“I must take the poor fellow to the hotel, and then we’ll see what can be done for him. He seems to be in a bad way.”
By the time the lighted street was reached the boy recovered consciousness. He struggled a bit, moaned slightly, and then, in a pathetic, pleading voice, he said:
“Please don’t take me back to Bernard Belmont, Apollo—please don’t! I know he will kill me!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said Frank, gently. “I am not taking you to any one who will harm you.”
A cry of astonishment broke from the boy.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you are not Apollo!”
“No; I am Frank Merriwell. Who is Apollo?”
“A dwarf—a wretch—the hired tool of Bernard Belmont! Oh, he is a monster, without heart or soul!”
“He must be the one with whom I had the lively little set-to.”
“You—you came to my aid—you saved me from him! How can I thank you! But I thought he would kill you!”