THE FIFTEENTH MAN.
The early spring days passed rapidly at the college, and the
interest of the students had been for days centered in the date
fixed for the elections to the senior societies.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon of the third Thursday in May.
In front of the fence the juniors had congregated in a body, and
there they waited in solemn and expectant silence. Without doubt,
every man in that throng by the fence hoped deep in his heart that
it would be his fate to make “Bones.”
Some there were who felt confident, and their confidence showed
in their faces; but others were doubtful and nervous, while still
others, knowing that their chances were not worth reckoning upon,
seemed resigned, as if nothing more than curiosity to watch the
rest had brought them there.
Still all hoped. Often in the past some unexpected man had been
chosen to accept the high honor of entering one of the three senior
societies, and what had happened might happen again. Of course,
there were men whose election seemed certain. Their society career
had begun in Kappa Omicron Alpha, when they were at Andover, and
had continued triumphantly through Hé Boulé or Eta Phi, the Yale
sophomore societies, into Delta Kappa Epsilon, Psi Upsilon, or
Alpha Delta Phi, the great junior societies of the college. It
would be against all precedent to leave such men out of all three
of the senior societies, and of course they felt certain that the
hand of some searching senior society man would fall smartly on
their backs that day.
But out of that throng of students only forty-five men could be the
favored ones, fifteen to each society. The confident ones were all
looking to make “Bones,” though, to tell the truth, there was some
inward trepidation among them.
For Skull and Bones is the great senior society at Yale, being
the oldest and richest of them all. He is not a Yale man who
would prefer scholarship, honors, or prizes to membership in this
society, and it is supposed that the honor falls each year to the
fifteen men who stand highest as scholars, athletes, or have made
brilliant records in a literary and social way.
Next to “Bones” comes Scroll and Key, generally known as “Keys,”
and, after “Bones,” it gets the cream of the picking. If a man does
not make “Bones,” he may feel solaced and satisfied that his great
ambitions have not been entirely fruitless in case he is taken
into “Keys.” Indeed, the men who make the latter society seem to
convince themselves that it is the one they always preferred, and
they bear themselves with the air and dignity of conquerors.
And so on this third Thursday in May all the probable and possible
candidates were gathered at the fence. Freshmen and sophomores
stood off and looked on, for in this ceremony they had no part.
In less than one minute after the clock struck five, a solemn
senior was seen threading his way through the crowd, and all knew
a “Bones” man was in search of the candidate he had been sent to
notify. All eyes followed him, and an anxious hush fell on the
great throng.
“It’s Gunnison!” whispered somebody, as the searcher was seen
looking sharply at a man.
“No, Rice!” fluttered another. “See, he’s turned away from
Gunnison.”
But he passed Rice.
“Who can it be?”
In a moment they would know. Of a sudden, the searcher dealt a
student a sharp slap on the back, sternly saying:
“Go to your room!”
“It’s Gildea!” said a voice that was drowned in a great shout that
goes up from the spectators.
The first “Bones” man had been chosen.
Then came another grave senior weaving in and out through the
throng, and soon another shout went up as another man was tapped
sharply on the back and ordered to go to his room.
The watchers were keeping count with untold excitement and anxiety,
for thus they could tell where each man went and how their own
chances were growing less, in case they were juniors.
Bertrand Defarge was smiling and serene, for he had made a
sophomore and a junior society, and he was confident of being taken
into the field of “Bones.”
At one time he had feared, but since that time he had made his
peace with Merriwell. It had been a terrible humiliation for him to
go to Frank and humble himself, but the French youth, feeling that
his ambition was hopeless unless he did, had forced himself to do
so. It was the manner in which Merriwell had met him that restored
hope and confidence to the heart of Defarge, for Frank had seemed
glad that he came, and had appeared to accept in good faith his
repentance.
Defarge left Merriwell that night with the firm conviction that
Frank’s one great ambition in life was to make friends of his
enemies. And he told himself that he had deceived Merry finely
with his tearful protestations of sorrow, repentance, admiration,
and pledges of future friendship. He had seen Merriwell do much
in the past for enemies who had become his friends, and Bertrand
worked to deceive Frank into giving him a lift toward the goal of
his ambitions, “Bones.” In this he was crafty, knowing that open
speech would not do, but yet he fancied he had managed to convey
his meaning and desires in a most delicate manner.
