Frank's acquaintances declared he had a mighty nerve, for he was able to travel with a crowd that drank and smoked, and still refrained from doing either. That was something difficult for them to understand.
It was apparent to everybody that Merriwell's popularity did not depend on his ability to absorb beer or his generosity in opening fizz. It came from his sterling qualities, his ability as an athlete, his natural magnetism, and his genial, sunny nature. Although he was refined and gentlemanly, there was not the least suggestion of anything soft or effeminate about him.
It is not strange that Merriwell could scarcely believe it possible that Paul Pierson had been in earnest. Such a thing seemed altogether too good to be true.
"If it's a jolly, he'll not have the satisfaction of knowing that I spread it," Frank decided. "Mum is the word with me, and I'll keep right on working for a place with the freshmen. Oh, if we can win the race at Saltonstall!"
Frank knew that he stood well with Old Put, who was to manage the freshman team in the spring. If the freshman crew could defeat the sophs, Put would have more confidence than ever in Merriwell.
Frank was thinking these things over, when Harry came in with a rush, slamming the door and tripping over a rug in his haste.
"Say! say! say!" he spluttered, staring at Frank.
"Well, what is it?"
"Is it true?"
"Is what true?"