Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game

“That’s a habit I have myself,” smiled Frank Merriwell; “and I shall make an attempt to be in at the death this morning.”

“Firefoot will balk on you before you are through with him,” declared Kenneth. “He’s got speed and blood, but he is treacherous.”

“I don’t believe he will play any tricks on me,” said Frank. “I do not believe he has been handled right. Your hostler, Wade, had a grudge against the horse, and Fenton didn’t know how to treat him. But this is no time to talk of that. See – the dogs take that hedge! Hurrah! See Harden follow! What a glorious sight! Hurrah! hurrah!”

The boys could not repress their cheers. The horses they bestrode were dancing now, but the animals were held in check yet a little longer, and then, with a cry to the others, Frank gave Firefoot his head.

Down toward the hunters charged the second party, riding to join them. They were seen, and Harden set the horn to his lips and blew a welcome.

Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-tar!

How the bugle note cuts the frosty air! It is enough to stir the blood in the veins of a sluggard.

The horses cannot be held in check. Oh, the glorious excitement of the mad ride – the delight of speed! Whip nor spur is not needed, and like birds they go across small washouts, down into a tiny ravine, and then up again with short, sharp jerks.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

It is the baying of the hounds, the whole pack bursting into a grand swell of melody. Who would not rise early to hear such a morning chant!

The fox – there he goes! He is a red fellow, fine and large, good for many a mile. He seems to run with his legs stretched straight and his body almost touching the ground, while his brush is defiantly erect.

“This is indeed sport!” thought Frank Merriwell. “And, barring accidents, Firefoot will bring me in at the death.”

“Hi! hi! hi!”

The fox came to a fence. Under it he went. A moment later the hounds reached the fence, Pirate in the lead. Over they went in a stream, as pretty a spectacle as one could ask to see.

Firefoot swept along like a meteor. Frank could have cut ahead of Harden, but he knew better than to do such a thing. He fell behind the bugler, but ahead of Fenton. The others of his party were farther back.

The fence was reached, and Harden cleared it beautifully, without seeking for an easy spot. Frank followed, and Firefoot sailed over the obstruction like a bird.

“Good boy!” laughed Merry. “You’re all right! I’d like to own you!”

A strong feeling of affection for the horse sprang up in his breast. He touched Firefoot’s neck with a caressing hand.

Now came some scrub timber, and through it darted the fox, with the hounds plunging at its heels. Harden did not swerve, but held straight on the track. Frank followed.

Limbs were dodged, bushes slapped him in the face, and vines tried to drag him from the saddle; but he did not draw rein. Straight on he kept, and soon the small timber was behind.

A road was reached and crossed. Ahead was a field that sloped gradually, presenting a full view of the chase. Still the fox was running speedily, holding its own with the dogs.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

Again and again the entire pack gave tongue. An old farmer on his way to market, stopped his cart on the road, stood up, waved his hat about his head, and cheered like a boy.

Once Frank looked back.

“Jove!” he exclaimed.

Almost neck and neck, Steve Fenton and Iva St. Ives were following him. It was plain that the girl was riding with as much reckless abandon as the best of them. It was not an easy thing for her dark-faced cousin to hold his own with her.

“She is a queen!” muttered Frank, as he once more gave his attention to the chase. “I don’t wonder that Harden is stuck on her. And he appears like a fine fellow. I hope he wins her.”

The fox had darted under another fence, and again the dogs were streaming over. Harden followed close, seeking no favors. His horse cleared the fence, and onward he went.

“Firefoot, old boy,” laughed Frank, “you can follow him anywhere he goes.”

Straight at the fence he charged. Firefoot lifted to the couch, settling on his haunches, then going up into the air.

Just then, from some unknown point, a shot rang out, and the black horse pitched forward. Its forward feet struck the rail, and Frank was flung headlong.

Firefoot came down with a crash, and lay still, a bullet in his brain!

And just beyond the fallen horse Frank was curled in a heap upon the hard ground!

But Frank did not lie thus a great while. As he was getting upon his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder, he saw Iva St. Ives and Stephen Fenton come over the fence. And Fenton jumped his horse almost in the track of the boy who had been in advance, although he must have seen that an accident of some sort had happened.

