"THE MARBLE HEART."
"Hello, fellows!" called Merriwell, attempting to Be cheerful. "Thought
I'd drop in."
There was a sudden silence. All turned to look at him. Two of them sat
with their half-lifted glasses suspended.
Then somebody muttered:
"Speak of the devil----"
Frank was embarrassed. There had been a time when his appearance at
Morey's was greeted with a shout of welcome. The silence was freezing.
Marline was not there. Frank felt relieved when he discovered this, and
still, for the first time in his life it seemed that there was a
cowardly sensation in his heart.
He knew he was not a coward, but the position in which he stood at that
moment made him feel like one.
The silence was maddening. His soul revolted against such a reception.
For the first time in his life he fancied he understood what it was to
be regarded with universal contempt.
And the injustice of it was what cut him to the heart. A little more and
the limit would be reached. He would go forth ready to fight, and he
knew that his first blow would be aimed at Rob Marline.
Thoughts like these flashed through his head in a moment, then he
advanced into the room with old-time grace.
"A jolly party you have here," he said. "I'm glad to see you making
merry. Drink up--drink up, everybody, and have a round with me."
Charlie Creighton was there, and Frank was sure he had a stanch friend
in Charlie.
The fellows fell to speaking together in low tones, casting sidelong
glances toward Frank. None of them seemed eager or ready to accept his
invitation. They seemed to draw a barrier about him, as if they intended
to shut him out.
Frank felt it--saw it plainly. He was quick to understand the situation,
but he was not satisfied.
"They shall be put to the test," he mentally vowed. "I'll find out who
are my friends and who are my enemies."
Then, one by one, he asked them what they would have to drink. Some had
excuses, some flatly declined to take anything at all. Some showed their
partly emptied glasses, and some said they had quite enough.
Frank's face grew hard and cold as he progressed and met with nothing
but refusals. He was coming to Putnam, Stubbs and Creighton. Surely they
would not refuse to drink with him!
Putnam saw he was to be asked in a moment. He hastily dashed off half a
glass of ale and got up, remarking that he must be going.
"Hold on a moment, old man," said Frank. "I am going to have a
lemon-seltzer. Have a drink with me."
"Excuse me," mumbled "Old Put." "I don't care for anything more."
"But you will have one drink with me?" urged Frank.
"No," said Putnam, shortly, "I've had enough."
Then he sauntered toward the door.
Merriwell bit his lips and turned on Stubbs.
"You'll have something, Bink?" he said, huskily.
"No, thanks," said the little fellow. "I'm going, too."
He followed Putnam.
Creighton was Merriwell's last resort. As old readers know, he had been
a guest at Charlie's home in Philadelphia.
"Come, Creighton, you surely will not decline to take something with me,
old fellow?"
Charlie hesitated, flushed to the roots of his hair, looked at Frank and
at the others, then got up quickly, saying:
"You'll have to excuse me, too, Merriwell."
With that he bolted out of the room, and all the others followed,
leaving Frank there alone.
For some moments the stunned and astonished lad stood as if turned to
stone, staring with distended eyes toward the door by which they had
passed out. His hands were clinched, his nostrils dilated, his head
thrown back and his attitude that of a warrior wounded to the heart, but
still unconquered in spirit.
He was aroused by a touch on the arm, and the smooth, almost sneering
voice of a waiter asked:
"What will you drink, sir?"
Frank lifted one hand to his head and seemed to awaken from a dream. He
looked at the waiter doubtfully, as if he did not understand the
question that was put to him, then, after a bit, said:
"Thank you, I never drink."
The corners of the waiter's mouth curled upward in the faintest smile--a
smile in which pity and scorn seemed to mingle. That aroused all the
fury in Frank Merriwell's heart, and, with his eyes blazing, he
half-lifted his fist as if he would strike the man in the face. Then he
as quickly dropped his hand at his side, shivering as if he had been
touched by a sudden chill.
The waiter had shrunk away with Merriwell's menacing movement, but when
he saw there was no danger, he softly said:
"I beg your pardon--I thought you were going to drink, as you asked the
others to have something with you."
How the words cut and stung! It was as if the man had struck him across
the face with a whip. He fell back, half-lifting his hand, and his chin
quivered.
"I did ask them!" he hoarsely whispered--"and they refused! Not one of
them but would have considered it a high honor to have me ask them a
month ago! And I have come to this!"
His words were incoherent, but his face told the story of his wounded
pride. He remembered how many times he had been welcomed with a shout in
that little room where the famous tables hung upon the wall. He
remembered how his admirers had gathered about him, eager to listen to
every word he might speak, and roar with laughter at his stories and
jests. He remembered the songs, the speeches, all the jolly times in
that room.
Little had he dreamed the time would come when the very ones he had
counted as his warm friends would refuse to drink with him there and
turn their backs on him in disdain.
Nothing could have hurt him more than that. His pride was cut to the
core, and his spirit was shaken as it had never been before.
His first thought was that he would find a way to get even with them
all. Then he realized how great a task that would be. He saw himself
scorned and ostracized by the whole college, and, for a fleeting moment,
he thought of leaving New Haven forever that very night.
His brain began to whirl. The waiter was standing there, looking at him
in a manner that seemed rather insolent.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
"I beg your pardon," returned the waiter; "what do you want?"
"Whiskey!" cried Frank Merriwell--"bring me whiskey, waiter, and bring
it quick!"