On the way East with his athletic team Frank Merriwell accepted the invitation made by Hugh Morton to stop off at Omaha and visit the Midwestern Athletic Association.
Morton, a young man of twenty-five, was president of the Midwestern. He and Merriwell, the former Yale athlete, had met and become acquainted by chance in Los Angeles some weeks before, and there seemed to exist between them a sort of fellow feeling that caused them to take unusual interest in each other.
Merry and his friends were invited by Morton to witness the finals in a series of athletic events which were being conducted by the club. These contests consisted mainly of boxing and wrestling, although fencing, which was held in high esteem by the association, was one of the features.
In explanation of the rather surprising fact that fencing was thus highly regarded by an athletic association of the middle West, it is necessary to state that a very active member of the club was M. Fran?ois L’Estrange, the famous French fencer and duelist, whose final encounter in his own country had resulted in the death of his opponent, a gentleman of noble birth, and had compelled L’Estrange to flee from his native land, never to return.
As fencing instructor of the Midwestern A. A., L’Estrange soon succeeded in arousing great interest in the graceful accomplishment, and he quickly developed a number of surprisingly clever pupils. In this manner fencing came to be held in high esteem by the organization and was a feature of nearly all indoor contests.
At first Omaha did not appeal to Frank; but he quickly found the people of the city were frank, unreserved, genial, and friendly, and after all, a person learns to like a place mainly through the character of its inhabitants.
At the rooms of the Midwestern, Merry and his comrades met a fine lot of young men, nearly all of whom made an effort to entertain the boys. The visitors were quickly convinced that they were welcome at the club and that they could make themselves at home there without offending any conservative and hidebound old fogies. Although the Midwestern was cautious and discreet in regard to admitting members, and it was necessary for visitors to obtain admittance in the proper manner, once inside its portals a person immediately sensed an air of liberty that was most agreeable.
“The forming of cliques in this club has been frowned down,” Hugh Morton explained. “I have visited clubs of similar standing in the East and found them full of cliques and restless with petty jealousies and personal dislikes. We hope to suppress such things here, although I regret to say that of late the club has seemed to be gradually dividing into two parties. Thus far everything has been good-natured and unruffled; but I fear that I see a pernicious undercurrent. I may be wrong; I hope I am.”
The morning after Merry’s arrival in the city the Bee noted the fact, giving him half a column and speaking of him as “that wonderful young American athlete who had maintained and added to his reputation since leaving college, yet who had persistently abstained from professionalism.” A list of his contests and victories during his Western tour was also given.
At ten o’clock that forenoon Frank and Bart Hodge met Hugh Morton by appointment in the reception room of the Midwestern. Morton rose and advanced to meet them, smiling a welcome.
“Look here,” said Frank, when they had shaken hands, “I don’t feel just right about this.”
“About what?” questioned the Omaha man.
“Taking you from your business this way. When I accepted your invitation to stop off here, I didn’t expect you to waste your time on us. Business is business, and——”
“Don’t you worry. My business is fixed so it will not suffer if I leave it. I’m delighted with this opportunity. Yesterday I gave you a look at the stockyards and the city. To-day, you told me, you wanted to take things easy and just loaf around. I’m more than willing to loaf with you. And my business will go on just the same.”
“All right,” smiled Frank. “You know your own affairs, and we’re glad to have you with us. Bart and I were talking about fencing on our way here. We’ve been wondering how much we have deteriorated in the art since quitting active practice. It has surprised us—and stirred us up somewhat—to find the sport features in this club. Bart has challenged me to give him a go at it. If we can have a set of foils and——”
“Just follow me,” invited Morton. “I’ll fix you out.”
As they were about to leave the room a tall, slender, dark man of thirty-six or thirty-seven entered. Immediately Morton paused, saying:
“Mr. Merriwell and Mr. Hodge, I am sure you will appreciate the honor of meeting our fencing instructor, Monsieur L’Estrange. Monsieur L’Estrange, this is Frank Merriwell, the most famous American amateur athlete of the present day.”
The Frenchman accepted Frank’s proffered hand. He was as graceful in his movements as a jungle panther. About him there was an air of conscious strength and superiority, and instantly he struck Frank as a person who could not do an awkward thing or fall into an ungainly pose. His training was such, that grace and ease had become a part of his nature—not second nature, but nature itself.
“Monsieur Merriwell,” he breathed softly, “it gives me ze very great pleasure to meet wiz you, sare. I have meet very many of your famous American athletes. Eet is ze grand passion in this country. Eet is good in some ways, but eet nevare make ze feenished gentleman—nevare.”
“I agree with you on that point, monsieur,” confessed Frank; “but it fits a man for the struggle of life—it prepares him to combat with the world, and you know the success and survival of the fittest was never more in evidence, as the thing of vital importance, than at the present time.”
The eyes of the Frenchman glistened.
“Very true, sare; but mere brute strength can nevare make any man ze fittest—nevare. You theenk so? You are wrong—pardone me eef I speak ze truth plainly.”
“But I do not think so, monsieur. It takes a combination of strength and brains to make a well-balanced man.”
“And skeel—do not forget skeel. Eet is ze most important of all, sare.”
“Brains give ability, strength gives power to exercise that ability.”
“And skeel defeats ze man with strength and brains. Oh, eet does! Ze man with too much strength, with ze beeg muscles; he ees handicap against ze man with just ze propare development and no more. His beeg muscles tie him, make him awkward.”
“Again I am compelled to agree with you,” smiled Frank; “and I confess that I consider fencing the most perfect method of developing ease, grace, quickness and skill—attributes essential to any man who desires to reach the highest pinnacle of development.”
“You have ze unusual wisdom on zat point, sare,” acknowledged L’Estrange. “Eet is strange, for seldom have I met ze great athlete who did not theenk himself superior to ze expert fencer. Eet is plain you know your weakness, sare.”
Bart Hodge opened his lips to say something, but Merry checked him with a quick look.
“I have fenced a little, monsieur,” explained Frank—“enough to get an idea of its value and importance.”
“Zat ees goode. You take eet up at school—at college?”
“Yes, first at Fardale, and later I followed it up at Yale.”
“Ah! but you could not have ze propare instruction—no! no! Ze American instructor he seldom know very much about eet. He ees crude; but he have ze—ze—what you call eet? Ze swell head. He theenk he knows eet all. Oui!”
“That is a fact in many instances,” acknowledged Merriwell.
At this point Morton whispered in Bart Hodge’s ear:
“L’Estrange is started and he will bore Merriwell with talk about fencing, unless we find a way to interrupt it and break away. We must be careful not to offend him.”
There was a strange, half-hidden smile on Bart’s lips as he turned to their host.
