Scott!" gasped Frank. "See what they have done! Why, everybody on
the street is staring at us!"

It was true. The spectators had been attracted by the shrill cheers of
the small boys, and they were looking toward the three embarrassed lads
on the corner by the bank.

A man who was passing stopped and asked one of the boys why they were
cheering so loudly.

"See that handsome feller there with the lace on his suit?" asked the
boy, pointing Frank out.

"Yes, I see him."

"That's Frank Merriwell," declared the boy, excitedly and proudly.

"Frank Merriwell?" repeated the man, doubtfully. "Who is he?"

"W'at?" yelled the boy, voice and face expressing the greatest amazement
and scorn. "Didn't ye never hear of Frank Merriwell? Wat's ther matter
with yer? Why don't you go die!"

His contempt was crushing and humiliating, and the man passed on,
wondering who in the world Frank Merriwell could be that he was so well
known and famous.

But there were plenty of men and youths who had heard of Merriwell, and
the report that the great Yale pitcher was in town flew like wildfire.
Only the small boys stared at Frank with absolute rudeness, however.
Those older looked at him with interest, but were careful not to make
their attentions embarrassing.

Merry and his friends walked up into the village, going toward the post
office. There were pretty girls on the street, and some of them flashed
a brief, admiring glance at the trio of handsome lads in yachting suits.

The small boys trooped along behind, talking excitedly among themselves.
Their chatter was amusing to hear.

"Look here, Jimmy," cried one, in fierce contradiction of a statement
made by another, "that ain't so, an' you oughter know it! Harvard never
got fourteen hits offen Frank Merriwell in one game!"

"Fourteen hits!" yelled another, in derision. "W'at yer givin' us,
Jimmy! They never got ten hits offen him in one game! You better go read
up about him! You're woozy, that's w'at's ther matter with you!"

"That double-shoot of his is w'at paralyzes 'em," put in another. "He
can make ther ball cut all kinds of riggers in the air."

"That's all right," said Jimmy, sullenly. "Slatridge sez ther ain't no
such thing as a double-shoot. He says that 'riginated in ther mind of
some of them newspaper fellers w'at's writin' up stories 'bout Frank
Merriwell."

Then there was a howl of scorn from all the others, and one shook a
finger under Jimmy's nose, shouting: