A history of writing First Edition Fischer - PDF

Download (2025)

https://ebookultra.com/download/a-history-of-writing-first-
edition-fischer/

Visit ebookultra.com today to download the complete set of

ebooks or textbooks
Here are some recommended products for you. Click the link to
download, or explore more at ebookultra.com

The DMSO Handbook First Englisch Ed. Edition Dr. Hartmut

P.A. Fischer

https://ebookultra.com/download/the-dmso-handbook-first-englisch-ed-
edition-dr-hartmut-p-a-fischer/

A Cultural History of the Chinese Language First Edition

Sharron Gu

https://ebookultra.com/download/a-cultural-history-of-the-chinese-
language-first-edition-sharron-gu/

The Place of Fiction in the Time of Science A Disciplinary

History of American Writing 1st Edition John Limon

https://ebookultra.com/download/the-place-of-fiction-in-the-time-of-
science-a-disciplinary-history-of-american-writing-1st-edition-john-
limon/

University Jubilees and University History Writing A

Challenging Relationship 1st Edition Pieter Dhondt

https://ebookultra.com/download/university-jubilees-and-university-
history-writing-a-challenging-relationship-1st-edition-pieter-dhondt/
People of Paradox A History of Mormon Culture First
Edition Terryl L. Givens

https://ebookultra.com/download/people-of-paradox-a-history-of-mormon-
culture-first-edition-terryl-l-givens/

My Life Is a Weapon A Modern History of Suicide Bombing

First Edition Reuter

https://ebookultra.com/download/my-life-is-a-weapon-a-modern-history-
of-suicide-bombing-first-edition-reuter/

Athlete First A History of the Paralympic Movement 1st

Edition Steve Bailey

https://ebookultra.com/download/athlete-first-a-history-of-the-
paralympic-movement-1st-edition-steve-bailey/

Practice Violin Simon Fischer

https://ebookultra.com/download/practice-violin-simon-fischer/

Confucianism and Family Rituals in Imperial China A Social

History of Writing about Rites Patricia Buckley Ebrey

https://ebookultra.com/download/confucianism-and-family-rituals-in-
imperial-china-a-social-history-of-writing-about-rites-patricia-
buckley-ebrey/
A history of writing First Edition Fischer Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): Fischer, Steven Roger
ISBN(s): 9781861891679, 1861891679
Edition: First Edition
File Details: PDF, 6.15 MB
Year: 2003
Language: english
 A History of
Writing
S T E V E N RO G E R F I S C H E R
a h i s t o ry o f w r i t i n g
globalities
Series editor: Jeremy Black
globalities is a series which reinterprets world history in a
concise yet thoughtful way, looking at major issues over large
time-spans and political spaces; such issues can be political,
ecological, scientific, technological or intellectual. Rather than
adopting a narrow chronological or geographical approach,
books in the series are conceptual in focus yet present an array of
historical data to justify their arguments. They often involve a
multi-disciplinary approach, juxtaposing different subject-areas
such as economics and religion or literature and politics.

In the same series

Why Wars Happen

Jeremy Black

A History of Language
Steven Roger Fischer

The Nemesis of Power

A History of International Relations Theories
Harald Kleinschmidt

Geopolitics and Globalization in the Twentieth Century

Brian W. Blouet

Monarchies 1000—2000
W. M. Spellman
A History of
Writing
steven roger fischer

reaktion books
Dedicated to Sir Robert Evans

Published by Reaktion Books Ltd

79 Farringdon Road, London ec1m 3ju, uk

www.reaktionbooks.co.uk

First published 2001

Copyright © Steven Roger Fischer 2001

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by
any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without the prior permission of
the publishers.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

St Edmundsbury Press, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Fischer, Steven Roger
A history of writing. – (Globalities)
1. Writing – History
I. Title
411'.09

isbn 1 86189 101 6

 Contents

p r e fac e 7

1 From Notches to Tablets 11

2 Talking Art 34
3 Speaking Systems 68
4 From Alpha to Omega 121
5 The East Asian ‘Regenesis’ 166
6 The Americas 211
7 The Parchment Keyboard 237
8 Scripting the Future 294

r e f e r e n c e s 321
s e l e c t b i b l i o g r a p h y 335
i l l u s t r at i o n a c k n ow l e d g e m e n t s 343
i n d e x 345
 Preface

This introduction to a history of writing is meant to serve as

useful preliminary reading for university students and others
who wish to have a general and up-to-date overview of writing’s
remarkable story. Central to the book’s theme are the origins,
forms, functions and chronological changes of the world’s
major writing systems and their scripts.
Writing’s social dynamics are addressed at each stage. Since
Homo erectus, hominids appear to have distinguished themselves
from other creatures by forming societies based on speech.
What now distinguishes modern Homo sapiens sapiens is a global
society based most importantly on writing. Once the specialized
domain of only a few thousands, today writing is a skill practised
by about 85 per cent of the world’s population – some five bil-
lion people. All modern society rests on writing’s plinth.
Most writing systems and scripts that have existed are now
extinct. Only minute vestiges of one of the most ancient –
Egyptian hieroglyphs – live on, unrecognized, in the Latin
alphabet in which English, among hundreds of other languages,
is conveyed today. (Our m, for example, ultimately derives from
the Egyptians’ consonantal n-sign, depicting waves.) In conse-
quence of a series of fortuitous developments, the Latin alpha-
bet has become the world’s most important writing system.
Though language’s vehicle, it will possibly outlive most of
Earth’s natural languages. How humankind writes today, and its
larger significance for the emergent global society, can be better
appreciated through an understanding of where writing came
from, which is the theme of this book.
Writing fascinates everyone. For nearly six thousand years,
each age has embraced this wonder, surely society’s most versa-
tile and entertaining tool. Today, ancient writing in particular

7
intrigues, as it permits the past to speak to us in tongues long
extinct. Here, writing becomes the ultimate time machine.
Notwithstanding, all writing remains an artifice, an imperfect
device seemingly fashioned, if only at first blush, to reproduce
human speech. There have been endless ways to accomplish
this. History has now reduced and refined these to a small
number of ‘best’ solutions. Readers will appreciate, though, that
the historical process of reduction and refinement is still contin-
uing, as society discovers new needs and new answers. It is for
this reason that, much more slowly than the languages they
transmit, writing systems and scripts are forever in flux.
But writing is much more than Voltaire’s ‘painting of the
voice’. It has become human knowledge’s ultimate tool (sci-
ence), society’s cultural medium (literature), the means of
democratic expression and popular information (the press) and
an art form in itself (calligraphy), to mention only some mani-
festations. Today, writing systems based entirely on electronic
communication are rapidly encroaching on what has, until
now, been the domain of speech-based writing. Computers can
now ‘write’ both messages and entire programs between them-
selves. At the same time, they are elaborating new systems of
their own that transcend everything we have understood to be
described by the word writing. Even the substances on which
writing takes place are metamorphosing: e-ink (electronic ink)
on plastic screens, thin as paper, might one day replace the
ubiquitous substance which itself earlier replaced parchment.
Writing changes as humanity changes. It is a gauge of the
human condition.
Several insights will, I hope, become evident in the course of
this brief overview. No-one ‘invented’ writing. Perhaps no-one
independently ever ‘re-invented’ writing, either, be it in China
or Mesoamerica. All writing systems appear to be descendants
of earlier prototypes or systems, whose idea of graphically
depicting human speech, scheme for accomplishing this, and/or
graphic signs used in this process were borrowed and adapted or
converted to fit some other people’s language and social needs.