“Let the man talk,” he said, in a low tone. “Before he is through Merry will give him the call. You may not believe it, but I doubt if the Frenchman can tell Frank anything new about fencing.”
“Oh, L’Estrange is a graduate of Joinville-le-Pont, the great government school of France.”
Morton said this as if it settled a point, and Hodge knew the man thought him presuming in fancying Frank’s information on fencing was to be compared with that of the great French master of the art.
In the meantime, all his enthusiasm aroused, L’Estrange ardently continued:
“You speak of ze brain, sare. When you fence, ze brain ees prompted to act without a moment of ze hesitation. To hesitate means to make ze failure. Ze fencer must be readee with hees wit, skill, and action, like ze flash of lightning. So ze fencer fits himself for ze struggle of life. He is full of ze resource, he is queek to detec’ ze strength or ze weakness, of an argument or situation, and he acts like electricity, sweeft and unerring. Zis make him a bettair business man zan other men.”
“Every word of this is true,” nodded Merry.
“In societee he is at perfect ease; in business he can stand ze great strain. His blood ees fresh, his tissues are firm and he has ze grand enthusiasm.”
“And enthusiasm is absolutely necessary for a man to make the best of himself,” said Frank. “The man who goes at any task with indifference is inviting failure. No matter how well he may think he knows his work, he must keep up his enthusiasm unless he is willing to see that work deteriorate. Lack of enthusiasm causes thousands to fail and fall by the wayside every year.”
“True, true, sare. I see you have ze enthusiasm of ze boy steel with you. You have nevare met with anything to dull eet.”
“Not yet; and I hope I never may.”
“To keep eet you should fence, Monsieur Merriwell. Some time eet may safe your life. Oui! Once since I come to zis country I hear a noise in ze night. I rise and go to discovare ze matter. I find ze burglaire. He attack me wiz ze knife. He was beeg and strong—ze brute! I see ze umbrellare in ze corner. I seize eet. I keep ze burglaire off. I punish heem. I thrust, hit him in ze face. I give eet to him hard. Soon he try to get away. He rush for ze door. I sprang between. I continue to administaire ze punishment. I make him drop ze knife. Ze noise have aroused ze rest of ze house. Ze police come. Ze burglaire ees marched to ze jail. Ha! If I had been ze athlete, like you, zen with hees knife ze burglaire he cut me to pieces—he keel me.”
“That was fine work,” agreed Frank.
“Not yet you are too old to acquire ze skeel. You know a leetale about eet now. That help you. Find ze French master and keep at eet. Take no one but ze French master. Ze Italian style is not so good. That has been proved many time. Ze Frenchman is cool and he stands on guard with ease. Ze Italian he will move all ze time. He jump here, there, everywhere. He crouch, he stand straight, he dodge. Every minute he seem ready to jump. He makes strange sounds in hees throat; but he is not dangerous as he seem. Did you ever hear of Jean Louis?”
“Yes; he was a famous French duelist.”
“Oui, oui! When ze French army invade Spain, in 1814, Jean Louis keeled thirteen Italian fencing masters, one after ze other. Zat profe ze superiority of ze French method, sare. Ze Italian believe strength is needed to make ze perfect fencer. That is wrong. In France manee persons of ze highest rank are wondairefully skillful in ze art, yet they are not remarkable for strength. Eet is ze light touch, ze grace, ze art, ze composure, ze ready wit that count.”
“How about duels at German colleges, like Leipzig and Heidelberg?”
“Oh, no, no, no! The German have a mixture of ze French and ze Italian method. Zey are fightaires, but zey count on ze strength, too. Years ago fencing was ze study paramount at ze great German colleges; but too manee students they are killed at eet. Ze most peaceable never was he sure of his life for one day. Later ze method change, and now eet is to cut and scar ze face of ze adversary. Ze German never have ze grace of ze French.
“You stay here, Monsieur Merriwell—you see ze finals? Well, zen you see my greatest pupil, Fred Darleton, defeat his opponent. Of Monsieur Darleton I am very proud. Oui! He is a wondaire. I belief he can defeat any American in ze country.”
Hodge made a protesting sound in his throat; but again Frank shot Bart a glance of warning.
“I shall be delighted to witness the work of Mr. Darleton,” said Merry. “It has been some time since I have fenced, Monsieur L’Estrange, and I know I must be very rusty at it; but you have reawakened my enthusiasm for the sport, and I feel like taking up the foils again. If I were to remain in Omaha any length of time, I would seek to become one of your pupils.”
L’Estrange bowed with graciousness.
“Eet would give me pleasure to instruct you, sare,” he said. “Eet would give me delight to show you ze real superiority of ze duelist, ze fencer, over ze athlete. You watch ze work of Fred Darleton to-night. Eet will delight you.”
As Morton led them away, he said:
“You got off easy, Merriwell. Once get L’Estrange aroused and he can talk a blue streak about fencing for hours. He’s really a wizard with the foils, and this fellow Darleton, of whom he spoke, is likewise a wonder. Darleton is not popular with many members in the club; but I believe that is because of his remarkable skill at cards.”
“He is a successful card player, is he?” questioned Frank.
“Altogether too successful. He makes his spending money at the game.”
“What game.”
“Poker.”
“Do you permit gambling for stakes in this club?”
“It is permitted,” confessed Morton, flushing slightly. “Of course gambling is not open here. We have a private card room for those who wish to play for stakes.”
Merry said nothing more, but he was thinking that the practice of gambling was a bad thing for any organization of that sort. It was not his place, however, to express such an opinion.
A short time later Merry and Bart were fitted out with foils, masks, and plastrons, and they prepared for a bout, both eager to discover if they retained their old-time skill at the art.
That Frank retained all his old-time skill he soon demonstrated. Hodge was not in bad form, but Merry was far and away his superior, and he toyed with Bart.
Morton looked on in some surprise.
“Why, say,” he cried, “both of you chaps know the game all right! You could cut some ice at it.”
Bart smiled.
“I could have told you that Merry knew it,” he said.
“L’Estrange could make an expert of him,” declared Morton.
“Perhaps he might surprise L’Estrange,” said Hodge.
“I think he would,” nodded the host, without detecting Bart’s real meaning.
Frank and Bart went at it again. In the midst of the bout two young men sauntered up and paused, watching them with interest.
“Why,” said one, “they really know how to fence, Fred!”
“That’s right,” nodded the other. “They are not novices.”
Morton quickly stepped to the side of the two.
“These are my guests, gentlemen,” he said.
“Oh,” said the taller and darker chap, “I understand you have Merriwell and his friends in town. Is either of these fellows——”
“Yes, that one there is Frank Merriwell.”
“Introduce me when they are through. I am interested in him as an athlete, although I may not be as a fencer. Evidently he thinks himself pretty clever at this trick, but his form is not correct, and he makes a number of false moves.”
