Frank Merriwell's Fun, by Burt L. Standish—A Project Gutenberg eBook



In the Yale dressing-rooms there was excitement. The men were being hastily rubbed down. They were sore and dispirited. Some men had come down from the pine seats. Browning and Diamond were there.

“Our best men are crippled,” confessed Birch to Bruce. “We’ll fight to the last gasp, and that’s all we can do.”

“If we had Merriwell to put in now, he might brace the team up,” said Lorrimer, in a low tone.

Frank Merriwell was there. Browning fell on him, figuratively speaking.

“Merriwell,” he said, “can’t you go in? The crowd was yelling for you. Listen! Hear ’em!”

They listened, and to their ears came a great shout from the Yale side:

“Where is Merriwell? We want Merriwell!”

Lorrimer walked up to Frank.

“Merriwell,” he said, “if you could go into this game, you might save the day for us. You are our only hope. Can’t you possibly do it?”

Then, to the astonishment of every one, Frank answered:


“You will?” gasped Lorrimer.


Browning gave a roar of delight. He would have grasped Frank in his arms, but Merry prevented, saying:

“Don’t do it, old man! I can’t stand that!”

“Well, how are you going to stand it on the field?” asked Jack Diamond.

“I’ll have to stand it there,” was the grim answer.

The word was passed round that Merriwell would go in, and it was astonishing how those men brightened up.

“We’ll beat Harvard now!” they exclaimed joyously. “We can beat her with Merriwell, even if he has to play on one leg!”

“We want Merriwell!” roared the Yale crowd, while the Harvard men taunted and jeered at them.

Then the two teams came out to line-up for the second half, and Frank Merriwell was with Yale. He was seen—he was recognized. It seemed that every Yale men leaped to his feet.

“There he is!”

Never did a human being receive a greater ovation on the football-field. The Yale men let the spectators in general know why they were yelling and cheering like a lot of lunatics, and the great throng of human beings took up the mad cheering. Everywhere the blue was fluttering—everywhere except to the west.

When the teams lined up, it was seen that Frank Merriwell had been placed at full-back, while Birch was playing half in Badger’s place. Merriwell’s intimate friends wondered that Frank dared do such a thing. They knew it was strictly against the orders of his physician. But there he was, ready for the fray, and it was his kick-off. This time Yale must fight against the wind, and, judging by her record with the wind in her favor, she was liable to fall an easy victim to Harvard’s gladiators.

Frank went at the ball and drove it into the air. There was a rush, but the sphere curved out of bounds, and it was brought back for another try. Those who witnessed the kick said it was not much like Merriwell’s work when he was at his best. On the next attempt, however, Frank drove off splendidly. Hollender returned the ball, and there was some sharp volleying for a few seconds, but, with the wind against him, Merry did not keep it up. Every time he kicked it seemed that he was tearing a piece out of his side, but his teeth were set, and no sound came from his lips.

Then Yale’s left end was sent into Harvard’s center with the ball, but the gain was slight. A double pass was tried, and it gained five yards for the blue. Then Yale was held right there on “downs” till the ball went to Harvard.

Harvard immediately returned to the play that had been so successful in the first half, bucking Yale’s center. To her surprise, the Yale line seemed to be a wall of stone, and three downs came one after another. Then Hollender punted to Merriwell, who made a beautiful catch, tucked the ball under his arm and went past Harvard’s left end like a shot. It was his first effective play, and the Yale crowd on the benches rose and howled. He was getting up fine speed when two men struck him on Harvard’s thirty-five-yard line and brought him down with a terrible shock.

Merry was hurt. He writhed in pain, seeming unable to catch his breath.

“By the gods! he’s knocked out so quick!” groaned Browning.

“Wait,” advised Diamond. “It takes considerable to knock Frank Merriwell out. He’ll play if he can stand.”

At last Frank got up. He was seen to stagger, but recovered himself and remained in the game. That caused the Yale men to cheer him wildly.

Yale was unable to make any further gain, and Frank punted out of bounds. Then a Harvard man went round Yale’s left end for four yards. Harvard’s left guard was injured in interfering for the runner, and another man was substituted. In the anxiety of Yale’s right guard to stop his fresh opponent in the line, he went past him before the ball was put into play, and Yale was punished by having to give five yards to Harvard. Things were beginning to come Harvard’s way again, for all of Merriwell’s play, and she beat Yale back into her territory yard by yard.

It looked like Harvard’s day, for she was keeping Yale on the defensive at least two-thirds of the time. To be sure, Yale was making a stronger defense than she did in the first half, but the persistent bulldog work of the crimson was bound to tell.

Hodge had not found a single opportunity to show what he could do. Now he was able to stop two successive attacks of the Harvard men by his own individual efforts, and he heard a word of praise from Merriwell. Then the ball came to Yale on a fumble, and Hodge was tried on the line. He won seven yards and was wildly cheered by the New Haven crowd.

