DEC.3/1910/ 5 CENTS

7

AL PUBLICATION FORTHE AMERICAN YOUTH
/ FRANK MERRIWELLS SWAY

ae
; oe STREET & SAN 1747 rem —_ ms
ar PUBLISHERS 4.»
BPRS A WEW YoR<
Slowly, Carpenter and his un- ;
conscious burden were drawn to
the edge of the firm ice and
dragged onto it.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

  

for the e Ariiérican Youth _. |

—iir 7

 

 

 

| Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year.

Entered as Second-class Matter at the N. ¥. Post Office, by STREET & SMITH, 179-89 Seventh Ave., NV. ¥.
Copyright, 1910, dy STREET & SMITH.

 

No. 764.

 

4

NEW YORK, December 3, ig10.,

Price Five Sek :

Frank Merriwell’s Sway;

ab aie OR,

ah THE BOY WHO WAS PAMPERED.

 

CHAPTER I.
A PROBLEM.

After greeting his sister exuberantly, Ralph Blake
dropped down in'a chair opposite her and glanced
about the room. | ?
Presently he gave an unconscious sigh. That room
had always had a depressing effect upon him. It was
so painfully neat, so distressingly orderly. Everything
was arranged with mathematical precision. The pic-
tures—vast, dull, steel engravings of the “Judgment of
_ Solomon,” or “Washington Crossing the Delaware’—
- were never askew by so much as a quarter of an inch.
The stiff, hard, walnut chairs ranged against the wall
_ like so many sentinels,:while the few upholstered arm-
chairs, hard and unyielding as if they had been stuffed
with brickbats, were never moved from their allotted
: places,
_ He glanced at the round centre table of polished
rosewood. Two volumes bound in tree calf lay neatly
at one side of the lamp, and were balanced by a twin
pair on the other side. He would have wagered any

  

 
  

 

“money that the top volume nearest him was ‘Mrs. He- |

*
By BURT L. STANDISH.

man’s “Poems of Girlhood.’’ It always had been
from his earliest recollections.

Suddenly ‘he sprang up, and, striding over to the
table, picked up the book. He was right.
with a snap and returned to his chair.

Mrs. Schuyler glanced up from her crocheting.

“Impetuous as ever, Ralph,” she remarked, with a
placid smile.

Then her eyes fell upon the book which her betithiet
had replaced at a slight angle, and, rising, she walked
over to the table and straightened it.

Blake gave another sigh and moved his head un-
easily.
ear.

“I just wanted to seé if that was the same book
which was there when I went away,” he explained.

His sister looked mildly surprised.

“Of course it is,” she returned. “Why should I have
made any change?”
“Why, indeed?’’ reflected Blake, as he shifted his

position and crossed one leg over the other.

‘He shut it

The knitted tidy at his back was tickling his ;

It irri-
tated him to think of ‘a person living a life of such —

  
   
  
  
  
   
     
       
     
       
       
     
     
       
         
     
   
         
    
  
  

  
 

       
cir Or
utter stagnation. Every day doing exactly the same
things at exactly the same time; never departing for an
instant from the same deep, narrow rut. Such an ex-
istence was incredible to him, ‘and yet, his sister was
not in the least unhappy.

There was not a line or a wrinkle in her smooth,
placid face. Blake wished it had not been quite so
placid. He almost wished that something might hap-
pen to disturb her serenity and shake her up a bit,
but apparently there was little chance of that.

She had an income which was more than ample.
Her husband had been dead for some fourteen years,
so that she was troubled with no poignant grief on
that score.. She had a large circle of friends and ac-
quaintances, and, when she was not crocheting yards
upon yards of narrow lace, she was usually attending
a meeting of the Mother’s Club, or playing a method-
ical game of bridge. And, above all, her son, who was
the apple of her eye, showed no signs of deviating from
the path of obedience and virtue.

During his year Blake had received such
glowing accounts of him from Mrs. Schuyler that he
had begun:to be seriously alarmed lest the boy follow
Happily he was joint guar-

abroad,

in his mother’s footsteps.
dian with his sister, and, in that capacity, le had per-
suaded her to send Vincent away to school. He felt
that such a step was the only thing which would save
the boy from turning out an utter mollycoddle.

Mrs. Schuyler protested strongly, but her brother re-
mained firm; and, as a result, Vincent had departed
bag and baggage two months before for a well-known
boarding school. af

“Well, Harriet,” Blake inquired presently ;
PR : creat

Mrs. Schuyler did not raise her eyes from her work.

“how's

she re-
She

“Vincent is as well as can be expected,’
turned, with.a slight emphasis on her.son’s name.
_ abhorred abbreviations. 7

“Great Scott!’ exclaimed Blake anxiously. “What's
the matter with hini? You didn’t say he was ill.”

Mrs. Schuyler raised her eyebrows a little at his
emphatic manner. ©”

_ “T had reference to the weak heart which has been
such a handicap to the poor boy,” she explained. _

Blake sniffed. He had heard a good deal about
that weak organ, but it was his private opinion that
his nephew’s heart was perfectly sotind, and that it was
_ Mrs. Schuyler’s imagination alone which had endowed
it with abnornial properties. — Deh

“Humph!” he grunted. “Is that all?

I wouldn't.

WEEKLY.
worry about that if I were you, His heart’s as good
as the general run.”

Mrs. Schuyler pursed up her lips firmly.

“No doubt your motives are kind, Ralph,” she said,
with the air of an early*Christian martyr. “You wish
to spare me worry and trouble, but you cannot deceive
a mother. I know.”

Her brother made haste to change the subject.. De-
spite her mild and placid appearance, Mrs. Schuyler.
had a will of her own, and exhibited at times a trying
tenacity of purpose. Blake had been worsted more
than once in arguments over Vincent’s alleged weak
heart.

“How does, he like Hillcrest ?’’ he inquired quickly.

Mrs. Schuler hesitated and for the first time her
placid composure seemed to be ruffled. To Ralph
Blake’s keen eyes she seemed almost to have a guilty
expression. Then she resumed her customary repose.

“Vincent has left Hillcrest,”

A look of astonishment flashed into her brother's —

she returned calmly.
face.

“Left Hillcrest !”’
Mrs.
place for the dear boy.
there.”

“What's the matter with it, I'd like to know?”
manded Blake. oe
schools in the country.’

His sister deliberately finished the row ste was on,
stuck the needles carefully into the lace and deposited —
the work in a small bag which hung by her side. Then’

There was a faint _
Blake knew by ex- |

he cried.

“Exactly,” Schuyler answered. “It was’ ‘Ao.

He should never have been sent

de-

she-folded her hands and sat erect.
flush of pink in her cheeks, which
perience to be a storm signal.

“That may all be quite true,’ she said. firmly.

‘have nothing to say against the reputation which Hill- _

crest may have acquired as a preparatory school, but
I repeat that it is no place for Vincent.” soleil

“One moment " sa

“Pray allow me to finish, Ralph, and then you may
say whatever you like. Vincent has a remarkably
sensitive nature. He is peculiarly diese to the |
moods of people who surround Bi
eons him as a

 

one of the best preparatory —
   

TIP TOP

   

received no consideration whatever. Worse than all
‘that, he was obliged to go through violent exercises
every day in the gymnasium—actually forced to by an
. 4 instructor, who totally disregarded his weak heart.
eet “It was suicidal! If you could have read the piti-
| ful letter the poor boy wrote about being obliged to go
through some dreadful drill which nearly made him
faint from exhaustion, it would have moved you to
, | tears. I lost no time in making the trip to Millbridge
. | and bringing him home with me the next day.”
| As he listened to this lengthy recital, Ralph Blake’s
face was a picture of varied emotions. He had counted
so much on what a sojourn af Hillcrest would do to-
ye : ward making a man of Vincent that he was bitterly
eee 4 | disappointed at the outcome. He knew his sister well
| enough, however, to realize that it would be useless to
try and make her change her mind. She had settled
| the question to her own satisfaction, and would never
. | consent to her son’s return to that school.
is “Well, that certainly beats evetything I ever heard!”
Bs } Blake exclaimed petulantly. “I thought he was set-
| tled for good and all there. What's he been doing since
J he came home.”
qt “T have secured a tutor for him, a very estimable
young man who thoroughly understands Vincent. He
_ comes every morning for two hours.”
-* Blake groaned inwardly. The idea of a healthy,
_ growing boy spending only two hours a day on his
lessons, and being allowed to go his own sweet way
_ for the remainder of the twenty-four, was absurd. It
/was more than that—it was fatal. The fellow would
be utterly ruined by such mollycoddling.
_ He parted his lips to protest vehemently, and at that
moment the front door opened and closed and he
heard the sound of footsteps in the hall without.
“There’s the dear boy now,” murmured Mrs. Schuy-
ler.
Ralph.”
_ The next instant the heavy portieres at the doorway
vere slowly parted and Vincent Schuyler entered the
room.

 

 

   
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
     
   
   
  
 

CHAPTER II.
THE SOLUTION.

 

&

 

: He was a youth of about sixteen, rather tall for his
ve, and fairly. well built. To the casual observer he

 
  
  
  

   

“Come in here, Vincent, and see your Uncle

/ A look of relief came into Vincent? s face.

  

WEEKLY. , : 3

pered and petted and allowed to indulge himself in
any way he chose. :

That this self-indulgence took the form of over-
feeding and under-exercising, was instantly apparent
in his unwholesome, pimply complexion, as well as the
appearance of soft flabbiness and‘total absence of mus-
cle which showed in his every motion.

His face might have been a pleasant one, if not actu-
ally good-looking, had it not been marred by heavy,
pendulous cheeks and an expression of unutterable
boredom, as if he were tired to death of himself and
everything about him.

“Hello, Vin,’ greeted his uncle pleasantly. “How
goes it?”
“How’do, uncle,” drawled Vincent, advancing and

placing a limp hand in Ralph Blake’s lean, brown fin-
gers.

The next instant he uttered an exclamation of dis-
may and snatched it away; for Blake, who- detested
nothing more that an flabby, expressionless handshake,
had gripped the soft fingers with perhaps unnecessary
vigor.

“T say!’ muttered Vincent.
a fellow’s hand off.”

Blake elevated his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“By Jove, Vin!” he exclaimed. “Did I hurt you?
I was so glad to see you that perhaps I did squeeze a
bit hard. Why, it’s over a year since I laid eyes on
you, boy.”

Vincent grunted something. unintelligible, and his
mother, who had been watching him with an expres-
sion of anxious fondness, took advantage of the pause
to divert the conversation into another channel.

“Where have you been, dear?” she asked.

“Out for a walk,” Vincent returned shortly.

“IT hope you haven’t overtired yourself,”
Schuyler said quickly. “How far did you go?”

“To the Green and back.”

That being a matter of a scant half mile, her solici-
tude seemed a trifle unnecessary.

There was another slight pause during which-the boy
shifted about from one foot to the,other. Ralph Blake
could not trust himself to seal He had an almost
irresistable desire to take his esteemed nephew by the
collar and shake that sullen, bored expression quite off
the heavy, stodgy face.

“Aren’t you going to take your rest: 2 inquired Mrs.
Schuyler presently.

“You needn’t squeeze

Mrs.

“Yes,” he said quickly; “I think I’d better.
feeling a little tir

Im
e TIP. EOF

He did not at all fancy this uncle who looked at him
with such bright keen eyes and seemed to see right
through him. He rather expected, too, that he would
be put through a cathechism regarding the reasons for
his leaving Hillcrest School, which was something he
was anxious to avoid.

Consequently, he departed with some haste to take
his afternoon rest, which consisted, if the truth be
known, in reclining comfortably on the couch in his
bedroom, a book in one hand and a box of candy con-
veniently at his elbow, which probably accounted for
some of the pimples which did not add attractiveness to
his already sallow complexion.

After he had left the room, Mrs. Schuyler turned to
her brother.

“You see,” she said significantly, “the least exertion
tires the poor boy.”

Ralph Blake’s self-control was severely strained.
He longed to give vent to his full, free, unflattering
opinion of his nephew; but he realized quite well that
it would be utterly useless. His sister was a woman
whom it was impossible to drive. Once her mind was
made up on any subject, no amount of argument could
induce her to change it; but Blake had ‘found out by
long experience that she was sometimes to be got
around by diplomacy and tact. If he wanted to ac-
complish anything to prevent the utter ruination of
his nephew, he would have to recourse to that now.

“Yes, I see,”’ he returned shortly.

He arose to his feet.
“It’s most unfortunate,
coat. “I had hoped he would outgrow it. We must
put our heads together some day soon and see if we
cannot think up some way of helping him. I must be
getting home. I'll see you to-morrow or next day,

Harriet.” | 3 7

Imprinting a chaste kiss on her cheek, he managed

to get into his overcoat and reach the street without
letting go his grip. — once on the sidewalk, the
explosion came. |

“The great, overgrown eats !” he growled.

paw of his. Weak heart! Bah! -It’s as strong as
mine, I’ll warrant. He’s been coddled and babied and
petted until he’s a perfect muff. Not a bit of muscle
‘in that great carcass—nothing but fat and blubber.
Harriet is crazy—simply crazy! What under heaven
does she expect 'to make of the boy at this rate?”

- Striding rapidly along the street, he turned the

, . problem over and over in his mind without coming to

any SNES ‘Something ma must oo and t that soon,

” he went on, buttoning his,

“The.
softy! I’d as soon take hold of a dead fish as that limp

WEEKLY.

to save the boy from the enervating, character-destroy- |

ing conditions by which he was surrounded. ‘There
would not be a spark of manhood left in him if he
were not brought up with a sharp turn very quickly.
Already it might be too late.

He reached his own house, which had been opened
the day before for his home-coming; and, as he started

up the steps, he gave a sudden exclamation and brought
his hand down on his thigh with a resounding slap.
“By George!” he cried. “The very thing! If
Frank Merriwell can’t bring him around, no one can.
Why under the sun didn’t that occur to me before?”

Frank Merriwell was an old friend of his. They a.
had been at Yale at the same time, and,

a trip to. Bloomfield and gone through the American
School of Athletic Development from attic to cellar. —
He had been delighted with the institution and pleased
beyond measure at Merriwell’s work and theories. Tt _
was exactly the thing which Vincent needed ; but would. 7
Harriet be likely to consent to her son’s going there,
after the experiences he had had at Hillcrest? oe

Blake at once perceived that the greatest tact
would be needed to bring her around, and he spent a
good deal of time that evening in elaborating a plan of
campaign. — ae

Next morning he phoned his sister that he would

like to come over to lunch, and, being graciously. urged oo

to do so, he appeared at one o’clock. He made hi
self most agreeable during the meal, but did not hi
at the object of his coming until after Vincent h
ne: the oaks for’ his Ww eh er

ested in spite of herself in Blake’s sachs died
explanations. ’

He did not mention the name of the school at

possess, ot 4
“That is what Vincent needs,” Mrs, ‘Suda

marked approvingly. “He has stich a fine and Sei

tive nature, you know. Really, Ralph, you al

 

only a few
months before his trip abroad, Ralph Blake had made 4
 
 

TIE TOP

Fie af OR Se, gre et

each boy a thorough examination when he first ar-

 

re. rives,’ Blake assured her. “Any student having weak
he: organs performs only the lightest exercises and those
ye tefiding to strengthen his weak points. Mr. Merriwell
| is very particular on that score, and he has had won-
dy derful success in building up constitutions which were
od ap apparently hopeless.”
ht 1 Mrs. Schuyler looked doubtful.
| “But the heart trouble, Ralph!’ she reminded.
Lf ge “Could we ever hope for any permanent cure there?”
noe “Of course, if the right methods are used.”
® He saw that she was wavering, and at once brought
Se 7 to bear all the arguments which came into his fertile
or cae mind. He wanted to have her opinion definitely settled
le before Vincent returned, for he knew that the boy
ae would object strenuously to being sent away to school
+ Waele 7 again.
d | It took most of the afternoon, but in the end Mrs.
f | Schuyler was brought around to his opinion. In fact,
d | before he left the house, she was even enthusiastic over
C, im | the project; and so skillful had been his method of
- procedure that she actually took to herself the credit
«! + of conceiving the plan.
are Well pleased with the results of his afternoon's
f ae work, Ralph Blake returned home, and before he
ear slept, wrote a long, explanatory letter to Frank Mer-
4 te As riwell, over which he chuckled more than once.
d vm

CHAPTER III.

THE ARRIVAL AT FARNHAM HALL.

“There, Vin!’ cried Ralph Blake enthusiastically.
-“There’s the school. What do you think of it?”
The carriage which was conveying uncle and nephew
from the Bloomfield station, rounded a bend in the
“road and skirted the grounds of the American School
of Athletic Development, the buildings of which, mas-
_ sive, substantial, and imposing, crowned an eminence
_ to one side of the road. |
- “Tsn’t that great!” Blake went on eagerly.
- beats Hillcrest all to pieces, doesn’t it?”
Vincent Schuyler grunted something unintelligible
-and bestowed a languid glance upon the buildings,
- without altering his hunched-up position under the
carriage robe.
He was sullen and grouchy, and had esti in that
- condition ever since he left home. He did not want to
go away to school again. Hillcrest had given him all

That

   

WEEKLY. 3

-big level parade ground in front, on which a company

‘into his face, and, springing to his feet, he advanced a

_ of that sort of experience he desired, and he was very

      
    
  
  
 
  
 
    
  
  
    
  
 
 
       
    
    
    

comfortable at home. But all his pleading and expos-
tulation against it had failed to move his mother once
she had made up her mind that this novel and unusual
school of Frank Merriwell’s—the only one of its kind
in America—was going to benefit him.

He knew his uncle was to blame for this sudden and
unexpected decision, and on that account the boy hated
him cordially. Not daring, however, to rebel openly,
Vincent had revenged himself by relapsing into a si-
lent, sullen condition of ill temper which made him a
most trying traveling companion and caused Ralph
Blake to rejoice and give thanks that the time had
come when he would be rid of this ill-conditioned
young cub.

In spite of his affectation of indifference, Vincent
Schuyler was amazed at the great size and apparent
prosperity of the school, and all the way up the drive
he took in covertly the handsome, commodious build-
ings, which seemed to cover the entire hilltop; the

of gray-clad boys were going through a drill; the air
of life and bustle which was over everything.

He had expected some kind of an institution or
reformatory, but this was quite different.

He shuddered as’ he thought of what might be in
store for him here. His experience at Hillcrest, brief
and fleeting as it had been, had proved most unpleas-
ant and distasteful. He wondered whether this was
going to be a repetition of that nightmare. :

Then the carriage stopped before the, door of one |
of the buildings and Ralph Blake jumped out. Vincent
slowly unwound the robe from about him and followed
his uncle up the steps and through the big doorway. |

       
       
     
     
     
       
       
     
     
     
   
     
         
   
 
     
  

The next moment he found himself in a large, square
room, comfortably but plainly furnished, which had’
about it an air of business in every appointment.

A tall, handsome, singularly fine-looking man was —
seated at a big desk dictating-to a stenographer; but —
at the sight of Ralph Blake, a welcoming smile flashed ~~

 

with outstretched hand.
“Well, Ralph, how are you?” he said, in a irusteue
voice. “I am glad to see you.” _
Blake gripped his hand heartily.
“Great, Frank!’ he returned quickly.
self? You got my letter, didn’t you?”
Frank Merriwell nodded. be
“Yes, but there was no time to answer it. I knows
you would leave home before a reply could reach you. f
He dropped Blake’s hand and turned to Vi incent,

.“How’s your-

  
 

6 | TIP TOP

who stood slightly behind’his uncle, bestowing furtive,
curious glances on this man who was to be so big a
factor in his life.

