Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
The author has used the phrase ‘chip of the old block’ several times
and the more usual ‘chip off’ once. This has not been changed.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.
BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN
MERRIWELL SERIES
ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH
Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell
Fascinating Stories of Athletics
A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
the rest of the world.
These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and
athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be
of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.
They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads
102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise
104—Dick Merriwell’s Test
105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card
106—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy
107—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph
108—Dick Merriwell’s Grit
109—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance
110—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide
111—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal
112—Dick Merriwell’s Threat
113—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence
114—Dick Merriwell’s Day
115—Frank Merriwell’s Peril
116—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall
117—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit
118—Dick Merriwell Abroad
119—Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
120—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks
121—Frank Merriwell’s Pride
122—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers
123—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance
124—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness
125—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage
126—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
127—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke
128—Dick Merriwell’s Return
129—Dick Merriwell’s Resource
130—Dick Merriwell’s Five
131—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers
132—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team
133—Frank Merriwell’s Pupils
134—Frank Merriwell’s New Boy
135—Dick Merriwell’s Home Run
136—Dick Merriwell’s Dare
137—Frank Merriwell’s Son
138—Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate
139—Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers
140—Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp
141—Dick Merriwell’s Influence
142—Dick Merriwell, Freshman
143—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power
144—Dick Merriwell’s Joke
145—Frank Merriwell’s Talisman
146—Frank Merriwell’s Horse
147—Dick Merriwell’s Regret
148—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism
149—Dick Merriwell’s Backers
150—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work
151—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust
152—Dick Merriwell’s Debt
153—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery
154—Dick Merriwell Adrift
155—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy
156—Dick Merriwell’s Close Call
157—Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyage
158—Dick Merriwell’s Black Star
159—Frank Merriwell in Wall Street
160—Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes
161—Dick Merriwell’s Stanchness
162—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Case
163—Dick Merriwell’s Stand
164—Dick Merriwell Doubted
165—Frank Merriwell’s Steadying Hand
166—Dick Merriwell’s Example
167—Dick Merriwell in the Wilds
168—Frank Merriwell’s Ranch
169—Dick Merriwell’s Way
170—Frank Merriwell’s Lesson
171—Dick Merriwell’s Reputation
172—Frank Merriwell’s Encouragement
173—Dick Merriwell’s Honors
174—Frank Merriwell’s Wizard
175—Dick Merriwell’s Race
176—Dick Merriwell’s Star Play
177—Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake
178—Dick Merriwell a Winner
179—Dick Merriwell at the County Fair
180—Frank Merriwell’s Grit
181—Dick Merriwell’s Power
182—Frank Merriwell in Peru
183—Frank Merriwell’s Long Chance
184—Frank Merriwell’s Old Form
185—Frank Merriwell’s Treasure Hunt
186—Dick Merriwell Game to the Last
187—Dick Merriwell, Motor King
188—Dick Merriwell’s Tussle
189—Dick Merriwell’s Aero Dash
190—Dick Merriwell’s Intuition
191—Dick Merriwell’s Placer Find
192—Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance
193—Frank Merriwell’s Tact
194—Frank Merriwell’s Puzzle
195—Frank Merriwell’s Mystery
196—Frank Merriwell, the Lionhearted
197—Frank Merriwell’s Tenacity
198—Dick Merriwell’s Perception
199—Dick Merriwell’s Detective Work
200—Dick Merriwell’s Commencement
201—Dick Merriwell’s Decision
202—Dick Merriwell’s Coolness
203—Dick Merriwell’s Reliance
204—Frank Merriwell’s Young Warriors
205—Frank Merriwell’s Lads
206—Dick Merriwell in Panama
207—Dick Merriwell in South America
208—Dick Merriwell’s Counsel
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.
To be published in January, 1929.
209—Dick Merriwell, Universal Coach
210—Dick Merriwell’s Varsity Nine
To be published in February, 1929.
211—Dick Merriwell’s Heroic Players
212—Dick Merriwell at the Olympics
To be published in March, 1929.
213—Frank Merriwell, Jr., Tested
214—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Conquests
215—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Rivals
To be published in April, 1929.
216—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand
217—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona
To be published in May, 1929.
218—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Mission
219—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Iceboat Adventure
To be published in June, 1929.
220—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Timely Aid
221—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in the Desert
Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand
OR
FAIR PLAY AND NO FAVORS
By
BURT L. STANDISH
Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Device]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1912
By STREET & SMITH
Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
Printed in the U. S. A.
FRANK MERRIWELL, JR.’S, HELPING HAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSEBREAKER.