One glimpse of Fenton’s face did Frank obtain, and he knew the man had hoped to maim or kill him. Barely was he able to leap aside and escape from beneath the feet of the horse Fenton bestrode.

Iva St. Ives would have reined about, but Frank motioned for her to keep on, shouting:

“Don’t stop for me! I’m all right! I’ll be in at the death!”

The other hunters cheered him, while Fenton and the girl went on without stopping.

Frank knew a shot had been fired. He stooped over Firefoot, and a glance showed him the horse was dead. From a bullet hole in the animal’s head blood was welling.

“I knew it!” muttered the boy, his face hard and set. “I saw the puff of smoke even as I fell. It came from those bushes yonder.”

Toward the bushes he ran, paying no heed to those who called to him. He was on a fresh scent, and he kept repeating over and over:

“I’ll be in at the death – in at the death!”

Into the bushes he plunged, regardless of the fact that he did not know but the would-be assassin was still crouching there. He was ready for anything he might meet.

The clump of bushes was small; the ground was moist. He looked around, then stooped and examined the ground. Yes, this was the very spot! Here were the footprints of a man, and here he had kneeled upon one knee as he took aim when the shot was fired. Without doubt he had rested the gun in the crotch of a sapling that was just the right height. A slight abrasion in the bark of the sapling told Merriwell he was right.

But whither had the wretch gone? Frank looked around, he forced himself through the bushes. There were the tracks.

A valley lay below. Away to the west the baying of the hounds sounded, fainter and fainter. Through the valley ran a small stream. There was some timber, and into the thickest of this a horseman was vanishing. Something in his hands looked like a gun.

“There’s my game,” cried Frank. “I’d give something for a good horse – Jupiter!”

A horse was feeding in a pasture at a distance. It looked like a fairly good animal.

A moment later Frank was running back toward the spot where the dead black horse lay under the fence. Two or three of his friends were there. He gave no heed to them, but, with feverish haste, he stripped the bridle from the dead animal.

“What’s up, Merry?” asked Rattleton, excitedly. “Who did it, anyway? and what are you – See him go!”

But Frank stopped suddenly and wheeled about.

“I want that horse, Rattleton!” he cried. “There’s one over yonder you may take, if you want to bother to saddle and bridle him. I can’t spare the time to catch him.”

Harry tried to ask further questions, but not a word would Frank reply. He pulled Rattleton from the saddle, and sprang up himself. Then he gave the animal the spur and was away.

Frank did not glance over his shoulder to see if the others were following. He thought of nothing but the human game he was after. Would the wretch secure such a start that it would not be possible to overtake him?

“No!” came through Frank’s set teeth. “I will run him down!”

Round the clump of bushes he guided the horse, and then cut down through the valley toward the spot where he had seen the unknown horseman riding into the timber.

Over the stream leaped the horse, up the slope he galloped, and the timber was reached. Then Frank found the very spot where the man’s horse had been hidden, and he struck the trail of the murderous-minded rascal.

Now, Eastern boy and Yale student though he was, Frank Merriwell had followed at the heels of the best trailers in this country. He had seen them work, and he had studied their methods, becoming a fairly expert trailer himself.

At first what he discovered puzzled him. The tracks of the horse showed quite plainly on the soft ground, but the marks of the shoes did not seem to indicate that the animal had gone toward the timber.

“I saw him!” muttered Frank. “It was no optical delusion.”

Then he got down on his knees, holding on to the bridle of his horse, and examined the tracks still more closely. An exclamation broke from his lips.

“Queer horse that! Never heard of a horse walking on his heels before!”

A moment later he sprang into the saddle and was away, but he was riding in a direction precisely opposite that which it seemed the horse had gone!

Into the timber Frank plunged. It was not a very wide strip, and he soon passed through it. On the farther side he found the tracks again. The shoes of the horse pointed to the north, but Frank Merriwell rode to the south.

The other boys had paused to help Rattleton catch the horse in the pasture, so they were unable to follow Frank closely.

Ahead of Merriwell, beyond a field, lay a road. He made straight for a gap in the fence, and there he found the horse had passed through, apparently having turned from the road and taken to the field at that point, judging by the direction in which the shoes pointed.

Frank took to the road, gave his horse the spur, and tore along till he came around a bend. Nearly a mile away a horseman was just leaving the road and taking to the fields. He carried a rifle in his hands.

“You’re my game for a cool thousand!” thought the boy, triumphantly; “and I believe you have handicapped yourself by the trick you have tried to play.”

He rode in hot pursuit, and it was not long before the man discovered he was followed. Then the unknown showed guilt, for he whipped up his horse and tried to run away.

“I’ll kill this horse before you shall do it!” grated Merriwell.

It was a hunt by sight now, with the fugitive making for a long strip of timber between some hills. Frank felt that the man stood a good chance of escaping if he got into those woods.

A fence lay before the man in advance. It was a high, zigzag affair. Without seeking an opening, he made straight for it.

Frank was watching. He saw the horse try to clear the fence, saw the animal strike, saw the man and beast go down.

“Hurrah!” shouted the boy. “That’s a check!”

But neither the man nor horse got up. Both were hidden beyond the bushes that grew along the base of the fence.

Before long Frank was close to that fence, and he was lying flat on the back of his horse, half expecting the one he was pursuing was crouching behind the bushes, ready to stop the pursuit with a second shot.

With his usual reckless disregard of consequences in times of great danger, Merriwell rode at the fence, rose in the saddle, and jumped his horse over.

Man and horse lay under the bushes. The latter lifted his head and struggled to rise, but fell back. The man lay quite still, with his head curled under his body in a cramped position.

Out of the saddle leaped the boy, and he was bending over the man a moment later. Still the man did not stir, but the horse regarded the boy with a look of pain and appeal in its eyes, and whinnied pitifully.

Frank turned the man over, and the bloated face of Bill Wade, the hostler, was exposed. The man was stone dead, his neck being broken, and the horse had broken a leg.

“Poor fellow!” muttered Frank, but he was thinking of the horse.

Then he stooped and looked at the horse’s feet.

“Just as I thought!” he cried. “The shoes are set the wrong end forward on the creature, and I might have been fooled if I had not seen Wade riding into the timber. It was a clever trick, but it failed.”

Then he turned and looked down at the man once more.

“In at the death!” he grimly said.

CHAPTER XXVIII – A CHANGE OF SCENE

With the death of Wade, the paid tool of Stephen Fenton, the latter took alarm and disappeared from Springbrook Farm, leaving a clear field to Harry Harden.

Before leaving Springbrook, Frank was forced to repeat the story of the hunt so many times that he became heartily tired of it. He was also tired of being regarded as a hero, and hearing compliments from all sides. A less level-headed lad might have become inflated with his own importance, but “swelled head” was a disease that never secured a hold on Frank Merriwell.

But the boys all voted that they had enjoyed themselves hugely at Springbrook, and each and every one of them was forced to promise that it would not be the last visit to the place.

They might have remained longer, as it was, but the fall term of college was at hand, and several of them were impatient to return to dear Old Yale.

“I want to get back and take a rest,” said Browning. “A big, long rest. I think I need it.”

“Did you ever see the time you didn’t rest a need – I mean, need a rest?” cried Harry.

“Are we to go right straight through to New York?” questioned Jack.

“I thought so at first,” answered Frank. “But I have received a letter which may change our plans – if you agree.”

“What letter?” asked several.

“A letter from Charlie Creighton, of Philadelphia. He urges us to stop off and pay him a visit.”

“Creighton, eh?” said Jack. “I remember him. He was a good chap at Yale.”

“Can we have some sport in Philadelphia?” questioned Harry.

“I think so. But not such sport as we have had here or in the mountains.”

“Dot vos all right alretty,” put in Hans. “I peen villing to take it easy for you, you bet mine life! No more vild adventures py me alretty!”

“By gum, it’s time we quieted deown,” snorted Ephraim. “Ef we don’t we’ll be as wild ez hawks when we git ter hum!”

The matter was talked over for quite a while, after which a vote was taken by which it was unanimously resolved to move on to Philadelphia, pay a short visit to the college youth mentioned, and see “how the land lay,” as Harry expressed it.

Two days later found them on the way. They picked out the best bicycle road, and took their time, so that even Bruce did no growling.

A telegram was sent ahead to Charlie Creighton, and he met them at the Continental Hotel, at which place they decided to put up for the time being, for they knew Creighton could not very well accommodate the whole crowd, and they were unwilling to separate.