“You must be Vincent Schuyler,” he said, in his
pleasant, clear voice. “I am very glad to know you,
Vincent.”’

There was something magnetically winning in the
smile accompanying the words, which, made the boy,
almost in spite of himself, lose a little of his sullen, re-
sentful expression and put a little more vigor than was
his habit into the handshake which followed.

“Thank you, sir,” he returned, dropping his eyes.

: This was not at all the sort of man he had expected
' to see. He wondered whether he would be easy to get
along with. Raising his head, he glanced quickly at
_ Merriwell again, and as quickly looked away. The
eyes which met his were firm and kind and steady, but
_. there was something in them, and about the firm curve
of the sensitive mouth, which told Vincent that this
was not the sort of man who could be trifled with or
easily hoodwinked.

“I have several letters which must go by the next
mail, Ralph,” Merriwell was saying to Blake. “If
you don’t mind, I'll finish them and then we can have

-  atalk together. In the meantime es
____He paused, and, stepping to his desk, pressed a but-
" ton.

 

“Tl just send for one of the boys and have him
take Vincent around a little and show him things,”
he went on. “His room is all ready for him, and, as
soon as his trunk arrives, he can unpack and settle
down. We'll have a talk after dinner, my boy, and
decide what work it will be best to start in with to-
morrow.” —

 

: Vincent made no reply. He did not like the matter-
_ of-fact way in which work was spoken of. In that talk
this afternoon he must make it very clear how careful
he had to be in the matter of exertion, both bodily
and mentally. He certainly did not propose to take
part in that drill he had seen outside. With his weak
condition of heart, such a thing was not to be’ thought
of. ere | |
Presently the door opened and a tall, slim, dark-eyed,
curly-haired youth stood inquiringly on the threshold.
“Ah, Carpenter,” Frank said quickly. “You are off
duty? e
“Yes, sir,”/ returned the young fellow promptly.
“That is, I have'gym work in twenty minutes.”
“This is Vincent Schuyler. I wish you’d show him
about,a little. Take him up to his eae the only

 
 

  

  

  

 

WEEKLY.

vacant one on your corridor—and then he can go with
you to the gym and watch the work there.”

“Very well, sir,” returned Carpenter readily.

He looked inquiringly at Vincent, who seemed in no
hurry to go. Truth to tell, the mention of the gym
made him nervous. He recalled his experiences at
Hillcrest when he had been forced to go through the
beastly exercises which made him breathless and ready
to drop with fatigue, and he was afraid that something
of the sort would be the order here.

Frank noticed his hesitation, and instantly divined
the cause.

“I don’t want you to take part in any exercises to-
day,” he explained quickly. ‘You'll have to be ex-
amined first by the doctor and a regular course pro-
scribed.” |

“Run along, Vin,” his uncle added impatiently.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

The boy flushed angrily, and, smothering the retort
which trembled on his lips, joined Carpenter, who was
waiting for him in the hall.

“T’'d just like to give fim a piece of my mind,” he
muttered crossly.

“What’s he mean by that?” Carpenter asked curi-
ously. “Don’t you like gym work?”

Vincent hesitated.

“T like it well enough,” he explained, “but I’ve got
a weak heart, and the doctor doesn’t want me to exert
myself.”

“Oh, I see,” Carpenter returned shortly.

He was looking the new boy over appraisingly. Be-
ing captain of the hockey team, he was ever on the
alert for promising material, but Schuyler’s flabby fat-
ness was not encouraging.

“Don’t you ever take any exercise?” he asked rather
ee

“Oh, yes,’ ance said hurriedly. . “I take walks
—real long ones.”’ os
“Walks!” exclaimed‘’Carpenter. “Humph! Call

that exercise, do you?
baseball or anything like that?”

Schuyler looked horrified.

“Oh, gracious, no!” he exclaimed.
such rough, brutal games as those.”

“Humph!” repeated Carpenter.

‘He made no further comment. Evidently he was dis- :

gusted with the new boy, for in silence h¢ led the way
quickly upstairs and down a long corridor.

 

Don’t you play football or ~

“T couldn’t stand —

By thie 9
time he had reached the door of Vincent's room and
opened it, the latter was some dozen feet behind him,

 

 

   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
    
   
   
   

Q .
—

 
     
   
 
        
       
    
     
     
     
    
     
    
    
 

 

 

-manded the slim chap.

mistaken.
‘ what more do you want? I tell you, Schuyler, after
, you've put in the morning with the drill and lessons,

FLIP LOR

puffing
keep up with the slim chap.
Carpenter said shortly.

He stepped inside, and Vincent followed him curi-
ously. On the threshold he paused and stared around
him in dismay.

and blowing with the exertion of trying to

‘“Here’s your room,”

CHAPTER IV.
IN THE GYMNASIUM:

The room was pleasant enough, and, while not large,
was light and airy, and, plainly, though comfortably,
furnished. A single iron bed stood in an alcove, and in
the room itself were tables, chairs, a bookshelf and one
or two pictures.

_ It was a room such as many a boy would have
thought ‘almost luxurious, but to Vincent Schuyler,

‘surrounded as he had been all his life by the frills and

furbelows and fussy knick-knacks which his fond

mother took pleasure in providing him, it looked ap-

pallingly bare: ?
The silence was so prolonged that Eric Carpenter
turned to see what was the matter and caught the

look of distaste on Vincent’s heavy face,
y

“What's the trouble?” he asked, in surprise.
“Ts this all?”
Carpenter looked puzzled.
“All?” he queried.
Isn’t it enough?”
“It looks so bare,”

faltered Schuyler.

“What the deuce do you mean?
explained Vincent.
“What in thunder do you want with a sofa?’ de-
“If you think you’re going to

have much time to spend on one, you’re jolly well
There’s a comfortable chair to study in;

and the blacksmith shop, and the afternoon skating

or tobogganing or playing hockey, you'll be glad

enough to eat a good supper and tumble straight into

3 bed, without wasting any time lolling on a sofa.”

- Vincent's eyes bulged with horror.

“My goodness!” he gasped. “That's ‘perfectly aw-

i ful. They don’t make you do all those things, do
ai theyt”

_ “Make you!” Carpenter exclaimed tartly. “Why,

   

  

“Aren't »
there any more pictures, or a sofa, or anything?”

formed him as he opened the door.

  
   
    
   
  
   
  
 
 
     
     
     
    
     
       
 
     
     
     
    
          
      
   
   
       
      
 

WEEKLY.

don’t really mean you have to work in a blacksmith
shop?”

“Not if you don’t want to. You can go into cabi-
netmaking or woodturning if you like those better.
Me for the forge, though. There’s something great
about seeing the sparks fly up from under your ham-
mer and feeling a bit of work grow under your very
fingers from just a simple bar of iron. It’s dandy for
your arms, too. Makes ‘em hard as nails. Feel that.”

He doubled up his right arm and held it out. Vin-
cent reached over and pinched the bicep gingerly with
thumb and forefinger. The arm was hard’ as iron.

“Gracious, you're strong!” he murmured a bit en-
viously.

He thought of his own soft, flabby’arm and for an
instant wished it were not quite so limp.

Carpenter shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he returned indifferently
“You ought to see Bill Runge. He’s a regular ox.
The dandiest full back we ever had. He was captain
of ite team, you know, and we won ev ver a but
one.’

He stopped abruptly and pulled out his watch.

“Come on down to the gym,”
“The bell will ring in about three shakes of a lamb’s
tail.” |

At the mention of this place of torment, Vincent's
fears returned with renewed vigor. -

he went on quickly.

    
      
     
   
      
   
  

“I think [ll stay here and unpack,”

“Oh, shucks!’’ exclaimed the slim chap. “You've —
got nothing but a bag. Your trunk hasn’t come yet. 14
Don’t be a dub, Schuyler. You might as well come i
down and see the place before you start to work to- oid
morrow. Don’t you want to meet some of the fel-
lows?” ag

he faltered. . a8

    
     
     
     
     
     
       
     
    

Vincent was not at all anxious to do so, but he dared —
not confess that fact to-his companion. Consequently
he gave in and reluctantly followed Carpenter down- Ase
stairs and thence to the open air.

 

 
   
   
   
     
     
     
        
     
 
        
 
   

Turning toward one ofthe large buildings near at
hand, they had scarcely reached the door before the
big bell of Farnham Hall clanged loudly. ,

“They'll be along in a jiffy,” his companion in-
“That's the signal —
for everybody to show up for the regular morning gym
work. Come in and avoid the rush.” |

    

Vi incent followed his*guide curiously into the build-
ing and then stopped still in astonishment at the im-
mense size of the room in whith he found himself.
It was fully three times as large as the gym

    
 

   

8 ai eOP

 

crest, and splendidly equipped. But he had scarcely
stepped inside the door before his eyes fell upon the
He

Those were the identical instruments of tor-

rows of chest weights ranged against the wall.
shivered.
ture which had been the bane of his life during his
short stay at Hillcrest. If they tried to make him use
thém here, he simply would not stand it. He would
run away first.

His bitter thoughts were cut short by entrance of a
great number of boys of‘all ages, who marched through
the door in an orderly procession, and passed on to the
big dressing room, where they broke file and proceeded
to get into their gymnasium togs with the greatest ex-
pedition.

Many of them eyed Vincent curiously as they passed,
but no one stopped or spoke; for this was as much a
part of the days duties as anything else.

‘ &
As the end of the line appeared and the door closed,
Carpenter started toward the dressing room.

“Hang around till we're through, and Fl show you
about some more,” he called back carelessly. “I’ve got
to get busy now.” ’

So it happened that Vincent was.left alone to watch
with bated breath and staring eyes the proceedings
which followed, all of which seemed equally horrible
to this boy who loathed exertion in any form.

When the boys first flocked back into the main hall
and took up their various exercises in a quiet, orderly
manner, his heart sank and he positively trembled for
fear the tall, dark, keen-faced man who seemed to have
charge of the work should make him fall in with the
_ rest.

Nothing of the kind occurring, however, he pres-
ently plucked up heart and began to take a fearful
sort of interest in what was going on about him. He
was standing near one of the chest weights, watching
in gaping astonishment a boy not nearly as big as he
_who was using them dexterously.

Up and down, up and down, swung the weights with
rythmical regularity. _The boy did not seem in the
least tired, either. There was barely a slight glow of
perspiration on his freckled forehead. His breathing
was not perceptibly quickened.

How did he do it? Vincentsshuddered as he thought
of the state of limpness he himself would be reduced
to. Forty-three, forty-four! Was he never going to
‘stop? | :
- Suddenly the boy’s roving blue eyes, bright as stars
under the thick mop of reddish hair, fell upon Schuy-
ler’s gaping countenance. He darted a swift glance

       

WEEKLY.

around.

3art Hodge, the man in charge of, the boys,

was at the farther end of the building, and for the
moment far enough away.

“Cheese it, Fatty!” hissed the chap at the chest
‘Them blinkers of yours will fall out in a

‘

weights.
minute.”

Vincent started in surprise and frowned a bit.

“Were you addressing me?’ he demanded indig-
nantly.

If there was one thing he hated above another it
was the name of “Fatty.” That had.been another of
the trials of Hillcrest, which he thought he had es-
caped.

The. boy chuckled.

“T was, your Royal Fatness,”’ he returned promptly,

without stopping his work with the weights for an in- .

stant. “Don’t you like it?”

Vincent did not pursue the contention further. He
had sometimes found a display of fierceness, aided by
his large build, to be effective with smaller boys; but
apparently this one was not in the least intimidated.
It occurred to him, moreover, that a fellow who could
manipulate those weights an unlimited number of times
with such apparent ease might be a dangerous boy to
get into an argument with. So he assumed a concilia-
tory manner and forced a genial smile to his lips.

“T was only fooling,” he explained.

“Oh, you're a funny man, are you?” inquired the
red-headed boy. “What were you staring at me for?
You looked like you thought I was your grandmothet’s
ghost.” ,

“I was wondering how many times you were going
to pull those weights,” Vincent returned.

“Seventy-five,” retorted the other laconically.

“My gracious!” gasped Vincent. “I don’t see how >

you can do if. Don't it most kill you?”
“Naw!” snorted the youth contemptuously.

little tired toward the end, but nothing to speak of.”
Notwithstanding his nonchalance, he was secretly

rather pleased and flattered at the Vincent’s open ad-

miration and awe, and his heart at once warmed to-
ward the newcomer.

“You just came to-day, didn’t, you?” he inquired.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Jack Payne, though the

fellows mostly call me Reddy.” |
“Mine’s Vincent Schuyler.”
“Gee!

quick?”

“T don’t know what you mean?” Vincent said, ina —
| A * ‘,

puzzled tone.

“Get a

Ain’t you the tony one,” grinned Reddy.
“What do they call you when they want you to come _

 

pene 3
att a be

ee

*

 

 
  
   
   
  
  
 

     
       
        
         
     
   

  

  

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lanes ee En

 
  

   
    
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
 

with Vin.

“Oh, gee!” chuckled the red-haired chap. “You're
thick, all right. What's your nickname?”
“I haven’t got any,’ Vincent ‘answered, rather

shortly ;
me Vin.”

“Short and sweet,” commented Payne.
think we'll find a better one than that.
done.”

He dropped the weights and stretched himself.

“Come on into the dressing room and I'll knock you
down to some of the other boys.”

Vincent turned pale. \

“Knock me down!” he gasped.

Reddy clapped his hand over his mouth to prevent
giving vent to a burst of laughter. His face grew
positively purple.

“Oh,
recovered his breath.
how? You don’t seem to understand good United
States. What I tried to convey in my crude but force-
ful way, was that I would introduce you, make you
acquainted, allow you to shake hands, with those of
our esteemed fellow schoolmates who are congregated
in yonder hall—er—arraying themselves once more in
the habiliments of respectability. , Get that through
your nut?”

“except that Uncle Ralph sometimes calls

“T kind of
There that’s

say, you're rich!” he exclaimed, when he had

 

\A scowl appeared on Schuyler’s face. He hated be-

ing joshed. Payne perceived it and grinned again.
“You're a touchy duck, dren’t you?” he remarked.

“But you'll get over that before you've been here long.”

With which significant utterance, he skipped into the
5 I

_ dressing room, followed more slowly by Vincent.

ofa
S voice

The next moment he found himself the centre
curious and interested group, and heard Reddy's
raised in mirthful accents.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you'a recent’

stout addition to our number—he objects to being
called fat, so I generously spare his feelings+-Mr. Vin-
cent Schuyler, sometimes called Vin in moments of
excitement by Uncle Ralph. Everybody shake hands
He’s a good fellow and perfectly corking
at pulling the chest weights. Simply dotes on it, in
fact, and thus employs his leisure hours.”

Instantly both Schuyler’s hands were grasped at the

same moment by the two boys nearest to him, squeezed

until he nearly shrieked with pain, and then dropped

only to be grabbed by another pair of fellows.

Fortunately he had presence of mind enough to jab

i them into his pockets after this second infliction, and
thus narrowly escaped utter annihilation at the hands

Tih SSOP

“Where were you raised, any-,

 

    

WEEKLY.

of a hulking six-footer,
them.

“Too late, Bill,’ Reddy said sorrowfully
didn’t you get a move on you.
welcome Vin to Farnham Hall.”

Bill Runge grinned. He was a big, hulking monster
of a fellow, strong as an ox, who delighted in using
that strength on boys weaker than himself.

“Never mind, Reddy,” he retorted. ‘We'll welcome
your friend some other way. What's his name? Vin-
nie? He looks like a nice, soft little feller, but his fig-
ger don’t live up to that name. Seems to me Fatty
would go better.”

“Nix!” retorted a dark-browed*boy named Goodhue.
“We've-got one Fatty already. Won't do to have
another. Think again.”

Vincent’s face was a picture of outraged dignity.
How dared they talk about him that way! How dared
they make fun of him! A lot of low, common boys!
He would not stay in this school another minute and
be treated this way.

who made a futile grab at

“Why
I'd like to ave you

He would go home with his uncle.
His mother would be heartbroken if she knew what
he was going through.

Suddenly a short, square, snub-nosed boy—the orig-
inal Fatty, by the way-—stooped suddenly with amaz-
ing agility and gave the calf of Vincent’s leg a firm,
inquiring pinch with thumb and forefinger.

“The Fatted Calf!’ he shrieked,
out of reach. “That’s the name for him.
bunches of it, boys, and it’s the
t out, you little runt!”

skipping nimbly
He’s got
fattest you ever saw.”
“Get Vincent, furious
at this last outrage.

He kicked viciously at the active youth, and with so
much force that he lost his balance and hit the floor
with a resounding crash.

There was a roar of laughter from the surrounding
fellows, and Vincent scrambled to his feet, scarlet with
rage and humiliation, darted a scathing look at the
grinning circle, and then, without a word, pushed his
way out of it and hurried through the gymnasium to
the outer door.

snapped

CHAPTER V.
A CHANGE OF MIND.

Dashing across the open to the larger building, the~ :
angry boy rushed dirough the hall and burst into
Frank Merriwell’s office without the formality of
knocking. He had expected to find his uncle there, ;

 

     
     
   

10 TIP TOP

but, as he looked wildly around, he was surprised to see
nothing of him.

Merriwell looked up from his desk, frowning a bit.
He did not approve of the boys breaking in upon him
and interrupting his work in that unceremonious man-
ner. His face cleared when he saw that the intruder
was Schuyler. |

“Ah, Vincent,” he said quietly.
I would see you this afternoon.”

“Where’s my uncle?” demanded Vincent. “I’m
going home with him. I won’t stay here another min-
ute and be treated that way.”

Frank laid aside his pen and sat back in his chair.
“Mr. Blake decided to take the early train back,”
he said calmly. ‘He left for the station about ten
minutes ago, and wished me to say good-by to you

for him.”

Vincent groaned. This was dreadful! How was he
to get away? He had no money and he had counted
on his uncle’s waiting over for the afternoon train.

“But I can’t stay here,” he faltered.

To his excited mind the idea seemed intolerable.
Frank Merriwell’s pleasant voice broke in upon his
thoughts and seemed almost insensibly to calm him.

“What has happened, Vincent, to make you feel like
this? I hope none of the boys has been treating you
bay badly.”

Vincent opened his mouth to speak and then closed it
slowly again. He was calmer now, and, as he looked
_ into the clear, far-seeing eyes of the man at the desk,
~ he hesitated. What had assumed such vast proportions
a few moments ago in the gymnasium did not loom up
quite so big here. He dropped his eyes to the floor

and shuffled his feet nervously.

“T thought I said

“T can’t stay here and be insulted,” he said sullenly.

“Nor do I want you to,” Merriwell said quickly,
“How did this insult come about?”

| “Tt was a fellow named ad

_ Merriwell’s voice broke in, swiftly and clearly.
“I did not ask who did it, Vincent.
came about.”

 

  

 
 

Schuyler glanced up in, surprise. He did not know
that Frank Merriwell abominated tale- bearing and tit-
“tle- -tattle of any description. It was a form of sneak-
ing upon which he looked with the utmost distaste,
and he lost no opportunity of impressing this fact a
the boys at Farnham Hall.

Neyer since the school had been founded had Che en-
uraged a boy to tell on a comrade, and whenever it

 
 

 
 

    
 

I asked how it .

ad been done voluntarily he had always shown his dis- ment.

WEEKLY.

pleasure. Frank knew full well that a boy who runs
and tells will probably not hesitate to lie to save him-
self, and a deliberate, malicious liar had no place at that
school.

Something of this feeling Vincent saw on his mobile
face, and again he dropped his eyes, conscious that he
had been about to do something underhand.

“They called me names,” he stammered presently.

“What sort of names?”

