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Frank Merriwell's Son; or, A Chip Off the Old Block, a fiction by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 35. Remorse |
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_ CHAPTER XXXV. REMORSE As they were passing Priley's Hotel Casper Silence hailed them. "Pull up, Toots," said Merry. "Let's see what he wants." The colored boy stopped the horses, and Silence came out. "One point, Mr. Merriwell," he said. "We haven't decided on the umpire for that game." "It's generally understood that the home team furnishes the umpire, I believe," returned Frank. "That's a matter of accommodation. In this case it won't be any particular accommodation for us." "Is that so?" "That's right. If you don't mind, we'll furnish the umpire." "What if I do mind?" "Why should you?" "I happen to have a good man who will officiate for us. He knows the game, and I know him." "But I don't know him," protested Silence. "I give you my word that he is square." "I've been told such things before. I've had plenty of experience, Mr. Merriwell, and I know the sort of square umpires to be found through the country." "I've had a few experiences myself," returned Frank, "and I confess they were not pleasant ones. I've been up against crooked umpires more than once. Nevertheless I promise you I'll supply a man who is thoroughly honest and conscientious." "It doesn't satisfy me. You'll supply one of your friends, of course." "That's right," nodded Frank. "I shall have to object, sir," said the proprietor of the Rovers. "It would be the most natural thing for your friend to favor you in close decisions." "It might seem a natural thing, but I've often observed that the most conscientious umpires are so very careful that frequently they give their own friends the worst end of a deal." Silence shrugged his shoulders and laughed languidly. "I don't think that happens very often," he said, "and I wouldn't expect it to happen in this case. If it should, you'd be sore. On the other hand, if your friend gave you all the close points, we'd be sore. Let's get around that. Let's take a man who will have no particular interest in either team. Let's have an umpire from somewhere outside of your town." "No," returned Frank firmly; "I'll furnish the umpire. I did not seek this game. You came to Bloomfield looking for it, and if you're not satisfied with the arrangements I'll make, you can easily cancel the engagement." "I don't want to cancel it. All I want is an umpire who'll give both teams a fair show. Now I understand they have such a man here in Wellsburg--a chap who is capable of handling a game right up to the mark. His name is Bowers." Merriwell laughed. "I happen to know this Bowers," he said. "I've seen him work, and the recollection is hardly a pleasant one. He does know the game, but he can be influenced. That's putting it in a mild fashion. I have reasons to believe that Bowers deliberately tried to give my Farnham Hall team the short end of a game played here in this city. No, sir, I'll not accept Bill Bowers." "Well, we can find some one else." "Don't put yourself to the trouble. I've told you I would supply the man, and I've guaranteed his honesty. If you don't like that, you're at liberty to cancel." "Why not have two umpires? We'll furnish one, and you may furnish the other." Under most circumstances Frank would have accepted this proposition without demur. Just now he had a feeling that Silence was determined to obtain some advantage in the umpire. He knew Greg Carker to be honest from his head to his feet, and therefore he resolved not to yield a point to the proprietor of the Rovers. "There'll be only one umpire, Mr. Silence," he said. "It's useless to argue over that point." Casper Silence frowned. "You're an obstinate young man!" he exclaimed. "I think we'll have to call that game off." "Oh, very well," smiled Merry, "we'll cancel the engagement now, and I'll step in here and telephone the Wellsburg Herald to that effect." "That's right, Frank," put in Gallup, "don't fool with 'em a bit." Silence gave the Vermonter a queer look. "You seem rather anxious, my friend," he drawled. "No doubt you'd like to have the game canceled. You appear to be frightened. No, we won't cancel it, Merriwell; we'll accept your umpire. But I want to give you fair notice now that we'll stand for no partiality on his part. We'll have a fair show, or we'll make trouble. If he tries to rob us, he'll get thumped." It was Frank's turn to laugh. "I wouldn't advise you or any of your players to attempt to thump any one on Farnham Field," he said. "If you do, you'll precipitate a riot, and I don't believe you'll like what'll happen. Don't threaten me, Mr. Silence. I don't like it, and I may take a fancy to cancel the game anyhow." "Oh, go ahead!" sneered Silence. "I know you're frightened! Cancel it if you like, and I'll tell the facts to the Wellsburg Herald. I want you to understand that this game means something to me." "Indeed! Why, yesterday you entered into an agreement to play in Bloomfield with the greatest reluctance. You didn't seem to think it would pay you." "It won't pay as far as the gate receipts go. Of course we expect to take the entire gate money, but I'm not fussing about that. I've made a little wager on this game, and I propose to win it." "Is it possible you found some one in Wellsburg who was willing to