Frank Merriwell's Races Part 56

"Speaking about hocking things," said Bandy Robinson, "I let my unc.

have a dozen white s.h.i.+rts, among other things. If Yale doesn't win, I won't have a s.h.i.+rt to my name."

"That's nothing," declared Ben Halliday, nonchalantly, as he blew out a big whiff of smoke. "I've soaked my entire wardrobe, save what I have on my back. But Willis Paulding did the slickest trick to raise the wind."

"Paulding?" cried Diamond. "I'd never dreamed he could do anything very smooth."

"He did, just the same. Last year, when Merry pitched the deciding game of the series, Paulding felt sure Harvard would win, and he stuck on 'em every last rag of money he could rake and sc.r.a.pe. Well, Yale won, and Willis was busted. He was forced to tell his old man the whole truth before he could get money enough to let him out of New Haven for the summer. More than that, the old man has taken precautions to prevent Willis from having any money to waste in betting this year. He has all of Willis' bills sent to him to settle, and keeps his son horribly short of filthy. Just as hard, Willis found out that the governor had told his tailor to make the boy all the clothes he wanted. That was enough.

Willis ordered six suits at fifty dollars each, and he soaked every one of them at ten each as soon as he got them. So you see Paulding is provided with plenty of coin for this little racket, and he says he is going to put every red he has on Old Yale. Last year cured him of betting against his own colors."

"If Willis thought of that scheme himself, he has more brains in his head than I fancied," smiled Diamond.

"Tell you how I made a strike," chirped Danny Griswold. "You know I've been writing a few things and giving them away to the papers. Well, the governor heard of it, and he decided I was making a fool of myself, so he sat down and fired a shot at me. He called my attention to the fact that Johnson said the man who writes for anything but money is a fool.

This is the way I answered: 'Dear Gov: I observe you say some chap by the name of Johnson says the man who writes for anything but money is a fool. I quite agree with Mr. Johnson. Please send me one hundred dollars.' That must have hit the old boy about right, for he sent me fifty."

Danny ended with a gleeful chuckle, and the listening lads laughed.

"That's pretty good--for you," nodded Bink Stubbs; "but speaking about clothes reminds me that I had a little lunch in a restaurant last evening, and I found a b.u.t.ton in the salad. I called the waiter's attention to it, and he calmly said, 'That's all right, sir; it's part of the dressing.'"

"Now he has broken loose!" cried Danny Griswold. "There is no telling what sort of a rusty old gag he'll try to spring. If we only had a few stale eggs for him!"

Bink grinned, as he observed:

"There's nothing like poached eggs, as the n.i.g.g.e.r said when he robbed the hencoop."

Diamond proposed a song, and soon the boys were at it. When they had finished one song, Browning soberly observed:

"It seems to me that there is one song which would be particularly appropriate for this season when all of us are soaking something in order to raise the wind."

"What is it?" shouted several voices.

"Solomon Levi."

In another moment the merry lads were shouting:

"My name is Solomon Levi, my store's on Salem Street; That's where you buy your coats and vests and everything that's neat.

I've second-handed ulsterettes, and everything that's fine, For all the boys they trade with me at a hundred and forty-nine.

CHORUS: "Oh, Solomon Levi! tra, la, la, la!

Poor Sheeny Levi! tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!

"And if a b.u.mmer comes along to my store on Salem Street And tries to hang me up for coats and vests so very neat, I kick that b.u.mmer right out of my store, and on him sets my pup, For I won't sell clothing to any man who tries to hang me up."

Thus the rollicking lads spent the time as the train rolled along bearing them to witness the great ball game of the season with Harvard.

Again and again Frank Merriwell's friends expressed regret because his hand, on which there had been a felon, prevented him from taking part in the game. They could not forget that he had pitched the deciding game between Yale and Harvard the previous year, and had won it.

Frank had also done some good work during the present season, and sporting papers all over the country had declared that he was one of the very best college "twirlers."

This, however, was Hugh Heffiner's last year at Yale, and, without doubt, the coming game was the last he would ever pitch for "Old Eli."

Until Merriwell appeared, Heffiner had been Yale's mainstay in the box, and his admirers declared that it was pretty sure that a long time would elapse before he would have a worthy successor.

But Heffiner was overworked, and he came near throwing his arm out. As it was, he strained his arm so that he was utterly unable to pitch at all.

Then it was that it was found necessary to find somebody to a.s.sist the "change pitcher," Dad Hicks, in his work.

Hicks was good for four or five innings, but he was unable to keep up the strain through an entire game.

Paul Pierson, captain and manager of the Yale nine, had seen Merriwell do some pitching for the freshmen, and he resolved to give Frank a trial.

Pierson's judgment was not at fault, and Merriwell quickly proved that he was worthy to become Heffiner's successor.

Of course there was much regret because Frank could not be on the bench, at least, ready to go into the game if needed; but all seemed to feel confident that Heffiner would make his last game for Yale a hot one. He had done some marvelous work, and, as he declared himself in prime condition, there was no reason why he should not hold Harvard down on this occasion.

While Merriwell was surrounded by friends in the smoker, and the boys were having a decidedly jolly time, Duncan Yates was getting into a decidedly ugly mood in the adjoining car.

When Yates thought of his failure to beat his rival in the dash to the station he ground his teeth and muttered bitter curses.

And he was egged on by Fred Flemming and Andy Emery. Tom Thornton had joined the group, but he said very little; and, when he found an opportunity, he whispered in Flemming's ear:

"Better go slow. Remember the promise we gave Merriwell. If he finds out we are working against him, it will go hard with us."

"He won't find it out. I hate him too much to keep still if I can arouse another fellow against him. Give me your flask. Yates has killed all I have in mine."

Thornton took a whiskey flask from his pocket, and slipped it into Flemming's hand. Then he left, for he did not wish Merriwell's friends to see him in such company.

Flemming and Emery made a pretense of drinking with Yates, but they did not take much. Yates, however, continued to "hit the bottle hard." His face became flushed, and his eyes glowed as Flemming continued to tell him of Merriwell's "underhand work."

"That fellow did me dirt," declared Flemming. "In this same sneaking way, he had me dropped from the crew this spring, and got on in my place."

"That's right," agreed Emery. "He has a way of influencing such men as he can get at, and he is using his influence to get the committee to throw you over."

"And he can't run with you, anyway," said Flemming. "It is possible that he can lead you in a short dash, like the race to the station to-day, but he would not be in it in a long run."

"That race was one of his tricks," a.s.serted Emery. "I believe the job was put up by him."

"How?" asked Yates, huskily.

"Why, he saw you in company with the rest of us, and he thought he stood a good show of outrunning you for a short spurt, so he had Diamond and Rattleton make the talk that they did to bring the race about."

"If that was not crooked, I don't know what you could call it," nodded Flemming. "He sprung it on you when you were not suspecting, and he led you to go against him for a short run, in which he is at his best. All the time, he knew he was not your match for a long race. That doesn't make a bit of difference to him."

"Not a bit," said Andy. "He is not looking for the good of Old Yale, but he is looking to get into the big race at the tournament. He has been lucky in everything he has tried, and he is depending on his luck to win the race and acquire further glory for himself."

"Let's have another drink all round," suggested Flemming, as he produced Thornton's flask once more.

Yates took several swallows. Emery and Flemming pretended to drink in a hearty manner, but they allowed very little whiskey to go down their throats.