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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 37. A Protest |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVII. A PROTEST The morning paper from Wellsburg arrived in Bloomfield at seven o'clock. Before the coming of Frank Merriwell to Bloomfield this morning paper had been able to boast of barely a dozen regular subscribers or purchasers in the little town. Now, however, things were different, and Bloomfield took fully fifty copies of the paper each morning. The formerly indifferent citizens had become eagerly anxious to get the paper as soon as possible after its arrival each morning in order to be posted on the county and State news. The increasing circulation in Bloomfield had been noted by the editor of the Herald, who wisely decided to have a regular correspondent in that town who would furnish a daily news letter. This correspondent had faithfully reported the reunion of Frank Merriwell's old flock and the doings of the house party at Merry Home. Between eight and nine o'clock each forenoon Frank found a short period of rest from his duties at Farnham Hall. On the morning following the arrangements for the ball game with the Rovers he jogged into town in company with Hodge and called at the post office for his mail. Something unusual seemed to be taking place at the post office. More than a dozen villagers were assembled there in two or three groups, all of them talking earnestly and some appearing decidedly excited. Merry observed that many of them held Wellsburg Heralds in their hands. "What's up, Frank?" questioned Hodge. "Suppose the advertisement of that game to-day has kicked up all this disturbance?" "I can't tell," answered Merry. "Perhaps we'll find out." As they stepped inside they heard a tall, thin-lipped man declaiming in a sharp, rasping voice: "You'll find out, neighbors, that my predictions will come true. They're coming true already. The spirit of frivolity and sin is running riot in this town. Wickedness is rampant. Staid and respectable citizens are losing their dignity. Good church members are becoming afflicted with this worldly spirit. And who's to blame for it all--who's to blame? There's only one man. He's created this indescribable change. The foolish ones have regarded him as a public benefactor, but I insist that he's doing untold harm. He brought about the downfall of Brother Hewett, who was respected and revered by every one in Bloomfield for years. You're afraid of him--that's what's the matter. You don't dare to speak out and express yourself. Now I'm not afraid of him. I am ready to denounce him in public. I'm ready to denounce him to his face. You know who I mean. His name is---- Er, hum! How!" "Good morning, Deacon Crabtree," said Frank, as the speaker stammered and hemmed, having ceased abruptly in his remarks. "I notice that, as usual, you are denouncing sin and wickedness. Bloomfield should be proud of the fact that it has one man who makes no compromise with iniquity. Evidently you stand firmly rooted on the rock of righteousness." "Yes, sir--yes, sir, that's right," said Crabtree. "I'm not one of these whiffle-minded creatures who changes his opinion every time the wind changes." "That's a very good thing," nodded Merriwell. "I haven't much patience with people who are so extremely changeable. At the same time, it must be admitted there is some truth in the saying that only mules and fools never change their minds." Jeremiah Crabtree turned red in the face. "Is this a jab at me, young man?" he snapped. "Are you personal in your remarks?" "I hope you won't take it as personal unless it happens to hit your case, Mr. Crabtree. People seldom care to wear clothes that do not fit them. What has happened now that's caused all this commotion and talk?" "Mebbe you haven't seen the Herald this morning." "I confess I haven't." "Well, you'd better read it. If you'll look in the second column on the first page you'll find something about a great ten-thousand-dollar baseball game that's going to take place in Bloomfield to-day." "A ten-thousand-dollar game?" "Yes, sir. Don't you know anything about it?" "Well, I'm aware that there's to be a baseball game here this afternoon. I was not aware it was to be a ten-thousand-dollar game." "Well, look at that--look right there!" snapped Crabtree, holding up the paper and pointing a long bony finger at an article in the second column. "Notice the heading in big black type. Notice it says that Frank Merriwell's own baseball team will play the Rovers, the champion independent team of the country, for ten thousand dollars." Merry smiled. "I think that's an exaggeration," he said. "I think that's simply an advertising dodge, Mr. Crabtree." "Do you mean to say you ain't made no arrangement to play this team for a sum of money? Do you mean to say there ain't been no betting on the game? This article distinctly states that one of your friends, and a player on your team, has made a wager of ten thousand dollars that you'll beat the Rovers." "I mean to say I know nothing whatever of such a wager, and I do not believe that a bet of that sort has been made. I was in Wellsburg yesterday and gave the Herald certain information to be used in advertising this game, but I assure you I gave them no information concerning a wager of that sort. On the face of it the yarn appears decidedly preposterous. I think Bloomfield citizens are generally aware of the fact that I am opposed to betting in any form." "I know you've always claimed you was," said Crabtree, with a sneer; "but, 'cordin' to some of the things I've heard about ye, you've been a mighty sportin' young feller in your day. You've lived pretty high for a youngster, and you've had dealings with sportin' people. They tell me you don't drink, you don't gamble, you don't swear, and you don't do any of them things; but I fail to understand how any man can associate with persons who do drink and swear and gamble without acquiring such habits himself. Now, sir, it's