Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West

by Burt L. Standish

"Buzz! buzz! buzz!"

"You do not know the name of the person, do you?"

"Buzz! buzz! buz-zz-zz-zz!"

Now the fly was greatly excited. It made short jumps in several directions.

"Don't be trying any of your nonsense," warned the young magician. "If you are fooling me, I shall be offended."

If possible, the insect buzzed louder than before.

"Well, if you know the name of the person, be good enough to spell it out, so I may know who has several times disturbed the performance. Go ahead, Solomon."

Now the spectators lifted themselves in their seats and stared, for the fly fairly darted out on the mirror. As the insect paused on each letter, Frank spelled out the name.

"S-p-o-r-t. That spells 'Sport,' Solomon. Are you making sport of me, or are you giving me a name? Go on. What is the rest of it?"

Away darted the fly, and Frank spelled: