CHAPTER X.

THE MAN WHO WAS NOT CHOSEN.

Defarge heard the smack of Frank’s hand, but he was astounded beyond measure when he failed to feel it upon his back. Scarcely could he believe Merriwell had given the slap. One moment before he had felt perfectly confident that he was the one who had been chosen for the honors. Like a flash he turned. What he saw astonished him beyond measure.

Hock Mason, the youth from South Carolina, was looking at Frank Merriwell in a most bewildered way, as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses.

Merriwell had slapped Mason.

In all that gathering of students, no man had less expected such an honor. To Mason it seemed that the heavens had opened with a golden shower.

To Defarge it was like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.

Plainly Mason could not yet believe he had been selected for “Bones.” He was on the verge of telling Frank that he must have made a mistake.

Defarge, also, felt like crying out to Merry: “You’re wrong, you chump! Here I am!”

Plainly, the selection of the fifteenth man had been a surprise to many, for there was a protracted hush. Then it broke, and there was a great cheer for Mason.

The blood rushed back to the face of the Southerner. It came so fast that he grew dizzy and everything seemed to swim round him. He put out his hands, as if to grasp something. Was he dreaming? Had this greatest honor that a Yale man can receive really come to him?

There was no mistake. The crowd had greeted the selection with a cheer, and he had heard his name at the end of it. He, who had expected nothing, had received the great reward.

With faltering steps, he started to go to his room, but he was so bewildered that he started in the wrong direction. Somebody put an arm round him and turned him the right way, whispering in his ear:

“I’m gug-gosh darn gug-glad for ye!”

It was Joe Gamp--poor, dear old Joe, who had never “cut any ice” in society life at Yale. Joe Gamp, the lad from New Hampshire, who would have given up any hope of inheriting his father’s farm for the glory of entering “Bones,” had seen in the face of the Southerner the unspeakable joy of the moment, and he whispered that he was glad.

Mason remembered it afterward, for he was not a fellow to forget. Mason, who had come to Yale with a feeling of prejudice for “Yanks,” would have fought to the death for one “Yank” after that. For more than one, as Merriwell was a Northerner, and he had long felt that he would do anything in his power for Frank.

The burden of disappointment had fallen heavily on many men that day, but to none had come greater joy than to Hock Mason. His heart was threatening to tear a hole in his bosom as he walked through that crowd, which parted for him to pass, knowing that Frank Merriwell was gravely following in his footsteps.

Frank’s face was unreadable as that of a stone image as he brushed past Defarge and followed Mason. And so they proceeded across the campus and disappeared into one of the arches.

Behind them they left a youth who felt that he must die of disappointment and shame. Defarge knew that it had been supposed he was sure to make “Bones” or “Keys,” and he had told himself that nothing less than the greater society would satisfy him. Now, however, he was weak and crumbling with the bitterness of it all upon him.

It must be that he had been chosen by “Keys.” That was the last hope, and the last “Keys” man was passing through the throng in search of the final candidate.

“He must be after me!” Defarge inwardly cried.

But the searcher had found his man. His hand rose and fell.

“It’s Carson! Hooray! Carson! Carson!”

Berlin Carson was the man.

Defarge started to go somewhere. He did not know where he wanted to go, but he had a desire to get away. This was the day he had lived for during the past year; and this was what it had brought him!

“Merriwell is to blame for it all!” he cried mentally. “Oh, curse him! But for him this shame would not have fallen on me!”

He was wrong. He alone was to blame. His own treacherous nature, which he had so skilfully concealed at first, had led him on to his downfall. He had been very shrewd in his early days at Yale. It was only when he became ambitious to overthrow Frank Merriwell that his downfall began. With each failure he had dropped lower, but he did not realize how fast he was falling. Merriwell had shielded him by silence, but nothing could keep his rascality secret. He had plotted, and his plots, all of them failures, had reacted upon himself.

As he was moving away, he bethought himself of one last possibility, and paused. Perhaps he had been chosen for Wolf’s Head.

A few minutes ago he would have scorned the thought; he would have asserted with disdain that nothing could induce him to enter that order. Now he stopped and looked round, in hope that the lowest of the three societies might prove a shelter for him in this hour of distress. How gladly he would accept it now!

But even as he paused with this faint hope, the final man was chosen for Wolf’s Head, and he knew at last that he had no chance.

This, in truth, was the worst punishment Defarge had ever received for his wrong-doing. Physical punishment had been as nothing in comparison to it. He did not mind a few bruises; he did not care if he happened to be confined to his room for a day or two. But this struck straight to his heart.

