GETTING INTO TRIM.
Bart Hodge was not aware that Frank had been so thoroughly aroused; but
when he was called to Merry’s room in the hotel that day after lunch and
found two complete fencing outfits there—foils, masks, jackets, and
gauntlet gloves—he realized that there was “something doing.”
Frank closed and locked the door.
“Strip down and make ready,” he said grimly. “I’m going to brush up and
get in condition, and you are the victim.”
“I’m happy to be the victim now,” declared Bart; “in case Mr. Darleton
is the victim later.”
Something more than an hour later the comrades were resting after a bath
and rub down. Bart’s eyes shone and his dark, handsome face wore an
expression of great satisfaction.
“You may be rusty, Merry,” he observed; “but I fail to see it. I swear
you fenced better to-day than ever before in all your life.”
“You think so, Bart; but I can’t believe that. A man can’t be at his
best at fencing, any more than at billiards, unless he is in constant
practice.”
“Oh, I know I’ve gone back; but you have not. I’ll wager my life you can
give Fred Darleton all he is looking for.”
“It would be a pleasure to me,” confessed Frank. “Somehow he irritated
me strangely.”
“I’d never supposed it by your manner.”
“If I had lost my temper I should have been defeated. Mr. Darleton has a
temper, and I shall count on it leading to his downfall, in case we
meet.”
“You’ll meet, for you are challenged. He thinks you a mark, Merry. He’ll
be overconfident.”
“Another thing I count on as aiding me. Overconfidence is quite as bad
as lack of confidence. Darleton has been praised too much, and he
believes he is very nearly perfect as a fencer. A defeat now will either
make or mar him. If defeated, he will either set about working harder to
acquire further accomplishment, or he will quit.”
“I believe he’ll quit.”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t like him, Merry.”
“There is something about him that I do not fancy, myself. I’ve not seen
him enough to judge what it is. I’ve tried to think it might be his
freshness in shooting his mouth the way he did; but something asserts
that I should have disliked him had he kept his mouth closed. He has an
air of directness; but behind it there is a touch of cunning and craft
that stamps him as crooked. I may sympathize with a weak chap who goes
crooked through temptation; but I have no sympathy for a sly rascal who
is dishonest with deliberation. If Darleton is naturally honest, I have
misjudged him.”
There came a heavy knock on the door and the sound of voices outside.
Bart unlocked the door, and Joe Gamp stalked in, followed by Jack Ready,
Hans Dunnerwurst, and Jim Stretcher, all of Merriwell’s party.
“Ding this tut-tut-tut-tut-tut——” began Joe.
“Tut, tut!” interrupted Jack. “Eliminate repetitions from your profuse
flow of language, Joseph.”
Gamp flourished his fist in the air and began again:
“Ding this tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut——”
“Whistle, Joe—whistle!” advised Frank.
Whereupon the tall chap recommenced:
“Ding this tut-tut-tut—whistle—town! It’s all up hill and
dud-dud-dud—whistle—down!”
“Oh, Joseph, you’re a poet!” exclaimed Ready.
“Yah,” said Dunnerwurst gravely, “oudt uf him boetry flows like a
sbarkling rifer.”
“We have decided in solemn conclave,” said Ready, “that the streets of
this prosperous Western burgh are exceedingly soiled.”
“Und some of them been stood their end onto,” put in Hans.
“It’s hard to keep your fuf-fuf-fuf—whistle—feet from slipping in the
sus-sus-sus—whistle—street,” added Gamp.
“There he goes again!” burst from Ready. “I never suspected it of him.
Crown him with laurels and adorn him with bays.”
“What is the difference between the bay and the laurel, Jack?” laughed
Frank.
“Ask me not at this unpropitious moment,” entreated the odd fellow. “We
have been meandering hither and yon over Omaha—yea verily, we have been
even as far as the stockyards of South Omaha. We have waded across
streets that were guiltless of being cleaned even since the day they
were paved. We have ascended streets which led into the clouds, and we
have descended others which led into the gorges and valleys. We have
gazed in awe upon the courthouse, with blind justice standing on its
battlements, balances in hand. We have seen the post office and
expressed our admiration. Alas and alack, we are wearied! We fain would
rest. Omaha is all right for those who think so; but some day she will
rise and butcher her street-cleaning department. She will be justified.
