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"Anyhow they touch the high places," came from Badger. Frank Merriwell paused on the veranda steps and scrutinized the musician intently. "Fellows," he said, "that chap looks familiar to me. I've seen him before. I know him." Bart Hodge's hand dropped on Merry's shoulder. "You're right, Frank," he said. "We both know, him we all know him."
I loved him for his goodness. Sunday-school was always a matter of course, and was never dreaded. I early enjoyed the Rollo books and later reveled in Mayne Reid. The haymow in the barn and a blessed knothole are associated with many happy hours. Reading has dangers. I think one of the first books I ever read was a bound volume of Merry's Museum.
But it could not be done then, so she turned to admire Merry's bed-shoes, the pots of pansies, hyacinths, and geranium which Gus and his sisters sent for her window garden, Molly's queer Christmas pie, and the zither Ed promised to teach her how to play upon.
Merry's face was so thoughtful that evening that her father observed it, for, when at home, he watched her as one watches a kitten, glad to see anything so pretty, young, and happy, at its play. "Little daughter has got something on her mind, I mistrust.
At the same time you are weakening your brain power and your force of character. I am absolutely certain of this, for no fellow who indulges in those things escapes injury." There was something in Merry's manner that impressed the boy. Frank had a way of convincing listeners when he spoke. "If I thought so " muttered Art. "Would you give up cigarettes and liquor?" "Well, I don't know.
The official publication of this report created a sensation even in France, and was not the bagatelle which M. Thiers has endeavoured to represent it. But far greater was the astonishment at Downing Street, not at the facts disclosed by the report for Merry's note had prepared our Ministers for them but rather at the official avowal of hostile designs.
Gus had a coop of rare fowls, who clucked wildly all the way, while Ralph, with the bust in his arms, stood up in front, and Jill and Molly bore the precious bedquilt, as they sat behind. These objects of interest were soon arranged, and the girls went to admire Merry's golden butter cups among the green leaves, under which lay the ice that kept the pretty flowers fresh.
If he rode, he exhausted eulogy in describing her pose, her daring, her skill; if they danced, as they did nearly every night until poor Merry's fingers ached from drumming the unholy strains of Faust, Strauss, and what not, in the old-fashioned waltzes he pantingly declared that she made the music seem a celestial choir by her lightness; in long walks in the rose-fields he exhausted a not very laborious store of botanical conceits, to make her cheeks resemble the roses.
FRENCH SAILOR. Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. Jig it, men, I say; merry's the word; hurrah! Damn me, won't you dance? Form, now, Indian-file, and gallop into the double-shuffle? Throw yourselves! Legs! legs! ICELAND SAILOR. I don't like your floor, maty; it's too springy to my taste. I'm used to ice-floors. I'm sorry to throw cold water on the subject; but excuse me.
"You'd better draw lots, and then there will be no fuss. Ju and I are out of the fight, but you three can try, and let this settle the matter," said Molly, handing Jill a long strip of paper. All agreed to let it be so, and when the bits were ready drew in turn. This time fate was evidently on Merry's side, and no one grumbled when she showed the longest paper.
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