Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm; Or, Saving an Enemy

Title: Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm; Or, Saving an Enemy

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: March 4, 2020 [eBook #61558] Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61558

Credits: E-text prepared by David Edwards, John Campbell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net). The original book cover image was generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (https://books.google.com)

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm, by Burt L. Standish

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous right-thinking man.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm OR, SAVING AN ENEMY

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79–89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1901 By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

[Pg 5]

FRANK MERRIWELL’S STRONG ARM.

CHAPTER I. WHEN THE SPRING COMES AGAIN.

In the sweet and balmy springtime the sedate senior’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of frivolity. All through the weary winter months he may have carried himself with the grave dignity that so well becomes a senior; but when the spring comes something stirs within him, and as the world turns green and the birds begin to twitter that something takes hold of him with a grip that makes him its servant. A strange sensation of restlessness pervades his entire being, running over his nerves like little electric thrills, setting his muscles itching, his heart throbbing, his whole body aching—aching to do something, anything, everything.

This is a very dangerous condition for a senior to fall into, and yet nearly all of them suffer from an attack of it. It drags them to the border-line of recklessness, and while it possesses them in all its awesome force, there is no desperate thing it might not lead them into. It even has the power to make them forget for a while that the whole world has its eyes fastened upon them.

[6]

There must be some vent for this spring-coltish feeling which assails the senior. Until he became a senior he could occasionally disport himself as a boy, but now for some months the burden of his exalted station in the world has roosted on his shoulders until it has become almost too heavy to bear. He longs to fling it off and be a boy again.

That’s it—that’s what ails the grave-faced senior when he feels that queer sensation running over the electric-wires of his body, which are known as the nerves. For the first time in life he realizes that his boyhood is slipping from him, and he makes a clutch at it to drag it back for one last look into its happy face before he is parted from it forever.

How sad a thing it is to part with boyhood forever; and yet how many do so without a sigh or a regret! It is only in after years that they wake up to understand how great was their loss. Some, well aware that the hour has come for boyhood to bid them farewell, turn to look after it fondly, even when their feet are set on the new road that manhood has led them into. Good-by, happy boyhood! this is the final parting; we shall never meet again. Of course, it’s a grand thing to be a man, but it’s only after we have become men that we realize how grand it was to be a boy.

The senior has been playing at being a man. He has carried a sober face, his manner has been sedate,[7] and he has been very much impressed with his own importance. All this has begun to wear upon him, and with the awakening of spring he wakes up also to a knowledge of what is happening. By Jove! it’s a serious thing, after all, to permit boyhood to drift away without so much as a word of farewell. This hits him hard, and he suddenly stretches out his hands to that part of himself that he has so carelessly thrust aside.

Behold a lot of dignified Yale seniors wooing back their boyhood on a sunny spring day. You’d scarcely know them now. There in one group are Aldrich, who carried off the honors as a drum-major in the political rally last fall; Tomlinson, widely celebrated as a “greasy grind;” Browning, the laziest man on earth; Hodge, famous on the gridiron or the diamond, and Merriwell, famous the country over. And what are they doing?

Spinning tops! So help me, they are spinning tops!

But look around and you will see scores of well-known seniors engaged in the same surprising occupation. They enter into the spirit of if with the combined hilarity of boys and dignity of men. If you look beneath the surface, it may seem rather pathetic to witness this great crowd of intellectual young men seriously engaged in a last romp with their departing boyhood.

There is Porter, the famous poet of the Lit., frolicking[8] down the walk, trundling a hoop before him with the apparent satisfaction of a lad of seven. See! his hoop collides with that of Gammel, the great Dwight Hall orator, and there is a general mixup. But they’re not real boys. They’re only men playing that they are boys. If they had been boys that collision might have resulted in an exchange of blows, instead of an exchange of bows.

Over yonder are more seniors spinning tops or rolling hoops. And a great throng of men from other classes stand off and watch “the sport,” commenting upon it sagely.