Again Vincent hesitated. The whole thing seemed
so absurdly, trivial when he came to put it into words
that he felt a little ashamed. Frank waited patiently.
He rather expected what was coming.

“Fatty,” Vincent whispered at length;
and—and the Fatted Calf.”

The shadow of a smile flickered across Merriwell’s
face and was gone. :

_“T see,” he said quietly. “Nicknames.”

He hesitated an instant and then went on:

“Now you've had a chance to think the matter over
calmly, do you really believe that’s sufficient reason,
Vincent, for you to rush away from the school without
giving it a chance? “Every boy that amounts to any-
thing has a nickname. When I went to school I had
three of four.”’

“But they didn’t call you Fatty, as they, sir?”
boy persisted.

“and Vinnie,

the

Frank smiled.

“No, but that was probably because I never devel-
oped any tendencies in that direction. Now you're a
little too heavy for your height, but we'll change all
that in time. I don’t believe you’re the sort of boy
who flies into a rage whenever he gets a little good-
natured jollying from his comrades, are you?”

This was exactly what Schuyler was, but the way.

Frank put it had a softening effect.

“N-o,” he said hesitatingly ; “but nobody likes to be see

made fun of.”

“Probably not,” Frank returned, “but that’s
the things we all have to take in this life. We've sim-
ply got to grin and bear it and get back at the jokers

with something a little bit better than they have given |
‘us. It’s a game of give and take, my boy, and doesn’t

stop with our school days. It continues all sroeey
life, and the man who keeps his temper through it. a
and smilingly gives back a little more than he receives
is the man who wins out.”

Vincent considered this for a moment.

“But I don’t have to win out,’
“fT won't ever have to work if I don’ t want to.

one of

’ he said, the next: mo- b

  
   
   
  
  
     
   
  
   
    
   
  
  
  
   
   
   
    
  
    

Se ne ARR ae ae

   
    
     
     
    
      
     
    
      
     
       
    
    
      
  
   

    
 

    
 
   
  
 
   
   
  
  
  
   
    
    
  
   
  
      
     
     
         

 

ence and observation.

_ you had as to the importance of work.
made myself clear.”

thought of it that way pefore.
a/waiter.”

abe? POE

eects got plenty of Bones and it will all come
to me.’

Merriwell’s face grew very serious.

“I don’t know where you got that point of view,
Schuyler,”’ he said quickly; “but it’s a totally wrong
one, and has ruined more than one young man who
might have made a place for himself in the world.
Money isn’t everything, my boy, and there’s nothing
less sure. I’ve known more than one’ fellow who
thought, as you do, that he would never be obliged
to make his way if he didn’t want to. They frittered
away their time and energies when they should have
been laying the foundation for a life of usefulness, and
when the crash came and their money vanished utterly
they were stranded high and dry. They knew nothing
—could do nothing. They were helpless, for it was
too late for them to change. One of the two I have
in mind is a w aiter in a cheap New York restaurant;
the other—worse.’

He paused for an instant, and the boy before hym
waited with widened eyes and the color coming and
going in his cheeks for him to continue:

“Vincent, work is the greatest blessing which has
been Biven to the world,’ Frank went on the next
instant. ‘You don’t realize it now, of course, so you'll
have to take what I say on faith; but a man without
some fixed occupation is like a derelict floating -hither
and thither on the sea of life, without object, without
purpose, utterly useless to himself and every one about
him. By this I mean a man in his prime. ;

“It is quite proper and desirable for one who is
getting on in years, and who has done his part in the
world, to retire from the struggle; but for a young
man it is ruination. \

“Tf I had a hundred million dollars I would be just*

aa careful to fit my son to take his part in the strug-
gle of life as I am at this moment, and I should be
heartily sorry if any boy left Farnham School with-
out realizing to the full the truth of what I say.”

He ceased and a slight smile curved the corners of
his mouth., ;

“That’s been a rather lengthy jective. hasn’t it, Vin-
cent?’ he went on, in a lighter tone. ‘But I wanted
you, to see clearly what I have learned from experi-
I couldn’t let you go out of
this office without tealizing what a very wrong notion
I hope I've

stammered Vincent. “I—I never
I shouldn’t like to be

;

Po AGS, © Sit,

 

koe dee eset

[ptik-rtateren, chteee dike Dtn ae

Se a ee ee

WEEKLY. : IT

“That was only one case,’ Frank returned quickly.
“There are much lower depths than that. But let us
return to the subject which, started this discussion.
When you consider the matter quietly I think you'll
realize that a boy has got to have:a nickname sooner
or later. What you want to do is to see that no one
ever has the chance of giving you one which would
Fatty
for instance, and much

indicate the presence of dishonorable qualities.
is much preferable to Sneaky,
less lasting. I think you'll find that, after you've been
at your regular work in’ the gymnasium and elsewhere
discover that the
name is no longer applicable and will choose a new
one.” .

Vincent’s heart sank at the mention of that hated
place.

“But—Mr. Mérriwell,” he faltered, “I—I can’t take
those exercises in the gymnasium—lI really can’t, sir.”

for a time, the boys will presently

Frank raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Why not?” ;

‘“My—-heart is—weak, sir,” Vincent explained, in a
low tone. “I’ve never been allowed ‘to take violent ex-
ercises for Pear of overstraining it.”

“Weak heart!’ Frank exclaimed. “That’s bad. I
must speak to Doctor Schnitzle about this. If he finds
anything radically wrong, rest assured, Schuyler, that
you will not be obliged, or even permitted, to do any-
thing which will harm you. On the contrary, we will
lay out a course of work which will have a very bene-
e" effect. A weak heart doesn’t mean that you will
ye permanently. handicapped.
cured, even outgrown.”
sigh of relief.

Vincent gave a Constant harping on

«his weakness by his mother and her friends at home

had bred up in his mind an unassailable conviction
that he was doomed to go through life handicapped by
his trouble, until he had reached the point when it
would be almost a disappointment to find that they
were wrong. It was rather pleasant to be petted and
coddled and never allowed to exert himself or do any-
thing which was disagreeable or distasteful. He did
not mind that in the least. And, of course, he did not
believe for an instant that Frank could be right. But

it was a tremendous relief to know that he would not.

be forced to go through those horrible exercises which
had nearly killed him at Hillcrest.

“Thank you, sir,” he said gratefully.
tle afraid of those exercises.”

“Directly after dinner report to Doctor Sttinitie
for a thorough examination,”

 

Such things are often

“T was a lft- —

Merriwell said quickly.

    

 

    

a ia ce:
   
 

a SNS GAAS MNRAS thee 2 CATE SRG alge ae
cone =e 2

  

Ee

   
 
 

12 iP. Ree

“Then we shall know where we stand and can proceed
accordingly. I think that will be all just now, Schuy-
ler. It’s almost dinner time now. Any of the boys
will show you where you are to sit.”
_ Vincent retired from the office in far better spirits
. than when he had entered. Frank’s little talk had
given him so much to think about that he forgot for
the moment the wrath and indignation which had sent
him bursting in there.

    
  
  
 
 
  
   
 
  
  
  
  
   
   
   

CHAPTER Vz.
A SAD BLOW.

His mind was still further diverted by the arrival of
the dinner hour, which was announced by the clanging
of the big bell. Vincent had, no notion where the
dining room was located, but, happening to glance
out of the door, he saw boys issue from the various
buildings and form into regular companies.

Without any delay, for he was beginning to feel
the pangs of hunger, he hastened down the steps, look-
ing right and left for his guide of the morning, Eric
Carpenter. ?
Bia Presently he saw him at the head of one of the
ane companies, and at the same moment Carpenter spied
tae) bita.
_. “Get into line,”

 

the slim chap said, rather shortly.
without words, and presently found himself besid

Calf but an hour before.

Fatty Hicks, whose baptismal name of Horace had
been lost in the myths of tradition, grinned as Vincent
appeared at his side.

_ “Get over your grouch, Calfie?” he chuckled, as the
_ line began to move toward the dining hall.

Vincent disdained reply, and Hicks chortled as if he
_ found something extremely ludicrous in his compan-
-ion’s manner. Schuyler flushed angrily. The flush
3 deepened when, from somewhere back of him, came
_ the whispered words:

_ “Two little fatties standing in a row.”

“No talking!” admonished Carpenter sternly.
After that perfect silence reigned as the various
companies filed into the dining room in an orderly
manner and took their places at the alloted tables. It
vas all done with such perfect discipline and lack of
bustle or confusion that Vincent could not help being

 
 
 

  
 
 

  

Though Vincent did not like his tone, he obeyed,

the short, square lad- who had called him the Fatted

rs

    

OO NT RE ONE IO

  

TEER Re etree eee

   

 

WEEKLY.

His place |
though

He fared very well during the meal.
was between Hicks and Reddy Payne, and,
both boys indulged in a little good-natured jollying,
they were all too hungry to pay much attention to
anything but their dinner.

The food was plain, well cooked, and plentiful.
Schuyler missed the various little dainties with which
he had been provided at home, and would have much
preferred some kind of pastry or rich cream for des-

ae

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SE i etry iy eer aa
- e)

 

 

ia Mearns fe Pee

sert instead of the simple pudding; but, nevertheless,
he managed to consume everything which was placed
before him.

While he ate he took in the various boys who lined
both sides of the long table, and presently his atten-
tion was attracted by a fellow who sat opposite him,
a little farther down.

He was a boy of about seventeen,. tall, slim, and
blond. He seemed to be very popular with the fellows
about him, and, with his wavy, yellow hair, perfect
complexion, and splendid teeth, which he showed very
often in an attractive smile, Vincent thought him quite
the best-looking fellow he had ever seen.

“Who’s that blond chap down there?” he inquired
presently of Reddy, in a whisper. ;

igh Roe

Sy

al
ha
{

Payne glanced down the table.

“Oh, that’s Ray Ewry,” he returned. “Dandy fel-
low. People got all kinds of money, I believe. You
ought to see him do stunts in the gym. He’s pretty
neat as good as Carpenter.”

Vincent thought he looked like a much nicer fellow
than Carpenter, who seemed to him to be entirely too
brusque and stuck-up. Somehow he felt as if he
would like very much to be friends with this Ray
Ewry, but probably the fellow would never look at
him.

     
           
       
         
       
    

His meditations were Soa ads by the singh ,
stroke of a bell, at the sound of which the boys in-— ?
stantly arose, and, pushing back their chairs, stood _
in regular lines behind them.

 
       
   
   
   
   
 

Again the bell rang, and presently, keeping perfect: iy k
step, the various anita: began to march out of the
hall as they had entered it.

      
   
   
 

Once outside, Vincent inquired the way to the doc-
tor’s office, where he had been told to report directly —
after dinner. He did not look forward to the ordeal
with much pleasure, but it was necessary in order to —
escape the exercising which he loathed, so he made —
his way quickly to the si he in which Doctor
Schnitzle had rooms. |
He found the doctor a stout, wheezy little Gets.

 
    
  

 
    
   
 

 

 

a ~, i
is Reet ee ef 9 eH a ay rece
™ 4

Lik FiOS

man, who paused in his work and eyed Vincent over
the top of his thick spectacles as the boy stood be-
fore the desk.

“How you vas, my poy?” he greeted him.

“Pretty well,” returned Vincent shortly.

“Only preddy vell,’ echoed the doctor. “Vat vill
der madder mit you pe? You dit not sick look, al-
retty.”"

“T’m not sick,” returned Vincent. “Mr. Merriwell
told me to come here after dinner and, have you ex-
amine my heart so I won't have to exercise.”’

A gleam of comprehension came into the doctor’s
eyes. _

“Ha! ha!” he chuckled.
on me iss, as you poys vill say.

“Das is goot. Der choke
You are der new

A poy Mr. Merriwell speak about me to, und I take you

nutting on,”
undt up hurry. Idt vill over pe in a quivckness.”’

_ Seeing that there was nothing else to be done, Vin-
cent stepped behind the screen and undressed.
he came to get into the trunks which had been placed

for an oldt one mit der signess. Ledt me see.”
Scrambling among the papers which cluttered up his

_ desk, he picked out the sheet he was after and glanced

at it through his spectacles.

“Your name vill be Schniler—yess?’”’ he said geni-

ally. |,

“Vincent Schuyler.”
“Dot's yat I

“Schuyler,” corrected the boy.

“Eggsactly,” returned the doctor.

already said. Vell, Vincendt, behindt dot screen you
- may, stoodt undt your clothes remofe.

On put der
trunks vat on der hook hang, undt der examination

_ vill broceed mit us.”
Vincent hesitated. |

— “Can't you do it without my undressing?” he asked.
He was not troubled with false modesty, but he

had an instinctive dislike to exposing his fat, flabby
figure and total lack of development, even to the doc-

_ “Flow vill your veak points findt me out-if you your
clothes tage not off; undt you veighed must also be mit
teturned the doctor. “Choust go behindt

When

there he found them decidedly snug. It was all he

- could do, in fact, to draw them up around his waist

nd fasten the string. Then he stepped forth into the

WEEKLY. 13

ce

Chorch!” he chuckled. “Der vas of you a
greadt blendy—vat?”

Advancing, tapeline in hand, he poked a tentative
finger into the roll of fat which effectually concealed
Vincent’s ribs.

“Dot vill soon off come ven der egcercises begin
themselves,” he said. “How oldt you vas, Vincendt?”

“Sixteen,” returned Schuyler shortly.

He did not at all fancy these jokes about his per-
sonal appearance. He knew he was too fat, but it
was quite another thing having this common little doc- -
tor laugh about it. His own doctor at home had always
been most respectful. Vincent did not know that
this same doctor had a very keen perception of his
value as a source of income, and had done his best to
keep both Vincent and his mother on a string regard-
ing the former’s alleged precarious condition of health.

“Put dot down, Prown,” ordered the doctor.

There was no response, and he looked around in a
puzzled way.

“Oh, I forgeds,”
der villaige to.”

Stepping to the desk, he wrote the item on a sheet
of paper and returned to Vincent. Then he drew the
tapeline about the boy’s waist.

“Thirdty-six! he exclaimed. “Py crashious! Ver
you gedt id all? You should not more den twendty-
eight pe. Dot musdt gome off quivck. 2.

Vincent scowled. But all his show of displeasure
made no whit of difference to the peppery little doctor,
who continued to make caustic comments at each
measurement he took, until at length the boy was al-
most wild with anger and humiliation.

His chest was too small, his waist too large. Nota
muscle was developed as it should be, and he weighed
about forty pounds more than he ought.

At last the doctor laid aside his tape and took up a
queer-looking appartus from his desk, with which he
listened long and carefully to the action of Vincent’s
much-mentioned heart.

“Now he'll see the reason for everything,” the boy
thought triumphantly. “Now he’ll find out why I
can’t exert myself and have to be so careful.”

he exclaimed. “Prown is gone

Presently the doctor straightened up.
“You haf a veak heart?” he questioned shortly.
Vea? “That’s why

Vincent answered eagerly.
I’ve never been able to take any exercises.
me do it at Hillcrest, and it almost killed me.”

“Who toldt: —

‘“Humph?!’ snorted the little German.
you dot?’

 

They made —
 

 

  

SEE Rok Or

  

“Doctor Lansing, at home,’ Schuyler answered.

“Wumph!” repeated the doctor. “Ve vill again lis-
tden.”’ 3

He replaced the stethoscope, and for several min-
utes silence reigned. At the end of that time the doc-
tor returned the instrument to his desk.

“T findt nuttings,” he said positively. “Der heart a
goodt one iss. Maype der action a liddle low, but nut-
tings much.”

Vincent gasped. He could not believe his ears. His
trouble had been harped on so long that it had come
to be a part of him. This fellow must be crazy.
Finally he managed to falter:

“But Doctor Lansing said

“You haf peen deceived,” broke in the doctor. “I
vill not say der heart a lidde veak might pe ven you a
child vass, but it hass overgrown you. Der iss nuttings
now.”

“But I know there is!” retorted Vincent. ‘Why,
when they made me do those exercises at Hillcrest, it
beat so I thought it was going to burst. When I got
through I was so tired I could hardly stand.” _

“No vonder,” Doctor Schnitzle snapped.~ ‘‘You
vass soft as pudding. Id wouldt, of gourse, make you
Vat you wandt iss to up keeb id. Every day
a liddle more do, undt soon you gedt strong undt loose
some of dat blubber vat vas so thickdt all over on
Dass is allus, Vincendt. You may oudt go.”

A wave of dispair came over Vincent. This man
must be an incompetent idiot when he said that there
was nothing the matter. He would not believe it.

“But I can’t do those exercises!” he, burst out; “I
simply can't.”

9

 

tired.

you.

“Dass is Mr. Merrivill’s pesiness,”’ the doctor re-
turned grimly, “I to him my report gif, undt he do
the rest.”’ '

It was useless to protest to such an ignoramus.
With a feeling of helpless indignation, Vincent went
behind the screen and dragged on his clothes. He
would appeal to Merriwell. He had seemed kind and
just. Surely he would not force any one to do things
which would injure them,

As soon as he was dressed, he stepped out into the
room and started toward the door.

“One. momendt, Vincendt,” called the doctor from
where he sat at his desk.

Schuyler turned back curiously.

“No candy,” the doctor said briefly.

’

Vincent looked at him in amazement.
“Why, what do you mean?” he asked.

    

 

 

    

WEEKLY.

,

“No candy,’
rich pastry. Dot iss der stuff vat makes der pimples
sprout your face all ofer. It must eat you no more.”

“Very well, sir,’ Vincent returned, with suspicious
readiness. :

/ ‘Humph!’ he snorted in the hall outside. “The old

repeated the doctor emphatically, “no

fool! If he thinks I’m going to cut out candy, he’s
mistaken. Doctor Lansing never told me not to
eat it.” :

He had an abnormal appetite for sweets of all sorts,
and the mention of them made him recall the large
five-pound box of bonbons which was reposing in his
trunk. He would slip up to his room and see if it had
come.

CHAPTER VII.
“VENUS.”

The trunk had arrived and was reposing in the mid-
dle of the floor. Vincent took off the strap, and, turn-
ing the key in the lock, threw back the cover.

His, first action was to find the box of candy and
start munching some of its contents. Then he went on
with the unpacking of the remainder of his belong-
ings. At first he was inclined to let them remain in
the trunk, for he certainly did “not porpose to remain
at this beastly school any longer than was absolutely
necessary.

He would write to his mother that very
tell her about the humiliations) he had suffered, and the
absurd diagnosis of Doctor Schnitzle. He knew that
would stir her to the heart and move her to instant
action.

Then he reflected that it would take two or three

night and

days, at least, for her tosend the money necessary for
him to get back home. Quite possibly she would*come

herself to take him away. And in the meantiine his
clothes would be wrinkled and crushed if they re-
mained in the trunk.

Consequently he unpacked, hanging. his suits care-
fully in the ample closet and disposing the other things

in the bureau drawers and on the tables.
The top of the bureau he reserved for his toilet ar-
ticles and bottles containing medicine, and, large as

Ahe space was, it soon became filled with the many jars ;
. and bottles and vials of cold creams, face lotions,.

manicure salve, talcum powder, and a dozen other _
| things which Vincent consideted necessary to his com- —

fort.

 

 

 

 

 

 
      
 
       
     
   
     
 

 
        
    
    
       
    
   
     
      
     
    
      
 

4i
another boy

- . this invasion with nervous suspicion.

help. yourselves.

=

, in ” me ee rete , ae Sa etoe
Re een tg FREE OTS recep eee pe pr ot tm ere

tie POP

‘He was very dainty and particular about his per-
sonal appearance. The pimples which Doctor Schnitzle
had said were due to too much candy and other sweets,
but which he knew were not, were a source of much
annoyance to him. He strove with all his might to
eradicate them by every other means than getting at
the root of the trouble, and the result was’that he
had accumulated an amazing number of different lo-
tions and complexion washes for that purpose.