In one of the residence streets of Gold Hill, Arizona, stood—and no
doubt still stands at this moment—a rather pretentious, two-story
dwelling. Six low-growing, broad-leaved palms were marshaled in two
rows before the front door, and to right and left of the palms were
umbrella and pepper trees. Extending from one corner of the house,
almost to the pickets that fenced in the premises, was a rank growth of
oleanders.
This was the home of Colonel Alvah G. Hawtrey, an ex-army officer. In
the service of his country Hawtrey had chased and fought the murderous
Apaches all over that part of the Southwest; and now, at the age of
sixty, the colonel, with an honorable discharge from the service, was
giving his attention to various mining enterprises and was reputed to
be a very wealthy man.
He was broad-minded and public-spirited, and the prosperity of Gold
Hill owed more to the old colonel than to any other citizen. He had
built the Bristow Hotel and several brick business blocks; he had
founded a social club, a cattlemen’s association, and a miners’ relief
society. It was known that he paid, out of his own pocket, the salary
of one of the local ministers; he owned a bank, and, last but not
least, he had organized and brought into successful operation the Gold
Hill Athletic Club. For nothing was the colonel more honored than for
his love of manly sports, and for his zeal in seeing that the youth of
Gold Hill received proper physical training.
On a night in late October a spectral figure crept along the fence in
front of Colonel Hawtrey’s house. The house was dark, and apparently
deserted. After surveying the house carefully for a few moments, the
figure leaped the fence noiselessly and gracefully and faded into the
deep shadow of the oleanders.
Very carefully the prowler made his way through the bushes to the
corner of the house. Here again he paused and listened. Seemingly
satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided to the nearest window,
opened the thin blade of a pocketknife, climbed to the sill, forced the
blade between the upper and lower sash, and deftly opened the lock.
Another moment and he had raised the lower half of the window and
dropped through into the dark room beyond.
Evidently this prowler was not on unfamiliar ground. Without striking
a light, he groped his way to a door and into a hall; through the hall
he passed, and to a stairway, then up the stairs to the hall above, and
down the corridor to a room at the rear of the house. He had a key to
the door of the room, and he opened it. Once across the threshold, he
scratched a match, stepped to an electric-light button, and touched it
with his finger. Instantly the room was flooded with a glow of light
from incandescent bulbs.
It was a small room, with banners and pennants on the walls. Several
of the flags bore the letters, “G. H. H. S.”—official emblems of
Gold Hill “High.” Others bore the initials “G. H. A. C.” and had
once figured in athletic-club events. Foils were also crossed on the
wall, boxing gloves hung from pegs, a catcher’s mask lay on a shelf,
and a breast protector hung beneath it. On the same shelf with the
mask stood a tarnished silver cup, bearing an inscription to the
effect that it had been presented to one Ellis Darrel for winning a
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash under the auspices of the Gold Hill
Athletic Club. Dumb-bells and Indian clubs stood on the floor close to
the wall.
Thick dust covered everything. The prowler stood in the center of the
room as though in a trance, and slowly allowed his eyes to wander about
him.
He was a young fellow, not much over seventeen, slender and with a body
remarkably well set-up. His hair was light and curly, his eyes blue,
and his face was handsome and winning, although clouded with melancholy
and a certain haunting sadness.
The long, wavering survey of the room seemed to overcome the intruder.
Suddenly he sank down into a dusty morris chair, bowed his head, and
covered his face with his hands. As suddenly, he roused himself again,
shook his shoulders as though to free them of a grievous burden, and
made his way toward the door of a closet.
From the closet he removed a suit case, lettered with the initials
“E. D.,” and followed with the address, “Gold Hill, Ariz.” Kneeling
beside the bit of luggage, he opened it and took out a sleeveless
shirt, a pair of running pants, and a pair of spiked shoes. A couple
of cork grips rattled around in the suit case as he removed the other
contents, but he left them, closed the grip, and returned it to the
closet. Then he carefully closed the closet door.
Rolling his sprinting outfit into a compact bundle, the intruder rose
to his feet and started for the hall door. On his way he paused. Below
the cross foils hung a picture, turned with its face to the wall.
A flash of white ran through the lad’s bronzed cheeks. With his bundle
under his arm, he put out one trembling hand to the picture and turned
it around.
It was a framed photograph of a young fellow in running costume, taken
on a cinder path. The lad in the photo was holding a silver cup—the
same cup that stood on the shelf in that room. And it was more than
evident that the youngster in the picture was the very same lad who had
entered that house like a thief in the night, and was now staring at a
kodak testimonial of a former track victory.
Why was the photograph turned to the wall? Why was the dust lying
thick upon every object in the room? The cause was no mystery to the
intruder. His lip quivered and a mist rose in his eyes as he turned the
photograph to the wall once more.
