down.

“Great gosh!” cried Ephraim Gallup, in Merry’s ear; “I ruther think yeou’ve got a few friends in this ’air taown!”

One of the policemen was examining the wound on the head of the unconscious actor. He spoke to a companion:

“Call an ambulance,” he said. “It looks to me as if this chap’s skull may be cracked. He may never recover consciousness.”

“Is it possible?” gasped Barnaby Haley, who had heard the words. “And Storms did it? I declare!”

He turned and glared at the drunken actor.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Are you mad?”

Storms did not reply, but now he began to show symptoms of fear.

“If Havener is dead, I’ll see that you hang for it!” declared the manager.

“Shall we arrest Mr. Merriwell?” asked one of the policemen, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“No, no!” cried Haley. “My gracious, no! It seems that I was mistaken concerning his purpose. He sprang onto the stage to stop Storms—to keep him from finishing his work. Do not molest Mr. Merriwell.”

The gallery heard this, and shouted its delight. The red-headed boy stood up and screamed:

“T’ree cheers fer Frank Merriwell! Open yer t’roats ev’rybody!”

Then the entire audience, catching the spirit of the occasion, broke into a mighty cheer, bringing the hot blood to Merry’s face.

“There, b’gosh!” sighed Ephraim Gallup, with satisfaction. “Naow yeou’ve got whut ye deserve.”

“Yaw,” agreed Hans, “now you haf got vot I deserfe.”

“Merriwell! Merriwell! Speech! Speech!”

The audience was calling for a speech, but Frank simply shook his head and flatly refused to make a speech.

“Arrest ole ‘Legree’!” howled the red-headed boy.

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