Bart Hodge heard these words distinctly, and he lowered his foil, turning to survey the speaker.
“You see, Darleton!” muttered Morton resentfully. “They have heard you!”
Darleton shrugged his shoulders.
To cover his confusion, Morton hastened to introduce Darleton and his companion, Grant Hardy, to Frank and Bart.
“Mr. Darleton,” said Merry, “glad to know you. I’ve just been hearing about you from your fencing instructor.”
“Have you?” said Darleton, with a quite superior air. “I’m afraid Monsieur L’Estrange has been boasting about me, as usual. Just because I happened to be particularly apt as a pupil, he is inclined to puff me on every occasion. I don’t fancy it, you know, but I can’t seem to prevent it. People will begin to think me quite a wonder if he doesn’t stop overrating me.”
“But he doesn’t overrate you, my dear fellow,” quickly put in Grant Hardy. “I’ve seen you hold L’Estrange himself at something like even play, and he is a wizard.”
Hodge laughed a bit.
“Why do you laugh?” asked Hardy, with a flash of resentment. “Do you think——”
“I laughed over Mr. Darleton’s modesty,” said Hodge. “It is useless for him to seek to conceal the truth from us in that manner. He is quite the wonder of this club.”
Hardy missed the sarcasm hidden in Bart’s words and his face cleared.
Darleton, however, was not so obtuse, and he surveyed Bart searchingly, a flush creeping into his cheeks.
“I observe that you fence after a fashion, Mr. Hodge,” said Darleton, and the passing breath of insult lay in his manner of saying “after a fashion.”
“Oh, not at all!” protested Hodge; “but I assure you that my friend Merriwell can put up something of an argument at it when he is in his best form.”
“Indeed?” smiled Darleton, lifting his eyebrows. “Then I am led to infer that he is not in his best form just now.”
“What leads you to infer that?”
“Oh, your manner of speaking the words, of course. I would not comment on what I have seen him do.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No, indeed.”
“Sometimes our ears deceive us,” said Bart; “but I fancied I did hear you—never mind that.”
He broke off abruptly, but he had informed Darleton that his words, spoken when he first appeared on the scene, had been overheard.
Darleton shrugged his shoulders, a gesture he had caught from his French instructor.
“Fancy leads us into grave mistakes at times,” he said. “It should not be permitted to run away with us. Now, I have known fellows who fancied they could fence, but very few of them have been able to make much of a go at it.”
This was a sly thrust at Merry. Frank looked pleasant and nodded.
“I have even known instructors to be deceived in the skill of their pupils,” he remarked, reaching home and scoring heavily.
This reply brought the blood flashing once more to Darleton’s cheeks.
“In case you were the pupil,” said the fencer, instantly, “no instructor could feel the least doubt in regard to your skill.”
His words plainly implied that he meant lack of skill, although he was not that blunt.
“Although you are not inclined to comment on the work of another,” returned Merry; “it is evident that your observation is keen, and with you, one’s back might not be as safe as his face.”
This was a coup, for Darleton lost his temper, showing how sharply he had been hit.
“I’ll not pass words with you, Mr. Merriwell,” he exclaimed, “as I am not inclined to waste my breath uselessly. If at any time while you are here you feel inclined to demonstrate what you can really do—or think you can do—you will find me at your service.”
Hodge stiffened. It was a challenge.
“Thank you for your kindness,” smiled Frank, perfectly at his ease. “I may take you at your word later on.”
Darleton and Hardy turned away.
“He may,” observed Hardy, speaking to his companion, but making sure Frank could not fail to hear, “yet I doubt it.”
Hodge seized Frank’s arm, fairly quivering with excitement.
“You’re challenged, Merry!” he panted. “You must accept! Don’t let him off! Teach the fellow a lesson!”
“Steady, Bart,” said Merriwell softly. “There is plenty of time. Don’t fly up like this. Do you want to see me defeated?”
“No! He can’t defeat you!”
“How do you know?”
Hodge stared at Frank in doubt and astonishment.
“Is it possible you are afraid to face him?” he gasped.
“I don’t think so; but you should remember that he is in perfect form and condition, while I am rusty. In order to meet him and do my best I must practice. That I shall do. Wait. I promise you satisfaction—and Mr. Darleton the same!”
Bart Hodge was not aware that Frank had been so thoroughly aroused; but when he was called to Merry’s room in the hotel that day after lunch and found two complete fencing outfits there—foils, masks, jackets, and gauntlet gloves—he realized that there was “something doing.”
Frank closed and locked the door.
“Strip down and make ready,” he said grimly. “I’m going to brush up and get in condition, and you are the victim.”
“I’m happy to be the victim now,” declared Bart; “in case Mr. Darleton is the victim later.”
Something more than an hour later the comrades were resting after a bath and rub down. Bart’s eyes shone and his dark, handsome face wore an expression of great satisfaction.
“You may be rusty, Merry,” he observed; “but I fail to see it. I swear you fenced better to-day than ever before in all your life.”
“You think so, Bart; but I can’t believe that. A man can’t be at his best at fencing, any more than at billiards, unless he is in constant practice.”
“Oh, I know I’ve gone back; but you have not. I’ll wager my life you can give Fred Darleton all he is looking for.”
“It would be a pleasure to me,” confessed Frank. “Somehow he irritated me strangely.”
“I’d never supposed it by your manner.”
“If I had lost my temper I should have been defeated. Mr. Darleton has a temper, and I shall count on it leading to his downfall, in case we meet.”
“You’ll meet, for you are challenged. He thinks you a mark, Merry. He’ll be overconfident.”
“Another thing I count on as aiding me. Overconfidence is quite as bad as lack of confidence. Darleton has been praised too much, and he believes he is very nearly perfect as a fencer. A defeat now will either make or mar him. If defeated, he will either set about working harder to acquire further accomplishment, or he will quit.”
“I believe he’ll quit.”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t like him, Merry.”
“There is something about him that I do not fancy, myself. I’ve not seen him enough to judge what it is. I’ve tried to think it might be his freshness in shooting his mouth the way he did; but something asserts that I should have disliked him had he kept his mouth closed. He has an air of directness; but behind it there is a touch of cunning and craft that stamps him as crooked. I may sympathize with a weak chap who goes crooked through temptation; but I have no sympathy for a sly rascal who is dishonest with deliberation. If Darleton is naturally honest, I have misjudged him.”
There came a heavy knock on the door and the sound of voices outside.
Bart unlocked the door, and Joe Gamp stalked in, followed by Jack Ready, Hans Dunnerwurst, and Jim Stretcher, all of Merriwell’s party.
“Ding this tut-tut-tut-tut-tut——” began Joe.
“Tut, tut!” interrupted Jack. “Eliminate repetitions from your profuse flow of language, Joseph.”