Jeremy Black of Exeter University and Michael Leaman of

Reaktion Books, within a week of one another, independently

8 . a h i s t o ry o f w r i t i n g
proposed that I should write this book, and later furnished valu-
able suggestions. I am very grateful to both.
A philological and linguistic career spanning more than 30
years – eighteen of which have been dedicated to ancient writ-
ing and decipherment (in particular, the scripts of Crete and
Easter Island) – has often brought me together with outstand-
ing personalities in the field of epigraphy, the study of ancient
inscriptions. The roll call of ‘unforgettables’ is too long to
intone here, but I wish to mention a few who have indelibly
marked the parchment of my life, each in her or his special way:
†Thomas Barthel, Emmett L. Bennett, Jr, William Bright,
Nikolai Butinov, †John Chadwick, Brian Colless, Yves Duhoux,
Paul Faure, Irina Fedorova, †Yuri Knorozov, †Ben Leaf,
Jacques Raison, †Fritz Schachermeyr, †Linda Schele, David
Stuart and George Stuart.
A personal thanks to Sir David Attenborough for his perfect
encouragement.
And, above all, to Taki.

Steven Roger Fischer

Waiheke Island, New Zealand
October 2000

preface . 9
 one

From Notches to Tablets

A history of writing should be predicated on an understanding

of what constitutes ‘writing’. The proposition is not so simple.
Most readers familiar with only one consonant-and-vowel
alphabetic writing system – conveying spacially separated ink-
printed letters in divided words from left to right in descending
horizontal lines – will perhaps be only faintly aware that the
world of writing embraces so much more.
Communication of human thought, in general, can be
achieved in many different ways, speech being only one of
them. And writing, among other uses, is only one form of con-
veying human speech. Nevertheless, modern society, it appears,
has exalted this distinctive form of communication. Perhaps this
is partly because, as a representation of external realities, com-
munication through graphic art seems more objective, more
substantial, than linguistic communication.1 Even abstract
notions can be transcribed graphically through this ‘solidifying
symbolic system’. The roots of this system are to be found in
human beings’ fundamental need to store information in order
to communicate, whether to themselves or to others, at a dis-
tance in time or space.
Since one knows writing only for what it is now, it is difficult –
perhaps even pointless – to provide a definition of it that pre-
sumes to include all past, present and future meanings. Whether
it is of utilitarian advantage to see in ‘full’ writing a ‘system of
graphic symbols that can be used to convey any and all thought’2
is a moot point. Just as valid would be the equally unspecific def-
inition of writing as ‘the graphic counterpart of speech, the
fixing of spoken language in a permanent or semi-permanent
form’.3 Yet this, too, seems to miss so much of what writing is
about. One might accept that it is indeed the sequencing of stan-

11
dardized symbols (characters, signs or sign components) in order
to graphically reproduce human speech, thought and other
things in part or whole. This might, in fact, be the most general
definition of writing possible at present. How well each system
then accomplished this in the past was determined by the relative
need of each society as it grew more complex. But this definition,
too, remains just this: a limiting definition of something rather
special that appears to resist limitation.
It may be best to avoid the ‘pitfall’ of a formal definition alto-
gether, as writing has been, is and will be so many different
things to so many different peoples in so many different ages.
Instead, for the immediate purpose of this history of writing,
one should perhaps address the more relevant question of ‘com-
plete writing’, here defined as the fulfilment of three criteria:4

◆ Complete writing must have as its purpose communica-

tion;
◆ Complete writing must consist of artificial graphic

marks on a durable or electronic surface;

◆ Complete writing must use marks that relate conven-
tionally to articulate speech (the systematic arrangement
of significant vocal sounds) or electronic programing in
such a way that communication is achieved.

Every graphic expression that constitutes early writing – early

writing fulfils at least one, but never all, of these three criteria –
can be regarded as ‘writing’ in its largest sense, though it
remains ‘incomplete writing’. Some sort of communication is
taking place, albeit of a limited, localized and/or ambiguous
nature.
Writing did not emerge from nowhere. Divine provenance
has been many peoples’ preferred cliché. In fact, this fiction sur-
vived in Europe well into the 1800s, and is still embraced by cer-
tain communities in the US and in Islamic countries. Others
have asserted that complete writing – writing fulfilling the three
criteria – was ‘invented’ around the middle of the fourth millen-
nium BC by a Sumerian in Uruk consciously searching for a
better method to deal with complex accounting. Others see

12 . a h i s t o r y o f w r i t i n g
complete writing as the result of group effort or accidental dis-
covery. Still others believe complete writing to have had multi-
ple origins, for various reasons. Then there are those who assert
that complete writing is the product of a long evolution of early
writing over a wide region of trade.
There is certainly no ‘evolution’ in the history of writing, not
in the sense the word generally conveys. Writing systems do not
change of their own accord in a natural process; they are delib-
erately elaborated or changed by human agents – drawing from
a wide variety of existing resources – in order to achieve any
number of specific goals.5 Perhaps the most common goal is the
best graphic reproduction of the writer’s speech. Constant small
changes to a writing system’s script over many centuries, even
millennia, will result in enormous differences in that script’s
later appearance and use.
Before complete writing – that is, before the fulfilment of the
three criteria – many processes akin to writing obtained.
However, to call these processes ‘proto-writing’6 would perhaps
be to award them a status and/or role they do not deserve and
never fulfilled. On the other hand, pictography (‘picture-writ-
ing’) and logography (‘word-writing’, whereby the depicted
object is to be spoken aloud) might justifiably be called ‘pre-
writing’. Elaborating on nineteenth-century German specu-
lations, American linguist Leonhard Bloomfield distinguished
in the 1930s between ‘picture writing’ and ‘real writing’, with
the latter also fulfilling certain essential criteria (signs had to
represent linguistic elements of some kind, and be limited in
number).7 A distinction has also been drawn between primitive
‘semasiography’ (whereby graphic marks convey meaning with-
out recourse to language) and ‘full writing’, with only the latter
to be regarded as writing in the ‘true’ sense.8
Whatever one’s formal position regarding early writing
attempts, graphic expression appears to be a very ‘recent’ phe-
nomenon among hominids: the earliest ‘engravings’ appear to
date from about 100,000 years ago (some say much earlier).
However, our ancestors’ regular series of incised dots, lines or
hatch marks (allegedly tallies or lunar calendars) in no way sug-
gest a link to articulate speech – though these ‘proto-scribes’
certainly spoke as fluently as we do today.

