“But you’ve had some things besides athletics to occupy your time and attention since toddling out into the world,” observed Raymond Harrow. “I understand you’re in the mining game.” “Somewhat,” admitted Frank. “Still I find a chance now and then to drop everything and go in for baseball and kindred sports.” “Well, let’s all go take something,” suggested Carroll. “Merriwell used to be a cold-water crank, I understand; but, of course, he’s broken the pledge since he began to ramble from Old Eli’s fireside.” “On the contrary,” said Frank, “I’ve kept it the same as ever. That’s one secret of my success, only there is no secret about it. Be temperate, fellows—be temperate.” “Oh, I am!” protested Carroll; “I’m temperate, but I’m no total abstainer. A total abstainer is not a temperance man. Temperance means moderation, and unless you use a thing with moderation you have no claim to temperance. Got you there!” “Your argument cannot be overthrown,” admitted Frank. “Therefore I’m willing to be classed among the cranks.” “Oh, but come have something with us!” they urged. “I’ll do that,” he laughed; “but it will be something nonintoxicating.” Hodge was treated with the same cordiality, and the entire party crowded in before the little bar. Frank and Bart both drank ginger ale. “Here’s to Merriwell, the pride of Yale in the old days and the pride of Yale to-day!” cried Carroll, holding a glass of beer aloft. “May his star never grow dim!” “That’s the talk!” they cried. “Drink—drink it down!” Some one ordered another round. “Here’s to Hodge!” cried Spaulding. “Merriwell’s right-hand man at Yale and his loyal backer ever since. If there’s any baseball on the Golden Shore, I’ll expect to see Bart Hodge doing the backstopping when Frank Merriwell fans the batter with the double-shoot.” “You expect to see it!” laughed Harrow loudly. “You’ll be fanning yourself in another country.” “Blasphemer!” exclaimed Spaulding. “Go to! You seem to think every one is traveling the same road you’ve taken.” They left the bar and entered the billiard and pool room, where some of the club members were amusing themselves. Two young chaps had lately entered the billiard room. They were Bob Ridgely and Martin Manners, known to some of those in Frank’s party. Manners brought Ridgely up. “How are you, Harrow,” he said familiarly. “Looking for a victim? I understand you’re a shark at billiards.” “Not looking for a game to-night,” answered Harrow. “Perhaps some of your friends are?” said Manners, in the way of one inclined to “butt in.” “I’ve been told Frank Merriwell would be here to-night. They say he’s a shark at everything, even billiards. I’d like to try him a go.” He looked straight at Frank as he made this challenging remark. “Mr. Merriwell—Mr. Manners,” said Harrow. “Er—I beg your pardon, what name?” said Merry. “Manners is his name.” “Quite remarkable,” said Merry quietly. “Haven’t heard that name in some time. How do you do, Mr. Manners.”