Gamp flourished his fist in the air and began again:
“Ding this tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut——”
“Whistle, Joe—whistle!” advised Frank.
Whereupon the tall chap recommenced:
“Ding this tut-tut-tut—whistle—town! It’s all up hill and dud-dud-dud—whistle—down!”
“Oh, Joseph, you’re a poet!” exclaimed Ready.
“Yah,” said Dunnerwurst gravely, “oudt uf him boetry flows like a sbarkling rifer.”
“We have decided in solemn conclave,” said Ready, “that the streets of this prosperous Western burgh are exceedingly soiled.”
“Und some of them been stood their end onto,” put in Hans.
“It’s hard to keep your fuf-fuf-fuf—whistle—feet from slipping in the sus-sus-sus—whistle—street,” added Gamp.
“There he goes again!” burst from Ready. “I never suspected it of him. Crown him with laurels and adorn him with bays.”
“What is the difference between the bay and the laurel, Jack?” laughed Frank.
“Ask me not at this unpropitious moment,” entreated the odd fellow. “We have been meandering hither and yon over Omaha—yea verily, we have been even as far as the stockyards of South Omaha. We have waded across streets that were guiltless of being cleaned even since the day they were paved. We have ascended streets which led into the clouds, and we have descended others which led into the gorges and valleys. We have gazed in awe upon the courthouse, with blind justice standing on its battlements, balances in hand. We have seen the post office and expressed our admiration. Alas and alack, we are wearied! We fain would rest. Omaha is all right for those who think so; but some day she will rise and butcher her street-cleaning department. She will be justified. I have spoke.”
With this he dropped on a chair and fanned himself weakly.
“What have you fellows been dud-dud-doing?” inquired Gamp, noticing for the first time that the boys were in bath robes and that fencing paraphernalia was scattered about the room.
Frank explained that they had been fencing.
“Jee-whickers!” cried Joe. “You used to be pretty good at it when you were at cuc-cuc-college. You were the champion fuf-fuf-fuf-fencer at Yale, all right.”
“He’s just as good to-day as he ever was,” declared Bart; “and Mr. Darleton will find out that is good enough.”
“Who’s Darleton?” asked Stretcher.
Then they were told about the affair at the club, which quickly awoke their interest.
“Omaha takes on new fascination for me,” averred Ready. “I felt like folding my tent and stealing away a short time ago; but if Merry is going against some gentleman with the inflated cranium in this burgh, I shall linger with great glee to watch the outcome.”
“You talk the way a cub reporter writes, Ready,” said Stretcher. “Big words sound good to you, but if you know what you’re saying you’ll have to show me.”
“I shall refrain from exerting myself to that extent, my boy,” retorted Jack. “It’s not worth while.”
“Where are the rest of the boys?” asked Frank.
“Scattered broadcast over the mountains and valleys of Omaha,” answered Ready. “Fear not for them; they will return in due time.”
“How does Omaha strike you, Jim?” inquired Merriwell.
“She ain’t in it much compared with Kansas City,” said Stretcher. “We have some hills there, you know. I’ve yet to see any country that can get away from old Missouri. When you get ahead of Missouri, you’ll have to hurry.”
“It does me good to see a chap who will stand up for his native State,” said Merry, winking at some of the others but maintaining a grave face before Stretcher. “Of course Missouri may have her drawbacks, but we all know she is a land of fertility and——”
“Fertility!” cried Jim enthusiastically. “You bet! Crops grow overnight there. Yes, sir, that’s straight. It’s perfectly astonishing how things grow. As an illustration, when I was about seven years old my mother gave me some morning-glory seeds to plant. I always did love the morning-glory flower. I thought it would be a grand thing to plant the seeds beneath my chamber window, where I could look forth each morning on rising and revel in the beauty of the purple blossoms. I got busy and stuck the seeds into the ground one afternoon about five o’clock. I knew the soil was particularly rich right there, and I counted on the vines growing fast, so I lost no time in stringing a number of cords from the ground right up to my window.
“That night when I went to bed I wondered if the seeds would be sprouted when I rose the following morning. It was warm weather, and I slept with my window open. I suppose I kicked the bedclothes off. Some time in the night I felt something pushing me, but I was too sleepy to wake up. About daylight I woke up suddenly, for something pushed me out of bed onto the floor. I jumped up and looked to see what was the matter. Fellows, you won’t believe it, but the vine—or, rather, a profusion of vines—had grown all the way up to my window in the night, had found the window open, had come into the room, and, being tired from its exertion in growing so hard, I presume, had climbed into my bed and pushed me out.”
A profound silence was broken by Dunnerwurst, who gurgled:
“Uf I faint, vill somebody blease throw me on some vater!”
“Stretcher,” said Merry, “I don’t suppose there is ever anything in your State that is not grand and superior? There are no drawbacks to Missouri? Soil, climate, people—all are of the first quality?”
“Oh,” said Jim, with an air of modesty, “I presume any part of the country has its drawbacks. The soil of Missouri is magnificent and the climate superb—as a rule. I presume there are sterile spots within the boundaries of the State, and I have experienced some unpleasant weather. The winter that old Jake died was unusually severe.”
“Who was Jake?”
“A mule, and the dumb companion of my innocent boyhood. You see, I always wanted a dog. Lots of boys I knew had dogs. Tom Jones had a shepherd, Pete Boogers had a collie, Muck Robbins had a yaller cur, and Runt Hatch had two bull purps. I pestered paw for a dog. He didn’t have any use for dogs, and he wouldn’t give me one. I told him I must have a pet of some kind. ‘All right, Jim,’ says he, ‘if you want a pet, there’s Jake, our old mule, you may have him.’ Now, Jake was pretty well used up. He was spavined and chest foundered and so thin his slats were coming through his hide. He wasn’t beautiful, but he had been a faithful old creature, and paw was disinclined to kill him. He thought it was a great joke to give me Jake for a pet; but I was just yearning for something on which I could lavish my affection, and I began to pour it out on Jake.
“I petted the old boy, gave him good feed, took him into the cowshed nights, and did my best to make him generally comfortable. Jake appreciated it. You may think dumb creatures, and mules in particular, have no sense of gratitude, but such is not the case. Jake understood me, and I did him. I could actually read his thoughts. Yes, sir, it’s a fact. At first paw grinned over it and tried to joke me about Jake; but after a while he got tired of having his best feed given that old mule and finding the animal bedded down in the cowshed. He said it would have to stop. Then he got mad and turned Jake out to pick for himself. I brought Jake back twice, but both times paw raised a fuss, and the last time, he got so blazing mad he swore he’d knock the mule in the head if I did it again.
