A CALL TO THE "FLOCK."
Protected from arrest by the pity of Berlin Carson, whose love for her
was as dead as was the man she had acknowledged as her husband, Bessie
left behind her the home which, for several hours, she had plunged in
grief and anxiety. An examination of the infant which had been kidnaped
showed that it had sustained no injury, and, filled with a spirit of
thankfulness, Frank and Inza Merriwell resolved that the little
foundling which had been substituted for their baby son should be placed
in a more worthy home than was afforded by the asylum from which it had
been taken. In a few days such a home was found, and the infant which
had inspired Frank and Inza with such feelings of consternation when
they had discovered that it was not their own, was committed to the
kindly care of a prosperous and honest young farmer and his wife, who
were childless, and who lived only a few miles from the Merriwell home.
But it did not take long for the sympathetic eyes of Frank and Inza to
see that the ardent love of Berlin Carson for the young woman, who had
proved herself to be unworthy of him, though now extinguished, had left
him moody and disinterested in the future.
And so one evening, Inza, laying a hand on one of the arms of her
husband, said gently:
"We must do something for Berlin, Frank. It is wrong for a man to brood
so over a misfortune as he is doing. Is it not possible for us to do
more to enliven him and cause him to think less of his disappointment
and the shock he has received?"
Frank shook his head thoughtfully.
"I scarcely see what more we can do, Inza," he replied. "Men are unlike
women. The grief of a woman may yield to the sympathetic words and
actions and cheerful influence of friends, but when a man has some great
trouble--especially if he be a strong man--it is best that he should
have an opportunity to make his fight against depressing influences
alone. He must have time to think it out. All references to his sorrow
are likely to irritate him, and evidence of the pity of others galls his
pride. No, no, Inza, there is little that you and I can do, I fear. Let
us do our best to surround him with a cheerful atmosphere, and----"
"That is precisely what I mean, Frank. Now, I have a plan. Several weeks
ago I heard you say that one day you might find it possible to have
around you here many of the members of what you are so often wont to
call your 'old flock'--your old school and college mates, and some of
your old friends from the Southwest. Why do you not make an effort now
to get them here?"
Frank gave a little start, and then smiled thoughtfully.
"I will think it over, Inza," he said.
Early the next morning Frank sent out a number of telegrams to his old
friends. To these telegrams he received replies in the course of the
next twenty-four hours.
And thus it came to pass that the pilgrimage to Merry Home began.
Several days later, in a parlor car of the eastbound express were four
young people who had traveled far. They were Ephraim Gallup; his wife,
Teresa; Barney Mulloy, and a charming and vivacious Spanish girl,
Juanita Garcia, Teresa's bosom friend. The men were old friends of Frank
Merriwell.
All wore sensible traveling suits, and, in spite of the long journey,
they appeared to be little fatigued. There was an expression of
eagerness and impatience on the face of Gallup, and Mulloy seemed in a
similar mood.
"By gum, we're gittin' back into God's country ag'in!" exclaimed the
lanky Vermonter. "Arter bein' buried down there in Mexico so long it
seems jest like heaven."
"Do they be afther callin' this a fast expriss?" burst from Mulloy.
"Faith, but it crawls loike a shnail, so it does. Will we iver reach
Bloomfield? It's itchin' Oi am to put me hands on Frankie Merriwell."
"Eet ees so glad I shall also be to see Senyor Merriwell," laughed
Teresa.
"Hey?" cried Gallup, giving her a look of mock reproof. "Naow yeou be
keerful, young woman! I ain't fergut that you was kinder smashed on him
once."
At this his wife laughingly protested her innocence.
"Nevvier, nevvier after I knew you loved me, Ephraim," she declared.
"One time I theenk you do not care. Then I geet so very angry. Then I
make eyes at ze handsome Senyor Merriwell. I do eet to see how you like
that. Eet make you geet to your job on. Eet make you set your tongue
loose and say the word I want you to say. Senyor Merriwell he not care
one snap for me. I know eet. Do you theenk Teresa ees the foolish girl?"
"Not a hanged bit of it!" chuckled Gallup. "She was the slickest little
article I ever run up ag'inst. I guess yeou're right, Teresa. I guess
yeou kinder waked me up when you flung them goo-goo eyes at Frank. Fust
time in my life I ever felt that way, but, by ginger! I wanted to swat
him on the jaw. Great Hubbard squashes, wasn't I in love then!"
His wife frowned.
"Een love then?" she exclaimed. "You not be so much so now, ah?"
"Thunder! I'm ten times wuss now than I was then, and you know it,
Teresa. Didn't I coax and beg and hang on like a dog to a bone to git
you to come East with me to visit Frank?"
"It was the baby," breathed Teresa. "The question was to breeng the baby
or to leave eet with eets grand-fathaire. I know he take the most
splendeed care of eet. He have the nursees watch all the time, and he
watch heemself. He know how to care for the baby most beautiful."
"That's right," nodded Gallup, "the old don is a rappin' good baby nuss.
It's the funniest thing in the world to see him doddling round with a
baby in his arms. And to think that he used to be a red-hot
revolutionist, and called the Firebrand of Sonora! As a fighter, he was
a rip-tearer. As a baby nuss he's the greatest expert that ever wore
men's trousers."
"Begob, the don is all roight, all roight," agreed Barney. "The only
gint who iver downed him was Frankie Merriwell. Instid av layin' it up
against Frankie, and lookin' for revinge, the way people ginerally
suppose Mexicans and Spaniards do, the don shook hands, and became wan
av Frankie's bist friends."
Ephraim leaned forward to pat his wife's cheek.
"Your old dad is a jim-hickey, Terese," he said.
Juanita had been smiling, and now she laughed outright in a rippling,
musical manner.
