Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Marriage; Or, Inza's Happiest Day - Burt L. Standish - Страница 4

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“Oh, were you?” exclaimed the gentleman pugilist, with a touch of surprise. “Well, that suits me! If you’re not in your best form, however, you had better wait, for I’ll bury you.”

“Even if you do that, it will give me pleasure to witness your skill,” nodded Frank. “And I believe I am able to accept defeat gracefully. I’ve been compelled to do so more than once in my day.”

“What’s that?” cut in Frost, in his cold voice. “Why, from all reports I should fancy you had never been defeated at anything.”

“You know reports are generally exaggerated.”

“Well,” said Manton eagerly, “if you’re anxious to be trimmed, we’ll get at it.”

Merry calmly removed his coat and vest.

A colored boy had followed them into the room, and he had the pins all set up.

At this point Grafter, Phipps, and Fisher appeared, apparently looking round for the visitors. They were surprised and interested when they found out what was taking place.

“Just in time, Grafter!” cried Manton. “Have you plenty of the needful on your person? You know the sort of talk you were making on the veranda a while ago. Here’s the opportunity to part with some of your filthy.”

Grafter was not one to back down. They stepped aside and spoke in low tones.

“Bet you a hundred I beat him this string,” proposed Manton.

Frank knew what was taking place, and he seized the opportunity to say:

“Mr. Grafter, I’m not in my best bowling form, and bowling is not a specialty with me.”

“I’ll go you, Manton,” said Grafter, without paying the least heed to Frank.

The gentleman pugilist smiled with satisfaction.

“No need to put the money up,” he said. “Then we won’t break any rules. Here’s where I begin to get into you. I hope Merriwell stays around until after the meet. I’ll have you going to your old man for change.”

“For conceit,” returned Grafter, “you certainly take the cake. If you win my money, you’re welcome to it.”

Frost was smiling as they returned and Manton made ready for business.

Merry had been looking the balls over. They were a fine lot, but he weighed one after another in his hands, examined the finger holds and finally selected two of them as his favorites.

A coin was tossed to see who would lead off, and it fell on Manton.

He picked out a large ball, took his position on the right-hand side of the runway, bent forward, swung the ball at the end of his arm once like the pendulum of a clock, then ran forward and rolled.

He started the ball from the right-hand side of the alley, rolling it toward the head pin, which it struck quarteringly.

With a crash, every pin fell.

“Pretty, old man!” cried Fisher approvingly. “That’s the way to start her off!”

“It’s keeping it up that counts,” said Grafter.

“Don’t worry about me,” advised Manton smilingly.

Now the strange thing of the affair was that Grafter, although he had bet on Frank, was inclined to believe Merry would be beaten. He knew Manton to be a wonderfully good bowler, while he was not at all certain that Merriwell had ever accomplished much at it. Having made betting talk on the veranda, however, he was not the fellow to let Manton back him down, and, therefore, he had ventured a hundred dollars on the result.

It is likely that Bart Hodge was the only person present who had perfect confidence in Merry as a bowler. Bart’s face was grave and unreadable as that of a stone image.

Frank picked up one of the two balls he had selected. He was watched closely to note his “form” by all present. He poised the ball in front of his face, made a short run and a single swing.

Seven pins fell.

Denton Frost smiled chillingly.

Farley Fisher shrugged his military shoulders.

Manton managed to repress any exhibition of satisfaction.

Not a word of complaint did Merriwell utter. By his manner no one could have dreamed he was in the least disappointed.

He took the other ball and rolled for a spare.

Two pins went down and the one remaining tottered, swayed, and righted itself.

“Nine pins,” said the scorer, as he made the record on the sheet.

“Hard luck, Merriwell,” said Hobart. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I think I shall,” admitted Merry. “Still I did my level best for that spare.”

“Spares don’t count when the other fellow is making strikes,” observed Fisher.

“The other fellow may not make strikes all the time.”

