DARLETON’S CHALLENGE.
It was the night of the “finals” at the Midwestern, and the clubrooms
were thronged. Frank and all his friends were there. Morton had
introduced them to many well-known young men of the prosperous Nebraska
city, and they were being made to feel quite at home.
Much of the general conversation concerned the coming bouts. Opinions
were freely expressed as to the abilities and merits of different
contestants and there was much good-natured argument and banter.
There was also not a little quiet betting.
In one of the big main rooms of the club, Merry met three Yale men, who
expressed their delight at seeing him there. While he was talking with
them François L’Estrange came up. The Frenchman knew them also, and he
paused to shake hands all round.
“What’s the matter, L’Estrange?” asked one. “You seem rather downcast
and troubled over something.”
The fencing master shrugged his shoulders.
“Eet is unfortunate,” he declared. “I haf to geef you ze information zat
there will be no fencing zis night.”
“Why, how is that?” they exclaimed.
“Meestare Marlowe, who was to meet Meestare Darleton, ees not here.”
“Not here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“He haf sent ze word zat he is very ill.”
“Cold feet!” cried one of the gentlemen. “That’s what’s the matter!
Marlowe squeals!”
“Sure thing!” agreed another. “It’s a shame, but he has made a clean
backdown.”
“He was all right last night. I saw him then,” put in the third
gentleman.
“Eet is very strange,” said L’Estrange regretfully. “I understand eet
not why he should haf ze cold feet and be ill. I suppose ze cold feet
ees unpleasant, but zey should not make him squeal.”
“What we mean,” explained the first gentleman, “is that he is afraid to
meet Darleton. He has defeated every opponent in the contests, and it
has been his boast that he would defeat Darleton. His nerve failed him.”
“Eet ruin ze sport for zis night,” declared the fencing master. “Zere
ees no one who is for Meestare Darleton ze efen match, so zere will be
no fencing.”
At this point Darleton himself, accompanied as usual by his chum, Grant
Hardy, came pushing through the throng, espied L’Estrange and hurried
up.
“I’ve been looking for you, professor!” he exclaimed. “What’s this about
Marlowe? Is it true that he has quit?”
“Eet is true.”
“Well, that’s just about the sort I took him to be!” cried Darleton
angrily. “He’s a great case of bluff! He’s a bag of wind! He’s a
quitter! He knew I’d defeat him. Now, what are we going to do?”
“Zere is nothing we can do,” answered the fencing master regretfully.
“And our go was to be the feature to-night. Every one will be
disappointed. It’s a shame. Besides that, Marlowe had no right not to
give me a chance to show him up. I meant to put it all over him, the
slob!”
Darleton’s chagrin over his lost opportunity to “put it all over” the
other fellow seemed to lead him into a complete loss of temper, and he
indulged in language which on any occasion he would have condemned in
another.
Suddenly his eyes fell on Frank Merriwell, and a peculiar expression
came to his face.
“Why, here is the great athlete who fancies he is something of a
fencer,” he said. “Good evening, Mr. Merriwell. I suppose you came to
see me outpoint Marlowe? Well, you will be disappointed, I regret to
say.”
Hodge was near, and the words and manner of Darleton had caused him to
bridle until he was on the point of exploding.
“I regret very much,” said Merry quietly, “that we shall not have the
pleasure of witnessing the fencing bout between you and Mr. Marlowe,
sir.”
He was calm, polite, and reserved.
L’Estrange spoke up:
“I suppose we might geef ze exhibition ourselves, Meestare Darleton,” he
said. “Zat might please ze spectators bettaire than nothing.”
“But it would not be like a bout in which there was an element of
uncertainty. Every one would know you could defeat me easily if you
cared to. If I counted on you I’d win no credit, for they would say you
permitted me to do it.”
The desire of the fellow for applause and his thirst to display his
skill by defeating some one was all too evident.
Suddenly he turned sharply to again face Frank.
“How about you?” he asked.
Merry lifted his eyebrows.
Hodge felt a tingling, for he realized that an open challenge was
coming.
“About me?” repeated Frank questioningly.
“Yes, how about you? You think you can fence.”
“I have fenced—a little.”
“I was told to-day that you are a champion at everything you undertake.
That’s ridiculous if you undertake many things. You have undertaken
fencing. Well, I’d like to convince some people that there is one thing
at which you are not much of a champion.”
“Would you?” asked Merry, smiling pleasantly.
“Indeed I would. The crowd wants to see a fencing bout to-night. Marlowe
has taken water. He isn’t here. You are here. Of course we can’t fence
for honors in the series, as you have not been engaged in previous
contests. All the same, we can give an exhibition go. There will be an
element of uncertainty about it. What do you say?”
“Why, I don’t know——” came slowly from Merry, as if he hesitated over
it.
“Oh, if you’re afraid,” sneered Darleton—“if you haven’t the nerve,
that’s different.”
A strange, smothered growl was choked back in the throat of Bart Hodge.
“I don’t believe I am afraid of you,” said Frank, with the same
deliberate manner. “I was thinking that such an affair would be quite
irregular if interpolated with the finals.”
“Don’t worry about that. If you are willing to meet me, I’ll fix it.”
“Of course I’m willing, but——”
“That settles it!” cried Darleton triumphantly. “You hear him,
gentlemen. He’s ready to fence me. He can’t back out.”
“As if he would want to back out!” muttered Bart Hodge softly. “You’ll
get all you’re looking for to-night, Mr. Darleton.”
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