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Frank Merriwell at Yale, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 18. Merriwell And Rattleton |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. MERRIWELL AND RATTLETON "Harry!" "Hello!" "You've got to stop smoking those confounded cigarettes." Harry Rattleton let his feet fall with a thump from the table on which they had been comfortably resting and turned about to stare at Merriwell, his roommate. His face expressed astonishment, not unmingled with anger. "Will you be good enough to repeat that remark?" he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and holding his roll daintily poised in his fingers. "I said that you must stop smoking cigarettes." "Well, what did you mean?" "I am in the habit of saying what I mean," was the quiet answer as Frank scanned the paper over which he had been pondering for some time. Harry got upon his feet, shoved one hand into his trousers pocket, and stared in silence for some seconds at Merriwell. That stare was most expressive. "Well, may I be jotally tiggered--I mean totally jiggered!" he finally exclaimed. "You'll be worse than that if you keep on with those things," asserted Frank. "You'll be totally wrecked." "This is the first time you have had the crust to deliberately tell me that I must do anything," growled Harry, resentfully. "And I feel free to say that I don't like it much. It is carrying the thing altogether too far. I have never told you that you must do this thing or you mustn't do that. I should have considered that I was beddling with something that was none of my misness--er--meddling with something that was none of my business." Frank perceived that his roommate was quite heated, so he dropped the paper and said: "Don't fly off the handle so quick, old man. I am speaking for your own good, and you should know it." "Thank you!" sarcastically. "But I am in earnest." "Really?" and Rattleton elevated his eyebrows. "Come now," said Frank, "sit down and we will talk it over." "Talk it over, eh? I don't know why we should talk over a matter that concerns me alone." "Your dinner did not set well. I never saw you so touchy in all my life. You know I am your friend, old man, and there is no reason why you should show such a spirit toward me." "I don't like to be told what I must do and what I mustn't by anybody. That's all there is about it." Harry did sit down, but he lighted a fresh cigarette. "Well, I suppose you will have your own way, but I want to explain why I said what I did. You know we are out to beat the sophs in the boat race." "Sure." "Well, in order to do it every man of us must be in the pink of condition. You are not drinking, and Old Put doesn't know how much you are smoking. If he did he would call you down or drop you. It is pretty certain that Gordon would take your place." "Well, I suppose you are going to tell Old Put all about it? Is that what you mean?" "Not exactly. But you know I have as much interest in the makeup of our crew as Old Put, although he is the man who really has charge of us." "Well?" "If I were to say so, you would be taken out and some one else would fill your place." "And would you do that?" "Not unless forced to do so. You should know, Harry, that I am ready to stick by you in anything--if I can." "If you can! I don't understand that--hang me, if I do! If I have a friend I am going to stick to him through anything, right or wrong!" "That's first rate and it is all right. If you get into any trouble, I fancy you will not find anybody who will stand by you any longer. But this matter is different. You are in training, and you are not supposed to smoke at all, but you get here in this room and puff away by the hour." "What harm does it do?" "A great deal." "Get out! It doesn't make a dit of bifference." "That's what you think, but I know better. At Fardale I had a chum who smoked cigarettes by the stack. He was a natural-born athlete, but he never seemed quite able to take the lead in anything. It was his wind. I talked to him, but he thought I didn't know. Finally I induced him to leave off smoking entirely. He did it, though it was like taking his teeth. It was not long before he showed an improvement in his work. The improvement continued and he went up to the very top. He acknowledged that he could not have accomplished it if he had kept on with his cigarettes. "Now, old man," continued Frank, coming over and putting a hand on Harry's shoulder in a friendly way, "I am interested in you and I want to see you stay on our crew. You must know that I am giving it to you straight." Harry was silent, gazing down at the floor, while his cigarette was going out, still held between his fingers. "I am going to tell you something that you do not know," Frank went on. "Old Put has been asking me to give Gordon more of a show. He thinks Gordon is a better man than you, but I know better. If you will leave cigarettes alone you are the man for the place. Gordon has a beautiful back and splendid shoulders, but he lacks heart, or I am much mistaken. It takes nerve to pull an oar in a race. A man has got to keep at it for all there is in him till he drops--and he mustn't drop till the race is over. That's why I want you. I am confident that you will pull your arms out before you give up. But you won't have the wind for the race unless