LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER XXX.

       RATTLETON IS EXCITED.

       Table of Contents

      "It wasn't Merriwell's fault that the freshies didn't win," said Bob Collingwood to Paul Pierson as they were riding back to New Haven on the train that night.

      "Not a bit of it," agreed Pierson. "I was expecting a great deal of Merriwell, but I believe he is a better man than I thought he could be."

      "Then you have arrived at the conclusion that he is fast enough for the regular team?"

      "I rather think he is."

      "Will you give him a trial?"

      "We may. It is a bad thing for any freshman to get an exalted opinion of himself and his abilities, for it is likely to spoil him. I don't want to spoil Merriwell—"

      "Look here," interrupted Collingwood, impulsively. "I am inclined to doubt if it is an easy thing to spoil that fellow. He hasn't put on airs since coming to Yale, has he?"

      "No."

      "Instead of that, he has lived rather simply—far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor."

      "That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living."

      "Yet I have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he may live as swell as he likes while he is here. What do you think of that?"

      "It may be true," admitted Pierson. "He is an original sort of chap—"

      "But they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in Collingwood, swiftly. "He isn't living cheap for economy's sake. You know he doesn't drink."

      "Yes. I have made inquiries about his habits."

      "Still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz, for which he settles. And he is liberal in other ways."

      "He is an enigma in some ways."

      "I have heard a wild sort of story about him, but I don't take much stock in it. It is the invention of some fertile brain."

      "What is it?"

      "Oh, a lot of trash about his having traveled all over the world, been captured by pirates and cannibals, fought gorillas and tigers, shot elephants and so forth. Of course that's all rot."

      "Of course. What does he say about it?"

      "Oh, he simply laughs at the stories. If a fellow asks him point-blank if they are true he tells him not to let anybody string him. He seems to regard the whole business as a weak sort of joke that some fellow is trying to work."

      "Without doubt that's what it is, for he's too young to have had such adventures. Besides that, there's no fellow modest enough to deny it if he had had them."

      "Of course there isn't."

      In this way that point was settled in their minds, for the time, at least.

      There was no band to welcome 'Umpty-eight back to New Haven. No crowd of cheering freshmen was at the station, and those who had gone on to Cambridge to play and to see the game got off quietly—very quietly—and hurried to their rooms.

      Merriwell was in his room ahead of Rattleton. Harry finally appeared, wearing a sad and doleful countenance.

      "What's the matter, old man?" asked Frank as Harry came in and flung his hat on the floor, after which he dropped upon a chair. "You do not seem to feel well."

      "I should think you would eel felegant—I mean feel elegant!" snapped Harry, glaring at Frank.

      "Oh, what's the use to be all broken up over a little thing?"

      "Wow! Little thing!" whooped Harry. "I'd like to know what you call a little thing—I would, by jee!"

      "You are excited, my boy. Calm down somewhat."

      "Oh, I am calm!" shouted Harry as he jumped up and kicked the chair flying into a corner. "I am perfectly calm!" he roared, tearing up and down the room. "I never was calmer in all my life!"

      "You look it!" came in an amused manner from Frank's lips. "You are so very calm that it is absolutely soothing and restful to the nerves to observe you!"

      Harry stopped short before Frank, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, thrust his head forward, and glared fiercely into Merriwell's face.

      "There are times when it positively is a crime not to swear," he hoarsely said. "It seems to me that this is one of the times. If you will cuss a little it will relieve my feelings immensely."

      "Why don't you swear?" laughed Frank.

      "Why don't I? Poly hoker—no, holy poker! I have been swearing all the way from Cambridge to New Haven, and I have completely run out of profanity."

      "Well, I think you have done enough for both of us."

      "Oh, indeed! Well, that is hard of me! I came in here expecting to find you breaking the furniture, and you are as calm and serene as a summer's morning. I tell you, Frank, it is an awful shock! And you are the one who should do the most swearing. I can't understand you, hanged if I can!"

      "Well, you know there is an old saw that says it is useless to cry over spilled milk—"

      "Confound your old saws! Crying and swearing are two different things. Don't you ever cuss, Frank?"

      "Never."

      "Well, I'd like to know how you can help it on an occasion like this! That is what gets me."

      "Never having acquired the habit, it is very easy to get along without swearing, which is, beyond a doubt, the most foolish habit a man can get into."

      Rattleton held up both hands, with a look of absolute horror on his face.

      "Don't—don't preach now!" he protested. "I think the habit of swearing is a blessing sometimes—an absolute blessing. A man can relieve his feelings that way when he can't any other."

      "You don't seem to have succeeded in relieving your feelings much."

      "I don't? Well, you should have seen me when I got aboard the train! I was at high pressure, and there was absolute danger of an explosion. I just had to open the safety valve and blow off. And I find you as calm as a clock! Oh, Frank, it is too much—too much!" and Harry pretended to weep.

      "Go it, old man," he smiled. "You will feel better pretty soon."

      "I don't know whether I will or not!" snapped Harry. "It was a sheastly bame—I mean a beastly shame! That game was ours!"

      "Not quite. It came very near being ours."

      "It

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