He had almost emptied the trunk, when, all at once,
there came a brisk knock on the door, and, before he
could say a word, it was thrust open and ‘Payne’s bril-
liant head appeared in the opening.

“Ah, ha!’

. . 99
friends, and welcome our dearly beloved to our midst.

he chortled. “We are at home. Enter,

He stepped into the room, followed by Fatty Hicks,

named Charlie Butler, commonly called
“Squint,

Schuyler straightened’ up beside the trunk and eyed

” and, to Vincent’s surprise, Ray wry.

His alarm was

not lessened when Ewry made a particular ‘point of

closing the door carefully behind him.

Instantly Reddy spied the open box of candy and

“pounced on it with a shriek of delight.

“Oh, joy!
fectly lovely of you, Vinnie

"he cried delightedly.
My favorite brand, too!
Gee! that tastes good.

“Tf this isn’t per-

and
Don’t be

Um-um. Step up, fellows,
This is Vinnie’s treat.
bashful.”

They were not. Like vultures, they swooped down

on. the box, and for a few moments the silence was
broken only by the chomping of four pairs of jaws and
the appreciative smacking of an equal number of lips,
Vincent regarded this devastating inroad on his pri-

vate stock in silent dismay.
he begged
“T haven't had hardly any out of it.”

‘Just leave a’ few pieces, won't you?”
Pettey.
“Don't worry, my sweet child,”

witha grin. “We'll leave a few pieces, all right—and

- they ll be precious, few, you can bet.

Phe next instant his Be eyes took in the array

The eo seemed to

returned Reddy, .

WEEKLY.

The next instant a yell of mirth rent the air.
“Oh,

air. ‘This is rich!

gee!” he gurgled, holding a bottle high ‘in the

This is the cheese! For gracious
sake, fellows, just listen to this!”

His freckled face still crinkled in a grin, he lowered
the bottle until it was on a level with his eyes and be-
gan to read from the label:

“Mrs.

the tired

Markham’s Marvelous Face Balm. Soothes

skin and restores the pristine freshness and

softness of girlhood. Eradicates wrinkles. Removes

39

pimples in a single-——

The remainder of the rather lengthy label remained

a mystery. The shout of laughter which came from

the other three boys effectually drowned Reddy's voice.

Vincent’s face was scarlet, and he made’a sudden fu-

tile grab for the bottle.

“T wish you'd leave my things alone!’

he snapped.

Reddy skipped blithely around to the piper side of

the table.

“You'll
spoil that lovely complexion of yours if you give way

“Patience, Vinnie, my dear,” he soothed.

to an angry teniper. You ought to see your face. It’s
as red as a beat.”’

“He needs an application of Mrs. Markham’s Mar-
velous Face Balm,’ Ewry laughed. |
Reddy dropped the bottle and snatched up another,
he de-
wouldn't that kill you dead! And
Gee! Who wouldn’t
‘Planchon’s Peerless Face Powder—Vio-

““LeMoyne’s Lotion for the Complexion,’ ’
claimed. “Say,
here’s ‘Clarissa’s Cold Cream.’
be Clarissa!
let Scented.’ ”

He sniffed the box.

“Violet,

>

all right,” he commented, ‘and blamed

strong,’

By this time the four boys were doubled up with
laughter, and Reddy was so nearly hysterical that he
Vincent's

could scarcely read. face was purple with —

anger and humiliation, but he was» quite’ helpless.
What could he do against these four fellows, He
Another half hour and it would

be all over the school.

groaried inwardly,

All at once Reddy Payne gave an incredulous gasp _
and stared at.a jar of pink ointment as if he could |

 
 

 

    

TIP TOP

 

 

 

not believe his,eyes. The next instant he grabbed
at it.

“T’ve got it!” he cried joyfully. “I’ve got it, fel-
lows!”

Ray Ewry grinned out of sheer sympathy for the
other’s mirth-convulsed countenance.

‘What have you got?” he asked curiously.
“The name for Vinnie, here,’ gasped Reddy, his
eyes alight. “I’ve been trying to think up a good one
Fatty’s

We want something short and sweet and appro-

all day. too common, and the Fatted Calf’s too

long.

bd

Listen !

 

priate. ‘Venus Complexion

He got no further. The chorus of perfect approba-
tion drowned his voice. %
“Corking!”

“Great!”

“Fits like the paper on the wall!”

“Of course it does!” chuckled Reddy.

He paused, his eyes agleam with mischief, fixed on
sud-

denly he glanced at Ewry and made a quick motion

the sullen, flushed face of Vincent Schuyler.

with one hand.

“Prepare the child for the christening!’ he cried,
dropping the jar of cream and snatching up ‘Mrs.
Markham’s Face Balm.”

Before Vincent could realize what they were about,

“Now is the appointed time.”’

two of the fellows: seized him and held him fast, while
Reddy advanced with the bottle, from which he had
removed the cork.
“Let me go!” Schuyler gasped, wriggling in the
firm grasp of his captors.
They only tightened their grip on his arms.
“Don’t!” he cried. “You’re pinching me black and
blue.

Let go!”
“Struggle not, my child; it will avail you nothing!”

cae

Reddy intoned solemnly.
_He raised the bottle above Vincent’s head, and the
next moment the struggling youth gasped as a streain .
of the face wash struck his head and trickled down

his neck.

chanted Reddy,
We'll
give him a little LeMoyne’s Lotion and some of Cla-

“With this marvelous liquid,”

christen thee Venus. Don't let him go, fellows.

~ rissa's cold cream to dd the job up good and proper.”

WEEKLY.

hurried back to the washstand, where he poured out

‘They must have carried it off in their pockets—and I

    

 

Writhing, kicking, struggling violently to escape,
Reddy

job by smearing his face well with cold cream, a

     

}

a

1eld until

   

completed the
lot

of which got into his hair, and then dusting this liber-

Vincent was firmly

       
     
 
 
  
    
   
  
   
   
  
    
  
 
 

ally with talcum powder until his countenance very
much resembled the surface of a marshmallow.

Then he slipped over to the door and opened it.

 

“Ta-ta, Venus,’ he grinned. “Leave that on to-
night and there won't be a pimple left in the morning.
Loosen up, boys, and beat it.”

The next instant Vincent was free, the, door was
shut, and the retreating footsteps of his tormentors

were dying away down the corridor.

 

   

CHAPTER VIII.

h

    
 

T HE AC SCIDENT.

 
 

with Vincent

frothed at the mouth as he shook his fist furiously in

Speechless rage, Schuyler fairly

    
     
 

the direction of the. departing youths.

    
 

“You dirty, low creatures!’ he almost sobbed. “You

    
    

mean sneaks! The idea of coming into a fellow’s

    

room and doing such a dreadful thing! I'll get even

 
    

I won't
Pil
I'll tell Mr. Merriwell what. they’ ve done, |

with every one of you! No, I won't, either.

 
 

stay in this beastly school long enough for that.

    
 

go home.

    
 

and.he’ll let me go.”

 
    

He rushed to the door and tore it open, quite intend-

   

ing to hurry down to Frank’s office with his story.

Then he remembered the condition of his face and —

    
     
      
 

a bowlful of water and plunged his head into it.

 
 

Luckily the stuff came off easily, and in ten minutes he

    
 

had removed every vestige of it.

“Hardly a bit of candy left,”
the discovery of the nearly empty box.

    
 

he ainalians as he made
“The thieves!

    
     
     
 

only had a little.
[ll go down to. Mr. Merriwell a tell him

I was going slow on it so it would |

      
 

last.

    
 

everything.”

 
 

4 1
But he was a little cooler now, and, as he stood with

   
Sa

= a <a + - ¥ = 4
5 a eas pee ‘
ee ee

*/

{

assertion was untrue.

Petar meinen nee bar iy) anes

TIP: pa

his hand on the doorknob, he remembered the decided
manner in which Frank had shut*him up that morning
when he had been on the point of telling the names
of the boys who had teased him in the gymnasium.

“He don't

want.to hear about the dreadful things they do. I

‘He won't listen to me,” he muttered.

don’t even believe he’d let me go home.”

Deep down in his heart he knew that this former

In spite of the short time he
had known him, Vincent felt that Frank Merriwell
was a man who was absolutely fair and honest in every
way; but just now it pleased him to consider himself
persecuted from every quarter. There was a mournful
satisfaction in feeling that he was a martyr.

He would write to his mother that very night and
-ask her to come at once and take him away from this
dreadful place. He could not stand it another day.

In a white heat, he got Out paper and ink and at
once composed the letter. By the time he had finished
it was dark, and very soon afterward the big bell of
Farnham Hall rang for supper.

Vincent put away his letter and hurried downstairs.
Despite his lack of exercise, he had a ‘remarkably
healthy appetite, and he was quite ready for thé even-
ing meal.

In dignified silence he took his place beside the grin-

'
ning Fatty, and marched into the dining hall without so

much as a glance at the little fellow. During the meal

he paid, no attention to the covert remarks and sly

| jibes which were sent in his direction, and after the

meal was over he retired at once to his room, taking

pains this time to lock the door.
In the morning a sad shock awaited him. He re-
ceived a fond letter from his mother saying that she

was making a short trip to Boston with Uncle Ralph

and would not be home until the end of the week. She

hoped he was well and happy and added all sorts of

loving messages which he did not read,’so appalled was

he at this last awful catastrophe.

His letter, composed in such heat the night before,
would be useless. He could not go home, since there
‘was no one there. He would have to stay here and
be insulted and humiliated until his mother came bach

- from Boston. It was dreadful. |

/
WEEKLY.

His interview with Frank directly after breakfast
served to calm his troubled spirits a little. Merriwell
had had a long talk with Doctor Schnitzle, in addition
to the latter’s written report regarding Vincent’s
physical condition, and had laid out a system of exer-
cises for the boy which began with the most elemental
ones, and which he assured’ Schuyler would help him
wonder fully.

He explained to Vincent that the exhaustion an
shortness of breath were not due to any organic trou
ble, but simply because he had never done anything to
develop his muscles, and went on to tell him at length
how necessary it was for every one to make themselves
as physically perfect as they possibly could.

Then Bart Hodge, Frank’s assistant, took him in
hand, and before he knew it Vincent was working at
the exercising machines which he had always so hated
and feared.

He tired very’ soon, as*he always did, but somehow
he hated to acknowledge it to this keen-faced man who
was stich a model of physical perfection himself; and_
the result was that he managed to finish up the day’s

work in the gymnasium without uttering a complaint.

He actually felt a little glow of pleasure and relief
at the realization that he had come through the ordeal
so well. It was not half so bad as he had expected.
If that was all he had to do, he would not mind it so
much. He even decided to have an apparatus installed —
in his room at home where he could work at it gently,
and, perhaps, in the course of time, he might reduce
that waist line which had troubled ‘him not a little of

late.

But all through the morning and at dinner he kept
up that air*of aloofness and reserve toward the fellows
who had treated him so hatefully the afternoon before.
They would see that he was not one to forget such
conduet.. Oddly enough, they did not seem to care at
all, but found plenty to talk about among themselves |
without making any attempt to include him in the con- 3
versation.

This, of course, only added fuel to the flames of —
Vincent's irritation and soreness, afd after dinner he

_started upstairs to his room, determined to spend the

afternoon there. He had a good book in his trunk, and _

~ :
: 8 .
j / i et
S

 
 

 

 

 

RR tity teeta Ft

 

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
   

18 TIP TOP

had discovered that, by piling up the comfortable and
pillows at the foot of the bed, there was plenty of
light to read, and it made a very good substitute for his
beloved sofa.

At the table he had heard talk of skating and hockey,
but he much preferred this method of spending the
afternoon.

It was consequently something of a shock when he

bumped into Eric Carpenter just as he reached the top
of the stairs. Carpenter was arrayed in skating tights,

close-fitting sweater, woolen cap and gloves, and car-

\

‘ried a pair of racing skates slung on a strap over his

shoulder.

ye “Where are you going, Schuyler?” he asked quickly.

- Vincent hesitated.
“Why—er—to my room,” he stammered,

_ “Nix on that!” Eric returned shortly. “You're com-

ing out to the pond, Mr. Merriwell told me to hunt
you up and take you along with me. You're a queer
duck to spend an afternoon like this in your room.
You don’t skate, I suppose ?”’
‘Well, I can, but I don’t like to,”

slowly.

 

Vincent said

Carpenter looked incredulous. He had found Vin-

cent such a dub in evérything pertaining to sports and
exercises that he decided this was only a bluff on his
part. |
_ It happened, however, to be true. Vincent actually

could skate. He had ‘always lived in Auburn, where
there was a large lake, and where everybody skated
with as much njatter-of-course—and almost as soont—
as they walked. So that, unless he was able to make
_ his way around on the ice, he could not cut “any figure
at all. Besides this, Ralph Blake had insisted that his

nephew learn and keep at it until he was proficient,

sport ‘almost as heartily as he did all others.
“But I haven’t any skates,’ he ae

“111 loan you a pair of mine,” Carpenter said
. quickly. “You can’t get, out of it, Schuyler.

hustle on, now, and don’t keep me waiting.

hockey?”

~ which Vincent was obliged to do, though he hated the »

Get a_
We want

to get in some practice with the hockey team this after~

    

 

WEEKLY. yt

Thus it happened that Vincent was obliged to get out
his sweater, cap, and gloves and follow Eric Carpenter
out of the building, where they struck into a well-
beaten path which led over the hill to the large pond
nestling in the hollow below.

As they came within sight of it, they saw that, early
as it was, some of the boys were ahead of them, circling
like birds over the smooth, glassy surface, shouting,
yelling, and chasing each other-about, or batting hockey ee \

pucks back and forth across the ice—doing anything

 

and eyerything, in fact, to work off their exuberant § -
spirits.

‘Reaching the edge of the pond, Carpenter had his = |
skates on in a jiffy and went skimming over to where
But Vincent,

sat down on the ground to do the thing |

some of the team were gathered. who,
never hurried,
in what comfort he could. ,

Presently Fatty Hicks dashed straight at him, bring- be
ing himself to a full stop a few feet away, with a ’ :
grinding of steel and a flurry of fine ice shavings. re

“Hello,

   

Venus!” he grinned. “Going to play

         
      
 

“No,’’ returned Vincent stiffly.
“Gee ! chuckled Hicks,

ain’t thinking about last night yet, are you?”

   

You're grouchy,” “You.

     

 

      
 

“Tt was a mean trick!” Vincent snapped.
“Gosh !

the fellers.

    
 

It ain’t nothing to what's done to some of
Why,

four times, and a whole lot of other things.

    
 

they tossed me in a blanket three or

   

You don’t —

     

want to go round with a grouch, just on account of |

that.

   

You'll get it a a sight worse the next time,

   

if you do.” ;

Vincent arose gingerly and stamped his feet gently.

 
      

It was so long since he had skated that he felt a little pe
Then he looked at Hicks.
Perhaps there

    
 

uncertain about himself. —

   

The boy seemed jolly arid good-natured.
Probably he meant

       

was something in what he said.

   

well enough.

;

   

' Taking a stroke or two, Vincent discov aire that he

   
   

had by no means lost the art of getting about on ‘the |

   
 

ice.’ He ‘simaled at ound. quite creditably and. found that

  

the short, square er was sind netesg him with distinet

   

approve al.

  
 

 

 

 

TEP: 2OP

“Say, you carn skate, ?” he remarked
frankly. “I didn’t think you could.”

“You didn’t?’ Vincent said condescendingly.

can’t you:

“Well,
you see yOu were wrong.’

Insensibly he was becoming proud of his one accom-
plishment.

Side by side, the two boys struck out on to the middle
of the pond, where most of the other fellows were con-

gregated; and presently, growing rather tired, Vincent

stopped beside a little knoteof boys to watch Ray Ewry~

give an exhibition of fancy skating. Hicks stood
_ little back of him, also watching the performance.

All at once Bill Runge loomed up, skating swiftly
down the lake, hockey stick in hand. His eyes bright-
ened as he perceived the unconscious Schuyler, and,

swerving closer to the group, he deftly caught the

end of his stick in the heel of Vincent’s skate and

brought him to the ice with a crash. ‘

He looked so funny, sprawling there with atl expres-
sion of such utter bewilderment on his face, that Fatty
Hicks could not contain himself, and broke into a shout
of laughter, in which he was joined by all the other
spectators of the incident. Runge had scarcely less-

ened his pace at all, but was far down the pond, look-
had

ing batk with grinning face at the havoc he
wrought. —

Consequently, as Vincent scrambled to his feet,
fairly’ sputtering with rage, he failed to see the big
fellow at all.

“You did that!”

mirth ful Hicks.

The latter deftly eluded his grasp and started down
the pond, Vincent in full pursuit. For once his blood
_ was up and he was bent on catching the smaller boy
and giving him a good walloping.

Hicks was equally bent upon eluding him, and both
boys were so intent on their objects that they paid no
attention to a warning shout from Eric Carpenter.

They were almost at the extreme end of the pond
“near the dam, and Fatty was about to make a quick
_. swerve to one side, when a sudden, ominous cracking
3 of the ice struck them both with terror.

"Hicks turned swiftly, but he was not quick enough.

The. next instant there

he foamed, making a lunge at the

was a crash as the ice gave.

WEEKLY. 19

way, a splash, a shriek of terror from the little fel-
low as he struck the water; and then Vincent, standing
on the very edge of the firm ice, found himself gazing
horror-stricken at a jagged, empty hole filled with dark

water, and nothing else. His companion had vanished.

CHAPTER IX.
THE CRAVEN HEART.

But it was only fora moment. An instant later the
boy's head shot up through the water, and his face,
white and terror-stricken, with eyes full of a great
fear, was upturned to Vincent.
“Vin!” he gasped. “Save me!
swim! I'll be drowned!”
His hands clutched desperately at the treacherous

Save me! I can't

which crumbled at a touch. |
He seemed rooted to the

ice,

3ut Vincent did not stir.
He dared not move lest the ice about his feet
into that avwgful hole. He

spot.
break and let him, also,
could not swim, either.
Petrified with fear, he saw, as in a horrid dream, the
wildly clutching fingers loose their momentary hold
on the brittle ice.
Vin’?

“Help me! J——

cried Hicks again—this time more faintly.

The white, stricken face ited slowly out of sight
as the cold, dark water lapped over it in brief circles.
Still Vincent did not stir a finger. :

The next instant came a gritting, grating, slashing
clank behind him; a hand caught his shoulder in a grip
which made him cry out sharply, and he was whirled
around to face Eric Carpenter, whose fiercely glitter-
ing eyes seemed to sear the frightened boy like a red-
hot iron..

“Get out of the way—you coward!” he hissed.

With a swing of his arm, he sent Vincent reeling to
one side, where he staggered, stumbled, fell to one knee
When he had got on his feet again
it was just in time to see Eric dive deliberately into the |

on the firm ice,

icy water and disappear beneath the surface. _
It seemed hours before he appeared again with the

limp form of little Hicks on one arm. Now-Vincent

 
 

 

ee LOY

was aroused from his lethargy. Dropping swiftly on

his knees, he advanced as far as he dared on the firm
ice and stretched out an arm toward the boy in the
water.

Carpenter looked him scornfully in the eyes. He
seemed not a whit disturbed or troubled by his danger-
ous position. In the midst of all his fright Schuyler
felt a thrill of admiration go through him for this boy
who was as calm and cool as if he had been swimming
on a day in June. He wished Carpenter would not
look at him that way.

“Not you!’ Eric said contemptuously. “Ewry.”