you quit cigarettes, and quit them immediately." Harry was still silent, but his head was lower and he was biting his lips. The cigarette in his fingers had quite gone out. "Come now, Harry," came earnestly from Frank. "Just cut clear from the things. They never did any man any good, and they have taken the wind and nerve out of hundreds. You don't want me to keep you on the crew and lose the race by doing so. You don't want it said that I have been partial to you because you are my roommate and particular friend. That's what will be said if things go wrong. The fellows will declare I was prejudiced against Gordon, and they will not be to blame unless you can prove yourself the best man. I have nothing against Gordon, and I am bound to use him as white as I can. I have explained why I don't want him on the crew, and I have tried to make it clear why I'll have to let him come on at once, unless you drop cigarettes. How is it, my boy? What do you say?" Harry got up and went into the bedroom. A moment later he came out with a big package of cigarettes in his hands. He opened the window and flung them as far as possible. "There!" he cried. "By the mumping Joses--I mean the jumping Moses! I'm done with 'em. I'm not going to smoke them any more!" "Good boy!" laughed Frank, his face full of satisfaction. "Shake!" They clasped hands. Rat-tat-tat! A knock at the door. "Come in." The door opened and Dismal Jones, his face longer and sadder than usual, came slouching into the room. "Hello, Jones, old boy!" cried Frank, cheerfully. "What is troubling you now? You look like a funeral." "I'm mad," said Dismal in a spiritless way. "Is that what ails you? I'd never suspected it from your appearance." "Appearances are oftentimes deceitful," croaked Jones. "Whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." "Well, sit down and tell us all about it," invited Frank, offering a chair. "My boy, it must be that you are studying too hard. You have the outward appearance of a greasy grind." "What's that I just told you about appearances? You are too hasty in your judgments. The trouble with me this evening is that I have found out something." "I never supposed it would trouble you like this." "Wait. You do not know what it is." "That's right. What is it?" Frank was familiar with Dismal's queer ways, and he knew it was not easy to tell when this son of a "shouting Methodist" was jollying and when he was in earnest; but now he was convinced that Jones was really serious, and he felt that there must be some cause for it. Harry, strangely sobered and silent, sat listening. He could not understand Jones, and he was on his guard, knowing how often the fellow turned into a farce what seemed a serious matter. Dismal locked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. He cleared his throat and then said: "Merry, what would you say if I were to tell everything I could find out about our crew to the sophs?" "I should say you were a confounded sneak!" "Hum! I kinder thought you'd say something like that." "But you do not know too much about the crew." "I know something, and I could know more if I had a mind to. All I would have to do would be to play the spy a little." "Well, I suppose that is right. What about it?" "Somebody is playing the spy." "How do you know?" "I've got it straight enough, for the sophs know all about what our crew is doing. They are laughing over the Oxford stroke and the English oars." "How do you know this?" "Heard 'em." "When?" "To-night." "Where?" "On the street. Browning and a party were going down to Morey's, and they were having a high old time with Hartwick, who was explaining the advantages of the stroke and the oars our crew has adopted." "That's not proof that somebody has played the spy. It may have slipped out through the carelessness of some of our men." "It may. But I don't think so. I heard Emery ask Hartwick how he knew so much about us." "What did Hartwick say?" Frank eagerly asked. "He said he had a nice fresh flat who thought it a fine thing to play the spy and blab all he found out." "Blay bluses--I mean blue blazes!" cried Harry, banging his fist down on the table. "That's what makes me cot under the hollar! A man who would do a thing like that will steal a sheep! I'd like to have the pleasure of thumping him a few times--just a few!" Merriwell was silent, a dark look on his face. "It will not be healthy for the spy if I catch him," he finally declared. "I'll make it pretty hot for him around here!" "Which would be a highly commendable action," bowed Dismal. "Have you any idea who would do such a low-down thing?" asked Harry. "Sometimes we have ideas which we do not care to express." "That's right; but in a case like this--confidentially--to us, you know--" "Well, if I say anything, it is to be strictly confidential." "Sure!" cried Frank and Harry in a breath. "You both give me your word for it?" "We do." "If I knew, I would not hesitate to come out openly and accuse the fellow," said Dismal; "but this is merely a case of suspicion, and I will tell you who I suspect." "Go ahead." "Well, there is a certain fellow who has not been above playing into the hands of the sophs in the past, and it is natural for me to suspect him. His name is--" The door opened, and Roland Ditson came in without knocking. _ |
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