CHAPTER XII. RASCALS FALL OUT.
"Stop!"
The word came from Mazarin's lips, and the little man's left hand shot out and caught Sport's wrist, checking the murderous stroke, if Harris really meant to deliver it.
"Let go!"
"No!"
The murderous-minded young villain tried to wrench away.
He met with a surprise.
The small, soft hand held him fast, despite all his writhings.
Harris had wondered that Mazarin so easily choked Merriwell into helplessness, but, after twisting and pulling a few seconds and failing to break away, he began to understand the astonishing strength of those small hands.
"What's the matter with you?" he snarled. "Are you daffy?"
"You are, or you would not try that trick," shot back the little man. "Do you think I'm going to stand here and see you do murder? I guess not!"
"It's my business!"
"And mine now."
"How?"
"If you killed Merriwell, I should be an accomplice. I'm not taking such chances."
"You're a fool!"
"No! you are the fool. I helped you get in here that we might square our account with him, not that you might cut his throat. You have lost your head. Do you want to hang?"
"Of course not, but——"
"Then have a little sense. I didn't think you rattle-headed. We are even with Merriwell now."
"No, I shall not be even with him till I have disgraced him as he disgraced me!" hissed Harris. "I have brooded over it for months. I have dreamed of it. Sometimes I have been unable to sleep nights from thinking about it. I have formed a thousand plans for getting even with the fellow, and now——"
"Now you would make yourself a murderer. Well, you'll have to choose another time to do that job. I am satisfied, and from this day I shall have nothing more to do with you."
"So you are going back on me?"
"No; I am going to quit you, that's all, for I am satisfied that you will get us both into a bad scrape if I stick by you."
"All right; you can quit. You are too soft for me, anyway."
Harris tried to show his contempt for Mazarin in his manner as well as his voice, but the little man did not seem at all affected.
"You are too hard for me," he said. "I believe I was foolish in having anything to do with you."
"Let go my wrist!"
"Drop that knife!"
They now stood looking straight into each other's eyes, and there was something commanding in the manner of the little man who had smashed Frank's apparatus and then wept like a child over the ruin he had wrought.
After some seconds, Sport's fingers relaxed on the handle of the knife, which fell to the floor, striking point downward and standing quivering there.
Mazarin stooped and caught up the knife, closing it and thrusting it into a pocket.
"Give it back," commanded Harris.
"After a while," was the quiet assurance. "Not now. I don't care to trust you with it till——"
He did not finish, but his meaning was plain. He believed Harris treacherous, and he would not trust the fellow till he was sure there would be no opportunity to use the knife on Merriwell.
But Sport's rage had cooled, and now he himself was sick at heart when he thought how near he had been to committing murder. Passion had robbed him of reason for a time, but now cowardice robbed him of his false nerve, and he was white and shaking.
Frank had watched the struggle between the two men with interest and anxiety, for he realized that his life might depend on the outcome.
He fully understood that Mazarin had not saved him out of pity for him, but because the little man was more level-headed than his accomplice, and not such a ruffian.
No matter if Mazarin did hate Merry, he was not ready to stain his hands with blood in order to satisfy his desire to "get even."
A student of human nature, Frank understood Harris very well, and he saw when the reaction came. He knew well enough that all danger was past when he saw the former Yale man grow white and tremble all over.
In the past Merry had sometimes experienced a thrill of sympathy for the young gambler, understanding how youths who are fairly started on the downward course almost always find it impossible to halt and turn back. One crooked act leads to another, and soon the descent becomes swift and sure, leading straight to the brink of the precipice of ruin, upon which not one man in a thousand has the strength to check his awful career, obtain a foothold and climb back to the path of honesty that leads to the plain of peace.
Now it was plain that Harris had sunk so low that there was little hope for him. He was almost past redemption.
Incapable of feeling gratitude, the fellow had never realized that Merry had shown him any kindness in not exposing him and bringing about his disgrace when his crookedness was first discovered at college.
Knowing that he would never let up in the least on an enemy, Harris had believed Frank "soft" because of his generosity. The fellow's hatred had grown steadily with each and every failure to injure Merriwell, while his conscience had become so hardened that he was not troubled in the least by things which might have worried him once.
As Harris swung the knife aloft, Frank had braced his feet, preparing to thrust himself over backward as the only means of escaping the blow. This, however, had not been necessary, for Mazarin had interfered.
"Now," said the little man, seeming to assume command, "it's time for us to get out of here."
"I guess that's right," came weakly from Harris. "Some one might come."
"By this time it's dark, and we can slip out by the stage door without attracting attention."
"We mustn't be seen coming out."
"It's well enough not to be seen, but it wouldn't make much difference if we were. The people who saw us might think we were members of Merriwell's show."
