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Frank Merriwell at Yale; Or, Freshman Against Freshman

<h2> CHAPTER XXXI. </h2> <h3> WHAT DITSON WANTED. </h3>  On the following day the great topic of conversation for the class of 'Umpty-eight was the recent ball game. Wherever the freshmen gathered they discussed the game and the work of Gordon and Merriwell. Gordon was a free-and-easy sort of fellow, and he had his friends and admirers, some of whom were set in their belief that he was far superior to Merriwell as a pitcher. Roland Ditson attempted to argue on two or three occasions in favor of Gordon, but nobody paid attention to what he said, for it was known that he had tried by every possible means to injure Merriwell and had been exposed in a contemptible piece of treachery, so that no one cared to be known as his friend and associate. Whenever Ditson would approach a group of lads and try to get in a few words he would be listened to in stony silence for some moments, and then the entire crowd would turn and walk away, without replying to his remarks or speaking to him at all. This would have driven a fellow less sensitive than Ditson to abandon all hope of going through Yale. Of course it cut Ditson, but he would grind his teeth and mutter: "Merriwell is to blame for it all, curse him! I won't let him triumph! The time will come when I'll get square with him! I'll have to stay here in order to get square, and stay here I will, no matter how I am treated." Since his duplicity had been made known and his classmates had turned against him Ditson had taken to grinding in a fierce manner, and as a result he had made good progress in his studies. He was determined to stand ahead of Merriwell in that line, at least, and it really seemed that he might succeed, unless Frank gave more time to his studies and less to athletics. This was not easy for a fellow in Merriwell's position and with his ardent love for all sorts of manly sports to do. He gave all the time he could to studies without becoming a greasy grind, but that was not as much as he would have liked. To Ditson's disappointment and chagrin Merriwell seemed quite unaware that his enemy stood ahead of him in his classes. Frank seemed to have quite forgotten that such a person as Roll Ditson existed. Ditson was an outcast. The fellow with whom he had roomed had left him shortly after his treachery was made public, and he was forced to room alone, as he could get no one to come in with him. Roll did not mind this so much, however. He pretended that he was far more exclusive than the average freshman, and he tried to imitate the ways of the juniors and seniors, some of whom had swell apartments. Ditson's parents were wealthy, and they furnished him with plenty of loose change, so that he could cut quite a dash. He had fancied that his money would buy plenty of friends for him. At first, before his real character was known, he had picked up quite a following, but he posed as a superior, which made him disliked by the very ones who helped him spend his money. He had hoped to be a leader at Yale, but, to his dismay, he found that he did not cut much of a figure after all, and Frank Merriwell, a fellow who never drank or smoked, was far more popular. Then it was that Ditson conceived a plot to bring Merriwell into ridicule and at the same time to get in with the enemies of the freshmen—the sophomores—himself. At last he had learned that at Yale a man is not judged so much by the money he spends and the wealth of his parents as by his own manly qualities. But Ditson was a sneak by nature, and he could not get over it. If he started out to accomplish anything in a square way, he was likely to fancy that it could be done with less trouble in a crooked manner, and his natural instinct would switch him off from the course he should have followed. He was not at all fond of Walter Gordon, but he liked him better than he did Merriwell, and it was gall and wormwood for him when he heard how Merriwell had replaced Gordon in the box at Cambridge and had pitched a marvelous game for three innings. "Oh, it's just that fellow's luck!" Roll muttered to himself. "He seems to be lucky in everything he does. The next thing I'll hear is that he is going to pitch on the 'Varsity team." He little thought that this was true, but it proved to be. That very day he heard some sophomores talking on the