"When he comes riding up the valleyI watch from my window nook;My cheeks burn hot, my heart is throbbingFor a single word or lookTo tell me that he loves me truly,But fear his lips will not beUnsealed to whisper low the storyThat means so much to me.
"When he comes riding up the valleyI watch from my window nook;My cheeks burn hot, my heart is throbbingFor a single word or lookTo tell me that he loves me truly,But fear his lips will not beUnsealed to whisper low the storyThat means so much to me.
"It's poor poetry, Berlin—poor poetry; but it expressed the longing of my heart. And your lips remained sealed!"
Now he would have seized her and crushed her to his heart, but with astonishing strength she clutched his wrists and held him back.
"My lips are unsealed now!" he panted.
"It's too late!" she cried, in a weak, heartbroken tone; "too late!"
"Why is it too late? How can that be?"
"One thing you have forgotten. You found me here playing a part. Do you think I'm pretending to be a French nurse merely as a whim—merely as an amusement?"
"I can't understand that," he confessed. "Why is it?"
She forced a laugh that was wholly without merriment.
"Perhaps this is only one of many parts I have played. You called me an actress. I am—an actress on the stage of life. I intended that no one should ever again recognize me as the daughter of Colonel King. I found it necessary to work—to make my living somehow. Had I appeared here as Bessie King, do you think Frank Merriwell would have trusted me? Do you think I would be an inmate of his home? Oh, no, Berlin. I had to disguise myself to deceive him, and it was necessary to play my part well. Even when I did my best I realized he knew he had seen me before some time, somewhere. Once he questioned me. Once he asked me if I had a brother. He was very, very near discovering the truth then. Do you think I can have any feeling of friendliness for this man Merriwell? Do you think I can forget that it was through him my father met his fate? Only for Frank Merriwell the real truth might have remained a secret. In time the cattle stealing would have ceased. My father would have sold the Flying Dollars, and we would have gone elsewhere. But Merriwell came, and his discovery brought the sheriff and his posse. Sometimes when I have thought of this I've longed to kill Frank Merriwell. More than once I have said to myself, 'His life is yours, for you saved it once.'"
"You should put aside such thoughts and feelings,Bessie. You cannot blame Frank. He was my friend. I brought him to the Big Sandy. Our cattle were being stolen. As my friend, he did his best to aid me."
"Oh, I suppose it's wrong, but a person brought up as I have been finds it hard to distinguish right from wrong. Many of the things people recognize as right seem wholly wrong to me. Would you have a wife with such a distorted conscience, Berlin Carson?"
"Let me be your guide," he pleaded. "Let me teach you the right."
"I tell you it is too late!"
Words seemed useless, and he stood there gazing at her helplessly, almost hopelessly. A sudden thought struck him like a blow, and he almost reeled.
"There is another!" he hoarsely whispered. "Ah, ha, that's it! I've struck the truth at last! It's that man—the man you met to-night! Speak up, Bessie! Tell me who he is! By Heaven, you shall tell me!"
"I will—in time," she promised. "Wait, Berlin—please wait!"
"I've waited too long already. Have I waited simply to find another man in my place?"
"Wait a little longer," she urged. "I have promised to tell you all, and I will. Can't you trust me a little longer, Berlin? Please—please trust me a little longer!"
She held out her hands in pleading, and a momentlater, ere she could check him, he had seized her and was holding her to his heart.
"Yes, yes," he panted, "I will trust you, Bessie—I'll trust you with my very life!"
Their lips met, and then——
The heavens fell!
Lizette was hammering at Frank Merriwell's door.
"Wake up, monsieur!" she cried. "Mon Dieu, it is such a terrible theeng! Queek! queek! Do come, monsieur!"
Her knock and her cries brought Frank forth in pajamas.
"What is it—what's the matter?" he demanded.
The voice of Hodge was heard questioning the cause of the disturbance, and Bart came forth from another room.
Lizette seized Merry's arm.
"Oh, come queek!" she implored. "I see it from my window. I have ze bad headache so long I cannot sleep. Zen I geet up and sit by ze window. I look out and see some one walking beneath the trees. When he walk in ze moonlight I see it is ze Monsieur Carson. Zen all at once—oh, ze terrible theeng!"
"Go on!" commanded Frank. "All at once—what?"
"I see ze ozzer man—just ze glimpse. I see heem run out queek and soft behind Monsieur Carson. He lift his hands. He strike Monsieur Carson with sometheeng, and Monsieur Carson he fall down and lie so still on ze grass. Zen ze ozzer man he run away."
It did not take Frank long to go leaping down the stairs, and Hodge followed him closely. They tore open the door and rushed out. Within the shadow at the corner of the house they stumbled over a prostrate figure.
Frank dropped on his knees.
"It's Berlin!" he hoarsely exclaimed. "Heavens! is he dead?"
"Hardly that, Merry," came a faint whisper, as Carson stirred in Frank's arms. "What was it that fell on me? It seemed as if the moon came down and burst upon my head. I saw a flash of fire and heard a frightful explosion. What happened to me?"
"Some one struck you down from behind. Lizette saw it from her window. She was sitting at the window and saw you walking here on the lawn. She saw the man rush upon you and knock you senseless."
"Lizette?" muttered Carson. And then again in a queer tone he said: "Lizette?"
"Yes, she saw it."
"From—her—window?" questioned Berlin.
"From her window," repeated Frank. "Have you been robbed, Carson? The ruffian must have been a robber. I presume he went through your pockets."
"I don't know," muttered the young Westerner thickly.