f r o m n o t c h e s t o t a b l e t s . 13
 Before complete writing, humankind made use of a wealth of
graphic symbols and mnemonics (memory tools) of various
kinds in order to store information. Rock art has always pos-
sessed a repertoire of universal symbols: anthropomorphs
(human-like figures), flora, fauna, the Sun, stars, comets and
many more, including untold geometric designs. For the most
part, these were graphic reproductions of the commonest phe-
nomena of the physical world. At the same time, mnemonics
were used in linguistic contexts, too, with knot records, pic-
tographs, notched bones or staffs, message sticks or boards,
string games for chanting, coloured pebbles and so forth linking
physical objects with speech. Over many thousands of years,
graphic art and such mnemonics grew ever closer in specific
social contexts.
Eventually, they merged, to become graphic mnemonics.

knot records
One of the ancient world’s commonest mnemonics was the knot
record, which dates back at least to the Early Neolithic (the last
period of the Stone Age).9 Such records could be simple knots in
a single strand or complicated series of colour-coded knots on
strings attached to higher-order strings. Knot records reached
their peak of development, it appears, with the Inca’s quipus
(illus. 1). These comprised an elaborate means of counting: dif-
ferent knots in various positions depicted numerical quantities,
the knots’ colours representing, it has been alleged, individual
commodities.
The Inca of ancient Peru used mnemonics almost exclusively
to achieve what writing achieved in the same or similar contexts
in other societies. The Inca had several different types of knots
to record their empire’s daily and long-term mercantile transac-
tions and payment of tribute. Each knot held a specific decimal
value (no knot in a certain place meant ‘zero’). For example, one
overhand knot above two overhand knots above a group of
seven knots recorded the number ‘127’. Thus, there were spe-
cific cord places for the concepts ‘hundreds’, ‘tens’ and ‘ones’.
Bunches of strings of knots could be tied off with summation

14 . a h i s t o r y o f w r i t i n g
1 The quipu of an Inca
imperial accountant. From
Félipe Guaman Poma de
Ayala, Nueva crónica y buen
gobierno, c. 1613.

cords. A special class of quipu-reading clerks oversaw and man-

aged this highly complicated and efficient system. Even after
the Spanish conquest of the 1500s, the quipu was retained for
daily record-keeping.
Though not as elaborate as those of the Inca, similar prehis-
toric quipu can be found from Alaska to Chile; indeed, they are
the Pacific Rim’s indigenous record-keeping system. The
South-East Marquesan tuhuna ‘o‘ono bards, for example, used
bundles of woven coconut fibre from which hung small strings
of knots called ta‘o mata that could also be used to enumerate
generations. On ancient Ra‘ivavae in the Austral Islands, south
of Tahiti, genealogical records were kept by means of knotted
hibiscus-bark cords. Similar phenomena can be found through-
out the world. In his Scythian campaign, the Persian king
Darius left Greek allies guarding a rear bridge with instructions
to untie one knot in a 60-knot thong each day: if they finished
untying all 60 before his return, they were to sail home to
Greece. Knot records are a much more versatile mnemonic

f r o m n o t c h e s t o t a b l e t s . 15
than simple tally sticks or notched staffs. Permitting greater cat-
egorical variety and complexity, they can easily be ‘erased’ or
‘rewritten’ by mere retying.
Some scholars claim that these knotted strings or cords were
the only primitive form of ‘writing’ developed in the Andes.10
But phonetic writing did apparently exist there (see Chapter 6).
And knotted strings do not comprise writing. They are memory
prompts. Though the knots’ purpose is communication, they
are not artificial graphic marks conveyed on a durable surface,
and their use has no conventional relation to articulate speech.

notches
Slashes in the bark of a tree – like rocks placed on a grave,
branches rearranged over a path or an ochre handprint on a
rock face – represent ‘idea transmission’. That is, they commu-
nicate something to others beyond immediate hearing. Here,
marking and mnemonics were often combined to produce
marking as mnemonics. The idea is extremely old, possibly
older than the earliest known cave art.
Perhaps even Homo erectus used notches as mnemonics.
Artefacts unearthed at Bilzingsleben in Germany that date to at
least 412,000 years ago – several bones revealing cut lines at reg-
ular intervals – have been interpreted by their discoverer as
intentional ‘engraving’ (that is, graphic symbols of some kind).
It is evident that the notches are markings; what they mean, if
anything, is unclear.
Subtle but consistent differences in stone and bone markings
by Homo sapiens sapiens craftsmen beginning around 100,000
years ago indicate purposeful engraving. Discovered in South
Africa’s famous Blombos Cave, two pieces of elaborately cross-
hatched ochre represent early evidence of symbolic thinking to
their discoverer. Other early artefacts, such as the Ishango Bone
from Zaire (illus. 2; see also illus. 176), indicate similar markings
made over a span of time; when counted, the marks on some of
these artefacts appear to correspond with lunar cycles.
However, other explanations are also possible. What is impor-
tant here is that, tens of thousands of years ago, graphic marks,

16 . a h i s t o r y o f w r i t i n g
2 Three views of the Ishango Bone
from Zaire, radiocarbon-dated to
c. 9000 BC. Perhaps a numerical or
even calendrical (lunar) notation, the
Ishango Bone has been called the
‘earliest writing implement’.

however primitive, were probably recording some sort of

human perception, for whatever reason. This was information
storage.
Among more recent preliterate peoples, notches served the
same purpose as knot records. For example, the rākau whaka-
papa, or ‘genealogical boards’, of pre-European Māori of New
Zealand bore notches, each one representing the name of an
ancestor. These were simple memory aids whose marks do not
relate conventionally to articulate speech.

pictography
Knot records and notches can recall categories, record numbers
and prompt memory. However, neither can convey particulars
such as qualities and characteristics. Only pictures can do this.
The need to convey a larger variety of information prompted, in
addition to the above, recording with one or more pictorial
symbols – that is, pictography. Pictography is the fortuitous
marriage of marks and mnemonics.

f r o m n o t c h e s t o t a b l e t s . 17
3 Some cave art is understood to be pictorial communication of a
kind. Engraved ‘P’ symbols appear on top of a horse at Les Trois
Frères in southern France, their significance unknown. At
adjoining Tuc d’Audoubert, more than 80 such symbols, engraved
using various tools, surround a second horse.

4 A Cheyenne
pictographic ‘letter’
from Turtle-Following-
His-Wife to his son
Little-Man: ‘I send you
$53 and ask you to
come home.’

