Frank Merriwell's Races

by Burt L. Standish

"Jee!" chattered Bink Stubbs. "That was a regular hair-raiser, as the fellow said when he finished the blood-and-thunder story."

Yates swayed and caught at the iron rail. The flush had gone out of his face, which was ashen-gray.

"Better go into the car," said Merriwell. "You seem rather unsteady, and you might fall off here."

Without a word, Yates steadied himself by taking hold of the side of the door, and entered the car.

Merriwell followed, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it lightly to the spot on his cheek where a slight bruise marked the spot that had felt the enraged lad's fist.

The witnesses of this scene seemed to breathe freely for the first time. They stared at Frank as if his marvelous display of strength had been a revelation to them.

Yates had plenty of friends, as he had never seemed a bad sort of fellow, but the fact that he had struck Merriwell while the latter was sitting down was against him.

"He's been drinking," one declared. "Merriwell could not have handled him that way otherwise."