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Updated: June 4, 2025
In that instant Frank Merriwell's strong right arm had sent the stranger, with one great surge, reeling to his knees some feet from the water's edge, and then his left arm encircled Inza's waist and drew her from the perilous spot. She was white as the mist that rose in a great cloud close at hand. "Inza!" cried Merry chokingly. "Thank Heaven you had presence of mind and dodged!"
There was to be no more "herding" in fours, and so Barney Mulloy, the Irish lad, and Hans Dunnerwust, the Dutch boy, were assigned to another room. Like Hodge, Barney and Hans were Frank Merriwell's stanch friends and admirers. They were ready to do anything for the jolly young plebe, who had become popular at the academy, and thus won both friends and foes among the older cadets.
The curious ones stared at Merriwell's old flock, and it was generally remarked that these friends of Frank were "all right." Eli Given, Uncle Ed Small, and Deacon Elnathan Hewett were there in a triangular group, and they nodded and chuckled and shook hands with each other as Frank shook hands with the members of his old flock. "Purty 'tarnal good-looking people, Eben," said Eli.
If Bascomb had said it was just Merriwell's pluck he would have hit the truth, for Frank, besides being physically capable, was endowed with any amount of determination, having a never-say-die spirit that would not give up as long as there was a ghost of a chance left to pull out a winner. In the words of the boys, "Merriwell was no quitter."
"Nobody's had a chance to tamper with them." "What do you play?" asked Frank, to whose face a strange look had come on sight of the cards. "Oh, we play most anything euchre, seven up, poker " "Poker?" "Yes; just a light game penny ante to make it interesting. You know there's no interest in poker unless there's some risk." The strange look grew on Frank Merriwell's face.
"Some of the fellows seem to think he is afraid I will win the money back," said Wat; "but I don't take any stock in that, for Merriwell's not that kind of a fellow. Still, I don't like to have such ideas concerning him get into circulation." "Dot vos vere I vos righdt," nodded Hans. "He don't peen dot kindt uf a feller ad all, you pet me my shirt!
Among the passengers who got off was a slender, grave-faced young fellow, who carried a satchel, and whose hand was grasped almost as soon as his foot reached the depot platform. It was Frank Merriwell's old friend, Berlin Carson. "How are you, Berlin, old boy!" cried Frank, shaking that hand warmly. "Here's Hodge." Bart Hodge followed Frank in giving the traveler a handshake.
"Well, look at that look right there!" snapped Crabtree, holding up the paper and pointing a long bony finger at an article in the second column. "Notice the heading in big black type. Notice it says that Frank Merriwell's own baseball team will play the Rovers, the champion independent team of the country, for ten thousand dollars." Merry smiled. "I think that's an exaggeration," he said.
But Frank did not come along. Three nights he knew of Bart rising and stealing out of the room. Then there was an interval of two nights, during which Bart, plainly too much used up to stand the strain, or else out of money, remained in his bed. When Hodge arose again, and prepared to go out, he heard a stir in Merriwell's alcove. "Are you awake, Frank?" he asked, softly.
"Instead of that, he has lived rather simply far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor." "That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living."
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