‘As Vincent shrank back, stabbed to the very heart
by the bitter scorn of the other’s tone, withered by the
- look in his eyes, he was conscious for the first time that
a number of boys had gathered about the hole, among
whom was Ray Ewry, who knelt just beside him, and
who a moment later, reached out his long, muscular
arm and caught Carpenter firmly by the hand. Several
other boys clutched his sweater from behind to keep
him from falligg in.

Slowly Vincent got on his feet and drew away a lit-
tle from the crowd of boys, who seemed to shrink
from him. But his eyes never left those two in the
water.
smaller lad, so white, so stricken, so deathlike.

“He’s dead!’ “He's
t dead, and I’ve killed him! I chased him into the water
and then wouldn’t help him. Oh, why didn’t I try to

save him, even if I fell in myself!”

moaned Schuyler to himself.

Slowly Carpenter and his unconscious burden. were
drawn to the edge of the firm ice and dragged onto it.
-, Willing hands lifted Hicks from the older boy’s
cramped arms, and Reddy Payne, dropping down on
his knees, began to work the little fellow’s arms briskly
_ back and forth.

Carpenter, aiaaiiiets water in little ‘streams with
every motion, stamped up and down on the ice. His
Bi face was blue with the cold, and his teeth chattered.

f Wringing his hands in the intensity of his emotion,
Vincent presently summoned courage to touch him on

They were riveted on the ghastly face of the

skates to his shoes.

WEEKLY.

Again those bitter, scornful eyes seared kim to the
very soul.

“No thanks to you if he isn’t!” snapped Eric.

That. was ‘all. Not another word did ‘he utter.
Schuyler shrank back as though he had been struck
a blow in the face. A moment later, almost wild with
dread, he saw Hick’s eyelids quiver, and presently the
boy opened them and looked dazedly about him.

“Get him back to the Hall!’ ordered Carpenter
swiftly. “You take him, Ray, and don’t lose a min-
ute. Run—run all the way if it kills you! He’s got
to get warm. Wrap him in blankets as soon as you can
get his clothes off, and somebody get Schnitzle or Mr.

Merriwell.”’

Ewry obeyed instantly. Gathering the stocky lit-

tle fellow into his arms, he started off at a run toward
the school buildings, with all the fellows trailing after
him, and in a trice Vincent was left alone.

No one seemed to pay any attention to him. They
did not even recognize his existence,
heart and tear-filled eyes, he dropped down on the bank
and fumbled with his skates.

“Tt isn’t fair to treat me that way,” he sobbed. sey |

can’t swim. I’d have been drowned, too.”

He had taken off his gloves, and his icy fingers
seemed powerless to pull the lever which/fastened the
He could not see for the tears
which blinded -him.

At last he yanked them off, and, picking them up,
turned and trudged slowly up the hill.
over a root and nearly fell.
sleeve across his eyes. :

“T wish I'd tried, though,” he muttered. “If I’d only

tried, it wouldn’t have been so bad; but I just stood :

there and let him go down. I couldn’t seem to move.”
Presently he reached the level of the school and hur-

riéd around to the dormitory entrance.

peared, every eye seemed'turned in his direction.

_ Vincent quailed, and for an instant stopped stock- —
still. He could not face those boys—he simaply, could

not. It was like running a gantlet.

The next instant he started on again, though with
He must find

a ne a step. He had to.

Pi et

With leaden

ae tea Ber ys Re che natn Sel ~ at :
wg SERS PO Saar at ee eee eR Ee a aes be

>

PT Se
Be

 

He stumbled ‘
Then he dashed his” e

A crowd of |
boys were clustered about the door, and, as he ap- Ve

 
   

ie DOF.

out about Hicks.
pale and frightened and his heart beating loudly ‘and

Quivering in every nerve, his face

 

| irregularly, he approached that battery of eyes.

a He expected almost anything from bitter, scornful
- jeers to actual physical misusage; but still he persisted,
; forcing himself to do it, when he would a thousand

  

times rather have slunk away alone and crept into the

 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  

a

ee after the boys were gone.

ers fi

For a boy of Vincent’s
_ amoral bravery which was surprising and unexpected.
Somewhat to his astonishment, the boys parted and
- let him through without any attempt at stopping him.
_ With trembling lips and face set straight ahead of him,
he passed into the building; but his cheeks burned and
a his eyes filled with bitter tears as he caught the clear,

 

a i

caustic comments from many pairs of lips.
~ “Coward!” |

“Quitter !”

“Sissy !”

 
 
   
  

 

 
 

With these, ana a dozen others ringing in his ears,

 
 

he hurried upstairs to the corridor where Hicks’ room
was located and paused before the door. He did not
_ dare to knock, and yet he felt as if he would go wild

 
  
 
 
 
 

f he did not find out whether the boy was alive or
dead.

As he hesitated there the door was waddesay swung

 
  
  
 
 

open and Doctor Schnitzle came out briskly.

  
  

“Vat mit you der

 
 

roubled look on Vincent’s face.

  

‘matter iss? You look sig, my poy.” \
“Js—he—dead ?” faltered Vincent. |
The. doctor chuckled.
“Dead!” he exclaimed.
ouldn’t kill dot poy.
Le iss lively like a cricket alreatty yet; but must gov-

 
  
 
  

You
He hass lifes like seven catds.

  

“Py cracious, no!

  
 
 

ered up remain, the gold to keep ondt. or worry,

  

 

incendt. Dot poy vill eter peeuene Ps,

 

    
    
 

  

WEEKLY.

character his action showed -

Vell!” he exclaimed, his bright eyes taking in the

Witn Hicks as
the boys would not treat
After all, wha

not done—was not so bad.

Now everything would be different.
well as he had ever been,
him as they had downstairs just now.
he had done—or, rather,
He could not have jumped into the water after the
little chap. It would have done no good,’since he was
not able to swim. He would have probably lost his

own life instead of saving Fatty’s. Surely the fellows
would see the reasonableness of that, now that it had
all come out right.

When the supper bell rang half an hour later he left
his room:and went downstairs, his spirits considerably
revived. But his hopes were swiftly and rudely shat-
tered.

The attitude of the boys

regarded Vincent in scornful silence.

vas unchanged, and they
In their eyes
he was a coward, pure and simple.
been obliged to risk his life to save Hicks on the pond
All he need have done was to drop

He had not even

that afternoon.
down on the ice and extend a helping hand to the strug-
gling boy, and he had not done it. Instead, he had
not moved a finger, but stood there like a fool, while
the drowning lad was making desperate, futile efforts,
to keep his head above water.

From a superficial point of view they’ were right.
They did not stop to think that Schuyler’ was a boy
who had, all his life, been petted and pampered and
surrounded with loving care as if he had been some-

thing delicate and fragile.

Things which most boys had to do for themselves _

had been done for him. He had never been encouraged
to think for himself and make up his own mind. With
him, self-reliance was an unknown quantity. He was
slow to think in cases of emergency, and slower to act.
In all his life he had never been placed in a position

where a human life depended on his efforts, and it was

not strange that, suddenly facing such a situation, he

should be unable to act, or even think, until it was too
late.

Nothing of this occurred to his comrades.
Schuyler
simply a contemptible coward, and they treated

saw only what appeared on the surface.

was
ignoring him completely, or giving

him accordingly,

t

  

~

  
 
          

They | |

vent to cgvert jibes and taunts which cut Vincent to-
\

-, incredible twenty-four hours previous.

22 Lie POP
the quick and made it almost impossible to keep the
tears from showing in his eyes

Even Reddy Payne, jolly and pleasant as he had al-
ways been, snubbed him unmercifully and treated his
timid efforts at conversation at the table with such
coldness and disdain that Vincent relapsed into silence
and went on with his supper, every mouthful of which

choked him like so much dry sawdust.

It was cruel; but most boys have a streak of the
savage in them, which comes out at a time like this.
And, according to their lights, they were right.

But Vincent did not understand. To him it seemed
bitterly hard and unjust that he should be treated with
contempt and scorn for such a thing. ‘And, long after
the lights were out that night, he lay wakefully tossing
on his bed, his eyes staring into the darkness above
him, his mind going over and over the events of the
afternoon with monotonous iteration. Deep down in

his heart he knew where he had failed.

“Tf I had only tried,” he murmured, “If I had only
tried just a little.”
@ When at last he dropped off into a troubled slum-
ber, his pillow was wet with bitter, unavailing tears.

CHAPTER X.
THE PARIAH.

With the morning came a reaction. Finding his
companions still cold and unresponsive, Vincent grew
desperate.

“T don’t care,’’ he muttered, as he came out from

the dining hall after breakfast. ‘“They’re all of them

just as mean and hateful as they can be, but I’m not”

going to mind them. They can let me alone if they
want to. I can get along just as well by myself.”

In order to distract himself, he flung himself into
his work with a vigor which surprised ‘himself and his
instructors, In the carpenter shop he banged his fin-
‘gers several times with a hammer, but he did not so

much as ery out once. Such a thing would have been

f*9
f

WEEKLY.

Later, he astonished Bart Hodge by going through
his exercises without a murmur, though the sweat
poured off him, and, toward the end, his breathing
was noticeably labored. He even went on pulling the
weights after his allotted number had been reached,
and Bart was obliged to stop him.

“That will do, Schuyler,” he said quickly. ‘“You’ve
done enough already.”

“T just wanted to see if I could make ten more,”
Vincent explained, as he dropped the cords.

Bart looked rather surprised.

77

“Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” he said pleas-
y

antly. “You're coming on all right. You did ten

more to-day than yesterday. It doesn’t do you any —

good to exhaust yourself.”

On his way to the dressing room Vincent paused to
watch Ray Ewry doing some spectacular stunts on the
flying rings. He sighed wistfully as his eyes followed
the lithe, muscular figure flying from ring to ring
with such apparent ease and sureness. What a splendid
fellow he was, and how handsome !~-He had admired
him from the very first moment and wished that he
nwght be his friend, but even Ewry had ignored him’
with the rest. cae

Presently Ray dropped to the ground and noticed
Vincent watching him. For an instant a look of an-—
noyance flashed into his face. Then he seemed to see
the expression of wistful longing in the boy’s eyes, |

4 /

and his own softened a little.
/

“Hello, Venus,” he said carelessly. “Through al- ‘ae

ready?”
He did not mind the
He was only too thankful to have some ~

Schuyler’s eyes brightened.
name at all.
one speak to him at last. _

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “and I did ‘ten more than |
yesterday. You must have practiced an awful lot to.
do these things with the rings so well.”

His admiration was so sincere and hearty that Ray

Ewry relaxed still further. He was a fellow who was

very fond of praise, and moreover his nature was not_

one which could harbor a grudge of this sort very
long. It was too much trouble. He had felt a real con- —
tempt for Schuyler the day before when the boy’ had

deliberately allowed Hicks to sink before his eyes; but,

\

 

 
 

 

 

TAP TO

now that it was all over and Hicks was around again,
he could not see the sense in continuing to ostracise
_ Vincent. He liked to have things sunshiny and pleas-
E ant, and this boy seemed to be a discerning chap after
all.

“No, I haven’t practiced it very much,” he answered

carelessly. ‘‘After you've developed yourself to a

& certain point, those things are not hard.”

He doubled up his arms with apparent casualness and

was pleased to see an expression of admiring awe flash

into Vincent’s face. Ewry was very proud of his
muscle.

“T don’t suppose I'll ever be able to even pull myself
‘up to one of those tings,’”’ Schuyler sighed, with a look
of distaste at his own soft arms.

_ Ewry laughed.

: | “Sure you will in time,’ he returned. “You get rid
of a bunch of that fat, and you'll be surprised how
soon the muscle will come. Keep it up, Venus. and
you'll get there.”’

He strolled away, leaving Vincent much heartened
by the little talk, He did not in the least mind Ewry’s
tone of condescension. The fellow was so much_his
| perior in every way that it was only natural he should
ook down on him. © And his pleasant manner was in
uch marked contrast with the demeanor of the other

ys that Vincent’s heart warmed toward him.
“He's a corking chap,” he thought to himself, as he
alked toward the dressing room.
than Carpenter, though Eric is captain of our company

“He’s a lot nicer

d runs the hockey team. He doesn’t treat me mean

the way Eric does, either.”

But it was the one bright ray of sunshine in an other-

10 gave him a pleasaht word, except Hicks himself,

The short chap was chasing around as lively as a

WEEKLY,

world ‘to be able to wipe out his fault of the day be-

fore. He would have been perfectly willing to Have
Reddy and the others come into his room and smear
the contents of every bottle and jar he possessed on his
face if they only did it in the joking, jolly way ‘they
had shown yesterday.

He positively longed to have the fellows call him
But the

They just

Fatty, or Venus, or even the Fatted. Calf.
trouble was they did not call him anything.
scowled and looked at him hatefully, and never said a
word.

Thus’ the morning dragged out its weary length.
After an interminable dinner, Vincent went up to his
room, and, and gloves, sallied
forth.

he had no intention whatever of using them.

getting sweater, cap,
He carried the skates Eric had loaned him, but
He could
not bear the thought of going down to the pond, and
he simply held them in his hand so that it would look
as if he had some object in view.

Once out of sight of the school buildings, he turned
off to the left and struck across country. All that
afternoon he walked steadily. He had never covered
so much ground before, and when he returned toward
His
cheeks were bright with a healthy color; a pleasant
He

was tired, of course, but it was a rather nice sort of

dark he was surprised to find how good he felt.
glow suffused his body to the very finger tips.

tiredness, which made him drop down in his easy-
chair and rest his head comfortably against the back.
His troubles did not seem so vast and unsurmount- :
able as they had a few hours before. He was even glad
he had not sent that letter to his mother ‘asking her
If the fellows

would only treat him decently, it might not be such a

to take him away from the sghool.

bad place after all.
Twenty-four hours later he was again reduced to
desperation. There had been no change in the atti-
tude of the boys toward him, and he felt that he could
stand it no longer.
Bill Runge and one or two other fellows of his type
had taken to hounding him unmercifully.

-a corner or unfrequented corridor, and given him a

; buffer on the. hate W hich sent nee eee, or: twisted

 

Half a+
dozen times during the day the bully had caught him i ae
24 ed OE

his arm until he had screamed with pain. And when
he cried out' they taunted him for a coward and a sissy.

Things had reached a point when he went through
the corridors in fear and trembling, not knowing what
the next turn might bring forth.

“T can’t stand it,” he almost sobbed, as he crept up
to his room after supper. “I'll write mother to come
and take me away.”

It was noticeable that it did not occur to him to
complain to Frank of these persecutions. Uncon-
sciously he had already advanced a step.
 *T don’t want to go very much, either,’

“Tf the fellows were only decent, I’d

* he went on,
in a low tone.
like to stay. But I can’t—I ‘just can’t!”

Getting out his paper and ink, he started to write
the letter. He was a long time about it, but at length

he had finished and sealed it.
His mother would be home

He would post it the
first thing in the morning.
Yon Friday, and surely she would come for him the next
day.

He was a little surprised that it had been so hard
to write. Only a few days ago he had been eager to
get away from the school, and now he found himself
wishing that he might stay.

He did not réalize that he was going through the
first great struggle of his life. He did not understand
that stirring faintly withth him was that elemental in-
stinct which every man possesses to mingle with ‘his
kind, stand upop his own feet, fight his own battles.

But it is just such struggles as this which make for
character, and, though he did not know it, Vincent
Schuyler was gaining mental force and strength faster
even than his work in the gymnasium was putting mus-
cle into his body.

i

CHAPTER XI.
VINCENT, MAKES AMENDS.

Ti seas a little odd that Frank Merriwell should ad-
“dress one of his classes the next morning on the sub-
ject of “Self-reliance.” It was even more significant
that the class chanced to be the one of which Vincent

Schuyler was a member. eed

charity on their comrades who are not.

WEEKLY.

But perhaps it was not quite so much of a coinci-
dence as it seemed. Frank was not a man who did
things without a reason. He left very little to chance.
He had his own. ways and means of finding out what
was going on in the school, and, though he -had said
nothing to Vincent about it, there was scarcely a doubt
that he was fully aware of all the details surrounding
Hicks’ narrow escape on the pond a few days before
and the subsequent unpleasantness which it had brought
to Vincent.

In his simple, lucid but vivid manner, he pointed out
to the eagerly listening boys the immense value of

the quality of self-reliance.

pect to get far in this world without standing on his

own feet and fighting his own battles. He gave in-
stances of what men had accomplished’ in the face of

tremendous odds simply by their force of character in

this regard, and then he told briefly how this quality”

should be bred up in a child almost from its very

cradle.

It was a short talk, but the boys listened to it eagerly ©

and understandingly. The last sentence lingered ie a

long-time in Vincent Schuyler’s mind.

“Unfortunately there are many children who have
never acquired the slightest conception of the value
They

to act in a case of emergency.

of self-reliance. are slow to think and slower
who have never had occasion to think for themselves,
and when they are face to face with a situation requir
ing § swiftness and nerve they do not rise to it.
“Dp 5 .

sut they must not be discouraged when a realiza-
tion of their failing comes to Foe
of a fault is half the battle.

all their power to acquire this quality which, almost—
more than any other, is a sign of true manhood, and

sooner or later they will succeed. On the other hand,

boys who are quick to think and act—who are, in

other words, self-reliant—should look with a little

realize that the training of these boys has been at fault,

not the boys themselves; and, instead of treating them.

with contempt when they have made a blunder, they

| should do all in their power to give them a helps

How no man could ex-,

They must strive with —

They should 4

'

They are usually. boys —

The knowledge

 

 
- a — iinet - or
ELE ROR BEERS

cia

not even decide things.

Dee Daa

4

Vincent was very thoughtful as he walked out of
the classroom.

“T just believe that’s my case exactly,” he said to
“IT never had to do anything for myseli—
Mother always did that for

That’s the reason why I was such a ninny on the

himself.

me.
pond the other day. It seemed as if I couldn’t move.
If I'd been self-reliant I should have known what to
do. It’s funny Mr. Merriwell should have talked
about the very thing which is troubling. me.”

He made up his mind on the spot that he would do

his best to follow Frank’s advice. If he left the school

‘to-morrow it would have been worth while having

been there if only to find out that much about him-
self.

After dinner he went directly upstairs and got his
skates. This time he meant to use them on the pond,

come what might of it. He had figured out in his

} mind that going off on solitary walks and avoiding

the fellows was not the right way to become self-re-

e liant:

He must mingle with them, taking their rebuffs
and abuse as calmly as he could, and doing his best to
show them that he was trying hard to learn.

So he hurried out of the building and down the path
toward the pond, his heart beating a little unevenly;
for he had seen Bill Runge and one or two of his

cronies disappear over the brow of the hill not ten

minutes before, and he shivered at the thought of what
the bully might do to him when he appeared.

Little Hicks, thoughtless and full of mischief as

usual, happened to be on the ice when Runge and his

companions arrived. He was flitting about with a

_ hockey stick in one hand and his eyes open for some
‘ trick he could play on somebody; for practical jokes

were the joy of Fatty’s heart.

With apparent unconcern, he watched the boys ad-
just their skates and circle about on the ice, and as he
did so it flashed into his mind how extremely amusing
it would be to play upon Bill Runge the same trick
with which that worthy had rated Schuyler such, dis-
comfort a fewMdays ago.

Mo sooner was the notion conceived than the stocky

le chap proceeded to put it into execution. He gave
ttle thought to the consequences, trusting to his small

WEEKLY.

size and weakness to protect him, as it had often done
in the past.

But Runge was ‘going swiftly when Hicks inter-
his hockey stick in the path of the big
Hicks,

frightened by what he had done, fled to the shore and

_posed the end of
fellow, and the resulting crash was tremendous.
with trembling fingers strove wildly to get rid of his
skates so that he might escape unhampered.

