Frank Merriwell's Setback; Or, True Pluck Welcomes Defeat

by Burt L. Standish

Again Merriwell got the ball and sent it flying down the floor. It was stopped by Mehan, the New London center; but Ready took it away from him and sent it again toward the New London goal, where it was stopped by the fat goal-end, who knocked it back with his stick. Then Hodge succeeded in getting the ball and started down the floor with it, driving past Mehan and Weathers. But Gates, who had skated round in a half-circle, stopped the ball with his stick before it reached the goal-end.

Bang! Weathers drove it straight and hard to the Yale end of the floor and against the planking, Starbright and Merriwell drove it from the vicinity of the Yale goal, Merriwell running it down to Starbright and the latter passing it around Crowder by a handsome carom against the wall and on to Hodge, who again tried to drive a goal.

But in doing so he slipped and came down with a thump on the floor. One of his skates had broken. The referee’s whistle blew and time was given for Bart to put on other skates.

Dade Morgan, who had secured a good seat in one of the side galleries, which enabled him to look down on the surface and observe every movement of the players, found it difficult to keep the smile on his face. He fiercely wanted the New London men to win—not because of the bets which had been made, but because he fancied the loss of the game would humiliate Merriwell and Starbright.

He was watching Mehan and Bascom, who, with others, were walking about the floor near their goal with their skates skewed to the sides of their feet, in this interval of play. Bascom and Mehan were the men from New York who had been hired by him to knock out Dick Starbright, by breaking his arm, or otherwise seriously injuring him before the end of the game.

Dade was thinking, too, as he looked at them, of what he fancied was transpiring in New Haven at that time, and rejoicing in the probably successful result of the efforts of Dion Santenel to snare Charles Conrad Merriwell.

“I’m afraid that Merriwell’s men are the better players,” he was forced to confess to himself. “But only one goal has been made, and there are plenty of chances. Anyway, if one of those fellows knocks out Starbright satisfactorily I shall be satisfied, whichever way the game goes.”

Again the game was on, the skaters flying here and there after the elusive sphere, swooping down on it from all quarters, as it skipped back and forth under the constant strokes of the sticks.

It was clearly to be seen that Merriwell’s men were the more scientific players. They did not hammer at the ball constantly, as if trying to smash it into dust, as the New Londoners did, but made team plays, gliding the ball from man to man around opposition players, caroming it against the walls and skilfully shooting it for goal.

The playing of the New London men was of the slugger type, as befitted their appearance. Bascom, their goal-tend, was savage and fierce as a chained wolf, hopping about in front of the cage, kicking at the ball, striking at it, and frantically warding it off when it was shot at the cage. Now and then he lifted his club and glared at the Yale men as they swooped on him, as if he desired to hammer their heads. More than once Mehan caught a Yale player round the shoulders and pushed him about, yet the referee did not announce a foul.