Frank Merriwell at Yale Part 12

"Where is your roommate?"

"Out."

The fellow whistled sharply, and the next minute four masked lads appeared at the door and leaped into the room. One of them slammed the door shut and the others sprang at Frank.

Merriwell flung a book at the first one, and it struck the fellow's mask, tearing it from his face.

The well-known countenance of Bruce Browning was exposed!

"Good-evening, Browning!" cheerfully called the lively freshman as he darted behind the table. "I have been expecting a call from you."

"Grab him!" directed Browning. "Get hold of him!"

Frank was on the point of uttering a whistle, but it was not required, for the whistle that came from the lips of the disguised fellow had served as a signal to the painted braves.

There was a bang at the door, which flew open as if a.s.saulted by a catapault, and into the room poured the disguised freshmen.

The Indians leaped upon the masked soph.o.m.ores, and for a short time a very sharp struggle took place.

Bruce Browning did his best to escape from the room, but three of the savages laid hold of him, and he was finally subdued.

"Out of the house with them as soon as possible," ordered Frank. "Come on, two or three of you. We must nail the hack and the fellows outside."

Down to the door he led the way.

Mrs. Harrington came out into the hall, caught a glimpse of the painted faces, uttered a wild shriek of terror, and dodged back, slamming the door.

"All ready?" said Frank as he prepared to fling open the front door.

"All ready!" panted Harry Rattleton, close behind him.

"Don't let anybody get away," warned Merriwell. "I will look after the driver."

"Go ahead."

Creak! open swung the door, and out into the night leaped a youth who seemed to be hotly pursued by four painted and bloodthirsty-appearing redskins.

The hack was standing exactly as Frank expected it would be, and he was on the box with the driver at two springs.

"It's all right," he a.s.serted. "We've got the fellow up there, though he did kick up some. A part of our gang was rigged up like Indians, and they nipped him all right."

"It's the divil's own set ye shtudints are!" muttered the driver. "Av ye hurry, Oi'll sthay to take him away; but Oi'll not remain here long, fer it's th' cops will be down on us roight away."

"We'll get away ahead of the cops, don't fear that," declared Frank.

"They're bringing him downstairs now. We had to take two or three others with him; but well not bother with them long."

"Arrah! th' poor freshman!" said the driver. "Oi'd not loike to be in his place this noight!"

He was completely fooled, thinking all the time that Frank was one of the party he had brought there to capture the freshman.

As they rushed out Frank had seen a fellow standing near the open door of the hack, and that fellow had promptly taken to flight at sight of the Indians, two of whom pursued him hotly.

Frank hoped they would be able to overtake the fugitive, for if one of the party escaped he would report to the sophs, who were bound to make a big hustle to rescue their captured comrades.

The disguised freshmen came downstairs, bearing their captives, who were swiftly thrust into the hack, which was a big, roomy, old-fashioned affair.

As many of the freshmen as could do so piled inside and upon the hack, and then Frank gave the signal, the driver whipped up his horse and away they went.

"East Rock," said Frank.

"Eh?" exclaimed the driver. "Thot's not pwhere ye wur goin' in th'

firrust place."

"We have changed the programme. East Rock is where we are bound for now."

"All roight, me b'y."

The triumphant freshmen felt like shouting and singing in jubilant mood.

Indeed, Rattleton could not refrain from "letting off steam," as he called it, and he gave one wild howl of triumph that made the streets echo:

"'Umpty-eight! 'Umpty-eight!"

"Break it off!" sharply commanded Frank. "Want to let the sophs know we're up to something?"

"I don't care."

"They might raise a rescue party and follow us."

"But they wouldn't frop any chost--I mean chop any frost with us."

"Pwhat's thot?" came suspiciously from the driver. "An' is it not softmores ye are yersilves?"

"Of course we are," returned Harry, instantly.

"Thin pwhat fer do ye yell fer 'Umpty-eight?"

"Oh, it's a way we have. Don't mind it, but keep on driving if you want to retain your scalp, paleface. We are mighty bad Injuns!"

The driver knew how to pick out the darkest and most deserted streets.

By the time the outskirts of the city were reached the freshmen were bubbling over.

Frank Merriwell improvised a stanza of a song, and in a few moments the entire band caught the words and the tune. As the hack rolled along toward East Rock the freshmen sang:

"We belong to good old 'Umpty-eight, For she's a corker, sure as fate, sure as fate.

We have met the soph.o.m.ores, And they're feeling awful sore; So hurrah for good old 'Umpty-eight! 'Umpty-eight!"

"Begobs! ye're th' quarest gang av softmores Oi iver saw!" cried the driver. "An' it's not wan av yez Oi remimber takin' up to th' freshman's boording house."

"We have changed," explained Ned Stover.