Frank Merriwell's Athletes: or, The Boys Who Won

“He is a dim jandy – I mean a jim dandy,” spluttered Harry, getting somewhat excited. “I don’t believe you have any one out here who can keep in sight of him.”

Random elevated his eyebrows.

“Now you do interest me!” he exclaimed. “I am something of a runner myself, and I shall take part in the hurdle race and the hundred yards dash. Perhaps Mr. Merriwell may like to enter those contests. Out here they say I am bound to win in a canter. Mr. Merriwell might make it interesting, at least.”

“Inderesting!” cried Hans. “I pets you your life he peats der packin’ oudt uf you! I haf seen dot poy sbrint!”

“Begorra! he’s a birrud!” nodded Barney. “He was th’ shwiftest runner in Farrdale whin we wur there.”

“Mr. Merriwell,” said Random, pleasantly, “I trust you will take part in the races. I do not think you will be able to win over me, but I am sure it will be a pleasant and fair rivalry between us, and there will be no hard feelings in any case.”

“Well,” said Frank, “I do not pretend to be a champion, but I will come in and do the best I can.”

“Good!” nodded Wallace. “I hope to see you at the hop to-night. Good-evening, gentlemen.”

Then he departed.

CHAPTER XIII – A GAME FOR TWO

Frank and Bart were the only ones of the party who attended the dance, that evening, which was an informal affair.

Fine music was furnished, and the young ladies and girls of Santa Barbara looked their best as they mingled with the guests at the hotel.

As Frank stood looking on he decided that the girls of the Golden State were charming indeed, and there was no reason why California should not be proud of them.

They were refined and cultured, too, as they showed by their manners and conversation. In this respect Frank felt that they might well be compared with the finest bred girls of the East.

“It is a great country,” he thought; “and the East is altogether conceited when it fancies it has all the brains and culture. There are other places besides Boston and New York, and I can understand why some of the other places seem superior to many people.”

He was watching for Inza. She had promised him the first waltz, and he hoped to find time to chat a moment with her before the dance. He wished to compliment her on her brave attempt to rescue Effie Random.

While he was looking for her Miss Random entered the room, accompanied by her brother.

Lord Stanford, the Englishman, was present, and he started for Effie the moment she appeared.

But the girl saw Frank, and, leaving Wallace, she hastened toward him before the nobleman could reach her.

“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” she exclaimed, with an ardor that surprised him, as she had seemed so cool and reserved, “I must thank you again and again for your heroic rescue of Inza.”

“Don’t,” entreated Merry. “I have been thanked enough already. Permit me to congratulate you on your fine appearance this evening. It is wonderful! I feared you would be prostrated, and here you are at this dance, looking as fair and fresh as a flower. I do not understand it.”

Her eyes fell.

“I – I came to see – you,” she almost whispered the words, and an added color tinged her fair cheeks.

Frank began to feel awkward. He could see Lord Stanford glowering at him from a short distance, and he wondered if this was the same girl he had fancied was so eager to capture the nobleman. It seemed that Effie had quite forgotten Stanford.

“To see me?” said Frank, slowly. “I am sure that is a compliment – a great compliment.”

“Yes, to see you,” she again declared, placing her hand upon his arm, and lifting her blue eyes to his. “I knew you would be here.”

At this moment Frank discovered that Inza had entered and was looking toward them. He longed to hurry to her side, but he could not leave Effie Random without positive rudeness.

“What is the matter, Mr. Merriwell?” said Effie, rather sharply. “You do not seem to be listening? I am talking to you!”

“I beg your pardon!” hastily replied Frank, blushing, when he realized how rude his manners must have seemed. “It’s one of my spells – that’s all.”

“Do you have them often?” she asked, with a light laugh.

“Oh, no; only occasionally. I am afraid they make me appear very rude. Physicians whom I have consulted say I may outgrow them by the time I am eighty or ninety, and that I shall not be troubled by them all the rest of my life after that.”

Lord Stanford came up.

“Pawdon,” he said; “but I think this is our dawnce, Miss Random.”

She looked at him, and then, as Frank was on the point of excusing himself, she said:

“Not this one, Lord Stanford. I said I would give you a waltz, but I am engaged to Mr. Merriwell for this one.”