"Let me see," said Frank. "He didn't take your watch, and here's your purse. Why, this is singular!I wonder if he saw Lizette. I wonder if she uttered a cry and frightened him away."
"Let's find the whelp!" snarled Hodge.
"First let's find out how badly Carson is hurt. Let's get him into the house."
Together they lifted Berlin and assisted him to the house between them.
Inza was calling from the head of the stairs to know what was the matter.
"Lie to her, Merry," said Hodge. "Don't let her get excited. Wait, I'll do the lying. I'll quiet her and Elsie."
He hastened up the stairs.
Carson sat on a chair and felt of his head with both hands.
Frank struck a light, and he examined to see how badly his friend was injured.
"Here's a bad bump," he said; "but I don't believe your scalp is broken. Looks as if you'd been struck by a sandbag."
"Whatever it was, it put me out of commission mighty quick," mumbled Berlin. "Goodness! my head aches a whole lot. I'm weak a-plenty."
They heard Bart telling Inza and Elsie that a man had been seen prowling around outside. Hodge was concealing the fact that anything had happened to Carson. He urged them to go back to their rooms.
"No need of frightening them over me, Merry,"muttered Berlin. "I'm all right. My head is too thick to be easily cracked."
"Tell me just how it happened," urged Merry.
"Didn't Lizette tell you?"
"Yes, but I thought she might be mistaken in her excitement. Did you see any one? Did you see who struck you?"
"No, I didn't see him."
"Nor hear him?"
"Nor hear him, Frank. I heard nothing. It's doubtful if I'd heard a clap of thunder just then."
"Eh, why not?"
"Oh, well, you see I was—I'd been—I'd been—thinking," faltered Carson.
"How did you happen to be out there?"
"Couldn't sleep. Went out to get the air."
"Well, let me doctor that bump. Sit right still; I'll take care of you."
Merry hurried away, soon returning with a bowl of cool water and a sponge. He also had some sort of soothing liniment.
Hodge returned while Frank was at work over Berlin.
"Managed to calm the girls down and sent them back to bed," he said.
Then he took something from his pocket, clicked it, and looked it over.
"What's that?" asked Merry.
"My pistol," answered Bart grimly. "I'm going out to look for the gent who did this little job."
"Don't go alone. Wait till I get Carson fixed, and I'll be with you."
"And that will give him plenty of time to get away. We've given him too much time already, Frank. Don't worry about me. I'll take care of myself, and I'll take care of him if I find him."
Bart went out.
"Are you feeling better, Carson?" questioned Merry.
"Oh, I tell you I'm all right," was the answer, as Berlin tried to force a laugh.
"Who could be prowling round here?" speculated Frank. "I wonder if a burglar was trying to break in."
"That must be it," said Carson quickly. "Did Lizette describe the man?"
"No. She said she barely saw him as he rushed out behind your back and struck you."
"It's strange that Bessie should——"
Carson checked himself.
"Bessie?" questioned Frank.
"I mean Lizette," Berlin hastened to say. "My thoughts are all in a jumble. Don't mind me if I get mixed up. I'm all right now, Merry."
"If you need a doctor——"
"I don't. You've done everything a doctor could do."
"Then if you're all right, I think I'll go out and look around for Hodge."
Carson rose to his feet a trifle unsteadily.
"I'm going with you," he declared.
"You'd better not," Merry advised.
"I must—I want to."
"You're still weak."
"Oh, no; I'm strong enough. Just see, Frank, I can walk all right."
"Come on, then," said Merriwell.
All around the grounds they searched, finally finding Hodge, who stated that he had seen no trace of any one.
"The rascal made good his escape," said Frank. "I'll notify the sheriff first thing in the morning. A while ago there were some burglaries in surrounding towns. Perhaps the crooks have decided to operate in Bloomfield."
"And it was natural they should pick out your house first, Merry," said Carson.
They turned toward the house and paused again beneath the very tree where Berlin had stood when he heard the mingled voices of Lizette and the unknown man. As Frank and Hodge were talking, Carson turned away and walked a short distance towardthe house. Stepping out from beneath the trees, he looked up.
In an open upper window a face appeared, distinctly shown by the moonlight.
It was Lizette.
He gazed up at her, and she looked down at him. Then she leaned forth from the window, lifted one hand and pressed a finger to her lips.
He understood the signal and nodded.
She vanished, and he saw her no more that night.
The following day Lizette seemed strangely overcome—almost prostrated—by what she claimed she had beheld from her window the previous night. Professing that she was quite ill, she kept to her room a great deal, permitting Maggie to care for the baby.
Carson was restless and nervous, and in his face his friends observed a strange look of eagerness, which at times gave place to an expression of triumph or of doubt. His injury proved to be comparatively slight.
Frank reported the presence of the prowler and the attack on Carson to the local authorities.
Somehow an atmosphere of unrest and uncertainty, a sensation of expectation in the face of some unforeseen calamity, seemed to hover over Merry Home.
It was nearly mid-afternoon, and Inza was on the veranda, with Elsie near, when Maggie appeared, looking puzzled and frightened.
"Shure, ma'am," she said, "Oi wish ye'd come up and take a peep at the choild."
"Is anything the matter with little Frank?" exclaimed Inza, hastily rising. "Is he ill, Maggie?"
"Nivver a bit," answered the girl. "He's slaping loike a top."
"But what is it? You look so queer."
"It's quare Oi feel, ma'am. Oi left him in his little bed a whoile ago to take a bit av a breath, which Oi naded. Whin Oi came back he was there, all roight, all roight, but it's moighty odd he looks to me."
Inza followed Maggie to the chamber where the child lay asleep.
"Lift the window shade and let in the light," she said.