“It’s plain you don’t know Manton. I’m afraid he’s roped you in as a mark, which was not very nice of him.”

Fuller, who was scoring, looked disappointed, for he had hoped that his guest would do better.

The pins were spotted and Manton went at them again.

Boom! The ball went rolling down the polished alley.

Crash! Every pin fell.

“Another strike,” said Frost. “It’s the natural thing with him.”

Frank had discarded the first ball used by him. He put it aside where it would not get mixed with the others.

At this point he assumed all the self-command possible, fixing his mind on the point where he wished the ball to strike. He was steady as a mill.

The ball was delivered perfectly, leaving his hand without the slightest jar as it touched the polished alley. With a soft boom it rolled straight to the point on which Merry had set his mind.

Crash!

“Strike!” cried Fuller. “That’s the stuff, Merriwell! Now you are showing your style!”

“But he began a trifle late, I fear,” said Frost.

“Don’t let your fears trouble you,” advised Bart Hodge. “The string is just started.”

Grafter could not repress a smile of satisfaction. He did not like Manton, and it was his earnest wish that Merriwell would push the fellow hard, if he could not win.

“You’re getting the range of the alley,” he said. “Of course you were taken at a disadvantage, not being familiar with it. You should have rolled a few before beginning.”

Frank nodded. He realized that Grafter was right, but it was too late to rectify the mistake.

“For one thing,” he said, “I think I made a mistake in the first ball I used. The finger grip was not just right for me. The holes were a trifle too close together.”

“That’s odd,” said Frost. “That’s the pet ball of Spaulding, the champion of the Knickerbocker Bowling Club and the second best man in this club.”

“Without doubt his hand is built differently from mine,” said Merriwell. “It’s a fine ball, but not suited to the breadth of my grip.”

“When I fizzle I’ll tell you why it happened,” laughed Manton, in a most irritating manner.

Hodge felt like punching the fellow; but Frank remained in nowise disturbed.

The Eagle Heights man took his time when the pins were spotted. He chalked the soles of his feet, moistened his fingers the least bit with the sponge, chose his favorite ball, made his habitual swing and smashed down every pin for the third time.

“Thirty in the first box,” said Fuller.

“Which leads Merriwell twenty-one,” observed Fisher. “That’s quite a handicap.”

“It is when a man seems determined to make strikes right along,” admitted Frank good-naturedly.

“I think I have my hand in your pocket, Grafter,” chuckled Manton.

“Perhaps so,” admitted the great shot putter of the Catskill Club. “But ‘there’s many a slip,’ you know. Don’t be too sure of anything in this world. It doesn’t pay. I’ve found that out by experience.”

“He’s setting a hard pace, Mr. Merriwell,” said Fisher, with affected politeness, yet plainly with the idea of rubbing Frank against the grain.

“He is,” confessed Frank; “but that makes it all the more interesting.”

“Your sand seems good.”

Fuller shook his head at Fisher, but the latter pretended he did not see it.

Frank did not hurry. When he did deliver the ball he sent it once more to the exact spot he wished.

Nine pins fell.

Hodge uttered an exclamation of bitter disappointment, followed by another of exultation; for the tenth pin, which had been tottering, finally fell.

“That’s great luck for you, Merriwell,” declared Manton. “You got that strike by the skin of your teeth.”

“It would have been a shame had he missed,” said Hodge. “He struck the pins perfectly.”

“Still you know such things happen and leave pins standing at times. I thought he struck a trifle too far to the right.”

Fisher and Frost exchanged glances and moved closer together.

“This Merriwell is no slouch at it,” said Fisher, in a low tone. “He’s keeping right after Manton.”

“That’s right; but I don’t believe he can crowd him very hard. He’ll slip up pretty soon.”

“It’s not impossible for Manton to slip up.”

“But Manton is not the kind to slip up in a case like this. He’s a sticker.”

By this time Manton was ready again. Again he did the trick, although, as in the case of Merry, one pin threatened not to fall.