Frank glanced at her in surprise. He had not asked her for that dance. What could she mean? Effie noted the glance and cast her eyes downward.

Like a flash the truth came over Frank. During their brief stay in Santa Barbara he had met Effie quite often with Inza. He had simply regarded her as a rather pretty and winning girl, and had paid her no more attention than was demanded by courtesy. Now it seemed —

He was compelled to smile. Was it possible the foolish girl imagined he was in love with her?

She must know of his sincere admiration for Inza.

Still, such is the weakness of human kind, he did not feel greatly offended at the discovery. Effie was attractive and —

Then it happened that, almost before Frank realized it, they were on the floor, gliding gracefully along to the swing and throb of the music.

Effie was a delightful waltzer, light as a feather and graceful as a swan. Ordinarily it would have cost Frank no effort at all with such a partner.

But this was not an ordinary occasion, and Merriwell felt no satisfaction in dancing, even though Effie was a perfect waltzer. He realized that he was doing wrong and he was decidedly wretched.

On the second round Frank and Effie came close to Inza. She was dancing with Bart Hodge. For a single moment Inza’s dark eyes looked at Merry, but they turned away, and she laughed at something Hodge was whispering in her ear.

Merriwell felt a flush of heat pass over his body, and his cheeks burned. He saw Hodge’s arm about Inza’s waist, and an intense feeling of jealousy seized upon him. He forgot that he was to blame and he railed at his friend.

Then he began to chat and laugh with Effie, seeming to forget Inza entirely. He entered into the dance with a sudden change of spirit, so that many eyes were turned toward himself and Miss Random, who were generally pronounced the finest waltzers on the floor.

Effie noted the sudden change in Frank, but she did not know what had brought it about. She was charmed by his witty sayings, his complimentary speeches, and his beautiful dancing.

“He is just splendid!” she told herself. “I don’t wonder Inza Burrage says he is the finest fellow in the whole world.”

She saw Lord Stanford, surrounded by a group of girls, all of whom seemed regarding the red-faced nobleman with great admiration.

“Yesterday I was like those silly fools!” thought Effie. “To-day I have found a real man. What a difference there is!”

She felt a positive disgust for the Englishman.

“Miss Burrage said I’d be sickened of him when I came to know him well. He is looking for an American heiress, and he tried to force her to marry him till he found out she is not rich. Then his ardor cooled swiftly. What a contemptible man he is.”

When the dance was over Frank and Effie strolled out on the balcony, where the soft breath of a perfect summer night brought them the sweet perfume of flowers.

The moon had arisen above the Santa Yenz Mountains, and its brilliant light was shimmering with silver the sea that lay away to the westward. The sound of the surf came like subdued and distant organ peals. The scene was entrancing, but it did not appeal to Frank.

He was ill at ease. He felt his guilt, and a great wave of shame and self-contempt swept over him.

With characteristic impulsiveness he suddenly resolved to put an end to it. To seek out Inza and apologize.

As he made the resolution a low, musical laugh came from the other side of a bank of flowers.

Then a deep voice followed. It was Inza and Bart.

“Miss Random,” he said, hurriedly, “will you kindly pardon me if I escort you back to the room? I – I – have an engagement and – ”

Effie started and glanced at him with mingled surprise and pique. She, too, had heard the laugh. Her eyes flashed, and her lips compressed ominously.

“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Merriwell,” she replied, coldly. “But may I ask if your extremely sudden engagement is connected with Inza?”

The impertinence of the question passed unheeded by Frank. His mind was engrossed by his new resolution.

“I confess it is,” he replied, frankly. “Pray excuse me.”

With that he was gone. Effie watched him disappear with eyes filled with tears of rage and humiliation. Gripping the railing of the balcony until her hands ached, she muttered:

“You will regret this, Frank Merriwell. You will regret this insult to me. I will find means to make you suffer for it.”

Bart Hodge strolled past the bank of flowers, and started on seeing her.

“You here,” he stammered, impulsively. “I thought you were dancing with Frank?”

Effie greeted him so cordially that the youth flushed with pleasure. He gladly stepped to her side in obedience to her invitation.

“Yes, I was dancing with Mr. Merriwell,” she replied, “but he had a pressing engagement and was compelled to leave. Where is Inza?”