“That was in the fall, with winter coming on. I tried to plead with paw; but it was no go. He said Jake would have to shift for himself in the open. Jake used to come up to the lower fence and call to me melodiously in the gloaming, and I would slip down and pat him and talk to him and sympathize with him. But I didn’t dare do anything more. Well, that winter was a tough one. Never had so much cold weather packed into one winter before that. Jake suffered from exposure, and my heart bled for him. He grew thinner and thinner and sadder and sadder. Paw’s heart was like flint, and I couldn’t do anything. Jake hated snowstorms. Every time one came he thought it would be his last; but somehow he worried through them all until the snow went off and spring set in. Then Jake brightened up some and seemed more like himself.
“But late in the spring another cold spell struck in. It was near the first of May. In the midst of that cold spell our barn got afire one night. When Jake saw that fire, he says to himself, ‘Here’s my chance to get warm all the way through.’ He found a weak spot in the fence and got over it, after which he waltzed up to the barn and stood there, warming first one side and then the other by the heat and enjoying himself.
“We had a heap of corn stored in the barn. After a while the roof of the barn burned off and the fire got to the corn. When this happened the corn began to pop and fly into the air. It popped faster and faster and flew high into the air, coming down in a great shower. Jake looked up and saw the air plumb full of great, white flakes of popped corn. The poor, old mule gave a great groan of anguish. ‘I’ve lasted through twenty-one snowstorms this winter,’ says he, with tears in his eyes; ‘but this one is my finish.’ Then he lay right down where he was and gave up the struggle. In the morning we found him frozen stiff.”
Ready sobbed and wiped his eyes.
“How pathetic!” he exclaimed chokingly.
“Poor Shake!” gurgled Hans.
“That story should be entitled ‘The Tale of a Mule,’” observed Frank.
“It is evident,” said Bart, “that Missouri mules are sometimes more intelligent than the inhabitants of the State.”
“Oh, we have some dull people, of course,” admitted Jim. “I remember the janitor at our old school—he was a trifle dull. Poor old Mullen! One day he threw up his job. They asked him why he did it. Says he: ‘I’m honest, and I won’t stand being slurred.’ He was pressed to explain. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘when I’m sweeping out, if I happen to find a handkerchief or any little thing, I hang it up, like an honest man. Every now and then the teacher, or somebody who hasn’t the nerve to face me, gives me a slur. A few days ago I come in one mornin’ and I seen writ on the blackboard: “Find the least common multiple.” Well, I just went searching the place over from top to bottom, but I couldn’t find a sign of the old thing anywhere. I don’t believe nobody lost it. That made me sore, but I stood for it all right. Yesterday mornin’ in great big letters there was writ on the blackboard: “Find the greatest common divisor.” Says I to myself: “Now, both of them blamed things is lost, and I’ll be charged with swipin’ ’em.” And I throwed up my job.’”
They laughed heartily over this story, and, having aroused their risibilities at last, Jim seemed satisfied.
It was the night of the “finals” at the Midwestern, and the clubrooms were thronged. Frank and all his friends were there. Morton had introduced them to many well-known young men of the prosperous Nebraska city, and they were being made to feel quite at home.
Much of the general conversation concerned the coming bouts. Opinions were freely expressed as to the abilities and merits of different contestants and there was much good-natured argument and banter.
There was also not a little quiet betting.
In one of the big main rooms of the club, Merry met three Yale men, who expressed their delight at seeing him there. While he was talking with them Fran?ois L’Estrange came up. The Frenchman knew them also, and he paused to shake hands all round.
“What’s the matter, L’Estrange?” asked one. “You seem rather downcast and troubled over something.”
The fencing master shrugged his shoulders.
“Eet is unfortunate,” he declared. “I haf to geef you ze information zat there will be no fencing zis night.”
“Why, how is that?” they exclaimed.
“Meestare Marlowe, who was to meet Meestare Darleton, ees not here.”
“Not here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“He haf sent ze word zat he is very ill.”
“Cold feet!” cried one of the gentlemen. “That’s what’s the matter! Marlowe squeals!”
“Sure thing!” agreed another. “It’s a shame, but he has made a clean backdown.”
“He was all right last night. I saw him then,” put in the third gentleman.
“Eet is very strange,” said L’Estrange regretfully. “I understand eet not why he should haf ze cold feet and be ill. I suppose ze cold feet ees unpleasant, but zey should not make him squeal.”
“What we mean,” explained the first gentleman, “is that he is afraid to meet Darleton. He has defeated every opponent in the contests, and it has been his boast that he would defeat Darleton. His nerve failed him.”
“Eet ruin ze sport for zis night,” declared the fencing master. “Zere ees no one who is for Meestare Darleton ze efen match, so zere will be no fencing.”
At this point Darleton himself, accompanied as usual by his chum, Grant Hardy, came pushing through the throng, espied L’Estrange and hurried up.
“I’ve been looking for you, professor!” he exclaimed. “What’s this about Marlowe? Is it true that he has quit?”
“Eet is true.”
“Well, that’s just about the sort I took him to be!” cried Darleton angrily. “He’s a great case of bluff! He’s a bag of wind! He’s a quitter! He knew I’d defeat him. Now, what are we going to do?”
“Zere is nothing we can do,” answered the fencing master regretfully.
“And our go was to be the feature to-night. Every one will be disappointed. It’s a shame. Besides that, Marlowe had no right not to give me a chance to show him up. I meant to put it all over him, the slob!”
Darleton’s chagrin over his lost opportunity to “put it all over” the other fellow seemed to lead him into a complete loss of temper, and he indulged in language which on any occasion he would have condemned in another.
Suddenly his eyes fell on Frank Merriwell, and a peculiar expression came to his face.
“Why, here is the great athlete who fancies he is something of a fencer,” he said. “Good evening, Mr. Merriwell. I suppose you came to see me outpoint Marlowe? Well, you will be disappointed, I regret to say.”
Hodge was near, and the words and manner of Darleton had caused him to bridle until he was on the point of exploding.
“I regret very much,” said Merry quietly, “that we shall not have the pleasure of witnessing the fencing bout between you and Mr. Marlowe, sir.”
He was calm, polite, and reserved.
L’Estrange spoke up:
“I suppose we might geef ze exhibition ourselves, Meestare Darleton,” he said. “Zat might please ze spectators bettaire than nothing.”
“But it would not be like a bout in which there was an element of uncertainty. Every one would know you could defeat me easily if you cared to. If I counted on you I’d win no credit, for they would say you permitted me to do it.”
The desire of the fellow for applause and his thirst to display his skill by defeating some one was all too evident.
Suddenly he turned sharply to again face Frank.
“How about you?” he asked.
Merry lifted his eyebrows.
Hodge felt a tingling, for he realized that an open challenge was coming.
“About me?” repeated Frank questioningly.
