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Frank Merriwell Down South, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 14. The Hot Blood Of Youth |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. THE HOT BLOOD OF YOUTH A cry of horror went up from those who beheld the peril of the brave boy and the Queen of Flowers, for it looked as if both must be impaled by the wicked horns of the mad steer. Well it was that Frank was a lad of nerve, with whom at such a moment to think was to act. Well it was that he had the muscles and strength of a trained athlete. Frank did not drop the girl to save himself, as most lads would have done. She felt no heavier than a feather in his arms, but it seemed that he would be unable to save himself, if he were unincumbered. Had he leaped ahead he could not have escaped. With all the energy he possessed, he sprang backward, at the same time swinging the girl away from the threatening horns, so that his own body protected her in case he was not beyond reach of the steer. In such a case and in such a situation inches count, and it proved thus in this instance. One of the steer's horns caught Frank's coat sleeve at the shoulder, and ripped it open to the flesh as far as his elbow, the sharp point seeming to slit the cloth like a keen knife. But Frank was unharmed, and the unconscious girl was not touched. Then the steer crashed into the flower barge. Frank was not dazed by his remarkable escape, and he well knew the peril might not be over. Like a leaping panther, the boy sprang from the spot, avoiding other mad steers and frantic men and women, darted here and there through the flying throng, and reached a place where he believed they would be safe. It was a brave and nervy act--the act of a true hero. The stampeded steers dashed on, and the danger at that point was past. Men and women had been trampled and bruised, but, remarkable though it seemed, when the steers were finally captured or dispatched, it was found that no person had been killed outright. Men crowded about Frank and the Flower Girl. The lad had placed the girl upon some steps, and he called for water. "Remove her mask," directed some one. "Give her air." "Yes, remove her mask!" cried scores of voices. They were eager to see her face, that they might again recognize the girl who had passed through such peril. Frank hesitated, although he also longed to look on the face of the girl he had saved. She was most beautifully formed for a girl of her age, and that her face was pretty he had not a doubt. He reached out his hand to unfasten the mask. As he did so his wrist was clutched by strong fingers, and a panting voice hissed in his ear: "Would you do it? Well, you shall not! I will take charge of that young lady, if you please!" Looking over his shoulder, Frank saw the dark, excited face of a youth of twenty or twenty-one. That face was almost wickedly handsome, although there was something decidedly repellent about it. The eyes were black as midnight, while the lips were full and red. With a twisting snap Frank freed his wrist. "You?" he said, calmly--"who are you?" "One who knows this unfortunate young lady, and has a right to protect her." "Which is ver' true, sah," declared a man with a bristling white mustache and imperial, who stood just behind the youth with the dark face. "I give you my word of honah, sah, that it is true." The words were spoken with great suavity and politeness, and Frank noted that the speaker seemed to have a military air. Frank hesitated, and then straightened up, stepping back and bowing, as he said: "That settles it, gentlemen. If you know the young lady, I have nothing more to say." The young man instantly lifted the Flower Queen in his arms. As he did so she opened her eyes, and Frank saw she was looking straight at his face. Then came a staggering surprise for the boy from the North. He saw the girl's lips part, and he distinctly heard her faintly exclaim: "Frank Merriwell!" Frank fell back a step, then started forward. "You--you know me?" he cried. Quick as a flash, the youth with the dark face passed the girl to the man with the white mustache and imperial, and the latter bore her through the throng to a carriage. Frank would have followed, but the dark-faced youth blocked the way, saying, harshly: "Hold on! You did her a service. How much do I owe you?" "Stand aside!" came sharply from Frank's lips. "She knows me--she spoke my name! I must find out who she is!" "That you cannot do." "Who will prevent it?" "I will!" Frank measured the other from head to heels with his eyes. "Stand aside!" "Now, don't go to putting on any airs with me, my smart youngster. By sheer luck, you were able to save her from possible injury. Like all Northerners, you have your price for every service. How much do I owe you?" Frank's face was hot with anger. "You say 'like all Northerners,' but it is well for the South that you are not a representative Southerner. You are an insolent cad and a puppy!" "You have insulted me!" "I simply returned what you gave." "And it shall cost you dear!" hissed the youth with the dark face. Quickly he leaned forward and struck Frank's cheek with his open hand. Then something else happened. Like a bolt, Frank's fist shot out and caught the other under the chin, hurling him backward into the arms of a man behind him, where he lay gasping and dazed. Frank would have rushed toward the carriage, but he saw it move swiftly away, carrying the mysterious Queen of Flowers, and, with deep regret, he realized he was too late. The man with the bristling white mustache and imperial did not depart in the carriage, but he again forced his way through the crowd, and found his companion slowly recovering from the stunning blow he had received. "Mistah Raymon', sah, what does this mean?" he cried, in amazement. "It means that I have been insulted and struck!" hissed the one questioned, quivering with unutterable anger. "Struck, sah!" cried the man, in unbounded amazement. "You were struck! Impossible, sah--impossible!" "It is true!" "Who struck you, sah?" "This young coxcomb of a Northern cur!" The man glared at Frank, who, with his hands on his hips, was quietly awaiting developments, apparently not at all alarmed. He did not quail in the least before the fierce, fire-eating look given him by the man with the bristling mustache and imperial. "If this--ah!--young gentleman struck you, Mistah Raymon', sah, there can be but one termination of the affaiah. He will have to meet you, sah, on the field, or humbly apologize at once." "That's right!" blustered the young man, fiercely. "I'll have his life, or an instant apology!" Frank smiled as if he were quite amused. "As I happen to feel that I am the one to whom an apology is due, you will have to be satisfied with taking my life," he said. The youth with the dark face drew out a handsome card case, from which he extracted an engraved card, which he haughtily handed to Frank, who accepted it, and read aloud: "'Mr. Rolf Raymond.' A very pretty name. Allow me; my card, Mr. Raymond. I am stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. You will be able to find me without difficulty." "Rest assured that a friend of mine will call on you without delay, Mr. Merriwell," stiffly said Raymond, thrusting Frank's card into his pocket. Professor Scotch had forced his way through the crowd in time to catch the drift of this, and the full significance of it dawned upon him, filling him with amazement and horror. "This will not do--it will never do!" he spluttered. "Dueling is a thing of the past; there is a law for it! I will not have it! Frank, you hot-headed young rascal, what do you mean by getting into such a scrape?" "Keep cool, professor," said the boy, calmly. "If this young gentleman insists on forcing me into a duel, I cannot take water--I must give him satisfaction." "I tell you I won't have it!" roared the little man, in his big, hoarse voice, his face getting very red. "I am your guardian. You are a minor, and I forbid you to fight a duel." "If Mistah Merriwell will apologize, it is possible that, considering his age, sah, Mistah Raymon' will not press this mattah," smoothly said the man with the bristling mustache. "What has he to apologize for?" asked Scotch. "He struck Mistah Raymon', sah." "Did you do that, Frank?" "Yes; but he struck me first." "He did, eh?" roared the professor, getting very red in the face. "Well, I don't think you'll apologize, Frank, and you're not going to fight. You're a boy; let him take a man. If he wants to fight anybody, I'm just his hairpin, and I'll agree to do him up with any kind of a weapon from a broad-ax to a bologna sausage!" _ |
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