It happened that Frank came over to the house a few moments later to get a book he needed, and he was startled when his wife, pale and shaking, came flying down the stairs, seized him by the arm, and panted:
"Come, Frank—this minute! Come quick! The baby!"
Believing the child seriously ill, Merry lost no time in following his wife. They found Elsie beside the crib. The baby lay there wide awake, looking at them in a wondering way as they stooped above him.
"Why, he doesn't seem to be ill, Inza," said Merry. "You frightened me. I thought he was dying."
She clutched his arm with a grip that was almost frantic in its astonishing strength.
"Look at him!" she hoarsely cried. "Look close!"
"What is it, Inza? What do you see?"
"His hair—can't you see the change?"
"The change?"
"Yes, yes! His hair is lighter!"
"Lighter?"
"Yes, lighter than little Frank's! And his eyes—his eyes are blue! Frank's were brown!"
"Great heavens, it's true!" burst from Merriwell. "What does it mean, Inza? What sort of juggling in this?"
"Frank Merriwell, that's not our child!"
He staggered as if struck a terrible blow.
"Not our child? Then, who—— What child is it? Where did it come from? You must be mistaken, Inza!"
"I'm not! I know my own baby boy!"
"The star—look for the star!" shouted Merriwell.
Almost fiercely he seized the baby's garments and with one movement tore them from the tiny shoulder.
The mark of the star was not there!
Merriwell straightened up and stood for a moment like a man turned to stone. In that moment, however, while he outwardly seemed so inactive and dumfounded his brain was working swiftly.
"Where's Lizette?" he demanded, and his voice was calm and cold.
"Where's Lizette, Maggie?" panted Inza, turning on the now thoroughly frightened servant.
"In her room, ma'am, Oi suppose," was the answer.
"Find her," said Frank. "Bring her here instantly."
Maggie rushed away and soon returned with the announcement that Lizette was not in her room.
By this time Inza was so frightened that she wasthreatened with hysterics. She almost fought Elsie, who was seeking to calm her.
"Let me talk to her, Elsie," said Frank.
He grasped his wife firmly yet gently, holding her and looking straight into her eyes.
"Look at me, Inza—look at me," he commanded. "Look me in the eyes."
Even in her frantic condition she could not disobey him. Tremblingly Elsie looked on, seeing Merry gaze intently into his wife's dark eyes.
"Inza," said Frank, in that same calm, masterful tone, "you must be quiet. You must trust me. I've never failed you yet. I'll not fail you now. That is not our child, but I will find little Frank and bring him back to you. Sit here!"
He lifted her bodily and placed her in a big easy-chair. Again he gazed intently into her eyes, and beneath that gaze she rapidly grew calmer.
"You know I'll do what I have said I would, Inza—you know it."
"Yes," she huskily whispered, "I know it, Frank—but I'm almost distracted—I'm almost crazy! Don't lose a moment!"
"Wait calmly and confidently when I'm gone. I'll have to leave you. When I return I'll place little Frank in your arms."
He kissed her.
A moment later he was gone.
A man and a woman were making their way through a strip of timber where the shadows were thick. They were almost running, the man being in advance. He carried a bundle, from which at intervals came a strange, smothered cry, like the wailing of an infant.
"Oh, Selwin, Selwin," gasped the woman, "I can't keep this up! I'm ready to drop now! Can't you go a little slower?"
"And have those human hounds overtake us?" snarled the man. "Curse them! They're like bloodhounds on the scent! I've tried every trick to turn them off our track. I've doubled and turned, I've crossed ledges and waded streams, but I fear to hear them behind us any moment!"
"You were mad, Selwin—mad!" gasped the weary woman, whose garments were tattered and torn, and whose hands and face were scratched and bleeding. "I told you how it would be! I told you we could not carry this mad scheme through!"
"I will carry it through!" he grated. "If we can keep away from them until darkness falls, they'll be unable to follow us farther."
"But the whole country will be aroused! We can't escape! I say it was madness!"
"How in the devil did they find it out so soon?"
"I knew they would—I knew it! The other child——"
"Looked enough like this one to pass muster for a few hours, at least," he interrupted. "Satan take the brat! Hear it squall!"
Again a smothered cry came from the bundle.
"Don't hurt it!" pleaded the woman. "Don't handle it so roughly!"
"Hurt it? Furies! I'd like to strangle it! Here's a path. We'll follow that."
The path soon brought them into an old wood road, and they mounted a wooded hill, the woman desperately stumbling along at the heels of the man. On the hillside they came upon a deserted hut. Through the trees they could see the sun sinking redly in the west.
"Oh, stop, Selwin—stop a little while!" entreated the fatigued woman. "Let's rest here."
He halted and scowled as he stood in thought.
"They should be somewhere over to the northeast," he said. "I wonder if I could see them from the top of the hill. I'll try it. Here, take the brat, Bessie. I'll be back in a few minutes."
He tossed the bundle into her arms, whirled and rushed away up the hill.
The woman sat down on the trunk of a felled tree. She opened the bundle and gazed sadly, almost lovingly, on the face of an infant. The little eyes lookedup at her, seemed to recognize her, and something like a smile came to the child's face.
"Poor little Frank! poor little Frank!" she breathed. "It's a shame—a brutal shame! Oh, why did I ever consent! Even though I have hated your father, I love you! It's drink that's turned the brain of Selwin Harris!"
The baby began to fret and cry.
"You're hungry, darling," muttered the woman. "Oh, what brutes we are! What a wretched thing I am! I've always been bad, and I always will be. Still, a noble man loves me. Oh, Berlin, Berlin, you will despise me now! Even though you loved me through all the past and for all of the past, you'll scorn and despise me now! Well, what does it matter? You found me at last, and you forced the truth from my lips; but it was too late—too late!"
