“Perhaps I should not blame you for thinking so,” he said kindly. “Please read the name on that card.”
“I see it—‘Frank Merriwell.’”
“Perhaps you read in the papers some time ago about Charles Conrad Merriwell, who was called the American Monte Cristo?”
“Yes, yes! Why, you——”
“I am his son. My father has plenty of money, and, if I can communicate with him, I believe he will loan you ten thousand dollars.”
The youth gasped.
“Loan—me—ten—thousand—dollars?”
“Yes; at least, I shall ask him to do so, stating your case plainly. I am confident he will not refuse me. With the money you are to make square your debt, and then you must go to work to pay back to my father every dollar of it. He will demand that.”
The overjoyed lad would have fallen on his knees before Frank; he tried to kiss Frank’s hands, while the tears rained from his eyes.
“God bless you!” he sobbed. “I know you will save me, Frank Merriwell! And I swear to pay back every cent!”