While he was thus occupied, Runge scrambled to his
feet, foaming with rage, and made a dash for him.
With a-shriek of fright, Hicks gave up his attempt to

loosen the second skate, and stumbled up the bank and
away from the pond.

His pursuer flashed across the ice, and, without
stopping, followed the little fellow swiftly over the
frozen ground, his skates-still on, and caught him not
twenty feet away.

“You little runt!’ he roared, his face purple with
“I'd like to kill you!’

He seized one of the small chap’s arms and twisted it

rage.

brutally until the lad screamed with pain.
Bill, let

“Let go!” he cried. “You're killing me!

yp?

go:
But Runge was too angry to stop now. He con-
tinued to twist the arm while Hicks ‘et out shriek

after shriek of agony, his face twisted with the pain

4 1

and tears running down his cheztss,

It was this sight which met Vincent’s startled gaze
as he came over the brow of the hill and brought a gasp
of fear to his lips. His first impulse was to retreat
hurriedly out of sight, lest he be the next victim. He
even turned and took a step or two toward the build-
ings. Then he stopped.

“T can’t run away,” he muttered.

coward.”

“That’s like a
Suddenly it came to him that here was one of those
cases of which Frank had spoken that morning. Here
was atime when quick action was necessary. He must
not stand still and do nothing; that had been his,trouble
before. Runge was nearly killing Hicks. He must be
stopped.

The next instant he flew down the path toward the
struggling pair and flung himself, fiercely on the bully.

“Let him go!” he cried. “Let ‘him go, I tell you!”

 
 

Tin EOP

Doubling ‘his fists, he began to hit wildly at the big
fellow’s face.

With a roar of surprise, Runge loosened his hold on
Hicks, who fled promptly up the hill and disappeared.
Then he landed a heavy blow on Vincent's white face
which sent the boy reeling against a tree. Not con-
tent with this, the bully followed it up with another
which left a great welt across Schuyler’s cheek.
“I'll teach you your place, you sissy!” he snarled.
“You won't meddle with me again, you fool!’

Vincent tried to ward off the blows, but he was like
a child in the hands of Runge, who was strong as an
ox and skillful with his fists besides. He intended to
make the boy beg for mercy, but strangely enough

Vincent did not utter a sound. He would not ery out.
Runge could kill him, but he could not make him cry.
He had never felt this way before, but the determina-
tion to keep silent was none the less strong, and he
gritted his teeth and strove to land his fists somewhere
on the body of the fellow before him.

here is no telling to what lengths his anger would
have driven Runge, but, happily for Vincent, there
presently came a rush of feet over the hill and Eric
Carpenter, Reddy, and several other fellows appeared,
led by the excited Hicks.
“What

in thunder do you mean smashing up a fellow half your

“Stop that, Runge!’ ripped out Carpenter.

size!”
The bully «

“You mind your business, Carpenter !’’

lropped his hands and glared at Eric.
he snarled.

The tall slim fellow was undismayed.

“This is my business, as you'll find out quick enough
if you start your dirty work again,” he retorted signifi-
cantly. .

Runge bit his lips and scowled fiercely, but he made
no attempt to touch Vincent.
boxer of the school, and the bully was not especially
keen about having a run-in with him. Mutteting a

few incoherent words about Schuyler having started

mustard,

Eric was the champion.

WEEKLY.

but he

glance caught an expression in the other's eyes which

had not uttered a cry; and Carpenter's keen

had never been there before, and which caused his own
face to soften.
he said quickly.

“IT beg your pardon, Schuyler,”

“I’ve been treating you pretty mean lately. Do you
think you could forget about it and be friends again?”

He held out his hand with a magnetic smile which
Vincent won-

made his face marvelously attractive.

dered how he could ever have thought him stuck-up.

“Do you mean that you'll forget about that day
on the pond?” he asked eagerly, as he clasped the slim
chap’s hand.

“We

done just now,’

Il none of us remember that after what you’ ve
Eric returned. “This shows you're —
nade of the right stuff, old man.” | ,
old

“Tm in on that deal, too.

Reddy broke in 3

You're all to the 4

“Give us your paw, fellow,”
quickly.
Venus, and I’ve a notion we'll hit it off |
pretty well.” ok

Vincent felt a thrill of joy and contentment “go”

through him. He did not care if his face was a “holy

show,’ as Reddy expressed it. He did not mind his

aches and bruises a bit. He was happy.
The next instant he gave a sudden exclamation and (
turned back toward the school buildings.
“What's

you going to the pond with us?”

up?” Reddy asked, in surprise.

“Aren't.

Vincent's cut lips curved in a crooked smile.

“Vil be right back,” he returned quickly. “I’ ve got

to send a telegram. I—I was going to do something,

but—I’ve changed my mind.”

THE END.

tlimg good hockey story. But the story isn’t all a
hockey: it tells some more about the doings of our

friend, Vincent Schuyler, at Frank Merriwell’ $ )

‘the racket, he turned and made his way back to the

pond.
, Carpenter turned and looked at Vincent's bruised,
bloody face, which Reddy was wiping solicitously with

_ ahandkerchief. The boy had been punished severely,

he weakens for a moment to the evils of i
‘The story is called “I'rank Merriwell’s c om-
, The Making of Vincent Shy
No. 765. (Out December toth, :

and envy.

prehension; or,

 

 
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Proprietors.

 

 

THE MANNERS OF MONKEYS,

It is still an article of faith, not only in India, but in all lands
where monkeys go in packs, that\ they have a king, laws, and
language, of course. . Saving the first item, and duly limiting the
others, the belief is sound, no doubt. But Ibn Batuta tells us,

on the authority of “pious persons” he met in India, that the
_ king lives in state. Four noblemen always attend him with rods
in their hands, and cooks serve him on their knees.

The king has a train of “armed followers.” When a subject

caught he contrives to send a message to the sovereign, who
forthwith dispatches an army; and on they come to the town
they pull down the houses and beat the people; and their armies,

it is said, are many. This is not quite so ridiculous as it looks,
/ _ for the sacred apes that frequent an Indian village will readily

} gather to avenge an injury, and it is a common practice with

them to destroy the huts when angered. )
_ They have a great many children, and when a child is unlike
its father and mother, it is thrown out on the highepedhs Then

At Shabar, which appears to have been somewhere near

adras, people dare not travel by night in the woods, for fear of

monkeys—which is certainly not exact, since these creatures

ver move after sundown; but if there be a foundation of truth

the legend it is curious. We are not aware that any Indian

es at this day will attack a passer-by unless gravely provoked.
there are plenty elsewhere that will.

It is a well-known fact that in proceeding to raid the corn-

fields in certain parts of Africa, apes have a combined plan of

‘ion. The old males go first—some of them scout on either

k, and climb every eminence near the line of march, to assure

themselves that the route is safe. After reconnoitering they give

ders in such different tones of voice that each must have a

eC cial meaning, The elders are silent when advancing, but the

body, females and young, keep up an incessant chatter,

ying and feeding as they go, unless brought to an, instantaneous

t by signal.

ive loiterers sharply on.

On reaching the cornfields, the scouts take post all baad

1 e all the rest fall to plundering with the utmost expedition,

their cheek pouches as full as they will hold, and then .

_ but one time when he got all he wanted.

*tween her and the widder.

Behind follows the rear guard of males, who_

WEEKLY.

A Short Story by Your Favorite Author.

THAT PICNIC.
By BURT L. STANDISH.

Picnics is great fun. This is not the right time of the season
for picnics, but it does a feller good to think of them when it’s
cold enough to freeze the nickel plating off a doorknob.

I like picnics. It’s good for a feller’s health to go out in the
majestic’ forest and recline on the ground and get bugs in his
ears.

I can get 4s much good solid fun out of a common picnic as
the Widder Scraggs can find in a funeral, and that is saying :
heap, for, if there is anything in the world that woman done
delight in it’s a funeral.

Bob Jones likes picnics, too. He’s my chum, and he’s a corker
He’s. only thirteen, but I’ll bet he weighs near a hundred and
eighty. He’s the biggest boy for his size I] ever saw. Why,
he’s so fat that when he laughs it shuts his eyes and he can’t
see a thing,

Bob’s a ‘horrible eater, and that’s one thing why he likes pic-
nics} for he gets lots to eat then. All the same, I never knew
V’ll tell you about that.

It was a Sabbath-school picnic, and me and Bob joined the
Sunday before it came off, so we could\go. To look at Bob,
you'd never think it, but he’s full of fun, and when he isn’t
Biseair he’s planning some kind of a joke or raising Cain. He’s
got the stupidest-looking face you.ever saw, but there isn’t any
fool to Bob, I’m telling.

Deacon Snooks was getting up this picnic. He’s soft on the
Widder Scraggs. I think they’d been married before this if it
hadn’t been for Bob, for I know the widder’s ready to jump like
a grasshopper at the first chance she gets.

Well, the picnic was over in Jobson’s grove, and the place they
choosed was pretty near our old Swimming Hole. You see, the
stream runs through Jobson’s grove.

The deacon had everything fixed up nice, and a platform built
for himself, and the teachers, and the singers. The widder al-
ways sting with the choir, though she had a voice that was
cracked in nine different places and was troubled with the
spring halts, for she was first ahead and then behind the rest
of ’em. On the high notes she would sometimes give a squawk
equal to a hen that was having its neck twisted, and then pretty
often she would stop so sudden it seemed as if she must have
bit her tongue.

But it wa as only her teeth. She had store teeth, an’ the tailor
didn’t make ’em to fit.

When she opened her mouth real wide they'd fall down as if
the w hole roof of het head had give way. Then she’d have to
rejustify °em and get her level before she could strike in again.
She always struck in three octaves higher than the others and
four octaves behind them. The agony was awful.

Nancy Boggs is an old maid that’s never* been married, and
she decl4res she wouldn’t have the best man in the world.

All the same, she’s had her eye cocked toward the deacon for
a good long time, and the widder knows it.

Nancy sings in the choir, too, and there isn’t any. love lost be-
They’re both jealous of each other.

Well, me and Bob we cut ’crost the fields to get to the grove
before the others. We run right into Jobson’s hired man, and
he was carrying a cat down to the stream to drownd her. He
had her in a bag.

Bob saw a chance to have some fun with that cat, so he agreed
to throw her in the stream and save the man the tramp.
That feller was tired, anyhow, and he gave over the cat to us.

Then we hustled for the grove.

“What be you going to do, Bob?” I asked.

7 dunno,” he replied; “but I’ll get some sport out of this cat
if I live.

When we got to the grov e, Bob found a place where he could
crawl under the singers’ platform. I put up a board behind him,
so nobody’d ever know there was a place to get in there.

All the people got there after a time, and the most of them
sat on the seats in front of the platform.

I sat there with the rest, wondering what Bob was going to
do. I found out after the singing struck tp.

Bob found a hole in that bag, and he pulled the cat’s tail out
through it. When the singing was fairly under way, Bob began
to twist the cat’s tail, and she began to yowl. The widder looked
at Nancy, and Nancy looked at the wicjer. There was what
Professor Popstyle calls insinuation in them looks.

It was fun.

 
TIP TOP

The widder thought Nancy was trying to squawk the loudest
when they got on the high notes, and so she just settled right
down to business, Every time she opened her mouth I could
see where she had darned the heel of her right-hand stocking.
She forgot all about her teeth.

How that cat did screech! Nancy and the widder screeched,
too. The rest of the choir wasn’t in it.

I laughed. I thought I’d have a fit. It was better than a
circus to see that old maid and the widder glare at each other
and bear down on the high notes.

All to once something happened.

The widder caught her breath for a regular old hair-raising
flight, and at the same time her teeth took a tumble,

She sucked them into her throat.

My goodness! but wasn’t there a rustling, then? She turned
black in her face, and began to claw the air and gasp. In clawing
she managed to get hold of Miss Nancy’s hair, and she took it
off clean, leaving the old maid as bald as a doorknob.

Nancy thought the widder had done it on purpose, and she
went for her on the spot. They had to be separated, and then
the deacon had to run his finger, down the widder’s throat and
‘ fish. for them teeth.

He got ’em foul and brought ’em to the surface, which prob-
ably saved her life, and kept Bob Jones ftom being a murderer.

After this little excitement was all over, | sneaked round when
nobody was lookin’, and moved the board so Bob could get out.
He still had the cat in the bag. He went out in the woods and
hung the bag, cat and all, to the limb of a tree.

Then we came back and prospected for the staff of life. The
gitls was setting the tables, and they agreed to let me and Bob
help if we’d agree not to eat anything.

We agreed.

Somewhere Bob found some cayetine pepper, and then he
was struck by a scheme. The pie was all cut into pieces, and he
just lifted the crusts and put in the red pepper. When the
crusts ‘were relaid, it looked innocent enough, but it was a de-
lusion and a snare.

Bob managed to get that pepper into most everything put onto
that table.

When the people came to eat we watched for fun.

Theré was lots of it.

The deacon happened to be in a serious modd, and he was tell-
ing about the tortures of the hot place to which all the wicked
people go, when he happened to get a good mouthful of red
pepp

m Wes, Mrs. Scrages,” he was saying to the widder, “some folks
who call themselves Christians go so far as to say there is no
hell.” Here he wabbled the mouthful of red pepper over, and
began to look queer as he went on: “But I amoquite sure there
is such a place, Mrs. Scraggs. There is folks who get a taste
of it right here on this earth.” His eyes began to stick out, and
he handled that red pepper as if it was a mouthful of hot soup.

“In fact, Mrs. Scraggs,” he added, “I feel that--wow!—that I
know something—-we-e-yow lhow that seems! Wo-o-oh1
Heavens above! water! give me water!”

The widder thought he was having a fit, for he sprang up and
danced around like a monkey. Then he made a rush for the bar-
rel of ice water and drank nearly half of it.

That was only the beginning of the outbreak. Most all the
others got some of that pepper, and such a dancing, howling set
of men, and.women, and children you never saw!

While they were drinking water and trying to cool off, Bob
kept right at the provisions, for he knew what was peppered
and what wasn't. He swallered ’most everything that didn’t
have pepper in it, and then, scenting trouble, me and him skipped
into the cool and shady depth of the primeval forest.

We found the cat where we left her, and Bob thought it
would be better to break her neck than drown her, so he
shinned up the tree with her. He was just getting ready to drop
her on some stones, when I spied the deacon and the widder
coming that way. I told Bob, and then I hid in the bushes.

Hanged if they didn’t come along and stop under that very
tree!

The deacon was settling tight down to business, and the widder
‘was simpering and giggling like a girl of sixteen '

“Mrs. Scraggs,” he was saying, while he cast a look at her that
would have broken the heart of a cabbage, ‘
_ charming to-day.”

The widder tee-heed, and said he was.a flatterer.
denied it, and declared he was speaking the truth.

The deacon

“You know the Good Book says it is not best for man to dwell _

_ alone” he eee as pes tried to wind his arm around her waist a.

‘you are looking:

WEEKLY.

couple of times or so, and she pretended she was awful shy.
“Mrs. Scraggs, I am getting tired of building my own fires and
sewing on suspender buttons. Love has found a way into my
heart. It came like a thing fallen from the skies, and——”

Just then Bob inverted that bag and let the cat drop from it.

She came clipping down through the leaves, giving one wild
shriek of despair. She struck on the deacon’s head, and I guess
he thought it was a wild cat, for he screamed murder and ran
for his life, leaving the widdet to her fate. The cat took to the
bushes.

Well, the widder was mad, and she didn’t give the deacon an-
other chance that day.

Later, there was a lot of us boys went down to the old Swim-
ming Hole and went-in swimming. The deacon came down to see
us and tell us not to get drowned.

We had a springboard out over the watér, and Bob induced
the deacon to walk on it. The deacon didn’t weigh more than a
hundred and ten, so he didn’t bend the board down much, but

Bob got hold of the end and pulled it down till it touched the © i"

water.
“Goodness sakes dived? 2

gasped the deacon, in the wildest fear.
“Don’t do that—I can't iat :

Let go! You'll have me in!”
So Bob let go.

Up went that springboard, and up went the deacon. He didn't
stop going up when the board did. He kept right on and came
down into the water kerslosh! a

Us boys had to pull him out, and he looked like a drownded —
rat. ;
The deacon felt awfully cut up, and he said he wouldn’t have —
the story get out for anything. All the same, the next issue of |
the Jimp Corners Bugle printed the following item:

“We are sorry to hear that a certain deacon of a church in a
neighboring town got slightly hilarious at a Sabbath-school pic-
nic held last week. It is said he had been drinking apple jack, and
he danced a can-can while the picnic dinner ‘was being ‘devoured:
whooping and howling in a highly scandalous manner; he after-
ward wandered away and fell into the stream, where he would

, have drowned had not some brave boys gone to his rescue, This

is fenby disgraceful, and the, church should haul him over ‘the:
coals

Wasn’t the deacon hot when he read that! Well, I should ¢

sa i
Hee made the paper take it all back next week, the reporter cons: a

fessing that he had been misinformed. '
I hope they'll have another Sabbath-school picnic next sunimer.
Me and Bob will be there if they do. a

TRAIN ROBBERS. 3

He was an engineer, and we became acquainted at Rock Hill, “6g

when I was a lad. One day he spoke: .
“Fine evening,” he said, as i was watching him oiling th
“machinery of the engine, while the train was waiting at th
platform. ;
“Splendid,” was my reply,
engine, isn’t it?”
Ah, well; it ain’t so very bad. How far are you goin’ rs asked
the engineer, whose name was Ryan.
“Not going in the train at all,
ently.”
“Ye can jump up along o’ me if you like, as far as the j june-—
tion, and get to Stoneham from there. It’s no farther.” na
I hesitated just a moment. “Is it allowed?” I asked.
“No one won't take any notice of you. Come on if you li
and I'll pick you up again by the quarter past nine at the Fancti
Never fear.”
This was an invitation not to be despised. To travel on

“Very jolly to be up on your

delightful of treats. I could hardly credit the reality of it ilies
I found ee half lifted to the footplate of the Unicorn
in front of me the glowing furnace and the massive boi

' fitted with handles, valve cocks, whistles, gauge glasses,

steam gauge. My feet and legs glowed in the heat, and I
so small standing there—so. strange, full of awe, and ne
but altogether delighted. a
“If my father and mother could only see me,” I thouatit
the Perkins and the Franks could ¢atch sight of me, the cu
my enjoyment would be filled to the brim.”
A whistle. We started. I was actually moving. Pu
the handle in front gently, the engineer of the Unicorn star
He train. The i pare aracogas Puffing loudly, we wet on; z

 

I am off to Stoneham pres-
ee

bP TOP

holding to the rail of the engine, I looked out proudly from the
locomotive. ;

Bliss! There were the Franks, *Didn’t they stare just as |
waved my hand. I| am sure that I was two inches taller, and
much bigger altogether, as I waved my cap to my indulgent
father, who was chatting to an acquaintance. And when I per-
ceived Perkins turning actually green with envy—for Perkins and

‘I disputed about enginesp and drew them on our desks in school

—I gasped with pleasure, and stood as steadily as I could with-

_ out holding to anything, just to let him see that I was accus-

tomed to it.

The ten minutes soon passed and the junction was reached.

“Here you are, sir,” said the engineer. “Jump down, go your
way; and if you come back at nine o'clock, I'll take you home
by ‘the quarter past nine.’

I warmly expressed my thanks, and felt in my pocket for a
coin.

“Down with you, unless you want to be carried on, ” he said,
“Mind the step—all right ?—quarter- past-nine train.”

I found myself upon the platform in a moment, and with a
pleasant smile the engineer nodded, his fireman held up his
hand in farewell, and the Unicorn puffed away.