“Yes, how about you? You think you can fence.”
“I have fenced—a little.”
“I was told to-day that you are a champion at everything you undertake. That’s ridiculous if you undertake many things. You have undertaken fencing. Well, I’d like to convince some people that there is one thing at which you are not much of a champion.”
“Would you?” asked Merry, smiling pleasantly.
“Indeed I would. The crowd wants to see a fencing bout to-night. Marlowe has taken water. He isn’t here. You are here. Of course we can’t fence for honors in the series, as you have not been engaged in previous contests. All the same, we can give an exhibition go. There will be an element of uncertainty about it. What do you say?”
“Why, I don’t know——” came slowly from Merry, as if he hesitated over it.
“Oh, if you’re afraid,” sneered Darleton—“if you haven’t the nerve, that’s different.”
A strange, smothered growl was choked back in the throat of Bart Hodge.
“I don’t believe I am afraid of you,” said Frank, with the same deliberate manner. “I was thinking that such an affair would be quite irregular if interpolated with the finals.”
“Don’t worry about that. If you are willing to meet me, I’ll fix it.”
“Of course I’m willing, but——”
“That settles it!” cried Darleton triumphantly. “You hear him, gentlemen. He’s ready to fence me. He can’t back out.”
“As if he would want to back out!” muttered Bart Hodge softly. “You’ll get all you’re looking for to-night, Mr. Darleton.”
“On guard, gentlemen!”
It was the voice of Fran?ois L’Estrange.
The regular finals were over. As a finish to the evening’s entertainment, the announcer had stated that, in order not to disappoint those who had expected to witness a fencing contest, an arrangement had been made whereby Frank Merriwell, a guest of the club, would meet the club’s champion, Fred Darleton.
Darleton had appeared first on the raised platform and had been greeted by hearty applause.
Then came Merriwell, and the applause accorded him was no less generous.
The preliminaries were quickly arranged.
L’Estrange was agreed on as the referee.
“On guard, gentlemen!” he commanded.
At the word the contestants faced each other, and then they went through the graceful movements of coming on guard, their foils sweeping through the air. Simultaneously they advanced their right feet and were ready.
“Engage!”
The foils met with a soft clash and the bout had begun.
The great gathering of spectators packed on the four sides of the raised platform were hushed and breathless. They saw before them two splendid specimens of youthful manhood. Between them it was indeed no easy thing to make a hasty choice. Both were graceful as panthers and both seemed perfectly at home and fully confident. Frank’s face was grave and pleasant, while Darleton wore a faint smile that bespoke his perfect trust in himself.
Frank’s friends were all together in a body. Among them Harry Rattleton was the only one who expressed anxiety.
“I know Merry could do that fellow ordinarily,” said Rattles, in a whisper; “but I fear he’s out of trim now. Darleton is in perfect practice, and he will bet the guest of Merry—I mean get the best of him!”
“Don’t you believe it!” hissed Hodge. “Don’t you ever think such a thing for a second! Merry may not be at his best, but he is that fellow’s master. He has enough skill to hold Darleton even, and he has the master mind. The master mind will conquer.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Harry; “but I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid!” growled Browning, also aroused. “You make me tired!”
Thus crushed, Rattles relapsed into silence, but he watched with great anxiety, fearing the outcome.
At the outset the two fencers seemed “feeling each other”—that is, each tried to test the skill, technique and versatility of his opponent. Both were calm, cool and calculating, yet quick as a flash to meet and checkmate any fresh mode of attack.
Ordinarily the spectators might have become impatient over this “fiddling,” but on this occasion all seemed to realize the fencers were working up to the point of genuine struggle by exploring each other’s methods. Besides that the two displayed variety and change enough to maintain unwearied interest in these preliminaries to the real struggle.
The eyes of Fran?ois L’Estrange took on a light of keener interest as the bout progressed. He watched the stranger from the first, having confidence in the ability of his pupil, and silently praying from the outset that Merriwell would not be too easily overcome. Satisfaction, not anxiety, took possession of him as he began to realize that Frank possessed unusual knowledge of the art, and was capable of putting that knowledge to clever use. The Frenchman continued to believe that Darleton would finish the victor.
The two young men advanced, retreated, circled, feinted, engaged, disengaged—all the time on the alert for the moment when one or the other should launch himself into the encounter in earnest. The foils clicked and hissed, now high, now low. At intervals the fencers stamped lightly with the foot advanced.
“Mon Dieu!” muttered L’Estrange, still watching Merriwell. “Who taught him so much!”
Suddenly, like a throb of electricity, Darleton made a direct lunge—and the real engagement was on.
L’Estrange’s pupil was led into the lunge through the belief that Merry had exposed himself unconsciously in the line in which he was engaged.
Quick as the fellow was, it seemed that Frank had known what to expect. He made no sweeping parry, but, quicker than the eye could follow, he altered the position of his foil by fingering and turned Darleton’s lunge. Following this with almost incredible swiftness, Merry scored fair and full in quinte.
L’Estrange suppressed an exclamation of displeasure, for he realized his pupil had been decoyed and led to expose himself. Too much confidence in himself and too little regard for the skill of his opponent had caused Darleton to give Merry this chance to score.
“Touch!” exclaimed Darleton, with a mingling of surprise and dismay.
He recovered instantly, a bitter expression settling about his tightened lips.
“So you fooled me!” he thought. “I’ll pay you for that! It may be your undoing, Mr. Merriwell!”
He believed Frank would become overconfident through this early success; but he did not know Merriwell, whose observation and experience had long ago told him that overconfidence was the rock on which many a chap has stranded in sight of victory.
Darleton was in earnest, now; there was no more fooling. He sought for an opening. Failing to find it, he tried to lead Frank into attacking and leaving an opening.
Merry pretended to attack, but it was only a feint. When Darleton parried and tried the riposte, his thrust was met and turned. Then Frank attacked in earnest, and his button caught his opponent in tierce.
Darleton leaped away, but did not acknowledge the touch. Instead, he claimed that Merriwell had simply reached his right shoulder, which did not count.
L’Estrange’s pupil was white to the lips now. He could not understand why he had failed, and he felt that there must be many among the spectators who would maintain that he had been unfair in claiming he was not fairly touched the second time.
The dismay of the pupil was no greater than that of his instructor. L’Estrange was angry. In French he hissed a warning at Darleton, urging him to be more cautious and to try his antagonist in another style.
Frank understood French even better than Darleton, and he was warned of what to expect.
Therefore when the Midwestern man sought an opening by “absence,” Merry declined to spring into the trap and expose himself. To many it seemed that the visitor lost a chance to score, but all were aware that he prevented Darleton from counting when the latter followed the “absence” by a flashing thrust. This thrust was turned, but Darleton had learned his lesson, and he recovered and was on guard so suddenly Frank found no advantageous opening.
