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Frank Merriwell at Yale; Or, Freshman Against Freshman

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<h2> CHAPTER XXII. </h2> <h3> A SURPRISE FOR FRANK. </h3>  On the following morning Merriwell arose with a headache. "The smoke was too much for me last night," he said. "It was thick enough to chop in this room." "And you don't know how I wanted to have a whiff with the fellows," said Harry, dolefully. "It was awful to see them enjoying cigars and cigarettes and not touch one myself!" "But you didn't," smiled Frank. "Good boy! Stick to that just as long as you wish to keep a place in athletics." "I don't know which is the worst, smoking or midnight suppers." "Midnight suppers are bad things, and you will observe that I seldom indulge in them. If I was on one of the regular teams I could not indulge at all. I'll not have any part in another affair like that of last night till after the race. From now till it is over I am going to live right." "Well, I'll do my best to stick with you. If you see me up to anything improper, just call me down." "Agreed." There was no time for a cold bath before chapel, although Frank would have given something to indulge in one. As it was, he dipped his head in cold water, opened the window wide, and filled his lungs with fresh air, then hustled into his clothes and rushed away, with the chapel bell clanging and his temples still throbbing. The whole forenoon was a drag, but he managed to get through the recitations fairly well. Over and over he promised himself that he would not indulge in another midnight feast until the time came when such dissipation was not likely to do him any particular harm physically. At noon as he was crossing the campus he was astonished to see Paul Pierson, a junior and the manager of the regular ball team, stop and bow. Unless it was Pierson who had pursued him on the previous night, Frank had never spoken a word to the fellow in his life. And this public recognition of a freshman on the campus by a man like Pierson was almost unprecedented. "Ah, Mr. Merriwell, I would like to speak with you," said Pierson in a manner that was not exactly unfriendly. Frank remembered that the fellow who chased him the night before had promised to see him again, but he had thought at the time that the man did not mean it. Now he wondered what in the world Pierson could want. "Yes, sir," said Merriwell, stopping and bowing respectfully. "I understand that you are something of a sprinter," said Pierson as he surveyed the freshman critically. "A—ah—friend of mine told me so." "Well, I don't know, but I believe I can run fairly well," replied Frank, with an air of modesty. "My friend is a very good judge of runners, and he says you're all right. In doing so he settled a point in my mind. I have been watching your ball playing in practice this fall, and I have arrived at the conclusion that you have good stuff in you if you do not get the swelled head. Young man, the swelled head is one of the worst things with which a youth can be afflicted. When he gets it for fair it is likely to be his ruin." Pierson addressed Frank as if he were a father speaking to a boy. Frank felt that the junior was patronizing to a certain extent, but the fellow's manner of stopping him on the campus was so remarkable that it more than overbalanced his air of superiority. Wondering what Pierson could be driving at, Frank kept silent and listened. "Now, I have a fancy," said the baseball magnate, "that you are rather level headed. Still, the best of them get it sometimes, and that is why I am warning you." Pierson spoke deliberately, still looking hard at the freshman, who waited quietly. "He'll come to the point if he is given time," thought Frank. "I have seen you pitch," said Pierson, "and I have watched your delivery and your curves. You are very good. More than that, you bat properly and your judgment is excellent." He paused again, as if to note what impression this praise made upon the other. Frank felt his cheeks grow warm, but his voice was perfectly steady as he said: "Thank you, sir." "I did not know just what you would do when it came to running till my friend saw you run," Pierson went on. "He says you are all right. Now, if you will look out for yourself and keep yourself in condition, it is quite possible that you may be given a trial on the regular ball team in the spring." Frank felt his heart give a great jump. On the regular team! Why, he had not dreamed of getting there the very first season. Was Pierson giving him a jolly? "Are you serious, sir?" he asked. "Most certainly, Mr. Merriwell," answered the junior. "I can assure you that you stand an excellent chance of having a trial. What the result of the trial is will depend entirely upon yourself." "What position, Mr. Pierson?" "Well, there is but one position that is not well filled. We've got men to burn for every other place. If you are tried at all, it will be in the box. Heffiner is the only man we have, and he can't do all the work. There will come times when he will be out of condition." To pitch on the regular ball team! To be given an opportunity when the great Heffiner proved out of condition! That was glory indeed. No wonder Frank Merriwell tingled with excitement in every part of his body; but it was a wonder that he appeared so cool and self contained. Pierson was surprised by the freshman's manner, for he had expected Frank to show excitement and delight. "What sort of a fellow is this?" he thought. "Does he really understand me, or is he a little thick?" Then he saw by Frank's fine and highly sensitive face that he could not be thick, and he began to perceive that the freshman had nerve. That was one of the great requirements for a successful pitcher. "I have spoken of this to you, Mr. Merriwell, so you may be keeping yourself in condition through the winter, as you will then stand all the better show of making a favorable impression when you are given a trial." "Thank you, sir." "If I were in your place I would not make any talk about it, for something may happen that you will not be given a trial, in which case it would be very humiliating if you had publicly stated that you were to have a show." "You may be sure I will say nothing about it, Mr. Pierson." "That is all. Good-day, sir." "Good-day, sir." Pierson passed on, quite aware that a number of students were regarding him with the utmost amazement, plainly wondering that he should have stopped to talk with a freshman on the campus. Walter Gordon had seen the two speaking together, and he hastened to call the attention of some friends to it. "Look there!" he cried. "As I live, Merriwell is talking with Pierson! What'll you bet the fellow's not making a try to get on the regular ball team? Ha! ha! ha! He's got crust enough for it." "And I am not sure he hasn't the ability for it," said Easy Street. "Oh, rats!" snapped Walter. "He'd go to pieces in the first inning. He'll never make a pitcher in his life." "There are others," murmured Lucy Little.       <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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