The fellow had even been so confident that he boasted of his
cleverness to one or two intimate and confidential friends.
“Merriwell is the easiest fellow in the world to fool if you know
how to go about it,” he had said.
“Do you think that?”
“I know it. I’ve been playing my cards wrong with him. I’ve just
found out the trick.”
“What is it?”
“Make him think you love him. Make him believe you’re awfully sorry
for any harm you may have tried to do him. Be a repentant sinner,
and seek forgiveness. He loves to forgive. He has a magnanimous way
of saying: ‘Oh, that’s all right, old man; don’t mention it.’ Then
he’ll turn to and do more for the enemy he believes has become his
friend than for any one else.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His record. Diamond was his enemy; see what he did for Diamond.
Browning was his enemy, and he has stood ready to do anything
for him. Hodge was one of the bitterest enemies he ever had, yet
they are bosom friends now. Badger, who hated him, finally turned
friend, and Merriwell helped Badger win and carry off Winnie Lee
for his wife. That is proof enough. I’ve given him the hint, and
I know he’ll throw his influence for me. Not a word, old man, but
I’m sure of making ‘Bones’ now.”
So Defarge stood by the fence and smiled as he saw man after man
tapped and ordered away. He had little interest in a chap he knew
was looking for a “Keys” candidate, and none whatever in the Wolf’s
Head searcher.
Hock Mason happened to be standing close to Defarge. Bertrand had
sought to be friendly toward all of Merriwell’s friends after his
professed “change of heart,” and now he was conversing with the
youth from South Carolina.
“Twelve men gone to ‘Bones,’” he said in a low tone. “That leaves
only three more.”
“And I know twenty good fellows who ought to go there,” said Hock.
“Oh, yes; that’s all right; but you see it can’t be, as only
fifteen men can make it.”
“You’re not tapped yet.”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” declared Bertrand, but the confident
smile was fading from his face and giving place to a look of
anxiety.
What if he should not be chosen, after all? What if he should be
thrown down after making every other Society in order? He felt that
the disgrace would kill him. But that could not be. Merriwell had
not yet appeared in search of a candidate. He would come soon, and
something told Defarge that it would be the hand of Frank Merriwell
that would tap him on the back. Ha! what a satisfaction it would
be to use Merriwell at last as a tool in this manner! Defarge felt
that there was something in making use of a hated foe in such a
way that was even more satisfactory than in maiming or killing
him. Of course, they would be bound together as brothers in the
society, and Defarge knew he would never again lift a hand against
Merriwell; but the fact that Frank must leave college in a few
short weeks, to return no more, was a great comfort to Bertrand.
Another cheer went up from the great throng, telling that yet
another candidate had been chosen. The happy man was seen walking
swiftly toward his room, followed by the grave-faced senior who had
slapped him on the back.
“‘Bones,’” said the watchers.
“Thirteen!” counted Defarge, in a husky whisper.
“Only two more,” muttered Mason.
“Just enough to take us both in,” said Bertrand, with pretended
lightness, though his heart was sinking.
“Not enough to take me in,” declared the youth from South Carolina
rather sadly. “There was never a ghost of a show for me. I only
came here to see the other fellows made happy. You know my record
when I first came here hurt me, and when a man gets started wrong
at Yale, he has hard work to change his course and get on the
right track. I’ve been side-tracked right along.”
“It’s too bad!” nodded Defarge. “Hello! there goes another ‘Keys’
man. You might make Wolf’s Head, Mason, you know.”
“My chance of making heaven is better. But surely a society man
like you----”
“‘Bones,’ or nothing!” muttered Defarge grimly. “There are two more
to go, and I’m waiting.”
“Hooray! Codwell! Hoopee! Hooray!”
“‘Bones!’” said Defarge hoarsely, his face growing white.
“Fourteen!” counted Mason. “That leaves but one more.”
“I’m the man!” the French youth inwardly declared. “I must be the
man! What if they did not take me in! What if I failed after making
the other societies!”
It could not be! Such a thing was unprecedented. Fortune had simply
held him back for the fifteenth man. His mouth and lips were dry
and he trembled a little. Was it possible, after all, that he had
failed to deceive Merriwell? But it had been claimed by all of
Merriwell’s friends that he would not use personal feelings to
retard any man from advancement.
