For two days Frank Merriwell had kept his identity secret as far as possible, being led to do so because of his experiences in Camden, Rockland and Belfast. Now, however, everybody was asking the name of the winner, and it passed from one to another that it was the great Yale athlete, Frank Merriwell.
Two baseball teams had watched the race from the shore. They were the Newports and the M. C. I.’s, of Pittsfield, and the most of them had heard of Merriwell. When they knew he was there at Camp Benson they were eager to get a close look at him. Hundreds of others experienced the same eagerness, and thus it came about that there was a rush of people toward that point of shore that Frank approached.
Some one proposed a cheer for Frank Merriwell, and it was given with a hearty will. Then a man cried:
“Why, he’s one of them Sandy Point dudes that everybody said wouldn’t cut no ice in the race.”
“Mebbe he didn’t cut no ice,” cried another, “but he cut water enough to win first purse.”
This caused a laugh.
There were scores of pretty girls in the throng, and they regarded the handsome victor admiringly. Merriwell could have flirted with almost any of them had he chosen, although he would have needed a proper introduction to not a few before they would have recognized him.
At Camp Benson, however, there seemed to be an unusual freedom, and it was not difficult to get acquainted with almost anyone. Young ladies who would not have thought of such impropriety elsewhere often ventured to flirt mildly with strangers.
Bruce Browning was lounging in the shade beneath a tree, with Dunnerwust at his side, awaiting Frank.
“Well, Merry,” he called, “you did the trick, but I had begun to think you were not in it.”