Although his pupil had failed to score, L’Estrange showed some satisfaction, for he saw that Darleton was now awake to the danger of failing to cover himself instantly after an attack of any kind. At last the Omaha man knew he would have to exert himself to the utmost to defeat the stranger he had held in scornful contempt.
“Now he knows!” whispered L’Estrange to himself. “Now he will defeat Merriwell with ease!”
A moment later Darleton met and turned a fierce attack. Then he counted cleanly.
“Touch!” cried Frank promptly.
Harry Rattleton gave a gasp of dismay.
“I knew it!” he palpitated. “You see I’m right! He’ll win over Merry!”
“You’d better go die!” grated Hodge. “Frank has counted on him twice already!”
“Only once.”
“Only once acknowledged, but Merry counted twice, just the same.”
“Either time,” declared Morgan, “would have ended the affair in a genuine duel.”
“Sure!” growled Browning.
“But not in this sort of an encounter,” said Harry. “Here a touch is a touch, and Darleton is on even terms with Merry now.”
After this none of them paid much attention to Harry’s fears, as he expressed them. They were wholly absorbed in the cleverness of the two young men on the platform, who were circling, feinting, attacking, parrying and constantly watching for an opening or seeking to create one through some trick or artifice.
Three times Darleton sought to reach Frank and failed, but each time he prevented a successful riposte on the part of Merry. He was at his very best, and for a few moments his skill seemed superior to that of the visitor.
The shadow that had clouded the face of L’Estrange passed away. Confidence came to him. Once he had feared that his pupil might be outmatched, but this fear troubled him no longer. Darleton was forcing the work, but he was keeping himself well in hand and effectually covered all the while.
Finally the Midwestern man made a flashing cut-over and scored.
“Touch!” cried Merry again.
“I knew it!” half sobbed Rattleton.
A bit later the timekeeper announced the expiration of two minutes, whereupon Merry and Darleton changed positions.
During the first half of the bout, according to acknowledged touches, Darleton had taken the lead.
The Midwestern man began the second half by pressing Frank. He was satisfied that he could win, although experience had warned him that he could not win as easily as he had fancied before the engagement began.
For at least thirty seconds he kept Merry busy, and in that time he secured another touch.
Rattleton was almost in tears. He felt that he must leave the room. He could not bear to remain and see Frank defeated.
Darleton believed he had sounded Merry thoroughly and knew his style. He was on guard for every method displayed by the visitor up to this point.
But now, of a sudden, Frank attacked in a new line. He seemed to attempt a “beat.” When Darleton parried the first light thrust following the “beat,” Frank quickly changed to another point of attack and made a “re-beat” as his opponent met him. He followed with a second stroke that was quicker and harder than the first and reached home effectively.
Darleton showed a slight trace of confusion, but he was compelled to acknowledge the touch.
They now engaged in tierce; but in a twinkling Merry executed a double. He feinted a disengage into quinte. Darleton executed a counter, upon which Merry lifted the point of his weapon and circled round his opponent’s counter with a counter disengage, which brought him back into quinte, the line from which it was intended that he should be shut. Only by marvelously swift work did Darleton prevent himself from being scored upon.
Right on top of this Merry again executed the “re-beat” and scored.
The face of the Midwestern man flamed scarlet and then grew pale. His eyes burned with a light of anger that he could repress only with difficulty. Twice he had been outgeneraled, and he knew it.
In a twinkling the cloud returned to the face of Fran?ois L’Estrange. His lips parted, but he did not speak.
“I knew he would do it!” muttered Bart Hodge, in satisfaction. “Keep your eyes on Merry! He’s getting there now!”
Darleton realized that he was losing his advantage. He sought to recover by feinting in high lines and attacking instantly in low lines. In this effort he placed himself at a disadvantage, for Merry seemed to read his mind and met him effectively.
Again Frank scored, but, in getting away, he appeared to lose his balance.
Darleton followed up.
Down went Merry, falling on his left hand, and Darleton uttered an exclamation of triumph as he attempted to count.
With a twist of his wrist, Frank parried the stroke. His left arm flung him up with a spring.
Dismayed and annoyed by his failure to improve such an opening, Darleton closed in and the fencers came corps-a-corps.
Immediately L’Estrange separated them.
Merriwell won a great burst of applause by the clever manner in which he had extricated himself from a position that seemed almost defenseless.
L’Estrange said nothing to his pupil, but their eyes met, and something in that glance stirred all the resentment in Darleton’s soul. It was a reproof. He saw that the fencing master was disappointed in him.
A concentrated fury took possession of Darleton. He went after Frank as if thirsting for his gore. The savageness of his attack would have overcome one less skillful and self-poised.
It did not overcome Frank. On the other hand, Merry turned his opponent’s fierceness to a disadvantage. He was not flustered or worried. He met every attack, and in rapid succession he began counting on the Midwestern man.
Darleton closed his lips and refused to acknowledge a touch.
Seeing this, L’Estrange finally began declaring each touch as two for the visitor.
The superiority of Merriwell was now apparent to every spectator who was not prejudiced, and round after round of applause greeted his beautiful work.
Darleton thrust furiously. Down went Frank, but he dropped lightly after having retreated. His right foot had made a long forward step, and barely two fingers of his left hand touched the floor. At the same moment he thrust and reached his opponent. In a twinkling he was erect and ready, if Darleton sought to secure a riposte.
From apprehension and fear Rattleton turned to delight and exultation.
“Frank is winning!” he exclaimed joyously. “He’s the best man!”
“Shut up!” hissed Hodge. “Don’t let everybody know you had any doubt about it!”
“Of course he’s the best man,” grunted Browning.
The real truth was that in mere knowledge of fencing Merry was not greatly Darleton’s superior, but in strategy, originality and mastery of himself he was far and away the superior. As well as a finely trained body, he had a finely trained mind. It was this master mind that was conquering.
Merry had not only probed Darleton’s weaknesses in the art of fencing, he had at the same time discovered his weaknesses in the art of self-mastery. And no man who cannot master himself can hope to master others of equal mental and physical equipment.
Merriwell had perfected his plan of campaign, as a great general prepares and perfects a plan of battle.
This he had done after sounding the strength and limitations of his antagonist. This plan in one or two details did not work out as prepared; but, like a successful general, he was resourceful, and when one style of assault was repulsed he changed swiftly, almost instantly, to another style that surprised and confounded the enemy and brought about the desired result.
In this manner he soon turned Darleton’s attack into defense, while he became the real assailant. He resorted to all the arts of which he felt himself the master. The failure of one method of assault did not lead him to permanently abandon that method, although he quickly turned to some other. At an unexpected moment he returned to the first attempted effort, making the change when least expected, and, in most cases, was successful the second time.