T was flushed ‘and excited by the run in the fresh air: some-
what bewildered, too; a surprise that no one regarded me as a
hero, I had been on the engine, and no one took any notice of
me. I longed to tell somebody, to let people know how I had
ridden on the Unicorn, to relate——

"Ticket, please !”

My reverie was cut short suddenly. The porter repeated his
demand: “Tickets!”

I had no. ticket, as I endeavored to explain to the yéduth in
corduroy—a lout of seventeen or thereabouts—a very unpleasant-
looking young man.

“No ticket! Then you must pay up. Look sharp!”

I tried to look as sharp as possible, but his bluntness rather
dulled me. - I searched my pockets, but had only two pennies,
Six marbles, a knife, a piece of string, three old postage stamps,
some slate pencil and colored chalks for drawing, two pebbles,

and a bit of India-rubber. That was all.

“Come on, stupid. Where’s your money?” said the disagree-
able porter.

“TI—have only two cents,” I stammered.

“Only two cents and riding in the cars. Ho, ho! This is a

olice matter. Defraudin’ of the company. Ye’ll be locked up,

for this.” ,

“Oh, please not. I didn’t travel in the ‘ ain, I”

“Didn't travel in the train! Oh my, this is dreadful, it is.
Addin’ falsehood to fraud, this is. Shockin’| Come along to

: the pound. Come to the roundhouse.”

He seized my collar as he was speaking, and despite my strug-

gles dragged me along the platform. |
 Dreadfully frightened—I was only twelve years old then—TI

, submitted, wondering what my parents would think of my ab-—
_ sence, and how I could let them know of my miserable situation.

He hauled me in the gloom across the road and up a lane, in

_ which stood then, and may be still standing, a! small sentry, box-
Rh but stone structure. This was the old watch-house, half ruined,

ut serviceable.
_ The creeking door was pushed open, and I was thrust inside.

_ Then, shutting the door again, the bully put stones against it,

and left me to my reflections in the dark.
Here was a pretty predicament! Shut up in an evil-smelling
_ watch-house, and no prospect of escape. But as soon as the
sound of the retreating footsteps of my jailer had died away, I
set about to endeavor to escape,

This was at first sight not easy, as the roof beams were so far

Eh overhead, but by piling some loose stones on each other I just
managed to raise myself sufficiently high to i up and catch

a rafter. I then got my feet against the wall, and by pressing

and pulling gained a very awkward position upon the beam. My
head was bent down; but before I had attempted to climb I had

oticed the stars shining through a hole in the dilapidated. roof.
’f this hole I took advantage, and in a short time had enlarged
sufficient] get my hands through. The rest was easy.

Moldering Rasch is quickly displaced, and in five thinutes I was |
standing upon the beam.

I was considering my further progress, and comparing daytait

to mre bold captive in the olden time, when my bravery was

suddenly uenched. by hearing gruff voices. I crouched and
istened, he speakers came up and actually tried to enter the

hile they were removing the stones at the door I drew :

elf up, and lay down upon the thatch.

WEEKLY.

“Here’s the things,” said one.

“Now mind, no skulking.”

He lit a match. I could see the fez atures of the men distinctly
as I lay, face downward, peering through the hole.

The men looked like navvies, and the “things” referred to were
a crowbar, a pickaxe, and a couple of iron wedges. The men’s
faces I shall never forget.

“All right,” replied the other; “we'll pull up a couple o’ rails
after the quarter past nine is gone by, and the mail will have no
chance. There’s lots of gold in the van, in boxes. Bill and the
rest will have them out and off in the pony trap. Are ye ready?”

The other grunted assent, ‘and the confederates quitted the
old watch-house.

I remained half stupefied. What a horrible plot!

Nothing less than the wreck and plunder of the mail train was
contemplated.

[ waited until all was quiet, and then dropped into the road.
As I walked cautiously on I passed the porter in the road going
to relieve me. Then I heard nine o'clock striking. I was in
time. Fearing to encounter the porter, | climbed down to the
line beyond the station, and hid myself until I could see. the
lights of the Unicorn approaching.

The train came in slowly, but I was in such a hurry that m
trying to gain the footplate I missed the step and fell, bumping
my head, cutting it deeply. [ can just remember being pulled
up, and then life was a blank until I heard Ryan say, “Bathe him
again, Tom.”

I said, “Is that you, Ryan?”

“That’s me,” has replied. “You've had a nasty knock. Can
you stand up? We're near your place.’

eV "TS

Yes; but Ryan, listen. There’s a plot to rob the mail. Two
men will pull up the line and wreck the train,’
“You've been dreamin’, insensible,” said the engineer quietly.

“Are you better?”

“Oh, yes. What's this? Am [ cut? Bleeding?”

Welt a little. We doctored you. Here’s the station. You
can go home, I suppose?” ;

“Yes, yes. But the mail! Tell the station’ master.
true. Tell him, Ryan!”

The engineer, perceiving after several questions, that I was in

earnest and sensible, swung off his engine and spoke to Mr.

It’s teally

; Green, who questioned me closely. After a pause, Ryan said:

“Time's up, sir.’

“This is your last trip down, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ryan. “I run back ‘light’ to the junction.”

“Pull up here on your way. T'll send up a yang and some
police. Right away! Now, Master Jackson, come home.”

My appearance caused a ‘painful sensation. My roughly ban-
daged head and pale face alarmed even my father, who would ~
scarcely attend to my narrative. But when he had quite satisfied.
himself that I was coherent, he gave the statioti master a note
to the police inspector, and when Mr, Green departed I was-sent |
to bed, notwithstanding my entreaties. But I could not sleep. I
tossed and tumbled about, picturing the scene, the “accident,”
and the robbery. Then, again, I was on the Unicorn hunting’
the robbers, and seeing them arrested, and so on, on

Next morning I was in a fever. The doctor came, and I was ~
kept in bed for many days.

* * 7 * * * * Ses,
During that time I had idsare to ponder over my adventufe,
and to speculate upon its probable results, which were satisfactory

to myself, if not to the wreckers.
It appeared that the railway officials had already entertained :

gome suspicions concerning the porter Kane, and they set a trap ~

for him. With the assistance\of the police they discovered that
the train wreckers had been instigated by him, atid informed of
the valuable consignments carried by the mail on that occasiof.
His own ill nature led to his ruin.

For, had he fot ill-treated me in a revengeful spirit, he might
have escaped the consequences. But, fortunately, I was enabled ©
to give information, which led to the arrest, the conviction, and |
the punishment of the culprits. My reward was permission to
travel with the driver of the Unicorn at will, a privilege of which
you may be sure I svailen myself.

4
_ AN ORDEAL OF TERROR,

An officer’ of the French army, during the reign of depciaa ie

having incurred the suspicion or resentrient of the empero
thought it expedient to abandon his country, and take refuge i”
one of the Austrian Sees) and here. he e became i initiated int

 
 

PEP OP

a society the object of whose formation was to hurl to the ground
the colossus whose arm smote and governed the whole Continent
of Europe with a scepter of iron.

One day a letter was brought to him containing the usual signs
and passwords of the society, and requiring him to repair, on the
following night, to a secluded spot in a forest, wher@he would
meet some of his associates.

He went, but he found nobody.

The orders were repeated four times.

The officer*sought the appointed place with no better success
than at first. On the fifth nighf of his appearance at the rendez-
vous, after waiting some time, he was on the point of returning,
when loud cries suddenly arrested his attention.

Drawing his sword, he hastened to the spot whence they
seemed to proceed, and was fired upon by three men, who, on
seeing that he remained unwounded, instantly took to flight; but
at his feet lay an appatent corpsé, in which, by the feeble light
of the moon, he in vain sought for tokens of returning anima-
tion.

He was yet bending over the seemingly dead man, when_a de-
tachment of soldiers, summoned apparently by the noise of the
pistols that had been discharged at himself, came up suddenly
and arrested him as the assassin.

He was loaded with chains, tried the next day, and condemned
to die for his supposed crime. His execution was ordered to take
place at midnight.

Surrounded by the ministers of justice, he was led at a slow
pace, by’ the light of torches, and the funeral tolling of bells to
a scaffold environed by horsemen.

Beyond these was a numerous group of spectators, who mur-
mured impatiently, and at intervals sent forth a cry of abhor-
rence.

The victim mounted the scaffold, his sentence was read, and
_the first act of the tragedy was on the point of fulfillment when
an officer let fall a word of hope.

An edict had just been promulgated by the government offer-
ing a pardon and life to any condemned criminal who should
disclose the members and secret tokens of a particular associa-
tion, the existence of which the Frenchman to whom these words
were addressed had lately become aware of, and of which he
had become a member,

He was questioned, but he denied all knowledge.
him to confess, with promises of additional reward.

His only reply was a demand for immediate death—and his
initiation was @ompleted. All that had passed was a terrible
trial of fidelity.

Those who surrounded him were members of the society, and
every incident that had been described, from the summons to
the last moment of expected death, was only a step in the
progress of the fearful ordeal by which the society sought to

‘determine the trustworthiness of the neophyte.

They urged

A DESPERATE MANIAC.

It was perfectly obvious to the nervous-looking woman who
- gat just opposite him in the street car that he was crazy, It was
+ mot so much the mystical series of wigwag signals which he was
oe, oe we his handkerchief as the amazing contortions of his
ace. ;
The poor woman didn’t know what to do. Her alarm was so
apparent that all the others in the car noticed it, even the man
himself in one of his lucid intervals, and thereafter his per-
_formances became more violent than ever.
_ ‘She held herself gathered close, with every muscle strained,

ready to spring and flee.

_« The man looked toward her with that terrible, unseeing glare.
Ris fists clenched. The handkerchief clenched in one of them

_ jérked in short, sharp oscillations... His eyes began to bulge

Beneath his curling lips could be
seen his teeth, bare to the gums. He leaned forward toward the
horror-struck woman, his face protruding almost into hers. His
sharp, hot breath was on her cheek, and just as his arms went up
to clutch she made one bound from her seat that took her on
the platform. Thence with a mad yell she launched herself

- forth, despite the restraining grasp of the alarmed conductor, and
was fortunately caught by a policeman, who escorted her to the
sidewalk, where she wept. From behind she heard a mad, gasp-.
ing roar of baffled rage, but the maniac did not follow.

e sank back in his~seat again and wiped his tearful eyes.
Then he took out a newspaper and began to read. It had been

a hard struggle, but it had ended in victory. He had got that
sneeze out. >, 4 RON

out. His face became purple.

* baseball or football, but now it is different.

‘in the village that I read dime novels.

WEEKLY.

APPLAUSE.

Frank Merriwell is His Model.

I have been reading “Tip Top Weekly” for three years, and
the reason I like it is because they ate full of sport and clean
spirit. I have told several persons abott it, and every week we
each buy one in a local agent’s store. Am trying to use Frank
Merriwell for a model. ABRAHAM Hart.

Newburgh, N. Y.

Taught Him Patience.

I read every “Tip Top” I can get hold of, and am going to
subscribe for it in a few days. It has helped me to have pa-
tience and courage when I get out of patience. I-think of Frank
Merriwell, and not to be a coward. I have loaned out all I had,
and shall buy some more. I am fifteen years old.

Farnam, Neb. Keitu SMITH.

Made a Ball Player of Him.

I have read every book about the Merriwells, and find them
the best of any I have read-of the kind. The reason I like them
is that they are exciting and show what other boys can do by
taking care of themselves as Frank and Dick Merriwell do.
When I first started to read about Frank Merriwell I let one
or two boy friends take the books after I got through with them,
the result being that they are now reading them as fast as they
come in. Before I began reatling these books I never cared about
I am now catching
as Bart Hodge did

for a baseball nine, and am trying to do
MeELvIN LonDAHL.

behind the bat.
Chicago, Il.

Enthusiasm. d

I want to tell you just what a fine weekly I think dear qld
“Tip Top” is. Of all I have read or do read I can find nothing
to take its place with me or my boy friends whom I have got to
reading the king of all weeklies. I give three hearty cheers for
Burt L. for his writing and: making a lot of manly boys. I am
in love with Frank, Dick, Brad, Joseph Crowfoot, Bart, Bruce,
and all of Frank and. Dick’s friends. I love all athletic sport,
and would spend most of my time outdoors if I could, but have
inside work to do. Thanking you again for giving the young
and old the first weekly published tdeday, with a hearty good
wish for Top-Notch also. J. H. Hemineway.

New Orleans, La.

‘Tip Top”? Goes A-visiting.
[ have read “Tip Top” for about five years. I think it is the
nicest and cleanest weekly written for the American youth.
have formed a club called the “Tip-Topper,” and we read it every
week. I went to visit my friend in the country this summer,
and I brought my “Tip Tops” with me.
I at last got him to read
one, and he took back all he said. Wishing long life to Burt L.
Standish. | Bos Heaty.
New York, N. Y.

His Mother Likes “Tip Top.’

As I have not seen any letters to your Applause column from
this State, I thought I would write and'tell what “Tip Top” has
done for me. Thave been reading it about a year. In that time
it has taught me to be manly and to control my temper. I had
a terrible temper, ready to break out at any moment, now I

sf

He told all the boys —

F

rarely, if ever, get angry, which I attribute to “Tip Top.” I also —

stopped smoking and swearing, when I saw the ill effects of the —
former and the vulgarness of the latter. I have got my mother
to read them. This is the way it happened: One night she came

to my room and asked me to give her.a good book to read. I
looked through my juvenile books, and didn’t think any would |
ffered it

suit her. Then I thought of “Tip Top.” I got it and
to her.. By chance it was No. 753, “Dick Merriwell’s Penetra-
tion.” My mother read it and was much affected; for somewhere
in the West I have an older brother whose whereabouts is_ un.
known to us. We last heard of him on December 8, 1909/ Fre-.
quent efforts have failed to find him. That is the reasoh. The
realistic picture ‘and story, so true to life, appealed to my mother,
and she is a constant reader. But my letter is getting too long
so I will end with three cheers for Mr. Standish, Street & Smith
and “Tip Top.” -  Georce H, Dumas.
Escanaba, Mich. °

 
TIP TOP WEEKLY. pag

 

 

sean
Ae

So many inquiries reach us from week to week concerning the
various manuals on athletic development, which we publish, that
we have decided to keep a list of them standing here. Any number
can be had by mail by remitting 10 cents, and 3 cents postage, for
each copy, to the publishers.

Frank Merriwell’s Book of Physical Development.

The Art of Boxing and Self-defense, by Prof. Donovan.

U. S. Army Physical Exercises, revised by Prof. Donovan.

Physical Health Culture, by Prof. Fourmen.

 

Gardening is a Worthy Trade.

Pror.. FourMEN: Will you please tell me about the florist’s
trade, and the landscape gardening? Are they two distinct
trades? What are the wages? Where could they best be learned ?
_In a commercial greenhouse or at a seedsman’s? Please inform
me the best books to read on the’ subject. J. S. WALTERS.

Brattleboro, Vt. —

The: two trades, florist and landscape gardening, are entirely
separate and distinct. One is the cultivation of flowers: and
plants for sale, and the other embraces the laying out of public
parks and private grounds in more or less intricate designs pleas-

ing to the eye.

A man can raise his own plants or buy them in the open, mar-

ket. Or else he can cultivate flowers and plants for sale to re-
tail dealers,. In either case, he is a florist. There is no regular
apprentice system connected with the trade. As a boy, you would
probably receive a salary of four dollars a week. If you are apt
and take an interest in the business, your employer will naturally
‘increase your wages as you become more valuable to him. Good
men. with a thorough knowledge of the trade command salaries
_of from eighteen to twenty-five dollars a week. Keen observers
‘say that the love of flowers and their use in. decorations is grow-
ing from year to year. This being the case, it speaks well for
the prospects of the trade.

_ Landscape gardening as a profession has received a decided

ftmpetus since ‘the beautiful grounds of the World’s Fair have-

_.shown to what extent Nature can be aided by the hand of man,

From a commonplace park, the stretch of land bordering on Lake

‘Michigan was turned into a series of delightful nooks and plazas,
‘lagoons: and islands, ¢
aie the admiration of the ne All are NS trans-
The lesson cutahe there has deed t a2 and xis diusie cities
o improve their parks, and residence owners their grounds.
And it has incidentally increased the demand for men with

enough skill, and Ss. oe taste to beautify, bageadh places

F rge cities form the field you rise seek. <A letter directed to
the Commissioner of. Parks, Boston, may aid you. A thoroughly
good book on the cultivation of plants can be obtained by ad-
ones the ‘firm of Peter Henderson & Co., Cortlandt Street,

; Newspaper ‘Work.

: Bice FourmMEN:. I am sixteen years old, and dédicn to be a
- mewspaper reporter. I attended public school, and stopped at the
seventh grade, J .now BO to a business college. Is it necessary
© be a shorthand writer?
the average pay? Can you give mé a list of books that would
helpful to read and study? I work during the daytime and
tend Seat Plese at night.

and made so wonderfully beautiful that it

Is reporting a good business? What |

I receive © $4 65, per week in an

office, Witere I am at present working. I have been to see a city
editor, who will give me a chance when there is a vacancy. ;

Clevel land, Ohio. ° G. R. TAT.

Yes, on the whole, we think the business of a reporter is a good
one, more for what it is apt to lead to, however, than anything
else. It is not necessary to be able to write shorthand, although
on occasions it would prove useful.

[f you write on space, as will probaly | ye the case at first, the
pay is, small ; but even then, on a large city daily, you ought to
make tore than you are doing now.

A regularly engaged reporter makes from fifteen to thirty
dollars a week; and if he is bright, can increase that by outside
work.

Study the papers and see how a “story,” ag it is called, is worked
up.

The first essential is to write correctly. Purchase a book on
rhetoric, and study it carefully. It would be a good idea to write
fictitious articles, and give them to some competent person to
correct. . You will then know what faults of composition to avoid.

Becoming a Draftsman.

Pror. Fourmen: I would like to have you give me some in-
formation in regard to the following subject : I am‘a little over
seventeen years of age, and am now going to the Massachusetts
Normal Art School. I can do mechanical as well as’ free-hand
drawing. Should you advise me to take the mechanical drawing
thoroughly, and adopt that kind of business? Are you likely to
get a Job very easy What does it generally pay? My writing” 1S
poor, is it not? I have only a grammiar- ache, an

wViedford, Mass. M. N. St. Crari

To decide which branch of drawing would. prove. most. bene-
ficial to you, we should have to know something more about your
If you have what is knowh as the “artistic

free-hand draWing would
Otherwise, devote yourself”

individual tastes.
temperament” and much imagination,
probably be the most remunerative.
to methanical drawing.

The latter is an essential adjunct to the practice of sceiei bedi Fa:
There is also conSiderable demand for mechanical draftsmen in
all kinds of engineering work. In the making of bridges, in the
building of locomotives and other machinery, and in all kinds of
railroad construction, exact and accurate drawings are necessary.»

The advice of your instructor at the normal school should be
of service in indicating the possibilities of a career to you.

It 8 almost impossible to tell you the amount of salary you.

would be likely to receive, as that would depend entirely. upon:
your ability and proficiency. e
Your handwriting is only fair.
How to Be a Detective.

Pror. Fourmen: I have it in my mind’ to be a detective,.and. #
wish very much to be one, but my parents are opposed to it.
Would you please be kind enough to tell me how or in what: way
I could get to be one, and I would be very Caer to you.

Philadelphia, Pa. JoHN Bupp.