“That would have been tough!” declared the Eagle Heights man, with relief.

“Of course you struck the pins just right,” muttered Hodge.

“Yes, I did!” exclaimed Manton. “Any one could see that.”

“It seems to make a difference who rolls the ball,” said Hodge.

“Thirty in the second box for Manton, total of sixty,” said Fuller, as he marked the score down.

When the pins were spotted Frank discovered two that were not set right. He instructed the boy to place them squarely on the spots, which was done.

“Better be careful,” sneered Frost; but pretended to laugh.

Manton had made four strikes in succession. His friends fancied this would begin to shake Merriwell’s nerve; but that was because they did not know Frank, whose nerves invariably became steadier when engaged in a trying contest of any sort.

Merry sent the balls into the midst of the pins.

Crash!

“All down!” exclaimed Fuller. “Thirty for Merriwell in the second box, with a total of thirty-nine.”

“Which is a long distance to the bad,” observed Frost.

Manton frowned the least bit. Merriwell was altogether too successful in following up with strikes.

“Why don’t you quit it?” he cried, pretending to joke.

“I’m waiting for you to quit,” retorted Frank.

“You may have to wait a long time.”

“I don’t think you’ll go all the way through the string with strikes.”

“I may.”

“Of course. Still it is not probable.”

Manton followed with another strike.

As he took his position to bowl, Frank discovered that the pins were spread slightly. He asked the boy about it, but the boy insisted that they were on the spots.

Merry started to go down the alley to investigate, whereupon the boy hastened to alter the positions of the pins slightly.

Immediately Fuller gave the boy a sharp calldown.

“You know what you’re down there for,” he said. “Put every pin up perfectly.”

Frank struck the pins in his favorite manner, and they went down promptly.

“I don’t believe he means to quit,” laughed Fuller. “That gives him a total of sixty-nine in his third box.”

“But Manton has ninety in the same box,” reminded Frost.

“The string is half rolled, that’s all,” muttered Hodge.

Still it looked serious for Frank, as Manton was not the sort of fellow to let slip an advantage that he had fairly within his grasp—at least, that was what his friends thought. No one could have guessed by the face of the gentleman pugilist that he was worried in the slightest degree. He pretended to enjoy it. In his heart, however, he was growling over the persistence of his opponent, which was quite unexpected.

“Why don’t you give up, Merriwell?” he laughed.

“I’m not quite ready to give up,” was the quiet answer.

“I’ve heard that he never gives up, Manton,” said Fuller.

“Some people never know when they are beaten,” chipped in Fisher.

“That’s a good qualification,” said the president of the club.

“But it makes them appear ridiculous at times, don’t you know.”

This time the pin boy had every pin up correctly. Manton hesitated as he was starting, pretended that his shoes were slippery, and resorted to the chalk box.

“He’s beginning to feel the strain,” thought Hodge, in keen satisfaction. “He’s getting shaky.”

Fortifying his nerve, Manton rolled in his usual style.

Crash!

“All down again!” said Frost. “I think he’s going through the string with strikes.”

“Total of one hundred and twenty in his fourth box,” announced the scorer. “That’s a three-hundred clip.”

“Now we’ll watch Mr. Merriwell,” observed Manton, sitting down with a satisfied air.

“Everybody watch,” urged Frost.

“Lots of talking for a match,” reminded Fuller.

“Oh, but this is not a regular match,” said Fisher.

“But it’s regular enough so that a stranger should have fair play,” came in something like a growl from Grafter. “You know what is generally thought of men who try to rattle opponents.”

“Merriwell has the reputation of never getting rattled,” said Frost, with another icy smile.

Frank seemed giving their chatter no heed. With the same air of deliberation he smashed into the pins and cleaned the alley.

Frank had a total of ninety-nine in his fourth box, which left him still twenty-one pins to the bad.

“Well, here goes another strike,” said Manton, as he selected his ball.