“You must stay over, at least a few days,” said Charlie Creighton. “And some of you must stay up to our house too. It’s up on Chestnut Hill, and I know you will like it. My sister has a number of girl friends up there, and all of us will do what we can to make you comfortable.” And so it was settled.

Frank found the Creightons very nice people, and soon felt at home with them. Mabel Creighton was a girl who reminded him slightly of Elsie Bellwood, although he did not think her quite so pretty as his old-time sweetheart.

Mabel had several girl chums, and soon Frank and the other boys were on good terms all around.

The girls loved to play tennis, and it was not long before they induced Frank and the others to play.

What one of these games led to will be told in the chapter to follow.

CHAPTER XXIX – FRANK MEETS DEFEAT

“Look out, Merriwell!” called Bart Hodge, from his comfortable seat in the shade of the vine-covered arbor. “This game decides the set.”

“I know that,” smiled Frank, as he took his position back of the base line of the right court, poised his racket, and prepared to serve. “Miss Creighton is a wonder at tennis.”

The pretty girl on the opposite side of the net laughed merrily.

“Oh, what a jolly thing it will be to defeat Frank Merriwell, the great Yale athlete, of whom my brother is forever telling some improbable yarn!” she cried.

Three other girls, two of whom were swinging in a hammock, clapped their hands and laughed.

“Do it, Mabel – do it!” eagerly urged Bessie Blossom. “My brother is forever talking about Frank Merriwell, too! Sile seems to think Mr. Merriwell is the only fellow in college.”

“Oh, he’s not the only pebble on the beach!” sang Fanny Darling, who, for half an hour, had been trying to tease Jack about Frank, and had succeeded in making the loyal fellow decidedly sour and sarcastic. “He may be able to cut some ice with men, but he’ll have to sharpen his wits when he encounters the opposite sex.”

Fanny was freckled and given to slang, but she was independent, could take care of herself, and was popular.

The third girl, Lucy Lake, said nothing at all, but seemed to enjoy it all very much.

Frank was not at all disturbed by the chaffing of the girls. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and he laughingly said:

“If I am to fall, I could choose no fairer conqueror.”

Mabel Creighton laughed, but added color came to her flushed face, and she could not entirely conceal her happy confusion. She betrayed in a moment that already she had learned to regard her brother’s guest with unusual favor.

At tennis Mabel Creighton was a wonder. Never had Frank seen a girl who was so light on her feet and so deft with a racket. She had actually driven him to the base line game, while she played a net game and volleyed with such bewildering skill and rapidity that it made Frank gasp for breath.

To himself Frank confessed that he had never before seen a girl who could serve so perfectly, or who ran up on her service so quickly. It seemed impossible to take her off her guard.

Frank had started out with a half-formed fancy to let her win, but it was not long before he discovered she was an opponent worthy of his best efforts.

And now, as he prepared to serve, the score stood “games all,” with one “advantage game” to Mabel’s credit. If she could win again, Frank would be defeated.

If possible, Frank resolved to keep her from winning that time, just to make it interesting.

But, on this occasion, Frank was to discover it was not such an easy thing to keep a determined girl and a good tennis player from defeating him.

With as much freshness and vigor as if she had not been so long at work, Mabel received the ball, returning it with a smashing stroke, upon which she risked everything.

Frank was not looking for such a play at the very start, and it took him slightly off his guard. He got the ball on the bound, but drove it out of bounds, and lost the first point with surprising quickness.

“He’s going to lose the set!” muttered Hodge, disconsolately.

Fanny Darling laughed merrily.

“Of course he is!” she cried. “Why, he isn’t in it!”

The game went forward swiftly, but Frank won the second point by “lobbying,” being able to toss the ball over the girl’s head so she could not get back to receive it.

“He’s getting desperate when he resorts to that style of play,” decided Diamond.

Fanny Darling gave a shriek of laughter.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “Did you see that, girls? That’s all the way he can get a point now! He’s afraid to try a drive! Is this the mighty Frank Merriwell, of whom we have heard so much? Oh, my! oh, my!”

Frank joined in the burst of laughter.

“Miss Creighton has me guessing,” he confessed. “I acknowledge I fell back on what seemed my last and only resort.”