His success confounded and infuriated Darleton, who had entered into the contest in perfect belief that the outcome would be applause and glory for himself. The confidence of the Midwestern man fled from him and left him trembling with rage and chagrin.
At first on realizing that Merriwell was getting the best of the match toward the close, Darleton had fancied he might put up such defense that the visitor would be held in check to some extent, thinking if he did this that L’Estrange, out of self-pride and disinclination to confess his pupil outmatched, would give him the decision.
But when the spectators began to shout and cheer for Merriwell, Darleton realized that his case was hopeless. In the face of all this the fencing master could not give him the decision.
From this time to the finish, Merriwell seemed able to count on his antagonist at will. Frank gave the fellow no chance to recover, but pressed him persistently to the finish. Before the engagement was over Darleton quite lost his form and sought to score by stabbing and jabbing much like a beginner.
The timekeeper announced the finish.
Frank lowered his foil.
With savage fury, Darleton swung and slapped him across the mask, using such force that Merry was staggered.
From the witnesses a shout arose, followed by a volley of hisses and cries of, “Shame! shame! Dirty work!”
Fran?ois L’Estrange sprang forward and snatched the bent foil from his pupil’s hand. Then he faced the audience and made a gesture that silenced their cries.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I make not ze excuse for Meestare Darleton. He met ze defeat by Meestare Merriwell, an’ ze loss of his tempare made him forget to be ze gentleman. Meestare Merriwell is ze very fine fencer. He win ze match.”
Saying which, he wheeled and grasped Frank’s hand, which he shook heartily, while the room resounded with a thunder of applause.
“Merriwell, you astounded this club to-night,” said Hugh Morton, as Frank was finishing dressing, after a shower and rub down. “No one here expected you to defeat Fred Darleton. Any member of the club would have wagered two to one on Darleton. He acted like a cur when he struck you with his foil. Every one, except his own particular clique, is down on him for that. We regret very much that it happened, and the president of the club is waiting to offer apologies.”
“I’m not looking for apologies,” smiled Merry. “The club was not responsible for Darleton’s act.”
“But we feel greatly humiliated by it. He will be severely censured. He may be expelled.”
“Oh, that’s too much! I must protest against such an extreme measure.”
“He deserves to be expelled,” put in Hodge.
“You are right,” agreed Morton. “Between us, I believe it would be a good thing for the club.”
“How so?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
In the reception room of the club there was a great gathering waiting to get another look at Frank. The president of the club met him as he appeared and hastened to express regrets over the action of Darleton at the finish of the bout. Frank was sincere in making excuses for his late antagonist.
“But Darleton must apologize,” declared the president. “We cannot have any visitor insulted in such a manner without seeing that an apology is made.”
“I haven’t asked for an apology on my account.”
“We demand it on our own account. He has been told that he must apologize publicly, as the insult was offered publicly.”
“Well, he’ll find me ready to pardon him freely and just as willing to forget the occurrence.”
“You are generous, Mr. Merriwell.”
During the next thirty minutes Merry was kept busy shaking hands with those who were eager to express their good will.
That night in Omaha he made a host of admirers and friends who would never forget him, and who would ever stand ready to uphold him on any occasion.
Many of those present seemed lingering for something. A few departed, but the majority waited on.
Finally Fred Darleton, accompanied by Grant Hardy and followed by a number of boon companions, entered the room.
Darleton was pale and nervous. He glanced about the place, and an expression of resentment passed over his face as he noted the number who had lingered. For a moment he seemed to hesitate; then he advanced toward Frank, who sat near the centre of the room, with his comrades and the club members about him.
Merry rose as he saw his late opponent.
“Mr. Merriwell,” said Darleton, in a low tone, his words being almost inaudible at a distance of ten feet, “I have to offer you an apology for my hasty act of anger in striking you across the mask with my foil.”
“That’s all right,” declared Frank. “Forget it, Darleton.”
Merry offered his hand.
Darleton pretended he did not see this, and turned away at once.
Frank smiled and dropped his hand; but Bart Hodge gave vent to a suppressed exclamation of anger.
The action of the defeated fencer in declining to shake hands with his conqueror was noted by all in the room, and most of them felt annoyed and disgusted by this added slight after the forced apology.
Darleton left the room, without glancing to the right or left, and his companions followed closely.
“I knew he was a cur!” said Hodge, in a low, harsh tone.
The president and other members were annoyed and chagrined, but Frank found a method of passing the matter over by quickly awakening a discussion concerning the bouts of the finals.
A few minutes later Fran?ois L’Estrange appeared. He advanced swiftly and grasped Frank’s hand.
“My dear sare,” he cried, “you give me ze very great astonishment to-night. You are ze—ze—what you call it?—ze Jim Dandy! Oui! You nevare learn so much about ze foil in ze American college. Eet is impossible!”
“Well,” smiled Merry, “I don’t think I told you I obtained all my knowledge and skill at college.”
“You mention ze school first. You begin young. Zat ees good! Zat is splendid! Zat ees ze way to make ze feenish fencer, ze same as ze feenish musician or ze feenish beelyarde player. But ze school, ze college, both together zey never gif you all you know. You have ze command, ze skill, ze technique! Eef you choose, sare, you make ze master fencer.”
“Thank you, professor,” said Merry. “I fear you are flattering me.”
“O-oo, no, no! I spik ze truth! You have traveled?”
“Yes.”
“You have visited France?”
“Yes.”
“I knew eet! In France you take ze fencing lesson from some famous master of ze art. You have ze French method. I do not say you have eet yet to completeness. I belief I could advance you to ze very great extent. But before you had finished ze engagement I knew you had received instruction from ze French master.”
“But not in France.”
“No? Zen where?”
“In New York.”
“O-oo!” L’Estrange threw up his hands. “Zen I know! Oui! Oui! Zere ees but one man—Pierre Lafont. You have from me ze congratulation, sare. I know Pierre Lafont in France. He fight three duel, and in not one did he get even ze scratch. Each time he seriously disable his antagonist. But his son, Louis—zey say he ees ze wondaire.”
For a time the professor rattled on in this enthusiastic manner, and his talk was very interesting. Although it was known to every one that he felt deep chagrin over the defeat of his finest pupil, he was now the soul of generosity in his behavior toward the victor. His manner was greatly in contrast to that of the churlish Darleton.
Before departing L’Estrange made an appointment to meet Merry in the club the following afternoon for the purpose of fencing with him.
“I wish to make ze test of your full ability, Meestare Merriwell,” smiled the affable Frenchman. “I theenk I discovaire one or two little weaknesses in your style zat may be corrected quickly. Eet will give me pleasure to make ze improvement in you—if you wish eet.”
“I’m always anxious to learn, professor,” answered Merry.