In this moment came the thought that he had brought it all on himself when he sought to harm Merriwell. He felt that somehow Merriwell was responsible, and the hatred he had known for Frank in the past became a thousand times more intense.

“I could kill him!” he muttered hoarsely.

He saw the chosen candidates receiving congratulations on all sides, and the spectacle maddened him. He was muttering to himself as he found his way out onto the Green, where he wandered round and round for half an hour before realizing that he was acting like a daffy person.

There was a little place where Bertrand had often dropped in to have a quiet drink, and toward it he now turned his steps, for he felt that nothing but drink could give him relief.

He found his favorite seat by the corner screen, dropping down heavily and sitting there staring blankly at the table when the waiter came up. Not until the waiter had asked him twice for his order did he arouse himself. Then he ordered absinth.

After a little it was placed before him, the devil’s drink that lifts men to the seventh heaven of bliss, only to hurl them at last to the lowest depths of hell. He knew when he took the stuff that it robs men of manhood and makes them its slaves, yet he drank it. He knew the awful effect of that decoction on the human being, for absinth-drinkers soon find their way to madhouses, yet he drank it. He knew he was taking into his system a poison that must work on every part of him, yet he drank it.

It soothed him after a little, and that was what he sought. He leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette, which he puffed leisurely. In the blue smoke he saw strange pictures of himself overthrowing and destroying one whom he hated with all his heart, and that one was Merriwell. How strong he felt! Why, it seemed that he could crush Merriwell to the earth without an effort. What did he care, after all, if he had failed to be chosen to enter the ivy-wreathed door of “Bones”! That was a passing joy, but absinth he could have always--till death! “Waiter, bring another of the same.”

With the second glass, everything passed from him save his determination to get even with Merriwell. Of late he had feared Merriwell, but now he did not fear him. Merriwell had seemed to possess a strange power over him, but now he felt that the power was broken. He knew he was in every way superior to Merriwell, and it seemed strange that all others did not know it as well. In his heart something was making soft music, like chiming bells, and he listened to it with quiet delight. How easy it was to start that music to going! “Waiter, another absinth.”

But the waiter was not near, and it was too much effort to call him. He smiled to think he had cared if he failed to get into “Bones.” Foolish! He knew the fellows who had been chosen, and he was better than the best of them. He would prove it, too, some day. He knew he could prove it easily, for he had the power to do anything he desired.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!--he seemed to hear the fall of water in a fountain, which sparkled and glowed before his eyes, as his imagination conjured it there. He saw it in the moonlight of a soft Italian night, and the odor of a thousand flowers was brought to him with a passing breeze. He looked into the fountain, and a face smiled up at him. He saw it was the face of the man he hated, and he put out his strong hands to grasp it by the throat. There was no struggle. He was so strong that his enemy could not struggle. So he forced him down and held him beneath the surface of the water, watching him drown. It was a great delight to watch him drown.

The end came, and he relinquished his hold on that throat. Down, down to the bottom of the fountain sank the head, and there it lay looking up at him with wide-open, staring eyes. He nodded and smiled at it, saying: “I have conquered at last!” But it simply stared straight into his soul.

Those eyes made him shiver a little, they were so cold and glassy. Those eyes had cast upon him a fearful spell when their owner lived, but they were powerless now. Were they powerless? Dead though he knew they were, they seemed to take hold of him and possess him. He could not tear his gaze from them.

Slowly round the fountain he moved, trying to escape from those eyes. He did not see the head move, but it must have moved, for always those eyes were fixed upon him.

A great horror crept over him. What did it mean? Was he not the victor? He was seized by a fear that even in death Frank Merriwell remained his master.

Then he longed to shriek aloud, to run away, to do something. He could feel those dead eyes getting a stronger hold upon him. He knew he was becoming their victim. He had not conquered; Merriwell was still his master.

“Yes,” he said aloud, “I am coming; I am coming.”

Then, with a singular look on his drawn face, he rose, hat in hand, and started from the place. He walked like one in a trance, staring straight ahead, minding nothing around him.

“I am coming,” he murmured.

“That’s the last drink of that stuff he gets in this place!” muttered the waiter, shaking his head and staring after Defarge. “He’s been up against it hard. Never saw a fellow take to that dope so suddenly as he has, and he’s gone down like a rock in less than a week. Next time I’ll refuse to serve him.”