Jack was indignant.
“I’m a Diamond, of Virginia,” he said. “My word will go anywhere. When I say Frank Merriwell is all right, that goes.”
Herrick smiled.
“I have no doubt but you are right in most cases, but this is different. You see, you have had little to do with men like Canfield. You have no standing in his class.”
“Well, perhaps I ought to thank God for that,” muttered the Southerner. “But I’ve introduced you to my friend, and I give you my word he’s all right. You have the run of that place, and you can make it right there.”
“Yes; but you know I am held responsible if anything unpleasant happens.”
Frank had leaned against the rail of the bar. Herrick drew Diamond aside, and at this moment one of the barkeepers touched Merry on the elbow, saying in a low tone:
“Are you Frank Merriwell, of Yale, the athlete I’ve read so much about in the papers?”
“I presume I am the same,” answered Merry.
“Then I want to give you a tip, but don’t ever let out that I did so. Look out for yourself to-night if you chase that gang and keep your money in your pocket. That’s all.”