The next point was scored by Mabel, and Diamond called:
“You must quit fooling, Merry, old man. It’s forty-thirty, and she wins if you do not tie her this time.”
“I shall do my best,” declared Frank.
He did do his best, and it seemed that he would tire the girl out, but he was not successful, and a final daring drive from Mabel’s racket was successful.
She had won the game and the set.
“Well, Merriwell, I must say you are a good thing!” called a laughing voice. “I didn’t suppose you would let a little girl like that get the best of you at anything.”
It was Charlie Creighton himself who had entered the grounds, and was standing near the tennis court, accompanied by a stranger.
The latter was a stocky-built lad of nineteen or twenty, with thin lips and a hard-set jaw, besides having a large neck that swelled at the base. He was dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly, but were a trifle “loud” or “sporty,” to say the least.
“Yes, I am a good thing,” returned Frank, also laughing; “and your sister has enjoyed herself with me immensely. If you taught her to play tennis, Creighton, she does you credit.”
“Oh,” cried Fanny Darling, “now that Mr. Merriwell is defeated, I suppose he will say it is not polite to win from a girl, and so he did not do his best. That makes me tired!”