Bitter tears of mingled sorrow and shame welled into her eyes and blinded her. They fell from her cheeks upon the cheeks of the fretting child.
"Oh, Frank—oh, little honey boy!" she sobbed. "I hope you may never live to know such wretchedness as I have known! Better that you should die now! Better you had never been born! Why was I born? Why was I set adrift in this wretched, wicked old world? Not one thing in life has ever gone right with me!"
A crashing sound gave her a start, and she sawthe man returning on a run. As he passed a corner of the old hut one foot seemed to break through the ground, and he went down. With some difficulty, he drew forth his leg from a hole into which he had plunged. Pausing, he looked down into that hole, and far beneath he caught a faint mercurylike glitter.
"An old well," he muttered. "The brush and deadwood had fallen over the mouth of it and hidden it. I came near dropping in there myself."
"Are you hurt, Selwin?" called the woman.
"No," he answered; "but I came mighty near falling into a trap."
As he approached her she observed a look on his face that gave her a shuddery chill.
"Let me take the child," he said.
"No; I'll carry him a little while. Did you see anything of the pursuers?"
"See them?" he snarled. "Curse them, yes!"
"They're still on our track?"
"Following it like hounds—like hounds! There are four of them. I know Merriwell and Hodge. The other two are boys. One of the boys is leading, and he runs, stooped forward, with his eyes on the ground. No Indian ever followed a trail more accurately than he has followed ours."
"No Indian?" cried the woman. "You say he is a boy. Then it must be young Joe Crowfoot! I'veseen him. He's one of the boys at Merriwell's school. He is a full-blooded Indian."
"That accounts for it!" rasped the man. "That explains my failure to deceive them. The rest of the pursuers are far away on the main road. I saw them. They're in a carriage. Give me that child, Bessie."
He sought to take the baby from her.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, her hand shaking as she put it up to hold him off.
"There's only one thing to be done. If we're captured with the child in our possession, we go to the jug. If the child is not in our possession and cannot be found, we can swear we know nothing about it. The other one——"
"You're still mad, Selwin Harris! Would you murder this helpless infant?"
"Murder?"
"Yes. There's murder in your heart—in your face! I see it!"
"Look here, Bessie; there's only one show for us to escape. That kid has encumbered me frightfully. I couldn't help you. That child out of the way, I can help you. We'll dodge them until it gets dark. I'll drop the brat into that old well and pull the brush over the opening. I can do it so that the well will not be found. We'll go back a short distance on our tracks and then turn off. They'll turn at the samepoint and follow us. There's no time to waste. Let me have the brat."
She fought him with all her strength.
"Never! never! never!" she panted. "You'll have to kill me first!"
In a moment or two he realized that, unless he beat or choked her into unconsciousness, he could not take the infant from her.
"You're a fool—you always were!" he raged.
"Yes, I'm a fool!" she flung back. "I was a fool to ever have anything to do with you! Back yonder somewhere in the carriage that is following us is a man who loves me—a noble, manly, honest man. I knew him first, and he would have married me. Had I not run away from him, I'd be his wife to-day, and I'd be an honest woman."
"You—you an honest woman!" flung back the ruffian, with a sneering laugh. "You an honest woman—the daughter of a cattle thief!"
"Laugh! Sneer! Taunt me! Fling my disgrace in my face! And you're the man I once thought I loved! I thought I did! Ha! ha! ha! You've called me a fool. It's true! I thought I loved you; but now I hate you—I hate you!"
"Oh, rats! You're playing to the gallery now, Bessie. Well, we'll have to move—we'll have to hike lively. The sun is almost down. The shadows are growing thicker. Will darkness never come?"
"It's come for me!" she groaned. "It's in my heart! It's in my soul! For me it is the eternal, never-ending night of sin, disgrace, and shame!"
He clutched her arm and dragged her on. Again they stumbled and lunged and tore their way through the shadowy woods. To their right the sun had dropped beyond the far-away hills, flinging a last reddish glow up into the highest sky, and this glow seemed temporarily to lighten the whole forest. Through a boggy spot they floundered. Through a jungle they thrust themselves. And at last, as the reddish sky was fading and turning to lead, they came upon a rutty, winding country road. Darkness shut down quickly.
A light gleamed ahead of them. It came from the window of a house.
Hitched to a fence corner in front of the house was a horse, attached to an old wagon.
The man paused beside the wagon.
"Get in!" he commanded.
"What are you going to do?"
"Get in! I'm going to take this team. Somebody who is calling at that house left it standing here. It was left for us."
He lifted her into the wagon, sprang to the head of the horse, unhitched the animal, and a moment later was by the woman's side. The horse was reined around into the road. The man seized the whip and amoment later the sound of the animal's hoofs mingled with the rattle of the wagon wheels.
"Night at last!" cried the desperate kidnaper. "Now we'll dodge them somehow!"
"You cannot dodge them, Selwin," said the woman. "I feel that we're hurrying straight into their clutches."
"Why, you fool, they're behind us! I tell you we'll dodge them now. Why in blazes did I ever bother to take that other brat from the poorhouse where its mother died? It was your plan to substitute one child for the other, Bessie. I wanted to steal Merriwell's kid in the first place. Furies take him! I swore years ago to strike at his heart when the time came. He was responsible for the death of my brother. They were at Yale together, this Merriwell and poor old Sport. Merriwell disgraced Sport by exposing him as a card sharp. Sport sought to get even. He followed Merriwell to England, and in England he died. In his last letter to me he wrote that he had a premonition of his fate. He said he felt sure that Merriwell would do him up at last."
"Did Frank Merriwell kill him?"
"Oh, just the same as that. I believe Sport was killed in some sort of an accident while he was running away from Merriwell. I've waited a long time, but I've struck at last. Satan take this hill!"
He lashed the horse, and the animal went galloping up the road that wound over the hill.
Suddenly, at a turn of the road, two fiery eyes burst into view, and through the night came the wild shriek of an automobile horn.
With an oath, the man sought to rein to one side of the narrow road.
The fiery eyes were right upon them.
There was a crash. The wagon was struck and smashed. Man, woman, and child were hurled into the ditch.
Chester Arlington, a lad who, despite his father's wealth, had been dismissed from school, stopped his machine ten rods farther on.
"Are you hurt, June?" he asked, addressing his sister, who numbered Dick Merriwell and Dale Sparkfair among her admirers.
"No, I'm not hurt," answered the girl, who was sitting beside him. "But I believe you've killed some one, Chester! I told you that you would! Oh, it's terrible! Let's go back and see."
Arlington removed one of the oil lamps from his car, and they started back toward the scene of the collision.
Another wagon came over the brow of the hill and stopped. From a distance in the opposite direction came a sharp signal whistle that was answered by one of the three persons in the wagon.
"That's Merry!" exclaimed Berlin Carson, as he leaped out. "I wonder what's happened here. Somebody's smashed up."
Two minutes later young Joe Crowfoot, Frank Merriwell, Bart Hodge, and Dale Sparkfair arrived. They found a horse, with the shafts of a smashed wagon attached, calmly grazing by the roadside. The wrecked wagon was in the ditch. Near by lay the body of a man. A few yards away sat a woman, holding an unharmed child in her arms.
"We've got them, Frank!" said Berlin Carson, as he took the lamp from Arlington's hand and turned the light on the face of the prostrate man. "Here's the wretch who did it! Do you know him?"
Merry looked down.
"He's dead!" said Frank.
"I think his neck was broken," exclaimed Carson. "I don't believe he realized what happened after the automobile struck the wagon. Do you know him, Frank?"
"I've seen that face before. Yes, I think I know him. His name—his name is Harris! That's it! Why, his brother was at Yale! You remember Sport Harris, Carson?"
"Sure!" breathed Berlin.
Merriwell seized the child, and the woman surrendered it to him.
"I'm wicked!" she said. "Put me in prison! ButI saved your child's life when Selwin Harris would have taken it!"
"Lizette, why did you do this thing?" asked Merry. "What was that man to you?"
"He was my husband," she replied. "I'm not Lizette. That's not my name. I deceived you because he commanded me to. Put me in prison! I hope they keep me there till I die!"
Carson's hand found that of Merriwell.
"Merry," he said huskily, pleadingly, "this poor girl is Bessie King. I loved her once. It's dead now, all the love I knew. She has been more weak than sinful. You have your boy safe in your arms. You'll take him back to Inza. You'll keep your promise to her. We were old comrades at college. I would have done anything for you then, and I would do anything in my power for you now. For my sake let this poor woman go—for my sake, Frank!"
There was a hush. Frank stood there in silence for such a long time that every person seemed to hear the beating of his own heart.
At last Merriwell spoke.
"For your sake I will, Berlin," he said.
Protected from arrest by the pity of Berlin Carson, whose love for her was as dead as was the man she had acknowledged as her husband, Bessie left behind her the home which, for several hours, she had plunged in grief and anxiety. An examination of the infant which had been kidnaped showed that it had sustained no injury, and, filled with a spirit of thankfulness, Frank and Inza Merriwell resolved that the little foundling which had been substituted for their baby son should be placed in a more worthy home than was afforded by the asylum from which it had been taken. In a few days such a home was found, and the infant which had inspired Frank and Inza with such feelings of consternation when they had discovered that it was not their own, was committed to the kindly care of a prosperous and honest young farmer and his wife, who were childless, and who lived only a few miles from the Merriwell home.
But it did not take long for the sympathetic eyes of Frank and Inza to see that the ardent love of Berlin Carson for the young woman, who had proved herself to be unworthy of him, though now extinguished, had left him moody and disinterested in the future.
And so one evening, Inza, laying a hand on one of the arms of her husband, said gently:
"We must do something for Berlin, Frank. It is wrong for a man to brood so over a misfortune as he is doing. Is it not possible for us to do more to enliven him and cause him to think less of his disappointment and the shock he has received?"
Frank shook his head thoughtfully.
"I scarcely see what more we can do, Inza," he replied. "Men are unlike women. The grief of a woman may yield to the sympathetic words and actions and cheerful influence of friends, but when a man has some great trouble—especially if he be a strong man—it is best that he should have an opportunity to make his fight against depressing influences alone. He must have time to think it out. All references to his sorrow are likely to irritate him, and evidence of the pity of others galls his pride. No, no, Inza, there is little that you and I can do, I fear. Let us do our best to surround him with a cheerful atmosphere, and——"
"That is precisely what I mean, Frank. Now, I have a plan. Several weeks ago I heard you say that one day you might find it possible to have around you here many of the members of what you are so often wont to call your 'old flock'—your old school and college mates, and some of your old friends from theSouthwest. Why do you not make an effort now to get them here?"
Frank gave a little start, and then smiled thoughtfully.
"I will think it over, Inza," he said.
Early the next morning Frank sent out a number of telegrams to his old friends. To these telegrams he received replies in the course of the next twenty-four hours.
And thus it came to pass that the pilgrimage to Merry Home began.