He peered around to make sure that he had left nothing which might
prove a clew to his presence in the room, then turned off the light,
passed into the hall, and shut and locked the door behind him. As he
had come gropingly to the upper floor, so now he felt his way down the
stairs and to the opened window. To climb through the window and lower
the sash from the outside required but a few moments.
He tried to relock the sash, but found it impossible. Hesitating a
moment by the unlocked window, he turned finally and made his way
through the oleanders to the fence; then, leaping the pickets as he had
done before, he vanished along the gloomy street.
He had come from Nowhere, this mysterious lad who had come prowling by
night into the house of Colonel Hawtrey; but he was going Somewhere,
and, for the first time in months, he had a destination and a fixed
object in mind. Although he believed that he had left no clews behind
him, and that he had not been seen coming or going from the house, yet
he was mistaken.
Some one, leaving the dwelling by the front door, had passed along
the walk between the shadowy palms just at the moment the intruder
was standing by the fence. At the very moment the prowler leaped the
pickets, this other person was at the gate and had caught sight of the
figure disappearing into the oleanders.
The person who had left the house repressed a cry of alarm and stood,
for a few moments, leaning over the gatepost. It had seemed to him as
though, in the starlight, he had recognized the form that had leaped
the fence. A gasp escaped his tense lips, and it was plain that he was
gripped hard with astonishment and dismay. While he stood there, slowly
recovering control of himself, he heard muffled sounds from within
the house; then, leaving the gate, he passed through the oleander
bushes and found the open window. He was on the point of following the
intruder into the house when a glow of light shone out from the second
floor. Hurrying to a pepper tree that grew near a rear corner of the
building, the spy climbed swiftly upward until he was on a level with
the window through which came the light. The prowler had not drawn the
shade, so all that went on in the upper room came under the eyes of the
spy.
One look at the lad in the house, under the electric light, convinced
the person in the tree that the prowler was really the one whom he had
at first supposed him to be. The spy gritted his teeth and his hands
clutched the tree limbs convulsively. When the intruder had left the
house and vanished down the street, the spy came down from the tree,
hurried around to the front door, and let himself into the building.
Quickly he turned on the lights and made his way to the room, through
the window of which the intruder had gained entrance into the house.
This room was the colonel’s study. A desk stood in the center of it,
the walls were lined with books, and in one corner was a massive iron
safe.
In the light it could be seen that this second youth was not more than
two years the senior of the lad who had come and gone. But the face of
this second youth was dark and sinister, and the puzzled light in his
shifty eyes was gradually taking on a cunning gleam.
“What is he back here for?” he was asking himself, half aloud. “Just
getting his old running suit, eh?” and there was something of a sneer
in the voice. “There’s money in the safe, and I thought——” Just what
the lad thought did not appear. A look at the safe showed it had not
been tampered with. “Has he returned to soft soap the old gent and get
back into his good graces? That’s what he has on his mind, and I’ll bet
on it! He stole in here like a thief—just to get his old track clothes!
I wonder——”
The youth paused, the cunning light growing in his eyes. On the floor,
below the window, lay an open pocketknife. He picked it up and looked
at it. On a piece of worn silver in the handle was marked, “E. D.,
from Uncle Alvah.”
“By Jupiter,” whispered the lad, “I’ll do it! Here’s a chance to cinch
the situation—for me. I can make it impossible for that soft-sawdering
beggar to get back into Uncle Alvah’s confidence. I’ll fix him, by
thunder!”
Swiftly the schemer darted to the safe. Kneeling before it, he turned
the knob of the combination back and forth for a few moments, and then
pulled open the heavy door. The inner door was drawn out easily, and
a package of bills, wound with a paper band and marked “$1,000” was
removed. The boy hesitated, the package of bills in his hand.
“Hang it,” he muttered, “it’s now or never. There’s nothing else for
it!”
With that, he pushed the bills into his pocket and got up.
“It will look like a clear case,” he went on. “The old gent will come
here to-morrow morning, find the safe open, the window unlocked,
the money gone—_and Darrel’s knife on the floor_! I’ll bet a row of
’dobies,” he added fiercely, “that will fix Darrel for good. What did
he want to come back here for, anyhow? He ought to have had better
sense. Lucky thing I had to run into town from Mohave Cañon, in order
to fix up a scheme to knock Frank Merriwell out; and it’s lucky I was
leaving the house and saw Darrel, and spied on him instead of giving a
yell and facing him down. Oh, I reckon things are coming my way, all
right! But Darrel—here! Who’d have dreamed of such a thing? There’ll be
merry blazes when the old gent gets home to-morrow!”
Chuckling to himself, the plotter put out the lights, made his way to
the front door, and was soon clear of the house and in the street. He
had laid an evil train of circumstantial evidence, designed to benefit
himself at the expense of Darrel.