His brain began to whirl. The waiter was standing there, looking at him in a manner that seemed rather insolent. "What do you want?" he snapped. "I beg your pardon," returned the waiter; "what do you want?" "Whiskey!" cried Frank Merriwell--"bring me whiskey, waiter, and bring it quick!" CHAPTER XXXIII. "FOR THE HONOR OF OLD YALE." The order was filled, the whiskey was brought. It was placed on the table at which Frank sat. He stared at it in surprise. "What's that?" he asked. "Why, sir, it's the whiskey you ordered," answered the waiter. "Whiskey?" said Merriwell, in a dazed way. "Did I order that?" "Yes, sir." He paid for it. Later, when a gay party dropped in, he was sitting at that table, with the untasted whiskey before him. He sat there staring and scowling at the table, but paid no attention to any one. The expression on his face made him look like anything but his old jolly self. No one spoke to him. Newcomers drank, joked, laughed and went out. Still he sat there, scowling and staring at the table. The report spread that Merriwell had been cut by his old friends. Curious ones strolled in and ordered a drink just to get a look at him. He seemed quite unaware of this. Never in his life had Frank tasted whiskey, but for one moment he had weakened and thought of easing the blow to his pride by resorting to the stuff. Merriwell was human, but still that weakness lasted no more than a moment. Then he came to himself, and he was ashamed to think that he had contemplated such a course. It seemed cowardly. "They say I am a coward," he thought; "but I am not a coward enough for that." For more than an hour he sat there at the table. Finally he seemed to come out of the stupor that had seized upon him. "Waiter," he called. His voice was calm and natural, the scowl had vanished from his face, and he was himself once more. "Waiter, you may remove this whiskey and bring me a lemon-seltzer. I don't care for this stuff." When this order was filled, he calmly drank the lemon-seltzer, paid for it, rose to his feet, pulled on his gloves, and left Morey's with an air of combined nonchalance and dignity. He was his own master once more. He had been insulted by fellows he formerly believed friends, but he was still Frank Merriwell. He felt within himself that he was a man and the equal of the best of them. Some day they should be ashamed when they remembered their act. He felt confident that day would come. That night he slept as peacefully as a child, and arose in the morning refreshed and undisturbed. He would not permit his mind to dwell on what had happened, but resolutely set himself at his studies.