Several days later, in a parlor car of the eastbound express were four young people who had traveled far. They were Ephraim Gallup; his wife, Teresa; Barney Mulloy, and a charming and vivacious Spanish girl, Juanita Garcia, Teresa's bosom friend. The men were old friends of Frank Merriwell.
All wore sensible traveling suits, and, in spite of the long journey, they appeared to be little fatigued. There was an expression of eagerness and impatience on the face of Gallup, and Mulloy seemed in a similar mood.
"By gum, we're gittin' back into God's country ag'in!" exclaimed the lanky Vermonter. "Arter bein' buried down there in Mexico so long it seems jest like heaven."
"Do they be afther callin' this a fast expriss?" burst from Mulloy. "Faith, but it crawls loike a shnail, soit does. Will we iver reach Bloomfield? It's itchin' Oi am to put me hands on Frankie Merriwell."
"Eet ees so glad I shall also be to see Señor Merriwell," laughed Teresa.
"Hey?" cried Gallup, giving her a look of mock reproof. "Naow yeou be keerful, young woman! I ain't fergut that you was kinder smashed on him once."
At this his wife laughingly protested her innocence.
"Nevvier, nevvier after I knew you loved me, Ephraim," she declared. "One time I theenk you do not care. Then I geet so very angry. Then I make eyes at ze handsome Señor Merriwell. I do eet to see how you like that. Eet make you geet to your job on. Eet make you set your tongue loose and say the word I want you to say. Señor Merriwell he not care one snap for me. I know eet. Do you theenk Teresa ees the foolish girl?"
"Not a hanged bit of it!" chuckled Gallup. "She was the slickest little article I ever run up ag'inst. I guess yeou're right, Teresa. I guess yeou kinder waked me up when you flung them goo-goo eyes at Frank. Fust time in my life I ever felt that way, but, by ginger! I wanted to swat him on the jaw. Great Hubbard squashes, wasn't I in love then!"
His wife frowned.
"Een love then?" she exclaimed. "You not be so much so now, ah?"
"Thunder! I'm ten times wuss now than I was then, and you know it, Teresa. Didn't I coax and beg and hang on like a dog to a bone to git you to come East with me to visit Frank?"
"It was the baby," breathed Teresa. "The question was to breeng the baby or to leave eet with eets grand-fathaire. I know he take the most splendeed care of eet. He have the nursees watch all the time, and he watch heemself. He know how to care for the baby most beautiful."
"That's right," nodded Gallup, "the old don is a rappin' good baby nuss. It's the funniest thing in the world to see him doddling round with a baby in his arms. And to think that he used to be a red-hot revolutionist, and called the Firebrand of Sonora! As a fighter, he was a rip-tearer. As a baby nuss he's the greatest expert that ever wore men's trousers."
"Begob, the don is all roight, all roight," agreed Barney. "The only gint who iver downed him was Frankie Merriwell. Instid av layin' it up against Frankie, and lookin' for revinge, the way people ginerally suppose Mexicans and Spaniards do, the don shook hands, and became wan av Frankie's bist friends."
Ephraim leaned forward to pat his wife's cheek.
"Your old dad is a jim-hickey, Terese," he said.
Juanita had been smiling, and now she laughed outright in a rippling, musical manner.
"What ees eet you laugh at, Juanita?" demanded Teresa.
"Oh, eet ees the way the Yankee man he keep on making love," answered the girl. "One time I theenk I despise every gringo. One time I theenk maybe perhaps if I find one who have the great likeeng for me—eef he be handsome, eef he be good—I theenk maybe—perhaps——"
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Mrs. Gallup laughingly. "Eet ees the great change of the mind. Maybe you meet lots of good-lookeeng young man at Señor Merriwell's. We make the marriage for you."
"Oh, no," protested Juanita. "That ees the way they do in Mexico. I like the way the American girl do. She make her own marriage. She catch the man she want. She not have to take the one her people say she must marry. No one for me ees to make the match."
"Hooroo for you!" cried Barney. "Thot's the stuff! It's a diclaration of indepindince! Oi wonder who'll be at the reunion, Ephie?"
"I dunno," answered Gallup, shaking his head. "Merry's telegram said there'd be a lot of the old flock there. I'll be all-fired glad to see 'em. Wonder how the fellers have prospered. I hope they've all done as well as we have, Barney."
"Av they have," nodded Mulloy, "the most av thimshould be satisfied. It's a clane little pile av money we made in thot railroad business, Ephraim."
"You bate!" chuckled the Vermonter. "Take us together, Barney and we make a hull team, with a little dog under the wagon."
"As a business partner," said the Irishman, "Oi'll take a down-east Yankee ivery toime. Begobs, Ephie, ye know how to do business all roight, all roight!"
"And as a railroad construction boss," grinned Gallup, "yeou're right up to date, Barney. Yeou handled your end of the business slick as a whistle while I was lookin' arter my end. I wonder what they're stoppin' here for?"
The train was pulling up at a junction. On questioning the porter, they learned that there would be a stop of nearly twenty minutes while other cars were taken on from another route.
Gallup proposed that they should step out on the platform and get some air. Neither Teresa nor Juanita seemed anxious to do this, so Ephraim and Barney left them in the car.
The junction was a bustling little town, and there was a great deal going on in the vicinity of the station.
Mulloy and Gallup lighted cigars and promenaded the platform.
At the far end they observed a group of men and boys surrounding a person who stood on a smallsquare box, making a speech. This person was bareheaded, and his hair was unusually long and disheveled. He was dressed in a loose suit of light-colored clothes, wore a negligee shirt, with a soft turndown collar, and had no vest. His back was toward Barney and Ephraim as they approached.
