This thought brought him a feeling of unspeakable sadness. It seemed that he was leaving the only home he knew. Home--yes, it was home for him. In truth, he had no other. Life lay before him, and he was to set his course toward a high goal when he received his sheepskin and turned his back on his alma mater. But he felt that he was being parted from the happiest portion of his life. Then his eyes fell on the girls. Bart had found Elsie and was talking to her, his dark face flushed, his eyes glowing. She smiled and nodded as he was speaking. “They are happy,” said Frank, to himself. He did not know that at that moment Hodge was praising him to the skies, telling what a remarkable game he had played and how he had covered himself with glory in the battle against Harvard. He did not know that somehow such praise was the pleasantest thing Elsie Bellwood could hear. He saw Inza, and she looked toward him. She smiled, and he felt his heart throb. Home! Yes, Yale had been his home; but now before his vision there seemed to rise the picture of another home and he hastened to Inza’s side. CHAPTER II. ANTON MESCAL. A dark-faced, Spanish-appearing man stopped Roland Packard on the steps of the Tontine Hotel. “Get out of the way!” snarled Roland, who had been drinking. “Wait,” said the man, in a soft, not unpleasant voice. “I wish to speak to you. It is important.” Roland was in anything but a pleasant mood. He had seen Frank Merriwell cover himself with glory in the game against Harvard, and, having foolishly bet that the Cambridge men would win the championship, he had taken to drink immediately after the game. “It’s got to be cursed important!” he snapped, looking the stranger over. “I don’t know you. What’s your name?” “Anton Mescal.” “Never heard it before. Are you one of these blooming old grads who are overrunning the town?” “No.” “Then what in blazes----” A group of men came out of the hotel and descended the steps. They had gray hair about their temples, and some of them were bald beneath their hats. They carried canes, their faces were flushed, and they looked hilariously happy. They were a group of “old grads,” and they had been celebrating Yale’s victory. With them the celebration had just begun; it would extend all through the night. As they rolled down the steps, clinging to one another’s arms, they were talking excitedly: “He’s the greatest pitcher Yale ever produced!” asserted one. “Come off, Smithy, old man!” cried another. “You know the class of ’Umpty-six had the champ. This fellow----” “Don’t talk, Sluthers!” interrupted another. “Baseball was different then. Whoever heard of curves? This Merriwell----” “Is a marvel!” “He’s a dandy!” “’Rah for Merriwell!” “Let’s all cheer! Yow! I feel just like cheering! Cheer for Merriwell!” Then they bumped against Roland Packard, who snarled at them. One of them grasped him; others followed the example of that one. They bore him down the steps to the sidewalk.