This top-spinning and hoop-rolling serves as a vent for the pent-up steam that has been threatening an explosion. The safety-valve is open, and the rollicking seniors proceed to let ’er sizz. There are other ways of letting off steam, but surely this is far better than the sign-stealing and gate-shifting recklessness of the freshmen.

This is a part of the life of Yale, a scene peculiar to the balmy days of early spring. It is one of the memories that old grads. smile over in after years. It is peculiar and characteristic of Old Eli; to eliminate it would be to take away something that seems to aid in making Yale what it is.

By themselves the Chickering set had gathered to look on and make comment. Their observations were most edifying. These remarks tell how the gray matter[9] in their little heads is working. It has to work hard for them to think, for they have dulled the gray matter with cigarettes and hot suppers and lack of proper exertion. Yet somehow these “men” manage to keep along in their classes, and somehow they pass examinations, and somehow they will graduate, as hundreds and thousands like them graduate from colleges all over our land.

“Look at that big elephant, Bruce Browning!” lisped Lew Veazie, in derision. “Thee him thpinning a top, fellowth! Ithn’th that a thight faw thore eyeth!”

“And that cheap fellow Hodge,” said Ollie Lord, pointing with his cane. “Just look at him, gentlemen! Isn’t it just perfectly comical to see him spinning a top! Oh, dear, dear, dear!”

“And Merriwell,” said Rupert Chickering, whose trousers looked as if they had been freshly pressed that day. “It is a sad spectacle to see a man like that lose his dignity.”

“Oh, come off!” croaked Tilton Hull, his collar holding his chin so high that he seemed to be addressing his remarks to a twittering sparrow on a limb over his head. “That’s about the only kind of sport Merriwell is suited for.”

“It’s no use,” said Gene Skelding gloomily, exhibiting deep depression, for all that he was wearing a dazzling new pink shirt; “we can say whatever we like[10] about Merriwell, but it’s plain he’s on top of the bunch to stay.”

They all regarded him in amazement, for always he had been the fiercest against Frank.

“This from you!” cried Julian Ives, smiting his bang a terrible smack with his open hand and almost staggering. “What does it mean?”

“It means that we may as well own up to the truth. He has pulled himself up to the top, and everything we or others have done or said has been fruitless in pulling him down.”

No wonder they were amazed! Skelding had been one who had often taken a hand in some daring move against Merriwell. The others to a man had lacked nerve, but Gene was reckless, and they knew it. He had never seemed to give up hope; but now, all at once, he flung up the sponge. Why shouldn’t they show consternation?

Behind his collar Tilton Hull gave a gurgling groan.

“It’s not Merriwell’s strength that has placed him on top,” he said despairingly. “He is not a strong man.”

“Not in any sense,” said Julian Ives.

“He’s strong enough in his way. No other Yale man has ever done the things he has done and kept on top. Think of him, a senior, going into the freshman boat as coxswain in place of the coxswain the sophs[11] had stolen! The nerve of the thing is colossal. But what would have befallen any other senior who dared do such a thing? He would have got it in the neck. How about Merriwell? Why, everybody seems to think he did a clever thing in palming himself off as Earl Knight, the freshman. A man who can do a thing like that and come off all right is too strong to be thrown down. It’s no use, he is on top for good.”

“I don’t think he ith verwy thwong,” simpered Veazie. “He ith a gweat bwute! But there are otherth jutht ath thwong ath he ith. I weally believe he thinkth himthelf a Thandow.”

“I was not thinking of his physical strength,” said Skelding; “though it seems that he’s pretty nearly as strong that way as any other. You know they say he defeated that strange athlete of the scarred face.”

“That’s a story his friends tell, don’t you know, dear boy,” said Ollie Lord. “How can anybody be sure it’s true?”

“I don’t suppose there is much doubt of it,” said Gene, still with great gloom. “He is as strong one way as another, and that makes his position impregnable. He’s king of Yale.”