It is always a good plan for a boy to follow his parents’ ad-
vice. Lf your parents think that you ought not to be a detective
that alorie is good reason why you should abandon any idea of
following that occupation. There are doubtless crimes being .
perpetrated every day in Philadelphia, and if you can ferret out
one of these then you will place. yourself in the line of accom-.
plishing your desires. As a means of aiding you we would
stiggest that you devote your leisure’ to amateur detective work. |
You can begin by being a private watchman, and when you have —
succeeded in that, join the police force. If you show marked ’
detective ability you will have no difficulty in having yourself
transferred to the detective force. While you are. waiting to
reach the proper age, height, and size to be able to protect your,
self, it would be well for you to learn a trade, so that you will
have an, occupation to fall back on if tas are not a success as a
ener hound.

 
 

Se nee EP, ar ae ears rete . EEE SH y :
we PETS PONS LI See ee ee 2 a ne ne

 

 

ALL, OF THE BACK NUMBERS OF

TIP TOP WEEKLY

THAT CAN NOW BE SUPPLIED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

241—F rank Merriwell’s Kick. 550—Dick Merriwell, Fr@shman. 631—Dick Merriwell’s Money. 704—Dick Merriwell’s Freshman
243—-Frank Merriwell’s “Brassie” 5: oe ane k Merriwell’s Progress. 632—Dick Merriwell Watched. Friend.
Shot. 5E Merriwell, Half-back. 633—Dick Merriwell Doubted. 705—Dick Merriwell’s Best Form.
245—Frank Merriwell’s Entertain- bt Merriwell’s Resentment. 6: 34—Dic k Merriwell’s Distrust. 706—Dick Merriwell’s Prank.
ments, 54—Dick Merriwell \ Repaid. 635—Dick Merriwell’s Risk. 707—Dick Merriwell’s Gambol.
246—Frank Merriwell’s Mastery. 355—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power 686—Frank Merriwell’s Favorite. 708—Dick Merriwell’s Gun.
247—F rang Merriwell’s Dilemma. bf 56—Dick Merriwell’s “Push.” 637—Frank Merriwell’s Young 709—Dick Merriwell at His Best.
249—F rank Merriwe ’s Search, 5: 57—Dick Merriwe!l’s Running. Clippers. 710—Dick Merriwell’s Master Mind
250—F rank Merriwel!’s Ring. 5% 58—Dick Merriwell’s Joke. 6388—-Frank ae en s Steadying 71 1—Dick Merriwell’s Dander.
251—Frank Merriwell’s Party. 559—Dick Merriwell’s Seven. Han 712—Dick Merriwell’s Hope.
253—Frank Merriwell’s Skill. 560—Dick Merriwell’s pattnde, 639—Frank ‘Merriwell’s Récord- 713—Dick Merriwell’s Standard.
254—F rank Merriwell’s Club. 561—Dick Merriwell in the Tank, Breakers. 714——-Dick Merriwell’s Sympathy.
255—Frank Metriwell’s Scheme. 562—Irank Merriwell’'s Captive. | 640—Dick Merriwell’s Shoulder. 715—Dick Merriwell in Lumber
467—Dick Merriwell in Egypt. 563—Frank Merriwell’s Trailing, 641—Dick pene Desperate Land.
469—Frank Merriwell’s Retaliation. 564—Frank Merriwell's Talisman. Wo 716—Frank Merriwell’s Fairness.
485—-Dick Merriwell In Manila. 565—Frank Merriwell’s Horse. 642—Dick Morriwef!’ $s Bxample. 717—Frank Merriwell’s Pledge.
486-——Dick Merriwell Marooned. 566—Frank Merriwell’s Intrusion. 648—Dick Merriwell At Gale’s 718—F rank Merriwell, the Man of
488—Dick Merriwell, Gap-Stopper. 567—Frank Merriwell’s Bluff. Ferry. Grit.
489—Dick Merriwell’s Sacrifice Hit 568—Dick Merriwell’s Regret. 644—Dick Merriwell’s Inspiration. 719—Fr mak Merriwell’s Return
490—Dick Merrtwell’s Support. 569—Dick Merriwell’s Silent Work, 645—Dick Merriwell’s Shooting. 3low.
491—-Dick Merriwell’s Stroke. 570—Dick Merriwell’s Arm. 646—Dick Merriwell in the Wilds. 720—Frank Merriwell’s Quest.
492—-Dick Merriwell Shadowed. 571—Dick Merriwell’s Skill. 647—Dick Merriwell’s Red Comrade 721—F rank Merriwell’s Ingots. *
493—Dick Merriwell’s Drive. 572—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism. '648—Frank Merriwell’s Ranch. 722—Frank Merriwell’s Assistance.
494-—Dick Merriwell’s Return. 573—Dick Merriwell's System. 649—F rank Merriwell in the Saddle 723—-Frank Merriwell at. the
495—Dick Merriwell’s Restoration. 574—Dick Merriwell’s Salvation. 650—Irank Merriwell’s Brand. Throttle.
496—Dick Merriwell’s Value. 575—Dick Merriwell’s Twirling. 651—F rank Merriwell’s Red Guide 724—Frank Merriwell, the Always
497—Dick Merriwell’s “Dukes.” 576—Dick Merriwell’s Party. 652—Dick Merriwell’s Rival. Ready
498-——Dick Merriwell’s Drop Kick. 577—Dick Merriwell’s Backers. 653—Dick Merriwell’s Strength, 725— Fr reoy Merriwen in Diamond
499—Dick Merriwell’s Defeat. 578—Dick Merriwell's Coach. 654—Dick: Merriwell's Sec et Work La
500—Dick Merriwell’s Chance. 579—Dick Merriwell’s Bingle. 655—Dick Merriwel-'s Wa 726—F rank a Merriwell’s Desperate
501—Dick Merriwell’s Stride. 580—Dick Merriwell’s Hurdling. 656—Frank Merriwell’s Red Visitor
502—Dick Merriwell’s Wing-Suit. 581—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work., 657—Frank Merriwell’s Rope. 727—Frank "Morrlwell’ s Black Ter-
503—Dick Merriwell’s Skates. 582—Dick Merriwell’s Respite® 658—F rank , Merriwell’s Lesson.
504—Dick Merriwell’s Four. Fists. 583—Dick Merriwell’s Disadvantage 659—Frank  Merriwell’s Protection 728—Frank Merriwell Again on
505—Dick Merriwell’s Dashing Game 584—Dick Merriwell Besct. 660—Dick Merriwell’s Reputation. the Slab.
506—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers. 585—Dick Merriwell’s Great Rival. 661—-Dick Merriwell’s Motto. : 729—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Game
507—Frank Merriwell’s Bre sasure 586—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust. 662—Dick Merriwell’s Restraint. 730—Frank Merriwell’s Six-in-hand
.._,Guard. 587—Dick Merriwell, Lion-Tamer. 663—Dick Merriwell’s Ginger. 731—Frank Merriwell’s Duplicate.
508—Frank Merriwell’s Flying Fear 588—Dick Merriwell’s Camp-site. 664—Dick Merriwell's Driving. 732—Frank Merriwell on Rattle-
509—-Dick Merriwell in Maine. 589—Dick Merriwell’s Debt. 665—Dick Merriwell’s Good Cheer. snake Ranch.
‘510—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team. 590—Dick Merriwell’s C amp-Mates 666—F rank Merriwell’s Theory. 735—Frank Merriwell’s Sure Hand
511—Dick Merriwell in the Ring. 591—Dick Merriwell’s Draw. 667—Frank Merriwell’s Diplomacy. 734—Frank Merriwell’s Treasure
512—Frank Merriwell’'s New Idea. 592—Dick Merriwell’s _Disapproval. 668—Frank Merriwell’s | Encour- Map,
§18—Frank Merriwell’s Trouble. 593—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery. agement. P 735—Frank Merriwell, Prince of
514—-Frank Merriwell’s- Pupils. 594—Dick Merriwell’s. Warm) Work 669—Frank Merriwell’s Great Work the Rope.
515—Diek Merriwell’s Satisfaction 595—Dick Merriwell’s ‘Double or ae Merriwell’s Mind. 736—Dick Merriwell, Captain of
516—Dick Merriwell’s Discernment. Squeeze.”’ 671—Dick Merriwell’s “Dip.” the V. ih, pta 0
517—Dick Merriwell’s Friendly Hand 596—Dick Merriwell’s Vanishing. 672—Dick Merriwell’s Rally. rer" e Varsity. :
518—-Frank Merriwell’s New Boy. 597—Dick Merriwell Adrift. 673—Dick Merriwell’s Flier. 737—Dick Merriwell’s Control.
519—Frank Merrtwell’s Mode. 598—Dick Merriwell’s Influence. 674—Irank Merriwell’s Bullets. 738—Dick Merriwell’s Back Stop.
520—Irank Merriwell’s Aids. 599—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy. 675—Frank Merriwell Cut Off. 739-—Dick Merriwell’s Masked En-
521—Dick Merriwell's Visit. 600—Frank Merriwell's Annoyance 676—Frank Merriwell’s Ranch Boss emg.
Bag eice Merriwell’s Retaliation. 601—Frank Merriwell’s Restraint. re ae pees 8 aie t, 740—Dick Merriwell’s Motor Car
on _ o > f > Leas e e 6 ead Br.
523—Dick Merriwell’s Rival. 602—Dick Merriwell Held Back. i c rriwell's Development. 741. _ nick Merriwell’s'Hot Pursuit.

524—Frank Merriwell’s Young Crew 603—Dick Merriwell in the Line. 679—Dick Merriwell's Eye. t
525——Frank Merriwell’s Fast Nine. 604—Dick Merriwell’s Drop Kick. 680—Frank Merriwell’s Zest. 742—Dick Merriwell at Forest Lake
oe Bela. Merriwell’s Athletic 605—Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyages681—Frank Merriwell’s Patience. 748—Dick Merriwell in Court.

e 606—Frank Merriwell’s Auto Chase. 682—Frank Merriwell’s Pupil. 744—Dick Merriwell’s Silence.
a: 27—Dick Merriwell’s Reprisal. 607—F rank Merriwell’s Captive. 683-—Frank Merriwell’s Fighters. 745 pick Merrtwell’s Dog
528—Dick Merriwell Dared. 608—Dick Merriwell’s Value, 684—Dick Merriwell at the ‘‘Mect” 746—Dick M ed ell’s § bt fug
529—Dick Merriwell’s Dismay. 609—Dick Merriwell Doped. 685—Dick Merriwell’s Protest. Dae ee ae he eee
§30~Frank Merriwell’s Son. 610—Dick Merriwell’s Belief. 686—Dick Merriwell in the Mara- '47—Dick Merriwell’s Enigma.
531—Frank Merriwell’s Old Flock. Gil--Hrank Merriwell in the Mar- 100. 748—-Dick Merriwell Defeated.
ee Merriwell’s House ioe : Satie: tee eee ee abl oe ng 749—Dick Merriwell’s “Wing.”
= ta erriwell’s Fight for —Dic erriwel river 750—Dic rriwell’ ;
533—Dick Merriwetl s Summer Team Fortune. 7 689—Dick Merriwell on the Deep. pat ee ene Shee aes
534-——Dick Merriwell’s Demand. 618—-Frank Merriwell on Top. 690-—-Dick Merriwell in the North 752—Dick Merriwellon the R i
585—Dick Merriwell’s Slabmate. 614—Dick Merriwell’s Trip West. Woods. EM ore pe! ae Neneh ents 5
es eh Merriwell’s Summer 615—Dick Merriwell's Predicament 691—Dick Merriwell’s Dandies. 753—Dick Merriwell’s Penetration.
616—Dick Merriwell in Mystery 692—Dick Merriwell's “Skyscooter” 754—Dick Merriwell’s Intuition.
597—Prank “Merriwett’s nea ert a Pie ‘ ook eae ee in the Elk 755—Dick Mefriwell’s Vantage,
588—Fran erriwell’s pook- 617—Fran erriwell’s Proposition ountains 756-——Dick Merriwell’s "
hunters. 618—Frank Merriwell, Perplexed. _694—Dick Merriwell in Utah. Bee rmck deci etal
539—Dick Merriwell’s Cheek. 619—F rank Merriwell’s, Suspicion, °695—Dick Merriwell’s Bluff. 58 id A : sis
540—Dick Merriwell's Sacrifice. | 620—Dick Merriwell’s*allantry. | 696—Dick Merriwell in the Saddle, 758—Dick Merriwell, American.
541—Dick Merriwell’s Heart. 621—Dick Merriwell’s Condition. . 697—Dick. Merriwell’s Ranch 759—Dick Merriwell’s Understand-
ae ee ee PE res So ety s emcees Friends, ing.
543—Fran erriwell’s Pride 23—Dic erriwell’s Match pie X 760— Merr i M
eee Merriwell’s Young Seed eee ero 8 oars Case me ear ferriwell at Phantom ia ee ersiwelta, Chee iees
nners, j—Fran erriwell’s Helper. 699—F rank Merriwell’s Hold- ras, : 1 ft
545 % . on at Bare aE ra riwell’s Hold-back. 762—-Dick Merriwell on the Boards.
Z5. ise Meruiwell'e Lead S35Erank Merriwell’s Doubte, »» 700—Frank Merriwell’s Lively Lads 763—Dick Merriwell, Peacemaker.

546—Dick Merriwell’s Influence, 627—Frank Merriwell’s “Phenom.
547—Dick Merriwell’s Top Notch, 628—Dick Morriwell’ s Stand. 7 701—Frank Merriwell as Instructor 764—Frank Merriwell’s awe

548—Frank Merriwell’s Kids. 629—Dick Merriwell’s Circle. 702—Dick Merriwell’s Cayuse. 765—Frank Merriwell’s; Compre-
549—Frank Merriwell’s Kodakérs. 630—Dick Merriwell’s Reach. 703—Dick Merriwell’s Quirt. hension. \
\

 

PRICE, FIVE. CENTS PER COPY

If you want any back elitivs of our hcitis Mien and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be
obtained direct from this office. Postage stainps taken the same as money.

STREET @ SMITH, Publishers, 79 Seventh Ave., New York City

 

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NUMBERS OR od Ae

TIP TOP WEEKLY

WILL BE FOUND IN THE NEW MEDAL LIBRARY

 

 

A few years ago, we were obliged to disappoint thousands of boys who wanted

the early adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell which were published in TIP

TOP, because we did not have copies of the numbers that contained them.

It was

impossible for us to reprint TIP TOP WEEKLY, so we made the stories up in book
form and published them in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY at intervals of about
Here is a list of these splendid books which

four weeks beginning with No. 150.

contain Nos. 1 to 501 of TIP TOP WEEKLY. Our experience with these books
has taught us that thousands of boys are overjoyed at this opportunity to secure their

favorite

150—Frank
167—F rank
178—F rank
184—F rank
189—F rank
193—F rank
197—F rank
201—F rank
205—Frank
209—F rank
213—F rank
217—Frank
225—F rank
229—F rank
233—Frank
237—F rank
240—F rank
244—F rank
247—F rank
251—F rank
254—F rank
258—Frank
262—F rank
267—F rank
271—F rank
276—F rank
280—F rank
284—F rank
288—F rank
292—F rank
296—F rank
300—F rank
304—F rank
308—Frank
. 312—Frank
316—F rank
320—F rank
324—F rank
328—F rank
332—F rank
336—Frank
340—F rank
344—Frank
348—F rank
352—F rank

stories in a more permanent form.

Merriwell’s School-days.
Merriwell’s Chums.
Merriwell’s Foes.
Merriwell’s Trip West.
Merriwell Down South.
Merriwell’s Bravery.
Merriwell’s Hunting Tour.
Merriwell in Europe.
Merriwell at Yale.
Merriwell’s Sports Afield.
Merriwell’s Races.
Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour.
Merriwell’s Courage.
Merriwell’s Daring.
Merriwell’s Athletes.
Merriwell’s Skill.
Merriwell’s Champions.
Merriwell’s
Merriwell’s
Merriwell’s Danger.
Merriwell’s Loyalty.
Merriwell in Camp.
Merriwell’s Vacation.
Merriwell’s Cruise.
Merriwell’s Chase.
Merriwell in Maine.
Merriwell’s Struggle.
Merriwell’s First Job.
Merriwell’s Opportunity.
Merriwell’s Hard Luck.
Merriwell’s Protégé.
Merriwell on the Road.
Merriwell’s Own Company.
Merriwell’s Fame.

Secret.

Merriwell’s College Chums.

Merriwell’s Problem.
Merriwell’s Fortune.

Merriwell’s New Comedian.

Merriwell’s Prosperity.
Merriwell’s Stage Hit.
Merriwell’s Great Scheme.
Merriwell in England.

Merriwell on the Boulevards.

Merriwell’s Duel.
Merriwell’s Double Shot.

Return to Yale.

356—Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories

359—F rank
362—F rank
365—Frank
308—F rank
371—Frank
374—F rank
377—Frank
380—F rank
383—Frank
386—Frank
389—F rank
392—F rank
3905—F rank
398—Frank
4o1—F rank
404—F rank
407—F rank
410—Frank
413—Frank
416—Frank
419—Frank

22—F rank
425—F rank
428—F rank
431—F rank
434—F rank
437—F rank
440—Dick
443—Dick

Merriwell’s Confidence.
Merriwell’s Auto.
Merriwell’s Fun.
Merriwell’s Generosity.
Merriwell’s Tricks.
Merriwell’s Temptation.
Merriwell on Top.
Merriwell’s Luck.
Merriwell’s Mascot.
Merriwell’s Reward.
Merriwell’s Phantom.
Merriwell’s Faitl .
Merriwell’s Victories.
Merriwell’s Iron Nerve.
Merriwell in Kentucky.
Merriwell’s Power.
Merriwell’s Shrewdness.
Merriwell’s Set-back.
Merriwell’s Search.
Merriwell’s Club.
Merriwell’s Trust.
Merriwell’s False Friend.
Merriwell’s Strong Arm.
Merriwell as Coach.
Merriwell’s Brother.
Merriwell’s Marvel.
Merriwell’s Support.

Merriwell at Fardale.
Merriwell’s Glory.

446—Dick Merriwell’s Promise.

449—Dick

455—Dick
458—Dick
461—Dick
464—Dick
467—Dick
470—F rank

Merriwell’s Rescue.
452—Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape.
Merriwell’s Racket.
Merriwell’s Revenge.
Merriwell’s Ruse.
Merriwell’s Delivery.
Merriwell’s Wonders.

Merriwell’s Honor.

473—Dick Merriwell’s Diamond.

476—Frank

Merriwell’s Winners.

479—Dick Merriwell’s Dash.
482—Dick Merriwell’s Ability.
485—Dick Merriwell’s Trap.
488—Dick Merriwell’s Defense.

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS.

491—Dick Merriwell’s Model.
494—Dick Merriwell’s Mystery.
497—Frank Merriwell’s Backers.
500—Dick Merriwell’s Backstop.
503—Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission.
500—F rank Merriwell’s Rescue.
509—F rank Merriwell’s Encounter.
512—Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money.
515—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads.
518—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiroa.
521—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise.
524—Dick Merriwell’s Test.
527—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card.
530—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy.
533—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph.
530—Dick Merriwell’s Grit.
5390—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance.
542—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide.
545—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal.
548—Dick Merriwell’s Threat.
551—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence.
554—Dick Merriwell’s Dad.
557—Frank Merriwell’s Peril.
360—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall.
563—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit.
366—Dick Merriwell Abroad.
569—-Frank Merriwell in the Rockies.
572—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks.
575—Frank Merriwell’s Pride.
578—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers.
581—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance.
584—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness.
587—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage.

Published about October 18th.
s90—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard.

Published about November 8th.
593—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke.

Published about November 20th.
s96—Dick Merriwell’s Return.

Published about December 2oth.
s99—Dick Merriwell’s Resource.

 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK CITY