Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale Part 22

He gasped, hiccoughed, sat back in his chair and tried to rise.

Meanwhile the other two fellows with the orange rosettes had sprung to their feet, and were trying to push Frank from the room.

In this the waiter joined them, and, for a moment, therefore, Merriwell had his hands full. They were lively hands, though, and in much less time than it takes to narrate it he had struck out right and left and landed stinging blows upon the faces of two of his antagonists.

The bartender, who was a heavy fellow, who had probably had plenty of experience in dealing with tough customers, set down the bottle of wine and attacked Frank with great fury.

He made the mistake of supposing that he could hustle the intruder out by mere force, and in so doing he put up both hands to catch Frank by the shoulders.

This gave the athletic student a better opportunity than he could have asked for. In quick succession the bartender got two blows, one full upon the mouth, and the other on his neck.

He went down on the floor with a thump, and catching at the table for support, overturned it. The bottle of wine fell upon him and drenched him.

The others, who had staggered back under the force of Frank's first blows, now tried to push their way out. The room was a very small one, and there was but one door.

It was evident that they were not there for fighting, and had no wish to defend their drunken companion, no matter what Frank's object in making the attack had been.

As Frank's only anxiety was in getting Mellor away, he did not attempt to stop the others from going out.

The rumpus attracted the attention of everybody in the main room of the saloon, and by the time the bartender had been sent to the floor a dozen or so others, most of them customers of the place, came crowding up to see what was the matter.

"Letsh not fight, Mer'well," said Mellor, with a tremendous attempt at dignity. "Letsh not get mixed up in a row."

He, too, tried to walk out, but the way was now barred with other bartenders who had come to the relief of their comrade.

They might have fallen upon Frank and beaten him badly, for they far outnumbered him, if it hadn't been that at that moment a policeman took a hand in the affair.

He had been pa.s.sing the side door of the saloon at the very moment when Frank struck the gla.s.s from Mellor's hand.

He had entered at the first sound of a ruction, and had been in time to get a glimpse of Frank as he struck the bartender to the floor.

There was a lot of excitement and confusion for a moment, during which Frank stood with his fists still clinched and his jaws shut hard together, waiting for the next turn.

Everybody connected with the saloon denounced him as an intruder, and the one who had made all the trouble.

Frank thought hastily of explaining the real situation, but he refrained from doing so, as that would surely make the whole thing public, and he did not want any such disgrace to be attached to Yale's part in the intercollegiate games.

So when the policeman roughly put him under arrest he submitted quietly and went to the station house. A couple of bartenders followed, dragging the almost helpless Mellor with them.

Yale's champion wrestler at that moment was too far gone to realize fully what was taking place. He staggered along between the bartenders, protesting that there had been a "mishundershtanding," that he was a gentleman, and that as soon as the matter had been explained he would return to the saloon and "set 'em up" for everybody.

Frank walked in silence, feeling extreme humiliation, not for his arrest, but for the disgrace that a Yale athlete was bringing upon his college.

When they stood before the sergeant in the station, the policeman told briefly how he had heard a row in progress in the saloon and had got there in time to see Frank doing all the fighting.

The sergeant looked at the bartenders, and one of them said:

"This man," pointing to Mellor, "was entertaining a party of friends in the back room when the other chap came in, and without saying a word tried to clean the place out. Everything was peaceable and quiet until he came in."

The sergeant took up a pen, and looking at Frank, asked:

"What is your name?"

"Frank Merriwell," was the quiet response.

"Huh!" grunted the sergeant, as he wrote the name, "I thought from your looks you would say Jones of nowhere. What is your residence?"

"New Haven."

"Have you got anything to say for yourself?"

"Not at present."

The sergeant looked surprised, and hesitated a moment before he asked a number of other questions.

They were such questions as are always put to prisoners concerning their age, their reasons for being in the city, and their own account of what had happened.

Frank gave his age, but to the other questions refused to reply.

Accordingly the sergeant ordered both him and Mellor to be searched, and after a vain attempt to get any information out of Mellor, both were locked up.

A considerable crowd had collected in the main room of the station house during this, and Frank remained quietly in his cell until he felt certain that all the curiosity seekers had gone out.

Then he called to a doorman and asked if he might speak to the sergeant or the captain. It took a little persuasion to get permission to do this, but Frank got it finally, and was taken upstairs again.

The main room of the station was then deserted by all except the doorman and the sergeant. The latter looked at the young prisoner inquiringly.

"I'd like to send for somebody," he said, "and will pay liberally for a messenger. You've got my money, and therefore know that I can pay any decent charge."

"Yes," said the sergeant, "you're well heeled. Who do you want to see?"

Frank thereupon gave the name of a Supreme Court judge. The sergeant's eyes opened wide.

"What do you want of him?" he asked.

"He'll come down here in a hurry," Frank answered, "if he knows that I'm locked up."

The sergeant sat back in his chair and thought a moment. It was perfectly plain to him that Frank was not intoxicated, and his whole manner was that of a gentleman.

The sergeant was probably wondering whether the name Merriwell might not be a false one, and whether this prisoner might not be the son of the judge mentioned.

While he was wondering what he had better do about it, a young man entered the station with a businesslike air, and stepping up to the big desk, said:

"Good-evening, sergeant, anything going on?"

Then he caught sight of Merriwell, and exclaimed:

"Great Scott, Merriwell, what are you doing here?"

"I'm a prisoner, Mr. Matthews," Frank responded.