“It thirtenly ith a thwange thight to thee a king thpinning a top,” giggled Veazie.

“Come away!” croaked Hull, still with his eyes on the limb where the sparrow had perched. “Gene is[12] in need of something to brace him up. Let’s get out of here for a stroll.”

So the Chickering set dragged themselves away, all feeling greatly depressed by the words of Skelding, for when he gave up, hope seemed crumbling ashes.

They had continued to hope that something would bring about the downfall of Merriwell. In Chickering’s perfumed rooms they had talked of the possibility. Even though every adverse circumstance seemed to turn in Merry’s favor, still they hugged the gasping form of hope and fanned breath into its pinched nostrils. Now they beheld it dead in their arms, for Skelding had grown tired and refused to fan any more.

In a gloomy group they left the campus and crossed the green. Few words passed between them, but all seemed to know where they were going. Into the Tontine Hotel they made their way and disappeared, for there they knew a room where they could be served with whatever they ordered, and no one would be permitted to trouble them.

It was fully an hour later when they issued from the hotel. There was a wild light in Skelding’s eyes, and his teeth were set. Hull had a flush in his cheeks, but his weak chin would have dropped had his collar permitted. Ives’ bang was rumpled, and he did not care. He was humming a tune. Lew and Ollie were clinging to each other, and making a pretense of being[13] very sober, in order to attract attention to the fact that they had been drinking. Rupert had his hat canted at a rakish angle over one ear.

This is the Chickering set full of fuddle. Look out for them now, for they are real reckless. How strong they are now! You can see it in their faces and in the steadiness of their walk. And they demonstrate it by their language.

“It ith no uthe!” Veazie declared; “I don’t take a bit of thstock in thstorieth they tell about Fwank Merriwell being tho thwong. I think he ith weal weak.”

“That’s right, chummie!” chirped Ollie Lord, flourishing his cane in a fierce gesture. “We’d not be afraid of him, would we?”

“No, thir!” cried Lew; “not a bit!”

“Of course not!” said Ollie. “If we were to meet him we’d give him a shove.”

“I’d like to give him a thove!” said Veazie, shaking his terrible fist in the empty air. But somehow his other hand stole round behind him and hovered over a place that had once been spanked by Merriwell’s open palm.

“Don’t talk about the creature!” croaked Hull loftily. “He should be beneath our notice. We’ve settled the fact that he is not strong in any way. We did that back in the hotel after we took the second drink. Now, drop it.”

“Yes, drop it!” grated Skelding. “He’s been given[14] every kind of a chance to demonstrate his strength, but I know it’s been nothing but luck. I could have done the same thing, had I been given the same chance. But I never have a chance.”

“Let’s not revile Merriwell,” murmured Chickering. “Let’s try to be charitable.”

“But I wouldn’t turn out for him if I were to meet him face to face right——”

Tilton Hull stopped speaking with a gulp, for he had come face to face with Merriwell.

[15]

CHAPTER II. A STRONG ARM.

Hull did not pause to make any kind of a bluff, but he turned out with remarkable alacrity, for Merriwell’s eyes were fastened upon him and seemed to go through him like knives. Those eyes seemed quite enough to turn any one aside.

Seeing Tilton make that abrupt swerve, Veazie and Lord looked for the cause, and beheld Merry within two strides of them. They nearly fell over each other in their haste to get away, and they went clean off the sidewalk into the gutter.

Chickering pretended not to see Merry, although he could not help swerving aside the least bit. Ives suddenly became busy with his bang, and Skelding was the only man of the whole lot who ventured to give Frank one savage glance. But Merry paid no heed to Skelding, who was not in his path at all, and walked on. Gene was mad.

“Well, I swear, you are like a lot of frightened sheep!” he snarled, regarding the rest with scorn. “You make me sick, the whole of you!”