Pictorial messages were already being conveyed tens of

thousands of years ago, too. In many ways, cave art can be
understood to be pictorial communication (illus. 3).11 The
pictography of Native Americans has attracted much attention
in recent years. Here, pictograms are usually simple marks
either engraved or painted on walls and rocks – rock art or pet-
roglyphs. But a few messages also involve quite elaborate pic-
tography, listing warriors’ names by painting distinctive

18 . a h i s t o r y o f w r i t i n g
Other documents randomly have
different content
 Diamond protested; he was in no condition to stand it. His
protests were unavailing; Merry said he must stand it.
So they set out, and Frank set the pace, which soon brought the
color into Diamond’s pale cheeks. North-ward along Broadway they
strode until the park was reached, and then Frank gave his
companion a merry chase through the park, coming out at last on
Fifth Avenue, by way of which they returned to the hotel.
Jack was pretty tired when they got back there, but he confessed
that he was beginning to feel better.
Now Frank sought to find out if there had come a reply to the
message he had sent his father. On inquiry, he was informed that Mr.
Charles Merriwell had sailed from Charleston on the steam-yacht
Petrel early the previous day.
“Sailed for what place?” asked Frank.
But that they could not tell him, only knowing that the gentleman
had sailed and the message to him had not been delivered into his
hands.
Frank looked troubled. After a little meditation, he sent other
messages, in the hope of finding out his father’s destination.
“I need his money now if I am going to save Collins,” Merry
thought. “I have not enough money of my own—not half enough. If
I cannot reach father, I’m afraid Collins will be in a bad scrape.”
Languid and weary, Jack Diamond was resting when Frank went
up to the room.
“Haven’t even energy enough to go to my own hotel,” he said.
“You pumped it all out of me this morning.”
“But you’ll find it will come back in time. Why, man, can’t you see
what the life you were leading was bringing you to? Here you are
without life or ambition, exhausted, listless, languid—you who used
to be full of fire and spirit and go. Do you like it?”
“It would be easy to put some fire into me now.”
 “How?”
“Let me have a few drinks.”
“False fire—fire that burns out both body and soul. That fire has
utterly destroyed many a fine fellow. The only way to be sure it will
not enfold you in its consuming grasp is to keep away from it. The
chap who plays with it is taking chances.”
“That’s so,” Jack nodded. “I know it well enough; you don’t have
to tell me. Still, I think it may prove to be a good thing for me that
you ran across me last night.”
The Virginian was willing to give Merry credit for everything due.
Frank paced the floor.
“How long are you going to stay in New York?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know. Yesterday I meant to leave this morning, but now—
well, I cannot leave before to-morrow. I have to meet Collins at
noon to-day, and I wish to hear something from my father. Jack,
how much ready money have you?”
“What’s left in that roll you saved for me last night, about five
thousand.”
“Not enough.”
“You want money?”
“Must have it.”
“What for?”
“Never mind; but I must have it.”
Diamond had not heard Merriwell’s talk with Harry Collins, and he
did not know Frank was determined to give the boy a lift by letting
him have such a large sum.
“You may have every dollar I’ve got,” said Diamond quickly.
“It will do me no more good than ten dollars would. I must have
ten thousand. I expect to reach my father some time to-day, and I
can get it from him.”
Jack was curious to know why Merry wished for such a large sum,
but he knew better than to ask. If Frank meant for anybody else to
know, he would tell.
“I’ve got to go to my hotel,” said the Southerner, rising. “I’ll settle
and come back here to stop to-night, so that we may be together.”
“Do,” said Frank. “We must stick together while we are in this
town.”
“Expect I’ll be likely to strike Herrick watching for me.”
Frank looked startled.
“If you do——”
“Don’t worry, Merry; I’m done. I pull up right here.”
“Stick to it, Jack. If you see Herrick, cut him cold.”
“You forget that the fellow has an interest in the Unknown. He
might throw me down by fixing the fight and buying the Unknown
off.”
“He’ll throw you down, anyhow. The Unknown is booked to lose
that fight.”
Jack paled, and his lips were pressed together.
“Well, I’m out five thousand dollars if that is true,” he said. “I’m
paying well for my foolishness.”
“Get back as soon as you can,” urged Frank, “and we’ll take lunch
together. We can talk the matter over. It’s a shame to lose so much
money—to be robbed of it! For you are being robbed, Jack!”
“Haven’t a doubt of that now; but what can I do?”
“You can knock Herrick down; but perhaps you had better wait till
you are sure the game is lost.”
Diamond left, and Frank, not a little perplexed and troubled,
waited for Collins to appear.
 CHAPTER V

FRANK’S SURPRISING PROPOSAL.

