Frank Merriwell at Yale | Page 2

He had a way of speaking rapidly and heedlessly and turning his expressions end for end.
Frank had been able to assist Harry at examination. Harry and Frank were seated close to each other, and when it was all over and the two boys knew they had passed all right, Harry came to Frank, held out his hand, and said:
"I believe your name is Merriwell. Mine is Rattleton and I am from Ohio. Merriwell, you are a brick, and I am much obliged to you. Let's room together. What do you say?"
"I am agreeable," smiled Frank.
That was the way Frank found his roommate.
Harry was interested in sports and athletics, and he confided to Frank that he was bound to make a try for both the baseball and football teams. He had brought a set of boxing gloves, foils, and a number of sporting pictures. The foils were crossed above the mantel and the pictures were hung about the walls, but he insisted on putting on the gloves with Frank before hanging them up where they would be ornamental.
"I've taken twenty lessons, old man," he said, "and I want to point you a few shows--I mean show you a few points. We'll practice every day, and I'll bet in less than ten weeks I'll have you so you'll be able to hold your own with any fellow of your age and weight. Ever had the gloves on?"
"A few times," answered Frank, with a quiet smile.
"That's all the better. I won't have to show you how to start in. Here, here--that hand goes on the other glove--I mean that glove goes on the other hand. That's the way. Now we're off. Left forward foot--er, left foot forward. Hold your guard this way. Now hit me if you can."
Almost like a flash of lightning Frank's glove shot out, and he caused the glove to snap on Harry's nose.
"Whee jiz--I mean jee whiz!" gasped the astonished boy from Ohio. "You're quick! But it was an accident; you can't do it again."
He had scarcely uttered the words before Frank feinted and then shot in a sharp one under Harry's uplifted guard.
"Great Scott! You do know some tricks! I'll bet you think you can box! Well, I'll have to drive that head out of your notion--I mean that notion out of your head. Look out for me now! I'm coming!"
Then Harry Rattleton sailed into Frank and met with the greatest surprise of his life, for he found he could not touch Merriwell, and he was beaten and hammered and battered about the room till he finally felt himself slugged under the ear and sent flying over a chair, to land in a heap in one corner of the room. He sat up and held his gloved hand to his ear, which was ringing with a hundred clanging bells, while he stared astounded at his roommate.
"Wow!" he gurgled. "What have I been up against? Are you a prize fighter in disguise?"
That experience was enough to satisfy him that Frank Merriwell knew a great deal more than he did about boxing.
As Frank sat by his window listening to the singing, on the evening that this story opens, he was wondering where Harry could be, for his roommate had been away since shortly after supper.
Frank knew the merry singers were sophomores, the malicious and unrelenting foes of all freshmen. He would have given not a little had he been able to join them in their songs, but he knew that was not to be thought of for a moment.
As he continued to listen, a clear tenor voice struck into that most beautiful of college songs when heard from a distance:
"When the matin bell is ringing, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o, From my rushy pallet springing, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o, Fresh as the morning light forth I sally, With my sickle bright thro' the valley, To my dear one gayly singing, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o."
Then seven or eight strong musical young voices came in on the warbling chorus, and the boy at the window listened enchanted and enraptured, feeling the subtle charm of it all and blessing fortune that he was a youth and a student at Yale.
The charm of the new life he had entered upon was strong, and it was weaving its spell about him--the spell which makes old Yale so dear to all who are fortunate enough to claim her as their alma mater. He continued to listen, eagerly drinking in the rest of the song as it came through the clear evening air:
"When the day is closing o'er us, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o, And the landscape fades before us, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o, When our merry men quit their mowing, And along the glen horns are blowing, Sweetly then we'll raise the chorus, U-ra-li-o, U-ra-li-o."
The warbling song died out in the distance, there was a rush of feet