"What ees eet you laugh at, Juanita?" demanded Teresa.
"Oh, eet ees the way the Yankee man he keep on making love," answered
the girl. "One time I theenk I despise every gringo. One time I theenk
maybe perhaps if I find one who have the great likeeng for me--eef he be
handsome, eef he be good--I theenk maybe--perhaps----"
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Mrs. Gallup laughingly. "Eet ees the great change of
the mind. Maybe you meet lots of good-lookeeng young man at Senyor
Merriwell's. We make the marriage for you."
"Oh, no," protested Juanita. "That ees the way they do in Mexico. I like
the way the American girl do. She make her own marriage. She catch the
man she want. She not have to take the one her people say she must
marry. No one for me ees to make the match."
"Hooroo for you!" cried Barney. "Thot's the stuff! It's a diclaration of
indepindince! Oi wonder who'll be at the reunion, Ephie?"
"I dunno," answered Gallup, shaking his head. "Merry's telegram said
there'd be a lot of the old flock there. I'll be all-fired glad to see
'em. Wonder how the fellers have prospered. I hope they've all done as
well as we have, Barney."
"Av they have," nodded Mulloy, "the most av thim should be satisfied.
It's a clane little pile av money we made in thot railroad business,
Ephraim."
"You bate!" chuckled the Vermonter. "Take us together, Barney and we
make a hull team, with a little dog under the wagon."
"As a business partner," said the Irishman, "Oi'll take a down-east
Yankee ivery toime. Begobs, Ephie, ye know how to do business all
roight, all roight!"
"And as a railroad construction boss," grinned Gallup, "yeou're right up
to date, Barney. Yeou handled your end of the business slick as a
whistle while I was lookin' arter my end. I wonder what they're stoppin'
here for?"
The train was pulling up at a junction. On questioning the porter, they
learned that there would be a stop of nearly twenty minutes while other
cars were taken on from another route.
Gallup proposed that they should step out on the platform and get some
air. Neither Teresa nor Juanita seemed anxious to do this, so Ephraim
and Barney left them in the car.
The junction was a bustling little town, and there was a great deal
going on in the vicinity of the station.
Mulloy and Gallup lighted cigars and promenaded the platform.
At the far end they observed a group of men and boys surrounding a
person who stood on a small square box, making a speech. This person
was bareheaded, and his hair was unusually long and disheveled. He was
dressed in a loose suit of light-colored clothes, wore a negligee shirt,
with a soft turndown collar, and had no vest. His back was toward Barney
and Ephraim as they approached.
"Begorra! it's natural he looks," muttered the Irishman.
"Gol-dinged if that ain't right!" agreed Gallup. "Somehow his voice
sounds kinder nateral, too."
They paused at the edge of the group to listen.
"Friends and brothers," cried the speaker, in a clear, sad voice, "I
presume many of you heard me speak on your public square last evening.
Still it is possible that some of you were not there to listen to my
words, to hear my warning of the great coming clash of the classes. It
is as inevitable as the sinking of yonder sun to-night and its rise
again to-morrow. With a prophetic eye I look into the future and behold
the day when labor shall have its rights. That day is coming as surely
as the sun continues to rise in the east. The iron hand of Capital would
hold it back, but that cruel iron hand cannot, Joshua-like, stay the
course of the sun nor stem the tide of human progress.
"Every intelligent person within the sound of my voice knows it is true
that the rich are growing richer and the poor are becoming poorer. The
accumulation of stupendous fortunes in the hands of individuals
threatens the very foundations of our government. Time was when a man
worth a million was supposed to be immensely rich. To-day the possessor
of a single million is looked on with scorn and contempt by our
multimillionaires. Ten millions, twenty millions, fifty millions--aye,
even a hundred millions are now accumulated by individuals. This money
belongs to the masses, the laborers who have earned it by the sweat of
their brows."
"Hear! hear!" "That's right!" "Hooray!" cried the crowd.
Mulloy had gripped Ephraim's arm.
"Ivery word av thot has a familiar sound to me," muttered the Irishman.
"Oi've heard thot talk before and from the same lips."
"My friends," continued the speaker, "we are all brothers. Justice to
one and all of this great human family should be our motto.
Unfortunately for me I was not born of the masses, as the royal knights
of labor are now called by the American aristocrats of boodle. By birth
I was supposed to be exalted above the lower strata of humanity. My
parents were wealthy. My father gave me an education to be a slave
driver over the common people. His blood runs in my veins, but my heart
is not of his heart. In his eyes I have become disgraced because I dared
boldly claim the street laborer, the man with the hoe, the man with the
pick and shovel, the man with the sweat of honest toil on his brow--I
have dared to claim him as a fellow man and brother.
"I have traveled from coast to coast, and I have lived in the poorest
quarters of New York, Chicago, and other great cities. My heart has bled
at the sufferings of the poor people who are wearing their wretched
lives away in toil for a most wretched sustenance. The friends I once
knew have turned from me and called me a socialist, an anarchist. They
call us anarchists because we sympathize with the downtrodden
masses--because we prophesy the coming of the great struggle that shall
emancipate these masses. We are not anarchists, but we are proud to be
called socialists. Anarchy is disorder and ruin. Socialism is order and
equal rights for all. Let them point the finger of scorn at us. What
care we? But let them beware, for the great earthquake is coming."
Mulloy and Gallup had forced their way through the crowd, and even as
the speaker uttered these words Barney gave him a terrible slap on the
back, while Ephraim kicked the box from beneath his feet.
"The earthquake do be come, begorra!" shouted Mulloy. "Greg Carker, ye
bloody old socialist raskil, Oi have yez in me hands, and Oi'm going to
hug yez till ye holler!"