WHO IS BLOODGOOD?
Diamond was thoroughly angry. So was Rattleton. In his excitement, Harry
said something that caused Frank to turn quickly, and observe:
"Don't use that kind of language, old man, no matter what the
provocation. Vulgarity is even lower than profanity."
Harry's face flushed, and he looked intensely ashamed of himself.
"I peg your bardon--I mean I beg your pardon!" he spluttered. "It
slipped out. You know I don't say anything like that often."
"I know it," nodded Frank, "and that's why it sounded all the worse. I
don't know that I ever heard you use such a word before."
Harry did not resent Frank's reproof, for he knew Frank was right, and
he was ashamed.
Every young man who stoops to vulgarity should be ashamed. Profanity is
coarse and degrading; vulgarity is positively low and filthy. The youth
who is careful to keep his clothes and his body clean should be careful
to keep his mouth clean. Let nothing go into it or come out of it that
is in any way lowering.
Did you ever hear a loafer on a corner using profane and obscene
language? I'll warrant most of you have, and I'll warrant that you were
thoroughly disgusted. You looked on the fellow as low, coarse, cheap,
unfit to associate with respectable persons. The next time you use a
word that you should be ashamed to have your mother or sister hear just
think that you are following the example of that loafer. You are
lowering yourself in the eyes of somebody, even though you may not think
so at the time. Perhaps one of your companions may be a person who uses
such language freely, and yet he has never before heard it from you. He
laughs, he calls you a jolly good fellow to your face; but he thinks to
himself that you are no better than anybody else, and behind your back
he tells somebody what he thinks. He is glad of the opportunity to show
that you are no better than he is. Never tell a vulgar story. Better
never listen to one, unless your position is such that you cannot escape
without making yourself appear a positive cad. If you have to listen to
such a story, forget it as soon as possible. Above all things, do not
try to remember it.
Some young men boast of the stories they know. And all their stories are
of the "shady" sort. It is better to know no stories than to know that
kind. It is better not to be called a good fellow than to win a
reputation by always having a new story of the low sort ready on your
tongue.
There are other and better ways of winning a reputation as a good
fellow. There are stories which are genuinely humorous and funny which
are also clean. No matter how much of a laugh he may raise, any
self-respecting person feels that he has lowered himself by telling a
vulgar story. It is not so if he has told a clean story. He is
satisfied with the laughter he has caused and with himself.
Frank Merriwell was called a good fellow. It was not often that he told
a story, but when he did, it was a good one, and it was clean. He had an
inimitable way of telling anything, and his stories were all the more
effective because they came at rare intervals. He did not cheapen them
by making them common.
And never had anybody heard him tell a story that could prove offensive
to the ears of a lady.
Not that he had not been tempted to do so. Not that he had not heard
such stories. He had been placed in positions where he could not help
hearing them without making himself appear like a thorough cad.
Frank's first attempt to tell a vulgar story had been the lesson that he
needed. He was with a rather gay crowd of boys at the time, and several
had told "shady" yarns, and then they had called for one from Frank. He
started to tell one, working up to the point with all the skill of which
he was capable. He had them breathless, ready to shout with laughter
when the point was reached. He drew them on and on with all the skill of
which he was capable. And then, just as the climax was reached, he
suddenly realized just what he was about to say. A thought came to him
that made his heart give a great jump.
"What if my mother were listening?"
That was the thought. His mother was dead, but her influence was over
him. A second thought followed. Many times he had seemed to feel her
hovering near. Perhaps she was listening! Perhaps she was hearing all
that he was saying!
Frank Merriwell stopped and stood quite still. At first he was very
pale, and then came a rush of blood to his face. He turned crimson with
shame and hung his head.
His companions looked at him in astonishment. They could not understand
what had happened. Some of them cried, "Go on! go on!"
After some seconds he tried to speak. At first he choked and could say
nothing articulate. After a little, he muttered:
"I can't go on--I can't finish the story! You'll have to excuse me,
fellows! I'm not feeling well!"
And he withdrew from the jolly party as soon as possible.
From that day Frank Merriwell never attempted to tell a story that was
in the slightest degree vulgar. He had learned his lesson, and he never
forgot it.
Some boys swagger, chew tobacco, talk vulgar, and swear because they do
not wish to be called "sissies." They fancy such actions and language
make them manly, but nothing could be a greater mistake.
Frank did nothing of the sort, and all who knew him regarded him as
thoroughly manly. Better to be called a "sissy" than to win reputed
manliness at the cost of self-respect.
Frank had forced those who would have regarded him with scorn to respect
him. He could play baseball or football with the best of them; he could
run, jump, swim, ride, and he excelled by sheer determination in almost
everything he undertook. He would not be beaten. If defeated once, he
did not rest, but prepared himself for another trial and went in to win
or die. In this way he showed himself manly, and he commanded the
respect of enemies as well as friends.
Rattleton was ashamed of the language he had used after the departure of
Bloodgood, and he did not attempt to excuse himself further. He lay back
in his berth, looking sicker than ever.
"I'd give ten dollars for the privilege of helping Mr. Bloodgood out
with my foot!" hissed Jack Diamond. "Never saw anybody so fresh!"
"Oh, I've seen lots of people just like him," grunted Browning, getting
out a pipe and lighting it.
"Don't smoke, Bruce!" groaned Rattleton, as the steamer gave an
unusually heavy roll. "I'm sick enough now. That will make me worse."
"Oh, we'll open the port."
"Open the port!" laughed Frank. "And we just told Bloodgood we did not
drink."
"Port-hole, not port wine," said the big fellow, with a yawn. "We'll let
in some fresh air."
"We can't let in anything fresher than just went out," declared the
Virginian, as he flung open the round window that served to admit light
and air.
"There's something mighty queer about that fellow," said Frank. "Did you
notice the diamonds he was wearing, fellows?"
"Yes," said Bruce, beginning to puff away at his new briarwood. "Regular
eye-hitters they were."
"Who knows they were genuine?" asked Jack.
"Nobody here," admitted Frank. "It is impossible to distinguish some
fake stones from real diamonds, unless you examine them closely. But,
somehow, I have a fancy that those were genuine diamonds."
"What makes you think so?"
"I don't know just why I think so, but I do. Something tells me that for
all of his swagger Bloodgood is a fellow who would scorn to wear paste
diamonds."
"What do you make out of the fellow, anyway?" asked Bruce.
"I'm not able to size him up yet," admitted Frank. "I'm not certain
whether he came of a good family or a bad one, but I'm inclined to fancy
it was the former."
"I'd like to know why you think so?" from Jack. "He did not show very
good breeding."
"But there is a certain something about his face that makes me believe
he comes from a high-grade family. I think he has become lowered by
associating with bad companions."
"Well, I don't care who or what he is," declared Jack; "if he gets fresh
around me again, I'll crack him one for luck. I can't stand him for a
cent!"
"Better turn him over to me," murmured Bruce, dozily. "I'll sit on him."
"And he'll think he's under an elephant," laughed Merry. "Bruce cooked
M. Montfort, and I reckon he'd have less trouble to cook Mr. Bloodgood."
At this moment there was a hesitating, uncertain knock on the door.
"Another visitor, I wonder?" muttered Frank.