FRED FOREST, OF HARVARD.
“Frank Merriwell of Yale! Frank Merriwell--here in this region! Am
I dreaming? Is this an optical illusion?”
“I am Frank Merriwell of Yale,” laughed Merry himself, standing on
the platform of the railroad station at Mattawamkeag, in the State
of Maine. “You are right about that. But you--you cannot be Fred
Forest, the Harvard man!”
“I am, just as hard,” laughed the other, a stout, healthy-looking
youth of nineteen, roughly dressed in woolen clothes, a red
sweater, blue cap, long-legged boots, with trousers thrust into
them, while he wore no coat at all. “But you, the famous fullback
of Yale, the great pitcher on the college ball team--you are the
last person I could have dreamed of seeing here!”
“And you, the most elegantly dressed man of Harvard, the favorite
in the swell society of Cambridge, whose apartments were said to
be the most luxurious student rooms in this country, with a single
possible exception--you here, in this rig! I am the one to be
astonished.”
“It seems to be a case of mutual astonishment. Sure you have me
daffy, old man. I can’t believe my eyes even now.”
“No more can I. Why, you are the man they said would not even take
the trouble to strike a match to light your own cigarette if your
valet were within call. As for dressing yourself, it was said you
had never been compelled to perform such a menial task. And now I
meet you here--in such an outfit! I am the one who is dreaming! I
shall awaken in a moment!”
Fred Forest laughed heartily in a well-bred manner, grasping
Frank’s hand and shaking with a truly aristocratic movement, which
showed he was sure to “do the proper” wherever he might be.
“It’s no dream as far as I am concerned, my dear boy,” he assured.
“I am here, in the flesh--and in this outfit.”
“Are you going into the woods on a sporting trip?”
“I assure you not! Quite the contrary. But how do you happen to be
here?”
Frank explained in a few well-chosen words, making clear without
telling a long story just why he was in Mattawamkeag.
“I just came down to the station to see about purchasing tickets
for Bangor,” he finished. “I was astounded to see you step off the
train as it came in.”
“So you are on your way down the river, and I just came up. And you
and your friends have planned to go down to-day?”
“Yes.”
“Better stop over till to-morrow. I’m here on business. We’ll have
a jolly good time talking over the great games and races between
our respective _alma maters_. You’re in no particular rush. Say
you’ll stop.”
Frank hesitated.
“I don’t know,” he said, slowly; “I wouldn’t mind. Some of the
others might growl. But you haven’t told me how it is you are
here--in this rig.”
“It’s a pretty long story, but I’ll cut it short and make it clear
in a few words. My father is dead. He was supposed to be very
rich, but, when he died, his property was found to be involved. He
was engaged in the lumber business, and he owned large tracts of
forest up here in this State. Every winter he cut a great amount
of timber, which was brought down the river in the spring. He died
early last spring, and, when it was found that his affairs were
involved and he was not as rich as supposed, everything came to a
standstill. There seemed to be no one to carry on his business, and
so not half of his timber was run down the river. When I realized
just where I had been left in the world, I set about trying to
straighten father’s affairs out. It took some time to get, so I
could see through anything, but, at last, I found out about how
things stood. There was a chance of pulling things out and putting
the business on its feet with good management. But where was the
manager? Then I decided to give up college and take up my father’s
business. The creditors kindly agreed to give me time, and that’s
about all there is to be told, save that I am trying to get the
timber down the river, even though it is out of season. The price
of lumber has advanced, and I can make a big strike toward squaring
things if I can get the logs out. The river is not as low as usual
at this season, and I am running the logs, although it has cost me
much more to get them out than it would have cost last spring. I’ll
have to give up getting a drive off the East Branch, but I have
brought one down the main river, and there is another somewhere
this side of Twin Lakes. It should be at Melway by this time. It is
the largest drive of any, and I am going down with it. That’s all.
Now you understand why I am here, dressed in this rig.”
Frank’s eyes shone with admiration and sympathy.
“Old man,” he said, seriously, “I admire your grit! It’s plain
enough you are made of the right stuff. You have never been brought
up to work, and yet, when the time came, you showed you were ready
to do your duty.”
“Well,” smiled Fred, “some people who have always known me are
dazed by the change. They always said I was spoiled--I would not
amount to anything. When father died and it was learned that he
had not left his affairs in very good shape, great sympathy was
expressed for my mother. They said it was so hard to be left a
widow with no fortune and a worthless son to support. They are
beginning to change their minds about the worthless son, for they
have discovered that he can wear common clothes and work as hard as
any man. And I’ll live to pay every dollar my father owed, and I
will support my mother in absolute comfort the rest of her life.”
“You’ll do it!” cried Merry, enthusiastically. “I see it in your
face! You are all right, Forest! Sometimes it takes a great
calamity to bring out the manhood in a fellow. Yours has been shown
by the death of your father and the condition his affairs were
left in. I believe you will become a smart, capable business man.
This very misfortune may result for the best so far as you are
concerned. Fred Forest, I am proud of you!”
“That is somewhat different from some of my former friends,”
laughed the young lumberman.
“How do you mean?”
“After father’s death I went back to Cambridge to gather up my
personal property. Somehow the news got ahead of me that I had not
been left a fortune, but was poor. Ha! ha! ha! You should have seen
how some of my former friends gave me the marble heart! They cut me
dead.”
“The cads!” cried Frank, in disgust.
“Yes,” Fred went on, “some of them who had drunk my wine and
borrowed my money did not know me at all. Not one of them offered
to pay back a dollar of what he had borrowed, or even mentioned
that he would pay it some time. Those things rather upset a
fellow’s trust in human nature.”
“They tend to,” confessed Merry; “but we mustn’t let them. I have
a theory that as soon as a man loses confidence in human nature he
blots out a great element of satisfaction in living. I have been
deceived many times by those I firmly believed my friends, but, on
the other hand, I have found occasionally that an enemy who seemed
to be a thorough rascal was a decent sort of fellow at heart. These
things have led me to be slow about judging my fellow men.”
“That’s all right enough, Merriwell,” nodded Forest; “but I can now
see that a certain element of our college life tends to make cads
and snobs of men.”
“That is true,” agreed Frank; “but, at the same time those chaps
have naturally caddish inclinations. Their surroundings simply
bring out their true nature. At the same time, the colleges turn
out manly men by the thousands, about whom there is nothing
caddish.”
“Oh! well, we won’t discuss that now. Come on over to the hotel.
I have a proposal to make to you. It may not meet your approval,
but----”
“Wait till I see about those tickets.”
“Never mind the tickets now. You can see about them when you decide
to go down the river by rail.”
“I have decided on that already.”
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
“Why should I?”
“You are up here looking for sport.”
“Sure.”
“You are roughing it?”
“Yes.”
“Why not stay and go down the river with me?”
“How?”
“With the drive.”
“But I don’t understand. How would we travel?”
“On the raft.”
“What raft?”
“The one that follows the drive. We would drift down the river. The
raft is composed of a lot of logs bound together to carry the cook,
cookee and their outfit. There are some little huts on it, and it
is tied up every night. The men sleep in the huts and in shore
camps.”
“What is done with the raft when a bad rapid in the river is
reached?”
“It is sent through if the rapids are not too bad. If they are too
bad, it is broken up and sent through, then bound together again
below. You will enjoy the drift down the river, if you are not in
a hurry. What do you say?”
“It’s worth considering,” said Frank. “If the rest of the fellows
are willing I’ll go with you. Let’s go over to the hotel and see
them.”
So they left the station together.