"Begorra! it's natural he looks," muttered the Irishman.
"Gol-dinged if that ain't right!" agreed Gallup. "Somehow his voice sounds kinder nateral, too."
They paused at the edge of the group to listen.
"Friends and brothers," cried the speaker, in a clear, sad voice, "I presume many of you heard me speak on your public square last evening. Still it is possible that some of you were not there to listen to my words, to hear my warning of the great coming clash of the classes. It is as inevitable as the sinking of yonder sun to-night and its rise again to-morrow. With a prophetic eye I look into the future and behold the day when labor shall have its rights. That day is coming as surely as the sun continues to rise in the east. The iron hand of Capital would hold it back, but that cruel iron hand cannot, Joshua-like, stay the course of the sun nor stem the tide of human progress.
"Every intelligent person within the sound of my voice knows it is true that the rich are growing richer and the poor are becoming poorer. The accumulation of stupendous fortunes in the hands of individualsthreatens the very foundations of our government. Time was when a man worth a million was supposed to be immensely rich. To-day the possessor of a single million is looked on with scorn and contempt by our multimillionaires. Ten millions, twenty millions, fifty millions—aye, even a hundred millions are now accumulated by individuals. This money belongs to the masses, the laborers who have earned it by the sweat of their brows."
"Hear! hear!" "That's right!" "Hooray!" cried the crowd.
Mulloy had gripped Ephraim's arm.
"Ivery word av thot has a familiar sound to me," muttered the Irishman. "Oi've heard thot talk before and from the same lips."
"My friends," continued the speaker, "we are all brothers. Justice to one and all of this great human family should be our motto. Unfortunately for me I was not born of the masses, as the royal knights of labor are now called by the American aristocrats of boodle. By birth I was supposed to be exalted above the lower strata of humanity. My parents were wealthy. My father gave me an education to be a slave driver over the common people. His blood runs in my veins, but my heart is not of his heart. In his eyes I have become disgraced because I dared boldly claim the street laborer, the man with the hoe, the man with the pick and shovel, the man with the sweat ofhonest toil on his brow—I have dared to claim him as a fellow man and brother.
"I have traveled from coast to coast, and I have lived in the poorest quarters of New York, Chicago, and other great cities. My heart has bled at the sufferings of the poor people who are wearing their wretched lives away in toil for a most wretched sustenance. The friends I once knew have turned from me and called me a socialist, an anarchist. They call us anarchists because we sympathize with the downtrodden masses—because we prophesy the coming of the great struggle that shall emancipate these masses. We are not anarchists, but we are proud to be called socialists. Anarchy is disorder and ruin. Socialism is order and equal rights for all. Let them point the finger of scorn at us. What care we? But let them beware, for the great earthquake is coming."
Mulloy and Gallup had forced their way through the crowd, and even as the speaker uttered these words Barney gave him a terrible slap on the back, while Ephraim kicked the box from beneath his feet.
"The earthquake do be come, begorra!" shouted Mulloy. "Greg Carker, ye bloody old socialist raskil, Oi have yez in me hands, and Oi'm going to hug yez till ye holler!"
Carker was almost smothered in the powerful arms of the delighted Irish youth.
To the crowd, however, it seemed that a violent assault had been made on the orator. In that crowd were many who sympathized with the socialistic speaker or were pronounced socialists themselves. These persons grew excited immediately, and a dozen of them sought to push forward to Carker's assistance. They reached for Mulloy and Gallup with savage hands or sought to smite the two young men with clenched fists.
"Great hemlock!" exclaimed Ephraim, as he thrust aside the outstretched hands or warded off blows. "What in thutteration's the matter with this bunch of lunatics!"
"Down with them—down with the aristocrats!" snarled the angry crowd.
"Whoop! Hooroo!" shouted Barney Mulloy, releasing Carker. "Is it a schrap thot do be on our hands, Oi dunno? Begorra, it's so long since Oi've been consarned in a real fight that me blood tingles with pleasure at the thought av it."
By this time Carker recognized the sun-tannedyoung man who had interrupted his speech. As quickly as possible he flung himself in front of the excited crowd, threw up his hands, and shouted:
"Stand back! stand back! They're my friends!"
"Gott in Himmel!" gurgled a German. "Did not they you attackt? Dit ve not see them py our eyes as they didid it?"
"I tell you they're my friends," persisted Carker.
"They hit-a you! They grab-a you!" shouted an Italian. "They stop-a you from making the speech!"
"It's all right," persisted the young socialist. "I had finished my speech. I tell you to keep back! Stand off! The man who touches them is not friendly toward me. He's not friendly toward socialism."
"Vale," said the German, "uf you put it to us up dot vay, it vill a settlement make."
Then he turned and faced the crowd, pushing many of them back with his pudgy hands as he shouted:
"Stood avay nearer off! Don't push up so far close! Dit you not hear our prother say they vas his friendts alretty?"
The excitement of the crowd rapidly subsided. Carker spoke to them calmly, explaining that the two young men who had brought his speech to such a sudden termination were his bosom comrades of old times, even thought they might not be thoroughbred socialists.
"Where the dickens did you two boys come from?"he finally demanded, as he once more turned toward Ephraim and Barney, grasping their hands. "Oh, it's good to see you again, fellows!"
"Begorra, to see yez is a soight for sore eyes and to hear yez is music to deaf ears!" chuckled Barney Mulloy. "You're the same old rabid champeen av the downtrodden masses. You're still pratin' away about the coming of the great earthquake."
