“Didn’t you ever drink?” asked Roland wonderingly.
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
“Long ago I was fool enough to do so. I was a boy then, and I thought it manly. But I learned my lesson and learned it well. See this face! It marks me for life and makes me an object of repulsion. If I had never touched liquor, I doubt if I should have been thus disfigured now. I entered a burning building, in an attempt to rescue a man. Another boy was with me. We flung open the door of a room, and fire shot out and enveloped me. It seemed as if my very breath took flame. I fell to the floor, and the other chap dragged me away.”
“Wasn’t he burned?”
“No.”
“It just happened that way. It was fate.”
“It seemed to be punishment. I hated the other fellow, and I had tried to do him harm. He was an athletic chap, and he would not drink. I hated him because he seemed to think himself too good to drink. He had been given a medal for saving a life. I got hold of that medal. Another boy was accused of stealing it. As I did not like the other fellow, I should have remained quiet and let things go; but when I was burned I thought my time had come. I confessed. Of course, all the odium of the affair fell on me when I recovered, and I was compelled to leave school. But I swore then and there that I would never touch a drink again, and that I would become an athlete capable of defeating the fellow I had tried to down. From that day to this I have worked steadily to build myself up and reach a state of perfection. I believe I have succeeded, and now I am ready for the test. All I ask is to meet my old enemy in any kind of a contest.”
“And this enemy of whom you speak—what is his name?”
“Frank Merriwell!” declared the youthful athlete with the scarred face.