campus, and he lingered near enough to catch their words. "Is it actually true, Parker, that Pierson has publicly stated that Merriwell is fast enough for the Varsity nine?" asked Tad Horner. "That's what it is," nodded Puss Parker, "and I don't know but Pierson is right. I am inclined to think so." "Rot!" exclaimed Evan Hartwick, sharply. "I don't take stock in anything of the sort. Merriwell may make a pitcher some day, but he is raw. Why, he would get his eye batted out if he were to go up against Harvard on the regular team." "Oh, I don't know about that," said Andy Emery. "He is pretty smooth people. Is there anybody knows Pierson made such an observation concerning him?" "Yes, there is," answered Parker. "Who knows it?" "I do." "Did you hear him?" "I did." "That settles it." "Yes, that settles it!" grated Roland Ditson as he walked away. "Parker didn't lie, and Pierson has intimated that Merriwell may be given a trial on the Varsity nine. If he is given a trial it will be his luck to succeed. He must not be given a trial. How can that be prevented?" Then Ditson set himself to devise some scheme to prevent Frank from obtaining a trial on the regular nine. It was not an easy thing to think of a plan that would not involve himself in some way, and he felt that it must never be known that he had anything to do with such a plot. That night Ditson might have been seen entering a certain saloon in New Haven, calling one of the barkeepers aside, and holding a brief whispered conversation with him. "Is Professor Kelley in?" asked Roll. "He is, sir," replied the barkeeper. "Do you wish to see him?" "Well—ahem!—yes, if he is alone." "I think he is alone. I do not think any of his pupils are with him at present, sir." "Will you be kind enough to see?" asked Ditson. "This is a personal matter—something I want kept quiet." The barkeeper disappeared into a back room, was gone a few minutes, and then returned and said: "The professor is quite alone. Will you go up, sir?" "Y-e-s," said Roll, glancing around, and then motioning for the barkeeper to lead the way. He was taken into a back room and shown a flight of stairs. "Knock at the door at the head of the flight," instructed the barkeeper, and after giving the man some money Ditson went up the stairs. "Come in!" called a harsh voice when he knocked at the door. Ditson found Kelley sitting with his feet on a table, while he smoked a strong-smelling cigar. There were illustrated sporting papers on the table, crumpled and ragged. "Well, young feller, watcher want?" demanded the man, withont removing his feet from the table or his hat from his head. Ditson closed the door. He was very pale and somewhat agitated. "Are we all alone?" he asked, choking a bit over the question. "Dat's wot we are," nodded the professor. "Is it a sure thing that our conversation cannot be overheard?" "Dead sure." Ditson hesitated. He seemed to find it difficult to express himself just as he desired. "Speak right out, chummy," said Kelley in a manner intended to be reassuring. "I rudder t'inks yer wants ter lick some cove, an' yer've come ter me ter put yer in shape ter do der job. Well, you bet yer dough I'm der man ter do dat. How many lessons will yer have?" "It is not that at all," declared Roll. "Not dat?" cried Kelley in surprise. "Den wot do youse want?" "Well, you see, it is like this—er, like this," faltered Roland. "I—I've got an enemy." "Well, ain't dat wot I said?" "But I don't want to fight him." "Oh, I sees! Yer wants some odder chap ter do de trick?" "Yes, that is it. But I want them to more than lick him." "More dan lick him? W'y, yer don't want him killed, does yer?" "No," answered Ditson, hoarsely; "but I want his right arm broken." "Hey?" Down came Buster Kelley's feet from the table, upon which his knuckles fell, and then he arose from the chair, standing in a crouching position, with his hands resting on the table, across which he glared at Roland Ditson. "Hey?" he squawked. "Just say dat ag'in, cully." Roll was startled, and looked as if he longed to take to his heels and get away as quickly as possible; but he did not run, and he forced himself to say: "This is a case of business, professor. I will pay liberally to have the job done as I want it." "An' youse wants a bloke's arm bruck?" "Yes." "Well, dis is a quare deal! If yer wanted his head bruck it wouldn't s'prise me; but ter want his arm bruck—jee!" "I