“What is the matter?” asked Rupert, with pretended surprise. “What made everybody dodge aside so?”[16] Then he looked back and saw Frank. “Can it be?” he said, in great disgust. “Really, it’s too bad!”

In disgust Skelding left the sidewalk and started to cross the street. The others flocked after him stragglingly.

Then there was a great rumpus and uproar down the street. Men shouted and ran for the sidewalks, teams got out of the way in a hurry, and the electric car at the crossing slid over barely in time.

And right down on the Chickering set bore two runaway horses attached to a bounding, rocking, reeling carriage. The driver was gone from his seat, the reins were flying loose, and the two ladies in the carriage were quite helpless. At any moment they might be thrown out and killed. At any moment the mad horses might crash into another carriage, a car, a stone post, the curbing, or something that would cap the catastrophe.

Men looked on helplessly, or ran after the reeling carriage, shouting and waving their arms. Women shuddered, screamed, and turned pale.

Was there no one to stop the runaway? Yes, there was the famous strong policeman of that beat! Everybody knew him. He would stop the horses. He ran out before them.

Then the crowd watched the officer perform the wonderful feat. He was a giant in stature, and he had Hercules-like arms and legs. He hurled himself fearlessly[17] at the heads of the frightened beasts, caught with one hand, clung, and was dragged.

“He’s down!”

Women covered their eyes to shut out the spectacle. He had failed to obtain a good hold on the bridles of the horses, his hands slipped, he hung desperately, and then——

It seemed that those terrible hoofs beat him down and went over him, leaving him lying there.

At first the Chickering set had seemed dazed by the commotion. Their brains were fuddled, and they hesitated fairly in the track of peril.

“Run, you fools!” shouted somebody. “Get out of the way, or you’ll be killed!”

As the others take to their heels and scamper for a place of safety, it is seen that one remains behind.

It is Skelding.

On came the terrified horses, and Gene braced himself for the effort that was to land him in the halls of fame—or in a cemetery.

The latter thought came upon him with appalling force as he saw those mad horses almost within reach. Their eyes were glaring, their teeth were set on the bits, their lips flung great flecks of foam, and the muscular play of their thrashing legs, bounding bodies, and shod hoofs, beating fire from the flinty stones, was enough to shake the nerve of a would-be hero.[18] The power of their mad rush was something against which it seemed that no frail human arm could avail.

The thought of fame had led Gene to halt there; but now the thought of something quite different got hold of him. He saw himself hurled to the stones with broken bones, maimed for life, perhaps. If he lived, he would hobble through life a miserable cripple. But he might be killed! It would be a glorious thing to die the death of a hero, but even that was not quite enough inducement.

Thus it happened that, at the last minute, Skelding made a backward spring and a scramble to get out of the way, not even lifting his hand to try to stop the horses.

At another time his haste might have seemed comical and caused the spectators to roar with laughter; but just now the peril of the helpless women in the carriage prevented any one from laughing.

But another Yale man has rushed out into the street and prepared to make an attempt to check those horses. As they approach, he runs in the same direction they are going. They come up beside him, and he swerves in toward them at exactly the right moment, having watched their approach over his shoulder. Then he leaps at their heads, gets them firmly by the bridles, and holds fast with a grip that nothing can break.

The crowd looks on in breathless anxiety and admiration.[19] All had expected to see this beardless youth flung down and trampled as the policeman had been trampled, but nothing of the kind occurs.

What wonderful strength he must have, for he has checked the mad rush of the horses at once! Though they plunge and rear, he holds them fast and sets them back with a surge of his arm, which seems to have muscles of steel. They do not carry him half a block before he had brought them to a stand and holds them there, his jaw squared, his cheeks flushed a bit, but his broad chest scarcely seeming to rise and fall with more than usual rapidity. It is the deed of a man of wonderful nerve, skill, and strength.

“Who is he?” some ask.

“Why, it’s Merriwell!” others reply, as if all should know him.