I have spoke.”
With this he dropped on a chair and fanned himself weakly.
“What have you fellows been dud-dud-doing?” inquired Gamp, noticing for
the first time that the boys were in bath robes and that fencing
paraphernalia was scattered about the room.
Frank explained that they had been fencing.
“Jee-whickers!” cried Joe. “You used to be pretty good at it when you
were at cuc-cuc-college. You were the champion fuf-fuf-fuf-fencer at
Yale, all right.”
“He’s just as good to-day as he ever was,” declared Bart; “and Mr.
Darleton will find out that is good enough.”
“Who’s Darleton?” asked Stretcher.
Then they were told about the affair at the club, which quickly awoke
their interest.
“Omaha takes on new fascination for me,” averred Ready. “I felt like
folding my tent and stealing away a short time ago; but if Merry is
going against some gentleman with the inflated cranium in this burgh, I
shall linger with great glee to watch the outcome.”
“You talk the way a cub reporter writes, Ready,” said Stretcher. “Big
words sound good to you, but if you know what you’re saying you’ll have
to show me.”
“I shall refrain from exerting myself to that extent, my boy,” retorted
Jack. “It’s not worth while.”
“Where are the rest of the boys?” asked Frank.
“Scattered broadcast over the mountains and valleys of Omaha,” answered
Ready. “Fear not for them; they will return in due time.”
“How does Omaha strike you, Jim?” inquired Merriwell.
“She ain’t in it much compared with Kansas City,” said Stretcher. “We
have some hills there, you know. I’ve yet to see any country that can
get away from old Missouri. When you get ahead of Missouri, you’ll have
to hurry.”
“It does me good to see a chap who will stand up for his native State,”
said Merry, winking at some of the others but maintaining a grave face
before Stretcher. “Of course Missouri may have her drawbacks, but we all
know she is a land of fertility and——”
“Fertility!” cried Jim enthusiastically. “You bet! Crops grow overnight
there. Yes, sir, that’s straight. It’s perfectly astonishing how things
grow. As an illustration, when I was about seven years old my mother
gave me some morning-glory seeds to plant. I always did love the
morning-glory flower. I thought it would be a grand thing to plant the
seeds beneath my chamber window, where I could look forth each morning
on rising and revel in the beauty of the purple blossoms. I got busy and
stuck the seeds into the ground one afternoon about five o’clock. I knew
the soil was particularly rich right there, and I counted on the vines
growing fast, so I lost no time in stringing a number of cords from the
ground right up to my window.
“That night when I went to bed I wondered if the seeds would be sprouted
when I rose the following morning. It was warm weather, and I slept with
my window open. I suppose I kicked the bedclothes off. Some time in the
night I felt something pushing me, but I was too sleepy to wake up.
About daylight I woke up suddenly, for something pushed me out of bed
onto the floor. I jumped up and looked to see what was the matter.
Fellows, you won’t believe it, but the vine—or, rather, a profusion of
vines—had grown all the way up to my window in the night, had found the
window open, had come into the room, and, being tired from its exertion
in growing so hard, I presume, had climbed into my bed and pushed me
out.”
A profound silence was broken by Dunnerwurst, who gurgled:
“Uf I faint, vill somebody blease throw me on some vater!”
“Stretcher,” said Merry, “I don’t suppose there is ever anything in your
State that is not grand and superior? There are no drawbacks to
Missouri? Soil, climate, people—all are of the first quality?”
“Oh,” said Jim, with an air of modesty, “I presume any part of the
country has its drawbacks. The soil of Missouri is magnificent and the
climate superb—as a rule. I presume there are sterile spots within the
boundaries of the State, and I have experienced some unpleasant weather.
The winter that old Jake died was unusually severe.”
“Who was Jake?”