don't care if he gets a rap on the head at the same time, but I don't want him killed. I want his right arm broken, and that is the job I am ready to pay for." Kelley straightened up somewhat, placed one hand on his hip, while the other rested on the table, crossed his legs, and regarded Ditson steadily with a stare that made Roll very nervous. "I might 'a' knowed yer didn't want ter fight him yerself," the professor finally said, and Ditson did not fail to detect the contempt in his face and voice. "No, I do not," declared Ditson, an angry flush coming to his face. "He is a scrapper, and I do not think I am his match in a brutal fight." "Brutal is good! An' yer wants his arm bruck? Don't propose to give him no show at all, eh?" "I don't care a continental what is done so long as he is fixed as I ask." "I s'pose ye're one of them stujent fellers?" "Yes, I am a student." "An' t'other feller is a stujent?" "Yes." "Dem fellers is easy." "Then you will do the job for me, will you?" "Naw!" snorted Kelley. "Not on yer nacheral! Wot d'yer take me fer? I don't do notting of dat kind. I've got a repertation to sustain, I has." Ditson looked disappointed. "I am willing to pay well to have the job done," he sad. "Well, yer can find somebody ter do it fer yer." "But I don't know where to find anybody, professor." Kelley sat down, relighted his cigar, restored his feet to the table, picked up a paper, seemed about to resume reading, and then observed: "Dis is no infermation bureau, but I s'pose I might put yer onter a cove dat'd do der trick fer yer if yuse come down heavy wid der stuff." "If you will I shall be ever so much obliged." "Much erbliged don't but no whiskey. Money talks, me boy." Ditson reached into his pocket and produced some money. "I will give you five dollars to tell me of a man who will do the job for me," he said, pulling a five-dollar bill from the roll. "Make it ten an' I goes yer," said Kelley, promptly. "Done. Here is your money." Ditson handed it over. "I'd oughter made it twenty," grumbled the pugilist. "Dis business is outer my line entirely, an' I don't want ter be mixed up in it at all—see? I has a repertation ter sustain, an' it wouldn't do fer nobody ter know I ever hed anyt'ing ter do wid such a job as dis." "There is no danger that anybody will ever know it," declared Ditson, impatiently. "I will not say anything about it." "Well, yer wants ter see dat yer don't. If yer do, I'll hunt yer up meself, an' I won't do a t'ing ter youse—not a t'ing!" "Save your threats and come to business. I am impatient to get away, as I do not care to be seen here by anybody who may drop in." "Don't care ter be seen here! I like dat—nit! Better men dan youse has been here, an' don't yer fergit dat!" "Oh, I don't care who has been here! You have the money. Now tell me where I can find the man I want." "D'yer know Plug Kirby?" "No." "Well, he is der feller yer wants." "Where can I find him?" "I'll give yer his address." Kelley took a stub of a pencil out of his vest pocket and wrote with great labor on the margin of one of the papers. This writing he tore off and handed to Ditson. Then, without another word, he once more restored his feet to the top of the table and resumed reading as if there was no one in the room. Ditson went out without a word. When he was gone Kelley looked over the top of the paper toward the door and growled: "Dat feller's no good! If he'd wanted ter fit der odder feller hisself I'd tole him how ter bruck der odder chap's wrist, but he ain't got der sand ter fight a baby. He makes me sad! I'd like ter t'ump him a soaker on de jaw meself." That evening Frank went out to call on some friends. He was returning to his rooms between ten and eleven, when, as he came to a dark corner, a man suddenly stepped out and said: "Give us a light, young feller." "I have none," said Frank, attempting to pass. "Den give us a match," demanded the man, blocking the road. "As I do not smoke I never carry matches." "Well, den, I s'pose I'll have ter go wit'out er light, but—you'll take dat!" Like a flash the man struck straight and hard at the youth's face. It was a wicked blow, delivered with marvelous swiftness, and must have knocked Frank down if it had landed. But Merriwell had suspected all along that it was not a light the man was after, and he had been on the watch for just such a move as was made. For all of the man's swiftness