Frank Merriwell at Yale Part 37

"Now, old man," continued Frank, coming over and putting a hand on Harry's shoulder in a friendly way, "I am interested in you and I want to see you stay on our crew. You must know that I am giving it to you straight."

Harry was silent, gazing down at the floor, while his cigarette was going out, still held between his fingers.

"I am going to tell you something that you do not know," Frank went on.

"Old Put has been asking me to give Gordon more of a show. He thinks Gordon is a better man than you, but I know better. If you will leave cigarettes alone you are the man for the place. Gordon has a beautiful back and splendid shoulders, but he lacks heart, or I am much mistaken.

It takes nerve to pull an oar in a race. A man has got to keep at it for all there is in him till he drops--and he mustn't drop till the race is over. That's why I want you. I am confident that you will pull your arms out before you give up. But you won't have the wind for the race unless you quit cigarettes, and quit them immediately."

Harry was still silent, but his head was lower and he was biting his lips. The cigarette in his fingers had quite gone out.

"Come now, Harry," came earnestly from Frank. "Just cut clear from the things. They never did any man any good, and they have taken the wind and nerve out of hundreds. You don't want me to keep you on the crew and lose the race by doing so. You don't want it said that I have been partial to you because you are my roommate and particular friend.

That's what will be said if things go wrong. The fellows will declare I was prejudiced against Gordon, and they will not be to blame unless you can prove yourself the best man. I have nothing against Gordon, and I am bound to use him as white as I can. I have explained why I don't want him on the crew, and I have tried to make it clear why I'll have to let him come on at once, unless you drop cigarettes. How is it, my boy? What do you say?"

Harry got up and went into the bedroom. A moment later he came out with a big package of cigarettes in his hands. He opened the window and flung them as far as possible.

"There!" he cried. "By the mumping Joses--I mean the jumping Moses! I'm done with 'em. I'm not going to smoke them any more!"

"Good boy!" laughed Frank, his face full of satisfaction. "Shake!"

They clasped hands.

Rat-tat-tat! A knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Dismal Jones, his face longer and sadder than usual, came slouching into the room.

"h.e.l.lo, Jones, old boy!" cried Frank, cheerfully. "What is troubling you now? You look like a funeral."

"I'm mad," said Dismal in a spiritless way.

"Is that what ails you? I'd never suspected it from your appearance."

"Appearances are oftentimes deceitful," croaked Jones. "Whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise."

"Well, sit down and tell us all about it," invited Frank, offering a chair. "My boy, it must be that you are studying too hard. You have the outward appearance of a greasy grind."

"What's that I just told you about appearances? You are too hasty in your judgments. The trouble with me this evening is that I have found out something."

"I never supposed it would trouble you like this."

"Wait. You do not know what it is."

"That's right. What is it?"

Frank was familiar with Dismal's queer ways, and he knew it was not easy to tell when this son of a "shouting Methodist" was jollying and when he was in earnest; but now he was convinced that Jones was really serious, and he felt that there must be some cause for it.

Harry, strangely sobered and silent, sat listening. He could not understand Jones, and he was on his guard, knowing how often the fellow turned into a farce what seemed a serious matter.

Dismal locked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. He cleared his throat and then said:

"Merry, what would you say if I were to tell everything I could find out about our crew to the sophs?"

"I should say you were a confounded sneak!"

"Hum! I kinder thought you'd say something like that."

"But you do not know too much about the crew."

"I know something, and I could know more if I had a mind to. All I would have to do would be to play the spy a little."

"Well, I suppose that is right. What about it?"

"Somebody is playing the spy."

"How do you know?"

"I've got it straight enough, for the sophs know all about what our crew is doing. They are laughing over the Oxford stroke and the English oars."

"How do you know this?"

"Heard 'em."

"When?"

"To-night."

"Where?"

"On the street. Browning and a party were going down to Morey's, and they were having a high old time with Hartwick, who was explaining the advantages of the stroke and the oars our crew has adopted."

"That's not proof that somebody has played the spy. It may have slipped out through the carelessness of some of our men."

"It may. But I don't think so. I heard Emery ask Hartwick how he knew so much about us."

"What did Hartwick say?" Frank eagerly asked.

"He said he had a nice fresh flat who thought it a fine thing to play the spy and blab all he found out."

"Blay bluses--I mean blue blazes!" cried Harry, banging his fist down on the table. "That's what makes me cot under the hollar! A man who would do a thing like that will steal a sheep! I'd like to have the pleasure of thumping him a few times--just a few!"

Merriwell was silent, a dark look on his face.

"It will not be healthy for the spy if I catch him," he finally declared. "I'll make it pretty hot for him around here!"

"Which would be a highly commendable action," bowed Dismal.

"Have you any idea who would do such a low-down thing?" asked Harry.

"Sometimes we have ideas which we do not care to express."