Promptly at the time set Harry Collins was on hand. Frank had him
brought up to the room and received him there.
Collins was pale and downcast, his whole appearance being one of
extreme anxiety. Merriwell took the lad’s hand, studying him closely.
“Naturally honest, but young and susceptible,” Frank mentally
decided. “If he escapes from this pitfall, he may make an upright
man and a good citizen.”
He had feared that by daylight Collins might prove a
disappointment to him. He had feared that on their second meeting
he might feel that the chance of risking so much money to save the
fellow was too desperate. Now he was satisfied, and he did not
regret what had passed his lips the previous night.
“But the money—how was he to get it?”
Collins looked at him anxiously.
“Sit down,” invited Frank, “and let’s talk this matter over.”
The youth showed signs of apprehension, but accepted a chair.
“How much money must you have? What is the very smallest
amount?” asked Frank.
The unfortunate boy blushed with shame.
“I need fully ten thousand dollars,” he said.
 “You must hold a position of great trust?”
“I do. When my father died I was given a place in the bank of
which he had been president for many years. I advanced rapidly, till
now I am paying-teller.”
Merry had fancied the youth must be employed in a bank.
“And you have misappropriated funds?”
Collins’ face became crimson.
“That is a mild way of stating it,” he said huskily. “You are right. I
have squandered the money trying to make more. It is gone, and I
know I am on the very verge of ruin. I know discovery is certain
within a day or two, at most. It is liable to come any time, and I feel
that I am living over a deadly mine. It is terrible!”
The lad’s face had turned white as death as he thought of his
peril, and Merry’s sympathy was again awakened to the fullest.
“I took desperate chances last night,” Collins went on, “hoping to
make a strike in that cursed place and win back enough to set
myself right at the bank. I failed, and but for you I should have
blown my brains out there. I have clung to your promise to help me,
but it seems too good to be true. I cannot understand how a
stranger can do such a thing.
“As I have thought it over this forenoon I have turned hot and
cold by turns. First I would be buoyed with hope, and then my heart
sank in despair as I realized the impossibility of receiving aid in such
a manner. I have feared that you simply gave me the promise in
order to keep me from killing myself at the time. I have been in
terror lest you would not be here when I called. And now I am
shaking with the apprehension that somehow I misunderstood you.
Did you offer me the money, Mr. Merriwell? For mercy’s sake say you
did, and that you have it ready for me!”
Collins seemed on the point of flinging himself on his knees before
Frank.
 “Steady, my boy,” said Merry, with a reassuring smile. “I agreed to
let you have the money.”
A cry of joy broke from the pale lips of the youth.
“And you have it—here?”
“Not now—not yet.”
“But great heavens! the danger—I have told you of the danger! I
must have the money right away—if at all. My mother——”
“I am doing everything I can to get it. Unfortunately, it is far more
money than I have of my own. I have sent messages to my father,
but he sailed on my steam-yacht yesterday. The moment I can reach
him I can make arrangements that will bring the money into my
hands in a hurry.”
“And that may be too late!” groaned Collins.
Frank hurried to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Keep up your courage,” said Merry. “I’ll do everything I can. You
are not lost till the truth is discovered. Even then, if such a thing
should happen, you might fix it by restoring every dollar taken.”
“But the shame—I could not live through it! I could not face those
men who have trusted me!”
The youth broke down, covered his face with his hands, and
sobbed. Frank longed to possess the money at that moment, but it
was not at hand. He talked reassuringly to Collins, who braced up
after a little, wiping the tears from his eyes and looking more
ashamed than ever.
“I’m a poor, weak thing!” he exclaimed in strong self-contempt.
“How you must despise me!”
Merry did not despise him, but was thrilling with sympathy and
pity for him. He convinced Collins of this after a time, and then the
unfortunate lad told the complete story of how he had obtained the
money and kept the knowledge from the other bank officials. He told
Frank the name of the bank, holding back nothing.
 When the tale was finished, Frank was somewhat pale himself, for
he saw that Collins was truly in constant danger of discovery.
Indeed, the wonder was that exposure had not already overtaken
him.
“Come to me here this afternoon immediately after the closing of
the bank,” directed Frank.
“Will you have the money then? Do you think you will?”
“I hope to, but I cannot be sure. I shall do everything possible to
obtain it. You will come?”
“Oh, yes. I will do anything as long as there is the least hope. I
shall pray that you get the money—for my mother’s sake!”
When Collins had departed, Merriwell paced the floor for some
time, his face wearing a look of deep thought and anxiety.
“If there were any honest way of getting possession of that
money!” he muttered.
Diamond came back, and found Frank thus.
“Well,” Jack cried, “I’ve seen Herrick, and now I know you were
right.”
“Eh?” said Merry, as if not quite comprehending. “About what?”
“That prize-fight business.”
“A put-up job?”
“Not a question about it.”
“What is the new development?”
“Herrick advises me to hedge.”
“Why?”
“He says the Unknown is ill and out of condition.”
“Well, how about hedging?”
“The thing has leaked, and bets cannot be made at any odds.”
 “You are in a trap.”
“That’s right,” nodded Jack gloomily.
“I suspected it,” said Frank. “If the Unknown is not in condition,
why not call the fight off?”
“Herrick claims that it has been tried, and that McGilvay will not
agree.”
Again Frank walked the floor.
“It’s enough to drive a fellow to drink again!” said the Southerner
despairingly. “I hate to be bled in this way.”
Frank said nothing, for he did not hear a word. He was walking up
and down, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the carpet. Of a
sudden, he uttered an exclamation, stopped short, jerked his hands
out of his pockets, and smote his clenched right fist into his open left
palm.
“It might work!” he cried.
“What?” asked Jack, rousing up and showing some interest.
Frank strode over, grasped Diamond by the shoulder, jerked him to
his feet, and cried:
“Take me to that fellow Herrick! Don’t lose any time about it,
either!”
“What—what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try to save that money for you.”
“How can you do that?”
“Never mind. If I do save it—if I fix it so you win this bet, will you
loan me the amount you win?”
“Great Scott! If you fix it so I win, you will save me the money I
have wagered. That’s all I ask, Merriwell. You may have every
blamed dollar of the winnings to do with as you like.”
 “Ten thousand!” exclaimed Frank. “Just what I need! Take me to
Herrick!”
They found Herrick at the Hoffman House, and Herrick was
surprised when Merriwell met him with a show of cordiality.
“Mr. Herrick,” said Frank, “Diamond tells me that your Unknown is
not in condition and may lose the bout to-night.”
“That’s right,” nodded Herrick. “He’s as good as licked now. I’ve
warned Jack to hedge.”
“You don’t want to see Diamond lose that money?”
“Well, I guess not!” exclaimed the man with the dark mustache,
making a show of sincerity. “Jack is my friend.”
“This Unknown is entered simply as an unknown?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you put another man in his place? Why do you
fight him when it is a sure thing that he must be whipped?”
“I don’t know of another man who will fill the bill. He must be a
middleweight amateur, and I do not know of a man in New York or
within reach who can stand a show with Pete McGilvay.”
“Perhaps I know of such a man.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
Herrick looked startled.
“I don’t believe it, begging your pardon, Mr. Merriwell. But who is
the man?”
“I am.”
Herrick’s jaw dropped; after a moment he looked amused, but
attempted to hide a smile.
 “Really, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I think you underestimate
McGilvay’s fighting-ability. He is a wonder. I believe that he will some
day stand a show of carrying off the championship of this country.”
Diamond had been astounded by Frank’s proposition. His hand fell
suddenly on Merry’s arm, but Frank motioned for him to be silent.
“That is all right,” said the young Yale athlete; “but I am pretty
clever with my hands, and I feel sure I can make a better showing
than an Unknown who is on the sick-list. You profess to be Jack
Diamond’s friend, and Jack has a wad of cold cash bet on your
Unknown at your recommendation. I know he will be satisfied to
lose it if I am permitted to take the place of this Unknown. In that
way you will be showing that your professions of friendship are more
than empty words.”
Herrick wavered. In his heart he believed that this smooth-faced,
conceited youth would prove a snap for McGilvay—he had no doubt
of it. There was not the least danger that the accomplished bruiser
would meet his match in a mere college lad. If he refused to permit
Merriwell to take the place of the Unknown, it would seem that he
was determined to give Diamond no show. If he permitted this, it
must seem that he was willing for Jack to win out if possible. That
would set him right with Diamond, who was a bird worth plucking.
“If you really think there is a show, Mr. Merriwell——”
“You’ll do it?” nodded Frank. “Good! I will be on hand and
prepared to go into the ring.”
“I’ll bring my influence to bear,” Herrick hastened to say. “You
know I am not the only one interested. I’ll do what I can.”
 CHAPTER VI

THE UNKNOWN WINS.