Frank dodged, and the blow passed over his shoulder. When Frank ducked he also struck out with his left, which he planted in the pit of the assailant's stomach. It was a heavy blow, and for a moment it rounded the man up. Before the ruffian could recover he received a thump under the ear that made him see stars and sent him sprawling. But the man had a hard head, and he hastily got upon his feet, uttering fierce words. He expected to see the youth in full flight, and was astonished to perceive that Frank had not taken to his heels. With a snarl of fury the wretch rushed at Merriwell. Frank dodged again and came up under the man's arm, giving him another heavy blow. Then the man turned, and they sparred for a moment. "Durned if youse ain't der liveliest kid I ever seen!" muttered the astonished ruffian. "Youse kin fight!" "Well, I can fight enough to take care of myself," returned the lad, with something like a laugh. Smack! smack! smash! Three blows in rapid succession caused the ruffian to reel and gasp. Then for a few moments the fight was savage and swift. It did not last long. The ruffian had been drinking, and Frank soon had the best of it. He ended the encounter by striking the man a regular knockout blow, and the fellow went down in a heap. When the ruffian recovered he was astonished to find Frank had not departed, but was bending over him. "How do you feel?" the boy calmly inquired. "Say, I'm all broke up!" was the feeble reply. "Are youse der feller wot done me?" "I presume I am." "Well, wot yer waitin' fer?" "To see how badly you are hurt. Your head struck the stones with frightful force when you fell." "Did it? Well, it feels dat way! Here's a lump as big as yer fist. But wot d'youse care?" "I didn't know but your skull was fractured." "Wot difference did dat make?" "I didn't want you to remain here and suffer with a broken head." "Didn't, eh? An' I tried ter do ye up widout givin' yer any warnin'! Dis is der quarest deal I ever struck! I was tryin' ter knock yer stiff an' den break year arm." "Break my arm?" "Dat's wot I was here fer." Frank was interested. "Then you were here on purpose to meet me?" "Sure, Mike." "But why were you going to break my arm?" "'Cause dat's wot I was paid fer, me boy." Frank caught hold of the ruffian, who had arisen to a sitting posture and was holding onto his head. "Paid for?" cried the boy, excitedly. "Do you mean to tell me that you were paid to waylay me and break my arm?" "I didn't mean ter tell yer anyt'ing, but a feller wot kin fight like you kin an' den stay ter see if a chap wot tried ter do him was hurt—dat kind of a feller oughter be told." "Then tell me—tell me all about it," urged Merriwell. "Dere ain't much ter tell. Some sneak wanted yer arm broke, an' he came ter me ter do der job. He paid me twenty ter lay fer youse an' fix yer. I was hard up an' I took der job, dough I didn't like it much. Den he put me onter yer, an' I follored yer ter der house where youse went dis evenin'. I watched till yer comes out, and den I skips roun' ter head yer off yere. I heads yer an' asks fer a light. Youse knows der rest better dan wot I does." "Well, this is decidedly interesting! So I have an enemy who wants my arm broken?" "Yes, yer right arm." "That would fix me so I'd never pitch any more." "Dat's wot's likely, if ye're a pitcher." "Would you know the person who hired you if you were to see him again?" "Sure." "Did he give you his name?" "Dat's wot he did." "Ha! That's what I want! See here! Tell me his name, or by the gods of war I will see that you are arrested and shoved for this night's work!" "An' you will let me off if I tells?" "Yes." "Swear it." "I swear it!" "You won't make a complaint agin' me?" "I will not." "Well, den, yere's his card wot he give me.'" The ruffian fumbled in his pocket and took out a card, which he passed to Frank, who eagerly grasped it. "Here's a match, me boy," said the man. "I had a pocketful w'en I braced yer for one." He passed a match to Frank, who hastily struck it on a stone and then held it so that he could read the name that was engraved on the card in his fingers. A cry of astonishment broke from Merriwell's lips, and both card and match fell from his fingers to the ground. This is the name he had read upon the card: "Mr. Burnham Putnam."       <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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