Frank walked in silence, feeling extreme humiliation, not for his arrest, but for the disgrace that a Yale athlete was bringing upon his college. When they stood before the sergeant in the station, the policeman told briefly how he had heard a row in progress in the saloon and had got there in time to see Frank doing all the fighting. The sergeant looked at the bartenders, and one of them said: "This man," pointing to Mellor, "was entertaining a party of friends in the back room when the other chap came in, and without saying a word tried to clean the place out. Everything was peaceable and quiet until he came in." The sergeant took up a pen, and looking at Frank, asked: "What is your name?" "Frank Merriwell," was the quiet response. "Huh!" grunted the sergeant, as he wrote the name, "I thought from your looks you would say Jones of nowhere. What is your residence?" "New Haven." "Have you got anything to say for yourself?" "Not at present." The sergeant looked surprised, and hesitated a moment before he asked a number of other questions. They were such questions as are always put to prisoners concerning their age, their reasons for being in the city, and their own account of what had happened. Frank gave his age, but to the other questions refused to reply. Accordingly the sergeant ordered both him and Mellor to be searched, and after a vain attempt to get any information out of Mellor, both were locked up. A considerable crowd had collected in the main room of the station house during this, and Frank remained quietly in his cell until he felt certain that all the curiosity seekers had gone out. Then he called to a doorman and asked if he might speak to the sergeant or the captain. It took a little persuasion to get permission to do this, but Frank got it finally, and was taken upstairs again. The main room of the station was then deserted by all except the doorman and the sergeant. The latter looked at the young prisoner inquiringly. "I'd like to send for somebody," he said, "and will pay liberally for a messenger. You've got my money, and therefore know that I can pay any decent charge." "Yes," said the sergeant, "you're well heeled. Who do you want to see?" Frank thereupon gave the name of a Supreme Court judge. The sergeant's eyes opened wide. "What do you want of him?" he asked. "He'll come down here in a hurry," Frank answered, "if he knows that I'm locked up." The sergeant sat back in his chair and thought a moment. It was perfectly plain to him that Frank was not intoxicated, and his whole manner was that of a gentleman. The sergeant was probably wondering whether the name Merriwell might not be a false one, and whether this prisoner might not be the son of the judge mentioned. While he was wondering what he had better do about it, a young man entered the station with a businesslike air, and stepping up to the big desk, said: "Good-evening, sergeant, anything going on?"