The Thor Athletic Club was packed to suffocation. Tier upon tier
rose the mass of humanity on every side of the platform. There was
a perfect babel of voices. The preliminary bouts had been “pulled
off” after the usual manner, and the audience was waiting eagerly
for the final event of the evening, a ten-round contest between Peter
McGilvay and an Unknown.
“Who is this Unknown?” asked a stout, fat-faced man.
“Some say it’s Bob Emerson, of Brooklyn,” answered a gray-
mustached gentleman in evening dress.
“Bob Emerson couldn’t stand up t’ree roun’s in front o’ McGil,”
asserted a bullet-headed fellow. “Spot Herrick’s not fool enough ter
back dat sort of a duffer.”
“Wot’s der matter wid yer, Denny?” contemptuously exclaimed
another. “D’yer t’ink Herrick’s in dis on der level? W’y, I’ll bet me
spuds he’s backin’ Pete.”
Suddenly the master of ceremonies entered the roped arena and
enjoined silence by a gesture, after which he announced the final
event of the evening.
As he retired from the platform there was a shout of welcome,
and McGilvay, followed by his seconds, came on. The prize-fighter
had a thick neck and huge, bunchy shoulders. His legs were not
properly developed, and his appearance was anything but graceful.
He bowed to the crowd, and then retreated to his corner.
All eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the Unknown. There
was a pause, and then he came on.
There were muttered exclamations of admiration, for never had a
handsomer youth stepped into the squared circle. Chest, shoulders,
arms, legs—every part of his body seemed perfectly proportioned.
He had a fine, shapely head set upon a beautiful neck, which
swelled gently at the base. His every movement was graceful and
confident. About his waist was a sash of Yale blue.
McGilvay’s colors were green.
The seconds were professionals, and they had been astounded
when Frank Merriwell stripped before them. In street-clothes he had
not foretold his magnificent build.
“Who is he?”
That question buzzed everywhere, but no one seemed to know
him.
There were the usual preparations.
“He’s handsome, but he’ll be meat for McGilvay.”
That was the general opinion.
The gong sounded its warning. Everything was ready. The men
met in the center of the platform and shook hands. A moment later
they were on guard, and then the fight began.
For a moment the men sparred and circled round each other. Then
the professional rushed in. The amateur was away. He had avoided
the rush with ease.
The professional followed the youth, who was smiling beneath the
white glare of the arc-lights. He tried to rush Frank, but again he
was baffled.
 The amateur whirled and came back. Flash-flash went his white
fists. He had struck twice, but the wearer of the green managed to
avoid both blows.
McGilvay countered, and there was lively work in the center of the
ring. At the end the amateur retreated again, hotly followed by his
antagonist.
“Gil is rushing him,” flew from lip to lip. “He means to make it
short.”
Neither man had been harmed. The professional did his best to
corner his foe, but he was too slow. He counted on getting in a
terrible blow with one of those hamlike fists.
Time passed swiftly, and the end of the round came with the
amateur still running away and the professional pursuing, trying to
corner him.
“He’s afraid of Pete,” was the universal decision. “He is clever on
his feet, but Pete will corner him pretty soon, and end it with one
punch.”
The professional sat in his corner and laughed. He felt certain that
it was an easy thing.
“W’y, I kin do dat kid wid one t’ump!” he declared. “He’s scared ter
deat’ now.”
“Stand up to him,” advised Frank’s second. “You’ll make the crowd
sick running erway.”
Frank said nothing.
Clang! sounded the gong. The men were up and advancing. They
met again. They were at it once more.
Again the green rushed the blue; again the blue retreated. It
seemed to be the same old story over again.
“Oh, this is a sprinting-match!” cried somebody, in disgust.
 Flash!—out shot a clean, muscular arm. Crack!—the blow sounded
almost like a pistol-shot.
The professional had grown incautious and given his foe an
opening. It had been accepted, and the blow sent Pete McGilvay
clean across the ring, to fall like a log of wood.
“Ah!” shouted the astounded spectators, as they rose to their feet
as one man.
The Unknown could strike a blow like the kick of a mule. This was
the first surprise.
But McGilvay’s head was hard, and he got up before the referee
could count him out.
He was amazed, and he had learned something. In the future he
would be more cautious. But now the amateur came at him.
“He’s lost his head!” declared an old sport. “He thinks he can end
it right here because he got in one blow. Now Pete will do him.”
But Pete wabbled, and the Unknown punished him severely. Blood
began to flow, but the amateur had not been harmed in the least.
The breast of the professional was heaving.
“By heavens! Pete is getting the worst of it!”
The man who uttered the words could scarcely believe the
evidence of his eyes. It seemed impossible. But that handsome,
stern-faced youth with the flashing eyes gave his antagonist not a
moment to rest. The tables were turned, and the aggressor of a few
moments before was making a poor defense.
The white arms of the amateur whipped the air; his hard fists
pounded the ribs, neck, and jaw of the professional. McGilvay tried
to counter, but he was bewildered. That first terrible blow had left
his head singing and a wavering blackness before his eyes.
The seconds looked on in amazement. They were praying for the
end of the round to come soon. It must come soon to save McGilvay.
 Now the crowd was wildly excited. Amazed by the turn of affairs,
the whirlwind style of fighting of the stranger threw them into
tumultuous admiration.
“Look at that! He got Pete on the jaw! That was a heart-blow! He’s
cutting Pete all up!”
The sound of the blows was plainly heard.
Suddenly McGilvay wavered, dropped his arms at his side, and
seemed to lurch forward to meet the terrible fist that struck him
fairly on the point of the jaw. He was hurled half-way through the
ropes.
Then, amid the greatest uproar, the referee slowly counted the
professional out.
Frank Merriwell, the “Unknown,” had won the fight, and by doing
so had saved Jack Diamond’s money and won ten thousand with it.

Jack Diamond, literally overflowing with admiration and delight,

had promptly turned his winnings over to Frank.
“It’s your money, every dollar of it,” he said. “Do what you like
with it. Merry, you are a Twentieth Century marvel!”
“How is Herrick?” asked Frank.
“The sorest man I ever saw,” laughed Jack. “He had plenty of
good money on McGilvay. I’ll bet the biggest part of what I won
came from his pocket.”
“Then I’ll see if I cannot do some good with the stuff,” said Merry.
An hour later, in his room, he handed the money to Harry Collins,
whose emotion choked him so that he could not utter his thanks or
express his gratitude.
“Not a word now,” said Merry. “My boy, to get that money and
save you I did something no man could lead me to do for myself.
Use it to save yourself—and your mother. Perhaps it was more for
the sake of your mother, whom I never saw, that I did it, than it was
for yours. My mother is—dead!”
 CHAPTER VII

FRANK EXPLAINS THE SITUATION.

“I have seen that face before,” declared Frank.

