Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm; Or, Saving an Enemy

by Burt L. Standish

This, in truth, was the worst punishment Defarge had ever received for his wrong-doing. Physical punishment had been as nothing in comparison to it. He did not mind a few bruises; he did not care if he happened to be confined to his room for a day or two. But this struck straight to his heart.

In this moment came the thought that he had brought it all on himself when he sought to harm Merriwell. He felt that somehow Merriwell was responsible, and the hatred he had known for Frank in the past became a thousand times more intense.

“I could kill him!” he muttered hoarsely.

He saw the chosen candidates receiving congratulations on all sides, and the spectacle maddened him. He was muttering to himself as he found his way out onto the Green, where he wandered round and round for half an hour before realizing that he was acting like a daffy person.

There was a little place where Bertrand had often dropped in to have a quiet drink, and toward it he now turned his steps, for he felt that nothing but drink could give him relief.

He found his favorite seat by the corner screen, dropping down heavily and sitting there staring blankly at the table when the waiter came up. Not until the waiter had asked him twice for his order did he arouse himself. Then he ordered absinth.

After a little it was placed before him, the devil’s drink that lifts men to the seventh heaven of bliss, only to hurl them at last to the lowest depths of hell. He knew when he took the stuff that it robs men of manhood and makes them its slaves, yet he drank it. He knew the awful effect of that decoction on the human being, for absinth-drinkers soon find their way to madhouses, yet he drank it. He knew he was taking into his system a poison that must work on every part of him, yet he drank it.

It soothed him after a little, and that was what he sought. He leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette, which he puffed leisurely. In the blue smoke he saw strange pictures of himself overthrowing and destroying one whom he hated with all his heart, and that one was Merriwell. How strong he felt! Why, it seemed that he could crush Merriwell to the earth without an effort. What did he care, after all, if he had failed to be chosen to enter the ivy-wreathed door of “Bones”! That was a passing joy, but absinth he could have always—till death! “Waiter, bring another of the same.”

With the second glass, everything passed from him save his determination to get even with Merriwell. Of late he had feared Merriwell, but now he did not fear him. Merriwell had seemed to possess a strange power over him, but now he felt that the power was broken. He knew he was in every way superior to Merriwell, and it seemed strange that all others did not know it as well. In his heart something was making soft music, like chiming bells, and he listened to it with quiet delight. How easy it was to start that music to going! “Waiter, another absinth.”

But the waiter was not near, and it was too much effort to call him. He smiled to think he had cared if he failed to get into “Bones.” Foolish! He knew the fellows who had been chosen, and he was better than the best of them. He would prove it, too, some day. He knew he could prove it easily, for he had the power to do anything he desired.