe. He still held her hand firmly
within his grasp.
“Be careful,” she warned. “Father may awaken.”
“But not in time to save you from your punishment,” he whispered, and
then he kissed her.
They sat by the window and chatted a long time, while Mr. Burrage dozed
in his chair.
Finally there came the sound of a stir in the hall and on the stairs.
Excited voices were heard; a man’s and a woman’s.
“It is the landlady,” said Inza. “She seems to be having trouble with
somebody. I never heard anything like that in this house before.”
“I tell you I knows the gent,” asserted the voice of a man; a voice
which sounded familiar to Frank. “It is a matter of business, and I will
see ’im. I hobserved ’im a-settin’ at the window.”
“Wait till I speak to him,” entreated the woman. “If he knows you, it is
likely he will see you.”
“I am not habsolutely certain of that, ma’am. It is a matter of
business, ma’am—werry important. I will go right hin.”
And then, for all of the protests of the landlady, a man entered the
room, flinging open the door with no little violence.
Frank sprang up and faced the intruder while Inza uttered a little cry,
and retreated a bit. The sleeping invalid awoke, and stared at the
newcomer in a bewildered way.
It was Mr. ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford. He had put aside his loud suit of
Scotch plaids, and was plainly dressed in well-worn clothes. His face
was cleanly shaved, but seemed to be somewhat flushed, as if he had been
indulging freely in stimulating drinks.
“Mr. Merriwell, sir!” he said, removing his hat and bowing profoundly.
“I thought as ’ow I were not mistooked; I were werry certain it were you
I saw a-settin’ at the window.”
At first Frank was inclined to be decidedly angry, but he immediately
remembered the great service Mr. ’Awkins had rendered him when he was in
mysterious and possibly deadly danger at the Derby, and he held his
anger in check, saying, sharply:
“You should not have forced yourself in here, sir. These are not my
rooms, but I happen to be making a call here.”
The man from Deptford bowed most humbly.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, young sir,” he said, “I must say as ’ow I did not
know of that. I ’opes yer will hexcuse me, governor and young miss. You
see it is this here way, I didn’t know this were not young Mr.
Merriwell’s room, and so I set myself to come, for all of the missus
outside.”
“This is a most unwarranted intrusion!” came rather sharply from Mr.
Burrage’s lips. “If you have pressing business——”
“Hexactly, sir—hexactly,” said Mr. ’Awkins, still more humbly. “My
business is with young Mr. Merriwell. I will state it hat once, and make
it werry short.”
“Do so,” urged Frank, who regretted that his _tête-à-tête_ with Inza had
been interrupted in such a manner.
“You see, I knowed they were for robbing you, young sir, at the Derby.
It were your scarfpin they were after, and that were why they took to
shovin’ you so. Says I to myself, says I, ‘Now there’s a fine young gent
from hover the pond, and he does not know the way of the rascals, and he
will lose heverythink.’ So I rushed into them, sir, and I took hout your
scarfpin quick, so nobody helse would get it, and I pulled you haway, so
it were possible you could get hout with your purse, which you had said
you never carried.”
Having made this remarkable statement, Mr. ’Awkins displayed the
scarfpin, which Frank had missed when he undressed the night before.
“Hallow me to return this here beautiful and waluable little pin to you,
sir,” said the man from Deptford; “and hallow me to hexpress the ’ope
that you did not lose hanything helse.”
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