Again Harvard held Yale. The “downs” came thick and fast, and the ball went to the crimson once more.

Hollender punted beautifully. Merriwell took the ball and shot forward, as if to go round Harvard’s left end in the same style as before. As he went by Birch, he passed the ball. Birch turned and shot toward Harvard’s right end, but the ball left his hands and passed into those of Hodge. And Bart Hodge went into the center of Harvard’s line with Yale interferers all around him. This had been done so quickly that Harvard was bewildered for a moment, and again Hodge was forced forward for a gain of about seven yards.

“Keep it up,” said Merriwell, “and you’ll go over the line with the ball.”

Yale was brightening up. The spectators were wild. It was a struggle of giants, and the man who could pick the winner was a wonder. How those megaphones roared! But Harvard made a stand, and baffled Yale again till she could secure possession of the ball.

Hollender once more resorted to a punt, and this time Merriwell sent it back. A Harvard man had it like a flash and went at Yale’s right end, cutting through like a knife. How it happened no one seemed able to tell, but he escaped tackler after tackler and raced down the field to Yale’s twenty-five-yard line before he was stopped by Frank Merriwell, who threw him like a log.

Merry got up spitting blood himself, having cut his lips. He did not say a word, and nobody asked him questions. There was a line-up, and the battle went on in Yale’s territory. At times Harvard was driven back to center, and then she would sweep Yale into her territory again.

“It looks as if we might keep her from scoring!” breathed Jack Diamond, with intense satisfaction. “If we can do that, I’ll be happy.”

Indeed, it looked as if neither side could score. Was it to be a drawn game?

Harvard had the ball, and there was a scrimmage. In the midst of it somebody scrambled, and the ball came whirling out of the mass of human beings. Frank Merriwell had it in a twinkling, and he was off down the field before the Harvard men knew what had happened. Every breath Frank drew cut him like a keen knife, but he kept on at wonderful speed. The hounds were after him, and he knew it. He bowled one man over, dodged another, and then rushed onward.

All Yale rose and thundered. For the first time that day it seemed certain that Yale would make a goal. Bruce Browning shouted like a maniac, his face turning purple as the blood rushed to his head.

“Merriwell has done it!” he roared. “That wins this game!”

Jack Diamond’s face was pale, save where two spots of red glowed in his cheeks. His lips were pressed together, and he was shaking again. Frank felt a fearful pain running through him. It seemed to stop his wind, but it did not stop him.

“I must do it!” he thought.

He became blind, but still he managed to keep on his feet, and he ran on. Had Frank been at his best he would have crossed the Harvard line without again being touched; but he was not at his best, and Hollender came down on him. Ten yards from Harvard’s line, Hollender tackled Merry.

Frank felt himself clutched, but he refused to be dragged down. He felt hands clinging to him, and, with all the fierceness he could summon, he strove to break away and go on. His lips were covered with a bloody foam, and there was a frightful glare in his eyes. He strained and strove to get a little farther, and he actually dragged Hollender along the ground till he broke the fellow’s hold. Then he reeled across Harvard’s line and fell.

It was a touch-down in the last seconds of the game. There was not even time to kick a goal, but Yale had won by a score of four to nothing!

He was carried from the field by his friends, who took him to a hotel and put him to bed. A doctor came to see him and prescribed for him. They came round his bed and told him what a noble fellow he was.

“Don’t boys!” he begged. “You make me tired! And I’m so happy! We won, fellows—we won the game!”

“You won it!” cried Jack Diamond fiercely. “They can’t rob you of that glory! They’ve tried to rob you of enough!”

“No, no! We all did it. Think how the boys fought! It was splendid! And that was the best eleven Harvard ever put on the field. Oh, what a glorious Thanksgiving!”

“But you are knocked out,” said Rattleton. “It’s too bad you can’t enjoy it with the rest of the fellows! They own Boston to-night!”

“Enjoy it!” exclaimed Frank, with a faint laugh. “I am enjoying it! Never in my life have I enjoyed a Thanksgiving so much!”

“Old man,” said Browning, “your heart is in the right place. It was your heart that won the game to-day. If it had had one weak spot, we could not have won.”

“It is the heart of a lion,” said Bart Hodge.

“Now, you’re not going to escape without some of this flattery!” smiled Frank. “You did as much as any man on the field.”

“I didn’t make a touch-down.”

“Boys,” said Frank, “I’m so glad—and I’m so tired! The pain in my side does not hurt so much since the doctor gave me the medicine. I feel sleepy. I believe I’ll sleep awhile. Oh, what a glorious Thanksgiving!”

Even as he murmured the words, he seemed to fall asleep. They stole out of the room and left him there, with Bart Hodge watching at the bedside, like a faithful dog.