“That’s where the nickname comes from, colonel,” young Merriwell answered, with a laugh.
“I don’t know your father personally,” said the colonel, with some enthusiasm, “but I have seen him on several occasions, both in the East and at his T Bar Ranch in Wyoming. I have also heard a great deal about him. I reckon he typifies everything a man can express in the term true sportsmanship.”
“Thank you, colonel,” answered Frank. “Dad is all you think him—and more.”
“If you’re a chip of the old block, you ought to stand for all that your father stands for.”
“Why, yes,” said the puzzled youngster, “as well as I can.”
“Well,” continued Colonel Hawtrey, “I’ve stopped here this afternoon to appeal to you as a true sportsman, and as a son of the Frank Merriwell I have seen a few times and of whom I have heard so much.”
He paused. Frank was already over his head wondering what the colonel was trying to get at. He said nothing, but waited respectfully for the other to broach the subject he had in mind.
“As you doubtless know,” remarked the colonel, “I founded the Gold Hill Athletic Club, and have been its best patron during the few years it has been in existence. Some people say”—and he smiled slightly—“that I am cracked on the subject of athletics. It’s a hobby with me, for I believe that, rightly directed, sports of the track and field do more to develop properly a young man’s character than anything else in the world. On the other hand, if wrongly directed they are a source of much harm. Just at the present time, and much as I regret to say it, the club at Ophir and the one at Gold Hill are heading in the wrong direction.
“A bitter partisan spirit has crept into the competitions between the two clubs. Some of the members—I won’t say all of them—have proved that they are not good losers. Rancor has shown its ugly head, Merriwell. I think that you, more than any one else, can help to foster a different spirit between the clubs.”
Frank tried to speak, but the colonel lifted his hand.