“A mule, and the dumb companion of my innocent boyhood. You see, I
always wanted a dog. Lots of boys I knew had dogs. Tom Jones had a
shepherd, Pete Boogers had a collie, Muck Robbins had a yaller cur, and
Runt Hatch had two bull purps. I pestered paw for a dog. He didn’t have
any use for dogs, and he wouldn’t give me one. I told him I must have a
pet of some kind. ‘All right, Jim,’ says he, ‘if you want a pet, there’s
Jake, our old mule, you may have him.’ Now, Jake was pretty well used
up. He was spavined and chest foundered and so thin his slats were
coming through his hide. He wasn’t beautiful, but he had been a faithful
old creature, and paw was disinclined to kill him. He thought it was a
great joke to give me Jake for a pet; but I was just yearning for
something on which I could lavish my affection, and I began to pour it
out on Jake.
“I petted the old boy, gave him good feed, took him into the cowshed
nights, and did my best to make him generally comfortable. Jake
appreciated it. You may think dumb creatures, and mules in particular,
have no sense of gratitude, but such is not the case. Jake understood
me, and I did him. I could actually read his thoughts. Yes, sir, it’s a
fact. At first paw grinned over it and tried to joke me about Jake; but
after a while he got tired of having his best feed given that old mule
and finding the animal bedded down in the cowshed. He said it would have
to stop. Then he got mad and turned Jake out to pick for himself. I
brought Jake back twice, but both times paw raised a fuss, and the last
time, he got so blazing mad he swore he’d knock the mule in the head if
I did it again.
“That was in the fall, with winter coming on. I tried to plead with paw;
but it was no go. He said Jake would have to shift for himself in the
open. Jake used to come up to the lower fence and call to me melodiously
in the gloaming, and I would slip down and pat him and talk to him and
sympathize with him. But I didn’t dare do anything more. Well, that
winter was a tough one. Never had so much cold weather packed into one
winter before that. Jake suffered from exposure, and my heart bled for
him. He grew thinner and thinner and sadder and sadder. Paw’s heart was
like flint, and I couldn’t do anything. Jake hated snowstorms. Every
time one came he thought it would be his last; but somehow he worried
through them all until the snow went off and spring set in. Then Jake
brightened up some and seemed more like himself.
“But late in the spring another cold spell struck in. It was near the
first of May. In the midst of that cold spell our barn got afire one
night. When Jake saw that fire, he says to himself, ‘Here’s my chance to
get warm all the way through.’ He found a weak spot in the fence and got
over it, after which he waltzed up to the barn and stood there, warming
first one side and then the other by the heat and enjoying himself.
“We had a heap of corn stored in the barn. After a while the roof of the
barn burned off and the fire got to the corn. When this happened the
corn began to pop and fly into the air. It popped faster and faster and
flew high into the air, coming down in a great shower. Jake looked up
and saw the air plumb full of great, white flakes of popped corn. The
poor, old mule gave a great groan of anguish. ‘I’ve lasted through
twenty-one snowstorms this winter,’ says he, with tears in his eyes;
‘but this one is my finish.’ Then he lay right down where he was and
gave up the struggle. In the morning we found him frozen stiff.”
Ready sobbed and wiped his eyes.
“How pathetic!” he exclaimed chokingly.
“Poor Shake!” gurgled Hans.
“That story should be entitled ‘The Tale of a Mule,’” observed Frank.
“It is evident,” said Bart, “that Missouri mules are sometimes more
intelligent than the inhabitants of the State.”
“Oh, we have some dull people, of course,” admitted Jim. “I remember the
janitor at our old school—he was a trifle dull. Poor old Mullen! One day
he threw up his job. They asked him why he did it. Says he: ‘I’m honest,
and I won’t stand being slurred.’ He was pressed to explain. ‘Why,’ he
exclaimed, ‘when I’m sweeping out, if I happen to find a handkerchief or
any little thing, I hang it up, like an honest man. Every now and then
the teacher, or somebody who hasn’t the nerve to face me, gives me a
slur. A few days ago I come in one mornin’ and I seen writ on the
blackboard: “Find the least common multiple.” Well, I just went
searching the place over from top to bottom, but I couldn’t find a sign
of the old thing anywhere. I don’t believe nobody lost it. That made me
sore, but I stood for it all right. Yesterday mornin’ in great big
letters there was writ on the blackboard: “Find the greatest common
divisor.” Says I to myself: “Now, both of them blamed things is lost,
and I’ll be charged with swipin’ ’em.” And I throwed up my job.’”
They laughed heartily over this story, and, having aroused their
risibilities at last, Jim seemed satisfied.
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