a well-known fact that professional ball players are generally dissolute and disreputable. These Rovers are professionals--they claim to be. When you play ball against them you sort of put yourself in their class." "Well, not exactly, Mr. Crabtree," denied Frank. "I presume you are aware that a number of college baseball teams play games early every season with teams of the National and American Leagues. Yale usually plays the New York Nationals in New York. The Yale team is made up of non-professional college men, amateurs in good standing. They do not become professionals by engaging in a game with the New York Nationals. I don't care to discuss this matter with you, Mr. Crabtree. I simply give you my assurance that I know nothing whatever of this ten-thousand-dollar wager, and I am satisfied that no such wager has been made. The story is intended to arouse excitement and interest, with the evident purpose of bringing out a crowd of spectators to witness the game." "Then it's a fraud and a deception!" cried Jeremiah, flourishing the paper in his right hand and shaking his clenched left hand in the air. "It's a falsehood--a barefaced lie! It's an imposition on the public! You're concerned in it, sir! You can't get out of it! If you don't know anything about it, you're concerned just the same." "I fail to see how you make that out." "When you make an agreement to play them professionals you knew what sort of men they were. If they've originated this yarn for the purpose of deceiving people, you're responsible because you've had dealings with them." "That's rather far-fetched, Mr. Crabtree." "Nothing far-fetched about it." "If I should purchase a horse of you for a hundred dollars, and, in order to increase the apparent value of that horse, with the idea of selling him to some one else, I should go around informing people I had paid three hundred dollars, would you be responsible in any way? Do you feel that in any manner you would be party to the falsehood?" Rufus Applesnack had been listening to the talk, and now he gave Crabtree a jab in the ribs. "He's gut ye, deacon--he's gut ye!" chuckled the grocery man. "He's gut ye right where the wool is short!" "I fail to see it! I fail to see it!" rasped Crabtree. "There ain't no similarity in the two cases. My mind is made up on the point, and I don't propose to change it." "Which sorter reminds me of the mule Mr. Merriwell mentioned a few minutes ago," declared Applesnack, as he turned away. Frank secured his mail and was leaving the post office, when outside the door he came face to face with Owen Clearpath, the new parson of the village church. "I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Merriwell," said the parson; "just a word." He drew Frank aside, while Hodge waited. "I don't see how Merry keeps his patience and temper in dealing with these hide-bound yokels," muttered Bart. Clearpath seemed confused and ill at ease. He hemmed a little while Merry waited quietly for him to speak. Suddenly the young minister began, as if forcing himself with a great effort to say something he regarded as decidedly disagreeable. "You know, Mr. Merriwell," he said, "that I hold you in the highest estimation. You know I'm considered by the members of my church and the people of this town generally as a liberal preacher. In fact, I'm entirely too liberal to suit some of the church members. You've done a splendid work for Bloomfield, and you're doing a splendid work. I'm proud of you, sir." "It isn't necessary to sugar coat the pill, parson," smiled Frank. "Just hand it out to me, and I'll swallow it." "Well, you know there's been several unpleasant, not to say sensational, occurrences in this town of late. I don't suppose you're to blame for everything that has happened. I have insisted that you could not be blamed for the unfortunate misstep of Brother Hewett, who was tempted to take a little more hard cider than was really good for him. Your detractors have insisted that the deacon was led into this action through his exuberance over the arrival of your friends. Some of them have tried to hold you responsible for Brother Hewett's temporary downfall." "I'm very sorry the deacon did such a thing," asserted Frank. "I hope you've not been too harsh with him, parson." "I haven't mentioned the matter to him. I've thought it best to overlook it, for I'm certain he feels deeply humiliated and downcast. I know for a fact that he's heard of it from other quarters. I've tried to show him that my confidence is unshaken." "Which I believe was a very wise course to pursue." "Another thing that caused a great sensation was the unfortunate death of that Mexican who broke into your house some ten days ago. There have been all sorts of rumors about that affair. I'm positive the facts were given to the coroner's jury, who failed to find any one save Murillo responsible." "No one could feel more disturbed over the matter than I have," said Frank. "You see your enemies are inclined to use such matters against you, if possible. A number of persons have come to me this morning and shown me an item in the Wellsburg Herald." "I've just seen that item," said Frank. "Let me assure you, parson, that so far as I have the slightest knowledge, I'm positive there's not a word of truth in the statement that a ten-thousand-dollar wager has been made on the result of the baseball game to be played this afternoon." Clearpath looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he breathed. "I decided to ask you about it. Have I your authority to deny the truth of that statement?" "You may say I gave you my word that I knew nothing whatever of the matter." "I'll do so, sir--I'll do so. If you think the game will be clean and respectable, I may decide to witness it myself." "It's not my intention to permit anything on Farnham Field that may not be witnessed by you, by any lady, or by any child in town. I hope to see you at the game this afternoon, parson." _ |
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