"That's right, by gum!" grinned Gallup. "But, say, why didn't yeou warn the people of Frisco before they gut shook up?"
"When I speak of the great coming earthquake," said Carker, "you know I'm talking figuratively. But you haven't answered my question. Where did you chaps come from?"
"Right up from old Mexico," replied Ephraim. "We've been down there, me and Barney, a-helpin' put through the new Central Sonora Railroad. The old road's finished, and we're takin' a vacation now, with a big bank account to our credit and plenty of the long green in our pants pockets."
"Tainted money! tainted money!" exclaimed Greg dramatically. "You've been laboring for a heartless corporation. These great railroad companies have made their wealth by robbing the downtrodden masses."
"Ye don't say!" grinned Barney. "The money wehave made may be tainted, but the only taint I've discovered about it is 'tain't enough."
"Oh, you're still frivolous and thoughtless, both of you," asserted Greg, with a shake of his bushy head. "You can't seem to realize the fact that in these degenerate days there are no longer opportunities for men to rise from the lower ranks to positions of competence, independence, and power. The great corporations and trusts are killing competition and holding the masses down. A boy born in the lower walks no longer has a chance to get out of that strata of existence."
"It's rot ye still talk, me fri'nd," declared Barney. "Oi think th' chances are as good as they iver were, and a lot betther, av anything."
"If yeou're right," put in Ephraim, "'tain't the great corporations and trusts alone that are to blame. It's the labor organizations that say every workingman, no matter whether he's capable of great things or is just an ordinary dub, shall take a sartain scale of wages. That kills ambition and keeps young fellers of ability and genius from risin'. Yes, siree, it sartinly does."
"Oh, your mind is too narrow to grasp all the phases of this great question," asserted the young socialist, with a sweep of his hand. "I wish you'd prove to me that young men still have a chance to rise in these days. Show me an example."
"Me bhoy, ye moight take a look at Barney Mulloy," suggested the smiling Irishman. "It's something loike tin thousand clane dollars he's made in th' last year. Thot he's done in Mexico."
"And when yeou git through lookin' at him," suggested Gallup, "yeou might cast an eye round in my direction. Me and Barney have been partners, and, by jinks! I've cleaned up ten thousand, too."
For a moment Carker seemed a bit staggered, but he quickly recovered.
"What's ten thousand in these days? What's that but a drop in the bucket when your big magnates accumulate millions upon millions?"
"Well, me bhoy," laughed Barney, with a comical twist of his mug, "tin thousand will do for a nist egg. Wid thot for a nist egg, we ought to hatch out enough to kape us from becomin' objects of charity in our ould age."
"A man is foolish to waste his time in argument with such chaps as you," said Greg, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Are you on this train?"
When they replied that they were, he explained that he was there to take the same train. Within the station he secured his battered old suit case, which he had left there.
"Have yeou a seat?" asked Gallup.
"Why, I expect to get a seat on the regular passenger coach," answered Carker.
"You kin git a seat in our car, I guess," said Ephraim. "Not more'n half the seats was taken."
At the steps of the parlor car Greg halted.
"Are you riding in this car?" he asked.
"Shure," nodded Barney.
"Then I'm sorry," said the young socialist. "I can't ride with you."
In a breath both Mulloy and Gallup demanded to know why.
"Parlor coaches are made for aristocrats," explained Greg. "I'm one of the masses. I'm democratic. I ride with common people in the common coaches."
"Begorra, ye'll roide in this car av we have to kidnap yez!" shouted Mulloy. "Av you're too close-fisted to buy a sate yersilf, Oi'll pay for it!"
This touched Carker's pride.
"You hurt me by such words, Barney," he protested. "Close-fisted! My boy, do you know I've given away nearly all my ready money in the last six months to the needy and suffering? I've seen big, fat-stomached, overfed men lolling in their parlor-car seats while weak invalids, wretched and faint from the strain of trouble, have sat in the common cars. Do you think I could be selfish enough to spend my money for my own comfort and luxury, knowing that such poor people might be suffering on this train?"
"Yer heart's all roight, Greg, ould bhoy," explained Barney; "but ye'll foind thot yer pocketbook isn't big enough to alleviate all th' suffering thot ye'll discover in the world. Come on, Ephraim, we'll put him on this car or l'ave him dead on the platform."
They seized Carker and forced him up the steps. In a moment he ceased to resist and permitted them to push him into the car.
"All right, boys," he muttered regretfully, "as it's you, and we haven't seen each other for so long, I'll put aside my scruples and travel in a parlor car to-day."
They found Teresa and Juanita chatting in Spanish, quite unaware of what had taken place on the station platform. Carker was introduced to Mrs. Gallup and her young friend. He removed his hat, flung back his mane of hair, and bowed before them with the grace of a true gentleman.
"Mrs. Gallup," he murmured, "it's the pleasure of my life to meet the wife of my old friend and comrade. And to meet Mrs. Gallup's friend, Señorita Garcia, is scarcely a smaller pleasure."
"How beauteeful he do talk!" murmured Juanita.
There was a strange flash in her dark eyes as she surveyed the young socialist. With his long hair, his pale classical face, his sad poetic eyes, he was indeed a handsome fellow of a type seldom seen. The fact that his clothes were unconventional in their cut and thathe wore a negligee shirt with a soft wide collar detracted not a whit from his striking appearance.
The train soon pulled out, and when the conductor came through a seat was secured for Carker, who restrained Mulloy with an air of dignity when Barney attempted to pay the bill.
"I'm not quite busted myself," asserted Greg, with a faint smile, at the same time producing a roll of bills.
The conductor was paid and passed on. Then they settled down for a sociable chat.