The report spread that Merriwell had been cut by his old friends. Curious ones strolled in and ordered a drink just to get a look at him. He seemed quite unaware of this.
Never in his life had Frank tasted whiskey, but for one moment he had weakened and thought of easing the blow to his pride by resorting to the stuff.
Merriwell was human, but still that weakness lasted no more than a moment. Then he came to himself, and he was ashamed to think that he had contemplated such a course. It seemed cowardly.
"They say I am a coward," he thought; "but I am not a coward enough for that."
For more than an hour he sat there at the table. Finally he seemed to come out of the stupor that had seized upon him.
"Waiter," he called.
His voice was calm and natural, the scowl had vanished from his face, and he was himself once more.
"Waiter, you may remove this whiskey and bring me a lemon-seltzer. I don't care for this stuff."
When this order was filled, he calmly drank the lemon-seltzer, paid for it, rose to his feet, pulled on his gloves, and left Morey's with an air of combined nonchalance and dignity.
He was his own master once more. He had been insulted by fellows he formerly believed friends, but he was still Frank Merriwell. He felt within himself that he was a man and the equal of the best of them. Some day they should be ashamed when they remembered their act. He felt confident that day would come.