“It’s too bad to laugh like that, Fan,” protested Lucy Lake. “Just see what a gentleman he is, and how honest he is in owning up that Mabel is giving him a close game.”

“Too bad!” mocked Fanny. “Oh, I don’t know! He’s altogether too honest! Nothing seems to ruffle or disturb him. I don’t like a fellow who is so cool. I’d give anything if I could get Frank Merriwell real good and mad.”

“Why do you wish to do that?”

“Oh, just for fun! I’d like to prove that he can lose his temper occasionally.”

On the very next play Frank succeeded in winning another point by placing the ball skillfully, which made the score stand thirty-fifteen, in his favor.

Hodge brightened up.

“Oh, Merry has been fooling all along,” he declared. “You’ll see how easy he will pull off the set, Miss Darling. He hasn’t cared to hurt Miss Creighton’s feelings by showing her up.”

“Indeed!” scornfully returned the saucy little witch with the freckled face. “Don’t count your chickens so soon. Mr. Merriwell won’t melt things.”

Mabel Creighton looked doubly determined as she again prepared to serve. Her eyes measured the distance to the net carefully, and though she made a fault by placing her first ball against the top of the net, she sent the next over with a speedy drive.

In a moment Merry was on it, and he made a handsome return, which, however, did not deceive the girl in the least. Mabel volleyed, and Frank was forced to resort to the same play. For some moments the game was highly exciting, and the spectators gasped for breath. Then the girl smashed one down within three inches of the outside line, and Frank’s return was outside, so the score was evened.

“Oh, I knew it!” chattered Fanny Darling. “I’ll bet a pound of Huyler’s that Mr. Frank Merriwell does not make another count.”

“Done!” cried Hodge.

“Oh, say, isn’t this easy, girls?” laughed Fanny. “It’s a perfect snap!”

“For us,” smiled Bessie Blossom. “We’ll have some of that candy who ever wins.”

The next point was scored by Mabel, and Diamond called:

“You must quit fooling, Merry, old man. It’s forty-thirty, and she wins if you do not tie her this time.”

“I shall do my best,” declared Frank.

He did do his best, and it seemed that he would tire the girl out, but he was not successful, and a final daring drive from Mabel’s racket was successful.

She had won the game and the set.

“Well, Merriwell, I must say you are a good thing!” called a laughing voice. “I didn’t suppose you would let a little girl like that get the best of you at anything.”

It was Charlie Creighton himself who had entered the grounds, and was standing near the tennis court, accompanied by a stranger.

The latter was a stocky-built lad of nineteen or twenty, with thin lips and a hard-set jaw, besides having a large neck that swelled at the base. He was dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly, but were a trifle “loud” or “sporty,” to say the least.

“Yes, I am a good thing,” returned Frank, also laughing; “and your sister has enjoyed herself with me immensely. If you taught her to play tennis, Creighton, she does you credit.”

“Oh,” cried Fanny Darling, “now that Mr. Merriwell is defeated, I suppose he will say it is not polite to win from a girl, and so he did not do his best. That makes me tired!”

“I shall say nothing of the sort, Miss Darling,” declared Merry, with unfailing good-nature. “I tell you honestly that I soon discovered I would not be in the game at all if I loafed, and I did my prettiest. I think I played my average game, and I know that Miss Creighton defeated me without receiving any favors.”

“Really, you astonish me!” said Fanny, who did not seem pleased by this confession. “But I see you are inclined to be diplomatic. I don’t blame you, but – ”

She interrupted herself with a toss of her head, and she had hinted quite enough to bring the hot blood to Frank’s cheeks, although he pretended not to understand her meaning.

Generous to a fault, it cut Merriwell deeply to be suspected of declaring he had been beaten fairly and not meaning it. A blow in the face would not have hurt him so much, but he simply smiled, saying:

“You do me an injustice, Miss Darling.”

No one understood how Frank had been touched better than Bart Hodge, and he growled under his breath, giving Fanny Darling a scowl, which she did not see.

The stranger with Charlie Creighton was sizing up Merriwell in an open manner that was little short of insolent.

“Merry,” called Creighton, “permit me to introduce Mr. Wallace Hegner – Mr. Hegner, Mr. Merriwell.”

Frank came forward, and offered his hand, which Hegner accepted with an air that was rather supercilious, to say the least.