“Him!”

Ephraim Gallup’s long index finger pointed straight at the one who had impersonated “Legree.”

“How?”

“With that whip.”

“But—but why should he do——”

“Ask him. He’s had a grutch ag’in Havener fer a month, an’ to-night he tried ter kill him right here on the stage afore all these people!”

“That’s right!” shouted fifty voices from the audience.

“He is the one to be arrested!” roared a man standing in the front row of the first balcony. “I know t’other feller. He’s Frank Merriwell, an’ he’s the right sort.”

Frank Merriwell! Many persons in the audience had recognized Merry when he leaped on the stage, but the mention of his name sent a surge of emotion over the entire house.

Now they knew him! The name of Frank Merriwell was familiar to everybody in that city, for the prominent part he had taken in the railroad strike had advertised him thoroughly.

And Frank’s greatest admirers were aroused. Up in the gallery a red-headed boy poised himself on the rail and shrilly yelled:

“Well, wot’s der matter wid Frank Merriwell?”

And the gallery broke into an answering roar:

“He’s—all—right!”

“Dat’s wot!” screamed the red-headed boy. “Let him erlone an’ see wot he’ll do ter ‘Simon Legree’!”

“He won’t do a thing to him!” significantly bellowed half the gallery.

“If dem cops puts a fin on him, we’ll come down an’ wipe up der the-a-tur with ’em!” threatened the red-headed champion.

“Dat’s what we will!” shouted the others.

Frank looked up, smiled and bowed. That smile was enough to set his admirers wild. They howled, roared, clapped and stamped till the gallery shook and threatened to come 

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