“She returned inside,” said Bart, indifferently.

“And you permitted her to go alone?”

“Yes. I wanted to look for you,” was the blunt reply, given with a glance of admiration.

“A weapon ready for use,” murmured Effie, softly. “I will strike Frank Merriwell through him.”

In the meantime Frank had eagerly searched for Inza. To his extreme disappointment, he found that she had left for home. Five minutes later he, too, was missed.

CHAPTER XIV – A GOOD START

The day of the tournament at Santa Barbara arrived and brought with it large crowds of visitors from various parts of the State. There was a great swarm of strangers in the beautiful little town that lies between the blue Santa Yenz Mountains and the dreaming sea.

The field for the sports and contests lay outside the town, and there the crowd gathered at an early hour.

It had been arranged that such contests as putting the shot, throwing the hammer, jumping, vaulting, wrestling, and so forth, should come before the races.

Browning had been induced to enter the hammer-throwing and shot-putting contests, while Barney was anxious to show what he could do at the high jump and the long jump. Diamond had decided to take part in the pole vaulting.

The boys’ bicycles had arrived by express the day before, having been forwarded from San Francisco, and Rattleton entered for the two-mile bicycle race, after vainly trying to induce Frank to go into it.

“I’ll have quite all I want to do in the hundred yards’ dash and the two-hundred-and-twenty yards’ hurdle,” smiled Frank. “I am not going to break myself all up at the very beginning of our new tour.”

“That’s right,” said Hodge, significantly; “and you will find Wallace Random a sharp rival in both of those contests. It won’t surprise me, Frank, if you are unable to defeat him.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Merry, lifting his eyebrows and regarding Bart coolly. “There was a time when you thought no person could defeat me.”

Bart flushed and moved uneasily.

“You’re a dandy, old fellow,” he said; “but Random has a record. He is the amateur champion of this State.”

“And still you are going to be in the hurdle race! That is remarkable. What do you expect to win?”

“Well, I can’t do worse than get last position,” returned Bart, somewhat sulkily. “I do not expect to beat Wallace Random.”

Frank turned away.

Inza Burrage was present to witness the contests, but Frank could not get a chance to speak to her. Effie Random held several conversations with her brother.

Ephraim Gallup, who happened to pass near them as they were talking, heard a few words from each.

“Beat him if you can,” said Effie, “beat him in both races.”

“I will,” confidently declared Random. “You may be sure of that.”

“You don’t know him, or you would not speak thus confidently. He always wins at everything he tries. I wish to see him defeated.”

“Don’t worry: your wish shall be granted.”

Then Ephraim heard no more.

“Wal, darn my punkins!” he muttered. “I’d like ter know who they be talkin’ abaout. You don’t s’pose it’s Frank!”

He was startled by the possibility, but quickly decided that such a thing could not be.

Early on the morning of the previous day, after the Yale Combine had been organized, Frank had hastened to order some suits for the club, which they were to wear while taking part in certain contests. These suits were short, light trousers, scarcely coming to the knees of the wearers, and close fitting dark-blue shirts, each having a large white Y on the breast.

By paying well for it, Merry was able to get several suits rushed through, so the boys who were to take part in the sports requiring great exertion each could have a suit.

The first contest was putting the shot.

There were six contestants, and Browning came fourth on the list.

The big fellow looked fine, and said he felt well, although he growled a bit, as usual, because he had to do something besides be a spectator.

The Santa Barbara athletic club also had a big lad who was an expert shot-putter and hammer thrower. His name was Benson.

Benson was the sixth man on the list, that position having come to him by lot.

A slender chap by the name of Cummings, from Salinas, started the ball rolling by making a distance of thirty-three feet and four inches.

This was not beaten till Browning came up.

“Do your best, old man,” urged Frank. “You can do a good job if you try. You know big Hickok has a record of forty-two and nine.”

Bruce grunted.

“I don’t suppose you expect me to beat Hickok, do you?” he growled.

“Not exactly,” smiled Frank; “but you can come near him.”

Browning limbered up, and then took his position. He was regarded with great curiosity, as it had become known that he was from Yale, and something good was expected of him.

His first put, however, was a disappointment to everybody, as he fell under Cummings by five inches.

