With that he bolted out of the room, and all the others followed, leaving Frank there alone.
For some moments the stunned and astonished lad stood as if turned to stone, staring with distended eyes toward the door by which they had passed out. His hands were clinched, his nostrils dilated, his head thrown back and his attitude that of a warrior wounded to the heart, but still unconquered in spirit.
He was aroused by a touch on the arm, and the smooth, almost sneering voice of a waiter asked:
"What will you drink, sir?"
Frank lifted one hand to his head and seemed to awaken from a dream. He looked at the waiter doubtfully, as if he did not understand the question that was put to him, then, after a bit, said:
"Thank you, I never drink."
The corners of the waiter's mouth curled upward in the faintest smile—a smile in which pity and scorn seemed to mingle. That aroused all the fury in Frank Merriwell's heart, and, with his eyes blazing, he half-lifted his fist as if he would strike the man in the face. Then he as quickly dropped his hand at his side, shivering as if he had been touched by a sudden chill.
The waiter had shrunk away with Merriwell's menacing movement, but when he saw there was no danger, he softly said:
"I beg your pardon—I thought you were going to drink, as you asked the others to have something with you."
How the words cut and stung! It was as if the man had struck him across the face with a whip. He fell back, half-lifting his hand, and his chin quivered.