"Merriwell's show!" cried Harris, forcing a laugh. "I rather think his show business is over. We have put an end to that."
Then he turned on Frank, some of the color getting back into his face.
"We've fixed you this time," the revengeful fellow sneered. "It's the first time I've ever been able to do you up in good shape. You always managed to squirm out of everything before, but all your squirming will do you no good now."
Frank was silent, his eyes fixed on Harris' face, and the fellow felt the contempt of that look as keenly as it was possible for him to feel anything.
"Don't look at me like that!" he snarled.
Frank continued to look at him.
Once more Harris seemed losing his head.
"How I hate you, Merriwell!" he panted, bending toward Frank, while Mazarin watched him narrowly. "I never dreamed I could hate anyone as I hate you."
Then, quick as a flash, he struck Frank a stinging blow with his open hand, nearly upsetting the youth, chair and all.
"Oh there is some satisfaction in that!" he grated.
"A coward's satisfaction," said the steady voice of the helpless victim. "Only a wretched coward would strike a person bound and unable to resist!"
"That's right!"
Mazarin uttered the words, and they filled Harris with unspeakable fury.
"Right!" he snarled. "What's the matter with you? You smashed his stuff when he was tied and unable to prevent it. Was that cowardly?"
"Yes!"
Sport literally gasped for breath.
"Yes?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Just that," nodded Mazarin, gloomily. "I have played the coward here, as well as you. I know it now, but it is too late to undo anything I have done."
"Well, you make me sick!" Harris sneered. "You are one of the kind that does a thing and then squeals. I'm glad we are going to quit, for I wouldn't dare trust you after this."
"Nor I you," returned the little man. "You'd be sure to do something to get us both in a mess. Come, are you going to get out of here?"
"Directly."
"Now?"
"Wait a little."
"What for?"
"I have a few more things to say to Merriwell."
"You have said enough. Let him alone."
"Well, we must gag him, or he will set up a howling the moment we are gone."
"Let him howl. We'll be outside of the building, and it is dark. We can get away. It's not likely he'll be heard for some time if he does howl, and——"
Slam!
Somewhere below in the building a door closed.
Harris made a leap and caught Mazarin by the wrist.
"Somebody coming!" he hissed.
"Sure thing!"
"We must skip!"
"In a hurry."
"Which way?"
There were steps on the stairs leading to the stage.
Then Frank shouted:
"Help! help! This way! Look out for trouble! Hurry!"
"Satan take him!" hissed Harris. "He has given the alarm!"
Mazarin did not stop an instant, but darted away amid the scenery and disappeared from view in the darkness.
"Hello, Frank!" came a voice from the stairs. "Is that yeou? What in thunder's the matter?"
It was Ephraim Gallup!
"Look out, Ephraim!" warned Merriwell. "Enemies here! Danger!"
Tramp, tramp, the Vermonter's heavy feet sounded on the stairs.
Then there was a rush, and a dark form swept down upon him, struck him, knocked him rolling and bumping to the foot of the stairs.
"Waal, darn—my—pun—ugh!—kins!" came from the Yankee youth in jolts and bursts.
Over him went the dark figure, closely followed by another.
"Hold on a minute," invited Ephraim. "Whut's your gol darn rush?"
But they did not stop. The door near the foot of the stairs was torn open, and both figures shot out of the building.
Gallup gathered himself up.
"Back broke, leg broke, shoulder dislocated, jaw fractured, teeth knocked out, tongue bit off, and generally injured otherwise," he enumerated. "All done in a jiffy. Whatever hit me, anyhaow? Hey, Frank!"
From above Merriwell answered, and again Ephraim started to mount the stairs. He reached the top, found his way to the stage, and discovered Merry tied to the chair.
"Good-evening, Ephraim," said Frank, grimly. "You are a very welcome caller. I'm getting tired of sitting here."
"Hey?" gasped the Vermonter. "Whut in thunder——"
He stopped, his jaw snapping up and down, but not another sound issuing from his lips. He was utterly flabbergasted.
"Just set me free," invited Frank. "I'll tell you all about it later. Mazarin was one, Harris was the other. You've heard me speak of Harris. They caught me here, smashed my stuff, got away. We must catch them."
"Gol dinged if I don't think so!" shouted the Yankee, and, a moment later, he was working fiercely to set Merriwell at liberty. Finding he could not easily untie the knots, he took out his knife and slashed the ropes.
Frank sprang up.
"Come on, Ephraim!" he cried. "We'll get after those chaps."
Gallup followed Merriwell down the stairs, but both Harris and Mazarin had disappeared when the open air was reached, and all inquiries failed to put the pursuers on the track of them.
In fact, the two rascals had disappeared from the town, and, for the time, it seemed that they had utterly vanished from the face of the earth.