“I thought I had at first glance,” confessed Jack Diamond. “That’s
why I stopped and stared. She must have thought me a chump.”
The two friends were at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-
third Street. They had been sauntering along, when the attention of
both was attracted by a strangely handsome face in the passing
throng. A pair of midnight eyes flashed them one swift glance as the
girl hurried on. Jack stopped in his tracks.
“Merriwell,” he said after a moment, “you can’t guess of whom she
reminded me?”
“I shall not try to guess.”
“Juliet,” said Jack.
“She does look something like her. She has a fine figure. I am sure
I have seen her before.”
“What made it seem more like Juliet,” muttered the Virginian, “was
that she appeared startled by the sight of one or both of us.”
“I was startled,” confessed Frank, gazing after the retreating
figure, “for it seemed to be the face of somebody I knew.”
The girl had been swallowed up in the throng on the south side of
the street.
 “She was like Juliet,” murmured Jack; “though not so handsome.”
“She was quite as handsome as Juliet Reynolds,” Frank thought,
but he did not speak the words aloud. Instead, he said: “Let’s turn
back, Jack. I’d like to get another glimpse of her.”
“You?” exclaimed the Virginian, in surprise. “Why, I thought Elsie
——”
“There are a few things you do not know, old chum,” said Merry,
forcing a smile, which was not quite free from regret and pain.
They had turned about.
“But Elsie Bellwood is in love with you, Merriwell,” Diamond
insisted. “I know it, old man.”
“You think you do; but you have been abroad for some time, and
things have happened while you were away.”
Jack was astonished.
“Why,” he breathed wonderingly, “you don’t mean to say—to say
———— What do you mean, anyhow?”
“That it’s all off between Elsie and your humble servant.”
“Impossible!”
“True, just the same.”
“I can’t believe it now. You are joking, Frank!”
“Do you think I would joke about a thing like that?”
“Forgive me, Merry; I know you would not. You never boasted of
your ‘affairs of the heart.’ You were not that kind. And you might
have boasted truthfully, for all the girls seemed to get smashed on
you. You never talked of such things.”
“And I did not mean to speak of this, but you——”
“I know—I brought it up. Pardon me, old man, I don’t like to seem
curious about such things, but I can’t understand it. Do you mind
telling me what has happened? If you do, all right—don’t say a
word.”
“I couldn’t tell everything if I tried, Jack, so I won’t try. But there
have been strange developments. Hodge saved Elsie from a burning
steamer off the coast of Georgia. Rather, he attempted to save her,
and they were shut in together by the flames so it seemed that
neither could escape. Then and there the love for her that he had
kept hidden in his heart—hidden even from himself—burst forth, and
he told her everything. After that they were able to escape.”
Frank paused. He had not explained that it was he who had
rescued Bart and Elsie from certain death.
“Hodge?” muttered Diamond. “That fellow? And he has——”
“He acted the man,” asserted Merry instantly.
“How?”
“By standing face to face with me and telling me everything. He
would have withdrawn, though I know he is passionately in love with
Elsie. With a word I could have sent him away from her, for he is as
loyal a friend as man ever had. He would sacrifice himself for me.
But why should I ask that of him?”
“Because it is your right!” declared Diamond earnestly. “Elsie knew
you first—cared for you first. Hodge has no right to come between
you.”
“That is one way of looking at it. There are other ways. I have
never spoken plainly to her—that is, I have never made a definite
and outspoken proposal. How could she be sure that I ever would?
Why should she feel bound to me in any way, save by the tie of
friendship, which has not been broken by anything that has taken
place? There was no reason, Jack. You can see that.”
“Well, looking at it that way, perhaps you are right; but——”
“There are no ‘buts’ about it, my dear boy. It is hard, common
sense. I had no real claim on Elsie, and I could not feel wronged if
she were to marry Hodge to-morrow.”
“Hodge knew; confound him! He——”
“Even he could not be sure I cared more for Elsie than for Inza
Burrage. You must remember that both of these girls have been very
dear friends to me.”
“Well, the confounded cad should have waited till he was sure
which you preferred! Hang it, Merriwell! I resent it that any one of
your friends dared step between you and——”
“That’s where you are wrong, Jack. You do not pause to think of
the circumstances. You must remember that they were on a burning
steamer and facing what seemed certain death for both of them. For
years Hodge had cared for Elsie deep down in his heart, but had
smothered the passion and had even made himself believe it did not
exist. The peril, his brave attempt to save her, their hopelessness, all
led to the uprising of his love, so that at last he could no longer blind
himself. He did not think he was betraying me, for death could not
be avoided. He would not have been human had he kept silent
then.”
“Perhaps you are right,” admitted the Virginian reluctantly. “But
you know I’ve never fancied the fellow particularly. It does not seem
right for him to win Elsie, and I do not believe he will make her
happy. Think of his passionate disposition, his reckless ways——”
“And think of her moderation and gentleness. She will soften and
change him. Her influence over him will be of the very best. I believe
he will stand ready to lay down his very life for her. I am sure he will
do everything in his power to make her happy. That is—if she ever
accepts him.”
“Then she hasn’t——”
“Not yet.”
“Frank, she still——”
“She says she will never marry.”
 “Frank, she still cares more for you than anybody living! All girls
say they are going to be old maids. It gets to be a silly habit with
them.”
“Elsie is not a silly girl.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that; you know what I meant. But how about
Inza Burrage—she remains true to you?”
“As a friend. She has been nothing more for a long time.”
“I know she’s a proud, jealous girl, and——”
“Don’t say a word against her, Jack!”
“What do you take me for? There was a time that I did not know
which girl you cared for most.”
A strange, inscrutable smile flitted over Frank Merriwell’s fine face.
Perhaps there had been a time when he was not sure in his own
heart which he cared for most.
“But,” Jack went on, “I reasoned it all out, and I knew at last that
you preferred Elsie.”
Did he know? He might have thought so, but what man knows all
the secrets of another’s heart?
“I saw that you were fond of Inza, proud to be her friend, ready to
fight for her to the last gasp, ready to do anything for her sake, but
you did not love her.”
Had the Virginian read Frank’s heart better than Frank himself?
“Then,” Jack went on, as they turned up Broadway, “in my
estimation, Elsie was better adapted for you in every way. It doesn’t
seem right that Hodge should come between you, and I will not
believe she really cares for him.”
“About that I am not certain, but my faith in him is absolute. I
know he would make any true, womanly girl a most devoted
husband—that is, a girl he really and truly loved.”
 “Perhaps so, but there is a reckless streak in him, and something
might send him to the dogs at any time.”
“Just so,” nodded Merry. “Knowing that, I was not the fellow to
revile him and cause him to do something rash. It is to be a fair and
open show, with no underhand methods.”
“Oh, well, you’ll win—you can’t help it. When she knows the truth
she will turn to you. She cannot blame you for not tying yourself
down by a regular engagement till after you leave college.”
They had come to one of the handsomest flower-stores on
Broadway. Of a sudden, Frank touched Jack’s arm, calling the
Virginian’s attention to a girl who was gazing at the handsome
display in the window.
“There she is again!” said Merry.
