"Anderson, Cobb and Nash," he muttered. "They're always jolly—never seem to have any troubles. They drink and sport too much to stand high in their classes, but they will get through college all right, and every one will call them first-class fellows. Isn't that better than to be valedictorian and a hermit? I was getting along all right, although I was not showing up brilliantly in Greek. I'd have scrubbed through and held my position on the football team if I had tried. It's plain I made a big mistake."
It seemed plainer and plainer the more he thought about it, but he could see no way of turning back now and taking the path he had abandoned. He had burned his bridges, and he must go forward.
A great curiosity seized him. He knew well enough a party of students would be gathered in Morey's little back room, and he longed to know how he would be received among them.
"I'm going in there," he muttered. "Haven't been around for a long time. Here I go!"
In he went. He was known the moment he appeared. Straight for the famous back room he made his way, and he was immediately admitted, his face being his passport.
He was right in thinking a party was gathered there. At least a dozen fellows were sitting about drinking ale. They were not laughing or talking loudly, but as Frank entered the room, he distinctly heard his name spoken by one of them.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"THE MARBLE HEART."
"Hello, fellows!" called Merriwell, attempting to Be cheerful. "Thought I'd drop in."