“Oh, he’s too lazy for anything!” muttered Diamond. “He can do better than that.”

“He will do better,” declared Frank.

But, to the astonishment of all, Browning made scarcely thirty-one feet on his second trial.

There were cries of amusement and derision from the crowd, and a voice shouted:

“Is that one of the wonderful men from Yale? He does not seem to be such hot stuff. Wait till you see Benson toss the shot.”

Browning stiffened up, and his face became set. He glanced at Frank, expecting Merriwell would be angry, but was met with a smile and a nod of encouragement.

“I’ll do something this time if it’s in me!” Bruce mentally vowed.

He did.

On the third trial he sent the shot whizzing through the air to fall far beyond the mark made by Cummings.

When the tape was run it was found he had made thirty-eight feet and eleven inches.

Then Browning was given a round of applause, and Frank congratulated him when he stepped back into the crowd.

The man who followed Browning made thirty-two feet, and then Benson came up. Wallace Random said a few words to Santa Barbara’s champion shot putter, and Benson nodded, although there was a worried look on his face.

The crowd of spectators were silent and expectant.

What would Benson do? Could he beat the man from the East?

At Benson’s first trial he made thirty-seven feet and nine inches.

This brought some applause, and a man cried:

“Wait a minute! He will show you something better than that.”

But to the dismay of Benson’s admirers, he fell back to thirty-six on the second trial.

He prepared for the third and last effort, and it was seen by the expression of his face that he meant to beat the record if it was in him. With the shot in his hand, he poised himself for the throw, falling back on his right foot. The muscles of his right arm and shoulder stood out in hard bunches, while his left arm was extended, his hand being clinched.

A moment he remained thus, and then, with a mighty heave, he sent the shot flying through the air.

With a thud, it dropped to the sandy ground and lay still.

“He has won! He has won!”

The cry went up from Benson’s friends.

“Wait a moment till the measurement is made,” said Frank Merriwell, quietly, as the tape was laid.

There was a great hush of expectancy, and then the voice of the judge was heard to declare:

“Thirty-eight feet and nine inches. Bruce Browning, of Yale College, has won over all by a margin of two inches.”

A moment of silence, and then the familiar Yale yell of victory pealed like a war cry from the lips of the college lads.

The Yale Combine had started out with flying colors.

CHAPTER XV – A HOT DASH

Wallace Random came around and congratulated Browning.

“You did a good job,” he said, “and we’ll have to take revenge off some of your friends. Don’t think for a moment that we mean to let you Yale fellows carry off all the honors.”

Benson came up and asked to be introduced. He proved to be a very pleasant fellow, and took his defeat gracefully.

“I did my best,” he declared. “I couldn’t beat it if I were to try a week. You won fairly.”

This frank and generous spirit greatly impressed Merriwell and his friends.

Browning exerted himself again in the hammer-throwing contest, and won by a good margin.

“Keep it up, fellows,” laughed Frank. “It strikes me that the Combine is bound to make a path of glory on its way East.”

But they were not to win at everything, as they soon discovered.

Barney Mulloy was a great jumper, but there was a youth from Mariposa who could jump. His name was Lundy, and he beat the Irish boy with such ease that Barney was quite crestfallen.

“Begorra! it’s wings he has somewhere about him!” declared Barney.

Then came the pole vaulting, and Preston, of Santa Barbara won, although Jack Diamond was a close second.

“I told you!” laughed Wallace Random, speaking to Frank. “You chaps are doing great work, but we have some good men right here.”

“That’s right,” agreed Merriwell, cheerfully. “You are right in it, and that’s a fact.”

Then came the bicycle race.

Rattleton did his best, but again a Santa Barbara man won.

Then there was wrestling and other contests in which the Yale Combine was not concerned.

At last the hundred yards’ dash was called.

The competitors appeared from the dressing tent and were greeted with cheers. Wallace Random was given a hearty reception.

There were five starters. They were Merriwell, of Yale; Random, of Santa Barbara; Black, of San Francisco; Cheston, of Yuma, and Harper, of San Bernardino.

The word came, and the starter’s pistol cracked.

Away leaped the runners like greyhounds.

A cheer went up from the spectators.

Wallace Random was a great starter, and he leaped to the front at the first bound.

Merriwell and Black were paired, while Creston got off next, and Harper was last.

Frank knew how much there was in the start of a short dash, and he felt that Random had obtained an advantage; but that made no difference with him, for he was there to do his best.

For a third of the distance no one obtained much of a lead. Then Random began to pull away.

But he could not get away from Merriwell, who clung to him like a leech, not more than two yards separating them.

It was soon seen that the race lay between Random and Merriwell, with Random apparently having the best of it.

Two-thirds the distance was covered, and still Random held his advantage.

Then a genuine Yale yell came from Frank’s friends, who had gathered in a group near the finishing point.

That cheer seemed to act like an electric spur on Merriwell. Half the distance between him and Random was closed quickly, and then with a leap he was at the side of the Santa Barbara man.

A single moment they hung thus, and then, as the tape was approached, Frank shot to the front, and was a winner by about two feet.

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Yale!”

Wallace Random was greatly chagrined, for he had felt certain of that race when it was almost finished. Then, in an astonishing manner, Frank Merriwell had reached his side, passed him, and won the dash.

Effie Random said nothing, but she thrust her parasol into the ground with a wrench that broke it.

Frank was cheered and congratulated.

As soon as he could recover from his surprise and disappointment, Random shook Frank’s hand.

“You did the trick,” he said; “but I’ll beat you at the hurdle race. I see you are strong on the finish, and I’ll be looking out for you.”

“All right,” smiled Frank. “If you win that race, we’ll break even, but I shall do my best.”

Frank noticed that Hodge was not with those who crowded about to congratulate him. He looked for Bart, whom he discovered talking with Effie, and he saw Effie was speaking in an excited manner, a flush on her face.

Frank smiled.

“It looks as if she really wished to see me defeated. I wonder what she is saying to Hodge.”

He could see Bart shaking his head, while Effie seemed to be urging him to do something. The more Bart shook his head the more determined the girl became.

Frank was able to watch them but a moment, as his friends demanded his attention.

“Hang me if I didn’t know ye’d do it all ther time!” said Ephraim Gallup, proudly. “You’re ther same old hustler yeou useter be when yeou was at Fardale.”

“Thot’s roight, me b’y!” said Barney Mulloy. “It’s a pache ye alwus wur, Frankie.”

“Yaw,” agreed Hans; “you vos a chim dandy, Vrankie!”

The hurdle race was the concluding event of the tournament.

There were other contests and amusements to occupy the time between the dash and the hurdle race.

At last the hurdle race was called.

Then Frank was surprised to find Bart Hodge had entered for the race and was ready to run.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t this a new idea of yours?”

“No,” answered Bart. “I entered for this race yesterday.”

“You did? That’s queer! I knew nothing of it.”

“I intended it for a surprise,” said Hodge, with a forced laugh.

Frank was not at all pleased. As he was the president of the Combine, he felt that Hodge had not done right in entering for the contest without his knowledge.

At first he thought of refusing to let Bart race, but he quickly banished such an inclination, knowing it might seem that he feared he would be beaten by one of his own club.

“But we’ll have a little understanding about this later on,” he mentally vowed.

Besides Bart, Frank and Wallace Random, there were three others who had entered for the hurdle race. They were Perkins, of the Southern Union Athletic Club, of Los Angeles; Keeler, of Ventaur, and a Mexican, Pablo Salero, from some unknown place.

The Mexican was a little fellow, while the others were supple and well-built lads.

“Ready, gentlemen!”

It was the voice of the starter.

The six contestants leaned forward, ready to dash away in a moment.

“One!”

Breathless silence.

“Two!”

In a moment they would be off.

“Three!”

Crack! sounded the pistol, and away they darted.

Again Random showed his qualities as a quick starter, but he did not get away from Merriwell, who was equally as quick.

Straight at the first hurdle the six lads dashed. Side by side Merriwell and Random sailed over it, with Hodge scarcely any in the rear.

The spectators cheered and waved hats, handkerchiefs and parasols.

As the third hurdle was cleared Hodge was neck-and-neck with Random and Merriwell. At that moment it seemed as if the three were evenly matched.

Perkins was close behind them, and the Mexican had already fallen to the rear.

Hodge was straining every nerve, and Merriwell was astonished to see him make such a spurt.