“The same girl we saw back there,” breathed Jack. “Even now she
looks something like Juliet.”
“I know her,” asserted Frank. “But I can’t think of her name at this
minute. I feel certain I have seen her under far different
circumstances and far from this city.”
“Well, I don’t think I ever saw her before,” confessed Diamond.
“I’m going to speak to her,” said Merry. “I shall puzzle over her
identity if I do not, and I am absolutely certain I know her.”
He advanced to the window, lifted his hat gracefully, saying:
“I beg your pardon, but I think we have met before.”
Jack was standing a few feet away. The girl gave a little cry of
alarm. Her cheeks a moment before had been flushed with a clear,
healthy tint, but they turned very pale, and there was a gleam of
fear in her eyes as she shrank from Merriwell.
The Yale man was astonished by this show of fear, for it was too
intense, he fancied, to be that of a refined and timid girl, frightened
by a stranger’s address.
 Besides that, there was something in the rose-color natural to the
rounded cheeks of the girl, something in her confident and graceful
carriage, something in her easy and assured manner which seemed
to indicate that she would not fear a strange man.
Although she was well dressed, her clothes being of expensive
material, Merriwell’s discerning eyes discovered that her style was
not the style of New York, and already he had decided that she was
from some other place. This girl seemed more like a native of Boston
than New York.
“You have no reason to fear me,” said Frank, in his most
reassuring manner. “But I am sure you will recognize me if you stop
to think a moment. If you assure me that you do not recognize me,
I’ll leave you at once.”
Gradually the color was returning to her face, which, although
refined, had a sort of wild beauty about it that was suggestive of
woods and hills and outdoor life. She looked at Frank in surprise, but
there came a quick flash of recognition.
“Why—why!” she gasped, and the sound of her voice seemed to
stir echoing memories within him, “is it—are you—Frank Merriwell?”
He had made no mistake; she knew him.
“Yes,” he said; “but even now I cannot——”
A man dashed past Jack Diamond and went straight at Frank, who
did not see him. Without a word, he struck Merry a blow that caused
him to stagger and nearly fall. Then he clutched the girl by the wrist,
his face contorted, as he hissed:
“So he is another one of them? How many are there?”
She gave a cry and tried to fling him off. Diamond had leaped
forward, but Frank recovered and turned before the Virginian could
interfere.
Merry saw the girl make a vain attempt to release herself from the
grasp of the man, who was a tall, rugged, athletic-looking fellow
about twenty-five years of age. Merry did not hesitate a single
instant. He quickly snatched the girl from the man’s grasp, swinging
her behind him, saying:
“I will protect you.”
The fellow gave an exclamation of fury and sprang toward Frank.
Merriwell dodged the fierce blow delivered at his face, and his fist
struck the man fairly on the chin, hurling him backward to the
pavement. The assailant fell heavily to the hard stones and lay
there, stunned for the time.
“That was a clever blow, Merriwell,” observed Diamond, his eyes
flashing and his cheeks glowing. “Very much like the one that did
McGilvay.”
Frank stepped forward and stood looking down at the man, who
had the appearance of a countryman.
“I hope he is not severely injured,” said Merry. “He met my blow,
which made it all the heavier.”
“Don’t worry about the dog,” advised Diamond, with a glance of
contempt toward the fallen man.
“He must know the lady,” said Frank, turning about to speak to
her.
She was gone. Both Frank and Jack stared in surprise. She had
taken advantage of the first opportunity to get away. The Virginian
whistled a little.
“Slipped away,” he said. “Which way did she go, I wonder?”
Frank could not tell, but several pedestrians had paused, and a
crowd was gathering, one of whom declared the girl had entered a
cab which carried her up Broadway. Merriwell looked disappointed.
“She knew my name, and I did not find out who she is,” he
muttered. “I’m sorry about that.”
The fallen man was recovering. He opened his eyes and looked
around, seeming greatly bewildered. Then he saw Frank and
struggled to one elbow, glaring at the calm youth, who quietly
waited for him to rise.
“You’re one of them!” muttered the fellow, his eyes full of hatred
for Merry. “I’ll never forget you!”
“I am sorry I had to strike you that blow,” Merry confessed; “but
you came at me like a mad bull, and I was forced to defend myself.”
“It ain’t the blow,” said the man. “I don’t care anything about that;
but you shall pay for the wrong you have done her.”
“I think you must be a trifle daffy, my man. What are you talking
about?”
“You know well enough, blame yer! I don’t want to talk about it—
here; but I swear you shall pay dearly for it.”
He rose to his feet, and, for a moment, it seemed that he
contemplated renewing his attack on Merry, at whom he stared in
anger and bewilderment.
“I don’t see how you ever struck such a blow,” he finally
confessed. “But next time it will be my turn to strike—for her sake!”
Then he walked away, turning into Twenty-fifth Street and going
toward Sixth Avenue.
“What do you make of it, anyhow?” asked Diamond.
“I don’t know just what to make of it,” acknowledged Frank, with
a frown on his handsome face. “It’s very unpleasant, and I am
completely puzzled.”
The men who had gathered about were staring at them, and they
moved away after the man with whom Merry had had the encounter.
“If I could recall the name of that girl, I’d feel better,” Frank
declared. “I don’t remember when I’ve ever forgotten a name before
this. But I cannot even remember under what circumstances we
previously met, though I am certain there was something very
striking about it. It is possible I may never have known her name,
and still——”
 “Still, she knew yours.”
“Yes.”
“The man—do you remember him?”
Merry shook his head.
“I looked at him closely, and I’m sure I never saw him before. He
is an utter stranger to me.”
“And he seemed to blame you for something—what was it? He
seemed somehow to connect you with the girl.”
“I know it, and that is part of the mystery, Jack. As a rule, I enjoy
mysteries, but there is something unpleasant in this one, and I do
not like it much. If it had not been for the crowd and the public
place, I’d made an attempt to get something out of him. But I could
not do it there.”
“We might follow——”
“A good idea,” nodded Frank, as they turned into Twenty-fifth
Street. “Let’s see if we cannot overtake him.”
But the man, like the girl, had vanished.
 CHAPTER VIII

FRANK FINDS HIMSELF PURSUED.

Frank Merriwell had been detained in New York far longer than he
intended when he left New Haven, and even now he felt a
reluctance to go back, though it seemed that an unseen power was
drawing him.
He had been able to rescue Inza from great peril, he had
protected her father from probable arrest, had been in time to hold
back Jack Diamond from a reckless plunge into dissipation caused by
the coldness of Juliet Reynolds, and had saved young Collins, a
stranger, from disgrace and suicide.
Now it seemed that his mission in New York must be completed.
Now he could return to college for the final months he was to spend
there. He thought of his old home that had been lost to him through
the folly of his guardian, Professor Scotch, and he was seized by a
desire to revisit it.
“If I had a little more time, I’d do so,” he decided. “But I can’t do
it now. I wonder who owns the old place. My money is gone, and I
could not buy it back now.”
Merriwell had not yet been able to communicate with his father.
“He could buy back the old place,” thought Merry, “and he would
do so if I asked him. It would be a fine home for us, and we both
feel the need of a home. I’ll suggest the idea to him.”
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebookultra.com