“He will not,” Defarge told himself. “It would be more like him
to go against any feeling of dislike he may have for me, and seek
to uplift me for that very reason. I’m all right! I am to be the
fifteenth man.”
He heard nothing of the roar from the crowd as a “Keys” man was
slapped, or the fainter shout as a candidate went to Wolf’s Head.
He was waiting for Frank Merriwell to appear; he was looking in all
directions for him.
Those in the crowd who were disappointed were doing their best
to hide it away under a mask of happiness over the good fortune
of others. Many were there who felt a great pain in their hearts
and longed to crawl away and hide themselves, but they laughed in
a strained fashion and talked of the luck of others. Those who
had been to their rooms, followed by tappers, were back receiving
congratulations from friends, their hands being shaken till their
arms were tired.
This was the acme of college glory. Truly, it did seem that some of
those happy-faced chaps were not nearly as deserving as some others
who were congratulating them. But it is the case all through life.
Not always the men we regard as the most deserving win the high
prizes. We may, however, be wrong in our estimates of men.
Only one more man to go to “Bones.” Who would it be? The crowd were
speculating.
“Harrison is the man.”
“Don’t believe yourself. He can’t get there. It’s Fairbush.”
“All wrong. It’s Defarge, of course.”
“That’s right; Defarge must be the man. Look how cool he is. He
knows he will be chosen, even though there is only one more choice.
He’ll get it.”
“Sure thing. Who’s the man he’s talking to?”
“Oh, that’s Mason.”
“So it is! What a chump I am not to know him! He can play ball.”
“Merriwell brought him out. Nobody ever suspected there was much in
him till Merriwell took hold of him. He never did cut any ice.”
All at once Defarge stiffened up. Moving through the crowd, looking
right and left, he had seen a well-known senior.
It was Merriwell!
Frank was the last of the “Bones” men to come forth in search of
a candidate. His was the fifteenth man. All eyes were turned on
Merriwell, and a great hush fell on the watching throng.
In and out, here and there, Frank moved. As he came near, the
heart of many a man rose into his throat; as he turned away, those
swelling, fluttering hearts seemed to drop back like lead.
The mouth of Defarge was dry as a chip now, and he felt cold
shivers running up and down his spine. He almost feared to watch
Merriwell’s movements.
What if he should be left out? It seemed that he could never bear
the disgrace of it. Mason was speaking to him. At first he did not
seem to hear, but soon he understood these words:
“Everywhere for you. He’s passed Fairbush and Harrison. They are
both looking ill. Too bad! I’m sorry for them. It must be tough on
a man who has counted on being chosen. He sees you, Defarge! He is
coming this way!”
Yes, it seemed that Frank had seen Bertrand at last. He turned in
that direction, and came forward slowly, as became the dignity of
a senior on such a grave mission.
Bertrand’s heart leaped for joy. Now there could no longer be a
doubt; he was the man, and to Merriwell had fallen the lot of
notifying him.
Defarge came near laughing aloud. He did smile. He saw how
everybody was watching Merriwell. Many present knew Frank had
found in the French youth a persistent foe, but of late it seemed
that Merry had discovered a way to hold Bertrand in subjection and
submission. But the great mass of students did not dream of the
many villainous attempts Defarge had made to injure Frank.
In that moment Bertrand Defarge saw visions of being made a member
of Merriwell’s flock. He even vowed that he would do his level
best to gain such distinction, as it would give him standing after
Merriwell had left college.
Not that he loved Merriwell at all. Not that his treacherous nature
had been changed in the least. But “Bones” would bring about the
eternal burial of the hatchet, and never could anything cause them
to betray a symptom of enmity.
Frank came nearer.
“It’s a sure thing, Defarge!” said Mason, in a whisper.
“Congratulations.”
“Yes, it’s a sure thing,” thought Bertrand. “I knew it. How could
I ever doubt it for a minute? They could not skip me. I was a fool
to think such a thing!”
Frank came nearer. Bertrand even turned his body so that Merry
might have less trouble in reaching his back and giving it a slap.
Then he waited again.
Smack! Frank’s hand had fallen.
“Go to your room!”
The fifteenth man had been chosen.
It was not Defarge!