back us against your professional team?" questioned Merry. "Oh, yes, I found some one in Wellsburg who was willing to do that," answered the man, again glancing toward Gallup. Ephraim was worried, for he feared that Silence would break his agreement not to tell about the bet. He frowned and shook his head a bit, without being observed by Frank. "I've promised you a square deal, Silence," said Merriwell. "If you'll take the trouble to inquire, you'll find plenty of people in this little city who will assure you that I always keep my word. We're due home at dinner, and we'll have to drive along. Good day, sir." Toots chirruped to the horses, and they were off. "I don't fancy going back on an agreement with any one," observed Merry, "but I'm rather sorry that we made arrangements to play that team. Those men are professionals, and they're not in our class. It's evident Silence is a gambler. Gambling ruins any sort of a game. The man who bets money is liable to take 'most any questionable advantage in order to win. Betting is bad business anyway you look at it. It ruins a man's fine principles." "Yeou don't think that allus happens, do ye, Frank?" asked Gallup. "Don't yeou believe some decent fellers bet occasionally?" "Oh, yes, occasionally. But the man who gets into it in a small way is pretty sure to keep it up. If he wins, it baits him on to repeat. If he loses, he feels that he must take another chance to get even. I saw many bad results of gambling both at school and at college. At Yale lots of young fellows who had no right to do so made bets on baseball, football, and other games. In most instances the money they risked had been supplied by their parents. They knew their parents would not countenance gambling, yet they gambled. It was not honorable. No man has a right to risk money on which any other person has a claim. Now, for instance, you, Ephraim, would have no right to risk your money on an uncertainty of this sort. You're married. You have a child. Both your wife and child have claims on the money you possess. Were you to wager that money and lose it, you would be robbing them of their just rights. I presume you've thought of this matter?" "Never thought of it that way," mumbled the Vermonter huskily. "S'pose I should put my money into some sort of business and lose it. Would that be robbin' Teresa and the youngster?" "That's a different thing. Business is business. No man has a right to plunge into a reckless venture, but if it seems legitimate and he has investigated it carefully, he cannot be blamed if the venture proves a failure. The best and shrewdest men sometimes fail in business enterprises. I've never yet seen a genuine gambler who was thoroughly upright, conscientious, and respected by decent people. I have seen gamblers who were honest to all appearances, but they were not respected. There's something degrading in gambling. The man who gambles is compelled, as a rule, to associate with a class of men who have no standing in respectable society. He places himself on their level. Now, you, Ephraim, would not care to be estimated on the same level as Casper Silence. He's not a man you would invite to your home, introduce to your wife, and dine with at your table." "Not by a blamed sight!" growled the Vermonter. "Another bad feature of gambling is the effect on the individual who indulges in it. It spoils his taste for legitimate money making. If he's successful for a time as a gambler, the regular methods of making money seem tame and insipid to him. Very few, if any, thoroughbred gamblers ever accumulate a fortune or a competence and retain it. Once the germ of gambling gets into their blood, they never quit. Let them make a small fortune, and they're determined to double it. Let them make a large fortune, and they still pursue gambling for the excitement there is in it. In the end, nine out of ten go broke. If others depend On them, they bring hardship and suffering upon those dependent ones. Most gamblers die poor." "It's logic, begobs!" put in Mulloy. "You both know," pursued Frank, "that the loss of a few hundred dollars on a baseball game would not mean a great deal to me. I might have made a wager with Casper Silence. Had I lost the bet, it would not have brought immediate hardship or deprivation on any one. It was not the mere loss of a hundred or a thousand dollars that restrained me. It was the principle of the thing--I looked at that. I figured this thing out years ago, and that's why I've been opposed to gambling. More than once I've been tempted to set aside my scruples when some blatant, loud-mouthed chap has challenged me and shook his money in my face. Such a thing stirs my blood. It's mighty unpleasant to have one of these chaps accuse me of lacking nerve. I have one consolation, however. It's not a sign of nerve or courage to be led into anything wrong through the taunts of another. Usually it's a sign of cowardice. The boy who does a hazardous and unwise thing simply because a companion dares him to do it is the one who lacks nerve. He lacks nerve to say, 'No, I won't.'" "I guess yeou're right, Frank," confessed Gallup dolefully. "By hemlock! I've been dared into a lot of tomfool things in my day. Next time anybody tries it on me I'm goin' to remember what yeou've jest said. I'll say no, by thutteration, and I'll say it mighty laoud, too!" _ |
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