Frank Merriwell was called a good fellow.  It was not often that he told a story, but when he did, it was a good one, and it was clean.  He had an inimitable way of telling anything, and his stories were all the more effective because they came at rare intervals.  He did not cheapen them by making them common.

And never had anybody heard him tell a story that could prove offensive to the ears of a lady.

Not that he had not been tempted to do so.  Not that he had not heard such stories.  He had been placed in positions where he could not help hearing them without making himself appear like a thorough cad.

Frank’s first attempt to tell a vulgar story had been the lesson that he needed.  He was with a rather gay crowd of boys at the time, and several had told “shady” yarns, and then they had called for one from Frank.  He started to tell one, working up to the point with all the skill of which he was capable.  He had them breathless, ready to shout with laughter when the point was reached.  He drew them on and on with all the skill of which he was capable.  And then, just as the climax was reached, he suddenly realized just what he was about to say.  A thought came to him that made his heart give a great jump.

“What if my mother were listening?”

That was the thought.  His mother was dead, but her influence was over him.  A second thought followed.  Many times he had seemed to feel her hovering near.  Perhaps she was listening!  Perhaps she was hearing all that he was saying!

Frank Merriwell stopped and stood quite still.  At first he was very pale, and then came a rush of blood to his face.  He turned crimson with shame and hung his head.

His companions looked at him in astonishment.  They could not understand what had happened.  Some of them cried, “Go on! go on!”

After some seconds he tried to speak.  At first he choked and could say nothing articulate.  After a little, he muttered: 

“I can’t go on—­I can’t finish the story!  You’ll have to excuse me, fellows!  I’m not feeling well!”

And he withdrew from the jolly party as soon as possible.

From that day Frank Merriwell never attempted to tell a story that was in the slightest degree vulgar.  He had learned his lesson, and he never forgot it.

Some boys swagger, chew tobacco, talk vulgar, and swear because they do not wish to be called “sissies.”  They fancy such actions and language make them manly, but nothing could be a greater mistake.

Frank did nothing of the sort, and all who knew him regarded him as thoroughly manly.  Better to be called a “sissy” than to win reputed manliness at the cost of self-respect.

Frank had forced those who would have regarded him with scorn to respect him.  He could play baseball or football with the best of them; he could run, jump, swim, ride, and he excelled by sheer determination in almost everything he undertook.  He would not be beaten.  If defeated once, he did not rest, but prepared himself for another trial and went in to win or die.  In this way he showed himself manly, and he commanded the respect of enemies as well as friends.